[Dawn of War 02] - Ascension Read online

  The light was more intense than it seemed; the deep red hue belying the strength of the star and bathing everything in a warm, bloody atmosphere. Caleb squinted, waiting for his occulobe implant to filter out the obfuscatory glare. The small, slug-like organ at the base of his brain had been working inconsistently recently, but the repair facilities on Rahe’s Paradise were not sufficient to deal with zygote maintenance, so Caleb was waiting for the arrival of the Third Company’s apothecary. In the mean time, his vision was occasionally glitchy, and he was sufficiently irritated that he was wondering whether it might be better not to have the implant at all. Just a few moments earlier, on the early morning ride, Caleb had seen a sudden burst of bright light that almost blinded him. It seemed to have been a hallucination or an occulobular malfunction; none of the other scouts in his squad had seen anything.

  “There,” said Caleb, pointing out into the desert with his gauntlet.

  A black speck seemed to blink and flicker on the horizon, silhouetted against the bloodied sun. After a few seconds of staring into the light, Caleb could see that the speck was actually a constellation of even smaller figures.

  “Pirates?” asked Abraim, staring alongside his sergeant.

  “Perhaps,” replied Caleb thoughtfully, watching the tiny flecks move and dance against the morning sun. “Certainly too fast to be orks.”

  An instant later, and the specks disappeared.

  The eldar ranger inspected the landing site quickly, checking to ensure that his team had not left any traces. He knew that they would not have done—they knew their jobs better than anyone—but their team had not survived for as long as it had by being careless. Confidence and complacency were much more comfortable bedfellows than urgency and discipline. Confident though he was, Flaetriu knew that his life and his soul rested upon his diligence; he checked the site carefully.

  The elegantly curving shape of the Vampire Raider was now fully submerged under the sand. Although its twin dorsal fins protruded out of the desert, they were virtually invisible. A light-gravitic shield clung to the shiny surface of the fins, refracting and bending the surrounding light around them so that they were visible only as slight distortions in the already heat-distorted scene. The technology was a variation on that used in the cameleoline cloaks worn by the rangers themselves. One of the clumsy mon-keigh would walk straight into them before he saw them.

  Flaetriu pulled the hood of his cloak down over his face and tightened the scarf that covered his mouth. The heat change caused by the sunrise was whipping up eddies of wind, sending sheets of sand scraping against the faces of the eldar rangers. The team’s cloaks were fluttering in the cycling breeze as they settled into a dull orange colour, roughly matching the hue of the desert under the red sun.

  The eight immaculately camouflaged rangers climbed into their desert-pattern jetbikes, and Flaetriu checked the line. His team were flickering in and out of visibility, but their long shadows stretched out on the sand before them, as the sun continued to rise at their backs. A couple of kilometres in front of them were the first undulations of the foothills, beyond which towered the massive mountain range that ringed the planet. A huge plume of smoke pushed up into the sky above the glowing peak of a jagged volcano, and thin rivers of lava coursed down its sides in an intricate lattice.

  Even from this distance, Flaetriu could clearly see the squadron of blood red mon-keigh warriors bestride their cumbersome, bi-wheeled vehicles, staring out into the desert towards his rangers. He smiled underneath his scarf, certain that the primitive humans had no idea what was about to happen to them.

  Let’s go, he said, without a sound, whispering the command directly into the minds of his team.

  A bank of jetbikes flashed forward from each side of him, accelerating to maximum speed almost instantaneously and virtually without sound. Flaetriu sat for a moment, watching the dust trails of his team disperse in the morning wind, enjoying the heat of the sun on his back. Then he smiled again and kicked his own bike into motion. Following the Path of the Outcast wasn’t always melancholy: he was going to enjoy this.

  On reflection, it was strange that the four of them had chosen such different paths. At one time, they had all been together, bonded by a commonality of purpose and even by friendship, but then something had changed in each of them and their worlds had pulled them apart. Not one of them had been content with the cycling way of the eldar, and each had plunged their souls into specific paths, grasping hold of their fates with both hands in a manner both horrifying and inspiring to the rest of their kin. They were the best and the worst of their people—magnificent and terrible. Each of them had given up their chances of a normal life on Biel-Tan, and each had condemned themselves to lives of power and agony. In their own ways, each had found the truth of the eldar soul, and they lived with a suppressed contempt for their fellow eldar, who also called themselves sons of Asuryan.

  For Flaetriu the choice had been agonising. He had already spent a cycle as a seer, and had served for a time in the Aspect Temple of the Dire Avengers, but in neither path did he find his soul at ease. After centuries of life, he still felt as though he was not yet fully alive.

  It was not that he disliked his fellow eldar, he simply could not understand their contentedness. They were all committed to a way of life that had been deliberately constructed to prevent them from becoming themselves, and they thought that they were happy.

  In the ancient and long misremembered past, at the time of the Fall, it is said that the one who is now known only as Asurmen led the eldar into exile aboard the great craftworlds. It was he who founded the first of the Aspect Shrines, the Shrine of Asur, in the discipline of which the Asurya would cleanse their souls of the passions and savagery that had brought doom to their race.

  Asurmen taught that there was a way for the eldar to harness their nature into weapons that could be used to protect their people, rather than to ruin themselves. The way of an Aspect Warrior was to channel the violence in an eldar’s soul into service, transforming self-indulgence into acts of worship for Kaela Mensha Khaine, the bloody-handed god. War became a way of purging the eldar nature without encouraging the warriors to be consumed by the thirst for violence itself.

  In the centuries and millennia that followed, the Asurya took the Path of the Warrior to all the craftworlds, founding first the Temple of the Dire Avengers. After time, other temples were created, reflecting the multitudinous aspects of the terrible thirst in eldar souls. In mirror images of the warrior path, other paths were established within eldar society, including the Path of the Seer. Each path permitted the controlled and disciplined expression of part of the nature of the eldar, such that their souls might never again fall into the decadence that had led to their Fall. In this way was born the Path of the Eldar—a winding road of self-discipline and self-reproach. Every craftworld eldar would spend a cycle following each of the eldar ways, taming her passions and controlling her myriad nature. In this way the eldar race hoped to escape its daemons.

  Of course, the way is not clear to everyone, and the souls of a few are so passionate that they cannot easily be tamed. Such rare individuals may return to the same path over and over again—perhaps flitting between different Aspect Temples until finally meeting their deaths.

  Even more exceptionally, some become trapped by their own essential tendencies, never able to leave their paths—doomed to fight for all time in the guise of an exarch, becoming the living incarnations of Kaela Mensha Khaine himself, both admired and abhorred by their fellow warriors and by all eldar. Such had been the fate of Laeresh and Uldreth. In her own way, this had also been the fate of Macha. But Flaetriu had been adamant that this would not be his destiny.

  Flaetriu had seen the manner in which choices had changed his friends. Laeresh and Uldreth, in particular, had drifted apart, losing contact with their own memories and settling into a bitterness that they could not even explain to themselves. Even Macha had changed, although her movements were subtle and
beyond the comprehension of a normal mind. She forgot nothing and found memories lurking in her mind that she had never seen before—memories that may not have been hers, and may not have been of things gone by in the past at all. The forgetfulness of the exarchs and the knowledge of the farseer transformed them all—each withdrew from their kin, vanishing deeply into their paths where non-travellers could not see.

  There had been no call in Flaetriu’s mind—he felt no compulsion to immerse himself utterly in one way or another. If anything, there was a general disillusionment with the entire eldar way and a faint sickness at the prospect of a life cycling through various distractions. He was an eldar, and he could see no point in his long life if he had to spend it denying his nature. These were dangerous thoughts, he knew, and they had led eldar into darkness and damnation before.

  But Flaetriu was no traitor and, despite his misgivings, he loved his people and the craftworld of Biel-Tan. When his friends had begun to vanish into themselves, he had found nothing left to keep him there. Not wanting his dangerous ideas to endanger others, nor desiring his psychic presence to alert daemons to their location, he had taken his weapons and left the glorious sanctuary of Biel-Tan, setting himself adrift into the vastness of space, finding himself on the Path of the Outcast before he had given it any conscious thought.

  Since then, Flaetriu had found other eldar of like-mind and they had formed themselves into a ranger team, patrolling the wake of Biel-Tan and eliminating anything that strayed too close to the vast craftworld. It was a peripatetic, indulgent and liberated life that brought peace to his heart. He was loyal to his race and to himself.

  Most of the Biel-Tan eldar didn’t even know that the rangers existed, or at least didn’t like to admit it. But Macha knew. She had always had a special bond with Flaetriu—indeed, the four friends had always been very close. Macha knew that his loyalty to Biel-Tan was beyond question, and she could rely on him to act when the Court of the Young King might be reluctant. They had fought together many times before, including during the debacle with the mon-keigh on Tartarus. Unlike many of the eldar, Macha understood that the Path of the Outcast was as essential to the eldar way as any of the other paths.

  “The report states that one of the scout patrols has come under attack, captain,” reported Sergeant Corallis, his face creased with urgency. The veteran Marine, who still served as a scout for the Third Company, had completed his training on Rahe’s Paradise decades before, yet he was still surprised at the way that the news of the attack had affected him.

  “You’re certain that they were eldar?” asked Ikarus, taking careful note of the emotion in Corallis’ expression.

  “Yes. Caleb was very clear. Five or six eldar warriors in camouflage gear ambushed them while they were investigating a volcanic eruption on the edge of the mountains,” said Corallis, nodding for emphasis.

  “It’s the Biel-Tan farseer again,” said Gabriel. His back was facing the assembled command squad and he was staring out into space through a giant view screen that dominated the wall. As he spoke, the others turned to face him, but he did not turn.

  “You cannot be sure of that, Gabriel,” said Prathios calmly.

  Nobody knew better than the chaplain how disturbed Gabriel had been by the events with the eldar on Tartarus, especially since they followed so closely on the heels of such trauma on Cyrene. The Blood Ravens captain was amongst the finest warriors that the Chapter had ever produced, but there was still a part of him that was merely a man. And that part could not hide from its conscience. The conscience could not be surgically removed during the Implantation Process, and there was no zygote that could completely cripple it—not even hypnotherapy could deprive a man of his humanity. That was why Chaplain Prathios was there, after all.

  “Prathios is right, captain,” agreed Tanthius, eying his captain with concern. “Eldar raids are not uncommon in that region. We have seen them before.”

  “Not like this,” countered Gabriel, turning at last. “This is an invasion.”

  The other Marines stared at their captain. They knew better than to doubt him, but they also knew that there was no way that he could know anything about this “invasion.” He was not a librarian, and he had no sanctioned gifts of foresight. However, he did have uncannily acute senses, and the eyebrows of the Inquisition had been raised in his direction before, particularly since Cyrene.

  “You can’t know that,” said Ikarus bluntly, speaking what was in all of their minds as the only librarian amongst them. “Caleb saw five or six warriors, not an invasion force. Even a vanguard force would have been larger than that, and the main force would have appeared on the Monastery’s long range sensors—the web-portal that used to be on Rahe’s Paradise was destroyed centuries ago.”

  “I know it’s an invasion,” repeated Gabriel without anger, his blue eyes brilliant and certain. It was just a statement of fact. “It is an invasion, and that farseer is behind it. Don’t ask me how I know, I just know.”

  “What do you propose that we should do, captain?” asked Tanthius, cutting to the chase. For him this was the most important question; he would follow his captain into the Eye of Terror itself if he asked him to, and he would not ask why. Gabriel had been his battle-brother for as long as he could remember, and not once had the great captain led him wrong. If he said that this was an invasion, then it was an invasion, and at the end of the day Tanthius didn’t care how he knew.

  Gabriel paused for a moment as he formulated an answer. The battle barge, Litany of Fury, in whose conference chamber they now stood, was on its way to the Trontiux system, where it would fall into an orbit around the third planet so that a small detachment of Marines, including himself, Tanthius and Chaplain Prathios, could descend to the planet’s surface and conduct the Blood Trials. After Trontiux III, the Litany of Fury would head for the Lorn system, before finally heading for Rahe’s Paradise. Even as they spoke, Guardsman Ckrius was being rapidly transformed into an initiate down in the Litany’s apothecarion, and the Third Company had to ensure that he was the first of a new batch, not just a single, isolated neophyte.

  The Third were not the only Company who found their home on the Litany. The Ninth was also based within its revered and venerated halls, under the command of Captain Ulantus. It was a Reserve Company, comprised mostly of Devastator squads, and it was at about three-quarter strength. Ulantus was a straightforward and direct man; he would not entertain Gabriel’s fantasies, even though, as a Battle Company commander, Gabriel was technically the ranking officer on the Litany.

  “The Litany will continue to Trontiux III—we cannot afford to miss this opportunity to run the Blood Trials there… Captain Ulantus can oversee the trials in my place. I will take the Ravenous Spirit to Rahe’s Paradise, immediately,” said Gabriel eventually, confident that his plan was sound.

  “I do not approve of this plan, captain,” hissed Ikarus heavily. “We have no reason to assume that the five eldar on Rahe’s Paradise are anything more than pirate-raiders. Sergeant Caleb and Father Librarian Jonas will be able to dispatch them—that is why they are there, after all. In only a few weeks, the Litany of Fury itself will arrive and we can deal with any residual problems then, if necessary. I am sure that Captain Ulantus would agree with me.”

  “I’m sure he would, Ikarus,” replied Gabriel dryly. “But Ulantus is not Commander of the Watch and neither is he captain of the Ravenous Spirit. Neither, for that matter, are you, librarian.”

  Chaplain Prathios had already lowered himself into one of the chairs that ringed the perimeter of the room, surrounding the depression in which it was expected that speakers would stand to address the chamber. He watched his old friend’s eyes narrow with bitterness as he spoke to the librarian, and a wave of concern washed into his mind. Ikarus was newly elevated to the command squad, following the recent fall of Isador on Tartarus, and the two Marines did not yet know each other very well. Gabriel and Isador had been like brothers, and nobody should ever have had to st
ep into his shoes so quickly—especially after the terrible way in which he met his end.

  Prathios had watched Gabriel in prayer on many occasions over the last few weeks, and even he could see Isador’s tainted and ruined face plaguing the captain’s already tortured mind: there was certainly little room for Ikarus in Gabriel’s affections at the moment. Not for the first time in the last few months, Prathios found himself concerned for the balance of his captain’s mind.

  Ikarus bit his tongue and nodded in silence, shifting his shoulders into a slight bow. He had voiced his opinion, in accordance with his duty, but Gabriel was right that his viewpoint was ultimately irrelevant if the captain chose to ignore him. This was not a democracy, and Gabriel was not just any captain—he was the Chapter’s Commander of the Watch, charged with safeguarding the boundaries of the realm against incursions and threats. If he saw a threat to Rahe’s Paradise, then he should act; Ikarus could and should do nothing to stop him.

  “I will explain this course of events to Ulantus,” said Gabriel, striding over to the reinforced metal doorway, which hissed open as he approached. “I realise that many of you have duties to perform during the Blood Trials or misgivings about my choice,” he continued, without staring back at Ikarus. “So I will not oblige you to accompany me to Rahe’s Paradise. However, I would ask that you assemble a force large enough to man the strike cruiser, Ravenous Spirit, and have it ready to embark immediately.” Then he was gone.

  The rest of his command squad exchanged glances: a mixture of resignation, confusion, and determination flooded around the conference room. Then, without a word, they bowed to each other and left to make the necessary preparations.