The Crystal Cathedral - Danie Ware

by Warhammer 40K

  She swore under her breath, and kept singing.

  From the scourge of the Kraken!

  From the corner of her eye, she could see that Veradis was back on her feet, though the Sister Superior had not closed back into the melee. Instead, she had discarded her dagger and held her position, watching the monster, her eyes narrow.

  But Augusta could not stop to consider this – the thing whirled again, its tail knocking Lucienne flying for a second time. Its gleaming, foot-long teeth snapped at Augusta’s arm; its claws lashed hard at her cheek. She yanked her head backwards and it missed her, but only just. She felt the whack of wind as they passed within a whisper of her nose.

  If those claws caught her, they would take her face clean off.

  It followed the attack and leapt at her – one slash, and another, and another, each one slamming into her and making her reel. She raised her arms to defend herself; her ears rang with song and fury. The Sisters followed it, pressing in close, stopping the thing moving, preventing it getting away. Blades struck at it from all sides, but its arms were fast, knocking them aside, sending the squad skidding backwards, their boots screeching on the stone. Without their bolters they had nothing that could touch it, and it was almost as if it knew. Amid its chilling focus, it seemed to be mocking them.

  The deacon was still shouting from the pulpit, almost frothing at the mouth. Augusta lunged again, hard enough to stick her dagger point first into the beast’s chest, but she lost her grip on the weapon as the monster whipped around. It turned too fast, taking the blade with it.

  It snapped its teeth downwards at Pia’s shoulder. For an instant, they crunched on ceramite, then Pia dropped to one knee and they slammed shut on air.

  An instant later, Pia was back on her feet, her song twisting into a vicious, stubborn curse.

  How could they stop this thing?

  Panic was beginning to swell in Augusta’s chest, though she would not succumb to it. How was this accursed thing even here?

  Our Emperor, deliver us!

  Beside her, Sister Pia raised the Litany once more. Clenching her gauntleted fists, Augusta closed again – but the beast barely even noticed. She might as well have been hitting the rock wall.

  Then she saw her dagger, sticking from the thing’s carapace. She made a grab for it, catching it and pulling it free.

  Snarling, the beast whirled again. It hurled itself straight at her, its teeth bared, all four sets of claws coming for her chest. She threw up her arms in a cross block, felt the force of its impact through her elbows and shoulders, but she could not stand in its path, it was just too big. It smashed her to the floor, hurled itself past her and spun, turning back to the squad.

  Another claw strike, a reaching left-right, and Sister Lucienne was falling, dark fluid staining the rips in her armour.

  In His name! You will not do this!

  Sister Emlyn leaned down and pulled Lucienne out of the way. Augusta kept striking, slashing, singing, distracting its attention.

  How was it here? Had it always been here, surviving a thousand years from the previous battle? Had it been waiting, hiding somewhere outside this valley, just waiting for the…

  Waiting for the light.

  By the Throne!

  The realisation struck her like a claw. Of course. It had been here all along, dormant, curled about itself in patient stillness, and the very conjunction that had brought life and light back to the cathedral – it had touched this thing, and roused it from its stasis.

  Had brought it, leaping, and tearing, and hungry, into their midst.

  Furious at its sacrilege, at its presence, at the memory of their Sisters that it had now despoiled, she threw herself at it. The squad moved with her, all of them closing once more about its flanks.

  Over the vox, Veradis barked, ‘Pia! Now!’

  ‘Aye.’ Her movements absolutely precise, Sister Pia grabbed the thing’s extended tongue in one red-gauntleted hand. With a single, deft twist, she wrapped it around her wrist and brought its head down into her raised knee. There was a sharp crack, and its teeth closed on its own flesh.

  Gore and squeals spurted from its mouth.

  The Sister Superior roared, ‘Leona! Fire!’

  From the far side of the now empty nave came the unmistakeable metallic cocking of the heavy bolter.

  Veradis bawled, ‘Down!’

  Augusta was moving, even as the Sister Superior wrapped an arm over her shoulders.

  They crashed to the floor together.

  The thunder was tremendous.

  A full directed burst roared across the air. It cut though the pews, through the glassaic, and though the chitinous hide of the monster. The heavy bolter boomed its song of death, the noise immense. White-light panes shattered as rounds blew them outwards.

  On the floor, face down on the glass-pebbled stone and half-crushed by Veradis’ weight, Augusta couldn’t see – but she could hear the creature scream in pain and fury, hear it thrashing as the rounds bit home. She heard its claws as it turned and ran, hurling itself bodily across the nave and towards Leona.

  But Leona was still firing, steady and unintimidated. Her voice over the vox sang defiance.

  Bring them only death!

  Veradis shifted, was back on her feet. Augusta, too, started to stand up. From out of the corner of her eye she saw Lucienne, bloodied and battered and rolling to back her knees; saw Sister Emlyn, shaking herself, but moving.

  Saw Sister Pia, lying curled on her side, blood sliding from her mouth, her armour smoking from multiple holes.

  What?

  Only one weapon made scars like those.

  In the vestibule, the heavy bolter was still firing, its muzzle tracking the incoming beast. Leona had stepped back, given herself the full range and rate of fire; the monster was spraying thick, dark blood, shuddering under the onslaught, but it was still coming, climbing over the pews as if nothing could bring it down…

  But Sister Pia lay still.

  Facing the monster, Leona was still singing, her voice rising as the thing closed on her; she was back to the wall, now, had nowhere else to go. The deacon was still in his pulpit, still bellowing orders…

  But Sister Pia lay still.

  Stunned, Augusta watched as the heavy bolter started to cough. Leona swore, knowing she was down to her last few rounds, but she still kept firing as the monster skidded the last pews out of its way…

  But Sister Pia lay still.

  ‘By the Throne.’ Over the vox, Leona cursed aloud. ‘You’ll go down if I have to beat you to death myself!’ With a final rumble, the heavy bolter clacked loudly, and stopped.

  The silence was suddenly tremendous, echoing in Augusta’s ears.

  But – finally – the monster was down. Barely two feet from where Leona was standing, it had crashed to the floor, its chitin cracked, its arms splayed, its body coated in its own fluids.

  Its rear claws kicked once, and were still.

  The deacon cried, ‘Yes! Thank the Emperor!’ but they did not look up at him.

  Because Sister Pia lay still.

  Calmly, Veradis said, ‘Be sure, Leona.’ Her voice was full – victory, sacrifice, sadness.

  ‘Aye.’ Boots sounded as Leona walked over to the thing, her heavy bolter still in her hands. The single shot to its skull rang out like the last line of a hymn.

  ‘One round left in the chamber,’ she said, quietly. Like the presence of their small, hidden daggers, no one needed to ask her why it was there.

  But Sister Pia had not moved.

  ‘Her death was not your doing,’ Veradis said, one hand on Sister Leona’s shoulder. ‘It was a risk, and Sister Pia understood. We fight as the Emperor decrees.’

  Leona’s lean, lined face was stone hard, her chin lifted, as if she kept any emotions to herself.

 
At their feet, Sister Pia lay crumpled upon a bed of shattered glassaic, her black hair spread out, her expression frozen in the bared-teeth determination of pure combat. All down one side of her armour there were the telltale holes made by the heavy bolter.

  Her courage had enabled them to injure the beast, and had forced it to react to the weapon, rather than killing the rest of the squad.

  They – and the people – owed Pia their lives.

  Augusta knew that sacrifice was the greatest honour to which a Sister could aspire, but she had never before seen it in the field, and she stayed silent, looking down at Pia’s fallen form.

  She seemed so small.

  Veradis, however, was glaring at the deacon.

  ‘You declared this location secure.’ It was not a question.

  The deacon had not lost his pompousness. He was a small, round man, and he puffed himself up before answering: ‘How was I to know that your long-lost Sisters had not purged this moon completely? The failure is yours, Sororitas, not mine.’

  Veradis eyed him as if she would break him in half, but said nothing. Instead, she said to the squad, ‘Retrieve your weapons. I want every doorway guarded. There will be no service here until we deploy fully through the tunnels and ensure that there are no further,’ she eyed the deacon, ‘surprises.’

  ‘Aye.’ The Sisters did as they were ordered, but Augusta paused, Lucienne beside her.

  ‘Sister Superior, a question, if I may?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘This is the house of the Emperor. We do not bear weapons–’

  ‘You’re asking why He did not defend us, Sister?’ Veradis’ tone held a certain wry amusement, perhaps at Augusta’s inexperience. ‘As the Scriptures would have us believe?’

  Feeling the gazes of both deacon and Sister Superior, Augusta looked down at Pia’s fallen body and nodded. ‘Is that so foolish a question? How could such a creature be permitted…’

  The deacon glowered at her. ‘He does not come when you call, Sister…’

  Veradis held up a hand, and he quietened, tapping his foot.

  The Sister Superior said, ‘The xenos knows no respect. And what are we but His defence? What are we but His weapons? Twice now, you have faced foes without your bolter, and twice, you have triumphed. This is a test of our faith and mettle, like any other, wherever it may take place.’

  Augusta stole a look at the now shining window, remembering the stone Sisters that stood at the doorway. ‘Our Sisters did not fail?’

  ‘That is not for us to judge.’ Veradis shot the deacon a sideways glare. ‘We only do as we are bid, by His presence. You may grieve for Sister Pia, in the proper time, but you must first follow your orders.’

  ‘Yes, Sister.’

  ‘Have no fear,’ Veradis said, her face softening to a rare smile. ‘Sister Pia stands before the Throne, and she does so in honour, her life given in battle.’ She glanced at the fallen creature, drawing Augusta’s attention and making the point. ‘We can only pray that, one day, we will be so blessed.’

  About the Author

  Danie Ware is the author of the critically acclaimed Ecko series, as well as numerous short stories. She lives in Carshalton, south London, with her son and two cats and has long-held interests in role-playing, re-enactment, vinyl art toys and personal fitness. These days, she juggles raising her son and writing books with working for Forbidden Planet (London) Ltd., where she runs their events calendar and social media profile. Mercy is her first short story for Black Library.

  An extract from Mark of Faith.

  Darkness surrounds me, complete and heavy. Suffocating. I cannot see. Cannot hear. I cannot remember, either. Not how I came to be here, or where I came from. Not who or what I am. I am nothing, and no one. Little more than a heartbeat, inside a hollow shell. I try to speak. To make a noise of this nothingness, but I am mute as well as blind and deaf. No words will come. No voice, save for that locked tightly inside my mind.

  Please.

  And then, a sound. A voice, answering my silent plea.

  Evangeline.

  The name falls across me like a cloak, and I know instinctively that it is mine. I know the voice, too, despite how distant it sounds. How distorted.

  ‘Adelynn?’

  My Sister Superior’s name escapes my throat and disappears into the unbroken darkness. Adelynn answers me once again with my own name, but this time she sounds even more distant. More distorted. I start to run, though I cannot see. Though the darkness mires me and pulls at my limbs like deep, cold water. But then I see it. A tiny pinprick of golden light, growing larger and closer until it resolves into a shape. A stone pedestal, draped in crimson cloth. That is where the light is coming from, only it is not light at all. It is an object. A shield, cast in steel and gold and engraved with the image of an armoured warrior bearing blade and aegis with a ten-pointed halo around her head. My heartbeat grows loud at the sight of it, for it is not a shield at all. It is the Shield. The Praesidium Protectiva.

  The Shield of Saint Katherine.

  ‘Evangeline.’

  I look up from the Shield and I see her. Adelynn is standing on the opposite side of the hallowed relic to me. Uplit in gold, she could as well be a statue, were it not for her emerald eyes.

  ‘Are you ready?’ she asks me, and she gestures to the Shield.

  It is a question to which there is only ever one answer, but this time I find that I cannot give it. Because I am not ready. Not for this. I try to tell her so, but even that proves impossible. All that I can manage is an empty oh sound. The very definition of nothing. Adelynn’s face turns wrathful, then.

  ‘Are you ready?’ she asks, again. ‘Are you ready?’

  Adelynn repeats the question over and over and over until the sound of it surrounds me. It suffocates me, just like the darkness. I cannot bear it, nor the disappointment in her emerald eyes, so I scream for her to stop and I thrust out my hands to take up the Shield, but the very instant that my ­fingertips come into contact with the gold and steel, I catch fire. It blossoms on my fingers first, before blooming across my hands and up my arms, golden yellow and flickering. It tracks over my shoulders and engulfs my body and travels up my throat until I am consumed by it in the same way that the air around me is. The fire burns fiercely, melting my armour and searing my flesh. It blinds me with its brightness, and deafens me anew with a roar that is not the roar of the fire at all, but that same dreadful question rendered in an inferno’s voice.

  Are you ready?

  I wake with a gasp, lying flat on my back. Still blind, no matter how I blink. Still deaf to everything but the overloud beat of my thundering heart. My teeth are chattering and my body is trembling completely from my head to my toes. I am soaked with sweat. I try to cry out, but no words will come. No sound at all. I get up, but something mires me. I fall hard onto my hands and knees, completely unable to breathe. Someone takes hold of me, firm hands printing cold onto my feverish skin.

  And then, a voice.

  ‘Be still, Sister. You are safe.’

  It is a woman’s voice. One that I do not recognise. I try to speak. To fight her. But those hands hold firm and the voice speaks again.

  ‘Breathe,’ she says. ‘Just breathe.’

  Left with little choice, I do as the voice commands me. I breathe. I allow myself to be still. And little by little, my senses return.

  Touch, first. The cold floor under my hands and knees. Then sight. Bare steel treadplate, and my own hands, wrapped tightly in blood-speckled bandages. Scent. Incense and blood and the harsh tang of counterseptic. Other sounds filter in. I hear the click and hum of machinery, and the soft murmur of prayer. I am in a hospitaller’s ward. I exhale, slowly.

  ‘There we are,’ says the voice.

  I look up at the owner of the voice. She is of the convents. Non-militant, but a Sister nonetheles
s. The hospitaller is pale as new marble, clad in robes as white as her hair. I cannot tell the colour of her eyes, because she will not meet mine.

  ‘You were dreaming,’ she says. ‘That is all.’

  I try to tell her that I do not dream. That I haven’t since I was a child. Since before my Sisters and before Adelynn and before the convents. But all that I can make is the shape of the words. A rasp in my throat, like steel on stone.

  ‘My name is Lourette,’ the Sister Hospitaller says, her voice patient and calm. ‘Let me help you.’

  I do not resist as Lourette helps me to my feet and sits me down again on the edge of my cot. This place is not so much a ward as a private room. The walls are clad with whitewashed flakboard and hung with linen drapes. Lourette gives me a plastek cup to drink from. The water is so cold that it makes me cough myself double. Lourette holds out a silvered bowl for me as I spit clots of blood and blackness into it until I can breathe again. When I do, I taste stale air. Recycled. All at once I know that I must be aboard a starship. That I am no longer on Ophelia VII.

  At the thought of my home world everything returns to me. The Contemplation. The Last of Days. Losing my Sisters, one by one. I wait for grief to strike me, to sweep over me, but all I feel is emptiness.

  ‘Are you in pain, Sister?’ Lourette asks.

  I wish I were. Pain is honest. It gives you focus. I am not in pain. In its place, all I feel is emptiness. That deceitful nothing. I cannot explain that to Lourette, so I just shake my head and ask a question in return. It takes three attempts, because my throat is so unused to speaking.

  ‘What ship is this?’

  Lourette still does not look me in the eyes. She sets about changing my bloodied bandages with slow and deliberate care. Even that does not hurt.

  ‘The Unbroken Vow,’ she says. Her voice is soft and patient, with the clipped pronunciation of the convents. ‘It is a Dauntless-class cruiser sworn to the commandery of Canoness Elivia. We are holding at high anchor over Ophelia VII.’