Heart & Soul - James Swallow

by Warhammer 40K

  Contents

  Cover

  Heart & Soul - James Swallow

  About the Author

  An Extract from ‘Mark of Faith’

  A Black Library Publication

  eBook license

  Heart & Soul

  by James Swallow

  The last day of the War of Faith on Meseda Quintus had finally come, but in the dawning of it the wounded world found no respite. Even as the orbital guns were silenced and the treads of the Sisterhood’s Exorcist tanks ground to a halt, the planet moaned and wept and continued to die.

  Meseda Quintus would never recover from the damage wrought across it in the War, its atmosphere polluted by radio­active fallout from the city-killing pogroms, its meagre seas fouled by toxins that had turned the once-emerald waters into brackish lakes of acid. Thousands of years from now, the ruined sphere would still be spinning, still webbed with scars large enough to be visible from far orbit. This was a just and right fate for such a place, for Meseda Quintus had broken that most sacred of human contracts with the Imperium of Mankind – it had turned its back on the God-Emperor.

  Not all at once, of course. By the time the cleansing fire of the Adepta Sororitas reached it, this world’s populace had lived through their fall from grace. It was a sorry narrative, replayed time and again on outlying colonies where arrogance and distance conspired to make the natives believe they were somehow special, in some manner no longer expected to obey the Throne and give Holy Terra its due fealty. Spread like a canker, the corruption found the weak and the venial, the ones who blamed all their ills on others, and it gave them the power to exact revenge. The wretched truth was that none resisted the taint that power brought with it, too blinded by the hate that boiled in their tiny, shuttered minds.

  And so the forces of Chaos, may they forever be blighted, took them whole.

  The rising of the Army of the Iconoclast happened on Meseda Quintus as it had on a hundred other worlds, and while the root cause they espoused and the masks its members wore differed each time, the result was the same. Mass graves for those of true faith, the rise of foul idolatry, shrines set afire… And war.

  Amid the ruins of the last dissident city, Sister Miriya trudged through ankle-deep drifts of grey-black ash and glanced up at the bloody sky above, considering the destruction the Icono­clast had wrought here. She sucked in decontaminated, consecrated air through the metal half-mask breather that covered her mouth and nose, tasting the flavour of the sacramental oil in the mix that was said to hold the corruption of the Archenemy at bay. It did little to hide the flat, sour taste of burned paper and charred bone all around her.

  At least now it is done, she told herself. Finally, after years of tracking our quarry across the entire Segmentum, we have the heretic in our sights. Miriya had expected to feel something uplifting – a furious ­martial joy, perhaps – at the know­ledge that this particular crusade was nearing its end. But there was only fatigue in her. The pursuit of the Iconoclast had taken so much, not just in terms of worlds that had fallen and the deaths in its wake, but on a personal level. In chasing this hellish champion of disorder from world to world, Miriya had almost died twice, once during the escape from the voidship Sedition’s Bane and again in the battle for Nexus Fifteen-Kappa. The war had given her new scars, without and within.

  She remembered poor Pandora and the Sister’s terrible, agonising death at the Iconoclast’s own hand, only one among many upon the scale of blood cost that the heretic would soon be called to pay.

  The weight of it all threatened to crush her. It would have been easy to halt here, and sit upon one of the piles of rubble­ that were all that remained of the city around her. To rest, she thought. For a while.

  Miriya’s jaw hardened and she reached up to push loose threads of her dark sable hair back out of her eyes, briefly irritated by her own moment of vulnerability. Ignoring the steady burn of pain from the lasgun wound across her right thigh, she redoubled her pace and marched on, following the path cleared through the ruins by the advance of a massive Baneblade tank. Such weakness was how the Iconoclast’s claws gained purchase, she reminded herself. The heretic picked at the places where a soul was fragile and pushed at it, promised to erase it… While all along widening the cracks.

  ‘I have no need of that,’ she said quietly. ‘All that I am, my faith protects and nurtures. All that I will do, is in His name.’ The rote catechism came to the Sororitas warrior without conscious recall, soothing her, strengthening her. She was bruised and bloodied, indeed, and she felt it deep in her bones – but she would not falter. Her duty here was not ended.

  Miriya hefted her bolt pistol and ran her gauntleted hand over the sacraments carved in the frame and the holy sigil of the ancient fleur de lys upon its grip, the same symbol mirrored in the blood-red tattoo on her cheek and the hilt of the chainsword sheathed upon her back. Like the power armour she wore, the weapons were devotional tools and they cried out to fulfil their purpose.

  Ahead of her, a thick wall of black smoke from the distant burning habitat blocks parted and she saw the staging area where her Order’s forces were regrouping. The wind changed direction and brought her the gentle rush of women’s voices raised in a hymn, and she resisted the urge to join with them.

  The remains of the Vestal Task Forces that had been deployed to Meseda Quintus were arranged in loose formation at the foot of a shallow hill that stood undamaged among the debris of the dead city. Armoured vehicles, penitent engines and gangs of twitching arco-flagellants lined up alongside combat squads of Retributors and Dominions, waiting for the end to come. All guns and missile batteries were aimed at the crest of the hill, upon which stood a cylindrical tower of glittering ruby light. It resembled a gigantic crystal drinking glass as if seen through a curtain of falling rain, shimmering and moving. Waves of purple lightning washed over the shape, crackling low like dull fire.

  Inside the cylinder, through the peculiar light, Miriya could make out the ghostly edges of a building. It had once been a devotional shrine, the most ornate and holy of chapels in the Meseda star system, but that was before the Iconoclast had come. Now the distorted structure was a gruesome parody of its old self, a grotesque agglomeration of bone and meat laid over blood-soaked stone. It was a giant’s gibbet, a cage for death and unleashed horrors. The powerful energy sheath around it contained the warped cathedral and everything within behind an impenetrable barrier of force, and if the adepts of the Mechanicus were to be believed, nothing could get out – but still Miriya felt her gut twist in disgust as she approached it, as if mere proximity to the place could somehow sicken her.

  Her eyes raked over a barely visible symbol that burned black fire across the facing wall of the corrupted shrine – a stylised ‘X’ bisected by horizontal lines – and it repulsed her, making her turn away. The Mark of Khorne. She dared not say the words aloud, and made the sign of the Aquila as she whispered a litany of warding.

  Miriya’s gaze fell to a cohort of rust-robed Mechanicus adepts, their skitarii and servitors clustering protectively around them as they worked at a great device made of spinning brass rings and lenses of dark volcanic glass. Arcane streams of energy flowed from the machine and out into the cylinder of light, feeding its fires, keeping it alive. The wardens of Mars had made good on their promises to the Adepta Sororitas. Together, the Mechanicus’ Array of the Sixth House of Phobos and the Battle Sisters of the Order of Our Martyred Lady had done what no others could. They had driven the heretic known as the Iconoclast back to their lair and imprisoned it within. Many lives had been spent to spring this trap, but it had been worth it.

 
At least, that was what Sister Miriya wanted to believe. It won’t be over until that creature is dead, she thought. I swear I will tear off the Iconoclast’s mask and see the heretic’s true face before I deliver the killing blow. That brought a cold smile to her lips. It will be fitting. No-one can hide from the God-Emperor’s wrath.

  ‘Sister Miriya!’ She turned as she heard the voice calling her name, and found a familiar figure rushing up towards her. ‘You’re safe,’ said Sister Verity, her eyes expressive beneath the brow of the armoured coif that covered her head. ‘When you became separated from the rest of the unit, I feared the worst…’

  Miriya shook her head. ‘The Emperor Protects.’ Las-fire from some of the last heretic holdouts had caught the ground speeder she had been riding in, forcing it down in the ruins. Although her pilot had perished in the crash-landing, alone and wounded the Battle Sister had still been able to track down and make short work of the traitor gun crew.

  ‘You are injured.’ Verity was not a warrior, but a hospitaller of the Order of Serenity, and her duty was to maintain the wellbeing of her sisters. She came to Miriya’s side and examined the dust-caked wound on her leg, clicking her tongue behind her breather mask. ‘I’ll see to this.’

  ‘It’s only a scratch,’ Miriya replied. ‘I’ve endured far worse.’

  ‘Don’t tell me my duty,’ Verity said firmly, pulling a medicae auspex from her belt. ‘And I will not tell you yours. You’re far too stoic for your own good.’ She ran the device’s sensor head over the gouge in the ­Battle Sister’s armour.

  This was a dance the two of them had performed more than once. The warrior and the healer. At first glance, their friendship might have appeared at odds to their natures, but the Sisters had a bond forged by adversity, conviction and shared loss. There were few that Miriya would ever trust as much as the slight, winsome hospitaller, and an unspoken communication passed between them. Verity had been with Miriya’s squad at the start of their mission against the Iconoclast and she knew full well the import of this day.

  ‘You’re eager to end this,’ ventured the hospitaller. It was not a question.

  ‘Not eager, Sister,’ Miriya corrected gently. ‘Dedicated. I am beyond the point of calling this an act of glory. No, what we will do today is justice. The Iconoclast will finally learn the cost of betraying humankind for the hollow gifts of the Archenemy. The scales will be rebalanced… For a time, at least.’

  Verity used an injector to apply a glutinous protective salve to the wound in Miriya’s leg and gave a nod, accepting the other woman’s words. She turned as a group of war-weary Battle­ Sisters approached, led by Miriya’s squad-mate Cassandra.

  ‘Eloheim,’ called the warrior, using the honorific title to address her. ‘What are your orders?’

  It was a long time since Sister Miriya had gone by that rank, and if truth be told, Cassandra was violating protocol by referring to her in such a manner. But Miriya accepted the term for what it was – a ­gesture of respect from one Battle­ Sister to another.

  ‘Nothing has changed,’ she said, her gaze taking in the other members of her unit. Silent Isabel, whose pewter augmetic eye glowed like an ember in her scarred face; Ananke, her dark aspect forever locked in a scowl; Danae, peering at her through an unkempt torrent of red hair that was dirty with mud and war-smoke; and the others, Sisters Marcia, Rubria and Aemilia, the later additions who had joined them at the commencement of this mission.

  All were waiting for her to give the word, and Miriya’s hand strayed unconsciously to the pouch on her waist where she kept a cracked mnemonic gem in a bag of black velvet. The hololith recorded on that glassy stone was the personal warrant of their order’s High Canoness Majoris, charging Miriya’s strike team with their singular command: to terminate the Iconoclast in the name of the God-Emperor.

  Over the years of the pursuit, she had watched the flickering holo-image again and again as it played through the short loop of its recording, and listened to the Canoness’ severe, clipped tones as she delivered the heretic’s death sentence. Now it was time to make good on the promise of that edict.

  Miriya nodded, steeling herself for what would come next, but before she could speak, a figure in dark red robes came clattering across the cracked rubble towards them, servo-arms and serpentine mechadendrites flapping at the air. ‘Honoured Sisters!’ shouted a grating, oddly pitched voice. ‘Something is coming!’

  Questor Nohlan was a fussy, self-absorbed sort, but that in itself was no oddity among the ranks of the Adeptus Mechanicus. A devout follower of the Cult of the Machine-God, he was a loyal subject of Mars and Holy Terra, but his self-control could be lacking at times and at this moment he seemed to have wholly forgotten matters of decorum. His claw-like bionic feet clanked and scraped over the stonework as he virtually threw himself towards the assembled warriors. In the shadows of his hood, Miriya saw his glowing crimson eye implants were wide with near-panic.

  ‘Calm yourself, adept,’ she demanded. ‘What is wrong?’

  ‘Processing. Processing.’ Nohlan skidded to a halt and made an attempt to marshal his thoughts. Miriya had served with the Questor on other missions, and she overlooked his sometimes erratic behaviour because she knew it masked a keen scientific mind. Indeed, had it not been for Nohlan’s cadre and their force cage techno-relic, the victory that was within the Sisterhood’s grasp would never have been poss­ible. ‘Ships, Sister Miriya. I have word from orbit that a wing of cruisers have emerged from behind the second moon of Meseda Quintus.’ He pointed at the sky with the heavy manipulator claw that emerged from his spine. ‘Shuttles are already on their way here!’

  ‘Imperial ships?’ asked Marcia, and Nohlan’s head bobbed in confirmation.

  ‘Reinforcements?’ Ananke directed the question at Miriya. ‘If so, then they have come too late to do any good.’

  Miriya’s brow furrowed. ‘All craft are engaged on other pilgrimages and missions elsewhere. Our Order had no more ships to send us, Sister.’ She glanced back to Nohlan. ‘What pennants do these vessels show, Questor?’

  The adept shifted uncomfortably. ‘They are of the Adepta Sororitas, milady.’

  He had more to say, but the sound of thrusters rose on the wind and all eyes turned towards the tormented sky overhead. Isabel’s augmented vision was the first to spot the incoming Thunderhawks and she extended a hand to point. ‘There!’

  Two night-black shapes powered down through the clouds and executed a fast, low pass over the assembled task force units, before swinging around to make a raptor’s landing in a clearing at the base of the besieged hill. The dropships were indeed Sororitas craft, with the sainted fleur de lys visible in bright bleached white on their wings – but they lacked the crimson trim characteristic to all war machines in service to the Order of Our Martyred Lady.

  Still, Miriya knew their colours, for she had seen them many times and fought alongside those who bore them into battle. Shouldering her bolter on its strap, she strode down the incline to meet the craft as their drop ramps yawned open like howling mouths.

  Matching her pace, Sister Cassandra spoke quietly so only Miriya would hear her. ‘These are not of our fleet. Look there, the sigil upon the fuselage. The red heart cresting the white Byzant cross…’

  ‘The Order of The Valorous Heart,’ said Verity, overhearing and offering the name aloud. ‘Why are they here?’

  ‘We shall see.’ Miriya halted and threw a look at her warriors, ordering them without a word to fall into honour guard formation. But despite their martial order, she could not help but note that all of her Order’s Sisters looked war-weary and battle-tarnished against the flawless black-on-black of the new arrivals, who marched down the ramps in lockstep formation.

  The ebon armour and robes of the Sisters of the Valorous Heart were in parade ground condition. Their Sabbat-pattern helmets gleamed in the fading light of the day, expressionless crimson eyes
searching the battlefield as if they expected danger to arise at any moment. The only flashes of tint on their wargear came from the white and red of their holy sigil. Theirs were the original colours of the Convent Sanctorum to which Miriya’s Order also belonged, from the days before the Age of Apostasy and the splitting of the ranks that had occurred in its aftermath. Although she could not see their faces, Miriya sensed the hauteur in the new arrivals as they took in the state of their kinswomen.

  That thought made her lip curl behind her breather mask, and Miriya dismissed it before it could take hold. She stepped forward, finding the other Order’s commanding officer by the golden honour-chains and ceremonial chaplet adorning her armour. ‘Well met, Sisters. Your arrival was not expected…’

  The Celestian’s blank helm turned to study Miriya. ‘Well met,’ she repeated. ‘In the name of Saint Lucia, I greet you, Daughters­ of Saint Katherine.’ Her faceplate snapped open to reveal severe green eyes framed by a short fuzz of ash-blonde hair. ‘You are in charge here?’ There was a challenge in the words.

  ‘By the Emperor’s Grace, I am.’ Something nagged at Miriya, and a sudden flash of recognition struck her. I know this woman. She looked closer and saw a familiar identifier in High Gothic, laser-etched into the skull sigil upon the Celestian’s breastplate. ‘Sister Oleande?’

  Her utterance seemed to catch the other Sororitas off-guard. ‘Aye. That is my name. You know of me?’

  Miriya came closer. ‘We have bled for the same ground, Sister.­ On the Icarus Front, against the predations of the xenos. A decade ago now, do you not recall?’ She tapped her chest. ‘I am Miriya. I commanded a force of Celestians then.’

  ‘Ah.’ Oleande gave a wan nod. ‘Of course. Yes. Forgive me, Sister. Much has changed since then.’ She seemed to refocus­ her gaze. ‘But you are a Celestian no longer? I see no war-rosary upon you.’

  Miriya nodded, not wanting to dwell on her own misfortunes. ‘As you say, much has changed. But our duty remains the same.’