The Fallen Saint

Lady_Canoness · December 8, 2008

The entirety of the Chapter is still being worked on, but I thought it was high time I dropped a little teaser for your enjoyment.

It doesn't spoil the plot or blow open any secrets, but it does feature our 'friends' the Chaos Sorcerers and one of their allies.

Enjoy!

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The incantation felt to him as if it were an old friend returned after being absent for eons, and as it flowed through his senses he felt the very substance of reality buckle and reel around it. Dark words from a mind darker still painted themselves across the universe, turning the keys locked in time and setting all things in motion. Like the conductor to an otherworldly orchestra, the sorcerer wove his hands this way and that through the air, pulling on the strands and strings that bound the dimensions of space into a cohesive whole. Bit by bit, step by delicate step, he unravelled the secrets in his mind and whispered them into the warp - building, shaping, moulding safe passage through its bottomless seas. Then with one last twitch of his mind he finished, and opened the door to the universe.

Maelekor nodded approvingly, though his great horned helmet obscured any facial expression he might have made; “Well done. I see that you are not as out of practice as I thought,” he murmured, his voice scraping like raw flesh over stone.

The other sorcerer smiled, his work complete, and stepped back to admire that which he had brought into being.

A shimmering portal pulsed and throbbed in the corner of the room, staining the small chamber in the ruddy glow of the empyrean.

“Yes,” he breathed, his voice a hoarse mask to his normal gloating tongue, “it pleases me to see that after these long years I haven’t lost my talent for such things.”

Maelekor loosed a contemptuous snort. “Are you sure of that? You still seem to think highly of that whelp Montrice, or whatever the hell his name is.”

“It’s Montrose, brother,” the sorcerer smiled, revealing bone-grey teeth set in maddened gums, “and if I’ve fooled you into believing that I think highly of him, then he too is also likely to be fooled.

“You see,” he said, turning to face the helmeted sorcerer with his serpentine visage, “Montrose is a willing slave that requires neither chains nor whips to keep in order: he is a servant of the best kind.”

“He tired to deceive us, brother!” Maelekor protested angrily.

“Yes, he did,” the sorcerer glance monetarily over his brother’s shoulder at the hulking figure that hung back in the shadows of the chamber, but spoke again to the marine before him, “but he has learned from his mistakes… and your little – hehe – ‘show’ of killing off most of his associates, only furthered his commitment to us. Where else can he go? Soon I will inform the Inquisition, through an intermediary of course, of his defection to our cause, and he will have no other choice but to remain in our service… or if you still don’t like him, you can always kill him.”

“I still don’t think you should have let him go,” Maelekor grunted, stepping past his fellow sorcerer and moving towards the portal with measured steps.

“He’s done his part for now; he’s set his people to carefully sabotage the planetfall, ensuring that only our mark makes it down alive, he’s prepared to have his team sow confusion aboard the Magister, and he is even prepared to deliver the ship into our hands upon completion of the mission,” the sorcerer explain, still smiling. “Surely, everything is under control.”

“He’s failed before,” Maelekor reminded him with a threatening finger, “and if he fails again, our Master will hold you responsible!”

The sorcerer chuckled indignantly; “That’s why I’m sending you and Voghn, and have taken the liberty to move five-hundred hide-borns to the planet in support of the pithy cult that has taken root in the End Forge. I don’t intend to let that ship die, and neither should you.”

Maelekor grunted, but all the same assented. “The hide-borns will present the Inquisitor with little more than target practise, but Voghn and I,” he cast a look over at the leviathan that stood silently in the shadows in the corner of the room, “we’ll give him with of a ‘challenge’.”

Over on the side, Voghn started to gurgle and snort, his huge slumped shoulders quaking in cruel laughter. With cumbersome, plodding steps the beast moved free from the gloom and towered over the Chaos Marines, his scabbed mouth on his mottled, bald head twisted into a foul grin.

“Ready, Voghn?” Maelekor asked.

The obliterator heaved himself forward on titanic legs as the sorcerer stepped aside to let the brute pass. “I am ready, my liege,” the obliterator croaked in a throaty, phlegm filled voice as he shuffled through the weapon systems implanted into his trunk-like arms checking that each was primed before swallowing them back into the folds of twisted armour and flesh that were his limbs; “It has been too long since I have felt the joys of battle, and I thirst to kill again!”

“You will,” Maelekor assured him with a nod, turning toward the glowing gateway to the warp and their destination that lay beyond with the Obliterator following ponderously behind, “you will.”

Lady_Canoness · December 12, 2008

Okay, no more delays - this is the real deal!

At last I can present you with the eleventh Chapter of the Saint Ascendant! I have really looked forward to posting this for some time, and I hope that it will have been worth the wait. So what happens in this chapter? Montrose's plan is put into action, the Sisters attempt planetfall, the strike team tries to take over the ship, someone gets killed on a force weapon, and... Inquisitor Galtman finds himself alone and trapped by Mercy in a brutal fight to the death. The duel is long, styled (in Mercy's case), graphic, and shows off the characters at their best!

Like every other duel, this one will hopefully provide the same scale of awesomeness you've come to expect in clashes of life or death! Also, it was really fun to finally explore Mercy's style of combat first hand rather than just hearing about it in passing.

This chapter will be delivered in two sections, and the second one should follow in a matter of days as it is still being editted.

Please enjoy!

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The Saint Ascendant, part II: The Seed of Martyrs. Chapter 11: The Descent <part 1 of 2>

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The Magister’s tactical room sat just aft of the command deck on the bridge. Secured by massive dura-steel blast doors and with equipped with dizzying amounts of Inquisitorial sensory equipment, the room was near impervious to eavesdropping of any kind, guaranteeing the secrecy of whatever transpired within.

Aribeth, her Celestians, and the Sister Superiors had been summoned to the tactical room early in the ship’s day cycle and now stood in the silent company of several naval officers as they waited for the Inquisitor’s arrival. At the center of the room sat a large holographic tactical display that depicted a glowing image of a strangely red planet with several side diagrams displaying planetary statistics such as pressure, temperature, and gravity, while emitting a low electrical hum.

Aribeth shifted on her feet uncomfortably, and crossed her arms over her chest. There was something about the picture of that planet she didn’t like, though she couldn’t quite place a word on it.

She glanced over at Clara who stood just a little ways away, but the Celestian was absorbed with some aspect of the hologram, and didn’t notice the Palatine’s eyes in her direction. Though it had been a few hours ago, Aribeth still felt especially calm with Clara nearby, and knowing how she felt for her… well, it made everything seem a little brighter in her eyes – like there was some kind of warm glow coming from within her that promised to fend off the cold reality that tried to pry into her mind. It felt good – she felt good – just having Clara at her side. After all these years of being together, it really did make all the difference she could imagine. These were likely not the thoughts of a leader, she reminded herself, for open expressions of love between Sisters was generally frowned upon, yet it didn’t feel that way: it felt better that she lead out of love than lead for duty’s sake alone. Dangerous thoughts… but are they? They have to be – the scriptures denounce any love higher than the Emperor. That is different though. The Emperor is in me – not in the scriptures. So you say, but love can lead to neglect, passion, and excess – are those not sins? But if I betray myself, then how can I serve? If I am not one with my Emperor, then my faith has truly failed. Maybe it has already. That’s a lie. How do you know? I don’t, but I know that what I feel now cannot be bad. Love cannot lead me astray.

As if hearing the argument locked within the confines of her leader’s head, Clara looked up, and, catching the Palatine’s eye, let the smallest of smiles cross her lips.

For better or worse, Aribeth had made her choice, and she felt at peace because of it. There was a light in her life now, and the void had been filled. She had found the Emperor in her own way, and she was certain now more than ever that He held her in His care.

With a soft shifting wheeze the blast doors opened, and everyone looked up as the Inquisitor and two other figures stepped inside the dimly lit room. Galtman approached the tactical display, his features illuminated by the soft red glow from the planet, but the other two figures held back in the shadows. Aribeth ignored them, and instead focused her attention on Galtman.

“I’m glad to see that we are all in attendance,” he said, looking around the room at those present, “let us begin.”

“This planet is without Imperial designation,” Galtman announced, indicating towards the floating hologram that slowly rotated and bobbed before their eyes like a ball caught in some invisible tide, “though we can tell from orbital scans that it is life-supporting in most regards.”

The hologram immediately zoomed in over a certain area of the surface, dissipating the planet throughout the theatre as its focus grew ever more precise over what looked like a minute sliver in planet’s crust. Several diagrams instantly appeared next to the sliver indicating energy readings and so on.

Aribeth squinted at it; it was dark against the red tint of the earth around it… but she could see what it was…

“The End Forge,” Galtman announced – several of the naval officers looked at each other with warning glances – “a Repulsive class Grand Cruiser that dates back ten thousand years to the Horus Heresy itself.”

A ship – it was a ship. Aribeth looked at it a little closer. What was it doing on the planet’s surface?

At this point a senior naval officer raised his hand to speak, and, Aribeth was surprised to see, Galtman nodded to him respectfully; “What is it, Captain?”

Captain Argo cleared his throat and stepped forward towards the display; “Sir, assuming that the I.D. of this vessel is correct, shouldn’t the Adeptus Mechanicus be informed of this? It could be the find of the century so far as they are concerned, and if those energy readings are accurate, many of the on-board systems would likely be in salvageable condition.”

“I thank you for your comment, Captain,” Galtman’s voice rumbled over the room, “but I have no intention of letting anyone beside ourselves know this ship ever existed. It is a traitor ship – tainted – and has been festering here for over ten millennia. It is a spawn of evil, and for that reason, it must be destroyed.” He cleared his throat; “However, as you noted Captain, the energy readings from the ships itself are likely indicators that the enemy has gained knowledge of our arrival and prepared the End Forge accordingly. Though the ship is crippled beyond repair, its shields are likely to still be active and as such the End Forge is beyond our means to engage from orbit,” Galtman – his brooding eyes caught in the baleful glare of the holographic display – brought his glare slowly over each and every person in the room, sparing not a one from the severity written across his features. “As I suspected, the enemy has forced our hand in this, for they know that we desire the death of this accursed ship and all within it. How this knowledge was imparted to them, I do not know, though I am certain that the enemy will do everything within their power to stop us from achieving our goal, even if that entails that they destroy the ship themselves. There is only one option open to us now.

“Palatine Aribeth,” the Inquisitor addressed her through the red glow of the dark room, “it is at this point that I must call upon the service of both you and your Sisters.”

Aribeth caught his eye; perhaps it was just the lighting in the room, or perhaps it was just the change within her, but she felt now that the Inquisitor – a man she had sworn to loathe – was sincere in his words.

“I serve the Emperor in all things, Lord,” she replied, bowing her head ever so slightly in his direction.

Whatever it had been she had thought she’d saw, however, was gone when she looked back up; the red glow filtering across his face left nothing but cold across his rigid brow. “I expect you to lead the assault on the End Forge from the surface.”

“It will be done,” the Palatine replied, eyeing him closely.

“Good. Tactical Officer Wright will provide further operational briefing at this time,” Galtman nodded towards the assembled naval officers, and one man – a portly looking fellow with a thick neck and low brow – stepped towards the display and cleared his throat.

“Project surface display tactical grid at three-quarter magnification,” he announced in a nasal voice that instantly reminded Aribeth of some kind of swine. The servitors hidden behind the walls instantly obeyed and brought the display about smoothly to the officer’s requested resolution, setting out a topographical map of what Aribeth assumed had to be the terrain surrounding the ship.

“As you can see,” Wright began, clearing his throat once again and jabbing his finger in brisk thrusting motions towards certain areas of interest on the map, “the End Forge is set at the extremities of the planet’s equatorial mountain chain, therefore providing us with a distinct tactical disadvantage.”

Several areas of the map were lit green at the officer’s request, and he pointed out each in turn; “The chosen landing zone – as indicated by this set of highlights – is located approximately one-point-four-six miles from the End Forge on a relatively small area of open terrain that is little over the kilometre squared in size. To the rear of the landing zone,” another lit area of the display was illuminated brightly, “is a lake of indeterminate depth, while to the fore is what appear to be foothills that are treacherously rough, and as such are not suitable for planetfall.”

“A moment, Officer Wright,” Cauline interrupted, raising her hand to acquire the attention of the room, “that landing zone looks a little too convenient to be anything other than a trap.”

“I don’t doubt that there will be opposition,” Galtman’s voice rumbled out from the shadows in the back of the room where he had retreated to when calling upon the tactical officer, “but that is something you will have to confront.”

Officer Wright looked between the Inquisitor and the masked Sister with marked annoyance at the interjection, “As I was about to say, Sister, you can expect the enemy to be staged in the foothills, and as such you will have to move fast to establish a perimeter and push forward before your forces are overwhelmed, pushed back into the lake, and annihilated. As soldiers, however, I believe that you will be up to the task.”

“How are we getting to the planet’s surface, mister Wright?” Aribeth cut in, ensuring that Cauline would remain silent.

Wright appeared to appreciate her rank for the first time and answered her promptly; “I had originally petitioned for the use of drop pods on this mission, however the infrastructure as well as the resources were unavailable,” he said these last few words hesitantly, and Aribeth caught what she thought may be a hint that he knew otherwise but was not telling her, “and as such, Sabertooth orbital dropships will be used for the execution of planetfall.”

Dropships… It wasn’t that she wasn’t used to them – in fact she had been in drop ships many times – yet drop pods were far more suited for a combat insertion. Pilots – even Navy pilots – panicked under fire, and when they panicked, soldiers died. A pod could be used for cover, but not a dropship – as soon as she and her Sisters had disembarked, Aribeth had no doubt that the dropships would disengage as soon as possible, leaving them open and unsupported.

Aribeth nodded, “Dropships will likely be more accurate,” she said, holding her misgivings down inside her, “I prefer them to a descent in a pod.”

The briefing lasted another half-hour as Officer Wright described in minute detail the predetermined rout through the foothills and up into the mountains surrounding the End Forged, but Aribeth’s lips remained tight.

* * * *

The armoured door slid open with an oiled hiss, and momentarily let all the outside noises flood into the deathly silence of the armoury, before sliding back into place with a shallow click. Silence reigned once again through the ordered racks of gleaming weapons.

Nerf, bent over his bullpup carbine as he carefully reassembled it, didn’t look up. He fancied he could hear a mouse fart in this kind of silence, so the fact that he didn’t hear anything at all could only mean one thing.

“Yes, Inquisitor?” he asked the room at large.

“Why aren’t you in your quarters?” the room answered back in Galtman’s voice.

Nerf slid the slender barrel of his autogun through the cloth in his pinched fingers, then fitted it firmly back into place with the stock.

“I’d like to take my darling back to my room,” he said, fondling the smooth curves of the weapon in his large hands, “but wouldn’t that be fraternization?” he smiled.

“I gave you an order, Catachan, and I expect you to follow it.”

Nerf heaved a sigh of disappointment and stood up to return the weapon to the spot he’d made specially for it, then wiped his fingers on his shirt before turning back to face the Inquisitor. Standing there, he looked… different – unsettled; like when a man has seen a spook – definitely not something he had expected to see in the Inquisitor.

“So,” Nerf said, pawing through the choking silence with clumsy words, “when are we leaving?”

Galtman’s ice blue eyes shifted his way; “We’re not,” he said flatly.

“Uh, boss?”

“We are staying right here, on the ship.”

“I thought you wanted to go after the End Forge?” Nerf asked, confused – at least he’d thought Galtman had wanted to, considering how he had spoken at the briefing.

“Bring your faith, but bend your back, for wicked death comes to those who stand too tall,” Galtman said as if he were supplying the Catachan with an answer.

Nerf looked at him blankly.

“The riddle, Nerf, the riddle,” Galtman explained sharply, “going down there would invite death, so, though it may be against your nature, we are staying right here.”

Nerf nodded. He didn’t understand the riddle – neither did he care to – but if the Inquisitor somehow thought it was important, Nerf wasn’t about to call him on it.

Nerf nodded again, and walked slowly back to his room at a subdued pace: he missed the days when fighting used to be simple.

* * * *

“We’ve got a problem – the Inquisitor isn’t going down to the surface!”

Mercy sat on the stiff bunk with her back to the wall as she calmly spun a long finger through her hair, eyes gazing dreamily around the cold metal walls as she listened to the beat of the heart within her chest.

“That means that he is staying here… on the ship!”

She reached out with her leg and slowing gently placed the ball of her bare foot against the wall opposite to her in the small room, smiling with lazing comfort as the miniscule vibrations from the cold metal tingled up her spine.

“I mean… how are we going to do anything with him on board?”

Her paired neural gauntlets lay beside her, waiting patiently for the long needle-like talons to be slid home into the gauntlets’ clawed fingers, turning them from elegant metal coverings into a lattice of woven lethality.

“Hello? Are you even in there!?”

The assassin rolled her eyes and caught her lower lip between her teeth. If she kept silent, he’d probably just stand there all day, whining through the door. With a breathless curse, she retracted onto the small bed and wrapped her arms around her knees, supporting them loosely before her. Montrose had considered the mission from every angle, even taking into account the unlikely event that Galtman chose to remain on board the ship. That was, after all, why she was here. She was the contingency plan… the failsafe.

She stood up silently, ducking her head under the low ceiling of the cabin, and glided to the door. The killer had already changed into her shadow suit, and had stayed awake, alone, in her room all last night cycle – waiting for what she knew would happen. And now Montrose’s protégé was outside her door, telling her the words she had all along been expecting to hear. He was nervous; she could hear it in his voice, smell it in the air, and – in a sterile environment such as a ship – she could even taste it.

Mercy clicked back the lock on the door and pulled it open – the hinges protesting stiffly as she did so. The young man before her jumped slightly. He had had his ear pressed to the door, but Mercy found it amusing that he had still to learn how silently an assassin of her stature could move. He looked up at her – unwilling to let himself look at anywhere other than her face – and fumbled with his tongue to say something.

“What?” Mercy asked restlessly, folding her arms across her chest and leaning against the door frame, though she still had to duck her head to see him clearly.

“Its Galtman,” Roland managed, his hands fidgeting behind his back, “he’s not leaving the ship.”

Mercy cocked an eyebrow with mild curiosity. “And what are you going to do about that?” she asked him.

“I…” he was watching her hands now – those long dexterous hands – and the killer spied a drop of sweat beading just above his ear.

“I was hoping that you could… well, help me,” he said.

Mercy smiled, and flicked the sweat off of his head with a delicate motion, noticing the spec of moisture it left on her finger. Roland flinched at her sudden motion and took a few steps back, eyeing her very closely.

“Just do as you were told,” she reminded him coolly, her eyes flashing.

“But what about Galtman?” he whispered urgently, checking that there was no one in the hall other than themselves.

Mercy drew a predatory grin and stepped back into her quarters and closed the door, leaving Roland Weis standing alone with his answer.

* * * *

It was not how she thought it would be, standing defiant before the precipice of darkness and striding fearlessly into its midst: she had always thought it would be great day - a mighty day - a day of song and glory when she, like the Heroines of Old, would march off into the fires of war carrying the Emperor’s word on her lips, and His judgement in her hands. She had always imagined that on this day at this time, as she geared herself for war, that she would be marching with mighty heroes and legions of the faithful to do battle against foes so terrible that never since the days of the Great Betrayal had such an enemy been mustered against mankind. This day should be a day of heroes, where champions would rise, and martyrs would be made. This should be a day carried by valour, courage, and most important of all, faith. This should be the greatest day in her life. The last day in her life. The day that made all others irrelevant by comparison – the day that would be forever remembered as the day where great evil was undone, and where great good was glorified.

Yet as she stood there, on the very verge of this day, facing fifty of the best Battle Sisters her preceptory could grant her, Aribeth could not help but feel that in the bottom of her heart she knew disappointment. There were no pennants fluttering in the wind, no champions receiving the rites of war, no instruments carrying a rallying tune, no songs being sung, no legion to command… no, there was none of that. Standing in the dim light of the hangar bay there were fifty Sisters at attention, five worn looking drop-ships standing idle, and a host of grubby servitors and crew that bustled this way and that as a weary pair of priests swung braziers of incense and mumbled monotone chants in a pitiful duet. There wasn’t even a breeze to capture the motion of the black standard she held fast in the gauntlet of her left fist.

No, she had not imagined anything like this.

Holding her preceptory’s banner close to her side, Aribeth walked with calculated steps along the ordered lines of the Emperor’s faithful; inspecting each and every woman with scrutiny and care. Their armour was immaculate, their weapons were pristine, and on each of their chests they bore a newly pressed seal awarding their bravery and blessing each of their souls for the task at hand. In the eyes of each woman she passed, Aribeth saw that every last one of them was ready to fight – ready to die.

Finishing her inspection, the Palatine returned to the head of their ranks and looked upon them not as a Sister would her Sisters, but as a saint would her exemplars.

“Sisters in the Emperor,” her voice carried throughout the hangar’s thinning air, “I see you now not as mortal women of flesh and bone, but as my Sisters in faith, spirit, and deed. If you are like me, over the past two weeks you have found yourself at doubt, for while you stand as faithful and devoted as you ever have, you find yourself committed to worry. And indeed you do not worry needlessly, for are you not removed from your preceptory? Are you not in a ship far from places you have known? Are you not now standing here with me, and so few others in number?” Aribeth took this moment to pause and look at each of them individually: Augusta’s ruined yet hard features; Serinae, short in stature yet stout in heart; Rylke, her eyes alight in anticipation for the battle to come; Kia’s youthful features betraying no hint to falter; Cauline’s silver mask and empty eyes concealing a woman who could be admired for her zeal, but loathed for herself; Clara, that woman unlike any other – so confident, so calm – it was to Clara that Aribeth gave her confidence, to Clara that she gave her love – the one woman who would never turn from her; and every other woman too – each one a friend, each one a Sister.

“Much has changed since we last stood shoulder to shoulder in war,” Aribeth continued, speaking to the fire in their hearts as much as the flames kindled in her own, “there are new faces among us, we are far from home in passage to a planet we have never seen or heard of, there is no army at our back, no people to save…” she bowed her head in reflection – summoning back the memories of every battle she had ever fought in. “Yet some things do not change. Yes, we are alone in this fight – yes, we have naught but ourselves to rely on – but remember why it is we are here. We are not here because there are enemies of the Imperium down on the planet below us – that is the charge of the Guard, and of the Astartes, not us – no, we are here because down on the planet below is not an enemy who strikes at our fortresses or our homes, but rather an enemy who strikes at our hearts – at our hopes – this enemy is an enemy in faith, and as such only those who defend the faith above all else can confront and defeat such a foe. Because we are warriors of faith, it matters not where we fight and die, my Sisters, for unlike those warriors who fight for territory and gain, our sole reward lies in our belief and conviction. With each shot fired, with each blade driven upon the foe, with each drop of blood spilled, we defend that which matters most! We needn’t fight in the cities of great worlds to earn our recognition – no, we need only fight where faith demands; be it here on this forsaken rock, or in the Halls of Terra itself, our duty is the same – our honour is the same – our reward it the same. Never are our lives spent in vain! For so long as a single blasphemer – a single heathen – exists on that rock below, it is for us to scour them from its surface! We protect the Emperor Himself, just as He protects us!”

From her Sisters did arise a great shout that was music to the Palatine’s ears, yet she was not finished, and she raised her hand for silence before resting it back on the pommel of her sword as the noise slowly abated.

“I would not lie to you by saying that I am not troubled by the task at hand, for as most of you have heard our goal lies within the heart of an ancient and terrible ship that lies broken upon the surface. It won’t be easy, and I, for one, have never fought aboard as ship either in space or on the ground. It’s big – several kilometres long – and is used to a crew of over five-thousand. Fifty Sisters – no matter how stout our hearts or how strong our arms – cannot hope to hold a ship of that size. We strike hard and true, keep our heads, and watch each others’ backs. We go in, complete our objectives, and then get out. I will not tolerate any deviation from the mission parameters. All contact is hostile, but is not allowed to distract us from the task at hand: the complete destruction of the ship.”

Not even a whisper escaped the serried ranks of the white armoured women; all of them knew what was expected, and every last one would see it done. No questions were to be asked, no exceptions were to be made.

“Take the blessings of the Immortal God Emperor with you, my Sisters, and may you forever walk by His side,” Aribeth concluded, “To your ships!”

The Palatine caught up with the masked Celestian Superior just as she was about to board the second dropship along with the rest of the Palatine’s honour guard.

“Sister Cauline,” Aribeth stopped the Celestian Superior and took her to the side as the other Celestians filed past in silence, “a moment if you will.”

The woman’s silver face turned on her shoulders and looked at Aribeth with hollow, dark eyes. “My Lady,” her voice dragged slowly through the motionless lips, “Is there something you wish of me?”

Aribeth nodded; “I want you to accompany Sister Isadora’s squad in the first ship to oversee the successful deployment of the bomb.”

Cauline was silent, but slowly inclined her head in a nod, and even though she assented, Aribeth could feel the other woman’s disappointment.

“Celestian Superior, this is no menial task I’m giving you,” Aribeth confronted her, “I need to know that the bomb will be deployed and will go off no matter what. I don’t think you will fail me in this.”

“I do not fail,” Cauline replied, and without another word turned her back on the Palatine and strode away towards her new transport.

Aribeth watched her go, but when the other woman embarked into the first dropship she quickly passed all thoughts of the obstinate Celestian from her mind: she had a duty to perform – for the Emperor – for the Order – for the woman she wanted to be. Climbing through the rear access hatch of the Sabretooth she entered the hold with her Celestians. The elite of the Sisterhood were already strapped into the large bucket seats that lined the carrier’s walls, their helmets held tightly in their laps, and their weapons safely stowed both above and below them. Their ornate white armour gleaming and their faces passive – it was like being in the company of saints; nine in all, and each one trusted, loyal, and proud. Never again would she, their Palatine and leader, find herself in the company of finer women.

“Celestians,” she addressed them, “finest of the Emperor’s soldiers, we have our orders decreed with the authority of the Lord Emperor himself. In his name we go to war!”

“First and last, not one of us shall falter!” Augusta called to them with words of passion and fury. “Death to the enemies of the Immortal God of Man! Death to the Heretic! Death to the Mutant! Death to those who would invoke sin! To this I swear, that not once shall I rest ‘til my duty is done!”

As one, the Celestians – their eyes forward and their faces grim – slammed armoured fist upon armoured breast so that throughout the hold was a sound not unlike mighty thunder from the Heavens above. “To this I swear!” they chorused with a voice of one. “To this I swear that no evil shall hurt me and no death shall take me so long as His will lives on!”

“Be blessed, my Sisters,” Aribeth intoned bowing her head as she stood before them and passing her hands across her chest in the shape of the Imperial Aquila, “fight well in His service.”

“There is only the Emperor,” the Sisters replied as one.

“…and He is our shield and protector,” the Palatine concluded in a whisper.

“Pilot!” Aribeth called as she marched to the barrier separating the hold from the two helmeted men in the cockpit, “take us out.”

* * * *

“+Hawk Leader to Control, we are go. I repeat; we are go. All systems are green. Over+”

The serviceman at the hangar control swivelled sideways in his chair to look up at the young ensign. Weis, standing rigid with his arms crossed, chewed nervously on the side of his cheek as his eyes darted about the room. He nodded; “Clear the deck and open the hangar door. Let’s get things started.”

The serviceman man nodded and turned back to the console, leaning close over the caster; “Roger Hawk Leader, countdown commencing. You are cleared for takeoff, I repeat; you are cleared for take off.”

“+Roger that, Control. We’ll see you soon. Out.+”

“Godspeed,” Weis muttered as he watched the hangar crew disperse as the Sabertooth engines ignited through protective glass of the control tower, “may the Emperor have mercy upon our souls.”

Lady_Canoness · December 20, 2008

Sorry for the delay in posting, but a lot of stuff just threw itself into my life.

Loved ones coming into town, exams finishing, office parties, Left 4 Dead and Fallout 3, Chirstmas shopping... the list goes on.

So, I'll say right off the bat that this chapter is still a WIP in that it is likely going to have several passages omitted for the final copy as well as several new ones added on.

Its a biggy, but hopefully a goody!

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The Saint Ascendant pt.II: The Seed of Martyrs: Chapter 11, The Descent <part 2 of 2>