CONTENTS

Cover
Warsphere – Darius Hinks
About the Author
An Extract from ‘Blackstone Fortress: Ascension’
A Black Library Publication
eBook license
 WARSPHERE
By Darius Hinks

Zhain sneers as she approaches, looking at the mess. The trackers are hunkered on the floor, framed by a shaft of green light that slices down from a broken gantry
overhead. The doorway we are standing in is constructed in the same style as the rest of the ship – crudely hammered metal that has been twisted and warped to resemble
the tendrils of a plant. It feels like we are surrounded by vines or the roots of a vast, metal tree. Zhain toys with her whip as she watches the kroot eat, running a finger
over the barbs.
‘Savages.’
I understand her disdain. The kroot are nauseatingly primitive. They are avian, bipedal wretches of extremely limited intellect. They are physically strong, however,
and they fight without any trace of fear. It is easy to see how they have carved a place for themselves as hired guns. They have killed another sentry while we lagged
behind and, by the time we reach them, they’ve already eaten half the remains. The entrance to the chamber is a mess, draped with innards and splashed with blood.
Eating is all they seem to be interested in and they invest it with an almost holy sense of ritual, screeching prayers as they cram innards into their beaks. I have never
encountered a species with such a peculiar, obsessive relationship with food. They cast some pieces aside, spitting curses, then cradle others with reverence, treating
them like sacred relics. They take some of the smaller bones and thread them into the quill crests that crown their heads, sniffing them repeatedly as they do so.
There isn’t much left of their prey, but from the carcasses I deduce that they were the same hulking, bestial sentries we encountered in the outer chambers. They must
have broken free of restraints to attack the kroot because there are traces of collars and muzzles scattered in the gore. The ship’s guardians are huge, ferocious predators,
but the kroot have made short work of them with their rifles, firing the rickety weapons with surprising skill.
Employing the kroot is demeaning. I am as repulsed by them as Zhain. But her bile feels like a criticism of me. I give her a sideways look.
‘Perhaps you think it was a mistake to bring them?’
The rest of the kabal arrive just in time to hear my words. They falter, glancing from me to Zhain, hearing the threat in my tone. They grip glaives and rifles, hunger
flickering in their eyes as they sense danger.
Zhain bares her teeth in a cold smile and puts a hand on her hip, twisting her lithe form like a dancer. Light plays across the contours of her tight-fitting bodysuit.
‘Of course not, archon. Their ancestors built this wreck. Employing them as trackers makes perfect sense. Your thinking in this matter is as clear as ever.’
I stare at her, letting a tense silence play out. Every inch of her bodysuit is barbed with poison but it’s her intellect that I have to watch out for; her guile has elevated
her through the ranks of her lethal sisterhood. She is dangerous. And wonderful. There is a delicious tension in all our exchanges.
I smile back, relishing the threat in her eyes, then walk on through the doorway and into the main part of the chamber. It is crowded with knotted pipework and cabling.
It looks more like the heart of a jungle than the inside of a warp-capable starship. The air is blood-warm. Banks of steam roll between metal boughs, and the bulkheads
are coated in rust. The link between the ship and my trackers is obvious. The barbarism of the kroot is writ large in the architecture of the place. The shapes are so ugly
and confusing that it takes me a moment to realise we are on an embarkation deck. There are various landing craft picked out in the shafts of emerald light. Most of them
are slumped on their sides, hulls and armour plating ripped away, exposing their insides, giving the impression of flayed carcasses. A few are still intact and they are of a
peculiar, circular design, like the domed crowns of trees.
‘What did you call it?’ I say, glancing at the kroot called Grekh.
The creature looks up, meat hanging from his beak. ‘What?’ His voice is a harsh caw.
‘What, archon,’ says Zhain, toying with the handle of her whip again.
Grekh stares at her, his eyes blank.
I wave at the huge chamber that surrounds us. ‘What did you call this wreck?’
‘Warsphere. Void-city. It was woven in the highest eyries of Akchan-Kur.’
‘Warsphere.’ I study the convoluted design of the bulkheads. Every inch of the metal has been worked into knots and loops. Columns fan, treelike, to cradle a distant
ceiling, and the metal branches have been moulded into totemic shapes. Hawks rise from filigreed flames, feathered gods glare at battlegrounds, talons morph into spear-
tipped phalanxes. The images are ugly and crude but I see pride in Grekh’s face as he follows my gaze. He thinks I am impressed.
I almost laugh out loud. It is amazing to me that such species can take pride in anything. They are mites, burrowing through the corpse of our past glories, but they are
blind to their insignificance – they think they have created a civilisation. I wonder, idly, how I will dispose of the kroot once they have led us to our goal. My first
thought had been to simply gun them down, but perhaps it would be worth taking them home to the Dark City, back through the Thorn Gate. It might be amusing to
study them and discern their darkest fears. To find out what would really hurt them.
‘Move!’ snaps Zhain, waving her barbed whip at the far side of the landing deck. ‘The archon has not employed you to eat.’
The kroot look pained by the idea of leaving their meal but they have enough sense not to argue, grabbing their rifles and loping off across the deck. Their quills rattle
above their heads as they move and I seem to remember reading the quills are the reason they excel at tracking: they grant the kroot a kind of sixth sense that links with
their other senses, making them unusually perceptive. There is a logic to it. Creatures of such poor intelligence could only have survived so long through a quirk of
physiology.
I smile as we leave the embarkation deck and hurry down a series of tunnel-like companionways. My warriors rush ahead, splinter rifles trained on the shadows. I think
of my enemies back in Commorragh, drunk on intrigues and games, unable to see the bigger picture, lost in the webs of Asdrubael Vect. I know they will be deriding my
journey out here to the Western Reaches. They lack ambition. While they content themselves with raids on merchant fleets and trading outposts, I have set my sights on
something far greater: a galaxy-wide symphony of pain and torment the likes of which no one has seen before.
Zhain notices my smile and guesses my train of thought. Her tongue plays across her lips. ‘Imagine it. Imagine what we will achieve.’
‘We haven’t found it yet,’ I remind her, but I feel the same thrill of anticipation she does. After all my long centuries of life, I am finally going to stoke the fires of my
soul.
The Warsphere is home to a group of alien scholars who have unearthed the location of one of the galaxy’s great mysteries: Vaul’s Anvil. They call it a Blackstone
Fortress but I know what it truly is. An implement of death and suffering wrought on a divine scale. A razor that is sharp enough to open the throat of the galaxy. A
weapon so powerful that even Vect will have to bend the knee to me. I shall turn Commorragh into my palace. No one will dare speak against me when I am the master
of Vaul’s Anvil. The entire galaxy will be my plaything. The possibilities are dizzying.
‘We have to find the scholars first,’ I say.
 Zhain nods. ‘It’s a huge ship.’ She peers up into the tortuous metal canopy. ‘Bigger than anything in our fleet.’
‘We need only explore a small section of it. According to the kroot, the scholars inhabit the innermost spindle of the vessel. The old command chambers.’ I call out to
Grekh. ‘Isn’t that right?’
He nods back at me. ‘The scholars would die on the surface. So they restarted the Warsphere’s life support. They have hidden here for decades.’ He looks up at the
murals on the pipes overhead. ‘But the Warsphere was here long before the scholars came. It must have crashed many hundreds of years ago. The elders say that when it
was woven in the lodges of the Nine Peaks, Vawk the Huntress herself emerged from the heavens and–’
‘How far?’ I ask. ‘Until we reach the scholars?’
The kroot stares at me, then he replies in flat tones. ‘If we could travel unhindered, an hour, but when the scholars triggered the life support they also triggered the
weapons.’
‘Yes, yes. We will need to circumnavigate some defence systems. There will be a few traps. I understand.’
Grekh nods. ‘The scholars do not wish to share what they have found. They have learned the location of something important. A treasure.’ He gives me an odd look. ‘I
guess it is the reason you are here. And you are not the only ones who will come looking for it.’ He waves at a blackened hole in the wall, surrounded by what looks like
melted bone. ‘They are trying to flee. They are attempting to repair the Warsphere.’
The kroot look at each other, making odd clicking sounds with their beaks, and I realise that they’re laughing at the idea of someone understanding kroot technology.
I am intrigued, sensing that this might be how I eventually play with these creatures – this misguided pride in their past could be used to torment them. I pick at the
idea.
‘Even a race as dull-witted as the mon-keigh should have no difficulty mastering kroot technology.’ I kick at the hole in the wall and one of the totems collapses. Avian
deities fall from the bulkhead and land at my feet, their wings in pieces.
One of the kroot croaks in outrage and draws back his rifle to hit me. Despite being over eight feet tall, the kroot are surprisingly nimble, quicker than humans, but they
are not aeldari. I step aside easily. The rifle slams against a bulkhead, scattering sparks.
Grekh tries to drag his companion away, but he has barely taken a step before I draw my pistol and shoot. Grekh hisses as his friend slumps in his arms, blood rushing
from the wound.
I take aim at Grekh’s face, pressing the pistol’s long barrel against his forehead, wondering if the creature will be foolish enough to try and retaliate.
Grekh makes absurd clicking sounds as he cradles his dead comrade, laying him out on the deck.
I grind the pieces of broken sculpture under my heel. ‘Your culture is as primitive as your technology.’ I wave at the jungle of metal that surrounds us. ‘I’m amazed this
vessel ever flew, but I’m not surprised it crashed. I suppose that is why your species only manages to endure as slaves and bondsmen. Even amongst the lower orders of
life, you have sunk to the bottom.’ I lean towards him. ‘Which is why I can kill your friend and you are powerless to do anything. You are little more than cattle, Dahyak
Grekh.’
Grekh stares at me with his black, featureless eyes. He tries to hide his anger but I see from the set of his shoulders and his fast, shallow breaths that I have touched a
nerve. He wants to hurt me. There is definitely fruit there for the picking. I promise myself that I will keep the creature alive so that I can take him back to my pleasure
theatres in Commorragh.
‘Quickly,’ I say, waving at the corpse. ‘Leave that mess where it is. We have no time to waste.’
Grekh rises slowly to his feet, gripping his rifle, still watching me. It is vaguely amusing. There’s no real danger, of course. If he tried to turn his rifle on me I could kill
him, re-holster my gun and stroll away in the time it took him to take aim. But I’m interested to see what he does next. I sense that there is more to the species than I
thought. Perhaps they are not entirely dull.
He turns away and nods. ‘Of course, archon.’
Zhain chuckles as the kroot carries on down the companionway, abandoning his dead comrade. She strokes my cheek with her fingernails. ‘We can have fun with that
one.’
We cross a few more chambers, then as we enter a narrow, winding corridor I pause and raise my pistol. Centuries of hunting have honed my senses to a fine point,
even by aeldari standards. Zhain feels the danger too, halting at my side and peering into the shadows. Grekh blunders on for a while before finally realising that there is
a problem. He leaps back towards us just in time to avoid falling as the floor opens up. Metal roots fall away to reveal a sheer-sided drop into the bowels of the ship.
When the dust has settled, Zhain lashes the kroot to the floor with her whip. Grekh gasps as the barbs fill his skin with agony.
‘I thought you knew how to avoid the traps?’ she whispers as Grekh struggles to breathe.
The kroot shakes his head and manages to stand. He does not cry out. ‘No. I do not know where they are. But I know how to disable them.’
Zhain looks at me in surprise, and I nod. Most creatures would still be screaming after a kiss from Zhain’s lash. Clearly, she had not meant to kill him, but even so, the
pain must be horrific.
Grekh plucks something from his armour. It looks like a canker of some kind. He crunches the shell in his beak, then swallows the contents. Then he mutters an oath
and limps over to the bulkhead, peering at the shapes scored across the metal. He strokes an image of a talon and it alters as he touches it, rotating with a series of clicks.
Then he removes a section of the surface, uncovering a hole. Dust billows out, along with a nauseating stink.
Grekh reaches into the hole. When he takes his hand back out I am surprised to see that he is not holding wires or a control panel; he is holding a bundle of mouldering
sticks and rags. It looks like a bird’s nest. He brushes away the dry remains of insects and unrolls a charred animal carcass, wrapped in leaves and scored with various
symbols. It looks like the burned remains of a rodent. Grekh snaps off some blackened bone and crunches it in his beak.
Zhain gives me an incredulous look, but I shrug. I have seen kroot navigate terrain that has confounded everyone else who made the attempt.
‘Give him a moment,’ I say. ‘The kroot have a way of digesting knowledge. They learn things from their food.’ I lower my voice. ‘It may be something we could
explore in more detail back in the Dark City.’
‘They learn through eating?’ she mutters, grimacing.
‘I do not profess to understand the details. I think they absorb the essence or spirit of their food when they eat. Even the memories, perhaps.’
Grekh finishes chewing on the bone, replaces the bundle in the wall and closes the hole, but he is not quite done. He makes a low coughing sound and spits some of the
charcoal into his hand; then he smears it across the image of the claw, tracing the outline. The musky smell intensifies.
‘This way,’ he says, doubling back the way we came and heading down another companionway. We move fast, dashing through chamber after chamber. The deeper we
travel into the ship, the more abandoned it seems. The murals fade to shades of brown and red as the rust gets thicker. Our boots kick up ruddy clouds, as though no one
has been this way for hundreds of years. Avian statues watch us from overheard, peering through the metal branches, their expressions full of disdain. An hour passes
and there is no sign of a living soul, not even the bestial sentries that we encountered in the outer chambers.
‘I risked a lot for this,’ says Zhain as we run.
I glance at her. ‘What have you risked?’
‘I served Dranakh for decades. He was Vect’s favoured instrument of fear. Everyone knows it. If Vect finds out that I was behind Dranakh’s death, he will hunt me
down.’
‘Of course he’ll find out. For all his faults, Vect is not a fool. One of the most skilled poisoners in Commorragh disappears on the day her master dies. I’m sure you
covered your tracks very well but he will sniff you out eventually.’
She keeps her expression neutral but I can sense her fear. It is intoxicating. I have to warn myself not to be distracted from my purpose.
‘You had better be right about these scholars,’ she drawls, trying to sound unruffled. ‘They had better know the exact location of the Anvil.’
I laugh. ‘Remember, Zhain, it was you who told me about them.’
 ‘And it was your suggestion that I kill Dranakh before he could head out here and claim the Anvil.’
‘As I recall, you did not need much persuading.’
She glares at the mouldering statues and pipes. ‘This place stinks.’
I smile to myself, then nod at the kroot, racing ahead of us through the ship. ‘His description of the scholars corresponds exactly with the information you stole from
Dranakh. That can’t be a coincidence. And why would this wreck be so heavily guarded if it were empty? The kroot have killed dozens of sentries.’
She is about to reply when gunfire rips through the gloom. Some of my warriors fall to the ground, kicked back by the shots, holes punched through their armour.
Grekh dives for cover. More shots flicker through the steam as Zhain and I duck behind a statue’s pedestal.
I hear the bark of Grekh’s rifle, then nothing.
Zhain glances at me. I shrug and wave some of my warriors out into the centre of the chamber. They edge out, guns raised, but there is no more gunfire and I can sense
no danger, so I march out after them, heading down a colonnade towards the opposite door, my pistol raised as I scour the shadows for signs of our attacker. I’ve almost
reached the door when I see Grekh, crouched on his haunches, eating another sentry.
I pistol-whip him, sending him tumbling into one of the columns, blood spraying from his beak.
Grekh calmly wipes the gore from his beak, stares at me, then hurries on through the doorway.
We enter a chamber that is even more crowded than the preceding ones. Every column and bulkhead is covered in vine-like heaps of metal. It must once have been an
armoury, but the weapons are so rusted they are only vaguely recognisable as guns. The stench here is even thicker and the air has a stale, damp quality that reminds me
of a cave.
‘Are you sure the scholars live down here?’ I say, catching up with Grekh as he leads us across the chamber.
He pauses and nods. Then he reaches out to the wall, opens another compartment and takes out a bundle of rags, dead flies and meat. He flicks away some of the flies
and taps the meat.
‘See? The scholars took possession of the Warsphere many lifetimes ago. They have used it to research the treasure they found.’ He chews some of the meat, looking
pensive. ‘The scholars in this ship have been waiting for the right moment to leave, but now their hand has been forced. People like you have learned about their
discovery so they are racing to leave. They are on the command deck, preparing to launch the Warsphere.’
I look around at the rust-covered wreckage, incredulous. ‘Launch this?’
Something moves overhead. Zhain and I both hear it.
‘Take cover,’ I say, stepping behind a pile of buckled metal.
As we all duck out of sight, the sound grows louder. It is like chains being dragged against chains and, as I peer out from my shelter, I see shapes break free from the
canopy above, drifting down through the steam.
I wave for my warriors to scatter and I leap behind a column as hawks cut through the steam, diving straight towards us. They are huge, with a wingspan of nine to
twelve feet and beaks longer than my forearm. They trail rust as they fall, pinions screeching. They are not living creatures but pieces of the metalwork that have sprung
to life.
We open fire, filling the air with poison shards, but the neurotoxins have no effect on metal automata. They have no nerves to flay. A few of the hawks spin away, their
wings damaged by the shots, but most of them crash into my warriors, punching through their armour and slamming them into the floor. The scene descends into chaos
as hawks swoop down from every direction. I gun several of them down before I notice Grekh.
Rather than shooting at our attackers he is gazing at them in wonder, shaking his head and mouthing silent words. At first, he seems immune to the attacks, but then
one of the hawks singles him out and launches itself in his direction. Grekh is so enraptured that he does not realise until it is almost too late that he is about to die. At the
last moment, he dives clear, rolling through the gloom as the bird rights itself and soars back up into the banks of steam.
‘They’re butchering us!’ cries Zhain, grabbing my arm and yelling in my face, as if I am unaware of the massacre taking place.
I shrug her off and sprint over to Grekh, pointing at the next doorway. ‘Are the scholars through there? Is that the command deck?’
Grekh takes a moment to register my question, still staring at the metal hawks; then he nods and dashes across the chamber, waving for us all to follow.
We run through the doorway and enter another narrow companionway. The hawks try to follow but in such a confined space, they are easier to target. They thrash
awkwardly and collide with each other, scattering sparks and pieces of metal. My warriors drive them back with a barrage of splinter rounds and, after another minute or
so, the attacks cease.
We all pause to catch our breath, and I look around.
‘Twenty guards dead,’ snarls Zhain. ‘That leaves only ten. And half of them are wounded.’
‘How far?’ I demand, glaring at Grekh.
‘Almost there,’ he replies, chewing something. ‘Minutes away.’
I give Zhain a triumphant look and then I wave Grekh on. The corridor traces the shape of a vast ellipse. The Warsphere is a city-sized dome, half buried in the ground,
but this is the first time I have had a sense that we are travelling through a circular structure.
‘We are at the centre,’ I say, glancing at Zhain. ‘The kroot is right. This is the central hub of the wheel.’
Hunger glimmers in her eyes, and she shakes her head. ‘Vaul’s Anvil. It’s almost ours.’
She means to betray me, of course. As soon as we locate the scholars and extract the coordinates of Vaul’s Anvil, she intends to poison me. She has no intention of
sharing the Blackstone Fortress. She did not betray one master just to serve another. This is her bid for dominance. She has already bribed or threatened every member of
my court, thinking they will side with her when she makes her move. My pulse quickens as I look at her. Keeping her at my side is like carrying a beautiful, venomous
serpent. I have my own plans, of course. Grekh will ensure that only I learn the coordinates of Vaul’s Anvil. He has been briefed very carefully. He knows what will
happen to him if Zhain hears more than I want her to. But even the smallest mistake will see my most potent weapon turned against me.
We have almost reached another bulkhead when Grekh halts and holds up his rifle, warning us that there is another trap. He grabs a piece of debris and tosses it down
the passageway. There is a hissing sound as feathered darts shoot from the walls, clattering against the bulkheads. A new smell cuts through the Warsphere’s usual stench
– an acrid, chemical tang that drifts towards us from the darts.
Grekh opens a hidden hatch in the bulkhead and takes out another one of the rotten bundles. He rearranges some of the pieces, whispers something, then replaces the
bundle and closes the hatch. He waits for a moment, then throws another piece of wreckage. Nothing happens and he edges forwards, scanning the shadows for signs of
movement. He rushes towards the next doorway and passes safely through.
‘Is he really using those bits of rotten meat to disable the traps?’ asks Zhain, shaking her head in disbelief.
I signal for everyone else to advance. ‘It doesn’t matter how he does it. Just be glad we have him with us.’
We pass through several chambers and companionways and, each time, Grekh disables traps in the same way, finding hatches that are hidden from everyone else and
performing his strange rituals. Sometimes he just rearranges the dried pieces of meat and sometimes he eats parts, but the effect is the same and we make quick progress
through the ship. I find myself increasingly intrigued by the kroot. Without him, we would have no way of safely navigating the ship. When I have finished amusing
myself with the creature I will definitely order my courtiers to dissect it and see how its sensory apparatus works.
‘Here,’ says Grekh, pausing at a large armour-plated door. ‘The command chamber. The scholars will be on the other side.’ He speaks in the same, rasping monotone he
always employs. He has no idea of the significance of what we are doing. He is like a child revealing the location of a lethal sword.
I reach out to turn the handle, but he holds me back. ‘They will be waiting. They will be on the other side.’
I nod and step away from the door, looking back at my warriors. ‘Tear down this door. And anything on the far side.’
Grekh, Zhain and I step aside as they launch a blistering barrage of shots. There are clangs and explosions in the chamber but no return fire. After nearly a minute of
sustained fire, I wave my warriors on. They charge through rolling smoke and I race after them, my pistol bucking in my hand and my pulse hammering.
As soon as the smoke clears, I sense that something is wrong. We are on a command deck, but it looks even more abandoned than the other chambers we’ve passed
through. Our shots have created points of molten heat, but everything else is layered with mounds of dust. No one has been in here for many years. There are control
panels and navigational equipment, but everything is warped and rusted.
‘What is this?’ I demand, looking back at Grekh.
The kroot is not there. He is nowhere in the chamber. I dash back to the doorway and look back down the companionway just in time to see his lanky shape vanishing
into the distance. I move to follow him, spitting a curse, but Zhain grabs me.
‘Wait! The traps!’ She grabs a piece of wreckage and tosses it down the corridor. There is a deafening screech as floor-to-ceiling blades scythe across the
companionway, cutting through wreckage with ease. ‘Every one of those chambers was the same,’ she says, glaring at me. ‘You’ll be diced if you go back that way.’ She
taps me with the handle of her whip. ‘And you will not leave me lost in this place.’
‘You’re right,’ I concede, looking back into the command chamber. ‘We will have to take another route.’
‘Another route to where?’ she spits. ‘That creature has tricked us. It has led us into a trap.’
‘That makes no sense. Why would Grekh bring us here just to lead us to nothing? He thought I was going to pay him handsomely for reaching the scholars.’
‘Maybe not. Maybe he guessed the truth – that you were far more likely to skin him than pay him. He seemed like a wily creature. And we can’t navigate this ship
without him. How would we disable those traps?’
I pace around the chamber, shaking my head, refusing to accept that I have been made a fool of. ‘The scholars are here. We know they are. Why would Grekh lead us
to the wrong chamber?’
‘There’s no other way out of here,’ says Zhain, looking around. The same green light that illuminated the other chambers is visible here, bleeding up through the deck
plating, lighting her face from beneath and giving her a spectral appearance. ‘That is the only door.’ She pads around me, flexing her fingers.
‘We will find a way to disable those traps,’ I say. ‘I will not die in this room.’ I wave some of my courtiers over to the banks of navigational equipment. ‘Activate
something. Make those things work. Find some schematics. Or something that will get us out of here.’
They leap to obey, sensing how close I am to violence.
I do not expect them to achieve anything but, after just a few minutes, one of the machines whirrs into life, a weak light spilling from its display screen. Images flicker
in a silent loop. It is a fragment of time, just a few moments of footage, showing figures moving in one of the Warsphere’s outer chambers.
‘Several years old,’ I say, noticing the time stamp. ‘Find something more recent.’
‘Wait,’ says Zhain, leaning closer. ‘Look. It’s some of the sentinels that Grekh killed. What are they doing?’
I have only seen the ship’s guardians as butchered corpses, but I realise she is right – the hulking, reptilian beasts caught in the footage are the same monsters that the
kroot killed when we entered the vessel. Only, there is something odd about them. They do not move as I would expect. The scaly, bulky carcasses made me think the
creatures were wild animals, but the footage tells a different story – they are working carefully at something, fiddling with a mechanical device, and they are moving
with a quiet deliberation that speaks of calm intelligence. The image is slashed by lines of static but I can see that the monsters are using mechanical devices – tools and
machines that look to be of ingenious manufacture.
‘They are the scholars.’ My breath quickens as the truth hits me. ‘They weren’t just animals left to guard the place, those reptiles were the species we came to find.
They were the ones who knew how to reach Vaul’s Anvil.’
Zhain shakes her head. ‘And those idiot kroot killed them thinking they were just the guards.’
A second, dreadful realisation washes through me. ‘No. They didn’t think they were just guards. They knew exactly what they were doing. That’s why they were so
keen to eat the carcasses.’ I stare at Zhain. ‘Do you see? Grekh knows about Vaul’s Anvil. And now he will have learned its location. By killing and eating the scholars.
He just used us to reach them. Now he’s left us in here to rot. He tricked me.’ My rage at the betrayal is so great that it feels like a physical pain. It takes me a moment to
realise that the pain really is physical. I stumble and fall to the floor, feeling my throat crumble and collapse.
My vision blurs as Zhain looms over me, her face contorted by rage, a husk knife in her hand. She is saying something, spitting curses, but my mind is elsewhere.
All I can think of is Grekh’s blank, unreadable eyes.
 ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Darius Hinks is the author of the Warhammer 40,000 novels Blackstone Fortress, Blackstone Fortress: Ascension and three novels in the Mephiston series,
Mephiston: Blood of Sanguinius, Mephiston: Revenant Crusade and Mephiston: City of Light. He also wrote the audio drama The Beast Inside and the novella
Sanctus. His work for Age of Sigmar includes Hammers of Sigmar, Warqueen and the Gotrek Gurnisson novel Ghoulslayer. For Warhammer, he wrote Warrior
Priest, which won the David Gemmell Morningstar Award for best newcomer, as well as the Orion trilogy, Sigvald and several novellas.
An extract from Blackstone Fortress: Ascension.
Quintus had spent half an hour in Janus Draik’s company and he was already confident the man was insane. He had encountered rogue traders before and always found
them to be arrogant. They thought their precious Warrant of Trade elevated them above the plebeian hordes. So much wealth. So much freedom. It did something to their
minds. But Quintus had never met anyone quite as deluded as Draik.
‘It’s falling apart,’ said Draik. He had his back to Quintus, standing before the viewport on the far side of the Vanguard’s luxurious stateroom with one hand behind his
back and the other near his face, dangling a smouldering lho-stick. Outside, Precipice was indeed in a state of collapse. Chaos forces were massing again on the
Blackstone, rebuilding their black shrines, but there was a new threat that some said was nothing to do with heretics. Geomagnetic storms had lashed Precipice for
weeks, battering moored void ships and ripping anchorages from tangled spars. Precipice had always looked like a wreck. Now it looked like a wreck that would struggle
to survive the next few hours.
And Draik sounded indifferent. He discussed the madness outside as though it were inclement weather. He seemed oblivious to the fact that Precipice’s dream had
become a nightmare.
The cabin shook violently, rocked by one of the tremors that hit Precipice several times an hour. Quintus had heard that the larger booms were the Blackstone’s weapon
systems coming online, firing into the void as they searched for a target. Quintus flinched and grabbed the back of a chair, trying to steady himself as ornaments toppled
and books thudded across the polished floor. Draik continued smoking, gazing blithely at the mayhem. The only sign he had noticed the tremor was when he absent-
mindedly brushed some plaster from his sleeve. He turned away from the viewport and looked at the papers scattered across his desk, sketches of xenos life forms, from
what Quintus could make out.
Quintus was being paid handsomely to get this close to Draik and he would not ruin everything by letting his nerves show. He had spent a long time forging his letters
of recommendation, letters Draik had not even bothered to look at. Quintus touched the patch of bone at his wrist, stroking its smooth surface, wondering if his employer
might contact him soon. The idea unnerved him, but he needed to know what was expected. He could feel the growth under his skin, larger than before, forcing the veins
aside. He cut the thought short, not wishing to recall the voice that had been giving him sleepless nights. This was the best deal he had been offered, but also the most
troubling.
‘The void-storms will only get worse, sir,’ he said. ‘I was staying in the Helmsman before I joined you and–’
‘The Helmsman?’ Draik finally deigned him worthy of consideration, turning from the drawings to look his way. His chin was raised and he studied Quintus down the
length of his nose. ‘Nothing of import was ever uttered in that pit. I do not expect you to frequent it again. Not unless I expressly order it. It would not do, do you
understand, now that you are in my employ. You, sir, are a servant of House Draik. The Helmsman is entirely unsuitable for a gentleman’s valet.’
Quintus dug his nails into his palms. ‘Of course, sir.’
Draik crossed the room towards him, treading silently across debris-strewn rugs and keeping his chin raised. ‘You’re from the Rhegium System?’
Quintus nodded, resisting the urge to pull at his collar. His new uniform was so starched and braided he felt mummified.
‘Isola tells me your references were very impressive.’
Quintus nodded again. Draik’s attaché had shown far more interest in his credentials than her master. She had studiously picked at every part of his story. ‘I have been
honoured to serve in the household of lords Needus and Thruce, sir,’ he said, lying with practised ease. ‘Whatever skills I have to offer are entirely due to their tutelage.’
Draik only had one eye. In lieu of the other he wore an antique, gilded augmetic, an ocular implant ringed with notched brass. It was probably worth more money than
Quintus would earn in his whole life. The lens whirred and clicked as Draik focused it on Quintus. ‘Thruce is a damned fine fencer. I met him once. In the Ultima Sector.
Is he still a sportsman?’
Quintus struggled not to smile. Draik was trying to catch him out. ‘I’m afraid not. He was injured during the early stages of the Indomitus Crusade.’
Draik stared at him, taking in his tall, gangly body. ‘Have you ever been trained,’ he said, frowning, ‘in any military capacity?’
Quintus nodded, aware of how his youth and physical appearance made that seem unlikely. ‘To some extent, sir.’
Draik frowned at him a moment longer, then he shrugged and sauntered over to a couch. Like all of the furniture, it was covered in pieces of broken plaster, but he
brushed them aside without comment and sat down. Precipice swayed and shook again, groaning pitifully. Quintus held the chair tighter as it started to rattle across the
room, trying to escape his grip. Pictures dropped from the walls, cracking their frames and scattering glass.
‘I breakfast at ten,’ said Draik, nodding to a silver-framed chronograph on the wall, ‘ship’s time. So you will begin my toilet at eight. I have my moustaches waxed in
the Terran style, using prisren wax, and you will see to it that I have a freshly laundered uniform each day. Standards matter, even here. Especially here. The more
culturally impoverished one’s neighbours, the more one must display good breeding. It is the duty of the fortunate to elevate the unfortunate.’
Draik leafed idly through some sheaves of paper on his couch. They were more sketches of alien creatures, carefully labelled and annotated. The rogue trader muttered
as he studied them, scribbling extra comments and amending the illustrations. The walls were crowded with ferocious specimens and Draik clearly fancied himself as
something of a xenologist. He looked like he was relaxing in the lounge of a gentleman’s club or a scientific society. Everyone else on Precipice was looking for a way to
survive the place, but Janus Draik was making studies of the local fauna. Quintus struggled not to sneer. This man was the perfect embodiment of everything that was
wrong with the Imperium: pompous beyond belief and utterly removed from reality. He had been bred to believe that the galaxy was his playground and that there was
nothing in it that could harm him.
‘You may shave me,’ said Draik, discarding his work and tilting his head back.
Quintus looked at the razor rattling on a silver tray. Even in the subdued light, he could see how keen its edge was. Trying to shave someone in these conditions could
only result in bloodshed. He wondered, not for the first time, if he should have taken on this particular commission. It should at least be brief. He would gather
information, as requested, then leave fools like Draik to their fate on Precipice while he left to build a new life.
He crossed the room, his eyes fixed on the razor, then remembered why he had come. ‘Sir,’ he said. ‘A bulk hauler docked at Celsumgate a few hours ago.’
‘Really?’ yawned Draik.
‘It arrived carrying communiqués and parcels from beyond the Oort cloud, sir. One of them was addressed to you.’
Draik frowned and extinguished his lho-stick. Quintus took a crystal tube from his pocket and carried it over to him.
‘Correspondence can usually wait until after breakfast,’ said Draik, opening the tube, snapping the wax seal and unrolling the parchment. ‘I prefer to digest bad news
on a full stomach. But it is unusual for me to receive handwritten letters out here in this…’
His words trailed off as he read and reread the scroll in silence. Quintus noticed a Draik crest in the watermark.
‘Amasec,’ said Draik, still staring at the scroll. Quintus crossed the room to a drinks cabinet and carefully poured a shot, wondering what could have roused Draik from
his nonchalance.
Draik kept reading the scroll as he drank the amasec. There was more silence.
As the moments passed, Quintus looked around the cabin. One of the illustrations next to Draik caught his eye. It looked strangely familiar. It was a xenos weapon of
some kind – a pistol, maybe – but it looked to be made of bone and its shape was similar to the organic, shell-like whirl lodged in his wrist. He leant closer, trying to read
the small handwriting. He made out the words ‘Symbiotic? Parasitic? Bio-tech?’ and then, lower down, ‘Encountered during seventh expedition. Taragonna? Abusir?
Zoat? Aenos? Tyranid? Masqueraded as ally until treachery was revealed. Motives unclear. Highly dangerous xenos predator.’
Quintus backed away, unnerved. Highly dangerous? He had never seen his employer face to face. The word ‘parasitic’ echoed through his thoughts.
Draik tightened his fist and the glass he was holding shattered. Blood and amasec pattered through his fingers and onto the rug. He continued studying the scroll as he
calmly held out his bleeding hand to Quintus.
Quintus rushed to grab a cloth from the drinks cabinet and, after picking splinters of glass from Draik’s palm, he tied the cloth around his hand. He tried to discreetly
look at the message, but Draik re-rolled it before he could decipher the flowing script. The rogue trader maintained his cool demeanour, ignoring the fact that the
bandage around his hand was turning crimson. He waved his uninjured hand at the door.
‘See that Isola joins me for breakfast. And the alien.’ He glanced at the scroll.
‘It would appear that I am ruined.’

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