[Dawn of War 02] - Ascension

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

  The Sisters of Battle held their weapons braced across their chests as they scanned the sand-fogged air for signs of danger. For a moment Jonas wondered why the Ecclesiarchy would have organised such an escort for Ptolemea on a research trip to Rahe’s Paradise—it hardly counted as a high-risk environment.

  “I made several attempts to contact Sister Superior Meritia whilst in transit,” replied Ptolemea, looking past Jonas once again. “It would seem that my attempts were not successful.”

  “It is not unusual for vessels to experience communication disruption in this region of the segmentum, Sister. But I regret that we were unable to arrange a proper welcome for you,” replied Jonas, conscious that Meritia had not yet greeted her Sister. “As you may be aware,” he continued, looking back over his shoulder in an attempt to include Meritia in the conversation, “we have found some interesting artefacts recently. One of them is truly fascinating, and your arrival is most fortuitous in this regard—we have been having some problems translating the script, but I am sure that we will be able to work it out between the three of us.”

  “Perhaps,” said Ptolemea, disappointing Jonas with her apparent lack of interest. She was still looking at Meritia. “Although I have to confess that translation has never been my forte, father. I would be happy to try.”

  There was a pause as the strong desert wind blew a cloud of sand across the group, dragging Ptolemea’s headscarf off her head and sending it fluttering off into the sky like a blood-red bird. She let it go without the faintest reaction.

  “Sister Senioris,” began Ptolemea at last, bowing her immaculately shaven head towards Meritia, “it has been a long time. The last time I saw you, I believe that your hair was black. Time passes quickly, it seems.”

  “Yes, Sister Ptolemea, although faster for some than for others,” replied Meritia carefully, her muddled grey hair tangling in the wind.

  “Nonetheless, it passes for us all,” enjoined Jonas with slightly forced joviality. The tension between the two women was obvious. “That is why we are all here, after all—to study the passage of time. Come, Sister Ptolemea, I am sure that you are eager to see the librarium?”

  “Yes, indeed, father,” said Ptolemea, breaking eye contact with Meritia once again. “Is Captain Angelos also there in the Blood Ravens’ monastery?”

  “He is indisposed at present, Sister. But I am sure that he will want to welcome you himself at a more convenient time for you both.” With that, Jonas turned and strode back towards the walls of the outpost.

  For a few seconds, Meritia hesitated, apparently unsure about whether to accompany the Space Marine or to wait for the Adeptus Sororitas, but then she fell into step next to Jonas, leaving Ptolemea to organise her Sisters of Battle.

  The Eternal Star slid out of the portal like a sleek fish through water, easing itself into real space with graceful certainty. It slipped rapidly through the void, decelerating quickly, as though unable to sustain its previous speed in the thickness of the material realm, even in the perfect vacuum of deep space. Reality itself exerted its own particular friction on the wraithship, making it glow faintly with a new heat.

  After a couple of seconds, the Reaper’s Blade shot out of the shimmering, oily black of the portal, flashing past the Eternal Star in a blaze of energy before its engines were cut and it began to slow down. The Void Dragon was a very different vessel from the wraithship, very much a product of the materium; it may have fallen behind in the labyrinthine webways that had brought the two ancient cruisers to the fringe of Lsathranil’s Shield, but in material space its engines could be counted amongst the most powerful in the Biel-Tan fleet. The myriad souls collected into the Reaper’s spirit pool were happiest in the heavy void of deep space.

  Ensconced in her throne-room in the heart of the Eternal Star, Macha felt the phase shift that always accompanied a ship’s movement out of the webway. It was like suddenly plunging into a wall of water, as though the air around her was abruptly rendered into something thicker and more viscous than it had been before. She gasped audibly, drawing in the relatively treacly air, before her lungs and her mind re-accustomed themselves to normal space once again.

  As the farseer sat in silence, motionless, the runes that she had previously laid carefully onto the glossy, circular wraithbone tablet in the middle of her chamber began to twitch, jitter and hiss, like shards of ice on a hotplate. A fine steam wafted into the air, making the atmosphere even thicker and more oppressive, filling the room with a sickly sweet fragrance. Macha’s eyes snapped open and she stared at the suddenly animated stones, confused by their unbidden movement.

  A moment later and they were a dizzying blur of motion, spinning into a tight vortex above the polished wraithbone. Macha looked on in consternation, unsure why the runes were suddenly spiralling of their accord. They were moving faster and with more energy than she had ever seen before. Reaching out her long, elegant arm, already resplendent in the white and emerald psycho-plastic armour of the Biel-Tan, she touched her finger into the miniature storm that raged before her.

  It had taken her decades of patience and diligence to bring her set of runes into perfect synchronicity with her own particular psychic signatures, and the abrupt sense of alienation that slapped her as the stones repelled her touch was akin to horror. She stared in confused disbelief at the singed and smoking tips of her fingers as she withdrew them sharply from the runic maelstrom.

  With an explosion of emerald light, the stones seemed to detonate, spraying themselves into shrapnel and jagged shards that ricocheted around the polished, wraithbone walls of her inner sanctum. A hail of razor-sharp projectiles, like the tiny shuriken used in eldar firearms, lashed into Macha’s body, lacerating the psychic shields and armoured plates with microscopic ease. Before she could rise to her feet or even let out a cry, Macha slumped forwards onto the circular tablet, unconscious and bleeding from thousands of tiny incisions.

  The huge wooden table was set up against the wall at the far end of the librarium, directly beneath the soaring arch of stained glass that reached up into the shadows of the distant, vaulted ceiling. Light streamed through the window in great shafts of colour, perforating the cool air with massive javelins of warmth. The rest of the cavernous space was riddled with book stacks, aspiring towards the far-off reaches of the ceiling, each one filled with heavy, bound tomes, many of which were concerned exclusively with the long history of the Blood Ravens on Rahe’s Paradise.

  Jonas stepped to the side of the table to let Ptolemea get a better view of the shimmering black tablet that had been carefully laid on top of it. It was resting on a scarlet, deep-pile, velvet cloth, embossed in each corner with the golden wings of ravens. Set onto the surface of the dark, reflective wooden table directly in the full glare of the light that flooded in through the stained glass, the wraithbone tablet seemed to shine with vibrancy and energy, as though it harboured a life of its own.

  Standing in the shadows behind Ptolemea, Meritia could not help but gasp at the beauty of the object that they had found in the foundations of the monastery. It had an indescribable radiance that left her breathless every time she looked at it.

  “It is wraithbone?” asked Ptolemea professionally, leaning her face closer to the tablet as she spoke. “And it is inscribed with eldar runes.” She paused, peering closely at the swimming, cursive strokes that shifted through the alien material. “Very old eldar runes, from the look of them. I suspect that there are eldar today who would not be able to read this.” Another pause as she straightened up again. “Very interesting,” she concluded. “Where did you find it?”

  “It was sealed in a stone casket under this very room,” replied Jonas, watching the young Sister for signs of excitement. “The casket appears to have been decorated with ancient versions of both eldar and Gothic scripts.”

  Ptolemea seemed almost bored by the remarkable discovery. She nodded distractedly and then turned away from the librarian, scanning the hundreds of book-stacks and the shadows
in the hall behind her. “Do you suppose that Captain Angelos will be joining us?” she asked.

  “He is on his way, Sister,” said Jonas, sharing a glance with Meritia while Ptolemea faced back into the librarium. Meritia met his gaze for a moment, but then lowered her eyes back to the tablet on the table.

  Just as Jonas spoke, the double doors at the other side of the librarium were pushed open and a blast of cold air swept through the hall, unsettling years of dust into brightly lit strips of colour, held in apparent suspension by the shafts of light from the window.

  Gabriel strode along the central aisle towards the three scholars, letting the heavy doors swing closed behind him. As he walked, he seemed to be floodlit by the beams of brilliance from the stained glass, and his highly polished armour glinted with tiny, multicoloured stars. Ptolemea’s eyes widened as the captain advanced towards her.

  “Sister Ptolemea,” he said as he approached the younger Sister of the Lost Rosetta. “My apologies for being unable to welcome you earlier. You honour the Blood Ravens with your unexpected presence.”

  For a brief moment Ptolemea said nothing. “Thank you, captain. I assure you that I had no intention of taking you by surprise. I made several attempts to contact Sister Senioris Meritia whilst in transit, and I had been under the impression that Librarian Isador Akios might have alerted you to my visit.” As she spoke those last words, she watched Gabriel’s eyes intently. “However, it seems that I was mistaken on both counts, for different reasons.”

  Gabriel stiffened slightly at the mention of Isador’s name. He returned Ptolemea’s inquiring gaze, searching for a motive. “I was not aware that Isador had been in contact with your order, Sister,” he said, suddenly cautious. Isador had been less than stable towards the end, and, for a moment, Gabriel wondered whether this Sister had been sent to investigate him. No matter what Isador’s crimes, he was still a Blood Raven, and his memory should be properly honoured.

  “As you are no doubt aware by now, Brother Isador was killed in combat on Tartarus, just before the Third Company made its way to Rahe’s Paradise. If there is a debt owed to you by Isador, then it will be my duty to honour it.” Gabriel bowed slightly, without taking his eyes off the woman in front of him.

  “There is no debt, captain,” replied Ptolemea, returning the courtesy of a bow with a swift nod.

  “Father Jonas,” began Gabriel, letting his eyes linger on Ptolemea just a little longer than necessary. “What is this artefact that you seem so excited about?”

  As he spoke, Gabriel walked past Ptolemea and approached the huge table under the coloured window. Jonas and Meritia approached and flanked him on both sides, leaving Ptolemea standing on her own behind them.

  “It appears to be a piece of eldar wraithbone, inscribed with ancient runes that are beyond our understanding at present,” answered Jonas, noting with satisfaction the glint of awe that flashed in the captain’s eyes as he looked at the breathtaking artefact.

  “I have seen eldar tablets before, Jonas, but this is exquisite.”

  “Yes, we believe that it may be one of the oldest eldar artefacts that we have encountered on a terrestrial dig,” explained Meritia.

  “How long will it take to translate its content?” asked Gabriel, his eyes held transfixed by the complicated darkness in the tablet.

  “We’re not yet sure. But there are three of us now, so we would hope to make some progress soon,” said Jonas with a hint of optimism in his voice.

  “Sister Ptolemea and I will certainly do our best to assist with this,” agreed Meritia, glancing back over her shoulder towards the younger woman.

  Both Jonas and Gabriel noticed that there was no response from Ptolemea to this invitation, but they knew better than to ask about the internal affairs of the Sisterhood. Whatever issues existed between Meritia and Ptolemea, they were of no concern to the Blood Ravens, so long as the two Adeptus Sororitas performed their duties, and neither Jonas nor Gabriel had ever had any reason to doubt the honour of battle Sisters before.

  “What was it doing in the foundations of the monastery, Jonas?” asked Gabriel, raising a question of equal importance to that of what the inscription said.

  “Our working hypothesis is that the tablet must have been an artefact captured by the Blood Ravens during a campaign and then brought back to this facility for analysis,” replied Jonas, acknowledging the importance of the question with a grave nod.

  “That is obviously nonsense, father,” snapped Ptolemea from behind them. “I may have only just arrived, but it seems to me that this tablet was no spoil of war. You said that it was found in a casket bearing eldar and Gothic scripts? In what way would that be consistent with an artefact stolen during a battle elsewhere?”

  Gabriel, Jonas and Meritia paused as they leant over the glistening wraithbone tablet, and then they slowly turned to face Ptolemea.

  “She’s right, Jonas,” said Gabriel. “There must be some other explanation.”

  The shots seemed to come out of nowhere, like a torrent of hail from a cloudless sky. Tiny projectiles rattled against the fuel tank on Corallis’ bike, riddling its armour with microscopic explosions that threatened to ignite the liquid inside. Instinctively, the sergeant hit the rear brakes, skidding the back wheel into an arc and kicking up a mist of red sand. Then he opened the throttle and the bike powered out of the cloud, roaring back towards the forest-fringe on the foothills. As the machine ploughed forward, fountains of sand sprayed up from the thick tread of the huge rear tire. Immediately, he hit the brakes again and slid the bike back through 180 degrees, bringing it round to face in his original direction once again.

  Shifting like shadows in the maelstrom of sand that now filled the air, Corallis could see the flickering images of several slim figures. They were clearly using some form of reactive camouflage, but, whatever it was, it was having problems adapting rapidly enough to deal with the wafting clouds of desert kicked up by the bikes. Whoever they were, they were moving faster than anyone local to Rahe’s Paradise could ever move.

  To honour the battle-brothers of his scout squadron who could not yet wear helmets, Corallis never wore the combat helmet to which he was now entitled. However, on this sortie he was grateful for the dark visor that swept across his eyes, shielding them from the harsh red light of the sun and from the constant barrage of sand. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the rest of his reconnaissance team snapping their weapons back and forth, searching for their invisible foes. Ikarus was already off his bike, standing in the middle of a swirling dust-daemon with his force staff radiating flames like a beacon as he stared into the murky clouds.

  Another rattle of shots ricocheted off the front of his bike, and Corallis squeezed off a volley of bolter shells from the twin-linked mount in response—he was not exactly sure where to fire, but was unwilling to let his elusive enemies feel too complacent about their camouflage.

  A searing flash of blue lightning suddenly cracked out of Ikarus’ staff, spiking through the red, gusting air. The jagged line of power sizzled energetically for a few seconds and then dissipated, apparently failing to root itself in a living target.

  Meanwhile, the other two Marines in the recon-team were circling the fray on their bikes, keeping a constant mist of red sand spraying up from their fat wheels. Their bolters were unholstered and they unleashed the occasional experimental shot into the mire whenever they saw the flickering movement of faltering camouflage. Their circumambulations gave off an aura of confidence that pleased Corallis; they knew that Corallis and Ikarus could deal with whatever was hiding in the cloud. All the two of them had to do was prevent anything from escaping.

  Corallis stared into the mist, straining his eyes behind the darkness of his visor, struggling to filter out the dizzying eddies of sand. Ikarus was probably only twenty metres away, but the sergeant could only just see his majestic form through the fog, and it was blazing with energy.

  After a few seconds, Corallis realised that he was no longer u
nder attack. Not a single shot had hit him since he had blindly returned fire with the bike’s bolters. He was relatively sure that he hadn’t hit anything, and for a moment he wondered whether the enemy had fled. But then he saw Ikarus stagger, as though something had struck his leg. A lance of energy jabbed out of the librarian’s staff in response, but it punched into the ground next to his feet, spraying red sand where there should have been the blood of his assailant.

  As he punched the accelerator on his bike, Corallis saw Ikarus fall onto one knee, the armoured plates of his left leg shattering under a silent and precise bombardment. The librarian jammed his staff into the ground to maintain his balance, and traces of blue fire coruscated along its length.

  Corallis couldn’t hear what was happening over the roar of his bike’s engine, but in the second that it took him to close the gap he could see the speed with which the attack was taking place. Sheets of energy flashed out from Ikarus’ staff, sizzling through the sand in concentric shock waves. Here and there the waves would ripple, as though breaking around invisible objects in the haze, and Ikarus followed through with great spikes of crackling flame at those points of interference. But he seemed to hit nothing.

  Vaulting from his bike with his bolter drawn, Corallis attempted to trace the movement of the camouflaged enemy, rattling off shells in half-calculated, half-hopeful directions. More than anything, he wanted to draw some of the enemy fire to give Ikarus a chance to recover. But whoever they were, they were not biting his bait.