Chapter 34
Everywhere, there were pieces of wreckage. Shredded tires, twisted axles, disconnected steering wheels, bent cannons, broken firearms, sections of treads, seats, tubes, wires, ornaments, and entire hulks. Many burned, yet even these individual parts smoldered. Black smoke rose with the putrid stench of fried electronics, sizzling fuel, and melted metal. Corpses were slumped and strewn over their vehicles. They too were consumed by flames. Others were scattered along the grass, crumpled, broken, cut, and flattened.
Maerys stopped next to a burning buggy, the blaze reflected in her blue eyepieces. The wheels were gone, forced off by the impact of a missile. It struck the engine block, for there was nothing but a massive hole where the front of the vehicle should have been. Flames flowed from it and consumed the interior. A charcoaled occupant was in each seat, with a fifth standing in the center turret cupola. The body leaned backwards, one hand still on the trigger guard. Those in the back seats slumped forwards, their heads against the front backrests. Hunched over the dashboard was the passenger, their arms stretched forward as if reaching for something. The driver remained upright, his bulky hands still gripping the wheel.
She did not know why she stopped beside the wreck. Her eyes lingered on this driver. His maw hung open as if he was bellowing a war cry when he perished. The head was slightly cocked to the side so he looked out through the open window. The round, black-glassed goggles he wore looked like two, small, bottomless depths. Then, the first glass popped from the heat, followed swiftly by the second. Two red eyes were revealed, but as the fire traveled up his blackened body, these also burst. In melted streaks, his eyeballs flowed down his cheeks, sizzling like dragon strips on a cooking pan.
How strange he looked; how terrifying he looked. There was an urge to vomit, although not just from this horror. There was a frighteningly rank stench across the battlefield that rose above the singed rubber and burning oil. An acrid smell, so caustic it made Maerys' eyes water. Broiled flesh, blistered skin, and enkindled bones, these carried on the wind which swept over the butchery. Gusts followed one another repetitiously like ocean waves pounding a shoreline. Each caused the prevailing stench to grow thicker, creating a tainted, rank, black smell.
She removed herself from the sight, her legs so heavy it felt as though she were wading through jungle world muck. But her eyes were drawn to the prize in her left hand: Skewer's head. She held the red-faced ork by his long squig hairpiece, itself dyed the color of blood. A moment ago it had seemed fitting to remove the beast's fanged, scarred face from its shoulders. As she returned to the Saim-Hann war party, she was no longer certain. The Wild Riders brayed and howled victoriously. They sliced ears from dead enemies and extracted teeth which they added to chains or leather cords wrapped around their necks or wrists. Some went so far as to dip their hands in ork blood and pressed them to the elongated, upper sections of their white helmets. Hundreds walked around decorated with gnarly, bloody handprints.
"Desrigale, it seems you too have claimed a trophy," said a booming, metallic voice. Standing vigil over the host was Teltryan. The head of the Revenant gazed down at her. Despite being a towering wraithbone construct and its arms were naught but pulsar cannons, the elegant titan still possessed aeldari-like poise. It held itself almost naturally, as if it was no mere machine but a person, capable of every grace the aeldari shared.
Teltryan's titan crouched somewhat, bringing the upper chassis towards her. Maerys felt small then, smaller than she ever had. At the feet of the Revenant, it felt as though she were standing before one of her long departed gods. There was no hiding, then.
"Victory should taste sweet," she said, "I have drank from such a chalice many times as an Aspect Warrior. But not this day. My mask is not what it once was."
"You held yourself high with the triumph over the orks at the sinkhole colony."
"We scoured the slave pits and released many hundreds of captives. That was my triumph."
"To uphold a cause so just is its own reward, I agree," boomed the pilot's voice.
"There is little joy to bask in battlefield without one," said Maerys. "Although they act as monsters and I will make war against them, one day I hope there will be no more battles for us to fight. I would pray, but where are our gods now?"
"Alive, dead, captured, missing, but the divines still know," said Teltryan, his tone soothing despite the titan's metal voice. "They are always watching, Maerys."
It was a small comfort, but it was all that was needed. The Pathfinder smiled behind her white-faceplate, and she curved her forefinger across it. Then, she approached the great foot of the titan and pressed her palm to it. To feel the life and energy of the spirit stones encased within the machine's body calmed her. She hoped that Teltryan felt that relief.
"Make quick your journey," rang Taphelran's voice. The second Revenant appeared beside the first and leaned around it. "Let us know where they are and what treachery they commit. This battle neither slakes my thirst nor fills my belly."
"Brother, there is a time to speak, and a time to be silent," groaned his brother.
"What? What have I done?" His confused tone was enough to make Maerys chuckle. She walked backwards and placed her empty hand over her heart.
"If all goes well, we shall not disturb the ork. But if they happen upon us, I am comforted to know you will come to our aid."
"That we will, Desrigale," said Taphelran, boisterously.
Maerys continued onward to the center of the war party. She found Chief Oromas conferring with Arganel, Kelriel, and Oragroth next to his jetbike. The former held a disc that projected a hologram of the battlefield.
"It appears no further reinforcements are coming," said the Autarch, then he scoffed. "How the orks think they can still overcome my Wild Riders by sending piecemeal, second-line forces to me, I know not. It begins to grow wearisome. Where is the challenge in this?"
"The Band of Kurnous will find out," assured Oragroth. "These weak patrols might be smoke to screen something worse."
"Or it could be a mask to deceive us," suggested Princess Kelriel. "As large as his army is, it has been dealt a severe blow. Without his slave force and Imperial weapons, it's now weak and he wishes us to think it isn't. It might serve us well to launch a raid on that city."
"Do not be so rash. He could just be playing for time," countered the Kurnite.
"It's not a foolish idea," added Arganel. He then leaned away from the hologram and folded his arms over his soot-covered chestplate. "Although, that could be what he wants. Perhaps go-Klamma wishes to make himself appear weak to deceive us into committing a large-scale attack."
"You are being too generous to this Speedboss," grunted Oromas.
"It would not be the first time he has surprised us," said Maerys. All faced her as she walked up to them. She dropped the head on the ground and then, happy to be rid of it, punted it towards the chieftain. The green head rolled across the grass until Oromas stopped it with his foot. He picked it up by the hairpiece and grinned at it. But Maerys was not smiling and she removed her helmet to meet their eyes. "Go-Klamma played to Autarch Yltra's confidence and drew us into a pitched battle."
"If not for the aid of Those Who Protect the Imperiled Pass," added Dochariel, descending from the thick clouds above, "we would have been swept from that hill. Biel-Tan paid a price too high for a hilltop."
"To deliberate now is to swing blindly with a dagger in the dark," said Oragroth. "Maerys, the Band of Kurnous is ready to depart. All we need is your word." He held up his sword and the rangers gathered around them with the Pathfinders clustered in the front ranks.
"A moment." Maerys extended her hand for Oromas' device, which he gladly gave her. She activated the key on the side, causing the crisp, blue hologram to wink away. It warbled briefly, then a new projection appeared. Autarchs Yltra and Caergan as well as High Count Dryane, gazed back at her. "I wish to make it known my band will now commit to this long range." Her eyes shifted specifically to Yltra. "The Skewer has been dealt with."
"And my warriors are thus avenged," said the Autarch, coldly. "Put his head on a stake." This made Oromas laugh. He happily picked up a metal bar which he then drove into the ground. He mounted the head on it, the sharp end sliding into the flesh of the neck with a sickening slick.
"High Count, Chief Oromas and Those Who Protect the Imperiled Pass have promised their support. But I wish to ask that you keep your fighter wings on standby. The further we proceed into ork land, the farther we will be from ground forces. Your pilots will reach us sooner than anyone else should we need aid."
"I will keep an entire host in the air for you at all times," said Dryane. "They are eager to fall upon the orks once more."
"Maerys, we near the end of this campaign," said Caergan, gravely. "If there are chances to deal blows to the orks without compromising your band, do so. The less we have to fight in the final battle of this war, the better."
"Very well," said Maerys, although she resolved not to carry out such a dangerous order for fear of exposing her band. She gazed between the Saim-Hann warriors around her, then at the other council leaders. "It may be some time before we speak again. My band will be as silent as this fog. I ask for patience and quiet. Do not disturb the orks beyond the destruction of these patrols. Go-Klamma must be assured that whatever ploy he concots is working. His belief in his own success will be his undoing. Isha keep you all close to her bosom until we see each other again. Farewell."
She closed the device and handed it back to Oromas. "Noble chief, I thank you. When the time comes for us to return, we will meet you here. Eliminate these patrols, but take no risks and make no sacrifices."
"What Maerys means to say, uncle, is try not to perish," said Aragnel, confidently. He approached Oromas and clasped his arm. "I would return with you, but I am going with the Band of Kurnous. If it is of such import, then I must see it with my own eyes."
"Bright red armor, that ought to blend in perfectly," muttered Long Livae. This earned her a firm elbow from Alimia, whose own crimson raiment was mottled with greens, browns, and grays. "Am I wrong? He will be a flame in the distant dark!"
"She does have a point, Maerys," said Dochariel, chuckling. "Perhaps a cloak can be loaned?"
"Two must be borrowed then," said Kelriel. "I am going also."
At this, Oromas' expression went from prideful to worry. He approached her, one arm outstretched. But Kelriel held up her hand, forcing him to stop, then took his own between her fingers. "Father, I have fought in many duels and battles and here I am, alive and intact. If I am to one day become the head of our family and lead our entire clan, I will have to embark on such ventures." She then walked over to Maerys and brought her fist against her shoulder. So hard was the blow that Maerys' mesh armor hardened beneath her knuckles. "Besides, you'll protect me."
"If only you'll let me," smiled Maerys. She glanced back at Oromas, who appeared dissatisfied. "They are your kin and your word is law. But if they are decided, neither you nor I can stop them. Already, we are accompanied by outsiders."
She did not speak venomously but her tone was not kind either. All their gazes drifted to Celasho the Singer. He stood apart from everybody, his witchblade by his side and his head turned up to the sky. It was just beginning to rain again and the first drops trickled down the sides of his green helmet. Despite the seer's emanating power, he lacked vibrancy. Wild Riders walking past him glowed like firebugs in the night. He was faded and faint, a pale painter's stroke on a canvas when the brush lacked enough ink.
Maerys turned back to Oromas. "I intend to bring back all who come with me. This I swear." The chieftain eyed her warily for a moment, then his expression relaxed. He approached her and grasped her forearm. Even through her armor, the pressure of his grip was intense.
"I will be waiting for you all." He turned back to his nephew and daughter. Maerys expected a bow, or some kind of familial gesture to impart some language only they spoke. But instead, Oromas put his helmet back on and stood as if he were addressing a body of Guardian Defenders. "Honor thy family, honor thy clan, honor that home you call Saim-Hann. Whether you return alive or dead, ensure you clutch a spear in your hand."
He turned away, his white cape swirling behind him. When he lifted his lance in the air, the other Wild Riders quickly returned to their mounts. Engines hummed and sang, and one by one their lights disappeared into the eastern fog. Taphelran and Teltryan's titans hunched forward in a kind of bow, then ran after the riders.
"Let us spare not a word nor waste a moment more," said Maerys. "Come with me, friends, let us make the adventure worthwhile."
Two of the rangers furnished the two Freeshields with cameleoline coats. These were buttoned up and the hoods were drawn. After a few moments of orientation, these activated and took on the misty swirl of the encroaching fog. One by one, the Band of Kurnous disappeared, translated into the gray mirth. Swooping Hawks activated their jetpacks, opened their wings, and ascended.
Maerys put her helmet back on and faced Dochariel. Tall as she was, he was taller, and stooped slightly to meet her gaze. The red eyes of his visor should have been frightening, but she knew the earthen-colored gems behind them. It was these she saw behind the mask, as well as the fond smile he was keen to give.
"It will be good to let the air fill my wings for a time," he said.
"Even now, you are a jolly spirit," laughed Maerys. "What is it that makes you so glad?"
"Before I took the Sacred Name and donned this armor, I was much like I am now. Even if it was loss that brought me to the Path of the Warrior, I never lost my humor."
"Loss is what brings many to those paths," murmured Maerys.
"As is vengeance," said Dochariel. Yet this was not a mere statement. Within it was a question, one that Maerys did not want to answer then. She did not want to become lost in memory.
"Yet Exarchs are the servants of Kaela Mensha Khaine. You inherit his battle-fury."
"Khaine's anger manifests itself in many ways. It can be a scream in your throat, a boiling of your blood; this you have known. It is no different for me. The Infinity Circuit guided me to the Shrine of the Descendant Claw and I took up the armor and name I wear now. The spirits of the past brought me to this suit for it was filled with souls like my own; bright as suns, cheerful as whistles, I found a home here. Yes, I lost much, but not compared to others."
"And I am glad for it," said Maerys, tracing a circle over her chestplate where her heart did beat, and then did the same over Dochariel's armor. She then brought her finger over her mask once more, indicating a smile. But the Exarch instead took her by the shoulders and pressed his helmet against her own. Had they not worn them, their noses would have touched.
"Allow me to be more than your smile," he whispered. "Let me be your eyes, let me be the vigil that watches over you while you slumber, let me be the talon that finds you succor."
His grip tightened around her shoulders. It almost felt as though a set of claws were wrapped around her. To stand before an Exarch was as terrifying as it was breathtaking, but to be touched by one in such a manner was an act not many could endure without fleeing. Yet, Maerys not only stood within his grasp, her hands reached up and touched his chestplate, then traveled up to his helmet.
"I will," said Maerys.
Dochariel released her. He stepped back, unfurled his wings, and shot into the sky. Maerys waited until the blue haze of his jetpack disappeared. She cast one last glance to the battlefield, its fires now dampened by the rain, and then she herself faded into the fog.
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The southern lands of Sú-il Bhán were devoid of the hillocks and ridges that defined much of the plains back north. The most that could be found were subtle rises dotted with croppings of rocks and bushes. There were thickets of trees, clumps of hedges, and scattered stones. But even here, ravines and crags were to be found. Unlike many of those found in the main theater of operations, they ran longer and deeper. They were gashes in the earth, as if gouged out by Khaine himself when he was lost in some rage.
It was through these ravines and thickets that the Band of Kurnous traveled. Like ghosts, they drifted with banks of fog and pushed their way through bushes. At times they paused, allowing one or two of their number to climb a tree and regard the land around them through their long rifle scope. Many times, Maerys herself carried out the task. Not only did the vision of beyond in Hoec's Glimpse offer far more illumination and reach, she relished the thrill of climbing once more. These were not the great hollows on forest worlds that could have supported a city within their trunks. But all the same, to claw up bark and jump from branch to branch was fun enough.
At times the rain fell hard, so hard the rangers had to seek shelter. There was little to be had. Small gorges and crags flooded, something the band learned early on. When they awoke to find themselves in rising water, it had been a scramble to get out. With their equipment soaked, they should have felt heaped and annoyed. Instead, many simply laughed as they emptied their boots and helmets. Afterwards, they spent wetter nights in collections of trees. Sparse as these thickets were, their leafy branches provided enough cover.
Days passed slowly as the band, spread over a few leagues, trekked onward. Some hours were filled with a great deal of chatter. Many swapped tales of their youth or talked of their Craftworlds. Kalvynn remembered Varantha, its beautiful gemstones, and the surprising alliances it made with the Imperium. Alimia boasted about all the races she had won as a very young Wild Rider, which of course were challenged by Kelriel's impressive record. For the likes of Irlikae, Oragroth, and Long Livae, their stories were simpler. Both were voidborn, having known only the ships of the Scattered Sands of Heaven. For a time, before they took up arms, it was a rambunctious youth filled with all manner of mischief.
Not all the stories shared were pleasant. Amonthanil spoke of Alaitoc and its austere tenets of martial discipline. He, like many, was driven from its halls, unwilling to endure such extremes after so many decades. There was conflict in his voice, a cold kind of love for his home. Meslith's tale mirrored that of the likes of Cean-Nirr; born of Ulthwé, trapped with the Eye of Terror, they had sought to escape damnation. They agreed that, had they remained, they would have died as Black Guardians or been sworn to walk the Path of the Seer. Neither prospect proved alluring. Lotien, although he was not an Outcast, did agree it was a relief to be away from the open, bleeding wound in the fabric of space.
Someone like Nehánta of Karan-Ske had their choice made for them. Like many of her distant Craftworld, she had dutifully fought against the Ultramarines in the desperate hope to keep their realm from growing. But she had grown disillusioned by war, had turned to drink, and purloined too many items from various merchants and keepers. For that, she was forced to become an Outcast. There was no regret in her voice as she spun her tales, but there was no pride either.
Some, like Tirol, did not join in such banter. Others, like Fyrdra, were too busy. As the journey progressed from days to weeks, many suffered from the damp cold. For aeldari, true sickness was rare, but even they were not immune to the effects of climate. Whenever they stopped, the soul-weaver examined those who were weak and riddled with tremors or coughs. Her runestones snatched the chill from their bones and soothed their throats. Tirol, too, provided remedies, making soups or drinks from healing herbs and water.
For all these conversations, there were some days in which little was said. A whispered word, perhaps, a command from Maerys or one of the Pathfinders, but that was all. On certain days, when the wind struck suddenly and the rain fell in sheets, nothing at all was said.
Then, there were the orks. Mechanized patrols appeared out of the fog every few days. At night, their headlights appeared like the angry gazes of monsters out of legend. Clanking and clunking, rattling and roaring, they lumbered over the plains on their circuitous, southeasterly route. Dochariel always spotted them first and issued a warning to those below. The rangers would activate their cameleoline coats and disappear into the high grass, crouch among rocks, dive into ravines, or nestle among bushes. Closer and closer they drew, causing the ground to rumble and shake.
To watch them drive by, their gunners and passengers entirely unaware, brought Maerys a true thrill. Remaining unseen from danger that drew so close created an unmatched fluttering within her chest. It was a mixture of terror and excitement that never lost its odd charm. Did it come from the challenge of remaining unseen? Was it merely the adrenaline preparing her for the potential of combat? Or had fear truly seeped into her soul at the thought of an ax falling on her neck. Perhaps, it was everything, and she preferred this over battle. But even after several of these patrols failed to notice them, the feeling was just as alluring as the last. When they had left their sight, she notified Chief Oromas—like the other probes, they must have been annihilated, for no survivors made the journey back.
As night settled on the slow, twelfth day, Maerys paused and checked their surroundings with the vision of beyond. For many leagues around them, there were no orks. All she saw were banks of fog, lonely trees, and a gorge to the west. Slowly, she removed the goggles and tucked them away.
"We make for the crevice to encamp," she said to Oragroth.
"Are you sure you do not wish to keep going?" asked the hunter. "If we press onward, we will reach Ratta go-Klamma's city by morning."
"It will be daylight then and I wish for darkness when we approach it. Let us take the remainder of tonight and the day to rest and prepare. Infiltrating the city will be no easy task."
They waved the Band of Kurnous forward and approached the edge of the gorge. Rangers pointed their long rifles and shuriken pistols into it. Below, there were only piles of boulders, fallen logs, trees bent and twisted in queer angles, and soft grass along the bottom. Fortunately, i thad not flooded. Holstering their weapons, the rangers leaped from stone to stone or slid down softer embankments.
Maerys took off her hood and helmet and faced the rangers. "Small fires only and dig them deep. Eat quickly, I do not wish for the smell of cooking meat or mulling wine to travel with the smoke. Iuchanth, Orocin, Cethliu, Aerae, you take the first watch."
Satchels and bundles were doffed, hoods pulled down, helmets taken off. Some immediately set about digging the pits for their campfires while others claimed nooks between the rocks or soft grass beneath trees. Dochariel and his Swooping Hawks dropped from above as well. The Exarch hastily removed his helm and crouched by the Pathfinders' fire. Once, they might have balked and given him space. But he had become a familiar face among them and they greeted him warmly.
"Even with this suit," he said, "it grows mighty cold up there. But, I think the rain has moved off for now. It will not be back until tomorrow afternoon. Ah, thank you." Lotien handed him a cup of mulled wine, which he eagerly sipped. Oragroth sat beside him with Crúba on his shoulder. As he fed the bird little chunks of meat, Dochariel smiled. "Myself and this little fellow are not so different."
"I shall not feed you," grunted Oragroth, and Dochariel laughed.
"I am not certain," said Irlikae as she sat down beside Maerys. "I think I'd choose you over Crúba—I'd be more likely to keep my fingers."
"Do not be so afraid of him," said the Kurnite, annoyed. "Crúba is not as wild as you may think. He will obey my word."
"Will you let him fly with us tomorrow?" asked Dochariel.
"We shall see. There should not be too many wings in the sky when we slip into the city, lest the orks strike them down." He looked over his shoulder as Lotien began repairing a tear in his coat. But the bonesinger hadn't made more than a few stitches before Fyrdra approached and took him by the arm.
"That is enough work," she lectured. "Sit down and eat."
"But—"
"You will shrink at this rate if you are not careful."
She put an arm around him and forced him onto the log Tirol rolled next to the campsite. Fyrdra kept it there while she handed him a plate of herb-covered dragon chops. Lotien took it, then must have felt the cold, for he shyly pressed himself into the soul-weaver. Taller and bigger than him, she must have been a reservoir of heat.
Seated across from them, Kalvynn eyed Fyrdra curiously. After taking a drink for his cup, he set it down and rested his arms on his knees. The soul-weaver noticed his staring and quirked her head to the side.
"Why did you leave Varantha?" he asked her. "If it is behind you, why do you honor it so?" He pointed at the golden streak through her ebony hair.
"It was not easy to leave a home I cherished," she answered. "I keep Varantha's gold with me, always. But I did not want to merely wait in a healer's temple for the wounded. I struck out to ride with corsairs, for the action is constant, and they too need their wounds mended."
"Your cause is more noble than mine. I merely wished for an adventure." He touched wrist, which bore many scars. "I ended up with more of an adventure than I bargained for."
"That is behind you now," grunted Tirol, sitting between him and Amonthanil. "You have the journey before you and that is all that counts. Here, eat this." He handed him a bowl filled with black herbs and small hunks of dragon meat seasoned with red dust. Kalvynn's lips wrinkled at the sight of it and Tirol scowled. "It may not look appetizing but the herbs will ease any soreness in your joints, let me assure you."
"Alright, that is enough," snapped Irlikae. "I do not believe you in the slightest. Why do you have such knowledge of all these plants and herbs and what-not?"
"Ask any ranger here and they will know quite a few themselves!"
"I do not think I know half of what you do," said Marys into her cup, smiling.
"The most I've ever done is chew some bark," said Alimia with a shrug. She stood over Meslith, folded her arms atop her head, and leaned over to look her in the eye. "It did little to sustain me, that is certain."
"I cannot imagine why," said Meslith, sarcastically. As Alimia slid beside her and rested her head on her thigh, the Pathfinder of Ulthwé gestured to Tirol. "But you are from Biel-Tan. Who is born there that is not a warrior? You yourself still embody much of that zeal and fire. It is so strange that something so trivial would engage you."
"These are not trivialities," snapped Tirol. "Much power can be found in the stalks of even the smallest plants."
"See! That is what I mean!" giggled Irlikae. "This is no mere interest but adoration!"
"Let it be or scry my mind if you are that curious!"
"Where is the fun in that? Tell us!"
"I do not think you can withstand this assault," joked Maerys. "You better tell them."
"No!"
"Friend, if you resist, they may beat it out of you," said Livae, pipe smoke wafting from her nostrils.
"Share it or you shan't sleep!" laughed Lotien, which in turn made Fyrdra titter. Tirol's blue eyes blazed brighter than they ever had. As the Pathfinders and other rangers badgered him, he clutched his temples as if possessed by a terrible pain. Eventually, he groaned and jumped to his feet.
"I was a botanist on the Path of Service before I became an Outcast!" he shouted. "There! Are you pleased!? Will you cease your prattling now!?" All fell silent as he sat down slowly. Tirol brought his knees to his chest and hunched forward. "Go ahead and laugh."
"There is nothing to laugh at," said Fyrdra. "Botany is a vital service for the Asuryani. Pure food, devoid of taint both malignant and Warp-corruption, is a keystone in our survival."
"I fought on many of the warrior paths," grumbled Tirol. "But my soul never found solace or fulfillment in any of them. After centuries of bloodshed, I turned to aiding my people. There, nurturing crops and studying ancient plant life, for the first time, brought me joy. I felt useful and worthwhile. But those I knew from the shrines mocked me. A coward they called me for leaving the temple. I suffered their abuses for too long and left. If my Craftworld did not treat me with respect, then they did not deserve me. So I have wandered, made war when I had to, and have made my studies whenever I can. The Path of the Outcast might be no better, for we are reviled and dismissed all the same, but at least here, my choices are my own."
The tall, muscular Pathfinder looked back up. He met the eyes of all those gathered around him, waiting for some kind of rebuke or taunt. Instead, Irlikae ventured across the campsite, knelt in front of him, and took his hands in her own.
"Thank you for telling us," she said. "The bonds of this band are growing stronger now."
"And nobody can doubt your courage," said Amonthanil, putting an arm over Tirol's shoulders. He then smirked and winked. "We shall call you the fighting fruit."
Tirol tackled the laughing Amonthanil to the ground. They rolled over one another twice with the Starstrider underneath him. The larger Pathfinder roared, not in anger, but in laughter. His wide, strong face lit up as he stood Amonthanil up and wrapped a large around him. He brought Irlikae into his embrace as well, although the shorter, smaller aeldari was smothered against his chestplate. A smile was found on every face around the campfire then, and Maerys' soul felt as though it were buoyed upon a sunlit sea.
"Biel-Tan stands as one of the true guardians of the aeldari." The laughter died away as Celasho the Singer appeared out of the darkness. He had yet to remove his helmet. "There can be no culture but the warrior's if that grand army is to help the empire rise once again. Yet, when it does, what kind of dominion will it be where there is nothing but war to sustain it?"
The Warlock reached up and took off his ornate helmet. His gaunt face glowed in the weak firelight. "The Path of the Warrior breeds not only anger and battle-lust, but confidence, and arrogance, if one allows it to fester. Many do not resist. So the soul who cherishes poetry and song will find few friends among the Aspect Warriors of home," he rasped. "There are only three choices; to leave, to endure, or to take up arms once more."
His brow furrowed over his glowing hazel eyes. He reached up to the scarf around his neck and pulled it down. His throat was covered by dozens of scars; not one part of the tissue was unblemished. "But for some of us, there was no choice to make. Celasho covered his neck once more and turned away slightly. "Yes, the Outcasts are frowned upon, but so are they envied. You are all here by your own choice; relish that while you can."
Celasho left the firelight and faded into the evening gray. They observed where he stood for sometime, their faces more grave and hollow than before. Maerys rose up, unwilling for the silence to become oppressive.
"It is time we rest," she said. "Dampen these fires, but not the ones within your heart. Tomorrow, we enter the ork city."
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Headlights tore through the night. Maerys and the Band of Kurnous pressed themselves to the earth and allowed them to pass. This was not one of the probing forces heading to the southeast. This was a smaller patrol, consisting of only a few outriders and fast buggies. Although lightly armed and armored, these orks appeared more pensive than their marauding counterparts. They stopped more often and examined the countryside. Their gazes were steely and prying.
As the orks moved off again, Maerys crawled forward. The other rangers snaked with her. They slithered under pushes and between rocks and pushed over grass. Before them was a strip of trees, similar to the thickets that had become so familiar on the journey. On the other side was go-Klamma's domain.
The smell of its factories, squig pens, and cooking fires was strong, even from a league away. Through the bushes and leaves ahead, she caught glimpses of lights in tower windows and lamps strung on barricades. They were mere pinpricks, twinkling in the darkness. Behind it, the western mountains loomed, jagged and strong, the peaks concealed by hundreds of clouds. These stretched north and south as far as Maerys could see—it was as if they possessed no end.
Maerys felt her pulse quicken. She was eager to set her eyes upon it. It had been so many months since she had seen the city. She remembered Ratta go-Klamma, Grog-Rod, and Snapslasha standing before its fortifications. As stout as it was, it was not impenetrable. Tirol had found a way inside before and so too would the entire Band.
They pushed into the treeline. Maerys had to crawl over a log and through layers of overgrowth. When she finally came to the opposite side, she stopped. Behind her blue visor, her eyes widened. There were murmurs and gasps among the aeldari on either side of her. These were quickly hushed by the Pathfinders. But even in their commands she sensed trepidation and awe.
She looked from side to side. There was a tree just to her right. Slinging her long rifle over her shoulder, she took a running jump from a nearby rock and caught the lowest branch. Maerys heaved herself up onto it and then clung to the next branch. She climbed slowly at first, finding her footing carefully. Yet, her breath grew ragged as she clawed her way up faster. Pushing through bushels of leaves and scraping off bark, she eventually made it to the top. Balancing between two branches, she emerged from the top and took off her helmet. Cold, wet wind caught her hair and briefly covered her face.
Ratta go-Klamma had completely deconstructed his city and in its place built a massive fortress. It was a semicircular bastion that ran far to the north and south and then back into the mountains themselves. Huge sub-fortresses were dug right into the rock-faces themselves. The walls were high, hiding every structure behind them. Every wall of countless huts had been dismantled and built into the new wall. Pillboxes and bunkers studded the foot of the curtain wall amid tangles of razorwire and spiked traps hutting outward. Huge, garrison towers divided the ramparts into sections. Everywhere, there were heavy tricannons, quad-guns, and artillery pieces. Even the gates themselves, decorated with a gigantic white ork-shaped skull, were many meters thick and guarded by a teeming horde of orks.
Lined up with the gate was the canyon that broke up the mountain range. That same glow she had witnessed when she first came to Sú-il Bhán burned brighter than ever before. Through the night came a steady, overpowering clang of machines. Hammering, stamping, fusing, tempering, clashing. Maerys' ears throbbed with each impact.
"They know we cannot meet them in the field, so they have crafted a barrier that forces us to fight as they do," said Oragroth, climbing up beside her. "We will need to scale the walls or slip through the gate when another patrol comes through."
"It is too late for that, look." Maerys pointed as the gates rumbled apart. Another mechanized force exited the fortress. "We will have to wait several days before they send out another. Call in Dryane's aerial hosts. Destroy them here and now so they will be forced to commit. We'll then rely on our cloaks, seize a new position, and enter when the next patrol comes out."
The ork force gathered outside the walls. Dozens of buggies, trucks, and gun wagons clustered together. But then, screaming from the night, came the Phoenixs. The ground-attack fighters swept from above, launching plasma missiles that glowed white-blue in the night. Their first salvo struck part of the convoy, obliterating it. They came round again, straight towards the gate to finish off the rest. But as they did, an overwhelming burst of mega-gatling shells blasted from the canyon and exploded in the air. Countless guns on the walls fired as well, creating such a volume of shells that they were unavoidable.
All fifteen Phoenixes were struck. Those that did not explode soared into the ground, embedding into the earth. Some caught fire, but others merely crumpled. Survivors from the convoy then charged to these wrecks and tore open the cockpits. Dead pilots were ripped apart and impaled. But the living were seized and hacked to pieces. Others were disemboweled and their shrill death screams pierced the night.
Maerys dropped through the branches until she reached the ground. She took up her long rifle and charged out of the thicket. But two sets of hands grabbed her and pulled her back. "Unhand me!" she snarled.
"They are dead," said Celasho, lifelessly. "If you attempt to retrieve their spirit stones now, you will get us all killed."
"Please, Maerys. It tears a hole in the heart but we must wait. For now, we must return and report what we have—"
"No," said Maerys, tearing away from their arms. "We must know what weapons they possess to inflict such devastation. If we do not glimpse it with our own eyes, the entire army will be blind."
"How do you intend to infiltrate the city then?" asked Dochariel. "The gate is overwhelmed with their numbers now and these walls possess no weaknesses to the likes of us."
Maerys clutched her forehead and paced. The images of hundreds, thousands of dead aeldari in the field flashed through her mind. She would not flee, she could not force the gate. To scale the walls invited unnecessary danger. Isha, she thought and gazed upwards, what shall we do? All she saw were the mountains, looming over her and the ork walls. She grimaced and clutched her spirit stone.
"We climb."