The second instalment of Darius Hinks’ Mephiston trilogy pushes the Lord of Death into darker, stranger territory. As the Great Rift splits the galaxy and the Imperium reels beneath its lightless wound, Mephiston finds himself beset by portents he cannot read. At the very moment his psychic sight is most needed, an inexplicable force blinds him to the Warp, severing the one sense that has always guided him. Haunted by visions of the damned, phantoms whose purpose is as unsettling as their presence. Mephiston gathers the Blood Oath and the warriors under his command and sets course for the world of Morsus. Something there is smothering his gift, and he intends to confront it.
But Morsus is no sanctuary. The planet is locked in a brutal, lingering conflict known as the Revenant Crusade, a war between the Imperium and some of its oldest, most implacable foes. As Mephiston descends into this theatre of ruin, he discovers that the source of his blindness is entwined with the planet’s suffering, and with a threat far older than the Rift itself. Yet the mystery on Morsus is not merely a planetary affliction or a quirk of the Rift’s madness. At the heart of the Revenant Crusade stands a figure as unsettling as the blindness that haunts Mephiston, a being whose existence defies reason, history, and death itself. The Imperium knows him only through fragmented records and battlefield whispers, a name carried across centuries of conflict like a curse. Menkhaz the Unmortal. Even by the standards of the 41st Millennium, it is a title that feels uncomfortably literal.
Menkhaz the Unmortal enters the story as one of those figures who feels less like a warlord and more like a problem the galaxy has been trying, and failing, to delete for millennia. His name appears in scattered records across impossible spans of time, unchanged and unburied, as though history itself keeps trying to move on and he simply refuses to cooperate. He is a relic of an age long before the Imperium, a being shaped by forces older than the Great Rift and stranger than the Mechanicus would ever admit. And to help his legend endure, he also happens to be utterly, magnificently unhinged, a prime example of everything the Necrontyr lost in the biotransference and the long, sanity‑eroding aeons of the Great Sleep.
What remains is a creature whose motives are opaque, whose survival defies logic, and whose presence on Morsus ensures that the Revenant Crusade is anything but a simple war. Mephiston is a creature of shadowed introspection, a being who carries his power like a burden, not a boast. Every step he takes is measured, every thought weighed against the abyss he has already survived twice. He is the Lord of Death not because he revels in darkness, but because he understands it too well. His brooding nature is the armour he wears against the Warp’s whisper, a constant vigilance forged through suffering, discipline, and the terrible knowledge of what he could become.
Menkhaz the Unmortal… is something else entirely.
Where Mephiston is controlled, Menkhaz is chaos wrapped in necrodermis. He is a relic of a war so ancient that even the stars have forgotten it, yet he marches on as if the War in Heaven never ended. To him, the Aeldari are still the enemy, the galaxy is still aflame, and every patch of ground, even those untouched for centuries, is a battlefield demanding immediate, furious assault. If Mephiston is haunted by visions, Menkhaz is haunted by history, and he responds to both with the same unhinged enthusiasm.
It makes for a fascinating contrast: one warrior defined by the darkness he masters, and one defined by the madness he never escaped.
All of this sets the stage for a story that balances the brooding weight of Mephiston’s inner darkness with the unhinged, time‑lost fury of an ancient Necron who still thinks the War in Heaven is happening right now. It’s a clash of perspectives as much as power, one shaped by discipline and dread, the other by millennia of fractured memory and a very enthusiastic misunderstanding of the present. With that contrast in place, the novel shifts from spectacle to something more interesting: how these forces feel when they collide. And that’s where my own thoughts on Revenant Crusade begin.
I really enjoyed this book, enough that I ended up reading it in a single sitting. It’s one of those rare novels where every chapter pulls you forward, and before you realise it, you’ve devoured the whole thing. The growing depth of Mephiston’s power is handled brilliantly here. Hinks balances the sheer scale of what Mephiston is becoming with the constant strain of holding it back, and that tension never lets up. Even his closest contemporaries don’t come close to the level of psychic force he contains, and the book makes that gap feel both awe‑inspiring and quietly terrifying. There’s also a compelling subplot involving Andros, powerful, promising, and still relatively untested, which adds a subtle warning note for what may come in the final book, City of Light. It’s the kind of narrative thread that hints at future conflict without overshadowing the main story, and it works well.
At only 235 pages, this is a short novel, but every page is doing its part. Nothing feels wasted. It’s tightly written, atmospheric, and absolutely the kind of book that will sit comfortably on many fans’ favourite shelf. I’ll admit I’m slightly biased; I’ve always found the interplay between Mephiston’s purity, Sanguinius’ inherent nobility, and the destructive potential coiled inside him utterly fascinating. That duality is one of the most compelling aspects of the Blood Angels as a whole, and this book leans into it beautifully. But even setting my preferences aside, I genuinely believe any fan of the Blood Angels, or of character‑driven 40k stories in general, will appreciate what Revenant Crusade delivers.
A definite recommendation from me.
Revenant Crusade is a tight, atmospheric second act that deepens everything compelling about Mephiston without ever losing momentum. It expands his power, sharpens his inner conflict, and surrounds him with characters who highlight both his brilliance and his danger. The addition of Andros hints at tensions still to come, and the presence of Menkhaz the Unmortal gives the book a wonderfully strange, ancient counterpoint that keeps the narrative unpredictable. At just 235 pages, it’s a short novel, but every page earns its place. It’s gripping, character‑driven, and absolutely worthy of the Blood Angels’ mythic legacy. I may be biased in my fascination with Mephiston’s blend of purity, nobility, and barely contained destruction, but even so, I think most fans will find something here to love.
A strong entry in the trilogy, and an easy recommendation.
No comments:
Post a Comment