A/N: Happy holidays, everyone!
Book Two: Corruption's End
Chapter 62: Ash and Echoes
"Victory is the only thing that matters." - Imperial Proverb
"Well what the fuck do we do now?" Yang demanded. This was bad. If the Void-Whisper was in trouble, they could end up stranded in the Webway. Or worse, stranded on this hellish ship.
"The plan is unchanged," Maion said. "If anything, our mission time has been shortened. We must move quickly."
"But as it is, the Void-Whisper can't even hold against one ship," Garnet protested calmly. "Just destroying this one will not guarantee a victory. We must adjust our course of action. Any ideas, brother?"
Lossamdir said nothing, the cruel visage of his raptor helm staring down the long, twisting hall.
"We shall seize the bridge," he said. "And smash Ahriman's ships together."
"Ha ha!" Yang said, smashing a fist into her palm. "Now that's a plan!" Where was this can-do attitude on Gartenwald?
"It's not without its risks," Lossamdir said, quick to dismiss her enthusiasm. "The bridge will be heavily guarded, and staffed by the Sons' best troops. It is likely a sorcerer attends the bridge." His words seemed to send a thrum of satisfaction coursing through the ship, a ripple of power that set a chill running up Yang's reinforced spine.
"This is an evil place," she said. Even with their war-masks on, a few of the eldar nodded in agreement.
"We must tread carefully then," Maion said. "And Khaine shall guide us through."
And it was decided, just like that. A few glances were exchanged, physical shreds of evidence that a conversation occurred beyond Yang's notice. Amat rolled his shoulders, annoyance evident in every twitch. They shared a look.
"Let us go," Lossamdir said. "We must make haste."
The war-party turned on its heel and stormed past the carnage they'd wrought, headed for the other end of the ship.
"Is there something you'd like to share with us?" Amat asked, his lasgun sweeping over the broken bodies Yang had left behind.
Yang snorted in agreement. "If you're really expecting us to find some nasty shit up ahead, you should at least cue us in."
"I shall consider it," Lossamdir said dismissively. They followed him anyway, back the way they came.
Turning a corner, they found a line of servitor-slaves working on a wall, sparks spitting from ratty welding torches. The war-party cut them down, not sparing them a second thought. The workers did not complain. They barely even noticed.
But once they reached the end, Lossamdir collided into a squad of armed serfs. At first, there were shouts of confusion, before realizations dawned and weapons were drawn. But the heretics never had a chance.
Maion and Lossamdir were among them, whirring like blender-blades as they tore through their foes. Viscera painted them, painted the hallways. The Banshees joined them, thankfully neglecting to perform their horrid screaming.
Yang stormed forward, sword and Ember Celica braced, but was shit out of luck. By the time she'd made six steps forward, the entire fifteen-man squad had been mulched. She huffed, cracking her neck. Fighting in the enclosed space of a starship wasn't her favorite thing. No room to maneuver, no room to dash forward and wreck havoc. Too cramped by half.
Lossamdir did not acknowledge the skirmish, nor issue another order. They simply moved on, boots tracking gore throughout the ship. Once more, the floor shook under the weight of a unleashed barrage.
Time was running out. They could all feel it, and even Amat endeavored to pick up the pace.
"This isn't good," Yang said, keeping her comms confined to the microbead in her helmet.
"We'll make do," Amat replied. "Have faith the Emperor will see us through."
'Cause that solves everything, Yang mused.
The lights cut out, replaced by blood-red emergency bulbs. A scratched and harsh voice echoed throughout the hallways, in some incomprehensible language.
"They know where we're headed," Amat growled, making sure the whole war-party could hear him.
"You speak that foul tongue?" A Banshee asked.
"Context clues," Amat replied, before a bullet snapped past the war-party. "Contact!" He bellowed. "Up ahead, fifty meters!"
Behind a closing bulkhead stood two squads of chapter serfs, taking cover behind the armored door and mewling servitor-slaves. One of the heretics was cranking a door, shutting the bulkhead behind him.
His head exploded, burst apart by Amat's lasgun.
"Nice shot!" Yang bellowed, storming forward. No way a bunch of aliens were gonna upstage her. As the heretic sergeants shouted orders and tried to seal the door, Yang and Maion were among them.
Maion emerged from the shadows, her sword whirring silently as it carved a serf in half. Yang, however, was louder. Ember Celica roared, rocketing her forward into her first target. The other gauntlet connected with his chest, throwing him into a corridor wall twenty meters ahead. He splattered.
Two bullets whinged off her aura, scraping its surface. Barely enough to feed her semblance. Yang grinned and began her work. A heretic charged her with a sword and was introduced to her boot. She kicked him into Maion's path of destruction, where he was soon minced into eighths.
A heretic sergeant with long yellow fangs made to skewer Yang with a wicked bayonet. He never got the chance, as a shuriken tore his jaw away and a lasbolt exploded most of his torso. His momentum carried him into Yang, who knocked the corpse aside and unleashed a brace of shotgun shells.
In the cramped hallway, they were murderously effective. They shredded through the heretics, chewing them apart into a red mess of guts and mangled limbs. As the rest of the war-party streamed through the bulkhead, the cultists retreated further into the ship.
To their credit, they understood basic infantry tactics - instead of fleeing outright, they took it in turns to lay down a barrage of fire before continuing their withdrawal. What tactics failed to account for, was the juggernaut Yang Xiao Long.
The roar of their autoguns was deafening in the enclosed space, but every round met her aura and flattened, whickering away into the walls. Yang could feel her aura drinking in every bullet, but none were enough to stop her.
They slowed her though, a wall of lead that stopped her from advancing. If she moved too quickly, the rounds would chew the war-party to pieces. So instead she played the part of a walking shield.
The volume of fire was incredible. Shurikens whizzed past her head, rattling against the walls and filling her vision with sparks. When they met a heretic, they simply melted, their corpses unable to stay standing as the monomolecular-edged discs tore through them.
Only two escaped, abandoning their comrades to flee towards the bridge.
"You okay, Yang?" Amat asked as they gave chase.
"All good," Yang said. "Aura's a hell of a lot… bigger than it used to be," she muttered to no one but herself. She could feel her veins thrum with the extra energy her semblance afforded her. Not much, but enough to get her blood up, pump it against her temples.
Easy, Yang. Breathe.
As they chased the heretics through the winding halls, Yang felt the constant droning intensify. It wasn't any louder… but it seemed to ache now, pulse with nefarious power.
"We're getting close," she said.
"We know," Lossamdir said. Even with their war-masks on, the eldar seemed restless now, the angles of their armor harsher and more unforgiving. Hate and discontent radiated from every red stone that burned on their chests. The war-party caught up to the runners in a few seconds, butchering them as they did their comrades.
After five minutes of running, they reached an enormous bulkhead, one almost as big as a movie screen.
"Is this the bridge?" Yang asked. Her nostrils flared as she sucked in filtered oxygen. They'd been fighting and running for almost an hour. She could see Amat's chest rising and falling, though he gave no other indication of exhaustion.
"No," Lossamdir said. "This is merely the neck of the ship, the antechamber to the bridge. Expect heavy resistance."
Nodding, Amat slapped a fresh battery into his lasgun. The eldar mimicked him, tucking fresh shuriken mags into their elegant guns. Yang tucked replacement shells into Ember Celica, slipping them from her bandolier into her weapon's receivers.
"Open it up," Lossamdir said.
Yang grunted and activated her power sword. With a cry, she stuck it into the bulkhead. As she carved, the eldar stacked up behind her. She could feel their energy, their bloodlust. Compared to their usual detached and aloof demeanor, it was almost off-putting.
After she finished her cutting, she peeled the bulkhead back with her bare hands, wide enough for two to pass abreast. As the lead Banshee stormed forward, however, Yang's aura screamed in panic.
Wasting no time, Yang grabbed the woman's arm and threw her aside, just in time to avoid the storm of rounds that poured through the gap. Shrapnel flew as the ordinance slammed into the wall behind them.
Bolter rounds.
Throne-damned bolter rounds.
The banshee got to her feet, cool and collected despite her near-death experience. More bullets and tracer-fire ripped through the breach, denying the war-party entrance.
"What now?" Yang roared over the storm of gunfire.
"You'll have to let me in," Lossamdir said, his voice betraying a hint of ruefulness.
"What?" Amat demanded. "What are you talking about?"
"We communicate via telepathy during combat," Lossamdir explained over the crash of a bolter round. "It is the best way to coordinate an assault and maintain order in the din of battle."
"You mean like right now?" Yang snarked, to the amusement of no one.
"If we're to get past this, you'll have to trust us," Garnet interrupted. "Both of you. Let my brother in."
Yang swallowed. "The second I sense something fishy, you're fucking done," she growled. Amat, however, said nothing. "Amat?"
"I don't like this," he replied.
"Of course not. I don't either. Just this once, okay?" Yang asked through their personal comms. "If you don't trust them, trust me. If they get up to something, I'll crush their brains with my mind."
He sighed, a small grin evident on his breath. "I trust you… but it's best if I exclude myself. Imperial secrets and all."
Yang frowned. A fair point. She wasn't exactly jazzed about it herself.
"Just me for now," Yang ordered. "Do it."
Lossamdir patched Yang into the eldar telepathic circuit. At first, she beat the sudden wall of information into a thin paste, an instinctive and natural reaction to the invasive xenos chatter. Once she recognized the source, she relented, linking her mind with the rest of the war party.
Among all its members, her mind alone stood out, waves of emotion and personality on an otherwise tepid sea. Not to say it was devoid of activity - a deluge of information flowed around them, cueing them into every member's potential actions and plans, paths of action that made themselves known before she even thought to think of them.
Yang grimaced, as did the rest of the war-party.
isha protect us
so bright
Shaking her head and baring her teeth, Yang slapped at her chest. It was time to move. She knew the plan, the moment it left Lossamdir's mind, she knew her part in it, the way they would survive.
Garnet provided eventualities, pouring predictions into their heads, likely methods of approach, enemy weapons, patterns of movement, scattering pathways, angles of suppressive fire, kill-zones to avoid.
The command came at once, simple and clear.
Go.
And as one, they acted.
First through the breach was Garnet, projecting a wall of pure blue energy. Rounds smacked into it, halted in their tracks. Yang and the Banshees were next, taking cover behind Garnet as he pushed onwards.
The bridge's antechamber was far roomier than any other section of the ship - and far more crowded to boot. It was at least a hundred meters long and twenty meters tall, crammed with heretic squads and dark iconography.
Harsh, jagged script covered the walls, humming with ill intent. Spiked chains draped from the walls and ceilings, brown with old, flaky blood. Imagery painted both the walls and the inhabitants, distorted hieroglyphs that spoke of some ancient grudge and a terrible curse. Yang didn't know how she knew these things.
What she did know was that the room was utterly packed with serfs, all of them armed to the teeth. They'd even managed to set up crude emplacements along the stairs that led to the bridge, and many of them took cover behind half-walls of writhing slaves.
All of this was considered in a moment, communicated in a heartbeat.
Under Garnet's shield, they advanced. The antechamber wasn't wide enough to flank - they'd have to bludgeon and carve their way up the stairs. Something Yang was extraordinarily good at.
The next order came.
Now.
Yang burst out from cover, rocketing towards the first bolter emplacement. It was a dozen meters away, a distance Yang traversed in a half-second. Caught unprepared, its crew stopped firing. Their first mistake.
Ember Celica met the gunner's chest, sending him and his composite pieces rocketing off to Emperor knew where. Yang's boot spun about and connected with the loader's face, snapping his neck. Her power sword fell next, cutting through the bolter and its final crewman like butter.
The Banshees began their wailing as they descended on the other emplacement. Yang did not cringe and recoil as she did before. It was… different now. She heard the notes, the grief of lost souls as it poured from their lips.
Yang continued her assault, stomping up the stairs to meet her next foe. He was a huge, towering man, a brute with a too-wide smile and scaly mutations. A chainsword roared in his taloned hand.
A lasbolt took him square in the jaw, and Yang finished the job by plunging her sword into his heart. Snarling in disgust, she retrieved her sword and knocked the body aside.
In doing so, she revealed a horde of heretics charging towards her, bayonets braced and hatred spewing from their pierced lips. Lossamdir corrected the flow of battle, adjusting for the unseen development. Something Yang was all too happy to accommodate.
Bellowing, she launched herself into the fray, splintering the first man into a broken puddle. She poured herself into the battle, hacking each serf apart with a uncaring swing of her sword. Yang ducked under a hopeful bayonet-stab, and brought Ember Celica up to meet her enemy's chin. His headless corpse spun away, bouncing off his comrades' armor.
"Come on!" Yang roared, drawing as much attention as she could. She didn't know if the heretics could understand her, and she didn't care if they did.
One dove at her, his chainsword whirring. She caught it in her hand and squeezed, before putting her boot through its wielder's chest. A sword jammed its way into her back, bouncing off her aura and armor without a scratch.
Amid the chaos and noise, Yang reigned triumphant. From a dozen pair of eyes, she could see the entire flow of battle. The Banshees as they tore through groups of enemies, the Avengers as they crowded heretics into her grasp with harrowing fields of fire. The Hawks as they soared above the battlefield, raining fire down upon the furthermost ranks.
All served to funnel enemies into Yang's path, for none could stand against her. Lossamdir knew this. Yang could feel a tinge of dread respect color his soul as he directed the war-party.
This, Yang realized, was the source of eldar prowess. Not their better-built bodies, not their psychic might, but the simple ability to share information and plan accordingly, all in the blink of an eye. She was in awe.
Maion sent a warning - danger, danger was near.
Yang looked up to see a pair of traitor marines descending the stairs. She had no idea where they came from, or how they avoided being seen until now. But they radically shifted Lossamdir's plans.
Clad in yellow-blue ceramite and sporting flared helms, they radiated an uncommon and unnerving energy. They crushed their dying servants under their heels, advancing over a pile of bodies like they weren't even there.
They brought their bolters to bear and opened fire. Panic reigned for but a moment as Lossamdir ordered the war-party to take cover. Swooping Hawks fell to earth, evasive maneuvers keeping them free from bolter shells.
The antechamber exploded as shrapnel and debris painted the stairs. Garnet cried out, strengthening his shield as it suffered a renewed assault. Maion was nowhere to be seen. Yang grabbed a pair of heretics, using them as a shield as she dove behind a block of stone.
Two traitor marines could pose a huge problem in the enclosed space. Briefly, her heart surged with worry for Amat, drowning out the din of battle. She wished he'd bitten down his pride and accepted Lossamdir's offer, but it was too late for that - she chanced a look at the war-party instead.
Thankfully, Amat was safe behind Garnet's shield, picking off every heretic that tried to take advantage of the chaos. It was enough for Yang.
Throwing the two heretics into the wall, she charged up the stairs. She could handle traitor marines. A bolter round licked off her aura, pouring gas onto the raging fire of her semblance. Her feet thundered against the dull metal, rocketing her towards her foes.
Maion would get the attention of the one on the left. The right one was all Yang's.
Her sword plunged into his heart before he could react, piercing the ancient plates like they were paper. Yang spun to wrench it free and finish the job, but it was stuck fast.
The traitor still lived.
His hand enveloped her arm and squeezed. Yang cried out, trying to remove herself from the monster's grip. No luck. He slammed her against the ground, driving the wind from her lungs. His other fist raised to smash her head in, braced to end her life.
She knocked it away, but could not stop its second attack. It connected with her face, dazing her and filling her sight with blinding light. The fist fell again and again, her panicked flailing not enough to stop the barrage of blows. Desperately she reached for the warp, but she couldn't properly focus, her mind was leaving her, beaten back into numbness by the repeated blows.
Shuriken tore into the traitor marine, embedding themselves into his face and chest. Still, his assault didn't stop.
Why doesn't he stop? Yang thought groggily, as she suffered another blow. Doesn't he feel pain?
The next blow shattered her aura, and her face exploded with blinding pain as her helmet crumpled around her.
Yang was naked.
Unprotected.
She screamed before an explosion filled her sight. Her arms went up to shield herself from the shrapnel. The fire washed over her as it always did, but the bits of metal ricocheted off her carapace armor,which also kept her insides from liquefying.
A cloud of dust followed, filling her mouth and throat. Yang coughed and retched, choking on the blood and foul-tasting ash. She crawled away from the glowing yellow-blue scrap heap. Everything hurt. Her feet slipped, and she saw double of everything. Her gauntlets drank in the blood of the slaughtered, staining her palms with red.
Her face ached, and the taste of iron filled her mouth. She spat, leaking drool and blood through a massive split in her lip. Nausea assaulted her, the sure sign of a concussion.
"Wha da fug," she muttered, unable to form words. Her nose was smashed in, and she could feel the shards of bone stabbing into her flesh. "Wha da fug."
That was no traitor marine. That was a fucking monster.
A heretic charged her through the smoke and dust. Blood leaked from his every pore, but he came regardless, a chainsword raised above his head. She loosed a broken snarl in defiance. Yang had no aura, but she was not defenseless.
Her leg lashed out, snapping his knee backwards. He screamed and crumpled, smashing his face against the stairs.
Grunting, Yang dragged herself over to him. The heretic thrashed and screamed, but Yang could still ply him. Despite her injuries, despite the pain that filled every pore of her being, despite the whispers that filled her head with sweet lies and unspeakable temptations, she would not be bested.
She pinned his legs down with her knees and set to her brutal work. Ember Celica fell, cracking against the serf's temple. Again. Again. Left. Right. Left. Right. Yang roared, spitting blood down her front and washing her visor in crimson grime.
There wasn't much left of his head, but Yang didn't stop. Wouldn't.
Left. Right. LEFT. RIGHT. LEF-
"Yang?"
Yang stopped, her fist poised to land another blow. Amat. Amat had said those words.
"Emperor protect me," he muttered. A scarlet visor broke through the grey haze, and Amat materialized, synskin melting into existence from its cloak of smoke and dust. "Yang, are you okay?"
"Guh," was all she could manage.
Amat stepped forward, hand on his pistol. "What happened?"
"Tray-or," she gurgled, leaking blood and drool onto her armor. "Wundt die."
"Fuck," Amat said. The first time she'd heard him curse. It was almost enough to bring a smile to her face. Almost. Instead she felt vomit surge up her throat. She rolled off the dead heretic before she let it loose.
"Don' lie," she tried. "'Ow bad izzit?"
"You look like you've been run over by a Leman Russ," he said.
"Feels li' it," Yang said. She wiped the tears of pain from her eyes, and tried to stand. She couldn't. Her head swam and nausea overtook her before she could make it to her feet.
"Here," Amat said, offering her his hand.
"'Anks," Yang replied, taking it. He hauled her to her feet, taking her weight on his shoulder. "Eld'r?" She asked. After the explosion, she'd lost contact with Lossamdir.
"They're fine. One of them lost a leg, but he'll live."
The first one to emerge from the haze was a Dark Reaper, his armor drinking in the fetid red light. His launcher rested against his shoulder, trailing a wisp of smoke from its muzzle. He nodded at Yang before continuing his ascent.
"'Anks for th' save," she managed. He simply nodded once more.
"Let's get moving," Amat said, helping her up the stairs. Each and every serf lay dead at their feet, piles of dead bodies that impeded their way. Yang slipped twice, her footing unsure amidst the growing pools of blood and broken limbs.
Without her aura, the walls seemed closer, pushing up against her with hateful intent. She felt like a fly under a microscope, her wings speared to a slide of cork. Powerless. Yang held Amat tighter, fearful he would see her shake and shudder.
I fucked up. She realized. Massively. I got cocky. Thought I could take the whole damn ship myself, and I got fucking wrecked.
They found Maion sitting atop a pile of yellow-blue armor, her chest heaving and crystallized blood splattering her side. Her dark green armor had been breached, revealing a long gash.
"Are you well?" Amat asked.
"Merely a graze that slipped under my aura," Maion replied, pressing her hand against the wound. "Those bound to Ahriman are dauntless."
Yang coughed, filling her hand with dust. It hurt. "No kibbing. Fugger wundt die."
"These traitor marines are little more than empty souls that animate their armor." Maion grunted as a lance of pain filled her. "They feel no pain, and are unrelenting. Their bodies have long since turned to dust and ash."
"Thad exggsplaings id," Yang spat. Of course it'd be something fucky. Didn't excuse her though. Not by a long shot. Stupid, Yang. Stupid, stupid, stupid!
"You're wounded," Garnet said, passing them.
"I'll lib," Yang said, wiping the blood from her lips. "Fug."
She limped onwards, aided by Amat. The bridge awaited, sealed away behind a colossal steel bulkhead. As the war-party gathered around it, they waited for Lossamdir to instruct them. He came eventually, carrying a legless Hawk in his arms. Yang knew enough about weaponry to know what had done it - a bolt shell had struck his leg, and vaporized nearly everything above the knee.
He was slumped over and unconscious, painting his exarch in blood.
Lossamdir set him down before the war-party. One of the Banshees removed her mask and stooped over him. Like all that wore the war-mask, her face was an expressionless void. Her hands clasped the ruined stump of her comrade's leg, and a song emerged from her lips. Low and melodious, Yang could feel it resonate in her soul, a hum of something older than she could possibly imagine. It did not alieve her own suffering, but it did seal the Hawk's gaping wound, the flesh knitting itself together to staunch the flow of blood.
"We press on," Lossamdir said. Yang hung back, unable and unwilling to take the lead.
For once.
Instead, a Banshee cut into the bulkhead, her sword flaring as it struggled through steel and ancient wards.
Amat set Yang down out of the line of fire.
"Will you be okay?" He asked. Yang didn't reply, instead sinking into the crook of his shoulder. Her eyes were swelling up, and she could barely see. She was not okay.
"I fugged ub," she murmered into his shoulder. "I fugged ub," she repeated.
Amat rested her head against the bulkhead. "You did fine. I didn't do a good job of covering you, is all," he lied. It wasn't his responsibility to keep her safe.
"Maybe th' el'ar aren't all ba'" Yang murmured, trying to smile. It hurt too much.
"Maybe," Amat replied. He left her, readying himself for the bridge assault.
Yang watched him go through swelling eyes, pain clouding her vision. Reaching for her helmet, she pried it loose, letting her hair fall free.
Looking at the shattered visor, she found her reflection.
Her face was completely shattered. Her eyes were swelling shut, her nose was twisted up and spewing blood. Three teeth were missing from her grimace, all of them on the top row. She must have swallowed them. There was nothing but a purple-black lump where there were once features.
I fucked up, a part of her said. Yeah, but I'm still alive, said another. How many times is that now?
She didn't want to think about it.
A/N: Aaaaaand we're back with a touch of the good old fashioned ultra-violence! Sorry for the wait everyone! Been a bit crazy on the life front. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed! Poor Yang didn't know about Rubric Marines. :(
Also, some of you may be wondering why there's only a couple, but there's a few reasons why this is so, foremost among them being 'Ahriman is bringing most of his forces to bear as he reaches the final stages in his search for the Black Library'. I personally thought it was a realistic number.
Until next time
P.S.: I apologize for any errors that may exist on this chapter - I've had to prepare it entirely on my mobile.