[Blood Angels 00] - Blood Debt by James Swallow - (ebook by Undead)

Author:James Swallow - (ebook by Undead)
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: 40k, warhammer, blood angels
Publisher: Black Library
Published: 2010-12-12T00:00:00+00:00

His mind floated in an ocean of crystal voids, sharp jags of memory and sensation ripping into him, needles of recollection tearing across the inquisitor’s psyche. On some level, he understood that his corporeal body was teetering on the edge of coma and within, his psionic essence was undirected and broken, wandering the caverns of his soul. He sensed the boil and churn of the empyrean out there just beyond the real, the realm of warp space where unknowable things lived. Even as he feared them, there was much of Ramius Stele that coveted the knowledge of these creatures, of how and what they were.

He knew that emotion all too well. It was this drive in him that had brought ruin to Orilan.

There was laughter. Cruel and mocking, amused at his plight. Stele tried to shy away from it, but it found him wherever he hid.

“Look what you have wrought,” The words were the breath of corpses. “Do not hide from it, Inquisitor. See it. Know it and own your deeds!”

Against his will. Stele’s mind reeled back to the library once more, forced down through the years to the point where it had all begun.

Always the library, the place where he had first glimpsed the great potential for himself. It had been on Ariyo, after the burning of the Simbasa Heretics; there as the guardsmen put the torch to the storehouse of unhallowed texts, Ramius had dared to read from a volume that fell open at his feet. It had been an accident just a small thing. He had looked, just dared to look. And what he read, glimpsed even…

What he saw there planted seeds of fervent interest nurtured by the radicalism already seated in his heart. As the years passed, as he grew more disenchanted with the decrepitude of the Ecclesiarchy and the lackwits among his superiors, Ramius concealed his disgust while he sought out more forbidden knowledge and plumbed the greater depths of psyker witchery.

“Do you remember the day I spoke to you?” The voice was enthralling just as it had been the first time. “You thought I was a dream. But I was the wind of change upon your limited mind. I opened you, Ramius. You welcomed me.”

Perhaps this was an illusion, he wondered, some product of his injuries. “You know better than that!”

And then he tasted the name of the creature in his mind. Malfallax.

“Yes.” A hot pressure shoved Stele’s memories to the secret chamber beneath the old temple on Orilan. To the place where the death of the world had begun, hours ago now, days past.

“You were unready. Too eager. Look what it brought you.”

The inquisitor watched the events unfold as if he were a passive observer, merely an audience member at some gaudy theatre play; he struggled fruitlessly, as if he could somehow throw a warning back in time to himself not to begin the Rite of Binding. He had made a mistake. It was so clear to him now in retrospect; one single

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