by Danie Ware
‘We face a trying battle, my Sisters. And may He be with us.’
Following the briefing, Augusta went to the Order’s chapel, one of the old forge temple’s transepts, now decorated with a full-sized embroidered banner depicting the God-Emperor Himself, His head haloed in Sol’s light, His flaming blade in hand. Around Him, the brass pipes had been cleaned, and carefully placed electro-candles made them shine like a promise.
There was no servitor to take her weapons and she was under combat orders, but carrying them in His presence still felt wrong. Augusta walked up the short aisle and dropped to one knee, her head bowed.
Her steel-grey hair fell forwards, hiding her face.
‘Tibi gratias ago tibi Imperatore.’
Thank you, my Emperor.
With the briefings over and her orders clear, she had come to offer the Litany of Thanksgiving – for His judgment, and for the justice and wisdom of her Order.
She had not realised how much she had feared the loss of her armour, and her honour. And there was no place for fear – or pride – in His presence.
Only for service.
She stayed kneeling for a moment, then came back to her feet, her head still bowed.
A deep voice behind her said, ‘Sister Superior?’
The words were quiet, respectful.
She turned, her boots scraping on the stone.
Behind her, at the very edge of the transept, two figures were also rising. They were very young, their battered gear was brown and green and Militarum, and their lasrifles were held tight at their sides, like some third limb. One of them was long and lean and dark-skinned, the other shorter and stockier with a scar through his eyebrow.
‘Mors,’ she said, to the man who had spoken. ‘Rufus.’
The two soldiers were the last survivors of the deserter squad that had been guarding the doomed inquisitor. It had been Mors who had pulled the trigger and sent the sizzle of his lasrifle through Istrix’s unwary skull.
Both men offered her the sign of the aquila.
Gravely, she returned the salute.
They glanced at each other with a flicker of awkwardness – they obviously wanted to say something, but they were two lone soldiers in the centre of a full deployment of the Adepta Sororitas, and they were both self-conscious and very out of place.
Augusta said, ‘You wish to ask me a question, corporal?’
‘No longer corporal, Sister,’ Mors said, ‘though the canoness has let us keep our gear.’
She stopped herself smiling at his rueful tone. ‘What do you need?’
‘Sister…’ Mors glanced up at the embroidered banner and straightened his shoulders. ‘Rufus and I are assigned to your squad.’
‘So I understand,’ she said. ‘And I’m glad to have you, both of you. You have proven your courage and faith many times.’
‘Our orders are clear,’ Mors said. He pulled his shoulders back even further, let out his breath. ‘We’re still deserters, Sister, and we’re to offer our lives in the service of the Emperor.’
‘Aye.’ Augusta nodded slowly, understanding. ‘You have been given the opportunity to attain redemption. To serve Holy Terra, and to die with honour. You should be proud.’
‘We are,’ Rufus said. ‘We shot an inquisitor. It’s more than we deserve.’
Both men relapsed to their slightly awkward silence, and Augusta said, ‘The Order musters at Lauds, and we will commence our advance along the roadway. My squad have been assigned a Repressor, and we will take our position at the second line of the left flank. You will report to that location.’
‘Yes, Sister.’
‘Return to your prayers, both of you,’ she told them. ‘I will expect you in the morning.’
As the soldiers returned to their kneel, Augusta squared her shoulders and turned to look up at the banner, its gold embroidery glittering like the pipework that surrounded it.
He stared out over the transept, His face severe.
To serve Holy Terra, and to die with honour.
And the Sister Superior wondered…
Had her squad been offered the same?
Chapter Three
A filthy, rust-red dawn.
The hymn of Lauds, its close harmonies rising into the early morning dirt.
‘O Imperator, et Sol Iustitiae…’
O Emperor, the Sun of Justice…
Lycheate’s aged, bloated star was still below the horizon, and the grubby brown sky was layered with clouds like brass and blood. Scoured by dusty wind, the Sisters’ muster point was a small black stone island, little more than an upthrust rock. Foul waters battered its jagged coastline, and all of its surrounding walkways had been collapsed, bar one.
Its last metal bridge stood alone, creaking in the dawn wind.
In front of the old forge temple steps, however, there stretched a flat expanse of hard standing, and, as the sun’s leading edge brought a flare to the sky, so an answering flash of scarlet came from the force that was assembled beneath it.
Immolators, Repressors and Exorcists; twelve vehicles in perfect formation.
Waiting.
The hymn rose to a crescendo.
‘Imperator, nos hic ut laudis declate Tua!’
Emperor, hear us as we declare Your praise!
Augusta, standing with her squad beside the hard red flank of their assigned Repressor, let her hands fall to her weapons. This was a celebration of the Emperor’s dawn, of the rise of Sol over distant Terra – a sight she had never seen, but one that still began her every day.
Perhaps, one day, she would make the Pilgrimage…
…if she were blessed enough.
But today, she had another calling.
To Augusta’s right, on the far side of their Repressor’s steel solidity, stood the Order of the Bloody Rose, its red banners flapping. In the lead, the four Immolators, commanded by Sister Mikaela. Behind them, the Immolator of the canoness herself, its pipes and banners shouting loud colours into the brown dawn. Then the rank of three Repressors, Augusta’s squad on the left flank, Eleni’s on the right, and Roku’s in the centre. Behind the Repressors, there waited Sister Nikaya and the Seraphim, their jump packs ready and rumbling. And lastly, at the very rear, four of the Sanctorum-pattern Exorcists, built on Ophelia VII and more reliable than the older Prioris models.
The vehicles’ blaze of scarlet was powerful, as bright as new blood. This was the Rose, and it was ready for war.
The Hymn of Lauds came to an end, the note like an expectation; the canoness’ vox-coder blasted clear trumpets, the clarion call of muster and battle. The assembled tanks began to growl, like canids on leashes. They sounded like they, too, were eager to encounter resistance.
Feeling her adrenaline rise, Augusta uttered a prayer of her own…
‘We beseech Thee, destroy them!’
Standing in the back of her Immolator, her banner aloft, the canoness lifted her arms and her voice.
‘My Sisters!’ Across the vox-coder, her shout carried like a tantara. ‘Though we walk far from Terra, still we see His glorious dawn! Even at the farthest reaches of the Imperium, His light touches us and fills us with fire! We are His word, His will, His blade!’
Augusta felt her heart rate rise, felt the filthy wind sting her skin. Her breath was catching, now, on the metal tang that was Lycheate’s bitter atmosphere, that was war and retribution.
Ianthe’s cry was a beacon. ‘And no foe – not heretic, not witch, not xenos – can withstand our wrath!’
As one, the company thundered, ‘We fear no heretic! We fear no witch! We fear no xenos!’
The tanks snarled their eagerness. Ahead of them waited the ferrocrete roadway, stretching long and bleak between the scatters of islands. Water lashed and clawed at its edges, and along its left-hand side ran a double line of ser
vohauler tracks, rusted and unusable.
The sun rose further, making the far horizon glitter, though its angles of metal were too distant to see clearly. The light swelled across the tanks’ scarlet gleam, and touched the canoness herself.
Her ice-white hair became a pure, cold blaze.
She was still shouting, calling out to their hearts and to their faith. ‘The lost forces of this forge world have been uncovered, and scavenged, and twisted to the powers of darkness! The war machines of Vastum, once warriors of the Omnissiah, now stand corrupted! And we will overcome them, Sisters. We will not permit the heretek Rayos to take her stolen army outwards to the void!’
Ianthe’s voice was absolute power, unassailable. Beneath it, now, music rose – the rousing sound of the Dies Irae.
‘We will not permit this heresy!’
The word emerged with the first drum-crash of the music. Augusta could see the flare of flame in the eyes of her Sisters; feel the light that lifted them all from within. The two soldiers stood at rigid attention, their rifles by their sides, their chins raised to the wind.
‘My Sisters!’ Ianthe gave one last, great shout. ‘We stand here by the Accords of Hydraphur – by the word of Saint Mina, by her blade and her courage. By the blessing of the God-Emperor and by His guidance! We are the Adepta Sororitas, and since the Age of Apostasy, our Sisters and we have stood at the gates to hell. Only we can stand sentinel here. And we say – enough!’
At the shout, hydraulics whined and the hatch of Augusta’s Repressor came down to provide a ramp.
‘Let this corroding world know the wrath of the Rose!’
One resounding response came from every throat. The Order, in unison, returned, ‘Ave Imperator!’
The sheer strength of it brought a shiver to the Sister Superior’s skin. She saw that Viola’s green eyes blazed; alight with ferocity.
A final, held note from the vox-coder, and then a moment of prayer and quiet. The banners danced and snapped; water splashed at the rocks and hissed as it withdrew.
At last, the canoness shouted, ‘Sisters… embark!’
‘Ave Imperator!’
There was a single unified stamp of boots as the Order broke formation.
And the mission began.
Augusta’s squad knew the drill; they banged up the ramp to the cold metal of the Repressor’s belly. Metal seats lined its outside; tiny slits in the walls offered them a limited view and allowed them to fire at the enemy.
Pauldrons scraped on steel as they sat.
It was dim in there, and it smelled of oil and fervour. Between the window-slits the walls were inscribed with battle-prayers, and the engine’s zealous grumble reverberated through the metal.
In the front of the vehicle sat a figure in scarlet underarmour, the padding overlain by plates of flexsteel that defended the wearer’s chest, shoulders and belly – drivers’ armour. She was not someone that Augusta knew.
‘Sister Superior,’ the young woman nodded, then turned back to the controls. ‘I’m Sister Cindal. May His grace and strength ride with us.’
‘Ave Imperator, Sister Cindal,’ Augusta returned. ‘We place ourselves in your hands, and in His.’
In the vox-coder, the blare of trumpets sounded again.
Ianthe’s voice: ‘Order… forward!’
And in the dirty red flare of the early morning light, the Sisters rolled onwards to war.
At first, they met no resistance.
The roadway was long, stretching silent over the wind-blown water, and it was desolate in its emptiness.
This far from their target the tanks were moving at an easy three-quarter speed, fast enough to eat the distance but slow enough to react to an ambush, should one occur.
The Seraphim jumped and swooped, short bursts of hit-and-run energy that conserved their fuel and allowed them to keep pace with the vehicles. Augusta would catch occasional flashes of scarlet as they came into view and then vanished again. As a younger woman she had harboured a deep wish to be amongst their number and had trained hard to hone her skills – but her dislike of heights had undone her.
Her twinge of envy was unbecoming, and her place was His will. She turned back to the prayers along the inside of the tank.
Slowly, the hours moved from Lauds to Prime, and the sun struggled upwards, weary and swollen. Slowly, lines of light from the window-slots moved across the tank’s interior. Outside, the filthy waters grew as wide as the horizon; they rolled and sloshed at the roadside, splashing garbage and remains.
At the front of the company, the Immolators’ auspex searched for mines, and found nothing; above them, the Kyrus’ scans were constant and thorough. And the formation rolled onwards, keeping the dead servohauler tracks to its left.
Augusta could only wait, and pray. She sat in the back of the Repressor, her Godwyn De’az-pattern bolter rested across her lap, her eyes watching the tiny passing slice of Lycheate’s polluted sea. This was the part of the battle that the Sister Superior disliked – she was restless, impatient. She wanted to be outside, singing, chainsword in hand, and cutting through the ranks of the enemy.
‘A spiritu dominatus…’
But that moment would come. She held herself still, calmly reciting the words of the Litany and hearing her Sisters echo her, one line at a time.
‘Domine, libra nos.’
The tank rolled on, and the soft rumble of its tracks was like a heartbeat.
Nothing, it seemed, was daring to stand in their way.
‘Company, halt.’
The vehicles stopped at the canoness’ vox command.
Caught in the semi-dark, stuck in the chill belly of the Repressor, there was nothing Augusta could do. She could see a narrow slice of road and water, nothing else – no enemy, no target. Frustrated, she held her position, her bolter at the weapon-port, listening to the voices in her vox-bead.
Mikaela reported from the lead Immolator, ‘Enemy sighted – two kastelans. Both stationary. One armed. They’re standing in the water, flanking the roadway. At a guess, milady, they’re lookout duty.’
‘We will send Rayos a message of intent. Immolators, advance to heavy-bolter range, and halt,’ the canoness replied.
Augusta’s Repressor was a transport and comparatively lightly armed – it held its position, its engine grumbling in protest.
In its belly, the squad sat poised, their tension almost crackling in the air.
Sister Mikaela’s voice came through the vox once more. ‘Within range. Enemy still motionless.’
‘Immolators, heavy bolters, target the armed machine. Controlled, directed bursts. Conserve your ammunition, Sisters. And fire!’ the canoness ordered.
Muffled by the Repressor’s steel shell, Augusta heard the heavy bolters’ booms and rattles, heard the hard, explosive detonations as the rounds struck their target.
The air shook with repeated impacts. Her hands tight on her bolter, she craned to see, needed to know what was happening.
But her only knowledge of the battle came from Mikaela over the vox.
‘Right-hand kastelan damaged. Both machines now in motion.’
‘Same target. Fire!’ the canoness ordered.
The bolters fired again, the sounds seeming to echo like ricochets through the inside of the tank. Augusta sat still, her shoulders tight, and saw that the others were doing the same. Viola, crouched at her weapon-port, moved her heavy bolter in an arc, seeking something – anything – to put in her sights. She wanted to fight; her recitation of the Litany was full of suppressed rage.
Mors and Rufus, likewise, had lasrifles ready to fire. They did not share the Sisters’ prayer, but they were remarkably steady, watching and waiting.
‘Incoming!’
Augusta held her breath.
Somewhere ahead of them: one colossal boom. It struck the roadwa
y, shaking their Repressor where it stood.
She found herself trying to calculate – how far away the Immolators were, how much damage the kastelan could inflict. She knew the drill well enough – the Immolators would draw the enemy’s fire, ensuring the safety of the transports…
Until the foot-troops could be effectively deployed.
By the Throne!
She wanted to be out there, not held helpless here in the half-light. In the vox, she could hear Mikaela praying, her voice livid with courage and fury. Annoyed by her enforced idleness, the Sister Superior echoed Mikaela’s words…
That thou shouldst bring them only death!
‘Damage?’ the canoness asked.
‘Incendiary damage to the front plates, solidity still at eighty per cent,’ Mikaela replied. ‘The roadway has a crater, but the supports are holding – it’s shooting directly for us.’
‘He is with you, Sister – trust in His wisdom,’ the canoness said, her words like the call of trumpets: ‘Same target. Fire!’
Again, the heavy rattle of bolters. There was the rasping grumble of tank tracks – the Immolators were moving, but Augusta couldn’t tell if it was forward or back. Her blindness was infuriating; her hand tightened even harder on the bolter. She needed to be out there, fighting for her Sisters, but still, she could feel the rush of His presence in the sounds of the battle, in her Order’s manoeuvring, and in the canoness’ experience…
Someone behind Augusta – Rufus, she thought – muttered a savage expletive.
She knew how he felt.
‘Machine down! Both legs damaged, it’s crashed into the water. Now fully submerged. The other one’s climbing onto the roadway.’
Once more, Ianthe thundered the command.
‘Fire!’
The rattle of the bolters sounded again, then Mikaela cried a prayer – pure, savage, celebration: ‘In nomine Eius!’
In His name!
A second later, her report followed. ‘Machine down! I think we caught them by surprise.’
