Rebirth

by Nick Kyme

‘Which way?’ he asked.

  ‘Tsu’gan’s tracks suggested he went east.’ Zartath pointed in the direction of the tunnel.

  It was wide mouthed, hung with the broken links of chains and decaying girders. Even in the gloom, they could see it sloped downwards and went deeper into the heart of the underhive. For now, it looked deserted. If the vermin tide did return, the klaxons would sound. Forewarned, even encumbered with Exor’s body, they should be able to get clear in time. Tsu’gan was injured in the crash. He would have needed aid too, and Agatone had never met a warrior with better survival instincts than he.

  ‘Then we go east,’ he said, and let Zartath lead the way.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Heletine, Imperial-held city of Escadan

  Before the invasion, Escadan had been a city that vaunted achievement and excellence in all its forms. Unlike the labyrinthine Canticus, or the towering industrial stacks of Solist, Escadan had been a bastion of light where the great and gifted were exalted like gods. Statues and petroglyphs celebrating the world’s luminaries lined the concourses to its many cenotaph and stadia. Historians, scientists, ecclesiarchs and artisans were all honoured in marble, onyx, agate and carnelian.

  When war came, the exalted were trampled just as easily as their lessers, bloody conflict ever the great leveller.

  A veritable cavalcade of exquisitely detailed statuary punctuated the galleria to the grand amphitheatre Drakgaard had chosen as his headquarters in the city. It was expansive, though its beauty had been no defence during the outbreak of hostilities. It was the first place the allied Imperial forces had secured and liberated, but many of the alabaster renderings that greeted visitors to the arena itself were mutilated in some fashion. Intended to recount the athletic achievements performed here, now they were a stark reminder of what Escadan and, indeed, Heletine had lost because of the war.

  Stark magnesium lamps had been erected around a relatively small area in the centre of the amphitheatre. Drakgaard stood within the cordon of light, just breaching the penumbra at its edge as he pored over a hololithic map table whilst awaiting the summoned officers and the new arrivals.

  Elysius had joined him, having followed from the preceptory roof.

  ‘Why here, brother-captain, if you don’t mind me asking?’

  ‘I do not,’ Drakgaard replied stiffly, his attention on the map that showed an uncomfortable number of red zones where the enemy still held territory. Since initial engagement, the pattern on the map had shifted as the Black Legion migrated from region to region, halting briefly to fight before moving on again like ash nomads. As of yet, Drakgaard had been unable to detect any strategy in it.

  ‘It helps me think,’ said the captain at length. He looked up, taking a rare break from his strategising. ‘Here,’ he gestured to the expansive amphitheatre. He did not know its name, for there were none left alive to tell it, at least that he had met, but it hardly mattered. ‘In this sliver of light, I am an island. Around me is darkness, obscuring, obfuscating, but here in the light I can see clearly.’

  ‘A little more poetic than I had you down for, Ur’zan,’ said Elysius.

  ‘My mind isn’t closed off to it as some would believe. I merely find little use for it.’

  The Chaplain laughed, and the sound echoed, but there was irony to his mirth.

  ‘Are you sure it isn’t metal and cybernetics beneath your skin instead of flesh?’

  ‘Would that it was,’ Drakgaard replied bitterly and went back to the map table.

  Just beyond the edge of the oval of light cast by the lamps, a small group of serfs and Departmento Munitorum logisticians examined data concerning supply lines, ammunition stores, casualty rates and engagement reports. Drakgaard had them feed him every one through his battle-helm’s retinal lens display.

  ‘Canticus is the dam,’ muttered Drakgaard as he surveyed the map and the troop dispositions on it again, ‘breach it and we will flood this world with our wrath. None could escape it.’

  Elysius was about to respond when he heard footsteps echoing from one of the concourses that led into the amphitheatre. They sounded unhurried but purposeful, and lighter than a fully armoured Adeptus Astartes would make.

  Three females, tall and armoured in the black of the Ebon Chalice with white chasubles beneath accented by crimson inner fabric, emerged into the arena. Though they were shrouded by shadow, Elysius had some time to examine them as they made their way across to where the Salamanders awaited in the cordon of light.

  Two were stern-faced, their age hard to determine. One, a canoness by the look of her trappings, had harder eyes that spoke of centuries of warfare. Votive chains attached to censers trailing prayer incense hung from her battleplate. A pair of braziers, slaved to a small reservoir of promethium, crested the rounded stabiliser jets of her power armour’s generator. She carried a power mace tied off at her hip by a leather thong and on the opposite hip wore a holstered fusion pistol. Her hair was cropped short and the silver of polished gunmetal.

  The other was marginally less grizzled but carried a scar down the left side of her face that must have come close to taking her eye. The scar extended across her scalp, however, cutting a channel into coal-black hair that was flecked with white. Across the unmarred side of her face, she had tattooed an icon of the Ebon Chalice, presumably to guard her sight from further harm. A bolter was mag-locked to her thigh, the stock modified and shortened with a combination flamer attachment. On the other side she had locked her helmet, which was pure white and marked above the helm’s retinal lenses with the same icon she had tattooed on her face. Her sidearm was a bolt pistol, but in her gauntleted hands she cradled a leather book and not a weapon. Purity seals adhered to her armour, held in place by red nubs of wax stamped with the Order’s holy sigil.

  Not as tall or broad as a Space Marine, the Sisters of Battle still radiated strength and purpose. Despite his distaste for some of their methods, Elysius found it hard not to feel a kinship with these warriors. He saw the reason for his reluctance in their eyes, for they glittered with a hostile fervour Elysius would not have expected amongst supposed allies.

  As a Chaplain, Elysius was no stranger to impassioned oratory. His sermons were crafted to inspire fury and purpose in his brothers, but since his time in the clutches of the dark eldar on the Volgorrah Reef and everything he had witnessed during the battle for Nocturne, his once brittle humours had veered away from the choleric. He believed he was a better spiritual leader because of it, but these two still retained an edge of religious fanaticism that Elysius considered dangerous to any who failed to share it.

  By contrast the third Battle Sister appeared less soul-hardened. She was younger, her hair longer than the other two, with streaks of velvet red in the black. She also wore a fluted jump pack, reminiscent of angel wings, marking her out as a Seraphim. Elysius had fought beside these shock troops before and knew them to be effective, dedicated warriors. This one had the rank insignia of a sergeant, or Sister Superior in the less secular terminology of the Adepta Sororitas.

  Striding across the cracked flagstones of the partially ruined arena, the canoness and her charges were quickly before the two Salamanders.

  ‘Blessings of Saint Dominica upon you, Chaplain,’ she addressed Elysius with a slight bow, recognising his spiritual authority before the actual secular command of Drakgaard, ‘and you, captain,’ she conceded with a nod. ‘I am Canoness Angerer, Preceptor of the Order of the Ebon Chalice.’

  Though she spoke ostensibly in greeting, the canoness’s words were like iron coming from her lips, her voice as stern as her bearing.

  ‘My Sororitas…’ she began, gesturing to her retinue who bowed as Angerer’s gauntleted hand passed over them as if in benediction, ‘Sisters Superior Laevenius of my Celestian Guard,’ the scarred warrior glared icily, her fingers seeming to tighten on the book, ‘and Stephina of the Order Seraphim.’ She nodded to both warriors, hands by her sides and within easy reach of the powerblade she had sheathed ne
xt to her jump pack and the plasma pistol belted at her waist.

  Elysius hoped it was just habit that made them so war wary, or this alliance that was seemingly being proposed by the Sisters’ presence on Heletine would not be an easy one.

  Drakgaard made curt introductions, explaining the other officers in his command cadre were either inbound or about to be linked to by hololith. He did not waste time with pleasantries, preferring to explain quickly so he could move on to the obvious question.

  ‘What are you doing here on Heletine, Canoness Angerer? What brings the noble Sisterhood of the Ebon Chalice to my battlefield?’

  Elysius sighed resignedly, the gesture hidden by the shadows. The meeting had not begun well.

  A difficult alliance it is then.

  What the Sisterhood wanted was precious little. As a holy world, and part of the Ecclesiarchy’s galactic protectorate, Heletine had several enshrined relics that would be better served far from the war zone and in the custody of the Sisterhood’s Convent Prioris on Terra.

  Angerer and her Order were here to ensure the acquisition, protection and transference of these relics. They had brought a Preceptory to achieve this sacred task, which included over six hundred Adepta Sororitas, the majority of those of the Order Militant, and a sizeable armoured force of Immolators. According to Angerer, her Battle Sisters were already being deployed in the muster field at the edge of Escadan city along with the flame tanks.

  In openly discussing the disposition of her forces, Angerer also pledged her Sister Hospitallers towards leavening the burden placed upon the Imperial medicae by the war thus far. Furthermore, she added, if the Ebon Chalice could lend aid to the Adeptus Astartes in the prosecution of their sacred duty, then they would consider themselves doubly blessed.

  ‘It could explain the erratic occupation of the enemy,’ suggested Elysius after he had finished hearing what Angerer had to say about the relics.

  Drakgaard nodded, his eyes back on the map hololith.

  On Armageddon the orks had deliberately befouled certain sites of religious significance, effectively rededicating them to their own brutish deities. None could say if such vile acts had any bearing on the spiritual conflict being fought across the entire world, if Imperial belief was somehow weakened as a result, but it had dampened morale and sapped the courage of some. Where the orks erected their totems, where their crude sculptures of dung stood like dirty monoliths, blighting the air with their stench, the greenskins were harder to defeat.

  The Imperial allies on Heletine had yet to see or hear from the heretic leader – some more credulous individuals believed it could be the Warmaster himself but that was ridiculous – but his strategy might be to fight a war of faith to win a war of blood.

  Drakgaard gestured to the areas of confluence on the map hololith.

  ‘Can you determine which of these regions are also sites of religious significance?’

  Angerer had a string of votive peals in her grasp, twenty-three perfect white orbs that the canoness would later explain represented all the souls she had saved from darkness and brought to repentance. She had many such rosaries in her possession; this was the only one with a single black opal.

  As she smoothed the pearls between her fingers, Angerer’s lip curled but the thin smile did not reach her eyes.

  ‘My Sister Dialogus has already begun.’

  The Stormraven touched down on a landing strip within sight of the amphitheatre.

  Iaptus had said nothing further during their short journey. Va’lin considered mentioning the sigils in the gun nest but had no idea to what they portended, if anything. He also thought about voicing his concerns to his sergeant about Ky’dak but decided the matter was between him and Ky’dak for now.

  So it was that they flew from the edge of Canticus to the heart of Escadan in silence but with their thoughts far from quiescent.

  As soon as they disembarked, Va’lin noticed theirs was not the only transport to have alighted in such close proximity to the Imperial headquarters. Another, a black-armoured Rhino with an icon of a white chalice on its flanks, also stood idle at the edge of the landing apron. Its engines burred, giving off a faint heat wash, as the vehicle readied for imminent departure.

  At a more distant landing zone, the main muster field for the Imperial forces as well as its barracks, a host of those same black ships were in the midst of deployment. Va’lin noticed several tanks amongst the disciplined squads of Battle Sisters.

  ‘Armour and infantry,’ he observed. ‘The Sororitas are here in force, brother-sergeant.’

  Though the main muster field was over a kilometre away, the rituals of blessing and piety being performed by the Sisters were discernible, as were the bizarre war engines that came ambling out of their ships’ holds and the zealots who accompanied them.

  Blinded, festooned with devotional seals and the red-raw wheals inflicted during self-flagellation, they appeared more like slaves than warriors. The engines were fashioned in the manner of walkers, bipedal and armed with various blades and saws. Some also carried what looked like short-range flamers. A whip-thin, emaciated wretch served as the only crew. Va’lin found it difficult to tell if they were manning the machine or were bound to it as some form of torture.

  The others, those who marched sullenly alongside the walkers were no better. They wore hoods in the form of masked inhibitor helms and their lash-grafted arms hung slack by their sides, trailing in the dirt. Barefoot, their reedy bodies were half-naked and exposed to the elements.

  ‘They are the penitent,’ said Iaptus when he noted Va’lin’s frown. ‘See…’ He gestured to a cadre of chainblade wielding females and the mistress goading them from the ship with an energised lash. ‘Faith can do strange things to the faithful, but it is nothing compared to its potential effects on those wishing to atone or punish themselves for transgression.’

  ‘What kind of army is this?’ asked Va’lin, heedless of the disrespect he had just directed at the Sororitas.

  Whilst they were talking, they had moved within the shadow of the amphitheatre. Its faded glory and obvious ruination were a microcosm of what was happening to Heletine.

  ‘We are about to find out, brother,’ Iaptus replied.

  Both Sergeant Zantho and Colonel Redgage, the commanding officer of the Cadian 81st, attended the war conference via hololith. Their forms were rendered in grainy static-laced amber light that emitted from projector ports located in the floor of Drakgaard’s command hub.

  A third figure joined them via hololith, though his projection was much larger than the other two and, despite the fact his actual presence was many kilometres away in Canticus, entirely forbidding.

  ‘No gains were made during our last sortie into the western districts.’

  The voice had once been that of a transhuman warrior, but was now rendered machine-like through Dreadnought vox-casters that trembled the air even via hololith.

  Kor’ad was immense, and his sarcophagus was a scaled carapace replete with the honours of his previous incarnation as a brother-captain of the fire-born. Upon his hulking back he wore the spines of the beast he had ritually killed for his ascension to the Chapter. Its hide hung down like a tabard between two piston-driven legs. Twice he had been forced to quit his appointed posting within, initially to perform an undertaking of great honour, secondarily out of necessity and a desire to serve on. Kor’ad did not miss the touch of air upon his face, the feeling of heat against his bare skin. He did not care that he would never witness another sunrise or behold his brothers with his own eyes rather than the sensorium of his Dreadnought tomb. Kor’ad, the Warmaker, had no such misgivings about his transformation. As a flesh and blood Salamander he had lived for battle – now he could fight on forever.

  Kor’ad’s left arm was gloved in a power fist that in turn clenched a thunder hammer. The right carried a weapon-mount, a Contemptor-pattern heavy plasma, the wide muzzle shaped into a dragon’s snout. His flamer would have been more appropriate to the
iconography but it lacked range and firepower for what Kor’ad had in mind.

  Colonel Redgage, a thick-set man with a neat handlebar moustache and grey hair, was clearly still in the field. The edges of a war tent were revealed at the very extremity of the hololithic projection and the dull, but far off, sound of heavy mortar occasionally interrupted his reports. Kor’ad, though, was at war during the conference, his grainy image showing him in battle. More than once the resolution cut off mid-stream as a nearby explosion broke the link, and it was generally foul with smoke and airborne debris.

  ‘The loss of the armour reduced our efficacy considerably, captain. I strive to hold what we have already taken but it is far from certain.’

  Kor’ad led a heavy division comprising half of Sixth Company’s Devastators and two other Dreadnoughts. Snatches of missile salvoes and the collimated streamers from heavy energy weapons intruded on the feed. The barrage from the Devastators was intense and unremitting. They were a hammer, a means to pound the entrenched enemy into submission for the spear thrust of Zantho’s tanks.

  ‘If you shackle my hands, captain, what else can I do but strain against it?’

  The plan involving the heavy weapons unravelled spectacularly when all the Salamanders armour was recalled from the western districts and Kor’ad was left with a static force with no means of actually taking the ground they had spent so long pummelling. It had left the venerable warrior frustrated.

  ‘I am a war-maker, captain, not a defensive bastion.’

  The hololith crazed once then blinked out. Whether the link had been cut accidentally or deliberately would likely never be known.

  It left Drakgaard seething at only static charged air.

  The council had not gone well. Va’lin and Iaptus had arrived in the midst of Zantho’s report. Despite their victory at Canticus south, the tanks had achieved little but to shore up a ruin and prevent a slaughter. That in itself was reason enough to redeploy them but it brought the Salamanders no closer to a lasting victory on Heletine. Every engagement had been a frustrated one. Heretics were dug in, and the warren-like streets made for a complex hunting ground.