A filthy, rust-red dawn.
The hymn of Lauds, its close harmonies rising into the early morning dirt.
‘O Imperator, et Sol Iustitiae…’
O Emperor, the Sun of Justice…
Lycheate’s aged, bloated star was still below the horizon, and the grubby brown sky was layered with clouds like brass and blood. Scoured by dusty wind, the Sisters’ muster point was a small black stone island, little more than an upthrust rock. Foul waters battered its jagged coastline, and all of its surrounding walkways had been collapsed, bar one.
Its last metal bridge stood alone, creaking in the dawn wind.
In front of the old forge temple steps, however, there stretched a flat expanse of hard standing, and, as the sun’s leading edge brought a flare to the sky, so an answering flash of scarlet came from the force that was assembled beneath it.
Immolators, Repressors and Exorcists; twelve vehicles in perfect formation.
Waiting.
The hymn rose to a crescendo.
‘Imperator, nos hic ut laudis declate Tua!’
Emperor, hear us as we declare Your praise!
Augusta, standing with her squad beside the hard red flank of their assigned Repressor, let her hands fall to her weapons. This was a celebration of the Emperor’s dawn, of the rise of Sol over distant Terra – a sight she had never seen, but one that still began her every day.
Perhaps, one day, she would make the Pilgrimage…
…if she were blessed enough.
But today, she had another calling.
To Augusta’s right, on the far side of their Repressor’s steel solidity, stood the Order of the Bloody Rose, its red banners flapping. In the lead, the four Immolators, commanded by Sister Mikaela. Behind them, the Immolator of the canoness herself, its pipes and banners shouting loud colours into the brown dawn. Then the rank of three Repressors, Augusta’s squad on the left flank, Eleni’s on the right, and Roku’s in the centre. Behind the Repressors, there waited Sister Nikaya and the Seraphim, their jump packs ready and rumbling. And lastly, at the very rear, four of the Sanctorum-pattern Exorcists, built on Ophelia VII and more reliable than the older Prioris models.
The vehicles’ blaze of scarlet was powerful, as bright as new blood. This was the Rose, and it was ready for war.
The Hymn of Lauds came to an end, the note like an expectation; the canoness’ vox-coder blasted clear trumpets, the clarion call of muster and battle. The assembled tanks began to growl, like canids on leashes. They sounded like they, too, were eager to encounter resistance.
Feeling her adrenaline rise, Augusta uttered a prayer of her own…
‘We beseech Thee, destroy them!’
Standing in the back of her Immolator, her banner aloft, the canoness lifted her arms and her voice.
‘My Sisters!’ Across the vox-coder, her shout carried like a tantara. ‘Though we walk far from Terra, still we see His glorious dawn! Even at the farthest reaches of the Imperium, His light touches us and fills us with fire! We are His word, His will, His blade!’
Augusta felt her heart rate rise, felt the filthy wind sting her skin. Her breath was catching, now, on the metal tang that was Lycheate’s bitter atmosphere, that was war and retribution.
Ianthe’s cry was a beacon. ‘And no foe – not heretic, not witch, not xenos – can withstand our wrath!’
As one, the company thundered, ‘We fear no heretic! We fear no witch! We fear no xenos!’
The tanks snarled their eagerness. Ahead of them waited the ferrocrete roadway, stretching long and bleak between the scatters of islands. Water lashed and clawed at its edges, and along its left-hand side ran a double line of servohauler tracks, rusted and unusable.
The sun rose further, making the far horizon glitter, though its angles of metal were too distant to see clearly. The light swelled across the tanks’ scarlet gleam, and touched the canoness herself.
Her ice-white hair became a pure, cold blaze.
She was still shouting, calling out to their hearts and to their faith. ‘The lost forces of this forge world have been uncovered, and scavenged, and twisted to the powers of darkness! The war machines of Vastum, once warriors of the Omnissiah, now stand corrupted! And we will overcome them, Sisters. We will not permit the heretek Rayos to take her stolen army outwards to the void!’
Ianthe’s voice was absolute power, unassailable. Beneath it, now, music rose – the rousing sound of the Dies Irae.
‘We will not permit this heresy!’
The word emerged with the first drum-crash of the music. Augusta could see the flare of flame in the eyes of her Sisters; feel the light that lifted them all from within. The two soldiers stood at rigid attention, their rifles by their sides, their chins raised to the wind.
‘My Sisters!’ Ianthe gave one last, great shout. ‘We stand here by the Accords of Hydraphur – by the word of Saint Mina, by her blade and her courage. By the blessing of the God-Emperor and by His guidance! We are the Adepta Sororitas, and since the Age of Apostasy, our Sisters and we have stood at the gates to hell. Only we can stand sentinel here. And we say – enough!’
At the shout, hydraulics whined and the hatch of Augusta’s Repressor came down to provide a ramp.
‘Let this corroding world know the wrath of the Rose!’
One resounding response came from every throat. The Order, in unison, returned, ‘Ave Imperator!’
The sheer strength of it brought a shiver to the Sister Superior’s skin. She saw that Viola’s green eyes blazed; alight with ferocity.
A final, held note from the vox-coder, and then a moment of prayer and quiet. The banners danced and snapped; water splashed at the rocks and hissed as it withdrew.
At last, the canoness shouted, ‘Sisters… embark!’
‘Ave Imperator!’
There was a single unified stamp of boots as the Order broke formation.
And the mission began.
Augusta’s squad knew the drill; they banged up the ramp to the cold metal of the Repressor’s belly. Metal seats lined its outside; tiny slits in the walls offered them a limited view and allowed them to fire at the enemy.
Pauldrons scraped on steel as they sat.
It was dim in there, and it smelled of oil and fervour. Between the window-slits the walls were inscribed with battle-prayers, and the engine’s zealous grumble reverberated through the metal.
In the front of the vehicle sat a figure in scarlet underarmour, the padding overlain by plates of flexsteel that defended the wearer’s chest, shoulders and belly – drivers’ armour. She was not someone that Augusta knew.
‘Sister Superior,’ the young woman nodded, then turned back to the controls. ‘I’m Sister Cindal. May His grace and strength ride with us.’
‘Ave Imperator, Sister Cindal,’ Augusta returned. ‘We place ourselves in your hands, and in His.’
In the vox-coder, the blare of trumpets sounded again.
Ianthe’s voice: ‘Order… forward!’
And in the dirty red flare of the early morning light, the Sisters rolled onwards to war.
At first, they met no resistance.
The roadway was long, stretching silent over the wind-blown water, and it was desolate in its emptiness.
This far from their target the tanks were moving at an easy three-quarter speed, fast enough to eat the distance but slow enough to react to an ambush, should one occur.
The Seraphim jumped and swooped, short bursts of hit-and-run energy that conserved their fuel and allowed them to keep pace with the vehicles. Augusta would catch occasional flashes of scarlet as they came into view and then vanished again. As a younger woman she had harboured a deep wish to be amongst their number and had trained hard to hone her skills – but her dislike of heights had undone her.
Her twinge of envy was unbecoming, and her place was His will. She turned back to the prayers along the inside of the tank.
Slowly, the hours moved from Lauds to Prime, and the sun struggled upwards, weary and swollen. Slowly, lines of light from the window-slots moved across the tank’s interior. Outside, the filthy waters grew as wide as the horizon; they rolled and sloshed at the roadside, splashing garbage and remains.
At the front of the company, the Immolators’ auspex searched for mines, and found nothing; above them, the Kyrus’ scans were constant and thorough. And the formation rolled onwards, keeping the dead servohauler tracks to its left.
Augusta could only wait, and pray. She sat in the back of the Repressor, her Godwyn De’az-pattern bolter rested across her lap, her eyes watching the tiny passing slice of Lycheate’s polluted sea. This was the part of the battle that the Sister Superior disliked – she was restless, impatient. She wanted to be outside, singing, chainsword in hand, and cutting through the ranks of the enemy.
‘A spiritu dominatus…’
But that moment would come. She held herself still, calmly reciting the words of the litany and hearing her Sisters echo her, one line at a time.
‘Domine, libra nos.’
The tank rolled on, and the soft rumble of its tracks was like a heartbeat.
Nothing, it seemed, was daring to stand in their way.
‘Company, halt.’
The vehicles stopped at the canoness’ vox command.
Caught in the semi-dark, stuck in the chill belly of the Repressor, there was nothing Augusta could do. She could see a narrow slice of road and water, nothing else – no enemy, no target. Frustrated, she held her position, her bolter at the weapon-port, listening to the voices in her vox-bead.
Mikaela reported from the lead Immolator, ‘Enemy sighted – two kastelans. Both stationary. One armed. They’re standing in the water, flanking the roadway. At a guess, milady, they’re lookout duty.’
‘We will send Rayos a message of intent. Immolators, advance to heavy-bolter range, and halt,’ the canoness replied.
Augusta’s Repressor was a transport and comparatively lightly armed – it held its position, its engine grumbling in protest.
In its belly, the squad sat poised, their tension almost crackling in the air.
Sister Mikaela’s voice came through the vox once more. ‘Within range. Enemy still motionless.’
‘Immolators, heavy bolters, target the armed machine. Controlled, directed bursts. Conserve your ammunition, Sisters. And fire!’ the canoness ordered.
Muffled by the Repressor’s steel shell, Augusta heard the heavy bolters’ booms and rattles, heard the hard, explosive detonations as the rounds struck their target.
The air shook with repeated impacts. Her hands tight on her bolter, she craned to see, needed to know what was happening.
But her only knowledge of the battle came from Mikaela over the vox.
‘Right-hand kastelan damaged. Both machines now in motion.’
‘Same target. Fire!’ the canoness ordered.
The bolters fired again, the sounds seeming to echo like ricochets through the inside of the tank. Augusta sat still, her shoulders tight, and saw that the others were doing the same. Viola, crouched at her weapon-port, moved her heavy bolter in an arc, seeking something – anything – to put in her sights. She wanted to fight; her recitation of the litany was full of suppressed rage.
Mors and Rufus, likewise, had lasrifles ready to fire. They did not share the Sisters’ prayer, but they were remarkably steady, watching and waiting.
‘Incoming!’
Augusta held her breath.
Somewhere ahead of them: one colossal boom. It struck the roadway, shaking their Repressor where it stood.
She found herself trying to calculate – how far away the Immolators were, how much damage the kastelan could inflict. She knew the drill well enough – the Immolators would draw the enemy’s fire, ensuring the safety of the transports…
Until the foot-troops could be effectively deployed.
By the Throne!
She wanted to be out there, not held helpless here in the half-light. In the vox, she could hear Mikaela praying, her voice livid with courage and fury. Annoyed by her enforced idleness, the Sister Superior echoed Mikaela’s words…
That thou shouldst bring them only death!
‘Damage?’ the canoness asked.
‘Incendiary damage to the front plates, solidity still at eighty per cent,’ Mikaela replied. ‘The roadway has a crater, but the supports are holding – it’s shooting directly for us.’
‘He is with you, Sister – trust in His wisdom,’ the canoness said, her words like the call of trumpets: ‘Same target. Fire!’
Again, the heavy rattle of bolters. There was the rasping grumble of tank tracks – the Immolators were moving, but Augusta couldn’t tell if it was forward or back. Her blindness was infuriating; her hand tightened even harder on the bolter. She needed to be out there, fighting for her Sisters, but still, she could feel the rush of His presence in the sounds of the battle, in her Order’s manoeuvring, and in the canoness’ experience…
Someone behind Augusta – Rufus, she thought – muttered a savage expletive.
She knew how he felt.
‘Machine down! Both legs damaged, it’s crashed into the water. Now fully submerged. The other one’s climbing onto the roadway.’
Once more, Ianthe thundered the command.
‘Fire!’
The rattle of the bolters sounded again, then Mikaela cried a prayer – pure, savage, celebration: ‘In nomine Eius!’
In His name!
A second later, her report followed. ‘Machine down! I think we caught them by surprise.’
‘Or they’re a warning, testing our mettle.’ The canoness’ tone was wry. ‘Either way, the enemy knows that we’re on the move, and it knows where we are – we must maintain full alertness. Is the roadway compromised, Sister?’
‘No, milady,’ Mikaela said. ‘The damage is surface only and both kastelans are down. They’re fully submerged.’
‘You’re strong, Mikaela. He walks at your side.’ The edge in Ianthe’s voice was keen. ‘Sisters, we must still expect to encounter the foe. Keep all scanners open. And may our hymns bring fear to the heart of the heretek.’
The vox crackled again, and went silent.
In the semi-darkness of the back of the Repressor, Augusta commented to her squad, ‘Maintain your vigilance, my Sisters. The canoness is right – this is only the beginning.’
Standing in the back of the canoness’ Immolator, Sister Caia had heard every word.
She stood at Ianthe’s shoulder, the glittering organ pipes and the Order’s blood-red banner rising behind her. The heavy reinforced fabric occasionally buffeted her shoulders, as if to remind her of this new duty, of its weight and seriousness. The wind was dirty and full of grit, and everything stank of cordite and promethium.
Watching the rumble and muzzle-flash of the advancing tanks, Sister Caia gripped the edge of the cupola with one scarlet gauntlet, held her auspex in the other. She should be down there, alongside her Sisters. She should be waiting to disembark, to rage and fight and fire…
But no. She had to stand here, above it, like she was forbidden to take part. And something about this new role was giving her a terrible and growing apprehension…
Surely, not now, not after this long… They couldn’t… Could they?
Even as far back as the schola, Caia had never spoken of her childhood, her family. She’d only ever wanted to be a warrior.
I want to fight, to use my bolter for His glory, not…
Ianthe, however, had offered her only a basic briefing: Caia had previous experience of the Lycheate forces, and she was here to observe.
And that was all.
Dominica’s eyes! Caia thought to herself. If my calling has changed, would it be blasphemy to refuse?
Before the Immolator’s rumbling tracks the roadway was black and pitted, and stretched onwards as far as she could see. The kastelans had been stood like some sort of ancient guardians, one to either side of the road, and up to their knees in the water. The first one had been stubborn, refusing to fall despite significant damage – but its incendiary weapon had not penetrated the lead tank’s armour and it had proved no match for the Immolators’ heavy bolters. Both machines had been shot down and had splashed backwards, there to rot away.
The Order’s first skirmish had been flawlessly executed, and it had brought courage to Caia’s heart.
The canoness, however, was more thoughtful.
Ianthe said, ‘Sister Caia. What is your assessment of the confrontation?’
Without hesitation, Caia answered, ‘Its execution was precise, milady.’
‘And the enemy?’ Ianthe said.
‘Perimeter lookout. By their corrosion marks, they’ve been stood there for many years.’
‘Good.’ She said nothing else, just turned back to the road.
In the belly of the vehicle, Rhene, the old Hospitaller, cackled aloud. Her voice floated up to them, ‘You keep your eyes open, Sister Caia de Musa!’
Carefully, Caia answered her, ‘I will do my best, Sister.’
‘You’d better!’ The old Hospitaller cackled again. ‘You never know what He might have in store for you!’ She tapped the side of her nose, and then, snorting with humour, dissolved into random mutterings.
Caia’s tension twisted harder, becoming dark with fear.
No, they can’t do this to me… Not now… Not after this long…
The tanks rolled on.
Caia stayed silent, watching her auspex.
She must follow His calling, wherever it may lead.
Yet, deny it though she might, the thin smoke of her tension remained.
Lycheate’s metallic weather was capricious, and the wind had dropped as if torn from the sky. Around them, the water lay like dirty brass, still and flat. It stretched in all directions, oil-slicks gleaming like rainbows upon its surface; in places, the dead supports of fallen roadways emerged to spike at the sky. On the far horizon, the rusting metal silhouettes of the main factoria could just be seen, flashing in the light of the still-rising sun.
The ruin of this place was huge, and hollow, and it stank.
They rolled on. Slowly, the roadway broadened and became pocked with craters. More and more great scalloped bites had been taken from its edges, places where the ferrocrete had crumbled from the forces ranged about it. At one point, one of the supports had sagged completely and the road dipped almost to the waterline, though it remained intact.
Here, the canoness gave orders to slow and progress with caution. As the vehicles dared the dip she prayed ceaselessly, her words strong and urgent – almost as if the vehicles’ grumbling spirits could hear her, and take courage. Her eyes were constantly narrowed; she watched the company’s formation intently, alert for the ambush.
But there was nothing.
Rayos, Caia knew, had complete confidence in her own calculations. However the Sisters advanced, the heretek would surely have factored it into her data. So, when the ambush came, it would be in the most effective place.
The company traversed the dip successfully, and moved on.
As Prime rose to Terce, however, and to midmorning prayers, they closed on the first factorum.
Over the vox, Ianthe gave orders: ‘Distance: one mile. Slow to one-quarter speed, all scanners.’ As the vehicles slowed, she said, ‘Sister Caia?’
‘Milady?’
The clouds were clearing now, but the air was still bitterly cold. Before them, the roadway had become significantly wider, flattening onto an island and encircled by jagged, volcanic spikes. Here, there was a junction – one side of the road turned right, and stopped at a clearly defined building, with distinct, square corners of glittering basalt. The other side, the main route, curved left and continued onwards over the water.
The lines of the servohauler tracks likewise branched to follow both roads, and here, they gleamed with the oil of recent repair.
Clearly, this was where the enemy’s territory began.
The canoness said, ‘Your assessment please.’
Caia immediately responded: ‘They have cover, and the possibility of a flanking manoeuvre if we move forwards too far. If we are to be assaulted, then this is where that assault will take place.’
‘My thoughts also,’ Ianthe said. ‘Captain?’
‘Regrettably, canoness, the debris field is interfering with the Kyrus’ scans. I can see nothing in motion, but I fear I cannot give you more assurance.’
Ianthe nodded grimly, then said, over the vox, ‘Sister Mikaela. Situation?’
‘My auspex shows nothing. Roadway and waters all reading as empty.’
‘There may be a stationary force,’ Caia said. ‘The larger machines may be concealed by the water. Or perhaps something smaller and lighter, that the Kyrus would miss.’
‘I agree,’ Ianthe said. Then, over the vox, she said, ‘Company, weapons ready, all scanners. Sister Nikaya, hold your position, be ready to jump on my command.’
‘Milady,’ the Seraphim Superior answered.
The company slowed further, crawling along the road.
Below where Caia stood, Rhene began to sing the litany, her old voice thin and querulous.
Unease prickled through Caia’s shoulders. The water glittered; the rocks were black as Ruin.
In her ten years with her squad, Caia had developed an almost instinctive knowledge of these situations, a real awareness as to where the ambushes would occur…
Her heart pounded. The banner flapped at her, nudging her shoulders as if taunting her with her new role.
Rhene continued to sing.
And then…
There!
‘Contact! Multiple signals!’ shouted Mikaela.
Caia’s estimation had been correct.
Rayos, it seemed, had marshalled her first ambush.