Focus sur les titres Black Library anciens et encore inédits en France

Veteran Dark Angels Captain Ezekiel - also known as Cloud Runner - returns to his homeworld to recruit new brethren for his Chapter...only to face an insidious enemy. Dare Cloud Runner undergo the Rite of the Deathwing and leave his mark on history?

The thirty or so survivors of A Company, 5th Thranxian Regiment - also known as the Devil's Marauders - are in a race against time...and a race against death.

Jomi Jabal is sixteen years old and like many boys his age is full of questions about life, the universe and girls. Unlike many other boys his age, he has a helpful friend able to answer any and all of his questions. His friend speaks directly into his mind, and plans to come to see him soon...

Romance blossoms between the Navigator and Astropath of a fairly ordinary freighter, but a love expresed in the warp can never be just ordinary.

This Tale is about the crashed survivors of an Inquisitorial retinue and their fight against the corruption of Chaos.

Imperial Assassin Meh'Lindi is tasked with her most demanding mission yet; one that may destroy her very conception of self.

When a mysterious and fatal malady sweeps through the Genovingian system, Imperial recollector Lemual Sark is determined to track down any information that may aid in stopping the pandemic.

Dark Angels Sergeant Kaelen learns that his Chapter keeps secrets. The hard way.

THE MIDNIGHT DARK closed on Brother-Sergeant Kaelen of the Dark Angels like a fist. The emission-reduced engines of the rapidly disappearing Thunderhawk were the only points of light he could see. His visor swum into a ghostly green hue and the outlines of the star shaped city below became clear as his auto-senses kicked in.
The altimeter reading on his visor was unravelling like a lunatic countdown, the shapes below him resolving into clearer, oblong forms. The speed of his descent was difficult to judge, the powered armour insulating Kaelen from the sensations of icy rushing air and roaring noise as he plummeted downwards. With a pulse of thought, Kaelen overlaid the tactical schematics of the city onto his visor, noting with professional pride that the outline of the buildings below almost perfectly matched the image projected before him.
The altimeter rune flashed red and Kaelen pulled out of his drop position, smoothly bringing his legs around so that he was
falling feet first. Glancing left and right he saw the same manoeuvre being repeated by his men and slammed the firing mechanism on his chest. He felt the huge deceleration as the powerful rocket motors ignited, slowing his headlong plunge into a controlled descent.
Kaelen’s boots slammed into the marble flagged plaza, his jump pack flaring a wash of heated air around him as he landed. Streams of bright light licked up from the city, flak waving like undersea fronds as the rebels sought to down the departingThunderhawk. But the heretic gunners were too late to prevent the gunship from completing its mission; its deadly cargo had already arrived.
Kaelen whispered a prayer for the transport’s crew and transferred his gaze back to the landing zone. Their drop was perfect, the Thunderhawk’s jumpmaster had delivered them dead on target. A target that was thronged with screaming, masked cultists.
Kaelen ducked a clumsy swing of a cultist’s power maul and punched his power fist through his enemy’s chest, the man shrieking and convulsing as the energised gauntlet smashed though his flesh and bone. He kicked the corpse off his fist and smashed his pistol butt into the throat of another. The man fell, clutching his shattered larynx and Kaelen spared a hurried glance to check the rest of his squad had dropped safely with him.
Stuttering blasts of heat and light flared in the darkness as the remaining nine men in Squad Leuctra landed within five metres of him, firing their bolters and making short dashes for cover.
A cultist ran towards him swinging a giant axe, his features twisted in hatred. Kaelen shot him in the head. By the Lion, these fools just didn’t stop coming! He ducked behind a giant marble statue of some nameless cardinal as a heavy burst of gunfire stitched its way towards him from the gigantic cathedral at the end the plaza. Muzzle flashes came through smashed stained glass windows, the bullets tearing up the marble in jagged splinters and cutting down cultists indiscriminately. Kaelen knew that advancing into the teeth of those guns would be bloody work indeed.
Another body ducked into cover with him, the dark green of his armour partially obscured by his chaplain’s robes. Interrogator Chaplain Bareus raised his bolt pistol. The weapon’s barrel was intricately tooled and its muzzle smoked with recent firing.
‘Squad form on me!’ ordered Kaelen, ‘Prepare to assault! Evens advance, odds covering fire!’

Commander Athellenas and 3 squads of Black Templars are all that stand in the way of a traitorous army devoted to the Blood God. Having less bolter rounds than there are enemies upon which to use them, Athellenas attempts to put into a motion a plan that requires his troops to follow his orders to the letter, no matter how distasteful they may find them.

The commander of an Imperial air sortie is faced with the choice of obeying his orders and carrying out his original mission, or straying from his flightpath and potentially saving the whole war-effort, but at the cost of his career.

Mikhail Kravi, notorious ganger, discovers the grim realities of faith and just reward in the Imperium of Man when his path crosses over that of cult-worship and the Inquisition...

Naogeddon is a Dead World. Lakius Danzager, Adept of the Tech-Priests of Mars, comes to wish it were even deader still after his Explorator team unearths what can only be a Necrontyr tomb and manages to awaken its guardians. If this wasn't enough to make Danzager wish he was somewhere else, he begins to suspect that not everything is as it seems and that someone in his group may be playing a game of deception.

Suspicious deaths in an Adeptus Mechanicus research facility trigger the arrival of not one, but two agents of the Inquisition. Can they put aside their differences, both personal and profession to root out the seed of heresy?

A tale of Inquisitor Eisenhorn. An investigation into serial murders possibly connected to a Chaos cult leads Eisenhorn into both personal danger and a tragic realisation.

I LOST MY left hand on Sameter. This is how it occurred.
On the thirteenth day of Sagittar (local calendar), three days before the solstice, in the mid-rise district of the city of Urbitane, an itinerant evangelist called Lazlo Mombril was found shuffling aimlessly around the flat roof of a disused tannery lacking his eyes, his tongue, his nose and both of his hands.
Urbitane is the second city of Sameter, a declining agrochemical planet in the Helican subsector, and it is no stranger to crimes of cruelty and spite brought on by the vicissitudes of neglect and social deprivation afflicting its tightly packed population. But this act of barbarity stood out for two reasons. First, it was no hot-blooded assault or alcohol-fuelled manslaughter but a deliberate and systematic act of brutal, almost ritual mutilation.
Second, it was the fourth such crime discovered that month.
I had been on Sameter for just three weeks, investigating the links between a bonded trade federation and a secessionist movement on Hesperus at the request of Lord Inquisitor Rorken.
The links proved to be nothing – Urbitane’s economic slough had forced the federation to chase unwise business with unscrupulous ship masters, and the real meat of the case lay on Hesperus – but I believe this was the lord inquisitor’sway of gently easing me back into active duties following the long and arduous affair of the Necroteuch.
By the Imperial calendar it was 241.M41, late in that year. I had just finished several self-imposed months of recuperation, meditation and study on Thracian Primaris. The eyes of the daemonhost Cherubael still woke me some nights, and I wore permanent scars from torture at the hands of the sadist Gorgone Locke. His strousine neural scourge had damaged my nervous system and paralysed my face. I would not smile again for the rest of my life. But the battle wounds sustained on KCX-1288 and 56-Izar had healed, and I was now itching to renew my work.
This idle task on Sameter had suited me, so I had taken it and closed the dossier after a swift and efficient investigation. But latterly, as I prepared to leave, officials of the Munitorium unexpectedly requested an audience.
I was staying with my associates in a suite of rooms in the Urbitane Excelsior, a shabby but well-appointed establishment in the high-rise district of the city. Through soot-stained, armoured roundels of glass twenty metres across, the suite looked out across the filthy grey towers of the city to the brackish waters of the polluted bay twenty kilometres away.
Ornithopters and biplanes buzzed between the massive city structures, and the running lights of freighters and orbitals glowe in the smog as they swung down towards the landing port. Out on the isthmus, through a haze of yellow, stagnant air, promethium refineries belched brown smoke into the perpetual twilight.

There's no prison in the whole Imperium that can hold Kage of the Last Chancers, is there?

Corporal Ondy Scalber of the Jopall Indentured Squadrons finds himself assigned to the Armageddon Ork Hunters as 'skinbait' and discovers that there's all sorts of ways to die...and live...out in the Green.

Snowdog gets slightly more than he bargained for when a deal goes wrong in the depths of the Underhive.

Samiel is supposed to be bad luck. The only survivor from the crew of a destroyed Leman Russ Battle Tank, his new ride, the Exterminator variant Deixio couldn't get tainted by that luck...and even if it could, there's no possible way Samiel could survive two tanks brewing up under him...right?

A Rogue Trader by the name of Janus Darke has fallen away from wealth and grace, to be taken on a hellish trip to the Eye of Terror and the planet Belial IV (which pre-Fall was an Eldar planet) by a Farseer Auric Stormcloud and his bodyguard, Athenys in search of a weapon with which to defeat a daemon prince of their hated enemy, Slaanesh.

SIMON BELISARIUS CAREFULLY unrolled the ancient parchment, smoothed the cracking vellum flat on the tabletop and placed a paperweight at each corner. Charts and starmaps already covered the desk and table of his large cabin. Like all Navigators he was in possession of hard copies of all the necessary astro-cartography. After all, you could never tell when the ancient machine spirits might become temperamental and turn against you, or when a datacore might fail.
Simon had been trained to bring his ship home even if every navigational system on it failed, and the charts were normally just one extra way of ensuring this. But this map was special. It was his pride and joy, albeit a very dangerous one.
The musty smell of the thing told how old it was. It had probably been copied and recopied since the founding of the Imperium, and probably in secret too, for this was one of those documents the Inquisition would burn a man for possessing.
Simon had always liked being party to forbidden secrets, providing they were not too forbidden, and he had always been fascinated by the relics of ancient days. And this map was something special – a chart of warp currents through the Cadian Gate running into the Eye of Terror. He might not even have recognised it for what it was when he came across it in the antiquarians had he not spent every spare moment in the libraries of Belisarius when he was younger.
He gave a wry shake of his head thinking about the pleasure he had got from that. He had not possessed much spare time for rummaging about during his childhood and youth. From the age of three years old he had spent a minimum of twelve waking hours in training. First it had been exercises todiscipline his body and mind – seven years of it. Next came seven years of higher learning – history, astronomy, various advanced mental disciplines and martial arts, all designed to strengthen his mind, his soul and his body for the rigours of his career. Then came the final seven years of studying the actual discipline of warp navigation, the ones that many did not even survive, let alone pass through. He did not want to think about those.
Instead he breathed deep of the stale scent of the scroll, and used the mnemonic recall techniques he had learned as a youth. Immediately he was back in the great library of Belisarius. He could picture the great painted ceiling one hundred metres overhead, the fresco showing the Emperor granting his charter to Mikael Belisarius, while his primarchs grinned down and all his defeated enemies gnashed their teeth in the background. In his mind’s eye, Simon could visualise the massive cabinets of books, piled on top of each other so high that the ancient ancestral librarians needed ladders ten times their own height to reach the top volumes. He could almost touch the endless rows of leather-bound librams, and stick his fingers into the countless alcoves containing scrolls and star charts and aide memoires. He could remember the nooks and crannies, each with their tables of carved wood inlaid with leviathan ivory, where he had done his reading by the soft buttery light of a hovering glow-globe until the chimes of the monstrous clock tower in the west wing of the palace had told him it was time for sleep.

The Gothic Sector is torn apart once more as psychotic Warmaster Abaddon the Despoiler launches a savage Black Crusade. With the help of his mysterious allies, Abaddon's goal is to capture the Blackstone Fortresses - ancient weapons of immeasurable power. In a desperate response, the Imperial warship Macharius, commanded by Captain Leoten Semper, is despatched to form its own alliance with the enigmatic eldar. But the fragile pacts formed by both sides look set to crumble when it becomes clear that the ultimate prize is at stake - the entire galaxy.

Deep within the twisted hell-storms of the warp lies the demon world of Torvendis, a planet damned by the dark powers of Chaos. Savage battle has raged for so long that a strata of war dead lies within the very rocks. But the arrival of a stranger threatens to upset the balance of power currently held by Lady Charybdia, princess of Slaanesh and as discontent becomes revolt, revolt turns to bloody revolution. But are the stranger's motives as straightforward as he claims or do the fickle powers of Chaos have one last trick to play?

GOLGOTH HAD KILLED old men before. Old women too, and children, and horses and warhounds and just about everything it might cross a man’s mind to kill. He had crept into Kordar’s war host when he was still too young to earn his first kill, and had fought alongside his older tribesmen as fiercely as any thrice-blooded warrior. Eight years later Golgoth had killed Kordar, a contest both men had seen coming ever since the day when the beardless boy had ignored the rules to take his first lives, and taken control of the Bladestone settlement.
In the raids and skirmishes that followed, Golgoth lost count of how many he killed in dreary, petty bloodlettings. The days of Kordar were gone. Lady Charybdia had subdued everything west of the Canis Mountains. There was nothing left the tribes could fight against, and no leaders who would challenge one another. The times of battle were to become another legend, like the million other legends that hung in the air of Torvendis like the morning mist. When Grik was dead and Golgoth led the Emerald Sword, the times of battles would return.
Yes, he had killed enough old men. He was fully prepared to kill one more.
This particular old man didn’t look so old up close. His skin was lined but his eyes were bright, as if it was weather and not age that had preyed upon him. His hair was dark and his hands still strong. Golgoth could tell a warrior when he saw one – the hermit’s nose and cheekbone had been broken long ago, his knuckles were lumpen and scarred. He stayed sitting by his small fire as Golgoth approached.
‘Who are you, stranger?’ barked Golgoth as he strode up to the hermit, Varkith and Tarn at his side.
The hermit looked up, smiling faintly.
‘A traveller making his way across the Canis Mountains, much like yourselves.’
‘No one travels alone here, old man.’
The hermit poked the fire at his feet, though it gave off little heat. ‘I am not alone. Torvendis is with me. I can read its ways so well it speaks to me like a friend.’
Golgoth stepped closer.
‘Are you armed?’
‘What you see,’ replied the hermit, spreading his arms, ‘is what you get.’
The hermit did not waver, though Golgoth and his companions were an imposing trio of men. Varkith was nine heads tall, his fists as big as a normal man’s head. Tarn, on the other hand, had once worked for the chieftain Grik before being cast out and joining Golgoth – he had strangled Grik’s enemies in their beds and killed with no more thought than most men gave to drawing breath.
‘A caravan passed this way,’ said Golgoth, still unsure what to make of the hermit.
‘Three wagons and twelve men, led by a sorcerer. What do you know of it?’
‘Eleven men,’ replied the hermit. ‘And harpies.’
Tarn glanced at Golgoth, and Golgoth knew they were both thinking the same thing. Harpies were feral, daemonic, bat-winged creatures that flocked to the bleakest peaks of the mountains; it took a powerful man indeed to tame them. And the most cunning harpies were only seen if they wanted to be, so even Lonn could miss them if he didn’t know what to look for. Had Grik fathomed that Golgoth would stalk the caravan and bring a true-sighted Touched with him?
‘You were close enough to see all this, and they let you live? I find that difficult to believe, old man.’
The hermit stood up. He was taller than Golgoth had expected, as tall as he was. ‘Age has its benefits, stripling. I know things that your people thought were forgotten. Perhaps there is something you could learn before you kill yourself and your tribesmen taking on an enemy you can’t handle.

Lorgar a écrit:Words of Blood a été traduit en Français chez BI, je l'ai et son nom français est Paroles de sang : Voici la couverture.

Dark Apostle a écrit:Paroles de Sang, ne sert strictement à rien, si ce n'est de perdre son temps.
C'est mal écrit, mal traduit...
D.A.