Salusa Secundus
Dust blew through tiny cracks in the wooden boards covering every one of the abandoned palace's ground-floor windows. Amon's fingertips pressed the dry wood and flexed it. Rotten through. It would not stop a fly.
Outside the walls of Seukamur Palace, a sandstorm whipped the waste in to a two-hundred-foot-high, eighty-kilometre-an-hour frenzy, trapping Amon, Ogre, Anais, and a handful of the Vasak's scouts inside the palace. Within a ground-floor corridor in the east wing, the fifteen sand-coated Eldar huddled. Amon, on the edge of the group, gathered his cloak and got up. A bolt clacked and a scout pointed a Kazalak automatic rifle at Amon.
"Peace, Fehel." Anais laid his hand on the rifle's fore-end. "Leave conflict outside with the enemy."
Fehel said a few broken words in Gothic, his eyes never leaving Amon. Ogre jumped up with her knuckle-knife extended. Anais hissed at her and flicked his thumb across his throat. A carving blade appeared in Fehel's hand. "Full-blood! Away!"
"Sniper? Stretch our legs?" Amon offered Ogre his hand. Ogre ignored it and weaved through rubble fallen from the ceiling and shoved a rotten door at the end of the corridor open. "Trust is difficult to find these days, is it not?"
Ogre planted her backside on a chunk of marble embedded in the floor and pulled a water bottle from a carrier on her hip. A few drops trickled from the mouth. Ogre dropped the bottle on the floor and leaned against the broken marble.
"Here." Amon held out his own bottle. "Have some of mine."
"Mmm." Ogre chugged the water down and wiped her mouth. "Your hand."
"My hand?" Amon turned his glove palm-upwards.
"Bare your skin."
Amon peeled the strap away and removed the glove. Ogre loosed a globule of spit at Amon's palm. Is that an insult? No, it cannot be. "You do me great honour, desert warrior." Amon closed his hand in to a fist. "The most precious of elements on Salusa Secundus. I could not have asked for a finer gift."
"You were the first." Ogre lifted her leg and untied the end of her puttee. "Since the accident, you were the first to thank me for giving water. They no longer regard me as one of their own. All I see is distrustful eyes and hear hushed voices whenever I draw near. Tell me, full-blood, how on Salusa could I conform to your standards? Be a proper lady."
"My standards…?" Amon kneeled in front of Ogre. "Too tight?"
"Loose. Where you come from, is the female not the male's property to flaunt?"
"Where did you hear that?"
"I assumed Iyanden's council was a male-dominated affair—"
"No, not at all. It really is not like that." Amon pulled his goggles away from his face. "And say I spit on conformity. I admire and respect a being with your confidence and the keenness to always better yourself—"
"Oh, and you never need to better yourself, do you?"
"No. The pursuit of excellence in all regards is prized highly among each and every Ranger cadre. Always self-evaluating, always looking to better one's eye or one's mind. We are winners, Sniper, and though that may seem arrogant to most, the belief forms a nucleus of our being. We, the silent observers." Amon tied the puttee's end off.
"Hmph. You should be a speaker." Ogre rose and fiddled with the plastic bag held in place over the SVG's muzzle.
"Team leaders must talk well. It is one of the core requirements of leadership. Though I dare say listening is also a prime consideration. Know when to take in and heed advice from your brothers and sisters. We have few formal ranks keeping professional boundaries between us, though deep down, every brother and sister, once they have passed Initiation, are equal. Sol and Grego would die for me, and I them."
"For a leader, you talk well."
"The being though can tell when he is being smiled at." Amon tapped his temple. "Insight."
"You are an arrogant bastard."
"Born out of wedlock. I accepted the title long ago."
"Well, well. A cripple and a bastard. I suppose you can steal the words before they pass my tongue too."
"No…" Amon turned his head to the iron nubs poking out of the hole in the ceiling. "But I could tell you a little about this place."
"Does it get us away from the others? At least until the storm blows over." Ogre trudged over to a pair of double doors lying on the floor.
"Mm. Know you of this place?" Amon followed Ogre through and in to an atrium. Pillars lay in sections on a faded and dust-ridden carpet. Light shafts poked through holes in the ceiling. A brown haze muddied the eight distant doors that led out on to a plaza. "This place was the seat of the Seukamur Dynasty and the Arulquin Royal Family before it. They united the warring tribes this planet held and left their mark here, built upon the bones of their weaker cousins."
"Am I supposed to feel sorry for the humans?" Ogre flicked her wrist. A crystal from a fallen chandelier shattered against an intact pillar.
"We have the luxury of observing the consequences of dictatorship from afar."
"So, it was all for nothing then."
"All for nothing. Dynasty or not, the rulers with their roots in the dirt would have still been assimilated by the human juggernaut when it rolled in to the system. Now weapons of mass destruction sleep beneath this earth, and the Imperium sits on them. Fat, ignorant, afraid."
"In fear of us." Ogre began climbing the stairs. She leaned over the banister and looked down at Amon.
"Did you expect a serenade?"
"I'm sure you can do a lot worse." Ogre stormed up the stairs.
"Careful there." Amon climbed after Ogre. "I do believe the floors are quite worn out in places."
"So…" Ogre walked backwards along a first-floor landing. "Are you still expecting your brothers to rescue you, or do you plan on a daring escape?"
"Sol and Grego are not going anywhere—"
"—Oh, don't be a bore. You've a hidden enclave bristling with armed full-bloods – bastards like yourself – somewhere ready to cull our hideous, round-eared hides." Ogre spun and pranced along the landing.
"Sniper…" Ogre left Amon standing alone on the landing. Amon followed Ogre in to a covered courtyard with a fountain in the centre. Sand filled flowerbeds around the courtyard and the remains of sculptures littered the inside of the fountain. "Sniper?" Amon perched on the narrow rim. "Speak ill of me, but speak no ill of my brothers and sisters." Amon laid his hand over his heart. "They are my only family."
"There. You have a family." Ogre perched beside Amon, removed a glove, and bit a nail. "We cull the weak. My parents. I never knew them. Only that they passed the SVG down to me."
Amon's bare hand touched Ogre's knee. "Other worlds exist besides this one."
"She will never let me leave. You can run back to your craftworld, full-blood. I shall remain with my people…" Ogre's shoulders shuddered. "As the Ogre."
"It does not need to be this way."
"If you ever let slip our existence…"
"Then I would be just as likely to inform the humans of your enclave, then that would spell the end for all of us." Amon dropped a stone in the fountain.
"Is this your means of atoning for giving your brothers up to the desert? Do you think I want saving?" Ogre pushed at Amon's hand.
"I think you deserve better." Amon pressed his other hand over Ogre's.
"If you think…" Ogre twisted her wrist. "Mmph."
"Apologies." Amon lifted his hand.
"If you think you can treat me as an inferior."
"Never! Never would I do you such insult."
"Then respect me."
"Your pardon, warrior. I would express this Ranger's opinion that at any one time, your personal wellbeing, be it physical, psychological, even spiritual is more important than anything in existence. If I may voice a personal concern of mine. Are you happy here?"
Ogre's head drooped. "You were the first. The last too."
"You betray no weakness in confiding. Nothing you say leaves this room. That I promise—I swear on Sol's and Grego's lives. And I do not use their names lightly."
"How could I, I of monstrous heritage, hope to conform to the niceties of your society? Could a filth-blood exist amidst the full-blooded?"
"Do you wish to walk again?" Amon touched Ogre's shoulder. "On the feet you were born with?" Ogre's head turned to Amon. "Let the Ogre die." Ogre's fingers brushed the mask covering Amon's chin. The hairs on Amon's neck rose.
"Amon?" An explosion echoed through the halls.
Amon twisted and hopped from the fountain. "I heard it too."
"Hurry!" Ogre and Amon leaped down the staircase and ran back to the east wing. "Anais?"
Scouts surrounded a groaning Fehel. One held on to his hand and rubbed his shoulder. Another held his cloak over Fehel's arm. "Anais, what happened?" Amon halted short of the gathering. Hostile eyes locked on to him. "How bad is it?"
"Why couldn't the full-blood have opened the bloody cache instead?" Fehel's face contorted. "Arghh." He jerked his hand free from the blanket. Bright blood covered ragged nubs where three of his fingers had been. Sharp bone stuck out of the torn flesh.
"No. Keep your eyes away." The blanket covered up Fehel's arm. "You will be fine, Fehel."
"Cache?"
"No business of yours, full-blood," Anais shifted in front of a hole in a section of floor. Ancient floorboards and bent nails sat around it. "Ogre, attend to your charge."
"Anais, what did Fehel find?" Ogre bustled past Amon and faced Anais down squarely. "Anais!" Ogre thrust her head at Anais. "One of our own lies broken, damn you! Move aside."
Fehel clenched his jaw. Blood burned in his cheeks. "…Weapons. Human weapons."
"If we plunder, they will know we were here—"
"—The damage is already done. I say a vote to take or to leave," Ogre said.
"Aye." Amon stepped up to Ogre's shoulder. "Let me be the first to cast my vote for."
"Damn it, full-blood. This is not a political discussion!" Anais pulled his mask down from his chin.
"Nor would it be if I called for one. Sniper, I unconditionally support your decision."
"Scout Group, take their arms."
Ogre raised her hands. "I will see you in the Pit for this." The scouts removed the SVG from Ogre's shoulder and took away the knuckle-knife and the other blades hidden on her body.
"And the full-blood."
"I bear no arms." Amon raised his hands. "Nor would I need them in the event treachery turns friend to foe."
"Against the wall." Anais circled a knife at Ogre. "Both of you."
The scouts pushed Amon and Ogre up to a boarded window and bound their hands behind their backs. "Bastard. Bloody bastard." Wood dug in to Ogre's cheek.
Anais ripped Ogre's hood down, grabbed her bun, and tugged it sharply. "If you ever…" He murmured in her ear. "…Ever question me or attempt to usurp again, I will strip you bare and flay the skin from you layer by layer. Then the desert will decide your fate." Anais slapped the back of Ogre's head and moved across to Amon. "And you, full-blood." Anais pushed Amon's face against the board. "Keep the cripple on a shorter leash."
"Let the Pit decide our fate, half-blood!" Ogre's eye blazed.
"Before you were broken, it would have been a good fight." A muzzle prodded Amon. "Scouts, retrieve the weapons. Anything you cannot carry, leave behind."
"Quite the trove." In the corner of Amon's eye, a scout lifted a shoulder-fired rocket launcher from the cache. A pack containing warheads soon followed, along with pieces of a light mortar and automatic rifles and their ammunition. Anti-tank mines lay at the bottom. "All credit to Anais."
"Ssh. The storm is clearing."
Amon bent his knees and placed his eyes level with a crack in a board. "You are right." Dust tickled his hair and ran down his neck.
"Amon." The boards began vibrating. More dust fell from the ceiling. "Look!"
Shadows prowled through the cloud. A gun tube swung towards the palace. "Mechanised unit."
"They're here for the weapons—Anais, company!"
"What?" Anais thrust the rocket launcher at a scout and put his eye to the boards. "Strehli, move Fehel out of the south entrance. We will follow you."
"What are the chances, hm?" Amon smiled.
"Should I gag the full-blood, Anais?"
"With what, Keraz? Every scout load yourself with as much ammunition as you can. Take one rifle and sling another across your back. I need three to carry the mortar pieces." Anais sliced the binds on Amon's and Ogre's wrists. "Make yourself useful."
"Of course." Amon accepted an ammunition vest weighed down with mortar shells, three in the front pocket and three in the back pocket.
"Ogre." Anais thrust a satchel containing warheads for the rocket launcher at Ogre. "Don't drop them."
Amon heard Ogre murmur a single-syllable word in Gothic that made him raise his eyebrows. "Perhaps I would burden myself with the RPG, Anais. You would not want Ogre and I separating, would you?"
"Maybe I will." Anais dumped the rocket launcher on to Amon's shoulder. With the cache cleared out, Anais replaced the boards.
"Just before you…" Muzzles swung around and pointed at Amon. "A parting gift? Let us thank the humans for their hospitality."
"Mmm. The full-blood speaks well, Anais." A scout held up a fragmentation grenade painted khaki.
"It is not his call to make." Anais snatched the grenade, pulled the pin, and wedged it beneath a rock. "When these floorboards come away, the desert will taste human blood. And it shall not be found wanting."
"Who amongst you would turn these weapons on the enemy? Teach them to fear the desert—" Amon swung the launcher on his shoulder. The steel tube caught Anais's incoming fist with a crack.
"GAH!" Anais clutched his hand to his chest.
Amon leaned close and muttered, "never use force unless you are certain you will win." Stunned scouts gawked at their leader. "Would you please show Anais the door?"
"Urgh, FULL-BLOOD!" Anais lurched away, two rifles grating together on his back. Heavily-laden scouts followed.
"The smear on his honour compels him to challenge you, Amon." Ogre fell in at Amon's shoulder. "The Pit awaits you both."
"I will watch for you on the sidelines." Amon slung the launcher around his back. "And I would know your name in case I fall."
"Cease, full-blood!" A rifle clacked against the launcher. "And you, Ogre. Cease your murmurings."
Amon winked at Ogre and followed the scouts to the main hall. Behind the staircase, a hole blasted in the wall led in to a glass garden open to the sky. The glass had long since perished, leaving only thin metal frames standing. Sand spilled from pots hanging from chains attached to hooks driven in to the walls.
A sharp slope made of bricks led up to an opening in a first-floor window. Slung rifles struck brick, ammunition jangled, and boots slipped on the uneven surface. "Hurry, brothers!" Anais reached for the mortar's baseplate and hauled it on to level ground. The thick steel banged. A far-off rumble dislodged dust from the ceiling.
"Whole battalion out there." A brick broke in half beneath a foot and rolled down the slope.
"Look out!" Ogre flung her arm across Amon and pushed him back. The brick smashed at their feet, coating their clothes in dust. "Brittle."
"Up the slope. Both of you."
The scouts let themselves down from a first-floor balcony and in to the base of a horseshoe. A loud thud accompanied each scout's landing as the stolen munitions rattled and clattered. "To the hills." Anais led the group off at a trot. Ogre beckoned up at Amon. Come on.
Amon tugged the launcher's sling over his head. "Move, full-blood!" A scout stood over Amon with a Kazalak pointed at his head.
"Catch it." Amon leaned over the edge of the balcony with the launcher in his hands. "Catch it."
"Let it go." Ogre raised her arms. "Amon!"
No. Too far. Amon gripped the end of the tube in one hand and dangled it towards Ogre's outstretched fingers. A boot thudded in to his backside. "Ready?"
The launcher fell. Ogre grabbed the tube and drew it to her chest. "Umph." She collapsed and the launcher fell through her fingers and the trigger group hit the ground. "No!"
Amon tightened the straps keeping the mortar vest secure and jumped down. "Oh!" His knees buckled and the shell containers smacked upon bricks.
"May those clumsy hands spell your doom, Ogre." The scout dropped from the balcony and took off after the others.
"Damn these hands." Ogre turned the launcher around. The pistol grip attached to the trigger hung loose. "Damn them."
"It should not be a problem. Let me see."
"Shouldn't we flee?" Ogre passed the broken launcher over.
"It will soon dawn on dear Anais that one of his number is incapable of scaling the cliffs to the south. He will be back here shortly begging me for a solution." Amon nudged the grip back in to place. "It looks like a pin was knocked free. See this hole in the RPG's grip?"
"RPG?"
"Rocket-propelled grenade. Easy to say in hurry." Amon grinned. "Help me look for the pin."
"I—I—It must've fallen inside this pile." Ogre wrenched bricks away. "No, no-no-no."
"Hold. Let us improvise."
"With what?"
Amon lifted the launcher on to his shoulder and shambled off after the scouts. "Much as I detest doing business with your kind, I figure that moral objection will only serve to dig my grave faster."
"Meaning?" Ogre, her load lighter than Amon's, took the launcher on her shoulder. Both slid down a short slope, forgoing rough-hewn steps, and ran past a roofless hut. Cliffs rose from the diminishing cloud. Boulders with smooth surfaces, twice Amon's height, trapped the scouts in the valley.
"Full-blood!" Anais rushed around a boulder. A dressing covered his knuckles. Behind him, two scouts bore a body between them. "Back to the palace."
"Well-well." Ogre smirked at Anais's back.
"What happened?" Amon stared at blood seeping from the scout's hair.
"The flat piece of the mortar fell—"
"—Baseplate?"
"Baseplate."
"I see. With haste, scouts."
"You can shut up, full-blood. You broke the launcher!" Anais brandished a climbing pick in his left hand. "If we are discovered, you will the first to feel the kiss of human lead."
"Charming." Amon hoisted the launcher from Ogre's grip.
"Do not antagonise him, Amon. You invite a bullet in the back."
"We will see."
Once the party were back inside the horseshoe, Anais signalled the scouts to spread out and search for means of ingress on the ground floor. To Amon and Ogre, he said, "You. You. Stay still and quiet."
Amon folded his hands in his lap, closed his eyes, and listened. Ogre fidgeted. "Sorry."
"We will overcome this. Together. Do you trust me?"
"Who else is there?"
"Anais!" A scout rushed over from the western wing. "Window leading in to a cellar. We may need to dig."
"Then dig we shall." Anais slapped the back of Amon's head. "Up!"
Hands scrabbled at bricks and shunted sand aside. Dry boards came away, exposing a cellar filled with fat, wooden barrels. One by one, the scouts wormed through the gap. "Full-blood." Anais shoved the launcher in after Amon. "Your responsibility." He jabbed a finger at Amon. "Fix it!"
Dozens of the barrels occupied shelves. Dust covered valves protruded from the barrels. A scout jumped back from one barrel when he turned the valve and found it spat out liquid. "Licata! What is this?"
"This may be the biggest Amasec cellar on Salusa," Amon said. The launcher lay on a bedroll. Scouts sat around him, their eyes watching Amon in the gloom.
"Not one drop in any mouth." Anais twisted the valve shut. "Alcohol displeases the Vasak. Are you fixing the launcher, full-blood?"
"Scout, unfold that weapon's stock," Amon said to a scout holding a Kazalak with a folding stock.
"Anais?" The scout cradled the rifle to his bosom.
"For what purpose, full-blood?"
"Unfold your stock, scout. Observe the tension."
The scout pressed the button in the pivot and snapped the stock in to position. Even locked in place, the stock wobbled. "Broken." The scout jiggled the stock. "How can I shoot with this?"
"Wear on the springs lessens the tension. I would put the rifle to good use."
"How? Anais!"
"Fix the rocket, full-blood!"
"The part I require…" Amon pointed at the Kazalak.
"Give it over."
"Anais!"
"I said give it to him!"
"Now watch him break another weapon." The scout unlocked the magazine and pushed the butt at Amon.
"Chamber," Amon said.
"Uh?" The scout looked in to the rifle's muzzle.
"Give it—" Anais hauled the rifle out of the scout's hands, removed the safety, and racked the bolt. "This had better work, full-blood."
Amon inverted the rifle and rested it across his knees. "Cartridge and a rock." Bemused mutterings flitted between the scouts, more mutterings than grumblings now and fewer overtly hostile eyes. From one of two holes on the underside of the body, Amon hammered a retaining pin out. With the pin free, Amon pivoted the launcher's trigger group in to place and eased the hammer down to about halfway and pushed the pin in to a hole that held the trigger group to the launcher's body. "I observed an optics pouch among the cache. Will you permit a fitting?"
"Have you fixed the launcher?"
Amon aimed the tube at the ceiling and thumbed the hammer down. Click. He squeezed the trigger and the hammer sprang up. Click. "Now, see to those optics. Sniper, let us gather knowledge."
"Wait, where are you going?" Anais drew a stub pistol.
"I fixed your weapon." The stubby muzzle dug a mark in to Amon's forehead. "Now, she and I are gathering knowledge on the humans for when we retaliate."
"Retaliate?" Anais's pistol followed Amon. "Against tanks? You are mad!"
"Strike when the enemy least expects it." Amon draped the mortar vest over a barrel. "Close to home, his vigilance weakens. We are prime to deliver him a bloody nose here." Ogre got up from her secluded spot and followed Amon.
"Let me shoot him, Anais." A scout clicked a safety catch.
Aim well, half-blood. You will not get a second chance.
A bookshelf ground upon the floor. Cobwebs stretched and ripped in to strands. Cloth coverings hung over chairs and tables. Dust lay undisturbed on bare shelves. Not a place the humans have trod in years. Amon eyed a candle-holder with sixteen arms. Or they would have taken the shiny objects.
"Amon." Ogre hefted a full bottle of human spirits. Amon shook his head and pointed at a sealed door at the far end of an adjoining room. Through a crack in the wood, Amon spied the main hall.
"No noise now." The two hid behind a row of arches and followed them along to the base of the stairs. "East wing." Amon led Ogre back to the cache.
"Why are we—?"
"Ssh. They have not found this yet." Amon dug his nails in to a board further along from the booby-trap and lifted it up. Where are you? Up to his shoulder, Amon felt around the empty space. "Ah." He found the ridged body and squeezed the spoon. "I need you to lift the board and remove the rock."
Ogre pulled the board up and lifted the rock out. "How will you…?"
"In my pocket." Amon drew his arm from the cache. He held the frag grenade tight in his fists. "In my pocket is the pin."
"How did you…?"
"Anais needs to learn to close his pouches—ah-ahh! That is not the pin."
Ogre's cheeks reddened. "Shut up." She pulled the pin out by the ring and shoved the pin at Amon's nose. "And stop smiling."
"Hah. Ha-ha-ha." Amon clutched the grenade. "So… How long do you think?"
"How long until what?" Ogre spun the ring on her finger.
"How long until I drop this." Amon's hands shook. "Er, sniper?"
"Stop smiling."
"Very well. May I—may I have the pin, please?" Ogre slotted the pin in to the eyehole and patted Amon's hand. "Ahh." Amon relaxed his grip and massaged his hands. "Gratitude. Let us seek a vantage."
Bellies rubbing against the roof, Amon and Ogre crawled to the edge where a lip, curving upwards, hid them from the humans below. Four tanks painted a dull green with long gun tubes sprouting from smooth turrets leaguered around an eight-wheeled fuel bowser. Crew in khaki fatigues serviced their machines, sat around eating, or slept.
"Now the advantage lies with us."
"How?"
"Without infantry escort, they are weak. Their air power will not be flying yet. And I suspect vox reception will be spotty. They are ours to isolate and kill."
"Amon, if one of those beasts awakens."
"We have an RPG if the situation calls for it. Those mines the scouts left will be perfect for causing a commotion too."
"The mortar?"
"Anais would blow himself and the others all across the desert if he tried to work it."
"Save us the trouble."
"No. We have seen enough." Amon patted Ogre's shoulder and slithered backwards.
"Four tanks!" Anais gaped.
"Four tanks, no escorts. That refueler is begging for a spark—one spark—to set it off."
"Ohhh, this is more than we've ever taken on at once." Anais rubbed his temples. "We—we cannot."
"Then hide forever." Amon made a fist. "When opportunity presents, strike! Take action while you have the initiative. Surprise, elevation, heavy weapons—these lend you the perfect edge to strike the enemy before he can organise and wipe him out. From the opening shot to the closing, this will take no longer than thirty seconds, though it may seem a lifetime for you. These will be the most important thirty seconds of your lives. Now, all I ask is for you to keep a cool head and to follow my orders."
"I will not." Anais sat on a barrel. "This will be brought to the Vasak's ears. How you challenged my leadership and selfishly—"
"—Anais, this is your hour. This rests on your judgement. Let us teach the humans to fear the desert once more." Amon scooped up the rocket launcher. "Pass me a warhead. Watch closely."
Covered up in a cloak, Amon dragged three mines tied together with a rope across the palace's western flank. A four-foot-high wall with diamond-shaped cutouts hid him from the humans' eyes. Not one sentinel posted? Really, they could not have made this any easier. Amon leaned around the end of the wall. A flat road led along to a tank facing him squarely. Unoccupied, most certainly. Terrible field of vision too. Amon bellied across the road and rolled in to a ditch packed with prickly scrub.
Hammers banged and wrenches squeaked. Scrub rustled loudly at every pull on the rope. The stench of the crude fuel the humans used rode inside Amon's nostrils and brought water to his eyes. They must have iron-hard constitutions to ride around in machines smelling that potent. Amon sliced through a knot and laid a mine between the track-links and the hull. Feet trudged through the dirt on the far side of the tank. Amon dropped back in to the ditch and pressed his head against the slope. Liquid pattered the ground.
"Castus!" A spoon clattered inside a mess tin. "Serving up."
Amon waited for the human to move away then crawled further along the ditch and up in to bushes. Smoke rose from a fire the humans squatted around. Cigarette ends glowed. Flies zipped around the gathering. Amon climbed up the wheels and placed a mine on the second tank's tracks. A human stood on the rear deck of the third tank tipping a fuel can in to a funnel and the fourth tank had its left track spread across the ground with two humans repairing loose links.
Boots thudded inside the tank. Amon fell to the ground and rolled away. A hatch opened and a human climbed out of the turret. "Cowen, recaf!"
"Are our birds in the air yet, sir?"
"The sandstorm is over Camp Vigilance right now and Harawat isn't responding. Pour me some recaf."
Thank you for that, human. Amon climbed up to the turret and peered around a pintle-mounted stubber. All eyes were either shut, focused on their jobs, or engrossed in their meal. Amon dived in to the turret headfirst and climbed around the cannon's thick breech and opened a floor hatch. Through it he dropped a Kazalak carbine, a map, a compass, a water carrier and three grenades.
Outside, Amon looked to the rooftop and raised his fist. Ogre, prone behind the SVG, raised her fist. The light caught her scope and glinted.
A mess tin fell from a human's lap. "Sir, eyes on us!"
Now! Now! Amon punched his fist at the bowser. Smoke billowed from a second-floor window. A rocket shot through the air and struck the bowser. A whump knocked Amon on his back. A black mushroom rolled in to the sky. "Eurgh-heurgh!" Amon shook sand from the Kazalak and snapped the stock out. Fire spread to the refuelling tank and dove inside the open fuel reservoir, setting the body alight and immolating the human stood atop the deck. The two humans at the fourth tank burrowed beneath their mounts. The scouts' rifles chattered in the windows, raking the ground back and forth.
"Battle stations!" A human, stripped to the waist, bolted for a tank followed by another. Amon sent shots through the smoke at their backs and ran after them.
"Agh—help me!" A blistered, bald human with flames riding up his legs crawled at Amon. Flesh peeled back from his arms and hands. Amon looked away, pointed the Kazalak at the human's head, and fired. Rounds tore up the ground behind the bolting humans and clanged off the tank's armour. The human slammed the turret just as the SVG echoed. A motor chugged and roared in to life. Smoke coughed from exhausts. The turret whirred and swung at Amon. Sand churned up beneath the spinning tracks. The mine hit the ground and exploded. Amon flattened and covered his ears. Steel track links uncurled and the naked sprocket spun. Wind whipped the dust aside. A rocket from the palace whooshed at the floundering tank and punched a hole in the rear deck. Steel fragments flew skywards and rained down on Amon.
The scouts dropped from windows and scuttled over to the tanks, whooping, shrieking, and firing weapons in to the air. "LICATA!" Anais fired a burst in to the sky and ran down to Amon. "Full-blood, with me." Amon spat out sand and followed Anais over to the immobile tank. "Four tanks—four!" Anais swept his Kazalak beneath the tank's chin. "Ah-ha!" Anais dragged a human out by his wrists, drew a knife, and held it to the quivering human's chin. "This is for my family," Anais said in Gothic.
Blood spurted from Anais's chest, covering the human's blackened face. Amon pumped his trigger twice more and glanced over his shoulder. Anais swayed and toppled sideways. The knife fell between his body and the human. The human seized the knife and twisted. Amon shot him twice in the head and did the same to Anais. Thrusting the Kazalak in to the human's hands, Amon clambered aboard the tank and dropped a thermite grenade through the hatch.
Two scouts, blood shining on their faces, charged through the smoke holding a torn-up shirt, a pair of trousers and a boot aloft. Two more fought over a silver belt buckle, pulling at both ends of the belt. The belt fell and the half-bloods pummelled one another and kicked dirt over the shining buckle. Charred flesh and burning fuel brought a stickiness to Amon's throat. Muggy air surrounded him and tickled the hairs in his nostrils.
"Sniper?" Amon climbed sideways up a staircase that had given out in the centre. "Sniper?"
"In here, Amon." Ogre's voice came from a room on the floor below the roof.
"I thought you were on the roof." Amon climbed down from the ledge and entered a room with a crumpled metal bedframe and rubbish strewn about on the floor. Ogre sat next to the SVG with her hood down and mask lowered. "Sniper, your firing position was on the roof."
"Shut up." Ogre sprang from the bedframe.
"No. No I will not." Amon's mouth thinned. "You are our eyes. I cannot stress how important that—"
"Shut up, shut up, shut up." Ogre's fingers dug in to Amon's cheeks. "No more chatter. Are we alone?"
"I dearly hope so," Amon said through Ogre's hand. "Eye."
Ogre removed her hand and clasped the back of Amon's neck. "Then call me Irryn."
"Ah—"
"No—ssshh." Irryn's nose brushed Amon's cheek. "No more chatter. Let us be cripple and bastard together."
"No. Amon and Irryn." Amon nuzzled Irryn's cheek. Together they sank to the floor.
Three weeks later, the Vasak, standing out in the open air for the first time since Amon had met him, regarded the Rangers and their escorts from the steps of his sanctum. His people surrounded him. Children sat at the adults' feet looking up at the Vasak. "Now is the time of departure, Rangers. Through the valley you came and through the valley you will depart, but not as strangers."
At the Vasak's order, the Rangers' patched cameleoline was returned, along with their daysacks and the battered Long Rifle. "Gratitude for hospitality, Vasak." Amon pointed his fore-fingers down and crossed his thumbs. "The Shrine of Iyanden. My respects to you all."
Sol, stretcher-bound with Grego, made the sign of Iyanden. "Alaitoc will remember." Grego formed an eye with his fingers.
The Vasak's people parted before him. Flanked by his spear-wielding bodyguards, the Vasak descended to the sink's floor. "You will return." The Vasak held out a smooth orb, no larger than an apple. "This is our history. In it holds the secrets of our ancestors. Where we came from. Who we are."
A flight recorder? Amon accepted the recorder and slipped it in to a pouch on his Ranger vest. "I solemnly swear I will return bearing your ancestors' secrets. I will return, Vasak. For you, for everyone."
"Remember us." The Vasak handed Amon a percussion gun with gold engraved in the woodwork and jewels embedded in the stock. "Remember."
Blindfolds came down over the Rangers' eyes. A hand took Amon's arm and guided him.
"Amon, are you there?"
"Yes, Sol."
"When do I receive my wooden leg?"
"Sol…"
"Imagine that! I can engrave it. Maybe turn it in to a little side project?"
"Ha-ha." Amon slung the percussion gun and felt for Sol's hand. "Always cheerful."
"Hah—of course! We are going home."
"Cannot wait for a new limb," Grego, a little ahead of Sol and Amon, growled.
"Grego, Grego, please…" Not in front of the Vasak's people, Grego. Gods, they make do with wooden prosthetics and we have limb-farms on call all-day, every-day.
"Your woman—"
"Sol!" Amon leaned down. "Speak not of her as you would an object."
"Why did you not ask her to leave with you?"
"Sol, please. You and Grego and I are leaving gracefully."
"Pfft, as much grace as an inverted Ranger can muster."
"You are my mission, Sol. You and Grego. Let us leave quietly and respectfully. I am to return at a later date. Things will be different. Tempers and trigger-fingers will have settled."
"You do so alone then, brother. I cannot wait to see this dust-speck diminish in the viewport."
"Worry not, Sol. I will return alone, and with answers." Amon straightened up. The giants, seated on their thrones, stared down at the party; silent sentinels. The Valley of Giants? Valley of the Ancients? Who built them? Amon pressed his hand against Varangenus's flight recorder. In the valley I met you, Irryn.
Beneath the stars and away from the valley, the Rangers' escorts bade Amon, Sol, and Grego farewell. "How will I find you if you do not wish to be found?" Amon said. The half-bloods said nothing, only turned Amon around ten times and asked him to count up to his age before removing his blindfold.
"Sol, Grego?" Amon untied the cloth strip after finishing his count. Four of their escort, their heads bound tightly in shawls, remained squatting with Sol and Grego's stretchers.
"Freezing here, Amon." Grego rubbed his shoulders. "Could you…?"
"Sol?" Amon untied Grego's and Sol's blindfolds. "We are for home now."
"I do not recognise the stars."
"I do." Amon took a compass from his sack and tapped the cover. "Now, where are we?"
Through the night, with the guidance of the stars, Amon led the stretcher party on the first leg of the 300-klick tab south. By day, they hid from the infrequent flyovers and resumed the tab come dusk. I do hope the rendezvous has not changed. Amon tapped the compass. Stars twinkled above him. Gods, we had better not stray in to another minefield.
On the night of the third day, Amon swept his cloak over his head and tried the communicator. Cracks covered the outer body and the lense covering the projector had vanished. "Captain?" A blue projection spasmed. "Captain, can you hear me?"
"Amon?! You have been absent for—" The captain's voice crackled.
"Captain?" Amon slapped the communicator. "Captain!"
"…Location. What is your status?"
"Captain, I am with Sol and Grego. We are two-hundred-plus klicks south of the six-one-nine. We are within beacon range. Request immediate evacuation for my brothers. Healers required."
"Convey your last again, Ranger."
"Evacuation required. Healers required."
"What is your location?"
"Wait." Amon shrugged off his sack and rummaged inside the sections. What was I thinking? Amon drew the sand-encrusted beacon out, jammed it in to the dirt, and twisted. No vantage points around here. This will have to do. "Captain, our beacon is active." The captain's avatar faded. "Captain?"
"—Lost image. Are you receiving?"
"Yes—Yes!"
"Patience, Ranger. We will come for you."
"Thank you, Captain. Thank you." Amon fell forwards and pressed his thumbs to his brow.
"Amon?"
"We are…" Amon swallowed. "We are going home."
"I will believe that when I see our brothers." Grego turned on to his other shoulder. "Ugh, my shoulder."
"Sit tight, the both of you. Look after the beacon."
"Where are you going?"
"Perimeter." Amon picked the Long Rifle up from where it lay on Grego's stretcher and walked away. A quick check of the compass assured Amon that he faced south. If the beacon dies, how to signal our brothers?
"I never saw you so happy before."
Amon spun. "Irryn!"
"Stealing up to a Ranger. Softened during your time among us, have you?"
"Homesick." Amon stuck the Long Rifle's butt in the ground and sat. Irryn flopped beside him. "I looked for you before our departure."
"I was always there."
"You were." Amon smiled. "I… I wish to apologise, Irryn. My gravest mistake was believing you needed saving. I could not have been further from the mark. This place is your home."
"You will return though, won't you?"
"With the data from the ship's flight recorder. With it, we can discover your people's origins. Where you came from."
"To us, I mean."
"Us?"
"Promise me." Irryn's hand touched her stomach. She leaned over to Amon and whispered in his ear.
"I swear it." Amon laid his hand on Irryn's bare wrist. "I want you to keep my longarm safe. It is not like yours. Wraithbone is a living, developing substance and must be nurtured."
"Amon…" Irryn stroked the smooth, grey stock. "Licata, I would not have the first idea how to care for this. We can barely keep our human weapons running. Worthy of a full-blood weapon, I am not."
"Then I am just as unworthy to bear the Vasak's longarm, beautiful though it is." Amon put his arm around Irryn's shoulder. "I expect to see you bearing it on my return."
"Not all I expect to bear." Irryn smirked and touched Amon's cheek with her own. "We eagerly await your return." Their hands squeezed.
"Never have I seen such happiness before." Amon brushed his shoulder against Irryn's and rubbed her arms. "Be my Gea."
The feeling had long since deserted Amon's face and toes before a squark from Grego detached him from Irryn. "Grego?"
"It—it died." Grego banged his palm against the beacon. "We lost the captain too."
"Where is the—?" Amon caught the transmitter Grego tossed over. "Hello, Captain?"
"…fifteen minutes out. We lost your blip."
"Build a fire?" Sol scratched at the stitching on the back of his shaven head.
"Fool, Sol!" Grego glared.
"No…" Amon dug in to Grego's sack, rootled around then tipped the open compartments out.
"Amon!"
"What do you seek?" Irryn fell down next to Amon and began separating the contents out.
"Small, cylindrical, about six inches long—silence from you, Sol."
"Not lost it inside your trousers, have you?"
"And you, Grego!" Amon tossed a full bottle at Grego. "Remember this?"
"Is that the—eurgh!" Grego dropped the urine bottle.
"What is this?" Irryn pointed a laser designator in her eye and pressed the switch.
"Caution. You will blind yourself." Amon took the laser and shone it in the sky and rolled his wrist. "Captain, I am lasing the sky. Do you observe?"
"Observe what? There is nothing there." Irryn repacked the sack's contents.
"Irryn, is it? I am Grego and that is Sol. We carry Amon's gear around."
"Well met, Rangers. Er, do you?"
"Heh-heh."
"They jest, Irryn." Amon circled the laser above him.
"We have you… correcting course… two minutes out."
"Thank you, Captain." Amon power the communicator down and approached the three scouts who sat away from Grego, Sol, and Irryn. "My deepest gratitude to you all. Iyanden and Alaitoc have long memories. Rangers' memories last even longer. Farewell."
The scouts faded in to the desert, leaving Irryn with the Rangers. "You will not," Irryn said at Amon's shoulder. "You will not say it, and I will not heed it."
Amon laid his hands on Irryn's cheeks. "Until I see you again, Gea."
"Amon? Amon, engines."
"The day will come when you tell me the meaning of it, Amon." Irryn pried Amon's hands away and stepped back. "The day will come." Her form faded, leaving a single gold eye glowing.
"I long for it." Amon made a claw above his heart and cast it in to the night after Irryn. "I long for you!"
"Amon, the sky!"
"Shine it."
Amon lit the sky up. Engines approached, their noise rolling in the Rangers' ears. Dust blew in their faces and stones whipped at their robes. A shadow fell over them and blotted out the stars. Amon crouched and held his hood up. Sol's twitching hand found Amon's and clung on. Amon reached for Grego's hand. I will return.
Seasons passed on Salusa Secundus. Spring turned to summer and autumn faded to winter. The waste remained as Amon had first entered it with his brothers. It did not care. Beings came and went. It always remained, vast, oppressive, and apathetic to the affairs of the living.
Canyons with sheer walls hemmed the scouter in. Embedded in the pilot's seat, Amon's eyes roved across the holo-map displaying the network of canyons, gorges, and passes cutting deeply in to the plateau. Cloud covered the floor many hundreds of feet below. Behind mountain peaks to the east, the sky slowly lightened from a deep grey.
Magnify two-hundred per cent. A two-dimensional screen expanded before Amon's eyes. Stone sentinels stood with their backs to a vertical cliff-face. Skeletal beings gripped staffs and faced outwards. Pan right. Cloud obscured Amon's view. Go to IR and hold. Scan for toxins.
A jagged line split the rock from the canyon floor to the barren plateau six-hundred feet above. Cloud engulfed the scouter in its descent. A cushion of air brought the tiny craft to a halt two feet above damp rock. Moisture coated Amon's long coat and rebreather covering his jaw and nose. Rain on Salusa? Amon touched a panel hovering an inch above the scouter's smooth hull. Impossible. A compartment holding a collapsing lasblaster slid open. Amon took it and waited for the ID lock to register. A red light above the trigger-guard turned green and the upper and lower handguard separated from the twin barrels. Rig anti-tampering. Amon fitted a headset and folded an ocular down over his right eye. Progressive scan.
Dark walls towered above Amon. The gap widened from a crack to a fifteen-foot-wide passage winding away in to the cliff. Behind him, the scouter had shrunk to the size of a fingernail. Amon knelt at the mouth of the passage and placed a laser tripwire and built up rocks around it. Amon's feet broke the surface of puddles where the floor met the mossy walls. Through his ocular, he saw only the endlessly winding path. No light made it down in to depths. There was just winding line of grey, fibre-thin, far above his head.
Giants, seated on thrones, looked down on the solitary Ranger. Cloud hid their heads and torsos. A stone hand stuck out of the earth. In its fingers, a broken staff. An arm, severed at the elbow, lay trapped beneath a boulder. Amon raised his lasblaster and shifted through the maze. A head, half-swallowed by the soft ground, gaped at Amon. Sharp teeth filled a maw and an eye, lidless, stared at him. What were you? Amon circled around the head. Thick, white paint was daubed on the crown in the shape of an Aquila. Amon's heel hit metal. A brass rifle casing rolled backwards and clinked against many more.
Cloth fluttered through the valley. Amon caught a handful and drew his thumb across blackened fragments and let them trickle from his palm. A fly buzzed around his head. Grey air, thicker than normal, stung Amon's eyes. Ash? Amon lifted the ocular out of his eye. Smoke rose from the sinkhole ahead. Oh, Gods. Amon made the descent and found the first bodies in a half-immolated pile. A burned human pennant hung from a spear jammed through a corpse's belly. Other bodies lay with bulging stomachs and grey skin stretched taught. Swollen tongues poked from dry mouths infested with flies. Maggots wriggled inside wounds. Amon turned his respirator's air scrubbers on.
They could not even be bothered to burn them all. Amon knelt over a child lying face-down amidst shell-casings. Children. The nose of a human dropship jutted over the river. The twin booms had sheared off, leaving the body balancing upon the uneven surface. Khaine. Amon set his lasblaster down at the water's edge. He made the Shrine of Iyanden and bowed his head. Bodies packed the river, enough for Amon to make the opposite bank without ever wetting his feet. "Irryn."
All that was left of the sections of Varangenus were torn-up and twisted bits of scrap metal no larger than Amon's torso. More pyres on the other side of the river smoked gently. "Vasak…" A body, blackened beyond recognition, wore the remains of a harness with human spines attached to the shoulders. Fallen rocks blocked off the entrance to the Vasak's chambers. Other entrances had been blasted shut too, but as with the pyres, the humans had left many entrances open.
A wire ran from one side of the cave entrance to the other. Amon stepped over it and lowered his ocular. Scorch marks covered walls and floors. Tripwires criss-crossed corridors and bodies covered live grenades. Water remained inside water-butts but the presence of bodies around them deterred Amon. Poisoned, of course. How else would the humans deal with survivors? Amon climbed past stripped living quarters and ransacked warehouses. Too much to hope for. Could she be alive?
Amon's wrist-mounted interface blipped. Runes flashed up in red. Cholinergic Agent Detected. Where the air touched Amon's skin, a prickle arose. Nerve gas? Amon adjusted his respirator to filter out the gas. Barbarians. Soulless with their cruelty unchallenged.
Eyes stinging, Amon went room by room, avoiding the booby-traps and checking every adult body. What is that? At the far end of a passage, a circular door built from thick steel hung by a single twisted hinge. Barricades made from tables, chairs, and pots had been torn down and blasted aside. Bodies In gas masks lay on the far side on a bed of cartridge-casings, empty stripper clips, and spent magazines. Cracked, fogged lenses hid eyes. Dried blood coated a Long Rifle with dents on the body and a bayonet blade jammed in the stock. Amon popped his wraithbone knife free and moved the point along the ground beneath the body. Once he had completed a circuit, Amon loosened the straps on the mask and lifted it free. A deep scar ran from the mouth to the temple. Two eyes, white and gold, met Amon's eyes. Irryn. Amon laid his brow against Irryn's head. My Gea. Blood tarnished Irryn's knuckle-knife, still gripped in her hand. Amon sniffed and pressed Irryn's stiff eyelids down. You deserved better than this.
Past the great door, Amon found a tunnel leading down in to a chamber looking across a reservoir stretching far further than his eyes could see. All the water on Salusa. Amon peered over a ledge. Grey, bloated bodies, young and old floated just beneath the surface. A yellowish cloud seeped from a cylindrical capsule with a skull and crossed bones on it. All gone. Amon lowered his hood and made the Shrine. And what crime were the young and old guilty of?
Idle pumps occupied a chamber beneath the waterline. Adults sat against the bullet-scarred wall. Heads lay in laps and arms were wrapped around torsos. An empty linked belt coiled on the floor amongst rifle and pistol casings. A blood trail led away from the bodies, down some stone steps and in to a side room smelling of damp. A woman lay beneath a dripping water tank. Amon got down on one knee and swept the gap. A panel in the floor behind where the woman lay had been lifted off, leaving a narrow crack. Amon nudged the panel away, exposing pipes beneath, and a bundle of rags. Two gold eyes opened from within the folds. A tiny hand pattered at a pipe.
Wrapped in a blanket, Irryn's body faced the open sky. Amon sat cross-legged before the shroud. A cracked gemstone attached to a cord hung from his fist. Fresh earth piled beside a grave. Forgive me. I cannot bury you in fire, Gea. Amon laid Irryn in the grave, dug a plate-sized piece of hull in to the mound, and threw earth in to the grave. Licata will understand.
The baby gurgled and waved its arms. Amon tossed the last of the earth and smoothed it out. All this for nothing. Amon opened a flare pouch and took out a stick of disposable storage bearing Varangenus's flight log. What am I supposed to do with this? A shriek brought his attention to the baby. Amon lifted it in to his arms and unwrapped its blanket. A girl. Are you mine? The baby smiled and touched Amon's hand. Saliva shone on its chin. Amon drew his knife and held it to the baby's throat. Your eyes match. Could you be? Amon pressed his thumb to his tear-duct and sheathed his knife. No, I cannot. I would be no better than the barbarians.
Lasblaster slung, Amon carried the child from the valley. All the time, her eyes watched him. What do I call you? Amon thought of the names of his aunts. Doria maybe? Luminita perhaps? Morimato? "What do you think?" Amon rocked the baby. Nothing. You are probably half-starved. Amon recalled a great-grandmother's name. A woman he had only ever met once. "Hello." Amon clasped the baby's hand and stroked her cheek. "Izuru."
409 years later…
A snowflake landed on Yvraine's nose. Clouds gathered around her head. Yncarne. Yvraine's eyes opened to swirling snow distorting the projected cosmos surrounding Yvraine's bed. A fleet filled the solar. Craftworlder vessels, Harlequin, Corsair, Druchii, and human sailed through swirling, bronze clouds lit by sporadic flashes.
Where are you? Yvraine's bare feet touched the wet deck. Orbs floating near the ceiling had dimmed during the fleet's night cycle. At Yvraine's command, the fleet and the cosmos faded, and light returned to her solar. The snowfall remained. Speak to me. Yvraine cast her mind across the city-sized battleship. Speak, Avatar!
A shawl around her shoulders, Yvraine worked her white-blonde hair in to a knot and pinned it in place. She slipped a bladed fan in to her hair and buckled a belt around her waist holding a sheathed falchion. A teleporter in a lower chamber blinked Yvraine across the ship to the bridge. Crewmen backed away when they saw Yvraine, bowed, and made the signs of their respective Craftworlds and other places of origin. Yvraine swept past without a glance. Thuds accompanied her. A silent, masked warrior in blood-red armour and a fur-lined cape marched at Yvraine's shoulder. Those before the pair froze in place or fled.
"Report, Seer-Captain." Yvraine's feet had grown numb on her entry to the battleship's bridge. Lurid purple veins and outcrops bulged in irregularities on the bridge; a leftover of the ship's Druchii past. Crew occupied transparent pods laid out in a circular pattern. The Seer-Captain and his Water Bringer commanded from a higher tier to the rest of the company. No inferior ranks were allowed to set foot up there.
"Lady Prophet…" The Seer-Captain withdrew from the ship's neuro-network. "We are at standard speed with fuel conservation. No ships were lost to the storm on this watch—"
"Why has winter come to my ship, Seer-Captain?" Heads turned and the bridge grew quiet.
"Your pardon, Lady Prophet. All our eyes were outboard."
"Find out!" Yvraine squeezed the pommel of her falchion. In the corner of her eye, the Visarch held a pair of slippers. Yvraine took them with only the tiniest hint of a nod and pulled them on her feet.
"Do I stand relieved, Lady Prophet?"
"You have the bridge, Seer-Captain. Carry on."
Another attempt at humour, Lady Prophet? The Visarch's mind brushed Yvraine's mental boundaries. It would not be the first instance of our Harlequin cousins acting in jest.
If so, they have a very peculiar definition of it indeed, old friend. That was kind of you to bring footwear. Yvraine flexed her toes. This was no Harlequin prank. I can no longer reach out to our ethereal companion.
Can one even hope to understand such a being's motives?
I can, Visarch. Remember, I have seen the other side of the curtain.
And you are stronger and wiser for it, Lady Prophet.
Address me with familiarity, Laari, I beg you. If not you then whom?
I am sorry, Yvraine. Our boundaries grow muddled.
Were you aware of these developments while I slept?
No snow fell at my station. This message was for you undoubtedly.
Yvraine patted her thigh. Alorynis?
Asleep.
"Lady Prophet?"
"Speak, Seer-Captain."
"My second has conferred with all major stations across the ship. No disturbances have been reported during this watch, nor have we picked up any enemy silhouettes. Gunnery can be made aware and stood-to if—"
"—Major and minor, Seer-Captain?" Yvraine squeezed the falchion's pommel. By the Yncarne, I am wasting my time here.
Would your eyes and mind not be always outboard, had you possession of the bridge?
The seer-captain should always know everything that is happening at his post. Yvraine rubbed a red mark being worn in to her hip by her leather belt. Her thin shift did not help. Two months without action softens us. I am beginning to regret this course the Archmagos has us following.
Would we reach our destination intact and with our dignity preserved or as a scattered band of renegades fleeing the gathering storm?
You know the answer, Laari, but my trust only extends so far when it comes to the humans, even moreso that they wish to keep our destination from us.
"Lady Prophet?"
"Speak, Seer-Captain."
"The Halls of the Dead."
"What of it?"
"…Snow is falling."
Yvraine snapped her fingers. "Summon my bodyguard. Rendezvous at the gates."
Eighteen Reapers in skull-faced helmets stacked up on either side of wraithbone pillars flanking the doors to the Halls of the Dead. The Visarch at her heel, Yvraine crunched through the two inches of snow on the deck. "Lady Prophet," said the Exarch in command. His mask's filters lowered his voice an octave and audibly distorted it. "We stand at your command."
Yvraine raised her fist. "Execute."
"Drone up." A Reaper tapped an interface mounted to her arm. A drone detached from her back and unfolded. "Sending."
"Lady Prophet, the feed is running." A blue-tinted projection played from the drone operator's interface. Yvraine and the Visarch watched the drone slip through a crack in the doors and fly through the falling snow. The doors sealed after the drone but not before letting icy air out.
Why snow? Yvraine pinched her chin. Black caskets of solid wraithbone lined shelves resplendent with white runes. Flower bouquets, also white, lay atop the caskets alongside talismans, robes, and belts. A stuffed toy caught Yvraine's eye. For the parent or the child?
"The air is toxin-free. Temperature is well below sub-zero."
"No life signs?"
"None, Lady Prophet."
"Psychic presence?"
"The drone is not equipped to detect psyker taint."
The feed blurred. Distortion played through speakers. "It cannot be out of range already."
"The cold, Lady Prophet."
The drone landed in the snow and the feed blinked and died. "Exarch, sweep the Halls. Engage nothing without first consulting me."
"Lady Prophet." The Exarch's sunken eye-lenses flashed green. He handed Yvraine a comm-bead. "Going dark." The Reapers braced Shuriken Catapults against shoulders and streamed through the parting doors. Yvraine pulled her shawl tighter around her neck and made to follow. The Visarch's hand steadied her.
Even the Herald of Ynnead can catch cold.
His fire sustains me. Yvraine drew her falchion and entered the Halls. Fog rolled from the casket-filled shelves. Reapers stalked along the dim aisles; their eyes glowing. Yvraine's ears and chin became numb. Her nose began to run. "Halls of the Commoners clear. Moving to Halls of the Warriors."
The Visarch draped his cloak over Yvraine's shoulders. At your side, Lady Prophet.
Gratitude, Laari. Yvraine paused by the casket with the stuffed toy and stood it upright. To my mother, with love eternal, the runes read. Another orphan. Yvraine smoothed frost from the name inscribed on the casket.
Too many of those, Yvraine.
"Lady Prophet, we have located the drone."
"Hold your position. I am coming." Yvraine traipsed through the snow and in to the Halls of the Warriors. The Reapers formed a perimeter around the fallen drone. It lay half-buried in a snowdrift. The operator kneeled beside it, up to her knees in snow.
"Circuits are frozen."
"Any contacts?" Yvraine blew on her fingers.
"None, Lady Prophet."
"Keep searching." Yvraine placed her palm in the snow. Speak to me, Avatar. Around her, the Reapers fanned out. Snowflakes pattered Yvraine's crown and slid down her brow. What brings winter to my domain?
If the Avatar wishes to convey a message, it is doing so in a most peculiar manner. The Visarch gripped Yvraine's wrist and pulled her up. Yvraine shook snow from the cloak's fur collar and wiped her nose.
"Lady Prophet," the Exarch spoke in Yvraine's ear. "We have found something."
A Reaper aimed a Shuriken Catapult at a casket at the far end of the hall. At Yvraine's approach, the Reaper stepped back and lowered his weapon.
"Illumination." A Reaper shone a light upon the casket. Yvraine leaned down and swept snow aside. A wide crack split the lid in half lengthways. Whose casket does this belong to? Yvraine brushed the runes clear. Iyanden-born, Alaitoc-raised, Ulthwé-tutored. Warrior, Ranger, Mother. Yvraine rubbed her palms across the broken lid and pressed the halves together. Izuru Doria Luminita Numerial.
"Lady Prophet!" The light slid across the casket and settled on the snow. Footprints led away from the casket and deeper in to the Halls.
"Impossible." Yvraine's ears twitched. "Find her. Find her!"
The Exarch signalled the Reapers to spread out. A warm hand settled on Yvraine's shoulder. Your core temperature falls.
No, Laari! Yvraine loped after the Reapers. I know of this Ranger.
How so?
She was laid to rest two months ago.