Popping the cockpit release, Laeresh vaulted out onto the fourth planet of the Lsathranil’s Shield system for the first time.
“Exarch Laeresh, Dark Reaper, we have been expecting you,” intoned a quiet, patient voice almost immediately. As Laeresh turned, a cloaked and scarfed ranger stepped forward out of the mist and bowed deeply. Vaguely visible in the sand behind him, Laeresh could see the silhouettes of other figures.
The exarch nodded a greeting in return. He had fought with rangers before, but remained reluctant to trust anyone who would voluntarily banish themselves from the company of their own kin. He could understand the desire to be as far away from Uldreth as possible, but that was a different story. “Ranger, do you have news?”
The ranger hesitated for a moment, as though unsure about whether to answer the Reaper’s question. He gazed intently at the exarch’s immaculate black visage, a feeling of slight repulsion welling in his stomach. Just before the hesitation itself became a statement, the second Vampire Raider dropped out of the clouds and touched down gently beside them. There was a barely audible hiss as the hatch on the transport compartment slid open and Macha walked warily down the exit ramp, flanked on both sides by her personal retinue of guardians; Druinir led a short column of warlocks behind them.
“Farseer,” breathed the ranger, turning away from the Dark Reaper and sweeping into an ostentatious bow before dropping to one knee.
Aldryan, please, there is no need for such formalities here, responded Macha, her thoughts still inconstant and weak. She glanced past the stooped figure and nodded her acknowledgement to the other rangers in the mist beyond. She knew them all, and trusted them well. Aldryan, she added, her thoughts suddenly full of concern. Where is Flaetriu?
Aldryan lowered his gaze to the ground hiding his eyes from the vision of the farseer, as they burned with humiliation and the passion for vengeance. “He is alive. The mon-keigh took him.”
Macha was silent as she wrestled with her own emotions. She had known Flaetriu longer than any of the other rangers—longer than anyone else she knew. They had joined the Path of the Seer at the same time, in the company of Laeresh and Uldreth. However, whilst the exarchs had eventually ascended into a sacred state of forgetfulness regarding their pasts, Flaetriu had never forgotten, and Macha had often wondered whether it was his memories that had driven him from the embrace of Biel-Tan. No matter what his motivations, he was a trusted and valuable warrior and Macha needed him now, just as she had needed him on Tartarus.
“The mon-keigh are known to you, farseer. The captain from Tartarus is amongst them. It was he who captured Flaetriu,” confessed Aldryan, his eyes burrowing into the sand next to his knee, where he saw the ghost of the human’s face as he pinned Flaetriu into the desert.
The Blood Ravens?, wondered Macha. Gabriel?, she realised, inhaling sharply as she saw the face of the Space Marine float back into her mind. It was not a face that she had expected to see again after he had sabotaged her plans on Tartarus. She had worked for millennia to prevent the release of the Chaos daemon on that planet, imprisoning it on that cursed rock, hiding it away. But then the clumsy mon-keigh had smashed the Maledictum stone and torn asunder the delicate barriers that she had erected between the immaterium and the material realm, ripping a gash through which the daemon could squirm into reality. Something in her soul told her that the captain had thought that he was doing the right thing, but his bumbling stupidity, so characteristic of all his race, had caused an incomparable disaster. She suspected that neither he nor his masters yet understood the true scale of their blunder. She had sworn that the next time they met she would kill him.
“You know these humans, farseer?” challenged Laeresh, clearly appalled. “Why could you not see this before?”
Macha turned to face the fierce exarch, her eyes gentle with compassion. Her mind was still racing with images of Flaetriu and Gabriel, but Laeresh needed her reassurance now. The Blood Ravens are on Tartarus, Laeresh. Their souls are not without merit, but their minds are weak and foolish.
Weak and foolish minds are dangerous things, farseer, especially here, hissed Laeresh, demonstrating the strength of his with the force of his thoughts.
“If you already know these Blood Ravens, Macha, then why could you not see them before we arrived?” he repeated, noticing that Aldryan lifted his gaze slightly from the sand at the sound of the question.
I don’t know, Laeresh. But I have never claimed to see everything, and Lsathranil’s Shield is a murky place, where the tides of the past-future curdle and stir. That the mon-keigh are the Blood Ravens is of no matter—the aliens must be removed before things escalate further. This is an eldar world, and they have no place here. Macha knew that she hadn’t answered Laeresh’s question, and she realised that she didn’t really know the answer herself. In truth, she could still see nothing of Gabriel in the eddying currents of future-time.
“We have begun the process of extermination, farseer. Principal targets have been identified, and we have made a number of successful incursions,” reported Aldryan, looking up at the pale beauty of the farseer as the desert wind whipped her emerald green cloak into a whirl behind her. “We have been expecting your arrival, and have been anticipating the Bahzhakhain.”
“There will be no Swordwind, ranger,” stated Laeresh flatly, letting his bitterness about Uldreth’s refusal to sanction it seep out through his words. “The Dark Reapers are here; we will bring death to these mon-keigh and bring purity back to Lsathranil’s Shield.”
Kneeling in silence at the altar of the Emperor in the very heart of the outpost-monastery, Gabriel’s mind raced with questions. The captured eldar warrior had not said a word, not even uttered a sound since Prathios had thrown him carelessly into one of the cells that Jonas had moved from the dungeons up into the base of one of the great towers. The xenos wretch had simply crumpled into a heap, with apparently toxic blood hissing out of the gaping wound on its leg. It had not responded to any questions and had not even cried out when Prathios had attempted to administer some of his enhanced interrogation techniques. On his way to the chapel, Gabriel had looked in on the prisoner, only to find him sitting in the middle of his cell, legs crossed in front of him, eyes closed. The wound on his leg was apparently healed already.
The Blood Ravens captain searched his mind for any scrap of inspiration. He had been so certain about the presence of the eldar on Rahe’s Paradise, certain enough to bring his Battle Company charging across the segmentum. In the voiceless depths of his mind, he had been sure that he was enacting the direction of the Astronomican itself, manifesting the very will of the Undying Emperor. However, now that he was there on the planet’s surface with indisputable proof of the sustained involvement of the eldar, the guidance of the silver choir seemed to have deserted him. He had no idea how to proceed. It was as though something was interfering with his mind.
Immediately after he had returned to his cell, following the incident during the Blood Trials, Gabriel had received a communiqué from Sergeant Kohath, currently commanding the Ravenous Spirit in a low orbit around the planet. Kohath had reported a speedy and stealthy assault on the cruiser by an unknown assailant or assailants. Damage to the venerable vessel had been considerable, particularly in the control arrays, and the Spirit would have been unable to pursue the attackers even had their whereabouts been known. Kohath was not able to say where the assailants had gone, but Gabriel was certain that they were still in the system.
Opening his eyes and gazing up at the ancient iconography that illuminated the intricately carved wall behind the Emperor’s altar, Gabriel sighed. There were dozens of images from the glorious history of the Blood Ravens, and dozens of others that might have been only legends. Elizur and Shedeur were there, planting the Blood Ravens’ standard symbolically on a jagged mountain peak—they could have been on one of any number of planets, since the legendary missionary chaplains planted the seed of the Emperor’s light on countless worlds, but convention and c
onvenience dictated that they were held to be on Rahe’s Paradise in that image.
The great librarian fathers, the Chapter Masters from the dim and distant past, including Great Father Azaraiah Vidya, the very first recorded librarian father in the uneven and broken annals of the Blood Ravens, stared down at the Commander of the Watch, their eyes fixed and unmoving, as though searching his soul for signs of weakness. At one time, Gabriel had seen nothing but pride in those eternal gazes, but the galaxy was no longer such a simple place for him. Now, he could hardly even look them in their eyes, and that filled him with a greater sense of shame than anything else he had done before.
“Captain,” said an urgent voice behind him.
Gabriel looked back over his shoulder, still kneeling in supplication, confused by the sudden voice and concerned that somebody could approach so closely without him noticing.
“Sergeant Corallis,” he replied, seeing the veteran scout standing in the doorway, clouds of red dust gusting from the recesses of his scarred armour.
“Gabriel,” said Corallis, dropping the formality and striding forward into the chapel, anxious resolve written on his face.
“What news, Corallis?” asked Gabriel, standing and turning to face his sergeant.
“As directed, together with Librarian Ikarus, I took a bike patrol out into the desert, reconnoitring the key points of strategic advantage and vulnerability around the monastery. The foothills and the mountains appear clean, but we encountered some resistance in the desert itself. We were ambushed by a group of what appeared to be eldar warriors, equipped with some kind of optical camouflage. I have reason to believe that these were the vanguard of a more substantial force, judging by their armament and actions,” reported Corallis, pulling himself up smartly as he reached his captain before the altar.
“Any casualties?” asked Gabriel, nodding without surprise at the revelations.
“Just one, captain. Librarian Ikarus fought valiantly and with courage. He died well.” Corallis hung his head as he reported the news, as though hiding a sense of his own responsibility for the loss. He had never taken the loss of his men well, which was at least partly why the Marines in his squads had such high morale.
Gabriel paused for a moment, and then turned away without a word. Staring back up at the icons of his forefathers, he shook his head. The constellation of eyes burned down at him like starbursts, riddling his mind with accusations that his subconscious was levelling at himself. He had hated Ikarus and had not given him a chance, condemning him of trying to step into the unfillable shoes of Isador. He had resented the librarian’s competence—for he had been an outstanding warrior, and that was why he had been selected for promotion into the command squad—secretly accusing him of showboating in the wake of Isador’s greatest failure. And, if Gabriel were honest with himself, he had feared Ikarus, feared that the young librarian would stumble just as the once magnificent Isador had done; if it could happen to Isador, it could happen to anyone.
Had he sent Ikarus to his death?
“Captain?” prompted Corallis, watching the back of Gabriel’s head as he stared up at the glorious iconography.
“I will record his passing, Corallis. Thank you.” He didn’t turn, and Corallis hesitated, unsure whether or not he had been dismissed. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the heavy figure of Prathios, half hidden in the deep shadows behind the altar. The chaplain nodded silently, offering a moment of solidarity to the grieving Marine.
“There’s something else, captain,” continued Corallis, spurred by the presence of Prathios, who stepped forward out of the shadows and into the dim light of the chapel. “Despite our attempts to engage the aliens, they appeared unwilling to split their firepower.”
“What do you mean?” asked Gabriel, finally dropping his eyes from the sacred images, tilting the back of his head slightly in curiosity.
“They appeared to have targeted Ikarus specifically, captain, and their fire could not be drawn away from him to any of the others in the squad. Not even to myself,” added Corallis, his voice tinged with self-reproach.
Lifting his head briefly, Gabriel cast another glance up at the hallowed face of the Great Father Azaraiah, narrowing his eyes slightly as though trying to interrogate that inanimate stare. He turned, sharing a look with Prathios.
“We experienced a similar attack this afternoon, Corallis. A group of eldar warriors infiltrated the Blood Trials and started slaughtering the aspirants. They appeared to select those who showed the most psychic potential—eliminating the natural leaders, the charismatics, and those with unnaturally good reflexes,” explained Gabriel.
“Gabriel,” said Prathios calmly. “The death of Ikarus means that our Company has only one sanctioned psyker at its disposal on Rahe’s Paradise, until Ulantus arrives with the Litany of Fury.”
The captain nodded slowly, his mind still trying to piece together the events of the day: the attack against Kohath, the death of Ikarus, and the assault on the aspirant warriors. Characteristically, the Blood Ravens had a disproportionately large number of librarians in their ranks, many of whom were seconded to work in the Chapter’s great librariums, the most senior being granted duties in the unparalleled Librarium Sanatorium aboard the magnificent battle barge Omnis Arcanum itself. The First Company, who were based on the Omnis, also had two entire combat squads of librarians—elite forces used to confront the most archaic or daemonic of threats to the Imperium. To have lost Isador on Tartarus was tragedy enough, but now to be reduced to a single, aging father librarian on Rahe’s Paradise was potentially disastrous. The situation was now more serious than Gabriel’s personal discomfort about Ikarus, and he knew it.
“Where is Father Jonas?” asked Gabriel. It was an order, not a query, and Prathios strode out of the chapel to find him.
“Sergeant,” said Gabriel, turning to Corallis. “Find Tanthius and check on the defensive perimeter around the monastery. Make sure that there are no gaps, and warn him to expect action imminently. Inform him that the aliens are using cameleoline cloaks. The Biel-Tan are here, and we should expect war before dawn.”
Jonas dropped through the gap and then turned to help Meritia down into the dust-filled chamber below the main excavations. They had revealed a short vertical shaft under the stone casket in which they had found the wraithbone tablet. It seemed to provide access to a whole new layer of artefacts. A narrow beam of light shone down through the opening, casting a bright cone into the dim chamber below.
“What is this place?” asked Meritia as Jonas lowered her onto the rough, rocky ground. The floor had clearly been cut smooth a long time ago, but then worn by the passage of many feet and heavy equipment. It was scored through with gashes, as though damaged by sudden, sharp impacts.
“I’m not sure,” confessed Jonas, peering through the darkness and the dust towards the faintly visible walls of the chamber. “There appear to be markings on the walls.”
Taking a couple of steps, Jonas brought his fingertips up against the finely textured walls, letting his eyes adjust to the scarcity of light. There were thin strips etched into the surface, reaching from the ceiling down to the floor, and the wall appeared to be made out of discrete, convex sections of about a metre in width.
Meritia pressed her hands against the surface, feeling the elongated cracks and scrapes under her skin. “It feels like a tree, Jonas, like a petrified tree.”
“There’s some kind of text here too,” nodded Jonas, agreeing. “The script seems to alter as it moves down the trunks.” He pointed up towards the ceiling, squinting slightly into the darkness as his occulobe implant worked to enhance his sight. “That looks like some form of High Gothic, albeit an archaic dialect. And that,” he continued, pointing down towards the floor, “that looks like the runic script we saw on the wraithbone tablet.”
Bringing her face closer to the wall, Meritia traced her fingers around the bizarre-looking characters etched into the petrified walls at about head height. “These chara
cters are neither Gothic nor eldar runes,” she said, her voice full of intrigue. “We should get some light down here, and make some copies of this text.”
The odd script looked like a bizarre synthesis of Gothic characters and eldar runes, all blended together. The achingly beautiful curves of the runes were twisted and contorted into familiar angles, giving the text an everyday banality that almost made Meritia cry; the odd hybrid language was like a perversion or a betrayal of the beauty of the alien script, and it was a sullied, polluted form of the Emperor’s own tongue. Yet it was held in the fossilized trees, midway between the perfect runes at Meritia’s feet and the austerity of the High Gothic by the ceiling, as though caught in a deliberate limbo between the two.
“Meritia,” called Jonas from over to one side of the chamber. “You’ll want to take a look at this.”
Reluctantly pulling herself away from the streams of fossilized text, Meritia hurried over to Jonas, who was stooped into the entrance of a narrow tunnel that led out of the once tree-lined chamber. It was inclined slightly, dropping further down under the foundations of the monastery. On the far side of the tunnel, Meritia could see the flickering of a dirty red light, sending tongues of brightness licking up towards her.
“Look at the walls,” directed Jonas, moving aside to permit Meritia into the tunnel.
“The light?” queried Meritia as she peered past the librarian.
“There must be a lava flow at the far end of the tunnel,” conjectured Jonas. “The tectonic plates are riddled with magma streams under the mountains. We are just on the edge of Krax-7’s tributary system here.”
At first glance, the walls of the tunnel appeared to have been constructed out of some kind of artificial substance, woven together in a giant weave. Threads protruded and interlaced themselves back into the walls. Others stuck out like barbs, jagged and complicated into the tunnel itself, like the ruins of a huge web.
Taking a tentative step forward, Meritia reached out and ran her hand along the interwoven tentacles. They were cold to the touch, like stone.
[Dawn of War 02] - Ascension Page 13