Hello again chaps, here's chapter 6. I'm very sorry for the long wait, I've been unbelievably busy with settling into my new house and my job. Unfortunately, I would expect updates to be few and far between (for the moment) as I don't have as much time to write as I used to.
Song of the day: New World Symphony (4th movement is my favourite) – Antonin Dvorak
Chapter 6 – An Unexpected Outcome
The defeated imperials moved with a panicked clarity, taking up their new positions inside the monastery. Several soldiers stood by the huge wooden doors, ushering in stragglers and the wounded; they were ready at a moment's notice to close themselves off from the outside world.
Colonel Demetris stood upon a raised platform with a small entourage made up of musicians and colour bearers. He leaned upon his drawn chainsword, calling out encouragement as he gazed over the tops of his retreating soldier's heads.
Locke shuffled through the hallway, bent forwards from the task of carrying his wounded friend who lay draped across his shoulders and back. Brandr remained silent apart from the odd grown and the grating rasp of his own laboured breathing.
The burdened guardsman trailed after his squad mates as they moved to take up their new positions. However, he stopped short at the intersection between the opening of an enclosed stairwell and the rest of the hallway.
Two decisions: stay with his section and risk the survival of his friend or go to the medical station and leave his section to fight without him. Battle was still raging outside and drawing closer with every minute that went by. Major Halbritter's forces were conducting a fighting withdrawal, slowly conceding the courtyard to the enemy who were now coming over the wall in three separate locations.
Numerous fires had been started in that brief skirmish. Tufts of grass, dry from the good weather, went up like kindling as either stray lasbolts struck home or spent shell casings came to rest in the foliage.
One of the mortar positions had been reduced to a burning carnal house when one of the eldar shurikens struck an ammunition pile. The outer wall and gatehouse, a work of much labour and a source of pride for the garrison was quickly turned into a fiery ruin.
Overall, morale had plummeted with little hope of improvement, given the stark odds they all now faced. Commissar Virilus had already shot two guardsmen. The first, Guardsman Erie, had become hysterical with panic and the other, Lance Corporal Kranlin, had withdrawn within himself - refusing any order given.
It was the end; they all knew it. The colonel's speech from earlier had been direct, but it couldn't possibly have prepared them for what the reality would actually look like. Despite it all, they still had a job to do and Emperor willing they would keep fighting till they could fight no longer.
The newly retreated troops reorganised themselves and took up their new defensive positions in the prepared fortifications in the main chamber and adjoining corridors. If they lost the ground floor, they would fight on through the staircases and up into the forum, then the library and finally the atrium.
Several officers were rushing about in the managed chaos, calling out orders to their subordinates. Lieutenant Maxim of 4th Platoon stood atop a large barrel, raising his voice above the din. "Corporal Elis get your section up on that emplacement, Corporal Fremund you too!"
"Fremund's copped it, sir." Replied an unseen guardsman.
"Damnit all, Lance Corporal Aleric, set up your lot on the barricades behind! Move people!"
Corporal Elis sought to obey her commander but stopped and turned when she sensed that Locke was no longer right behind her. The guardsman was still gripped with indecision. He knew that some soldiers, high on cowardice, would jump at the chance to escort the wounded - an excuse to stay out of harm's way.
On the other end of the spectrum, were those who wouldn't think twice about abandoning their injured comrades if it meant they could continue the fight. Guardsmen were never happy to have a glory hunter or an adrenaline junky in their section.
Even though his squad leader couldn't see his face due to the rebreather and visor, she knew the internal battle that warred in his mind. Those who have seen combat together for many years soon develop a keen understanding of one another.
Elis knew what Locke was like, she knew that his unswerving loyalty was pulling him in two different directions. Leave his section to potentially face the enemy without him or leave Brandr to die. As the guardsman's leader, she couldn't let his hesitation go on any longer, so she decided for him.
"Locke get Bran to the medic station ASAP." The NCO said, hurrying over to them both. When she got close she leaned in close to Brandr and whispered something to the semi-conscious guardsman's ear. Locke looked the other way to give the two a semblance of privacy.
"Aye Corporal." He responded.
Elis stepped away. "Good. Once he's in their care, double time it back. We're going to need every last lasrifle we have."
Locke nodded his head in acceptance, a silent understanding passing between their eyes. Without another word he headed for the nearest stairwell, sparing one last look at his section. They had set up next to a barricade of sandbags, fronted by a reel of barbed wire. Kern and Jaxx were setting up the autocannon on a crate - likely pilfered from one of the storerooms.
Daud was lying prone, resting his long las's barrel inside the alcove of the emplacement. His left hand was meticulously adjusting the sights of his weapon, making ready for the moment that the aliens breached the inner sanctum. His pine raptor watched the doorway while it poked its head over the parapet, baring its fangs to the yet unseen enemy.
Ambling through an adjacent corridor, Locke went past several jerry-rigged explosives fastened to the wall that were set to collapse the passage if the alien's managed to breach the lowest level. Further on, he had to squeeze down a few severe choke points which proved harder than he expected due to his encumberment.
Several more fortifications littered the foyer and landings of the stair wells, each manned by a handful of troops. Due to the enclosed nature of the barricades, all of the guardsmen he came across helped Locke lift Brandr over each of the defences.
Up several more flights of stairs and through the meandering corridors, Locke joined a trickle of other walking wounded. In attendance of that growing queue were half-a-dozen stretcher bearers; all in service to those unlucky souls who could no longer move under their own steam.
"Stay with me Bran, almost there." He said to his wounded friend. The carried man let loose a ragged cough as he cleared his throat.
"Not…much…choice…in that." He jested in a weak and quiet voice. Hearing his friend's deteriorating state, Locke pushed himself onward until he finally reached the triage centre. When the guardsman burst through the door, the scene that awaited him was markedly different from when he had previously seen it.
Long gone were the clean and empty beds. The once quiet room was now a cacophony of moans and screams of men and women in agony. The smell was an awful concoction of sweat, blood and disinfectant which made Locke's stomach churn.
He swallowed the bile that rose in his throat, pushing his way into the field hospital through the congestion of humanity. The overcrowding had started in earnest; over a dozen soldiers were now on the floor lying on makeshift beds while many others sat against the wall, cradling their injuries - treated or otherwise.
Some writhed around in pain until either the painkillers or the shock put them to sleep. Others simply lay or sat cross-legged in silence, their eyes unfocused and glassy. Most of the wounded were from 'A' Company's 2nd Platoon who had seen the worst of the fighting so far. He nodded at a few familiar faces, but most didn't even meet his gaze.
It appeared that a categorisation system had been set up by Sergeant Parre. Beds were prioritised for the seriously wounded and for guardsmen awaiting medical attention. The soldiers who were only lightly wounded, stood in a queue, waiting to be seen by Guardsman Garrit.
The dour medic was surrounded by medical crates filled with field dressings, silently waiting for their own bloody bearers. Locke watched as one by one they were patched up and sent back to the front without a single word.
The other medical staff were in a state of absolute frenzy, flitting between patients, constantly checking the condition of those within their care. How they were able to make sense of the ever-changing chaos, Locke would never know.
They attended their duty with not a single complaint as they applied bandages, gauzes, disinfectant, tourniquets, and administered injections of morphine and adrenaline. Even when pushed to their limit they still bound broken limbs, comforted both the shattered and fading souls, emptied bedpans, and manhandled soldiers to and from the operating table.
While at the moment they were moving with speed and readiness, the encumbered guardsman knew that this energetic enthusiasm would dim without respite. More than once, he had seen medics turn gaunt and grey from the stress and endless exertion; they often cracked under the pressure in the end.
We'll probably all be dead before that happens. He thought, in consolation.
Once they became aware of a new patient, an orderly, Guardsman Paelin, took him to a recently cleared bed. The blood smeared bedding was removed and taken to be boiled while fresh linen took its place. Locke laid Brandr down as gently as he could manage; his friend's groans of pain were lost amongst the chorus of other mewling cries.
Locke glanced over at the far side of the room, which was partitioned by a pale blue curtain. It was the operating theatre, where the gravely injured went to be butchered by saws and drills. Those who went in with all four limbs rarely came out again with all of them still attached.
As if on cue, Sergeant Parre emerged from behind a hastily drawn screen, his apron covered in blood further reinforcing the image of a slaughterhouse. Noticing the newcomer, he strode over, pushed Locke aside so he could get to the bed side and surveyed the damage that the guardsman had sustained.
"Strip his upper body." He ordered. The jovial head medic that Locke knew had disappeared and been replaced by a no-nonsense type of attitude. The guardsman did as he was bid and removed the mans, helmet, rebreather, flak armour, cloak, smock, combat shirt and T-shirt from his friend who let out a series of curses at the discomfort.
"Chest wound, clean entry and exit." Parre said, ignoring the insults flying his way as he probed the weeping puncture. Turning to Locke, "take this and put pressure on it." He said, handing over a field dressing.
Before the guardsman could answer, the medic rushed off with the orderly in tow as they made to get the required equipment. From his supine position, the guardsman gazed up at his friend who was pushing as hard onto the wound as he dared.
"Not the…g-glorious end…I expected." Brandr said with a distant look, the pain obvious by his ragged tone as more blood spilled down his chin.
"Don't fucking talk like that." The guardsman hissed.
"Why?" Brandr considered him with a hard stare. "We're…in for…it." His eyes taking in the room.
Locke couldn't stand to hear his normally upbeat friend speak like this. "Hey, come now." Locke said, clasping the man's right hand while he kept his own tightly pressed on the dressing over the crimson puncture. "It may seem hopeless, but legends are born from times like this, ya know. Our story isn't done yet, not by a long shot, so you hang on for me, won't you?"
The injured soldier said nothing for a few moments, mulling over Locke's words. When he replied, his voice was scarcely more than a hoarse whisper. "A-always…wanted t'…be a l-legend." He joked, aiming a sad smile at Locke.
The guardsman returned the grin and added, "you might even get laid."
Brandr laughed but his following expression still seemed to say, "I'll hold you to that." Parre with his orderly returned and took over from Locke but the guardsman couldn't bring himself to leave his friend just yet. The scout hung around behind the medic and his assistant until the NCO shot him a reassuring look.
"He's in good hands lad. You can go now." The sergeant suggested in a gentle way. Locke appreciated the tact that was rather unusual for the bearded rascal. He gave his thanks and made to leave.
Turning about he came face to face with Adept Doric who had been the last person he'd expect to be here. Locke almost flinched at the sight of his friend.
Adept Doric usually so chipper and well rested looked awful. His skin was unnaturally pale with dark circles underneath his twitching eyes. He wrung his hands nervously, fidgeting like a madman. Locke wasn't the only one to react that way.
Many of the surrounding guardsmen, shuffled away from the odd scholar, sensing that there was something off about the bedraggled man. Locke knew that most of the garrison took a dim view of the adept; he could understand their aversion when even the light of the various lamps and torches seemed to dim in the man's presence.
"Doric what happened to you?" Locke asked in complete revulsion whilst involuntarily taking a step backwards.
The researcher regarded the soldier, not paying any attention to his reaction. "Not anyway to greet a friend." Doric laughed in a rather forced manner. "I need your help." He added, silencing his own laughter as quickly as it began.
"Right." Locke replied, drawing out the word. "It'll have to wait, because, in case you haven't' noticed, we're under attack by xenos forces at the moment." Doric considered his words, glaring around at the injured soldiers strewn around him, as if noticing them for the first time.
After a few moments, the scholar grew bored of the devastation visited on the garrison and looked back to Locke.
"No, that will not be possible!" He stated flatly. Before the scout could respond he shook his head and continued. "Absolutely not!" Cutting Locke off just as he made to argue. "It cannot wait!" He declared with a hard, almost fanatical, stare. "Here." The scholar said, pushing a piece of paper into the guardsman's hands. Locke hated when Doric was like this, letting out a sigh in defeat as he read the paper.
'The representative from the Logis Strategos, Adeptus Harran Doric, has requested the aid and assistance from the Astra Militarum. This request has been authorised by the highest-ranking officer present: Colonel Demetris, 195th Narvos Light Infantry. Any Guard personnel who are presented with this letter will assist the representative in any way they can, provided that it does not interfere with the smooth running of the current operation or endanger the lives of fellow guardsmen or civilians.'
Locke scanned the crisp parchment several times, scrutinising the Colonel's signature at the bottom. It very much looked like Demetris's handwriting but the soldier couldn't quite bring himself to trust this flimsy piece of paper. There was something in the adept's eye that made him uneasy.
"Ask someone else." He said, thrusting the written decree back into Doric's hands. "My friends need me."
Doric looked aghast at his response, shaking his head vehemently. "No, it has to be you!"
Locke had already begun to walk towards the exit with the desire to re-join his squad. "Why?" The guardsman asked, stopping short of the exit as he allowed a pair of stretcher bearers through.
"Are you really going to defy a written order from your commander?" The adept asked, ignoring his question.
The tall soldier took several seconds to reply as he listened to the faint sounds of battle that drifted through the halls from outside. The instructions had been quite clear, and he was sure Elis would understand his tardiness, but something still nagged at the back of his mind. Disregarding a direct order was a flogging offence after all, and he had no wish to experience that, but there was certainly something off about the adept.
"No…" He said slowly in a regretful voice, supressing his distrust for the time being. "What is it that you need me to do?"
"Excellent!" Doric cried, bawling his hands into fists while his bloodshot eyes took on an uncomfortable gleam. "I'll explain when we get to the atrium!" He grabbed the soldier's arm and tugged him away. Locke spared one last glance at Brandr, who had fallen unconscious before he was dragged from the room.
Throughout their journey to the atrium, the adept mumbled constantly to himself, his sporadic whispering following the pair like a bad smell. It annoyed Locke to no end but each time the guardsman mentioned it, Doric swore that he was doing no such thing. Needless to say, this did not help Locke's feelings of unease which only grew as they got closer to the vault of that strange onyx block.
The guardsman watched the scholar from the corner of his eye, taking in more of the man's dishevelled appearance which had somehow deteriorated from this morning. His hunched shoulders were drawn in defensively while his eyelids twitched. Doric didn't so much as glance at the soldier, keeping his fanatical view tied ahead as they passed through various passages to the forum, then the library, and finally the atrium.
They were moving through the forum when the boom of the great wooden doors slamming shut echoed throughout the entire monastery. Locke stopped and listened to the sound looking longingly at a staircase that would have led back to the main hall.
"It has begun! We do not have time, we must hurry!" The adamant researcher raised his voice which drew many concerned looks from guardsmen manning the defences in the local vicinity. Locke tried to shush him, but Doric would not be denied. The soldier grabbed the adept by the scruff of his cloak and marched briskly from the oval shaped room towards the library. All Locke could do was hope that the aliens wouldn't breech the monastery's entrance until he had completed Doric's task.
The doors to this mysterious room remained closed and unguarded. Obviously, the guardsmen had been requisitioned from their usual duty given the battle unfolding outside. The adept practically skipped up the short flight of steps and flung the door open, ushering the soldier into the room with a wave of his hand. Locke obeyed and went inside, followed by Doric who closed the door behind them.
The guardsman walked several paced into the room before rounding on the adept with his arms crossed. "Alright spill it, what is it that you want me for?" He asked.
Even though they were both alone, the adept still looked around warily, terrified that he might be overheard. "Y-you must promise y-you won't get angry." He said, a slight stammer entering his voice but whether that was from excitement or fear, was impossible to tell.
"What?" Locke's brow furrowed.
"You heard me. Swear it." The adept stated, holding his hand out to the soldier.
"Fuckin' throne." He cursed, rolling his eyes at the complete farce. "Fine. I swear I won't get angry." He clasped the wiry man's hands and gave it a quick shake.
Satisfied, Doric gathered himself before speaking. "To p-put it simply… I-I have made a breakthrough!" He declared, indicating the uncovered black cube.
"I…see." He replied, frowning at the man's obfuscation. "What's the breakthrough?"
"You." Doric said, locking eyes directly with Locke's even though they were hidden by his helmet's visor. "You a-are the breakthrough."
"…and how did you come to that conclusion?" He asked, although; by the way the other man was acting, he knew that he wasn't going to like the answer.
"T-the voices, they h-held the answer." His fidgeting became even more pronounced, "Chaotic gibberish at first mind y-you... but then I began to understand!" The adept confessed, rage turning to sorrow as he sobbed into his hand. "I-I'm s-sorry."
"What have you done!" Locke cried, taking several steps away from the scholar.
"Do you not see?" The scholar demanded, waving his hands in the air as his eyes took on an unfocused look. "The artefact is the way forward!"
Locke remained rooted to the spot despite every instinct telling him to run. Instead he stayed silent.
Doric's face, usually so cheerful, turned dark; his face scrunched into snarl. He became incensed by the guardsman's stubbornness. "For too long have the secrets been hidden away from me, but no longer. No longer!" His rage turned into unhinged glee.
Doric turned to gaze at the black cube, appearing to flinch in pain as he looked directly at it. "The power this thing holds, the endless possibilities." The adept said, taking several more steps towards the pedestal that the artefact sat upon. "The power of the ancients within our grasp. The Imperium must have it! I must have it!" His voice took on an even higher pitch as he rounded back on the soldier who remained frozen by the spectacle before him.
"Okay" Locke said quietly, holding his hands out as he attempted to calm the deranged adept as if he were a wild animal. "Even if that were true, none of us can touch it." The guardsman said, trying in earnest to reason with the adept.
"Wrong! So utterly w-wrong! You're forgetting that we have you!" Doric pointed an accusing finger towards the worried soldier. "Everyone who has looked upon the artefact has heard the voices, except you…except you!" He grumbled angrily under his breath, "they told me you could wield it!"
"They?" Locke inquired becoming more worried by the man's rantings. So as to not draw attention to himself, the guardsman loosened the strap of his lasrifle.
"The voices! They know!" The adept continued to rave like a mad man.
"Are you insane? After what you told me, I'm not going anywhere near that thing!" Locke shook his head, backing away as he made for the exit.
It looked at first like the scholarly man would argue but in a moment of sanity he slumped in begrudging compliance. He folded his arms inside his robes as he gazed at the floor in defeat while Locke turned to leave believing the adept was no longer in his right mind.
Whether the affect from being around the exposed stone was temporary or permanent, the soldier wouldn't like to have guessed although he hoped for the former.
"You cannot leave, things are already in motion that cannot be undone." Locke's attention was snapped back to the manic-looking Doric who was now pointing an ancient stub pistol in his direction. "They said you wouldn't believe me; said you would refuse to face your destiny. Put your weapon on the floor…slowly. Slowly." The adept demanded, in an unsure voice, tears brimming in his unfocused eyes.
"Doric what th-" Locke exclaimed, interrupted in the same breath by the scholar's shriek.
"Be silent!" The adept shouted; his teeth barred as phlegm flew from his scraggly mouth. "I'm sorry my friend b-but it must be done. Now, drop your weapon!" To emphasize his point, he fired a shot between Locke's feet, causing the guardsman to flinch. The small firearm sounded like a cannon in the confines of the circular room.
With little choice, Locke hesitantly lowered the lasrifle to the floor, not making any sudden moves as the adept tracked his descent down with his pistol. "Good, good. Kick it away!" Locke obeyed, kicking the lasrifle with a shove of his foot. The weapon glided across the smooth floor and under a desk on the far side of the room.
"Turn around! Go to the Artefact!" The wild-eyed adept ordered.
"Doric please, you're not thinki-" Locke stopped mid-sentence as soon as he felt the muzzle of the archaic firearm pressed to the back of his head. He decided to not test the patience of the unstable adept and crossed over to the dais. He stopped next to the plinth; the artefact was settled neatly in the cube like depression.
"Pick it up!" The unkempt scholar demanded, his voice losing its unsteadiness now that his confidence grew. Locke could hear him talking under his breath, catching a few words. "Quickly…not much time…-cron dominum…"
"Mate, please don't do this." Locke tried in vain one last time to reason with his erstwhile friend.
"Enough! Pick up the artefact! Pick it up!" Doric said, ignoring the sane pleas of his captive. "So close, so close!" He added under his breath.
"Ple-" The soldier tried to stall for time but was silenced by the increasing pressure of the weapon's muzzle.
"Shut up, shut up, shut up! Y-you have five seconds! I repeat f-five seconds to pick the stone up! So close, so close!" he cackled unnervingly. Locke refused to move at first, but caved-in soon after when Doric started his countdown. There was no other option, this man who he had once considered a friend would kill him, the certainty in his voice was proof enough.
Certain death or probable death? Locke thought, glaring at the artefact that lay within arm's reach. He sighed, oh God-Emperor, please don't let me die here today.
He cautiously reached out to the black stone, stopping mere millimetres away from it. "Do it Locke, they command it!" Spoke Doric channelling his inner zealot. Taking a deep breath, Locke picked up the stone and nothing happened. He let out a long sigh; relief blossoming in his chest, but this calm was short lived.
Without warning a whirlwind of pain engulfed him, lightning passed through every sinew of his body flaying his nerve endings with invisible tendrils. It was as if his very soul was being mutilated and wrenched apart by unseen hands.
He screamed with every fibre of his being as he felt his mind crumbling into insanity. Despite his agony-fuelled desperation to release the artefact from his grasp, his limbs refused to obey his commands.
Blood ran from every orifice as he stood like a statue; a sculpture captured in ghoulish torture. His vision became little more than a crimson haze so much was the torrent of blood that oozed from his eyes. His voice quickly failed him, now locked in a silent scream.
For how long he stood there in unspeakable agony he didn't know, but as quickly as the torture began... it vanished. Dropping to his knees, Locke breathed lungfuls of air as he fought the urge to vomit.
He shook violently as his body began the arduous task of stabilising itself. Immediately reaching for the canteen in his webbing pouch, he took a long swig, rejoicing in the cold water soothing his hoarse and bloody throat.
Aristriel crouched low, she had finally found the well underneath the temple and now all there was to do was wait until the fighting started. Her journey along the river underneath the mountain had been most uncomfortable.
The channel cut by the passage of both time and water had not taken the height of eldar into consideration, for several kilometres Aristriel had had to stoop low, traversing the underground stream in a crouched walk.
It had not taken long before her muscles began to ache, her body yelling at her; desperate to stand upright in an unyielding world of granite and soil. The trek had been done in pitch black, relying solely on the night vision of her banshee helmet and the natural sense of direction instilled in her when she had been a ranger.
Several times throughout traversing the underground river, she had slipped and fallen upon algae covered stones, making her curse as she picked herself back up. The tunnels were filled with a pungent odour that rankled her nose and made her feel ill. It didn't take long to ascertain its origin; a thick black slime covered the walls and ceiling of the tunnel. Slippery to the touch with no promise of purchase, Aristriel struggled onwards in the unforgiving darkness.
Eventually the tunnel opened out revealing a small circular pool with a waterfall at the far end. Her night vision became saturated with light obscuring everything else in the small clearing.
Natural light! Thank you Lady Isha.
Without even thinking she jumped into the white bubbling liquid being churned up by the water falling from above. Her slime covered aspect armour quickly resumed its normal pristine condition.
Now satisfied with the condition of her apparel, she gazed up at the light streaming down from above. The hole in the ceiling in which the light flooded down was at least three times her own height, with nothing around to provide a boost left her no option. Walking to the centre of the illuminated circle in the swirling whirlpool, Aristriel readied herself, stretching her tender limbs for the trial that awaited her.
Drawing the twin wraith bone daggers from the arm sheaths; she twisted them through the air to right her grip. With a deep breath she launched herself vertically upwards in a spray of foamy water.
Aristriel reached the lip of the hole just as gravity started to reassert itself; she plunged her right dagger into the wall with all her might. Despite the wicked sharpness of her blade, the banshee slid downwards a few inches, much to her discontent, before finally coming to a stop.
Wasting no time at all, Aristriel pulled herself up and stabbed her left dagger into the wall slightly above the right. She soon developed a steady rhythm, pulling herself up the shaft a few inches at a time. It was tiring work, her arms protested at the constant exertion, but the banshee ignored it, keeping her focus squarely at the top of the well.
The aspect warrior noticed that as she climbed higher and higher, the shaft became narrower. Part of her wondered whether the design had been done on purpose, unfortunately her assessment of the ancient architecture was cut short when her right-hand dagger failed to gain a purchase on the wall. Aristriel slid downwards, undoing much of her previous efforts until her left dagger arrested her premature fall; a jolt of pain ran through her arm which caused her to cry out.
Using her bodies momentum, she swung herself back up, and drove her other blade home. Aristriel resumed her climb once again. As the banshee began to reach the top of the well, she heard human voices murmuring along with the din of battle.
Making sure she was as silent as possible, she waited for an explosion to mask the sound of wraith bone striking stone. Her progress slowed to a crawl, but she would not take the risk of being discovered.
Drawing closer, the sound of jostling crowds could be heard spiralling down into the well along with a few distinct calls. Once the aspect warrior finally reached the lip of the well, she waited while her heart continued to pound against her chest and her arms pleaded for relief.
The banshee's ears probed the local vicinity, listening for the tell-tale signs of life; breathing, footsteps, jostling of equipment or the rustling of clothing. After what felt like an eternity, Aristriel was satisfied that there was no one nearby the well and cautiously pulled herself over the low wall.
She wiped her daggers along her forearm, scraping away any residue goo before sliding them back into her arm sheaths. Towards the great wooden doors, now closed, were numerous human soldiers, fortifying their positions all of them with their backs towards her. A few of their race scuttled about backwards and forwards between various strong points but the majority were settled in place. From over the top of the low wall, Aristriel could make out some of the important figures.
An old soldier with a chain sword stood stalwartly on top of a pile of containers with his standard bearer and musicians close by. One of the restless individuals was draped in a red trench coat with an oversized hat, reprimanding any for the slightest infraction. It was at once fascinating and bizarre to her, seeing the rituals and customs of the enemy. The music of pipe and drum filled the space, the odd dirge grating on her ears.
After several moments of scrutinising the force before her, Aristriel decided that she had seen enough. Sticking to the shadows, the banshee moved across the octagonal room as silent as a ghost; she took particular care not to disturb anything that might indicate her presence.
While sneaking across the chamber, the banshee understood why the farseer and autarch had decided upon this plan. The natural choke point of the main foyer of the temple would have made a direct assault costly even for the superior forces of the aeldari.
The minutes ticked by but there were still no shouts of alarm at the banshee's infiltration; confidence grew within her.
Foolish Mon'keigh, there is an enemy in your midst.
Once she reached a nearby stairwell, she took one last glance behind her before moving deeper into the facility towards the holding room. Just as she was about to give a silent prayer for her success so far, she nearly ran right into one of the mon'keigh's embankments that cut across the entire corridor.
Four mon'keigh soldiers stood guard at the basic fortification, whispering amongst themselves in their brutish tongue. The eldar pulled herself back into the shadows but none of the imperials appeared to notice.
Aristriel drew her shuriken pistol and her power sword in the alcove of a blue crystal brazier, readying herself. This would have to be quick and silent. Letting out her breath slowly, the banshee rounded the corner in a flash, her footsteps so quiet as to be inaudible as Aristriel padded through the corridor towards the unaware humans.
Doric was laughing hysterically, "They were right! Locke they were right!" The adept intoned, his voice becoming high-pitched - fuelled with shear excitement. "We have made history! This is the start of a new beginning, a new age for the Imperium of Man!" His tone was the epitome of excited madness.
Locke, still kneeling on the floor, looked up at the prancing madman. His hand clutched at his stomach; the physical memory of his ordeal still fresh. "you fucking son of a bitch!" Locke coughed, desperately trying to stop his vision from spinning.
"Forgive me Locke, I had to do it" The adept apologised with what sounded like sincerity, switching moods in a heartbeat. "We can use…" Doric trailed off just as he started, turning towards the door, his face growing dark as a sneer curled his lips.
"She's here." The scholar stated, drawing out each word.
"Who?" Locke queried in a weak voice.
"The eldar thief!" Doric declared in spiteful rage. "They spoke of her; she wants to take it! She will not have it! Not while I still stand." He said, thumping his chest as if he were some legendary hero from the Imperium's past.
"Bullshit, how would a single eldar get in here?"
Doric handwaved away his question, raising his stub pistol towards the door. "I know you're here xenos filth! You cannot hide from me!" The adept roared.
Locke wiped the blood, mucus, and phlegm from his face; he fixed his rebreather to his helmet and lowered his visor. Doric didn't even notice Locke getting to his feet until it was too late, hearing footsteps behind him, he turned to find the furious soldier's fist flying towards him. Locke caught the old academic in a savage upper cut which lifted the mad adept clean off the ground; he was sent flying into a desk.
Doric landed hard in an explosion of papers and data slates. The sudden impact made the desk buckle while the groaning scholar lay still except for the slight twitch of his foot.
Hopefully, he'll be himself when he comes round. Locke panted, but he had a sneaking suspicion that would not be the case.
Indecision gripped Locke, he'd just knocked the garrison's charge unconscious and he was now holding an alien artefact. Even though the situation was a complete mess, he found that his panicked thoughts and feelings were soothed by a strange warmth that flooded his left hand. It was the hand that held the mysterious stone.
The dull runes that covered the artefact, had now lit up; the surface of the onyx cube resembled the other glowing runes along the walls and ceiling of the monastery. His brief inspection of the artefact was interrupted by the sound of the atrium doors opening.
Moving close to the door, Aristriel readied herself for the challenge ahead, her sword shimmering red in the crystal light. The stiffness in her muscles made her feel sluggish, nevertheless a sore eldar was more than a match for a dozen well-rested humans.
The banshee knew that there were mon'keigh in the room; from the sound of it there were only two of the foul creatures. Some sort of confrontation was afoot. Aristriel slid the door ajar as quietly as possible, hoping that she might be able to catch them both unawares and cut them down quickly.
A single mon'keigh soldier stood in the centre of the room; at the sound of her entrance, he turned to meet her. Her mind moved at a rate of knots as she analysed the human in front of her.
Lack of ranged weapon – limited to close quarters. Stooped shoulders – heavy physical exertion - tiredness, defensive stance – low morale. Her tactical analysis was rudely broken up once she realised what he was holding.
The Omnicron!
Locke stared at the alien warrior; his mind raced as it tried to formulate a plan.
Oh shit, the mad bastard was right.
He felt a pang of guilt for the unconscious man but dismissed it when he remembered the pain that he had been subjected to. The guardsman regarded the xeno.
The alien was almost statue like in that moment and she made no move to attack, it seemed the banshee was as surprised to find him there as he was to see her. He pocketed the black stone into his webbing pouch; the movement of his hand finally breaking the deadlock. The eldar warrior in response raised her alien pistol in the blink of an eye.
Locke frantically threw himself to the side, narrowly avoiding the energy projectiles. His shoulder took the brunt of the impact as he landed on the hard and smooth black stonework. His hand instinctively went to his boot where a small throwing knife protruded lazily.
"You can never have too many knives." The words of Sergeant Juron echoed in his head.
He grabbed the hilt of the throwing knife and with a swift flick of his hand sent the blade flying towards his attacker.
He'd aimed for the alien's chest, but it seemed that his poor accuracy wasn't limited to just lasrifles. The knife went wide clipping the xeno warrior's pistol, causing it to fly out of her hands much to her surprise.
Fucking typical. He swore at the poor shot.
The pistol careened through the air, landing in amongst the piles of paper and data slates - completely lost to view.
Capitalising on this fleeting opportunity, Locke sprinted toward the desk behind him in a hope of recovering his lost lasrifle. His hopes were dashed with the rush of footsteps behind him, whirling around to face his pursuer just in time, he managed to side-step a powerful slash from the banshee warrior.
The banshee demonstrated the reputation of her people's sword skills as she converted the blow into a deadly upswing. Locke's life would surely have ended there if it weren't for a wayward piece of paper that made his boot slip.
The killing blow that should have split him from groin to head, instead became a thin red line drawn across his abdomen - slicing straight through his flak jacket. Locke cried out in pain as he tumbled backwards to the floor. The wind was prematurely knocked from his battered lungs, leaving him stunned while his vision swam. Out of the corner of his mind, he felt a series of pulses originate from his webbing pouch.
The banshee seeing her chance, reversed her blade into an earthward thrust. Time seemed to slow as the alien's sword began its downward trajectory. With not a moment to spare, Locke rolled away from her blade which inelegantly bounced off the smooth black stone floor, unbalancing the alien.
Afterwards, Locke speculated that the power behind that thrust could have probably skewered a space marine. The temporary respite gained in that brief moment was not wasted by Locke as he rolled back onto his feet.
Switching his stance to a low crouch, he drew his seax. The Narvish blade reflected the blue and white light of the atrium in contrast to the Alien's blade which glowed with a reddish tinge.
Narvish steel versus an ornate xeno power sword. He was so outclassed he wasn't sure whether to laugh or weep.
The aspect warrior advanced on him again, cold murder reflected in the red lenses of her war mask. Locke didn't dare bring his seax against her power sword. It was undoubtable that the radiant blade would likely cleave into his like a hot knife through butter.
As she hacked and slashed at him, all he could do was evade her attacks, biding his time for an opening in her defence. The speed that her sword moved only increased with each blow which drove him backwards.
Her lithe body moved in perfect tandem with her sword; they were one and the same. If Locke hadn't been so preoccupied with staying alive, he would have been completely mesmerized by the xeno's skill. She was like an artist: fluid but precise, her sword - the brush, and the battlefield - her canvass.
The bout had lasted less than a minute and already it was clear who the victor would be. Not only was she the better swordsman, but her weapon allowed her better reach than his short blade. Realising this fact, Locke made a desperate gamble. As the banshee began a high swing that would have lopped his head clean from his shoulders. He caught the xeno by surprise, stepping inside her swing getting as close as a lover.
Before she had time to escape, he held her firm as he thrust his seax into her stomach. For a human foe, this would have ended the fight then and there, but she was no human. His heart sank as the blade glanced harmlessly off her armour, leaving a fine white line as a battle scar.
Regaining the initiative, the alien headbutted Locke hard enough to make him see stars. Half stumbling and half dodging, Locke by a mere whisker avoided the alien's lunge. He parried the xeno's thrust just barely and responded with a poor riposte of his own.
To which she danced away from the swipe carelessly, like she had all the time in the world to move out of the way. Locke's head throbbed, losing his balance he dropped to one knee.
His gamble had failed and now readied himself for the killing blow.
Come on then, finish it! Locke thought, all the while the incessant pulsing from his webbing pouch grew in magnitude and frequency.
Granting his wish, the aspect warrior charged forwards as silent as the grave, her shimmering sword held low to impale him. Just as she was about to strike, Locke - using the last ounce of his strength, smashed the power sword aside with the flat side of his seax.
Sparks flew as the two blades met. Carrying her momentum onwards she crashed into Locke in an attempt to knock him to the floor. In a last act of defiance, he grabbed the mane of her helmet as he fell backwards dragging her down with him.
Locke prepared himself for the fall, waiting for the cold stone to meet his bruised back. Instead... a flash of light that blinded them both and the searing scream of reality torn asunder encapsulated them as they fell together. The atrium vanished as they descended into the incandescent aether.
A blinding flash which seared Locke's irises was quickly followed by the two of them hitting the virgin snow. Clods of slush were thrown skyward as they tumbled and rolled together - the world passing by in a kaleidoscopic blur. Separating from his opponent, the guardsman bounced several times before sliding to a halt.
Disorientated, he struggled to comprehend the sudden change in environment, his eyes stung as they adapted to the dazzling light reflected by the snow. The bitter wind swept over the snowy dunes, cutting him straight to the bone. He winced as the cold amplified the pain from his wounds; his sprained hand ached unbearably.
Lying in the snow, as he groaned in agony, he began to rethink his life choices.
Join the Guard they said, see the galaxy they said. Never mentioned you'd find yourself half-dead, lying in the snow on a random planet in bumble-fuck nowhere, all because some eldar bitch wanted to steal a magic rock.
He clumsily got to his feet like a drunk man raised from his stupor: stumbling around in a vain attempt to remain upright. On his fourth attempt, he noticed the distinct lack of a short sword in his grip. The sobering realisation caused him to look around frantically for his favoured possession. After several minutes, he finally admitted defeat to the impenetrable white wasteland that surrounded him.
Pushing through his discomfort and the loss of his seax, Locke remembered his assailant. Glancing around he saw the banshee sloppily rise to her feet; the sight was in complete contrast to the graceful warrior that had faced him before.
Superior senses not so useful now. The guardsman thought smugly, reasoning that the sudden change in environment had affected her far worse than him.
Not letting the opportunity go to waste, he moved towards the bewildered alien as fast as his unstable legs would carry him.
The xeno barely registered Locke until his fist knocked her back to the ground. She tried to respond with her sword but a quick kick from his boot sent the blade skittering away across the snow - far beyond her reach. He straddled the alien, pinning her to the floor all the while she thrashed around fiercely. With her at his mercy, the guardsman clasped his hands her neck and squeezed.
Pulling an arm free, she immediately started to claw at Locke's visor in a vain attempt to gouge out his eyes. The eldar's hand spasmed around, scrabbling at Locke's chest in desperation to push him off whilst her blows became weaker and weaker. The guardsman remained in position, ignoring the alien's attacks; his attention was entirely focused on crushing the eldar warrior's windpipe.
In a last-ditch effort, she released a dagger from her arm sheath and stabbed upwards towards Locke's neck. The knife missed its intended target and instead became firmly planted in Locke's shoulder which drew out a grunt from him.
Numbness began to fill his left arm but gritting his teeth, he refused to let his grasp weaken. She let loose a series of metallic rasps as if she were trying to scream at him, but the audible assault failed to manifest thanks to the soldier's iron grip on her throat.
He only let go once she stopped fighting and went still. Breathing heavily with sweat stinging his eyes, Locke stared down at the red lenses of the alien helmet. Turning his attention to his left arm, he readied himself - taking in a deep breath; he pulled the blade sharply from his shoulder causing him to cry out. Blood spurted from the wound turning the snow an awful crimson shade.
He lifted himself off the prone xeno whilst uttering several curses in bitter contempt. Sitting in a heap of snow, the soldier looked around for any sign of his fallen sword. A glint of sunlight was the tell-tale sign; a few metres away, the sword protruded from a deep snow drift. Reunited with his seax; he relaxed at the familiar feel of the grip in his hand.
His celebration though, was short lived. The guardsman froze in horror as he noticed movement out of the corner of his eye; the banshee's chest was still rising and falling.
"Doing the job half-arsed is your specialty Tom." Echoed the jolly words of his father. Spinning around, he marched swiftly back to the unconscious alien, knowing what had to be done.
Kneeling next to her unconscious body, Locke placed the point of the seax where the eldar's helmet met her armour. Before delivering the xeno's well deserved coup de gras, his inner procrastinator got the better of him.
He took the opportunity to study the banshee's attire more closely. Her armour fit her slender form perfectly although Locke couldn't help but think that some areas might be slightly overexaggerated.
Royal blue gem adornments, in complete contrast to the white of her armour, were fixed to various places along her torso - the largest of which protruded above her sternum. Her head was covered with an unnerving skull-like helmet with the texture of polished bone while the infamous red mane splayed out in the snow beneath her.
If it weren't for the eldar version of a rebreather fixed to the lower portion of her mask, it wouldn't be too hard to imagine the helmet as the alien's actual face. A dark green fauld of beautiful fabric hung down from her waist, now messily intertwined between her legs. Rubbing the strange silk between his fingers, Locke wagered it would go for a decent price on any black market.
Upon completing his inspection of the xeno, he turned his attention back to the task at hand. One sharp thrust through the neck would be all it would take to finish her. However, with the danger now passed and the adrenaline ebbing away, his conscience began to reassert itself.
The reminder of a helpless being at his feet while a weapon sat in his hands sent uncomfortable pictures flashing through his mind. Images he'd long thought buried were resurfaced and the terrible memories they brought with them took hold once more.
A degenerate uprising on a hive world; a mutant rebel tries to help his wounded comrade…
A Tau child screams for its mother in the ruins of its home…
On a chaos corrupted world; a girl and her grandfather hide in a destroyed corner shop…
A shell-shocked Guardsman faces the firing squad, begging for his life…
He shook his head, clearing his mind. Focus Tom, kill the damn bitch and be done with it. Remember what the xenos did, they killed Lueker and Tapia and so many more.
Breathing steadily, he stoked the fires of his hatred - kindled by the death of his squad mates, all in service to give him the courage needed to carry out his duty. Once more he placed the point of the blade in the gap where the ghoulish helmet and her armour met. Just as he was about to thrust the steel into her gullet, his mind became awash with arguments from several warring factions which were overshadowed by his own guilty conscience.
Locke knew that the longer he waited, the worse his indecision would be. He had to finish this, after all she was a merciless alien - a monster, she deserved her fate and yet his arm still refused to move. Frozen by his own uncertainty, a dark and distinct voice cut through the confusion.
"Do what must be done! Kill the alien!" It commanded.
Locke's eyes went wide as he stood up and gazed around him. He didn't know how, but he was certain that hadn't been his subconscious speaking to him. He called out into the frozen landscape, yet there was no one else there.
"Why do you tarry? Her survival will be your undoing!"
The guardsman didn't move, choosing instead to wait for some time, however the disembodied voice did not speak again. Locke wondered if he was just hearing things until he remembered Doric's words.
'The voices! They know!' Is this the thing that he listened to?
The words from that cruel sounding voice created a strange conundrum. By the moral standards of the Imperial Creed, it was correct and fully justified. However, something deep inside Locke told him to disobey the command from that entity at all costs.
After all, Doric had been driven mad by listening and obeying the so-called 'voices' that sprouted from the artefact. Given the current state of the adept, he highly doubted that this thing had his best interests at heart.
There was the frightening possibility that madness would engulf him too if he carried out this entity's will. Inevitably, the guardsman had to query what it was actually trying to accomplish? Could it be possible that his continued well-being actually relied on the xeno remaining alive? Or was it trying to convince him to spare the alien using reverse psychology?
Locke cursed loudly as he paced backwards and forwards with the xeno at his feet while he muddled through his thought process to bring his unruly conscience to heel. The arguments for and against carrying out the Emperor's will, battled it out in his mind.
Those dark words, far from lending the soldier confidence - did the exact opposite, tipping the scales into that of a stalemate. Eventually, he grew irate at his own indecisiveness as he stormed off in a fit of rage.
The guardsman kicked a snowbank, throwing clumps of slush all around him before sitting down where he was. He ignored the pain and the cold as he pondered several topics at once. In the end, Locke found himself staring at the seax that his father had made for him, reading the inscription, 'The Emperor's Mercy', emblazoned along the sword's length.
He wondered how ashamed his parents and friends would be if they could see him now. A veteran guardsman of several campaigns who'd seen more than his fair share of the horrors that the galaxy could offer, and yet he didn't even have the balls to kill an unconscious eldar.
An enemy of mankind who, if their fortunes were reversed, wouldn't lose a wink of sleep over killing him. Locke like many of his fellow guardsmen had heard of the atrocities and slave raids conducted by the accursed species, most too cruel to even contemplate.
So, what's stopping me? He asked to the empty air, but no answer was forthcoming. It felt as though his various loyalties and his past experiences were all tugging his mind in different directions.
The timely arrival of a single snowflake, drifting down from the heavens - snapped him out of his reverie. He watched the silver ice crystal as it landed on his sword before melting away into a droplet that ran down the groove of the blade.
The snowflake was soon followed by another and another. Before Long, the sky was filled with a torrent of snow that reduced visibility to almost nothing. Locke knew that to stay was a death sentence; he needed shelter. Noticing the outline of mountains in the distance, he shouldered his pack and set off toward them.
He walked by the unconscious alien deciding that nature would be the arbiter of her fate. His conscience was clear. Locke only managed a few paces wading through the snow before he glanced back behind him; the blizzard had already started to bury her. Given another half-hour or so and she'd be hidden completely.
It hadn't escaped his noticed that her form was starting to shiver. He coldly ignored her plight and walked stoically onwards, that was until he began to ruminate on the disembodied voice's words.
'Her survival will be your undoing!' The guardsman didn't take another pace forward; indecision once again pulled him to a stop like a ship's anchor. He was torn between the memories of his past misdeeds, the desire for vengeance for his fallen comrades, the dark command of Throne-knows-what and the Imperial Creed. His body, sensing the changing winds inside his own mind, refused to go any further. Sighing heavily, he knew what he had to do.
Turning around, he gathered up the alien's fallen possessions: her sword and her dagger. As he collected the alien's weapons he noticed what looked like a glass box that had been shattered into many small pieces. Not thinking much of it, he left the shards where they were.
Locke placed the xeno's weapons respectively back inside their corresponding scabbards on her person. He knew by doing what he was about to do, he would be cast down as a traitor in the eyes of the Imperium, but he brushed the thought away. Taking a deep breath, he carefully hoisted the shivering alien onto his back, causing his wounded shoulder to immediately protest - to which Locke could only curse.
It's gonna be a long walk. He surmised in utter despondence.
For the second time in one day, the guardsman was hunched over as he carried a helpless individual to safety. Soon enough, the encumbered soldier and the lifeless eldar he held, were little more than silhouettes on the horizon - completely lost to view as the uncaring snow kept falling.
Review Responses:
Guest – I'll not abandon it, bit by bit I'll get it done.
Guest - Love making? I suppose next you'll want me to write about feelings? We Brits don't do things like that.
ScareCr0w11 – Glad you're enjoying it! I hope I'm up to the task of living up to the hype.
Another S.T.A.L.K.E.R – Haha, a fellow Centurion fan I see.
VasiliusMaximus – Hi Vasilius, thank you for the feedback. I understand what you mean about the battle, the initial charge of the banshees was supposed to be a surprise attack, but they blundered into the mine field alerting the Guardsman to the attack. During the firefight I should have done a better job at emphasising the casualties on the Imperial side. Hopefully my writing will be better in future.
York52 – I hope so!
SOBANRED – Thank you! I shall try to do so!
Murciamatthewx – Thank you, that's high praise indeed! I spent ages with the dialogue often going through 5 drafts mainly because I find that the banter between characters makes or breaks a group dynamic. Luckily, I have a good group of friends who I often draw upon to use as inspiration for my dialogue.
Darthcookie – Glad you liked it!
Fleece Johnson – Yeah, I absolutely love Sabaton! Think my favourite song of theirs is probably either Winged Hussars or Swedish Pagans. I've never read/seen Berserk, so I wouldn't know but I'm glad I managed to peak your interest with that little aside. I'm a big fan of war films which I draw a lot of inspiration from whenever I plan out a battle scene. It's true, it's a shame to see so many promising stories come to naught but that's why writers should always plan their stories in advance to avoid writing themselves into a corner.
Kondoru – Thank you! Indeed, they do.
Oracle14 – Thank you, that's very kind of you.
Expert93 – Faith is my shield!
Vumanchu – As someone who grew up in Northern England (right on the border with Scotland) I'd often hear the bagpipes and I absolutely love them. I think my adoration for the instrument was probably cemented when I saw the movie Waterloo (1970); there's this great scene of the 92nd Highlanders advancing while they're playing Blue Bonnets over the Border, it's epic!
Nicomnovillo – Thank you for the constructive criticism, I didn't realise that the use of slang for the characters (primarily Brandr) might ruin the flow of the dialogue. While I won't get rid of it entirely I'll do my best to tone it down in future chapters. It seems that it's a fine line an author must balance; too much slang and the reader will find the dialogue too hard to follow while if you never use any slang, you close off an avenue that can add a bit more characterisation to your characters. The biggest example I've seen of too much intentional misspelling/slang is in the Kydd Novels (by Julian Stockwin) where the nautical jargon is laid on so thick that it completely ruins the immersion for the reader.
Darthcookie – Glad you're enjoying it!
