The oubliette, p.1
The Oubliette, page 1
• THE VAMPIRE GENEVIEVE •
by Kim Newman
DRACHENFELS
GENEVIEVE UNDEAD
BEASTS IN VELVET
SILVER NAILS
THE WICKED AND THE DAMNED
A portmanteau novel by Josh Reynolds, Phil Kelly and David Annandale
THE HOUSE OF NIGHT AND CHAIN
A novel by David Annandale
CASTLE OF BLOOD
A novel by C L Werner
DARK HARVEST
A novel by Josh Reynolds
THE COLONEL’S MONOGRAPH
A novella by Graham McNeill
MALEDICTIONS
An anthology by various authors
INVOCATIONS
An anthology by various authors
PERDITION’S FLAME
An audio drama by Alec Worley
THE WAY OUT
An audio drama by Rachel Harrison
Contents
Cover
Backlist
Title Page
Warhammer Horror
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
About the Author
An Extract from ‘Castle of Blood’
A Black Library Imprint
eBook license
A dark bell tolls in the abyss.
It echoes across cold and unforgiving worlds, mourning the fate of humanity. Terror has been unleashed, and every foul creature of the night haunts the shadows. There is naught but evil here. Alien monstrosities drift in tomblike vessels. Watching. Waiting. Ravenous. Baleful magicks whisper in gloom-shrouded forests, spectres scuttle across disquiet minds. From the depths of the void to the blood-soaked earth, diabolic horrors stalk the endless night to feast upon unworthy souls.
Abandon hope. Do not trust to faith. Sacrifices burn on pyres of madness, rotting corpses stir in unquiet graves. Daemonic abominations leer with rictus grins and stare into the eyes of the accursed. And the Ruinous Gods, with indifference, look on.
This is a time of reckoning, where every mortal soul is at the mercy of the things that lurk in the dark. This is the night eternal, the province of monsters and daemons. This is Warhammer Horror. None shall escape damnation.
And so, the bell tolls on.
TO: Adept Stavrophore Weschler
FROM: Adept Dyorak
SUBJECT: Ceocan
Honoured Adept,
Please find appended the report you requested.
Ceocan is a world on the galactic south-east fringes of Segmentum Tempestus. It is an inter-sector system within Sector Ephialtis, a sector primarily of interest for its use to the Adeptus Mechanicus. The system holds three separate asteroid belts, a gas giant, and a halo cloud rich in radioactive material. The resources of this system are of incalculable benefit to the wider Imperium.
The planet of Ceocan, however, isn’t one of those resources.
Officially classified as an ‘agri world,’ Ceocan exhibits a combination of traits which gives the false impression that it might be of some interest to an explorer, historian or investigator. The planet features a wide variety of biomes, each sparsely settled, with population centres invariably tightly arrayed around the production of foodstuffs.
Huge grain fields dominate the temperate areas. Thick, lush orchards yield fresh fruit by the ton. Seaweed and fish are harvested in bulk trawlers. Massive underground caverns produce fungus blooms which can crush an unwary harvester. All of this bounty is harvested by machines which are in turn powered by biofuel harvested from the massive grain fields.
Although the Imperial Tithe is high, the planet’s production is far in excess of their consumption. Even the poorest peasant has more than enough food to live on, and in fact tends to eat healthier, more lavish food than very wealthy hive worlders can boast. The luxury quality of the yields from Ceocan could satisfy the needs of the greediest of paradise worlds.
They don’t, though.
Instead, the food from Ceocan is used to feed the Adeptus Mechanicus crews that mine the asteroid belts, harvest the halo zone, and siphon the gas from Ceocan’s neighbour. The fine salt-encrusted fish, fresh ripe fruit and crisp earthy vegetables are all loaded up into processing hoppers in the Callistonian Haven, an orbital processing facility above the planet, and rendered down into a tasteless beige paste, which is then dried and cut into hand-sized bricks that are sent out to feed the tech-priests, lay servants and skitarii of the Adeptus Mechanicus.
This arrangement is slightly preferable to the alternative (bringing the ration bars for the Adeptus Mechanicus in-system with the empty cargo haulers returning after ferrying the system’s resources back to the galaxy proper), but only just: Magos Logisticos Smythen notes that the Adeptus Mechanicus ran projections and determined it was 2.7% more efficient to gain their food from Ceocan as opposed to having it brought in from off-world.
All further data has been appended. I’m sure you will find the report much like Ceocan itself: small, uninteresting and easily forgotten.
Yours in Service,
Adept Dyorak
1
The tolling of the church bells was truly breathtaking. Even through her haze of grief, Ashielle could appreciate the labour that had to have gone into the Toll of Mourning for her father.
All across Kostoveim, from cobbled streets to arched, embellished spires, the bells rang out for Governor Ruprekt Matkosen. Every bell in every cathedral, shrine and watchtower across Ceocan pealed at once, each rolling cry sounding perfectly in unison. After each ring, a brief pause followed to let the reverberations fade, to let each citizen of the planet appreciate the profound silence. Then the bells were struck again. Ashielle was grateful to the priests and clergy who had spent so much time coordinating the Toll of Mourning, ensuring that the timing of each ring was perfect as far as her ear could detect. She had never before heard the bells so coordinated. Even at the most sombre of state funerals, as long ago as she could recall, she could always remember hearing one cathedral out of sync. Of course, she’d never attended the funeral of a governor before. Very few of the people living on Ceocan had.
Certainly, none of those massed beyond the gates of the Augusta Korgana, the grand graveyard of the planet’s most venerated dead, had ever seen such a thing. Thousands of citizens had come out to pay their respects. It lifted her spirit to see so many people moved by their loyalty to Ruprekt, that they would face the cold, drizzling rain to stand in solidarity with her family. The noble families, the Adeptus masters, the other dignitaries whose stations and accolades demanded they be admitted inside the gates of the Korgana: they attended to be seen attending. They marched solemnly through the gravestones, cenotaphs and raised sarcophagi, shielded from the chill shower by wide, robust hoods, or beneath engraved and embroidered umbrellas held by numb and shivering servants. They bowed their heads to Ashielle, of course, mouthing platitudes or quoting bits of scripture which were meant to give her comfort. Always, of course, they maintained their dignity and composure, never allowing themselves to act as though this were anything more than a formality.
Beyond the wrought iron fencing, thinly threaded with rose canes, the populace of Kostoveim pressed in, clad in mourning black, their faces daubed with grey ashes. Their emotional displays were raw in their honesty, with many older serfs weeping openly and grasping at the Korgana fences, uncaring hands bloody against the thorns of the roses. When Ruprekt Matkosen’s body was drawn from the hearse, draped in its white shroud and adorned with the golden aquila, Ashielle could hear several voices from the gathered throng of commoners wailing in anguish. Truthfully, she drew more solace from their intense grieving than she did the perfunctory performances of the elite gathered near to her.
She remembered standing in the Korgana Ecclesiastia as a child, when the venerable Deacon Yasoven had passed. The pious had journeyed from all across Ceocan to pay their respects. The crowd hadn’t been half the size of that gathered for Governor Matkosen, but it was the largest state funeral she could recall. Then, as now, the gathered throngs wept and tore at their hair, the intensity of their mourning inversely proportional to their social rank. Ashielle had marvelled at the lives that the aged deacon had touched in his time on Ceocan.
‘He visited no great evil on their homes,’ her father had told her, ‘and placed no burdens upon their shoulders too great for them to bear.’ The planetary governor had seemed so tall and strong to her, as a child. His broad shoulders seemed stout enough to bear the grief of the entire household. Only she and Geordan were permitted to stand close enough to him to see the dampness beneath his eyes.
‘For most of humanity, that is all that is required for the foundation of a great leader. Given enough time, that simple basis can become the foundation of their whole lives.’ Ruprekt had given the slightest of nods then, to the crowd of wailing mourners. ‘After such a tenure as the deacon had, losing him is like waking to discover that a mountain has vanished, or a moon has fallen from the sky. They weep not because they have lost a friend or a loved one – instead they weep because a cornerstone of their world is missing, and now for them everything is uncertain.’ The governor turned his unyielding gaze to his two child
The enormity of the responsibility that might one day be hers had borne down on her, then. Geordan had reached out and taken her hand in his when Ruprekt turned away. She remembered smiling up at him, grateful for his support. She wished Geordan could be with her now, for she could use that manner of comfort again. Thinking of her elder brother brought a spike of grief of a different kind, one mixed with shame. His own funeral had been several days prior, and had been far smaller in scale, of course.
Ruprekt’s words had been prescient. If the deacon’s death was akin to the loss of one of Ceocan’s four moons, then Ruprekt’s had been as though the citizens had gazed up at noon and seen the sun explode. When the deacon had gone to the Throne, it had been a shock, but not an unexpected one. Deacon Yasoven had been nearing his fourth century when his body had finally failed. Ruprekt Matkosen had been much greater in importance than the deacon, and there had been no emotional preparation for his passing. The accident had seen to that.
As the bells continued their droning memorial, ringing out one toll for each of the one hundred and twelve years of Ruprekt Matkosen’s life, Ashielle felt a moment of true grief creeping into her throat. Hot tears threatened her eyes. She knew how the assembled crowd felt: Ruprekt should have governed them for decades to come. She was only thirty-three, far younger than anyone had ever thought Ruprekt’s heir would be when they ascended.
The mourners inside the iron barricades did not wail: they whispered. Out of the corners of their mouths and behind delicate fans, Ashielle knew they were murmuring. It wasn’t a sound she could hear; it was a sensation she could feel.
She spied the narrow shoulders of Langreve Oldemeier. He was leaning close – literally rubbing shoulders with Margreve Tianesh Bruisell. They huddled together, he in his jet-black suit with his raven hair, she in a charcoal mourning coat, the lace collar webbed across her throat, looking the very picture of young lovers sharing an umbrella on a rainy day. Ashielle knew better. Before he was the Langreve of his house, Uri Oldemeier had counselled Ashielle’s father to send her away to the schola rather than her brother, Hanrik. Despite her cherubic features and youthful complexion, Lady Bruisell was over one hundred and thirty, and Ashielle had heard her make remarks before, indicating her feelings that no one younger than a century should serve in any real leadership position. From a distance, their closeness could be mistaken for support and comfort in a time of sorrow, but Ashielle knew veteran politicians such as they would be whispering about some political manoeuvring which would benefit them both.
The bells ended, and a dreadful silence washed over the Korgana, drawing Ashielle back to the present. Deacon Phoebian placed a hand on the shroud covering Governor Matkosen. Former Governor Matkosen, Ashielle corrected herself. No one who spoke of Governor Matkosen was referring to her father any longer. Now that honour belonged to her, whether she wished it or not. The aged deacon held one hand out towards her.
Ashielle grabbed Hanrik’s hand and squeezed it for support as she stepped forward. Her brother allowed her to take his hand, but did not return her gesture. He seemed to have no need for her support, and no solace to give to her in return. If the gathered nobles and adepts were reserved, he was positively mechanical. The hooded saints carved in stone looming from the cenotaphs offered more succour than she saw in his unyielding face.
The other nobles she passed on her path to the deacon were no warmer. They had come to the Korgana dutifully, but like her brother, they had no comfort for her. Each of them offered kind words, of course, but not to lift her up or ease her burden. The heads of the planetary organisations, like Magos Crofeld, Adept Sheng and Master Trulanthion, attended because they had an obligation to do so. Like General Zhevan and the deacon herself, they came because they understood that the projection of stability they were obligated to show required them to be seen supporting her in this time of transition. The lesser nobles of the Grevenate offered her their verbal tokens as well, not that they had any desire to support her, either. Each hoped that somehow their paltry attempt at succour would be remembered when they came calling, as if they could buy political favour with a sad expression and a mumbled platitude.
Her servants followed behind her, but she gestured them away, taking a single umbrella from an elderly attendant, who released the handle from her icy fingers with relief. Ashielle held the canopy overhead and walked the final lengths to her father’s open sarcophagus alone. She collapsed the umbrella before kneeling on the prayer bench before the deacon. Let the mourners see her walking in the rain, enduring the cold and the damp for a few moments with no more protection than they had. From the street, she would be easy to pick out. Among the mourners, even those of means and noble bearing, she alone wore white, her pale gown and veil marking her as the head of House Matkosen and sole entrusted governor of Ceocan.
Deacon Phoebian placed her withered hand on Ashielle’s head, muttering whispered scriptures under her breath. In years long past, the spiritual head of the community would preside at state funerals, ritualistically serving as a conduit to pass the divine right of rulership from one liege to another. Now, of course, the action was entirely symbolic. The senior adepts had borne witness to her official ascension weeks ago, within hours of her father’s untimely passing.
Ashielle stood as Deacon Phoebian finished her liturgy, and drew the veil from her face. She let the cold rain wash over her features for a moment, taking a pause to appreciate the gravity of her last moments, symbolic or not, with her father’s presence. Then she placed her veil in Ruprekt’s sarcophagus, draped over his shrouded remains.
She stepped away, and the Ministorum servitors approached. They had the appearance of men, albeit hulking ones, naked save for a black tabard emblazoned with the image of the cathedral. Each wore a bronze mask, wrought in the shape of a bull’s head, to keep the public from seeing their slack-jawed, hollow-eyed visages. To the public they might be mighty, miraculous warriors of the church, but Ashielle knew their sorry nature. She knew, too, that little of human flesh remained to them, mostly pale skin stretched over their corded hydraulic musculature, and a lobotomised brain and spinal cord to coordinate the industrial machinery contained in their frames.
The two servitors lifted the lid of Ruprekt Matkosen’s sarcophagus, adorned with an image of the late lord governor kneeling in piety towards the Grand Cathedral, leaning against a sword, his forehead resting against the pommel. The servitors lowered the lid with a delicacy their forms would not seem to possess.
The sombre thump of the stone lid sliding home echoed in Ashielle’s mind. She would remember it more clearly than the tolling of the bells or the wailing of the mourners. That booming, earthen sound was the end of everything that had come before: there could be no denying now that she was the governor of Ceocan.
They came in ones and twos: the nobles and functionaries wishing her well or expressing a tearful reminder of how close they had felt to the late Governor Matkosen. Most of the words were hollow and meaningless, of course, but she smiled and thanked them nonetheless. More gratifying were the few nobles who seemed genuine in their grief. Paola Gavozny, who had been a fellow scholar at Trenkovi University with her when she had studied Artistic Legacy of Imperial Societies. Liana Chole, the daughter of Greve Chole, who Ruprekt had saved from bankruptcy with a generous loan which had become a gift, had honest tears in her eyes, which nearly moved Ashielle to the same. When the line of mourners finally came to Langreve Evanova, who had attended the capital’s elite schola with Ruprekt and with whom he had shared a fondness for aged amasec and fine Ystrodian cigars, the old man had become choked and unable to form a single word. He had just nodded, gripping Ashielle’s hand tightly, before his wife had put a hand on his shoulder and led him away.
There were a great many people who wished at last to express their condolences to her, now that they had an opportunity to be seen in public doing so. Lesser noble scions, heads of august and aged families, wealthy merchant captains: she knew all of them from years of careful briefings, which had been the subject of her renewed interest over the past few weeks. She knew which ones owed her family favours, which ones lusted for greater power, which ones were bound together by their own bonds of loyalty. So when a small man she did not recognise stepped forward, it was something of a mild surprise.
