Battling to save the Blood Ravens' precious gene-seed, Librarian Rhamah is sucked into the terrible warp storm known as the Eye of Terror. He crashes down onto a bizarre planet of alien libraries and museums -- an ancient eldar world hidden in the tempests of the warp. Presuming him dead, his battle-brothers mourn the passing of this hero, but his fate is far worse than death ...

When a detachment of strangely familiar Space Marines lands on the planet to plunder its forbidden knowledge, Rhamah finds himself embroiled in their confrontation with the planet's mysterious guardians. As the rest of the Blood Ravens begin their search for him, Rhamah struggles to discover his true identity -- unaware that his allegiance could tip the balance and decide the fate of this world and its secrets.

(2006)

(cover art: Philip Sibering)

Reviews:

5 STARS! Another storming piece of sci-fi from Goto, 1 Dec 2006
By Kill Bill (NYC)

Like all of Goto's work this is intelligent and well-crafted fiction. The characters are fully realised and well-developed, and the plot line is fresh and interesting. He is (yet again) pushing the boundaries of BL fiction, this time by employing a first-person narrative. I think this is the first time that this has been done for a Space Marine.
Yet again Goto proves that he is the author of choice for the intelligent BL reader. This is not just the linear, tedius, blood and gore of some BL products, but this is a real novel. If you just want mindless violence, this might not be for you, but if you want a properly crafted novel that transforms the Blood Ravens into the most interesting of the Space Marine Chapters, this is definitely for you!
There are one or two (very vocal) conservatives that can't cope with change, but Goto is by far the most exciting writer in the BL stable and the vast majority of BL readers love his work, which is why he has so rapidly become one of their best-selling writers.

Extract:

From pp.7-10:

The heat was sudden and intense, as though I had been thrown from the coolness of gentle night-air into the fury of a blast-furnace. All at once, I could feel my senses coming alive; my skin prickled beneath the familiar ceramic touch of my armour, and my face burned as though it were on fire. There was nothing but light – radiant, searing and unbearable – piercing through to the back of my closed eyes, dragging me into consciousness like a beacon bringing a ship to shore.

Flicking open instinctively, my eyes merely filled my head with lancing agonies as the dazzling and brilliant light crashed against my unguarded retinas. Still, I could see nothing, only the burning, red, bloody brightness of an intense sun that dominated my vision as though I were blind. My mind raced for images of darkness, trying to bring cool salve into my boiling thoughts, but the heat incinerated every thought as it came into frame, as though my head were an inferno in which nothing could survive.

Am I blind? The thoughts spiralled through the boiling convections, making me nauseous and dizzy. For a moment I thought that I was on my feet, but then my balance seemed to flip and turn, and the ground ran over my back like simmering water, scolding me through the panels of my armour, trickling through the joints against the scarred and leathery skin beneath.

No. Blindness is being lost in the darkness. Here I am surrounded by light. Without another thought, I lifted my left hand to my face and felt the darkness of a shadow fall over my blistered skin. The light against my eyes shifted and the temperature on my face dropped by a fraction of a degree. Cracking open my eyes once again, a burst of darkness cut into my mind as the silhouette of my hand burnt its image into my retina, like a moon eclipsing the sun.

My weapon! The thought exploded into my head, extinguishing the flames that wracked my mind like dynamite blowing out a forest fire. Nothing else mattered.

Reaching urgently around behind my shoulder, my hand plunged into a sea of burning granules as it quested for the hilt of my sword. I’m lying on sand – this must be a desert! But the hilt was not there. I rolled onto my side and felt the sizzling sand cascade across my back as I checked the holster for its ancient blade. Nothing. It was not there.

Blood was pulsing through my neck, running close to the surface of the skin in an attempt to cool my body, and I could feel the labour of my secondary heart pounding in my chest. Am I injured? I couldn’t tell – all of my senses seemed swamped by the heat. I slumped back onto my back, folding my arm across my face to shade the exposed skin from the relentless assault of the desert sun.

After a few seconds, fragments of memories started to flicker past my eyes. How did I get here? They were questions more than memories, but they implied memories: I was somewhere else before – this is not where I am supposed to be. I am someone who belongs elsewhere. That single notion lingered in my mind, as though all trains of thought led directly back to it: I – who am I? It was like a black hole sucking everything else in.

There were no answers. The clearest image in my head was of an ornate and ancient sword, and I felt sure that the beautiful item was mine. It was important to me. Integral. It was part of who I was, and I felt its absence like a icy, physical wound. Instinctively, I reached again with my hand, letting the flames of the sun lap against my raw face once more, hoping faintly that I would find the hilt this time and, with it, find something of myself.

Nothing.

Without thinking, I snatched my right hand down to my thigh. I should have a boltpistol in that holster. The realisation was not quite a memory; it was more like an assertion about the proper state of my being. I should have a sword on my back and a pistol against my leg: that was what it meant to be me. But the holster was empty and my bare fingers found nothing except the hiss of scorchingly hot ceramite, as my fingertips burnt against the armour fitted over my leg.

There must be something. I must have a weapon. A memory stirred and my hands darted to the fixtures and fittings that were moulded into the band around the waist of my armour. With my eyes still closed, my fingers danced across the surface with a muscle memory of their own; they knew what they were looking for. After a second, a wave of relief eased through me, like a wash of cool water. A combat knife. The metallic hilt burnt my fingers and the palm of my hand, but I gripped it with the certainty and strength with which a lame man might hold his cane.

Then the heat overcame me once again, and the searing light blinked into the darkness of unconsciousness.

(copyright Games Workshop ltd, 2006 -- CS Goto)