Chapter 13 as promised. For those of you who interested, Chapter 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 and 6 have been updated. The story remains unchanged for the most part, but my editor and I feel it tells the story far more competently.
Song of the day: Yuve Yuve Yu – The Hu
Chapter 13 – Edge of the Abyss
Locke awoke slowly from his slumber, blinking at the newly dawned sunlight that streamed through the cracks of his humble dwelling. The canvass enclosure came alive as he resurfaced from the depths of his dreams, rippling softly at the gentle breeze that would rarely ease this high up in the mountains.
The guardsman yawned and wiped the sleep from his eyes while his mind came back into focus. Looking around his cramped shelter, he experienced no small amount of déjà vu, so much so; that he frantically patted himself down, attempting to verify that this was reality and not some aethereal trick.
From what he could remember of the dream, it looked identical to the interior of his meagre tent. Though his eyes were unable to discern the difference between fantasy and reality, the sharp bite of the chilly mountain air cut through his confusion and brought clarity. He was indeed back on terra firma proper. Though he may have been thankful to the cold for lifting his morning grogginess, he cursed it in the same breath as it seeped into his aching limbs.
His panicked fidgeting had also revealed the absence of his strange companion, indicated by the empty and deflated side of the sleeping bag that had been designated as hers.
Locke let out a sign in irritation, his breath misting in the air.
No wonder I'm bloody freezing. Least she could do is keep my feet warm. He joked inwardly but a more serious part of himself was faintly unnerved by the xeno's late night antics.
In hindsight her actions were understandable, everyone finds a cold sleep uncomfortable. Yet the guardsman couldn't shake the feeling that little by little he was on the slippery slope to damnation. Pushing that notion aside, he reminded himself that this weird arrangement was only temporary, but even in his own head that argument sounded like a poor excuse. Reluctantly, he left what little warmth his shelter provided as he dragged his lethargic body out of his sleeping bag to meet the new day.
No doubt the itinerary would be much the same as the previous; comprised of a gruelling march across horrible terrain with his only form of company being that of a silent and fickle alien. Still, an old Imperial Guard saying that he had learned long ago, seemed very apt for times like these: It can always get worse.
The weary soldier crawled out from underneath the basha and stood to stretch. It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the golden glow of the dawn. He was no sailor nor a shepherd - both professions famed for their ability to predict the weather - but to him it looked like a glorious day was in the offing. A clear blue sky stretched like a canvass above them, the sun a mere pinprick of light on the eastern horizon. He found the eldar warrior, sat cross-legged, a few paces in front of the tent's entrance.
He had expected her to greet him in her usual way: with quiet indifference and well-concealed irritation, but today he didn't even receive that much. The banshee's ghoulish helm sat upright just in front of her, the dull red lenses of the war mask observing the soldier with a predator-like keenness. In contrast to her strange headgear, the xeno's eyes remained closed, although whether she was in deep thought or simply meditating, Locke couldn't say.
He had known one or two ecclesiarchy priests who had championed meditation as another method that one could use to commune with the God-Emperor, but to Locke it just looked like a smart way to have a socially approved nap.
Having thought that though, he wondered what sort of god or gods the xeno worshiped. Did the eldar have their own version of the Emperor? He continued to ponder this idea while he hastily prepared breakfast. All the while, Locke did his best to ignore those crimson lenses that appeared to follow his movements, believing it only to be a concoction of his overactive imagination.
Within no time at all, one of their few remaining MRE packs was dunked into the half-melted slush within the portable stove. Day after day, their supply situation was only getting worse. Locke had been rationing it as best he could, but between his fatigued muscles and growling stomach, he knew that he would not be able to keep up this severe trek for much longer.
The guardsman shook his head at this eventuality. All they had to do was to get across this mountain range and surely then there would be a chance to replenish their food stocks in the land beyond. Focusing back to the task at hand, he hunched over the stove like a beggar, using his body to act as a wind break from the buffeting breeze. It took him several attempts to get the lighter to ignite much to his voiced consternation. When it finally did so, he let out a jubilant hiss, baring his teeth in a wide grin.
Once the flame caught the venting gas at the stove's base, there was a soft thump as the fire roared into life. His spirits lifted at the sight of the blue blaze that shot into the underside of the mess tin. He leaned back with a satisfied smile; content to sit and wait as the water boiled. It would take a little longer at this altitude, but he didn't mind. Any excuse to procrastinate on the next leg of their journey was fine by him.
Glancing over his shoulder, he scrutinised the path ahead. The highland trail carried on past the cairn, ever rising in altitude; it wound its way along the meandering spine of the mountain range until it was lost from sight. It included all the various trappings of any craggy path - ravines and gullies a plenty - until it reached what appeared to be a nexus where many other peaks converged.
His examination of the route that lay ahead was rudely interrupted by an abrupt gust of wind. gentle as it was, it still drove its icy daggers into his skin, forcing Locke to pull his cloak even tighter around himself. Waiting for his food to cook, the guardsman found it interesting that his vision would periodically wander from the dingy-looking stove to the enigmatic alien that sat across from him.
Wary that she might awaken any second, he did his best not to let his stare linger for too long. However, this was much easier said than done. The eldar's peaceful and impassive face was as fine as porcelain while the braids of her brown fiery hair, soft as silk, played delicately in the wind.
It occurred to him how wretched he must have looked. There he was, shivering pathetically as he did his best to ward off the cold while she remained perfectly still - immune to the freezing temperature. Locke was half-tempted to throw a snowball at her but thought better of it when he took note of the xeno's naked sword that lay laterally across her lap.
It was a firm reminder that this was no defenceless maiden. Evidently, she must have finished her sword dance before he had risen. The howling banshee would perform that elaborate display every morning and evening without fail as far as he knew.
His heretical admiration of the alien's beauty was interrupted by the thin wisp of rising steam that partially screened her from view, like a semi-transparent veil. The banshee's visage only became more obscured, much to Locke's disappointment, as the vapour cloud grew in intensity as the water started to boil.
At least breakfast's nearly ready. He grumbled, sniffing at the bland aroma that drifted towards him.
He continued to watch the summersaulting vapour tendrils coil and dance in the morning breeze. Following the steam trail back to its source, Locke's eyes fell back across the xeno, only this time... she returned his gaze.
Taken aback by her calm stare, the soldier hastily looked away to a point in the distance; embarrassed to have been caught out. If the banshee found his sudden discomfort amusing, she certainly didn't let it show. Cocking her head to the side, the alien regarded him coolly, her fixated glare keeping him glued to the spot where he knelt.
Suddenly aware of a strange tension between them, Locke clicked his tongue at the awkward atmosphere. Unsure of how to dispel his feelings of discomfort, he settled on a verbal greeting.
"Mornin' Xeno." He nodded to her, putting as much cheerfulness into his tone as he could manage. Her ears twitched at his words and a small frown of disgust played briefly across her lovely features before an emotionless expression took its place.
Annoyed and, oddly enough, a bit hurt by her reaction, Locke turned his attention back to the hissing stove.
Well fuck you too then. He could still feel the heat of her gaze, but he ignored it. Didn't anyone ever tell her its rude to stare. Locke thought before realising the hypocrisy of the statement, given his earlier actions.
Luckily for him, the sound of hot bubbling water came to the guardsman's rescue. Without another look in her direction, he spooned the mass-produced gruel into the two mess tins. They both ate in silence although the banshee refused to let the soldier out of her sight. Sensing her eyes boring into him, he turned away and cast his mind to other matters. His strange dream chief amongst them.
Locke wanted to believe that it was just a silly dream with no real weight or consequence, but it was a hollow conviction. The dream was no mere imagining, it had felt as genuine as the boulder that he was currently sat on. The things that the spirit, Mendacius, had spoken off continued to circle around in the tumultuous sea of his mind.
The guardsman knew that he was dealing with something that went well and truly beyond his understanding. He also knew that acting in ignorance was like charging blindfolded onto a battlefield; it always ended poorly. All he needed to do was ignore the entities until he could off-load the troublesome artefact onto someone who had the knowledge and authority to deal with it properly. The daemons' beguiling words be damned.
Nevertheless, he couldn't say that he wasn't tempted by Mendacius. The atrocities that he committed in the past, always threatening to bubble over into his thoughts, stained his very soul. Almost all soldiers feel some level of guilt which they hide away, far from any prying scrutiny.
Rarely, if ever, do they speak of it. While they may wear friendly facades, the depth of the horror at their actions was always written behind their weary eyes. To Locke, the chance at redemption, to settle the silent accusations that gnawed from his subconscious was not so easily cast aside.
As Locke mulled over the subject, he became aware that the focus of the eldar's ire had shifted away from him. She had finished eating the slop in record time in comparison to yesterday, albeit with a small sneer. The xeno was looking back over her shoulder at something in the distance. Locke followed her gaze, retracing the path that they had travelled along the day before. Far away in the valley, several hazy smoke plumes rose into the sky.
That entire area had been depopulated. That much was obvious, given the destroyed settlements and non-existent maintenance of all the roads. It only took a moment to conclude the culprits behind this wanton desecration of such a sleepy forest.
Orks! By the Abyss, don't they ever give up? He swore privately, scowling at the persistence of the greenskin menace. He wracked his brain, looking for an explanation to how they had managed to find their trail. Going through the actions of the previous day, his mind settled on one detail.
The bloody bandages! He cursed himself for his carelessness, it might well have been their undoing. Gathering up their eating utensils and mess tins, he stood up.
"Time to go Xeno!" He said to the alien who was still staring off toward their unseen pursuers. At his words, she snapped out of her reverie. Within a blink of an eye, she had sheathed her blade and planted her helmet firmly onto her head. The dull red lenses flickered to life, taking on a bright crimson.
The guardsman tightly packed away everything as neatly as he could manage. The basha and ground sheets were the last things to go into his kitbag. The howling banshee, haughty as ever, did at least stick around to lend a hand; she helped him fold up the canvass sheets. Once it was securely fastened to the top of his kitbag, the two set off at the jog with the xeno taking the lead as per usual.
For three days with little rest, they maintained an impressive pace across those frozen fells. The guardsman attributed this mainly to the kind weather that remained clear throughout their intense double-timed march. This good fortune did not extend to other areas though.
Their food stocks, which they ate cold and often while on the move, continued to deteriorate until on the third day, the reserves were entirely exhausted. The guardsman would never have believed that MREs could taste even more foul, but he was sorely mistaken. The foodstuff, without a semblance of warmth, managed this impressive feat easily.
While night-time brought about some degree of rest from their hurried travelling, it was no more comfortable. Instead of erecting a proper camp, they merely huddled together in any crook and crevice with the blanket tightly wound around them both. This rest, in of itself was brief, only lasting a few hours at a time before they set off again. The only silver lining of this awful ordeal was that what little sleep he got, remained suspiciously untroubled.
Despite the duo's tenacious progress traversing the snowy highlands, their enemy proved to be as equally persistent. For on the second day, he heard the first tell-tale signs of the ferocious aliens that hunted them.
Muffled by his helmet, all he had been able to hear from the outside world in that span of time was his own quickened respiration and the crunching sound of his footfalls upon ice-laden rock. That was until the chattering screeches of orks and their beasts wafted upon the wind up from behind.
His blood ran cold, and the guardsman re-doubled his efforts as he pushed himself across the unforgiving tundra. In between his panting breaths, Locke had observed that no matter the depth of the snow, the aspect warrior always strode across the surface, barely leaving footprints at all. Unlike himself, who sank into the deep frost. Fortunately, the snowbanks remained shallow on these unforgiving slants.
Still, even with this small mercy, this pitiless journey was taking its toll. Every part of him below the waist had gone numb from a mixture of exertion and the low temperature. A condescending voice from the back of his mind told him that it was hopeless, that he might as well stop, that death was inevitable one way or the other.
The guardsman batted the unwarranted nihilism away, for any that gave into that sultry voice welcomed the abyss itself. Yet even though he pressed on after his companion, who would periodically check up on his flagging form, the decision would soon be taken out of his hands. His shaky limbs were wavering and weak, soon they would grind to a halt altogether. What they needed now was a miracle.
In the early afternoon of the third day, Locke finally caught sight of the orks that had tormented them so. Upon cresting a high ridge, he turned to see a pack of ravenous monsters along with their greenskin handlers. They were still some way off, having just reached a knoll that he and the xeno had rested upon the previous night. A greenskin, far taller than the rest, gazed back at him while pointing his staff in the guardsman's direction.
From this distance, the roving beasts looked like a dark pink mass which contrasted greatly with the white and grey of the snow-flecked hills. The smokestacks of poorly burnt promethium accompanied by the booming of engines followed the monstrous pack hounds but given that they weren't in sight meant that there must have been some separation between the two groups.
Locke assumed that their vehicles were struggling with the uneven terrain. Even the obstinate orks it seemed couldn't make the stony crags bow before their might. Not waiting around any longer, Locke resumed his jog, chasing after the banshee who had moved a considerable distance during his quick respite.
Oddly enough, during this desperate chase through the ice and snow, his mind turned to his home of Narvos. The mad Count of Stonemere, Wulfric Brynwold, had a great love for the niche sport of fell-running. Every other morning in Locke's village of Fairnhold, the insane toff would jog through the settlement after coming down from the Greenmoor hills, the sweat pouring off his brow.
He recalled that the local pub owner, Mrs Horton, always left a pint of cider for the man. The old blighter would then swipe it up mid-run, downing it all in several strides before chucking the glass over a hedge and into Mr Ashwin's cabbage patch.
The soldier would have laughed if he hadn't been panting so hard. While certainly eccentric, Locke hadn't believed the aristocrat to be 'mad', but after running over these hills, he concluded that he surely must have been. How else did someone have the mental fortitude to run up and down all those steep inclines without the helpful threat of greenskins?
He was pulled back to the present by the excited roars of the monstrous bipedal creatures that snapped at their heels. The beasts could sense that their hunt would soon be at an end. The roving monsters and the footslogging orks were streaming down the slope after them; close enough now that he could make out individual details.
The pair of fugitives crested another rise and Locke's heart soared. A few hundred yards down a shallow slope was a rope bridge crossing a large ravine that separated the two mountain peaks. Beyond the bridge, lay a path that led up the steep hillside to a caldera. He had no idea where that rocky road led but given its well-maintained state; he was certain it would lead to some establishment of civilisation.
The alien maiden easily matched his pace as they both flew down the mountainside. The pair passed beneath a wooden arch that stood forlorn next to several stout wooden beams jutting out of the ground, jointly bound by a thick tar covered rope. Locke almost stumbled as his feet struck the slippery timber boards, but a helping hand from the howling banshee kept him upright.
The soft thunking noise of wood underfoot was music to his ears, spurring him on as they raced to the other side of the bridge which swayed in time to the tempo of their rampant footfalls. It was only after crossing a third of the way along that the guardsman sensed the absence of the xeno next to him. Against his better judgement, he stopped and glared over his shoulder.
The eldar's finely adorned back faced him. The xeno had stopped about a quarter of the way along the bridge's span and had turned to face the slavering pack monsters with her sword drawn. Locke called out to her, waving his arm frantically to get her attention. Her helmet rotated and a single red lens regarded the soldier. The alien warrior gave him a small, imperceptible nod.
Dumbfounded by her response, Locke whipped about and carried on sprinting to the other end of the bridge. As soon as he made it to the other side, he could destroy the crossing. Of course, there was the question of the banshee, but he trusted that the aspect warrior knew what she was doing. Suddenly, the causeway began to shake as the bloated reddish-pink monsters, that looked like walking mouths with sharp teeth, funnelled onto the bridge in their rapid charge.
The aspect warrior remained steady, her sword held outstretched to her side, a sharp extension to her own arm. As the creatures closed the distance, her body tensed. One of the more eager monsters leapt at her, aiming its mighty jaws at the banshee's mid-section.
Her blade flashed in an instant; the shimmering sword swept up to cut the foul beast in twain. The bisected carcass, carried forth by momentum, landed either side of her before bouncing off the planks and plunging into the ravine below.
Five more individuals from the beast pack, lunged at her and each one slumped to the floor dead, oozing their putrid blood onto the walkway. The monsters growled and roared in exasperation as their advance was checked by the calm warrior before them. Ironically, it appeared these simple creatures had a bit more sense for self-preservation than their greenskin masters.
The narrow defile of the crossing proved to be an excellent chokepoint; the beasts were prevented from utilising their greater numbers to flank the lone warrior. Nonetheless, the ravenous creatures weren't content to sit and wait for an opening.
The wild beasts at the back of the pack, frustrated at their lack of progress and prodded onwards by their gretchin handlers, started tearing at the bridge itself with reckless abandon. Several sections of the viaduct's rigging were torn to shreds in the space of seconds as the monsters acted with suicidal agency.
In the same amount of time, Locke had made it three quarters of the way along, just a few dozen yards more and he'd happily be on solid ground again. However, accomplishment of this simple goal would prove to be far harder than anticipated as the bridge began to rock violently.
This sudden commotion prompted him to look back again to his companion, fearing the worst. Immovable and unassailable, the eldar still stood as a living fortress, but further along amongst the voracious beast pack, his heart nearly stopped when he saw the fraying cords of rope.
The sound of a whip cracking echoed across the valley as one of the cords gave way. With a loud snap, the bottom rung fell away causing the bridge to abruptly rotate ninety degrees. Locke's feet struck nothing but air as the platform of the crossing collapsed from underneath him.
Seeing his life flash before his eyes, Locke watched as the ground rushed up to meet him. The Emperor though, must still have smiled on the guardsman's endeavour as a wayward loop of rope caught his leg which ended his earthward plummet as quickly as it began.
In a heartbeat, his surroundings became inverted, causing nausea to erupt in his temple as he felt the blood rush to his head while he suffered horrible vertigo. Eerily, the soldier twisted around like a fly caught in a spider's web as he swayed backwards and forwards.
After a few moments he spotted the banshee who was hanging on to one of the near-vertical timber planks. Although unlike him, she wasn't up-side-down and was quickly able to hoist herself to the top of the perpendicular walkway.
The rope that she gracefully stood upon was the last remaining strand that kept the ruined crossing aloft. In her place, Locke would have fainted, but the stoic xeno was perfectly balanced on the high wire like a professional gymnast.
Their opponents were not so fortunate. Locke, hanging upside down, watched as squigs and several of their gretchin handlers fell to their doom, their mewling cries echoing across the valley. Caught off guard by the sudden and partial collapse of the bridge, their former hunters plunged down into the abyss, reduced to nothing more than red stains on the mountainside. The guardsman would have found the whole thing rather comical if he weren't also dangling over the terrifying drop.
Those of the foul monsters who hadn't been able to get onto the bridge, howled at their prey who were now beyond them. The gretchin too were hollering their own insults at the human and eldar. From this vile crowd, their leader stepped forth.
A lanky ork, wearing a cloak and hood of animal hide, strode onto the dilapidated bridge; equally unperturbed by the unstable tightrope as the banshee. In his hands was a type of electrified staff which he held out to the side as he easily padded across the high wire. Locke wouldn't have believed that a greenskin could be so nimble that it could match the fleet-footed eldar in balance, how wrong he was.
Aristriel sensing the vibrations of her opponent turned to meet this new threat. She wobbled slightly, regaining stability just in time as the greenskin beast master came within striking distance to swing his stun baton.
Aristriel ducked backward, evading the blow that would have struck her head clean from her shoulders as the ork's weapon passed a mere inch from her face. Following up the attack, the beast master took a single pace across the taut cord; jabbing his staff towards the eldar's chest. Aristriel retreated from the thrust with a deft backflip.
Whilst in mid-air, the aspect warrior's mind moved at the speed of light as she considered her strategy. The ruined bridge ruled out all lateral or strafing movement. Unable to manoeuvre as she normally could, the banshee concluded to switching combat stance. The one she had in mind had been her sword master's preferred fighting style; suited for foil or rapier.
She landed on the tightrope, in a low crouch before rapidly side-stepping across the tightrope towards her opponent. The banshee pointed the blade towards the greenskin's chest while her free arm was tucked behind her back.
The ork grinned at the eldar as she came on, spinning his baton in a taunting display before lifting it up in an overhead strike, aiming to crush the lissom warrior's skull. The banshee swept her power sword up in response, the two weapons exploding in a flash of sparks as they came together.
With their weapons locked in contest, the greenskin jeered at her. "N'BODY KILLS ME SQUIGGIES BUT ME!" the ork roared, his eyes aglow with rage. Aristriel hissed back at him, nearly gagging on the foul breath of her opponent.
The beast master laughed at her, globs of phlegm striking her helmeted visage. The complete disregard for swordsman etiquette, while disgusting, also disrupted her focus. This moment's hesitation allowed the ork to capitalise on her distraction. Using his superior strength, he broke the deadlock in a cloud of sparks which sent Aristriel reeling backward.
The banshee only just managed to keep her balance, drawing up a hastily prepared defence as more bone crushing strikes rained down on her. With the initiative conceded, Aristriel could only deflect or dodge the unrelenting attacks. Each strike forcing her back lest she be knocked from the slender platform entirely.
The ork was quick and wielded his crude weapon with a great deal of competence, even atop such a perilous arena. In an attempt to recoup the situation, Aristriel tried several feints, but the sneering ork rebuffed her attempts, refusing to take the bait.
After several more indecisive clashes, the two broke away, appraising one another, both blowing great clouds of vapour into the frigid air. Just over her opponent's shoulder, she could see the crude ork vehicles pulling up hard next to their end of the bridge.
The ramshackle brakes let out high-pitched squeals as they came to a shuddering halt, signalling their arrival. In no time at all, the war trucks and bikes disgorged their brutish passengers onto the snow-swept slope, blood lust clear in their eyes.
Aristriel knew that she had precious few seconds before they began firing on her with their makeshift firearms. Exposed as she was, even an ork would find it hard to miss.
This contest has gone on long enough. She concluded.
The ork beast master was of a like mind, sensing his brethren gathering behind him; the greenskin was spurred on to crush her before a rival could steal the kill.
In a surprising turn of events, the hooded ork feinted a lunge toward her leg that Aristriel immediately moved to parry, hoping to create an opening in which to strike. When her blade met only empty air, there was scarcely time to curse when she realised her mistake. The ork's baton came round in a blur, striking her in the stomach. Her balance gone she dropped from the tarred rope, only grasping at the torn and suspended rigging at the last second.
In her mind's eye she could see her disappointed sword master shaking his head. "Never watch your enemy's blade, it is not your ally and it will deceive you if given the chance. No, 'tis the eyes that you must observe, for the eyes are the windows into the mind and from there you will know what they intend." She scolded herself internally, she had allowed herself to underestimate the greenskin savage.
Grinning with delight, the ork beast master thumbed a button on his staff; causing a surge of caerulean tendrils of lightning to spout and writhe around the cudgel's spiky head. Aristriel spared a look down at the shattered corpses that lay strewn across the sharp rocks below.
The banshee refused to share their fate. Acting on instinct and keen to deny the greenskin his prize, she swept up her sword from her hanging position in a broad swing. It sliced through the taught cable that the hooded ork stood upon.
A quiet hiss was the only indication that her shimmering sword struck home. The insane smile of her opponent disappeared in an instant as he went airborne, following the plummeting structure to the ground as the cord gave way.
With the last intact rope severed, the distraught bridge finally split apart, the two halves hurtling towards their respective sides. The eldar warrior quickly returned her sword to its sheath, without the usual flair, and held on tightly to the limp handrail.
The braids of her helm's headdress fluttered wildly in the onrush of air; created by the accelerating swing of the destroyed bridge which whistled towards the cliff face like a newly released pendulum. Bracing for impact, she analysed the rest of the ruined overpass, looking for her errant companion. Aristriel spotted the troublesome mon'keigh around eighty metres ahead of her: now upright and hanging on to the tattered ropework.
The relief that Aristriel felt upon seeing him was soon quashed by the astonishment that she felt such a thing for such a lowly barbarian. Prompted by her unusual reaction, the aspect warrior's constricted xenophobia reached a fever pitch. It was only sated once she reminded herself that the guardsman was merely a tool to complete her mission: a means to an end.
He will die once he has outlived his usefulness; after all, his life is still mine to take so it was sworn by the Gods: both living and dead. Aristriel vowed this, her gaze locked onto the guardsman. Meanwhile the human courier remained oblivious to her dark promise, focusing instead on maintaining his tense grip to the rickety pendulum.
The severed bridge slammed into the rock face, rattling like a wooden shutter on a blustery day. Despite readying herself for the incoming collision, the pain lanced along her left side and shoulder, stealing her breath away; a mere agonised grunt escaped her lips.
Aristriel hung from the now-vertical handrail, limp with shock, unable to move. She was faintly aware of pieces of rope and several timber duckboards that had been dislodged, streaking past her as they fell into the ravine. Paralysed as she was, all the aspect warrior could do was pray that none of the falling debris struck her.
After several seconds, when the destroyed crossing finally settled, it appeared that her fate weave would not be cut this day. Shuddering from a mixture of cold and shock, the banshee found herself still clinging to the dangerous perch.
Vaguely, in the distance, she became aware of the loud chorus of enraged snarls that came from the other side of the ravine. Ork gunners, venting their frustration on their elusive prey, opened fire with their primitive stubbers, liberally spraying missiles across the opposing cliffside.
Stone chippings and wooden splinters burst forth as the enemy rounds struck the cliff face and tattered walkway, respectively. Some of the larger greenskins, envious at being left out of the violent festivities, began hurling some of the smaller gretchin creatures across the gorge. While others raised a mighty clamour by striking their makeshift axes together in a show of strength.
Most of these living projectiles either fell hopelessly short or struck the cliff and splattered like ripe fruit on a hot summer's day. However, a few luckier greenskins managed to cling to the remains of the bridge. Half a dozen of the short orkoids now covered the ruined crossing like parasites on an animal's back.
By this time, Aristriel's mind had begun to clear. Gazing up towards the soldier, she saw two of the little greenskins converge on the mon'keigh who was only now beginning to climb up the improvised ladder.
The guardsman, noticing his tiny assailants, paused his ascent, hanging onto the remains of the handrail with one hand while drawing his short sword with the other. One of the creatures, brandishing a gnarled dagger, dropped onto his back from above.
The gretchin lost the initiative shortly afterwards and was thrown off once the human's sword slipped into the ork's chest. Ichor flooded out from the wound and the gretchin dropped away, its lifeless body tumbling earthward.
Untroubled by the demise of his fellow ork, another gretchin scrambled down the rigging, and moved in from the human's flank; he was aiming to gut the distracted soldier. Staring up at the soldier's predicament with a calculating expression, Aristriel unsheathed one of her daggers and let fly in a single breath. The finely crafted blade spun skywards, practically glowing in the sunlight before finishing its journey in the greenskin's neck.
The surprised human turned to see the gretchin paused in mid-strike, Aristriel's dagger protruding from its bleeding throat. It blinked thrice, and the light faded from its eyes. The greenskin slumped and ended up hanging motionless in the mess of binding cables.
The soldier glanced down at her, noticing that a few gretchin were moving towards her position. He appeared to hesitate on whether to come to her aid, but noticing her masked glare, an unspoken order passed between them. He turned away and kept climbing towards the ledge.
Interestingly, she noted that the human was a very able climber, within no time at all, he was pulling himself up onto the shelf where the rope bridge ended. Likewise, the gretchin also proved to be able climbers as they scrambled down towards her, rusty shivs and daggers braying for her blood. Judging her options, she allowed them to close the distance.
Drawing in a quick breath, the aspect warrior waited until the vulgar little greenskins drew close enough. By the time that she unleashed her banshee scream, she could make out their unique scars and eccentricities. Snow and dust that had lain dormant on the rough cliff side exploded in a great grey cloud as the audible tidal wave expanded rapidly across the rock face.
The gretchin screamed as their ear drums perforated, and their minds broke. The destroyed bridge, furious at the intruders on its hide, whipped violently from the ear-piercing blast, flinging the crippled greenskins into the abyss.
All the while gunfire continued to rake all over the precipice, only growing in intensity as more ork fusiliers joined the firefight. Wasting no more time, Aristriel bounded up the shattered rope bridge in great leaps, deftly avoiding the incoming fire that filled the air like an angry swarm of insects.
However, the sheer volume of gunfire was taking its toll on the thoroughly punished walkway. Up above, the cords were beginning to fray from the incredible stresses placed upon the twine frame as kinetic rounds continued to slam into the structure.
The threat of the makeshift rope ladder collapsing urged her upward. Her limbs pumping as she leapt higher and higher, briefly pausing to reclaim her lost dagger. Sensing the bridge's imminent collapse, Aristriel used every ounce of energy that remained and pushed off from her brief timber perch. Her lithe body soared up the last stretch of the cliffside, but she was slowing down too fast.
The banshee wouldn't make it to the ledge; gravity would claim her and pull her down to its earthen realm where she would be dashed upon the mountainside. Her panicked thoughts were punctuated by the clattering scrape as the last vestige of the viaduct cascaded down the rock face in a waterfall of rope and timber.
Time slowed in that instant, her ascent and the bridge's descent became a gentle crawl. The ork projectiles, mere streaks of light by her eye, hung in the air. It was as though she was surrounded by a shoal of shooting stars. Aristriel made her peace, she had been too slow, nay too reckless. This would be the price for her folly.
Yet when all seemed lost, her companion appeared over the shelf's edge. The guardsman, completely ignorant of the gunfire, had lowered himself down the rock face, his outstretched arm aimed towards her. All thought of resignation evaporated from her mind as she stretched up towards those strong arms that would haul her to safety.
Time reasserted itself as the sounds of the whispering wind, the shouts of the mon'keigh and the orks filled her ears. Just as her fingers brushed passed the human's hand, her upward momentum finally stalled.
For the briefest moment Aristriel hovered in the air, neither rising nor falling; eyes locked on the helmeted visage of the guardsman. The reassuring grasp of his hand encompassed her own as gravity began to pull her downward. His shoulder and arm jolted, a groan of discomfort fogging the air as he braced himself against her weight.
There she was, hanging on the edge of oblivion, tethered to the cliff by this grunting mon'keigh. Aristriel half expected him to drop her, nay a small part of her prejudiced mind wanted the human to drop her.
To prove in a sick way that her views on the mon'keigh were justified, that they were nothing but dishonourable backstabbing barbarians. While doubt and regret were certainly part of the emotions that radiated from him, the soldier stubbornly refused to release his grip. Much to Aristriel's relieved chagrin.
An errant sigh escaped her lips as she was hoisted up like a fish on a line. Saved by a mon'keigh…again… will this humiliation never end? She thought. Of course, this wasn't the first time he had come to her rescue, but she had repaid that debt in kind… until now.
The banshee once again found herself indebted to the curious human. This only added fuel to the frustration that she felt in his proximity. How she hated him so.
Unbeknownst to the roiling emotions of his strange comrade, the guardsman strained hard as he pulled her up the cliffside, until she was standing level with him with solid ground beneath her feet.
"Alright Xeno, I'll admit that was impressive." Locke said to the alien, captivated by her unnatural abilities. The banshee did not respond, choosing instead to lower her gaze. Unsure of what she was looking at, his vision followed the direction of her stare. Her hands were still tightly clasped in his own. Feeling a flush of blood rise to his cheeks, he instantly released her from his clutches. The banshee, sparing not a second to contemplate his behaviour, glared back across the ravine.
Locke had been concentrating so hard on the eldar, that he hadn't noticed the distinct lack of gunfire. The orks had ceased their skirmishing, and had rushed back to remount their vehicles. Except for one. A single greenskin stood at the entrance to the destroyed bridge, his beady red eyes locked on them both.
While most of the greenskins wore generic overalls, this one wore body armour, brutally hammered into shape - coated with a slapdash of red paint. He was far larger than his brethren which meant by ork standards he was the leader.
"KEEP RUNNIN'! WE'ZE GONNA CATCH YA! THEN WE'ZE GONNA 'AVE A PROPA FOIGHT!" He bellowed, spittle flying from his maw as his words bounced across the high peaks. Without another word, he about faced and clambered onto the already moving war truck. Locke, following the ork's new line of advance, calculated some brief estimations in his head as he watched them depart.
He crouched down by the cliff edge, cradling his chin in his hand. They're gonna need to get down off the slope, cross the valley and then climb this mountain. Should give us about…two hours head start, I reckon.
Curiously, the orks left their dead behind, bared unto the sky, without a single concern for ceremony or burial. The callous attitude of the greenskins to their fallen brethren sickened the soldier. Locke could never imagine fellow imperials acting in the same manner. They truly were alien in every sense of the word.
The guardsman remained crouched, his mind shifting to the ork's poorly enunciated words which buzzed around inside his head like angry hornets. They weren't going to stop, not until they were killed in the battle that they so lusted for, or until they were both beyond their reach completely.
Why, oh why, does everything have to be so bloody hard? Fucking typical is what it is. He cursed, getting back to his feet.
He continued to stare across the gulf, back to where the ork leader had been standing. The adrenaline high that he had been experiencing, ebbed away and the familiar aches and pains returned. He took a minute to catch his breath while his cloak fluttered in the wind. When he felt something tugging at his sleeve, he knew immediately what that signalled.
Locke looked over to his companion who tilted her head in the direction of the trail. Shouldering his pack with a weary smile, the guardsman nodded.
"Alright, let's see where this path leads." Locke said in response but the xeno had already set off toward their destination without a backward glance. Watching her scamper away, a tired sigh was drawn from his chest as he followed on behind.
The trail skirted the precipice before steadily curving away and up the slope towards the crater. The path itself was little more than dirt, with a few well-placed flat slabs of stone to remind people that it was an actual man-made route. If that wasn't obvious enough, the fact that the track was cut into the mountainside left little doubt in Locke's mind.
Still, he remained cautious as the flaking boulders and gnarled crags of rock passed them by as they ascended ever higher. It was much easier going here than their cross-country flight across the previous mountain range, that was for sure. For starters there was a path to follow, and although it was steep, it was reasonably maintained: the fallen snow brushed to the dirt path's edges.
Locke's calves were burning from the hike up the mountain slope, but instead of slowing down, his footfalls fell ever more rapidly due to his eagerness to reach the top which increased with each step. The cleared slush was a sure sign that someone must live up here and judging by the recent snowfall they must still reside within walking distance of their current position.
Locke was surprised by how relieved and excited he was to see other human faces. The eldar, while beautiful beyond compare, made for poor company: considering that she never spoke. On the other hand, as his eyes kept returning to the rear of her agile bounding form, he acknowledged that it wasn't all bad.
It took another hour to reach the edge of the caldera. As the ridgeline drew closer, a man-made structure slowly surfaced into view. Rising several dozen paces more and the guardsman knew exactly what it was. The iconic bowl shape could be nothing else but some sort of communications array or radar dish.
He caught the xeno by surprise as he sprinted past her before dropping flat at the hill's summit. The eldar remained tense until she realised that his sudden burst of speed was not in alarm at some unseen threat.
The aspect warrior joined him, imitating his prone stance. She shot him an irritated look, but Locke chose to ignore it, focusing instead on the depression below. He was right, there was a facility of reasonable size in the crater of the mountain.
A wide barbed wire fence with a single gateway enclosed the area. The communications array stood atop a large circular structure that joined with several other smaller buildings. They were probably the storage buildings and living areas for the workers.
Just behind the facility, on a flat plateau he could make out two landing pads, devoid of aircraft - much to his disappointment, along with a few smaller buildings. Further ahead, past the plateau, was a large gap in the crater wall, revealing the land beyond.
Locke realised that beyond this mountain peak lay the northern lands of this region. They had almost done it. Not only would the workers down below be able to resupply him, but they'd also be able to send out a message requesting an immediate extraction. The possibility that this was the end of this utter farce of a mission was almost too much for the guardsman to handle. Then his thoughts turned to the alien.
What will happen to her? He blinked at this sudden realisation. The aspect warrior would be either taken captive, if she were lucky, or more likely executed for her crimes of simply existing. Of course, from what little he knew about her, he was certain that she wouldn't settle for capture. She would probably go into hiding somewhere but to what end, he did not know. Thinking about it now, he felt an odd sense of loss at the idea of leaving the xeno behind.
Still, he had a job to do and it was his duty to carry it out. Not wasting anymore time, he sprang up and tore down the gentle crater slope towards the facility while the aspect warrior remained motionless.
Locke stumbled and rolled once or twice, but he was so invigorated that he didn't care; each time it happened, he sprang back up to continue his frantic run to salvation. Upon reaching the gate, he grabbed the metal bars, and shook them like a freshly convicted juve as he called out to the dormant buildings for aid.
When he received no response from the slumbering buildings, he noticed a vox caster built into the side of one of the gate pillars. Without a second thought he pushed the intercom button.
"H-hello! Hello! Is anyone there?" He called, panting with heavy lungs as he released the button to a wail of static. That agonising silence stretched on for minutes until a scratchy metallic voice responded.
"+++ This is a restricted area, identify yourself. +++" The voice said.
"Guardsman Tomas Locke, 195th Narvos Light Infantry regiment, 'A' Company, 4th Platoon."
"+++ Identity not recognised. Entry denied. +++"
"What! I need help, it's important." There was no response this time. Locke tried several more times to get an answer, but none was forthcoming. In anger, he rattled the gate and shouted petty insults and curses at the unforgiving doorway.
He started to panic, every second he wasted, the more the orks closed the distance. As wild ideas flitted through his mind, one in particular stood out. This was a facility designed to act as either a listening post or as a communications-relay station. That operation required a certain level of technical expertise which meant that there had to be a contingent of mechanicus acolytes assigned here.
The Mechanicus was a mysterious organisation and its members doubly so. The adherents of the machine God displayed their religious infatuation by mutilating themselves with mechanical augments and metallic constructs. This more often than not made the unfortunate adepts look like something out of a nightmare.
A few years into his Guard service, Locke's lasrifle had started to malfunction which required the aid of an enginseer. Locke never forgot that adept's steel skull visage, nor did he forget the deep unease that he'd felt in the red cloaked man's presence.
While he didn't know much about the cog boys or their weird religion, he did know of their fanatical love for all things technological. Some of them tried to excuse this scientific lust; they declared that 'they only cared for technology that fell within the mandate of their scriptures', but anyone with half a brain knew that wasn't true.
At least according to all the legends that surrounded the cult. Mendacius himself had stated that the Omnicron was a form of ancient technology, surely then it would be of great interest to the mechanicus that resided in this mountainous abode.
With nothing left to lose, Locke pressed the intercom button. "Please listen to me! I have something of great importance, a piece of lost technology that must be taken to safety. Please for the good of the…" Locke searched his mind, desperately trying to remember what that enginseer had called his metal god.
Omni-higher? No, it had an 's' in it. Omnisser? No. Omni…Omnissiah? That's it!
"uh…Omnissiah, you've got to let me in!" The usual crackling met his diatribe. Just when he thought his gambit had failed, the doors at the end of the courtyard squealed open and a servitor stepped out into the frozen wastes.
It paused a few paces outside the entrance and watched him for a few moments. Its left eye was unfocused and unmistakably human, while its right was a glass and metal fabrication that looked as though someone had grafted several spyglasses onto the poor man's skin.
The shambling horror's mouth was covered up by an artificial voice modulator whilst several tubes filtered in from behind its skull where a couple of metal plates and bolts protruded. Thankfully, the rest of the biological automaton was covered by the red garb of the Martian cult.
It strode forward, in unsettling, jerky movements that deeply unnerved Locke. A part of him wanted to turn and run from the hideous thing, but he held his ground and met the servitor's gaze as it drew up on the other side of the gate.
While Locke shivered in the winter sun, the automaton didn't even react at all. Although, the guardsman did notice that the machine's human eye, weeping saline, did twitch every few seconds or so. The thin layer of snow on the ground only made the pallid expression of its skin even more discomforting.
It's like I'm talking to a corpse. He shuddered and this time it wasn't from the cold.
"+++ I am Unit GS-74389B, temporary administrator of this facility. Exodus Operandi is in effect. All working operations are suspended until further notice. +++"
Locke swallowed a mouthful of spit and cleared his throat. "Wait… you mean it's just you here?" His voice revealing his discontent, not that the biological automaton noticed.
"+++ Affirmative. Protocol 4329 activated. Blessed be the Omnissiah. Present technological find for immediate inspection and cataloguing. +++"
Shivering at the monotone voice, he undid his webbing pouch and plucked the artefact from its depths. It was warm to the touch and a sense of satisfaction came over him. Uncurling his fingers around the onyx black cube, he presented it to the servitor through the steel bars of the gate.
Rays of artificial light projected out of the automaton's mechanical eye, scanning the black cube that sat on his open palm. The guardsman's nose wrinkled at the foul smell of lubricant oil and synthetic paste while the lines of the scanner played upon the Omnicron for several seconds. A stream of incantations involving ones and zeroes filtered out from the servitor's audio transmitters.
To the guardsman's untrained ears, it was complete gibberish, but he wisely decided to keep that opinion to himself. After a few seconds of the scanner roving back and forth over the artefact, the servitor started shaking as if it had finally noticed the freezing temperatures.
At first, Locke thought this was part of the cataloguing process until he saw the thing's neck twitch violently while a viscous white liquid began to ooze out of its voice box. The human eye, once dormant and glassy, darted frantically around as if the man had finally awoken to his awful state.
Locke made to speak but was cut off by the biological automaton as it let out a soul shredding scream; part man, part machine which boomed across the mountain. Flames burst forth from the biological construct's chest, a mixture of burnt flesh and burning oil made him gag.
Ultimately, the servitor was put out of its misery as its central processor detonated, the small explosion flinging the biomechanical servant back into the snow. The guardsman watched as the robes caught alight, frozen in horror by what he had witnessed, until in a shaky voice he finally uttered a few words.
"Oh bollocks!"
Review Responses:
Twitch – Well one guardsman only carries so much equipment. Plus, they were both encamped on the side of a mountain which aren't places known for their population density.
Oc – Glad you like it.
Look2019 – Thank you.
Opaque-Cavalier – Very perceptive of you. Exactly, survival comes first after all.
Shadowfire12 – The one thing I've learned as a writer is that every great protagonist must endure great hardship and suffering. Locke has many more battles to come. As for the eventual ending for Aristriel and Locke, that is very far into the future so I wouldn't worry about it. On the whole I'm pleased you liked it.
Shadowfire12 – An interesting theory. Well one theme I want to explore in this story is the spiritual strength of an ordinary person so we shall have to wait and see.
Glasrevin – Thank you, you too.
Expert93 – Very kind of you. Thank you.
Surviving7 – Very good! Pleased that you liked it. Writing the character interactions between these two is probably the most enjoyable part outside of the battle scenes. Don't worry I have thought about this a lot and I don't intend on giving Locke any god like powers until near the end of the story (which is a long way off) and even then he won't exactly be… himself.
faxotlol – 'Getting along' is a bit of a strong way to put it but I suppose. Aeldari is a pretty complex language that even Primarchs and the Emperor struggled with so most likely it'll be Aristriel learning Low-Gothic. Perhaps it will be used for the ork threat, perhaps not. Who can say?
Another S.T.A.L.K.E.R – Thank you for reading it.
No Talker – Glad you liked it, with any luck this chapter will be up to the right standard.
Aaron Black – Sleeping close together for mutual warmth isn't exactly a proper cuddling session. Things will most likely get a bit more intense later on though.
.1 – As you wish.
Golden Sheath – Don't worry I am, it's just one of my many projects. For the Emperor!
Viktormilo2015 – Impossible surely…
Boi – As requested.
Boi – Patience.
StonerMcWeedPot – Thank you! I put a lot of thought into my characters so it's good to see that payed off.
SalemTheSpeakerOfTruth – Thank you. I am trying to get chapters out faster, but my life is quite hectic.
Stoic-Wookie00 – Thank you very much!
StonerMcWeedPot - That's very kind of you to say that, thank you. One thing that always irritated me about a lot of other fanfictions was the speed at which relationships would form particularly if it was Human x Eldar. Story writers must remember that relationships take time to build and grow, they don't happen overnight. I upload whenever I can tbh, final year at university put a huge dent in my upload schedule. I'm finished now so god willing I can write a bit more now.
.Weeb – "Kill or be killed. Facing an awaiting, Hostile Spear! A new frontier! The end is near!"
Huey Long Dong – I'm pleased you're enjoying it. I can't wait to get more into the story.
HellBringerab1 – Well I think at the moment they're just uneasy allies putting up with each other. I am looking forward to when they can verbally communicate with one another. It's going to add some more drama.
Viktormilo2015 – No need to worry, there won't be any flip switch that makes them lovers instantly. They still need to go through more hardship before I'll allow anything massively romantic to take place. As for the sex scenes, I think I'm going to hold off on them for as long as I can if I even decide to write one at all.
Guest – Glad you liked it. Who can say?
CadiaBrokeBeforeTheGuard – I'll volunteer to take the Emperor's shilling!
Informant – I see, I shall keep that in mind. Hopefully, any sex scenes are a long way off.
Ardent and Unbound – Thank you very much, good health to you too. I hope this chapter was up to a good standard.
Guest – Nope.
Surviving7 – *Looks at wristwatch* Right…about…now.
Aaron Black – I do have a career, hobbies, and a social life to consider outside of this project. I haven't been idle; I have revised my earlier chapters as well writing this one which in total comprises around 20,000 newly written words. She didn't snuggle up to him because of a "smell" fetish, she used the same sleeping bag because she was cold. On average they are 7 feet tall, but it does vary, Aristriel is 6'5" (the same height as Locke) which is still pretty damn tall by human standards. I have no interest in exploring the digestion process of the eldar (nor humans for that matter).
TheRide – Much appreciated, I hope you like this chapter too.
Lucas – Don't forget your fife and drum as well as the Irish, English and Welsh flags.
