As she read, the vox-unit in the corner of her chamber whistled delicately. In the still night air, the sound seemed unnecessarily shrill and loud, and Meritia glared at the little machine with irritation. The powerful amplifier arrays of the outpost-monastery were essential for the maintenance of communication with the rest of the sector, but they did mean that any sense of seclusion that Meritia might have enjoyed in her own chamber was entirely false. For some reason, the Blood Ravens Techmarines and even a detachment from the Adeptus Mechanicus had never been able to establish a reliable astropathic station on Rahe’s Paradise. Two astropaths had been sent to the planet over the years, but both had been wracked with nightmares and agony. One had hanged himself in his cell. So the outpost relied on the slow, primitive vox technology even more than it might otherwise have done.
There was a loud hiss of static, and then a voice crackled with sibilance.
“…ister Meritia. This is Sister Ptolemea… en route to …e’s Paradise …two days. Please acknowledge.”
Meritia just stared at the machine with mounting displeasure. Not only had it interrupted her studies, but it was now also the bearer of such troublesome news. She knew Ptolemea—she was also of the Order of the Lost Rosetta, although the two of them had never been close. She was young and ambitious, and Meritia was not sure why she should be on her way to Rahe’s Paradise. This was not the kind of posting that someone like Ptolemea would request.
“Acknowledged,” she said simply, not bothering to repeat her message and not caring whether it was swamped in the rush of whining feedback that suddenly filled the echoing stone room.
There was no reply, and Meritia chose to interpret that as a good sign.
Part of the reason that she had answered the Blood Ravens’ call for scholarly aid on Rahe’s Paradise was that she had wanted to escape the internal politics of the Ecclesiarchy. There were so many agendas competing for resources in those hallowed halls, and factions were constantly at each other’s throats, determined to discredit their hypotheses and research programmes. From time to time, there were even charges of heresy thrown about, when one powerful group of scholars realised that another was working on a competing project. For obvious reasons, charges of heresy within the Ecclesiarchy were taken even more seriously than such charges in other branches of the sprawling Administratum—and heresy was always the most serious of charges. The Adeptus Sororitas were in a unique and complicated position when such dramas began to unfold, since they were technically part of the Ecclesiarchy itself, but they could also be enlisted into the service of the Ordo Hereticus whenever there was need. It was more often the case that the militant orders of the Sisters of Battle would be seconded by the Inquisition for services outside the confines of the Ecclesiarchy, but from time to time the inquisitors of the Ordo Hereticus had need for the special talents of the non-militant orders, such as that of the Lost Rosetta, particularly when charges of doctrinal heresy were levelled at curators, scholars or priests.
Meritia was something of an idealist, and she sincerely believed that scholarship should be free of politics. Of course, she was aware that certain types of knowledge could be dangerous, but she was confident in the ability of scholars to draw a line between the discovery of dangerous information and the internalisation of any taint that it might contain. She was opposed, for example, to the puritans in her order who insisted that the Lost Rosetta should have no contact with alien artefacts, lest their own sacred purity be contaminated by the foul taint of the xenos creatures. She had seen Ordo Hereticus inquisitors summoned to investigate her own Sisters when it was discovered that they were analysing a lost eldar tract or an intercepted data-stream from a tau fleet.
Being on her own on Rahe’s Paradise was supposed to free her from such considerations, although she was aware that her willingness to leave the order’s convent would be seen as suspicious in itself by some, and that her association with the Adeptus Astartes might not be looked upon too favourably by the authorities in the Ecclesiarchy itself. Nonetheless, she thought that she would at least be out of sight for a while and thus free to indulge her scholarly nature. She had also been confident that, whatever their doctrinal differences, the Ecclesiarchy could never openly claim that association with a Space Marine Chapter would corrupt one of the Sisters Sororitas.
The imminent arrival of Ptolemea was a harsh wake-up call, and Meritia’s mind raced with various explanations for the dispatch of the younger Sister. She was especially concerned since no word had been sent ahead of her by the order’s Sister Superiors or by any agents of the Ecclesiarchy. It seemed that her arrival was supposed to be a surprise and, given that, Meritia wondered under whose authority the ambitious woman was really coming. She had certainly made no requests for additional researchers herself.
Finally turning her face away from the little vox-unit in the corner, Meritia inspected herself in the mirror that dominated the back of the main door to her chamber. It was there mainly to reflect the daylight onto her desk in the hours before sunset, since her slit-window was inadequate to the task of providing sufficient reading light, and for some reason artificial light was damaging to some of the older texts. Indeed, some of the most interesting tracts remained utterly invisible until exposed to natural light.
She stared at her grey hair, narrowing her eyes slightly in persistent disbelief. She could still remember the first morning when she had caught her own reflection in that mirror and had gasped in shock at the transformation. When she had arrived on Rahe’s Paradise, her hair had been long and dark. One morning, without any apparent reason, it was shimmering and grey. She still had no idea what had happened to it, but now she was more concerned about what Ptolemea would think of the sudden, inexplicable transformation.
The engines roared and poured flames down into the desert as the Thunderhawk slowly descended, blasting a wide crater into the sand as its retro-burners flared. The crimson gunship shone like a second star against the red of the rising sun. It landed with a surprisingly delicate touch, and then there was a slight delay before the hatch cracked open and lowered itself into a disembarkation ramp.
Without hesitation or ceremony, Gabriel strode down the ramp, taking in the chilled morning air, the desert, and the black, towering shape of the Blood Ravens’ outpost-monastery. He paused momentarily at the bottom of the ramp and turned to survey the horizon. Scans from the Ravenous Spirit in orbit had not revealed the presence of any alien craft or personnel on the surface, but Gabriel knew better than to trust that even the Imperium’s finest technology could outsmart that of the eldar. He swept his eyes over the desert, satisfying himself that there was nothing there.
At the head of a line of scouts, Father Librarian Jonas Urelie stood next to Sergeant Caleb waiting for Gabriel to acknowledge them. The sand whipped around them like a heavy, red mist, but touches of gold in their armour burst with reflected light. Except for their helmets, they were in full, formal battle armour. They had not had much notice of the captain’s arrival, otherwise they would have organised a more ostentatious reception—for now, the military honour of an armoured Blood Ravens librarian and scout squadron would have to suffice. Jonas was slightly concerned that Sister Meritia had declined his invitation to welcome the great captain, but he understood that it was short notice.
As Gabriel looked around, the rest of the command squad strode down the ramp behind him, fanning out into a wide formation at his back. They were fully armed and armoured, with their weapons held ready. Tanthius planted his massive feet immediately and started to track his storm bolter across the terrain. They were taking no chances.
“Father librarian,” began Gabriel, finally striding over to the older Marine and grasping his arm in greeting. “We received news of your recent encounter with the eldar, and we are here ahead of the Litany of Fury to bolster your defences.”
“Captain Angelos,” replied Jonas, meeting his sparkling gaze. “You are most welcome here, but we have seen nothing further of the eldar sin
ce they attacked Caleb’s squad.” The veteran librarian tilted his head to indicate the scout sergeant on his left. “As you can see, we are not under attack.”
“I will receive your report on the eldar shortly,” said Gabriel, sharply shifting his attention to Caleb before turning it back to Jonas. “It is good to see you, old friend,” he said, smiling suddenly.
“It has been a long time, Gabriel,” replied Jonas, pleased that the formality had been dropped. “We have much to discuss. Rahe’s Paradise has turned out to be even more interesting than I had anticipated.”
“Father Jonas,” interjected Corallis, stepping up to Gabriel’s shoulder. “It is an honour to be back on Rahe’s Paradise again.”
“Ah, young Corallis, the honour is mine,” replied Jonas, nodding his head in a show of mock respect. “Although, you are no longer so young, I see.”
Corallis smiled and nodded in return. It was a long time since he had been stationed on Rahe’s Paradise as a trainee scout, but Jonas had been in charge even then. The two had been through a lot together, and the old librarian was proud of the younger Marine’s achievements. He was right, however, that the veteran sergeant was no longer a young man: much of his abdomen and right side had been destroyed by an eldar Warp Spider on Tartarus, and he was now riddled with bionics, even more than the average Marine. To recognise his valour on that cursed planet, Gabriel had elevated him into the command squad, making him a veteran sergeant despite the fact that he had been in a scout squadron only a year earlier. It was fitting that the Commander of the Watch should have an expert scout close at hand.
“Sergeant,” said Gabriel, interrupting the reunion without ill will. “Take four bikes and run reconnaissance around the surrounding terrain. I assume that you can remember your way around.”
“Of course, captain,” replied Corallis, nodding sharply and turning to head back up into the Thunderhawk.
“Corallis,” called Gabriel after him. “Take Ikarus with you.”
The sergeant paused to acknowledge the order, and then jogged up into the gunship, inside which the bikes were braced into the deck. Ikarus, who had heard Gabriel shout the order to Corallis, strode up the ramp behind him.
“He is a fine Marine, father,” said Gabriel, turning back to Jonas.
“Yes,” replied Jonas, watching Corallis disappear into the ship. “He always was.”
There was a moment of silence, and then Jonas spoke again. “Will you be conducting the Blood Trials before the Litany of Fury arrives, captain?”
Gabriel considered the question. “Perhaps it would be wise to make a start, father. We may not have much time.”
Jonas inspected Gabriel’s eyes again, searching for some clue about the urgency. It seemed clear to Jonas that the eldar were gone—there had been raiders on Rahe’s Paradise before. Indeed, he had heard one rogue trader refer to the place as Raider’s Paradise. He wondered what Gabriel knew that he did not. He simply nodded.
“Tanthius, organise a defensive deployment around the monastery,” said Gabriel, looking back over his shoulder at the magnificent, towering form of the Terminator. “The rest of us will move inside. The monastery is clearly the strong-point in this area.”
As he spoke, a thunderous growl echoed down the ramp of the Thunderhawk as four blood-red bikes emerged into the morning sun. They paused for a moment at the top of the ramp, and then Corallis gunned his engine, pulling the front wheel up as his bike shot forward down the ramp. As he hit the sand he threw the bike to one side and roared out into the desert, his ad hoc squadron in close pursuit.
* * * * *
In the faint blue light of the sanctum of the Dire Avengers’ temple, Uldreth paced restlessly around the holographic image that was projected in the centre of the octagonal chamber. The three dimensional picture was intricate and complicated, laced with the glowing tracks of spacecraft and trace lines of weapons discharge. The vectors were plotted in wisps of green as luminous blue darts flickered and flashed through the image.
The exarch shot occasional glances at the shifting scene, taking in all the details in a fraction of a second. His mind had become so accustomed to strategic layouts that they no longer seemed to require any conscious interpretation. Despite the fact that the complicated image was actually a composite of two separate theatres, Uldreth could see the potentials and realities of each instantly, while an inner voice continued to rail against the reckless abandon of Macha and Laeresh.
One of the projections showed the farseer’s wraithship as a burning wing of brilliance, fluttering like a mythical bird on the cusp of an impossibly black abyss. Another cruiser, presumably the Reaper’s Blade, flickered on the edge of the image, dark and foreboding in deepest purple. The intent of the two ships was clear from their formation; they were about to enter the webway portal, at which point they would finally blink off Uldreth’s chart.
The second scene, overlaid and interlaced with the first, showed a clutch of cruisers setting forth in the opposite direction, taking the vanguard of the Biel-Tan Swordwind to the Lorn system. The youthful farseer, Taldeer, was in the command ship. In painful and sorrowful tones, she had spoken to the exarchs of the Court about an unfathomable foe hidden in the depths of Lorn V. The other seers had also glimpsed shadows moving across the once glittering system, and the decision to despatch the Swordwind had been unanimous in the Seer Council—Macha had not been there to oppose it, and Uldreth was not convinced that she would have opposed it even had she still been there to do so.
The Court of the Young King had not been so united. The old Fire Dragon, Draconir, had objected to the ease with which Uldreth had offered his support to Taldeer, whilst denying it to Macha, the craft-world’s most senior farseer. He had complained that the ramshackle army of orks on Lorn V was hardly a threat worthy of the Bahzhakhain, and certainly did not constitute a dark, unfathomable, or mysterious foe. The force of orks was dangerous, certainly, and its presence on an old exodite world was an insult that could not be suffered for long, but it did seem that the green-skin-hating mon-keigh were already on route to Lorn, and it seemed sensible to let the two fumbling, parasitic races kill each other for now. The Swordwind could always be sent later, to deal with the survivors, after it had followed the advice of its principal farseer in Lsathranil’s Shield.
Uldreth stopped pacing suddenly and glared at the intermixed trails of fluorescent colour, as though willing them into new patterns, although he was unsure about which fleet he wanted to stop. It was too late to do much about either, but Uldreth was angry with himself for his post facto indecision. He hated that he could not control Macha, and he hated that the cursed Dark Reaper could accompany her without fear of retribution from the Court. He knew that Laeresh would be loving this. At the same time, Uldreth could not suppress the suspicion that Macha might be right. At an unconscious level, Uldreth knew that he could and should trust the farseer, and he was not sure what prevented him from doing so. It was just a feeling, but it was complicated by invisible, subconscious currents that he could neither see nor understand.
As he glared at the racing images, Uldreth raged inside at his desire to call back the Eternal Star. He raged even more at the niggling certainty that he should really send out the order to arrest the Swordwind before it was irrevocably committed to the assault on Lorn. Instead, he just stared at the holographies with his green eyes burning until the Eternal Star blinked into the webway portal, and the Swordwind’s cruisers streaked off the scope, accelerating into javelins of light.
CHAPTER FOUR: CAMELEOLINE
“I had been led to believe that Librarian Akios Isador would be here,” said Ptolemea, as the desert wind whipped her long, red headscarf around her pale face. Her skin was porcelain-white, tinged with the faintest hints of blue, as though her veins ran a little too close to the surface. It gave her an air of elegance and fragility, belied by the harsh near-blackness of her stark eyes. Unlike the other Sisters of her order, Ptolemea had no cloak to hide her body, and no shoul
der bag in which to store her trappings. Instead, she wore a crimson and asphalt body glove that clung to her figure like a second skin. It was scarred and well worn, and was studded with pockets and holsters, in which she presumably stored the equipment that she would need as a field agent of the Order of the Lost Rosetta. It appeared to Jonas that the straps around her thighs were as likely to hold weapons as styluses.
“Isador did not land with the Third Company, Sister,” answered Jonas, intrigued to know why Ptolemea might be so interested in the deceased librarian. “I understand that he was killed in battle shortly before Captain Angelos brought his men here.”
“Indeed,” replied Ptolemea without visible emotion, looking past Jonas at the cloaked figure of Meritia.
“Perhaps I may be able to offer my own services in his place,” continued Jonas. “Or there is Ikarus Yuiron, who is part of the honourable captain’s landing party. Was there a particular issue that you wished to discuss with him?”
“I am sure that there is more than enough expertise here,” answered Ptolemea vaguely, turning her attention back to the old Blood Raven without speaking a word to her Sister.
“Yes, indeed, Sister. And I must say that it is an unexpected honour to have you here. Had you informed us of your arrival, I could have arranged a more appropriate reception for you and your escorts.” Jonas gestured casually towards the women standing on the landing ramp behind Ptolemea. The four of them were in the shimmering power armour of the Order of Golden Light, one of the smallest of the militant Order Minoris of the Adeptus Sororitas; they occasionally accompanied the non-militant Lost Rosetta on expeditions to the less hospitable parts of the galaxy. In fact, the two orders were related historically, each splitting from the now defunct Order of Lost Light after a virulent purity sweep by the Witch Hunters of the Ordo Hereticus found its particular mix of scholarship and martial prowess threatening to the stability of the Imperium.
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