Interceptor City, page 47
‘Make sure you castigate the frig out of him, then,’ said Tarr.
‘Lid me up,’ said Jagdea.
‘Anything else I can’t help you with?’ Tarr asked.
‘You already haven’t,’ said Jagdea.
‘Good flying,’ said Tarr, and latched the canopy.
Jagdea flipped the voltaic master and began her slam-check. She walked the parish from the left: vector thrust secondaries to preset, auspex and modar, starter, pump, ad-mix. Verification of target system, guns on. The starter compressor began to spool up. She armed countermeasures.
‘Vox check,’ she requested.
‘Vox check, Exec. Gangster receiving.’
‘Copy, Gangster.’
‘Vox check, Exec, Slipstream copies.’
‘Copy, Slipstream.’
Jagdea armed her seat.
‘This is Exec, deconflict auspex,’ she instructed. The autotrack flickered as the data loaded, then the auspex came up with a lo-res map that indicated the wireframe intercept path in red.
The vox crackled.
‘Control to wings. Go for start. Go for start.’
‘Copy, Control,’ she replied. ‘Exec to wings. Dead drop now.’
Jagdea released her landing claws.
Engine primed but unstarted, she fell nose-first down the side of the Campanile.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Dan Abnett has written over fifty novels, including the acclaimed Gaunt’s Ghosts series and the Ravenor, Eisenhorn and Bequin books. His work for the Horus Heresy includes the first book in the series, Horus Rising, and the three-volume-long conclusion, The End and the Death. He also wrote several novels in between: Legion, The Unremembered Empire, Know No Fear, Prospero Burns and Saturnine. He scripted Macragge’s Honour, the first Horus Heresy graphic novel, as well as numerous Black Library audio dramas. Many of his short stories have been collected into the volume Lord of the Dark Millennium. He lives and works in Maidstone, Kent.
An extract from The Lion: Son of the Forest.
The river sings silver notes: a perpetual, chaotic babble in which a fantastically complex melody seems to hang, tantalising, just out of reach of the listener. He could spend eternity here trying to find the heart of it, without ever succeeding, yet still not consider the time wasted. The sound of water over stone, the interplay of energy and matter, creates a quiet symphony that is both unremarkable and unique. He does not know how long he has been here, just listening.
Nor, he realises, does he know where here is.
The listener becomes aware of himself in stages, like a sleeper passing from the deepest, darkest depths of slumber, through the shallows of semi-consciousness where thought swirls in confusing eddies, and then into the light. First comes the realisation that he is not the song of the river; that he is in fact separate from it, and listening to it. Then sensation dawns, and he realises he is sitting on the river’s bank. If there is a sun, or suns, then he cannot see them through the branches of the trees overhead and the mist that hangs heavily in the air, but there is still light enough for him to make out his surroundings.
The trees are massive, and mighty, with great trunks that could not be fully encircled by one, two, perhaps even half a dozen people’s outstretched arms. Their rough, cracked bark pockmarks them with shadows, as though the trees themselves are camouflaged. The ground beneath their branches is fought over by tough shrubs: sturdy, twisted, thorny things strangling each other in the contest for space and light, like children unheeded at the feet of adults. The earth in which they grow is dark and rich, and when the listener digs his fingers into it, it smells of life, and death, and other things besides. It is a familiar smell, although he cannot say from where, or why.
His fingers, he realises as they penetrate the ground, are armoured. His whole body is armoured, in fact, encased in a great suit of black plates with the faintest hint of dark green. This is a familiar sensation, too. The armour feels like a part of him – an extension, as natural as the shell of any crustacean that might lurk in the nooks and crannies of the river in front of him. He leans forward and peers down into the still water next to the bank, sheltered from the main flow by an outcropping just upstream. It becomes an almost perfect mirror surface, as smooth as a dream.
The listener does not recognise the face that looks back at him. It is deeply lined, as though a world of cares and worries has washed over it like the river water, scoring the marks of their passage into the skin. His hair is pale, streaked with blond here and there, but otherwise fading into grey and white. The lower part of his face is obscured by a thick, full beard and moustache, leaving only the lips bare; it is a distrustful mouth, one more likely to turn downwards in disapproval than quirk upwards in a smile.
He raises one hand, the fingers still smeared with dirt, before his face. The reflection does the same. This is surely his face, but the sight sparks no memory. He does not know who he is, and he does not know where he is, for all that it feels familiar.
That being the case, there seems little point in remaining here.
The listener gets to his feet, then hesitates. He cannot explain to himself why he should move, given the song of the river is so beautiful. However, the realisation of his lack of knowledge has opened something inside him, a hunger which was not there before. He will not be satisfied until he has answers.
Still, the river’s song calls to him. He decides to walk along the bank, following the flow of the water and listening to it as he goes, and since he does not know where he is, one direction is as good as the other. There is a helmet on the bank, next to where he was sitting. It is the same colour as his armour, with vertical slits across the mouth, like firing slits in a wall. He picks it up, and clamps it to his waist with a movement that feels instinctual.
He does not know for how long he walks. Time is surely passing, in that one moment slips into another, and he can remember ones that came before and consider the concept of ones yet to come, but there is nothing to mark it. The light neither increases nor decreases, instead remaining an almost spectral presence which illuminates without revealing its source. Shadows lurk, but there is no indication as to what casts them. The walker is unperturbed. His eyes can pierce those shadows, just as he can smell foliage, and he can hear the river. There is no soughing of wind in the branches, for the air is still, but the moist air carries the faint hooting, hollering calls of animals of some kind, somewhere in the distance.
The river’s course begins to flatten and widen. The walker follows it around a bend, then comes to a halt in shock.
On the far bank stands a building.
It is built of cut and dressed stone, a dark blue-grey rock in which brighter specks glitter. It is not immense – the surrounding trees tower over it – but it is solid. It is a castle of some kind, a fortress, intended to keep the unwanted out and whatever people and treasures lie within safe from harm. It is neither new and pristine, nor ancient and weathered. It looks as though it has always stood here, and always shall. And on the wide, calm water in front of it sits a boat.
It is small, wooden, and unpainted. It is large enough for one person, and indeed one person is sitting in it. The walker’s eyes can make him out, even at distance. He is old, and not old in the same way as the walker’s face is. Time has not lined his features, it has ravaged them. His cheeks are sunken, his limbs are wasted; skin that was once clearly a rich chestnut now has an ashen patina, and his long hair is lifeless, dull grey, and matted. However, that grey head supports a crown: little more than a circlet of gold, but a crown nonetheless.
In his hands, swollen of knuckle and weak of grip, he holds a rod. The line is already cast into the water. Now he sits, hunched over as though in pain, a small, ancient figure in a small, simple boat.
The walker does not stop to wonder why a king would be fishing in such a manner. He is aware of the context of such things, but he does not know from where, and they do not matter to him. Here is someone who might have some answers for him.
‘Greetings!’ he calls. His voice is strong, rich and deep, although rough around the edges from age or disuse, or both. It carries across the water. The old king in the boat blinks, and when his eyes open again, they are looking at the walker.
‘What is this place?’ the walker demands.
The old king blinks again. When his eyes open this time, they are focused on the water once more. It is as though the walker is not there at all, a dismissal of minimal effort.
The walker discovers that he is not used to being ignored, and nor does he appreciate it. He steps into the water, intending to wade across the river so the king cannot so easily dismiss him. He is unconcerned about the current: he is strong of limb, and knows without knowing that his armour is waterproof, and that should he don his helmet he will be able to breathe even if he is submerged.
He has only gone a few steps, in up to his knees, when he realises there are shadows in the water: large shadows that circle the small boat, around and around. They do not bite on the line, and nor do they capsize the craft in which the fisher sits, but either could be disastrous.
Moreover, the walker realises, the king is wounded. The walker cannot see the wound, but he can smell the blood. A rich, copperish tang tickles his nose. It is not a smell that delights him, but neither does he find it repulsive. It is simply a scent, one that he is able to parse and understand. The king is bleeding into the water, drip by drip. Perhaps that is what has drawn the shadows to this place. Perhaps they would have been here anyway.
Some of the shadows start to peel away, and head towards the walker.
The walker is not a being to whom fear comes naturally, but nor is he unfamiliar with the concept of danger. The shadows in the water are unknown to him, and move like predators.
Come back to the bank.+
The walker whirls. A small figure stands on the land, swathed in robes of dark green, so that it nearly blends into the background against which it stands. It is the size of a child, perhaps, but the walker knows it to be something else.
It is a Watcher in the Dark.
Come back to the bank,+ the Watcher repeats. Although its communication can hardly be called a voice – there is no sound, merely a sensation inside the walker’s head that imparts meaning – it feels increasingly urgent nonetheless. The walker realises that he is not normally one to turn away from a challenge, but nor is he willing to ignore a Watcher in the Dark. It feels like a link, a connection to what came before, to what he should be able to remember.
He wades back, and steps up onto the bank. The approaching shadows hesitate for a moment, then circle away towards the king in his boat.
They would destroy you,+ the Watcher says. The walker understands that it is talking about the shadows. There are layers to the feelings in his head now, feelings that are the mental aftertaste of the Watcher’s communication. Disgust lurks there, but also fear.
‘Where is this place?’ the walker asks.
Home.+
The walker waits, but nothing else is forthcoming. Moreover, he understands that there will not be. So far as the Watcher is concerned, that is not simply all the information that is required, but all that is available to give.
He looks out over the water, towards the king. The old man still sits hunched over, rod in his hands, blood leaking from his wounds one drip at a time.
‘Why does he ignore me?’
You did not ask the correct question.+
The walker looks around. The shadows in the water are still there, so it seems foolish to try to cross. However, he has seen no bridge over the river, nor another boat. He has no tools with which to build such a craft from the trees around him, and the knowledge of how to do so does not come easily to his mind. He is not like some of his brothers, for whom creation is natural…
His brothers. Who are his brothers?
Shapes flit through his mind, as ephemeral as smoke in a storm. He cannot get a grip, cannot wrestle them into anything that makes sense, or anything onto which his reaching mind can latch. The peace brought about by the song of the river is gone, and in its place is uncertainty and frustration. Nonetheless, the walker would not return to his former state. To knowingly welcome ignorance is not his way.
He catches a glimpse of something pale, a long way off through the trees, but on his side of the river. He begins to walk towards it, leaving the river behind him – he can always find it again, he knows its song – and making his way through the undergrowth. The plants are thick and verdant, but he is strong and sure. He ducks under spines, slaps aside strangling tendrils reaching out for anything that passes, and avoids breaking the twigs, which would leak sap so corrosive it might damage even his armour.
He does not wonder how he knows these things. The Watcher said that this was home.
The Watcher itself has been left behind, but it keeps reappearing, stepping out of the edge of shadows. It says nothing; not until the walker passes through a thicket of thorns and finally gets a clearer view of what he had seen.
It is a building, or at least the roof of one; that is all he can see from here. It is a dome of beautiful pale stone, supported by pillars. Whereas before he had been finding his own route through the forest, now there is a clear path ahead, a route of short grass hemmed in on either side by bushes and tree trunks. It curves away, rather than arrowing straight towards the pale building, but the walker knows that is where it leads.
Do not take that path,+ the Watcher cautions him. +You are not yet strong enough.+
The walker looks down at this tiny creature, barely knee-high to him, then breathes deeply and rolls his shoulders within his armour. He presumes he had a youth, given he now looks old. Perhaps he was stronger then. Nonetheless, his body does not feel feeble.
That is not the strength you will need.+
The walker narrows his eyes. ‘You caution me against anything that might help me make sense of my situation. What would you have me do instead?’
Follow your nature.+
The walker breathes in again, ready to snap an answer, for he finds he is just as ill-disposed towards being denied as he is to being ignored. However, he pauses, then sniffs.
He sniffs again.
Something is amiss.
He is surrounded by the deep, rich scent of the forest, which smells of both life and death. However, now his nose detects something else: a rancid undercurrent, something that is not merely rot or decay – for these are natural odours – but far worse, far more jarring.
Corruption.
This is something wrong, something twisted. It is something that should not be here: something that should not, in fact, exist at all.
The walker knows what he must do. He must follow his nature.
The hunter steps forward, and starts to run in pursuit of his quarry.
Click here to buy The Lion: Son of the Forest.
By the same author
DOUBLE EAGLE
A novel by Dan Abnett
• GAUNT’S GHOSTS •
Dan Abnett
THE FOUNDING
BOOK 1: FIRST AND ONLY
BOOK 2: GHOSTMAKER
BOOK 3: NECROPOLIS
THE SAINT
BOOK 4: HONOUR GUARD
BOOK 5: THE GUNS OF TANITH
BOOK 6: STRAIGHT SILVER
BOOK 7: SABBAT MARTYR
THE LOST
BOOK 8: TRAITOR GENERAL
BOOK 9: HIS LAST COMMAND
BOOK 10: THE ARMOUR OF CONTEMPT
BOOK 11: ONLY IN DEATH
THE VICTORY – PART 1
BOOK 12: BLOOD PACT
BOOK 13: SALVATION’S REACH
THE VICTORY – PART 2
BOOK 14: THE WARMASTER
BOOK 15: ANARCH
More tales from the Sabbat Worlds
VOLPONE GLORY
A novel by Nick Kyme
URDESH: THE SERPENT AND THE SAINT
A novel by Matthew Farrer
URDESH: THE MAGISTER AND THE MARTYR
A novel by Matthew Farrer
BROTHERS OF THE SNAKE
A novel by Dan Abnett
TITANICUS
A novel by Dan Abnett
THE BLACK LIBRARY
NEWSLETTER
Sign up today for regular updates on the latest Black Library news and releases
SIGN UP NOW
ENJOYED THE STORY?
RECREATE IT IN MINIATURE!
Get started at Warhammer40000.com
A BLACK LIBRARY PUBLICATION
First published in Great Britain in 2025.
This eBook edition published in 2025 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd, Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.
Represented by: Games Workshop Limited – Irish branch, Unit 3, Lower Liffey Street, Dublin 1, D01 K199, Ireland.
Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.
Cover illustration by Rostyslav Zagornov.
Interceptor City © Copyright Games Workshop Limited 2025. Interceptor City, GW, Games Workshop, Black Library, The Horus Heresy, The Horus Heresy Eye logo, Space Marine, 40K, Warhammer, Warhammer 40,000, the ‘Aquila’ Double-headed Eagle logo, and all associated logos, illustrations, images, names, creatures, races, vehicles, locations, weapons, characters, and the distinctive likenesses thereof, are either ® or TM, and/or © Games Workshop Limited, variably registered around the world.
All Rights Reserved.
A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN: 978-1-80407-856-3
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.
