Saints and martyrs, p.43
Saints And Martyrs, page 43
Katherine’s friend, one of the founders of her Order.
Mila.
Katherine beheld her shamed Sister and her heart flared with fire, burned with love and pity and horror. She had not thought to see her again. Not like this.
Upon seeing a Sister in armour, however, Mila had dropped to one knee, her head bowed as was proper. She was a mess, her scalp bloodied, her bared shoulders carved with half-healed wounds, her gore-blotched blade held out before her like an offering. Behind her, surrounded by the shipyard’s corroding carcasses, the other three had also dropped to a kneel.
The four of them seemed held together by faith, by sheer determination.
‘My Sister,’ Katherine said, her tone a whisper. ‘Mila.’ There was hurt in her voice, for this was truly her family, her closest of friends. Yet she spoke no word of sympathy, only said, ‘You fight as He has decreed and have no need for such gestures. You do not kneel to me, only to Him.’
Looking up, Mila met her eyes. And there was realisation like pain in her gaze – her understanding of Katherine’s identity. But she said nothing, no word of plea or weakness; she just came to her feet. She shook with fatigue yet she sought no help, and Katherine did not extend her hand. The other three did the same, their eyes downcast.
‘You should speak, my Sister,’ Katherine said. ‘While I understand that such is usually forbidden, there is a thing here that I seek, and I must have your knowledge.’
‘Yes, Sister.’ Still Mila did not raise her gaze. She was small, fierce and dark, and though her wounds pained her, she made no mention. She said, ‘I alone among my Sisters will speak, and I say – we came here to Thelys to offer our lives in His name, and we have seen battle. Our mistress was slain by the enemy, great hounds of flayed flesh that assaulted us from both sides. We are the only survivors.’
‘How?’ Katherine’s comment was pointed, and the dark woman flushed. The other three, their faces carved in scars, still kept their eyes downcast. Shame flushed through them all, tangible as a touch.
‘A gantry fell from beneath us, and took us from the fighting. The fall was far, and there was no way to regain the battle, though we made the attempt several times.’ She frowned, and Katherine could see the rust marks on her hands. ‘We have come in search of death.’
‘Then it is His will you are here, my Sister,’ Katherine said, an ache in her tone. ‘Mila.’
‘My name was taken from me,’ the Sister replied. ‘Now, I am named Rue.’
The name was short and poignant, marking the difference that had come over her Sister. Her dishonour. But Katherine said only, ‘And those with you?’
‘They are named Grief, Sorrow and Regret. If you will accept us, Sister, we will fight by your side until He grants us – or refuses us – redemption.’
‘I will accept you, and gladly,’ Katherine said. ‘Truly this is a place of darkness, and there is battle enough for all. Yet I would first ask you a question.’
‘I will answer.’
‘I seek knowledge, and it lies upon a command deck, high in the carcass of the Blade of Sacrifice. In my mind, there is an image – its deck is broken, its viewport shattered, its panels long perished. I must find this place that matches my vision.’
‘This is the Blade,’ Rue said. ‘Though I know not the layout of the ship.’
‘Then we should go upwards,’ Katherine told her. ‘And seek His blessing.’ Katherine wanted to explore the wreckage, seek the place of her vision, but she knew the hounds of the enemy, knew that they had tasted blood.
And she knew that they were coming.
Lucia paused, and the weight of a long silence fell over the Sisters like a sacred cloth. Avra thought of her own vision, of the sheer might of His will made manifest, of the weight and responsibility of His blessing. She wanted to ask Lucia if the saint had felt the same thing, but it seemed impertinent, and she made herself wait.
Lucia’s augmetic eye whirred as if she frowned, but none of the Sisters spoke. Even the outside seemed hushed, waiting.
A passing searchlight scudded over the floor, and she continued her tale.
The hounds knew the scent of the Sisters’ blood, and of their faith. Such things track with their noses to the metal, never resting. Creatures of the enemy, their teeth are bared and dripping with bloody froth, their gazes like windows to the very warp itself. They ripple with snarl and muscle. And they never stop, never relent.
But Katherine had no fear and the Sisters with her had but one purpose. They hungered for battle, craving to lose their shame in His wrath and glory. His vision and will had brought them together, and they would neither flee, nor falter, in His name.
In His name, they would slay the creatures, here and now.
‘Ready your weapons,’ Katherine said, as if she were the Repentia mistress, exhorting them to deeds of valour. ‘We do not run from these horrors. Instead, we will slay them where they stand. And once they are gone, then I will continue with my search.’
A rasp of eviscerators roared out through the surrounding death. Corpses of metal rang with the noise, a clear and clarion challenge. And again, the Sisters sang, their voices chiming with the grinding of their blades.
And a great snarl came in return.
The hounds had been following them, moving swiftly, pelting down the tilting tunnels, their slavering jaws agape. They heard the challenge and they set up a yammer, a howl of defiance that bit at the ears like red-hot teeth, that filled the mind with a tumble of skulls, with pools of gore still steaming. Fear washed ahead of them like a great, red wave, but the Sisters stood like a fortress of faith, indomitable. And the fear wave broke as it hit them, shattering to a splash and leaving them standing untouched, their blades still screaming.
The hounds closed eager, their eyes afire. The Sisters ran at them, still singing, carried by the word of His redemption.
‘From the begetting of daemons!’
Katherine ran with them, taking shots with her bolter before the battle was joined. And then everything was a fury of tumbling flesh and claws and the slash and roar of the eviscerators, and the song became a shout and there were screams of pain and rage and of sheer, exultant savagery. Using her shield, she threw the hounds back, twice, three times, but each time they leapt forwards once more. One of the Sisters fell, her throat torn out by great white teeth, then another, a hound with its jaws across her eyeless face. But the hounds, too, were falling; they detonated in flashes of red fluid, in hisses of steam, and their remains burned the Sisters’ exposed flesh, making them turn and slash in response…
Lucia stopped to draw breath. The little chapel was utterly silent, filled with the images of the fight, with the glow of the saint herself, the very warrior of whom they spoke. Even the outside seemed to have fallen quiet, as if captivated by the tale.
When the battle was over, three of the Repentia lay slain, their lives offered to Him and their redemption complete. Mila, however, was still standing, yet unaccepted by the Golden Throne. Her wounds were severe – bites to her legs and arms that bled copiously, making her stagger where she stood, her own lifeblood pooling at her feet. But Mila did not fall, and upon her scarred face was an expression of great humiliation.
‘I should have perished,’ she said, her eyes still downcast. ‘But I will not die of injury, of pollution, or of blood loss. I will die fighting, my blade in my hand.’ A flash of her dark eyes, looking up from under her brows. ‘I will attain my redemption, with His blessing.’
‘There are battles aplenty, my Sister,’ Katherine told her, again. ‘We will seek them out even as I seek the wisdom that has brought me here. Let us find the command deck, and we will find your death as we go.’
And so, they walked. Before long, Mila began to falter. Her own red footprints followed her, counting down to her imminent failure. She shook with pain, but would suffer no sanguinator. Nor would she lean upon Katherine for support, and her hand did not release her blade. Soon, her agony became as loud as a cry. Katherine walked beside her friend, her own heart aching with grief, wanting to reach out to her, to offer her strength, to hold her by the elbow and keep her on her feet. To ensure that she made that final fight, and was able to perish in His grace.
The pain of Mila’s wounds was terrible for Katherine to behold. Yet the pain of her failure – that was almost too much. For Mila to die, on her knees and without that final battle… Her Repentance would be denied.
Still they continued, climbing higher and higher through the ruin of the Blade. It creaked at them, stirred by the cold winds of the rock upon which it lay. In places, panels and wires sparked as they passed, as if the great ship’s machine-spirit, also, was in pain and begging for their help. The ghost-noises continued, though no foe came close.
Mila staggered, her legs refusing to hold her. She made no word of complaint, just muttered the words of the Litany like a focus, a steel-cold grip of faith that held her to herself, enabled her to put one foot in front of the other. She held her blade tightly, though its point was no longer held high. And the hurt in Katherine’s heart was like a tear, widening with every step that her Sister took.
Why had they not been attacked? It was His will, and they had only to bear it.
And then, Mila fell. Forwards, onto her hands and knees. She did not release her blade – such would have been a travesty, a sin beyond words – but her free hand left a perfect, bloody print upon the metal.
Katherine stopped, her blood burning. The bloody hand was a sign, an image from her vision. They were almost to the command deck. To the place of her vision, and to the knowledge that she sought, in His name.
‘You must stand,’ she said, her voice an order. ‘You are Adepta Sororitas, a Sister of Battle. You are His daughter, a warrior trained, and you will not perish upon your knees!’ She held out her hand, but Mila forestalled her.
‘Do not,’ Mila said. ‘I am Repentia. I am forsaken. I will do this alone, or I will perish without His forgiveness.’ She glanced up, and Katherine could see the face of her friend, see the battles they had undergone together and the memories that she had carried forth to her wars. The tear in her heart grew wider; she wished only to help, to reach out for those past days, to share them once more, to ensure that Mila attained His grace and met her death upon her feet.
With her free hand, Mila reached out for the edge of a gantry, and began to pull herself up. As she did so, she recited still the words of the Litany, and never had Katherine heard them with such timbre, never had she felt them like blows against her skin. Each one was like a drumbeat, like a shard of hard glassaic, spat through gritted teeth…
‘Domine… Libra… Nos…!’
Each syllable was a fusion, its heat making Mila not resist her pain, but become one with its blessing. Allowing her to accept it, make it a bastion against her weakness, become charged with it, like adrenaline; use it to forge herself anew and to bring steel to her flesh and to her mind. Watching her rise back to her feet, Katherine felt a rush of pure wonder, of awe at His grace made manifest. She prayed, not the Litany, but words that tumbled with respect. She understood how pain gave resolution, but this… this was beyond her. This was something almost more than human.
Truly, this was His blessing.
‘I will stand,’ Mila said, ‘until I cannot.’
And the words went through Katherine like a blade, making the tear in her heart ever wider.
Lucia paused for a second sip of water. Not one of the Sisters had breathed a word, though Avra knew that parts of her own Order had taken those very words and had made of them a symbol, a Litany of Resilience. Understanding their origin felt like a blessing in itself.
She watched Lucia as the woman continued.
Understanding now, Katherine did not offer her friend help. Mila walked like some Mechanicus creation, one foot before the other, relentless, driven, automatic. Fuelled by pain, she used its very presence to push herself forwards. Prayers came from her like sparks from gears, erratic sprays of words, but like her walking, they did not cease.
And Katherine felt her Sister’s agony. It was empathy, and hope. It was their mutual days from the earliest wars of their Order. It was their training, and their cathedral hymns, and their evening games of Tall Card. It was the chiming of their laughter, and their voices raised in His praise.
And so, by His light and guidance, they at last found the metal ladder and the command deck of the Blade.
As she spoke, Lucia smiled at Avra. ‘No words, my Sisters, can describe the sensation of finding His vision made manifest. It is a key in a lock, a touch of pure wonder, the utter perfection of His truth. And the command deck exactly matched Katherine’s memory – as if she walked in a place of her own mind and heart. She had never seen it before, and yet she remembered it – its floor tilted, its control panels broken and hanging, the armaglass of its viewport shattered, and the precise lines and angles of its external view. We have known such moments, ourselves, have we not? Truly, they are the touch of His grace.’
‘Tell on, my Sister,’ Dominica said softly. ‘We understand.’
Through the command deck’s broken oculus, Katherine could see the surface of the tiny, nameless moon, black and pitted with craters. And buried within it, the pieces of all those shattered ships, great carcasses tumbled nose down, their hard angles blotting the faint light of Thelys’ even tinier satellites. The thin layer of atmosphere was breathable, but only just, and long shadows moved across the deck, making its uprights leer like phantoms. But the memory, the knowledge that He had brought her here to find? While the surround matched her vision, she still did not understand.
And her searching was interrupted as Mila stumbled again to her knees. As if the thread of her endurance had finally snapped, she could not stand. She tried, tried again, attempting to lever herself upright with her eviscerator, but her legs simply would not hold her, her blood loss too severe.
Katherine had stimms, but she knew that Mila would refuse their help, just as she had refused everything else.
‘Tell me,’ Mila said, her voice hoarse. ‘Tell me that you have found what you seek?’
Tell me that I have not striven in vain. Tell me that there is hope.
Katherine stood, carefully looking around at the ruined deck, at the command chair, at the walls of panels, the prayers and diagnostics, but nothing looked or felt right. There was something she was missing. Something–
The hound-snarl made them both turn round.
It was only the one, shoulders low and body skulking, but Mila’s blood covered its snout and tongue, telling them that it had followed her very footprints, tracking her by the path of her pain. And one was enough.
Katherine raised her bolter, but Mila said, ‘Do not.’ There was a note of relief in her voice, a faint ring of triumph. ‘This beast is surely the last survivor, and on this occasion, it is welcome.’
Understanding, Katherine let the weapon drop. She prayed aloud, her voice ringing through the ruins. And Mila joined her, their voices twining as once they had, so many years before. With an effort that made Katherine’s heart rend all but in half, Mila finally forced herself to her feet. Held upright by her song alone, by the words of empathy and shared pain, she raised the eviscerator. Starting its furious rasp, she faced the beast.
Katherine stood back, the bolter still in one hand, her shield still held in the other, and watched.
The hound leapt.
Incredible, impossible, Mila slashed at the leaping creature. Her effort made her totter, and she missed it; it landed behind her and spun, its claws tick-tacking on the metal, its eyes afire, its teeth bared.
But Mila did not fear it, and while she ached for the clamp of its jaws, she would not, could not surrender. She bared her teeth in a snarl of her own, shouted the names of her fallen Sisters, of Grief and Sorrow and Regret, of other names that Katherine did not know. The beast watched her, sly and narrow-eyed, as if picking up the scent of her exhaustion. It slunk in low, and Katherine’s hands tightened upon her weapons. But she could do nothing. In His name, her only task was to stand back, and to let her Sister, her friend, die.
Die, at the teeth of the enemy.
The hound leapt again, its jaws agape. Mila’s grinding blade slashed, catching it on its shoulder, but it was not enough, not enough…
And in that moment, watching its jaws close upon her Sister’s throat, so His understanding came to her. The final piece of her vision fell into place as if completing some great puzzle. This – this – was what He had brought her here to find. She was not here to discover some relic or remnant, but to learn a lesson of pain and truth.
As Mila’s body fell, released in honour to the Throne, and as Katherine shot the last surviving hound, singing as it skidded and was gone in a gout of blood and steam, so she lifted her voice in celebration.
In His name.
‘In His name.’
In the chapel, the Sisters echoed the blessing. Dominica was singing, her voice very soft but her rich contralto humming strong through the tiny building. Avra did not know the hymn, but Arabella joined her, a pure and crystalline soprano that made shivers flare down the younger Sister’s forearms.
Lucia smiled at them both, speaking in rhythm with their song, ‘As Sisters,’ she said, ‘we carry many weapons. We carry our bolt pistols and our sacred relics. We carry rage’ – she glanced at Mina – ‘and we carry other things within our hearts, each of which we will reveal, in turn. But pain…’ She stopped, touching her augmetic eye. ‘I was tortured by the aeldari, upon the fallen hive world of Mastark VI. Like Saint Lucia herself, I lost an eye to my tormentors and I did not surrender. And it was that very torment that blessed me with His vision, and that brought me here. I have served Him in this march for almost ten Solar years, and I have told this tale a total of six times, including today. My Sisters…’
