Rebirth

by Nick Kyme

Sister Revina was only a few metres away now, and Angerer could see she was aware of her Sisters’ presence around her. She did not struggle or cry out. Her throat was so parched she would not likely speak again, or soon anyway.

  Angerer stopped, staring at Revina who stared back through seared and bloodshot eyes. Angerer detected no fear, no pleading, just a solemn kind of acceptance she found altogether more unsettling, as if Revina knew this would happen and knew what was about to happen too.

  Signalling the Celestians in her bodyguard to halt, Angerer went the last few metres alone. Revina was her mess to deal with, her dirty secret. She would meet her without the others, one sister to another.

  ‘Revina,’ she said, surprised at how faint her voice had become. ‘Revina,’ she repeated more loudly, displaying the confidence she wanted to feel. ‘Sister…’

  Revina blinked, once. It must have taken great pain and effort to do so. Her lips began to move but she could not utter a word, even if she wanted to.

  ‘I confess I questioned whether or not we would find you, but your tears showed me what I wanted to know.’ Casting aside the compass, Angerer drew her mace and crept forwards another step.

  ‘And here you are… witch.’

  Now Revina’s eyes registered some emotion. Pity. For a sister who cleaved to duty over blood and who feared the uncertainty of her own future. She glanced to one side, trying to find her other sibling, trying to find Laevenius.

  ‘Your sister reviles you as much as I,’ spat Angerer. ‘Perhaps more so,’ she added, then gestured to the Celestians, ‘but I have brought an entire war host to track you down and bring you back. I should have killed you, but death is too good for you now. I won’t let you escape your fate that easily.’

  Again, Revina gave her that pitying look.

  Angerer wanted to crush her skull for it, for it was a mirror into the canoness’s own soul and the reflection did not paint her in a favourable light.

  Time was wasting. Angerer felt it like the irradiated sands of Solist moving inexorably beneath her feet.

  She was about to order her Celestians to release Revina and make her their prisoner again when she realised the sand was moving. It was feeding slowly towards some at first unseen aperture that was rapidly expanding into a broad fissure. The fissure became a chasm, huge swathes of sand pouring inside it and, like a swimmer ensnared by the tide, Angerer was dragged along with it.

  Seeing the canoness’s peril, the Celestians rushed forwards but that only made it worse and several were caught up in the swell. Revina disappeared with it too, the sand draining away and in its wake revealing armoured forms that had been concealed until that moment.

  Laevenius was the first to react and gave the order to open fire, but the traitors were already firing. At first there were ten, then twenty, then thirty, until forty armoured Black Legion warriors emerged from beneath the desolation of Solist to add more corpses to the tally of thousands that already rotted there.

  The Celestians closest to Angerer were the first to die. One jerked backwards, the perfect sheen of her ivory power armour broken apart by an explosive shell and painted a darker crimson than the blood-red of her robes.

  Another half turned, raising her bolter at the enemies suddenly in her midst, before her arm was vaporised from her body.

  A third cried out some canticle of hatred against the traitor as her right eye lens was shot out and her helm, skull and the matter within erupted outwards a few seconds later.

  Eight Celestians lay dead before those that were left made any sort of reply. The two survivors joined Angerer in the pit – a steep-sided, six-metre trap with a grated sand sluice at the bottom – but were not to last long. Something else besides Revina was down there with them, something massive and powerful. It crafted itself to look like a man, a transhuman warrior of some bygone era but was anything but. Its sheer size and menace, the empyreal nature of its form, suggested otherwise.

  Angerer put a word to it, spoken in a half rasp of barely contained terror and righteous fury.

  ‘Hellspawn!’

  As the daemon closed on her, the pair of Celestians rushed forwards with the name of Saint Dominica on their lips. It was a brave, reckless display but one that ended in both being dashed against the steel walls of the trap with their skulls crushed.

  Angerer brandished her mace, knowing it to be a more effective weapon against daemonkind than her fusion pistol. Unlike her charges, she knew firsthand how dangerous such creatures could be.

  ‘Get back,’ she warned, mustering her hate to try to ward off the terror that was threatening to paralyse her.

  The daemon laughed, as ungodly a sound as it was possible for a thing to make, an exhalation of derision redolent of sulphur and decomposing flesh. Angerer’s censers, their votive incense, did nothing to repel it. Like their mistress, they capitulated before this horror, shrinking back until the daemon eclipsed them in its unearthly shadow.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Heletine, Canticus southern district, ‘the Cairns’

  Ever since he had become captain of Sixth, Ur’zan Drakgaard had felt overshadowed. Though he was a campaign veteran, a warrior of esteemed and lengthy service, his banner had never been as lofty or lauded as the battle company captains. Amongst the reserves, a warrior learned his place was by the sidelines or reinforcing his Chapter brothers as support.

  Few were the opportunities to step into the light of war’s ever-present flame and be recognised. It had never bothered Ur’zan Drakgaard. He knew, amongst the fire-born, he was not remarkable. He did not possess the charisma Ko’tan Kadai had before his death or the martial prowess of Pellas Mir’san. Adrax Agatone was a superior tactician, Dac’tyr was unrivalled in naval warfare. Even Sol Ba’ken of Seventh had a better rapport with his battle-brothers. His best traits were his determination, singularity of purpose and utter refusal to capitulate under any circumstances. His wounds, a vast and spreading colony across his body, testified to that.

  But here, now, Ur’zan Drakgaard had a rare chance to step into the light. He told himself he was just doing his duty, that personal glory didn’t matter. It was for the honour of the Chapter he fought and would one day die.

  Ur’zan Drakgaard told himself this lie as he led out the line, a feral smile twisting the corners of his scarred mouth.

  Reunited with Sergeant Kadoran’s troops, the Salamanders storming across the Canticus ruins represented almost the entire Sixth Company’s martial strength. They were further reinforced by a cadre of elite Kasrkin. The mortal soldiers were showing their mettle by maintaining pace with the faster, hardier Space Marines. Helfer had trained them well and such warriors did him credit, but Drakgaard knew the true test would come when they engaged the enemy proper.

  The heretics could not be much farther now. This was the deepest Imperial troops had ever ventured. Beyond the snap fire from the shadows when they had first discovered the defeated Centurions, resistance was non-existent. Privately, Drakgaard did wonder what manner of weapon had dispatched one of Fourth Company’s most elite units so comprehensively. Perhaps they had managed to destroy it during the fighting. Bar’dak was in no position to refute or deny that, by now on the way back to Escadan aboard a Thunderhawk with Apothecary Sepelius.

  No resistance meant only one of two things: either Drakgaard was right and the heretics had been so diminished by attrition they no longer possessed the military strength to stand and fight, or the fire-born at his command were being drawn into a trap. In a way, it didn’t matter. Root them out, burn their bones, it was all Ur’zan Drakgaard knew how to do; it was all he had ever done.

  Every few moments, he checked the tactical display. The Salamanders and their Cadian allies were making steady progress, despite the heavy terrain. Sentinel walkers had been tasked with flanking the advancing force, acting as scouts and outriders, their design uniquely disposed to the urban environs. Between them were Drakgaard’s infantry, an alliance of Tactical and Devastator squads, and the Ka
srkin. The Serpentia held the centre under the overall commander’s leadership with his Chaplain.

  From the south, two companies of Imperial armour under Commander Zantho and Redgage picked their way through the rubble and would link up with the troops on foot soon. Ingress into the heart of the city via armoured tank tread was far from easy. Wide-scale devastation had rendered most of Canticus a ruin barely traversable by foot, let alone battle tank, but a road that adjoined the Sanctium Vius from the south provided the means for both battle groups to reunite. Once alloyed, Drakgaard believed it didn’t matter what level of martial strength the heretics still had; it would be crushed between hammer and anvil.

  ‘Even with a hundred charges, it would take hours to shatter it,’ said Naeb.

  Although all of the Wyverns knew how to break into a defended position or destroy a wall or bunker, Naeb had the greatest expertise in demolition. He surveyed the collapsed column of stone through his bionic eye, searching it for weaknesses but finding none.

  ‘I doubt even our brother’s lumpen head,’ he said, looking at Dersius, ‘thick as it undoubtedly is, could split it.’

  The Themian took a step forwards. ‘Shall we wager if it would break your faceplate instead, Naeb?’

  Va’lin intervened to halt their banter.

  ‘Naeb’s silence suggests declination, brother.’

  Dersius laughed loudly.

  Naeb gave Va’lin a short bow, ‘Astute as always,’ he said, as his gaze strayed to a lone figure standing at the edge of the rubble. ‘A pity our other Themian does not possess Dersius’s good humour.’

  If Ky’dak heard him, he didn’t react. His was staring into the shell of a distant building, the fires within it guttering but still bright.

  Va’lin murmured, ‘What does he see when he stares into the flames?’

  ‘Whatever it is,’ Naeb replied softly, ‘it does not improve his demeanour.’

  ‘Wyverns!’ Sergeant Iaptus called from the opposite side of the column. ‘Gather.’

  To call it a column was like referring to Mount Deathfire on Nocturne as a hill. It was immense, one of the so-called ‘Cairns’, inexplicably felled across their route of march, effectively shearing it in half.

  Divided by the Sanctium Vius, the armoured force under the overall command of Venerable Kor’ad had occupied and was traversing the southern fringe of the octakaidecahedral region when the great column had fallen. Advancing in file, several battle tanks had been crushed during this calamity, at first trapped and then unable to get out of the way in time. In the process, a wedge had been driven between the recently joined companies.

  Sent ahead to assess the damage, the Wyverns were standing atop the fallen edifice like conquerors over the corpse of a world but found no reason to be triumphant. Nearby their gunship piloted by Brother Orcas idled on a patch of scrub that served as a rare landing zone.

  ‘Inconvenient how it splits us in two even halves,’ said Arrok, as the Wyverns came together.

  ‘Not so even…’ Ky’dak muttered.

  On one side of the monolithic column were the Cadians, on the other side Zantho and his tank company.

  Va’lin heard him and was quick to remonstrate. ‘Don’t dishonour them, Ky’dak. They have fought bravely so far.’

  ‘And yet,’ answered Ky’dak, ‘they are still just mortals.’ He leapt down from the flat-sided column to join Xerus below.

  ‘It stretches credulity to think this was mere happenstance,’ said Xerus. Unlike the others, the veteran had been standing at ground level, investigating the column’s rupture point. ‘There are powder marks here from blasting charges. Some of the stone also bears evidence of las-cutting. It was worn down over several days of demolition before the final push was applied to collapse it.’

  ‘So the enemy armour drew us here deliberately,’ Iaptus was furthest forward of the squad and peered into the distance, ‘is that what you’re saying, brother?’

  ‘It is, brother-sergeant.’

  None of this was improving Iaptus’s already irascible mood.

  Vo’sha was just behind the sergeant, looking ahead through a pair of magnoculars.

  ‘The route diverges,’ he said. ‘No way to link our two forces – we’ll be pushed farther south before we can head east again.’

  Zantho’s voice came through the vox.

  ‘How far, brother-sergeant?’

  ‘Difficult to judge…’ said Iaptus.

  Vo’sha adjusted the magnification through the scopes. ‘A detour of several hours at least.’

  Zantho heard and cursed quietly in Nocturnean. Exhaling a frustrated breath he said, ‘Join up with Kor’ad. I’ll inform the ancient he’s going to be lighter by several battle tanks but that at least the Wyverns will be watching his flank.’

  Iaptus sent Zantho his affirmation sigil and opened a link to the waiting Thunderhawk.

  ‘Brother Orcas, prepare for departure. We’re joining Kor’ad and the Cadians.’

  Ignoring the thrumming engines, Sister Stephina bowed her head in prayer. In the darkness of the transport’s hold, she shut her eyes to the outside world and beseeched Saint Dominica’s aid.

  For years, Canoness Angerer had been her lodestone and a constant reminder of her faith and duty to the Throne. In all that time the latter had never wavered, but knelt in the dark before the votive shrine, Stephina confessed to doubts about her preceptor.

  ‘Our teachings are the words of the Emperor, His Throne we serve in perpetuity and in so doing sacrifice all mortal concerns and desires,’ she whispered. ‘Our Order so does pledge, by our Ebon Chalice, sigil of Our Martyred Saint Dominica.’

  The canticles of faith passed quickly across her lips, Stephina afraid that in doing anything other she would be exposed for her lack of faith and forever diminished in the eyes of the Emperor and the saint.

  ‘Grant me faith, oh Dominica – let me see how my canoness serves the Throne. Her will is the will of the Order, she who represents you on earth. And yet…’ she paused, breath catching in her throat. To believe her canoness acted out of some selfish agenda was one thing, to speak it invited actual condemnation if she was wrong, ‘I cannot see the Emperor’s hand in her works.’

  ‘Sister…’

  Stephina’s heart trembled in her chest, so engrossed in prayer was she that for a moment she believed it was the voice of Alicia Dominica and not her fellow Seraphim that had addressed her.

  ‘Casiopia,’ she said, managing to sound calm as she opened her eyes serenely.

  ‘Orders have been received from the Canoness-Preceptor.’ Sister Casiopia clutched a leaf of parchment in her hand, reverently bowing her head so her superior could rise from prayer and accept it.

  Stephina read the wax-sealed parchment, knowing already what it contained.

  ‘What was the signal word, Sister?’ she asked, her face darkening as she took in Angerer’s written orders. Despite her prayers, she could not help but see the treachery in them.

  ‘Angelicus, my Sister.’

  Stephina nodded, dismissing Casiopia.

  Twenty Seraphim occupied the hold of the transport; another almost equally burdened gunship flew alongside it not twenty metres away.

  ‘We are to Solist then,’ said a voice she knew.

  Sister Helia, her white hair and alabaster complexion marking her out as angelic in more than honorific alone, approached from the other side of the hold. It was not spacious but neither was it at capacity, so there was room enough to move and seek solitude if needed.

  ‘I had no wish to interrupt,’ she added, clutching the same parchment orders as Stephina did. ‘You seemed… troubled, Sister.’

  Of the entire Order, there was no one Stephina trusted more than Helia. Except perhaps Laevenius, but Stephina believed she was somehow allied to whatever scheme Angerer was fulfilling.

  They were blood sisters, after all.

  Even so, she had to consider what she said to Helia next.

  ‘Troubled to what end, I
cannot fathom.’

  ‘Is that why you were so deep in prayer, Sister? It is not so shameful to admit you have doubts.’

  ‘I see only bloodshed on this parchment,’ Stephina confessed, trusting enough in Helia to speak her mind.

  ‘You worry for the savages?’

  ‘What is in Solist that we must abandon our allies to obtain?’

  Helia frowned as if she’d just been asked a facile question. ‘We obey our preceptor, Sister. Her faith is our guide, her will the will of the Throne.’

  ‘We are leaving them to die, Sister.’

  ‘They are capable warriors.’

  ‘Who believe they are reinforced by a holy Order of the Adepta Sororitas. Tell me this does not sit ill with you.’

  ‘We follow the decrees of Canoness Angerer. Our duty is to the Ecclesiarchy, above all else.’

  ‘And what if the preceptor is not serving the Ecclesiarchy in this?’ Stephina lowered her voice, glancing sidelong to see if anyone else was listening but fortunately the drone of the engines was masking the conversation. ‘What if she serves her own ends?’

  ‘Do you have proof?’

  ‘I have the inexplicable nature of these orders,’ said Stephina. ‘I have my faith.’

  For a moment Helia succumbed to doubt. It was written plainly on her face, her look of angelic serenity marred by sudden confusion.

  For a moment, Stephina hoped it had not been such a stretch to implicate their canoness so boldly. It did not last.

  ‘I have never seen you like this before, Stephina.’

  ‘Because I have never been told to abandon my post and allies of the Imperium for a clandestine mission. Let the Inquisition be ruled by such subterfuge – we Battle Sisters are of higher morality.’

  ‘Sister…’ Helia reached out to hold Stephina’s hands. They shook with anger. ‘Be calm. You are weary, that is all. Rest, pray. There is a little time before we reach Solist.’

  It was like shouting into a storm. Helia would not hear her, and Stephina was yet unsure what she could do. Appearing to heed her Sister, she gently released herself, bowed her head in gratitude and returned to the shrine.