The War Rose
A world ravaged by the Ruinous Powers. A world under siege. Warriors bound by blood and faith fight for survival.
Part One
The Sister and the Wolf
Sanna stood alone in the snow covered forest, back pressed to a great iron grey tree. The forest was deathly quiet, not a sound could reach her except that of her own breath, heavy and laboured. Sweat froze to her forehead even as it just began to form, her breath became clouds of mist. So cold, even in the power armour designed to keep out the chill. It should not be so cold. Cold was Chaos, cold was the Void. It bit her past the bone.
She thought of starting a fire. Enough to warm her. The beasts still stalked the forest, the flames would draw them like a beacon. She was not afraid to die like a warrior with sword in hand bearing down on heretics, but the beasts did not fight as warriors did. If they caught her unawares she would die like an animal, squealing as they tore the guts from her belly. Much as her sisters had died but hours earlier. They had been new to war, it had been their first taste of battle.
The memory was like a vice about her heart. She could still hear them screaming as the beasts robbed them of courage, robbed them of the Emperor’s light. Some had called for him in their final moments, still more had called the names of their sisters. She had let out a scream as she ran, a name, a sister with a face now torn open by a great paw. She had died in a second. She must have wept, for tears stuck like crystals to her cheeks.
“My sisters,” she murmured, “I have to…no.” Ran from the battle, a coward. She brought up her bolter. Not a fire a funeral pyre, the flames might consume her sin with her soul. What she had done deserved death. Her finger closed about the trigger.
“No,” a deep voice rumbled.
Her eyes shot open. In all this time she had thought herself alone, but a figure appeared, pulling up from the snow. Tall, broad, clad in fur and armour, he shook the snow from about his shoulders. The armour was coloured in shades of grey, the fur a shaggy brown pelt large enough to pitch as a tent. It was a wonder she had not seen him, his hair was the darkest shade of red she had ever seen.
“Lower it,” the man ordered. Instinct had her lowering the gun, strict discipline drilled since childhood overcame emotion.
“Space Marine,” she said, the name cutting through her grief. A scout, he wore the half plate armour of an initiate. “Space Wolf,” there was no mistaking it. The furs, the necklace of teeth, the wolf head emblem affixed to his chest plate.
It was not her place to judge the merits of a Space Marine, but she found herself wishing anyone else had found her. The Space Wolves were a fierce Chapter, but little better then heretics. A barbaric, pagan kind.
“Aye Battle Sister,” he inclined his head only a fraction.
“You were spying on me,” anger quickened. A red hot fire in her chest.
“Watching,” he replied, “Though not for long.” He raised his head to the wind and sniffed like a hound. “Blood, flames, bolter rounds,” he said, “The smell of battle drew me from a hunt.” He looked down on her, smoke grey eyes. “Came too late, battle’s over.” He sighed, patted the axe at his hip.
Sanna looked away from those other-worldly eyes. It was said Space Wolves had a sorcery born from their pagan worship. They could see all of a man with a glance. She did not want such a creature to see her shame, her failure.
There was silence between them for a time.
“Plague-spawn, Nurgle-kin,” he said at last, “Foul creatures.”
Were his words meant as comfort? His words were laced with an understanding, as if he sensed her shame. Had he seen her flee? It would be right for him to kill her if he knew her sin, but he stayed those large hands.
A long silence fell between them.
“My pack is scattered,” he finally said, “But we regroup on the morrow by the foot of the distant mountain.” He motioned to a far off peak. It might take days to reach such a place on foot, a trial for any soldier, even a Marine. Space Wolves were known for their boasting. Perhaps he was trying to impress her.
“You might come, share what information you have with my brothers,” he added. She gave him a sharp look. Was this man toying with her now? It was hard to tell, the Wolf had a face as still as a pond. She had been taught to read faces, to spot the heretic amongst the innocent. All her training failed to pick up any deception.
“We cannot remain here,” he said, looking about at the deep shadows that were growing. “Come,” he ordered, striding away towards the mountain. She found her feet followed without thought, a stubborn instinct of training. The sun was sinking, her limbs burned from the cold and exhaustion. Her armour felt as heavy, her feet dragged in the snow.
Only an hour into their trek she felt on the verge of collapse. Perhaps free of the cumbersome armour she might move more easily. The cold would not allow her to do so, but her body would not allow her to go on in the state she was in.
The Space Wolf saw her trouble, and called a halt.
He came upon her, brushed the snow from her shoulders, found the latch that held her armour closed and opened it. The chest plate fell open in his hand. Her pauldrons and gauntlets slipped free, leaving her shivering in the wind. Clad only in a thick wool tunic and her armoured legs. He took the pelt from his shoulders and draped it about her, then produced a length of rope. He tied her armour up, swung it over his shoulder, and returned to the march, his long stride cutting a path for her through the snow.
She moved a little easier, but had to hug the heavy pelt close to keep the chill away. It stank, but foul smells did not bother her, indeed there was something reassuring in that musky scent. It was as good as a roaring fireplace, lying beside it on a thick fur blanket, basking in the warmth of the flame. Following after the Space Wolf was an easy task, the sight of his broad back just ahead with her armour clattering on his calves. Her stride lengthened.
If a pagan could do this so could she. The Emperor gave her strength, a strength the wolf worshipper could not match. Before long she was marching beside him, legs and chest burning with the fire of the Emperor. She thought she could hear songs, the canticles of faith taught to her as a child. She began to sing them, the voices of her sisters joining her from beyond death. The snow fell about them, swirled up from the cutting wind. It took the shape of armoured women and they marched either side of her. Familiar smiling faces, voices raised in song, ready to fight their first real war.
She awoke in the arms of the pagan. He had her in both arms, cradled like a child, armour resting like a weight on her belly.
“The All-Father gives you strength,” he said with a very wolfish grin, long canines displayed in that broad mouth. Those were the only words she had from him until they came to a stop. All-Father, the name the pagans gave to the Emperor. She thought it a good one, for was he not the father of mankind?
Once they had stopped she blinked the sleep and snow from her eyes. They were at the foot of the mountain. Behind them ran a long trail, slowly being buried beneath the falling snow. The sun was creeping up on the horizon.
He lowered her gently to the ground, helped her dress in the armour he had removed from her, then handed her back her bolter and sword. It felt good to have the sword back on her hip, but it would have felt better to have food in her stomach. The wolf gave her a strip of beef jerky and a flask from his hip, as if he could sense her hunger. The jerky was tough, the flask filled with a sweet liquid. It woke her body, woke the aches and pains. The pain was a good, honest pain. The Wolf took none for himself, looking still as refreshed as he had at their meeting.
They waited in silence. Sanna took a seat upon a small boulder, drew her sword and began to sharpen it. Few bothered to sharpen a power sword, its strength was not in its blade but the field it admitted from the hilt. Such things could fail however. Its last wielder had learned that the hard way. Without its power the sword was little better then a metal club, almost useless. She made sure to keep the blade sharp, on the off chance such an incident might happen again, and to avoid the fate of her predecessor.
When she looked up from her work she had become surrounded by Wolves. Tall grey men, they all wore the half-plate of initiates save one, who was clad in chaplain black. One had hair gone grey, others were beginning to grey, but they all had long canines that protruded from their mouths like fangs.
The tallest of them smiled down at her. His hair was a stiff grey, half his face covered in a black patch. Most would have replaced a lost eye with a biotic, but she had heard the Space Wolves were an old fashioned sort and distrustful of technology.
Their chaplain talked with the one who had brought her, beyond the edge of her hearing and in a tongue she did not understand. They did not argue, but their words seemed intense.
“And what’s a pretty thing like you doing out here?” the one-eyed Marine asked.
The question took her back, face flushed. Flirting was uncommon to her, but completely alien coming from a Marine. The Astartes were well known for being without such desires. He must be teasing her, only a Marine might dare tease a Sororitas. For a guardsman to do so would invite a taste of her holy bolter.
“I am a Battle Sister of the Holy Rose, Sister Sanna Lucretia,” she replied darkly, “I go where the Emperor’s foes lurk, and bring his fire to burn them.”
“A pretty little rose,” the one eyed man sighed, “The sort that only blooms on the battlefield.” Her accomplice barked something in his thick native tongue.
“Just teasing her Cnute,” Harkon replied, shooting a sly grin to her companion.
The chaplain took to the rock beside her, all the scouts forming a semicircle. “Brothers, we’ve found the foe. Nurgle,” he said, voice like a saw grinding against rusted iron.
The men did not cheer, but their eyes began to gleam.
“A force of some fifteen Plague Marines struck a convoy of Sororitas south of here, with them were a number of cultists and bound daemons,” the chaplain said it as he might have said it was snowing, “We’ve reports of a local cult some miles ahead. Set up in a town, no news on what their numbers might be but Egil claims less than a hundred.”
A blond haired warrior gave a nod.
“It is a small force. Mostly humans and not worth sending for the Morkai, but the Plague Marines are a different matter. Three of us will locate the Plague Marines and bring it to Morkai's ears, while one other deals with the town."
Cnute stepped forward. It occurred to her that he was the smallest of their number, and the youngest. Unlike his brothers he had no grey in his hair, and his fangs had yet to grow too large for his mouth.
“Let me deal with the village,” he said, “I can be done with it and back amongst you with time to spare.”
“He is the fastest amongst us,” Egil said.
“The least experienced,” the chaplain added, though the tone was not unfavourable, “There may be hostages.”
“I am the most careful also,” Cnute said, “Such a mission would require a cool head.”
“Well then I’m out,” Egil said with a laugh, “As is Harkon, ‘tis either Cnut or Halfdan that should go.”
“Black Dan or the Pup,” Harkon said with a smirk.
“A pup of a hundred years,” Cnute muttered, “Shall I ever be a Pup to you?”
“Aye lad, until I’m dead or another takes your place, you’ll be the Pup of this group,” they all laughed, even Cnute tweaked a smile at that.
“My axe wants traitor blood,” Halfdan, the one dubbed Black Dan by Harkon, added, “Let the Pup see to the village, t’would be little challenge even for him.”
“We haven’t all their numbers, might be a surprise lurking amongst them,” the chaplain said.
“A surprise would be welcome,” Cnute replied, “Give me something to sing about around the fire, a song to put Harkon Longsword to shame.”
“Harkon Longsword, aye that’s me, but it’s an axe I wear on my hip,” he said that last with a sly look Sanna’s way.
Cnute growled again in that guttural tongue.
Harkon took a step back, grin growing. “Ooh, let none say I’m a poacher little Pup, this doe is yours,” another round of laughter, even from the chaplain.
“I will not be mocked!” Sanna said, climbing to her feet. Her rage killed the laughter. “Not by pagans, least of all by a lecher!” her hand twitched towards her bolter. Five bolt pistols were on her before she could blink.
“Harkon meant no offence,” the chaplain said, “And he shall apologize for your discomfort, but do not draw a weapon on us child.”
“I am a Battle Sister, I will not be talked to in such a way by some grey haired initiate!”
The Wolves looked about at one another with brows raised. “We are no initiates Battle Sister,” Cnute said, “We are Wolf Scouts.”
“Hold Cnut, I know her confusion,” the chaplain said, “You have served with Marines before, perhaps an Ultramarine or one of their many off-spring. Amongst them yes, a scout is a half-trained boy, but we keep a different way. The Wolf Scouts are the eyes of the Great Wolf, his ears, and his nose. We are the lone wolves stalking through the snow, the fingers of the fist probing for weakness, the knife in the night silencing the sentry, the bullet from the shadow slaying the General. We are not boys new to war. We are veterans taken to the lonely path, separate from the pack.”
“Two hundred years,” Egil said. “One hundred years,” Cnute said. “Two hundred and seven years,” Halfdan said. “Four hundred and thirty three years,” Harkon added.
“Four hundred years a Wolf Priest,” the chaplain said.
Sanna was stunned into silence. Many Marines were lucky to reach three hundred, or so the Mother Superior had told her. “I am four years a warrior,” she said, sounding a child even to her own ears, “And only one at war. This is my first campaign.”
Harkon grinned. “A virgin,” he all but sang the words.
What struck could only be called a blush. “Enough, please!”
“Forgive me, Lady Sanna,” he replied, though a devilish twinkling still remained in his eye.
“What are you to do with me?” she asked, “It is known the Space Wolves are no friends of the Ecclesiarchy.”
The Wolves looked amongst one another, exchanging frowns, shrugs and uncomfortable looks. “We’ve no grudge with you,” the Wolf Priest said, “Come with us or go your own way, your choice.”
“She cannot come with us,” Black Dan said, “Our mission requires stealth, and she’s clad head to toe in black. Doesn’t take a genius to realize, black stands out like a blister on snow.”
“My task needs no stealth,” Cnute replied.
“Send her back to the Great Company I say,” Harkon added, “It troubles my romantic soul, to thrust a woman into danger.”
“The choice is Lady Sanna’s,” the priest said. All eyes turned to her.
Without her sisters beside her, with Chaos crawling through the hills, and without supplies or a notion of where she truly was, circumstance decided things for her. There was no choice in the matter.
“I shall assist in purging the village, as is the duty of my order,” she said with a resolute nod. Cnute did not smile, but frowned. The others all nodded in agreement.
When they left, they left without saying a word. Sanna had her back turned for just a moment. When she turned back they were gone, leaving only Cnute behind. They knew their tasks, and were about it with impressive efficiency. Cnute sat on his haunches, watching her intently.
“We must be swift,” the Wolf said. He drew the pelt from his shoulders and gave it to her once more. Stealth might not be the priority, but surprise would be preferable. The pelt might disguise the black of her armour, or so the Wolf reasoned.
They set out. He once more cut a path for her through the deep snow, eyes always forward while sniffing the wind. He did not talk, not once, though Sanna hummed a hymn that was said to strengthen the limbs. He did not object to her singing so long as she did so softly, it helped bolster her spirits and she liked to believe it helped bolster his.
He was not so bad for a pagan, perhaps she could use this time to educate him on the finer points of proper doctrine, help lead him back to the light of the Emperor and away from the worship of his feral Primarch.
The Primarchs deserved a certain degree of veneration. She did not dispute that. But they had been men, while the Emperor was true divinity. Maybe once they stopped she could convince him of that fact.
Once they had stopped she found she was too tired to talk. Her body was strained from the cold winds and harsh march. The Wolf gave an unseemly quick pace. If she had not been there he might have surged on to the town without resting. They did not make a camp, nor did they build a fire. Her power armour kept her warm as best it could, recycled her waste, worked to relax her muscles. Sleeping in armour was not quite as comfortable as sleeping on a proper bed, but it was preferable to the hard ground.
Cnute gave her some more of the jerky and enough of the wine to drink the cold away. “On the morrow we shall reach the village,” he said, “I can smell them from here, the stench of Nurgle.”
“I shall be ready,” she said. Ready yes, she was ready.
“Sleep Battle Sister, I shall guard you through the night,” he said, voice soft and almost tender. Her eyes dimmed as she smiled. Tenderness from a Space Marine, she truly was exhausted to hear such things.
She awoke to the touch of his hand to her cheek. More jerky, more honey-wine, it filled her with righteousness. Today they would do the Emperor’s work and purge the heretics from the face of this planet. Her bolter was ready, her sword sharp. These degenerates would rue the day they sold themselves to fell powers.
Cnute wore a mask of stone, his face hard as the centuries he had endured. He slipped the axe from its loop, drew his bolt pistol. The axe was an inelegant weapon, or so she had been raised to believe, a crude instrument for hacking bodies up like firewood. They lacked the grace of the sword. Cnute began to chant, a low hymn in his own language. Fenresian, doubtless a battle hymn. She joined her voice to his, singing her own battle hymn. The song of the sacred fires, in High Gothic as all the good songs were sung.
They marched together across the snow fields. The village lay ahead of them, and below. They stood upon the edge of a steep hill, the road running downward at a sharp incline.
Its streets had been scraped free of snow, an orderliness that was at odds with the ruins of the buildings. Crude graffiti of eight pointed stars and other obscene symbols had been painted across the surfaces of an old church. The body of its preacher swinging from its bell tower, big black birds tearing strips of flesh from his bloated face.
Drunken men in battered, mismatched uniforms prowled the streets in gangs, occasionally opening fire with their lasguns at whatever crossed their paths. Sometimes at each other and sometimes stray animals, often at only imagined things. She could see even from her vantage point that many had horribly disfigured faces, swollen with black pustules or covered in red weeping sores. The supposed blessings of their false-god.
“Look,” Cnute pointed down to the town square. A man in bright blue armour with arms strung out either side, held aloft by long black chains. He was suspended in the air, the chains pulling his arms outward. Men and women formed an audience as a giant beast of a man threw daggers at him, often missing to great roars of laughter from the crowd. A few daggers stood from the Marine’s bare chest, but Sanna doubted they had penetrated his thick skin.
“Ultramarine scout,” Cnut said with a note of scorn in his voice.
She gave him a sharp glance, but he ignored her.
“Can we get to him unseen?” she asked.
A gun opened fire at the ridge they stood upon, a great booming torrent of lead streaming out of its muzzle. They had been seen by a sentry. Hidden behind a smashed pill box, the man reared into view. He was the size of a Space Marine, his body covered in grey flaked scales. He roared for the other cultists as he fired his auto-cannon from the hip.
Sanna ducked for cover, barely escaping the unrelenting stream of fire.
Cnute growled. He fired back at the man without attempting to find cover. Sanna turned her own bolter on the man, letting out an arch of fire. It struck the man across the face and chest, opening up his screaming throat, turned his chest into a twisted mess. The man fell, his shots flying wildly as his auto-cannon spent the last of its rounds.
Cnute turned his bolt pistol on the crowd. Together they tore men and women apart, bodies bursting open and limbs scattered in a spray of meat and shattered bone. Bodies fell, but some climbed to their feet, reattaching limbs or ignoring their missing parts entirely. It took a head shot to put them down for good, or at least it looked that way until one man climbed to his feet missing half his skull, dripping brain on his tattered uniform.
At the same time their bolter and pistol clicked empty.
“Tooth and claw then!” Cnut snarled, holstering his bolt pistol. He leapt down the side of the ridge, a great plunging distance downward, the sort of fall that might shatter a man’s legs. He shattered the ground instead, leaving a great crack were he landed, axe in hand facing down an oncoming horde.
Sanna quickly scaled down the cliff face, taking lasguns fire as she did so. One shot glanced off her pauldron, another singed her hair, most fell harmlessly upon her armoured back or hit the rock wall throwing up shrapnel into her face. It was a relief when back on the ground, dying from a fall would be an ignoble end.
The crowd came at her, firing wildly, throwing stones, and screaming insults.
“Corpse whore!” a woman with only half a face managed to scream, “Maggot bride!”
Sanna came upon them, taking the screaming woman’s head off at the shoulder. Her sword was alive in her hand, tearing through bodies like a knife through over ripe fruit. Every creature that came upon her fell beneath a blow. They rose though, they clawed at her legs, arms not even attached to bodies, they bit at her armoured thighs, tried to claw the armour from her back.
She shook them off, incinerating a head that was worrying her heel with stomp of her boot, flicked a disembodied hand from her shoulder.
“To the warp, to damnation! Die!" She bellowed. The terrible mess she made of her foes filled her with an ecstasy beyond belief, as if the Emperor moved with her. A creature knelt before her, eyes melting from its sockets, male or female she couldn’t say. The flesh ran from its face like the wax from a candle, but it was screaming for mercy. She laughed and put an end to it with a sharp cut of her sword.
“This is my mercy!” she yelled to those that still stood, brandishing her sword, “The Emperor’s mercy. Death to the mutant, the heretic, the xenos!” She sang, voice high and sweet and dreadful. Bodies fell before her.
It was over as swiftly as it had began. She stood amongst the wreckage, face flushed with eyes wide, lips parted and panting. Blood had marred her face, mixed with her snow white hair, run across her lips. Without thinking she licked them and gagged on the taste.
On hands and knees she threw up, retching, sword scattered away. The jerky and the wine came up mixed with bile. Her guts emptied on the floor, splattering her boots.
Cnute was beside her, wiping the vomit away with the edge of the wolf pelt upon her shoulder. He passed her a flask, this one filled with plain water to rinse the taste from her mouth.
“Nurgle remember,” he said with a wry smile, “Keep your mouth shut when you fight his kind, even their spit can be toxic.” He helped her to her feet, gathered her sword and passed it back. She stumbled as she walked. The colours of the world seemed far too bright, the toxic blood making the world shimmer before her.
Cnute lent her an arm to lean upon. She had not seen him in the press of the melee but his armour was spattered with blood, the axe he carried marred with a notch that had not been there before. He was smiling broadly, eyes bright, as if drunk. She felt a tad drunk herself, euphoric, her entire body tingling.
He guided her steps carefully, an arm on her shoulder, her body pressed against his side. She did not mean to lean on him so heavilly, but her body felt as if it might give out at any moment.
Together they marched into the village square. The Ultramarine scout was still breathing, his eyes open. He looked down at them, his face haggard. An expression of disbelief mixed with hope greeted the pair, the look of a desperate man.
“You…Wolf…Sister,” he croaked.
“I’m rescuing an Ultramarine,” Cnute said it as if he didn't believe it. He cut the young scout down with a few sharp blows of his axe. The boy hit the ground with a heavy thud. With the tip of his boot Cnute flipped the scout over onto his back, clicking his fingers in front of the boy’s face. His eyes fluttered open, Cnute poured some of the wine down the boy’s throat. A cough racked his chest.
“Thank you,” he struggled to say, “I am…Darius.”
“Cnute," he said, "And this is Sanna Lucretia of the Holy Rose.” The Wolf propped the young scout up on the pillar that had previously held him.
“Space Wolves, thank the Emperor,” Darius managed a smile, “My company is the sixth, back over the mountains. Under attack. Chaos forces, Nurglings, daemons. More than we expected. Too much, under siege in Mambrino Hive. We must go save them.”
“In time,” Cnute said with a nod, “First you need rest, and I need to contact my brothers.” The boy gave a weary nod, head lolling to one side, a smile on his battered face. Cnute wore a frown however.
“He must have been here a month at least,” Sanna said, “Mambrino Hive has fallen, the Plague Bearers hold it now.”
“Many of sixth company dead in its defence, aye, Jarl Morkai has been sent to retake it.”
“My sisters and I were headed there,” she said, “To find survivors, to try and form a defensive line, until-" her words caught in her throat. Until the ambush in the forest. Until the slaughter. He gave no words of comfort, only placed a hand to her shoulder. His eyes said enough, they spoke an understanding of her grief.
“Let me see to him,” she said, squatting down beside the wounded Marine.
He was young, but still as big as a grown man. Larger then Sanna, it took all her might to haul the boy’s arm over her shoulder and drag him into the shade of a ruined house. It might have been a lovely home once, but not any more. It was as ruined and filth ridden as the rest of the town.
She settled Darius at the foot of what had been stairs. The evidence of his torture stood out on closer inspection. He had been starved, beaten, and possibly diseased. Knives stood out like pinions from his chest, which she worked out with great difficulty. His veins were dark red against abnormally pale skin, his breathing heavy and laboured. His skin was cold to the touch.
She knew little of Astartes physiology, but reasoned it must be like a normal man’s at least in general. She gathered wood from the ruined home and shattered masonry from outside, and carefully she built a fire. Taking the cloak Cnut had given her she spread it over Darius like a blanket, lying down beside him. If she had tools on hand she might have risked more, perhaps field surgery for the more grievous wounds. All her medical supplies lay back in the lost convoy, and she didn’t trust the tools she might find in a town so corrupted.
The poisonous blood still worked in her veins, casting the fire light in vibrant colours and deepening the shadows. Fear moved in her, tightened around her heart. She could feel her heart pounding with an aggressive tempo, sweat forming hot on her brow. Every small thing she felt had intensified. She could almost feel her hair growing, skin cells dying and replenishing. It grew so intense she felt she might spiral apart at any moment. She felt like the only real thing in existence, a slowly degrading island of sanity in a sea of unreality.
It was too much. Darkness swamped her, tried to claim her. She heard the voices of her sisters, twisted in the dark. Coward they called her, traitor and worse. She felt their hands upon her, hard fingers digging into her skin. They were trying to rip her apart, feast on her blood in the hopes of seeing life again. Twisted into beings of hate. It was too much.
She began to bawl like a child, lost and frightened.
A large hand closed around her. A fatherly hand, it enclosed her hand like it was a child's. A large finger brushed her cheek. She pushed her face against it, nestled into the palm of it as tears poured down her face. Large strong arms closed around her, held her close, placed her in a cocoon of warmth that held the darkness at bay. The darkness that surrounded her and the darkness she felt in her own heart.
“Father,” she cried, “Forgive me father.”
A soft hum of a familiar tune, one she had been singing earlier, rumbled through his chest. It reverberated through her body. A song she had sung to her father, but now a song from a father to his child. She continued to cry, mixed tears of joy and grief, until the tears were all gone and all she could do was drift off to sleep.
She awoke to find Darius sitting up across from her. He was cleaning out the chamber of a salvaged auto-cannon, his bare chest glistening in the firelight. His wounds had closed, a miracle of his more than human biology. All his attention was poured on the gun in his lap, his hands working to bring it back to a useable form.
She took his features in. A sharp, hawkish face made sharper by the Mohawk he wore, it added extra intensity to his fierce gaze. In her time at the schola she had met an Ultramarine once before, a veteran on tour to commemorate the return of a holy relic he had reclaimed in battle. He had been a cold figure, distant and alien. This boy had none of that alien feel. A very human passion burned in the pits of his eyes.
He sensed her attention and looked up, meeting her gaze.
"Well met, sister," he said, bringing up the auto-cannon and slotting a round into the chamber. He fired a burst up in the air, smashing apart rotted wood. Howling with joy he leapt to his feet. "All in working order, good as an Ad Mech!" he crowed, dancing with the gun as if it were a girl at a festival.
A hand came out from the dark, closed around the boy's mouth.
"Quiet," Cnute's voice hissed, almost inaudible. "Fire that gun again and I'll bugger you with it." Darius settled down, but glared at the Wolf resentfully. Cnute took a squat beside the fire, and motioned for them both to sit.
"Nothing living left in the town, but caught a scent coming closer. Chaos Marine, maybe two."
"I was captured by one," Darius said, "He might be coming back for me."
Cnute gave the boy a measuring look, followed by a nod.
"What's the plan?" Sanna asked.
Before Cnute could speak, Darius put his fist forward. "An ambush, we lead him into the town square and take him out. Cut him in half with crossfire."
"There's time enough to slip away," Cnute said, "This town is purged. My orders are to return to the pack, rendezvous with Jarl Morkai and press on toward Mambrino."
"Coward," Darius snapped. Cnute's hackles rose.
"An Ultramarine should see the purpose of following orders," Cnute's voice was soft, but not without menace. "And it takes two to mount a cross-fire, and more besides for an ambush. Our ammunition was spent rescuing you."
"I heard the Rout was tough, you sound like a cur looking to justify desertion," Darius stood, autogun low at his hip in the cradle of his arm.
"Watch your tongue boy, and take the word of your ancestors to heart," Cnute made no motion for his axe, but he stood to his full height. Despite his stunted height for a Marine he still towered over the other scout. "The codex would recommend a tactical withdrawal, not a suicide run."
Mention of the codex gave the boy pause. "What would a wolf know of the book?"
Cnute shrugged. "Wanted to see what all the fuss was about. It has some sound ideas. We should heed it."
"Now is not the time for argument, the traitor is at the door and we must decide," Sanna added, "If it is as Cnute says we should withdraw, at least to somewhere less soaked in sin. Meeting fell powers on fell ground is folly." She gave Darius a smile. "The traitors shall not escape this world with their lives, but we should draw them to a battlefield of our choosing."
Darius couldn't hide his scowl, but he gave a nod. "You both speak sense." He shouldered his gun. "Let's not waste time pissing in the breeze then."
They assembled quickly. Darius covered his naked chest with a filthy old jacket that formed a vest on his powerful frame. Into his built he tucked as many long sharp objects as were useful, amongst them the knives that had been dug out of his body the night before. He strapped the large gun across his back and took up a las-rifle in hand.
"Mortal weapons," he sneered, but held it well and with respect.
Cnute led them through the streets and past the massacre. Mounds of bodies lay heaped in an alley way they passed, bound at the feet and the wrists. men, women and children. Loyalists murdered for their faith. As they ran through the gutted village Sanna gave a mental prayer for the innocents lost to corruption.
They cleared the village, and Darius was sprinting ahead. He looked back in confusion from some miles away. Sanna's gut fell out from under her as she realised. Cnute strode only a few lengths ahead of her, deliberately slowing his pace to keep with hers. Darius jogged back to keep with them, a disappointed look carefully not aimed at Sanna.
They moved in silence, with Darius back in line Cnute led the way. Through forest and over frozen stream, back into the foothills of the mountains. Hours of silent running, tireless for the super humans but Sanna's chest was tight and her body afire. She had been making staggering bounds for an hour now, barely keeping a straight path.
Cnute scooped her up over his shoulder without asking. She gave a startled grunt but didn't protest. Stubborn pride did not change reality. Across his shoulders their speed increased to a frightening degree. Like riding on the hull of a rhino. The landscape ripped past. How long it was she couldn't say, but she had recited the entire body of the Litany of Redemption by the time they stopped.
Cnute lowered her carefully to the ground, a winded look on his face. Darius was bent double, heaving.
Cnute pointed up. Through the trees above their heads a rocky outcrop, and the mouth of a cave. He made a cradle of his large hands, and boosted Sanna up. He offered to do the same to Darius but he waved the hand aside and climbed. It was not long before he sat beside the Sister, both looking down on Cnute's bright red head.
"You coming up?" Darius asked. Cnute shook his head and tapped his nose before slinking away. Darius watched him go with a hawkish frown. "The Throne does that mean?"
Sanna shrugged. "Perhaps he has gone to chase a rabbit. Pagan ways are not run by logic." The words seemed false in her throat, a reflexive thought that did not seem to match her companion's manner. "Set up that gun for me," she said, eyes scanning the forest-scape below. It was a grey tangle of iron bark trees and snow. Perhaps in peaceful days it would host hiking parties of families out on picnic, but now it was a dead world. Not even bird song or the scratching of wild animals in the brush.
Darius mounted the autogun in the mouth of the cave, scrapping out the frost with one of his make-shift poniards, putting it in working order. When done he lay against the cave wall, tumbling the knives over thick fingers. There was a surprising amount of dexterity in those too large hands. It seemed the rumours of Marine ability were true, their bodies deformed by holy science made them more than human. He took to watching her, unsettling in a way. No talk though, perhaps he felt a human had nothing worth talking about.
Sanna settled behind the sights of the gun, waiting for Cnute's return.
She had told herself already of the superiority of the Marine compared to the man, but still she was anxious. similar post-human beasts roamed these woods, further strengthened by their blasphemy. How could a pagan fight witch craft? If magicks were unleashed she would want to be with him, to counter such things. She pictured his body mangled like the town folk, face smashed in and guts strung out.
She kept her eyes through the sights, ready to open fire.
The sun was gone and her head was falling. Darius nudged her away from the gun and took up her position. She lay on her back, looking up at the stars. She had known grox in her youth, great beasts that heaved with hot flesh. There was something similar in the boy-marine beside her, a heat and a heaviness to the breathing. It was comforting, as comforting as the stars. Somewhere up there a battle barge of her Order sat, teeming with warriors to be unleashed on the holy. Women of great strength and experience, better than her.
Some friends still lived, perhaps still on that ship. She did not know what she would tell them, how she would explain herself. If they wished they might just kill her, or send her to repent. She couldn't say which she preferred.
Darius made a sound that brought her up out of half-sleep. His attention was on the wilderness ahead, his eyes seeing something in the gloom. She place a hand on his shoulder and mouthed Cnut's name.
Darius shook his head. Something huffed, a branch snapped.
The explosion of the autogun almost broke Sanna's ear drums, snarling as a burst of fire ripped the heavy trees below to pieces. Darius roared with the fire, his face an expression of absolute hate. The last round fired and the gun shut down with an impotence and blessed silence. Sanna thumped his shoulder for the pain in her head.
A stretch of forest had been cleared, left a desolate mess of ravaged earth and splintered wood. A heavy shape lay amongst the wreckage, a figure in grey armour.
Her heart caught in her throat. Darius had killed Cnute. She stood to go to him but was forced back down with a powerful shove by the Ultramarine. Her fist struck his jaw, and even with her armour behind it did nothing but make the boy grunt. He grabbed a handful of her hair and forced her had around. Tears of pain grew in her eyes.
"Look," he spat low.
The prone figure heaved and stood. The grey armour bulged around large holes before sealing up under a growth of puckered flesh. From that flesh a grey thorn grew like a twig. It looked up at them, the blank expression of an astartes helm. It heaved a long handled war-scythe in one hand. The other hand was split like the bottom of a squid, tentacles flailing about the maw that was its forearm.
"Brother, it is good to see you again!" its voice was run through a twisted filter, but the words were recognizable. "To be reunited so soon. My heart sings and my mind has devised more experiments for us to test."
"Get into the cave Sister," Darius stood, drawing crude knives from his belt. She shuffled back, but not so far she could not see.
He glowered down at the traitor, the youthfulness gone.
"Do not be angry with me," the traitor implored, "I missed you brother. Grandfather's tasks have only kept us apart a short while. It won't happen again."
Darius' face transformed from cold fury to a hot, burning hate.
He leapt the distance between them, and the clash was thunderous. No thought for defence, his knives struck the weak joints of the armour. The traitor's tentacled limb wrapped up Darius' left armour and the traitor's horned helm smashed into his face. Darius' forehead ran with bloody but he stubbornly returned the blow, crushing the traitor's face plate. It gave little fight, body still weakened from the torrent of heavy gun fire, but it did not bow to the scout's assault either.
A strike came up and caught him in the gut. The scout bent over, breath exploding out. Casually the traitor brought the haft of his scythe down on Darius' back, stamping him into the dirt. The traitor followed this with a boot to the side of the face that sent teeth skittering away, bloody white pearls shining beneath the stars.
Sanna could watch no more. her sword came to life. She leapt over the outcrop and onto the plague marine. It casually lashed out at her with that squid limb. Two tentacles were shorn off with a snick and burst of green-black blood.
It rounded on her with that scythe, the blow barely caught and staggering her. These traitors had none of an Astartes quick reflexes though, and Sanna found her guard before it could end her. Sword in two hands she took the stance of the ox, long horn run out overhead, and barrelled forward. Stabbing out her blow was checked by the scythe haft and she slipped past the counter thrust.
The long arm of the scythe was more foe than friend inside his guard and she brought her sword down in a vertical slash. It opened from shoulder to hip, spilling out noxious innards and a greenish mist. But an astartes was no a man and the heavy wet tentacle remaining struck about her head and closed around her throat. Pulled from her feet with a casual jerk, she gasped around the rubbery grip.
"It would be nothing to pop you like a pimple on my grandfather's backside," the traitor said. It was a simple fact. Sanna choked for air, her head growing light. She fumbled at her belt for the last resort. He cut the belt away very carefully before she could grip the grenades that hung there. He shook her like a toy. "Be glad I am not of the debauched one, but Nurgle's mercy is one you may be familiar with."
-Emperor take me to your side-
"No!" Darius howled from a bloody mouth, barely a word through his crushed jaw. He came up behind and plunged a knife through the nurglite's back, driven forth with fury and super-human might. The knife dug through until the point met Sanna's face, a blood drenched fist standing from the traitor's chest.
"Oh, oh that is interesting," the nurglite said. She fell from the grip and slammed into the dirt. "No, no point in taking you with me. That would just be bad sportsmanship." It dropped the scythe and pried the knife from Darius' hand. "Do pull out dear pet, the job is done."
Darius' fist slid back.
The nurglite collapsed to its knees and spoke no more.
Bloody Darius limped over to Sanna and gave her his fist. Pulling herself up, she fingered her bruised throat.
"S' much fer 'withdraw'," he said through his busted face.
She took some of his weight on her shoulder and they staggered together to the rocky wall. Setting him down her fingers probed his jaw for breaks. Not as bad as it looked, a dislocation easily set, but his smile would be gap toothed and his nose was squashed flat. No doubt if he were the vain sort an apothecary could fix that.
Cnute returned shortly with axe in hand and traitor head at his hip, looping through the forest with a frantic expression.
Seeing them damaged but alive he let out a low whoop and his expression became clear, neutral.
"The other slipped away while I dealt with this one," he said, gesturing to the helmet covered in unnatural thistles. "I feared the worst."
"Courage and honour," Darius slammed a fist to his chest.
"Courage and honour, brother," Cnute returned the salute.
Sanna clambered to her feet. "You went to fight them without us, " it was accusation with fact, and her voice was hot. The confirming nod only made the fire burn harder. She would have drawn her sword if she had it, or her bolter but it lay atop. Instead she lunged at him, driving for his unarmoured face. He caught her by the wrist and hauled her into an embrace. His over powering strength could have crushed her, but instead it only kept her still.
He said something in his native tongue, in a voice that was small.
At every turn this pagan confused her, and that confusion ate away her anger. She pushed him back, he let her. "Never again," she said, "We fight together, all three of us." He nodded to that, too.
Darius raised a weary arm. "My unit is dead, and Throne knows where my commander is. Until we're back in Imperial territory we need to work together."
"A mismatched pack we make, but you are both right. More besides these two traitors stalk this wood. I smelled warp and witch-craft on the wind, daemonry unleashed."
-daemon-
The word sent a thrill of fear through her body.
"We must return to the Morkai, tell the Jarl of what we have seen. Forces large are gathering in these mountains, and he will be travelling in its shadow to reach the captured Hive. I fear a battle must be fought before we can reach Mambrino, best not let it be an ambush too."
"It is the perfect staging ground for such a strike," Darius climbed to his feet, but was soon back down again. Sharp pain was written on his face. "We've no time to waste. This night I'll heal, but you two should go."
Cnute tisked. "You'd make me oath-breaker? We stand together."
He crouched low and took the young marine in hand. A heft and heave saw the scout across Cnute's shoulders like a fresh killed pig.
"Can you march?" he asked Sanna. She gave her reply by sheathing her sword, fetching her bolter and beginning without him. He gave a chuckle and fell into step.
They marched together, as one, out into the long lonely night.