Sons of the Emperor was a Primarchs anthology that came out last year, exclusively at Weekender events. It has finally been released more generally (here), and BL is also trickling out the individual shorts as standalone ebooks. As they've been floating around for a while, I thought I'd assemble a grab-bag of excerpts that I found interesting. No real theme, just good stuff. Some of them have already been posted, I believe, but some I haven't seen around here.
There's a ton of excellent material in this anthology. Ancient, forbidden technologies. Confrontations between brothers. Scenes of the Primarchs' pre-discovery lives. I've picked out a few choice bits from each, but these are the tips of the iceberg. I really recommend the whole thing.
From "Passing of Angels" by John French, Sanginius describes how he perceives the world. There's a lot of good stuff in this story from Sanguinius's point of view, as he wrestles with a particularly nasty compliance and with the Primarchs' place in the universe. There's an especially portentous exchange with Horus, on that topic. I'm including this particular excerpt because I think it shows a facet of Primarch abilities that we don't often see, outside of possibly Russ: the degree to which their senses are enhanced.
I open my eyes, and the world crowds back in through them, bright and dark and consuming. I see the Host of destruction. I see the scars and burns on their crimson armour. I feel my senses rush to enfold every angle of form, every mutable scrap of colour, every stutter of movement. On and on, each nanosecond a tableau, and each shift of hand or eye causing the universe to shatter and remake itself in my sight.
There is so much in even the smallest moment of life, so much that humans cannot see. My senses pour down through layers of detail. There is tarnish on the tear drops that sit on the cheeks of Alepheo’s mask. There are five droplets. The second droplet is a micron out of alignment. The artisan who made it had been disturbed during the sculpting. The interruption had disrupted his equilibrium. It had taken a heartbeat for him to settle back to his task, but in that time the damage to his work had been done. I can see it in the error, and I can feel the flaw in my heart.
From "Abyssal Edge" by Aaron Dembski-Bowden, a quote from Sevatar to Ahriman. I don't think this one needs much context.
‘No one as naive as you has any right to be patronising, Ahzek.’
From "Mercy of the Dragon" by Nick Kyme, Ferrus and the Emperor discuss Vulkan. This happens shortly after Vulkan was found, and we get several flashbacks to the Emperor trying to convince Vulkan to leave Nocturne and take his place in the crusade. I'm including this more for Ferrus than Vulkan, though.
‘You taught him much of your craft, Ferrus?’ asked the Emperor.
‘None, in truth. He needed no help in that regard. When I reached the forge, he was gone and the armour with him.’
The Emperor smiled, as if pleased with His works.
‘Your assessment?’
‘Overly flamboyant, but it appears to serve well.’
‘Him, not his armour, Ferrus.’
A raised eyebrow and a grunt of acknowledgement preceded the Gorgon’s reply.
‘He fights like a Medusan ur-wyrm. Are they all like that where he came from?’
‘No, he is unique. As are you.’
His silver fingers clenched and unclenched without Ferrus realising. He nodded.
‘He is impressive,’ he admitted, then turned disdainful, ‘but Russ and Horus, even Fulgrim, they match his prowess. I see nothing special about him.’
‘You will.’
From "Shadow of the Past" by Gav Thorpe, a few brief descriptions of what Corax does to Word Bearers. I think parts of this may have already been posted, but the bits I've seen from this story are usually at the point at which Lorgar shows up. I wanted to include these to showcase how far from mortal he seems to have become.
A thing like a shadow waited on top of the wall. It was impossible to make out its actual shape, though there seemed something vaguely humanoid about it. Before any command could leave the Dark Apostle’s lips, it sprang upwards. Silhouetted against the ruddy sky, the shadow fragmented with an ear-splitting screech. Dozens of winged shapes fell upon the Word Bearers, beaks like plasteel blades slashing at their armour. Hora went down under the first flurry, losing an arm as he toppled, his war-plate scattering like pieces of torn paper.
And....
A tenebrous mass billowed through the antechamber, twitching the limbs and dead eyes of the slaves with its passage. Mouths with dozens of lightning-fangs opened in the cloud as it fell upon Apall-Af. It seemed as though an invisible blade punctured the Word Bearer’s gut and lifted him, erupting through his backpack in a shower of ceramite splinters, shattered bone and blood spray. Armour plates fractured as maws sank their insubstantial teeth into the legionary, snapping limbs and rending bloody welts into the flesh within.
And...
As he turned to continue for the mound, the ground beneath the Word Bearer darkened. Like tar bubbling from a pit, seeping blackness flowed up his legs, swiftly engulfing him to the waist. The legionary fired down into the morass but his bolts simply disappeared without exploding. The thick blackness continued upwards, rivulets of shadow that snaked along his arms and around his throat.
Growing, the umbra lifted the legionary from the ground, snapping an arm at the elbow, the bolter within his grip falling from the fingers. Kalta-Ar could not suppress an empathic wince as a leg contorted acutely, assuming an unnatural angle. The legionary’s vox was clearly not functioning, and he was thankful they were spared more inhuman noises of painful death. Limb-snapping contortions wracked the armoured figure, almost tying the warrior into a knot, ceramite broken, bones shattered.
The daemon-shade dropped the remains to the floor and heaved itself together into the approximation of a human form, though twice as tall as the legionary it had just slain. Tenebrous wings flowed from its back as it advanced, arms ending in spear-like talons.
From "The Emperor's Architect" by Guy Haley, Perturabo experiences being born. This story is very much a companion piece to Hammer of Olympia. You definitely want to have read that before reading this. The main story concerns a pair of remembrancers who're trying to write a book on Perturabo's early life, but realize that not everything on Olympia is all that great. We also get several flashbacks to Perturabo's life before he went up that cliff at the start of Hammer, the parts he doesn't remember anymore.
There was a shifting in the being’s centre of mass. A shaking and a bouncing around the core of itself. The intrusion of outside stimuli defined for the being the shape of its body, and he knew that he was male. Before, he had not been aware of having a body at all. Now he was: four limbs, a torso, a head. Smooth skin felt vibrations through liquid and the heat it conveyed from beyond.
The being had considered all these things to be a part of himself. The increase of stimuli prompted him to divide himself from other things. Body, liquid, shell. That was his universe. The shell thrummed with stress harmonics. The liquid moved in sluggish tides.
High density alloy, he thought of the shell. He recognised its strength. He felt the same strength in himself.
Acceleration pressed him upwards. Articles that were not part of his body but which interfaced with it tugged at him. He was apart from his casing, but he was integrated with it, he realised.
He also realised, I am falling.
Sound returned as a dull rumble. Then a greater heat. Gravity pulled at him, acceleration pushed. A gaseous medium objected to his passage through it.
Atmosphere, he thought. Planet.
The descent lasted minutes, until terminating violently. The impact of his arrival boomed through his confined world. Light poured in through rents in his casing. The liquid that warmed and protected him rushed out.
Coughing violently, he discovered he had lungs.
In his few minutes of consciousness, the casing had gone from being part of him, to a protective externality, to a trap. Its dying machines wailed out their myriad malfunctions. The being ripped at the slippery tubes penetrating his skin, and fought his way free through the metal.
Cold air chilled him. White light blinded him. His body was as exceptional as his gathering mind, and rapidly adjusted itself to the change in environment.
He looked upon a rugged landscape.
Stone, he thought. Sedimentary formation. Mountain. Tectonic upheaval. Sky. Planetary atmospheric envelope. He knew the names and nature of all things as he experienced them, as if a parent whispered the words in his ear the moment he set eyes upon them.
From "Prince of Blood" by Laurie Goulding, Kharn accepts his destiny... mostly. The story is about the World Eaters, or at least a portion of them, crashing out of the Shadow Crusade and carving their own path through the galaxy. It includes a lengthy confrontation between Daemon Primarch Angron and Kharn, after which Kharn comes to a decision. This is, admittedly, from towards the end of the story, but it's the most interesting piece. And I did leave out the last few lines, which have some interesting implications.
\22.
I will wear the red, the brass, the bronze, fresh from the armoury and turned by my own hand, though I am no Devourer. I spit on Tarugar and all the rest. Our primarch is a newborn creature of the warp, a prince of blood. He needs no protection that legionaries can offer.
Rather, I am sanctified in the colours that are said to most please our new god.
But I will not lose myself.
\23.
Many of my brothers have followed my example, even as they follow me now on the field of war. The brain-fire keeps our blood hot. With every swing of our blades, we anoint the icy ground before us.
\24. \25.
We will walk the Eightfold Path.
We will wear the mantle of the caedere remissum, even though the primarch forbade it.
We will rebel, just as he rebelled.
We will kill not because we are ordered to, but because we live for it. Blood, and pain, and nothing more.
\26.
This last addition is the purest form of worship I can imagine, glowing bright and crimson in the corner of my visor display. It is a calming counterpoint to the Nails’ fierce tick, tick, tick…
Vel-Kheredar knows me well indeed.
\27.
A tally. A measure of my skill, and a tether for my soul.
The others may do as they wish, but I will not lose myself.
\28.
I will not become like our primarch.
\29.
\30. \31.
This is no brotherly contest of old. These are my offerings to the Blood God. By the count of their skulls will I prove my worth, for they are all I have to offer in place of my own, before each new battle’s ending.
From The Ancient Awaits by Graham McNeill, Ancient Rylanor tries to exact some revenge against Daemon Primarch Fulgrim. This story is set well after the Heresy, when a group of Thousand Sons treasure hunters investigate a beacon on Isstvan III and discovers Ancient Rylanor in a deep cavern. Fulgrim shows up, and they have a chat. I like this exchange because it gives you an idea of the subtle differences between the original Emperor's Children and the Slaaneshi corruption thereof.
‘Has it truly been millennia?’ asked Rylanor, his voice stronger now, coming from a time long ago and filled with infinite sadness and patient regret.
‘It has,’ said Fulgrim, moving closer. ‘Think of all that time wasted. All the glory unearned, all the victories denied.’
Rylanor gave another grating bark of laughter.
‘Glory? You think I sought glory? How little you understood of your own Legion. Yes, I have indeed perfected what I wish you to hear,’ said Rylanor as Fulgrim reached out to touch him. ‘And though I am sure you will find it diverting, it will not be me that says it.’
Fulgrim’s grin faltered as he too saw what the Dreadnought’s body had obscured.
‘No,’ he said, as if he thought he could stop what was about to happen with a word.
‘Yes,’ said Rylanor, sending an activating pulse of energy to the armed warhead of an unexploded virus bomb.
From Misbegotten by Dan Abnett, Horus (pre-Ullanor) confronts an ancient mad scientist who fled from Terra during the Age of Strife. Horus and his lieutenants have been stacking up easy compliances when they run into a planet full of particularly nasty biomechanical horrors. Horus, having done his homework, identifies their source as said mad scientist. Eventually, he's captured and they have a conversation.
‘I have been monitoring your activity since you arrived in this zone twenty months ago,’ he said. ‘Through my listening stations and watch-networks, I have observed your dealings with local cultures. Your message. Your offer of embrace. I knew you would knock on my door before long.’
‘And you were prepared,’ said Horus. ‘Afraid, for you thought we would judge you as poorly as the people of Terra once did.’
Fo frowned.
‘No, you are mistaken,’ he replied. ‘You think I left Terra because I was driven out? Shunned? Demonised? No, no. All artists and innovators are misunderstood.’
‘Then why?’
‘Because I saw the start of his rise,’ said Fo. ‘Even then, early days, but I could see what he would become. Your father, I mean. I knew what future awaited a man who dreamed the dreams he did. Though it took decades or centuries or longer, I knew he would not be denied. I wanted no part of that. I wanted to be as far away as possible.’
‘Why?’ asked Horus.
‘His dream is unthinkable, yet he has the power to make it real. I see he has begun to now. You… you have reached the stars.’
‘Yes, bearing his message. His hope to–’
‘Hope?’ Fo shook his head sadly. ‘Yes. Naturally, he would tell his children that. He always made things sound so optimistic. A glorious and endless future. But, of course, you wouldn’t understand.’
‘I don’t,’ said Horus, rising. ‘You are a maker of abominations. A creator of the most obscene things I have ever beheld. I presume a mind as transgressive as yours would see only horror in the splendour of his ambition. And fear the justice he would mete upon you for your crimes against the human form.’
‘Oh god, no!’ cried Fo in surprise. He hesitated. ‘Do they still speak of god on Terra? Do they still believe? I suppose not. They wouldn’t have to now. Anyway, you’re wrong. I don’t fear his justice. You say I have made abominations? Look what he has made.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Horus.
‘I mean you. You and beings like you. You think I’ve made monsters? In my wildest deliriums I could not have designed monsters like you. I practise simple and ingenious arts of genetics and anatomy. I tinker and edit, to make puzzles and delights and curious wonders, things to make us think, and ponder the nature of our being and our place in the scheme of life.’
He looked up at Horus.
‘I do not make things that will burn the galaxy down. I do not make things that will doom our species and lead it into an endless frenzy of war. You are the most abominable thing I have ever seen. Grotesque. Sickening. Misbegotten. I could not hope to kill you all, but to abort just one before it reached potential… well, that would have been some solace.’
Fo got up, and brushed down his clothes.
‘I’d like to die now,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to live in a cosmos where things like you are loose.’
So, anyway, that's Sons of the Emperor. Anyone else pick this up?
EDIT: Formatting, unsurprisingly.
Submitted March 14, 2019 at 05:20PM by krorkle https://ift.tt/2O27AsH
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