‘How many more?’ asked Kailleach. ‘I can feel the veil weakening with every passing breath. Soon they will come in numbers too great to stop.’
‘It is no speedy task, to bring forth the spirits of a deceased craftworld,’
answered Loronai. ‘For a long time they have been dormant, allowing this corruption to spread.’
‘We fight as long as we need to, until we can fight no more.’ Fiyanna laughed wickedly. ‘Did you think you would grow old as a Howling Banshee, little sister?’
‘I had hoped to see more than one battle.’
‘There is only one battle, Kailleach, with a rare few moments of peace between exchanges. Since the Dark Powers first touched our hearts, we have been doomed to a war we cannot win.’
‘Cannot win?’ Loronai spoke sharply. ‘Or do not wish to win, Fiyanna?
Khaine’s touch upon you grows heavier with every foe you fell.’
‘Perhaps I welcome it, sister. Did that not occur to you?’
Narimeth sliced the head from a coalescing bloodletter and spun past her war-sisters, her blade trailing an arc of blood.
‘Clyona is not long dead and you are so soon ready to step into the void she has left?’ she said. ‘Does her bloody lesson teach you nothing? Or is it that desire for Khaine’s curse slowed your hand?’
Before Fiyanna could argue the accusation, the air throbbed with power,
echoing with a distant roar. It was as if the floor parted as the lattice of the infinity circuit gleamed crimson, each red line opening up wider and wider, tearing through the gulf between realms.
Bestial, snarling faces pushed through the void-gap as Khorne’s hunters, flesh hounds, forced their scaled bodies into reality, growling and snapping.
Blasts from the Fire Dragons ripped through the oncoming beasts, and a heartbeat later Fiyanna fell upon the half-formed monsters, her blade cleaving deep into a bony crest atop the head of the first hound.
‘It was not I that doomed fey Clyona!’ said Fiyanna. ‘Look to our freshest blood for cause of that.’
Kailleach joined Fiyanna at the warp breach, her pistol spitting shurikens.
‘You are not wrong, sister. It was my rashness, my need to prove myself, that brought Clyona to her doom. I accept the blood of our exarch as I must accept all blood that is shed while I wear the mask of Khaine.’
The air was so thick now with psychic energy that phantasms danced within it, lit by the ruddy shine of the infinity circuit, which now pulsed with new life. Tyleannar telepathically announced his rituals were complete as he stepped away from the exposed infinity circuit nodes.
With the influx of daemonic energy momentarily stemmed, it was safe now
to open the webway in the heart of the damned craftworld. Driving the head of his runestaff into a confluence of blazing crystal threads he opened up an oval portal surrounded by shimmering silver.
As the other Aspect Warriors fell back to follow the farseer into the opening, Fiyanna stood defiant, blade raised as more bloodletters formed from viscous pools created by trickles of blood running down the walls.
‘We will not abandon Clyona.’ Fiyanna was vehement. ‘We agreed.’
The floor shuddered underfoot, almost toppling the Howling Banshees.
Loronai looked at the others departing, feeling the surge of psychic energy of Lanimayesh wakening; the long-dead spirits of the craftworld becoming aware of the grotesque beings seeping through from the warp.
Above the portal, black fire crawled across the domed ceiling, tendrils of dark flame seeking the gap into the eldar webway. Surainan, exarch of the Fire Dragons, the last of the other squads, stood at the opening and beckoned for the Howling Banshees to follow.
Taking a step towards the portal, Narimeth turned her gaze back towards her shrine-sisters.
‘We are too late. We will be consumed with Clyona.’
‘Never!’ shrieked Fiyanna, breaking from the others to run back the way they had entered. Loronai lunged to grasp her as she passed, but missed.
‘What madness grips her?’ asked Kailleach.
‘The madness of Khaine,’ said Loronai. ‘Come, sisters, we cannot let her die alone.’
As the Howling Banshees sprinted from the infinity circuit chamber, more red-skinned daemons burst into existence, a tide of feral creatures baying and bellowing close on the heels of the fleet-footed war-sisters.
‘We are here! Come, test your blades against ours and know that Khaine yet despises his raging father.’
Fiyanna’s defiant shout went almost unheard amongst the tumult of tortured wraithbone and bellowing of bloodthirsty daemons. All around them the fabric of Lanimayesh tore itself apart.
Alerted to the daemon presence, the spirits of the infinity circuit had gathered all of their remaining energy into the great webway gates aft of the craftworld, slowly engulfing the continent-sized vessel with the power of the warp.
Kailleach and Narimeth fought alongside each other. They attacked any daemonic hound or bloodletter that entered the chamber, where Clyona had fallen, as a pair.
Loronai carried the deceased exarch over one shoulder. She held her power sword in her free hand, but so encumbered she was at the mercy of her sisters’ skills as a fresh influx of daemons crowded towards the archway to be met by the blades and pistols of the Howling Banshees.
‘Run, sister, run!’ Kailleach cut the head from a lunging daemon and darted a look at Loronai. ‘The Path of the Autarch and greatness awaits. There is no need for us all to die here – the webway is but a short distance.’
‘I would rather die with my sisters than live alone as autarch with the knowledge that I deserted them.’ Loronai lowered Clyona’s corpse to the floor, noticing rivulets of blood seeping up from the tainted wraith-circuitry beneath her feet. She drew her pistol and joined Fiyanna, attacking low as her sister slashed high.
‘Perhaps She Who Thirsts will not claim us,’ Fiyanna said gaily. ‘The Blood God hungers for our spirits more greatly, I think.’
‘Accursed mother and father will destroy each other fighting for my essence, if I have any say.’
‘Then together we will fight and fall, and within the womb of the Great Enemy himself we shall continue to cut until he must spit us forth or die of the wounds.’
‘A worthy but empty sentiment, sister. The Prince of Pleasure will delight all the more for the tickling we shall give him.’
Something even larger and more monstrous than the bloodletters stalked into view at the end of the passageway held by the Howling Banshees, larger even than the herald. Its face was thin and drawn, its mouth a gaping hole lined with canine teeth.
In one hand it carried a long-bladed sword, the other fist wrapped in barbed chains of bronze. Blackened, tattered wings half spread from its back as it advanced. Its body was protected by iron plate, the surface of which writhed with many faces in torment, the souls of those it had slain imprisoned for all eternity.
The gigantic creature’s bellow of rage reverberated along the corridor, penetrating even the fear-dampening effect of the Howling Banshees’ war masks. Loronai gave voice to the alarm she shared with the others.
‘Daemon prince! Corrupted mortal given immortal form. Against such a foe we cannot hope to prevail, sisters.’
‘And less chance of eluding such a predator,’ added Narimeth. ‘Retreat is no better.’
‘If there can be no retreat, but one option remains.’ Fiyanna relished the prospect of the coming confrontation, wholly consumed by the spirit of Khaine. ‘Let him howl all he likes – he has known nothing until he has heard the Deathly Wail.’
As one the sisterhood of death gathered together, letting flow the fury they had been holding in check. Like water breaking a dam, the despair and rage broke through the barriers of their minds, vented as a war-scream as they broke into a run.
The psychic barrage of pure hate, the blessing of Khaine’s legacy, ripped into the nearest daemons like a storm. Fuelled by the warp energy seeth
ing through the doomed craftworld it tore apart their bodies, flinging tattered remnants against the walls.
The daemon prince responded, breaking into a lumbering run towards its
prey, scattering the lesser daemons in its path. Fiyanna was swiftest, borne forwards with light strides powered by insane desire, the others close behind.
They had not covered half the distance to the foe when the air ahead started to distort.
A pinprick of blue light hung in the air ahead of the charging Aspect Warriors. In moments it expanded into a shimmering circle of light while other miniature stars sprang into existence around it.
From the newly opened portals strode Tyleannar, flanked by the exarchs of the other aspects.
Surainan’s firepike spat a white beam of pure energy, striking the daemon prince square in the chest. The creature staggered backwards, gravely wounded but not slain. The farseer waved for the war-sisters to enter the webway portals. Loronai did not need any further invitation.
‘Now, sisters! The time of our sacrifice is not yet at hand. Fiyanna!’
The Howling Banshee slowed as her name was called out, shaking her head
as if freshly woken from a deep sleep.
‘What of Clyona?’
‘We will take her together, sister.’
Moving quickly, Loronai and Fiyanna returned to the body of their fallen war-priestess and bore her up between them while the others helped throw back the onrushing daemons. Behind the bloodletters, the wounded daemon prince hauled itself upright and issued its challenge.
As they arrived, so the Deathly Wail departed. Six sisters together, united under Khaine’s banner.
As the force disappeared into the safety of the webway, Lanimayesh entered its final death throes.
Forks of psychic energy rippled along the walls as the raw warp and material universe tried to overlap. The titanic energy unleashed pulled the craftworld asunder as it fell into the Realm of Chaos, dragging the daemons back to their infernal home.
A single candle guttered atop a slender pedestal at the centre of the chamber.
Its light barely touched the four female eldar kneeling in a circle around it, catching them between the warm glow and the chill gloom beyond. They were each clad in tight armour, the colour of bone, their helms held in their laps, heads bowed in contemplation.
The sound of weeping filled the air as the Deathly Wail, now stripped of their war masks, could finally give in to the pain and grief of their loss.
‘As elder sister she was,’ said Kailleach. ‘From me she pulled forth the sting of my anger, taking its poison into herself.’
‘Sister to us all.’ Tears flowed down Narimeth’s cheeks despite her bitter tone as she glanced back into the shadow of the shrine, where the naked body of Clyona lay upon a marble bier. It was an empty shell, her spirit still within the armour that had been placed reverently upon its rack in the adjoining chamber. ‘I never heard her laughter, nor saw her smile, and she was incapable of love. Khaine gripped her, but for all that, she was sister-in-war and she gave her life for us.’
There was one who did not cry. She stared at the candle, the flame reflected in her pupils. Her jaw was set, cheeks drawn in tight, stare hard and unyielding. Loronai glanced at near-catatonic Fiyanna, her concern apparent.
‘We are free from any burden, sisters. Any debt we feel we owe is just illusion. Clyona was doomed the moment she donned the mantle of exarch.
That which she had been was lost from that time forward, yet what she became still remains. Give voice to your despair, sisters, and be grateful that we can, for Clyona could never shed tears for us.’
Fiyanna stirred at last, looking from one sister to the next with a cold, flinty glare. Of the eldar she had been, only a vestige remained.
In her expression was hate. Hate not for those she looked at, but a hate at the core of her being so strong it drove out all other emotion. When she spoke, it was as if another spirit used her lips and tongue.
‘Save your words of condolences for those that can hear them. I cannot. All is silent in my mind, save for the cry that calls me to my doom. Everything is lost.’ Fiyanna paused and her eyes became even more distant. ‘All that remains is the howl of the banshee.’
RISE OF THE YNNARI: GHOST WARRIOR
by Gav Thorpe
When the long-lost Craftworld Zaisuthra reappears, Iyanna Arienal
and Yvraine of the Ynnari lead an expedition to it in hope of
retrieving the last cronesword. But why has the craftworld returned
now, and can its inhabitants be trusted?
Find this title, and many others, on blacklibrary.com
CULLING THE HORDE
STEVE PARKER
They crested the ridge an hour before sundown and stopped, dropping into the cover of the trees and bushes, five of them in all – four in full battleplate, the other only lightly armoured, yet to earn the requisite honour.
This latter was Riallo, the Scout, youngest of the five and bearer of the fewest scars. He dropped into a crouch by Sergeant Grimm, pressed his magnoculars to his dark brown eyes and scanned the valley floor.
Ghosts of grey smoke drifted lazily upwards from the south-facing windows of the farmhouse below. The doors of the barn had been smashed to splinters.
Broad, jagged rents had been cut in the metal skin of the grain silos. The corn had spilled out, forming huge mounds, but how long ago? The flow had stopped. It was impossible to tell.
Riallo shifted his gaze to the pasture on the far side of the farmhouse, the north side. There on the short-cropped grass lay three hulking bodies, each over two tonnes of muscle and bone.
‘Aurochs,’ Riallo reported. ‘Typical wound patterns. Mix of close-range gunfire and bladed weapons. It looks like they’ve been dragged a little.
Perhaps the orks gave them up as too heavy. The fence to the north-east has been trampled. It looks like the rest of the herd fled.’
Grimm’s voice was a muzzle-modulated growl through the vocaliser of his
battle-helm. ‘Did the damned greenskins follow them? That is the question.’
‘I cannot tell from here, brother-sergeant,’ said Riallo. He scanned the farm buildings again. ‘No sign of movement.’
‘Then we proceed,’ said Grimm. He stood and gestured for the others to descend with him into the valley. ‘Safeties off, my brothers,’ he told them.
‘Let us be cautious.’
The slope was not overly steep and the footing was good, the ground hard
and dry. The Space Marines soon reached the valley floor. Riallo ranged ahead now, moving in a crouch, scanning the ground for tracks.
Huron Grimm scanned his surroundings too, bolter held ready, thinking to himself that the rains were later this year than ever before. In fact, all over Rynn’s World, weather systems had been kicked out of kilter by the war.
The orks had been routed at New Rynn City over a year ago now. Alessio
Cortez had left, surrounded by much controversy, to lead a small team off-world. He and the four battle-brothers chosen to accompany him had all made a death-pact. They would hunt down and destroy the warlord Snagrod, the greenskin warlord responsible for all the murder and misery that had engulfed this land, or they would not return at all. Master Kantor had relocated the Chapter headquarters to the Cassar, the Crimson Fists keep in the planetary capital. Throne knew when, or even if, the Chapter’s noble fortress-monastery, Arx Tyrannus, would ever be rebuilt. The purge had to take priority for now. The purge had to be absolute. Riallo’s voice sounded over the link. ‘Definite ork-sign, brother-sergeant. At least ten of the bastards, all of them grown bulls judging by the prints.’
‘When, Riallo?’
‘One second, sergeant. I’ve found some spoor.’
Up ahead, Grimm saw Riallo prod something on the ground then press his
finger to his tongue.
‘This is less than one hour old.’
‘They could still be inside,
’ rumbled Grimm, half to himself.
One of the armoured squad members stepped to Grimm’s side. His proud blue ceramite was coated with clinging brown dust after the long march from the last purge site. ‘No solid cover on approach. How do you want to handle this, sergeant?’
It was Mandell.
‘Two twos,’ said Grimm. ‘You and Corella will flank left and come at the barn from the eight o’clock position. Veristan and I will approach head-on.
Riallo,’ he called out over the link, ‘I want you on high ground providing cover. Make sure you have solid angles on both the barn and the farmhouse.’
Riallo rose and trotted back towards the others. He holstered his bolt pistol on his thigh, unslung the sniper rifle from his back, and nodded towards the grassy slope east. ‘You see that fallen tree about two hundred metres up, sergeant?’
Grimm followed the Scout’s gaze and nodded. ‘It looks fine. Go.’
Riallo dipped his head in a short bow and ran off, moving with all the speed and natural grace of a predatory cat. Within moments he was in place.
‘Let’s move,’ said Grimm. ‘Veristan, you’re with me.’
The four armoured Space Marines split into their fire-teams and made for the barn. Not long till sundown now. So quiet. Eerily quiet. Grimm could hear the wind, though it was hardly strong. A trio of crows cawed to each other as they flew out from the treetops on the western ridge and settled in the pasture to gorge themselves on the dead aurochs. Carrion beetles scuttled away nervously. The barn loomed closer and closer, and still nothing. Grimm and Veristan took positions on either side of the gaping door and waited for Mandell and Corella to converge with them.
The shadows inside the barn were ink-black.
Once all were in place, Grimm ordered them to switch to low-light vision mode, then he gave the ‘go’ command.
Heavily armoured as they were, the four Space Marines nevertheless moved like lightning. In a coordinated blur, they entered the barn and took up position, weapons raised, ready to fire.
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