Perhaps the thing had once been a manufactorum worker, or maybe a militiaman; now it was nothing but rotting flesh, blackened overalls and grinning, pointed teeth growing closer by the moment. More came behind it, tumbling from the heaps like maggots and dragging themselves in his direction, groaning.
Cassian snarled, preparing to fight off these carrion things. In honest combat, the creatures would barely have given him pause, but with his body trapped and many of the undead mutants armed? Those blades would punch
through an eye-lens or saw through the neck seal of his helm eventually.
He opened a vox-channel to call for help, but before he could speak a huge ceramite foot slammed down on the leading mutant and crushed it.
‘Up you come, brother-lieutenant,’ boomed a vox-amplified voice. ‘You’ll be no use commanding from under that wreck.’
Cassian looked up at Brother Marius. The Redemptor Dreadnought’s blue armour had been scorched black by the blasts and dented by numerous impacts, yet Marius seemed none the worse for wear. With a whine of servos, he reached down and gripped the wreck with his articulated power fist. Metal crumpled in the Dreadnought’s grasp, and he hefted the remains of the cargo transport off Cassian as easily as though it were made of parchment.
As the wreck crashed onto its side, Cassian got to his feet. His Mark X
Tacticus power armour was battered and rent in several places, and he could barely move his left arm, but he was alive.
‘Brother, my thanks,’ he said.
‘Lead us on to victory, and we will call it even,’ boomed the Dreadnought.
He pivoted on his waist gimbal, and Cassian’s audio-dampers cut in as Marius’ heavy onslaught Gatling cannon screamed into life. Rounds blitzed the ruins to their right, and Plague Marines died in eruptions of gore.
‘Cassian?’ came Keritraeus’ voice over the vox. ‘Brother-lieutenant, respond.’
‘Here, Keritraeus,’ said Cassian. High above, the clouds were lit crimson as a lance of laser energy stabbed down. A ruin a hundred yards north
shuddered then collapsed as the blast ripped through it.
‘Lieutenant, the enemy is scattered, shell-shocked, but so are we. That was reckless. ’
‘It was necessary,’ said Cassian, before switching channels to address his entire force. ‘Brothers,’ he said, ‘pull back now. Fighting retreat to these coordinates.’
Runes flashed back. Several sergeants warned that their battle-brothers were scattered, still recovering from the first barrage.
Some didn’t reply at all.
Crimson light pierced the clouds again as the Primarch’s Sword dropped another lance blast into the combat zone. The explosion shook the ground beneath Cassian’s feet. Yet he knew the risk was worth it, for his enemy possessed greater numbers and would be suffering far worse against such a bombardment.
‘Dematris, Keritraeus,’ he voxed, ‘lead the retreat. I will rally those squads still pinned. Captain Dzansk, my men are going to fall back towards your stronghold. Be ready to receive us.’
A Plague Marine appeared through the swirling smoke and dust and rain.
Marius’ cannon cut him to gory chunks.
‘That will not be necessary, lieutenant,’ came a lilting voice over the vox.
Cassian frowned as he saw a channel he didn’t recognise flash up on his auto-senses.
‘Identify,’ he barked. ‘Are you with Dzansk?’
‘Prepare to extract your remaining warriors,’ said the unknown speaker.
‘Fall back to these coordinates. Make haste.’
‘Identify,’ repeated Cassian as a runic waypoint flashed up on his helm auspex. ‘Or is this just another machination of the foe?’
‘Our enemies are the same, Lieutenant Cassian, even if our species differ.’
‘Lieutenant,’ said Keritraeus. ‘I’m sensing a prodigious psychic build-up.
Something is coming.’
Before Cassian’s eyes, the rain slowed and hung in place, forming a glittering veil of impossible droplets. The air stilled. The drone of flies and the roar of gunfire became muted.
A sudden hurricane of psychic energy tore through the air. The halted downpour whipped outwards, caught in the ferocity of a storm that swept up debris, corpses and wreckage and hurled them towards the Death Guard lines.
Cassian’s eyes widened as he realised the storm had left him and Marius untouched.
‘Lieutenant, this isn’t my doing,’ voxed Keritraeus. ‘It has the feel of xenos rune-craft. But if ever we needed something to cover our retreat…’
‘Agreed,’ said Cassian, making a snap decision. ‘All battle-brothers, fall back on these coordinates. Be swift, but be wary.’
Cassian sheathed his blade and jogged back through the ruins, reloading his bolt rifle despite his wounded arm. Marius thumped along beside him as the psychic tempest continued to hurl corpses and rubble through the air, driving the Death Guard back with its battering onslaught.
Sorcery heaped on sorcery. A swift and simple offensive had become a convoluted and costly battle.
Cassian would have answers.
The rendezvous point was a bombed-out cathedrum, located two miles east of Captain Dzansk’s position. The blasted structure was still magnificent for all its battle damage. Saints stared down from stained-glass windows, while gothic spires stabbed up into the clouds like rain-slick daggers.
As Cassian and Marius approached through rubble and wreckage, more Ultramarines appeared through the rain to join them. The lieutenant saw others waiting outside the cathedrum, and noted that they had their weapons levelled at the structure.
Keritraeus and Dematris came to Cassian’s side as he neared the building.
Both were battered and scorched, but appeared uninjured.
‘Cassian, auspex shows multiple life signs within the cathedrum.
Approximately twenty – xenos,’ said Dematris. ‘We felt it best to wait for your arrival before deciding how to proceed.’
‘That psychic event struck the entire battle front,’ said Keritraeus. ‘It persisted for almost ten minutes after the last battle-brothers disengaged.
Cassian, the psychic fortitude it would take to manifest such a phenomenon is staggering. We may be dealing with an entire conclave of witches. These mysterious allies could be every bit as dangerous as the enemies we have just escaped.’
‘I don’t believe they are a danger,’ said Cassian. ‘Not to us, at least.’
‘It was a storm of their raising that covered our retreat,’ admitted Dematris,
‘but the works of aliens are unclean. They cannot be trusted, nor treated with
lightly.’
‘In this I must agree with Dematris,’ said Keritraeus. ‘Clearly these xenos mean us no immediate harm, otherwise they simply would have allowed the
Death Guard to overwhelm us. But neither would they aid us out of simple charity. Their very being here seems too convenient for mere chance.’
‘They knew me,’ said Cassian. ‘The one that addressed me did so by name
and rank. Maintain a cordon and have Apothecary Lamdas see to the wounded. Keritraeus, contact Captain Dzansk and establish the status of his forces. I am going to speak to our mysterious allies.’
‘You are wounded yourself, brother-lieutenant,’ said Keritraeus. ‘Lamdas should inspect that arm, if nothing else.’
‘After,’ said Cassian, then turned away and strode up the cathedrum steps.
The interior of the building was thick with shadows and whirling dust, yet he could feel the aliens’ piercing gaze. Cassian kept his hands well away from his weapons, walking forwards slowly and deliberately as he swept the cavernous structure with his auto-senses.
‘Make yourselves known,’ he called, his voice echoing into the gloom. ‘You told me to come here. I have come. Now reveal yourselves in the Emperor’s name, and state your purpose.’
‘Our purpose?’ The reply drifted from the shadows, whispering around
him like a wind. The voice was musical, lilting. Female, he thought. ‘Lieutenant Cassian, the true answer to that question would be more than even your transhuman mind could comprehend. But put simply? Our purpose is survival.’
Cassian was deep within the cathedrum now, surrounded by shadows, rubble and the looming silhouettes of old altars and statuary. Amidst the darkness, he caught movement in his peripheral vision: lithe figures in slender, sculpted armour and elongated helms were moving to surround him, chainsword-analogues and alien pistols poised.
‘You are aeldari,’ said Cassian, halting his advance. ‘Craftworlders? How does preventing our defeat aid your survival? How do you know me?’
‘Your kind are normally so closed-minded,’ said the voice, a slight edge of mockery in its tone. ‘Yet you have so many questions.’
‘This is not a game,’ said Cassian angrily. ‘Good battle-brothers fell today, and their deaths are upon my conscience. My enemies seem insurmountable, yet my duty is inescapable. And now you appear with aid unsought, calling
me by name and unleashing powers that my Librarian assures me are monumental in scope. Yes, I have questions, and I would have you provide answers, or by Macragge and Ultramar I will order my men to bring this roof down with all of us inside.’
‘That would be… unwise, lieutenant,’ said the voice. Something flew out of the darkness and clattered at Cassian’s feet. He recoiled, drawing Duty in an instant and scanning for threats.
The xenos warriors remained unmoving. Cassian realised that the object now lying at his feet was a tall staff, graven from a bone-like substance and decorated with xenoform runes. It was lined with gems, all blackened and cracked, and silvery smoke drifted from a much larger gem held in a setting at its end.
‘The Dreamer’s Stave,’ said the voice. ‘An ancient relic of my people that had endured since before your kind lost its first empire amongst the stars. I destroyed it unleashing the conjuration that saved you and your warriors from death. I trust that the seriousness of this sacrifice indicates my own.’
‘I have only your word for this,’ said Cassian, ‘but let us suppose for now that I am convinced.’
He stayed still, aware of the xenos warriors’ eyes upon him as the speaker emerged from the shadows. She was tall and willow-thin, her armour and robes flowing around her like silk in a breeze. An ornate blade was fastened at her hip, and she went unhelmed, her features angular, sculpted and ‐
inescapably alien. She stopped before Cassian, the ruined stave lying between them, and fixed him with her amber eyes.
‘I am Farseer Ithlae, of Craftworld Yme’Loc,’ she said. ‘I know you, Lieutenant Cassian, because I have foreseen all of this in the runes.’
Cassian framed his next question carefully.
‘If you were able to predict all of this,’ he began, ‘then why not simply intercede before the battle began? If you wished to aid us, why not forewarn us of the ambush? Lives could have been saved.’
‘Lieutenant, your lives mean less than nothing to me. Furthermore, fate is…
You might envision it as a river. It can be dammed, its course altered, but one must be careful when doing so, lest the river burst its banks or take a path other than the one you sought. The dam must be placed at precisely the correct intersection to change the flow as desired, or all is for naught. The moment that your defeat drew nigh – that was the perfect intersection.’
Cassian restrained his building anger, but his hands tightened into fists.
‘You will next ask me why I did not bring a greater force,’ continued the farseer, ‘or perhaps why I chose a path that necessitated the ruin of such a precious and ancient artefact. I will endeavour to explain the price that must be paid to alter fate, at which point you will have still more questions for which I cannot provide you with explanations that your crude psyche can comprehend. And all the while, our mutual enemy rallies his strength.’
‘Speak your piece, then,’ said Cassian. ‘You save us, and say you did so to aid your own survival. Why? What do you expect in return? What threat are the Death Guard to you?’
The farseer gave a lilting laugh both musical and deeply unsettling.
‘These plague-ridden vermin? No, lieutenant, the Death Guard pose no threat to Yme’Loc. At least not here. Not now.’
‘Then what–’
‘ You, lieutenant,’ said Ithlae, cutting off his next question. ‘It is my duty to save you. Specifically. In days not yet dawned, your deeds will save us in kind. You will fight for Craftworld Yme’Loc, and thus you yourself must survive to fulfil your destiny.’
‘Foolishness,’ said Cassian, incredulous. ‘I know our species have found tenuous ground for alliance when we must, but I am no xenophile. I would no more fight for a craftworld than I would to protect an ork warlord or defend a necron tomb! You have wasted your time, farseer, if you think that I will barter my loyalty for my continued survival.’
‘I did not say that you would intentionally fight for us, lieutenant,’ replied Ithlae. ‘It is already done. Your feet are on the path. By living to fight another day, you have defied the end that fate laid out for you. You walk in our webs now.’
Cassian felt horrified anger rise within him. His hand gripped Duty’s hilt.
‘Lies! My life is not lived in thrall to some xenos witch!’
‘Believe what you will,’ said the farseer dismissively. ‘You asked, and I answered. It is nothing to me if you accept the truth. Whatever the case, we must take our leave, for you still have a battle to fight, and we wish no further part in it.’
‘Cowards,’ spat Cassian.
‘A last word of advice, lieutenant. Remember that your enemies here do not think as you do. To one who has sold their soul to Chaos, madness seems like
logic. Consider that your enemy’s strength may also be his weakness, his faith also his curse.’
‘I have warriors all around this structure. Do not think you can simply dismiss us so easily, xenos. You will remain and answer to me.’
‘No, lieutenant,’ said the farseer with a faint smile, ‘I will not.’
The aeldari faded back into the shadows. Cassian followed, casting caution aside as he sought to keep the xenos in his sights. He barked orders through the vox, commanding his battle-brothers to stand ready and apprehend all aeldari forces emerging from the cathedrum, and for several squads to converge on his position and help him sweep the ruined building.
It was only minutes later, with the xenos vanished and no sign of them reported either within the cathedrum or without, that Cassian was forced to admit the truth: the aeldari had disappeared as mysteriously as they appeared.
They were gone, leaving only questions in their wake.
CHAPTER SIX
‘Squad Polandrus reports no signs of pursuit by the Death Guard,’ said Dematris.
He and Keritraeus stood on the steps of the ruined cathedrum, staring out into the rain-slick ruins. Their brothers maintained a perimeter, Intercessors and Hellblasters standing guard while the wounded were seen to and Techmarine Tyvos repaired the strike force’s remaining Repulsor battle tanks.
‘That’s the last squad to report in,’ replied the Librarian. ‘The heretics chose not to drive home their attack.’
‘Perhaps they lack the proper zeal,’ said Dematris. ‘Between Shipmaster Aethor’s bombardment and the storm raised by that xenos witch, the traitors may have been put to flight.’
‘Perhaps, but the Death Guard pride themselves on their capacity to endure.
I doubt we broke their nerve, brother.’
‘Whatever the case, the respite is welcome. Time for us to regroup and rearm, to focus ourselves and prepare for the next attack.’
‘Time enough, also, to scout the lie of the land, and attempt to coordinate more closely with our allies,’ said Keritraeus. ‘Squads Marcus, Polandrus and Thaddean make good progress.’
‘Have you had any success reaching the astropathic conclave inside the fortress?’ ask
ed Dematris, methodically checking over his plasma pistol’s workings.
Keritraeus shook his head in frustration.
‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘The warp is agitated, and the presence of the Death Guard worsens things. But I ought to be able to sense something there. I have
tried repeatedly to project my thoughts into their own, but it is as though they simply are not there.’
‘I know little of witchery. Does that mean they’re dead? Do we fight for naught?’
‘I don’t know, brother. Perhaps. Or maybe they have hidden their minds somehow, the better to survive the heretical forces beyond their walls. Until we gain entry to the astropathic fortress, I fear it will remain a mystery.’
‘Then let’s hope the lieutenant emerges from his meditations soon,’ said Dematris. ‘I am keen to extract vengeance for those we lost today.’
‘As are we all, brother,’ agreed Keritraeus. ‘But have a little patience.
Cassian has much to think on, and he cannot risk another defeat.’
‘Every minute the foe remains unprosecuted risks defeat. If he does not emerge soon, I will rouse him myself. There’s a war to be won.’
Cassian was deep within the ruins of the cathedrum. He had found a small annex that remained untouched by the destruction. Its stained-glass triptychs were intact, and its devotional candles stood in their mounts as though waiting for a priest to come and light them. Cassian had taken this as a sign, and chosen to make his devotions here.
The lieutenant’s injured arm had been temporarily freed from its sheath of power armour. It was encased instead in a gelid medi-compress that flooded the limb with hypernutrients and muscle stimms to aid recovery. Ignoring the stinging discomfort, Cassian knelt unhelmed before the spread wings of a golden aquila. Duty’s point was driven into the tile floor, and his forehead rested against its pommel.
He had knelt like this now for over an hour, attempting to still his thoughts and meditate upon all that had occurred. At first his mind had whirled with frustration and anger, his hatred for the traitors only marginally less than his disgust at himself.
Crusade & Other Stories - Dan Abnett Et Al. Page 6