[Dawn of War 02] - Ascension

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

  CHAPTER THREE: CLANDESTINATION

  The glittering, elegant form of the Eternal Star glinted in the opening of the webway, fluttering like a giant, weightless bird of prey. It was caught in the immense shade of Biel-Tan itself, which dominated the system like a colossus, drawing all eyes to it as though trapping them with some mysterious gravity.

  A faint, black light spilled out of the portal that led into the webway, sheening across the entrance like a thin film of oil, making it visible only as a slight distortion in the light cast by the stars beyond. It was not properly in the material realm, and its presence there was more suggestive than substantial. If travellers could really see what lay beyond the portal, none might dare enter it.

  The Eternal Star seemed to flex its wings, rippling with semi-visible energies as it closed on the portal, drawing away from the gravity of the gargantuan craftworld behind it. Standing on the control deck and gazing out into the portal, Macha’s mind was a labyrinth of hesitations.

  “I never said that it was the future,” she muttered, as much to herself as to anyone else. When there were so many thoughts echoing around inside her head, it often helped Macha to vocalise one of them just to give it some immediacy.

  Without shifting the view on the screen, Macha could see in her mind the image of a sleek form slipping out of one of the huge docking bays in the underside of the craftworld. The vessel just seemed to drop silently out of the bottom of Biel-Tan, as though it had suddenly been born into the galaxy then and there, and then it accelerated towards the Eternal Star with smooth and effortless ease. Macha held the image in her mind for a couple of seconds and then shook her head, still uncertain that this was the right course of action: the Court had decided not to act on her vision, but to commit the Swordwind to the increasingly volatile situation on Lorn V—that was their choice, and it was not her place to challenge such decisions, only to guide them.

  Yet something had convinced her that this was an exceptional circumstance. It had not been the faith of Draconir or even the personal bitterness of Laeresh; something in her soul told her that she had to go to Lsathranil’s Shield, although she could not tell what it was. For some undecipherable reason, her vision of that world was clouded and hazy.

  The Reaper’s Blade is in position. From the command deck of his Void Dragon cruiser, Laeresh’s voice eased its way directly into Macha’s head and broke her chain of thought, resolving her confusion with its single-minded clarity.

  The Reaper’s Blade was a beautiful ship, almost invisible against the darkness of space because it was immaculately black from prow to stern. It was unique amongst the vessels of the Biel-Tan fleet since it did not bear the emblem of the craftworld—the seeing eye set into a triangle of power. Instead, the runic symbol of the Dark Reapers was emblazoned in shimmering silver into the star-sails that projected out of the middle of the hull on both sides, like wings. No eldar could command that ship, except for the exarch of the Aspect Temple himself—not even the Court of the Young King could order it into battle, and Laeresh was taking great pleasure in ignoring Uldreth’s requests that the Reaper’s Blade should accompany the fleet to Lorn.

  The Dark Reapers occupied an unusual position in the society of Biel-Tan. Unlike the other major Aspect Temples, they were not represented in the Court of the Young King. Instead, they were a semi-autonomous force on the craftworld, which placed them on the periphery of Biel-Tan society and caused some eldar to view them with suspicion. This marginal status was reinforced by the low numbers of eldar who joined the temple during their cycle on the Path of the Warrior, which meant that the temple was always one of the smallest and most mysterious on the craftworld.

  Legend had it that the Dark Reapers found their origins on the lost craftworld of Altansar, which once partnered Ulthwe as a guardian of the Eye of Terror. Many millennia ago, the Eye expanded and Altansar was caught in its grip. For centuries, the doomed craftworld battled the daemonic forces of the massive warp storm as it was slowly pulled in. But, after half a millennium of fierce resistance, Altansar finally succumbed and plunged into the Eye, never to be seen or heard of again.

  From the millions of eldar who perished, their emerged only one survivor, the Phoenix Lord Maugan Ra, the Harvester of Souls.

  Maugan Ra was the first of the Dark Reapers, wielding the first Reaper Cannon—the Maugetar. His armour was blackened and tortured by the rapacious currents of the Eye, and in that terrible visage he dedicated himself to wreaking vengeance on those who had brought destruction to his temple. With no home left to defend, Maugan Ra adopted the maxim that remains etched into the wraithbone shrines in Dark Reaper temples to this day: war is my master, death my mistress. He had no lord other than death itself. Although Asurmen was the first of the Phoenix Lords and his Dire Avengers are the most numerous of all Aspect Warriors, there was never a warrior that more perfectly enshrined the nature of Kaela Mensha Khaine, the Bloody-Handed God, than Maugan Ra. Perhaps this is why his temple is still viewed with such dread.

  The temples of the Dark Reapers are doomed to stay on the edge of craftworld society, since the craftworld on which they were born was destroyed long ago—the Reapers find their home in battle, and nowhere else. This means that none can claim dominion over them, and they answer to none other than their own exarch, aspiring always to rediscover the ancient armour of Maugan Ra and the lost craftworld of Altansar.

  Hold there, replied Macha at last, her mind wandering in search of a sign that they were on the right path.

  Uldreth had made it very clear that he did not approve of her departure, but there was little that he could do to stop her. She was the craftworld’s primary farseer, head of the Seer Council. However, even the seers of the Council were concerned by her actions—Farseer Taldeer had foreseen a more pressing crisis on Lorn V, and her vision had been shared by a number of others. They were certain that the situation there was unfolding in Biel-Tan’s future, and that they had to act now. Macha could not help but think that it was strange that she had not also seen that vision, and part of her was struggling to connect it with her own. Her intuition told her that there had to be a connection, no matter how or why it was hidden to her now. It was very unusual for the minds of the council members to be completely out of synchronisation. However, if there was a connection, it remained invisible to Macha.

  “Things have come too far to stop now,” she muttered to herself, shaking her head slightly and sighing. Part of her knew that things had come this far because of the antipathy between Laeresh and Uldreth—they drove each other to the extremes of forbearance, and it was dangerous. Laeresh was out there now in the Reaper’s Blade, and Macha could feel his smug sense of satisfaction even from the control deck of the Eternal Star—she was fully aware that the Reaper was doing this only partly because he had faith in her vision. He was passionate beyond good sense. For a moment she lamented the way eldar passions could escalate events so quickly. “I did not say that it was the future.”

  Just under the surface of her consciousness, Macha knew that this situation was partly her fault—although neither Uldreth nor Laeresh could remember that.

  The Hand of Asuryan will guide you. It was Draconir’s mind, projected from somewhere in the interior of the craftworld itself.

  Macha nodded at the unexpected thought from Biel-Tan.

  Follow my lead, she suggested, directing her thoughts to the sleek cruiser that flanked her own.

  Very good, farseer, replied Laeresh. There was an edge of eagerness in his mind.

  With a sudden but smooth movement, apparently thrusting its shimmering wings back into a dart, the Eternal Star flicked forward into the slick sheen that filmed across the portal, and it vanished.

  “Yes,” said Laeresh, smiling, as the Reaper’s Blade shot into the webway in the farseer’s wake.

  Gabriel’s face twitched and contorted with painful concentration as his head flooded with images and memories. His eyes flicked back and forth, as though they were scanning across
scenes etched into the back of his eyelids, and beads of sweat rolled down his scarred forehead, running into streams as they hit the service studs just above his left eyebrow.

  While final preparations were made for the departure of the Ravenous Spirit, Captain Angelos was kneeling in prayer in the Third Company’s chapel, aboard the Litany of Fury. The heavy, gothic spire pierced out of the top of the massive battle barge, like a ritualistic gun-turret, sparkling with armaments and ornaments to the Emperor’s undying glory. It was the preserve of Chaplain Prathios, who administered to the spiritual needs of the Company in the sanctity of the chapel’s towering spaces.

  Standing in the deep shadows behind the altar, a faint light flickering across his face, Prathios was watching the tortured figure of his captain suffer on the steps before the image of the Emperor.

  It was not unusual for his Marines to suffer some minor trauma after completion of some of their most grotesque duties; it seemed to be an affliction of the sensitive minds of the Blood Ravens. The same process of genetic selection that led to the perpetuation of great numbers of librarians and scholars in the Chapter also guaranteed that all the Marines would be of unusually sensitive dispositions, even after all the hypnotherapy and psyche-conditioning. Prathios knew of some of the rumours whispered about them in the halls of other Chapters, but he was a chaplain of the Emperor and had more elevated voices to listen to than the malicious whispers of the ignorant.

  When he thought back over all the things that Gabriel had been through over the last year or so, Prathios was not surprised that his soul was tortured. Despite all of the modifications and implants, despite the infernos of battle and the perpetual horrors of war, there was still a human soul hidden beneath that super-armoured shell. Immaculate duty, honour and courage could not shield his mind from everything. Every soul had a breaking point, and Prathios prayed to the Emperor every day that Gabriel’s trials had not pushed him beyond his. But his behaviour had changed since Cyrene, and the incident with Isador on Tartarus had been hard on him; he had spent a lot of time in the chapel, alone with his nightmares. And now he seemed to have fixated on the eldar farseer, as though she were responsible for all the problems that currently beset the Chapter. If he were honest with himself, Prathios was concerned about his captain’s state of mind, and he knew that he was not the only one who had noticed Gabriel’s odd behaviour.

  The captain’s lips were working soundlessly, as he muttered prayers and litanies of purity, combating the vicious images that stabbed at his mind with the force of his faith. The muscles in his neck bunched and knotted against the physical pain that seemed to seep through from his waking dreams.

  “Gabriel, you must rest. There is no need for us to depart so soon,” said Prathios, breaking the fevered silence with his deep voice.

  “There is need,” said Gabriel, slowly and deliberately, keeping his eyes closed.

  Prathios said nothing for a moment, watching his captain fall back into prayer. “Your men will follow you, Gabriel. I will follow you. But you must give us more reason than your faith. You are a Blood Raven—we do not act without reason. Knowledge is our power—”

  “—there is no need to lecture me on my obligations or my nature, chaplain,” interrupted Gabriel, his eyes flashing open suddenly. “And it does not become you, of all people, to denigrate my faith. The Emperor’s light guides the Blood Ravens, just as it does the rest of the Adeptus Astartes. We have no less and we need no more than that.”

  The chaplain nodded, taken aback slightly by his captain’s sudden venom, but acknowledging that he was right. There was nothing more glorious than opening one’s soul to the guidance of the Imperial light, although the sacred Astronomican remained invisible to most servants of the Emperor, radiating through the echoing minds of astropaths and sanctioned psykers. As a chaplain, Prathios had seen glimpses of its pulsating brightness, and he was always conscious of it as a beacon in the deepest subconscious parts of his mind. But he would never claim to have seen it clearly or unambiguously in the glare of his mind’s eye. Ever since Cyrene, however, he had seen Gabriel blinded by visions of its radiance, and the Blood Ravens captain had no sanctioned psychic potentials.

  “You are right, captain,” confessed Prathios, stepping forward into the flickering light and bowing slightly to Gabriel. “It is not my place to question the wisdom of your decisions. But I know that you will forgive me my concern for you and for our Chapter. I am your chaplain, after all.”

  “I know, Prathios, and there is no need for talk of forgiveness,” said Gabriel gently, rising from his knees and smiling faintly at his old friend. “We have known each other a long time, and I have been grateful for your counsel on many occasions before now. You are a wiser man than I will ever be, but I must simply ask you to trust me now.”

  “Trust is not something for which you must ask, Gabriel,” replied Prathios, staring into the captain’s bright blue eyes and nodding his assurance. “Where it is deserved, it is given freely and without question.”

  “Do not abandon your questions, chaplain. I am sure that we will have need for them before this affair is over. Your trust I accept gratefully, but I would never ask you to stop questioning my actions. As you said, we are Blood Ravens: to question is our nature.”

  The sound of an immense weight shifting made the two Marines stop and turn, casting their eyes back down the aisle of the chapel towards the huge ornamental doors that led out into the uppermost levels of the Litany of Fury. The ancient stone tablets that served as doors swung inwards slowly, letting a sheet of light stream in from the brightly lit corridor beyond, stretching down the aisle towards the two old friends. Silhouetted in the doorway, with his massive arms outstretched to each side, holding open the giant stones, stood the impressive figure of Tanthius. Except for his helmet, he was already sealed into his ancient suit of Terminator armour.

  Tanthius gave the doors a final push, forcing them to open fully and fold back against the interior walls of the magnificent chapel with a resounding crash, flooding the cavernous space with light. He bowed sharply before he spoke.

  “My apologies for the interruption, captain. The Ravenous Spirit is now ready for departure. We have a full complement of Marines and the servitors inform me that the service crew is also at adequate strength. The Litany’s apothecarion will not release Ckrius into our care, so he will stay aboard the battle barge under the watchful gaze of the apothecary. In case we or Father Librarian Urelie have need of maintenance services, Techmarine Ephraim has volunteered to join us temporarily from the Ninth Company. I understand that Captain Ulantus has approved this.”

  “I am not sure that he approves of it, Tanthius, but he has agreed that it would be unreasonable of him to cause a Battle Company to depart into a combat zone without any technical support,” nodded Gabriel, smiling to himself at the futile protestations that been levelled by Ulantus when he had made the request. “Ephraim is a fine Marine, and he will be an asset to us.”

  The Terminator Marine offered no response—none was required. He simply nodded his understanding. “We await your convenience, captain.”

  The scroll was one of the oldest artefacts that they had unearthed below the monastery. Its material was akin to paper, but somehow it had survived the passage of millennia in a small, vacuum-sealed, adamantium tube. It contained a mixture of images and passages of text, inscribed by hand in some form of ink that had neither faded nor dulled over time. The reds and blacks of the lines were vibrant and brilliant, as though only penned on that very day. The illuminations were breathtaking.

  “As far as Meritia could tell, the scroll was titled, ‘The Sky Angel Steals the Light’, and it contained a folk-story of some kind. A myth perhaps. It had been written in an old and primitive version of High Gothic, hardly recognisable to modern eyes, but it was clearly the product of a culture under the influence of the Imperium of Man. The fact that she had found it in the ruins of an ancient fortress monastery led her to believe that the story
had some relevance to the Blood Ravens—an implicit connection being the angel in the title and the winged insignia that punctuated the text in the place of section breaks. It was not identical with the emblem of the Blood Ravens, but it was similar.

  The Adeptus Astartes did not usually enlist scribes to record folklore or legends, and certainly not in such elaborate or ostentatiously artistic forms, so the scroll was intriguing for reasons other than merely its content.

  The oddly cursive curl of the script was similar to that found on the casket in which they had uncovered the wraithbone tablet, which made Meritia think that the scroll and tablet were probably contemporaneous with each other. But the wraithbone tablet was covered in the impossible beauty of eldar runes, and this scroll was definitely the product of human artistry—its undeniable beauty being clumsy in comparison with the xenos artefact.

  After Jonas had carried the tablet to the librarium, the two of them had spent some time trying to decipher its markings, but they had not made much progress. The runes were unconventionally shaped, and they seemed to swim and shift as the scholars tried to read them. After many hours, they had not got much further than the title, and they were not even sure that they had got that right: Ishandruir—The Ascension. It was going to take quite some time to translate the rest, but their only urgency stemmed from their own excitement about the find. There was no real hurry.

  Returning to her little chamber for the night, Meritia had pulled out the scroll as a form of light relief. Its odd High Gothic was relatively simple to read, and the story that it told was interesting enough. As far as she could work out, it had something to do with a giant bird who could change shape into that of a man—the Sky Angel. Through a long and protracted process of trickery and deception, the Sky Angel stole a star from the evil gods who sought to keep the system in darkness. He tried to steal it for himself, but he dropped it as he fled through space, and it burst into life, flooding the local planets with light and giving them life. She was not really sure what happened to the Sky Angel after that, since the focus of the story then seemed to shift to the surface of one of the planets, where the gods remained fuming with wrath, which spewed out of the ground like lava from volcanoes.