by Danie Ware
An answer.
The thing that Vius had missed, the one variable that he had not calculated.
The single member of this force that was not supposed to be here.
Mors.
As the realisation hit her, she flared with hope and defiance. She gave the squad a single command – alpha strike! – to concentrate everything they had on Rayos at the top of the steps.
They had to get her out of the way.
She said to Mors, ‘Can you get up there? Pull that switch?’
‘Yes, Sister.’ Mors didn’t argue, and he didn’t waste time. He slung his rifle – he’d need both hands to climb – then ran for the altar.
They both knew that as soon as either tech-priest saw him, he was dead.
It was just a matter of time.
Howling, Augusta drove at Vius with the chainsword, battering him back, holding his attention. Vius hissed. He seemed to retract into himself, then he lashed back out again like some coiled spring, that huge axe hammering with incredible mechanical force. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the flare of Melia’s flamer, saw Rayos go over; she saw Mors reach the ladder and swing himself onto it with a wiry and long-limbed strength. He shot upwards, in and under the cage, then out and onto the gantry.
As his boots banged on the metal walkway, Vius turned.
Augusta saw the tech-priest pause, saw his shock, saw all his limbs shift to aim at the running figure. She could taste his dismay, his split-second understanding of his error.
The one thing he had not calculated.
The thing that was about to bring him down.
Vius raised the heat-weapon.
Mors threw himself at the switch.
The Sister Superior had barely a moment to understand that he’d made it, before the air of the temple shimmered.
And Mors died instantly, in a hiss of superheated steam, much like Rufus had done.
At the cave mouth, Captain Mulier’s words came through Caia’s vox-bead: ‘The field is down. Countdown begins at ninety… Eighty-nine…’
‘Retreat!’ Even as the canoness gave the order, she was up and over the side of the Immolator. In the smoke and the noise, Caia heard the rumble as the vehicles started to turn.
But there were machines still standing. The Sisters’ force had cut scores of them down and the canoness herself had slain too many to count. Still aloft, the three remaining Seraphim covered the retreat – as the tanks turned, the airborne Sisters swooped and hammered, keeping the foes’ ranks back.
Caia hung on as the Immolator reached full speed. Looking around, she counted the remaining tanks – one surviving Immolator, as well as their own, both Repressors, two Exorcists. If she glanced back, she could see the two fallen Seraphim, still and broken – her Sisters, fallen in battle, and never to be recovered.
She offered a silent prayer, but the canoness was still barking orders.
‘Roll call!’
The responses were coming in – Eleni, Roku, Jolantra. Briefly, Caia wondered about her own squad. She offered her thanks for their success, and prayed that they were still standing.
Behind them, the machines lumbered forwards. If they had previous orders not to leave the cavern, those orders had been superseded; as the tanks came out into the open and thundered, full-speed, back down towards the beach, the rattle and rumble of the mobile force followed them, harrying them all the way.
In the back of the Immolator, Ianthe prayed, her words rising to the brass-clouded sky.
Up there, somewhere, Captain Mulier was getting ready to fire.
Ninety seconds.
Augusta had not heard the broadcast, but she knew. And she knew that they would not have time.
At the top of the steps, Rayos was down – her fallen form was smouldering under the burned remains of her cloak. This time, it seemed, Sister Melia had finished the task.
But Vius was still upright, still fighting.
And, though it would be the last thing she did, Augusta was going to take the heretek dominus down before the Kyrus killed them all.
‘Alcina!’ She barked the order. ‘Take the squad and go! Get clear if you can!’
Despite his failure, Vius was still focused, calculated and cold. His combat strikes remained implacable, relentless, one after another…
Slash, slash, slash.
Systematically, he pursued Augusta with the axe, constantly reversing his grip so he could strike from both sides. She snarled at him, parrying the blows, her arms jarring, her feet skidding, her chainsword reaching a high-pitched scream as the teeth caught on the axe-haft. In his other hands, targeting flawlessly, the stubber and the heat weapon still struck out at the squad.
From somewhere, Rhea was shouting something, her tone urgent, but Augusta did not hear her, she was intent on Vius, looking for the opening, trying to get a strike through the tech-priest’s thought-swift defences. She was aware of the shimmer of the heat-weapon, of a dive-and-clatter as a figure in red armour rolled out of the way.
And then, something in her crystallised – pure concentrated rage.
In that split second, time seemed to slow. Her heart rate became a booming bass thrum in her ears; a new strength uncurled like light through her limbs. She would pay this heretek for every life he had taken, for her fallen Sisters, for Rufus, and for Mors. She would pay him for thinking he could take down her squad, and mock the Adepta Sororitas.
Domine, libra nos!
Despite the force field, she was gaining ground, pushing him back. The repeated strikes of the chainsword seemed to flow from her like pure song, like she had become a conduit for the entire fury of her Order. He was parrying almost frantically, sparks flying from the axe-haft.
Alcina had not left; she was kneeling beside the fallen Viola. She, too, was shouting, but Augusta could not hear through the roar of blood in her ears. The Sister Superior was reciting the words of the Litany like a drum-pulse chant, rhythmic and furious with the systematic, relentless attacks of the chainsword. She let her rage fill her with pure scarlet light, with the fire that was battle-focus and absolute certainty – this thing would die.
Vius switched his axe again, striking from the other side. As he did so, she slammed it with her foot and knocked it sideways – he missed the blow and paused, just for a moment, but it was enough.
There – there! – was the opening she sought!
She slammed with the chainsword straight through his defences; his force field sparked and failed.
The blade bit home, screaming its song of destruction.
It was not enough to kill him, but his defences were down, now, and he could not free himself enough to move.
He hissed at her, all his limbs mantling high over her shoulders…
But it was too late.
Alcina was moving; Rhea and Melia were still on their feet.
Her Sisters had not left her.
And they did the rest.
Black ash, billowing in a bitter, metallic wind.
This was the limit of the tanks’ retreat – the roadway was collapsed and they could not leave the island.
The last of the machines were still behind them, lumbering down the road like monsters of nightmare, but they were not fast enough.
Ianthe shoved herself and Caia both into the Immolator’s belly, and slammed the hatch.
Over the vox, the canoness offered a prayer.
And from the clouds, there came the pure white blaze of the Emperor’s light.
Chapter Eleven
Rubble.
It steamed in extreme heat; smoke and dirt billowed over its charred and mountainous ruin.
But the tanks remained, tiny red fortresses at the edge of the destruction.
Rayos’ machines had not been so blessed.
Too slow, they had been caught by
the wave of devastation. They lay twisted and blackened, their flesh melted, their metal crushed. A few had survived, but they had been easy to despatch.
In the belly of the Immolator, the canoness was offering her thanks for His protection.
Surrounded by the tank’s metal walls, Caia sat by Sister Rhene, her helm off, and swallowing tears – though there was no shame in grief, now the battle was over.
Rhene sat with her, the old Hospitaller’s voice gentle. She said, ‘Your Sisters died with honour, Caia de Musa. They stand before the Golden Throne, and they stand blessed. They have succeeded in their mission, and shown great courage.’
‘I know.’ Caia nodded, though she could say no more.
Rhene touched her knee, gentle, like an elderly aunt. ‘I have seen many things, Sister Caia – battles and horrors, the rot and disease of the deepest mines, creations of warp and Ruin. I understand that there are greater wounds than battle injuries – and I know He sees them also. You worship Him with warfare, but to me, He is a figure of great healing. His peace be upon you, and His light in your soul.’
‘Sometimes,’ the canoness said softly, ‘it takes more courage to survive. Fear not, Sister Caia, He has a plan for you. And He knows where you will–’
‘Please, milady!’ At the canoness’ words, Caia looked up, her grief suddenly congealing into a cold and absolute dread. She had known, all along, that this was coming, known that the canoness had another plan for her. She said, ‘Please don’t expel me from the Order!’
Ianthe blinked. She should discipline Caia significantly, but she seemed almost confused. ‘Expel you, Sister?’
‘I’m a warrior, your eminence. Have I not proven–’
‘And why would you be anything else?’ There was a distinct note of warning in Ianthe’s tone.
Caught, Caia paused, looking from canoness to Hospitaller and back. She said, the words falling over themselves, ‘Please, milady, my bloodline is too faint. I’m a second cousin of a second cousin, a grand-niece of a grand-niece. I know nothing of Spire politics. I could never be–’
‘You forget yourself, Sister.’ The snap was back in the canoness’ voice. ‘I comprehend your grief, and I share it – but you will control your outbursts.’
‘Milady.’ Caia inhaled, steadying herself, then let out a slow breath. During the battle, Ianthe had lost her distant, austere manner, and had become a figure of great passion and strength. Now, she returned to her unquestioned cold authority, and Caia, slightly belatedly, remembered her place.
She lowered her gaze, ‘Your eminence.’
Rhene cackled, and patted Caia’s knee again. ‘You’ve conjured this dread for yourself, Sister Caia,’ she said. ‘Fear not, I do not see you in a decorous robe. Look at the state of you – the Orders Famulous would never accept a Sister so downright grubby.’
She continued to cackle, and Caia, feeling immensely foolish, lowered her head in a prayer.
Augusta’s squad was a mess.
Guided by Sister Rhea’s experiences upon Mete, carrying their injured Sisters, they had taken shelter in the depths of the librarium, a place of vast and crumbling data-banks, of Vastum’s rotting knowledge and forgotten resources. As the countdown had measured their lives in remaining seconds, they’d almost fallen down the long stairway and then, with a desperate prayer, they’d thrown themselves on the floor.
And He had heard them. Shielded by the ancient Mechanicus’ stone and wisdom, scattered with falling dust and debris, the squad had survived the blast.
Battered, exhausted and filthy, Augusta had offered a hymn to His foresight and mercy, and a prayer of thanks for the miracle.
It seemed He was not ready to call them to the Throne – not yet.
They’d stumbled through half-collapsed corridors, through rubble and rock and dust; they’d almost crawled, half-blind, over the burned-black stone, and at last, they’d found the beach where the tanks stood waiting.
The canoness, Sister Caia with her, had come to meet them.
‘Ave Imperator, Sister Augusta.’
‘Ave Imperator, your eminence.’ At the limits of her endurance, Augusta pulled herself to her full height and returned the salute. She had Akemi over her shoulder; Viola was semi-conscious and being half-carried, half-dragged by Alcina and Melia; Rhea had Viola’s weapon as well as her own.
‘Sister Rhene will see to your injured,’ Ianthe said, indicating the Immolator. ‘Report.’
Right there, on the desolate black beach, the smoking ruin of the citadel behind her, Augusta gave that report. Her words were clipped, efficient, but aching with weariness. But when she reached the final battle, and the presence of the heretek dominus, Sister Alcina stepped forwards to stop her.
‘Permission to speak, milady,’ she said.
‘Granted,’ Ianthe answered.
‘Your eminence,’ Alcina said. ‘My orders were to report on the performance of Sister Superior Augusta Santorus, and of her squad. To assess whether the witch Scafidis Zale had left any touch of Ruin upon them, and to analyse their operation in the field.’
Augusta said nothing; she had known this was coming. But the fact that Alcina had spoken it openly…
The canoness, it seemed, had drawn the same conclusion. ‘I take it, Sister Alcina, that your report is positive?’
‘It is positive,’ Alcina said. ‘There is no touch of Ruin upon these Sisters, and they have conducted this mission with great courage.’
‘And what of the deserter? Mors?’
‘Both soldiers,’ Alcina said, ‘gave their lives, with honour, in the service of the Emperor.’ She made no attempt to explain further.
Ianthe nodded, her eyes still scanning Augusta. Augusta noticed that she, too, was filthy, her armour dented, her face and hair covered in smears and grit. Caia, likewise, her armour dirty and battered with impacts.
‘I am glad,’ Ianthe said, at last. ‘Glad that He has blessed you, Sister Superior. You are warriors born, all of you, and I am proud to call you my Sisters. He has blessed us all, this day – we have achieved our mission, slain both the tech-priest and her collaborator, and prevented their corrupted army from leaving this world. We have survived, Sisters, and we will return to the Convent Sanctorum to give our thanks.’ She cast a rueful eyebrow at the beach and the fallen roadway. ‘Though,’ she said, ‘I fear that may be a while. It seems He still has work for us to do.’
About the Author
Danie Ware is the author of the novellas The Bloodied Rose and Wreck and Ruin, and the short story ‘Mercy’, all featuring the Sisters of Battle. She lives in Carshalton, South London, with her son and two cats, and has long-held interests in role-playing, re-enactment, vinyl art toys and personal fitness.
An extract from Mark of Faith.
Darkness surrounds me, complete and heavy. Suffocating. I cannot see. Cannot hear. I cannot remember, either. Not how I came to be here, or where I came from. Not who or what I am. I am nothing, and no one. Little more than a heartbeat, inside a hollow shell. I try to speak. To make a noise of this nothingness, but I am mute as well as blind and deaf. No words will come. No voice, save for that locked tightly inside my mind.
Please.
And then, a sound. A voice, answering my silent plea.
Evangeline.
The name falls across me like a cloak, and I know instinctively that it is mine. I know the voice, too, despite how distant it sounds. How distorted.
‘Adelynn?’
My Sister Superior’s name escapes my throat and disappears into the unbroken darkness. Adelynn answers me once again with my own name, but this time she sounds even more distant. More distorted. I start to run, though I cannot see. Though the darkness mires me and pulls at my limbs like deep, cold water. But then I see it. A tiny pinprick of golden light, growing larger and closer until it resolves into a shape. A stone pedestal, draped
in crimson cloth. That is where the light is coming from, only it is not light at all. It is an object. A shield, cast in steel and gold and engraved with the image of an armoured warrior bearing blade and aegis with a ten-pointed halo around her head. My heartbeat grows loud at the sight of it, for it is not a shield at all. It is the Shield. The Praesidium Protectiva.
The Shield of Saint Katherine.
‘Evangeline.’
I look up from the Shield and I see her. Adelynn is standing on the opposite side of the hallowed relic to me. Uplit in gold, she could as well be a statue, were it not for her emerald eyes.
‘Are you ready?’ she asks me, and she gestures to the Shield.
It is a question to which there is only ever one answer, but this time I find that I cannot give it. Because I am not ready. Not for this. I try to tell her so, but even that proves impossible. All that I can manage is an empty oh sound. The very definition of nothing. Adelynn’s face turns wrathful, then.
‘Are you ready?’ she asks, again. ‘Are you ready?’
Adelynn repeats the question over and over and over until the sound of it surrounds me. It suffocates me, just like the darkness. I cannot bear it, nor the disappointment in her emerald eyes, so I scream for her to stop and I thrust out my hands to take up the Shield, but the very instant that my fingertips come into contact with the gold and steel, I catch fire. It blossoms on my fingers first, before blooming across my hands and up my arms, golden yellow and flickering. It tracks over my shoulders and engulfs my body and travels up my throat until I am consumed by it in the same way that the air around me is. The fire burns fiercely, melting my armour and searing my flesh. It blinds me with its brightness, and deafens me anew with a roar that is not the roar of the fire at all, but that same dreadful question rendered in an inferno’s voice.
Are you ready?
I wake with a gasp, lying flat on my back. Still blind, no matter how I blink. Still deaf to everything but the overloud beat of my thundering heart. My teeth are chattering and my body is trembling completely from my head to my toes. I am soaked with sweat. I try to cry out, but no words will come. No sound at all. I get up, but something mires me. I fall hard onto my hands and knees, completely unable to breathe. Someone takes hold of me, firm hands printing cold onto my feverish skin.
