Kindle Notes & Highlights
by
Guy Haley
Read between
May 9 - July 4, 2025
Amaru extended a bundle of data cables from his armoured-forearm and plugged them into a control slot in his seat. The Techmarine muttered something to the gunship’s machine-spirit and closed his left eye. The glowing bionic that replaced his right continued to shine like a targeting reticule.
‘What nourishes you also destroys you. Either conquer your gift or die,’ Chaplain Appollus had spoken those words
skin for yours.’ The Techmarine invited the machine-spirit into his armour as he probed deeper into the gunship. The connection sent a spasm through his muscles as he gained access to the Stormraven’s weapon systems. Amaru teased power into the gunship’s turret-mounted assault cannons.
Perfect where he was flawed, the machine components of the Techmarine would continue to function long after the Rage drove his flesh to destruction.
I am redeemed. Proud that he had remained master of his rage, that his armour had not been daubed in the black of madness, the sergeant clasped his hand tightly around the detonator.
This was what is was to be a Flesh Tearer. To lose oneself in the joy of slaughter. To maim. To kill. He eviscerated an enemy and tore the midriff out of another, stamping his boot down to crack the skull of a cultist whose leg he’d removed a heartbeat before. Thick gore splattered his armour, blood pooled around his gorget. He felt lighter without the jump
His duty was to lead the Death Company in battle, to direct their fury to the heart of the enemy. Their rage was beyond his means to restrain, it could be sated only by blood. They had no place anywhere but at the enemy’s throat. Brother Luciferus had made that plain before dispatching them to this accursed planet. Appollus grinned. Never had the Flesh Tearers’ Chief Librarian spoken a greater truism. To pull back now would be to invite the Death Company’s wrath upon Morholt and the rest of his regiment.
As a Chaplain, it was his duty to listen. To hear the sins of his brothers and distil their lies before they had even formed on their tongues. He had taken confession from the best of men, men of power and great strength. He had listened to the broken voices of terrible men, men whose twisted machinations had seen the end of civilisations, as they lay on his interrogation rack.
Pain was temporary, ended by absolution or death; a slight inflicted upon his body and no more. But what the pain stirred in him – the anger, the bloodlust – that was terror. It thundered in his veins, threatening to drown his organs in a tide of red and rage. He would not allow himself to succumb to the curse; such a fate had no end.
Tens of thousands of candles burned along the stone edges of the basilica’s aisles. One flickering memorial for each Flesh Tearer who had donned the black armour of death. The red of the candle wax was used to seal the saltires and affix the litany parchments to the armour of every new Death Company Space Marine.
I am both shepherd and slaughter master. Where I lead, few will survive, and so I armour them with falsehood.
gasp, salivating, my pulse building to a thundering crescendo as I drink the psychic backlash of his death.
Seth stared up at the distant ceiling, and the visage of the Emperor. Is it not enough that You are bound to the Throne, Lord? Must more of our strength be shackled?
‘No. I walk the line that is mine and mine alone to tread.’ Astorath turned his gaze over the assembled Chapter Masters. ‘I and I alone am the final arbiter of the curse and its victims.’
knew then that war would find this place, and that my brothers would be called to end it. I always know. It is a blessing that numbers foremost amongst my curses. The damned call to me.
‘Duty and honour do not always walk the same path.’ Sergeant Eschiros’s voice is the firm whisper of a sniper rifle. ‘Though they intersect often enough for those with the courage to stay on the road.’
‘The memory of nobility does not change who we are.’ ‘No it does not.’ Seth turned back to face Appollus, his shoulders heavy about his frame. ‘But without it we are lost. How can we ever find our way back from the brink if we have nothing to turn back to?’
‘Glorious is the Emperor, mankind manifest as one, he shall light the way.’ He quoted the Codex Astartes, and concentrated on his breathing.
plain. ‘The dead are not subject to the laws of time as are the living, lord captain. This place is eternal. Time has no meaning here. I died a long time ago. Or yesterday. Or tomorrow. It matters not. We are all here, all the brothers past and all the brothers yet to be. You are here, as am I. Tell me, are you living, or are you dead? Do you know yourself?’
What was not openly displayed by the flesh art was not for other men to know.
tattoos. Here an ork died, there a city celebrated liberation; moments in time captured in ink on flesh.
deep red of the Blood Drinkers Thunderhawk was shocking in the muted colour of the Novamarines landing bay. Like a wound, or a cancer, an alien body alike and yet unlike to that which encompassed it. This contrast carried the imputation of inimicality, and Galt was perturbed by that.
The Blood Drinkers were exceptional specimens, even for the Adeptus Astartes. It was said that their primarch, Sanguinius, had been of unnatural beauty, and that all his sons bore an echo of his physical perfection, whether of the Blood Angels or their successors. Galt was taken aback by the poise and fineness of these men’s features; they were angels made flesh, so close to perfection they made Galt feel graceless. Only close to perfection, however. There was something about them that fell short; some indiscernible flaw. It was not until Caedis and his brethren drew closer that Galt could see
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Counter-boarding was unlikely, but all was done as strictly dictated by the Codex.
The stars always seemed so strong to him out in space, burning with eternal, unwavering light away from the occluding impurities of atmosphere, as if the cosmos were a thing of such cleanliness light could travel unimpeded to its every corner. Experience told him that this was not so, that the pure rays of the stars shone upon uncountable horrors, things that would snuff the life of all of mankind out given but half a chance. The universe was far from kind, no matter the beauty of the stellar light.
Time and many wars separated the adept from the boy he had been, a boy who had believed that the stars were the eyes of the Emperor’s judges, constantly measuring a man by the tally of deeds written upon his skin, choosing the most noble of them to present to the Sky-Emperor himself upon their death.
‘There is always room for yourself, even for the likes of us. If we cease to think for ourselves, we lose our usefulness as tools of the Emperor’s will.’
it. A thirst for combat and a deeper understanding of the art of war are not the same thing, lord captain.’
‘Emperor watch over us,’ said Voldo. ‘We commend our souls to his armies in this life and the next,’ intoned the Novamarines. ‘Sanguinius’s wings shield us all,’ said Alanius.
too few to protect them all,’ said Alanius. ‘They treat us like gods and yet they still die.’
had not been a true man for long centuries. He did not feel fear as other men feel fear, but all the same in those moments of waiting he became acutely aware of his own mortality, of the air in his lungs, the pump of his hearts; a body that for all its gifts was comprised of weak bone and weaker flesh, a body encased in a machine that itself was, in the larger scale of things, also weak. Whatever the tech-priests might say, what power technology had in the face of the universe’s hostility was meagre at best.
pass. As dutiful a son of mankind as he was, the thought of sharing the same fate as Ancient Endarmiel, raging within his Dreadnought sarcophagus, filled him with horror; anything but that. He would die in battle if the Rage came upon him, that he silently vowed to himself.
‘By the blood of the loyal servants of the Emperor are the stars kept pure.’ Mazrael quoted Guilliman’s Codex, by which they lived their lives. Guilliman did not mean by that passage what the Blood Drinkers took it to mean. The unbalanced mind ever seeks justification for its actions.
The smell of the mucranoid’s secretions was sharp and somewhat unpleasant. He wiped it away from his mouth, nose and eyes or it would seal them shut. Hibernation was not his aim today.
brothers of the Third and Fifth Companies joining their song; a long complex plainsong speaking of loyalty, honour, and the glory of death for the higher purposes of mankind.
‘The blood is life!’ they repeated. Their eyes followed the blood as it ran into the grooves depicting the Chapter chalice. ‘In life there is service!’ shouted Teale. ‘We live to serve!’ replied the brothers. ‘To deny life is to deny service!’ said Teale. ‘To deny service is to betray the Emperor!’ they shouted. ‘Do we choose service or betrayal?’ said Teale. ‘We choose life! We choose service! We choose blood!’ They roared as one.
‘This is the Calix Cruentes,’ said Mazrael. His skull helmet wavered in Caedis’s eyes as he spoke. ‘Only those who succumb to our curse ever see it. Drink from it, it will hold the visions at bay a short while.’ Caedis reached out a hand. His eyesight splintered, like light forced through a prism. His view became one of two places, a stained glass window made up of parts from two different images. His hand, and not his hand. One armoured, one naked and bloodied. He took the cup to his mouth and drank, a sip at first but then great gulps. Slippery liquid ran down from his mouth as he guzzled at
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Mazrael’s prayers faded from Caedis’s consciousness. Caedis replied to the catechism as best he could, each response activating deeply buried psycho conditioning; certain hypnotic states triggered by key words and ritual recitation implanted in him as a neophyte should the Black Rage come upon him. He realised this numbly, that this was no longer the Thirst, but that he was succumbing to the worst of the Flaw. A curse wrapped around his every cell; the thorns around the genomic flower of his gifts pricking at last.
He looked to his men, his companions, his friends. They wept, some of them. What was this? What did he see? This was not Sanguinius’s death, not the communion with his primarch he was expecting. He tried to speak, to say what he saw, but he could not.
Caedis included Guinian in the conversation. ‘Find me a good death, my friends. Find me something worthy to fight. Brother Guinian, search out their mightiest so that I might slay him face to face.’
the forge commanded steel, the apothecarion flesh, the chaplaincy the soul, then the Librarians knew the secrets of men’s hearts, and more besides.
‘Then we will find the creature within whose head it resides. Brother Guinian, you do not have to follow me to my doom, but your abilities would be welcome.’ Caedis’s voice was hollow and distant. ‘This is not an order, but a request, from one brother to another.’ ‘I would be honoured to aid you, lord, this last time.’ He fought back tears. He knew his beloved leader was close to his
Lacking sebum as well as sweat, Holos’s brothers all bore its mark; the dry, insufficiently nourished skin of the Blood Drinkers.
Some of these things Caedis had long imagined himself, hoping to capture them in glass or stone. Many instances formed the subjects of his glass panels. Caedis had not seen things truly, how could he? He had not been there. Now he was, and he saw how much lesser the reality of it was. He saw how Holos doubted himself, how furtive his escape.
Guinian was renowned for his dour temperament. The other brothers said there was nothing that could make Guinian smile. And why should he? He, unlike them, felt the fear of those they killed to sate their thirst for blood. He felt their confusion as they were slain by their beloved angels, their sense of betrayal as they were destroyed by those that were supposed to protect them left a bitter tang in his mind.
Quintus’s armour was broken. His multi-lung struggled with the toxic alien atmosphere of the alien ship, and the Space Marine was soon unconscious. His hibernator put him into a deep sleep where the oxygen in his blood could be made to last for many days. If they were successful, they could recover him along with his armour, as well as the armour and gene-seed of Brother Kalael.
means. So you would seek to deny fate?’ Voldo’s face was hard. ‘Such arrogance is not fitting for one of your office.’ ‘I wanted only to protect you.’ ‘What? By defying the will of the Emperor himself? Foolishness.’ He pointed a finger at the left of Galt’s chest, where his birth-heart beat. ‘To make decisions based upon this is dangerous. That way lies temptation. Have I not told you this many times?’
Clastrin. ‘This ship dates from a time when technology was given freely by the Omnissiah, but was used ignorantly and left unhallowed. For that, he turned his back upon mankind.’
‘Repair is not simply a matter of the turn of the screw, or the oiling of pistons,’ said Samin haughtily. ‘The right prayer, the right sigils, the correct ritual striking of the side of an ailing mechanism with an appropriately sanctified mallet; all may prove efficacious.’
When the Spirit of Eternity spoke again, the machine’s voice came from the air and from the lips of all the servitors. ‘What shall I not tell them? Who are you to tell such as I what to do and what not to do? Once I gladly called your kind “master”, but look how far you have fallen!’ It was full of scorn. ‘Your ancestors bestrode the universe, and what are you? A witch doctor, mumbling cantrips and casting scented oils at mighty works you have no conception of. You are an ignoramus, a nothing. You are no longer worthy of
