Honourbound - Rachel Harrison

by Warhammer 40K

‘Over time, the king grew jealous. The people of Antar loved Morrow because she brought with her flowers and food. They did not love the King of Winter. They spoke his name in whispers and dreaded his coming.’

  ‘So what did the king do?’ Raine asks.

  ‘He knew that he could not beat Morrow fairly, so he made a deal with the vypers of the earth, that they could have his mountain seat if they gave him their poison to kill her with.

  ‘So the vypers gave their poison to the king, and he came down from the mountains and brought winter with him, and then waited for Morrow to come to the heartwood to face him. Like always, they fought for three days, and the sky grew fierce, but on the last day, the king plunged his poisoned claws into Morrow’s chest. Into her heart, where the light that made her was. Morrow fell, and her cloak of leaves turned brown in an instant. Her hair turned brittle and her eyes to dull stones, and then she was gone. The King of Winter rejoiced then, because he had beaten Morrow, and all of Antar would be his kingdom. And the King of Winter did rule. All of Antar wore a cloak of snow. The forests died, and there were no more flowers. The people starved, and in their desperation, they beseeched the king, but his new kingdom had made him no less bitter. No less cruel. He allowed them to have the heartwood to grow food, but for a price. Every year, on the day he defeated Morrow, he would take a sacrifice from amongst the folk of Antar.’

  ‘What kind of sacrifice?’ Raine asks.

  ‘A good heart,’ Fel says. ‘And he would eat them, and grow stronger.’

  ‘Now, that cannot be the ending,’ Raine says, as she finishes her work. ‘That would be a dark story, even for you.’

  She sees him smile out of the corner of her eye.

  ‘No,’ he says. ‘It is not quite the ending. The King of Winter ruled over Antar for ninety-nine years. He took ninety-nine good hearts and grew stronger and stronger ruling from his throne in the heartwood. On the hundreth year, the folk of Antar brought their sacrifice as they always did. It was a young woman, with fierce dark eyes, and when the king looked upon her he knew that taking her heart would make him stronger than any other. Stronger than the Emperor, wisest of all. It would make him strong enough to take the stars from the sky.’

  ‘That sounds terribly arrogant,’ Raine says, absently, as she winds a new bandage around Fel’s arm. She can’t help thinking of Sylar as she says it. Of the long shadow, that wants the stars, and all the spaces in between.

  ‘It was,’ Fel says. ‘But the king could not see his arrogance. He just saw opportunity. So he got up from his darkwood throne, and he made to take the young woman’s heart. He plunged his claws into her chest, but he found that hers was a heart that he could not take, because it burned too fiercely. It scorched his feathers and his fur and lit the forest in gold. The light spread and touched every corner of the world, melting the snow and the ice. The king drew back his claws, but it was too late, because the fire had caught him, and he saw the young woman truly now. Saw that her hair was spun with thorns.’

  ‘Morrow,’ Raine says.

  Fel nods. ‘She took every bit of strength from the king and gave it back to the land, then took his crown of bones and broke it, because there could be no more kings. Only the Emperor. With his crown broken, the king became nothing more than just winter, and he was taken up into the sky for the winds to watch over.’

  ‘And Morrow?’ Raine asks.

  ‘Morrow’s heart had saved every soul on Antar,’ he says. ‘But she fell into a deep slumber. The folk of Antar broke down the darkwood throne and built a bower for her in the heartwood. She sleeps there now until she is needed. Until the Emperor wakes her again.’

  Raine finishes sealing the bandage and lets go of Fel’s arm.

  ‘And do you believe He will?’ Raine asks. ‘Wake her again?’

  ‘I believe that her heart was fierce,’ he says. ‘And that fierce hearts are the kind that endure.’

  Eight

  Defiance. Defiant.

  From the new staging post, Raine can only see the city of Defiance. It is lit by the last dim rays of daylight as the sun falls somewhere behind the clouds. The spires punch up into the sky on all sides, black iron and slabs of rockcrete. Their edges catch fire, painted bright by those last moments of light. Thunder rumbles in the distance, both from the constant Laxian storm, and from the ongoing battle. The building that the Antari have been billeted to in order to push into the city proper is an old scholam, built in the Laxian way. An odd mixture of functional and decorative, with silvered inlays in the walls, and bare rockcrete for floors.

  ‘It is strange, isn’t it?’

  Raine turns away from the upturned claw of the city and the arched embrasure that serves as a window and looks at Andren Fel. He isn’t looking at her, but at the letters painted on the wall of the corridor, ten feet high. Lumens clasped in gargoyle hands jut out of the wall above it, casting hard light.

  ‘Duty, honour,’ Raine begins.

  ‘Faith,’ Fel says, finishing the adage. ‘I haven’t set foot in a scholam since my own,’ he says. ‘Not one still standing, anyway.’

  ‘Neither have I,’ Raine says.

  ‘The way it is written is exactly the same,’ he says, absently. ‘Down to the colour of the paint.’

  Fel puts his hand out, gloved fingers to the word ‘faith’. The armourers have repaired his carapace plates well. All of the damage from the forge is hidden now, though Raine notices a difference on the inside of his left vambrace as he holds out his arm. There are twelve deliberate nicks out of the red paint, where before there were only eleven. Raine knows the shape of a mark when it is made by the point of a knife.

  ‘For Rol,’ Raine says. ‘The new mark.’

  Fel glances down at his vambrace and nods. He drops his arm back to his side.

  ‘It feels right,’ he says. ‘Carrying the lost with you.’

  Raine thinks about the timepiece in her pocket and can’t help but agree. She has tried three more times to unlock the datacrystal with words or phrases Lucia might have used.

  The-Answer-Is-Faith.

  Truth-Among-The-Details.

  Always-Asking-Questions.

  Still, it remains locked. Raine feels as though she is playing one of her sister’s word games. The sort that they would play as children. Only in this instance, there is much more at stake than who will be the one to lead prayer or greet their mother from duty.

  ‘The delegation from the Kavrone are barely minutes out,’ Fel says.

  ‘Then we should go,’ Raine says.

  ‘Hale told me that the general is with them,’ Fel says.

  The wind coming through the embrasure at Raine’s back feels colder.

  ‘Good,’ she says. ‘Then we will know him.’

  She takes another look at those words painted on the wall. There is a worn patch on the word ‘faith’ where generations of progena have put their fingers to it as they walked past, just as Fel did.

  ‘Being here makes me think of how the scholam masters would put us out into the forests to train us,’ Fel says. ‘Have us hunt to feed ourselves and take skins to sleep under.’

  ‘Tell me about the hunt,’ Raine says. ‘About how you would do it.’

  ‘There are many ways,’ Fel says. ‘You can chase the animal until it tires, but you will yourself end up tired. You can lay snares, but that is a chance, and you might starve before the animal chooses to take from them. You can lure it, with food or scent, but you might lure wyldwolves that way too. It is dangerous.’

  ‘You said there were many ways,’ Raine says. ‘What else?’

  ‘You watch and you listen. Learn its strengths and its weaknesses,’ Fel says. ‘Stay nearby and let the animal grow used to you.’

  Raine puts her fingers to the word ‘faith’ too. The stone is cold under her fingertips.

  ‘Then when it is inattentive.
Careless. When you know that it will not run,’ she says. ‘That is when you make your move.’

  Fel nods. ‘That is when you make your move.’

  The briefing is held in what used to be the scholam’s audience chamber. Like all things on Laxus Secundus, it has architectural overtones of the mechanical. Squared-off edges. No windows and a heavy set of doors. To Raine, it feels like a gilded strongbox.

  Or a casket.

  When she arrives with Fel, the rest of the Antari captains are already gathered around a heavy wooden table that is flaked and bleached with age. It is real wood, though. Raine catches the smell of it. A hololith projection flickers above it, showing the seal of the Bale Stars Crusade. Serek’s roaring lion. Around it stand Hale, Devri and Sun. Grey, blue and gold. Three companies for this particular operation in Defiance’s western district. Fel takes his place beside Hale. Raine goes to the opposite side of the table, because that is how things are. Her, in opposition, always.

  ‘They are late,’ says Karin Sun, checking the chrono on his wrist and scowling.

  Gold’s captain could as well be made of ferrocrete. He is squarely built and strong, with a face made of blunt angles and scars. There is a visible, dull steel plate set into his scalp from where he took a solid round that should have killed him.

  Devri laughs. By contrast to Sun, Blue’s captain is lean and tall, even as the Antari go. His dark hair is unruly, and he always looks as though he has forgotten to shave. Devri is almost as heavily tattooed as Fel is, with prayer-words showing easily above his uniform collar.

  ‘It wouldn’t surprise me if they are doing it on purpose,’ Devri says. ‘Proving a point. You know how the Kavrone can be, especially when it comes to us.’ He shakes his head. ‘They call us wild, as if they know what the word means.’

  ‘As if wildness is a bad thing,’ says Hale.

  ‘I fail to see what point they could be trying to prove,’ Sun says. ‘That they are incapable of keeping time?’ He folds his arms across his chest. ‘Lateness is laxity,’ Sun continues. ‘Laxity is–’

  ‘Sin,’ Devri interrupts him. ‘Spare me the words, Kar. We are not the ones to break them.’

  ‘That is enough,’ Raine says, at the sound of footsteps approaching the doors. ‘From the lot of you.’

  Hale nods. Devri shrugs. Sun keeps scowling, but he doesn’t argue. Then the footsteps draw close and the doors to the audience chamber open wide.

  ‘Oh,’ Devri mutters, with a smile. ‘An honour guard.’

  Two Kavrone Dragoons in full regimental dress stand by the doors. Their uniforms are royal blue and crisp white, snow and sky, with not a mark on them. They wear torin caps with their regimental badges in gold. A flaming lance, framed by the sun. The honour guard stand to attention as two Kavrone captains enter the chamber, in flak armour and cloaks that clasp across the chest. They introduce themselves as Ellervin and Jeraine, of the first and third companies, respectively. Raine knows the names of all of the Dragoons’ captains. Or she did. Neither one of the soldiers before her held the rank before Laxus Secundus. Vander was not exaggerating when he said they had taken losses.

  The Kavrone’s commissar is the next to take his place. Vander stands at the table beside Raine, in opposition to the troops, just as she is. Like his regiment, he is immaculate. Ornamented. Save for one thing.

  ‘Vander,’ she says.

  He glances at her and she gets a proper look at the deep bruise under his left eye from where she hit him.

  ‘Raine,’ he says, with arctic civility.

  The careful lack of disdain in his voice would surprise Raine more, but she is not giving him her full attention, because the generals are taking their place at the head of the table. One Antari. One Kavrone.

  Juna Keene is dressed like her captains, in flak armour painted in greys and greens. The Antari general wears no cloak. No cape. Her rank is only shown by her pins and her medals, and the brutally decorative chainsword she carries at her waist. Her hair is shaved down on the sides, and dark, tight curls on the top. Her ears are pierced a handful of times each.

  Kaspar Sylar is as much an opposite to her as it is possible to be. The Kavrone general’s armour is glossy enamel. His cloak is crimson and heavy and trimmed with gold thread, the clasp set with stones. His medals and pins glitter in the lumen light. The degree of ceremony seems strange to Raine, after serving with the Antari for so long. She knows, though, that it is not unusual for other regiments. What is unusual is Sylar’s face. It bears the strange distortion of juvenat and cosmetic attention that has left him unscarred despite all of those commendations, and all of his wars. The consequences of his years have been erased, made all the more apparent by their absence.

  A dishonesty, made of his skin.

  Keene puts her hands on the table. Her sleeves are rolled back to show one well-made augmetic arm. Her other is flesh and bone. Her dark skin is heavily tattooed in the Antari way.

  ‘Let us begin,’ she says.

  She inputs an authorisation code, and the hololith changes.

  ‘The local name for the western district of Defiance is the Healer’s Ward,’ Keene says, as it appears before them, rendered in miniature. ‘As well as their forges and factories, the Laxians made augmetics. Good ones too. That is where the name comes from, though they did a good deal in the Ward besides heal.’

  The hololith flickers, displaying different schematic angles. When it draws out to encapsulate the full scale of the Healer’s Ward, Devri whistles.

  ‘That is an ugly heap,’ he says, with a grin.

  The hololith display shows the entire fifteen hundred square kilometre district in miniature, a vast urban sprawl of stacked manufactoria, habs and places of worship joined by wide avenues and bridges. At the centre of the Healer’s Ward, a cluster of spires juts upwards.

  ‘Thank you, captain,’ Keene says, with some humour in her voice. ‘Helpful as ever.’

  Devri nods, still smiling.

  ‘Your objective will be the Sanctum of Bones,’ Keene says. ‘It is the central spire, and the main medicae facility in the Healer’s Ward.’

  Keene adjusts the hololith again and the rest of the district falls away to isolate the tallest of the Ward’s spires.

  ‘The Sanctum of Bones?’ The name is a question, the way Hale says it.

  ‘It is a local name.’

  The words come from the Kavrone captain called Ellervin. In the light of the hololith, Raine notices just how young he is, and how tired he looks.

  ‘The Sanctum of Bones is the facility where the Laxians built those augmetics mentioned by General Keene, as well as other things. Servitors. Cherubim. It is the place where they mind-scrubbed the weak. Repurposed the broken.’

  Ellervin looks back to the hololith.

  ‘That is where they have us at a standstill,’ he says. ‘The facility is on a war footing.’ He scowls. ‘The Sighted have it locked down with shielding, on the inside as well as the outside.’

  ‘They locked down a good portion of our second company too,’ the other Kavrone captain, Jeraine, says. ‘This is the last we heard from them before the shielding fell.’

  Jeraine takes a datakey from the pocket of his fatigues and feeds it into the cogitator-system. It starts to play crackling vox-capture. Raine can clearly hear las-fire in the background.

  And screaming.

  ‘This is Burdian, of the second,’ the recorded voice says, through wavering distortion. ‘If you can hear this, we need support. Guns. Souls. Anything you can spare. They are everywhere.’

  There is more screaming and the recording skips and breaks up into fragments with only one more sentence coming through clear. A sentence Raine suspects that Burdian never intended to transmit.

  ‘Throne, no. Please. Not like this–’

  Then the recording falls silent.

  Jeraine pulls
the datakey and holds it tightly in his fist as if he wants to crush it. Beside him, the Antari captains all steeple their fingers. It is a gesture associated with benedictions. Oaths.

  And sometimes with the passing of souls.

  ‘The blast shielding on the outside is adamantium-mix, and can be broken,’ Ellervin says. ‘The inner shield, though, is a different matter.’

  The young Kavrone captain points to a highlighted location in the upper third of the Sanctum of Bones, over half a kilometre from the base.

  ‘Whatever powers the inner shield is on this level, but we have been unable to reach it.’

  ‘I take it you have tried a direct strike,’ Fel says, pointing at the same location. ‘Through those heat exchange vents.’

  Raine sees them when he points them out. Jutting pipes, like exhausts.

  Ellervin blinks. ‘No,’ he says, slowly. ‘The blast shielding–’

  ‘Won’t block those,’ Fel says. ‘Unless they designed it to suffocate everyone inside the Sanctum. They might be grated, but that’s not a trouble to breach.’

  ‘That is high risk,’ the other Kavrone captain, Jeraine, says. ‘The Sighted notice you, and you are dead without question.’

  Fel looks at him. Raine knows that look.

  ‘Then you don’t get noticed,’ he says, simply.

  Jeraine falls quiet, scowling. Raine sees Devri smile in the hololith light.

  ‘Gaining access is not the end of it,’ Keene says. ‘Intelligence reports tell us that one of the Nine is present in the spire.’

  Raine feels the mood around the table shift at the mention of those who control the Sighted. Always nine. Every one they kill replaced with another. Karin Sun snarls through his teeth and Raine knows why. Sun was there with her on Gholl, in the crystal caverns. Like her, he was captured by Arcadius Verastus, who called himself Ninth of Nine. Gold’s captain was almost killed by Verastus, just as she was.

  ‘Who, sir?’ Raine asks Keene. ‘Which of the Nine?’

  ‘Cretia Ommatid,’ Keene says. ‘From the transmissions intercepted, they are calling her She Who Watches.’