[Dawn of War 02] - Ascension

by C. S. Goto - (ebook by Undead)

  “Thank you for your help,” said Gabriel dryly, and then he slammed shut the heavy door to the tiny, dark chamber.

  “He did help,” muttered Ptolemea faintly, looking up into the fierce face of Gabriel. “I could not have translated the text without him…” Her voice trailed off, uncertain about the wisdom of continuing her confession, and quite certain that she should not make an appeal to a Space Marine captain on behalf of an alien. As far as she was aware, Prathios had already shared her earlier confession with his captain.

  “Then it is fortunate that he was here,” replied Gabriel curtly, his expression belying his words. He had no interest in Ptolemea’s sensibilities at the moment; the ruined figure of Prathios burned in his mind’s eye. “The eldar are attacking,” he added bluntly.

  Ptolemea nodded meekly. She could see the passion in Gabriel’s glittering eyes and she thought that she understood it better than he might imagine. He was releasing her from the cell, which meant that either Prathios had not yet passed on her confession or that Gabriel was unconcerned by it. Either way, Ptolemea realised that they were more alike than she had wanted to admit when she first arrived on Rahe’s Paradise—they both had secrets, both had communed with the eldar, but neither of them would be swayed from their duty to the Emperor. Their souls were pure, no matter what fate and aliens threw at them.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN: SENTINEL

  The thunder of impacts outside pulsed through the ground, resonating through the stone floors of the librarium and making the book stacks tremble. The sounds of battle raging in the desert added a sense of urgency as Gabriel and Jonas poured over the wraithbone tablet on the ancient wooden table under the stained-glass windows. It went against part of their natures to be sheltered away when their battle-brothers were fighting so valiantly outside. But, nowhere was the dual nature of the Blood Ravens captured more vividly than in the image of Gabriel and Jonas, bathed in the red sunlight that streamed down through the hallowed Chapter emblem that was emblazoned into the stained-glass, studying the archaic script of an alien eldar tongue while all hell was loosed around them. It was not for nothing that the Blood Ravens were famed as scholar-warriors, and never had living up to that reputation been more important than now.

  “But, what does it mean, Jonas?” asked Gabriel. Impatience was rarely a virtue, but sometimes it was necessary. If they could make no sense of the tablet, then he was determined to get outside to support Tanthius and his Marines.

  “This is the same rune that I saw in the cavern under the foundations: Yngir,” explained Jonas, pointing deliberately. “I’m not sure what it means, but it appears to refer to a threat. Perhaps something buried within Rahe’s Paradise itself.”

  “And the great blast of darkness that transformed the desert into mica glass, should we assume that was the ‘banshee’s call’?” asked Gabriel.

  “Did it awaken these Yngir, or perhaps mark their awakening in some way?”

  “It is possible, Gabriel,” mused Jonas, submerged in his thoughts and less aware of the battle that roared and thudded outside. “It is this line here that intrigues me,” he continued thoughtfully. “It says that we should heed this call as though it were the counsel of a seer or a father.”

  “Yes?” queried Gabriel, looking distractedly back over his shoulder towards the doors to the librarium as they swung open. For a moment, he could see nothing in the burst of light, but then five figures strode into the central aisle. In the middle, in the lead, was the lithe and lissom shape of Ptolemea. Her body-glove had been cleaned and repaired, and her limbs were covered with straps and holsters. Looking more closely, Gabriel could see that she had equipped herself with an array of bladed weapons, each bound to her body glove in a manner that he had never seen before, vaguely reminiscent of the techniques used by some of the assassins in the employ of the Ordo Hereticus. On her right thigh was a more substantial holster, and Gabriel immediately recognised the antique pistol from the alcove in Meritia’s chamber. Tied around her hairless head, in place of her customary red headscarf, Ptolemea had wrapped the worn and atrophied tapestry that had covered the little alcove—the emblem of the chalice and starburst centred on her forehead. Bound to her shoulders, abdomen and legs were precisely sculpted plates of armour, which must have been designed specifically to wear within the fabric of a body-glove without much external sign.

  Behind Ptolemea strode the magnificent Celestian warriors of the Order of Golden Light, their armour polished and sparkling as their name deserved.

  “It is strange,” continued Jonas without looking round. He hardly seemed to have noticed the dramatic and unexpected entrance behind them. “But this appears to be an appeal to us as well as to the eldar.”

  “What?” asked Gabriel, dragging his eyes away from the majesty of the approaching women and turning back to Jonas and the tablet. “What do you mean?”

  “Look here,” said Jonas, pointing. “It says to heed the banshee’s call as the counsel of a seer or a father. I know of no records that speak of the eldar revering a rank known as a ‘father.’ Given where we found the tablet, it does not seem incredible that this phrase was designed to act as an imperative for us—it is the Blood Ravens who place our faith in the Great Father.”

  Gabriel stared at the tablet, unable to decipher the runes but trusting in Father Jonas’ interpretation. His mind raced to unravel the implications of this reading as Ptolemea and the nameless Celestians arrived at the table behind him.

  “Captain Angelos. We place ourselves at your disposal in this time of need,” said Ptolemea formally, sweeping into a low bow as she spoke.

  “Thank you, Sister Ptolemea. You are most welcome here, and your timing is impeccable,” replied Gabriel, turning to greet her properly and returning the bow. Despite himself, he was impressed by the determined and battle-ready Sister of the Lost Rosetta. They may not be a militant order, but it seemed clear that Ptolemea was not merely a bureaucrat. She was quite transformed from the arrogant and officious young Sister who had arrived only a few days before. “We were just discussing the inscription that you kindly translated for us. It seems that there is more to this affair than the eldar, and it also seems that—”

  “Captain,” interrupted Jonas earnestly. “If this tablet was really written by a source that was aware it would be read by the Blood Ravens, this suggests that the mixture of Adeptus Astartes and eldar artefacts in the foundations of this monastery indicate more than simply a transitional period in the history of Rahe’s Paradise.”

  “You’re suggesting that there was some kind of collusion?” challenged Gabriel, his soul repulsed and certain all at once.

  “Perhaps,” replied Jonas, nodding slowly as a theory started to unfold in his mind.

  “The author was Farseer Lsathranil of Craftworld Ulthwe,” said Ptolemea, stepping up to the table to converse with Jonas.

  “Who? How do you know?” asked the librarian, startled by the interruption.

  “The eldar prisoner told me,” she answered matter-of-factly “Lsathranil knew that the Blood Ravens would be here when the tablet was uncovered. It says nothing about the conditions under which it was written, only about the foresight of the author himself. He knew that you would be here now, which doesn’t mean that you were there then.”

  “I see,” replied Jonas, staring at the Sister for a moment, wondering what to make of the source. He still distrusted the young Sister, and still suspected that she had something to do with the death of his friend Meritia. And, on top of that, she was claiming to have received the information from the most devious of all possible sources, an imprisoned eldar ranger. Then he realised that there was no time for scepticism and his brow furrowed as he tried to fit the new knowledge into his evolving model.

  “Collusion is not finally the issue,” interjected Gabriel, cutting through the historical theorising. “The real issue concerns the nature of the threat: these Yngir, whatever they are, must constitute a serious danger if the ancient eldar spoke of them in
such terms.”

  “And if they deigned to send a warning even to us,” continued Ptolemea, remembering the contempt with which Flaetriu had viewed her and all of humanity.

  “We can worry about our history later, old friend,” said Gabriel, placing his hand onto the old librarian’s shoulder. “Right now we have to get down into the foundations of this site and see what these Yngir really are. The ‘Sons of Asuryan’ may not be able to stand against them, but the Emperor’s Blood Ravens will not be so easily cowed.”

  Outside, a tremendous impact rocked the librarium itself, causing tomes from the top of the stacks to fall, thudding into the ground like dead birds. Faintly audible through the great walls, Gabriel could hear his Marines rally and let out a cry, followed by a blaze of noise as they threw their fury back into the faces of the eldar assailants. His heart swelled with pride even as it was flooded with frustration at being away from the action outside.

  “If the message on the tablet was really meant for us both, then it seems to make little sense that the aliens are so set on annihilating us now,” muttered Gabriel as he strode past Ptolemea, heading for the doors. “But then, sense is not something that I have come to expect from the eldar.”

  “We need to close the distance on those eldar craft,” said Tanthius as javelins of light seared over his head and punched into the walls of the monastery behind him. The air was dark with constant clouds of shuriken projectiles that bounced and ricocheted off the thick armour of the Terminator squad that spearheaded the Blood Ravens’ charge. Tanthius had abandoned his trench long ago, and was now standing defiantly in the very centre of the mica glass battlefield, thrashing his powerfist through the enemy at close range and letting his storm bolter spit death freely. He was searching for the exarch.

  There was a deafening screech of feedback through the vox-bead, but Tanthius could not make out a voice. “Necho?” barked the Terminator sergeant, as though trying to force his words through the intense interference with the power of volume. “Necho, get your assault team out to those troop carriers—they’re doing too much damage. Close them down.”

  The vox signal hissed, whined and then cut out automatically, as though overloaded. Tanthius cursed and scanned the fray for signs that the sergeant had heard his orders. He could see the Assault squad over to one side of the battlefield, raining fire and grenades down onto a clutch of weapon batteries that the eldar had dug into the sand where the petrification ended. The batteries themselves were pulsing with emissions, as though firing waves of disruptive energy through the battlefield, and two knots of eldar warriors stood guard over them, angling their long-barrelled weapons up into the sky to confront the Marines. Necho showed no signs of moving out.

  “Topheth!” yelled Tanthius, feeling the cold incision of a blade slide in between the armoured plates around his knee. Letting out a thunderous cry, the Terminator Marine thrashed out with his powerfist, spinning his upper body around to confront whatever had dared to penetrate his defences. His fist flew only millimetres above the ducking head of a darting eldar warrior, clad in the green and white armour of Biel-Tan. The creature dropped elegantly, spinning with practiced ease and letting its blade lash around in a perfect circle, bringing its crackling edge back towards Tanthius’ knee once again.

  Tanthius stepped aside with an agility belied by his massive stature, and he punched his fist down like a hammer, driving it into the top of the eldar’s head. He didn’t even feel the creature’s neck snap, but he saw its head crumple down through its shoulders and bury itself in the alien’s own chest cavity.

  “Topheth!” he yelled again, scanning the vista for signs of the attack bikes. Then he saw them, out on the perimeter of the battle. They were bouncing and sliding over the dunes, their heavy bolters spluttering with continuous fire as they twisted and manoeuvred in pursuit of the eldar jetbikes that were skimming over the desert like flecks of emerald lightning. Asherah’s Razorback had been defeated by the terrain and had been left behind; his squad had spilt out into the desert and were in the midst of a staunch defence of the venerable vehicle. Meanwhile, the eldar jetbikes seemed to be defending a couple of larger weapon platforms, which were ploughing onwards towards the core of the battle, bringing their heavier weapons into play against the Blood Ravens on the ground.

  “Emperor damn it!” bellowed Tanthius, reaching forward and grasping the head of an alien fighter as it tried to dash past him, lifting it off its feet and then shredding it with a flurry of shells from his storm bolter. The vox was clearly not functioning.

  From behind him came the roaring hiss of ordnance being launched, and he turned to see Corallis directing the rockets from the Land Raiders that remained nestled in the shadow of the monastery. The missiles raked overhead, howling out towards the Wave Serpents on the horizon in shallow parabolas. But the eldar vehicles were too fast, sliding over the dunes and shifting position before the rockets could reach them. The shells ploughed into the sand left vacant by the slippery eldar, exploding into craters and great plumes of sand.

  Almost instantly, brilliant strobes of lance fire flashed out of the Wave Serpents. It was as though they were mocking the powerful, explosive impotence of the Land Raiders, as the javelins of energy punched into the black towers of the monastery once again.

  Straining his eyes out to the horizon, Tanthius saw one of the jet-black Wave Serpents pitch and twist suddenly, as though it had collided with something or was under attack. Instinctively, he snapped his head back round to check on the location of Necho’s squad, but they were still entrenched in their own fire fight. Topheth was on the other side of the combat zone. Hilkiah’s Devastators were a blaze of fire around the northern side of the defensive arc, holding off a frenzied attack by a host of alien creatures. Not even Gaal’s Tactical squad had managed to push so far forward through the enemy lines, they were caught in the very heart of the battle, each Marine matched against two or three of the eldar warriors.

  So, what was attacking the eldar vehicle? Tanthius sprayed off a volley of shells from his storm bolter, clearing a space around him so that he could look more carefully.

  There seemed to be a small gang of human warriors clambering over the armoured panels of the Wave Serpent. They appeared to be armed only with blades and blunt clubbing weapons, but they were using them well, jamming them into the barrels of the vehicle’s guns and attacking anything that stuck its head out of any of the hatches. Some of them looked very young and one, with long, dirty blond braids, seemed hardly more than a boy, but he appeared to be the leader, and the others followed his example with devotion and bravery.

  Were they the locals? wondered Tanthius, sidestepping a lunging force-sword and clutching its blade into the irresistible grip of his powerfist, crushing it into splintered shards before sweeping his back-fist into the face of the alien swordsman. Were they the aspirants from the Blood Trials?

  “Caleb!” he called, spotting the scout sergeant as he skidded his bike to a halt next to the Terminator, its twin-linked bolters ripping up the ground in front of it. The remnants of the scout squadron were churning through the solidified desert in a loose formation around him, spraying bolter fire in undisciplined volleys.

  “Caleb—get over to that Wave Serpent and give those locals some help. They’ve got the right idea!” As he spoke, Tanthius saw the incredible visage of the plumed eldar exarch stride into view as it crested a glassy dune. “Yes,” he said under his breath. “At last.”

  * * * * *

  The lava bubbled and roiled even more violently than usual, as though reacting to the dramatic events that were unfolding around it. Ptolemea moved cautiously behind the two Space Marines, with the Celestian Sisters at her back. She had not made it this far down through the tunnels before—something had stolen her sight and her consciousness last time she had made these steps, and she was left with only the vaguest memories of something dark and terrible in the shadows. Unlike the armoured warriors around her, she was ill-protected from the tre
mendous, stifling heat of the volcanic world; for a while she felt feverish and nauseous, fearing that she would collapse once again.

  The group arrayed themselves along the narrow ledge that ran around the circumference of the wide cavern. The pit in the middle remained ringed with fire and cascades of molten rock, and in its centre glistened the pristine and implacable black pyramid. Other than the persistent sizzles and hisses of the lava and the distant thunder of war out in the desert above, the scene was enshrouded in silence.

  “The Yngir rune was etched in the ground itself,” explained Jonas, addressing his remarks to Sister Ptolemea with an air of professionalism. “It was comprised of veins of lava. When I read its name, the ground parted and revealed this pit…” His voice trailed off almost dreamily. “And that pyramid,” he said finally, fascinated and troubled by the fact that he couldn’t really remember what had happened to him after he had descended into the pit.

  Ptolemea nodded her understanding, her face fixing into an expression of determination as she stood there flanked by the superhuman figures of the Adeptus Astartes and Sororitas. Without waiting for their lead, Ptolemea took a couple of rapid steps forward and then launched herself out over the pit, as though diving into water. As she dived forward towards the ground, she pulled her feet down into a pike and turned a gentle half-rotation over her back. By the time she hit the ground, her legs had spun round perfectly, and she landed so lightly that she made almost no sound at all. She was determined to overcome her human frailties in the stifling heat, even if only through the strength of her will. In an instant, the slight figure of Ptolemea was flanked by the glittering golden armour of the Celestians—the battle-sisters landing only slightly heavier than her.