She awoke, and her mind was splinters.
Her head was full of shards of broken glass, and when she made the
mistake of shaking it they cascaded and crashed together, sparking
flares of bright agony, each a disjointed memory. She fumbled in
half-light for anything to dull the pain, found a tumbler of cold
water. Most went down her throat, but some impulse compelled her to
save the last mouthful to splash over her face. Immediately the pain
faded, but the chaos in her mind remained.
Carefully, she pushed herself to a
sitting position on the.. bed? Even as she moved, the featureless
block on which she had lain shifted and metamorphosed, contouring
itself to match her new posture. The effect was as mentally unnerving
as it was physically comfortable. Her bare feet touched a bare floor
that was oddly warm. She blinked down at them, realising that naked
as she felt, she was clothed, after a fashion. Her shins were
protected by light, armoured guards, as were her forearms, and other
plates shielded her shoulders, elbows, and knees. More armour
protected her chest, though it stopped well short of her navel, and
below the waist only her modesty was protected by thin cloth which
fit tightly but was oddly comfortable. Looking around further, she
caught sight of a full-length mirror set into the wall, and walked
over to it to inspect her appearance in more detail.
As she studied her face- lean, lightly
scarred, with a tattoo on one cheek, realisation came crashing back.
The tattoo, the design repeated one one of her shoulder guards, was
the ancient fleur de lys, now
known throughout the galaxy as the symbol of the Sisters of Battle,
the Adepta Sororitas. Looking closer, she realised that the armour,
if it were even worthy of the word, that she wore was adapted, or
more accurately cannibalised, from the hallowed power armour worn by
that martial order. Gone, though, were the sophisticated
fibre-bundles and motivators that usually compensated for the
armour's weight, though along with them, and with much of the
structure, had gone that weight itself. She leaned closer to the
mirror, brow furrowing with the effort of trying to recall who she
was and how she had come to this state, and felt hot breath on her
face.
She
recoiled as if hit by a bolt round. This was no mirror. She advanced,
cautiously, and her reflection- no, the other her-
advanced in concert. Slowly, tentatively, she reached out, and when
her hand touched what should have been the surface of the glass, it
instead met warm, yielding flesh. Once again, she leapt back, and on
sudden, frightened impulse swept up the tumbler and hurled it at her
doppelgänger. The other matched the motion, and at the event horizon
of that impossible portal the two missiles clashed together,
shattering into identical shards that similarly collided with perfect
symmetry. Understanding of a sort came with a crash no less dramatic.
This was a mirror after all- just a mirror made by twisting space
itself around in a knot. She was in the hands of beings so advanced,
and so arrogant in that advancement, that they would violate the laws
of physical reality itself simply to gaze at their own faces.
Forcing
herself to accept the fact of the thing (Heresy! something
in her core shouted) she stepped back to the centre of the room,
turning to study herself from all angles. The body barely protected
by the armour was tall, lean and sinewy, the body of a warrior. She
had to admit that exposed though she felt, she could at least move
freely and what protection there was had been placed where it would
do the most good. There was armour, too, for her soul, for from a
beaded chain at her waist swung the Chaplet Ecclesiastes,
symbol of her faith in the God
Emperor. Whatever tricks and treachery had wracked her mind could not
erase that faith, even if her own name was lost to her.
So.
She was alive, and she was in good health- her head, confused though
her thoughts were, was clear, and her heart was returning to an even,
calm rhythm. She was a servant of the Emperor, and she was among
aliens, or heretics of some sort, and therefore she was in need of a
weapon. Even as the thought crossed her mind, she saw it, propped
against the foot of the bed, or whatever the thing she had been
sleeping on was. A chainsword- no, she corrected herself, her
chainsword. It was, she somehow
knew, an ancient weapon, far older than her, and passed down from
warrior to warrior. She picked it up, and almost dropped it in
horror. The grip felt familiar in her hand, the weight and balance
were exactly right, but where the motor which drove the razor-sharp
teeth should have been there was instead a sullen, dull-glinting
orb. Grimacing in distaste, she thumbed the activation stud. Instead
of the throaty roar that should have issued from the weapon, it
hissed into life, a whispering promise of death instead of a boldly
shouted threat. She gave a half-hearted, experimental swing, but to
her surprise and delight the blade leapt through the air, and sang as
it went.
You are the Champion,
it cried with the first stroke.
You will kill them all for the
Emperor, it shouted with the
second.
The stage awaits, it
screamed with the third.
With that, a panel
in the wall slid open. From outside, she could hear the sound of
voices- thousands, maybe millions of them. She couldn't say what they
called, but somehow, she knew they were calling for her. Her purpose
clear, she strode out into the dim light of stolen suns.
Her
feet crunched lightly in black, glassy sand (obsidian sand
from the crone worlds, blinding if it touches the eyes and instant
death if ingested said something
inside the corners of her mind) and she strode fearlessly to the
centre of a vast arena. Above her, the sky was filled with impossible
shapes and architecture to blast the sanity of a rational mind, but
she paid such distractions no heed. The arena itself was surrounded
on all sides by huge terraces, crammed with eyes hungry for violence
and studded with galleries and balconies in which lounged the elite
of the alien society. They seemed impossibly far away, but she
somehow knew that every one could see her intimately. She knew it
should have disturbed and discomfited her, but it did not. Let them
see, let them see how a true child of the Emperor fights. Let them
see how she dies.
Bat-like shapes
swept overhead, and from them a quartet of lithe figures sprang to
land lightly on the sands. The nearest made to alight within a few
feet of her, and paid a fatal price for his arrogance, for in the
dark arena of Commoragh there were no rules, no concept of fair play,
and though the Wych twisted desperately as he fell there was no
escape from the hungry blade of her sword. The crowd howled in a mix
of fury and exhilaration as he was neatly cut in half. His comrades
seemed uncaring of their fellow's gory demise, but nonetheless kept
their distance and regrouped. On a whim, she flicked the chainsword
towards the nearest of them, a female, and a light spatter of blood
sprayed across her face. The crowd gave another roar, this one of
near unanimous approval, and then settled into a dim murmur of
anticipation.
The Wyches circled,
warily, but with vicious eagerness etched in their expressions. Of
the three that remained, there were two females and one male, the
last bare-chested and all three otherwise clad in light combat-suits
that left one side of their bodies almost completely exposed. Though
on the field of war they would have carried slim, deadly splinter
pistols in one hand, in this arena they held razor-thin knives
lightly in both, with the exception of one of the females who instead
whirled two long, bladed flails about her with increasing speed. Her
training told her that one would be forced to attack alone for fear
of striking her allies with her own weapons, and yet instincts she
could not possibly possess warned her of the real danger even as the
three suddenly charged.
The
female with the flails took the lead, a long, red topknot streaming
behind her as she dashed forwards, blades whirring through the alien
air. The others ran a little behind and to each side, well within
reach of the weapons, ducking and leaping as casually as if they had
been on an evening stroll to avoid the hissing maelstrom of death.
She should have been overwhelmed by the rush, her training as a
stolid warrior of the Imperial battle-line telling her to close ranks
with Sisters who were not there and repel the attack with the fire of
righteous bolters and flamers that she did not, could not possess. To
the shock of her foes, and the delight of the audience, this was not
what happened.
With the certainty
of experience she could not remember gaining, she stooped, grabbed,
and whirled with a single motion, sending one of the daggers of the
fallen Wych hurtling towards his fellows. The blade, finely made and
exquisitely balanced as it was, was not made for throwing, and
twisted erratically through the air, flying wide of the lead Wych who
sneered in contempt at the futile attack. And yet, she was not the
intended target. Veering off to the side of the leader, the knife
clattered into the whirling flails with a bright shower of sparks,
throwing them off their path by the merest distance, but a
significant distance nonetheless, as a swinging blade was knocked a
tiny fraction downwards just as the other female made to duck under
it. With a horrific screech, the Wych went down as the deflected
flail wrapped around her throat, the sudden jerk almost hauling the
leader from her feet before she could release it.
There was no time
for her to celebrate the success of the gambit, though the
near-delirious crowd were more than willing to do so in her stead.
The male Wych, seeing the scant opening presented as she recovered
from the throw, leapt to the attack, blade slashing through the air
and glittering as it caught the faint light of first one, and then
another sun. Off-balance, her sword on her right side and her left
exposed to the strike, it seemed there was nothing she could do to
avoid the blow, but to the incredulity of the crowd she lunged, feet
digging into the sand as her shoulder-guard surged straight into the
face of the onrushing Wych. What was intended as a raking slash
became instead a clumsy stab, the Eldar's blade sinking an inch deep
into bare flesh but missing anything vital as its wielder was slammed
backwards, the fragile bones of his nose driven straight into his
brain.
Pain flared as the
knife slipped out of the wound, but there was little time to
acknowledge it. From her right came a horrible, gurgling scream as
the lead Wych yanked her flail free from her fallen compatriot, the
blades tearing the other's throat to bloody ruin and nearly severing
her head. Far from being concerned by the grisly fates of the others,
the remaining Wych seemed emboldened by them, grinning savagely at
this enthralling mon-keigh who had shown such unanticipated
skill to go with the expected courage.
“I am Anthalassa
Hex, Hekatrix of the Dance of Eight Blades, Scourge of Ulthas and
slayer of Ekris the Mad.” spoke the alien, in a voice like honey
flowing over razor-wire. “Whose name shall I inscribe on the
pedestal upon which I place your head, round-ear?”
“I am she who
will kill you for the Emperor.” was the only reply.
Hex merely grinned
wider, and the flails resumed their deadly dance, whirling about her
so quickly that only blurred air marked their passing. She advanced
on her human foe unhurriedly, for though the arena could comfortably
have accommodated a Sword-class frigate there was, in truth, nowhere
to go that would do anything other than delay the inevitable clash.
The Sister retreated slowly, chainsword held in a two-handed grip as
she fended off the deadly web more by instinct than sight. The
bleeding from the wound in her side was slowing, but a dangerous
stiffness was beginning to build in the muscles there. Time was not
on her side. She took another step back, another, bare feet gripping
the sand tightly, knowing that to slip or stumble would be fatal.
“We have been
warriors since before your kind dragged itself out of the swamp,
mon-keigh,” said the Wych, the words given a peculiar
cadence as the flails sliced the air around her. “Fall on your
knees, go on all fours like the beast you are, and I shall make your
end quick and... only moderately painful.”
All fours. Yes,
perhaps humans had started out that way, from the water to the trees
before climbing to the stars. They still had four limbs, and if they
put their minds to it, all four appendages could still grasp. She
backed up another pace, and if Hex noticed the slight difference in
her stance, she paid it no attention. Suddenly, the Sister's leading
leg flashed up, seeming to kick at the empty air well short of the
Wych. It looked like an ill-judged strike borne of desperation, and a
smirk of contempt was still on Hex's face when she realised what the
true intent of the motion was. Clenched between the toes of the bare
foot and the ball was a tiny, almost inconsequential amount of that
black sand, which, released at the apex of the kick, hurtled straight
into the Wych's face. Ordinary sand would have been barely a
distraction, but that deadly powder, harvested for the arenas at
ridiculous expense from the most dangerous worlds in the galaxy,
commanded healthy respect if not outright fear. With both hands
occupied with the flails, it was all Hex could do even with her
preternatural reflexes to screw her eyes tight shut and turn away,
huffing air from mouth and nose to avoid breathing any in. She
whirled both flails in front of her as she fell back, covering the
brief moment of vulnerability, but in so doing sacrificed the very
unpredictability that made them dangerous. And her foe was already
moving.
The
chainsword swept forward, its song of death suddenly sliding into
harmony with the shriek of the flails as all three met in a fatal
embrace, whirring teeth snagging on entwining lashes and falling
clangorously silent. She yanked at the sparking, vibrating mass,
pulling the lightweight form of the Wych savagely towards her whilst
striking with the one weapon still free to do so- her head. Even
taken off-balance and by surprise, her foe was still a Wych and
managed to twist her own head to meet the attack with the solid bone
of the skull rather than the weaker ones of her face, and yet the
architecture of Humanity proved more robust than that of the Eladrith
Ynneas and it was Hex who came
off the worst in the collision, reeling back to thud into the sand,
closely followed by her half-stunned foe who barely retained the
presence of mind to hurl the useless mass of weaponry aside before
something critically yielded.
And then, in a
final frenzy of violence, the last acts played out in a flurry of
blood, limbs and sand. Human hands drove down to Eldar throat, and
Anthalassa Hex learned for herself the grim lesson that countless
Xenos had learned before her- that whilst the enemies of Mankind
might possess superior technology, numbers, or battle prowess there
was no force in the galaxy that could match their sheer hatred.
Razor-pointed nails scoured at bare skin, and those hands continued
to squeeze. Sand was flung into a rage-contorted face, but the eyes
were screwed tight shut with blind fury and those hands continued to
squeeze. Weakening now, Hex yanked at the white-bleached hair, tried
to force fingernails into eye-sockets, twisted and thrashed with
incredible suppleness, and still those hands continued to squeeze.
And squeeze. And squeeze. And then, there was silence, broken
simultaneously by the wild roar of the crowd and a whirring snap from
her chainsword as it finally forced free of the entangling flails and
sent their lacerated remains to fall in the bloody sand next to the
throttled remains of their mistress.
Breathing heavily,
bleeding from countless cuts and scratches that blazed with fiery
agony where the sand had got into them, she forced herself to her
feet. The crowd began a rhythmic, incomprehensible chant as she swept
up the sword and thrust it towards the impossible sky, screaming her
victory.
“For the Emperor!
Death to the Alien!”
And then, she
realised the cheers were no longer for her. From behind, some
distance away but closing fast, came a low roar that built with every
second. She turned, to see the beast advancing, goaded forward by
darting figures on those bat-winged sky-boards, six eyes swivelling
to fix upon her. One of the handlers darted over her head, turning
only to unleash a quick burst of fire from a weapon mounted beneath
the board that ripped into the flesh of the thing and served only to
drive it into a berserk fury before the whole group of them shot off
into the distance, leaving behind only a brief peal of mocking
laughter.
There was no time
for tactics, no hope of escape. She threw herself headlong to the
attack, the words of the Hymn of Hatred springing unbidden to her
lips. She ducked the sweep of one clawed hand, and hacked a deep
gouge in the wrist of the other, but the thing was fast, too fast,
and the wounds she inflicted seemed only to enrage it further. Then
it was upon her, those huge claws wrapping around her torso,
squeezing and rending. A rib went, and she felt a piercing talon
drive deep into her lung. So be it. She commended herself,
body and soul, to the Emperor, and in that moment the pain faded
away, along with the sounds of battle and the frenzied crowd,
replaced instead by a calm, soothing warmth and the song of a distant
choir. She watched almost serenely as her previously limp hands rose
up in front of her, gripping the sword two-handed. She watched all
six of those terrible eyes bulge wide open as she reversed her grip
and drove the weapon point-first straight through the head of the
beast and deep into its heart. And then there was falling, and the
world was replaced with golden light.
The vault was deep,
even for a facility of its nature. It was rare indeed for it to
receive visitors, and rarer still for them to attend willingly, but
Archon Drakkia Hex was paying for it, one way or another, and
besides, the Fleshwright had invited her personally. She leant,
feigning boredom, against a rare spot of wall not covered in tubes,
vials, cylinders or other arcane claptrap and stifled a theatrical
yawn.
“So? What is it
you have called me down here to see? I admit that watching that bitch
sister of mine getting her neck wrung by a mon-keigh, of all
things, was worth every soul, prisoner and favour I have traded to
back this pet project of yours so far, but your skin-wrangling holds
little interest to me.”
The misshapen thing
to which she directed her words was barely humanoid in shape. Limbs
beyond count or reason stretched from its tortured torso in every
direction, and there was what looked like a complete infant Hrud
grafted to its back for Vect-knew-what reason, but the Haemonculus
known as the Fleshwright was considered second only to Rakarth
himself in his skills, and then only when he was out of earshot,
which given his penchant for self-modification was generally
considered to be several times further even than that of most Eldar.
Now, he/she/it extended one of its more humanoid limbs towards a
birthing tank in the centre of the room.
“Watch.” it
said.
“Watch what? I
know enough about what you do here to know it will be some time
before this new one is ready to fight again, not to mention the time
it takes to clean and recondition its equipment. Finding a compatible
power-source for that ridiculous lump of a weapon cost me two small
moons, you know, though admittedly I won one of them back on the
fight with the Wych pack.”
“It is about to
become... viable. It is time you saw how... remarkable that process
is.”
A few moments
later, within the rich nutrient broth that housed the latest cloned
body of what had been Sister Superior Tatyana Kyne of the Order of
Our Martyred Lady, a synapse fired. A new-grown heart began steadily
to pump, and new limbs began to twitch with life. As the two Dark
Eldar watched, one with satisfaction, the other with stunned
disbelief, a sudden, golden light flared into the pitch-dark chamber.
“I have tried
everything to stop it, trap it, study it.” said the Fleshwright,
softly. “It evades canoptic wards, runic stasis incantations and
the Nine-Chambered Snare of Tyr. It flows like oiled blood through
hermetic seals and ignores Chimeric Mirrors. It is impossible. It
is.. beautiful. And it always, always finds
her, wherever, whenever and however I restore her body.”
“What..
what is it?”
whispered Drakkia, awestruck in spite of herself.
“I
think... I believe it is what the mon-keigh
call... Faith.”
Remembering herself, Drakkia snorted, and turned on her heels.
“Whatever you say, meat-twister. Just have my new Champion ready to
fight again before the week is out- I want something to get the
attention of Hesperax herself before long.” She gave the
Fleshwright a twisted, sardonic smile over her shoulder, a look
calculated to drive any normal being to a frenzy of lust. “Just try
not to accidentally get us all killed doing it.”
The
Fleshwright watched her leave, observing the motion of her gluteus
maximus with no more
than faint academic interest. “Believe me, my Archon.” he
whispered to the silent darkness “I intend much greater than that.”
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