[Dawn of War 02] - Ascension Read online

  Most eldar craftworlds were governed by a Seer Council, headed by the farseer, but Biel-Tan had been an exception for millennia. Alongside the seers, Biel-Tan was ruled by a military council comprised of the exarchs from the biggest Aspect Temples on the craftworld. The balance of power between these councils was delicate, and the exarchs resented any and all appeals to traditions that implied their subordination to the Seer Council. In practice, most of the political decisions were made behind the closed doors of the Young King’s Court, whilst the exarchs begrudgingly acknowledged their need for the advice and guidance of Macha and her seers.

  “Then what do you propose that we do, farseer?” asked Uldreth, the exarch of the Dire Avengers. His tone was harsh and his voice scraped through the air as though dragging itself over rough metal. It was a challenge, not a question.

  “We must unleash the Bahzhakhain. We must dispatch the Swordwind to Lsathranil’s Shield,” intoned Laeresh urgently. He was standing on the throne pedestal itself at Macha’s right shoulder, his deep purple cloak hanging like a shroud around his glistening black armour.

  “I did not ask you, Reaper,” responded Uldreth, almost spitting on the polished floor. He kept his eyes fixed on Macha, not even turning his face to address Laeresh; his immaculate blue armour shone and its emerald edging seemed to glow with suppressed fires.

  The other exarchs arrayed on the floor offered no response. It was not clear whether they were ignoring Laeresh or whether they were ignoring Uldreth, but they made no attempt to intervene in the obvious tension between the two great warriors.

  “We cannot afford to take the risk, Uldreth Avenger. If the vision is of the future, then we must act now,” pressed Laeresh, ignoring the manner of the Dire Avenger and appealing to his deep-seated concern for the survival of the ancient and precarious eldar race, a concern common to all eldar, even if only at the most subconscious level.

  “Can you tell us nothing of time, farseer?” asked Uldreth, his voice still bitter, albeit tinged with hints of resignation. “Are there really no clues about whether this battle lies in the future or the past?”

  “I have said,” stated Macha simply. “The vision raged as though in the present, but such is the way with visions that are seen in the present, I could see nothing of time, except that it continued to pass as it does now.”

  Macha could see the frustration on Uldreth’s face. His eyes narrowed slightly, as though the uncertainty afflicted him with physical pain. Finally, he shot a glance towards Laeresh. “And you, Reaper, what role is there in this for you?”

  “I will accompany the farseer, Uldreth Avenger,” replied Laeresh, nodding a slight and stiff bow, affecting deference where it was due but unfelt.

  “Will you, now?” hissed Uldreth, his eyes narrowing still further, until they were little more than slits. “I see that you think this matter decided already? Well, it is not—Farseer, what of the other seers on the council? Do they share your visions?”

  Macha had expected this question, and she had already given it a great deal of thought. If she were honest, she had to admit that it was unusual for no aspects of her vision to be shared by the others. It was not uncommon for the seers of the council to experience the same visions at similar times, or, at least, to be struck by different versions of the same vision—the same vision from differing standpoints. But, in this case, not a single seer had even glimpsed the light-riddled battle of Lsathranil’s Shield—not even Taldeer, who was usually so in tune. Her mind was growing increasingly unsettled, as though the vision had seeped its way into her own soul and become part of her. She had seen her ancient Wraithship, Eternal Star, in the midst of the battle, and there was more to her role in the vision than forgotten pasts or a sentimental attachment to her ship.

  “They do not.” The answer was simple and direct, and Macha held her gaze firmly as she spoke. “This is my vision. Mine alone.”

  For a moment, Uldreth held her gaze, peering into her bright eyes as though searching for some hidden truth. When he broke contact, he flashed his own green eyes at Laeresh and then turned to leave. He spun on his heel, whisking his blue cloak into a whirl, and then strode towards the great staircase that led up to the Triclopic Gates at the entrance to the farseer’s throne hall. The other exarchs bowed abruptly to Macha and then hurried off in Uldreth’s wake. One of them, the sparkling golden form of the Fire Dragon exarch, Draconir, paused momentarily and nodded to Laeresh.

  * * * * *

  Secure in the depths of the venerable battle barge, Litany of Fury, the young neophyte’s eyes bulged, but he did not cry out. His body could not even twitch, since his limbs were bound to the great, ceremonial tablet with adamantium hoops and a heavy strap ringed his chest. Beneath the restraints, Ckrius’ muscles spasmed and knotted, his body attempting to thrash against the violence being done to it.

  There was already a long scar running down the boy’s chest, where his sternum had been cracked open and a second heart inserted into the cavity below. There were a couple of tributary incisions slipping out of the scar, where the small, tubular ossmodula organ and the little, spherical biscopea had been implanted at the same time as the extra heart.

  These zygotes were usually implanted when the neophyte was much younger than Ckrius—perhaps as young as ten years old. It took time for them to stabilise, and for the young human bodies to accept the new organs. The ossmodula and biscopea implants were developmental, flooding the body with hormones to encourage rapid growth and strengthening of the skeleton and its musculature—an older neophyte may not respond well to such traumatic processes. But time was not a luxury that the beleaguered Blood Ravens Space Marines could enjoy; they needed new initiates as quickly as possible, and the surgical processes were being accelerated beyond the point of caution or good sense.

  A thin jet of blood was spraying out of another slit in Ckrius’ chest, and the neophyte’s eyes seemed fixed on the crimson shower. There was barely controlled horror in his face as he flickered on the edge of consciousness, waiting for shock to dull the searing pain. But a complicated web of intravenous drips supplied him with a constant flow of stimulants, ensuring that he would not drift into unconsciousness or even be able to sublimate the memories afterwards. These horrific procedures would stick with him forever, always present behind his eyelids if ever he tried to close them for sleep or dreams. He was becoming a Space Marine, and it was important that he should never forget what that meant.

  The mechanical, skeletal, metal arms that augmented the surgical dexterity of the Blood Ravens apothecary twitched and clicked as they worked the instruments inside Ckrius’ flesh. Meanwhile, the apothecary’s real arms were braced against the neophyte’s shoulders. The spray of blood had erupted as one of the main blood vessels exiting the primary heart had been severed, and now the apothecary was carefully inserting the tiny haemastamen organ into the line of the vessel. It was designed to monitor and control the make-up of the Marine’s blood, particularly to ensure that the other implants would receive rich enough sustenance for proper development and maintenance.

  Before reconnecting the severed blood vessel, the mechanical, chattering arms of the apothecary tugged the incision in Ckrius’ chest a little wider, making him moan and gasp. Another thin metal arm appeared from under the apothecary’s black smock, carrying a dark, fleshy organ of about the size and shape of a small fruit. The arm pushed the Larraman’s organ through the opening in the neophyte’s flesh, while another of the many arms quickly stitched it into place—setting it next to the primary heart like an extra valve in the severed blood vessel, and then connecting the artery again on the other side of it.

  With smooth slithering motions, the various metal arms and instruments withdrew from the violated body and slipped back into place under the apothecary’s smock as he simply turned and left, leaving the gaping wound on Ckrius’ chest open to the air with blood pouring out of it. The neophyte’s head strained against the restraints that were looped over his forehead, as he wat
ched the apothecary vanish. Up until that point, he had wanted nothing more than for his torturer to leave him in peace, but now that the oddly augmented figure was leaving him half-finished, his mind welled up with panic that he would simply bleed to death on the tablet.

  In fact, he might bleed to death there and then. Many neophytes did not make it past this, the fifth phase of the transformation into a Space Marine. The apothecary had deliberately left the egregious wound open. One of three things would now happen: Ckrius would bleed to death; Ckrius’ Larraman’s organ would eventually kick in and stem the blood flow, but his immune system would be too weakened by all the body-trauma and he would die of an infection—nothing would be done to prevent this; or the haemastamen organ would already be working to provide the Larraman’s organ with the enriched blood necessary to help it heal the wound quickly enough to prevent either infection or too much blood loss. Then he might survive.

  The only way Ckrius would still be alive in an hour’s time would be if his genetic make-up was an almost exact match with the Blood Ravens’ gene-seed. If not, one or other of the implants would fail, or would be inefficient, and he would die. The apothecary would let him die; if the zygotes did not take root, then the neophyte was basically worthless to the Chapter.

  Standing in the shadows at the edge of the Implantation Chamber, Captain Gabriel Angelos watched the ritual surgery taking place. Every time he saw it done, it seemed like only yesterday that it had been him lying on that ancient tablet. The myriad scars that adorned his body flared with pain at the memory, sending sparks of agony rampaging around his brain. Part of him wondered whether this reaction had been hard-wired into his brain during the course of hypnotherapy which accompanied the surgery and then continued for much of the rest of a Marine’s life—it wouldn’t have surprised him. Then again, the implantation process was not something that could easily be forgotten.

  Clouds of smoke billowed around the room from the burners that had been lit at each corner of the operation tablet. The smoke was slightly toxic—enough to cause lethal infections in any untreated wounds, and enough to choke a normal human being. Gabriel and Sergeant Tanthius who accompanied him breathed easily, their multi-lungs working naturally to filter out the more unpleasant effects of the gas. Ckrius had to make do with his old lungs for now.

  The ceremonial conditions of the implantation process were deliberately unhygienic. Purity was an entirely ritualised concept in this context, as the bank of masked Chapter priests ensconced in prayer at the far side of the chamber showed. The neophyte had to survive the various surgeries, but he had to survive them himself: the apothecary would administer the transformation, but would offer no medical care. A Space Marine should have to rely on nobody, and if he required a sterilised atmosphere and shiny new surgical instruments, then he was not of the right stuff. The Implantation Chamber was a haven for death and disease—its carefully controlled air supply was rich with some of the most deadly viruses and bacteria ever to have plagued the galaxy.

  The unusual air-conditioning also acted as a defensive precaution—this was one of the most secure locations in the Blood Ravens’ realm. At the back of the chamber were a pair of massive, heavy, adamantium doors, bolted and encrusted with purity seals. Sprinkled around the frame of the great doors were a series of automatic defence cannons that tracked and whirred constantly, drawing tabs on anything and anyone that moved into the room. An ancient, runic script had been inscribed in a giant arc around the super-armoured portal, but there were few who could decipher its meaning. And at the apex of the arch was a shimmering, blood red, stylised raven.

  Behind those doors was kept part of the Chapter’s supply of gene-seed. This was the most heavily guarded place in the entire battle barge—even more secure than the magnificent armouries of the Blood Ravens. Without a home world of their own, the Blood Ravens had no central planetary Fortress Monastery in which to hide their genetic treasure. Instead, the reservoir was divided amongst the Chapter’s magnificent battle barges, including the epic fortress of the Omnis Arcanum, buried deep in their impregnable hulls and encased in concentric spheres of armoured shields. Even if the unthinkable were to happen, and a battle barge was destroyed, the gene-chamber would survive, tumbling invisibly through space until its heavily encrypted signal was picked up by another Blood Ravens vessel. It could survive for centuries, even millennia without external power. Like their brother Chapters, the Blood Ravens took no risks with their gene-seed, for without it they were doomed.

  “Do you think he will survive?” asked Tanthius, his concern etched clearly into his wide, open features. The veteran sergeant had discovered Ckrius himself, during the terrible battles of the Tartarus campaign, which had cost the Blood Ravens so dearly. The youth had made an impression on the wizened old Terminator, despite his jaded professionalism, and Tanthius felt some responsibility for the safety of his young charge.

  “We will see,” replied Gabriel. That was all he could say: only time would tell. “He is strong, Tanthius,” he added, as though consoling his old friend.

  A hiss of decompression made the two Marines turn. The doors to the Implantation Chamber slid open and a sheet of light cut into the deep, smoky shadows. For a moment the huge green tank on the far side of the chamber was lit up, as though held in a spotlight. Inside it, Gabriel could see the vague, ill-formed shape of a man; it was a growing-tank, in which the apothecary was already preparing the black carapace for Ckrius, should he survive long enough to need it. The insertion of the carapace under the skin of the neophyte was the last phase in his transformation—once it was complete, he would become an initiate Marine, finally able to bond with the ancient power-armour that characterised all Space Marines.

  Then the tank fell into shadow as a heavy figure strode into the light-flooded doorway. The Marine bowed deeply on the threshold, paying his respects to the sacred site into which he was about to enter, and then he stepped inside, letting the doors hiss shut behind him, extinguishing the light altogether.

  “How is he doing, captain?” asked Librarian Ikarus, staring straight at the bound figure of Ckrius on the tablet, without looking over at Gabriel.

  “Ikarus,” nodded Gabriel in greeting. “It is still too early to tell.”

  “His suffering is great,” whispered the librarian, a wave of pain seeming to wash over his own face. “I can feel his anguish—he radiates it as a star gives off heat.”

  “I am sure that it was this way with us, too,” said Tanthius, almost to himself. He was watching the boy’s muscles tense and bulge as he fought against the panic and the agony.

  It was not usual for three such high-ranking Blood Ravens to be present during these rituals, but these were unusual times for them. Gabriel’s Third Company had been severely tested on Tartarus, and he had lost many Marines in the battles against the orks, the traitorous Alpha Legion, and the manipulative xenos eldar of Biel-Tan. And from the whole population, they had found only one warrior with the character and constitution of a hero. Only Ckrius had seemed a likely neophyte, but even he was older than they would have liked, and there was no guarantee that he would be a genetic match with the Blood Ravens’ seed.

  Although the Blood Ravens could claim a magnificent victory at the end of the Tartarus campaign, it was tinged with a profound sense of loss. Great Marines had fallen, including Gabriel’s oldest friend, Librarian Akios Isador. And in return, the Chapter had taken Ckrius, an Imperial Guardsman who had fought the orks with glorious abandon, standing side by side with the Marines until the very end. But they had taken only Ckrius, and he could not replace the numbers that had been lost. The Third Company stood perilously close to their own extinction.

  Thus, Gabriel, Tanthius and Ikarus maintained their vigil in the Implantation Chamber, watching every change in the condition of their neophyte, muttering silent prayers to the Emperor of Man that he might survive the vastly accelerated process that he was being forced to suffer.

  The four exarchs stood facing one a
nother, with their retinues fanned out behind them, resplendent in the glorious colours of their temples. The Courtroom of the Young King was one of the most elevated spaces on Biel-Tan, lifted like a majestic dome out of the peaks of the craftworld. Its vast curving walls aspired to a distant apex, all but invisible from the polished wraithbone floor. The dome was almost transparent, and the brilliance of the stars outside pierced its substance with heavenly patterns that swam and trailed with the steady, interstellar motion of the immense craft. The bonesingers who had fashioned the grand hall from wraithbone drawn directly from the warp were the finest in the long and noble history of the Biel-Tan. The walls glinted and glistened in accord with the mood of the occasion, and the patterns of stars outside seemed to form and reform into ancient eldar runes, spelling out the glorious heritage of the sons of Asuryan. The hall was big enough to hold a thousand eldar warriors, but today there were only a dozen.

  The Court had been comprised of the same four exarchs for centuries. They were the keepers of the largest Aspect Temples on Biel-Tan, and between them they determined all the military affairs of the craftworld.

  They were each warriors to the core; each the absolute personifications of their Aspects; each had abandoned the Path of the Eldar, having lost themselves in the service of Kaela Mensha Khaine himself—never again to leave the bloody road of the warrior. But they were not all the same—the Aspects each had personalities of their own, as though aping the moods of Khaine.

  As usual, Uldreth spoke first, planting his ornate diresword between his feet. He was the youngest of the four, and the most afflicted by the extremes of passion that plagued his race. The others had mellowed slightly as the long years had passed, although none might be considered cold. The Court of the Young King had a reputation amongst the other peripatetic craftworlds of the eldar for being bellicose and aggressive, and this was not just because of the Dire Avenger in their midst.