Of Saints and Sinners
The Imperium of Man has endured for ten thousand years as a religious oligarchy. Every facet of daily life, from making the morning caff to working the fields, is focused on venerating one being above all others: the Emperor. It should come as little surprise then, that there are many dozens of saints of both major and minor importance to the average man and woman. Inquisitor Reymose can't help but think that maybe... they could use a little less reveration if all hallways have to be lined with their images in this monastery. Busts, intricate statues, oil paintings, and of course massive tapestries depicting the Saints of the Imperium from the Primarchs to the most recent canonization of Saint Atremisia on Armageddon. His boots and the sabatons of his companions ring against the old flagstones as the intricately carved doors grow in his vision.
"Why would the Eldar be concerned about a Saint's final resting place?" the Inquisitor wonders aloud as comes to a stop before the door, knowing that none can answer. The eyes of the Saint stare down at him, a slight smile pulling at her lips as if patronizing a young child's artful imaginations...something that he does not appreciate in any way shape or form. Why is it that Imperial artists must always try and make the beholder seem so inferior to the art itself? Why can't they give the impression of being a hero's equal, for at their core every saint and martyr is a flesh and blood human with only love for the Emperor in their hearts?
He sighs and places a hand on the door handle pushing it open with a gentle nudge. The Saint's resting place is as beautiful as she was in life. Light shines down from above through the stained glass window depicting her final act in burying her sword in the chest of a vile Chaos Sorcerer clad in only a nightgown on the walls of the planetary capitol. Her sarcophagus, carved into her likeness, resides in the center of the before a carved statue of the woman herself blade planted into the earth and head bowed as if in prayer. A profound sense of peace washes over the party as they stride into the sanctum, their footfalls subconsciously lightening as if to preserve the sanctity of the crypt.
The Inquisitor's coat rustles gently as he drops to a knee before the sarcophagus and prays. His whispered prayers join those of the Sisters beside him rising into the still crypt air even as the sounds of battle rise beyond the walls. The prayers never raise in volume, never increase their measured pace, never let a note of fear creep into their tone. Unbeknownst to the faithful a light begins to take shape before them, starting as a pinprick and slowly growing to take human shape. The being of light seems to smile for a moment not too dissimilar to a parent displaying pride towards a child.
An arm dainty and feminine, completely devoid of the shape so common to those of a martial bearing, reaches out and touches the Inquisitor's brow. He gasps as knowledge floods his brain in a wave of searing fire. The pain of the knowledge transfer is nothing to him as he opens his eyes to behold her face. The very Saint in whose crypt they now kneel. She smiles kindly at him and then she disappears in a blinding flash...leaving a sword in her place.
Inquisitorial Acolyte Andrea is not having a good day. Her gleaming silver bolt pistol booms over and over again sending those deliciously painful shocks up her arm with every discharge. The fat mass-reactive shells slam into an Eldar Guardian's chest plate and crack through the vile xenos metal to detonate amongst his innards. Only instinct and luck allows her to bring her chainsword up in a guard as a Striking Scorpion in his signature jade plating attempts to hack through her neck with his own screaming blade. A volley of bolt shells from an accompanying Battle Sister hammers into the agile warrior before he can bring his shuriken pistol to bear.
The air heats around her as Squad-three makes its presence known in a storm of lasfire. The black armored stormtroopers advance between the wrecked tanks littering the second gate entrance forming a kind of barricade. In her mind she knows that the Eldar are soon to retreat having no taste for the attrition warfare a siege is so infamous for, but right now she curses her master for not allowing her to come into the monastery with him. The fevered, close-range firefights are a double edged sword.
On one hand: the Eldar can't dodge the devastatingly powerful Imperial weapons at such short range and are forced to rely on their much lighter armor plating and speed. On the other: the Imperials can't keep the range open as well and are often forced into brutal and costly melee confrontations. Andrea curses foully as another of the damned xenos steps into her path and swiftly brings a shuriken catapult to bear. Her pistol snaps up almost as fast but not fast enough to–
Crack-crack-crack!
She blinks as a trio of holes open up in the alien's chestplate sending the blue and gold armored figure sprawling against a burnt up Rhino. A quiet thump announces her savior's presence. A scowl is quickly plastered across her face as the Spartan deactivates his camouflage suite revealing all of his six-foot three bulk. The autogun in his hands trails smoke from the muzzle as he approaches her with silent steps, something that should be impossible for something that large.
"Are you alright ma'am?" his slightly distorted voice asks as he scans their surroundings for more threats. She nods tersely and stomps off after the stormtroopers, not acknowledging the armored figure at her side covering every angle she misses with his rifle. She absently notices that the sounds of fighting have died down by now as the order to withdraw to the monastery's walls is passed through the vox-net. The Imperials retreat back towards the gate like a metal flower closing its petals, guns bristling outwards even as the gates swing firmly shut depriving the Eldar of ready access to the corpse strewn courtyard. The Spartan sighs taking in the bodies of his comrades and enemy alike, knowing that his side of the defense only avoided similar losses thanks to his presence.
Andrea sighs heavily feeling the familiar crash of adrenaline leaving her body but remains standing straight. One must never show weakness to their underlings, one of the few lessons her father managed to impart on her before he was slaughtered at the gates of the family's keep by a horde of Orks. The Schola merely compounded that lesson and gave her the skills she needed to put the fire burning in her soul to good use. Her ruthlessness, her dedication, her skill all of it springs from the ashes of her family home like the phoenix of the ancient Terran legends.
A stormtrooper from squad-four waves her over from his kneeling position beside a vox-set, one hand keeping the horn pressed to his ear.
"Iron Heart picked up a half dozen Warp portals near the edge of the system ma'am. We know they're not Eldar but they aren't responding to their hails either." The acolyte frowns darkly and tightens her grip on her sword.
"Warn him to be careful and to not reveal his position until he is sure of their allegiance. We can't afford to be trapped on this world because of a reckless engagement."
"Yes ma'am."
In the void of space the Iron Heart remains vigilant probing the vacuum with its powerful sensors. Every pair of eyes on the bridge is glued to the screens as the Captain orders a slight course correction that would both bring the bulk of their sensors to the fore and their massive Lance cannon.
"Steady as she goes lads. No need to panic until we see something," the Captain states calmly, deceptively calm. His eyes flick over the state of his Lance as it comes to full power, the massive weapon sending vibrations through the bowels of his beloved ship. His eyes remain plastered to the central screen linked to the sensor suite, by the Omnissiah's will, just waiting for the first positive return. And then he gets it.
"Emperor preserve us…" his sensor operator groans as the servitors linked to their stations begin feeding data. Three small contacts on the leading edge of the formation are without a doubt escort class vessels with three bloated transports lumbering behind. But the signatures' characteristics are the most worrisome part: they indicate Apostate-class heavy raiders: those used by the Arch Foe to harass Imperial shipping lanes and deliver cutting blows during fleet engagements. One of them would be no trouble to the Iron Heart because of her enhanced range and speed, but three...that's pushing it. The Captain heaves a sigh.
"Send a message to the Inquisitor that we will head to the Naval outpost at Ingrid-IV and return with reinforcements. Helm! Full forward thrust! We're going straight through their formation!"
The Inquisitor and those with him don't move all eyes locked on one thing: the sword that suddenly appeared on the sarcophagus' lid balanced impeccably on the very tip of the sheath. They all recognize the blade having seen three examples of its likeness in the last ten minutes alone. The pommel is forged in the likeness of a screaming eagle, miniature rubies gleaming in place of eyes, and the grip is wire wrapped and gleams bronze in the sunlight. The crossguard stretches out like the wings of a great bird of prey with each feather wrought in gold plated adamantium. The sheath is a plain leather affair with a simple bronze collar engraved with several words in High Gothic.
"Does anyone have an explanation other than 'the Emperor's will'? Because...I've got nothing," the Inquisitor says breaking the silence at last. His mind is still hazy with the images that the Saint, for there is no other person it could have possibly been, implanted in his mind. The single sentence that she said is enough to send shivers down his spine at their importance.
"The Emperor has his Demon, now he needs his blade."
The image of Hunter, clad in his armor and covered in blood, standing at the head of a formation of men holding the same fracking sword as the one in front of him sends the Inquisitor's heart hammering. And what's worse is what he and those with him were facing: the hordes of Chaos. Demons of every shape and size and every alignment from every one of the Dark Gods.
'But there is hope,' that treacherously optimistic voice in his head reminds him and for once he agrees with it. He's seen what the soldier, the Spartan, can do when faced with supposedly insurmountable odds.
"I believe the Saint intended the blade to be used my Lord...but by who?" one of the Sisters, Grea he thinks, wonders aloud.
"She intends it for...the Spartan." The cringe immediately following is well earned.
"WHAT!?"
The Captain sighs in relief as his battered ship limps away from the Chaos formation. A bit of pride is shining in his chest at the knowledge that his ship has crippled not one but two enemy ships in a single pass and destroyed utterly a transport vessel carrying no less than a battalion's worth of troops. As the distinct whine of the warp drive builds throughout the ship he mutters a prayer for every sailor who died in the pass. Only a single lance beam had made it through the void shields but it was enough to carve through the armor and several decks. Hundreds if not thousands are dead and many more injured, but the Iron Heart is still here.
The heretic vessels had too much momentum behind them to turn about and pursue the Imperial frigate and so continue on towards the planet. The Iron Heart has survived to carry the message, but until then those on the ground are alone. The Captain says one more prayer before the warp swallows his ship once more leaving just the faintest wisp of power behind.
The bulk transports breach the atmosphere on massive pylon engines that belch smoke into the crisp air. Snow is kicked up under their approach and the exhaust flames swiftly melt the remaining snow banks turning the large meadow into a swamp as the ramps lower on rickety hydraulics. The berserking cultists within don't think twice about leaping from their transports and promptly sinking half an inch into the ooze...and quickly falling on their asses when they can't adjust fast enough. Their hoots and howls rend the air like a pack of rabid dogs on the trail. Hundreds of them poor from the transports and form ragtag groups that faintly resemble company sized contingents the Imperial Guard favors.
Their equipment is a far cry from standard issue: autoguns, lasguns, blunderbusses, axes, lengths of iron bar, and chipped knives along with a host of other unrecognizable garbage that someone might try to pass off as a weapon. All of it is filthy and painted with the eye aching symbols of Chaos, not limited to being carved into the cultist's flesh either. Ragged banners decorated with skulls of all sizes, species, and ages are paraded around as each "company" declares its ultimate allegiance in the structure of the warband. As the final "companies" are unloaded a different craft descends from the heavens.
Boxy but much more maneuverable than the other ships and bristling with weapons this one screeches in like bird of prey. The angular crimson craft angles in for a landing and the jeering crowds of Cultists fall silent, every pair of deranged eyes locked on this single craft. A flaming demon's skull imposed over an open book is emblazoned on the flank of the craft, arcane runes surrounding the emblem as if forming the center of a ritual. The ancient landing skids gently cushion the deceptively graceful craft and hiss as they accept the massive weight. The world seems to hold its breath as the ramp mounted in the nose slowly lowers with a hiss of released gases.
The Cultists prostrate themselves before the figure beginning to emerge from the cavernous hold, grinding their foreheads into the mud in their effort to keep their eyes averted. A keening wail that contains the vaguest semblance of words rises from their throats as a heavy tread rings out across the meadow. A massive shadowy figure appears in the yawning ramp, curled horns rising from its head. Gleaming red eyes scan those present taking them all in like a lord and his cattle. A sickening chuckle reverberates around the things chest as it emerges into the light.
"I'm coming...Brother."