Lady_Canoness Posted May 25, 2008 Author Share Posted May 25, 2008 The Chaos Marine was already mentioned in the Fallen Saint, though he will remain nameless until the Saint Redeemed, though I do enjoy making the Chaos Marine leaders particularly bad-ass. I have just finished writing the prologue for the Saint Ascendant Part Two: The Seed of Martyrs, so here it is! -------------------------------------- Saint Ascendant part two: Prologue -------------------------------------- Through the darkness of the eternal night, through the roiling fury of the living storm, through the twisting skeins of causality itself was it revealed to him. A world away, a galaxy apart, lost upon the retreating tide of ages did he see it buried between red mountains and red skies. A thing so terrible that it could only bear one name, the name that sat bloat on the tip of his tongue like – the End Forge – the murderous canker that it was. A rotting corpse opened to the world, the gods themselves had placed it there, the lost monster of old – dead though alive. Why did he see it now? What did it mean? Why did it haunt him so? Is that what he sought? Was that the answer? It all seemed so far away… * * * * He heard the chimes first – their soft clinkering rattle as a gust of air, soft like a dying man’s breath, moved between them. He opened his eyes. There must have been hundreds of them, maybe even thousands – everywhere he looked there were chimes. Some big, some small, some carved from glass, some from bone, some from bronze or brass. So many, of all shapes and sizes, hanging down from a ceiling that was practically invisible in the darkness. Together they made a sound – such a sound – like the whispers of fate weaving the tapestry of the worlds. He blinked as he looked up at them. Up. He was lying flat on the ground. He moved his arms and hands, feeling them skim over the dusty surface and grate against the rough stone that made his bed. He blinked again. His head hurt. What had he been seeing? He tried to sit up, but his head still swam, and he immediately lay himself back down with a disgruntled groan. What was that smell? Over the air it carried; it was hot, sick, and had the putrid tang to it that seemed to film on his skin. The chimes continued to mutter amongst themselves – to laugh at him. With effort he managed to haul himself to his feet as the joints in his legs buckled and cracked under their master’s weight. The room he was in was large, circular, and had a small door on one facing – no doubt it led back into the crypt. The floor was littered with dust, dirt, and the fragmented bones from various animals, as well as many odds and ends that she kept in her lair – ripped tarot cards, mechanical contraptions, and things so foul that he had no wish to understand them. But she was – “Right behind you.” Galtman jumped slightly at hearing the crone’s voice; like this place, the old hag was unnerving. She was tiny – easily dwarfed by the Inquisitor’s imposing stature – but despite her size and frailty, she spoke of ageless malice and cruelty. She had seen worlds die, she had spoken the fate of many a hero, and through the subtle twists in her words many had found their doom. She looked up into the Inquisitor’s face with one milky eye burrowed in the folds of her skin, and smiled – her snaggletoothed grin brown within her rotting mouth. “Tell me, young man,” she croaked, “did you see what needed to be seen?” “That depends what I needed to see,” Galtman answered, giving the crone a wide berth as she mumbled her way past him, her hump quivering beneath layers of sullied clothes. She laughed, a horrible gurgling rasp, and turned around to look back at the Inquisitor as she shifted past him. “Indeed,” she said, her mottled grey tongue making an appearance in her mouth. “Indeed what?” Galtman asked after her. She sputtered for a moment, and spat a gob of brackish slime onto the floor – causing Galtman to wrinkle his nose in disgust. “I saw what you saw, young Inquisitor, and I know what you know, but is it enough? Is it ever enough?” “We shall see,” he answered. “Oh yes,” she replied, “We shall see.” The crone turned away from him, and started to busy herself with one of her machines, ignoring Galtman completely. “If you saw what I saw,” he said, his voice carrying over the whispering of the chimes, “can you tell me how I might get there?” She didn’t answer, simply continuing to tinker with the contraption in front of her that was making a low chugging noise. Ducking around and between the whispering choirs of hanging chimes, the Inquisitor approached the crone until he was close enough to count the wire-grey hairs that protruded from the mouldy stump that was her skull. “Well?” he asked. The old witch turned and smiled up at him, wisps of brown saliva hanging from her filth encrusted mouth. “Follow ye the sword of three back to the port that is lost. The broken blade, too hot to touch, will point thee to the opposite of the false truth. Bring your faith, but bend your back, for wicked death comes to those who stand too tall. Follow your heart to the first of eight, and there you will find the Forge of Ends, yet be weary to hearken your hearts advice lest ye see how far one can fall.” Finishing her riddle, the crone cackled with retching laughter and turned away, “Told you, I have, what others have already heard,” “What others?” Galtman called out, arching an eyebrow, “Who else has come seeking this?” The crone hobbled away through the chimes, “Many, my dear boy, many have come, and many have gone. What have they found? Few can know.” Galtman cleared his throat loudly and reached underneath his flowing black coat. “Others know of the End Forge?” he said, drawing his snub auto-pistol from its holster, “Then you know why I must do this.” She stopped, and slowly turned around with a grunted sigh, “Wouldn’t be much of a seer if I didn’t.” she grumbled. The pistol barked, and the crone snapped backwards off her feet as the small calibre shell ripped into her face and threw her to the ground. Galtman approached the corpse. He emptied the twenty round clip just to be sure she’d remain dead. As he left, the chimes whispered of murder. -------------------------------- I hope you enjoyed that little taste of what is to come. I hope to make this part of the Saint Ascendant to be a little less 'point and shoot' and make it have more of a mystery/conspiracy undertone than the last part. Link to comment https://bolterandchainsword.com/topic/122098-the-fallen-saint/page/6/#findComment-1579532 Share on other sites More sharing options...
Alex.ö Posted May 31, 2008 Share Posted May 31, 2008 Waiting eagerly for the next installment! Link to comment https://bolterandchainsword.com/topic/122098-the-fallen-saint/page/6/#findComment-1584593 Share on other sites More sharing options...
Lady_Canoness Posted May 31, 2008 Author Share Posted May 31, 2008 haha! Hold on! It's about 2/3 done, and it should be out in the next few days. I've hit a few road-blocks, as I'm trying something 'new' in it. Also it's kind of a 'round up' installment as it really brings the reader up to date with everything that happened. Setting the stage of a drama waiting to unfold is no easy task! So, next couple o' days, and I hope it will be recieved well. -L_C Link to comment https://bolterandchainsword.com/topic/122098-the-fallen-saint/page/6/#findComment-1584774 Share on other sites More sharing options...
Lady_Canoness Posted June 1, 2008 Author Share Posted June 1, 2008 Ladies and Gentlemen, it is my honour to now unveil the second part of the Saint Ascendant, The Seed of Martyrs. Every Tragedy has a period of transition in it, when the tragic hero (or heroine) shifts from the person they were, to the person they become. This tragedy is no different - not like *bing!* Oh! She's chaos now! No, this part of the Saint Ascendant sees Aribeth come apart under the pressure and finally lose her faith. So why then, is this called 'the Saint Ascendant'? She doesn't really ascend does she? Not really, but all the way down she struggles against the darkness that is dragging her deeper, and she has one last hurrah - one last shot where she seizes her moment glory for all that it is worth - one last lunge where she keeps her head above water - before disappearing and drowning under the waves, her candle all but snuffed out. She is ascendant because despite everything that goes against her, she pulls herself upright in the end - sword drawn and defiant - against the hoplessness that overwhelms her and consumes her, taking the woman we know and twisting her into the Fallen Saint. This is her moment of glory, this is where she achieves the greatest thing she has ever done, and then is cast down into ruin because of it. That is why I call it the Saint Ascendant. Below is the first part of the First Installment of the Second Part of the Saint Ascendant. I have tried something new in it, and I hope it serves as a good opener for the Seed of Martyrs. -------------------------------------- SA pt. 2 The Seed of Martyrs: Instalment 1 <part 1 of 2> -------------------------------------- “One must always remember,” the drill abbot was saying, “that combat – battle – is not something that one should relish. Pride is a sin, and pride in battle is just as much a sin as pride in anything else. When you enter battle under any circumstance, you should do so with only your objective in mind – that is to kill. Yes, you might say that there are times when you must protect someone or something, but remember that protecting something is a lot easier to do when your attacker is dead. Am I right?” The class chorused back their agreement. “Good. As a warrior, you are expected to kill, and if you do anything aside from striving to kill, then you will be punished. So, you are wondering, how does pride factor into this? You have all performed adequately well at your drills, and I defy any of you to say that you have not felt proud of yourself, in fact I defy any warrior to say that they have never felt proud doing what they do - Put your hand down, Sampson! There will be time for questions later - Now then, a warrior who lets his pride get the better of him during battle is to be rebuked, for when you become concerned with skill and technique, you forget that your most important goal is not to kill your opponent with honour and to look good while doing it,” he paused to allow a laugh, but the students didn’t dare make a peep, “your most important goal in any battle is to kill your opponent by whatever means possible.” He stopped for a moment and crossed over to the weapons rack, pulling two practice swords from their holdings. “You may be inclined to ask why it is we are practicing so much with melee weapons rather than ranged weapons. You’re probably wondering why you’d even need to know how to hold a sword – let alone use it effectively – when it would save you a lot of trouble to simply shoot the enemy when he’s a good ways off, rather than running at him waving a hunk of metal about. That’s because – stop laughing there, Perkins, or I’ll have you in detention – right, that’s because when man first discovered that it is easier to kill his enemy with something other than his hands, he came up with something a little like this,” he held up the sword and turned it around in his hands. “These weapons were created way before the Imperium was even a fart and a whisper, so you can understand that the basic concept has stood the test of time extremely well.” He walked around behind the lectern once again and placed the sword down on its flat surface. “Why though,” he continued, “do we still trust the sword when one of these,” he whipped an auto-rifle shell from his sleeve and held it up, “when used properly, can kill a man at a much greater distance, and with much, much, much less effort? Put your hand down Sampson, that was a rhetorical question. The reason we keep swords around as well as weapons similar to them is because of relative effectiveness of the two weapons. Certainly firearms are straightforward enough to use, but they have requirements that can detract from their effectiveness. First, firearms need ammunition, for without it, a gun is little more than an unwieldy club, and as you all know, ammunition is always in finite supply. Second, guns require routine maintenance and up-keeping in order to be effective – a luxury that is not always available when a war is unfolding itself around you. Third – and this is the big one – you need to reload a gun, an exercise that has cost many a soldier his life because he was caught unprepared while reloading. With a sword, all you really need is a fairly sharpened edge, and an arm to swing it with. Swords are reliable, dependable, and can be utterly devastating in close-quarters fighting when guns are too clumsy and indiscriminate.” He picked up the practice sword again and crossed to the weapons rack on the wall, removing more of the dummy blades. “So Emperor help me,” he said, “you lot are going to learn how to use a sword whether you want to or not!” The class didn’t answer, they simply stared at him. “Right! Jacob! Perkins! Pair off over there,” he handed them each a practice sword and pointed them over to an empty section of the instruction chamber. “Sarah! Aribeth! Over there! Aribeth over there! Aribeth!?” Aribeth wasn’t listening. The one day Palatine, no more than ten years old when attending Abbot Helginn’s combat tutorials, was staring out the window at the brilliant summer day that was unfolding over the courtyard beyond the thinly paned glass. She had always loved summer, not because of the heat, not because of the blooming gardens around the Scholam, and not because the long spring rains had finally abated. Rather, summer always seemed to bring out the best in people – at least it did in the people that mattered. The abbots and abbesses always seemed to be a little less strict when the warm air got to them, and the rest of her fellow Progena seemed to relax and soak up the warmth before autumn returned to force them all back indoors with strong winds and cold air. It was – whack! Aribeth yelped out in pain and surprise as Abbot Helginn cuffed her over the top of the head with the massive palm of his hand. “Well, well, well, little missus Aribeth, are we day-dreaming about all the fun we’re about to have in the sun? Or maybe we’re watching that,” he grinned, “oh-so-handsome groundskeeper do his work?” The class snickered and jeered – anything to break the anxiety of the upcoming weapons drill, “No! That’s not true, sir! I was paying attention!” Aribeth protested, rubbing her smarting head as tears pooled in the corner of her eyes. “Oh were you now?” Helginn said, a look of mock surprise on unshaven face, “Well, I suppose that if you were listening,” he thrust the practice sword into her hands, “then you should know how to use this. But if you weren’t listening, I’m sure that I could arrange for you to spend a beautiful day such as this copying out my lesson for all the other students.” Helginn pushed her over to where Sarah was standing with her sword. “Now, I expect a good show of swordsmanship to demonstrate that you were indeed listening to what I had to tell you rather than looking at your dreamy beau outside tending those gardens!” Aribeth left on time that day. Even at ten years, Aribeth was already an accomplished swordswoman for her age, and she considered herself to be one of the best students at the Schola when armed with a blade. Sarah would now likely agree with her. She kept pace with the tide of students sweeping down the hall, and made sure to keep her uniformed tunic and breeches in order as to not tempt the wrath of any of passing clerics of senior students. The Schola Progenum was an ancient establishment, created on some long-ago date that Aribeth didn’t care to remember. Children were accepted into the Schola at a very early age, often in early infancy, and were kept the nurseries until they were inducted into the Schola proper at the age of five along with other children of their age group. At every second year they would be assigned new dormitories in a new wing of the Schola in which their classes would take place. This kept the children segregated from other age groups during most of their daily lives, though there were communal areas, such as the numerous courtyards and buildings such as the one Aribeth now walked through, that allowed students from different ages to interact and socialize. Students were also allowed the privilege of leaving the Schola grounds during certain periods of the day, or under the supervision of an adult authorized by the headmaster, though such authorizations were rare. Life at the Schola Progenum was rigorously strict, and since the Schola was ministered by a branch of the Ecclesiarchy, religion was a fundamental aspect of a Progena’s upbringing. At the age of eight, students were streamed into specialized branches of instruction based on several factors including personality tests, intelligence, and physical fitness. From that point onwards until their graduation (which usually occurred in mid-adolescence) the students would receive extra schooling in their selected fields. Aribeth had been selected to join the Sisterhood, as most girls were, but due to several tests that remained undisclosed to her, she was chosen for the orders militant. There she had met Clara, and for the past two years they had been the best of friends. The students filed down the halls in a chattering procession. Children turning here and there to talk to those beside them about lessons or instructors or about what they planned to do after classes had finished for the day. Some called above the heads of the crowd to friends passing the other way, or to make rude slurs at the students who supported one racket-ball team over the other in the local championships. Most where heading outside to the courtyards and eventually off the Scholam grounds to enjoy the sugary delights of frosty sticks and ice bars in the surrounding city. Aribeth followed them. The throng passed through the oaken double-doors and into the courtyard where they split apart in multiple different directions. Aribeth made special care to duly avoid the groundskeepers. “What kept you, Aribeth!?” said a ten year-old Clara as she jumped up from where she had been sitting with her back to one of the fountains that dotted the large gardens of the courtyard. Other than obvious differences, Clara looked almost the same as she did twenty-four years later: her hair was a golden-brown, and her sky-blue eyes twinkled jovially in a pretty face that bore its characteristic smile. She wasn’t a sure-shot yet – in fact she never even held a fire-arm – but she was a bright girl who kept a cool head under pressure, and she was much less likely to be caught up in the passion of the moment than Aribeth. “It was a little busy getting out,” Aribeth shrugged, then grinned, “plus I had to show Sarah Deroi how to fight with a sword – she really should be kept away from metal objects!” Clara laughed cheerfully as the two merged back into the groups of people heading for the city streets. “So, what do you think?” Clara asked as they passed out of the Scholam grounds and into the hustle and bustle of the city – the throng of Progena quickly dispersing to go their separate ways. “I dunno,” Aribeth said hesitantly, biting her lower lip, “how did you meet this guy again?” “I met him yesterday in Abbot Nickolas’ lecture on the history of the Imperium’s fighting forces,” Clara explained, “It was really boring, and he thought so too.” “You met him only yesterday, and you’re already going out on a date with him!?” Aribeth said in disbelief. “How desperate are you?” she laughed. “I’m not desperate!” Clara argued, “and it’s not a date! He only invited me out for ice bars at Uncle Tuck’s Frosty Shop!” “Yea, and that’s not a date!” Aribeth teased. “It’s not!” Clara protested, swatting Aribeth playfully on the arm. “Does he even have a name?” Aribeth continued. “Yes,” Clara said, fighting to keep a laughing smile off her face, “his name is Hughbert.” “Eeeeeew! What kind of a name is Hughbert!?” Aribeth sneered between giggles. “Shuuuuuut Up!” Clara laughed, as the two girls wound their way into the busy city streets. Downtown Prestopolis was – by definition – was a catastrophe of civic engineering: streets were poorly designed and often equally poorly maintained, creating a treacherous maze of roadways that often overlapped one another and made navigation all but impossible; buildings were constructed both upwards and downwards from various street levels and in a generally unorganized fashion – not to mention that the buildings themselves suffered from poor architecture. To a child however, especially a child who had only ever know Prestopolis, the inadequacies of the downtown core were easily overlooked in comparison to the joy felt at skipping through the urban clutter towards the rows of parlours and pleasantry shops that existed to serve the desires of the populace of the nearby Scholam. Arbites patrols kept the lowlifes clear of the downtown streets, and ensured that only the respectable, the reputable, and the pious found their way around downtown un-hassled. This of course meant that Imperial authorities from numerous organizations maintained a strong presence in Prestopolis and that the young Progena were never led to believe that the Imperium had anything other than a strong grip on all of the worlds under its dominion. “Look!” Clara pointed out, stopping Aribeth in her tracks. “What?” “Look!” Clara said again, “Over there!” Aribeth followed her friend’s finger across the street and through a group of robed clerics who where passing them by in deep discussion. Aribeth noticed a bright flash through the crowd of plain clothed ecclesiastics. Over on the opposite side of the street, waiting outside an Arbites station-house, a pair of burgundy armoured Battle Sisters with white livery stood immersed in a hushed conversation. Clara could hardly contain herself. “Wow! Just think, someday we’ll be like that! I’ve never seen one so close!” Aribeth also found herself nearly lost for words – it was like looking at a pair of mythical angels. “What do you think they’re talking about?” Clara asked. “I don’t know,” Aribeth replied after a pause, “probably something really important.” “You think so?” Clara said, craning her neck to get a better look at the Sororitas through the crowd. “Maybe,” Aribeth answered, momentarily loosing sight of the red armoured women as a large group of robed clerics and other ecclesiastics walked by on the street, “Adeptas Sororitas always have something important to do.” Clara looked at her and nodded in agreement, but when she looked back to where the Sororitas had been, they were gone. “Where’d they go?” Aribeth asked, looking in every direction for the missing women. “Well,” said Clara watching Aribeth as she craned her neck every which way, “I’m pretty sure they didn’t go straight up.” “Hey!” said Aribeth, bring her eyes back down to look at Clara and shrug, “I mean… well, you never know.” Clara laughed and shook her head. “Sometimes I wonder how you even got accepted into the Scholam, Aribeth; you’re just not with it.” she snickered, earning herself a playful punch in the shoulder as she giggled uncontrollably at her own joke. “That wasn’t funny!” Aribeth scowled. “Then why am I laughing?” Clara wheezed back, out of breath from laughter. “Maybe because you’re stupid?” “pfffffft! Nice comeback, Aribeth!” “Okay, okay, you can shut up now. I get it.” Clara rested her hands on her knees for several moments and regained control of herself with long steadying breaths. “Okay,” she said at last, standing straight and looking about, “we should probably keep going. Uncle Tuck’s is just around the corner.” “Yea,” Aribeth agreed, “we shouldn’t keep your boyfriend waiting.” “He’s not my boyfriend!” The two girls rounded the corner to a welcoming sight. Uncle Tuck’s Frosty Shop was a favourite amongst the Progena. It boasted of over one-hundred and sixty flavours of Frosty and Ice Bars, and had numerous special treats that Uncy Tuck – for that’s what all the children called him – would make specially for that special person. To many of the Progena from the Scholam, as well as the city children who were fortunate enough to have some coin to spare, it provided a sanctuary of youth amongst the cold and demanding world of adulthood. In Tuck’s shop there were no Imperial icons or propaganda, no oppressive slogans that reminded the patrons of the Imperial laws, there were only happy things: paintings of fantastically colourful frosties and candy, pictures of Tuck himself and his many sugary creations, and pictures of all the children, Progena and otherwise, who had come to Tuck’s for a birthday treat. Uncle Tuck himself was an old widower from up town, and he had been an overseer on a smelters line for fifty-five years. His real name wasn’t even Tuck, but Edward McHiggens, but he kindly left his past in anonymity as far as the children were concerned – to them he was just Uncle Tuck, and he had been making frosties for as long as they remembered. When Aribeth and Clara walked up to Tuck’s light-blue painted shop for what must have been the hundredth time, they met dozens of children hoarding around the entrance and the few side-walk seats available. Everyone was eating a frosty, and a few overenthusiastic youngsters had even managed to share their creamy delight with the front of their shirt. “There he is!” Clara exclaimed, pointing into the crowd. “Where?” Aribeth asked, her eyes darting over the faces. “There!” Clara waved and skipped off towards him. Aribeth didn’t follow. She couldn’t. Amidst the mass of jubilant kids, through the waving frosties, a pair of ice blue eyes was nailed into her. The children dance around and shouted in glee. Clara ran up into the throng. Not towards Hughbert, not towards Hughbert at all – there was no Hughbert. Sitting like an ogre made of stone on a tiny metal chair, his black storm coat drawn close around him, his face unflinching, sat Inquisitor Galtman. ---------------------------------------------- Questions? Comments? About this or any other work, please ask! 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Lady_Canoness Posted June 1, 2008 Author Share Posted June 1, 2008 Here comes the second part of Installment One, and we get to snap back to the present in the story's timeline. Three months have passed since we left off, and Aribeth is starting to crack under the strain. Leadership, confusion, and a certain Inquisitor are weighing heavily on her conscious, and finally taking their tole. She hasn't broken yet, however, and she is still managing to hold herself in one piece, though certain people know better... In this Installment we get a picture of what is happening in her mind, and how she is reacting to it. This is a very 'personal' Installment - it focuses on Aribeth, bringing us up to date and explaining what has unfolded in our absence. This installment leaves us on a good note, but with a darker undertone. Not all is well. It is with great pleasure that I now present ------------------------------------------------- SA pt.2 The Seed of Martyrs Installment One <Part 2 of 2> ------------------------------------------------- Her eyes popped open, panning quickly from side to side. Her breathing slowed. She could feel the cold sweat clinging to her body under her sheets. She was staring at the dull grey ceiling above her bed. She closed her eyes again, her ears picking out the calm silence all around her. She opened her eyes and sat up in bed, twisting to put her feet on the cold floor. Only a dream, Aribeth told herself, only a dream. She rubbed her eyes and stared out the window into the dull grey city beyond. Morning, time to get up. Rising to her feet, Aribeth threw on one of the gowns hanging nearby on the wall, and fastened her sword-belt and chaplet around her waist before forcing a comb through her dark brown hair and tying it back in braids. Her gaze lingered momentarily on the small piece of parchment that she had left of her bedside table the night before – what should she do with it? She picked it up and quickly red through the note scribbled down by her own hand –she knew exactly what it said, but she was unwilling to accept it. With a quick motion, she ripped the note in half and let it fall to the ground – that was one thing she didn’t need to remember – and stepped over to the door that led into her small office. The absence of war was something that Aribeth was prepared to live with, but the absence of both war and a senior Sororita caught her completely unprepared. Supreme command over the preceptory was frighteningly new to her, and she felt unqualified to lead – like she was only minding the preceptory until a new Canoness arrived. Since the fighting had ended three months ago, Aribeth felt as though she had let the preceptory stagnate. For while the arrival of the new Canoness was only days away at most, no new Sisters had been transferred, and little had been done to consolidate the Sisterhood on Proctor Primus in wake of the conflict. Her council, comprising of Mistress Celina and Veteran Superior Augusta, had advice the Palatine to take a more delicate approach and to keep any changes she made to squad structure open ended. Any major changes, they reasoned, should be left to Naomi’s successor. Acting on such advice, Aribeth had met regularly with squad leaders to discuss possible promotions as well as inter-unit transfers, yet even busying herself with maintaining the preceptory felt somehow hollow to her, as if she were only manipulating the elements within the convent without properly understanding them. She felt lost without a guiding hand, and, try as they might, her Sisters were unable to help her. She crossed the floor of her office in a few steps and let herself out into the quiet hall. Due to the irregular rotation of the planet and the resulting extremes of daylight and darkness, the planet and its inhabitants never really slept. Of the sixty hours of the day a Munitorum calculated estimate suggested that an individual spent on average eighteen hours asleep, which was usually divided into two separate periods of rest. When these periods of rest take place, however, varies on an individual basis. The Sisterhood, however, as well as other organized institutions, would not be able to function with erratic sleeping patterns, and therefore employed shifts in which half the Sisters would rest while the other half would remain active and awake. This, coupled with several hours of overlap during which the entire preceptory would be awake, ensured that the Sisterhood was always alert, and always vigilant. With the sun now rising, Aribeth proceeded to the chapel to make her morning devotions along with any others who so chose to commence their day with communal prayer. She had spent numerous hours in prayer over the past few weeks as she asked for the Emperor’s guidance through her personal trials. Yet no matter how much she prayed or how much she shed her own blood, no respite was given, and no clairvoyance was gained. It was as if the Emperor had deemed her fit to undertake her challenges alone. The chapel doors were welcomingly open as she arrived. Candle-light flickered from within as the Palatine stepped over the threshold and knelt facing the altar before slowly rising and taking a place in a nearby pew. Only a handful of other Sisters had sought the solace provided by the blessed chapel in the morning hour – all of them kneeling with their heads bowed as they recited silent words of prayer. Aribeth joined them; her hands clasped together and head inclined with her eyes tightly shut as her words to the Lord Emperor were spoken in mute. She asked for His protection, she asked for His grace, and above all else she asked for His help – help because she was afraid, afraid that she couldn’t overcome her burdens alone. Much sat heavily on her mind – the past war, the dead, her leadership, the city’s imbedded taint, the Inquisitor… the more she thought about it the more she felt alone. Her eyes opened, and she lifted her head to look at the golden altar – the consecrated surface always reminding her of the Emperor’s undying will. Yet her eyes were drawn past its gleaming surface, drawn to the stained glass depiction of Saint Arabella – the patron Saint and founder of the Order of the Sacred Rose – striking down the tainted and corrupt with a radiant sword in one hand, while delicately holding the Sacred White Rose aloft in the gauntleted fingers of the other. Over her life she had gazed upon this very image many times and in many places, and it had always stuck her with the same feeling of reverence and awe, but this time something was different. The eyes – yes, it was the eyes – somehow they had changed. Instead of looking down at those glass images which she slew, she was looking at… her. She was looking at Aribeth – those painted glass eyes had locked her own in their condemning gaze She shifted uncomfortably on her knees. Had the window always been like that? Was she just noticing it now? Disturbed by the staring Saint, she turned away, her eyes now coming to rest in one of the side culverts where the stain depiction of Saint Lucius - the pilgrim, with his book open in his hands – was illuminated by the flickering orange glow of candle light. Immediately Aribeth sought out his face. She had seen it dozens of times before, and unlike Saint Arabella, she was certain that he red his book and his eyes were cast downwards and hidden from view. But not this time. Within the brilliant halo that was eclipsed behind the holy martyr’s head, blessed Lucius did not read his book. His head was lifted, and by eyes that were previously unseen did he cast his judgement upon her. Aribeth blinked once, twice, but his glare did not abate. Frightened now, Aribeth hastily bowed her head and squeezed her eyes shut, a stream of prayers tumbling from her lips as she said all that she could remember – anything - that might rouse her from this waking nightmare. At length, she stopped, and hearing the soft footsteps around her marking the departure and arrival of more of her Sisters, she opened her eyes and allowed herself to slow her breathing. Down, between her arms, and resting slightly ahead of her knees, a book of hymns had fallen from its shelf on the back of the pew in front. She reached down to pick it up, her fingers passing against its soft leather-bound surface as she turned it over in her hands. The cover was plain and bore no name or title. With a sinking curiosity, she flipped it open – the ancient parchment pages crackling as they moved freely once more. The writing was old – ancient, in fact – and was a style of High-Gothic that she had remarkable difficulty in reading. She thumbed through the pages with a dark fascination, until she chanced upon an illustration. The caption translated into: ‘The Vanquishing of Ishbael’, while the picture itself showed a maiden in a white gown running a daemon prince through with a glowing spear. The daemon howled in fury and pain, while the maid, her teeth clenched and brow furrowed under the effort, looked off the page, and up at the Palatine. Aribeth snapped the book shut and stuffed it into the shelf on the back of the pew. She sat still for a few moments, her heart slamming in her chest, and her hands twitching – where could she go if not here? Where else could a Sister find sanctuary? Slowly, Aribeth stood up, and, keeping her eyes down, shuffled out of the pew and into the aisle. She knelt once, then retreated for the chapel as calmly as she could manage. Her head swam, and she felt as if she could be ill at any moment. What was happening to her? Just last night she had been, well, better than this – but now she was nervous, panicky, and… cold, very cold. Calm down. I can’t calm down! You’ve got to try, this is all in your head. I know! That’s why I can’t calm down! She closed her eyes and sighed – why did this always have to happen to her? Why must she be so weak? She cursed herself and opened her eyes as she walked away from the chapel. Maybe she should talk to Celina about it? The Mistress could surely give some sound advice. She shook her head; no, that would not do. It was probably just strain, and if she managed to remain calm she should be alright overtime… if she managed to remain calm. She met Clara a few minutes later as the Celestian made her way to the Banquet Hall for the morning repast. Even after twenty-four years, the thirty-four year-old Clara looked remarkably similar to the ten year-old Clara, though the pretty tawny haired girl had grown up into a striking tawny haired woman. She was tall, though not as tall as Aribeth, and had a lean build with a toned body, though her youthful smile remained just as natural to her features as it always had been. Three months earlier she had been overcome by witch-craft, and had it not been for Aribeth’s stubborn refusal to lose her, Clara knew that she would most certainly be dead. The whole incident had affected her greatly, and for weeks after she had been torment by horrible visions and nightmares as the marks burnt into her mind were slowly exorcised through prayer and meditation. Now she had almost fully recovered, though some scars would never fade, and she would forever be a changed woman. Aribeth had asked her about it once, to which she had replied that she had once thought that the Emperor alone would grant her life or death, but her experience had taught her that there were some things that even the Emperor did not control, and that it was Aribeth’s love, not the Emperor’s will, that had saved her from damnation at the clutches ruin. “Is something the matter, Aribeth?” Clara asked, seeing the forlorn look in her Palatine’s eyes. She could guess the answer, but it never hurt to ask – Aribeth hadn’t had a good day for three months, though some were worse than others, and there were times where she wouldn’t, or couldn’t talk about it. Clara was surprised she was still holding herself together and upright in her duty, for while the Aribeth she knew had experienced hardships before, three months is a long time for anyone to last without serious repercussions. Aribeth sighed, her face starting to waver and crack. “Please, Aribeth,” Clara said quickly, moving to her friend and putting an arm around her shoulders, “don’t try to dwell on it. You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.” Aribeth shook her head, “It’s not that,” she said. “I keep having nightmares, and waking dreams. Everywhere I go, everywhere I look, he is always there. Its like he’s a cancer in my mind – he’s clawing away at everything, and I can’t escape it!” Clara had guessed as much. Aribeth had first told her about Galtman and his psychic tortures a couple days after the end of the fighting when she could no longer keep it to herself. Since that time Aribeth had been struggling day in and day out with not only the burden of leadership, but also her newfound mental demons. “Come on,” Clara said as she walked her towards the Banquet Hall, “come with me. You’re pale, you need some food.” Aribeth didn’t argue; if anyone could care for her when she couldn’t care for herself, it was Clara. In a place filled with such grand architecture as the preceptory, the Banquet Hall was more breathtaking than all but the Grand Hall itself. Able to seat one-thousand Sisters at once, the Banquet hall housed six great tables of the richest heart-wood available, and each could seat anywhere from one-hundred and fifty to one-hundred and seventy women with ease. One head table that surpassed all others in its lustre and craftsmanship was reserved for the high ranking Sororitas and distinguished guests where one-hundred people could be seated comfortably in high-backed and cushioned oak chairs. Great murals adorned the marble walls with magnificent paintings of the greatest of the Order’s heroines in scenes of victory that stretched all the way up to the arched roof above. From the ceilings hung rows of banners – each equal in both length and honour – next to the vastly ornate and intricate chandeliers of expertly wrought iron that hung suspended by long chains over each of the tables, and cast their brilliant light into the furthers reaches of the hall. Five doors opened into the Banquet hall: one in each corner that served as the principle entrances during non-celebratory days as well as the doors used most frequently by servers and servitors; and one titanic set of double doors – each a masterpiece in its own right that had taken the labour of scores of the finest artisans to create – that extended fifty feet upwards from the ground and were only ever opened to allow the honour-bound Procession of the Faithful on feast-days and other days of great importance. This hall, that put all other feasting halls across Proctor Primus to shame, was used on a daily basis so that Sisters could come together for meals without ceremony at numerous mealtimes, and due to the planet’s abnormal rotation, the whole preceptory was rarely seated all at once – the feast being the only exception. This day was not a feast day, and as such when Clara and Aribeth arrived in the Banquet Hall through one of the smaller doors, less than one-hundred Sisters were seated along the tables. “Did he say anything this time?” Clara asked, sinking her spoon into the bowl of oatmeal that sat steaming before her. It wasn’t particularly good – it wasn’t sweet, it wasn’t creamy, and it had lumps in it – but it was healthy, and it gave the Sisters nutrition they needed to begin the day. Aribeth hadn’t touched her oatmeal yet, she didn’t have much of an appetite, and she felt that if any of the slop dribbled down her throat she might be sick. “No, he didn’t say anything, but he didn’t really need to – he was watching me,” Aribeth’s eyes wandered around the hall, “it’s like I have no more privacy anymore. He’s always there.” Clara nodded, her spoon halfway to her mouth, but her eyes on her friend. “What are you thinking?” Aribeth asked her. Clara swallowed the oatmeal then rested the spoon back into the bowl. “Well,” she said, “it hasn’t gone away with time, so maybe he’s consciously trying to get into your head.” “But I haven’t seen him in three months – he’s vanished.” It was true. After having met Galtman at the small inn on that rainy night, the Inquisitor had mysteriously disappeared, and Aribeth had not seen him or heard of him since. But still the nightmares persisted. “That’s true,” Clara added, shifting in her seat. She looked into Aribeth’s brown eyes, concern written on her brow as she sucked in her lips. “Aribeth,” she said after a moment, “do you ever think that maybe Galtman has nothing to do with this? That maybe this is all the result of, well, a paranoid obsession?” “What do you mean?” Aribeth said, leaning forward in her seat, “Clara, he was in my head! He saw everything. It was like he forced himself onto me – mentally. And he used his abhorrent magiks more than once! I’m not obsessing on this – I really can’t help it! He ruined me!” “I’m sorry,” Clara said quietly, “I just can’t,” she made a gesture of futility with her hand; “I can’t understand what you’re going through.” “Don’t be sorry,” Aribeth said, shaking her head slightly, “You’re the only person I can turn to, you’re the only person who is there for me.” Aribeth shot a glance to her left and right, “you’re the only person who does know what I’m talking about.” Clara reached across the table and covered Aribeth’s hand with her own, “I wish I knew more, Aribeth, I really do. I wish I could help you get over this, but while it was the same, it wasn’t the same… it was…” she bowed her head and sighed; Clara still had difficulty talking about what had happened to her that night in the Manufactorum. She lifter her head back up, and smiled gently, “I’ll always be there for you, Aribeth, no matter what.” She withdrew her hand. Aribeth allowed herself to smile as well; “You don’t need to wish you could help me, Clara. You already have.” The two sat in a comfortable silence for a few moments. “I could help you even more by telling you that your oatmeal is only going to taste worse if you leave it,” Clara said with a grin as she helped herself to more of her own breakfast. Aribeth chuckled, the closest thing she had had to laugh in a long time, and smiled as her heart lifted, and with it, her appetite. More than anything in the whole of the galaxy, she was glad that she had a friend like Clara. Link to comment https://bolterandchainsword.com/topic/122098-the-fallen-saint/page/6/#findComment-1585955 Share on other sites More sharing options...
C. Barrius Matthaeus Posted June 2, 2008 Share Posted June 2, 2008 A most intriguing development. I like the way you used the first part to both show some of Aribeth's and Clara's background and show how Aribeth has reacted to Galtman's psychic intrusions. I also like the way the second part ends. The conversation between Aribeth and Clara gives a good impression of their relationship and keeps in line with how you wanted to present it. I look forward to seeing this part of Aribeth's story unfold. ;) Link to comment https://bolterandchainsword.com/topic/122098-the-fallen-saint/page/6/#findComment-1587026 Share on other sites More sharing options...
corncob Posted June 5, 2008 Share Posted June 5, 2008 funny I was thinking of doing something similar with the saint Celestine model black armor and roses and grayish black raven wings with tears of blood trailing down from here eyes. Not exactly khorenate but creepy and kind of gothic just the same perfect for a LATD guard army. Link to comment https://bolterandchainsword.com/topic/122098-the-fallen-saint/page/6/#findComment-1590249 Share on other sites More sharing options...
Alex.ö Posted June 9, 2008 Share Posted June 9, 2008 I haven´t had time to comment in a while, but here goes: I thought it was interesting to hear the conversation between Aribeth and Clara in their younger years, as it gave a good background on how close they really are to each other. And that was one creepy chapel! What was it all about? Was it all in her head, or was it witchcraft? Time will tell? Edit: My spelling sucks, I fixed it. Link to comment https://bolterandchainsword.com/topic/122098-the-fallen-saint/page/6/#findComment-1593953 Share on other sites More sharing options...
daboarder Posted June 11, 2008 Share Posted June 11, 2008 HOLY SH*T!! i think im in love.. these are the best 40k stories ive ever read even rips sh*t on BL. keep it up Link to comment https://bolterandchainsword.com/topic/122098-the-fallen-saint/page/6/#findComment-1595835 Share on other sites More sharing options...
Lady_Canoness Posted June 11, 2008 Author Share Posted June 11, 2008 Transition is a difficult time - so you can understand why transition periods in writing give me such difficulty. Unlike the first part of the Saint Ascendant, the second part does not begin with action - the action builds to the climax at the end, but is rather sedate before hand. This installment is where I (as the author) do my maneuvering to get all the pieces in place off the intro so that the story can be propelled forward in ways I want it to go. So you can expect to see many new developments! Galtman has to reconnect with an aspect of his past to succeed in his future, but he has caught someone's attention, and even as he acts they are moving against him. News of the new Canoness' arrival has reached the preceptory, forcing Aribeth to relinquish her command and prepare herself physically and mentally for the new arrival, and whatever else she brings with her. Trying to keep a brave face against the mounting strain, does Aribeth have what it takes, or will she falter in the eyes of her new commander? All the while a stituation is brewing amongst the Sisterhood that could explode into catastrophe at any moment... ...and next time, the Canoness arrives. With great pleasure, I give you now: --------------------------------------------- The Saint Ascendant part 2: The Seed of Martyrs, Installment Two: To Try Again --------------------------------------------- Port Rochk was a dreary place. It was cold, it was windy, and it always seemed like it was going to rain, but even in a place such as this, men thrived. Thrived: perhaps too strong a word, for the kind of men that dwelled in this place – scum, wretches, and villains – do not thrive, rather they sit and fester like an infected wound in the planet’s hide. It was very easy to lose someone in a place such as this, and very easy for someone to get lost in. That was why he was here, he had lost someone here once, but now he was going to find them. Galtman stomped down the short decline in the muddy road into the rotten heart of Port Rochk, the sucking belch of his boots in the mire the only sound save for the occasional roar of turbines as unseen orbital craft, shrouded in the polluted fog of this dismal place, accelerated upwards towards the freedom clearer skies. This place was a rat infested dump, and had he the leisure time, he would have taken great satisfaction in wiping it from the face of the galaxy. Time, however, was one thing he could not draw to his side, and it was always against him. A couple slum dwellers shambled by on bowed legs, sparing the black-clad figure of the Inquisitor only a glance before taking another swig from the brown musty bottles they held clenched in their claw-like hands. Galtman ignored them and kept on his way. The rabble – the common filth – were unworthy of his attention Up ahead, several lots down the street, sat the bawdy house, and as he drew closer he could hear the raw thump of low-life music and coarse laughter from the people within. He stopped in front of the building and consulted the small note in his hand. Both lots to the left and the right where empty and overgrown with sickly weeds. The house itself was derelict, and had a large ‘3’ spray painted in red on the wall next to the door. This must be the place. He stepped up off the muddy street and on to the walk, scraping his boots slightly against the worn pavement before pushing the door open and stepping inside. The second he opened the door the pong of rancid bodies, stale sweat, and obscura sticks wafted out to meet him. Inside it was dim, but teaming with bodies. Scum of all sorts, both men and women, lounged and laughed at small tables. Nude dancers paraded themselves on stages and in suspended cages to the howling delight of the intoxicated masses. The air was thick with smoke, and Galtman felt as if its very presence was somehow infecting him with its rot. A wiry twist of a man stumbled into him and turned with a snarling curse to confront Galtman as the Inquisitor made his way through the crowd towards the bar. Galtman kept walking – he had no interest in wasting time with the slime who frequented this place. Unfortunately the drunken man did, and he came angrily after him with a switch-blade in his fist. “Hey!” the man swore, “c’mere <DELETED BY THE INQUISITION>-head, you wanna piece of me?” Galtman turned and fixed the man with an icy stare, but the man was too far gone to notice, and lunged at him with the knife. Big mistake. Galtman caught the man’s wrist and snapped it like twig – forcing a startled cry of pain and surprise from the man’s lips - before breaking his face with his fist and laying him out across the flour in a heap. The music didn’t miss a beat. Some people laughed, some people cheered, and a few even slapped the Inquisitor on the back. Those that didn’t stripped the fallen man of anything he had of value in seconds, leaving the man to bleed onto the floor while people casually stepped around him. The grubby bartender nodded to the Inquisitor as he approached, and drew out a supposedly fresh glass, but Galtman waved it away. The bartender shrugged and walked off to another patron. When he returned Galtman hailed him with a nod. “Help you, sir?” the man grunted, scrubbing out a used glass with a ragged old hanky. “I’m looking for Xael,” Glatman replied. “Who?” the barkeep asked, looking at him with a raised eyebrow. +Xael+ Galtman repeated in the man’s head. The barkeep blinked and shuddered. The glass he was carrying dropped to the floor and smashed. “Room Twelve,” he stuttered, but Galtman had already left. Galtman stepped into the upstairs hall, numbered doors lined both sides of the corridor, and the throbbing music below was just barely audible. The floor creaked as his feet passed over it. 1… 2… 3… It had been some time since he had lost Xael – almost five years – but not a day went by when he didn’t regret losing her. 4…5…6… He didn’t care about her personally, but she had been useful, and of almost unparalleled skill as a thief, swindler, and infiltrator. 7…8…9… But then she’d become addicted to obscura. It was manageable at first, and he had thought that he’d be able to ignore her little problem, but as time wore on and the cravings became more and more frequent, she became more of burden than an asset. 10…11… 12… Five years ago, on this very planet, he had cut her loose. She had begged him to let her stay with him, to let her sober up, to give her a second chance, but Galtman was unwavering in his decision. When he returned to orbit, she was not on his shuttle. Now he would see if time really did heal all wounds. Stopping outside the door numbered twelve, he raised his fist to knock, but held it back when he heard a faint squeaking and throaty moaning coming from within. Galtman kicked the wooden door off its hinges with one forceful thrust, and barged into the unlit room. The young man that Nikka Xael had been with leapt off of her with a surprised yell. “What the <DELETED BY THE INQUISITION>!?! You can’t come in here! It hasn’t been twenty minutes!” the man yelled at him . Nikka swore and scrambled into a tangle of sheets before overbalancing and tumbling off the other side of bed in a mess of covers. “Get out!” Galtman roared at him. Nikka suddenly froze under the pile of quilts. Galtman grinned inwardly – he knew she wouldn’t have forgotten that voice. “No!” the man stammered, too stunned to even cover himself, “I paid! I want my twenty minutes!” “Out. Now.” Galtman glared at him, pointing to the door. “Roland!” Nikka shouted, pulling herself free on the opposite side of the bed, “Just leave! Yellis will give you you’re damn money back!” “But…!” the man stammered. The snub-autopistol flashed into the Inquisitor’s hand. “Whoa!” the man said, holding his hands up, “Ok! Ok! Ok! I get it!” he yelped, reaching for his clothes, “I’m gone! I’ll leave quietly! I won’t ask for my money either, ok? Is that ok?” “Out!” Galtman said again. The man vanished out the door. Galtman holstered the pistol, and turned to the woman who was now standing with the covers wrapped around her body and her eyes fixed on the Inquisitor. “Nikka,” he said slowly, looking around the room and taking in the squalor that his agent had called home. “Inquisitor,” she shivered, clutching the quilt to her bosom, “it has been some time.” Galtman finished his visual scrutiny of the room and looked back at his former agent, his unreadable face breaking for a moment as he arched a questioning eyebrow. “Are you afraid, Nikka?” he asked, slowly turning his daunting body to face her. She looked away from him and passed the quivering fingers of her right hand through her short sandy hair. “Shouldn’t I be?” she gulped, still not looking at him, “you leave me here, alone, and with nothing but the cloths on my skin. Five years you’re gone, five years in which I have to scrub out a living in this cesspit, selling my body to rotten boors and rich freighters who feel like getting lucky.” Her lower lip trembled and she wiped her eyes with the palms of her hand. She had changed, Galtman noted. Gone was the keen wit of the Nikka Xael he had employed. Gone was Nikka ‘sharp as the knife’s edge’ Xael. Gone, to be replaced by a broken down addict who had to whore herself to greed of others to stay alive. He wasn’t sorry. The Galaxy was filled with personal tragedies, what made hers so different – different enough for him to care? Nothing did – she was an addict who was no longer of any use to him. The most common story in the Imperium, entire hives could be filled with lowlifes like her. She sat on the bed and buried her face in one hand as the other still kept her shred of modesty around her. Nikka never used to cry, it didn’t suit her. She was a wreck. “Now your back,” she sobbed, “here to judge the only life I have left – the life you gave me – the life I cling to. I was respected once, you know, people used to call me Mademoiselle Xael,” she sobbed again, and her naked back lurched and shivered. “Can’t you leave me to my misery? Can’t you let me die in peace?” “Are you dying, Nikka?” Galtman asked, his voice flat and emotionless, as if he asking about a speeder he was intending to purchase. “I’ve been dying ever since I was left here – I was dead until you showed up. I had no pride, I had no dignity, I could just be a faceless nobody and forget myself. Then you show up… and I’m afraid, afraid of what happened to me.” “So you aren’t dying,” Galtman stated, sitting down slowly on the opposite edge of the bed. He was tired of standing. Xael didn’t answer - she didn’t look up - she simply cried. “Nikka,” Galtman said slowly, “I am here to take you from this place. I have come back because I realize that leaving you here was a mistake.” She stopped crying momentarily and sniffed away the tears. “Why would I go with you? What could you possibly do to make me want to go with you again? I’m not as young and foolish as I was before – I know you, Galtman, I know your ways. I still have the nightmares, I still hear you whispering in my head. Why should I trust you?” “I did not imply that you had any choice in the matter.” “Oh, Screw you!” “Xael - ” “No! Screw you!” Galtman turned around; her tear streaked face was looking at him – her eyes betraying hurt, frustration, hope, and anger. “I - ” “Go to hell, Galtman!” “Be silent!” he barked. Her voice died in her throat – she sat there, stunned, and looked at him. “Good,” Galtman sighed, “I do not need to be interrupted by your childish profanities.” She tried to speak, but no sound could escape from her throat. Galtman shook his head; “No, no – I am speaking now, so I suggest you listen.” The Inquisitor cracked his knuckles and stood up – the weary bed creaking as his weight was removed. “I am willing to take you back into my employ,” he said coolly, “though this time you will be under the extreme scrutiny of myself and my associates – one slip up and I will see that you are dealt with… permanently. You will do only as you are instructed to, and you will do so under my supervision. If I am satisfied with your performance in your duties, then I may choose to treat you with more leniency. Do you understand?” “I’m not your slave!” she spat, throwing the quilt down and standing to face him across the bed in defiance. “I am not coming with you, I would rather stay here in – in” she fumbled for words enough to describe her hatred, “I would rather stay here as a filthy whore than kowtow to you again! Servicing the likes of filth in this place seems like the highest of luxuries in comparison to serving under you again! Bastard!” She spat on the floor for emphasis and looked back at him with wild eyes. “I require your skills,” Glatman said, the mask of his face once again in place, “and I will get them, whether you are willing or not.” * * * * They left the thumping music of the bawdy house ten minutes later and stepped out into the deserted fog of the street. Looking both ways, the man in the black storm-coat led the woman out by the arm. She was dressed in the loose fitting cover-alls of a flight crew, and did not appear to be resisting. Her head lolled badly from side to side – she was hardly even conscious. The man started to walk north, directly towards him. He was speaking now, saying something, but from his vantage point he was unable to hear the Inquisitor’s words. Roland Weis ducked back out of site into the shadows of the alleyway, and waited. The slopping footsteps grew louder as the Inquisitor approached. He was getting close – very close. Had he been detected? Control your thoughts, he told himself, closing his eyes, think of something base, something indiscriminate. The thought of several erotic vids he’d seen slid easily into his mind – the failsafe. The footsteps started to fade – he was in the clear. Roland risked a glance out from his hiding place, catching a glimpse of the swishing black storm-coat as the man and the woman disappeared from view onto a side-street. Roland let out a sigh of relief and leaned his head back against the cold pavement of the building behind him. It had been a close call, that was for sure, but he had done it. Weis activated the micro-bead in his ear with a tap of his middle-digit. “It’s done,” he said, “she’s with him now.” The link remained silent for a moment… then another… then another… +Good,+ crackled the voice on the other end of the comm., +you have done well today, Mister Weis, I shall not forget it.+ “Thank you, sir!” Roland replied smartly, but the line was already dead. * * * * It was ironic, in its own way, that any commander should ever be grateful to relinquish command, for by definition, a commander was expected to take their role in leadership as their highest honour and most sacred duty. Yet here she was, Palatine Aribeth d’Allsaice of the Order of the Sacred Rose, feeling that to surrender the preceptory to the command of another would be not only wise, but deserved. It was with humility that Aribeth admitted to herself that she was a poor commander. A leader? Perhaps, but a commander? No. She wasn’t ashamed, for their was no shame to be had in performing a task – even if it be a task that one was not suited for – with devotion and honour to the best of one’s ability. No, she was not ashamed to give up her command, in fact she was relieved – relieved to know that the preceptory would benefit from the guidance of a more experienced hand than her own. It had been just that morning when she had been told - told that after three months of waiting, three months of increasing pressure - that the arrival of the new Canoness was imminent. Augusta had interrupted her during the morning repast with the news that had come during the night: the Canoness’ transport had just emerged on the edges of the system, and would be in orbit in several hours. The news could not have been more welcoming, and the panic she had felt that morning in the chapel was shifted aside by preparations for the Canoness’ arrival. Finally she would have some respite. She stood in her office now, fully armoured in ceremonial regalia, and with only the young Belinda for company. She turned slowly in front of the long mirror that had been brought in upon her request. She looked magnificent. White armour sparkling with a glossed pearl shine, the Palatine thought herself similar to the pictures of the avenging angels of old. No scars from battle blemished the whiteness of the surface – a surface so polished that she fancied her own reflection upon it – and no worn tarnish could diminish the gold and argent bindings on the suit’s ornately crafted trim. About her shoulders was draped the treated fleece of some mighty hunting beast that had been softened and scented to the point where she had to consciously remind herself not to nuzzle the delicate furs with her nose and chin. Down along her back in black velvet hung the flowing mantle of her office that proudly bore the symbol of the Sacred Rose held aloft in the Saint’s armoured hand embroidered along its face. The long cape ran the length of her body and further distinguished the striking white of her armoured form as it swished and snapped to reform itself along her with every move. About her waist she had fastened the gleaming gold chaplet on its string of adamantium beads – each honouring an act of valour and penitence that she had made in His name – which hung with pride next to the decorated black-leather sheath of her power sword – its hilt glistening in thanks to the many hours she had spent tending to it. Even the livery worn by the Palatine reflected the monument of this day – the day that the preceptory passed into the hands of a new Canoness Preceptor – the normal mat black being replaced by the silk darkness and sewn finery of the purest cream-white. Drawing her eyes up her length through the mirror’s reflection, Aribeth studied every aspect of herself before finally looking into her own face and smiling. Despite all that had occurred up to this day, the horrors she had witnessed, the friends she had lost, and the adversity that spiralled around her, Aribeth felt good – better than she had in some time – and she was determined to make it last. “How do I look?” she turned to catch Belinda with the corner of her eye. The girl opened her mouth then shut it again, her eyes wide as she watched the Palatine in the mirror; dreams of all she ever wished for blossoming in her thoughts. She shook her head in a speechless gesture; “You look… like the Saint herself,” she managed, tilting her head upwards to look at Aribeth’s mirrored face. Aribeth grinned down at her. “Some might consider that blasphemy,” she said kindly as she reached a gauntleted hand back to feel the tied up braids in her hair. Belinda nodded, her face still starry-eyed. “Some might…” she said, her voice little more than a hushed whisper. Aribeth chuckled softly to herself – oh how innocent the mind of a child was: no experience of pain and loss, no reason for doubt or fear, and the infallible belief in the righteousness of human-kind. The smile slowly faded from Aribeth’s face. She had been like that once, filled with youthful naivety, blind to fact that the Imperium she had been taught to adore above all else was really polluted and corrupt, and that it was the duty of she and the few like her bring about mankind’s redemption. It was easy, she realised, so easy to lose all hope for all humanity in this time of darkness and uncertainty. It was too easy to give in, to succumb, for what was there to hold the approaching darkness at bay? Faith. There was faith. It was through faith that humanity survived – faith that no matter what should come, the Emperor would be forever vigilant and guide His flock through the twisting nightmare of the void, providing salvation to all mankind when He rose again from His Golden Throne to rebuild the Imperium for the benefit of all. Through faith, and faith alone, were His people kept from the clutches of enslavement and damnation. “Is something wrong, my Lady?” Belinda asked from behind her, noticing the change in Aribeth’s faces as she stared into the mirror. The Palatine did not answer. Indeed there was so much that was wrong that one person could not hope to fix it all, and if it could not be fixed, was it still wrong? “Belinda,” she asked, centering herself and pushing her doubts to the back of her mind where they belonged, “there is a medal hanging in the window of my cell. Would you go get it for me?” “Of course, my Lady!” Belinda obeyed with a quick bow, and scurried into the Palatine’s adjacent room. Aribeth didn’t know why she had asked for it, as she had never seen a reason to wear it before, but if it had belonged to her father, well, it could help her remember the generations that had come before her in the Emperor’s service, and remind her that she had never been alone in service. Belinda returned with the medallion in her hands, and presented it to Aribeth. “I’ve never seen a medallion like this before, my Lady, did you win it?” she asked as Aribeth looped the chain over her head and laid the silver cross and skull on her armoured chest. “In a way,” Aribeth replied, turning around with a warm smile to face her attendant. “It belonged to my father, and now it is mine.” “Did – did you ever know him?” Belinda asked hesitantly. “No,” Aribeth replied, releasing the medallion from her grip and turning back to the mirror. “I’m sorry, my Lady!” Belinda said quickly, looking at the floor, “I did not mean to pry!” Aribeth turned once more, frowning and shaking her head, “there is no need to apologise, for there is no wrong in asking a simple question such as that.” She crouched down to the girl’s level and looked her in the eye, “the only thing you need to remember is that there is a time and place for everything, and some times are better than others.” Aribeth smiled and placed an armoured hand on the girl’s small shoulder; “Remember that, and wait for the right time to ask me about my past.” The girl nodded silently, and the Palatine smiled again and stood up. “All things come with time,” she said as she moved to the door and pulled it open, “and, Emperor willing, you still have a lot of that left.” The Palatine stepped out and closed the door behind her with a soft snap, leaving the young Belinda standing alone with her mirrored reflection in the Palatine’s office. * * * * Sister Superior Augusta, Sister Clara, Sister Rylke, Sister Serinae, and the rest of her honour guard had already assembled in the center of the Grand Hall when the Palatine arrived. All wore their gilded Celestian’s power armour with a highly polished shine, and had replaced their standard mat black livery with the more ceremonial black dress that sported intricate hand sewn insignias of the Sisterhood. All of them, including Sister Serinae – who Aribeth had elevated to the rank of Celestian shortly after the end of the fighting – had replaced their standard armaments with finely crafted bolters that had been embellished with gold and gemstones, making each weapon more of a decorative piece than a tool of war, that now hung at the sides of the guards of honour. The Celestians bowed their heads as a sign of respect to their approaching leader, a motion that was returned to them by the Palatine. “Your Guard of Honour stands ready and willing, my Lady Palatine,” Augusta announced as she stepped forward to clasp forearms with Aribeth, the traditional greeting between warriors across the Imperium. “Everyone is prepared?” Aribeth asked, releasing her grip on the gleaming metal of the veteran’s bionic forearm and prompting Augusta to do the same. “The preceptory is being made ready, my Lady, and all shall be prepared once the Canoness and her Honour Guard arrive,” Augusta replied smartly as she fell in beside Aribeth as the Palatine made her formal inspection of the Celestians, exchanging nods and smiles as she passed each of them by. “How soon until our Lady Canoness arrives?” Aribeth asked in a calm, quiet voice as she walked down the line. “Her ship will enter high orbit in… about twenty minutes. Transport has already been arranged to meet our Lady Canoness at the star-port: one Immolator and one Rhino, as per your request.” Augusta said as the two of them reached the end of the line where Serinae stood smartly to attention. “What do you know of our Canoness?” Aribeth said, turning to face Augusta’s cold bionic eye and twisted face. The veteran’s organic eye blinked and her scarred features slackened a little as she shook her head slightly from side to side. “Admittedly I know very little about Canoness Helena Cerador, though I do know that she is a veteran warrior of many crusades and that she may well be over a century old.” “A century!?” Aribeth exclaimed with hushed surprise, “Why would a warrior of that renown be sent here?” Auguata shrugged slightly, “I know not, my Lady, though it surprised me as well. We can expect that transfer from active combat into a more… sedentary role of leadership, will have quite an impact on her, however.” “Perhaps,” Aribeth agreed, “though to pass judgement too soon would be unwise.” Augusta inclined her head in apology; “Forgive my presumptions, my Lady, I - ” but Aribeth held up her hand to silence the veteran. “Do not apologise, Sister Augusta,” she said, “we all have our presumptions, but there are more pressing matters at hand than discussing them.” Aribeth paused for a moment and looked back along the line of upright Celestians, more for peace of mind than anything else, in hopes that she might stifle the nervous excitement that tumbled about deep inside her. “Come,” she said, looking back into Augusta’s battered face, “we should be on our way. Summon the transports.” * * * * “That’s it! We’re moving!” Sylvia called out as she walked past the Rhino transport as it rumbled into life and started to crawl its way down the connecting alleyway of the preceptory’s armoury towards the command Immolator that stood between it and the city streets. “Give me a moment,” Cassandra shouted back over the noise from the top of the Immolator tank as she made a few last minute adjustments to the turret heavy-flamers. Sylvia nodded her understanding and made an affirmative hand signal, then ducked into the Immolator’s back hatch, closed it behind her, and disappeared. As soon as news of the Canoness’ arrival had been made known, the tank crews under Cassandra’s command had spent all their time cleaning, polishing, and generally preparing their fighting vehicles. The Exorcists and Immolators had taken an inordinate amount of time to prepare – in fact the Exorcist crews were still working on polishing their magnificent vehicles – and even as they left Cassandra was making finishing touch-ups to make the preceptory’s command vehicle the best it could be. Devotional pennants adorned with purity seals fluttered gently against the Immolator’s armoured flanks overtop of a beautifully restored mural depicting Saint Dominca ending the Reign of Blood of Goge Vandire that decorated the sides of the Immolator tank; a large black banner with emblazoned with the Sacred White Rose was mounted just behind the tank’s turret; and every rivet, bolt, and casing shone with a reflective finish that spoke volumes of the crew’s labour and love they placed into the fighting machines. The top hatch of the Immolator popped open and Sylvia emerged. “Give me a moment more and we’ll be out of here,” Cassandra said as she reattached the fuel line from the flamer units to the promethium canisters. “Wait, Cassandra. What are you doing? Don’t you know that isn’t the right way?” said a voice that definitely wasn’t Sylvia’s. Cassandra froze – the hairs on the back of her neck standing right up – she knew that voice, and she knew that by all things holy, that voice should be dead. She looked up, and Sister Ullia’s eyes looked back at her. “Give me that,” Ullia’s voice said as she took the fuel lines from Cassandra’s unresisting hands and reattached them to the fuel canisters in a different way than the veteran tank commander was used to. “U-Ullia?” she fumbled, her eyes not wanting to believe that a woman who had died three months ago in battle was crouching beside her on top of her tank. “What? Something wrong?” Ullia asked casually – too casually. “Ullia… you’re dead. The Rienhold was destroyed defending the plaza square… both you and Sister Soipha died with it.” “Are you alright, Sister Cassandra?” the dead woman asked, her gauntleted hands still working with attachment as she glanced up from her work for a few seconds to look at the commander, “I’m fine, but you won’t be if you aren’t careful about your work.” Cassandra blinked, her mouth hanging agape as she stared at the woman next to her. Her armour was whole and polished, her face was clean and unmarked – she looked whole, healthy… alive. Ullia finished her work and turned to face her. She frowned, and shook her head with a long sigh. “You’ve got to look after yourself, Cassandra,” she said, “our Sisters need a strong leader, and with a new Canoness you have to make sure that you provide that. Transition can be hard, but you should be ready.” Cassandra was speechless. Ullia placed a hand on her shoulder – it was whole, it was real, “Do you think you can do that?” she said. Cassandra just looked at her. “Are you almost done, Sister? We have to be going!” Cassandra snapped her head around with wild eyes, her chest rising and falling with heaving gasps. Sister Sylvia had appeared at the side of the command tank. She could feel the tank rumbling underneath her. Cassandra looked back across the top of the Immolator. She was alone. Ullia was gone – the top hatch was closed. “Cassandra?” Sylvia was looking at her with questioning eyes, “Are you done?” “uuuum…” Cassandra looked about herself quickly, and then hopped off the side of the vehicle. “Yes, I’m ready. It’s time we departed.” Sylvia nodded, and Cassandra disappeared into the side hatch of the tank, but Sylvia looked back at the top of the Immolator once more. Who had she been talking to? Link to comment https://bolterandchainsword.com/topic/122098-the-fallen-saint/page/6/#findComment-1596383 Share on other sites More sharing options...
C. Barrius Matthaeus Posted June 12, 2008 Share Posted June 12, 2008 Looks like some very interesting events are happening here. More Sisters are seeing things? That's suspicious if anything is. Much like this fellow who was watching Galtman. And with the impending arrival of a highly experienced Cannoness, events are building up to something that will no doubt be very exciting. I can't wait to see what happens next! :) Link to comment https://bolterandchainsword.com/topic/122098-the-fallen-saint/page/6/#findComment-1597013 Share on other sites More sharing options...
Lady_Canoness Posted June 24, 2008 Author Share Posted June 24, 2008 Hello again loyal readers and lurkers! The 3rd installment is greatly overdue for several reasons, all of which are causing me great deals of distress. However, for every minute that I cannot spend writing the 3rd installment, I spend a minute thinking about how to better improve upon other areas of the story. Rest assured that over the next few installments we will get closer looks at character interaction as well as the characters themselves, plus a generous amount of memorable scenes. I am working furiously at enhancing dialogue and keeping it lively, and thinking up new ways to avoid stagnation - hopefully it will all pay off! Installment three will hopefully hit the net before the weekend. Cheers! -L_C Link to comment https://bolterandchainsword.com/topic/122098-the-fallen-saint/page/6/#findComment-1608314 Share on other sites More sharing options...
Alex.ö Posted June 24, 2008 Share Posted June 24, 2008 That´s interesting! Awating the next installment with (too little) patience ^_^ Link to comment https://bolterandchainsword.com/topic/122098-the-fallen-saint/page/6/#findComment-1608810 Share on other sites More sharing options...
Lady_Canoness Posted June 25, 2008 Author Share Posted June 25, 2008 Here it is! Hot off the press (as in I just finished typing it and doing any proper revisions) is the third installment of the Saint Ascendant. This installment is a long one, and it took me about 3 weeks to get it right - three weeks that saw three scenes deleted in favour of two scenes that (I think) made the whole thing a lot better. At first I was unsatisfied by my work, but now, after much labour, I think that this installment may be one of my best yet! So, we finally meet the new Canoness and the Sisters she brings with her. Up until now we have only had experience with the younger Sororitas, and we have seen the 'optimism' of youth manifest in how they act, speak, and conduct themselves. Now we get to see the older Sororitas, those who have been around the block a few times and have the years of experience required to know the galaxy and their place in it. Enter Canoness Helena Cerador, the woman who upholds the common image of the Sisterhood in the 40k universe. Rest assured, this Canoness is likely to be ranked amongst the Mysterius Chaos Marines in terms of badassity and intrigue. The Canoness also brings 5 Celestian's with her, two of which are to be named characters in the story, both are interesting characters in their own right, and have a great deal of potential. Ladies and gentlemen, the Sisters of Battle are no longer youthful and light, for after all, this is the grim darkness of the far future... It is my honour now to present the Third Installment of the Saint Ascendant part 2: the Seed of Martyrs. -------------------------------------------------------- The Saint Ascendant part 2: the Seed of Martyrs, Installment Three: A Mask of Two Faces -------------------------------------------------------- With a yawning howl like a waking beast, the Sabertooth class drop-ship descended upon the tarmac with a howling wail of retro thrusters. Whipped into a frenzy, the air lashed out with tremendous force as the sleek lander rotated a full three-hundred-and-sixty degrees before setting its struts down onto the pavement with a dull crunch. The wailing shriek faded almost immediately as the pilot cut the engines, subduing the air around the gathered Sisters into a once again calm state. Aribeth and her honour guard had arrived moments earlier at the Ecclesiarchy’s sanctioned landing pad, and now stood upright in attendance to the arrival of the new Canoness. Each Celestian stood to attention in a perfect line several paces behind their Palatine – five to both her left and right – and held their weapons tightly to their sides. To Aribeth’s right stood Sister Superior Augusta, the preceptory’s standard gripped firmly in the veteran’s gleaming bionic hand, and to her left stood Sister Clara, the Palatine’s ceremonial Praesidium Protectiva held firmly against her breast. All of them stood as glorious statues in their immaculate white armour. With a hiss of air the pressurized access ramp on the Sabertooth was released and lowered slowly to the ground. As one, the Palatine and her honour guard sank to a knee in a perfectly synchronized motion and bowed their heads - unworthy as they were to look their new leader without her consent - as the Canoness and her entourage descended from the lander. Her breath coming in shallow drags, Aribeth kept her head bowed as she heard the entourage come to a halt. The Canoness was approaching with slow confident steps that thundered quietly against the concrete. Forcing her mounting excitement back down, Aribeth struggled to enforce a calm serenity over herself, though the more she tried the more nervous she became. “Rise,” she heard the Canoness say from above her, and in perfect coordination with her honour guard, the Palatine rose to her full height, bringing her head up last to see the Canoness for the first time. Aribeth knew herself to be a woman of many emotions, but surprise was not one which she was particularly attuned to. Yet as she looked upon her new Canoness for the first time, Aribeth found that the mental image of the woman she had conjured in her head could not have been more wrong. The first thing she noticed was that the woman before her was quite short – at least a foot shorter than herself – and that her features were quite unremarkable. Contrary to whatever her actual age might have been, the Canoness looked no older than her mid-fifties, her eyes were a dull brown, her hair was a steely grey, and she had no visible facial augmentics or scars. Her armour, however, more than made up for her face. The entire suit of power armour was fashioned from interlocking golden plates, and bore impossibly fine decorations and engravings upon every surface. Around her neck and shoulders was placed a beautiful white pelt of an arctic predator, and a mantle of the richest crimson was draped over to one side of her shoulder. In fact, had it not been for the symbol of the Sacred Rose sewn into her black livery, and the white and black garb of the women behind her, Aribeth might never have guessed what Order she belonged to. Trailing the Canoness were three infant servitors, their enhanced metal limbs carrying just some of the Canoness’ belongings. The first – its organic eyes hollow as it stood by its mistress’ side – carried a massive mace in its arms, the head of which bore vicious studs and seemed to be stained with a permanent red undertone. The second servitor carried a golden Sabbat pattern helm that, like Aribeth’s, bore a crown made of multiple linked fleur-de-lyses, leaving the last servitor to carry a huge golden shield that shone so brightly that it was impossible to look at directly. The women behind the Canoness, of which there were five, all wore the ornate armour of Celestians, and carried their bolters by their sides. Not a one looked less than capable, and all bore the mark of utter dedication in their stance. “My Lady Canoness, it my honour as Palatine to welcome you as Canoness Preceptor to Proctor Primus on behalf of myself and my Sisters of the Sacred Rose,” Aribeth said as she met the Canoness’ wizened eyes. “Glory to the Emperor and His saints on this day and all others,” the Canoness replied in a voice that sang out for all those assembled to hear. “I, Canoness Helena Cerador of the Order Militant of the Sacred Rose, accept this title of Canoness Preceptor, which has been entrusted upon me by the most holy of the Emperor’s servants, in trust that I shall fulfill my duties to the Emperor and His realm, and uphold the honour of Terra and this most noble of Orders until my betters hold my service fulfilled, or the Emperor himself, through death, release me.” She stepped back from the Palatine and turned herself slowly around, catching each of the gathered Sororitas with her sight – each Sister bowing her head in turn as the Canoness’ eyes fell upon her. “Palatine Aribeth,” she said, turning to face her once more, “I am prepared to undertake this role in the Emperor’s service.” With these words Canoness Helena Cerador sank to her knees before the Palatine, prompting all the faithful in attendance to this monumental event to do likewise, leaving only Aribeth to remain standing. Reaching into the folds of her cloak, Aribeth withdrew the gilded amulet of the Guardian Preceptor – the medallion of the preceptory’s rulers - a powerful rosarius for the faithful – a relic that she had never dared to place around her neck – and placed the chain over the Canoness’ head. “With this here symbol of our faith in you,” Aribeth intoned, the words she had committed to memory forming on her tongue, “I hereby present you with the title of Canoness Preceptor, and swear my allegiance to you in both times of peace and war, and in both life and death. May you lead us faithfully along the path of righteousness, and protect us against any who should seek to ruin our Sisterhood. In the Emperor’s name, and in the name of our most beloved Order, I pass this sacred duty unto you.” Her pronouncement complete, Aribeth removed her hands from the rosarius and let it hang from her Canoness’ neck. Canoness Helena Cerador rose to her feet with the rest of the Sororitas, and gave the Palatine a simple yet reassuring smile. “Hear me, daughters of the Emperor, witnesses to my acceptance of this title, hear me when I say to you that a new age for this preceptory has begun, and that while it is only one Sister among many to whom this day is dedicated, remember that it takes more than one Sister to make a Sisterhood, and that it is on this day that all of you are to be honoured for your dedication, your loyalty, and your service to our most magnificent Father and Lord Emperor!” “Praise be to the Emperor!” they all chorused, and the Canoness turned to speak to Aribeth once more; “Come,” she said, with a smile, “is it not time for us to retire to our hallowed convent? I am not so young as to have the boundless energy of my Sisters.” “There are transports waiting to return us to the preceptory upon your request, my Lady,” Aribeth said as she took her place at the Canoness’ right hand side as she walked away from the Sabertooth. The honour guard parted before them and fell into formation with Helena’s Celestians behind the ranking Sororitas. “Excellent,” the Canoness shouted, her voice barely audible as the Sabertooth pilot reengaged the craft’s engines and slowly lifted off the ground, “the sooner issues are settled, the better.” “What issues might those be, my Lady?” Aribeth shouted, leaning close to the Canoness as the engine noise increased – that pilot would likely be on the end of a stern reprimand when he returned to orbit for disrespecting the Sisterhood so. The Canoness made a dismissive gesture with her hands, “Nothing you need concern yourself with for the time being.” Aribeth nodded in understanding, though she had difficulty believing that any issues that arose would not be of her concern; after all, she had been the leader of the preceptory for the past three months. She dismissed the notion as they approached the waiting transports, however; the Canoness was very experienced, and would likely be able to manage whatever might arise. “Rest assured though, Sister Palatine,” the Canoness said as she reached the access ramp of the command immolator, her voice no longer having to fight against the over-eager Sabertooth, “that you and I shall have plenty of time to discuss the leadership of the preceptory.” Had she imagined it, or had the Canoness’ implication been something sinister? Well, we’ll find out soon enough, she thought, and followed Canoness Helena into the hold. * * * * The return trip to the preceptory took little over a half hour as the two tanks wound their way back through the tangle of city streets. The going was slow, however, as whatever life remained in the ailing city tried to revive itself to see through another day. Not much had changed in the three month’s since the war’s end, and the capital city was still just a shadow of its former self, but day by it struggled to survive – struggled to rebuild – and it was through the sweat and toil of ministorum clerks and urban developers that the city survived as it did. Estimates indicated that roughly sixty percent of the city’s population had returned, and though this number did not increase, it did not decrease either. But even with all the effort that was being put in to its survival, the capital of Proctor Primus was still a broken beast, and it would take a miracle to change that. As the Immolator tank grumbled onwards through the metal and concrete wilderness of the outside city, Aribeth found herself sitting in the Immolator’s passenger hold with the Canoness, Auguasta, the Canoness’ servitors, and who she assumed must have been the Canoness’ second in command. The air inside the tank was tense and silent. Helena appeared to be waging war within the confines of her own head, or she simply found that the vibrating metal interior of the transport was growing increasingly uncomfortable – odd considering that she was a woman of untold battle experience. Augusta, on the other hand, was very still – her eyes staring off sightlessly as she slowly tapped the fingers of her bionic against her armoured thigh, the low tapping sound drowned amidst the constant rumbling of the engine. The other woman was also still, though it was impossible to imagine what she might be thinking. Like Augusta, this Sororita had obviously seen many battles and had the marks to show for it – or so Aribeth guessed, for in place of a face was what appeared to be a silver death-mask that portrayed the features of beautiful, but sad, young woman. It was unnerving, Aribeth found, to look at her, for in the holes cut into where the eyes of the mask should be betrayed no inkling of the person that was hidden within, and unlike a Sororitas combat helmet which was designed solely for protection, this woman’s mask seemed as if it were only designed to intimidate – the beautiful exterior disguising a repulsive interior that was too ugly to be seen. As if sensing the Palatine’s eyes upon her, the masked woman slowly turned her shining metal face toward Aribeth and fixed her between the two blackened pits that concealed the Sister’s eyes. Though her initial response was to look away, Aribeth did not, rather she gave a simple nod in the Sister’s direction, a nod that was returned in a due sign of respect. “What is your name, Sister?” Aribeth asked, breaking the silence between them. Augusta leaned forward slightly, as if she were curious to find out about the masked Sister as well. “I am Celestian Superior Cauline Antoinette, my Lady, and I look forward to serving under you and my Lady Canoness for as long as the Emperor wills it,” the masked woman replied slowly, and Aribeth detected a slight lisp in her voice. “Cauline Antoinette…” Augusta repeated thoughtfully, resting her elbows on her knees. “Sister, would you perchance have fought at the Magus Schism that occurred not fifteen years ago on Magus Extermis?” The silver mask turned to stare blankly at the Celestian. “I did, why?” “I served under you and Palatine Saro for the most part of that campaign. I thought I recognized your name, Sister, but…” her voice trailed off, not wanting to bring up the obvious. The masked Sister nodded slowly, though any emotion was impossible to detect under the silver face. “And you are?” she asked, her voice as flat as it had been before. Aribeth saw Augusta stiffen slightly at being so addressed by an equal in rank. “I am Celestian Superior Augusta Cardinal,” she stated, sitting upright once more. To Aribeth’s knowledge, Augusta had always been stoic and resolute individual – this woman, however, had obviously made a mark on her at some point in the past. The masked woman inclined her head slightly; “I do not recall you, Sister Augusta, I am sorry. I apologize if I have made any offence to you, though you must understand that after several decades of non-stop war, names and faces do not mean to me what they used to.” “It is of no matter,” Augusta said, “and no offence was taken – it was some time ago.” Cauline nodded in understanding and leaned back against the inner wall of the transport, but Aribeth could tell from the unusual tone in Augusta’s voice that she wasn’t over whatever had passed between the two Celestians, and that whatever it was, it weighed still on her mind. Aribeth glanced sideways at the battered Celestian, but Augusta did not look back – her eye once again staring off into emptiness. The Rhino pushed onwards through the city as its crew kept it on the tail of the lead Immolator. In its hold, thirteen Celestians sat shoulder to shoulder along the Rhino’s inner hull. Several of them were speaking in hushed conversations to one another – as hushed as a conversation could be in the vibrating and noise-filled back of a Rhino personnel carrier – but the rest sat in the relative silence of their own thoughts. Sister Serinae, her ceremonial bolter resting comfortably between her knees, sat at the very back of the compartment with a reserved patience – her keen eyes sweeping the faces in the hold. Sister Clara sat to her left with her eyes closed and her head resting against the Rhino’s shuddering hull. Serinae looked at her for a moment – her serene expression never changing even as the Rhino quaked and shook around her. Serinae didn’t know Clara very well – in fact, she didn’t know anyone very well anymore – but she knew that Clara and the Palatine were close, and that had to count for something. Across from them sat one of the Canoness’ Celestians, her arms folded across her chest as she looked around at the other occupants of the transport. From what Serinae could discern, she was young – not much older than her early twenties, she assumed – and unlike the older Celestians that had arrived with her, she was not visibly scarred. Feeling the former Retributor’s gaze upon her, the young woman turned to look at her with bright green eyes. She smiled. “My name is Kia,” she said just loud enough for Serinae to hear her, and extended her open hand across the hold. “I’m Serinae,” Serinae replied, taking the proffered hand in her own and shaking it. “It’s a pleasure,” Kia said warmly, releasing Serinae’s hand. An awkward silence ensued. There wasn’t much to be said between Battle Sisters who shared little in the way of common ground – no one liked to talk much about battles past, and there was little to talk about in practises of faith. “I noticed that our Lady Palatine is quite young,” Sister Kia said, breaking the ice between them, “what is she like.” Surprised a little by the openness of the question, Serinae hesitated a little before answering. Beside her, Clara opened her eyes, but did not speak. “My Lady Palatine is a good woman. She is fair, and a fine leader.” Serinae didn’t know what else she could say – she had a lot of thoughts regarding the Palatine, but out of respect for Aribeth, they were not the kind of things that she would discuss openly with another. Explaining as much would be difficult, and she struggled to find the right words to make clear her particular situation. Fortunately for her, however, Sister Clara had chosen at that moment to join the conversation. “Be assured that our Lady Palatine in an honourable woman, and is rightly worthy of her title,” said Clara with a note of calm confidence in her voice, but then she tilted her head forwards slightly to cast the severity of her words through her azure depths, “but know that as much as I respect and admire the Lady, I do not wish to speak on her behalf. Her actions are her own, and I shall not render her such a disservice as to speak more of her while she is not present. I suggest that if you wish to know what our Lady Palatine is like, you speak to her yourself so that she may impress upon you her own character, rather than relying on who she is to us.” Serinae nodded slightly in agreement, then looked back at Kia with an impassive air. “I understand,” Kia said apologetically after feeling that Clara’s response – while not hostile – had been particularly damming. “I had no intention to pry, it’s just that – as a new arrival – it helps to better understand one’s Sisters. Perhaps you can relate?” Serinae nodded, she knew only too well, but Clara didn’t answer, instead lowering her head in reflection. Did she know what it was like? She fancied that she should know, but in truth she really didn’t – she had never felt completely alien, completely alone – she and Aribeth had almost always been by the other’s side. Yet was there a failing in such a thing? Had her connection to another severed her connection with her Sisters? Her duty? Her Emperor? Was such a connection a weakness rather than a strength? No, it was a strength to them both, and the events of the past three months only went to prove it. The more she thought about it, however, the more a snagging doubt pulled at the edges of her mind, a doubt that for all her strength persisted and grew stronger whenever she tried to banish it. What if one of them died? As Sisters of Battle, it was all too likely to occur. Would she have the strength to carry on if Aribeth should die before she did? It would be agonizing, she knew, but her top loyalty should always be to the Emperor, and not her friend. Come whatever may, she would have to persevere. Even then, after Centario, their relationship had never been the same… she really should tell her before it was too late… She shook her head – why was she even thinking these thoughts? She had been so acceptant of death before - what had changed since then? Clara rolled the question over in her head for a few moments, but eventually let it fade – there was no sense in pondering that which she could not hope to answer. Beside her, Kia and Serinae’s conversation had changed to a discussion on bolter drills and weapon specifics. Clara listened in to what they were saying with limited interest but did not participate, and soon found her attention slipping away from firing solutions, and retreating back into dreams, hopes, and memories… she could see them all now… she could see moments of her past – clearly as if they were before her – as they dribbled upwards from the recesses of her mind… Centario had pushed them to their very limits… With a dull squeal of applied brakes the Rhino began to slow. The Celestian’s began to shift in their seats and speak a little louder. The transport lurched slightly forward as the driver shifted down the gears and brought the Rhino to a crawl; they were nearing home. Serinae tilted her head side to side and stretched out her neck, relieving the muscular tension that always built up around her neck and shoulders during these bone-jarring trips, and retrieved her bolter from between her legs. The weapon was certainly a magnificent piece and finely crafted, but she found the ceremonial bolter to be uncomfortably light in her hands compared to the weapon that she was familiar with. The Rhino stopped with delicate perfection as the driver tried to compensate for the rough ride. Accompanied by the hush of voices and the clatter of metal on metal, the Celestians rose from their seats in the newly tranquil passenger hold and filed out of the rear hatch. “Are you coming, Sister?” Serinae asked, looking back to see that Clara was moving as if entangled in the binds of a stuporous confine. “Yea…” Clara answered, as if she had only half-heard the younger Celestian, “Yea, I’m coming.” She looked up with a strained smile, clapped Serinae on the shoulder guard, then stepped past her out of the Rhino without a backwards glance. * * * * The Canoness’ procession had already passed upwards towards the Grand Hall when the tank crews finally eased their fighting machines into their berths in the crypt-like catacombs of the extensive armoury/stronghold beneath the preceptory. The echoing silence that had been broken by the reverberating rumble of tank engines died down once again as the crews shut off their motors and nursed the machine-spirits of the vehicles back into a calm slumber. With the glow of the targeting display reflecting on her face in the dimly lit gloom of the armoury, Sylvia detached herself from the Immolator’s turret and shut down all systems before rising out of her seat and walking across the tank’s flat top. Across the way she could see the Rhino crew stepping from the rear hatch of their tank in an amicable conversation as they bid farewell to their vehicle for the time being. Sylvia waved at them, and they waved back. “Are you almost done?” one of them called, “the celebratory feast is sure to start soon.” “I’ll be there!” Sylvia called back with a thumbs-up. The other women gave one final wave and then turned to start the long walk past the rows of dormant vehicles to the small exit that sat at least two-hundred yards away at the far end of the chamber. Dismounting from the top of the Immolator, Sylvia gave its metal hull an affectionate pat before stepping back a few paces to admire its beauty. An undeniable smile spread itself across her face as she looked at it. Closing her eyes, the crewwoman took in a deep breath – savouring the mixed sent of dust, promethium fumes, and oil that she had come to treat as an old friend in this darkly lit vault. She opened her eyes, the smile still glowing brightly on her lips, and approached to give her pride and joy a fare-well kiss before turning her back on it and walking onto the flag-stone roadway that ran the length of the chamber. “Come on, Cassandra!” she called as her eyes peered through the dust-flecked gloom to the very back of the room where the pair of Exorcist tanks waited in silence – the towering organs that were mounted on their hind-quarters pointing upwards into the darkness of the arched ceiling with a menacing splendour. “Cassandra, we’re going to be late!” she called, turning to take the long stroll after her Sisters towards the upward stair. She walked a few pace, passing tanks she felt like she had known all her life, as she waited for her commander to hurry and catch up. “Cassandra!” she called again in irritation, turning to once again see that she had yet to emerge from the Immolator, “What is taking so long!?” Sylvia marched back to the Immolator, her impatience growing. Then she heard it – faint from within the plating of the armoured hold, a warning klaxon could be heard beeping out its siren call. “Oh, <DELETED BY THE INQUISITION>…” Sylvia murmured to herself, hustling to the side hatch and pushing the activation rune with multiple stabs. Nothing. “Oh, <DELETED BY THE INQUISITION>!” she cursed, and hauled herself back onto the Immolator’s roof. What was she doing in there? Why hadn’t Cassandra shut it off? Part of her knew why, though she didn’t want to accept it – somehow Cassandra was incapacitated. She reached the roof of the Immolator and leaned into her turret, flicking all the activation switches she could find. Keep calm, keep calm. The panels inside the turret came to life with a radiant glow, and Sylvia punched in the sequence to open all the emergency hatches. With a whining hiss the locking mechanisms undid themselves and allowed access to the vehicle. Why had she locked it down? What had happened to her in there? Sylvia dashed back across the roof of the tank, pausing for a moment to look after the Rhino crew – though they had long since disappeared up the stairs. “<DELETED BY THE INQUISITION>!” she screamed in frustration, her voice dancing around the hallowed vault. The top hatch came open in her hands, the warning klaxon bursting free of its prison and blaring into the empty silence of the room. From inside, Sylvia could see red hazard lights blinking. This is really foolish, she told herself, you should not be going in there. Ignoring her own warning, Sylvia dropped down into the passenger hold, her armoured greaves ringing loudly as they battled for supremacy over the bleeping klaxon. On a second thought, Sylvia drew her pistol and racked back the slide. The door to the cock-pit was closed. With her heart hammering in her chest, Sylvia approached the door, and for the first time feared what she might find on the other side. Her hand stretched out, her fingers found the lever, her arm pushed. The door opened. Inside, the instruments where going berserk, and flashing all sort of readings all over the walls of the cock-pit – multiple hull breaches – proximity alert – multiple target-locks – low fuel. Yet the madness of the cockpit only served as reflection of what was now engulfing the woman who sat in the driver’s seat. Still strapped in her chair, the tank’s commander thrashed and convulsed with violent intensity. A foaming gob of spittle erupted from her mouth and splattered over her heaving chest and chin as her eyes rolled back into her skull. “Oh dear Emperor, No! Cassandra!” Sylvia shouted as she dropped the bolt pistol and reached for the woman’s head – trying desperately to keep her from suffocating or breaking her own neck with her body raking spasms – but after twitching for a few moments more, Cassandra fell limp in her hands. “No! Sweet merciful Emperor, please no!” she cried, her hands grasping for any sign of life. Why had this happened!? Her fingers pressed up against Cassandra’s neck – no pulse. She reached her hand into her Sister’s slackened jaw and pulled her tongue free from its foamy grave in her mouth – saliva running freely onto her hands and slipping across her fingers as she fought for Cassandra’s revival. “Come on, damn you!” she shouted into the commanders gaunt face, but Cassandra was quiet and still, and so too were all the instruments in the cockpit – every screen was blank, every light was dead, and every klaxon was mute. “Dear Emperor…. Dear Emperor!” she stammered, stepping back from Cassandra’s limp form as horror finally overcame her panicked surprise. Was she going mad? This was insanity! The whole damned place had been lit up just seconds ago! What should she do? What could she do? Hesitantly, she stepped closer to the commander, and after a moment’s pause leaned across her to the comm. unit that sat by her right hand side. She activated it with the flick of as switch, and waited as the static cleared and the unit automatically patched her in to a clear channel. Taking a deep breath, she lifted the headset to her ears and punched the transponder code into the unit – several short bursts loosing themselves into the frequency upon her command. Her eyes traced the readout as it monitored for reception. She doubted that any comm. units within the Preceptory would be manned and active considering that the celebratory feast in the Canoness’ honour was likely underway, but maybe, just maybe, a miracle would manifest. So keen she was at watching the comm. unit that she failed to notice the white-armoured hand as it spidered towards her discarded bolt pistol. * * * * Upon entering the Grand Hall, the arrival of the Canoness was met with a welcome fit to honour kings. From the spotless marble floors to the vaulted beams that supported the conical roof high above their heads, the voice of the hundreds of Battle Sisters rose in triumphant adulation to greet the newly appointed heroine with hymns of admiration and praise. Hundreds of Sororitas stood in perfect rank – their white battle plate gleaming like the stars themselves – and their weapons held high in a martial salute. Beaming to the Sisters gathered around her, the gold clad Canoness marched proudly down through the parted ranks – each line of Sisters falling gracefully to their knees in submission as she passed – and proceeded towards the colossal double doors that stood at the far end of the hall. Awaiting her arrival with flawless timing, the servitors hidden behind the walls coaxed open the massive gate as the Canoness approached, admitting the preceptory’s new leader into the heart of her convent. Reaching the threshold of the portal, Helena Cerador spun on her heel to face the gathered Sisterhood. The Celestian bodyguard immediately fell to the wayside and knelt low with bowed heads, leaving only the Canoness and the Palatine at her side to remain standing. “Rise, my Sisters!” the Canoness’ voice rang out over the now silent assembly, “Rise and take your rightful places as the Emperor’s chosen warriors!” As one, the Sisters rose in flawless unison. Helena smiled, and cast a sideways glance at Aribeth. The Palatine felt a genuine smile of her own cross her lips, and inclined her head respectfully to her new leader. Helena nodded slightly and stepped forward and away, their wordless conversation complete. The smile still adorning her features, Aribeth watched as the older woman strode comfortably away from her motionless bodyguard, and into the midst of the gathered Sisters. She walked slowly with her hands behind her back, and shared her smile with all those she looked upon. Without even speaking a word, Aribeth could tell that this woman – her Canoness – had already gained the trust and admiration of all those gathered in the hall. Her very presence was uplifting, inspiring. Like the warmth emanating from a glowing brazier, she could not help but feel touched by the commanding calm and respect that Lady Helena Cerador gifted to all those around her. She barely even knew the Canoness, but already she admired her greatly. “My Sisters,” she said, her voice so clear that everyone in the Grand Hall, nearest and farthest alike, could hear her words with equal ease. “My Sisters,” she said again, turning around so that she could perceive them all with her old eyes. “It is with regret that I learn that a only by the means of a great tragedy are we brought together this day,” she paused, her face depressed with the picture of woe, “for it was by works so foul, and deeds so vile that our Sisters did succumb to death.” Hearing the Canoness’ words, Aribeth bowed her head in remembrance for all those who had been lost. The Canoness paused once more and continued to walk slowly through the hall. “Many Sisters I have seen fall, many loved ones I have seen lost, and believe me when I tell you that every death I have witnessed in my tired old years has been as painful to me as the first.” Serinae bit her lip as the Canoness’ words brought forth memories of all the friends she had lost even though she was still young in years, and beads of water started to gather in the corners of her eyes as her heart stirred with the thoughts of faces now long past. “But even as I witness ages of war and strife,” Helena continued, her voice rising, “I remember that for every act of barbarism and hate, there is an equal act of charity and love. I remember that while many of my Sisters have fallen to a death so unwarranted and so foul, that equal gifts of life and hope have been born of their sacrifice.” Clara stood with her head bowed, and her hands held together in front of her, turning the older woman’s voice over and over in her head. “‘How could this be?’ I asked myself, ‘how could a galaxy so rife with pain and suffering still breath new life and unrequited joy into the Emperor’s domain?’” She stopped once again, and bowed her head as she paced slowly through the Grand Hall. “Long have I asked that question, my Sisters, and long have I sought to find that answer. All my life I have fought in battle, I have fought to know, I have fought to remember – remember what a life untouched by war felt like.” Helena stopped and bowed her head – every eye waiting, watching – every ear straining, listening – at that moment her words were like the words of the saints themselves, and every Sister, every soul, in the preceptory could do naught but listen as the old woman spoke. “I found that I had forgotten,” Helena Cerador continued, looking back up at the faces around her, “forgotten what it felt like to know peace, to know respite, tranquility – all I knew was war. And so, defeated and cast down, I faltered, and I feared that I could never find the answer to my question – that perhaps my answer belonged to the Emperor alone.” Not a single breath whispered though the Grand Hall, and the Canoness, her control of her audience being total, continued to weave her way through their hearts with her words. “But it would one day so happen,” she said, her voice clear as the intensity of her words began to rise, and bringing with it all those who listened, “that while I watched from the drawn lines of battle as another world stood to re-embrace the Emperor’s gift of light, a small child – a girl no higher than my waist,” she held her hand out and looked down as if visualizing the infant from worlds away, “summoned the courage unto herself to approach me, and with a hand so small, so innocent, hand me a rose that bore the last white petals to ever grace the surface of her world – a world, that by my hand, had been reduced to ash, dirt, and dust. And so it occurred to me that while all along I had been looking for the gifts of happiness and new life as if they were the antithesis to the ruin and pain that my works had wrought, the truth was that pain and suffering, and happiness and love were two of the same, and that rather than conflict, they coexist. For indeed, my Sisters, joy is a gift given to the Imperium, a gift given by the likes of you and me, the soldiers of the Imperium. Through all the war we wage, through all the pain we bring, through all the lives that are taken by us and taken from us, our gift remains true and unspoiled. So when I look upon you now, my Sisters, and I see the marks of war written upon your brows and breasts, and I see in your eyes the very real pain you now feel at having lost your friends, your Sisters, and your heroines, I bid you remember that though war has cost us dearly, that you have given a gift – a gift that all the Imperium will cherish – a gift that you will give with every day that you uphold your honoured duty – and while this gift may cause you grief, pain, or suffering, this gift grants another day of happiness and life to the Emperor’s cherished flock.” A broad smile crossed the Canoness’ face, and she raised a clenched fist in front of her - holding it high in a gesture of courage and triumph – as she shouted out for all to hear. “Is this gift not worth fighting for? Is this gift not worth the pain, the suffering, and the woe that has befallen us? Is this gift, a gift that only we can give, so estranged to us that we can only hold our heads in sadness and in shame for what we have given? I tell you now, my Sisters, that the gift I have given is the greatest offering that I can make to my Emperor, and that I shall keep giving my gift until my last drop of blood, and that I shall do it without fear, without regret, and that I shall hold my head up high! Honour the living! Honour the dead! We are the Emperor’s chosen warriors! We are those who have given life, and we are those who guard it!” Helena Cerador spun on her heel and marched back to the yawning portal and her awaiting entourage, a roar of chorused cheers, applause, and declarations of victory followed behind her. “Remember your Sisters, Aribeth,” The Canoness said as she drew past the waiting Palatine, “for it is they who make you who and what you are. Remember that, for it is my first lesson to you.” * * * * For such a monumental occasion as the arrival of the Canoness Preceptor, it was only fitting that the greatest of festivities should hail her arrival, and after having addressed the gathered Sisterhood in the hallowed expanse of the Grand Hall, the Canoness, Palatine, and their accompanying Celestian’s marched together with great ceremony to the Banquet Hall. The Hall’s great doors – a portal that spanned two-score-and-ten above the glittering marble of the floor, and was fashioned by hands of unmatchable skill – opened with a ponderous silence, admitting the Sisters to the glory within. Dazzling light danced outwards over their faces and bodies as hundreds of long-stemmed candles shone with unsurpassed brilliance upon each and every chandelier. The tables – which were often left bare to the mercies above – were this day draped with the finest of scarlet cloths, and upon which sat hundreds of laid places for each one of faithful to sit, for on this day a feast of the best quality had been prepared. Entering the room as the first among equals, Canoness Helena Cerador paused to gaze around and upwards at the marvel of craft that expanded all around her. She turned to Aribeth with humbled eyes; “As old as I may be,” she said in whisper of a voice, “I am not so presumptuous as to pass by greatness when I see it.” “It is our highest honour to receive you, my Lady,” Aribeth replied in complete sincerity, choosing her words carefully, “and we will spare nothing in expressing our gratitude.” “I am a humble woman, Aribeth,” the Canoness said with as nod as she led the Sisters into the Hall, and proceeded to her place at the head table, “but I appreciate the sentiment all the same.” Aribeth remained silent. Though she had hardly spent any time in the presence of the Canoness, the Palatine already admired her greatly. Yet even so, Aribeth knew that the feeling would not be mutual, and that she had best remain disciplined and guarded in the presence of her immediate superior. Easier said than done. Canoness Helena inspired confidence and trust in the young Palatine like no superior she had ever met. Everything about her was so calm, so controlled… so right. She was how a leader should be, and Aribeth knew that her every order would be as welcome to her ears as if the Emperor Himself had spoken it. The glorious Canoness Preceptor led the way up to the head table, and standing before her new throne, waited for all her Sisters to seat themselves before she allowed herself to sit. Aribeth, however, remained standing, and with a sweep of her open palm towards the titanic doors guided the Canoness’ eyes towards several new arrivals that had entered after the Sororitas. “My Lady Canoness,” Aribeth announced across the silent hall, “may I present to you our honoured guests from the Emperor’s most holy priesthood.” Helena Cerador rose from her throne in welcome to the delegation of deacons and confessors as they approached the Canoness with heads bowed – humbled by the Emperor’s will embodied. “Welcome Brothers!” boomed the voice of the Canoness over all those assembled, “I thank you for honouring myself and my Sisters with your presence, and I bit you come, feast with us in this day so glorious that the Emperor has delivered!” The leader of the procession, an old priest with a well trimmed beard and elaborately embroidered robes fit for the ceremony, answered the Canoness with a clear voice that belied his obvious age; “O Daughter of the Emperor, most favoured in His eye, we are but humble servants undeserving to even feed upon the scraps from thine table. But she ye, our better in every way, deign to let us approach thee, and sit with thee, and dine upon the repast that hath been laid before thee, we will be forever your servants, and hold ye in the highest of heavens seated at the right hand of the Emperor Himself.” The Canoness suppressed a smile and inclined her head while motioning for the priests to join them. In turn, each of the priest – grovelling like they were approaching a Saint – approached the Canoness and kissed her heads before retreating hastily and seating themselves wherever a seat was offered. Quite an act, Aribeth thought – she had seen most of these men before on several occasions, and they had never prostrated themselves like that before any other Sororita. Either Canoness Helena Cerador was a woman of undeniable rank and prestige, or these men were simply putting on a show for their benefit. The priests were still in the process of paying their respects to the Canoness when one of the side doors opened to admit a scurrying novice into the banquet hall. Frantically – the terror at being admitted into such an important occasion clearly written upon her face – the young girl darted about the hall, searching for someone she could not find. At last an expression of relief exploded onto her face, and she raced up to a Sister seated at one of the long tables, speaking a few hurried words into the older woman’s attentive ear. Mistress Celina rose from her seat and bid the girl follow her, the two of them then approached the head table at a hurried pace. “Palatine,” Celina hissed, leaning beside her as Aribeth watched the last of the priests rise from his knees to find an empty seat, “something terrible has happened! Please come with me.” With Mistress Celina and the novice at her heels, Aribeth dashed down the long flight of steps two at a time as they hurried into the cavernous hall of the armoury. Up ahead, past the rows of silent vehicles, Aribeth could spot three figures through the gloom, and with a quick hand motion to Celina, the group hastened towards them in a run – their ceramite greaves echoing around the monstrous room with each hammering footfall. One of the figures looked up and ran to meet them as the other continued to stand anxiously over the third who was sitting crumpled on the floor. “What happened?” Aribeth called out as soon as the running Sister drew near. The Rhino crew-woman – her face pale and her eyes haunted in the dim light of the armoury – didn’t answer, she just stood in dumb silence. “Emperor preserve you, Sister!” Celina shouted as she strode up to the woman and grabbed her firmly by both arms, “Tell us what happened, lest you should find yourself wanting in your duty!” “It’s Sylvia!” the woman blurted, her face suddenly breaking open in horror of her own words, “She’s dead!” Celina looked from the Sister to the Palatine, her eyes hard like set steel as she let go of the woman and let her stagger back a few paces in grief-stricken shock. “Come, Mistress,” Aribeth said, her voice steady as her mind raced through the avenues of thought to understand what she had just heard. “Duty calls, my Lady,” Celina replied, setting her shoulders wide and broadening her stance as she donned the characteristic severity for Sisters of her rank, “It is through what we do now that we shall be judged.” Leaving the novice behind with the distraught Sister, Aribeth and Celina marched up to the other two women waiting outside the Command Immolator. Every hatch of the tank was open, and the faint service lights from within trickled out over the two figures by the vehicle’s rear. One was Sister Mallil, a Rhino commander in the preceptory’s armoured division. Her face was visibly strained as she looked up at the two approaching veteran Sororitas, and her pistol was drawn, covering the other woman who sat with her head bowed by the tank’s rear hatch. It was Cassandra. “What happened!?” Aribeth barked as she came to a stop in front of the two women with the Mistress standing by her shoulder. Cassandra looked up, and Aribeth was shocked to see that her slight face, which usually harboured a tiny inkling of a smile at the corner of her mouth, was entirely blank – entirely expressionless – as if the woman she was looking at wasn’t even Cassandra, but a puppet of flesh that sat pathetically in the other woman’s place. “I’m sorry…” said Cassandra in a voice that didn’t even sound remotely like her own, “sorry for everything…” “What do you have to be sorry for, Sister?” Celina asked pointedly from the Palatine’s side. Cassandra only shook her head, her eyes glazed and empty. “She killed Sylvia,” Mallil said quietly, looking at the Palatine. “Speak up, Sister!” Celina commanded. “She killed Sylvia, my Lady.” Mallil said again, her voice louder but no stronger. “Our blessed Sister is inside.” Aribeth glanced sideways at Celina, and the Mistress nodded, Aribeth then stepped around the Sister and strode into the Immolator’s rear compartment. She’d rode in the Immolator on many previous occasions, though when she entered this time – even though her surroundings hadn’t changed in the slightest – the hold somehow felt entirely alien to her now. Her boot clapping flatly against the grooved flooring, Aribeth crossed the hold in a few paces and entered the driver’s area, and immediately averted her eyes from the terror within while whispering a soft prayer. She breathed steadily for a moment, looking back through the tank’s open rear to watch as the preceptory’s Mistress questioned both women about what Aribeth was determined to confront. The creeping stench of death was slowly consuming her. She could smell her Sister’s blood in her nose, and could taste it in her mouth – the urge to vacate the confines of the Immolator tank was overwhelming. She had seen death hundreds of times before across many different battlefields, but this was different – nothing could compare to knowing that the ruined woman before her had died not in glorious battle, but rather by the bolt from her Sister’s pistol. With a determined heart, Aribeth stepped back into the control room. There was blood everywhere: the floor, the ceiling, the display readouts – everywhere. Sylvia’s white armoured body lay sprawled across the floor by the driver’s seat. Her armour was stained crimson with her own coagulating life-blood, and a busted comm. headset dangled loosely in her motionless fingers. Her head was spread all over the cock-pit in tiny parts. The holster by her side was empty, she’d been shot with her own gun, Aribeth realized - she hadn’t been expecting a thing. Celina appeared behind her at the cock-pit door and entered, her eyes quickly playing around the blood-stained room in appreciation of the carnage. “Cassandra confessed; she did murder her Sister,” the Mistress stated as she watched the Palatine crouch over the fallen Sister and examine the ruin of her head. “Did she say why she did it?” Aribeth asked as she tried to gather up the larger parts of Sylvia’s skull that still remained somewhat intact – her unarmoured fingers passing through blood and brain while she desperately fought back the revulsion at what she was doing. “No, my Lady, she didn’t say much of anything,” Celina said solemnly before clearing her throat to continue, “that’s also what I wanted to talk to you about.” Aribeth stood up, but did not turn back from what she was doing. “What do you mean?” she asked. “I’ve dealt with hundreds of transgressions before, my Lady,” Celina explained, “but no matter what their crime the Sister is always repentant – always. With Sister Cassandra, however, well, she’s cold and unmoved, and speaking to her it is like I am speaking to another – like the woman before me wasn’t even her.” “With respect, Mistress,” said Aribeth pausing in her work to look around at the stocky veteran, “this is murder we are dealing with, not a transgression of duty or faith. I would assume that no Sister in her right mind could bring harm to another of the Sisterhood.” “I am aware of that, my Lady,” the Mistress said with a grave inclination of her head, “but I have my reasons to believe that there is more at stake than honouring a traditional punishment.” “She killed her Sister,” Aribeth answered back, picking any fragments of skull she could find off of the instrument readouts, “what other punishment can there be?” “I am not dismissing summary execution as a possible conclusion, nor am I suggesting that a lighter sentence be enacted. All I’m saying is that this murder warrants an investigation. Having Sister Cassandra executed without understanding why Sylvia was killed in the first place would likely do more harm than good.” Aribeth nodded her head, and turned around to better face the Mistress in the confines of the Immolator cockpit. “That I can appreciate,” she said with a heavy sigh. “Sister Sylvia’s death will shake the entire preceptory. Both crew of the command tank dead with no explanation?” Aribeth shook her head, “A summary execution wouldn’t serve anything unless some kind of justification was made for the murder in the first place – the assumption of madness isn’t much of an excuse.” “My exact thoughts, my Lady Palatine,” Celina confirmed, folding her arms across her armoured chest. Aribeth looked back at the headless body, her feelings of elation at the Canoness’ arrival completely stifled and bowed her head. Though she had never known Sylvia on a personal level, she had appreciated skill and uplifting attitude. She would be missed, and now the Cassandra’s life was forfeit, an irreparable hole had been torn in the fabric of the Sisterhood’s fighting forces. “Please request that our Sister of the Order Hospitaler treat Sister Sylvia with due reverence, and that her remains are gathered so the new crew might refurbish the cock-pit in any means that might suit them,” Aribeth told the Mistress as the shorter woman turned to exit from the tank’s hold. “Of course, Lady Palatine.” “Mistress,” Celina stopped in mid-step and looked back at the Palatine. Aribeth still had her back to the woman, and was once again crouching by the body. “Yes, my Lady?” Aribeth didn’t answer, she just sat there looking at the ruined Sister, looking at something that never should have happened. “Mistress, I want you to exercise utmost discretion in this delicate matter. No one needs to know the details – make sure that is emphasised to the women outside.” “As you wish, my Lady. What of Cassandra?” Aribeth thought for a moment. What of Cassandra? What should she do? “See that she is sequestered from her Sisters. No one sees her, no one talks to her. Find out what you can from her, or if she is completely mad. Keep me informed.” “What of the Canoness, my Ladd Palatine?” Celina asked. “What of her?” Aribeth snapped back, her patience suddenly thin, “Fulfil your duty, Mistress, and I will speak to the Canoness about what has happened here.” Aribeth didn’t watch her go, but she heard the metal ring as her boots slammed across and out of the tank. What now? she wondered; what could she possibly do now? Like the slow erosion of water over a rock-face, all her troubles started to carve their way back into her life. The ring of armoured greaves against the metal flooring signalled the Mistress’ return. “What now?” Aribeth asked despairingly; “Any other misfortunes to report?” The voice that answered her, however, did not belong to the Mistress. “I suppose that depends on how you define misfortune, my Lady,” said as lipless, lisping tongue. Aribeth turned, and stared right up into the hollow pits of a silver death-mask. “My lady Canoness wishes your immediate audience.” The Veteran Superior stepped back a half-pace then inclined her mask towards the Palatine while motioning out the open cock-pit hatch with a sweep of her armoured hand, “Our Canoness is waiting just outside.” Aribeth stood up – her fingers still dabbled red with her Sister’s blood – and walked smartly past the immobile for of the Celestian Superior. Sister Cauline promptly fell in behind the Palatine and moved in step with her, an action that made Aribeth uncomfortably feel as if she were under escort. Outside of the Immolator’s back access hatch, Canoness Helena – her resplendent golden armour somewhat dulled by the dimness of light in the tank cloister – stood in silence with her hands held behind her back next to Sister Mallil, looking at the now sobbing form of Sister Cassandra. Noticing Aribeth’s arrival with Cauline in tow, the older Sororita looked up at them both, but nothing other than the severity of the situation was spread across her face. “Palatine, am I to understand that this is in connection to a murder?” the Canoness asked, indicating to Cassandra and the tank with a wave of her right hand as the Palatine and Celestian snapped to attention in her presence. “Yes, my Lady,” Aribeth replied, her voice steady as she locked her eyes directly ahead and kept her head up, “it certainly appears that one of our Sisters has been killed outside of her charge.” The Canoness took a few paces forward and stopped directly in from of her subordinate, looking up into her young face with cold piercing eyes. “Indeed? How is it then that I learn of this through hearsay rather than being directly informed by yourself as soon as you became privy to it?” the Canoness asked with a voice like steel. “I’m sorry, my Lady?” “I am wondering, Palatine,” she said with excessive emphasis, “why you chose to exclude me from this information when it is clearly my prerogative?” Aribeth risked a glance down into the Canoness’ accusing eyes; “I did not intend to exclude you, my Lady Canoness, I - ” Helena’s eyes seemed to swell in her head as she sucked in a great inhalation of breath through her nasal passage. “Do not contradict me, Aribeth,” she snarled, “you purposely avoided telling me, and I would like your explanation as to why!” “Lady Canoness, I acted under my best intentions! I - ” “Are you saying,” the Canoness said, taking a furious step away from the Palatine towards the visibly startled Rhino crewwoman before spinning on her heel again to glare at the Palatine, “that you tried to take matters over my head? Are you suggesting that my intentions would be so undesirable in comparison to your own?” “My Lady, I meant nothing of the sort!” Aribeth stammered in protest, desperately try to back-track and alleviate the Canoness’ inflicted humiliation in front of her Sisters. “I simply wished that on the occasion of your inaugural banquet I might - ” “Oh!? So now you are suggesting that I cannot govern my own preceptory?” the Canoness said with mock surprise. “Lady Canoness, please! I didn’t not wish to imply - ” “What? Did you think to spare me the trouble of a murder charge? That perhaps in my one-hundred-and-thirty-eight years of service I had never witnessed a killing under my command?” Aribeth opened her mouth to plead on her own behalf, but the Canoness silence her with a brisk motion of her hand. “No, don’t say another word. I am disappointed in you, Palatine, I had thought that such a young woman in a position of authority would have remarkable aptitude, but I see now that I was mistaken.” “My lady, please!” Aribeth begged, “If you would allow to speak.” “No,” she said, shaking her head in disappointment, “I think not,” and walked past Aribeth towards the silent masked figure of Sister Cauline. “Celestian Superior Cauline Antoinette,” the Canoness asked as Aribeth turned a little to watch their conversation over her shoulder, “do you know what the penalty is for murder?” “Yes, my Lady,” rattled the Sister’s voice through the slit in her metal face. “What is it?” “It is death, my Lady.” The Canoness turned to consider Aribeth with an appreciative look in her eyes. The Palatine quickly averted her eyes and stiffened herself to look directly ahead with unwavering posture. “Do you suppose that the Palatine knows that?” Helena Cerador asked with a false hint of curiosity. “My lady, is this really necessary?” Aribeth snapped, an anger starting to boil in her heart as the Canoness continued to make a promenade of her humiliation. “I will decide what is necessary to enforce discipline and what is not, Sister Aribeth,” the Canoness replied coldly, as if she detested that she was pushed in to disgracing her second so. “I believe that the Palatine knows of murder and its penalties, yes,” the masked woman replied with her usual flat lipless voice. Obviously she was inured to the Canoness’ chastisement, Aribeth thought, or maybe she was just incapable of relaying her enjoyment at watching the young woman suffer. This isn’t suffering; the Canoness is within her every right to admonish you – and it is probably for your own good! That’s ridiculous – Canoness Naomi never treated me like this! Canoness Naomi wasn’t as tempered as Canoness Helena. You should be grateful for her attention. I will be grateful if she treats me like a Sister and a mature woman, not some shameless child! The Canoness had walked back in front of Aribeth, and was once again peering up into her eyes. When she spoke again, however, she was still addressing the Sister Superior; “If she knows, then why might the Palatine not have enacted the appropriate sentence?” “If you would like me to answer, my Lady” Aribeth hissed through tight lips as the older woman continued to examine her features, “I would be glad to explain myself if given the opportunity to speak.” Helena Cerador, however, had perfected her many methods of discipline and interrogation over many occasions spanning her years of service into almost an artform, and she would not allow the young Palatine a single word until she permitted it. “Perhaps the Palatine does not consider our Sister’s crime to be murder.” Cauline suggested from the side-lines as she observed the battle of wills as if it were a common sparring match. The Canoness nodded appreciatively; “Perhaps,” she said, then to Aribeth, “Is that the case Sister Palatine?” Aribeth looked down into the Canoness’ unwavering face, then snapped her grey eyes back into looking straight out across the room. “No, my Lady, I do not disagree that this is murder,” Aribeth answered, then paused, “I just am of the opinion that there may be extenuating circumstances, and that an execution might be too extreme a sentence to be carried out immediately.” The Canoness waited for a moment before replying. “Are you counselling caution, Sister Aribeth?” she asked. “Yes, my Lady. I believe that there is more at stake if action is taken too quickly.” Surprisingly, Helena Cerador stepped away from the Palatine and made a gesture as if impressed by the Palatine’s words. “Sister Cauline,” the Canoness called, removing her eyes from the Palatine and walking once again to where the masked woman stood unmoving, “how many years have you served under me?” “Thirteen years, my Lady Canoness.” “And do you trust me?” “With my life, soul, and duty, Lady Canoness.” “If I were to say that this Sister – who has murdered her fellow in cold blood – should be executed without hesitation, contrary to the opinion of the Palatine, would you carry out my orders?” “Without doubt or fear, my Lady.” Helena frowned, moving around the gathered Sisters at a slow pace, ignoring the sitting form of the crumpled woman, and the awestruck crewwoman, that watched her in silence. “Why?” the Canoness asked. “‘For a moment of laxity spawns a lifetime of heresy’, my Lady.” Cauline quoted. “To hesitate would cast the shadow of doubt, and a perceived act of charity would be realized as an act of treachery. Retribution must be swift and decisive, lest more evil be spawned from its root.” The Canoness stopped, and tilted her head sideways to look at Aribeth with both eyes. “Do you agree with that statement?” she asked. It was a trap. There were two answers, and both brought the pain of shame and dishonour. Answer yes, that she agreed, and she would be contradicting her word and admitting her own ignorance of opinion. Answer no, that she disagreed, and she would be found in contempt of the scriptures and severely reprimanded for her lack of faith. There was only one answer she could choose. “I agree, my Lady Canoness. A moment of laxity spawns a lifetime of heresy.” With two words, Aribeth had condemned Cassandra to a swift and immediate execution. “I am glad that you agree, Palatine,” the Canoness said softly, “and I am glad that you have realized the error in your thoughts.” Aribeth didn’t have the breath to answer. The woman she had admired up until now was revealing herself to be as two-faced as an Imperial Crown: a woman who inspired loyalty, devotion and love on one face, while invoking merciless cruelty with the other. Was this what it meant to be a leader? To play upon the weaknesses of one’s followers? Was that how people like Galtman, like Rienburg, and like all the stole their way to power? Through manipulation, callousness, and a disregard for the actual well being of their underlings? Was that why the good men and women – people like Canoness Naomi, Brother Hildegard, and all the Sisters who had been lost to her – died in their service, betrayed by a blade hidden in an open hand? Was that her fate? While Aribeth stood consumed by the storm raging through her mind, Canoness Helena Cerador stood looming over the Immolator commander – her golden form like that of a humongous bird of prey eyeing the feeble wretch, hungering for the kill at hand. “Rise,” the Canoness commanded, and was hesitantly obeyed as Sister Cassandra slowly rose to her feet. In the shadows behind her, Sister Cauline’s leering silver mask past around the condemned woman and came to stand beside Mallil’s still motionless form – the Rhino crew woman bearing horrified witness to what was unfolding around her. “Do you understand the charges laid against you?” the Canoness asked in a cold and detached voice. Sister Cassandra looked blank, and for a moment Aribeth thought that she was truly mad, but ever-so slowly, the Immolator commander nodded her head once, then twice. “You stand charged with the murder of one of your Sisters, an act of which you confessed culpability. Under the law of the Sisterhood, your life is now forfeit, and your execution has already been too long delayed.” The Canoness nodded over to where Cauline stood, signalling for the masked woman to step forward. “You have committed the ultimate heresy,” the Sister Superior began, walking up close to her until her silver face was leaned in close to Cassandra’s ear. “By killing one of your Sisters in cold blood, you have turned your back on the Emperor, and are now damned in his sight.” The veteran reached down and tore the Sister’s chaplet from the chain on which it hung around the condemned’s waist, tossing it to the floor. From her position several paces away from the Immolator Commander, Aribeth could see the woman’s lips start to tremble as she boldly stared directly ahead in defiance of the death that she was about to receive. A prayer formed on the woman’s mouth, and her eyes started to water. “Be silent!” the masked woman growled, “you are no longer worthy to speak the Emperor’s words with your liars’ tongue!” The Canoness turned on the spot and looked at Aribeth, a hint of regret forming in the very corner of her hard eyes. “Palatine Aribeth,” she said with a heavily laden voice that sounded very much like that of the old woman she was, “your pistol, give it to me.” For a fraction of a second, Aribeth’s body disobeyed, but the moment passed, and she removed her loaded bolt pistol and approached the Canoness to hand it to her grip first. “Shouldn’t she be read her last rights, my Lady?” Aribeth asked, the pistol passing from her hand to that of the Canoness. “No,” the Canoness said quietly, not meeting the Palatine’s eyes, “that grace is beyond her.” Helena turned away from the Palatine and faced the trembling woman before her. “On your knees,” she commanded. The woman, with tears steaming down her face, slowly lowered herself down to the ground in a kneeling position, and to Aribeth’s eyes it looked as though she were making a last futile prayer to a God that had been stolen from her. The Canoness slowly paced around behind the kneeling woman with sure steps. “Your life is forfeit,” she said, stopping behind the kneeling woman and raising the pistol, “may the Emperor have mercy upon you for your crimes.” Cassandra cried aloud, a formless word erupting from her mouth. The pistol roared in the executioner’s golden fist – a scream of destruction and rage. Cauline’s silver masked stared onward impassively as the flash of the weapon’s muzzle reflected off its finished surface. Aribeth blinked involuntarily as flecks of blood splashed on to her armour and face. Cassandra’s blasted body fell forwards to floor with a terminal crunch. “Burn the body,” the Canoness said, raising the pistol and handing it back in the Palatine’s direction, “we are done here.” Link to comment https://bolterandchainsword.com/topic/122098-the-fallen-saint/page/6/#findComment-1610201 Share on other sites More sharing options...
Alex.ö Posted June 26, 2008 Share Posted June 26, 2008 This is getting more and more interesting! Another very well written installment! Link to comment https://bolterandchainsword.com/topic/122098-the-fallen-saint/page/6/#findComment-1610717 Share on other sites More sharing options...
C. Barrius Matthaeus Posted June 29, 2008 Share Posted June 29, 2008 Well, this new Canoness certainly is an interesting character. I look forward to learning more about her, and seeing the effect she has on Aribeth. Speaking of which, I quite liked the part focusing on Clara's thoughts concerning herself and Aribeth. Things are all flowing and building up nicely, I can't wait to see more! Link to comment https://bolterandchainsword.com/topic/122098-the-fallen-saint/page/6/#findComment-1613364 Share on other sites More sharing options...
- 7eAL - Posted June 29, 2008 Share Posted June 29, 2008 Galtman is coming across as a really nasty fellow too. I'm guessing he's Hereticus? He reminds me of a comment I read somewhere contrasting the often paladin-like Daemon Hunters with the fear-causing Witch Hunters. The comment emphasized the way that a Witch Hunter makes pretty much everyone afraid of them, in contrast to the potentially inspiring nature of a Daemon Hunter, and that's the feeling that I get from Galtman. Well, this new Canoness certainly is an interesting character. I look forward to learning more about her, and seeing the effect she has on Aribeth. Speaking of which, I quite liked the part focusing on Clara's thoughts concerning herself and Aribeth. Things are all flowing and building up nicely, I can't wait to see more! Definitely no shining inspirational figures amongst the lot. Aribeth earns herself a lot of sympathy, no matter how shaken or foolish she can become. She has a lot of frustration, and not a single wizened person around to tell her that there are no right answers in life. Galtman is definitely a Hereticus Inquisitor. He's after cults and psykers, after all, and using that nifty Hereticus power to mindrape near every other person he sees. To elaborate the difference between the warlike Malleus 'paladins' and the frightening Hereticus Inquisitors, it is perhaps most apt to recite the basic purposes of their orders: it is the duty of the Ordo Malleus to protect human lives from the monsters of the Warp, just as it is the place of the Ordo Hereticus to suspect men and women of suffering its corruption. Link to comment https://bolterandchainsword.com/topic/122098-the-fallen-saint/page/6/#findComment-1613614 Share on other sites More sharing options...
cryptomancer Posted June 30, 2008 Share Posted June 30, 2008 Been a while since I contributed, so let me say COOL. Well done, sir. Well done. Link to comment https://bolterandchainsword.com/topic/122098-the-fallen-saint/page/6/#findComment-1614490 Share on other sites More sharing options...
Lady_Canoness Posted July 7, 2008 Author Share Posted July 7, 2008 Thanks all for your input! I really do find it helpful! Well, since last chapter was entirely devoted to the Sisters, I felt that it was time the Galtman got a nice large chunk of action in his own chapter. Plus there is always something cool going on with the Inquisition that is hard to replicate with Sisters. This scene depicts the efforts of Galtman and his team to discern the mystery around the hag's riddle and what it means. Also included is a missed assassination attempt, and my very first effort to write a thrilling chase scene. Hopefully it will all come together nicely. I've used an experimental style in this chapter to try and capture the fast-paced movie feeling for the action. I hope it works! So here we go, the fourth installment of the Saint Ascendant part II ---------------------------------------- The Saint Ascendant, Part 2: The Seed of Martyrs, installment four: The Hunter's Gambit ---------------------------------------- The night slowly receded over the skyline of Tarris Mundro as the morning’s first rays of sunshine crept up and over the wall of skyscrapers and high-rises that made up the metropolis’ main urban center, and cast its golden light onto the ceaseless toil of the city residents who worked at all hours under the ever watchful eye of Imperial administration. Day and night these people worked at every kind of job imaginable, and as he watched them – the thousands of workers who bustled about the streets below, bending their backs for the same ultimate goal – Galtman could not help but feel like a god amongst mere insects. They were so easily controlled, so predictable. Give them a job and they would work it until they died, give them a lord and they would worship him ceaselessly, deprive them everything and they would be content in their ignorance… Galtman smiled as he looked out his apartment window and enjoyed a thin measure of satisfaction – the only thing easier than caging a man’s body was to cage his mind. That cage – that mental harness – was what kept the Imperium alive – what kept the billions of souls in line for the Imperial cause – and, he was glad to say it, keeping those minds locked away in their cage was the sole reason people like him existed; to root out the dissidents – to root out those that threatened to break the cage. He was a manipulator, he was a user, he was a liar, and he was proud of it – totally dedicated to his cause. Tools, they were all tools of the machine, every last one of them. When the machine broke down, however – when minds walked outside the cage – that is what aggravated him. He did not like being out of control, in fact he hated it, and when things were out of his hands is when Inquisitor Galtman became his most dangerous. Right now things were not in his control, and deep inside his solid expressionless appearance, he was murderous. “That’s all nice and good,” Galtman said for what felt like the hundredth time, pacing back and forth through the apartment’s sitting room, “but what does that tell us?” He and his crew (or minions, as he was often wont to think) had been awake all night and early morning grinding their combined minds over the old crone’s last instructions: Follow ye the sword of three back to the port that is lost. The broken blade, too hot to touch, will point thee to the opposite of the false truth. Bring your faith, but bend your back, for wicked death comes to those who stand too tall. Follow your heart to the first of eight, and there you will find the Forge of Ends, yet be weary to hearken your hearts advice lest ye see how far one can fall. Mical, the older man that Galtman had hired as a historian/cogitator, frowned up at the Inquisitor from where he sat at the head of the apartment’s small dining table. “Well,” he said, “it’s a riddle, and we should address it as such.” “I’m good at riddles,” Nikka Xael added from across the room where she sat curled on a worn old couch. Mical eyed her warily. Nikka’s arrival two weeks ago had upset Galtman’s entourage, and most of them were still cautious around her, though only Mical had made it blatantly obvious, for despite his extensive knowledge, Mical was somewhat behind on social manners. Nikka, Galtman was glad to see, had responded very well to the cold demeanour of his team, and had avoided any unpleasant situations. She had also adapted very well to working with him once again, and despite Galtman’s initial fears, she had not once brought up anything of their past connections, or what had occurred at Port Rochk. Deep inside, he knew, Nikka was glad to be rid of the life of a common pleasure girl, and back in his employ working on the type of operations that had so intrigued her in the first place. “I’m sure you are,” said Mical, fixing the younger woman with his metallic stare. Nikka shrugged nonchalantly and shifted herself around on the couch. Galtman continued to pace. His team on this operation comprised of five people, including himself and Nikka. Mical was in charge of research and compounding data. Galtman had picked him up two years ago when the older man was working as a university librarian on Tartarus V. He was a choleric man, and Galtman had little patience for his petty gripes and indignations, however his knowledge was an asset and that was why Galtman tolerated him. Be that as it may, so far the old hag’s riddle had him stumped. He confessed that while the first part of the riddle likely indicated a location defined by historical events, the metaphors that the hag had used were most unusual. Then there was Nerf, a native of Catachan, and the one member of his team that Galtman actually liked. Nerf, like all men of Catachan descent, was a monster. At six-foot-two and three-hundred pounds, the man had the body of a pit-fighter, and had an attitude to match. An ex-guardsman, Nerf was a fine fighter, and an even better killer; he had initiative, he had spunk, and he liked a good bit of violence. Galtman had aquired him shortly after he had dismissed Nikka, and over the years he had outperformed – and outlived – many other soldiers in the Inquisitor’s employ. While Nerf was bright in his own way however, he was a far cry from what Galtman would actually coin as intelligent, and outside of battle, gambling, and bars, Nerf was lacking in common sense. Programmable, dependable, and unswervingly loyal, the Catachan was just the kind of muscle that Galtman required. After Nerf came Sulius, the little man who had served Galtman longest, and probably the one who would serve him last. No matter what the Inquisitor went through Sulius endured, for no matter what misconceptions were harboured about him, Sulius was a natural survivor. He was not a warrior, he was not a thief, rather he was a scribe and had been a scribe all his life. Bigger, stronger men would launch themselves to the fore – make their presence known – whereas Sulius – miniscule, little Sulius – would simply stand in a corner and write down everything that he saw and heard, unnoticed by everyone. He was a tiny man, about two-and-a-half feet tall, and he was mute, thus he was often overlooked. But contrary to his diminutive stature, Galtman was well aware of how vital Sulius was to his operations. Sulius was almost always by his side recording the words, deeds, and the actions of those around him for Galtman’s later examination and study. It was he, little Sulius, standing in the shadows of the hag’s lair that had captured her riddle. It was he, little Sulius, who had transcribed all of their dissections of the riddle. It was he, little Sulius, who would eventually let them piece together the puzzle, and find this cult – find this End Forge. Little as Sulius might be, he had a footprint that went unmatched amongst Galtman’s associates. As the sun rose, however, there were only four of the in the apartment. Glatman paced by the window, his hands held behind his back. Mical sat upright at the dining table, papers scrawled about in front of him as little Sulius sat nearby and copied down every word that was spoken. Nikka sat curled on the old faded flower-print couch with her head resting on a pillow and her arms wrapped tightly around her knees. Nerf, however, was not present. The Catachan, a complete loss on all but the most crude of puzzles, had spent most of the night in some Emperor-forsaken flophouse bar a few blocks away where the women were as cheap as the drinks. “‘Sword of Three’, and the ‘Port that is lost’” Mical mused, tapping his fingers against his pointed chin, “that could be any number of things…” “I don’t think you can solve it that way,” Nikka spoke up from across the room as Mical rolled his eyes, “all of these clues have to be put together in order for the riddle to make sense.” “You don’t think I know that, girl?” Mical grumbled with a sideways glance in her direction. “You academics think you know everything,” she murmured as she got up from the couch and crossed over to the table where they had been working all night. “See here,” she said, tracing her index finger across the riddle that Sulius had copied out, “the Port that is Lost is our starting point, but to get there we have to follow the Sword of Three. That same sword – whatever it is – is broken, and whatever broke it is still too ‘hot’ to touch – maybe like a war or something – then we have to retrace it to its roots to find some ‘opposite of the false truth’. Then we are given instructions ‘bring your faith yadda yadda yadda…’ then we get another destination; ‘the first of eight’, and on the first of eight we find this ‘End Forge – whatever the hell that is.” “Did we not just spend the whole of last night figuring that out?” Mical sneered, snatching the pages away from the young woman, “do you really think we are all that thick?” Galtman stopped his pacing at the window and turned to look at his assembled crew; “Perhaps we are reading too much in to this,” he said, “perhaps this really is as simple as it looks.” “My thoughts exactly!” Nikka exclaimed, slamming her palms flat on the table and staring contemptuously at the old librarian. Sulius just continued his lengthy transcription. “M’Lord,” Mical urged, “surely you trust my learned wisdom more than this…” he waved a hand dismissively at Xael. “I trust you to get your job done,” Galtman said, looking at them both with his ice-blue eyes. “I don’t care how the answer is obtained; all that I care is that it is.” Nikka Xael nodded, then turned to the little scribe who sat quietly on the chair next to her. “Sulius,” she snapped, “the map!” The little scribe nodded and tugged a data-slate from one of his many pocket-pouches and placed it flat on the table surface. Nikka activated it with a jab of her middle finger. “Alright,” she said, straightening up and looking at the Inquisitor with an anxious chew of her bottom lip, “this is what I think the riddle means.” Galtman turned to her and nodded his head slowly in her direction. “Alright,” she said again, taking a deep breath before activating the holo-graphic display of known space to appear above the table. “I think that the Port that is Lost is actually right here,” she pointed to a constellation on the map, “as it was originally named Founder’s Port during the Crusade of Solar Macharius.” “That is a pretty bold assumption,” Mical snorted, “especially considering that there are numerous ports that are actually called Lost.” “Hold on,” Nikka cautioned him, “I think that Founder’s Port is the one we are looking for because it was created by Macharius’ Third Crusade Army – the Sword of Three.” “Since when did you become an expert on the history of the illustrious Imperial campaigns?” Galtman asked. Nikka grinned sheepishly and looked a little flustered, “I was a daughter to an aristocratic family,” she explained, “I was expected to learn these things.” Galtman nodded, but Mical only shook his head in resigned disbelief. “Founder’s Port was also lost after Macharius’ death – making it a notable candidate for our search. I believe that the ‘broken blade’ could be referring to the attack by Maar Slotek that broke the Third Crusade Army, and made all of the systems they had secured ‘too hot to touch’, as in they were rife with infighting and war.” Nikka paused in her explanation for a moment, gauging the reaction of the Inquisitor - naturally he expressed no emotion whatsoever, but at least he was not contradicting her. “So,” she continued, “all we have to do is follow the direction of Slotek’s attack and that will take us here,” Nikka tapped several instructions into the data slate and caused it to zoom in on a particular sub-sector. She pointed to it triumphantly; “Eight planets,” she said, “the exact place where the Third Army was heading to before being challenged and beaten back.” Mical loosed a snort of contempt and was about to reply when the Inquisitor silenced him with a raised palm. “An interesting theory, Nikka,” he said, his voice low and rumbling, “how, might I ask, did you come to reach this conclusion?” “I was thinking about it for most of last night,” the young woman told him, “playing it over in my head until I was sure of what I was saying.” A slim smile of appreciation crossed the Inquisitor’s face; “You always had a keen mind for things like this,” he said. Nikka blushed slightly and looked down at the table, before hastily crossing the room to the washroom door. “If you’ll excuse me,” she said as she crossed the threshold and closed the door behind her with a small click. Galtman returned to the window and peered down into the city streets - his face nearly pressed against the glass as he watched the life milling about below him. Mical remained seated for a few moments and shuffled the loose papers around the desk before him with an irritated forcefulness. Eventually the old scholar pushed his chair away from the table with a screeching whine, and strode past the seated form of Sulius to approach the Inquisitor by the window. “My Lord, I would like a word with you,” he said, then looking back at the scribbling scribe added, “off the record.” Galtman didn’t even bother to look at him. “I decide what is on the record and what is off, not you.” Mical gave a resigned nod, then shot a cautious glance over to the closed washroom door. “Sir, doesn’t it seem a little fortunate that Xael just so happened to be able to work all that out?” “Why are you concerned?” “Well,” Mical began, leaning in closer to the Inquisitor as if trying to appeal his case, “I think that it seems a little odd that she managed to pull a fully formed hypothesis with such certainty out of thin air and fragmented information. What if we are been played for fools?” Galtman finally looked at him – his cold, empty eyes drilling their way into the other man’s mind; “I have been an Inquisitor longer than you know, Mical; do not attempt to advice me on subject matters that are outside of your area of expertise.” The older man swallowed hard, and with a nervous glance away from the Inquisitor, nodded. Galtman narrowed his eyes – something was wrong. It wasn’t the man before him – he was just uncomfortable in the Inquisitor’s presence, and his mind was still focusing on what words he could use in his defence. It wasn’t Nikka – her thoughts were drifting elsewhere down the avenues of possible futures while she went about her private business in the lavatory. It wasn’t Sulius – he was as thoughtless and empty as usual, and it certainly wasn’t Nerf as he slowly made his way the multiple flights of stairs to their room. Was it outside? People eking out their lives below? No. Across the rooftops - birds in flight, away from what? There – a single reflection of the morning sun catching a glass lens. Sniper. “Down!” Galtman shouted and hurled himself flat just as a trio of solid, armour-piercing rounds sliced through the window, sending it crashing down around the Inquisitor to fall like a snow of razor-edged lethality. Galtman hit the ground with a crunch as he took cover from his would-be assassin, shielding his head from the falling glass. Mical had not been so lucky. Staggering for a moment, he crumpled like a cut marionette – the bullet that had taken his life burying itself into the apartment’s back wall with two of its fellows – the body falling hard and the merciless glass scythed into his worn skin. More bullets whistled through the gaping window or punched through the walls around him as Galtman huddled into cover. Sulius had rolled off his chair at the first shot and was now curled in a corner; his head bleeding from the thin laceration he had sustained, and his stylus scribbling frantically over a fresh parchment roll as he struggled to describe in words all that he was seeing. “Nikka!” Galtman shouted over the screaming bullets as another round punched through the wall just beside his ear. Xael stumbled into sight at the bathroom doorway and looked at him with wild and frantic eyes – a snub pistol held firmly at the ready in her hands. “Where’s the shooter!?” he shouted. “How should I know!?” Nikka snapped back, wincing as more bullets thudded into the walls around them. “What the hells going on in there!?” Galtman heard Nerf’s heavy voice yell from outside the apartment door. “Stay out!” Galtman shouted back – heavy fire was still shredding the room around them – “automatic sniper fire!” His mind racing, Galtman risked sitting up with his back to the outer wall, and skidded himself across the glass littered floor on his backside. “Sulius!” he commanded, “find me that shooter!” The little scribe scurried out from his corner and ducked behind the old couch just as a pair of bullets sunk into it with dull fwops – sending feathers and stuffing billowing into the air. For a moment Galtman was afraid that the little man might have been hit, but then he saw Sulius poke his head around the side of the couch and scour the outside rooftops with his beady eyes. Another pair of shots sunk themselves randomly into the walls, and Sulius ducked back behind the couch – his stylus scribbling over the paper with redoubled intensity. A moment later the scribe lobbed a paper ball over the ruined sofa in the Inquisitor’s direction. Stretching out his arm, Galtman’s fingers closed around the paper and he retreated back into cover before unfolding the crinkled note. Rooftop two buildings east. Range est. 200 – 300 meters. Galtman tossed the paper aside and risked a peek out the shattered window. The gunfire had momentarily stopped – reloading, he supposed – but Galtman was unwilling to risk putting his head into the crosshairs of his would be assassin all the same… unless he had something to bring to the table. Sure enough, the gunman was there – an automatic sniper weapon in his hands. Galtman ducked back out of sight and tucked a hand into his storm coat, his finger wrapping around the ornate heavy pistol holstered within – the twin of the pistol that had been lost the last time his life was threatened – and a smug grin crossed his face: the sniper had the weapon, the high ground, the better field of vision, and an escape rout, but Galtman, well, he had himself. Drawing the long barrelled pistol in a fluid motion, he worked back the bolt and loaded a single high calibre round into the chamber from the eight-round clip in the gun’s stock. With a quick glance across the shattered room at Nikka’s crouched form, he knew it was now or never. Spinning out low from his hiding place – the pistol braced in an extended two handed grip – Galtman sighted, and squeezed. The muzzle exploded in his hands, sending the pistol rocketing back in his hands with cannon-ball force as the gun’s tremendous recoil sent a single bullet lancing towards the shadowy gunman. With a wild spark and resounding twang, the bullet fell short of its mark and ricocheted furiously off a steel stanchion just feet from the attackers body. Without pause Galtman worked the bolt again – the spent shell casing ejected from the gun clattering down amidst the glass as a fresh bullet was fed up into the chamber. Realizing his prey was far from defenceless, the sniper quailed under the fire directed his way and dashed clear from his hiding spot – running madly through the tangle of rooftop obstacles in an attempt to fade away. The attacker was on the move – he was running away! Galtman levelled the pistol and fired again; another murderous shot glancing just wide of the fleeing man as Galtman quickly reloaded the pistol for another attempt. He levelled the pistol, but… but the attacker was gone. He turned from the window. So was Nikka. “Hey! What’s going on!?” she heard the Catachan call after her, but Nikka didn’t answer, she was already sprinting down the hall away from the room as she heard Galtman’s pistol roar for a second time. She had a few seconds head start at most. The odds were definitely against her, but that was ok – she was a gambler; the worse the odds, the better her chances. She had made it all the way down the hall to the side-most stairwell when Galtman realised she was gone. “Where did she go?” Galtman barked, the fragmented glass crunching under his heels as he stepped over Mical’s motionless form and hastened to the door where Nerf stood with his attention divided between both the Inquisitor and whatever had just happened in the hall. “I don’t know,” he said with a shrug, his heavily muscled frame contracting under the light casual-ware that he had worn the night before, “she just ran down the hall without saying a word. Inquisitor, what is going on?” Galtman didn’t answer; he was already sprinting down the narrow corridor, the occupants of other rooms looking out their doors in shock and fear as he dashed by. “Here we go again,” the hulking Catachan grumbled, building up speed as he ran after the boss. Taking the stairs as fast as she dared, Nikka Xael quickly lost count of how many floors she must have passed, all she could concentrate on now was that she keep going down. Another flight – another few steps – down, down, down she went. Through a window she could see the flat top of another building far below her – much too far; she kept going. Another flight of stairs, another window; it was closer now – maybe seven stories – still much too far – she kept going. Now it was five stories. Now it was three – three stories below her. This is it, she thought, it’s now or never. She rounded the corner, facing the window at the bottom of this next flight, and with her snub pistol raised, sent a hail of shots through the glass as she ran. Galtman heard the gunfire as he jumped down the stairs with as large strides as his long legs would allow. What was she doing? What was she thinking? Rounding the corner he saw the flat rooftop of the building opposite not more the five floors under him, and her saw her racing across it to the far side. He swore aloud; he wouldn’t loose her like this – she would not escape. He kept going – his boots hammering down the stairs like the beat of infernal drums, drowning out the sound of even his own heart as it thundered within his chest. The Catachan right on his tail. The window on the next landing was smashed. No time for doubt - no time for second thoughts – only one thing remained; he must go forward. He took the window at a charge, his boot slamming down against the frame, thrusting upwards, outwards, forcing his body into the leap as he launched himself into thin air – his legs running tread-less as they spun through nothingness – falling, falling into the jump as he crossed over the open-air expanse of the alleyway that looked up at him with painful promise from the rockcrete surface three-hundred feet below. He landed into a hard roll as he tumbled over and over across the sheet metal roof before regaining his feet and breaking back into his chase. Nerf got to the window and paused, sticking his close shaven head out its busted frame. “Oh I don’t think so!” he spat, pulling his head back inside at the pavement leered up at him. Like all men of the Catachan jungles, Nerf had an affection for the ground, though it did not extend so far as to jumping out a window to meet it. No, Nerf would be taking the long way down. Never in all her life could she remember running this hard. Not on the tracks, not at the camps, and certainly not at Rochk. Her heart hammering, her arms pumping, her legs moving so fast that she was afraid to slow down – this is what it must feel like to run for one’s life – this is what it must feel like to run from death. Galtman was somewhere behind her, that she knew, but the killer was nowhere to be seen. He should be parallel to them on one of the adjacent buildings – should be, but there was no way for her to be certain. She risked a glance over her shoulder; Galtman had followed her out the window and was now running a good few dozen meters behind her on the flat rooftop. She brought her attention back around, and just then – as she swerved to maintain her balance as she turned her head back forward – that she noticed her grave mistake: there was no way off the roof. She panicked. What had she done? How could she continue in pursuit if she were trapped on a rooftop? With the building’s edge drawing nearer, she desperately tried to slow her own momentum. She was going too fast – her legs kept carrying her. She was getting closer – too close, too close! She was… she was over the edge. Sailing though the empty air for the second and last time, her stomach flipped into her chest as she felt the pull of gravity as it drew her down and down to what must surely be a painful death. She hit the gravel hard and rolled, sending the loose rock flying as it scraped across her clothes, hands, and face. She was… alive. A lower rooftop, not fifteen feet below her, and no more than thirty wide, had intercepted her fall into the waiting jaws of oblivion and spared her life for another day. Nikka Xael rose awkwardly to her feet – pain infusing her body with her own mortality – and, her haste unforgotten, snatched up her fallen pistol and stumbled away towards the roof’s edge. She’d jumped. The fool girl had jumped! His chest rising and falling at a steady pace, Galtman slowed himself as he reached the roof’s edge and rested his hands on his knees as he looked over. Another rooftop was joined to this one, and, guessing by the disruption of the loose gravel on its surface, that is where Xael had landed. Well, at least she wasn’t dead… yet. Scanning his surroundings, Galtman found the ladder leading to the lower roof and quickly climbed his way down. Where the hell had she gone? He jogged across the gravel strewn surface in a few strides, his head sweeping both left and right as he looked for the trail. She was almost at the bottom of the bare-wire fire-escape when Galtman reached out with his damnable mind to find her. She swayed in her steps and lost her footing on the last few stairs. Falling hard into the red-rust of the hand rail, she banged her head against it as she tumbled down the last few stairs onto the welcoming pavement. “Damn it, Galtman!” she stammered in anger, “what the hell was that for?” Strong as he was, however, his psychic pulse was weakened by both the distance between them and his inability to concentrate in the heat of the pursuit – just the break that Nikka Xael so desperately needed. With a grunt and a groan, she righted herself back to her feet and started to run towards the yawning mouth of the alleyway. A dozen faces turned in surprise as the young, bruised, bleeding woman with a gun in her hand darted out of the alley and into the middle of the morning commute. Some cried in alarm, and some just stared, but no matter how the citizens of the morning grind reacted it was no chore to guess that seeing the woman duck, dart, and weave her way through the crowd would put a little spark of interest into their normally mundane lives. Yet if seeing Nikka Xael dart through the crowd and disappear into another adjoining side-street provided a spark for those who walked to their post of labour, seeing the black clad Inquisitor barrel out of the alleyway and plough through the crowd like a Leman Russ at full speed provided a fire-storm for the morning commute. People shouted, people screamed, but there was no way of stopping the large man with the billowing midnight storm-coat as he elbowed his way through the citizens and flattened those in path before disappearing down the same side-street in pursuit of his agent. The streets were less crowded here with little traffic, and it was in these conditions that by pure chance Nikka Xael caught a glimpse of him – the gunman – the would-be assassin. Covered head to toe in a black body-glove with a long bundle slung over his shoulder, there was no mistaking him for any other of the plainly dressed passers-by. “Stop in the name of Terra!” Nikka shouted, waving her pistol in the air as the uncomfortable words tried to struggle out of her mouth with enough authority to make her seem believable even to herself. Naturally it didn’t work. The assassin took flight down the street at an incredible pace, forcing Nikka to push herself even harder to keep up the chase. Her quarry weaved around a group of stunned onlookers with incredible agility, then slipped between a pair having a particularly animated conversation, before he finally darted around a corner and into another narrow alleyway. Running after him, Nikka felt as if her own legs were made of lead as she just barely avoided the group of onlookers, then ploughed into the two during mid sentence - carrying all three of them to the ground. “Hey! What the - ?” one of the men started to protest angrily as he tried to force the woman off him, but Xael quickly shut him up when he saw the pistol pointing at his nose. She didn’t have time for this <DELETED BY THE INQUISITION>. Hauling herself to her feet - afraid that her target had made good his escape - she finally reached the lane and went rushed around the corner. “What the hells going on?!” a man shouted as Galtman ran past him. The Inquisitor didn’t answer, and didn’t even spare a glance in the man’s direction as he bolted around the corner after Nikka. The alley was narrow and strewn with detritus and other assorted trash, but just at its end – past all the dumpsters, compactors, and loose cables – he could just perceive Nikka’s nimble body as she jumped her way through the seas of loose garbage. The Inquisitor, however – being much larger and heavier than his crafty companion – had much greater difficulty in keeping up the pace. Twice he nearly tripped as he sprinted flat out through piles of bagged garbage and leapt clear of barricading beams and drums. Somehow a soiled diaper upped and smacked him across the face, and his momentary loss of vision heralded a less than gracious face-plant into a mound of tin cans, discarded plastek, and musty print paper, as his foot became tangled in the coils of a discarded coop. Bruised, humiliated, and with his temper rising with every beat of his thunderous heart, Galtman pulled himself loose from the refuse with murderous rage glinting in his eyes. No one made a fool of Inquisitor Galtman, no one. Bursting from the trash strewn alleyway, Nikka Xael emerged into a fork in the pursuit. Two roads – one to the left, one to the right – both cluttered with garbage, both barren of life. Where the hell did he go? She looked left, her heart pounding in her chest, but there was nothing to be seen, just overflowing dumpsters, and buildings with barred windows and sealed doors. She looked to her right: equally deplorable. She snapped her head back and forth, back and forth. Pick one. Right - she chose right. The chase had resumed. Dashing down the right choice, she ran quickly and quietly to the corner, and, snub pistol still held firmly in her sticky palms, turned the corner in time to confront ten tonnes of roaring mat black steel. The racing half-track motor transport missed her by a hair’s breadth as she dove back into the adjoining alley and landed awkwardly amidst the rubble. Cursing a streak of colourful and creative language, Xael regained her feet and stepped out after the roaring truck, firing a continuous stream of small calibre shells after the vehicle that sparked and panged of its thick hide as the driver swerved out of the lane and back on to a main road. Things had just gotten that much more complicated. He redoubled his pace at the sound of gunfire reverberating off the high walls of the towering buildings – something had just gotten that much more serious. Heavy pistol clasped in his right hand, Galtman skidded into a fork in the alley, looking both left and right. “Where did you go?” he muttered to himself as he closed his eyes – trying to counter the heart hammering in his chest with steadying breaths – and stretched out his consciousness. Right. She went right. A few strides more and he was down at the end of the alleyway scanning his surroundings with a perception sharpened by years of experience. There were tire marks on the pavement leading out to the main road, and at least a dozen 9mm shell casings littered the ground at his feet. “You’ve just made your second mistake,” he murmured, idly kicking through the casings as he walked up to the lane’s opening, following the black tire marks “there is no way I can lose you now.” The sidewalks were packed with people as Nikka dodged through them. The black half-track was still in sight blasting its way down the main road as it wove dangerously in and out of the light civilian traffic. It was moving fast, and in a matter of moments it would be beyond her line of sight, and escape. She could not let that happen. She needed a vehicle. There were plenty of civilian and service cars parked along the roadside, but she had no idea how to by-pass the ignition and lock-out sequences needed to steal one, and she wasn’t desperate enough to rob one at gunpoint – though if she couldn’t find something suitable, she may well have to. She needed – Nikka stopped running. The black truck was still speeding away from her, but she wasn’t looking at it – she had found her salvation. Galtman stepped onto the busy roadside just in time to see his agent pull out from the curb with screeching tires riding a sleek motortrike. Nikka had always had an affinity for light-weight high-risk racing machines, Galtman recalled with a grin. Time to take things a level higher. He reached inside his storm coat and thumbed the micro-bead unit that nestled there into active-mode and fixed the small ear-piece in place. “Where are you, Nerf?” he spoke calmly into the transponder. +I read you, sir. I’m about two blocks away from your transmitted position.+ Two blocks – four hundred meters at best – a little further than he would have liked. “Double time it Nerf, I need you.” +Copy that.+ Galtman walked up to the curb where a courier was unloading several parcels from the sidecar of his motorcycle. The man looked up as the giant Inquisitor approached. “Help you?” the clerk asked. “Imperial Inquisition,” Galtman announced, “I need your bike.” “Wait a minute - ” the clerk began to protest, but quickly stopped as the Inquisitor levelled the heavy pistol between the man’s eyes. “Now!” he commanded in voice that allowed no argument. The clerk nodded quickly – his eyes wide with fear - and backed away from the bike with his hands raised. Galtman tipped the parcels out onto the street with the toe of his boot, causing several of them to break open and spill loose sheets of paper onto the pavement, then held out his hand expectantly. “The ignition,” he demanded of the courier. The man did not hesitate to comply. Looking over the heads of the crowd, Galtman could see Nerf running towards him; the press of people parting before him to let the charging Catachan pass. “Nerf,” Galtman called as the muscular soldier slowed in his approach. “Boss?” the Catachan asked, coming to a stop and putting his hands on his hips while he paused momentarily to catch his breath. “Your weapon,” Galtman said, holstering his own then indicating Nerf to surrender his side-arm to the Inquisitor. Nerf paused for a second – like all Guardsmen, he was particularly fond of his chosen armament – but with a shrug and a nod he un-slung his gun from his shoulders and handed it to the Inquisitor. Galtman looked at it for brief moment; an auto-carbine with bullpup grip and a forty-round clip – a compact yet potent weapon. “It’ll do,” he said. “Course it will,” Nerf said with a sly grin, “it’s my gun.” “Noted,” Galtman said stepping purposefully into the small sidecar, straightening out his storm coat, then sitting down upright in the seat with the carbine held at the ready. “Drive,” he ordered impassively. She hadn’t driven an auto-trike for more than six years, but driving, like deception, was something she would never forget. Up ahead, the half-track made another gut-wrenching turn through several lanes of intensifying morning traffic – civilian vehicles were forced to turn away to avoid a nasty collision – and barrelled down a narrow side-street. Throwing the trike into gear, Nikka hurled herself into a wide-sliding turn, and – her tires screaming against the pavement – launched forward in pursuit. She was gaining on them – the speed and acceleration of the trike being more than a match for that of the half-track – but for all the good speed would do her, it would take a lot more than a fast trike and a mind to match in order to stop the rampaging steel beast. The truck lurched into another sharp turn, but it had too much speed on it and the driver lost control of the vehicle briefly as it skidded wide and slammed into a parked car with titanic force – launching the smaller vehicle up onto the curb and forcing nearby people to dive clear at the last possible moment. Regardless of the damage he had caused, the driver revved up the monster’s engine and powered ahead; Nikka’s trike following it through the turn effortlessly as the half-track regained momentum. Nerf leaned into a power slide as the motorbike screeched through traffic at full speed and swerved into the side street in hot pursuit. Galtman sat bolt-upright in the tiny sidecar, training the weapon back and forth for a target as Nerf led them through the streets after the runaway agent. “Are you gonna fire on her, Boss?” Nerf yelled over the snarling engine and whipping wind, not peeling his eyes from the road as he pulled into a turn past the sight of what looked like a nasty street accident. “Until otherwise informed she is to be considered hostile,” Glatman shouted back, his face set and his eyes narrowed against flying dirt and dust. Nerf didn’t reply. Up ahead about one hundred meters was their quarry: Nikka Xael and a black half-track. Galtman sighted along the weapon – his aim a little jumpy due to the speed and road conditions – then relaxed his shoulders and steadied his body the best he could. He waited a few heartbeats, and fired. Two bullets stung past her head and clanged against the back of the half-track with negligible force, but the third snapped off the side of her trike and caused Xael to momentarily swerve to steady the trike. “What the hell!?!” she screamed at the back of the truck in frustration; “Why the <DELETED BY THE INQUISITION> are you shooting at me!?!” Of course Galtman could not hear her, but in her aggravation she didn’t really care. As if in reply the black behemoth swung out of the side-street and back across the boulevard – ramming through two other vehicles as it ploughed its way through traffic onto another adjoining street. Speeding in the truck’s wake, Nikka couldn’t help but feel responsible for what had just happened: lives had just been ruined, and she had been a part of it. Drawing the snub pistol from her hip holster, she pointed the weapon at the truck and in anger held down the trigger – the small arm kicking in her tightened fist as the entire clip emptied into the back of the truck. Other than a few dents, her attack had been little more than an annoyance. Still at speed, the half-track took another corner – sideswiping a group of startled citizens off the walk with fatal results. “You bastard!!!” she screamed after it, following it through the turn. She was almost on it, and those sons of bitches would surely pay. It would appear that the driver of the half-track concurred: with Nikka closing at speed, the truck screamed to a sudden stop as the driver slammed on the brakes. The motorbike ripped around the corner, jarring Galtman around in the unsupported sidecar with unpleasant force as they passed the scene of yet another gruesome display of the cost of pursuit. “There it is!” Nerf shouted, pointing ahead as Galtman pulled his glare away from the broken citizens at back towards the fleeing half-track. “Where’s Nikka?” The Inquisitor didn’t know; she wasn’t in pursuit, and there was no sign of her ahead of them… He squinted at the truck, noticing the large dent in its rear facing. “There!” Nerf shouted again. By the roadside, Nikka’s trike was a twisted mess, and just nearby Galtman saw the rider lying awkwardly on her back. “Leave her!” he told Nerf; “That half-track is more important!” Nerf nodded, but said nothing, and, revving up the engine to full, sped after the half-track. Her back felt funny, and her arm… well, it didn’t even feel. Something stingingly warm was on her face as she opened her eyes and gazed up at the sky. She could taste blood on her lips and in her mouth. Of all the ways she thought she would die, she had never considered that she would meet her end here, broken and alone on a street curb. Yet surprisingly, it didn’t hurt. It just felt… weird. A black GMV slowly crawled its way down the street and came to a calm stop just beside her. Nikka didn’t see it though – she was already unconscious. “Get alongside it,” Galtman instructed from the sidecar as Nerf jockeyed back and forth on their quarry’s trail – trying to avoid a repeat of what happened to Galtman’s younger associate. Now that the chase had led to a main thoroughfare, Nerf was finding it harder and harder to keep pace with the reckless driving of the truck while competing with the hazardous surrounding of panicking drivers. From the sidecar, Galtman – seemingly oblivious to Nerf’s mounting angst – kept his eyes locked with the truck. “Can’t this thing go any faster?” Galtman asked testily as they dodged past an intervening car to regain a clear line to the black truck that was now only slightly ahead and to their right. “Sorry, boss,” Nerf answered back as he slid them between two terrified motorists and cut across the nose of a third, “but we seem to be carrying some excess weight.” Galtman turned to look at him, his ice eyes narrowed into slits – he hated Nerf’s sense of humour, especially since the Catachan tried to crack jokes at the most inopportune of moments. “Just get us closer,” he repeated. The half-track wasn’t going to make it easy, however. Veering his vehicle hard to the right, the driver of the mat-black monster forced his way into the outermost lane of traffic – ramming several smaller vehicles off the road as he did so – and angled himself towards a nearing exit ramp. “Get over there, Nerf! We’re going to lose him!” Galtman snapped, willing himself to get a clearer line of sight on the half-track. The Catachan tugged hard on the bike’s handlebars and deftly swerved out across the two intervening lanes of traffic between them and the truck. Galtman, seeing his chance, opened up with Nerf’s carbine, focusing fire towards the half-track’s cab – lighting it up with sparks and dents as the solid rounds pummelled furiously into the black metal. The half-track driver lunged out towards them with his vehicle, but Nerf was a seasoned veteran used to driving in the tight confines of wooded terrain, and pulled the bike away from the half-track as it smashed into motorists who had been too slow to veer away. From his perch, Galtman continued to plunge fire into the half-track’s cab – the bullets finally starting to puncture the twisted metal in hopes of ending the driver’s deadly rampage. The carbine clicked dry. “Clip,” Galtman said calmly, reaching a hand over his shoulder to casually accept the magazine from his henchman and loading it into the stock of the carbine. The half-track pulled away and moved back towards the rapidly approaching exit ramp. “Follow him!” Galtman ordered as he raised the carbine and waited for Nerf to move back in closer before resuming to rip fire into the driver’s compartment. The maimed vehicle made it to the ramp and started to clime into the upper roadways of the surrounding industrial areas of the city when Galtman blew out the rear tires. Still the driver urged it on with all speed. The streets levelled out as they entered the tangle of roadways that moved in and out of the factory complexes. “Get along side it,” Galtman said again as Nerf exercised all caution in approaching the limping vehicle. The chase was over, but though the half-track could not escape it was still dangerous. “Closer!” Galtman urged; “I want them alive!” Nerf was about to answer when a crushing impact from up ahead captured their attention. The Adeptus Arbites – the city’s wardens – had finally made their presence felt. The white painted Chimera had rammed into the half-track at full speed – slewing it to the side and crushing the cab against its armoured hull. Two more Chimeras appeared behind them, turret multi-lasers training on the bike as Nerf decelerated and brought them to a full stop. Glatman was furious: his prey had been ripe for the plucking, only to be denied by the local law enforcement. He would be having words with the Arbiter Prefects when they got back to the precinct. “Come on,” he said to Nerf as he slowly rose from the side car and threw the carbine aside in face of the approaching arms-men, “it’s over.” Though the man on the other end of the vox hid his displeasure well, Roland could tell that he was furious. +Tell me again – what is the mission status? Did you say failure? Incomplete? Tell me you didn’t say that.+ “Sir, I…” Roland stammered in apology, “I don’t know how to explain it. One Target has been confirmed killed, but - ” +The other targets aren’t, are they? They are very much alive, correct?+ “Yes sir.” +Then that is a failure.+ Roland closed his eyes and shook his head with a weary sigh – simple missions like these shouldn’t be able to screw up, but, he supposed, when the Inquisition was involved, anything was possible. “Sir, all of our agents have been incapacitated as well.” +All of them?+ “Yes sir.” +Very well,+ the voice continued to crackle over the vox, +I shall be along shortly to discuss your ‘future prospects’. Goodbye Mister Weis.+ Roland cut the link. He felt sick. Of course, the tall woman standing in the corner of the bare room didn’t help that at all. She winked. He hated it when she did that. Link to comment https://bolterandchainsword.com/topic/122098-the-fallen-saint/page/6/#findComment-1621486 Share on other sites More sharing options...
- 7eAL - Posted July 8, 2008 Share Posted July 8, 2008 Experimental style is successful. I actually somewhat like Galtman in this chapter - not half because he gets a facefull of soiled diaper in the alleyway. Nerf deserves more screen time, especially for that very corny joke. I'll cross my fingers and hope he lives through the coming chapters, even if Galtman doesn't. Link to comment https://bolterandchainsword.com/topic/122098-the-fallen-saint/page/6/#findComment-1621941 Share on other sites More sharing options...
Lady_Canoness Posted July 8, 2008 Author Share Posted July 8, 2008 I'm glad to hear that it came off well, -7eAL-! As you can see, I'm trying to make Galtman's role more ambiguous than simply being 'the bad guy'. Yes, he is Aribeth's nemesis, but he is also a loyal Imperial, so he is not simply 'evil'. It is important to me that Galtman is shown to be unswerving in his duty, and that his purpose cannot be questioned. He is not corrupt in any way, but he represents the coldest and most uncarring angle of the Imperium - he is here to counter Aribeth's preconcieved notions of Imperial truth and justice, and have her doubt everything she has ever believed in. Is Galtman to be hated for what he does? No, he shouldn't be. He's just another cog in the Imperial machine. Nerf, on the other hand, is a character that I wanted to present as being very likable to the reader. Unlike Galtman, he is aware of the lives of others and (as we see in his concern for Nikka and the innocents) he can empathise with them - something that Galtman cannot do. Nerf is kind of like the comic relief to counter Galtman's coldness, and as a consequence his relationship with Galtman makes the Inquisitor look better and not so inhuman. I don't have any plans to seriously develope Nerf's character, though he will be featured again in upcoming chapters. Thanks as always! Link to comment https://bolterandchainsword.com/topic/122098-the-fallen-saint/page/6/#findComment-1622443 Share on other sites More sharing options...
- 7eAL - Posted July 9, 2008 Share Posted July 9, 2008 Mostly I'm pleased to see that none of these characters are mere cookiecutter stock figures. They appear to be at first, in some cases ( likeGaltman the cold bastard or Nerf the brainless musclehead), but you've successfully developed real humanity in each of them. Neither good nor evil, but possessed of their own personalities and objectives, their own thoughts and feelings. Yes, even Galtman has feelings. Irritation is a feeling too. Link to comment https://bolterandchainsword.com/topic/122098-the-fallen-saint/page/6/#findComment-1623027 Share on other sites More sharing options...
Alex.ö Posted July 9, 2008 Share Posted July 9, 2008 The sensation of speed and movement is felt clearly. Succesfully written indeed! ;) Galtman is, as you intended, brought forward and you "get to know" him better, which I find quite amusing. He´s a badass/cool guy and I kind off empathize (spelling?) with him ;) Link to comment https://bolterandchainsword.com/topic/122098-the-fallen-saint/page/6/#findComment-1623281 Share on other sites More sharing options...
dark_melancholy Posted July 9, 2008 Share Posted July 9, 2008 Hey, I get back here and what do I get? An awesome chase scene? And I generally don't care much for chase scenes :) Too many updates to read at one time to come up with any constructive comments. Your take on the 40k universe ain't cozy at all - exactly as it should be. And it includes oatmeal... mmm... ;) Link to comment https://bolterandchainsword.com/topic/122098-the-fallen-saint/page/6/#findComment-1623811 Share on other sites More sharing options...
- 7eAL - Posted July 10, 2008 Share Posted July 10, 2008 And it includes oatmeal... mmm... <_< Reminded me of an important note: people often forget that characters need to eat and sleep, until eating involves an extravagant feast and sleeping involves sharing of beds. Eating simple breakfast things like oatmeal and sleeping in bed to let the mind heal all makes a character much more real. Link to comment https://bolterandchainsword.com/topic/122098-the-fallen-saint/page/6/#findComment-1624342 Share on other sites More sharing options...
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