The Fallen Saint

[cryptomancer]

Nice. I can't help but notice how the Sisters keep getting their collective @$$ kicked by heretics, though. Kinda depressing for those of us who have them. :lol:

[Lady_Canoness]

I guess what I'm trying to get at with scenes like this is showing that Sisters are only human. People have a tendancy to link them to the Space Marines in terms of bad-assedness, and I'm trying to dispell that notion by showing that they can suffer the same fate as any other non-Astartes. I envision Space Marines as super-human juggernaughts that are almost unstoppable on the battle-field (1 Space Marine really can sh!t kick 100 other dudes IMO). Sisters are good, but not THAT good!

 

Also I was trying to avoid the kind of story where the Sisters rampage through everyone and everything.

[cryptomancer]

Fair enough. Keep going. The violence is almost palpable!

[Shiva]

Great job, as always! :) *waits patiently for more to read* :D

[Lady_Canoness]

Here we go: Chapter 4!

 

I decided to move the end part for this chapter into the beginning of Chapter 5 in order to ensure that this one didn't come across as too drawn out with too many focal points.

 

As promised this scene includes the massive battle between the righteous Sisters and the heretical rebels, as well as several scenes that lead up to it and further the plot of other characters in the story. A main character dies in this installment as well.

 

As for Aribeth, this chapter brings focus to who she was in battle before we meet the blood-frenzied Khornate that she becomes. I tried to portray her as skilled, charismatic, and devout so that her fall will actually seem like a fall rather than a simple team-swap.

 

The next installment will include a scene that I'm sure you have all been secretly waiting for (though I won't tell you what that is!)

 

Here it is then, the 4th installment of the Saint Ascendant!

 

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Chapter 4

 

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Away from war… Away from battle… Death but a dream… She felt numbed – insulated – like the stars themselves were just slipping by as she slept in her blissful serenity. Everything was soft and soothing in her milky warmth – colours and shapes blended together and eased her senses into a rest of unperturbed peace.

 

It was so quiet… too quiet…

 

Off in the distance, a sensation, a shape. She willed herself towards it – curious as to what should invade her reverie. It carried as sound, a marching beat that led her onwards – carrying her to wherever it went.

 

Pa-thump… Pa-thump… Pa-thump…

 

She willed it closer, and closer it came, until it was right upon her.

 

With a gasping breath Serinae regained consciousness. Her heart was beating, driving life into the extremities of her limbs, and carrying back the pain it found there. She couldn’t hear – the world was deaf to her. She couldn’t see – how now it blinded her. She tried to move, but her limbs felt sluggish and weak.

With great struggling effort she turned her head, feeling her helmet scrape against the pavement as it protested against her movement. Then a leg – yes her leg was moving! After that, an arm – flopping back onto her chest as she willed herself back to life.

It seemed like an eternity in which she slowly recaptured her body from the clutches of death. Slowly, ever so slowly, she came alive. Rolling onto her stomach she forced herself up to her feet, her mind reeling as she stood alone amongst the carnage.

Thorium charges are high-grade explosives often used for specialised demolitions of buildings as well as small starships, but rarely in military endeavours due to a lack of fragmentation which reduces the damage radius of the charge outside of the immediate explosion. The charges were designed to inflict massive damage on that which they were close to, while leaving the surrounding area largely intact. Burying the charges under loose rubble however, increased their lethality exponentially.

The Repressor had been virtually on top of one of the charges, and had been vaporised in the explosion along with all its passengers. A Rhino that had been caught in the blast was now resting upside-down in the ruins of a collapsed store-front – there were no signs of life from within, only the steady burn of leaked fuel tanks. Further down the street, away from the explosions, half a Rhino transport tank still smouldered on its side, its blackened hull hurled down the length of the road by the tremendous explosion that claimed its other half. There were bodies everywhere. At least two dozen Sisters lay dead, their bodies broken by the flying debris. Some had been pulverised by large chunks of masonry and metal that had crushed the life from them. Others had bled to death, and at least a couple had been decapitated by the jagged rubble. All of this Serinae witnessed as she approached that most deadly of crossroads.

Sister Viola was still alive when she found her, though barely. She lay paralyzed on her back, her breath coming in short pained gasps. An iron spike protruded from her chest, painting red the white armour with her own life-blood. Noticing that Serinae approached, she tried to speak, but a horrible gurgling of her bloody wound kept her mute.

Under most circumstances Serinae would consider granting the Emperor’s peace, but she couldn’t kill her friend here, not while Viola still clutched at every strand of life even thought they slipped like sand through her fingers into oblivion. All she could do was wait with her, pressing Viola’s chaplet into her slackening hand, holding it with her until the Emperor’s grace should release her.

“No one who ever died in the Emperor’s service died in vain,” she whispered more to herself than her friend, “no one.”

 

* * * *

 

“How can you claim that we are betrayed?” Hildegard asked, his one eye bulging in disbelief. No one in the Command Squad was taking the accusation easily, but the battle-priest was taking it far worse that the others. He seemed grimly set to deny the involvement of any other factor in the incident, so convinced he was that the ambush was the machinations of the enemy. Aribeth didn’t have a specific reason why she thought what she did – at times of war such certainty was indeed a rare commodity – she just knew that it felt wrong. No one other than herself, a few Sister Superiors, Rienburg, and several individuals in the upper echelons of Imperial command within the city knew of the attack, and fewer still knew of the attack rout.

“I do not deny that I am without proof in this matter, priest, but I will not pass this off as mere chance!” the Palatine said, staring daggers at the battle priest.

“As you wish, my lady,” Hildegard said, submitting to the will of the Sororita, “but if you are correct, I fear that we are heading into a trap.”

“That may be,” Augusta said, pulling off her helmet and placing it on her lap, “but traps can work both ways.”

“You’re suggesting that we walk right into the thick of it? Make ourselves the bait? How would that work?” Hildegard asked.

“They think that we will come head-on regardless of what they throw our way, we do just that – let them think that they have the upper hand – then turn the tide against them.” Aribeth added; the ingenious of Augusta’s plan unfolding before her. She didn’t consider herself a master of strategy, in fact she dismissed the entire notion, but she had her moments.

“Exactly,” the Celestian Superior nodded, leaning forward in her seat. “We’ll need to split our forces, Palatine; otherwise we’ll have nothing to spring.”

“Our armour will be separated from the infantry and take up a flanking position.”

“Are you sure that is wise, Lady Palatine? Without armoured support we’ll be horribly vulnerable!” Sister Atrides exclaimed, the ignorance of youth apparent within her.

“If this is a trap, then our armour is useless already – their anti-tank weapons would be too well prepared. Yet if this is not a trap, as Sister Atrides said, we will be hard pressed without it.” Clara replied.

Aribeth nodded, and flexed her gauntleted hands – as she was wont to do in times of indecision. Clara was right of course; the choice could be damning either way, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that this was no coincidence. But what if it was? Was she dooming her Sisters? No, the explosion was deliberate, this is a trap. Or is it? Unexplained explosions are common on a battlefield, what makes this one any different? The timing, the placement, the damage inflicted, the proximity of the enemy, everything. Coincidence? Unlikely.

“Alert all units in the spearhead to stop short and disembark. We’re going in on foot.”

Augusta nodded gravely and voxed the driver to relay the orders. Her scarred face was uncompromising, but her twisted lips betrayed the faintest hint of a smile as she spoke to the driver. Her blood sang, and she thirsted for battle – a warrior to the heart she was - rejoicing in the heat of battle as death swirled and danced about her. A firm blade in her hands, armour plated on her breast, and the foe of Man before her: that was her love – that was all she asked for – and should death come for her, what a death it would be! Nothing had killed her yet, though try as it might, and nothing but the greatest of deaths would fell her now.

To Sister Atrides however, it was different. She was young, and as of yet unscarred. She had never felt the chill of impending doom upon her like the veteran Sister Superior had. She knew battle, she knew war, and she knew her duty to the Emperor, but she had yet to feel death steal away her breath – and be forced to claw it back. She loaded her storm bolter and racked back the slide, before laying it on her lap and donning her Celestian’s helm and clasping it into place – the helmet hiding her nervous eyes behind the tinted slits.

Aribeth was nervous too. Not for herself, not for her Sisters – those she could count on. She was nervous for the unknown. What was she leading them into? Would the Emperor and His Saints provide and protect? She was carrying the torch into the night – would she see the light before the burnt out and the darkness surrounded her?

The Immolator ground to a halt. The rest of the column fanned out around it and stopped – their passengers disembarking.

 

A half-dozen blocks ahead of them the open expanse of the plaza loomed. In the past the plaza had been a magnificent place: countless mosaics dotted its great surface, and in the summer months one could be sure to smell the fresh produce and sweet spices brought to market there. Festivals would be held upon it; the dancers and troubadours adding their flamboyant colours to the dyed stone beneath their feet.

Now that was little more than a shattered memory. The plaza was a killing field. Its decorative surface had been ripped up by craters and gunfire. Piles of debris and makeshift cover dotted its once smooth surface. The dancers of days past had been replaced by corpses – corpses that lay were they had fallen, for no one had the spirit to move them. The colours, once so rich and vibrant, were now red and grey – the colours of fresh war.

Flanking the plaza were rows of tall buildings, now abandoned, that had once served as the homes for members the city’s middle class. Now they harboured sharpshooters, heavy weapons, and scum.

Across the plaza, five hundred yards away, ran Jeromia’s mighty river, and the wide-laned bridge that thwarted it. On the opposite side of the river loomed the local administration building – their target.

 

Creeping ahead of the main body of Sisters, Aribeth, her Celestians, the priest, and the Sister Superior’s of many squads including the elite Seraphim, slowly edged into the pitted shells of the buildings that they had just earlier that day defended.

Peering over the lip of what was once a ground-floor window sill, Sister Rylke shook her head before turning back to face Aribeth and her approaching entourage. “They have been expecting us, Lady Palatine,” she said grimly.

Aribeth crept up beside her and looked out over the plaza - Rylke guiding her eyes with slight motions of her fingers. At first the plaza appeared to be clear – there was no sign of movement over the twisted bodies of the dead – but upon a closer look she could just make out features that were too apparent to be anything but purposely constructed gun pits and barriers.

Clara nudged her gently and pointed out across the plaza; “the bodies,” she whispered. Most of them weren’t even dead. Occasionally one would shift, or raise its head to look about before settling back down. So that is how they had planned to strike them: wait until the Sisters were in their midst before rising up all around them.

“Now do you see, priest?” Aribeth murmured back to Hildegard as he tried to sneak even closer to the ruin’s edge, “what more proof do you need than this to know that we have been betrayed?”

The priest grimaced, then turned to look the Palatine in the eye, “The enemies of Man are deceivers and tricksters all, yet there are many means by which the unholy can usurp the righteous, the least of which being betrayal.” Spoken like a true battle priest, Aribeth thought, stubborn to the last.

The plaza was not alone in occupation however, for as Clara discretely pointed-out the buildings on either side harboured the waiting enemy. Potential sniper nests were visible across the rooftops, and windows were threateningly agape – waiting for heavy weapons to be brought forward.

Aribeth turned from the edge of the building and clambered back to the cratered center as quietly as possible. The rest of her entourage awaited her orders there.

“Sister Superiors,” she said, gauging their reactions to what lay ahead of them, “I do not doubt that the heretics have been preparing for this battle and that they are determined to crush us with their treasonous ways. We have lost much by their hands already, and they are confident that we will lose more, but they have utterly failed to see what it is they are fighting: it is not our guns, our armour, or even our flesh – such things are fallible, mortal, and do not last – it is His will that they are fighting, and His will has never faltered. Today we do not fight them as mortal women, but as the instrument through which the Emperor’s will is made manifest. And though we may crumble and die – our bodies broken and burned as they are wont to do – the Emperor’s will never falters, and His saints are always vigilant. I say this to you now, Sisters, not through fear of failure or death – for I know that we indeed cannot die and cannot fail – I say this because I believe we are not here to simply kill an enemy – any soldier can do that – but we are here to purge a blasphemy that has harboured itself in mortal men. Today, when they die – and die they shall – they will know the truth of the Emperor, and the damnation which they have prepared for themselves!”

The assembled Sister Superiors bowed their heads and murmured prayers to the Emperor and His saints. Had this been an incident of less discretion, Aribeth would have expected hymnals as cheers, but given the circumstances, a silent prayer would have to do. With the rousing speech done it was now time to win this war, for all her passion would be for nought if she couldn’t lead her Sisters to victory.

“Sister Superior Alexia,” she addressed the tall, slender faced veteran, “lead your Seraphim against the roof-tops to the south, clear them, then purge the buildings however you see fit. We will cover you from any ground fire.”

“Your will, and His grace.” The Seraphim Superior replied.

“Sister Superior Mistcha,” the battle-scarred veteran met the Palatine’s eyes with fierce determination, “Lead your squad and two other squads of your choice along the north-most edge of the plaza – you know the routine.”

“I do, Lady Palatine,” she answered, “and this time I shall fight through whatever the Emperor wills me to!”

Aribeth smiled – Mistcha was eager to redeem herself in the Palatine’s eyes after her near capitulation at the Guild Square – though, to Aribeth, she needed not redeem herself, for her past actions spoke of a dedicated servant of the Emperor with Guild Square nothing but a blemish on her pride.

“Sister Cassandra,” Aribeth turned to the veteran Immolator commander who had been sitting quietly nearby – her light plate armour and open-faced crusader pattern helm setting her aside from the heavily armoured Sisters as a career tank commander - indeed she looked oddly disquieted away from her beloved vehicle. However, despite whatever oddities she might possess, Cassandra was a capable leader, and her skills as an Immolator commander would prove essential to victory.

“What would you have me do, Palatine?” Cassandra answered, her voice smooth and quiet – as if she were unaccustomed to being addressed in the presence of so many of her Sisters.

“I trust that you can lead the armoured column?”

She nodded in affirmation.

“I want you to take all available Immolators, Rhinos, and Repressors into a flanking position and cut off the enemy’s access to the bridge. I leave the particulars to your discretion – just ensure that you lead them in hot; resistance will likely be fierce.”

“In His name.” Cassandra said, bowing her head, before rising and hastening back towards her vehicles.

“Sisters,” Aribeth said to all those whom she had not yet addressed, “follow my lead as we take the fight to the enemy’s heart!”

“In His name we smite the unworthy, with bolter and chainsword we cleanse their taint!” the Sister Superiors chorused, linking their hands across their chests in the sign of the Aquila.

“What about the sleepers, my Lady?” Augusta asked, motioning back in the direction of the plaza.

“I believe that it is time that they are roused to the Emperor’s shining glory.” said Aribeth, before striding back out of the ruins, the Celestians following at her heels.

 

* * * *

 

It was ironic in a way, Bonis thought, that such peace could be found in the heart of war. Yet their was no denying that here amongst the abattoir of the city, where death and bloody murder reigned supreme, that a small measure of peace still managed to find itself amongst the violence. Peace through war; that is what he had always been told – that peace was only an illusion that was brought on by war. Was the Imperium ever at peace? He doubted it. There were always armies, soldiers, and fighting somewhere. Yet even here, where war held the city of his birth in its iron grip of tanks and men, pure unadulterated peace existed – granted it was in the most extraordinary circumstances. Not peace through war, but rather peace through death.

Before him lay a score of Sisters, all of them dead – dead like the cross-roads, dead like the buildings, dead like the misguided men who had held it. The world around him was shredded beyond repair, with the twisted remains of tanks and the rubble strewn streets bearing witness to what had transpired there not but twenty-five minutes earlier. Yet even amongst all this, peace had prevailed. The Sisters – their bodies broken, and their white armour marred and stained red with blood – were at peace; freed from the carnage around them.

The corpses had been laid gently side by side in a line. Their faces were like those of sleeping angels with eyes gently closed and mouths content, innocent of all the pain that be wrought upon them in life.

How had it come to this? Why was he here? Why did he live on with his retched life while his betters died? Why had his silence assented with the will of the Overlords? He wasn’t a fighter – not anymore – in his middle age his days of glory had faded. He was the shadow of the man he once was.

Off in the distance he heard a carried tune – organs – there were pipe organs playing in the city, carrying with them the grandeur of days of memory to his ears.

“Move and you’re dead!” a voice stung with anger said from behind him.

Bonis did what he was told and remained stock still, spreading his arms wide.

 

* * * *

 

The Glory of the Emperor’s Rise filled her ears and lifted her heart as the clear triumphant notes sang out from the twin Exorcists’ gleaming pipe organs mounted on the rear of the artillery tanks. She closed her eyes and let the music sweep through her – banishing fear and doubt, and imbuing her soul with visions of the deeds of great saints and mighty heroes. The victorious sounding of the pipes reverberated throughout the city, bringing the Emperor’s words to all who could hear it.

Aribeth opened her eyes and looked sky-ward, the gleam of the white hot sun illuminating her and the serried ranks of the faithful.

A wailing shriek cut through The Glory as the organists sent a salvo of missiles arcing into the sky. Seconds later the payloads smote the plaza beyond with the Emperor’s holy fire. The ground shook - blossoms of fire erupted into the mid-day sky – the cries of alarm were all but drowned out by the organs. So the Emperor’s work began.

Firmly gripping the hilt of her sword, the Palatine drew the weapon and lifted it high, blade pointed skyward and reflecting the sun’s dazzling rays around her figure for all the faithful to see.

Tucking a hand into the fold of his habit, Leroy Hildegard drew forth the Epistles Deus Imperator. His callused hands ran across the leather-bound cover of the sacred tome, opening to the thick parchment pages - passages his hand had memorised as well as his eye – and lifted the book above his bowed head, his chanting voice drowned to all but the Emperor’s ears by the great organs of the Exorcists.

Dust and smoke billowed from the plaza and spread into the air – a by-product of the terrible fury of the Exorcists unleashed against the God Emperor’s foes. Aribeth swung the shining sword above her head and thrust it forward. On her mark the Seraphim took to the air - rising over the ruined buildings and into the smoke – their objective unseen to those on the ground. The armoured column engaged their engines and sped down the southern road under the Emperor’s watchful eye and Cassandra’s steady hand. Mistcha and the squads following her lead dashed north to confront the enemy cowering in their captured buildings. All other Sisters – a force nearing five-hundred faithful marching in perfect formation – followed Aribeth and the Preceptory’s black standard.

With a word the Exorcist guns fell silent – the tanks manoeuvring themselves into positions of support for the advancing Sisters of Battle.

Through the clouds of twisting dust and swirling smoke the Sisters strode, not one could see further than the Sister in front of her, but not one doubted or faltered. Aribeth had sheathed her sword and carried her bolter – a sixty round drum locked and loaded with each bolt consecrated and blessed. Sister Clara marched to her right – her bolter held across her chest – Sister Superior Augusta to her left – her Eviscerator purring in her hands. Sister Ariella held the Preceptory’s banner aloft a few strides behind her, with Sister Rylke and Sister Atrides on either side.

 

* * * *

 

The Seraphim engaged along the rooftops – pistols cracking and spiting in their fists as they swept down upon the foe. Las-fire and solid-slug rounds whipped around them and stung off their armour as the enemy counter-attacked – dozens of heretics swarmed onto the roof to meet the Sororitas elite, but the fifty Seraphim would not be overcome. The rooftops provided little cover for the heretics as they braved the perils of the heights, and many were ruthlessly cut down or immolated by the Sisters, or met their end plunging from their perch to the pavement below. Men on the ground scrambled through the plaza firing upwards at their graceful foes - turning all available weapons to the tops of the buildings whilst spears of flame burst from upper windows as the hand-flamers of the Seraphim fulfilled their sacred duties.

 

Sister Superior Alexia landed hard on an angled section of roofing, her greaves cracking the slate tiles and sending them clattering downwards until they tipped over the edge. A heretic appeared over the ledge twenty feet above her, firing wildly down upon the stranded Seraphim as she rolled to her left and levelled her bolt pistol sending a trio of shots up at the gunman. Two slammed into the cement barrier, but the third slammed into the man’s chest, dropping him out of her line of sight. She cursed – her jump pack had been hit by a stray las-round and had faltered, forcing her to land on the exposed side of the largest and most heavily fortified target buildings.

With the wailing scream of jump jets two helmeted Seraphim landed nimbly to her left and right. Holstering one of her bolt pistols to better steady herself on the steep incline of the roof, Sister Mira scrambled over to the Alexia, “Sister Superior, are you injured?”

“No, thank the Emperor, a minor dysfunction in my equipment. Nothing that I can’t handle. Thank you for your concern all the same.” she replied.

The other Seraphim carefully negotiated her way down the incline towards the edge until she was bellow them: “There appears to be a fault on this section of the roof!” she hollered over the din of battle, “it could be forced with relative ease!”

Alexia looked across at Mira, meeting her eye, “come,” she said, “it’s time for us to go.”

Mira nodded, and the top half of her helmet exploded inwards as the penetrator round blew through her helmet and blasted fragments of her helmet, skull, and brain out across the tiles. The body swayed for a second as if surprised by its own death, before slowly tilting forward and tumbling down the rooftop.

“LOOK OUT!” Alexia screamed, as the other Seraphim looked up to see the armoured corpse rolling down the tiles towards her. She threw herself to the right in an attempt to evade her fallen comrade, but was clipped by the Seraphim’s body and was thrown off balance, then she too began to tumble head-over-heals towards the edge. She crashed down the side of the roof and picked up speed as the weight of her own armour acted out against her. Her hands grasped for a hold – anything that might allow her regain her stability and stop her fatal fall – but her gauntleted fingers slipped, unable to find purchase on any of the smooth surfaces as she fell past. And then… nothing. She was over the edge… she was falling.

At the last possible moment Alexia dove towards her Sister, lunging for her grasping hands as she slipped off the edge. She closed her fingers around her wrist and held on, bracing herself lest the momentum of the other Seraphim carry her too over the edge.

Sister Mira fell away, her limp body twisting through the air, until she hit the ground five-hundred feet below with a sickening crunch.

Sister Vollaya dangled helplessly, her legs kicking out in search of something upon which to support her, but there was nothing.

A second sniper’s bullet exploded the tile inches from Alexia’s head. Her grip was slipping. She was leaning dangerously far over the edge, and she could feel her body slowly losing its purchase on the thin gutter that separated the roof from the drop. In desperation she reached out with her other hand, fingers outstretched, and leaned over as far as she dared.

“Take my other hand! Quickly! We don’t have much time!”

Vollaya reached out, but missed – she was dangling precariously over the edge with nothing but the Sister Superior’s hand for support.

Far below, a red puddle was spreading around Mira’s shattered corpse.

“Trigger your jump pack! Get yourself out of here! That’s an order!” Alexia screamed – sweat was pouring from her brow into her helmet as she strained to maintain her grip on the swaying seraphim.

The jets ignited – the weight started to lessen.

The third penetrator round sped from the sniper’s rifle. The jetpack exploded in a ball of yellow flame as the bullet passed through it and buried itself in Vollaya’s sternum. The weight rapidly increased, and the Seraphim slipped further from the Sister Superior’s grasp, until she held only her fingers.

Vollaya gurgled and screamed in her helmet as the short-circuiting jetpack fried her flesh within her own armour.

“Sister – Sister!” she gasped.

“Not like this! Not now!” Alexia shouted down at her, anger, frustration, and lament coursing through her spirit.

Vollaya reached to her holster with a shaking hand and pulled an inferno pistol free. She held the weapon as high as she could, grip first.

“Please – end it… save yourself… Emperor!” she blurted.

With great difficulty she wrapped her fingers around the pistol, and activated it with a flick of her thumb. Her body shuddered under the strain she was putting on it. She sighted along the pistol’s barrel, down towards Vollaya’s swaying form – her eyes pleading out to the Sister Superior from inside her helmet.

Whispering a short prayer, she squeezed the trigger – incinerating Vollaya in a heart-beat – all she had now was the limp arm she held by the fingers. She held onto it – Vollaya would not go unremembered so long as she drew breath.

The great weight relieved, she carefully dragged herself up onto the short stone gutter before the fall and clambered back up the roof. She pressed the muzzle of the inferno pistol against the roof tiles and fired – the roof instantly fell away beneath her, and she crashed into the sparsely lit loft. With the inferno pistol in her right hand, bolt pistol in her left, and Sister Vollaya’s arm in a satchel on her belt, Alexia moved into the building and joined her Sisters in the furious fighting therein.

 

* * * *

The white armoured line emerged from the storm of dust and smoke, and strode into the fighting in the plaza – bolters raised and roaring - the nearest heretics cut to ribbons by their merciless guns. Surprised by the sudden and deadly appearance of the hundreds of Sororitas killing in their midst, the heretics in the plaza broke and scattered – running every which way to flee the guns of the faithful.

“Elizabeth, left flank! Maria, right flank! Let none escape us!” Aribeth shouted into her vox as the Sisters rose up in pursuit of the heathen foe. “Destroy the faithless! Kill them all! Let none escape to spread their taint!”

The Sisters of Battle deployed into three separate prongs for their assault through the plaza’s grounds, driving the foe before them. Sporadic fire lashed back at the Sisters from the buildings on either side, but it was wild and untrained – firing out of panic rather than discipline.

Aribeth pressed forward, ducking and dodging through the fire that fell around her. Up ahead she could see the enemy regrouping and diving for cover behind their barricades; they had found their nerve – or their infernal masters had found it for them – soon the fighting would begin in earnest.

“To cover!” she shouted – the Sisters and Celestians directly around dropped behind barricades, rubble-piles, or if nothing was available, fell prone and crawled out of the enemy’s arc of fire as shots whizzed overhead.

Aribeth ducked behind a burnt-out civilian vehicle with two other Sisters as she assessed the situation. The Seraphim had engaged the along the south, and Mistcha and her squads were moving along the buildings to the north – their flamers scouring the lower levels of the heretic filth. Maria’s command was moving rapidly up the right flank with relatively light opposition, but the Sisters under Elizabeth were pinned down by heavy resistance from both the plaza and the buildings.

Heavy fire shredded the rear section of the vehicle and knocked flat the Sister sheltering there: dazed but unhurt, she snatched up her fallen weapon and scrambled back into cover.

Aribeth peered up over the blackened hood of the car: the enemy had brought up some time of heavy machinegun and had it deployed thirty yards directly in front of them, and were pounding a stream of heavy calibre shells into their positions.

“Sister Clara,” she called over the vox, as she quickly twisted around the edge of her cover and sent a burst of bolter rounds across the plaza – a spray of blood from a heretic’s chest confirming the kill – “Sister Clara, can you get a clear shot at the heavy weapon?”

“Negative Sword, I can’t see the target.” Clara voxed from a dozen or so meters away, as she ducked back into cover while las-fire shredded the masonry where her head had been but a few scant seconds before.

Aribeth flinched involuntarily as a heavy shell ricocheted off the metal automobile and spun furiously past her helmet. If they delayed much longer they would be over-run, but playing the fool in a fire-fight could see them dead even faster.

Sister Rylke sprinted across the open ground and dove into cover beside Aribeth, her heavy flamer held at the ready.

“With your permission, Palatine?” she asked, holding the igniter to the weapon’s twin barrels and lighting the pilot lights.

To her left a Sister buckled and died as a heavy shell that caught her in the open punched through her chest. Aribeth plucked a frag grenade from her belt and hurled it over the vehicle towards the enemy position, the four-second fuse causing the grenade to explode violently and shower the enemy position with lethal shrapnel.

“For the glory of the Emperor!” she cried, drawing her sword and charging out from behind cover, the Sisters along the line following her lead. Fire spat out towards her, and she could see the enemy desperately re-manning the machinegun – its former crew now little more than ragged corpses - and trying to train it on the rapidly advancing Sisters.

Rylke’s heavy flamer ignited the air and hurled long gouts of flame through the air to bathe the heretics in the purifying flames of purgation. The damned writhed in agony as the fire consumed their flesh with a terrifying hunger - they screamed for a release, but none was given as the Sisters passed them by with utter contempt.

Sword drawn, Aribeth led her Sisters around the inferno, and in the direction of the bridge of Jeromia’s River. The enemy were in complete panic and ran every which way – some back towards the bridge, others into the thick of the fighting.

A trio of las-shots struck Aribeth in the chest, the impacts causing her to stumble in her advance, but her armour held and she regained her feet as an ogre of a man barrelled towards her screaming in wordless rage, a rusty rock-hammer clenched in his meaty fists. She shot him in both knees – the explosive bolts blasting great chunks of flesh and gristle from his legs – and he came crashing down. Aribeth leapt forward and struck his head from his shoulders in one clean blow before his body hit the ground. A second heathen struck out against her with a shock maul, but his attack was sloppy, and she easily parried the blow before opening his bowels to the world with a low sweep of her shining power sword.

Brother Hildegard ran past her - his face and robes streaked with the blood of the faithless – his eviscerator daubed red with gore – and launched himself at the foe, screaming the battle hymnals of the Emperor in their faces as he cut them down mercilessly. A red-robed heathen, his face branded with infernal symbols, charged the good priest, swinging a pair of brutal hand axes. The eviscerator is not a weapon designed for defensive combat, and Hildegard did not use it as such: stabbing the two-meter chainblade forward, the bloodied battle priest impaled the screaming man on his roaring blade, before ripping the eviscerator free and letting the heretic fall to the ground in two separate pieces.

“Never shall my devotion cease! Never!” he shouted, launching himself into battle once more, heedless of the las-blasts that crackled around him or glanced off his weapon. He charged headlong into the fray, a dozen heretics rose up to meet him – their weapons raised with murderous intent. A solid round thudded into his protective jerkin, but so strong was his fervour that he felt no pain. A las blast ripped open his cheek, tearing a second mouth into the side of his face, but still he charged onwards into their midst. The eviscerator descended in an unstoppable arc and cleft the first man in half – the second was gored by the reverse stroke. A third heretic, a grizzled brute of a man, leaped at the priest, and ducking away from the roaring chainblade stabbed Brother Hildegard through the hip with a long-bladed knife – for which he was rewarded by the eviscerator tearing through his back and shredding his life-giving organs. With a grunt Leroy pulled the blade free from his leg and tossed it aside, blood flooded from his wound – an artery had been severed – and he knew that he would soon be dead.

“Emperor!” he cried to the sky as he imbedded his eviscerator firmly into another heathen’s chest, “I stand before you pious as the day I was ordained – even in death I will not falter. By your will is my mortal toil complete? Have I served you adequately to pass on to the Eternity Gate, and stand in your divine halls where in the presence of those great and rightly revered who have gone before shall humble me with deeds that I could never aspire to imitate? Is the path open for one such as me?”

From behind the battered priest came swift death born upon the shoulders of a red robed heathen – his axe raised high – striking downward on Hildegard’s unprotected back bringing a death that he freely accepted – only to be denied by the energised steel of a gleaming sword. Aribeth stepped in to parry the blow and stuck it aside, before slamming her shoulder into the cultist’s ribs and knocking him backwards. The cultist regained his balance and flung himself at the Palatine - striking out with his axe at her helmeted head – she stepped past the blow and sliced off his arm, before bearing him to the ground and penetrating his fragile heart with determined steel. Ignoring the dying priest a ragged woman dressed in sullied worker’s garb lunged at Aribeth with a crude spear – Aribeth batted the blow away, and Augusta charged in to finish the deal with one broad stroke of her gore spattered eviscerator.

The battle priest was kneeling and leaning heavily on his weapon when the Sister Palatine reached him.

“My Lady…” he wheezed, his voice faint and his features pale, his life blood pooling around him and soaking his habit.

“Be still priest, you aren’t dead yet.”

He smiled as best he could with his original mouth. “Perhaps not… but I fear that this time there will be no last glorious charge for Brother Leroy. I have served Him with all my being, and I have lived without doubt because of it… but as I die, I cannot help but feel sorrow.”

“What?” Aribeth said, leaning closer to the priest as he slowly slumped to the ground – his eviscerator clattering to the ground beside him.

“His will requires sacrifice you know – a sacrifice that I was willing to give. But there will be a time…” he grunted – death was standing over him now, waiting as the sands of his life slowly ran out.

“A time for what priest?”

He swallowed – a difficult task now that his face was ruined. “There will be a time when you have nothing left… nothing left to sacrifice.” He coughed, and laid his head to rest on the ground.

Aribeth took Leroy’s eviscerator and handed it to the priest. He welcomed the weapon like an old friend, and held it tight to his chest.

“The Emperor protects” he said, and breathed his last.

Aribeth, rose from the corpse and made the sign of the Aquila across her chest. She had witnessed death many times before, but seeing the priest die left her cold, as did his dying words.

A lasbolt rang off her armour – there was still a war to be won – she dashed forward to rejoin her Sisters is persecuting the foe, leaving Hildegard alone amongst the bodies of the fallen.

 

-------------------------------

 

On a side note, I would be interested in knowing how you precieve Aribeth as a character. How is she coming across? What is your reaction to her? All this would help me develope her character and make sure that she is presented the way that I want her to be.

 

Thanks for reading!

[Spacefrisian]

Just wondering wich codex to use to represent chaos sisters. Chaos marines or Witch hunters. The Cult marines make some nice conversions for sisters.

 

BTW: many Khorne and Slaanesh variants but not many of the other 2 and the revenge thing seems more suitable with Malal.

[Lady_Canoness]

If you're going to be using a large amount of fallen Sisters, I would recommend using the WH codex and just renaming the Acts of Faith in a more chaotic fashion (spirit of the martyr just won't cut it for the Chaos Gods).

 

If you're only doing one Sister (like Aribeth) I was going to use the Chaos Lord entry from the new CSM codex and go from there. However, I am now considering writing my own rules for using her in my games.

 

As for Malal, well I really don't know much about him, so I don't intented to mention him at all.

[Shiva]

Yet again, another wonderful read! B) I love the scenes of Aribeth giving her speech before the Sisters begin battle, and the description of the Exorcist - that was awesome! :)

 

To me...Aribeth comes off as strong but solem - she inspires her comrads as a competent, intellegent, faithful leader, but (and it just seems to me, I could be wrong) I get the feeling that she's "holding a piece of herself back". Not that she isn't willing to give her all for the Emperor or even her very life for one of her fellow Sisters....but it seems that, unlike some fanatical believers, she's willing to at least question why things have to be the way they have to be, even if her next move is to follow to the death those very orders she's just questioned. She's a very "real" character - very human, very easily related to. You can listen to what she's thinking and almost say "man...I know what she means...I've felt that way before."

Anywho...I hope that helps and doesn't sound too stupid! :P Bring on the next installment!! ;)

[Alex.ö]

I´ve just read this entire thread, and all I can say is that it´s awesome in any way you look at it...

 

Congratulations man, you made my day!

[Lady_Canoness]

I'm glad you like it Alex.o, and I'm even more glad that it made your day!

 

To all readers/lurkers, the next installment will likely be out in a week or two, and as I said before, it likely holds the moment that you've all been waiting for (and no it is not sister on sister action so don't even go there!).

 

I've also written up some houserules for Aribeth as both the Palatine and the Fallen Saint - those will most likely go up after the next installment. I was thinking that she could be used as an additional adversary when using the Fallen Saint, or as a special character for a SoB force. If you think that is doable (or complete BS) than I'm open for suggestions as to how one could feasibly use her in a game [either drop me a PM or post your thoughts].

 

Thanks for reading!

 

-LC

[cryptomancer]

Nicely done. I think I see Aribeth as a character of deep concern. She has concern for her Sisters, concern for her mission, even concern for the Imperium (as shown by her interactions with the Inquisitor, whom it seems she does not entirely trust). She's a worrier, which is quite realistic. She keeps having to pull herself from moments of self-reflection and intense emotion, which also helps this portrayal.

 

She also seems like a bit of a pessimist, probably a viewpoint forced upon her by the losses she and her command have suffered. She's the best kind of faithful, the faith that shines out as the lone beacon of hope amongst the horrible blood-soaked crap of reality. She's not blind in her faith; instead, it's her refuge. That makes her Fall all the more desolate. She loses her faith, and all that's left is the violence, anger and frustration.

[Lady_Canoness]

Nicely put Crypto, you're really giving good feedback on how I wanted her to look - as well as pointing out things that I hadn't even noticed!

 

Thanks for the reply!

[Lady_Canoness]

Ah yes, time again to post another Chapter in the tale of Palatine Aribeth.

 

This one is probably contains one of the most crucial aspects leading to her fall, for in this installment a serious blow is dealt to her faith.

 

Now, I promised that I would include the part that everyone had been secretely waiting for in this installment, and I keep my promises! In this installment I tackled what I think is that hardest possible task for any 40k fluff writer: describing Space Marines in a way that leaves that warm fuzzy feeling inside because they are so bad-ass! But no, I'm not going to have the Emperor's finest barge in and steal the show from the Sisters of Battle, but Marines do make an appearance in this installment. I tried my best to make them uber bad-ass, but not immortal, and I think that I reached a pretty good balance where fans of the big dudes in Power Armour will be proud - we'll see if you agree with me.

 

Also in this installment we meet another Inquisitor character, Inquisitor Montrose, a fellow that plays a contrasting yet supporting role to Galtman.

 

Alas Sister Serinae and Bonis do not feature in this installment, and will reappear in a suitable fashion in the next one.

 

Enjoy!

 

-------------------------------

 

The Fifth Installment of the Saint Ascendant

 

-------------------------------

 

 

 

Dirt and dust flew about wildly in all directions as the Aquila Lander rotated slowly above the courtyard before lowering itself gently onto the makeshift landing pad, and cutting the thrusters; letting the typhoon of debris settle back around it. The courtyard was dry and sparse – no one having had tended to the gardens since the outbreak of the war – and with the stalling of the Lander’s turbines, it was also very quiet. At the far end of the narrow courtyard the old wooden doors creaked open as Inquisitor Galtman – dressed in a plain black over-coat with his Inquisitorial rosette pinned at his collar – emerged from the cool shadows of the chapel into the dry heat of the garden; his high black boots crunching through the yellowed grass.

The cupola over the cockpit of the Lander slid back, and a man climbed free of the craft before jumping to the ground with a quiet thump and straightening out his clothes. He was well dressed – a stylised tailored jacket embroidered with fine scarlet and gold lace hung perfectly off his narrow frame, underneath which a pressed white vest with golden adornments was visible. His pants were also white and fit snugly to his legs, and his boots wore a spotless shine. An Inquisitorial rosette hung on a silver chain around his neck. He smiled genuinely as he saw Galtman approaching; revealing white teeth framed between a conservative moustache and beard. Galtman did not smile back.

“Galtman old man!” he remarked as he approached the black clad Inquisitor – his arms out in welcoming gesture as if he were meeting an old friend for the first time in years.

“I was thinking that you would have come in something a little bigger.” Inquisitor Galtman said nodding towards the Aquila Lander – ignoring the other man’s greeting completely.

“What? And not have kept up my appearances? My dear friend, I would not dare to show up dressed in rags – and with the prices of Terran fashions being so high these days – well you can see how one might not be able to afford a bigger ship! Had it not been for the perks of the job, I’m afraid I would have been sent down in a wash basin!” He laughed and clapped Galtman on the shoulder as the two walked back across the courtyard towards the waiting doors.

“Instead you show up as if you got lost on your way to the governor’s ball.”

“And you his funeral!” The man laughed again and slapped Galtman’s thigh, earning himself angry glare that he clearly missed amidst laughing at his own joke.

They stepped over the threshold into the empty chapel, and the man wiped the smile from his face and became instantly serious.

“Is this place secure, Inquisitor Galtman?” he asked.

“It is, Inquisitor Montrose. Can we get down to the matters at hand?”

“Right,” Montrose said, seating himself in an empty pew and pulling a data-slate and a small package from his jacket pocket, placing the latter beside him while scrolling through the former with his index finger. “Why don’t you begin by telling me what you’ve discovered here?”

Galtman paced down the center aisle with his hands held behind his back, before turning around and walking back in Montrose’s direction.

“After having crushed the activities of a rather small blood cult on Thravian V, an agent in my service uncovered incomplete information regarding as to the whereabouts of affiliated, or ‘parent’, cults.” Galtman said as he paced back to the threshold and looked out into the brightly lit courtyard, before turning back around and continuing to speak. “This discovery led me to believe that these cults were not the work of mere demagoguery, but rather a more organized and determined intelligence.”

“And have you found anything to confirm these assumptions?” Montrose asked, still examining his data-slate.

“Not yet.” Galtman said. “However, this place was referenced by the source as having a sect of the very same cult, and that is what I intend to uncover. This uprising is no chance occurrence instigated by civil unrest – I am certain that the cult used these people as an instrument with which to divert us from their real goals.”

“Always going on about your damn tools, eh?” Montrose muttered before sliding his data-slate back into his pocket and standing up. “I fear that you are correct, and it is fortuitous that we can work together in this, for I am afraid that this may well be too much for only one Inquisitor to handle – even for ones as resourceful as ourselves.”

Galtman frowned and leaned back against the stone wall of the chapel; “What makes you say that?”

Montrose stepped closer and held up the package – slicing the seal with a small blade attached to one of the rings on his fingers – before tilting back the lid.

“Do you know what this is?” he said, holding the package out for Galtman to look inside.

Galtman recoiled at the sight of it, whispering a prayer to the Emperor as he looked quickly away.

“Yes,” he said, “Yes, I know what that is… I’ve just never seen one so… ‘fresh’ before. Where did you find it?”

Montrose closed the lid and slid the package back into his pocket.

“Well, you may recall of that incident twenty-seven years ago on one of the Black Ships.”

Galtman arched an eyebrow and folded his arms; “Remind me.”

“Twenty-seven years ago one of the Black Ships, we know not which exactly, was in transit to Nemesis Tessera when it was becalmed in the warp for a duration recorded as four weeks. At that time - nobody knows when or how - one of the prisoners escaped.”

“WHAT?” Galtman asked, his voice raised in disbelief.

“As I said, nobody knows when he did it or how he did it, all they know is that he disappeared… while the ship was in the warp… he just vanished. No trace was found of him – they scoured the ship in every feasible way, but he was gone.”

“Who is he?”

“ ‘He’ is a beta level psyker. He was untrained and unsanctified – a danger to anyone and everyone. However, unlike many rogue psykers that escape custody, he did not exert his powers, in fact it seemed like he was trying to hide them, and at the same time hide himself – from us. He’s been on the run for almost thirty years now, moving from planet to planet, never staying in the same place, running and hiding – the usual stuff. Two years ago I got on his trail – nearly captured him twice – but the bastard is slippery, and I would always be just two steps behind him. On the last planet he was on, the planet Hubris, I found out that I was not alone in looking for him,” he patted the jacket pocket where the package rested, “they are too. Now, with what you have just told me – your cult creating what looks like a diversion and such – I think that they are here, now, on this planet, and they are looking for him.”

Galtman exhaled deeply and ran a hand through his short hair. “This just keeps getting better and better,” he said dryly.

“On the contrary,” Montrose whispered, “it keeps getting worse and worse.”

 

* * * *

 

He sprinted left around the rubble piles and into the scorched foyer of a burnt out apartment complex. Gunfire cracked around him, and he ducked as a stray bullet whizzed over-head. Diving into the cover of a crumbling doorway he tossed his busted lasgun aside in exchange for a solid looking autogun, snatching it from the charred grasp of its previous owner – the blackened skull leering at him accusingly as he stole the weapon – seconds before he smashed it into dust with his boot heel. He checked the clip – near full – and crept forward – weapon braced and raised.

Outside the war for the plaza raged on.

The white armoured women had all but taken the plaza – the rebels were still fighting in pocketed resistance, but many were fleeing, and many more had been slain.

An enemy ran past him - no more than thirty feet away – but he waited; it wasn’t time to be seen yet. Another warrior ran past him, closer this time. He followed her with his weapon and pulled the trigger – the gun kicking violently as it sent a slew of shots hammering towards the foe. He saw a couple shots spark off the woman’s armour, but most flew wide and smashed into the concrete. He let go of the trigger and hurriedly readjusted his aim as the enemy stopped and crouched low, raising her weapon to fire back. He squeezed the trigger tightly in two short pulls before ducking out of sight as the roaring retort of her gun smashed apart sections of the wall and showered him with debris. He shut his eyes tightly and fired the autogun blindly around the corner until it clanged dry. The bolter fire had stopped. He dropped the gun and crawled on his hands and knees out from his hiding place in search of another weapon. Outside he could hear more shouting as the enemy moved through the courtyard, yet it did not seem like they were approaching his hiding place, so he would be safe for the time being.

There was a soft clunk behind him. Eyes wide, he spun around – searching for the enemy that he was sure would be there – but there was nothing. His heart raced and his body trembled as his eyes glanced all about the blackened room, yet there was nothing on which they found purchase – everything was as it was. He was just about to turn around and resume his search for a weapon, when from the corner of his eye the grenade rolled in to view.

 

The blast flung the ragged body clear of the building where it landed with a crunching thump of cracking bones on the solid pavement.

“Clear!” shouted Sister Atrides, as she rose from her covered position and waved the Sisters Clara, Rylke, and Ariella forward along with another squad of Battle Sisters.

“+Report.+” Aribeth’s voice crackled over the vox-link in Sister Atrides’ helmet. The Palatine and the Celestian Superior had gone ahead while the rest of the Celestian squad fell back in support of Sister Mistcha’s forces in clearing the buildings. The fighting had been fierce; the enemy was well prepared and surprisingly tenacious, but they had underestimated the determination of the Sororitas, and all had been felled as a result.

“+We’re just behind you Palatine. Glory to the God Emperor, we shall carry this day!+”

“Understood,” Aribeth replied, glancing to her right, “Watch the north-western tower over the river; I think there’s a marksman up there – keep sharp, Sister.”

“+Aye, lady Palatine. I’ll let Sister Clara know. The Emperor Protects.+”

Aribeth rose from her covered position and stepped back into the open – bolter up and roaring. The bridge was within reach – no more than twenty yards away – and the enemy were falling back to the other side where they manned a second line of fortifications. To her left and right her Sisters were dug in, hurling explosive tipped bolts across the river as they traded fire with the foe. Before her the heretical and impure awaited the Emperor’s judgement through her steel, behind her were corpses – those of the honoured faithful intermingled with the apostate and the unworthy. More of her Sisters advanced through the plaza, as did the pair of Exorcists – their pipes alive and sounding the Return of the Saint to Thee – the twin organs playing in harmony with the voices of a multitude of the faithful as they raised the heavenly hymnals that lay in their hearts. Along the rooftops to the south the Seraphim could be seen standing clear and triumphant even as the buildings beneath their feet smouldered and burned in the wake of their wrath.

“+Sword, this is Tempestora. I am inbound in one minute. The way is paved for the faithful to tread, those that defy Him shall burn by the wayside.+”

Aribeth pulled the empty drum from her bolter and slammed a fresh one into place.

“Emperor guide me along the path of the righteous where my betters have tread…”

A mix of las-bolts and bullets cracked around her as she sent round after punishing round screaming across the river into the heathen foe.

“Emperor may your light shine forever in mine eyes as I look upon thee and all thy works in adoration and awe…”

A salvo of Exorcists missiles smote down upon the enemy, hurling dozens into the river rapid and immolating dozens more.

“Emperor may the spirits of all the blessed martyrs hold my mortal body in their care and fortify me against all who would seek to ruin your faithful servants…”

Through the gunfire and the sounding of the organs a faint tune could be heard as it grew ever louder despite the din of war that sought to smother it.

“Emperor steady my hand in your grasp, and let me visit your will upon those who would defy you…”

Aribeth rose up from behind cover, sword held aloft for all to see.

“Emperor infuse me with your divine fervour that I might surpass the faithless in all things to show them their iniquity…”

Las-bolts screamed past her as her Sisters followed the Palatine’s lead and abandoned their shelter – hundreds of Sororitas standing defiant before the hoards of the faithless, their white power armour gleaming like glorious dawn of the Emperor’s Ascension striking down those who would look upon them with terror and awe.

“Emperor make me thine instrument on this day; deliver me from the clutches of evil, and let all who see me see you as the Guardian of Mankind, or let them be struck down in thy name!”

The throaty roar of dozens of engines combined with the blessed hymns carried forth from scores of Laud Hailers punctuated the turmoil of battle as the column of white and black vehicles raced along the riverside towards the bridge – weapons blazing in fury and death. Heavy flamers sent gouges of flames hurtling over the expanse of the river and scoured the opposite bank. Heavy bolters ripped apart numberless foes with coruscating blasts of heavy calibre tracer fire. Pintle-mounted weapons chattered and bucked as the Sisters manning the guns swept them left and right and left and right - raking the enemy with the intense fusillade.

Screaming out the Emperor’s praise from the turret of her Immolator, Sister Cassandra spurred her tank forward onto the bridge – incoming fire ringing harmlessly off the hull – as she cut through swaths of infantry with the incandescent beams of raw energy emitting from the twin multi-meltas fixed to the turret. Immolators, Repressors, and Rhinos followed their commander’s fearless charge and barrelled across the bridge.

“With me Daughters of the Emperor! With me His most beloved!” Aribeth cried, sword held straight out in front of her, as she sprinted after the tanks. The Sisters and Celestians ran after her – following Ariella’s black banner into the heart of the foe. High above the streets the Seraphim gunned their jetpacks and soared high into the heavens above, before returning down to earth – their bolt pistols strafing the grounds beneath them.

Overpowered and overwhelmed, the heretics’ nerve finally snapped, and they fled in all directions away from the wrathful Sororitas. Some split away and tried to disappear into the surrounding city, but the Seraphim – like the avenging angels of old – hunted each and every sinner down and put them to death. Others fled back to the closed adamantine doors of the administration building – their bloodied fists hammering on the doors, begging for their overlords to come and rescue them – but the doors remained closed and with bolter and flamer the Sisters massacred them all against its unyielding surface.

“Hunt them down! Let none escape the Emperor’s justice!” cried Aribeth as she set foot on the opposite side of the river. The Sisters fanned out in expert formations and fire-lines as they gunned down the fleeing foe without compassion or mercy. Heretics died in their hundreds at the hands of the Battle Sisters – not one was spared. The tanks divided themselves into two separate prongs of attack and pressed on past the administration as they followed the enemy back to their lairs – weapons flaring every inch of the way, wiping the earth clean of their taint.

“Sister Cassandra,” Aribeth called over her vox.

“+Glory to the Emperor this day, my Lady! What is your will?+”

Aribeth, with her Celestians at her heels, walked across the riverside roadway and up to the archway leading to the courtyard of the administration building. An Imperial Eagle had hung proudly upon this archway, proclaiming the divine right of the Imperium of Man to all who had passed underneath it. Like the rest of the city though, the Aquila had been toppled and desecrated – its glory usurped by the foul deeds of horrid men – lay broken on the ground. Its cracked golden wings shone no longer, and its proud full-plumed breast had been mutilated by crude weapons and markings. Oh how the mighty had been laid low – the glory of Terra’s Father so wrongfully cast aside. The perpetrators would be punished, Aribeth promised herself, as would any and all who turned from the Emperor’s light. Stepping over the broken eagle, the Sisters entered the corpse-choked courtyard, at the far end of which stood the resolute adamantine doors, slicked red with the blood of those who had died trying to pass through it.

“Open those doors for me,” Aribeth spoke into her vox to the tank commander, “let nothing hold out against His light.”

Sister Cassandra’s Immolator tank swerved away from the pursuit – leaving others to take her place – and ploughed through the cast-iron fence surrounding the courtyard of the immense building – knocking it askew with the tortured shriek of twisting metal. The Immolator drove up near the steps to the doors; braking a short distance away as Cassandra swivelled the turret and focused the multi-meltas on the door. With a hiss and a blast the doors buckled and disintegrated under the scrutiny of the high-powered heat weapons – the stench of burning metal wafting away in great clouds from the gaping whole where the doors used to be.

“Carry the Emperor’s will as your torch, with it destroy the shadows!” Cassandra called to Aribeth from her seat in the turret, “Carry forth His wrath, Lady Palatine; no gate shall bar you.” She waved towards the doors with a sweep her gauntleted hand. Presumptuous, though Aribeth, but she would let her get away with it – these had been hard days for all of them, and with the taste of victory so tantalizingly close their high spirits could be allowed to come to the fore.

Aribeth waved back, “Carry on, good Sister – the Emperor’s work awaits thee!”

Cassandra saluted smartly and issued a quick command to her driver, the tank then veered away and out of the courtyard before disappearing down the streets.

“Sisters!” Aribeth called to her Celestian’s and two Battle Sister Squads that had been awaiting her orders nearby, “Fight by my side as we reinstate the Imperium’s dominion over this place!”

“Palatine,” Augusta said quietly, motioning Aribeth aside as the Battle Sisters hurried forward to secure the entrance, “are you sure that it is wise for you to enter this place – we can ill afford to lose you if it were mined or trapped.”

Aribeth clapped her on the shoulder and leaned her helmeted head in close to the Celestian Superior’s, “Sister, I do not value my life with such arrogance that I would expose my Sisters to danger where I dare not tread. The Emperor watches over us, and if He is ready to accept my duty as fulfilled in this life, then so be it. I would march with you my Sisters whether it be into the heart of the Eye and to certain death itself.”

“Forgive me for doubting you, Lady Palatine,” Augusta mumbled, she was not good at apologizing at the best of times, and especially not when battle was upon her.

“Don’t ask for forgiveness, Augusta, there is nothing for me to forgive.”

 

The taint of heresy was far greater within the administration building than she had first suspected. The interior of the building was very dark and still. All the lights had been cut, and the droning of cogitator banks and other automatic machinery had been silenced. The quiet darkness made the discovery of the charnel rooms even more disturbing.

Aribeth entered the darkened building with Augusta after her Sisters had already cleared the entrance hall – the only source of light coming from the open doorway behind her, other than that everything was embedded in gloom. The Sisters had spread out to secure the adjoining wings of the building – leaving Aribeth, her Celestians, and a dozen Battle Sisters to secure the grand hall and the rooms running off of it until they stormed the next floor. They proceeded quietly – their helmets compensating for the dark – in two lines down the length of the antechamber, a pair of Sisters splitting off into each room, securing it, then re-emerging and moving onwards: standard building sweep tactics. They were almost at the great stair when Sister Rylke called them into the first of what Sister Augusta would come to dub the “Murder Chambers”. It had looked like it had used to be a large storage room of some-sorts: short pillars stood throughout the room supporting the arched ceiling, and there were numerous indents on the floors and walls that suggested that hardware had recently been removed. The layout and history of the room was not what interested them however; they were more interested in what it had become. Blood smeared the floor and wall, and red-clothed corpses were everywhere. At least fifty of them had been butchered and spread along the floors, impaled onto the walls, or hanging from the ceiling by rusting hooks and chains. Most had been ripped open – their entrails hanging loose and perverting the area with so fierce a smell that it crept into the Sisters’ helmets and threatened to overcome them with the putrid stench.

“Contact our Sisters and tell them to withdraw: we will burn this damnable building to the ground – I no longer care about our orders. This place should not be left standing.” Aribeth said. Sister Ariella nodded, and tapped her helmet mic with her bionic hand – freed from the banner that she had entrusted to the Sister’s outside – and contacted the other squads. The rest of them filed quietly out of the murder chamber.

“Good call, Lady Palatine,” Augusta grunted, her bolter held tightly in her hands, and her eviscerator sheathed over her shoulder, “this place reeks of Chaos.”

“I agree,” Sister Clara added, returning from her position at the point, “orders be damned: this place isn’t right.”

“My lady!” Sister Ariella hissed as she hurried up to where the two Celestians were standing with the Palatine, “Elizabeth’s squad has responded and are returning to the entrance - they found one of the rooms too - but I can’t reach the other squad.”

“Why not?” Aribeth asked, a tense feeling of impending dread sneaking into the pit of her stomach.

“I don’t know, Palatine. It is as if they weren’t even there…”

Aribeth switched on her vox and set it to the inter-squad channel; “Sword to all units: report in.”

“+Mission, reporting in.+” came Elizabeth’s voice over the vox.

Silence.

“Squad Veritus, do you copy?”

Silence.

“Veritus, respond!”

Then…

“What was that?” Ariella asked; she too had been listening over the vox.

Aribeth didn’t answer; she knew what she had heard: footsteps.

“It’s a trap!” Augusta said, her voice loud and serious, “We should leave – now!”

Aribeth nodded in agreement, and the Sisters began to fall back down the hall to the point of entry.

“Sister Atrides, come on!” Clara shouted over her shoulder at the Celestian who was peering through the darkness towards the grand staircase.

Aribeth stopped and looked back, searching for what had captivated the young Celestian’s attention. It did not take long for her to find it.

At the top of the staircase stood the massive form of a man, at least eight feet tall, and as broad across the chest as four of her Sisters standing shoulder to shoulder. He wore midnight-black power armour that was slicked red with blood form an unknown source. Atop his head sat a great crested helmet, though which his leering red eyes could be seen. In one hand he carried a monstrous chain-axe, and in the other was clenched a compact bolter.

Aribeth didn’t need to be told what she was looking at – a mythical foe from the time of the Great Heresy – the plight of all mankind – one of humanity’s finest defenders fallen from grace – a heartless slaughterer of men – a Chaos Marine; a foe so foul and so deadly that the very thought of such a being haunted the dreams of mortal men throughout the galaxy.

The monster’s voice boomed out in a vicious roar so loud that Aribeth didn’t even notice at first that the blasphemy was speaking.

“BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD! SKULLS FOR THE SKULL THRONE!”

“Kill it! In the Emperor’s name destroy this abomination!” Aribeth shouted as she and her Sisters tuned to face the Chaos Marine. They opened up with their bolters and sent shot after punishing shot towards it, but Astartes Power Armour is much thicker than the power armour worn by the Sororitas, and not a single shot did more than ring helplessly off its armour – denied by the layered ceramite and adamantium that covered the fiend. But despite the incredible armour that it wore, the beast was impossibly quick for its size, and it vaulted down the stairs in two strides – the chain-axe alive and screaming in its hand – and bore the weapon down on Sister Atrides before she had even the chance to fire her weapon – the roaring axe cutting through her head and upper body in a shower of gore as the weapon buried itself in her waist, before the fiend ripped it free from her body.

With a cry of righteous fury Aribeth dashed towards the blood-soaked warrior with her power-sword drawn and shining. But it was fast – so damnably fast – and with one fluid motion the Chaos Marine brought up its gun and fired – the bolter round exploding against the Palatine’s helmet and knocking her backwards off her feet, and she fell to the ground momentarily stunned by the explosive impact against her armoured head.

The Chaos Marine kept going in its unstoppable charge, another two steps and it was upon Sister Ariella – its impossibly long reach with the axe tearing her helmeted head free from her shoulders with an eruption of blood.

Sister Augusta charged forward with a wordless battle-cry, her eviscerator revving wildly in her hands as she rushed forward. The Chaos Marine made no attempt to block the monstrous chain-weapon, and is bit deep into its shoulder – the eviscerator’s grinding teeth screeching in protestation as its wielder forced it further into the towering monster. With a bellow of rage the Chaos Marine twisted away from the weapon and brought his chain-axe against the Celestian Superior, its undeniable speed catching her unprepared as the weapon’s teeth tore through her extended right arm and cut it off just above the elbow, sending the Celestian Superior falling screaming to the ground.

Clara sent two rounds into its head with perfect accuracy, but both were repelled by the fiend’s helmet, and she was forced into a quick dive as the axe swept over her head with murderous intent. She stumbled and lost her footing. The beast reared up before her to its full height – axe raised high for the killing blow, but the blow never struck as the Chaos Marine’s torso was vaporised with a blast from one of the Battle Sisters who carried a melta-gun.

The legs swayed for a bit, before slowly collapsing upon themselves. All was quiet, save the moaning of Sister Augusta as she clamped her one good arm around the bleeding stump.

There was a high-pitched shriek and the whole hall lit up like the sun for a split second as a plasma bolt hurtled through the air and struck the Sister with melta-weapon in the middle of the chest – incinerating her instantly as gobs of plasma sprayed off of her corpse and burnt painfully into the Sisters around her – not enough to kill, but enough to inflict excruciating pain where it passed through the armour and touched flesh.

Two more Chaos Marines had appeared at the top of the stairs.

“To cover! To cover!” Aribeth shouted as she ducked into an open doorway as bolter-rounds pulverised the marble floor where she had been standing seconds before. The Sisters scattered, and even Augusta managed to drag herself into the protection of an adjoining room, Sister Rylke followed her in – her heavy flamer of little use at this long range – and helped the Celestian Superior clamp the wound and try to make a crude bandage from the fabric cut from her tabard.

“You’re going to bleed out if we don’t seal that wound, Sister Superior – you have to let me close it!” she said, knowing full well that Augusta would be dead in minutes is she kept bleeding at this rate.

Augusta, grimacing from the pain – she was just barely controlling herself - tore off her helmet with her one hand and forced a wad of cloth between her teeth, “Do it!” she mumbled out from behind the cloth that she was biting down on with all her might. Sweat poured from her brow, and her one organic eye trembled from the pain in her arm, and the promise of more pain yet to come.

Sister Rylke reached into the utility pouch on her belt and withdrew the igniter for her flamer, a small spear of white hot flame stabbing out of the instrument as she flicked it on and moved it carefully towards the ruined stump of Augusta’s arm. The Celestian Superior’s body went rigid and she muffled screams and sobs through her teeth as tears streaked down her face in reaction to the igniter’s flame brushing against the exposed flesh – fusing meat, metal, and cloth together at the end of the stump.

“There,” Rylke said, her voice steady, but her hands shaking, as she flicked off the igniter and pocketed it – she was no medicae, and the thought of doing what she had just done pained and sickened her, but if that was the price for saving Augusta’s life, then so be it. “That will stop the bleeding until we get out of this.”

Augusta didn’t answer; instead she pulled the saliva streaked cloth from her mouth and threw it aside, before she rolled onto her stomach and got up. Her body was shaking, and her face was pale, but her organic eye was focused and resolute.

“My helmet…” she asked, holding out her left hand expectantly. The pain was visible within her, but she would be damned if she didn’t return to the fight – she may be no use as a combatant now that her dominant arm was gone, but she could still take a few bolter rounds for her Sisters.

 

Aribeth ducked back into cover and shoved her last ammunition drum into place – sixty more rounds – that was all she had; against any other foe that would be enough, but against two battle hardened Chaos Marines… she didn’t like her chances. She leaned out from her hiding place and sent a burst of fire back up the stairs.

The Chaos Marines had held them there for the better part of five minutes, and had cost her close to twenty of the Sisters under her command – most of them from Elizabeth’s squad as they came up to reinforce their position.

Reinforcements had piled into the building from the courtyard, and even now the Seraphim were searching for another viable access point to the administration building. Still the Chaos Marines held them back. Over fifty Sisters now were lining the sides of the grand hall, and with them were heavy bolters, storm bolters, meltas, and many other weapons, but still the Chaos Marines held them back.

Sister Clara had advanced into a position behind the Palatine, and she ducked out to add her precise shooting to the fusillade of fire that was tearing up the stairway. The Chaos Marines were sheltering behind the walls on either side of the staircase – occasionally stepping out to return fire with deadly efficiency before ducking back again – the walls around them were being reduced to rubble as the Sororitas tried to force them out. But it didn’t appear to be working – several times Aribeth could have sworn that she heard them laughing as fire exploded around them.

To her right, across the hall, a Sister died in cover – a bolter round exploding through her chest. It was only then that she noticed that there was a third Chaos Marine. Aribeth couldn’t see it, but it was above them firing through the ceiling down into their midst. She sighted along her weapon and fired back – stitching great holes along the finely crafted ceiling as she sent round after round punching upwards at their unseen attacker. Other Sisters fired upwards as well and tore huge chunks out of the masonry with there bolters in an attempt to kill the hidden foe.

 

Sister Superior Elizabeth fired as one of the black armoured figures stepped back into the openning at the top of the stairs – sending a bolter-round ringing off his helmet – and smiled grimly as he ducked away. As sturdy as their armour may be it wasn’t impervious, and it was only a matter of time until the meltaguns were brought within range.

A crashing thud from behind her tore her attention away from the gun battle as she quickly snapped around. The wall in the room behind her and been broken through, and the massive figure of a Chaos Marine stepped into the room via the hole that his crackling power fist had just made.

Elizabeth tried to shout a warning, but the Chaos warrior was upon her with blinding speed – her body pulverised by a mighty downward swipe of the huge weapon.

 

A shout of alarm from behind her stole Aribeth’s attention away from the stairs and the ceiling. Another giant in black power armour had emerged from one of the side rooms and was in their midst.

With a powerful backhanded swipe of its power fist, the Chaos Marine crushed the nearest Sister into the cement wall, before lunging out in a reverse stroke and obliterating the top half of another.

The two Chaos Marines at the top of the stairs had abandoned cover, and where racing down the stairs – guns blazing death.

 

Sister Clara saw her opportunity and fired a long burst of fire at the one wielding the plasma gun – four of the shells exploded harmlessly across the behemoth’s chest-plate, but the fifth found its mark in the joint where the helmet and the breast-plate met, and blew the heretic’s head clear from its body in a gory explosion. The corpse collapsed in mid-stride, and the plasma gun flew out of its grasp and clattered across the floor.

The other Chaos Marine – oblivious to its comrade’s death – fired from the hip before diving towards the fallen plasma gun, scooping it up, and rolling into the cover of a doorway – brutally dispatching the Sister who had been sheltering there with a fiery retort from its bolter.

Clara unleashed more bolter fire at the Traitor Marine, but the beast ignored it and returned fire with a bolter in one hand and the plasma gun in the other. Clara threw herself back through the door into the room behind her as the bolter blasted open the alcove where she had been sheltering. She scrambled to her feet and slammed her back against the solid wall of the chamber, as flecks of rockrete and plasma danced around her. She cursed and glanced at the chronometer in the upper corner of her helmet’s display interface – she couldn’t stay her too long, but she had to let it think that it had killed her and move into the open, or it would have to be distracted by the rest of the fighting.

Five seconds passed – it was now or never.

She was just about to head back to the blasted doorway when the frag grenade sailed into the room and bounced off the far wall.

 

The power fist smashed a Sister into the wall and crushed her body like a stick in its vice grip, before dropping her remains as its wielder struck out again with a powerful downwards swipe. Aribeth side-stepped the blow and threw herself to the wall, ducking as the Chaos Marine’s other balled fist swung dangerously close to her head.

The Chaos Marine was wounded unto death, and great gashes and gouges pocked his armour from hundreds of blows and bolts, yet the beast refused to die. Aribeth had never fought an Astartes before, let alone a fallen one, and she had no idea what to expect. It was fast, so damnably fast – faster than any enemy she had ever confronted – it was also overwhelmingly strong, and was more ferocious than she would have imagined possible. It had already slain over a dozen of her Sisters, and every lunge of the power fist promised to kill even more.

She ducked again – unable to parry the colossal weapon – as it crushed into the wall once more. Keeping low, she ducked around it and made to stab at its lower back, but the Chaos Marine had already turned and batted her away with the back of its gauntleted fist as it brought up the power fist and made to crush her into the ground.

With furious battle-cry, Sister Superior Mistcha charged heedlessly at the Chaos Marine from the other flank – her chain-sword roaring in her hands as she made to cut off the fiend’s head. The Chaos Marine was faster though, and it intercepted the blow with the back of the power fist before clamping the weapon down on the Sister Superior’s shoulder and upper body – her screams cut short as the finger and thumb of the gauntlet snapped her neck in half before the rest of the fingers constricted to crush her body.

Her death had given Aribeth the opening she needed however, and she drove her sword two handed through the back of the Chaos Marine’s knee – severing the joint completely with the energised blade.

Howling in anger and pain, the Chaos Marine stumbled as its leg gave way beneath it. The fiend spun as best it could on one leg and swung the bloodied glove towards the Palatine, but she was ready for the attack and intercepted the blow mid-swing – severing the gauntlet that had brought death to her Sisters from its master’s arm in a wash of blackened blood and gore – before quickly reversing her grip on the power sword and driving it back-handed through the traitor’s face and burying it up the hilt through the fiend’s brain – silencing it forever.

Seeing its leader’s, demise the Chaos Marine sheltering in an alcove near the bottom of the stairs stepped out from its hiding place, a weapon in each hand, and fired wildly into the battle-weary Sisters – gunning two down with vicious bolts of plasma before it was cut down by multiple stabs of searing white energy as the melta weapons found their mark.

Yet that battle was not over.

The fifth and last Chaos Marine stood defiant on the ruined stare-case overlooking the corpse strewn hall where four of its brothers mingled with the bodies of scores of Battle Sisters. It looked down on them all, its eyes filled with hatred and contempt. It snorted, and raised its massive bolter.

“Death to the foul slaves of Chaos!” Aribeth shouted, and charged towards it over the bodies of the fallen.

The Sisters behind her raised their weapons and fired – filling the shattered hall with the roaring of gunfire yet again. The armour of the Traitor Astartes sparked and rippled as bolter-rounds screamed violently off of it. The Traitor fired back with deadly precision, many shots rebounded of the Sisters armour, but the Sororitas pattern of power armour was nowhere near as thick as those worn by the Space Marines and their fallen kin, and a couple fell – the bolter-rounds finding the weaker points in the armour and exploding within the wearer’s soft flesh.

Aribeth reached the stairs and sprinted up them – the fire from the Sisters ceased in fear of hitting their own leader as she challenged the faithless. The Chaos Marine ducked away from the top of the stair and disappeared from sight as it dashed down one of the adjacent corridors. Aribeth reached the landing and tore after it down the side corridor, ignoring the cries of alarm from behind her as her Sisters called after her – this heretic was hers and hers alone. She could hear the heavy foot falls up ahead as the Chaos Marine sprinted through the winding corridors and empty office rooms.

And then it stopped…

It took several seconds for her to notice that it was suddenly quiet around her – the only thing she could hear was the beating of her own heart hammering against her rib-cage, and the ragged breaths coming from her strained lungs. Adrenaline coursed through her body and her head throbbed as she stood in the deafening silence. Suddenly she wasn’t so sure of herself anymore. What had she been thinking? Running alone after a veteran Chaos Marine – who had likely seem more battles than she had hours of sunlight – and thinking that she, a thirty-four year-old Palatine, could stand against a bio-engineered killing machine that likely had more than more experience than she ever aspire to.

She listened.

Mind over muscle – that is the only way she could kill this – this thing. She holstered her bolt pistol and held her sword in front of her both hands, slowly creeping her way forward on bent legs. Quietly she crept forward – every step placed with care – looking all around her – covering every possible avenue of attack – ears pricked for any sing of motion – eyes straining to see deeper into the dark.

Aribeth did not know how the Chaos Marines fought – she had never faced one before. She did not know how the Chaos Marines thought – how could she? She did not know what skills they possessed – they were a mystery to her. She did not know how accurate their senses were – she was only human. She did not know that she was being followed.

Sliding her feet carefully across the floor, Aribeth reached a large double door – it was open a crack – she stretched out her hand, but then pulled it back. What if it creaked? On second thought she moved away from the door – it was not worth the risk. Her breath came short and shallow, and her nerves danced at phantom movements and imagined sounds.

She closed her eyes, “Emperor, though I walk in darkness I fear no evil, for you are my guide and are forever by my side.” She opened her eyes, half hoping to see some divine revelation before her that would lead her onwards, but of course everything was as it had been – still, quiet, and dark.

She moved stealthily down the hall to her left, the faint glow of the power sword casting a low light before her along the floor and across torn paintings that decorated the drab walls – still she could find no trace of the enemy.

Step by step she carried herself deeper into the darkness. Her eyes traced every surface and every shadow through the enhanced vision of her helmet – looking for anything that would disclose the location of her prey or predator. Here and there she saw traces of the building’s former life – a life before it had been disturbed and defiled by war: a disabled servitor hanging loosely to one side; an old Imperial edict poster, yellowed with age; a stack of loose paper, maybe a stylus or two – many were the things that she found that echoed of the lives that had toiled here before she and her Sisters had arrived, before the taint of evil had spread like a plague throughout the lower regions of the city.

She turned round another corner – and found herself staring back at her. There was a mirror, old and cracked, but yet it shone with a bright polish that reflected her image clearly back at her. She walked closer to it, and traced an armoured finger down the crack in the glass – it was dulled and old, not a fresh scar that it had received at the hands of a heretic or blasphemer, but more likely a hurried servitor or scribe. She looked at her own reflection – her eyes peering through the vision lenses in the ornate helmet, her armour stained with dirt and blood, and the huge form that glided silently around the corner behind her.

Her eyes widened.

A chain-sword screamed into life.

Throwing herself to the left just in time as the chain-blade shattered the mirror with an ear-splitting screech, Aribeth counter-attacked swiftly with her glowing blade, but the Chaos Marine parried it aside with the short sword it carried in its other hand. The roaring blade slashed backwards towards her head, but she ducked underneath it at forced her bright sword upwards towards the giant’s face in a series of thrusts and stabs. The Chaos Marine was skilled, however the sudden flurry of blows caught it off guard and forced the living fiend backwards in order to maintain its defence in countering the Palatine’s blows. Aribeth then struck low against her opponent’s mid-section and legs – once again forcing the giant back as it struggled to adapt to her techniques. She then set in with a series of sweeping figure-eights and angular slashes, and the Chaos Marine found the chain-sword – not a weapon designed for duelling – to be at its disadvantage as the spinning teeth made it far too clumsy a weapon to defend oneself with. She lunged again – her long sweeping blade connecting with the short sword as the brute struggled to hold her back. With perfect timing and dexterity she caught the short sword upon her own blade, and with a twist of her wrist rode the power sword down the weapon’s blade against the Marine’s hand – the short sword leaping from its fingers as the Palatine executed a flawless disarmament stroke.

The Chaos Marine was fast however, and with a scream of rage hurled the snarling chain-sword at the Palatine before she could strike again. Aribeth ducked the under the blade, letting crash into the wall behind her, but the damage was done. The Chaos Marine, enraged by the woman that taunted it with swordsmanship, fought the battle on its terms, using the full power of its genetically enhanced body to overcome the Palatine. The full weight of the Chaos Marine slammed into her in a crushing tackle, and carried both of them crashing through the rockcrete wall. Her sword flew from her hands as the mass of the Chaos Marine bore down on top of her and crushed her into the floor. Aribeth could feel her armour staining beneath the pressure, and the air was pushed out of her chest by the impact of the fall. She floundered on the floor and tried to stand as the immense weight of the Chaos Marine lifted off her, but a heavy fist slammed into her head like a thunderbolt and laid her out across the floor – lights dancing around in her mind as she fought to retain consciousness. The Chaos Marine walked around to her head and said something, something that she could not hear or remember, before placing a heavy foot on the side of her helmet – pinning her head in place.

Aribeth blinked as her mind skipped within her skull – what was happening to her? What was she doing? It all seemed so far away for some reason?

The pressure on her head increased slightly.

The fiend’s foot was pressing down on the side of her helmet. She mumbled and kicked out weakly as her gauntleted hands found the Marine’s foot and grasped at it helplessly.

The pressure increased again.

She regained awareness instantly, and started to flail franticly as she realized what was happening – it was trying to crush her head beneath its boot. She clawed at the Chaos Marine’s leg – anything that might make it remove the foot.

It stepped down a little harder – it was enjoying this.

The helmet bit into the side of her head and she started to scream. Blood was trickling into Aribeth’s eyes as the helmet got tighter and tighter. The vox unit cracked and bit into her ear under the pressure. She slammed her fists helplessly into the fiend’s armoured leg – screaming wordlessly in pain and despair.

A little more pressure…

One of the lenses in the helmet buckled and burst outwards. She couldn’t see – her own blood was blinding her. She could hear – the dying vox was screaming in her ear. She cried out for the Emperor – begging for Him to pity her in her miserable state. The Chaos Marine threw back its head and laughed. In desperation Aribeth’s hand shot down to her belt and grabbed hold of the thin-bladed combat knife that rested in its scabbard and ripped it free – plunging it with all the force she could muster into the heretic’s leg where the armour parted behind the knee cap.

The Chaos Marine didn’t even notice it.

The pressure increased again.

The helmet was nearing the extremities of what it could withstand – any more pressure and it would break. That was it – she knew now that she was dead. He had not delivered her, and she would die. She would die because she had been foolish enough to believe that faith alone would protect her from this – the most terrible foes of mankind. Her faith must not have been strong enough – she had given it all, and now she would die because her all was not good enough.

She whimpered – there would be no glorious death for her, only a fool’s shameful death at the hands of to powerful an adversary.

Her world exploded around her – there was a great crash, and the immediate pressure was gone.

Aribeth rolled into a foetal ball and clawed at her head.

“Get it off! Get it off!” She screamed – the helmet was still unbearably tight on her head. Her rescuer was saying something, but she couldn’t hear them over her own voice. A second pair of hands joined hers and unfastened the clasps securing the helmet to the neck brace – before tugging it free from the Palatine’s head.

She stopped screaming and rushed her hands to her face and scalp – her fingers groping along her face and through her hair – ensuring herself that she was still in one piece.

“Aribeth! Aribeth!”

She wiped the blood from her face and opened her eyes. Sister Clara was kneeling over her and looking into her eyes. Her own face was slick with dried blood, but she was smiling as she looked down on the Palatine.

“For the love of the Emperor, Aribeth, I thought I’d lost you!”

[Alex.ö]

Duuuuudeee..... Absolutely brilliant... You should write everything down in Word or something similar and upload it somewhere

[Commander Skaav]

I always thought Sisters of Battle were incorruptable like the Grey Knights, such was their faith? How wrong I can be! :D

 

Sounds like an interesting concept though :).

[cryptomancer]

I quite like how the tables instantly turn when the Battle Sisters face Marines. Overall I find your portrayal of Sisters of Battle quite balanced. They're powerful, but still human. Nicely done.

 

I would like to make comment on the following section, though:

 

He sprinted left around the rubble piles and into the scorched foyer of a burnt out apartment complex. Gunfire cracked around him, and he ducked as a stray bullet whizzed over-head. Diving into the cover of a crumbling doorway he tossed his busted lasgun aside in exchange for a solid looking autogun, snatching it from the charred grasp of its previous owner – the blackened skull leering at him accusingly as he stole the weapon – seconds before he smashed it into dust with his boot heel. He checked the clip – near full – and crept forward – weapon braced and raised.

Outside the war for the plaza raged on.

The white armoured women had all but taken the plaza – the rebels were still fighting in pocketed resistance, but many were fleeing, and many more had been slain.

An enemy ran past him - no more than thirty feet away – but he waited; it wasn’t time to be seen yet. Another warrior ran past him, closer this time. He followed her with his weapon and pulled the trigger – the gun kicking violently as it sent a slew of shots hammering towards the foe. He saw a couple shots spark off the woman’s armour, but most flew wide and smashed into the concrete. He let go of the trigger and hurriedly readjusted his aim as the enemy stopped and crouched low, raising her weapon to fire back. He squeezed the trigger tightly in two short pulls before ducking out of sight as the roaring retort of her gun smashed apart sections of the wall and showered him with debris. He shut his eyes tightly and fired the autogun blindly around the corner until it clanged dry. The bolter fire had stopped. He dropped the gun and crawled on his hands and knees out from his hiding place in search of another weapon. Outside he could hear more shouting as the enemy moved through the courtyard, yet it did not seem like they were approaching his hiding place, so he would be safe for the time being.

There was a soft clunk behind him. Eyes wide, he spun around – searching for the enemy that he was sure would be there – but there was nothing. His heart raced and his body trembled as his eyes glanced all about the blackened room, yet there was nothing on which they found purchase – everything was as it was. He was just about to turn around and resume his search for a weapon, when from the corner of his eye the grenade rolled in to view.

 

This section, I'd hesitate to call it too anonymous. I realize the character is supposed to be nameless at this point, but call him something. Call him 'the running man' or 'the lone gunman' or 'the nameless man' or 'the fugitive' or something. Calling him "he" and "him" repeatedly makes it seem like the reader should know the character already, like we should have a frame of reference. I just think it would work better if we have some way of identifying him as something other than "a guy, call him 'he'".

 

All in all, very well done as usual.

 

-Crypto

[Lady_Canoness]

Yes, I see what you mean by the anonymity being a little heavy. But then again, I wanted to give the impression that this man was for all intents and purposes nameless. He is of absolutely zero importance to the plot as a whole, just one heretic amongst hundreds that the Sisters put to death. I suppose I could have called him 'the heretic' but that would have placed significance on a guy that is supposed to be about as significant as a spec of dirt - note that the Sisters don't even grace him with a reference.

 

I'm glad that you thought that the Chaos Marines were well represented. I was worried that I might have made them too powerful, and made the Sisters too weak, but I really wanted to mark a huge difference between a Sister, and the genetically engineered Super-Soldiers that are Marines. I tired to further emphasize this point with Aribeth's solo combat against the last Chaos Marine: she could exceed him in swordsmanship, but his enhanced physiology made the fight essentially one sided.

 

You might also note that when seeing the Marines from Aribeth's point of view, I refered to them as "it" to give the idea that she did not view them as men anymore - rather they were some other kind of being.

 

Thanks again for reading!

[cryptomancer]

I understand your desire to reduce the importance of the character. The problem is, your throw-away characters have been so vividly rendered up until this point I kept looking to see if I could figure out if the character had been mentioned before. I started wondering if it was the psyker the Inquisitors were talking about. It was a little confusing. Not bad, just weird.

 

Again, well done.

 

-Crypto

[Lady_Canoness]

haha! alright, gotcha! I didn't even think that was in the picture, but now that you point it out, that character could EASILY be mistaken as the psyker, and that is not what I wanted to happen at all.

 

Thanks for bringing that to my attention, and I'll correct that mishap for the final draft.

[Lady_Canoness]

Ok, I've come up with some trial rules that could represent Aribeth at her fallen state. Feel free to comment or disagree with these - that is why I am posting.

 

 

----------------------

 

Aribeth, the Fallen Saint. 145pts

 

Aribeth may be used as an HQ choice in either a Lost and the Damned army or a Chaos Marine army.

Alternatively, she may also be taken as a special adversary in the Witch Hunters Codex.

 

WS BS S T W I A Ld Sv.

6 4 4 3 3 4 4(5) 9 3+/4+

 

Equipment: the Flaming Sword, wings, Mark of Khorne (attack bonus included)

 

Special Rules: Independent Character, Blood Princess, Swordmaster, Fated.

 

-Flaming Sword: Red flames surge along the fell blade used by the Fallen Saint, and are said to be a reflection of its master's hate filled spirit - furious when her spirit rages, and subdued when she is immersed in melancholy. When the blade touches flesh the flames leap from the sword and consume the enemy utterly.

The Flaming Sword is a mastercrafted power weapon that always wounds on a 4+ unless it would be less.

 

-Blood Princess: Aribeth's mind has been rent asunder by the torments inflicted upon both her mind and body at the hands of the Blood God, and she is no longer stable. Prone to fits of rage and confusion, Aribeth is a danger to everyone and anyone - friend and foe are both equally at risk when she succumbs to the blood rage that constantly gnaws on her consciousness.

Aribeth is subject to the following rules: at the beginning of every one of her turns, a D6 must be rolled. On a roll of 1 Aribeth is overcome by her madness and must hurl herself towards the nearest enemy unit. For that turn moves 12" + D6" towards the nearest enemy unit, and must charge if she is able. If she successfully charges the enemy her attacks are DOUBLED for the first round of assault.

On any turn in which Aribeth 'massacres' an enemy unit she must take a leadership test. If the test is passed she may massacre as normal. If the test is failed she will not massacre, and if any allies are involved in the same combat she will immediately resolve one round of combat against them. If she achieves a massacre result in this second combat she may make a 3" consolidation move.

 

-SwordMaster: Though any traces of her former self are lost within her madness Aribeth is still a remarkable swordswoman, and her skill with the blade is almost unmatched in personal combat.

Whenever she is in combat with one or more models with the Independent Character rule Aribeth may choose to sacrifice one of her attacks in order to take a more defensive stance with her sowrd. If she does so, all independent character in combat with her have their WS halved (rounding down) for the remainder of the phase. Aribeth may elect to do this at the beginning of any assault phase. Models that are not Independent Characters are unaffected by this rule (they aren't worth her attention.)

 

Fated: Khorne (or the Emperor) has some greater purpose in mind for Aribeth, and will protect her from mortal harm.

If Aribeth loses her last wound and is removed as a casualty the controlling player must take an unmodified Leadership test. If the test is passed Aribeth is worth no victory points to the opponent: she has been saved from death by some divine power.

 

---------------------------------

 

That's what I've got. I would appreciate any advice or comments.

 

Thanks!

[cryptomancer]

Looks like a good rules set. Reminds me of the old custom Daemon Princes from CSM 3.5 a bit. I'm a little surprised she doesn't have Fearless. Practically every Independant Character now seems to have it... :lol: Then again, if she loses a combat, she's probably dead anyways considering the amount of damage she can dish out.

 

-Crypto

[Lady_Canoness]

Hot off the press (meaning that I was so eager to get it out that I may have let some typos slip through my vigilant eye) I give you now the Sixth installment of the Saint Ascendant.

 

This section is a first for me, as there are many techiniques and avenues that cannot be explored when describing epic battle scenes, and there are no epic battles in this section (well done L_C, you just scared off half your readers :D ).

 

Truth of the matter is that everyone hears about what happens during the fighting, and everyone hears about what happens back at base, but how often do you get to hear about what happens of the field after the fighting is over? That is what I am going for.

I'm also letting the twists and turns in the plot be revealed (Fallen Sisters of Battle don't spring out of straightforward polts after all!)

 

This section also explores the other significant characters in the story: Rienburg, Sister Clara, Sister Rylke, Sister Alexia, and even a little bit about Bonis and Cassandra.

 

Who is responsible for the Sisters' betrayal? who is the Psyker that Montrose spoke of? Is everyone as clean as they like to appear?

 

Let's find out...

 

I give you now

 

----------------------------------

 

The Sixth installment of the Saint Ascendant

 

----------------------------------

 

 

His heart thundered up against his ribs as he dashed out of the alleyway and hugged the wall with his sweat-slicked back. Gulping down the dusty air, he tried to control his rasping breaths to no avail, before cursing his misfortune for all that had occurred in these past years – who knew how long it had really been, all that mattered is that he was getting steadily older, and nothing had changed. Passing a hand through his greying hair, he peered around the corner back down the alley way – fortuitously it was empty. He exhaled in relief – what the hell had happened back there?

Who was he to ask? He knew.

Did he?

He glanced around the corner a last time – it was still as before – the dead Sororitas laying perfectly still, their features serene as they had been at first glimpse. The other one lay face down on the ground – Bonis didn’t know whether or not she was dead, but he had done something to her – that much he knew.

He checked the pistol in his hand, her pistol, and dashed across the thoroughfare.

What had he done? He knew what he thought he’d done – her mind was weakened from fatigue – it was like pushing open a door. But then she’d resisted him, and had almost shot him before the pistol had slipped from her feeble grasp. He’d been forced to push harder – perhaps to hard – and she had simply collapsed.

He cursed himself again.

All he had wanted to do was release the exhaustion barred within the recesses of her mind into her being, but it had been a long time, and he was no longer sure of his abilities.

Could he really be blamed though? She would have killed him; he had been on his knees, waiting for the bullet. Hadn’t he the right to preserve his own life?

Heretic. That is what she had labelled him – heretic – as if he were no different than the slime with which he had been forced to hide amongst. She didn’t know him – she didn’t care. He was right in killing her. No! Why would he think that? He wasn’t a killer – not anymore. He’d come back here to disappear, not to blow his past wide open. But he’d done just that, hadn’t he?

He ducked into an abandoned storefront, pistol raised – aiming through the clutter and debris – the store was empty though, and he crouched down behind the counter and, laying the pistol on the ground beside him, buried his tired head in his hands.

It had been there - waiting for him to exercise his will - then it had struck. The instant he had forced his mind into the Sister’s it had known where he was. He didn’t know what it was; all he knew is that it had found him after all these years, and that it was coming for him. He had feared this day would come; when his abilities would finally lead them to him. He had barely escaped on Hubris, but there was no escaping them now – all he could do was hide – though he admittedly didn’t know who he was hiding from.

A noise in the street made him start.

He sprang to his feet; pistol tracing the street through the shattered window. But it was empty - a slight breeze dragged a ragged piece of paper down the street - the sound of the booming organs from far away.

A droplet of sweat clambered down his cheek and leapt from his chin, exploding with an inaudible plop unto the dust covered ground.

Metal scraped across the ground behind him. Bonis turned and fired in one motion – the bolter round blasting through the back of a metal chair, sending it toppling backwards and clattering onto the floor where it lay still.

His senses were alight, and he stretched out his mind: he was not alone.

A dry clunk – Bonis spun again and fired – blasting a chunk out of the concrete wall to his right. He panicked and lunged for the door, throwing open the bent frame and running away down the street in a blind dash.

From the back of the store she watched him go, then picked her way carefully through the ransacked store – each foot-fall placed with lethal precision and care – before opening the door, looking both ways down the deserted street, and running after the witch with loping strides.

Bonis risked a glance over his shoulder and noticed the figure running silently after him. He turned, the pistol braced in both his hands, but the figure was already in the air – twisting and spinning like an acrobat as the bolt rounds sailed past her into the sunlight sky. She landed faultlessly and sprung towards him, his eyes wide in fear at this spectre of death.

The neuro-gauntlet on her left hand skewered both his wrists together with their delicate needles – the toxins paralyzing the nerves in his hands and forcing the pistol from his fingertips. The gauntlet on her right hand swept between his outstretched arms and slid the needle fingerers up under his chin – the points passing easily through his grizzled neck and easing into the psyker’s brain.

Bonis went limp like a doll in her arms as the toxins flooded his system. His head lolled back and milky white liquid oozed from his eyes as the toxins went about their prescribed work of rendering him helpless.

The woman set him down gently, and whispered softly into his ear, her seductive voice oily and smooth as it slid into his head: “You’re lucky that my sire has asked for your life,” she said, her violet eyes twinkling behind a studded leather mask, “for your death could have been a thing of such beauty.”

 

* * * *

 

Victory, General Leotard Octavian had once told him, was not measured in blood, land, or even success on the field of battle; rather it was measured by how one used those factors to his own gain. Indeed, a defeat on the field could be turned into a victory in the war by the wise commander, just like a victory in battle could stumble into a defeat for those who were unable to command. He could remember well the lectures the General had given him, the General’s most prized protégé, over tea and cakes or over a flagon of sherry after supper: “Horace m’boy,” he used to shout, his double chins waggling underneath his heavy moustache as he quaffed down more pastries or sucked heavily on a potent cigar, “a fine general you could be some day, mark my words! But I’ve seen how you command lad, and there are times when you disgrace yourself so that it upsets me. Do you think that you have to win every war to be a hero, boy?” he’d shake his head, “Soldiers, no matter how fine they may be – Throne! They could be the prize of Cadia itself – are still just men, and men are fallible. So you can’t win everything, lad, even when you have the enemy out-numbered and out gunned, it only takes an arse of a captain to blow the entire war to hell… But arses of captains usually get themselves shot, so we won’t worry about them, will we? No lad, to truly win a war – and I mean truly win – you must always proclaim your victory, your solidarity, the courage of your troops, and that even if your back be broken and the front of your trenches in ruins, that you will never give ground to the foe! Never cease to hold your banner with pride! Never silence the trumpets that shout your glory to the heavens!” he’d lean forward then, and look the younger officer in the eye, “Victory is contagious; if you prize it to one man, every man that stands by his side will share it with him. Remember that, boy, that can see you through many wars and many battles, and always it will do you right. Remember to that the opposite is also true though, and that even if you have victory, it can fleet away from you and slander your triumphs with the air of defeat. Guard against that, my boy. Guard against that at all costs.”

Rienburg remembered those words well, and had lived true to them many times in the old General’s honour. In many a theatre he had rallied his men to victory against impossible odds, distinguished himself in the eyes of his superiors, and earned his Drogians a badge of honour within the ranks of the Guard. That is why, he believed, that his distinguished career had brought him here to this world. Certainly there were no grand battles to be fought and won, but as old Octavian had decreed many years ago, this victory was not one for the field, but one for the spirit; that he, Horace Rienburg, had stood unswerving in his loyalty to defend the Imperial creed from all foes, even if they be the likes of this petty rebellion.

He smiled to himself as the Command Chimera bounced and juddered as it charged down the rubble strewn streets towards the river – a line of fifty more fighting vehicles in the green and red heraldry of the Drogians following in its wake. Yes, this would be a fight for which he was remembered, a fight that showed that he was not so presumptuous as to turn his back on the weak in their time of need – Throne, they might even make a monument in his honour after the war was done! This was, after all, an important spiritual place, and many pilgrimages were made every year to this city to visit the tomb of Saint Jeromia – all the more people to be remembered by!

“Lieutenant Gribbes!” Rienburg called over the rumbling engine to the man that sat perched by the tactical read-out display at the fore of the squad compartment, “How soon until we reach the river?”

The lieutenant swivelled around in his bucket seat and removed the head-phones from over his ears; “Your pardon sir?”

“The time!?” Rienburg said, tapping his wrist chronometer.

“Oh! Right sir!” Gribbes replied quickly, before quickly turning back to his display. “The time is 1700 hours – 0200 hours after zenith!”

Rienburg rolled his eyes, “No lieutenant! I asked how long until we reach the river! Do you think I can’t read my own time-piece, lieutenant, do you seek to mock me!?”

“No sir!” Gribbes shouted back with a parade-ground salute, before he once again went back to the green glowing display. “Sir, we should be arriving in little under a minute, sir!”

Good – it was about time that he solidified his victory over the city, and that would mean consolidating the Battle Sisters’ efforts.

 

The Drogian column pulled into the shattered plaza not to a sight of victory however, but rather a sight of slaughter. There were no battle standards raised high over the field, no lines of soldiery saluting their arrival – there was only the grim and oppressive air of a bitter battle that had seen monumental portions of destruction and bloodshed. Craters and mounds of debris pocked all of what was once beautiful artwork in to a cataclysmic tribute to the Armageddon. Death moved unchallenged amongst the corpses of heretics that were piled high into great pyres of greying flesh to await incineration by the wrathful Sisterhood. It was hard to believe that such a scene of carnage was once the heart of a thriving community.

The battle had ended several hours earlier with the storming of the administration building, but with the fighting over the Sisters partook in the duties of after the field was won – duties that are never included in the great anthologies of war, duties that are not remembered in song, verse, or even the writings of the historiographers who catalogued every battle in the Imperium. Some soldiers would say that the hardest part of war is not in the heat of the fighting itself when the thrill of battle burns through your veins like fire, but it is after the guns have fallen silent – it is when you walk through the fields and look upon the faces of your fallen comrades, and gather up the bodies of men and women who were once your closest friends. It is when you think about how much you really felt their presence, and how much it will hurt now that you see them sprawled or broken before you – the smiles and kind words that they had worn on their faces during life conquered by the gaunt look of horror that is frozen upon their faces at death. Fighting the enemy is not hard – seeing what that fight has cost you is.

 

The rooms were clear – bloodied, but clear. Sister Superior Alexia took one last look down the lowest hallway in the hab that had claimed too many of her Seraphim, before turning her back to it and stepping out into the sunlight streets. The fighting had been brutal within the dense confines of the buildings, not the ordered combat that saw swift and decisive strikes, but rather the chaos that forced them to clear room by room – each hallway transforming into a fierce firing lane, and each stairwell into a death-trap. She had lost fifteen of her Seraphim that day - a number that was much too high for a detachment of only fifty – but the thought of even loosing one of her Sisters was as unwelcome as fifteen.

A few short meters to her right, the Sister Superior could see the dark stain on the ground where Sister Mira had fallen – her death reminding Alexia about her friend’s, Vollaya, the woman whose arm she still held within her satchel. She shook her head sadly; Battle Sisters should not have to die that way – ingloriously at the hands of a hidden foe – no warrior would choose a death like that. Not that any facet of war had any choice involved, Alexia reminded herself.

With a heavy sigh she walked away from the buildings and followed the members of the Seraphim who bore the bodies of the fallen away to the medicae stations.

 

The Sisters Hospitalers from the Order of Blessed Hand had arrived in force shortly after the fighting had stopped in modified Rhino carriers that served them as both transports and operating theatres when in the field. The healers themselves, their pure white gowns and cloths a stark contrast to the filth of war that surrounded them, were inured to and completely unaffected by the horrors of battle that had despoiled the land as they carried out their duties. With supple grace they spread out in aid of the weary Battle Sisters; tending to the wounded in both spirit and flesh, easing the pain of those who suffered, gathering the bodies of the fallen along with the militant Sisters, and granting the Emperor Peace to those who were beyond even their skill to aid.

 

The rumbling of tank engines roused Clara from her stuporous mediations as she leaned heavily against the hull of the silent Command Immolator. The re-opened wound in her flesh nagged at her consciousness as she shifted herself upright and blinked herself awake – had she been sleeping? She felt a pang of guilt in her stomach as she realized that she had caught herself resting when she aught to have been alert. The Palatine had asked her to wait here for her while she was tended to by a senior Hospitaler in the relative privacy of a medicae tank. The Celestian stretched herself upright and readjusted her bolter over her shoulder as she shook herself awake and trudged over to the medicae tanks where the healers busied themselves administering to the wounded and the dead. Clara reached up with a gauntleted hand and brushed her tawny hair clear of her face – a stab of pain reminding her of the minor shrapnel wound in her scalp where a fragment from a grenade had punctured her helmet. She was fortunate in that it was the only significant wound that she had received given the circumstances – the Chaos Marine’s grenade had caught her completely off-guard, and had it not been for her armour, and the Emperor’s divine blessing, she would have been dead. The Emperor had seen fit to save her life however, and by His intervention and guidance she had been able to save Aribeth’s life. She still didn’t know how she had found her – she had discarded her helmet after the grenade, so she could not have called out to her friend – but all the same it just seemed as if she knew where to go – like He was guiding her – and she had come across the Palatine just as the Traitor Marine was about to kill her. Fortunate indeed.

“Sister Clara!”

The Celestian turned – Sister Rylke was jogging towards her, her heavy flamer hung loosely over the tanks on her back.

“Yes Sister, what is it?”

Rylke stepped up beside Clara, her face streaked with sweat and soot as she looked the taller Celestian in the eyes.

“Where have you been? I’ve been looking for you.”

Clara looked past her before dropping her eyes to the ground – she was ashamed to admit that she’d let her fatigue get the better of her, yet to lie to the face of her fellow Sister would shame herself even more; “I – I let my weariness get the better of me while I was at prayer. I’m sorry that I wasn’t more attentive.”

Rylke nodded, and allowed a hint of a smile to cross her face, before clapping Clara on the arm in a friendly manner.

“You’ve been through a lot as have we all,” she smiled genuinely now, “but I can’t be cross with you for taking some well deserved rest! Besides, who am I to reprimand you anyway?”

Clara smirked, but still she did not meet Rylke’s eyes.

“Even so,” she said, “I must be mindful of my duties as a member of the Adepta Sororitas, and that does not involve resting when there is work to be done. Why is it that you were looking for me?”

Rylke checked over her shoulder before leaning closer to the other Celestian, “The Traitor Astartes, we were ordered to burn their bodies along with the rest…”

“And?” Clara asked, looking curiously her Sister.

“This whelp of a man shows up with a rag-tag bunch in an air-speeder and claims that he is acting on Inquisitorial authority…”

“And?”

“Well, he wants the Astartes bodies; he said that his lord had requested them for examination - ”

“He can’t do that! Such blasphemies must be destroyed utterly lest the taint be spread to the weak and the foolish!”

Rylke looked back at her, her lips pursed, “You think I don’t know that?” she hissed. “I told this man that Inquisitorial authority or no, he wasn’t taking the bodies. He demanded that he be allowed to take them, but when I refused him he left on the air speeder with the rest. But when I looked for the Astartes bodies, they were gone!”

“Gone!?! Did they take them?”

“Impossible – at least a dozen other Sisters as well as myself were watching him and his crew from the moment they arrived, not one even got near the bodies.”

“What do you suspect?” Clara asked her – she herself lost for thought; how could anyone have removed them so quickly?

“I don’t know,” Rylke confessed. “They were near the entrance of the target building – we were going to burn them after we had dealt with the rest.”

“Why did you come to me about this? You should have gone straight to the Palatine!” Clara said; the alarm at what had occurred clear in her voice.

Rylke checked over both her shoulders and shook her head, “Come on, follow me.”

Clara didn’t move. “What is going, Rylke?”

Rylke continued to beckon her aside, away from the medicae stations, “Please Clara – all I want is some privacy. You don’t know who could be listening.”

The markswoman cursed herself under her breath – she would have to do penance for this as soon as she returned to the preceptory – and followed Rylke as she ventured towards the shattered buildings at the side of the square.

The two Celestians picked their way through the rubble into the charred remains of what looked like an eatery – fallen weapons, shell casings, and the scorched smears of blood across the dirt encrusted floor the only reminders of the fallen bodies that had lain there. Seeing that they were alone, Sister Rylke turned to face Clara who stood a few strides away from her, her arms folded across her chest.

“What is it, Rylke? Why are we here?”

The Celestian breathed in deeply before replying. “You remember how the Palatine believed we were betrayed?”

“Yes.”

“Right, well… I think that the disappearance of the bodies and the ambush of Anastasia’s column are linked – I think that our betrayer is still among us.”

“That’s all the more reason to tell the Palatine!” Clara exclaimed.

“You can tell her if you like, Clara, I won’t stop you – in fact I urge you to. But for the sake of us all keep this quiet! If I’m right in thinking that our betrayer is in our midst we cannot let them know that we are on to them – we have to be subtle about this!”

“Why are you telling me this, Rylke?” Clara demanded, her voice failing to hide the anxiety from what she was hearing, “Why even tell anyone about this?”

“Please, Clara,” Rylke hissed, “for the sake of our Sisters, be reasonable!”

“Reasonable!?” Clara retorted, her voice growing louder, “You tell me things of conspiracy and betrayal that seeks the death of our Sisters, and you ask me to be reasonable?”

“Clara,” Rylke said, narrowing her brown eyes, “we are Battle Sisters of the Adepta Sororitas charged with riding the Imperium of heresy and taint in any of its guises – no matter be it within or without – yet someone carries out an act of great heresy in gathering forbidden relics of the ruinous powers, and you choose to ignore it?”

Clara sighed and looked off into the distance. “Fine!” she snapped, “I will let our Palatine know of what has occurred as well as your suspicions, and I will use the utmost discretion in doing so. Still I don’t know why you didn’t tell her yourself.”

It was now Rylke’s turn to sigh, and she sat back against the blackened remains of a counter. “I thought it best to tell you because I know that you and Aribeth are closest friends, and that if anyone were capable of bringing this news to her ears and advise the utmost of caution, it would be you. That, and Augusta is in no condition to bear the news herself.”

Clara nodded silently, chewing on the information she had heard while her eyes scanned the room.

“Okay,” she said after a long silence, “I’ll help you with this.”

“Thank you, Clara,” she said, taking a step closer to the Celestian as she looked past her shoulder and out the empty window frames, “but it looks like we have company.”

Clara pivoted on the spot and noticed the green and red armoured vehicles emerging from the broken cityscape in travelling formation.

“Come on,” Sister Rylke said as she stepped past the staring markswoman, “I think it is time that we got back to our respective duties”

 

The Hospitaler pinched open the Palatine’s eyelid before shining a bright light into the depths of her skull. Aribeth’s eye automatically tried to blink, but the matronly healer had a firm grip on her face with her reddened callused hands. The older woman muttered something to herself before snapping off the light and releasing her vice-like grip on the Palatine’s head, allowing Aribeth to try in futility to shake the dancing specks of colour out of her vision.

“It is as I suspected,” the Mother Superior announced, “You have suffered minor head trauma. Emperor preserve you, it could have been much, much worse,” she glanced sideways at Aribeth’s battered helmet that was significantly slimmer than it had been. The helmet, as well as the majority of her armour, had been removed by the order of the healer and now sat in a corner of the medicae Rhino’s hold, leaving Aribeth sitting in little more than her under-armour attire and the insulated body-glove that covered her chest and legs. Her head still throbbed from the multiple blows that it had sustained through her helmet as well as the Hospitaler’s less than gentle examination of her scalp, and coupled with the fatigue of several days without proper rest, made her feel properly dreadful. She was not badly injured – indeed there were many Sisters who deserved medical attention before she – but the veteran healer had insisted that she be examined due to her rank and the possibility of any lingering but serious damage inflicted by the Chaos Marines.

“I would recommend that you take some rest, Sister Palatine, but the chances of that happening would be slim wouldn’t it?” she said - her gaunt face set so stern that she made Sister Augusta look positively beautiful by comparison.

Aribeth said nothing, and crossed over to where her armour lay against the inside hull of the tank – the Hospitaler watching her every move as if she were watching a disobedient child.

“I thank you for your ministrations as well as the support of your Order, Mother Superior. I will be sure make note of your deeds.” Aribeth said as she strapped her armour back on to her body piece by piece. She didn’t want to be kept speaking to this older woman – she didn’t want to kept, period. All she wanted was to fulfil her duties here and now, see that the Inquisitor was satisfied, then return to the Preceptory and… and what? She was miserable, and the weight of the battle sunk heavily upon her shoulders so that she felt as if she would never be able to get up. So many dead - and even more wounded – this battle was a catastrophe, and she was stuck in its heart. She knew that her Sisters would not blame her for the outcome, but that would not stop her from blaming herself – she just couldn’t shake the feeling that had Canoness Naomi led the spear-head the victory would have been so sure – so right. Your being to hard on yourself, Aribeth, she thought. Am I? Did not Sister Atrides, Sister Ariella, and all the rest deserve something better than this? War calls for blood, Aribeth, you know this. Theirs was taken this day. Accept it, embrace it; this is the path you were chosen for. Did it have to be?

“Did what?”

Aribeth snapped her head around to face the healer – she was looking at the Palatine most peculiarly.

“Did what have to be?” she said again.

“I’m sorry?” Aribeth said, her mind racing – did she think that aloud?

“You asked ‘did it have to be’. Did what have to be?” She was studying the Palatine closely.

“It’s nothing, Mother Superior. Thank you again for your concern.” She lowered the access ramp at the rear of the tank and walked determinedly away from the Rhino before the healer could ask anything more, carrying those parts of her armour that she had yet to put on, and nearly knocking into Sister Clara as passed around the side of the tank.

“Palatine!?” the Celestian blurted, clearly surprised as seeing her best friend and leader leaving the medicae stations less than fully armed and armoured; “are… are you alright?”

“Yes, I’m fine thank you, Clara. Do you suppose you could…” she nodded towards the armour she had piled in her arms – power armour was notoriously difficult to put on alone, let alone while walking.

“Yes, of course. We should go somewhere with a little more privacy, however.”

“I have no need of privacy, Sister Clara; all I need is your help.” Aribeth replied as she handed pieces of armour into Clara’s accepting arms.

“You might want some, Aribeth. We have company.”

Aribeth looked up from repositioning her breast plate, and following Clara’s eyes glanced over her shoulder. The green and red armoured vehicles were passing by to the bridge and over the river, but the Chimera at the column’s head was pealing away from its fellows and moving towards the assembled Sororitas vehicles.

Damn it, she thought, before nodding her head towards a nearby wreck and setting off towards it with Clara at her heals.

 

Despite all his years in the Guard, and all the horrors that he had witnessed – things that would sit heavily in the back of his consciousness until the day he died – the one thing that Horace Rienburg had never gotten used to was the smell of the burning dead. Death did strange things to a body – things that would never occur during life: acids and fluids would seep out of wounds and mingle where they ought not to be; bowels would twist and contort in the shock of dying and slurp their contents wherever was able; the foetid bacterial gases would then gather in pockets throughout the body – trapped without the life that controlled them – then add a flamer to the mix, and the sizzling and crisping corpses got a whole lot worse.

Now mountains of enemy dead were in full flame as the Sororitas carried out their work – the wretched smoke billowing out across the city and high into the air. That would explain the in ordinate amount of incense around the medicae tanks, Rienburg thought; at least they are keeping the stench at bay.

Gribbes dismounted from the idling Chimera behind his commander, gagging on his first over-zealous breath of ‘fresh’ air – the inside of Chimera may smell like petrol fumes, but this certainly didn’t smell any better.

The Sisters however, did not seem to notice it, that or they were simply determined that they would not make any show of it.

Straightening his black pony tail and drawing his high-collared greatcoat closer around himself, Rienburg beckoned Gribbes and his two attendants forward with a brisk tilt of his head, and the four Drogians approached what Rienburg must have guessed to be the Sororitas forward command center. A few of the healers gave respectful bows to the passing Guardsmen, the Battle Sisters either nodded or gave a single clenched fisted salute – the age old address of warriors – motions that Rienburg’s men returned, but he ignored.

“Excuse me, good Sister,” he called across the murmuring hum of activity that surrounded the vehicles to a tall Sororitas who stood facing away from him, watching the healers at their work. She turned, bright blue eyes regarding him from a few meters away before she walked toward the Commander and his entourage in silence – her heavy greaves crushing flecks of loose masonry beneath her feet as she walked. Gribbes stiffened and stood a little more upright – the men were typically unsettled by the inspiring yet unforgiving air exuded by the Battle Sisters, a far cry from the warmth and tenderness of the women they had loved back home. The Sisters were a sight to behold and instilled the likes of the Guard with awe, yet none of them would associate with the Sororitas by choice – to do so would be to surrender one’s pride to their harsh scrutiny, and invite inequity as a burden on one’s shoulders. At least that is what the average Guardsmen thought. He too had once perceived the militant Orders of the Sisterhood in the same way, for many were the stories of persecution and indictment exercised by the Sororitas that floated down the ranks – many of which were indeed true – yet Rienburg had learned the comfortable way that such things could be reversed.

The Sister stopped a few paces in front of him and bowed politely, before regarding the Drogians with sapphire blue eyes framed between her shortened locks of golden hair.

“How may I be of service to you, Commander?” she asked after having noticed his rank pins and distinguished appearance.

A fine specimen, Rienburg thought - a tall lean build, unblemished skin, and a slender face – a fine woman indeed. Yet he was not here to indulge his eyes with pleasant sights, and there was much yet to be done.

“I would speak with your commanding officer.” Rienburg stated in his most dismissive tone, though the Sister remained unmoved by his gesture.

“My Lady Palatine has been receiving medical treatment, sir, I do not know if it is possible for you to see her now.”

“I am the Supreme Commander in this theatre, Sister,” he stated bluntly, “and as such I will see your Palatine even if she be in medical quarters.”

The Sister was not cowed by Rienburg’s words however, and remained defiant in the face of the Guard Commander’s belligerence.

“You may have authority over this theatre, sir, but your rank holds no sway amongst the Sisterhood. If you wish to see the Palatine you will have to wait.”

Lieutenant Gribbes made ready with an angry retort, but Rienburg silenced the junior officer with a stern glare, before turning his eyes back to the Sororitas – he did not like having his orders rejected by a subordinate, no matter what their affiliation.

“Your commanding officer takes her orders from me, Sister, and therefore I expect full cooperation!”

“My apologies sir, but my Palatine does not wish to be disturbed, and while I am still able to serve, her orders shall not be disobeyed.”

Horace Rienburg was an arrogant man - a man who commanded obedience and respect from anyone he deemed his inferior in person or status - a man who had been raised amongst the aristocracy to the highest of standards -a man who had been born to lead - a man who’s name bore generations of wealth, prestige, and influence – and most certainly a man who did not take well to being crossed. Sister Superior Alexia, however, did not care for the social codes or conventions of the aristocratic elite – indeed she had never known them – she cared only that her duty was to the Emperor, His Imperium, and her Order; not the man who now stood across from her.

“Look, woman – I am the supreme authority here and now; you will heed my orders, or I shall see to it that you are stripped of whatever rank you hold and are ejected from active duty! Do you understand?”

“That will not be necessary.”

Rienburg turned to face the interrupting speaker. The Palatine herself approached in full armour with one of her Battle Sisters at her side.

 

“Aribeth, I will not be spoken down to in the future by one of your subordinates, is that clear!?” he barked, staring angrily at the Palatine as she stopped a few paces to the left of the Drogians.

Alexia gave short bow to her superior and then withdrew from the conversation back to where she had been standing near the medicae stations.

“Is there a reason for your stopping here Commander? If not, you have my permission to leave.” Aribeth said in a quiet voice of forced calm – she was in no mood to deal with this man and his pompous ways so soon after battle.

“That is no way to speak to the Commander!” one of the Drogians yelled – drawing the attention of the nearby Sororitas – his hand darting to the holstered pistol at his side.

But his speed was no match for that Sister Clara, whose bolter was up in a heartbeat; “Remove yourself from the weapon!” she shouted, sighting along her prized gun and covering the group of Guardsmen.

Aribeth remained silent.

The Drogian slowly removed his hand from the pistol grip, and raised both his hands – palms forward – to his shoulder height.

Rienburg sighed in frustration and pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes before finally regaining his composure and looking back at Aribeth – her apparent calm not having changed.

“It would appear that I am at fault…” he said with great effort and difficulty, “I apologise for my indiscretion.”

“Apology accepted,” Aribeth said with a slight nod, though clearly she did not conform to her words.

Rienburg cleared his throat irritably, “Perhaps we could speak in private?”

“Anything you have to say you can say in the presence of my Sisters. If you fear your men might overhear you, you can send them away.” she replied in a smooth voice that thinly veiled her resentment for the man.

“It is not a request, Aribeth – I said ‘perhaps’ – I meant ‘now’.”

The tension between the two was almost palpable – a clash of wills so violent that the pervasive silence seemed ready deafen those onlookers who witnessed it. Yet Aribeth, so much lost already to this day, and unwilling to sacrifice more on behalf of her pride, gave ground in the face of the Commander’s arrogance, and with a slight gesture diffused the volatile situation.

Rienburg walked out past the encamped armour, and led the Palatine to a quieter spot in the shattered plaza, away from the ears of the Drogians and assembled Sororitas.

“What is it you have to say to me?” Aribeth asked abruptly as they stopped.

Rienburg turned and looked her squarely in the eye, as if measuring her resolve. She looked back at him – her sweat streaked face looking back at him with a steely determination. Satisfied, he began to speak;

“I would like to congratulate you personally for your victory in this theatre, taking the plaza,” he swept his hand over the ground, “the bridge,” he nodded towards the river, “and the administration building,” he looked back at her – his visage anything but warm, “could not have been easy.”

“The path of the righteous is not paved in gold, anyone who thinks otherwise is delusional.” the Palatine answered matter-of-factly.

“I had feared that your Sororitas would not have been up to the task,” he continued, “and that after the ambush you would have been too weakened to carry the day.”

Aribeth looked at him quizzically, “Who said it was an ambush, Commander?”

It was now Rienburg’s turn to raise an eyebrow; “Why, you yourself did. I heard the report over the comm. – marked gamma-theta frequency, Drogian standard.”

Aribeth nodded, “That is correct, Commander, I am glad our message was receive. Is there anything else?”

“Yes, there is as a matter of fact,” he stated dryly, “you and your Sisters are to be withdrawn from the fighting by the twentieth hour. I understand that you have seen over ninety hours of continuous action, and I think that it is high time that you withdraw for a rest-cure and leave the mop-up to me.” He then smiled broadly as if her were doing her a favour, when in fact it was far from it.

 

The auspex readings were once again coming back negative, as they had for the past twenty minutes of the patrol. Cassandra leaned back in the driver’s seat of her Immolator and eased the tank to halt as she called up the area schematics on the tactical display.

She and two other Immolator tanks had been performing a winding patrol in through the streets of what was potentially hostile territory, but other than stumbling across a group of disenfranchised heretics as they fled for their lives it had been uneventful, all the readouts were negative for contacts – there wasn’t anyone left in this quadrant of the city, not anyone alive at any case.

The other two Immolators formed up on her position and nudged their way into nearby buildings for cover – a standard procedure for Sororitas armour when fighting in urban areas with no infantry support – even auspices had the occasional slip-up, and it never hurt to be too careful.

Cassandra’s gunner swung down into the empty passenger hold through the top hatch, her boots ringing against the runnelled floor as she poked her head through the cockpit doorway do see what was up.

“It’s pretty quiet out there, Sister,” she said – a hint of nostalgia in her voice, “any quieter and it would be like driving through a dream…”

“…Or a nightmare if you don’t keep sharp.” Cassandra completed. The Sister chuckled and gave the tank commander a friendly pat on the shoulder, before she walked back into the troop hold and heaved herself out the top hatch.

Cassandra believed in running her armour as a team rather than a hierarchy, and she always supported the team mentality amongst the tank crews. It gave them all a special bond, she believed, a bond that reflected itself in their lives both in and out of battle. To most outsiders it would seem like a bond of friendship, but then they didn’t understand, it was more than that – it was a bond between the Sisters themselves and the tonnes of snarling adamantium and steel that were their mounts. To drive a tank in war was to cradle each others lives in their hands, and to act in unison to overcome any odds. It was for that reason that they so mourned the loss of Ullia and her mate: it was more than losing a Sister; it was like losing a piece of your life. She trusted the Palatine had made the right decision in separating the armour the way she had – had she not Cassandra had no doubt that more Sisters would have lost their lives – but she did not like being separated from her fellow Sisters in such a way, it felt too much like giving a part of themselves away to whatever fate awaited.

Several transponder signals burst through the vox, before a long hiss of static erupted into the cockpit. Cassandra flicked several switches next to the comms unit – silencing the static, before sending several burst back along the line.

“Tempestora reporting. Identify please. Over.”

Static again.

“Tempestor reporting. Identify. Over.”

A few crackles, then more static.

Cassandra leaned her head out the door and called up to her gunner; “Sylvia, check the antenna will you? I’m getting a lot of static down here.”

A sudden beeping drew her attention away back to her tactical read-out – the Auspex was going wild.

She strapped on her helmet and brought the inter-squad mic up to her mouth, “Tempestora to all units: do you copy? Over.”

Silence, then static.

The auspex reading started to chime, but she didn’t want to look at it now.

“Damn it! Sylvia, do you copy!?” she shouted. Still nothing.

She unbuckled herself from her seat, and drew her bolt pistol from her holster – ignoring the screams of the auspex as it flashed red - and stamped into the empty passenger hold, pausing for a brief moment to consider the rack of Godwyn-Deaz pattern bolters that rested there, then she popped her head out of the top hatch, and looked around.

Everything was quiet - so damn quiet.

“Nope, there doesn’t appear to be anything wrong with the antenna.” Sylvia said, getting back to her feet and walking back towards the turret, but pausing as she noticed Cassandra leaning out the hatch, pistol in hand.

“Is something wrong, Cassandra? You look like you’ve seen a phantom.”

“I’m… I’m alright…” she mumbled, “Is everything alright out here?”

Sylvia looked around thoughtfully, “It is a bit quiet I suppose – like a dream.”

“Or a nightmare…” Cassandra finished, and lowered herself back into the tank, walking back to sink into her driver’s seat in the cockpit. The auspex was calm and silent – all readings coming back negative. Had she been –

The vox unit chimed again as several transponder bursts blasted along the line. Cassandra reached up and flicked the unit on.

“Tempestora reporting.” She said, her voice flat and detached.

+This is Maxima. Requesting immediate support at point Alpha III – Gamma VIII. Please confirm. Over.+

Cassandra checked the tactical read-out – point Alpha III – Gamma VIII? That was the sight of the ambush on Anastasia’s column. Several squads had returned to the sight after the battle, why would they need support?

“Tempestora to Maxima. Confirming. What is the situation? Over.”

+Maxima to Tempestora. We need immediate transport to evacuate the dead and critically wounded. Over and out.+

The Immolators started to move, breaking the silence and leaving the streets as deserted as when they came.

 

--------------------------------------

 

How's it coming along? So far so good I hope?

[Alex.ö]

It´s... Amazing! Seriously man, you rock!

 

I don´t think that I´ve got any criticism that´s worth mentioning.

[Shiva]

Sorry I've been away for awhile....apparently I've missed alot! :lol:

 

I really like the rules you came up with for Aribeth....good balanced stats for someone of her stature. And nice special rules - they fit her well! B)

 

You're recent installments are as fantastic as always - beautifully written, amazingly descriptive, and a very fun read! Keep it coming, girl! ;)

[C. Barrius Matthaeus]

Very, very nice! The sixth installment of the Saint Ascendant is another excellent piece of writing. I very much enjoyed reading it, and I can't wait to read what happens next! :)