“Fell?”
“Yes, while I was opening the trials. You staggered and then fell. By the time I reached you, you were already unconscious,” said Prathios softly, watching his captain’s eyes carefully.
Returning the chaplain’s gaze with an even stare, Gabriel swung his legs over the side of the recuperation tablet on which he was lying. For a moment he thought that he saw his friend searching his soul.
“I banged my head,” he said, his hand still resting on the side of his face. “It was bleeding.”
“No, captain, there was no blood,” replied Prathios, holding Gabriel’s eyes for a little longer. “There was no sign of damage when I got to you. And Techmarine Ephraim ran some checks on your armour when we got you back here—nothing.”
“I can see what you are thinking, chaplain,” said Gabriel, his eyes hardening. “But this was no attack of conscience. It was not the inferno of Cyrene that filled my head, as it was on Tartarus. But there was blood. The air itself was weeping blood.” The images were flickering back through his mind as his spoke.
Prathios nodded gravely. As the Third Company chaplain, Gabriel’s visions put Prathios in a delicate position. He was well aware that a Space Marine captain should not have such visions, indeed that they may be signs of a taint. However, he could see reasons behind his old friend’s episodes, and Gabriel had never permitted them to lead him astray. If anything, his visions of the choir of the Astronomican on Tartarus had inspired him to heroics of legendary proportions. In Prathios’ mind, the captain was not suffering any daemonic or psychic taint, but rather was afflicted by some kind of psychosis. The Exterminatus of Cyrene, Gabriel’s homeworld, had been a heavy burden for the captain to bear—it had been launched at his command. And then on Tartarus, the sole other survivor of Cyrene, Gabriel’s life-long friend and battle-brother Isador had succumbed to Chaos, and Gabriel had been forced to kill him himself. No matter how augmented, disciplined and even superhuman the Adeptus Astartes might be, the human mind could only take so much.
As he stared at the fierce and defiant face of his captain, Prathios could not help but wonder whether the Third Company’s inexplicable dash to Rahe’s Paradise was not in itself evidence that Gabriel was too close to the edge.
CHAPTER FIVE: PHANTASMS
Even from the very edge of the system, where the webway portal spilt the sleek eldar cruisers back into real space, Laeresh could sense the presence of the mon-keigh. They were like a stench in the psychic wash that swept through his mind. The warp signatures in the region of Lsathranil’s Shield had always been unusual, but Laeresh was not expecting to find the ugly dissonance of humans already mixed into the streams of consciousness that flowed through the apparent vacuum of space. It was as though an animal had died and fallen into the current upstream, filling his senses with atrophy and poisoned decay. His long, elegant face grimaced slightly in revulsion, even before the Blade’s long-range scanners confirmed the presence of an Imperium strike cruiser in orbit around the fourth planet.
In an involuntary reflex, Laeresh’s upper lip curled back into a snarl. “Cleanse the stars,” he muttered, half to himself. “War is my master, death my mistress,” he whispered, and the Reaper’s Blade surged forward towards the offending planet as though responding directly to his words.
Wait. It was a familiar but weak and hesitant echo of a thought, prodding at the edge of his consciousness as though trying to find a way in. Laeresh squinted, shutting the voice out and filling his thoughts with purpose: war is my master. The putrid stench of the mon-keigh could not be suffered around Lsathranil’s Shield: death is my mistress.
The Reaper’s Blade streaked away from the inconstant form of the Eternal Star, leaving it glowing on the cusp of the webway portal. After a few seconds, Laeresh registered the fact that Macha’s wraithship was not following his lead, but his thoughts were already in the heat of the battle to come and he dismissed her absence as a strategic mistake rather than a significant communication. The Blade was more than a match for any of the cumbersome, ugly vessels of the Imperium—he didn’t need the wraithship’s support to deal with a single strike cruiser.
Wait. The echo came again, persistent and pressing, albeit still weak and feeble. The thought had a familiar quality that Laeresh refused to recognise, shutting it out as his Void Dragon cruiser flashed through the edges of the system, heading in towards the fourth planet.
As the Reaper’s Blade closed, its frontal pulsar lances erupted with power, sending a volley of high-energy laser bolts searing through the vacuum towards the mon-keigh vessel. In tight formation, a clutch of Phantom torpedoes flashed along in the wake of the energy discharge.
The two vessels were still too far apart for a proper engagement, but long distance strikes were what the Dark Reapers were famous for, and the Void Dragon had been specially adapted to match the tactics of the Aspect Temple: the lance blasts would soften up the enemy’s shields before the torpedoes impacted. It was a deep space vessel, capable of supporting the Dark Reapers for years or even decades at a time, if the exarch chose not to take it back to the Biel-Tan craftworld straight away. In fact, it was one of the very few Dragon-class cruisers that contained its own Aspect shrine, so that the warriors on board could be spiritually self-sufficient for longer periods. The spirit pool of the Reaper’s Blade contained only the souls of deceased Dark Reapers, making it a ritually pure vessel for the exarch and his glorious army—like a miniature recreation of craftworld Altansar, for which the Void Dragon continued to search the deepest reaches of space. The refusal of the Dark Reapers to blend their souls with those of the other Biel-Tan eldar in the craftworld’s infinity circuit excited both resentment and relief from the other members of the Court of the Young King. Nobody knew what effect their vengeful souls would have on the balance of that circuit, especially since there were now thousands of them in the Reaper’s Blade itself, stored up over the centuries in the hope that they might one day be released into the craftworld of Altansar once again.
Wait. The echo was louder this time and more urgent, as though the source was drawing nearer or recovering its strength.
The volley of lance fire streaked towards the Imperium’s vessel, which was beginning to pitch around to face the charging form of the Reaper’s Blade and to bring its own frontal batteries into play. Laeresh also assumed that the mon-keigh would be unimaginative enough to place their thickest armour on the prow of their cruisers, so he reasoned that the apparently aggressive move was actually a defensive manoeuvre. Despite himself, he nodded slightly, surprised that the clumsy fools had even noticed that they were under attack: he was certain that their primitive sensors could not detect the Phantom torpedoes, and he was fairly sure that they would have great difficulty resolving the continuously shifting signature of the Reaper’s Blade into a constant, definite image. Of course, even the mon-keigh would be able to see a volley of blindingly bright laser bolts heading straight for them, eventually.
Wait! The thought was insistent and powerful, activating something primeval deep in Laeresh’s mind. His aggression subsided for a moment, and the Reaper’s Blade slowed down, falling behind the dark, speeding flecks of the torpedoes.
As the Void Dragon slowed it was suddenly overtaken by a blur of light, swooping past it like a majestic bird. The Eternal Star drew itself up in front of the Reaper’s Blade, blocking the route of the Dark Reapers’ cruiser. As it did so, the lance bolts smashed into the prow of the distant, ugly Imperium vessel in orbit around the fourth planet. A second later, and the Phantom torpedoes ploughed into the cruiser behind them, detonating on impact and sending out concentric rings of shock waves into the surrounding space and the upper levels of the planet’s atmosphere. With only a fraction of a delay, a burst of fire erupted from the Imperium’s vessel as a flurry of torpedoes were sent chasing through space towards the eldar cruisers.
Laeresh watched the exchange taking place on the view screen in front of him, cursing Macha under his breath for thw
arting his attack. He watched the slow little signals of the torpedoes heading for the Eternal Star, and he shook his head in dismay. By the time those pathetic rockets reached the wraithship, it could be on the other side of the planet, and the Void Dragon could be half way out of the star system. Why would Macha seek to prevent the Dark Reapers from ending this battle at long range, where the mon-keigh’s weapons would be ineffective?
Laeresh, wait, came Macha’s thoughts, firm and resolute.
I await your leisure, farseer, replied Laeresh, his thoughts full of repressed bitterness.
No, Laeresh, you await direction. Her mind seemed thin and tremulous, as though speaking whilst labouring for breath. There is more to this battle than an Astartes cruiser, Laeresh… Her thoughts faded into silence before starting up again, fainter than before. Follow me.
With that, the exquisite form of the Eternal Star seemed to flick its wings and sweep back out towards the edge of the system. For a few seconds, Laeresh stood on his command deck staring fixedly at the amplified image of the mon-keigh cruiser on the view screen before him. The little torpedoes were visible on the screen now, like small points of light or insects crawling over the Blade’s sensors. He shook his head again in resentment, and another flurry of Phantom torpedoes streaked out of the Void Dragon’s prow, tearing invisibly through the distance between it and the mon-keigh.
As the Reaper’s Blade banked and set off in pursuit of the Eternal Star, Laeresh laughed inwardly at the thought that his rockets would hit the enemy cruiser before the mon-keigh’s weapons had even reached his launch location. What’s more, the ignorant, myopic humans would probably not even know that they were still under attack, or notice that their foe had already left the system.
Huge trees leaned their great branches together far overhead, until the tips of their broad foliage touched, closing off the sky with a blanket of translucent green. Below the canopy, Ptolemea could hear the chattering of birds and the howls of animals that she could not recognise. Rain fell heavily, but in patches, forcing its way between the interwoven leaves above and falling as sheets through the cracks. The constant drumming of water filled Ptolemea’s ears until the screeches of unseen animals cut through it, punctuating the deep and indecipherable language of the jungle. She narrowed her eyes in concentration, as though trying to understand what was being said.
As she stared up into the canopy, watching the torrent of bulbous raindrops grow larger as they fell towards her nearly-black eyes, something hissed through the moist air by her ear, sizzling against the falling rain.
Turning, Ptolemea saw a rush of animals come charging out of the undergrowth, trampling the plants beneath hooves and ripping them into shreds with claws and talons. It was a stampede, like an immense ocean wave rumbling towards her. There was no way that she could stand against the tide and, frantically, she scanned the immediate terrain for some cover or high ground. But there was nothing. She checked behind her, hoping to find the glorious figures of four golden battle-sisters with their weapons primed. Nothing.
In an action that would haunt her for the rest of her life, Ptolemea slumped to the ground, pulling her head down to her knees, and closed her eyes. She muttered a silent prayer to the Undying Emperor, repeating it over and over again as though the words themselves would flood out into the space around her and shield her body from the bestial rampage.
A warm wind crashed into her body, rolling her over onto her back and ripping at the already worn fabric of her body-glove. Despite her hands clasped over her head, her crimson headscarf was torn from her and was whipped up into the jungle canopy in an instant.
And then there was a moment of calm. Opening her eyes, Ptolemea looked around and found that the animals had all vanished, although the jungle around her now lay in trampled ruins.
Crawling back to her feet, another projectile hissed past her ear. There was a pause and then another flurry of shots, zipping through the rain and leaving a faint trail of steam in their wake, like miniature contrails.
Emerging from around the edge of the sudden clearing of ruined foliage, Ptolemea saw a single, slender, humanoid figure leap and roll as it hit the ground. It didn’t stand up again. A second figure burst out of the tree line, this one jogging backwards with a firearm unleashing a hail of projectiles back into the jungle from which it had just emerged. Then a third and a fourth, each hurrying in retreat across the clearing, firing constant tirades into the deep shadows of the jungle. After a few seconds, the makeshift glade was full of retreating eldar warriors, each filthy with combat, their green and white armour scratched and beaten with the scars of conflict. They didn’t even seem to notice Ptolemea behind them.
The orderly retreat was on the point of breaking. Flecks of fire and shards of death slid out of the jungle shade, slicing into the eldar as they returned fire desperately. But they were falling. Not a single warrior had yet made it past Ptolemea, and she was standing in the middle of the trampled clearing. The eldar were being cut to pieces as they retreated. Limbs were being severed by whatever projectiles were searing out of the jungle in pursuit of them, sending the eldar stumbling to the ground, where they continued to return fire until they were lacerated beyond any hope of recovery by concentrated volleys of fire from the hidden depths of the jungle.
Soon, there were just two eldar left in the glade—a beautiful female, shimmering with an intense psychic radiance that seemed to repel all attacks, and a robust warrior clad in horrifying black armour. They stood directly between Ptolemea and the invisible assailants in the jungle beyond. As she watched them, Ptolemea saw an immense crack of power lash out of the trees, like a sheet of lightning. It came racing through the clearing in an instant, exploding into an immense white fireball against the coruscating shield projected by the eldar witch. Ptolemea strained her eyes to see through the flames to the source of the power and thought that she saw something black and glittering in the jungle. Then the huge fireball expanded even further, engulfing Ptolemea herself in an icy coldness that simply erased her senses.
“Ptolemea!”
A familiar voice jabbed at her consciousness, prodding her back into wakefulness and making her mind swim against the raging currents of icy, white fire that seemed to engulf her.
“Ptolemea!” repeated Meritia, shaking the younger woman by her shoulders. But still she did not open her eyes. Her already pale skin was bone-white and frosty but beaded with sweat. She was quite motionless, but her face was rent with angst, as though a terrible turmoil was raging inside, and perspiration coursed around the curve of her perfectly hairless head.
“Ptolemea, you must wake up,” insisted Meritia, pressing her voice firmly against the apparently prematurely rigamortised body. When she still got no response, she slapped the woman across her face, leaving a red palm-print clearly visible against the porcelain pallor. There was an urgency about the Sister Senioris that spoke of deep understanding and empathy.
“No!” screamed Ptolemea as her eyes snapped open and she flung herself bolt upright on the sleeping-tablet. Her wide pupils contracted rapidly in the sudden light but then dilated again in panic as she looked frantically around the small cell in the Blood Ravens’ outpost, which comprised her living quarters whilst on Rahe’s Paradise. After a few seconds of uncomprehending and hysterical searching, her wide, wild eyes calmed and she lowered her head back down to the thick, bound book that served as her pillow.
Meritia nodded in silent companionship and then turned away, her cloak sweeping round behind her as she strode directly out of the little chamber, leaving the younger Sister alone with her thoughts.
Watching the Sister Senioris vanish out of the cell without a word, Ptolemea’s mind raced with fears. The residue of her nightmare coated the inside of her head, leaving her thoughts muddled and sullied in the darkness. It was unlike any dream she had ever had—more like a vision, and that in itself was a horrifying thought. She was no stranger to the work of the Ordo Hereticus, and she knew what fate awaited thos
e who experienced unsanctioned visions. She had seen such fates administered before, occasionally as a result of her own investigations.
Involuntarily, she laughed out loud, feeling her chuckle slip thickly into a hacking cough, making her sit up again to ease the pressure on her chest. The irony of being sent to investigate possibly heretical visions in a Space Marine captain and then to experience such visions herself did not escape her, and for a moment the irony overtook the terror in her mind. But only for a moment.
In fact, she had suffered a slight hallucination on the journey to Rahe’s Paradise, just as her gunship had been released into the system from the Incisive Light, the Ordo Hereticus cruiser that had brought her most of the way from her order’s convent on Bethle II. She had dismissed it as a side effect of the warp jump from which the Incisive Light had just emerged, but it now seemed possible that it had represented the birth pains of whatever afflicted her now.
And what had the vision been about? Although she had listened to the inchoate ramblings of heretics before, spouting the incoherent and delirious details of their blasphemous visions, she had never had to organise such visions into words herself. The words were always given to her by the foul witches, and then she simply had to interpret the language and reach some kind of judgement. Understanding had always been a linguistic exercise for her, and now she found that there were no words for her experience. As her mind tumbled and reached for phrases that would bring shape and form to her memories of the nightmare, she realised that every description that she could formulate made her sound like a witch: animals and aliens on a strange world being attacked by an unidentifiable force that struck her with brilliant, icy flames. Her reason rebelled: was it the case that people would always sound like witches when they tried to describe genuinely new experiences? After all, she was no witch.
Am I a witch? She was suddenly unsure.
[Dawn of War 02] - Ascension Page 10