‘What do you want to do?’ Sulaman asked, playing along. To his surprise, Evelyn sat back.

‘There must be others like us, Sulaman. Other groups. Other cults. Other fools. You were our leader. It strikes me that you might know about them. How to recognise them, how to get in touch with them. That sort of thing.’

Sulaman had read certain texts, it was true. He’d been able to get his hands on a few restricted items without bringing himself to the attention of the authorities. There were a couple of dealers who quietly trafficked in heretical pamphlets, who might indeed have links to other groups.

He ventured a smile, a more genuine one this time. ‘Perhaps we can help each other out, Evelyn?’

‘Help each other?’ Evelyn laughed. ‘No, Sulaman. You’re going to tell me everything you know, everyone you know, and then I’m going to kill you – and then I’m going to go and kill as many of them as I can.’

Sulaman’s chest tightened with fear. ‘Evelyn, I’ve known you since you were twelve. You can’t mean that! You’re Evelyn Darke! I took you in when your family threw you out.’

‘I’m not Evelyn Darke any longer!’ Evelyn snarled, and her right hand burst into flame anew. ‘I’m Evelyn Halfsoul now – your friend Niklau saw to that.’

‘He wasn’t my friend!’ Sulaman squealed, wriggling desperately, but she’d tied his bonds well.

‘Then tell me all about the ones who were your friends,’ Evelyn said, reaching down with her flaming hand. ‘Tell me about every last one of them, and perhaps this will be over quickly.’

Sulaman Eichner screamed for a long time.

About the Author

About the Author

Mike Brooks is a speculative fiction author who lives in Nottingham, UK. His work for Black Library includes the Necromunda novella Wanted: Dead, and the short stories ‘The Path Unclear’, ‘A Common Ground’ and ‘Choke Point’. When not writing, he works for a homelessness charity, plays guitar and sings in a punk band, and DJs wherever anyone will tolerate him.

An Extract from ‘Lords and Tyrants’

An extract from Lords and Tyrants.

No matter how often Voyle relives it, the end always begins the same way. A deep clang reverberates through the airlock as the Sable Star’s boarding umbilical latches on to the derelict ship. Voyle checks the air tank strapped to the back of the trooper beside him, then turns so his comrade can return the gesture. The routine is mirrored by every member of the squad with practised swiftness. They have run through it twice already, yet nobody hesitates. Nobody complains. A Void Breacher’s life hangs by the integrity of his tank as much as his weapons.

‘Squad Indigo is bloodtight,’ Voyle reports into his helmet vox when the ritual is complete. ‘Repeat, bloodtight.’