The Fallen Saint

[Shiva]

Niiiiccceeee! :)

 

More, please? :lol:

[cryptomancer]

Hah-haa! The plot thickens!

 

Greatness and awesomeness again. Well done. Keep it going. You're getting a real rhythm.

 

-crypto

[Lady_Canoness]

Well, it turns out that this might take longer than I had expected, and I will have to make a 9th installment.

 

Already this #8 is longer than any other, and is possibly even more action packed. The final version that you read here has change significantly from my origianl concept, but I think this change is for the better.

If it seems that this installment is incomplete, well that is because it is! (think of this as #8 1/2!)

 

This scene depicts a very interesting internal struggle within the Fallen Saint that will be concluded in the next installment, as well as another glimpse of our schemeing Chaos Sorcerers (Maelekor, and his friend who has yet to be identified), then it all wraps up with the first of three test.

 

Here we go!

 

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The 8th installment of the Fallen Saint

 

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All was as she remembered – the tile floor, dirty and faded after centuries of use – the walls with leering faces stretching ever upward to the ceiling, unseen in the shrouded darkness – even the smell was the same - but all that was of no concern to her, for there was one difference. This time she was not alone.

 

At the far end of the hall a figure covered by a heavy cloak stood silently waiting - waiting for her. Aribeth stiffened, drew her flaming sword, and slowly walked towards the figure. The cloaked being did like wise, until they were standing face to face.

“Who are you?” Aribeth demanded, staring into the face shrouded within the cowl of the thick grey cloth. The figure slowly opened the folds of the robe and let it slip gently down to the dusty floor – revealing pristine white sororitas armour that shone so bright that it seemed to banish the gloom with its magnificence. The livery at her waist was a smooth mat black – unblemished by dust or dirt – hanging perfectly from her armour. A power sword was sheathed at her side, an elegant weapon – similar to the one that Aribeth herself had wielded before its destruction in battle. Upon her head was a Sabbat pattern sororitas helmet of the same pure white as the rest of her armour adorned with a golden fleur de lys.

Aribeth simply stared, before her face twisted into a cruel sneer, “Is nowhere safe from the deluded underlings of the Imperial Church?”

“Watch you tone, heathen!” the sister said, her voice authoritative and steady – and eerily familiar. “The Emperor gave you your life, preserved it, and by His will, can take it away.”

Aribeth glared at the helmeted face – seeing the eyes of the woman within the helmet – passionless and serene. “Who are you to spew such bloated lies in my face? I could see you dead in this place! Do you know where you are? Do you dare to find out? Pathetic fool!”

The woman before her reached up and unsecured her helmet – slowly lifting it off her head – revealing her face to look Aribeth right in the eye. “You will do no such thing.”

She stumbled backwards – at a loss for words. This woman – smooth dark hair, eyes grey like glass, refined features that revealed a graceful beauty – she was looking at her very own face. She stumbled backwards, gaping in disbelief – how?

 

“You know the truth Aribeth; it is you that lies to yourself. Do not be mistaken, this place harbours your demise as well as mine – if you leave this place then you will die.”

 

“What devilry is this?” she stammered, tearing her eyes away from the woman’s faith – unable to look upon her former self. “It’s a trick – It must be! My own voice speaks to me from my own lips… How? Why are you – why am I here? What’s happening?”

Her knees gave out, and she sank to all fours. Trembling uncontrollably, she felt horribly weak – horribly ill. She was afraid. No! Impossible! She was marked by Khorne – she was a warrior of battle, of victory, of slaughter – fear did not exist for her. Yet here she was – terribly afraid of what had befallen her.

The white armoured sister knelt by Aribeth’s side, and laid a flawless white gauntlet on her trembling, black armoured shoulder. “Aribeth,” she said, her voice soft and comforting, “you are dying. I have come to help you, to help you be at peace.”

 

“No!” the Fallen Saint cried. “That’s not true! I – I am more powerful that ever! I am stronger than you… me… us…” Her voice cracked, unable to hide the fear in her heart any longer.

 

“No, Aribeth, you are dying… you just haven’t let yourself go. We should have died with the rest of our sisters; it was not supposed to be like this. Is this life worth holding on to? Is the pain worth it?”

 

Aribeth rested her forehead on the dust covered floor, her body trembling as she wept openly. “Then what was it supposed to be like!?! Can you tell me??? All my life I have followed their orders, believed in their lies, worn their colours, carried their banners, and killed their foes – and for what? They left me to die – why should I crawl back to them now???”

 

“The foe preys on your doubts, Aribeth. You are being used: you know this. Take your strength in the Emperor – he can forgive you – he can help you. I can help you, if you will only let me. The Emperor protects even now in your darkness. Return to him and your soul shall be redeemed!”

 

Even through her tears she recognized that name – recognized her hatred for it. Forcing herself abruptly to her knees and then her feet, she stood up and walked purposefully down the hall – away from the arch and herself.

“Where are you going, Aribeth?” her mirror called out. “That path only leads to oblivion.”

Aribeth didn’t know anymore – she doubted that she ever had known. Her path had always been set before her – now as then – would she never be truly free? She walked directly ahead, and did not look back – her bewilderment total. Her sword glowed dimly beside her as she dragged it along the floor – its flame gone, just as the flame in its master’s heart had also been subdued.

 

Her mirror hastened to catch up with her, and fell in step by her side – her features radiating with a calm confidence.

 

“Why do you run now Aribeth? We have never turned our backs in fright before – are you sure you wish to change that now?”

 

Aribeth stopped and cleared her eyes, “I don’t know.” she said – her voice distant as if she were looking into the vastness of the void for the very first time and realizing how infinitely small she really was… it felt that way, for now she was truly nothing – caught between to worlds with nothing but the silence of an infinite vacuum to accompany her upon her way. Was this what absolute freedom felt like, or was this not freedom at all?

She looked up into her own eyes before her – eyes that were clear and grey – not poisoned and black like they were now. “I don’t know anything anymore.” was all she said.

“Then know this:” her former self said, suddenly serious and concerned, “the path immediately before you is host to three guardians – the guardians of your doom. Should your heart wish it, they will return you to peace, and we will at long last be free of the life that has tormented us. You must be wary though, for the same is true of the opposite, and should your passions dominate your will, you will be forever lost unto damnation and the enslavement of the Chaos Gods.”

 

The sword suddenly leapt into life underneath Aribeth’s gauntleted fist.

 

Her eyes narrowed and a fiendish grin slipped onto her face, “Listen to you now! You sound as if I am already lost!” she threw her head back and laughed. “Know this, phantom, shade – whatever the hell you claim to be: You are what I used to be, I am what I am now. If the same heart beats within our chests, and the same mind within our heads – then do not think to chastise me - to break my spirit so easily. I see now that we are indeed the same – for I would have said the same thing – though now you are the past and I the present. There is darkness dwelling in the recesses of your heart – just like there was mine – do not deny what we both are thinking!”

 

The mirror looked back at her – her face set like stone. “Past and present… I just hope the future knows what is best.” She turned, and walked back down the hall – away from the black armoured figure of Aribeth, who after some hesitation called after her:

“Whatever happens now is up to fate, so pray to that corpse of your god that we aren’t destined to meet again!”

 

Flaming sword in hand, Aribeth, the Blooded One, stretched out her wings before striding purposefully in the opposite direction of her receding mirror – her heart firm, and her mind set – never before, and never again would she falter like she had just now. Never again.

 

* * * *

 

He frowned, shifting his weight uncomfortably, troubled by what he had witnessed – she had hardly begun, but already failure had barely been evaded. He turned to face the man standing near the chambers doors, bitterness etched across his ashen face; the other man wore a smug grin and was clearly relishing his companion’s discomfort.

“You feel quite compelled to point out the obvious, do you Maelekor?”

“Quite naturally,” Maelekor chuckled, “you see, I never knew you to be one to take such risks, but then one little fool stumbles quite blindly across a morsel of our secret and suddenly you panic.”

“If you were not such a fool yourself then you would realize that failure in this will be bad for you as well as me, brother.”

Maelekor raised an eyebrow, “Insults? From you?” he loosed a dry rasping laugh, “I am not the one who lacked the clairvoyance to foretell of our pawn’s little… ‘mishap’. None the less, she is to face the first trial, and should she fail to confront and overcome her past… well then, we’ll have to see that it doesn’t come to that.”

 

* * * *

 

The doors were black – no sheen, no décor, no nothing – just black. Jet black. No noise or heat passed through it – there was nothing remarkable about them. Yet Aribeth sensed that behind it would be something of great importance – one of the guardians that she had been warned about

 

Reaching out, she pushed open the door… and entered a whole new world.

 

The sky was ash grey pelting rain down into heart of the city where she now stood – yet even the rain couldn’t dampen the smell of battle. The carbon tinge on the air assailed her nostrils with the smell of munitions, pulverised stone, and – most glorious of all – blood. The rough barking sound of bolter fire and the high-pitched whine of las-rounds wrapped itself around her consciousness and momentarily overwhelmed her.

She gazed about – as if numb to all that was around her. She was standing in the shell of a ruined building, and she was not alone. At least a dozen white-armoured adeptas sororitas huddled or scrambled through the building – occasionally snapping of shots before ducking back down to avoid enemy fire. The leader of the squad – a tall veteran sister armed with a chainsword and a plasma pistol – scrambled towards her.

“My Lady, Sister Joana’s squad reports that they are pinned down and taking heavy losses – they are unable to provide support at this time!” the sister shouted over the cacophony of war, “What are your orders Lady Palatine?”

Aribeth remained silent, still trying to gather her wits about her in this place. She had fought here before – that she knew – but she could not recall why, or whom they were fighting. She stood silently in her black armour – a strong contrast to all the white clad sisters around her – and glanced about, paying no heed to the patiently waiting sister superior at her side. The building she was in was facing a large open space – possibly an arterial road, but now little more than an open killing field. Thirty yards directly in front of her was an administration building across the road, where she saw muzzle flashes and tracer rounds betraying the enemy’s position. At closer inspection she counted at least eight shooters with small arms, and what appeared to two rapid-firing heavy weapons – difficult, but take-able.

“My Lady?”

Aribeth turned back to face the sister beside her. “We storm the building from the front and kill all within.”

The other sister looked at her incredulously, “M-My Lady? A frontal assault? Surely that would be suicide!?”

As if on cue a sister not five feet to the sister superior’s right took a las-round in the throat and slammed down to the floor – chocking on the blood that was rapidly pooling about her.

“Do you want to end up like her? No!? Then we storm the building!”

The sister superior was obviously startled by the tone of Aribeth’s commanding voice as well as her complete disregard for the sister who had just been killed, but she was well drilled and nodded in ascent before relaying the order through her helmet comlink. As one the sisters rose from cover and hurried to the fore with bolters blazing. Fire spat back at them, but most pattered harmlessly off there armour.

Aribeth raised her flaming sword with a wordless war cry of pure blood-lust ringing from her throat and sprinted into the open before launching herself sky-ward upon her great wings. Her heart leapt within her chest as the thrill of battle overcame her - so long she had waited - so long! Not since the realm of Khorne had she been presented with such an opportunity of battle – and she planned to make the most of it. A las-blast soared upwards to meet her, and kissed her cheek - drawing forth her crimson blood – the prick of pain urging her on with greater vigour.

In an instant her armoured form crashed through the upper-levels of the administration building and she got her first proper glimpse of the foe – ragged but wiry muscled men wearing dirtied combat fatigues and crude bare-metal armour. Landing solidly before them, the doomed men had but a split-second to shout out a warning before the blooded goddess was upon them. The first three died in a heartbeat – cleaved in two and incinerated by the flame-wreathed sword. A fourth bravely threw himself forward with a broad-blade – lifting the weapon high above his head to strike down his fiendish attacker – but all was for not as Aribeth spun on her feet with inhuman speed, cutting the man’s arms clean off at the elbows before bringing the sword back around to claim his head. A fifth man appeared in a broken door way, and adamantly determined to bring down the murderous woman before him, pulled the pin on a krak grenade, held it to his chest, and ran towards her bellowing profanities.

Brave, but stupid.

The grenade detonated barely a two seconds after he had started running – vaporizing the fool, and leaving Aribeth to snort with contempt over his demise.

The battle sisters had by now crossed the roadway, Aribeth reasoned, and judging by the bolter-fire from bellow, were now engaged in slaughtering the foe beneath her feet. Six of the sisters had been cut down as they ran – their bloodied corpses now decorating the shell marked ground – leaving five to confront the enemy below.

Raising her sword high above her head, she – an avatar of the Blood God himself – struck the floor beneath her feet with such a blow the building trembled, and a titanic rent was forced into it by her sword. With a great crash she broke her way through the flooring and dropped into the swirling melee below.

 

The battle raged as the outnumbered sororitas struggled to overcome their foes. Two of the white armoured sisters had been laid low – one by a point-blank shot through the face, and the other run through by a hefty but crude spear. The unnamed sister superior fought on regardless – her chainsword roaring defiantly, and her plasma pistol spitting death – but it would only be a matter of time until she and her two remaining companions were overwhelmed by the murderous soldiers around them.

Aribeth plummeted into their midsts, her flame-wreathed sword lashing out at all around her – a burly man was struck-down, his body burned beyond recognition by the daemonic flames writhing upon its surface – then anther, and another, until all of the enemy soldiers lay butchered at her feet.

But Aribeth’s lust for death was far from satiated, and she turned upon the three remaining battle sisters with a bestial fury. Aribeth relished in the butchering the first two sisters within reach, and then turned on the veteran.

 

“Traitor!” she cried, lunging to the attack.

 

Aribeth grinned diabolically – this would be well worth the wait – this soldier would surely offer more sport than the other Imperial lackeys she had slew upon the barren red plains of Khorne’s world.

She ducked under a horizontal swipe aimed at her head and nimbly side-stepped the reverse thrust aimed at her chest before launching a blistering counter attack. Her sword descended in a magnificent arc upon the sororitas veteran, but she quickly readjusted her body in time to bring her chainsword up to parry the blow. A solid stance, Aribeth though, solid but pathetic! The flaming sword smote down on the chainblade with such strength that it forced the veteran to her knees. Far from defeated however, the loyal sister swiftly brought her plasma pistol in her left hand to the fore and pressed its muzzle firmly to her assailant’s side – a point-blank shot that would send any foe screaming down to the hells. Twisting on her feet, Aribeth noticed the lethal weapon just in time to roll past the gun as its ear-splitting shriek sent a white hot plasma bolt smashing into the opposite wall. Her chance of a swift kill foiled, the veteran sororitas struggled to get to her feet, but she would never make it. Twisting behind her guard, Aribeth brought her sword – the sword that would bring murderous death to many a foe – to bear, and struck the veteran’s head from her shoulders in a swift motion – the headless corpse crashing to the ground – defeated in death.

 

The din of battle still sounded around her, but Aribeth cared not. The frenzy of battle was upon her – her hot blood racing through her veins – her hands quaked as the fury rippled through her body – craving to shed yet more blood.

Spattered with gore she threw her head back and roared upwards to the clouded sky and the heavens beyond.

She was Aribeth, the Blooded One, the Fallen Saint, and nothing would stand in her way.

[Lady_Canoness]

It has been a pleasure writing for your audience, and I'm sure I will miss this story now that it is over, but after 9 installments the largest and the last one is upon us.

 

Throughout the story we have seen that Aribeth, though falling to Chaos, is still human. And I suppose that that was the major theme of this work - putting a human face on Chaos. There were many subtlties that I tried to work into this story, and I hope that you picked up on many of them, and found the story more rewarding because of it.

 

In my opinion, dialogue is the hardest part of any story - I tried to confront that in this section by inserting what I thought was some memorable lines, that well suited the situation - we'll see if you agree with me.

 

We now come to the climax of the story, and the battle that everyone has been waiting for...

 

With no further delay, I give you:

 

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The Ninth and Final installment of the Fallen Saint

 

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It was times like these that Maelekor wished would last forever – the light bursting from the alter in many extravagant shades and textures - rich fuchsia, dazzling azure, deep scarlet, and the forms – some like smoke, some like fire, and even others like liquid suspended in the air… magnificent… and then the mirrors reflecting these spectacles endlessly around the room… truly magnificent. However, the pandemonic performance was over nearly as soon as it had begun, and the room was returned to its ordinary state which, though awe inspiring in its own right, paled in comparison to what he had beheld just a few moments before.

The other man stepped away from the now steaming alter and walked solemnly towards the great obsidian doors and pushed them open – though he himself did not leave.

“Well?” Maelekor asked bluntly – noting that the other man was unlikely going to divulge any information willingly.

“The first test is completed, and I am satisfied with the result.”

“Oh?” Maelekor added, “and why would that be? Would there be any result that you would not be satisfied with?”

“Of course there would!” the other man snapped. “One does not call something a test unless it can be failed. This is a test – thus it can be failed. Though I must admit that I am not surprised that she succeeded in this trial… the next one however will be much more difficult.”

“And why would that be?”

The other man chuckled – a most unnerving sound – before replying, a hint of a smile upon his face: “It is an irony of sorts, that to fall from grace one must be human. That was her fault you see, she was just too human – she was passionate, proud, envious, and so filled with bitter hatred… yet she loved also.”

Maelekor raised a non-existent eyebrow, “Love? From a Battle Sister? How do you figure that?”

The other man sneered and continued, “She never tasted love – not in any of its guises - so naturally she was drawn to it – thirsted for it. Love was a chink in her resolve, and soon that chink grew and grew, until finally it broke. The irony is that though love made her fall, it is love that must be extinguished in her heart – for love is a weakness that we can ill afford.” He looked back at the steaming alter, “This will be difficult for her, and thus it will be a good test. You will enjoy watching this.”

Maelekor nodded in agreement, “I must admit that I was beginning to grow tiresome with the lack of sport.”

Their combined laughter could be heard out the doors and down the hall.

 

* * * *

 

The second black featureless door was found in the basement of the ruined administration building. Aribeth pushed it open without hesitation, and found herself once again transported to a far away world. She emerged into what appeared to be a darkened cellar of an old stone building. The air was stuffy and dry with a musty sent to it - a faint scratching echoed through the perfect darkness that surrounded her – perhaps a small rodent or something foraging in the dark. Just ahead of her she perceived an ever so small beam of light braving the darkness through what must have been a crack in a door – the scratching grew clearer.

She had the strangest feeling that she had been here before, but like all else that had happened in her previous life she found it impossible to piece together the memories that had wasted away under the clawing pain and the torrents of bloodshed. Yet somehow this place was in her memory – why else would she be here had it not been – it must have been somewhere significant… no, that was unlikely – battle and worship was all her life had ever been.

She laid her gauntleted hand on the door, pushing it open slowly with an aged creek. She was entering a wide hall filled with row upon row, stack upon stack, and shelf upon shelf of parchment, scrolls, and codices. She ignored them – they were meaningless to her – she had never been one for text-work, though she had tried – before giving up completely. She wove her way through the maze of writing for what seemed like an age – the ever-present scratching boring a whole in her mind like an insect would through wood.

At long last she finally found her way out of the piles of paper and books, to see yet another black door standing before her. She shrugged – why should she give a damn in this guardian was nothing but a pile of old paper? She pushed on the door. The door didn’t budge. She pushed again. Still nothing. She leaned on the door with all her weight before ramming into it with her shoulder. Yet, now as before, the door remained defiantly sealed. She hadn’t notice that the scratching had stopped.

 

“Aribeth?”

 

She spun quickly around, sword drawn – she knew that it would have been too easy to pass through here without battle. But it was not a warrior that stood before her – it was a man dressed in an elegant yet simple robe – his feather quill still held loosely in his hand – the lectern at which he had been working was just a few paces behind him.

“Aribeth? Is that really you?” he asked, his face traced with concern and surprise. He was quite tall – at least 6 ½ feet, or so she guessed – and his face, though handsome by most standards, was tired and weary with sleepless nights and the slow weight of time. He was likely in his fifties, she imagined – his long hair smooth but greying. Yet he seemed familiar – just as did this place where she now stood.

“Who in the warp are you?” she retorted bluntly. She had no respect for anyone – let alone someone who carried no arms and wore no armour.

“You don’t remember me, I see – though I wonder why you are if you are lost of your memories. Surely you recall the time we spent in this place – I was your tutor, remember?”

“That still doesn’t answer my question. Who the hell are you, and how do you know me? Speak quickly; I have little time to listen to your worthless tongue!”

The man flinched as if struck, before sighing painfully. When he spoke again his voice sounded heavy with despair: “I might as well start at the beginning, seeing as you don’t seem to know anything of what I speak.” He cleared his throat purposefully, and started again, “My name is Marcellinus Lyke. I am a theologian and scholar for the administrative branch of the Holy Emperor’s Church – that is how we met.”

He walked over to a nearby stack of tomes, removed the one on the top– the words “The Truest Path” were written across its cover – he held it up for her to see, as if seeing it might help her remember – it clearly didn’t.

Marcellinus put the book back abruptly and turned towards Aribeth with his hands clasped together behind him. “You see…” he said, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot under her malevolent gaze, “You came to me because you had doubts. You said that you were unsure about many aspects of your life, and that this lack of clarity was troubling you.” He took a deep breath and stared at the floor: “You said that you had lost the ability to pray.”

She stared at him blankly – if he thought that that would mean anything to her, then he was wrong – she didn’t care about this past he was describing to her – she didn’t care who he said he was or who he said she was… she was only trying to figure out why she hadn’t killed him yet.

He continued: “Naturally I attributed it to nothing more than anxiety and emotional stress due to the amount of sisters that had been lost under your command during the defence of Saint Jeromia’s Holy Basilica against the sanguinary cult on Proctor Primus. I was wrong however. What I thought was a symptom of your emotions was something much, much darker – I realize this now. You said that the Imperial Church no longer held answers for you, and that you found yourself lost upon the path. What a fool I was! Knowing what I know now I could have helped you! But rather I did nothing – unwilling myself to understand what was happening to you.”

“You and all the rest!” she spat, “You think that I need saving!? You think that I am the hapless one!? You are fool, and you will not live to be corrected!”

Marcellinus held up his left hand, and motioned for her patience, “You misunderstand me – I agree with what you have done, it is no failing on your behalf, rather it was the weakness of the Imperial faith that did not deserve your fealty. I myself have had discrete connections with the ruinous powers for some time now – long before we ever met. At first I simply wished to understand them so that I might be better prepared to thwart them… but the more I looked the more I understood that they were right. Chaos is the true power in the universe – it alone holds the answers to all of humanity’s queries. But as you know, mankind is subjugated beneath the Imperial faith as a means of control so that the masters can exploit the masses to their own ends. You have freed yourself from their clutches, and for that, I honour you.”

Aribeth snorted with contemptuous laughter: “You expect me to believe that? You are a fool! Damn humanity to the warp! I don’t care about any of that! I care only for battle and bloodshed, and I do not need your praise for that!”

“Aribeth, listen to me:” he said, suddenly stern in the presence of the black armoured warrior, “For as long as I have known you, you have been looking for a higher purpose to your life – more than constantly fighting at the beck and call of your masters. At last you are free, though I admit that I wish that I had revealed this to you sooner, but finally we can forge our own fortunes – free from the tyranny of the Imperium! Before you left on that fateful day to go to Tarris Phadreos – to what seemed at the time to be certain death – you told me something, do you remember?” She didn’t. “You told me that… that you had feelings for me, and that you thought you loved me. Despite all the time we had spent together, and as much as I knew about you, I was unable to answer you… and you left in silence. I wish to make amends for that now. I love you, and I want to be with you now as your mentor and lover, as we take what is ours for the plucking!”

Like the bursting of a dam all her memories flooded back unbidden into her mind – she remembered it now – how she had spoken to him, how her heart had fluttered when she was near him, how she had found his concern and understanding to be unlike any other she had ever met, how she’d looked at him all those times… she had loved him once… but now it sickened her. The very thought of her weakness for this fool disgusted her. Anger and confusion charged to the fore within her mind – battling each other to win over her consciousness as the flicker of her old self that still loved him looked on with despair.

She blinked – the man smiled before her – he was confident, confident and hopeful… and suddenly fearful – the colour of his face gone.

“DOWN!” he bellowed and threw himself on top of her as a bolt round screamed past and exploded into a pile of parchments – the century old texts bursting into flames upon impact.

She threw Marcellinus off from on top of her, and twisted round just in time to see the massive black form of her attacker ducking back into the maze of writings. She got to her feet – ready to hunt down the unknown assailant – but the flames spread faster over the tinder-dry papers, encircling her and the man Lyke in the raging inferno – the dark doors to her left the only escape.

Taking to his feet, Marcellinus took in the flames of rapture with a mixture of madness-stricken terror and disbelief. The Blooded One stood before him wreathed in her dark glories - anger set within her eyes.

 

“Come on!” he shouted, “We have to escape!”

 

Her gauntlet splintered his cheekbone and sent him sprawling to the floor. Blood sprayed from his ruined face as he crumpled. He didn’t believe it. It made no sense. It was madness! Try as he might, no words could he force from his lips as the armoured figure drew nearer – placing her boot across his throat. His eyes bulged as the pressure increased – and she spoke to him. “You promise me your heart…” her voice little more than a whisper over the flames, “you give it to me, so that you might have me by your side – yours night and day…” Her eyes darkened - lips parting to reveal the crimson marring her teeth – as she stooped to snarl into his face, “You give me your heart, but I take your head!”

The sword came down along the edge of her greave, and with the flash of flame and the spurt of blood, Lyke’s head bounced clear from his body and disappeared to be consumed by the all consuming fire.

With a parting kick she left the corpse to the flames – her heart hollowed now like it had never been.

 

* * * *

 

The Mission Convent of the Order of the Ebon Chalice was a building of both grandeur and purpose. Here in this holy place, born upon the shoulders of mighty pillars and gothic buttresses, many sororitas lived out their daily lives of prayer and discipline. The cold demeanour of the building suited its occupants well, for the sisterhood of the Ebon Chalice was known for their stern and ruthlessly efficient approach to their duties. Aribeth had never felt completely at one with this place, and that is why she would never forget it.

She stood now in the grand entry hall – the massive ornate oak doors closed behind her – dwarfed by the sheer enormity of the building around her. Great murals immortalised many a fallen heroine of ages past in acts of glory and valour – faithful to the last, driving back the foes of mankind with conviction and zeal. The spotless marble floors spread beneath her feet – their sheen echoing the endless hours of serfs and servitors dedicated to keeping them spotless. It was all a waste in her opinion – what the bloody hell did it matter what the floors looked like?

 

At the far end of the hall stood a white armoured figure – alone in the mausoleum-like silence – silhouetted in white before of the featureless black doors at her back. Drawing a flawless silver blade that shone as if the Terran sun itself glowed along its edges, the figure stepped forward – her sword raised in a salute of the knights of old. Aribeth raised her own flaming sword – mirroring the salute gifted to her.

 

The two figures met in the center of the hall – black versus white – both stopping to look at the one across from them. Aribeth face to face with Aribeth.

 

“It should not have come to this.” Aribeth’s past said, her face wearing regret, but also grim resolution.

The Dark One sneered in her face, “I told you that we should not have met again, but you didn’t listen to me – so sure you are that your right and justice will prevail.”

“I cannot allow you to do this Aribeth: you’ll damn us as well as countless others who will suffer you. I will end our life here and now – there is no going back for us, you have made sure of that.”

“Then the time for words is over. Let us end this!”

 

The swords leapt up and struck with a swiftness born of loathing – red flames against pure light – ringing against each other loud and clear summoning the death to come. Each warrior fought with great speed and skill – equals in might. Aribeth ducked under the fatal pass of her opponent’s blade, and then angled her sword downwards – intercepting the reverse stroke as it sought to tear her legs out from under her. Swerving backwards in a feint, she accepted blade upon blade before lunging in to attack anew with vigour. Stabbing, twisting, lunging – they fought in a whirlwind of blows – blades sparking with countless parried blows as each warrior sought to overcome the other through mastery of the sword. The flaming sword stabbed out – flames passing from its blade to lash at Aribeth’s exposed face, singeing her skin. Heedless of the pain she fought on, for pain mattered little when death waited close by to claim the one who faltered.

Back again she drove her attack – power swelling through her – forcing the foe backwards, only to have the tide turned with a renewed counter attack. Both fought with the intricate and precise strokes of the dueller – brute force and culling blows would invite little other than death itself against so skilled an opponent.

The flaming sword passed deftly close to her face once again, the heat blistering her cheek as the Dark One drove home yet more lightning fast strikes. She ducked under it, spread her feet and slashed low – rewarded by a grunt of pain and splash of dark blood dancing out across the white floor – her blade having had pierced her opponents flank. However, the wound was but in the flesh and not a mortal one. The Dark One countered quickly, leaping into the air, bringing her feet up and over her opponent, before twisting midair and bringing her sword down in a punishing arc while she landed nimbly on Aribeth’s opposite side. She parried the blow – if only just – and rolled backwards heels-over-head away from her foe to regain her feet – bringing up her blade to fend off the continued assault.

Unfazed by her wound, the Dark One fought on – fury imbedded in the depths of her eyes as she snarled in the face of her defiant past. Blow after blow rained down from the flame sheathed sword, yet there was no chink in Aribeth’s defence – so solid was she in the ways of the sword. Yet she could feel her strength leaving her in this prolonged battle, and soon she would no longer be able to repel her relentless opponent. She had to end it soon, or she would have failed. For the hundredth time the heathen’s sword surged forth – it was now or never. With the dexterity of a painter she accepted the blow, before twisting her sword ever so quickly and nimbly at just the right angle that it slid down the inferno blade and struck the black-armoured gauntlets with just enough force – the sword leapt out of the Dark One’s hands and clattered along the floor. Not waiting for her foe to react, Aribeth struck with blurring speed. The Dark One jumped back, trying desperately to avoid the killing blow.

 

She almost did.

 

The silver sword scored a long swipe down her chest, paring the armour, and tracing a thin line in the exposed flesh therein. She fell, her body crashing backwards to the marble floor. She couldn’t believe it… she had fallen, she was dying… She coughed, blood sputtering in her throat and forcing itself to her lips as she fought for every last breath. With fading strength she felt along her chest with creeping fingers. The armour was parted along her right where the sword had cut through it from her shoulder, through her breast, and down almost to her waste line. It wasn’t deep, but she could not stand… a slow and agonising bleed to death looked like her only option.

The other woman, Aribeth herself, looked down at her – lying there, death coming for her with the ever expanding pool of blood. She tried to speak, but the blood thwarted her efforts. Aribeth leaned closer, perhaps out of pity for her own darkened image that lay dying on the floor, perhaps because she intended to finish her off… it mattered little to the Fallen Saint. She tried to speak again and failed. Her fingers slid from her breastplate down to her belt, where they found the empty scabbard, as well as purchase upon her last hope. Her voice broke free from its blood-bound prison.

“O-o-once…” she croaked, blood soaking her chin, “o-once I didn’t do i-i-it… I… I… I want-ted my s-sw-sword.”

Slowly her hand crept back upwards, its prize held tightly in its grasp.

“I had… had the c-chance to end… it… before it b-b-b-began…” she was chocking now. “I won’t make the same mistake again.”

Her hand forced itself into the air, grasped in its fist was the bolt pistol. One round had sat in its chamber – unused – given to her by the Inquisitor Galtman for the task of ending her own life. She had dropped it once, unable to kill herself on the surface of that red planet. Now it was pointed right at Aribeth’s face. It would do it now. The bolt round exploded from the chamber – blasting Aribeth from her feet as it blew out the back end of her skull – crashing her to the stone floor… dead.

 

Aribeth was dead now… all that remained was the Dark One, the Blooded One, and the Fallen Saint… Aribeth was no more; she had killed herself – what she had failed to do before. The Fallen Saint allowed a smile to pass across her blood soaked lips, and she faded into darkness.

 

---------------------------

 

There you have, and I hope you enjoyed it!

 

Questions? Don't shy from asking them!

[Shiva]

*faints*

 

OMG that was awesome!! :(

 

My only complaint is that it's over already! You really did an excellent job with this story from start to finish. I can't think of one time where it was lacking. The next time you plan on writing a short story like this, give me a buzz - I'd love to read it!

[dark_melancholy]

In my opinion, dialogue is the hardest part of any story (...)

 

Interesting - I always find descriptions the hardest... to do well.

 

I tried to confront that in this section by inserting what I thought was some memorable lines, that well suited the situation - we'll see if you agree with me.

 

Damn. Everything just sort of flows together in this, so I can't remember any particular line... or I'm just going senile :P That said, I like the way the two Chaos chaps talk. Classy :)

 

I thought the "love" scene was a bit brief, but I can see it turn a bit cliché if it had been longer. The final scene was pure awesome - why don't I ever think of adding little things from the past in my writing like that? Oh, that's right... I can't plan :P

[Lady_Canoness]

I'm considering writing a series leading up to Aribeth's fall - including the Inquisitor Galtman (who everyone seems to like), as well as Marcellinus Lyke and several noted Battle Sisters - but that won't be for a long while.

 

I was originally going to end with our Sorcerer friends Maelekor and his companion finally meeting the Fallen Saint face to face, but I cut that scene in favour of the current ending (which in my opinion is more suitable given the theme of the story). You may have noticed that I stopped calling the Fallen Saint Arbieth when the good and evil finally met in battle, that is because I wanted to emphasise that the Fallen Saint was no longer the woman she used to be, and her act of killing Aribeth was in fact killing her past and all the traces of what she once was - thus making her an ideal servant of chaos. Does the Dark One actually die? I'm not telling!

 

As for the "love" scene... well that was threatening to be veeeeery long (almost a chapter unto itself), so I had to try and keep the significance of the scene while not making it too long.

 

Thanks for the feedback - it means a lot to me as a writer, and I'll be sure to inform you all if I go any further alnog this path using this set of characters!

[cryptomancer]

*applause*

 

Kudos, sir. Kudos! Very well executed. You've captured the GW-ish style of writing, giving us just enough to want more, leaving plenty of directions for the story to go and plenty of plot threads to investigate.

 

I'd forgotten about the Bolt Pistol. I love it when elements you forgot come back around.

 

Cheers!

 

-Crypto

[Lady_Canoness]

I'll admit it: I'm a sucker for writing.

 

So I have decided that I'm going to write another series leading up to the fall of Aribeth called the "Saint Ascendant." This series will set things in motion as well as develope the Characters that were never really described in depth (the inquisitor being one of them).

 

However, you will notice one drastic change: This one will be longer on an installment to installment basis, and I'll either post it here, or in a new thread. But this won't happen for a while, so until then I have the prologue to tide you over.

 

This prologue describes Aribeth's origins.

 

Enjoy!

 

-----------------------

 

The Saint Ascendant

 

----------------------

Prologue

 

 

 

Everywhere he went it was always damn raining – the line – the pit – even here deep in the heart of the decrepit old city. And now at night it was even worse. The rain pattered against the tinted windows of the black GMV as it drove on through the unlit streets – always there was so much damn rain. The car splashed through the puddles as Tarric Kyogen peered out of the passenger window – his keen eyes piercing the gloom and the sheets of water – scanning the buildings beyond the glass. There – he spotted it – the lopsided sign hanging loosely from a long dead torch-post, the faded gold lettering bearing the once proud name of the street beyond it: Victory Avenue.

“Stop the car!” he called to his attendant who sat at the wheel, “This is the street.”

The car pulled over to the curb and stopped smoothly – Grant was the best driver in the regiment, and that was why Kyogen always requested him. Both men stepped out onto the unlit sidewalk, pulling their storm-coats around them and adjusting their caps against the downpour.

“Are you certain about this, Commisar?” Grant asked, “I’m not too sure about this myself…”

Tarric smiled to himself, he liked Grant; he was a good sport, charming, and the men liked him. The lad would one day make an excellent officer.

“Yes Grant, I am certain. I got myself into this, and now I have to get myself out.”

“Your pardon sir, but many of the men have made similar mistakes, and they can just be passed.”

Tarric Kyogen laughed - a throaty chuckle – “Grant my boy, when you have more years behind you, you may understand that some things are too important to ignore – even if they are mistakes. And a good officer must always be accountable for his mistakes.”

 

“Even if they be a court martial offence?”

 

“Especially if they be a court martial offence.”

 

Grant frowned, but Kyogen smiled – some things had to be taught to be understood, for not everything could come from experience.

The two men walked in silence down the drenched road – avoiding what puddles they could, braving those they could not – Kyogen eyeing each address he could find in what little light that graced them. He had been here many times before, though it had admittedly had never felt like this – the nervousness that clenched his belly, the shivers that ran down his spine – no, these were definitely new to him. Then again, he had never gone through this before – to be told that he was-

 

“Sir!” Grant said from beside him, shaking him from his reverie, “5619 – that’s the one right?”

He glanced up at the address sign. “Indeed,” he said, his stomach lurching, “that’s the one.”

They turned and vaulted up the short steps leading to the apartment hab’s doorway – no light was visible from the building, save for the very last window on the 7th floor. Grant reached the door first and eased it open – the creaking hinges barely audible over the down-poor. Kyogen glanced one last time up and down the street, but as he had presumed, it was bare.

The hall was cold and dark as the two men stepped inside, Grant slowly shutting the door with a small click after his senior officer had entered. A flight of stairs stretched up to the first landing not three paces ahead of them across the dirt incrusted floor. Tarric Kyogen removed his commissar cap and solemnly handed it to Grant, “I do not wish to be disturbed, Grant. In the event that anyone else should arrive” he indicated to the door, “see that they are dealt with, by force if necessary. Grant nodded briskly and patted the lump on his hip where his black storm coat covered his holstered las pistol. Grant was no stranger to combat, indeed he was the best man with a pistol in the entire regiment – even rivalling the skill of Kyogen himself – but he was also well disciplined and mannered, and would only resort to force if there was no other option available.

Kyogen left his dripping companion at the door and proceeded to the stairs – each step he took heavy with duty.

The commissar reached the first landing, before turning to his left and scaling the second set of stairs. The place was very familiar to him now – even in the dark he could see the water stains running the length of the wall - the familiar stains that he had remarked every time he had passed this way. How long had he been coming here now? Thirteen months? Yes, that was it. He still remembered the warm summer night when he had come to the heart of this cesspit city looking to personally reprimand the soldiers who had been sneaking down here to enjoy all the pleasures that the brothels and bars could offer. He understood that a posting on the line was horrific and dangerous work, and that from time to time the men need a chance to let all of their worries drift away, but this was war damn it! And war demanded sacrifice!

He came to the third flight of stairs and began working his way ever-upwards.

Yes, it was on that evening when he had come down here with a righteous cause that the arbites decided to round up the soldiers themselves. Commissar or no, he did not want to be caught by the law in these of all places – he had come here personally to avoid such an embarrassment for the regiment – not to be caught in the thick of it! None-the-less he had still been forced to hide from the authorities of law, and that is when she found him.

She was a courtesan, that he could not deny, but she was like none he had ever seen. The very thought of her made him smile. She was tall, with flawlessly smooth alabaster skin which contrasted with her long dark hair in the most beautiful of ways. Her eyes twinkled silver, and a body so fine in every way that he wanted to weep with joy for being born a man. She had a lisp though, making her purring voice difficult to hear, and a small scar that nicked her left ear, but still, to him she was perfect. She had class, she had style, and she had saved him from humiliation. He had been searching frantically for a place to hide when she found him, and had offered him sanctuary in her apartment. He had spent the night, but she had easily convinced him to stay the morning.

From that time on they had met whenever he had had the chance, thought those were disappointingly few, each time was as wonderful as the last. Until, when she could hide it no longer, she told him. She was pregnant.

That was nine months ago.

At forty three years old he had never dreamed that he would be a father, but now that was all too true. If the regiment were to discover that he was the father of an illegitimate child the consequences would be dire, and for that reason nobody – other than Grant of course – knew, and Grant was a man to be trusted. That is why it had to be ended.

At long last he reached the landing on the seventh floor, and, straightening his hair as well as his coat, walked down the expanse of the hall, past the two abandoned apartments, to the third and last door.

 

When he pushed it open she was already waiting for him, standing in the middle of the sitting room – the babe rapped in her arms.

“I came as soon as I could.” he said, looking anywhere but at her accusing face. While most fathers experienced joy at the birth of their firstborn, Tarric had nothing but regret. Regret that this had ever happened. Regret that this child would live without ever knowing its father. Regret that he had done this to the young woman before him. Regret that such a happy occasion as birth should have to be so painful for those involved.

 

“So this is it then isn’t it, Tarric?” she said, her voice trembling as much as her soft shoulders. “You’re going to leave me?”

 

He tried to go to her, to comfort her, but she backed away. Who was he to try and comfort this woman, after abandoning her and her child?

 

“I’m sorry Elise…” he felt miserable – helpless, “I wish that it was not like this, that this was a different time, a different place. I wish I could take you with me, take our baby with me. I wish it were possible for us to be a family, but the Guard will never permit it – I can’t leave.”

 

“That’s always the way it is with you – you are always wishing. You are so helpless before you destiny.” she was sobbing openly now. “Go! Just go!”

 

He turned sadly to the door, and made to walk back out, before turning back one last time. “What is… what is our baby’s name?”

 

Elise wept silently, holding the babe tight to her chest, “Her name is Aribeth.”

 

“Aribeth.” Kyogen repeated, and slowly pulled himself out the door, and down the stairs – away from the woman he loved, the woman he could not be with.

 

He met Grant at the door, and the two of them walked back out into the rain, before climbing back into the waiting GMV, and disappearing into the night.

[dark_melancholy]

Yippee! :devil:

 

It all begins here, doesn't it? Aribeth, the weak daughter of a weak man. To give into temptation like that! *cough* That would be the Inquisitor in me talking :P

 

In all seriousness, I'm glad you're a sucker indeed! Mostly because your writing, while still within the 40k universe is slightly deeper than "Waaah! Running around with mah powar fist smashin' Orks to bits! Hoo-hah!" *Johnny Bravo pose*. Somehow I like Grant a lot, even if he's barely in the story... I guess I'm simply a sucker for secondary characters, then :devil:

[Lady_Canoness]

I find that adding characters like Grant who have a story of their own yet aren't a fundamental part of the overall story helps to make it feel more real - as well as adding someone upon who we can compare the other characters.

 

Kyogen isn't supposed to come across as 'weak', but rather as powerless against that which is unfolding around him. I originally had an extended dialogue scene between Kyogen and Elise, but that had to be shortened... otherwise the prologue would be way to friggin long - I just hope the shortening didn't have a negative effect on the story. I don't think that was the case.

 

The First Installment of the Saint Ascendant should be up in the next couple of days.

 

Cheers!

 

-The Lady

[Lady_Canoness]

Next couple of days, as in now.

 

Here is our first real glimpse of a non-evil Aribeth, keep in mind that the woman described in this segment will one day turn to Khorne and become the evil Aribeth we've all come to know and love/hate. This goes to show that people who fall to chaos really do fall: they aren't just rotten to the core, they become that way!

 

As promised, this installment is LONG, but I assure you that I put just as much care into it as I did the last ones.

 

The first 3 or 4 installments will cover the events revolving aroung the battle mentioned in "Fallen Saint installment 9"

 

Enjoy!

 

----------------------

 

The First Installment of the Saint Ascendant

 

----------------------

 

 

A tragedy.

 

That was how Governor Nemereis had phrased it – a tragedy. It was completely understandable – the good governor had just witnessed an uprising on his world - an uprising that would cost him far more than he knew. Already in the first week of revolt over two million civilians had died, and with them all hopes of Nemereis retaining his title. For though the governor did not yet know it, a cult had been allowed to fester deep in the bowels of his planet, and such a lack of vigilance on his part was deserving of rebuke – a rebuke that Inquisitor Galtman was all too willing to enact. However, the people of Proctor Primus would have to be brought to heel before any reprimands were carried out, so the governor would live, at least for the time being.

 

Tragedy.

 

Galtman allowed himself an ounce of satisfaction at the thought. Indeed many lives had been lost, but if that were the price to pay for the unmasking of the blood cults on Proctor Primus, then it was a price that the Inquisitor was willing to pay.

 

* * * *

 

The first rays of the cool morning sun peeked over the broken horizon, casting its white light over the chaos that was the city at war – blessing soldier and civilian alike with respite from the horrors stalking the thirty hours of night, and condemning them to another thirty hours of light – light to see, and light to be seen.

To Palatine Aribeth d’Allsaice, however, the sun was a welcome sight. She and her sisters from the Guardian Preceptory of the Oder of the Ebon Chalice had been fighting for almost ninety hours straight, the only rest coming from a few fitful hours of sleep, and fewer hours of prayer. The days were indeed long, but the nights always seemed longer.

The city around them was still relatively whole. Few building has been gutted or levelled and most other architecture was still intact. None-the-less, the signs of battle could not be more clear. Bodies in their thousands littered the ground – each bearing mute witness to the battles that had raged around them.

To Aribeth it all seemed so… pointless. These people, most of them simply common labourers, had risen up against the will of the divine Emperor, and now threw themselves into the guns of those who were once their protectors. They struggled frantically to reach the Basilica of Saint Jeromia, but instead they simply let themselves be slaughtered by the PDF, the Arbites, and the Sororitas. It wasn’t a war, it was a massacre. And it disgusted her.

 

In the past thirty hours however, things had changed.

 

The first signs had come with the darkness. No longer did they charge heedlessly into the waiting guns. Something had brought them tactics, backbone, and most troubling of all, weapons. Not simple lasguns or autorifles – those they had already – but heavier more devastating arms – heavy bolters, missile launchers, and – if the reports from the west were true – even tanks.

In the past night alone she had lost two squads of sisters under her command, and had been forced to fall back in the face of superior numbers and firepower more times than she would like to admit.

 

She eased off her helmet and wiped a gauntleted hand across her face – sweeping the condensed sweat from her brow and eyes – and moved quietly over to where sister Serinae kept watch from a shell pocked window of the third floor in the building they were sheltering in. She turned slightly as she heard the soft footsteps of the Palatine approaching from behind her, before turning back to look out the window.

“Nothing to report.” she said wearily, unable to keep the fatigue from her voice, “They’ve been silent for a couple of hours now.” She shifted her heavy bolter slightly on her lap, before cradling it closer and resting the muzzle on the windowsill. All of the sisters were suffering from exhaustion at this point, but none were letting it break them.

“How are you holding up?” Aribeth asked, leaning against the wall opposite to Serinae.

The sister shrugged, “The Emperor’s work is enough to invigorate my spirit and body should they assault again.” She wasn’t a good liar, none of them were. Serinae, like the rest, meant well and would fight until her last dying breath, but they could not keep fighting at this rate with next to no rest.

“How are you really feeling?” Aribeth asked, her tone one of genuine concern that left no room for argument.

The retributor sighed and let her chin fall to her chest. “I could do with some time to relax my mind. I can’t be this tense for much longer – it’s been almost three days since I’ve had anything close to respite. They – they just keep coming…” she paused and stared off into the distance, “It’s like they want to be killed.”

Aribeth nodded, she knew exactly what sister Serinae meant. She had seen relentless foes before in orks, but never in humans. Sixty hours a day was a long time to keep fighting – even an Astartes would likely start to tire after that amount of time.

She gave Serinae a pat on the shoulder and got back up – more of her sisters than just Serinae needed her attention.

Sister Clara was crouched nearby, her back to the wall, head hanging loosely to her chest – grabbing whatever sleep would come. The gold trim of her white armour marked her as one of the Order’s elite Celestians, and of all Aribeth’s sisters she was the one to whom Aribeth was closest. They had been novices together in the Schola Progenium, and had been side by side ever since. Clara was a remarkable soldier, and was as good with her bolter as Aribeth was with her sword, but she was an even better friend. She had a knack of being at the right place at the right time, and always knew what words best suited the occasion. But above all that, Aribeth knew that Clara could always be counted on to give her utmost attention to any circumstance, no matter how trivial it seemed. The fighting had not been good to her however, and as Aribeth approached she could see the scarlet of her blood seeping though a crack in her white breast plate where a high calibre shell had been defied by her armour but had had enough force to damage the delicate flesh beneath it.

Aribeth passed her by – unwilling to disturb the rest that had settled upon her.

 

Pausing to look around the shattered room, Aribeth looked upon every figure and every face. Thirteen women – each of them a soldier, each of them a friend – all holding quietly in one room that not more than a week ago was someone’s home, but now little more then a shell marked mess in the center of a battlefield.

 

Sister Superior Allycia, the squad leader of what remained of her retributor squad, drew near to her Palatine, indicating that she had news. Allycia had been monitoring the portable vox that had been salvaged from the squad’s destroyed rhino APC. The rhino, and four sisters from her squad, had been the price paid to learn that the enemy had acquired heavy armaments – a steep price to pay, but their sacrifice may have spared many more lives through their discovery.

“My Lady Palatine,” she said, inclining her helmeted head with an unnecessary sign of respect, “Sister Mistcha’s squad in the north-most reach of Guild Square is reporting a heavy-assault… she doesn’t think she can hold – there are reports of enemy armour. She requests permission to withdraw.”

Aribeth frowned, ever since Canoness Naomi’s grievous death defending the southern Saint’s Arch in the small hours of the night, Aribeth had been given supreme command off all the defenders around Saint Jeromia’s Basilica. It was her first time with such a command, and she was determined to see it through to victory, or, if need be, to die trying. She turned on her heal and marched to the vox, “Guild Square leads directly to Saint Jeromia’s Basilica, and I will not have that lost to us. We cannot afford to withdraw. I’ll speak with her personally.”

Allycia nodded and entered the appropriate code into the vox before handing the headset to the Palatine. Static hissed in her hears as she slipped on the receiver and held the mic to her mouth. Pressing the transponder key twice as two short bursts sounded across the wave-length.

 

“This is Sword Primus calling Cruxa. Cruxa do you copy? Over.”

 

Nothing, only static.

 

“Sword Primus to Cruxa. Cruxa do you copy? Over.”

 

A click, then more static.

 

Aribeth looked over at Allycia, who was adjusting the dial ever-so slightly – it was going through, but nothing was responding.

 

“Cruxa do you copy? Over.”

 

Then –

 

+ Sword this is Cruxa. I read you. Over.+

 

Aribeth nodded to Allycia, contact had been made.

 

“Cruxa report your status. Over”

 

+Encountering heavy assault. Enemy armour sighted. We can’t hold for much longer. Casualty count is high. Requesting permission to withdraw. Over.+

 

“Negative Cruxa. Hold your position.” Allycia looked across at the Palatine with questioning eyes. “Do not give ground to the enemy. Redirecting reserves to your position. Confirm that you are holding. Over”

 

It was a huge risk, especially is the offensive was as hard as Mistcha was reporting, but the Guild Square could not be forfeited. The reserves would have to arrive in time, otherwise Mistcha and all the Sisters and PDF under her command would perish.

 

+Cruxa confirming. We are holding. The Emperor Protects. Over and Out.+

 

Aribeth looked over at Allycia, meeting her eyes with a steely determination. “Patch me through to Sister Cassandra’s and Major Brejwick’s armoured columns.” she commanded, her voice resolute and steady, “They will arrive in time to bolster Cruxa’s position.”

Allycia immediately set to work programming the vox. A moment later both of the tank commanders were online.

 

+Tempestora reporting. Over.+

 

+Thunderhead reporting in. Over.+

 

Aribeth promptly gave them their orders with noted urgency.

A mile away through the city, three Immolators, an Exorcist, and five Leman Russ Conquerors rumbled to life and thundered down the deserted roads in the direction of the Guild Square. ETA was four minutes – Aribeth hoped that would be enough.

 

“Do you think that will be sufficient, my Lady?” the Sister Superior asked.

 

“Have Faith,” Aribeth replied, a brave face covering the unease that grew in her stomach, “We’ll see this through to whatever end the Emperor has for us.” Allycia nodded – satisfied with the Palatine’s answer. Aribeth was not. Had she done the right thing? She wished she had someone to ask – someone to tell her that she was right to send Cassandra and Brejwick into battle – but she knew that there was no comfort for her now. Perhaps, when this battle was over – if she survived – she would seek solace in learning the answers to such questions… if she survived.

 

“Enemy contacts sighted!” Serinae shouted from the window, “They’re coming in hard!”

All around battle sisters unslung their bolters and dashed to windows and pre-prepared firing loops. Serinae levelled her heavy bolter and sighted along the weapon, “Targets in range! Firing on your word, my Lady!”

Aribeth stepped up to the window where Serinae stood and looked out – across the battered plaza, over the bridge that spanned Jeromia’s River, and in the buildings beyond the enemy was just visible – seven hundred yards at best. Masses of enemy infantry was running from cover to cover, ducking behind rubble and burnt out vehicles – a few las shots from the over-eager ones spattered harmlessly of the concrete of the buildings. The first of the enemy reached the bridge and started sprinting across.

Aribeth check her bolter was full and snapped back the slide. More of the enemy hit the bridge.

 

It was time.

 

“Sisters!” she shouted, over the snaps and whiz of las rounds, “Once again we are tested! Once again we must prove ourselves! We are the Emperor’s will! Let those who defy Him feel His wrath! Mark your targets and fire at will!”

A cheer surged from the lungs of the thirteen sisters in the room, from the sisters in the room below, and from all the sisters in the adjacent buildings – over sixty sisters of battle raised their voices in exultation to their Emperor.

As one the buildings exploded into gunfire.

Row upon row of the traitorous enemy fell as the sisters sent shot after shot rocketing into their un-armoured bodies – exploding them from within. The thunderous retort of bolters hammered out the Emperor’s vengeance – drowning out the cries of the enemy dying.

Serinae braced herself as the heavy bolter snarled and growled in her hands, streams of heavy calibre explosive rounds streaking outwards as spent shell casings clattered with ominous harmony across the floor.

The enemy soldiers died in droves – hundreds cut down in the opening volleys. They dove for cover, trying to shoot back, but the punishing barrage from the buildings gunned them down mercilessly wherever they showed their heads. But still they came on – driven over the killing grounds on the bridge into the sparsely covered plaza where scores of them met their end by the guns of the Sororitas. But still they came on.

A las round ringed off Allycia’s helmet, sending her stumbling back, but she rose again and returned to her window to continue to punish the foe.

Aribeth ejected a blank magazine and reloaded – looking to her left and right down the lines of her sisters firing in unison. She caught Clara’s eye, though her head was helmeted she could tell that she was grinning as she made and elegant sweeping motion with her hand – after you.

More of the enemy were crossing into the plaza now – a hundred more yards and they would be on the buildings themselves. Aribeth tapped her helmet vox. “Ullia, do you read me?”

Ullia’s voice crackled over the mic into her ears: “I read you Palatine. Would you like me to engage?”

“Yes,” Aribeth answered, taking another look back outside, “make sure they don’t get to the buildings.”

“His will be done. The Emperor protects.”

The pair of Immolators waiting in the alleyways behind the buildings coaxed their engines to life and slowly pulled out in front of the buildings – the pilot lights flickering on as the heavy flamer turrets swivelled to meet the rushing foe. Seconds later huge tongues of fire fifty feet long swept back and forth incinerating everything they touched.

The tinge of promethium mixed with the stench of torched human flesh wafted into the buildings, and despite the olfactory dampeners in her helmet Aribeth found herself recoiling from the revolting mixture.

“My Lady!” with a tone of urgency Allycia had run to her side and was pointing over bridge to something that was emerging from the edge of the distant buildings.

“Dear Emperor…” Aribeth murmured. She had heard of heavy weapons and armour, but this was totally different. “Everyone out! Abandon the buildings!” she shouted.

But it was too late.

The explosion shook the ground as the Basilisk artillery piece fired its earthshaker cannon – launching a shell the size of a disposal-bin across the seven hundred yards between them in a split second – the building directly to the left of Aribeth’s position was flattened in a heartbeat – twenty-one sisters obliterated without warning.

The bolters momentarily fell silent as everyone stared in silent horror at the expanding cloud of dust and debris that was once Sister Voyanna’s squad.

“Everybody out! Move! Move! Move!”

The Sororitas snapped out of their shock and reacted with well drilled precision as they quickly gathered their arms and filled out of the deathtrap buildings.

“Ullia!” Aribeth shouted into her mic, “Cover our withdrawal. We have to get out of that Basilisk’s line of fire!” Things were taking a turn for the worst. A Basilisk!?! Here!?! The PDF didn’t have any in their armouries, so where the hell did it come from!?

The colossal gun fired again – the building to Aribeth’s right was blasted apart. Debris and sisters caught in the blast – either whole or in parts - flew everywhere, landing with sickening impacts up to forty feet away. And still the enemy came on – only the immolators held them back.

“Acknowledged. We’re pulling back.” Ullia replied, as the Immolators slowly disengaged to cover the retreating Sisters.

 

Then things got a whole lot worse.

 

Ullia’s Immolator exploded in a cataclysmic fireball – showering those Sisters nearby with flaming debris. Sister Superior Allycia stumbled away from the burning tank, screaming as the liquid fire consumed her. Aribeth put a bolt round through her helmet visor without hesitation – ending her suffering.

“That was a Lascannon! Where did they get a Lascannon!?” Clara stammered as she fell back, her wound slowing her physically, but not dampening her spirit. Aribeth didn’t know – the tide had turned so quickly – from killing the enemy in droves to a complete rout. Only twenty-nine battle sisters remained – twenty-nine against the countless masses of the enemy. Out-gunned and out-numbered hundreds to one with the enemy closing at a relentless speed, Aribeth had to confess that she had failed her command – they would all die this day because of her failure. No! She had to lead them on! They would retreat and regroup at a more defendable position.

The last Immolator swerved and crashed to a halt into the side of a building, flames burst from the ruptured tanks as the side hatch opened and the crew dashed out – bolters in hand – fleeing the enemy. Shots whipped past them as they ran – the enemy was almost on their heels.

“Covering fire!” Aribeth shouted, as she and five of the nearest sisters turned and blazed away at the enemy pursuing the Immolator crew – the scum falling as chunks of meat was blasted from their bodies – before turning and fleeing once again. But it was to no avail – the crazed enemy was gaining, and now that their tormentors within grasp they would not stop until they got to grips with them. They butchered each sister’s corpse that they came across – blasting it to bits with their weapons, or striping the corpses naked before violating and dismembering them. One gangly man, his face stained red with blood and his arm missing beneath the elbow, sprinted after the retreating Sororitas with unnatural speed and dove like a wild beast onto the last of the immolator crew – her weapon falling out of her grasp. The other heathens closed around her, their cries of fury drowning out her death-screams as they hacked and tore her body with savage rage. One of them tore her head from her shoulders, lifting it high into the air with a barbaric warcry. His head exploded as Sister Clara put a round through it with unerring accuracy.

 

“This is Sword Primus! Repeat: this is Sword Primus – we are over-run! Repeat we are over-run!” Aribeth shouted frantically into her helmet mic as she ran as fast as she could down the rubble strewn streets. Twice she almost tripped but caught herself just in time. Sister Clara ran beside her, she was bent over double and her wound was oozing blood, but still she ran with considerable speed – a mere wound nothing in comparison to what would happen if she were caught. But that would never happen – Aribeth would not let her friend fall into their hands, she would fight all of them single-handedly rather than let her body fall into their hands. Up ahead Sister Serinae was struggling under the weight of her heavy bolter, and then she turned and planted her feet. Aribeth knew what would come next. She spun herself around – drawing both her power sword and bolt pistol, snapping off a shot that sent the nearest pursuer stumbling to the ground with a gaping whole in his gut. As one the rest of the Sisters turned to face the on-coming enemy – over one hundred of them had followed the sisters for the past eighteen blocks – outnumbering the Sisters a daunting five to one.

Then the heavy bolter opened up.

In less than two seconds a dozen foes were shredded by the raging heavy weapon, and dozens more were gunned down by the spurts of bolter fire erupting from the rest of the Sisters of the Ebon Chalice. Aribeth met the first in close combat and bisected his meagre frame with one pass of her sword – ducking under the clubbing blow of his companion, she stepped passed the second man’s defences and skewered him from behind – before ripping her sword free with a spray of blood and slicing the head off a third.

The few remaining enemies turned to flee. None escaped – gunned down by the vengeful Sisters. The deed was done, and once again they turned and ran back, each step one step closer to exhaustion, each step one closer to the prize they had sworn to defend.

 

+Sword, this is Thunderhead. I read you loud and clear. We’re on an intercept course with your position. Stay your course. We have you.+

Not a moment too soon, though Aribeth, not a moment too soon.

As if on cue Clara collapsed into the dust – Aribeth and another Sister stopping to pick up her fatigued frame, before carrying on in a weary jog.

 

Ahead the Basilica of Saint Jeromia was visible on the skyline

[Shiva]

*jumps up and down happily*

 

Yeah! More Fallen Saint! Thanks Lady Canoness! :D

 

Fantastic as always...I'm really glad you decided to give us all some insight into the "hands" (so to speak) that molded Aribeth into what she becomes. Beautifully written, as always. :D Can't wait for more.

[dark_melancholy]

I would deliver detailed critique, but you know... awesome. Simply awesome :tu:

[Crayoneater]

Awwwww, sorry I missed this post.

 

Great read, I'm a fan of Elizabeth Bathory type stuff. I play both Khorne and SoB, Todd McFarlane toys did a model of Elizabeth Bathory that I rather liked.

 

Have fun!

[Commissar Molotov]

I skim-read through this topic and found it very interesting indeed. As someone else mentions, you certainly give some depth to an interesting character. The Sisters of Battle are often overlooked, alas. As an English student, I think there's a few lines and phrases throughout your piece that could do with tightening, and you'd really have a quality piece. Still, it's leagues above most of what you'd see in 40k fandom.

 

As an aside, check this out - from the galleries of Aerion the Faithful.

 

:)

[Lady_Canoness]

I'm always glad to hear some feed-back on my work, and I'm even more glad to know that my faithful readers have good company!

 

I've been thinking about trying my hand at some artistic renditions of my story (maybe have some nice illustrations to post at some point) - but I can assure you that I won't be making her bald! (that was one creepy b!tch). Epic battle scenes are still giving me a tough time, but I think that I've gotten over my trouble with conversations.

You can expect the second installment to be up sooner rather than later, as I'm just going through it with my team (i.e. Me, Myself, and I) to give it the the final touch to ensure that it doesn't fall short of my expectations.

 

Thanks again for posting y'all!

[cryptomancer]

Nicely done, sir! Your action scenes really pop.

 

Only critique: less use of "Then" to start sentences/paragraphs. I understand why you're doing it; just don't over-use it. Makes it sound... rushed? Comic-bookish? I dunno...

 

Fine work as always. More character depth and history is always a good thing!

[Lady_Canoness]

We now come to the 2nd installment of the Saint Ascendant.

 

This installment is a little shorter than the first and depicts the lul in battle for Aribeth and her Sister upon returning to the Basilica. This is also the installment where Inquisitor Galtman is properly introduced as a major character - we all know how he ends, but now we need to know how it came to that end.

 

So with no further introductions, here is the latest installment of the Saint Ascendant.

 

------------------------

 

The Second Installment of the Saint Ascendant

 

------------------------

 

 

 

The Basilica proper - a monstrous building of the Imperial cult - easily dwarfing all the residential buildings in the neighbouring districts with its great spires and arched stained-glass windows. The hallowed behemoth was built on the equivalent of twelve squared city blocks – three broad and four long – and its tallest spires stretched up to fifteen hundred meters into the air. During the course of the year over twelve hundred priests and ecclesiastics lived within its hallowed halls, and on the fifteenth hour of every day sixty thousand worshipers would fill its main antechamber and listen to the arch-bishop of Proctor Primus deliver the six-hour sermon to the faithful. There were no more sermons however, for civil war had erupted, and the Basilica of Saint Jeromia was in full battle-readiness. A veritable fortress, Saint Jeromia’s Basilica was now the Imperial headquarters in the beleaguered capital city – the priesthood had armed themselves in preparation for any attack – the main doors, towering oak monstrosities reinforced with triple durasteel plating, were barred from within – and along the great arched roof marksmen could be seen pacing in-between the snarling gargoyles and flying buttresses. The humongous edifice stood defiant at the heart of this hostile city – daring any attacker to cross its open courtyards and assault its impenetrable walls. Yet even if the Basilica itself was taken – an all but impossible feat - it would take any attacker months to scourge the labyrinth of sepulchres, catacombs, and dungeons that stretched on for many miles deep beneath the city streets in every direction.

From the streets and alleys where brutal fighting still raged, soldiers from many fronts had returned to the Basilica so that they might treat their wounded and rearm before once again braving the front.

 

The five Leman Russ Conquerors of Major Brejwick’s column skidded into the mustering yards outside the ever-vigilant bastions of the Basilica’s walls. Men and women in Imperial uniforms were constantly rushing this way and that seeing to the preparations of war. Aribeth and her remaining Sisters dismounted from the steel hides of their mounts as the Conquerors revved up their engines, and with a sharp salute from the Major, headed back into the field. In a matter of hours Aribeth would be doing likewise, for neither she nor her sisters would be capable or rest knowing that the bodies of the fallen Sororitas were at the mercy of the enemy. The very thought of the atrocities that those – those worthless heathens would render unto the dead sickened her to her very core – her mind filled with righteous anger and hatred – a hatred that screamed to be unleashed. But despite her rage she knew that she would have to wait - wait to regroup and rearm, before taking the fight to the enemy. Looking around her though at the desperation and the squalor of the mustering grounds forced her to accept reality – the reality that without more soldiers, supplies, and weapons, any attempt to regain lost ground would be futile. Lose her honour, or lose the war – those were her choices.

Head bowed she made her weary way towards the Basilica, dismissing the Sisters under her command to pursue these few hours of peace how they saw fit – either cleaning their weapons and armour, or paying their devotions for what may indeed be the last time. The Palatine was not defeated – of that she was sure – but the sheer enormity of the task demanded of her was overwhelming: constant battle on every front, an enemy with limitless numbers and supplies, and the sinking feeling that something sinister was lurking in the shadows of it all – an indomitable will that would see the Emperor’s light snuffed out here on Proctor Primus for all eternity… unless she stopped it here and now.

 

Vaulting the steps, Aribeth was admitted through a small side door into the side-chambers of the great Basilica by a humble little priest wearing a ragged thread habit, who, bowing reverently in presence of the ranking Sororita, ushered her silently into a circular reclusium, and closed the door quietly after her. The room was small – not more than a half dozen steps in diameter - with bare stone walls and a conical ceiling. A small shrine carrying a reliquary – the jewelled casing denoting that the thumb of Saint Jeromia was secreted within – stood against the furthest wall, with a small well-worn hardwood board lying before it.

She paid her respects to the saint with a quick prayer before rising and returning to the door – the priest may have meant well by leading her here, but much work remained to be done, and she did not have the luxury to spend her time in solitary prayer while the fighting continued. She reached for the handle and pulled – the door rattled on its hinges. It was locked. The little priest had locked her in. She tried again, before throwing her armoured shoulder into the door. Still the lock remained defiant of her every attempt to open it.

Was it treachery? Had the priest locked her in here on purpose? Or had someone stolen his brain when he wasn’t looking?

With suppressed frustration she stepped back from the door, took a deep steadying breath, closed her eyes, and calmed herself – before drawing her bolt pistol and aiming it at the handle. She’d be damned if a wooden door would keep her from the battle.

 

The door swung open from the outside, and a tall man wearing a long black robe with a high collar stepped into the tiny room. “I would suggest you put that away.” his voice rumbled, seeing Aribeth’s pistol was pointing at him now that the door was opened. He was a brute of a man – barrel chested with broad shoulders, and a rough face that looked like it was carved from stone. His receding hair was as black as his coat and slicked back. His eyes were hard, blue, and unsettling. At his side hung a long rapier and an ornate heavy pistol – both of which had a dull gleam suggesting that these were actual tools of war rather than mere ornamental pieces. Aribeth could guess who this man might be without being told – an Inquisitor.

Two other men stepped into the now cramped reclusium behind the first. One wore the starched uniform of a high ranking military officer, and wore his hair back in a pony-tail - the air about him suggested that he was used to getting his way. The other man wore what looked like ragged priest’s robes, and may have well been an ecclesiastic here were it not for his ragged and unkempt look and the padded jerkin that he wore over his habit. His shaven head was also extremely battered – he had numerous scars, a severely crooked nose, and his left eye was looked to be swollen shut (making his right eye seem abnormally large).

The tall man in black stood before the door with the military man to his right and the priest to his left. All of them looked at Aribeth with a cold steely gaze.

 

“Explain yourself.” the black clad man said, his voice leaving no room for argument or rebuttal.

Aribeth, however, was not one to be intimidated by words, even if they be spoken by a man like this in a tiny room. “Who are you to demand answers so forthright in this most holy of places at a time as perilous as this?”

 

“Disrespect – the first sign of a poor officer.” the man in the uniform stated with a smug grin. The priest glared across at him. Aribeth ignored him and stared at the man barring the door.

He put his arms behind his back and stared into Aribeth’s soul with his cold eyes. Something small and cold nagged at her mind, but when she focused on it, it disappeared. The man’s face was set, and not a hint of emotion passed over it as he spoke again.

“I,” he said after a long pause, “am Inquisitor Galtman.”

An Inquisitor, she had thought as much, though what an Inquisitor would be doing cornering her in this room was another matter entirely.

“Lord Inquisitor,” she bowed as a polite gesture, “forgive my disrespectful address. How may I be of service to you?” Aribeth had not had extensive dealings with the shadowy agents of the Inquisition, but she knew that the shorter a relationship one had with such a person, the better.

Inquisitor Galtman remained as unreadable as before, as if he had not even registered her words. An instrument of intimidation perhaps? It seemed likely, and, though she hated to admit it, it was beginning to work.

“You can begin by answering my question.”

“Of what would you like me to tell you?”

“Everything.”

Aribeth swallowed, and began at the beginning. “About a week ago local time there was a large riot reported in the industrial habs. Within the next twelve hours the Arbites reported that the riot had escalated into a general uprising, and that the entire populace had become hostile.”

“The entire populace?” the military man interrupted, “That seems unlikely!”

Aribeth glared at him, “The Abites reported that significant numbers of civilians were in armed revolt, and that they were no longer in control of the situation. The local PDF units as well as all my fellow Sisters from our preceptory on this world were mobilized for combat.”

“Are you suggesting” Galtman said, his voice dangerously low, “that civilians are responsible for this destructive war, and that both your sisters and the PDF are incapable or putting down a revolt?”

“I am not suggesting anything of the sort, Lord, I - ”

“So who is responsible for this war then?” snapped the officer.

Aribeth ignored him – keeping focused on the Inquisitor. “They have unseen support, tactics, weapons, even heavy armour. They - ”

“Wonderful!” the officer shouted, throwing his hands up in the air, his voice laden with false glee – the Inquisitor did not seem to notice the man’s interruption, he was concentrating solely on the woman in front of him. The officer continued, “Not only have you allowed the city to fall into revolt, but you’re now admitting to being outsmarted by common rabble! I can’t fathom how you managed to come to command!”

“Shut ye gobbe!” the priest roared from across the room, his one good eye appearing to steadily increase in size as his face got redder and redder with every passing moment. Surprisingly the officer closed his mouth – blushing slightly at being so reprimanded by the priest.

“How old are you?” the Inquisitor asked – completely ignoring the two feuding men at his sides.

“How is that important?”

“Just answer the question, Aribeth.”

“I’m thirty-four.” she answered honestly. If that answer meant anything to the Inquisitor he kept it well hidden. The officer, on the other hand, did not.

“Thirty-four!?! Thirty-four!?! What are they thinking putting a minor in supreme command!?”

Aribeth breathed deeply and flexed her gauntleted fingers. When she spoke her voice quaked with barely controlled rage: “Inquisitor, either you tell me who this pompous wind-bag is, or I’ll kill him where he stands.”

The Inquisitor smirked – the first facial expression that she had seen from him – and shifted his cold gaze to the man on his right, who Aribeth was pleased to see, visibly cringed now that the Inquisitor was focusing on him.

“This man is Commander Rienburg of the Drogian Imperial Guard.”

The priest made a contemptuous snorting noise from the Inquisitors left, earning him a glare from Rienburg.

The Inquisitor continued as if the interruption never occurred; “Rienburg will be taking supreme command in this theatre, and thereby replacing you. His troops are poised to take over the majority of the war effort.”

 

Aribeth flinched as if slapped – he was replacing her? That is all this was about?

 

“You disagree with my actions, Palatine?”

 

“Not at all my Lord,” Aribeth said quickly, still trying to rap her head around what she was hearing, “I simply wish to inquire as to why you chose to inform me in such an unusual fashion?”

The Inquisitor nodded, and drew his hands from behind his back to cross them across his chest, before looking the Palatine up and down as if deciding something. He raised his right hand, snapped his fingers, and made a repeated swishing motion with his hand. On cue the men at his sides stepped out the door and shut it softly behind them. Aribeth could hear their footsteps carrying away down the hall.

 

Now she was alone with the Inquisitor.

 

Then it hit her. She stumbled and fell to her knees - her hands pressed to the sides of her head – her mouth open in a silent scream. Toppling over onto her back she convulsed – unable to block the storm that had broken between her ears. Then suddenly as it had begun, it disappeared. She stopped twitching, and opened her eyes. The Inquisitor had not budged from where he stood.

Then it hit her again – twice as hard as before – and her mind went blank.

 

She could hear the Inquisitor’s voice crawling into her head… whispering into her memories, talking to her fears, laughing at her hopes. It was horrible. He asked her what she feared. He answered it for her. He asked her what she trusted. He told her what she trusted. She begged him to leave. He told her to stay. His mind pried into every crevice in her consciousness and dragged out all her secrets. All her private thoughts were his to digest, his to probe – as if he were dissecting who she was right then and there. He saw her past. He saw her present. He saw everything. Nowhere was she safe from him – he hounded her wherever she went. Nowhere could she hide from him – he would always find her. And just when she thought she couldn’t take it anymore, he vanished.

 

Her eyes opened.

 

The Inquisitor stood where he had – not having moved a muscle.

 

She crawled to her feet and stumbled into the wall for support, her mind reeling, her body shaking. “Witch!” she cursed through clenched teeth. Hot anger flooded into her heart and was carried through her body, instantly making her steady again.

 

Galtman looked at her as if he was observing a worthless peasant. She hated him. Hated him for what he had done – for what he had seen – for crawling inside her head.

 

“Know this Aribeth d’Allsaice, I can do that whenever I wish, and you cannot stop me. You may hate me for it, but I have my reasons.”

 

“You heretical scum! Abomination in the Emperor’s eye! Leave me be, or I swear I will see you dead for your blasphemy!” she cursed, spittle flying from her mouth in her anger.

 

“Stop.” he commanded. “You will listen to me.”

 

She fell silent – momentarily struck dumb - unable to speak.

 

“This threat is deeper and darker than you know. Rienberg is not a dedicated man – he is a liability. He can fight though, and when he has done his part he will be dealt with. You, on the other hand, are pure in your faith and devotion – your ambition will not best you – and that is why I must work with you in this endeavour. You are an asset. Rienberg cannot be trusted in this matter. His men will bear the brunt of the masses, and suffer most of the losses – they are expendable and of little value - but you and your Sisters will cut the heart from the enemy. I did what I did because I needed to know that you could be trusted with this, and now I know you can. By doing this you are doing a great service for the Emperor – a greater service than any other you have ever done. This planet will be saved because of you.”

 

She just stared at him. Her mind still unable to think properly so soon after the Inquisitor’s forced incursion into the depths of her being.

 

“You may not thank me now, but you will when this is done – though know that you needn’t thank me – I should thank you when this is done.” With that he opened the door, but stopped briefly to look back at the woman still leaning against the wall of the reclusium, he smiled – genuinely, “You will tell no one of this, but consider it a test, a test that you aced.”

He stepped out and snapped the door shut behind him, leaving Aribeth alone. Alone with her thoughts – fears – hopes – and whatever else Galtman had rifled through. There she would sit for three hours, until she picked herself up, moved to the door, opened it, and disappeared down the hall. What had transpired would remain buried… for now…

[Shiva]

Excellent, as always! :teehee: I especially liked how you described Inquisitor Galtman invading her mind - and her reaction. It's very well written. B) Keep up the great work!

[Lady_Canoness]

Here is the 3rd installment of the Saint Ascendant.

 

This section explores multiple characters within the series as well as furthering the plot-line and setting up the massive city fight of the next installment.

 

I must warn you that this installment contains graphic violence, and therefore may be offensive to some readers. You've been warned.

 

If you aren't troubled by blood and gore, you should find this installment quite satisfactory!

 

I give you now:

 

----------------------------------

 

The Third Installment of the Saint Ascendant

 

----------------------------------

 

 

The spearhead left the mustering yards at the tenth hour of sunlight, tasked with reclaiming the eastern approach to the Basilica, and in the process turning the heretics’ flank. Aribeth had been given strict orders by Commander Rienburg to force the heretics’ lines and break their hold on the Saint’s River Crossing. A victory there, Rienburg argued, would allow units from his mechanized companies to sweep north and crush the enemy positions threatening the Guild Square. To accomplish this task, Aribeth now had direct control over all Sororitas units in the city – a force comprising of six hundred Battle Sisters and over fifty support vehicles – whether or not this would be enough, Aribeth wondered, had yet to be seen. She and her Sisters would be attempting retake ground that they had lost not ten hours earlier – ground that would now be infested with thousands heretic scum and Emperor knows what else.

She shifted in her seat uncomfortably as the command Immolator ground its way through the rubble strewn streets. Normally her faith in the God Emperor would have been all she needed to be sure of herself and her cause, but the Inquisitor – he’d changed all that – a psyker-witch working under the Emperor’s authority, free to pursue any goal through any means without fear or reproach. She had not spoken of the occurrence in the reclusium to anyone – there was no-one to turn to, the methods of the Inquisition were unquestioned – she would have to suffer Galtman alone. She had resolved to fight on regardless of the Inquisitor or his psyker ways – her duty was to the Emperor, and she would not compromise her duty on behalf of Galtman’s psychic tortures.

 

The tank juddered again, rousing Aribeth from her melancholy and forcing her to confront the task at hand. She was sitting in the passenger hold of the command Immolator along with the Sisters of her hand-picked Celestian Command Squad – all of them trusted, tempered, and proven in battle.

Veteran Sister Superior Augusta, a grim Sister who had seen countless battles and bore their scars with pride, was second in command of the spear-head and led the Command Squad. Her helmet was removed, exposing the disfigured plasma burns across her left cheek and the cold glare of her bionic eye. She was a woman of few idle words, and though her body was not much older than Aribeth’s, her spirit was dour and venerable. A brilliant tactician and a strong arm in battle with her Eviscerator, she was an asset to the spearhead and the Order as a whole.

Sitting next to her, her head bowed in prayer, sat Sister Rylke, her heavy flamer a testament to her attitude. Brash and uncompromising, Rylke’s loyalties were to the Emperor and the Order, and anyone who threatened either – even if they be the highest lord or the lowliest serf – was deserving of her wrath.

Clara sat at the back of the compartment, her eyes closed and her head bouncing ever-so slightly against the insulated hull of the tank. She was the surest shot in the whole spear-head – able to pick off a well concealed foe at incredible distance without the aid of a targeter or spotter – her unmodified bolter, the weapon which she loved as much as her own life, rested in her lap. During the few hours of respite she had sought out the Sisters Hospitalers and had had her damaged innards repaired sufficiently so that she could return to the front – or so she claimed.

Just to her right sat Sister Ariella, bearer of the Preceptory’s banner. Like the Sister Superior, Ariella had seen countless battles and had her own marks as proof: her left hand had been lost to her on some past battlefield, and now in its place was a three fingered bionic claw, which, she jokingly exclaimed, had claimed more heretics than her bolter ever had! The Canoness however, before her martyrdom at the hands of the enemy, had not agreed with Ariella’s claims and had asked her to become the banner’s bearer because, if her hand was a she claimed, she wouldn’t be able to drop the banner until it was pried from her ghastly new appendage – a notion that Ariella had taken with a good heart. Sitting on Aribeth’s immediate right was the last and youngest member of the Celestian Command Squad.

Sister Atrides was just a few weeks over twenty-two terran years of age, but despite her youth she had already displayed her great courage and valour in combat against the forces of the rogue Governor Titus on Alvarius IV a couple of years earlier. She carried a Storm Bolter and had proven herself with it many times in both training and battle, though many of the Sister Superiors had reprimanded her for her intense zeal with the weapon, which often required her to be equipped with generous amounts of ammunition.

Then there was Aribeth herself, the Palatine and leader of the expedition. She had been inducted into the order militant when she was fourteen, and had been fighting with great vigour ever since. She was a swordswoman without equal and had mastered many forms of sword-play from single-handed duelling to wielding the blade in two hands against multiple opponents. A charismatic and well respected leader by her peers, she inspired confidence and trust in those she led. However, she was passionate and headstrong, dangerous attributes for those in positions of supreme authority. She lacked the wisdom that the Canoness had possessed, and often responded with a decisiveness born from instinct and conviction rather than insight and knowledge. She was a good leader, but a poor commander – she knew this, but did not accept it – always she sought to prove herself in the eyes of her superiors. Thus far, however, her first real test as a supreme commander had been miserable, and though she hated to admit it, Rienburg had been right in saying that she was too young for such an undertaking.

One more passenger accompanied the Sororitas in the command Immolator, and unlike the Celestians, Aribeth had not chosen him to accompany her. The priest who had accompanied the Inquisitor and Rienburg in the Basilica sat to Aribeth’s left in complete silence, as he had since entering the presence of the Sisters – a silence only broken as he had approached the Palatine to introduce himself and the Inquisitor’s order that he accompany them. His name was Leroy Hildegard, and other than that he was a complete unknown. He looked capable - the intense scarring all over his visible body - the grotesquely large Eviscerator slung over his shoulder with a well worn leather strap – the studded jerkin that he wore as meagre protection on his chest – all displays of an intense devotion to his duty as a warrior priest. However his silence was misleading, and had Aribeth not first met him in the reclusium, she likely would have labelled him as either a monk vowed to silence, or a man afraid in the presence of the Battle Sisters, both of which were equally unlikely considering his belligerent display in the Basilica.

 

With a burst of static followed two short transponder signals her helmet vox crackled to life. She checked the chronometer display in the corner of the helmet’s tinted combat interface – 10:25:38 – right on time.

“This is Sword Primus calling Juno. Over”

 

+Juno to Sword Primus, I read you loud and clear. We’ve reached and are securing Alpha Point. Awaiting your orders. Over+

The vanguard had arrived at the rally point in good time. Soon the battle would begin in earnest.

 

+Juno to Sword… Palatine, we’ve come across something… you’d better see this. Over+

 

“Sword to Juno. Say again. Over”

 

+It’s our Sisters, Palatine. We’ve found them.+

 

Aribeth signed off her vox – something was wrong, really wrong.

 

* * * *

 

The small green glyphs were drawing nearer to the center of the auspex’s display screen, and more were appearing every minute.

“Dammit!” Racko exclaimed from over his shoulder, “Their back! Those fraggin bitches are back!” his bony frame crouched over his autogun as his trembling hands tried to find purchase somewhere on his clothing to sooth his nerves. Good luck with that, Bonis thought, turning back to look at the auspex display screen, ever since this war had begun all of their nerves had been shot to hell.

“Dammit!” he screamed again, grabbing at his face.

“Shut the frag up you fraggin whore-son!” Daruol shouted from across the room, his podgy face specked with flecks of blood and oil as he momentarily left his work to shout at the fidgety man. “All you ever do ‘round here is bitch, bitch! I suggest you shut the hell up before I kill you myself!”

Racko whimpered and scuttled away from Daruol’s bulky frame into a corner and huddled there, cradling his autogun like a child. Bonis and the rest of them turned back to what they were doing before Racko had started whimpering. They were all dead men, they knew it, and all they had to do now was wait.

There were about fifteen of them huddled in this room overlooking the intersection, and about twenty in the building opposite. The overlords had told them to hold this building against any enemy who would come, but Bonis knew that that wasn’t what they really meant - wait in there and die; that is what they had really been told to do.

Bonis shut the auspex off and leaned his back against the wall – what was the point of watching them come closer? Some men like Daruol and a handful of others actually believed they could survive the war and drive the Imperials from the city. Bonis had no such illusions.

Racko scampered back up, and scurried around the room mumbling under his breath – he had been a shoe maker once, now he was pretty damn much insane. He then scurried into the middle of the room where the woman was slumped on the floor, dead, her throat cut by her own hand – a blade hidden in a chaplet, clever. They’d found her next to one of the burnt-out tanks, it had looked like she crawled there before she realised the futility of it and had taken her own life. If it were up to him, Bonis would have left her where she had fallen, he wasn’t big on desecrating bodies, but it wasn’t up to him. Daruol had found her and dragged her here into this room before stripping off her armour to try and use it for himself – the idiot, he’d forgotten that the woman was about a foot shorter than him and about 150lbs lighter. After that he’d lost interest in the body – walking off with the only thing that would fit him - the large shoulder-guards. Then the rest of them had closed in on the corpse and did… unspeakable things to it before leaving her in a slumped mess on the floor. Bonis had stayed outside, sickened by what he heard.

Racko was now running his fingers over her sullied flesh, cooing in his half-madness. Bonis didn’t have the stomach to watch as Racko’s filthy hands clambered over her, instead turning to look out the window.

“Let death come soon,” he whispered to the wind, “let me die still a man.”

 

* * * *

 

In all her life she had never seen such blasphemy. Not when the orks had rampaged through the Thorian monastery on Tiraeus, and defaced all the Holy Scriptures with crude orkish curses. Not when the renegades on Alvarius had burnt down the scriptorium. All those acts of destruction were swept aside by what she witnessed here. She and her Command Squad had dismounted from their Immolator, and now, in the company of the vanguard and Hildegard, walked down the sloping hill from their tanks at Alpha Point towards the expanse of roadway that they had retreated along just earlier this day.

Someone had been expecting them.

Along the sides of the road, their Sisters stood greeting them. The cadavers had been stripped naked, mutilated and defiled, before long iron girders had been driven up their backs so that they stood suspended above the pavement. Many of their limbs or other body parts had either been torn beyond recognition or brutally removed. Strips of parchment had been nailed to their tongues or hands, or in the case that they had neither, their chests, and terrible runes and glyphs had been cut into their bodies. Twenty bodies in total – twenty Sisters had suffered the most horrible of fates.

Sister Atrides, over-come by the appalling sight, retched onto the street. Hildegard bowed his head and offered a silent prayer for their souls. Sister Clara knelt and made the sign of the Aquila across her chest. The rest just stood in silence.

Aribeth stepped towards the nearest corpse, recognizing it immediately as one of the Sisters who had fought along side her in the same building not a few hours before. She turned away, and looked back at the Celestians and vanguard. “Remove their bodies and wrap them in cloth, we take them with us so they can be given proper ceremonies and burial. We leave none behind.”

“I wish to help you in this, m’lady.” said the battered priest as the Sisters carried out their task with due reverence and care, “If only that I may do them just honour in death that I could not in life.”

His face wore the image of sincerity, and Aribeth was sure that he meant well with his offer, but he was no Battle Sister, and his allegiance with the Inquisitor was enough to rouse her suspicion of this man no matter how good his intentions appeared to be.

“These are my Sisters, priest. It is we who shall conduct their ceremonies and honour them - this is not a duty for outsiders.” she stated bluntly, stepping past him and heading back to the Immolators.

Hildegard followed after her.

“I know what he’s done to ye – I’ve suffered the same thing.” he said. He sounded genuine in his concern, but this man was in the service of an Inquisitor – who knew what skills he possessed and what he was capable of doing.

She turned and faced him – her eyes glaring at him from the vision ports in her helmet, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, brother. Go back and wait with the transports.”

He studied her with his one good eye, looking as if he was turning her order over in his head. He nodded and walked back towards the tanks, leaving Aribeth alone and fuming. She did not know why she was so wrathful towards this man – he was a priest in Emperor’s service no less – yet his connection to the Inquisitor poisoned him in her eye.

 

The Sisters removed the last of the bodies from their gruesome perches and rapped them diligently in cloth before carrying the remains back to the transports so that they might soon be laid to rest. The back hatch closed – sealing the dead Sisters away from the outside world – and the tanks fired-up their engines in preparation to move out. Aribeth was about to mount back up into her command Immolator when Clara walked purposefully over to her – her back to the long expanse of the roadway beyond – and stood directly in front of the Palatine.

“Aribeth!” she said, her voice low and steady.

Aribeth turned, “What troubles you Clara? This is a morbid place, and I should not like to stay here longer than is required.”

The Celestian jerked her unarmoured head to the left, “Enemy contacts seven-hundred meters. Look over my shoulder – down the road hugging the northern side.”

Aribeth peered over her sister’s shoulder, her helmet focusing her vision. Clara was right. Three enemy infantry were creeping along the side of the road, keeping low and sticking to the shadows. As she watched two more of them crept out of a nearby building. The new-comers scurried up to where their friends were waiting, one of which slung a long tube off his shoulder and ran in a crouch forward, the missile launcher cradled to his belly. They didn’t look like they knew they’d been spotted

Clara risked a look over her own shoulder, brushing her hair back for a better view, then glanced back at Aribeth.

“A man-portable rocket launcher, assuming that he isn’t trained to use that thing, he’ll be lucky to hit us at fifty meters.”

“And there is no way he’s going to get that close, is he?” Aribeth asked sensing what Clara was indicating.

The Celestian smiled a toothy grin. “No, my Lady, he won’t get anywhere near that close.”

“Purge them quickly. We have to get the spear-head into position before they have the chance to organize.” She clapped Clara hard on the shoulder as the Celestian secured her helmet and dashed to the roadside, knelt, and fired a single shot – the explosive round exploding a heretic’s head into a red mist just under seven hundred meters away. A las shot whined wide – chipping the concrete of a nearby building. A second heretic died as his chest and shoulder were blown out by a pair of expertly placed shots. A burst of las shots flew overhead as another hopeful tried to match the Celestian’s accuracy – he was rewarded for his efforts when his pelvis exploded and condemned him an excruciatingly painful death. The other two fled and dropped the missile launcher in their haste to disappear back into the welcoming shadows of the deserted habs. Clara side-stepped out into the street to clear her line of fire – bringing one down with a shot to the back of the head just as he turned the corner to safety – the other disappeared into the alley way, safe from her wrath.

 

With a choking grind the tanks formed up along the thoroughfare, and thundered down the road as the last Celestian climbed onboard. Time was against them, and soon the whole hab sector would come down with the merciless fury of a human wave.

 

* * * *

 

Bonis stuck his head out the window and strained his ears. All of them – even Racko – were still and silent, all of them listening. There it was again – the burst of weapons fire. Daruol stepped up to the window, lasgun in hand, and peered out.

“Where’s it comin from B?” he asked, his dark round face drained white with fear – so much more the Daruol being brave. His knuckles were white, and he was gripping his lasgun so hard that it looked like he might break it by mistake.

“Over there,” Bonis pointed grimly, “they’re coming for us.

Daruol swallowed hard, and shifted his weight from foot to foot – glancing around him to see what the men were up to. They were all staring at us. A puddle was rapidly expanding around Racko’s feet even as he crouched near the dead woman. He was visibly shaking.

Two men ran into view, one collapsing into the rubble as the top of his head exploded, the other sprinting towards their position down the alley – too frightened to shout.

Daruol raised his lasgun and sprayed shots down at the fleeing man, blasting the street around him, but amazingly failing to hit the runner. Shouting and flailing his arms, the man turned and fled back the way he had came, but Daruol – steadying his nerves as well as his aim – fired off another half dozen shots, one punching through his neck and sending to the dust strewn street.

“Nobody runs!” he shouted back into the room, his eyes wide and murderous. All the men wee standing in shock, several of them had their weapons pointed in trembling hands at Daruol.

“Nobody runs!” he shouted again, “The Overlords said that we hold this place, and we do!”

“The Overlords can go screw themselves! They ain’t here dying with us in this <DELETED BY THE INQUISITION>-hole!” somebody shouted from the back of the room. Daruol shot him dead in a hail of las-fire, blasting his ragged body up against the wall, before lowering the smoking gun. No one moved. Racko whimpered and rocked himself back and forth from where he was sitting on the floor.

“We’re all gonna die here Daruol.” Bonis said quietly, his head hanging on his chest.

“No we ain’t! We killed them before and we can do it again! We killed them just this morning!”

“This is different D, we can’t win here…” Racko sobbed, his idle hand gripping the dead woman’s ankle as if it was some kind of comfort to him. Bonis spat in disgust. Daruol stared back at Racko, his eyes wide and his voice shaking.

“Ain’t no different!” he blurted. “Ain’t no different at all!”

The roar of tank engines drew their attentions back outside. Bonis took a daring glance out the window – the white and black armoured tanks were passing the alley – passing them by.

“Ha!” Daruol exclaimed, his face instantly lighting.

The building across the intersection from them opened up with all their fire-power. All of them ran to the windows. A second column of tanks was thundering down the street parallel to the tanks on the thoroughfare, directly towards their position.

 

* * * *

 

“Incoming fire! Enemy contacts covering the intersection!”

Sister Serinae peered out of the firing slit of the Retributors’ Repressor tank. She could see weapons-fire cascading down onto the leading Immolator – most of it glancing off the tank’s armour as the Heavy Bolters on the turret swivelled and returned fire with a punishing barrage. A second Immolator pulled out from behind the first and belched long tongues of bright orange flame into the second-story windows. The gunfire was immediately quenched by the blessed inferno.

The Repressor, the third tank of the column powered up on to the sidewalk and passed the two Immolators – refusing to stop and engage the engulfed nest of heretics – when the building diagonally across from it erupted into a storm of gunfire.

The Repressor skidded to a halt as Sister Superior Anastasia peered out of the tanks up at the enemy concealed in the building’s third floor.

“Cleanse this foul den of heresy!” she roared, “Let none live to slander the Emperor’s name!”

Serinae lowered the back access ramp and sprinted through the storm to a building adjacent to the enemy hold, las-rounds singing her armour as it whipped past, and dove into cover. Sister Viola ran after her, her bulky multi-melta held tightly in her hands. A solid slug ringed off her helmet, she stumbled, but regained her feet and ducked into cover alongside Serinae.

“The Emperor protects!” Viola shouted over the cacophony of the barking weapons. The Repressor and the Rhinos in its wake engaged the building with storm bolters while the Sisters engaged with controlled fire from within the transports. The Immolators where still cleansing the other target.

“There’s too much cover up there! We need to take it out!” Serinae shouted over to her fellow Retributor.

“Aye!” Viola shouted back, “Cover me!”

Sister Serinae grinned into her helmet and stepped out from behind her cover, her heavy bolter pummelling the heretics’ position – blasting out concrete with the mass reactive bolts and occasionally rewarded with an explosion of blood as one of her rounds hit home in flesh. The return fire was divided between her and the manoeuvring tanks, and several shots thudded into her armour. Viola dashed out in front, and hefting her immensely powerful heat weapon, fired one devastating blast into the building. The front wall crumbled and collapsed almost instantly, a gaping super-heated hole exposing the enemy within.

“Strike them down!” Anastasia cried, and hurled a grenade up into the breach before charging into the ground level of the building – chainsword drawn – with a dozen sisters at her heels. She broke down the flimsy door with her shoulder and sprinted up the stairs sword first; running through a man who ran in the opposite direction, driving him up the flight impaled upon her chainsword, until she reached the first landing and crushed his bloodied form into the wall. Las-fire spat down at them from the landing on the third floor – thudding into walls or ringing off the Sister’s powered armour. With a great shout the Sororitas returned fire blindly through the ceiling and walls - their explosive rounds tearing huge chunks out of the building in their righteous fury. The Sister Superior tore her roaring sword free from the bloodied mess of the man, and stepped out on to the second flight and fired upwards with her pistol, before hurling another frag grenade up onto the landing. She was rewarded with a tremendous explosion that shook the walls and threw a ragged corpse off the landing to crumple at her feet.

“Forward Sisters! In the Emperor’s name carry the light into this foul darkness!”

“We carry His justice to the unbelievers!” the Sisters replied in unison as Anastasia led the charge up the second stair. They met no opposition on the stairs. A large burly man ran out of the third floor room firing wildly with his lasgun – Anastasia buried her chainsword in Daruol’s face and kicked the corpse from the sword’s churning blades. She elbowed her way into the room, corpses where everywhere. A frightened man curled in the far corner stared at her with terrified eyes, an autogun lying before him on the ground.

“Face the Emperor’s justice heretic!” she bellowed and blasted Racko’s head apart with as single bolt from her pistol.

The room itself might have been from perverted dreams of a blood cultist. Blasphemous graffiti covered every wall. Blood and body parts lay smashed by gunfire all around. The place reeked of viscera, urine, and death. Amidst the carnage of war they found her body. Anastasia walked over to her, and dropped to her knees. The Sister’s body was stripped naked and twisted, and her flesh was sullied by the spoil of her captors. No Sister should ever have to suffer such torment. It pained the Sisters greatly to see her like this – to be defiled not because of heresy, but because of the debased animal urges and appetites of her captors.

“See that our Sister is cleansed of taint, and then shrouded in cloth. She is coming with us.” Anastasia said as she stepped from the heretics’ den. “Then burn this place. No taint she we leave unpunished.”

She stepped back into the street and removed her helmet, and gulped down the cool air – trying to flush the tainted air of the den from her lungs. The convoy was moving again, for they had already spent too much time dealing with these heretics as it was, and the Palatine would need their assistance in recapturing the plaza and the bridge. She walked back to her Repressor as the Rhinos drove by; most of her Retributors had already regrouped.

“Where are Sisters Serinae and Viola?” she asked, spotting the two that were missing.

“They were just securing possible vantage points.” one of the Sisters replied, “Here they come now.”

Viola and Serinae were jogging back down the alleyway towards the Repressor, their heavy-weapons held at ease.

Anastasia’s chronometer beeped – it was the forty-fifth minute of the tenth hour of day.

 

The two thorium charges that had been buried under the surface rubble detonated in a massive blast, obliterating the intersection and the buildings around it.

 

* * * *

Aribeth shut off her vox. The Celestians and Hildegard were looking at her, they had just heard the report that the supporting column had been hit by a massive explosion – casualties were yet un-reported, but preliminary estimates were high.

“We keep going. If we turn back to aid them we have failed, and the enemy will overwhelm us.” Aribeth told them.

They all nodded solemnly – if they turned back, they would never capture the bridge – they would have to leave their Sisters to their fate, for now.

“How could this have happened!?” Sister Atrides asked; it was hard for her to believe, hard for all of them to believe.

“We are betrayed…” Aribeth said slowly.

 

---------------------------

 

Even though I did my darndest to edit it, some mistakes may have escaped my notice.

[Shiva]

It comes as no suprise that this installment has left me hungry for more! :down: I really like the description of the different Sisters in Aribeth's Celestian squad. Their unique quirks, physical looks, and mentality - very well done! She had an interesting squad indeed! ;) Also, you did a fantastic job in your description of the battle - very impressive! As always, I look forward to your next post!

[cryptomancer]

Very nice as usual. This is becoming a habbit ;)

[Lady_Canoness]

Sorry to all those who were expecting this to be a new section of the story, but alas I have something important to say.

 

Due to increasing amounts of essay writing and paper work, my works on the Saint will be less frequent than usual over the coming months, but you can rest assured that in late April (after exam time) that my writing will pick up the pace once again. I am in no way, shape, or form quitting my quest to finish this series in the best way possible, and I still have a lot to add - it's just going to take longer, that's all.

 

Sorry for being the harbinger of bad new :lol:

 

-LC

[Lady_Canoness]

Well, work on the Fourth installment is going slowly (it is a LONG one) and it will likely need to be posted in to seperate portions. But I'm getting ahead of myself! I still have a MASSIVE battle scene to write!

 

However, I thought that I'd drop a little excerpt (sp) from the middle of the installment to wet your appetite. This section doesn't feature Aribeth at all, so it's not really a spoiler (so don't worry about it blowing the plot wide open before you get to see all of it).

 

This section features three Seraphim: Sister Superior Alexia, Sister Mira, and Sister Vollaya.

 

Enjoy!

 

--------------------------

 

4th installment excerpt

 

--------------------------

 

Sister Superior Alexia landed hard on an angled section of roofing, her greaves cracking the slate tiles and sending them clattering downwards until they tipped over the edge. A heretic appeared over the ledge twenty feet above her, firing wildly down upon the stranded Seraphim as she rolled to her left and levelled her bolt pistol sending a trio of shots up at the gunman. Two slammed into the cement barrier, but the third slammed into the man’s chest, dropping him out of her line of sight. She cursed – her jump pack had been hit by a stray las-round and had faltered, forcing her to land on the exposed side of the largest and most heavily fortified target buildings.

With the wailing scream of jump jets two helmeted Seraphim landed nimbly to her left and right. Holstering one of her bolt pistols to better steady herself on the steep incline of the roof, Sister Mira scrambled over to the Alexia, “Sister Superior, are you injured?”

“No, thank the Emperor, a minor dysfunction in my equipment. Nothing that I can’t handle. Thank you for your concern all the same.” she replied.

The other Seraphim carefully negotiated her way down the incline towards the edge until she was bellow them: “There appears to be a fault on this section of the roof!” she hollered over the din of battle, “it could be forced with relative ease!”

Alexia looked across at Mira, meeting her eye, “come,” she said, “it’s time for us to go.”

Mira nodded, and the top half of her helmet exploded inwards as the penetrator round blew through her helmet and blasted fragments of her helmet, skull, and brain out across the tiles. The body swayed for a second as if surprised by its own death, before slowly tilting forward and tumbling down the rooftop.

“LOOK OUT!” Alexia screamed, as the other Seraphim looked up to see the armoured corpse rolling down the tiles towards her. She threw herself to the right in an attempt to evade her fallen comrade, but was clipped by the Seraphim’s body and was thrown off balance, then she too began to tumble head-over-heals towards the edge. She crashed down the side of the roof and picked up speed as the weight of her own armour acted out against her. Her hands grasped for a hold – anything that might allow her regain her stability and stop her fatal fall – but her gauntleted fingers slipped, unable to find purchase on any of the smooth surfaces as she fell past. And then… nothing. She was over the edge… she was falling.

At the last possible moment Alexia dove towards her Sister, lunging for her grasping hands as she slipped off the edge. She closed her fingers around her wrist and held on, bracing herself lest the momentum of the other Seraphim carry her too over the edge.

Sister Mira fell away, her limp body twisting through the air, until she hit the ground five-hundred feet below with a sickening crunch.

Sister Vollaya dangled helplessly, her legs kicking out in search of something upon which to support her, but there was nothing.

A second sniper’s bullet exploded the tile inches from Alexia’s head. Her grip was slipping. She was leaning dangerously far over the edge, and she could feel her body slowly losing its purchase on the thin gutter that separated the roof from the drop. In desperation she reached out with her other hand, fingers outstretched, and leaned over as far as she dared.

“Take my other hand! Quickly! We don’t have much time!”

Vollaya reached out, but missed – she was dangling precariously over the edge with nothing but the Sister Superior’s hand for support.

Far below, a red puddle was spreading around Mira’s shattered corpse.

“Trigger your jump pack! Get yourself out of here! That’s an order!” Alexia screamed – sweat was pouring from her brow into her helmet as she strained to maintain her grip on the swaying seraphim.

The jets ignited – the weight started to lessen.

The third penetrator round sped from the sniper’s rifle. The jetpack exploded in a ball of yellow flame as the bullet passed through it and buried itself in Vollaya’s sternum. The weight rapidly increased, and the Seraphim slipped further from the Sister Superior’s grasp, until she held only her fingers.

Vollaya gurgled and screamed in her helmet as the short-circuiting jetpack fried her flesh within her own armour.

“Sister – Sister!” she gasped.

“Not like this! Not now!” Alexia shouted down at her, anger, frustration, and lament coursing through her spirit.

Vollaya reached to her holster with a shaking hand and pulled an inferno pistol free. She held the weapon as high as she could, grip first.

“Please – end it… save yourself… Emperor!” she blurted.

With great difficulty she wrapped her fingers around the pistol, and activated it with a flick of her thumb. Her body shuddered under the strain she was putting on it. She sighted along the pistol’s barrel, down towards Vollaya’s swaying form – her eyes pleading out to the Sister Superior from inside her helmet.

Whispering a short prayer, she squeezed the trigger – incinerating Vollaya in a heart-beat – all she had now was the limp arm she held by the fingers. She held onto it – Vollaya would not go unremembered so long as she drew breath.

The great weight relieved, she carefully dragged herself up onto the short stone gutter before the fall and clambered back up the roof. She pressed the muzzle of the inferno pistol against the roof tiles and fired – the roof instantly fell away beneath her, and she crashed into the sparsely lit loft. With the inferno pistol in her right hand, bolt pistol in her left, and Sister Vollaya’s arm in a satchel on her belt, Alexia moved into the building and joined her Sisters in the furious fighting therein.