Crusade & Other Stories - Dan Abnett Et Al.

by Warhammer 40K

  All was silent.

  A sixth figure entered, her boots clicking on the marble-like floor as she passed into the ring. Exarch of the Shrine of the Deathly Wail, Clyona.

  Like the others, her head was bare, helmet carried beneath her left arm. Her head was shaved and around her eyes was tattooed black, her lips a blood-red. In her right hand she carried a long-handled glaive with a crystalline blade. Her chosen weapon, the executioner.

  With dark eyes she looked at each of her charges briefly before speaking.

  The circle of warriors fixed her with their stares, already beginning the mental preparations that would bring up their war masks and wash away all sense of guilt or regret.

  ‘We are come, gathered here together, to wage war,’ she told them.

  There was no reply from the others. They had felt the call from the shrine.

  They knew their purpose. Only one reacted, a sharp intake of breath from Kailleach, who had not yet shed blood in battle. When Clyona spoke next, the exarch stood beside the newest to hear the howl of the banshee.

  ‘The seers speak, they witness great evil, and we act. A craftworld, silent Lanimayesh, threatens us. Ancient foes, creatures of dark power, seeking us.

  Gates open, the webway corrupted, Biel-Tan falls.’ The exarch paused and looked in turn at each of the others, to ensure they understood the importance of the threat. ‘We will fight, to purge Lanimayesh, as escort. The gates

  closed, Lanimayesh destroyed, Biel-Tan lives.’

  Nodding in understanding, the assembled warriors stood as one. Clyona disappeared into the darkness for a moment and returned with a silver bowl, its exterior etched with swirling shapes that made screaming half-faces and glaring eyes. Within was the blood of the shrine members, still warm, freely given when they had entered.

  Dipping her fingers into the blood, Clyona walked the circle, starting with Kailleach, and drew upon the forehead of each warrior the rune of the banshee, the name of Bloody-Handed Khaine in his aspect of the Foretold Doom. As her fingers touched upon Kailleach’s brow, Clyona began the chant.

  ‘Blood runs, anger rises, death wakes, war calls.’

  As the blood dried on her skin, Kailleach added her voice to the mantra, her voice wavering at first but growing stronger as her war mask pushed away the vestiges of fear and guilt that had no place in the mind of a warrior.

  ‘Blood runs, anger rises, death wakes, war calls.’

  Next was Fiyanna, her pale eyes already deadened, so swift to assume the mask. The howl of the banshee sang loudly in her mind, but now was not the time to warn of becoming trapped in Khaine’s embrace. Her voice was strident.

  ‘Blood runs, anger rises, death wakes, war calls.’

  Narimeth, a crooked smile on her lips, glanced up at her exarch as the rune was daubed. When she joined the chorus, the volume increased, each warrior feeding off the emotion of the others. The joy of battle was singing in their hearts, lifting their voices.

  ‘Blood runs, anger rises, death wakes, war calls.’

  Mytheneth’s voice added another level to the harmony, calm and collected, filled with inner strength. It brought balance to the chant, enriching the minds of her fellow warriors with its placid depth.

  ‘Blood runs, anger rises, death wakes, war calls.’

  Finally Loronai was wetted with the blood and she shuddered, a sigh escaping parted lips as her war mask consumed her. The chanting became strident, the warriors with teeth bared, eyes wide.

  ‘Blood runs, anger rises, death wakes, war calls!’

  Where six individuals had entered, there stood six sisters. Six sisters united in blood. Six sisters who harkened to the shriek of blood calling to be spilt, of

  dooms to be fulfilled and life-threads to be severed.

  Six Howling Banshees, voices as one, let out an ululating cry that reverberated around the chamber, ringing out through the cosmos, echoing back to the dawn of myths when the deathly wail of Khaine’s sirens signalled the destruction of worlds.

  A crackle of energy heralded the opening of the webway portal, through which the warriors of the Deathly Wail advanced quickly, power swords and shuriken pistols held at the ready.

  Passing from the pulsing background hum into the still of Lanimayesh, the Howling Banshees were joined by others: red-armoured Fire Dragons and two squads of blue-clad Dire Avengers. It did not escape the attention of Loronai that the white coronas of the webway openings were tainted with flickers of dark red flame.

  ‘Already the grip of darkness takes hold, sisters,’ she warned.

  ‘All the more reason for swiftness, sisters,’ replied Kailleach. ‘Let us be the point of the dagger that strikes.’

  Kailleach ran a few steps further than the others, blade held out beside her, light footsteps echoing in the grand hall the warriors now occupied.

  ‘Caution, sister,’ called out Loronai. ‘We move as one.’

  Loronai caught up with swift strides and glanced back. She could feel the brooding presence that was trying to force its way into the craftworld through its dormant, undefended webway gates.

  Clyona brought the rest of the shrine-maidens forward while the other Aspect Warriors moved to secure the two passageways leading from the chamber.

  ‘Feel no haste. There is one to arrive. Wait for now,’ said the exarch.

  Last to appear in the depths of the abandoned craftworld was Tyleannar, the farseer, leader of the expedition. Garbed in long purple robes, face hidden behind the mask of his gem-studded ghosthelm, the psyker gestured for the warriors to follow as he set across the broad chamber. Passing the Dire Avengers from the Shrine of the Golden Star, he led them into one of the corridors and the small force fell in behind him.

  The Howling Banshees moved to a position just behind the Golden Star, ready to spring forwards against any foe that survived the Dire Avengers’

  shuriken catapults. The other squad of Dire Avengers followed close behind,

  while the Fire Dragons brought up the rear.

  The passage was short, but showed further evidence of the encroaching warp corruption. The pastel-blue walls were darkening in patches as Chaos energy leaked along the crystal matrix of the infinity circuit within. Golden arched doorways were turning to iron and brass. The scent of blood, faint but unmistakeable, hung in the air.

  Narimeth voiced a concern that was not unique to her. ‘Perhaps we should have brought greater numbers. The farseers have misjudged the extent of Lanimayesh’s vulnerability.’

  There was no comment from Tyleannar, so it was Mytheneth that replied.

  ‘Bulk stifles swiftness. A larger force would be more unwieldy, and to tarry too long here will bring its own hazards. Do you not agree, Loronai, my sister?’

  ‘You are correct, sister. The greater our number, the greater the likelihood that our presence is noticed by powers we wish to overlook us.’

  ‘The swift strike, the blow that is unseen, is deadly.’

  The exarch’s words ended the discussion and they continued without further comment.

  At the end of the passageway, Tyleannar paused for a moment. The hall beyond was on the outskirts of the central infinity circuit chambers and the walls glistened with threads of crystal.

  Unlike the glittering trails of Biel-Tan’s psychic matrix, the circuit of Lanimayesh was dull, unalive. Where the crystal lines joined together as larger nodes, trickles of thick red fluid dribbled down the walls.

  The Howling Banshees looked at each other, but it was Fiyanna that was most affected.

  ‘A sign of that which wishes to enter,’ she said eagerly. ‘Blood. The Skull King desires Lanimayesh. Do you not feel his call, sisters?’

  ‘Heed not the urges of the father of our bastard master,’ said Loronai. ‘It is not rage that we serve, but a purer war.’

  ‘All war is rage, sister, whether knowing or not,’ Fiyanna said dismissively.

  ‘The Lord of the Brass Tower seeks to make a shrine of once-fair Lanimayesh so that his se
rvants can revel in the bloodshed that sowed death upon the people of this place in ancient past.’

  Mention of Lanimayesh’s doom sent a collective shudder of apprehension and excitement through the other Howling Banshees, save for Clyona, who

  was standing still, head tilted as if listening intently.

  The others heard what had caught her attention a moment later, a distant clattering of sharp footfalls followed by a screech as of a whetstone along a blade.

  ‘They have come. Hear the Blood God’s servants. Ready blades!’

  Eight daemons came, and eight more and eight again, violent rage given form in blood-red flesh. In clawed hands they gripped brazen swords and serrated axes. White-orb eyes glared from snarling faces. Twisted horns jutted from anger-furrowed brows. By many names did the eldar know Khorne’s foot soldiers: the Gore Children, Sons of Rage, bloodletters.

  With them advanced a larger brute, a gleaming axe in each hand. The herald lifted up its blades and from its fanged mouth issued a monstrous bellow, both a challenge for its foes and a call to battle for its followers.

  The daemons’ shouts were met by the song of the Dire Avengers’ shuriken

  catapults, the air filling with slicing discs. Warp-spawned bodies were shredded and flayed by the fusillade but only a handful of the daemons fell as they broke into a run.

  Immaterial forms shuddered and twitched as the Dire Avengers continued with their onslaught, but these creatures were not of mortal flesh and bone, and shrugged off their wounds like the bites of flies, forcing the blue-armoured eldar to fall back.

  Tyleannar retreated before the daemons, seeking shelter amongst the Fire Dragons as Clyona led her warriors forwards.

  ‘To the right, we fall upon their flank. Swiftly now!’

  White-hot blasts from the Fire Dragons’ thermal guns and their exarch’s firepike cut into the approaching daemons, with no greater success than the guns of their fellow warriors. Fiery beams that could melt through the armour of tanks and turn physical flesh to cinders were shrugged off like water splashing from rock and only a few more daemons were destroyed by the volley.

  The Howling Banshees circled around the withdrawing Aspect Warriors and

  broke into a run.

  As they charged, the war sisters of the Deathly Wail let forth their battle screams. Channelled through the psychosonic amplifiers of their helms, the shriek became a surge of power, slamming into the daemons like a gale.

  The closest blood-red warriors were thrown from their feet by the pealing cry; others dropped their blades or stumbled back as a wave of psychic fury washed over them.

  Kailleach outpaced her sisters, her long strides fuelled by naive enthusiasm.

  Her pistol spat a volley of shurikens into a daemon as it pushed itself back to its knees, slicing through its face. Her sword, its blade glowing with blue energy, followed a moment later, shearing through the corded muscle and veins of the warp creature’s neck.

  ‘Let us be upon them while they reel!’ cried Kailleach.

  ‘As one, we fight as one. Foe on the left, sister!’

  Loronai’s warning came in time.

  Kailleach twisted, ducking beneath the sweep of an axe. The point of her sword sank into the gut of the daemon as she pivoted on one heel, the ball of her foot driving into its chin.

  Stunned, the bloodletter stumbled back, to be met by Mytheneth’s sword as she sprinted into the fray.

  Fiyanna joined them a heartbeat later, her blade flashing to the left and right, leaving arcs of blue around her.

  ‘Kailleach’s temper has it right. Slaughter them quickly and rejoice.’

  The other Howling Banshees swept into the disorientated daemons like a spear of ivory cleaving into red flesh, their pistols and swords cutting down a dozen of the creatures before they could recover from the onslaught of the banshee scream that had dazed them.

  None slew more than Clyona, whose shining glaive cut heads from necks and slashed limbs from bodies in a constant motion, the barks and growls of her foes becoming louder and fiercer as their numbers dwindled and their anger increased in proportion.

  Teeth bared, the herald moved through its minions to meet the charge of the eldar, hefting its axes ready for the strike. Overcome by the heat of combat, Kailleach leapt to the attack. Loronai called out in concern.

  ‘No, sister, you cannot best this beast alone.’

  The herald caught Kailleach’s downward swing on one of its curling horns, turning the blow aside. Striking out, it punched her in the face, hurling her backwards with the mask of her helm cracked open.

  Clyona acted rather than spoke. She lanced the point of her glaive towards the herald’s throat, but the strike was deflected at the last moment by the haft

  of an axe. Spinning, Clyona struck again. Crystal blade was met by enchanted bronze as the herald raised its axes in parry to the exarch’s assault.

  For several heartbeats the two were locked together, flares of energy crackling between them, sparking from their weapons.

  With a triumphant snarl, the herald thrust away Clyona, sending her sprawling from her feet. The Howling Banshees converged on their upended leader, but not swiftly enough. Striking with a speed that outmatched its adversaries, the herald of Khorne brought both axes down upon the stricken exarch.

  One blade cleaved Clyona’s helm in two, the other slammed through her breastplate.

  Kailleach shrieked as if struck and launched herself afresh at the herald. A step behind her, Loronai snapped out a command.

  ‘Storm of Blades Rising. Harvest the sorrow of the fallen.’

  Acting in concert, the Howling Banshees fell upon the herald in a circle, twirling and lunging, each striking a dozen times in a few moments, opening up long wounds in its crimson flesh. Fiyanna broke from the deadly assault as the herald flailed an axe at her head, ducking beneath its blade.

  ‘Look to your backs and I will finish the beast,’ Fiyanna said to rest of the shrine-maidens.

  The others turned their attention to the bloodletters closing around them, but Mytheneth was caught in the back by a serrated sword edge, her armour giving way under the powerful blow, bronze hacking through vertebrae. She fell with a cry, her last act to lash the tip of her sword into her killer’s face as she dropped.

  Possessed by the spirit of Khaine, driven by a rage that matched that of the Blood God’s servants, Fiyanna unleashed a blistering flurry of strikes against the herald, cutting away at its chest and throat, driving it back step by step.

  Blood spurted from the wounds, coating the Howling Banshee’s pale armour with gore, but she pressed on as her sisters guarded against attack from behind, their blades singing as they duelled with the surviving bloodletters.

  ‘Death now,’ spat Fiyanna. ‘Back to the accursed realm that spawned you, vile beast.’

  Her next blow severed the herald’s crooked leg at the knee, toppling it to one side. Before it had hit the ground, she pounced, driving her sword through the white orb of its eye. It twitched twice and fell still.

  The bloodletters’ numbers thinned by two-thirds, the other Aspect Warriors joined the Deathly Wail, Tyleannar at their head, the tip of his runestaff a purple flare of psychic energy.

  Beset on all sides, the remaining daemons fell quickly, though not before accounting for a handful of the Dire Avengers that had come to the aid of the Howling Banshees.

  After the frenzy of combat, the silence of Lanimayesh was the silence of a tomb. There was no grief, not yet. The war masks summoned in the shrine held back all woe. Loronai broke the still.

  ‘Quickly now, take up their waystones and let us be away from this accursed place.’

  The gem upon Mytheneth’s breast glittered brighter than before, her spirit enclosed within the sanctuary of its crystal heart. While the other Aspect Warriors attended to their fallen, Loronai plucked Mytheneth’s spirit stone from its gilded setting and placed it in a pouch at her waist.

  Kailleach had moved to the body o
f Clyona, but was presented with a problem. The exarch’s armour was studded with fifteen waystones, each with a hue and sparkle of its own. Forever lost to Khaine, the spirit of an exarch was not given up to the infinity circuit of Biel-Tan, but resided in the armour to blend with all of those that had come before.

  ‘We cannot take her with us,’ said Narimeth. ‘Which of us would give their life to carry our sister? Not I.’

  ‘We could remove all of the stones.’ Kailleach crouched over the fallen exarch as she spoke. She was answered by Loronai.

  ‘There is not time. The longer we dwell, the more daemons will come.’ She paused as she noticed the farseer departing. ‘See, Tyleannar moves on already.’

  ‘An easy choice for one that has trodden the path so many times before,’

  said Narimeth. ‘How easy is it, autarch-to-be, to leave behind a fallen sister?’

  ‘Not easy, but necessary.’ Loronai spoke quietly, almost to herself. ‘Too many are numbered who have died beside me, but if we remain here the tally will increase further.’

  There was hesitation amongst the sisters. None were willing to abandon Clyona to a fate worse than death. Trapped within the exarch armour, fifteen eldar spirits would be consigned to damnation when Tyleannar wakened Lanimayesh’s infinity core and activated the craftworld’s self-destruction.

  Loronai conceded to her sisters’ unease. ‘Very well, we shall return for Clyona before we depart. Her fall will be for nought if we do not commit the shell of Lanimayesh to the warp. Let us see the task done and then we shall carry our dead to safety.’

  The others acquiesced to this compromise and followed as Fiyanna ran after their departing companions.

  The crystal matrix at the centre of the craftworld pulsed red as Tyleannar ministered to the corrupted infinity circuit. The air was thick with the stench of blood as the daemons of Chaos strove to break through the weakened barrier between the warp and the mortal universe.

  In handfuls, bloodletters and monstrous flesh hounds breached the divide, to be greeted with hails of shuriken fire, the discharge of energy weapons and the blades of the Howling Banshees. Though facing no concerted assault, the eldar were hard-pressed, ever-alert for each fresh incursion.