The village would have once been described as quaint. Situated in idyllic, sun-drenched lands with gently rolling hills, it nestled securely in their shade. Its streets were clean-cut and well-maintained, filled with picterhouses stocked with the latest holodramas and quaint little cafes. The bathhouse Sister Maryem was in was lined with clean ceramic tiles; white and blue swirls chased each other endlessly across its walls.
She hated its inhabitants. For their weakness, for the comfort they languished in. The faithful of the Imperium’s hive cities went from cradle to grave without once breathing clean air, and yet they held fiercely to their faith. These people didn’t know how spoiled they were.
She tempered her hate, fingers kneading at her rosary beads. It was not her place to pass judgement. Such edicts belonged in the hands of the God-Emperor of Mankind alone.
Besides, there was no one left to hate. Its inhabitants had long fled, and the village had been absorbed by the field hospital that had grown up around it. Tents filled gardens and streets. Houses and shops had been co-opted for the injured. Amongst them, what remained of the 228th Jian Light Foot.
The men that surrounded her in this drained swimming pool were from their Grenadier company. A simple plastic sheet preserved their modesty, and as she worked her way from body to body, she sang a quiet hymnal, her breath misting in the refrigerated air. She stood alone amongst the dead, and as she catalogued and cleaned them of the dirt and rigours of war, she felt a degree of familiarity, having spent countless hours in solitude amongst those who had given their all. Once she was done, they would be interned in a mass grave, the once quaint village now a necropolis.
Frost had eaten at their most distinguishing features, so with careful hands, she pried identity tags from their bodies.
Sergeant Huang. He’d always been quick with a bawdy joke and equally quick to apologise when he realised her presence.
Guardsman Jiang had held the plasma gun. He’d worried constantly about its instability. The burns across his body showed he had pushed it too far in the end. He had clung to life long enough to die on the operating table.
Captain Rongyu. She had followed this man as the Jian had spearheaded a flanking assault across highly inhospitable terrain. Cold had been ever-present; frostbite took a toll, but the Jian Light Foot had been the pathfinder for some forty thousand guardsmen.
Men had frozen to death at night, the lame and injured left at the trailside, but the attack had been successful. The traitor frontlines had broken, and their retreat had rapidly descended into a rout.
The whole affair had been the brainchild of Colonel Yiban Jiangjuna—a man who appealed to all the baser instincts of the Guard. Ambitious, ruthless, he was callous in pursuit of his goals. Despite that, he had charisma and a keen tactical mind. His men loved him for his willingness to lead from the front.
She looked back down at Captain Rongyu. Artillery had taken him early in the assault, while the cold had subsequently taken his nose and ears.
Footsteps disturbed her from her reverie, distinctly armoured; the tonal hum of a power pack accompanied them, and then a woman’s voice spoke down at her from the lip of the pool. ‘Sister Maryem of the Order of the Divine Mercy, I presume. The orderlies said I might find you here.’
She stood back from Rongyu and made the sign of the aquila over his body, ‘May you rest eternally in His service.’ She had little doubt about who had approached her. The heavy tread and lack of reverence in their voice could only be from a fellow Adepta Sororitas. ‘I am almost finished here, Sister,’ she said, ‘I will attend you presently.’
‘I’m afraid I have no time for presently.’
Maryem already knew the answer but asked, ‘Did you come with this regiment over the mountains or breach the traitor frontline across the plains?’
‘The plains.’
‘Ah,’ she turned slightly and spoke over her shoulder, ‘Then you’ll forgive me a moment of weakness for the men that made your advance possible.’
There was movement behind her – arms crossing in the aquila, most likely. ‘To die in service of the Emperor is as high an accolade as any can hope to attain.’
The truth of it bit at her. The faith of her Sisters was pure beyond reproach, but it came with a lack of understanding of those less pious than themselves. A guardsman didn’t covet sacrifice like the Sisterhood; in death, he was as likely to cry for his mother as the Emperor.
She turned fully from the captain. ‘A martyr forgotten is akin to sin. A martyr unpraised is akin to apostasy. I can recite canticles as well, Sister.’
‘Then perhaps you’ll take heed of a favourite of mine.’ Her sister stepped up to the rim of the pool, armoured in the utility of war, helm rested under arm and weapons secured. Her tabard was red, and her armour black. ‘Only in death does duty end. These men act as a reminder of that. We have a calling, Sister. The Cardinal of this world has requested our service. We heed it.’
‘I was tasked with rendering aid to all those who pledged their lives to this Crusade, not to fight some cardinal’s private war. All considerations must be weighed against that fact.’ She bit at her tongue to calm herself; it was unbecoming behaviour. Notching a bead on her rosary, she would undertake penitence later.
‘You speak the truth, but it is still our duty to protect them, and I have chosen to undertake this mission. I am Sister Yelena of the Order of her Martyred Lady, and I come in haste.’
Maryem looked up at the woman. Hers was a face made upon battlefields, hard and scarred, hair dyed white in honour of the blessed martyr, Saint Katherine. But there was something softer in her eyes, something that spoke a language outside of rote dedication. ‘Yet you come for me?’
‘I require a medicica. My Sisters are trained in field aid, but I believe whomever we find alive will require more than that.’
‘This is a rescue mission?’
‘It is a mission of mercy, one way or the other. The city of Volcas Minor is still under heretic control. A myriad of warbands hold it; one of them belongs to a former Guard Sergeant, Thaal Curt, now going by the alias, The Skinner.’
Maryem couldn’t help but scoff. ‘Original.’
‘He is unlikely to have received any formal education. What he does have, however, are captive members of the Ecclesiarchy, and he broadcasts his depravity. Your due to the dead does you credit, but I require your help.’
Maryem nodded. ‘I have Sisters amongst the living; I shall attend.’
The woman above her smiled; it overshadowed the harsh contours of her face, lighting her eyes. ‘Excellent. He on Terra ever provides for the faithful. Let us be off.’
‘I’ll require my equipment.’
‘My Sisters will have collected it already.’
‘You are impertinent, Sister.’
‘I am merely prudent.’ She moved on before Maryem could respond. ‘These two are Sisters Erika and Rosalia.’ Both loomed large behind her. Painted pavise shields sat atwix their power-packs with chainswords strapped across their backs. ‘Erika is my second and constant companion. Rosalia will be yours.’
‘I do not need a chaperone. I am not some Novitiate to be guided around by the nose.’
Erika stepped forward, eyes judgmental beneath her raised visor, ‘But you’re not of the Order’s Militant either. Are you, little Sister?’
‘Enough. The Hospitaller is an honoured guest amongst us and a Sororitas. We will treat her accordingly.’ Yelena turned to Maryem. ‘It would be remiss of me not to provide you with protection. Besides, where we are going,’ she once again crossed her hands in the sign of the aquila, ‘we will need all the protection we can get.’
The rest of Yelena’s squad stood in an open courtyard. Beside a dried-up fountain sat a black Rhino vehicle, its engine idling at a gentle thrum, a white Fleur de Lys embossed on the side. It bore all the hallmarks of righteous battle. As they approached, Maryam noted the Sisters were singing, harmonic notes filling the air. They held a captive audience of the wounded and the lame.
The singing stopped as the group approached.
Yelena introduced her. ‘This is Sister Maryem, and these are my Sisters.’ They stepped forward as Yalena called out their names. Then, with a degree of urgency, she said, ‘Get her outfitted.’
Two approached. Sister Fedea, who stalked around her like a predator as Sister Piety spoke.
‘Here, Sabbat pattern helm. Preysight, audio dampeners, three centimetres of armour protection.’
‘I have my headdress.’
Piety shook her head and, with a gentle hand, eased the coif from Maryem’s head, whose blonde curls caught the breeze, fluttering over her face. Piety took the helmet from Fedea and passed it to her. ‘You are entering our world now, Sister.’
‘And here they shoot,’ said Fedea with a grin.
‘The venerable bolter.’
‘So you can shoot back.’
Piety flicked the safety with her finger, ‘Single. Burst. Full auto.’
‘I did combat training.’ Maryem’s voice was curt. ‘Same as you, Sister. I undertook the same baptism of fire.’
Piety showed no signs of reproach. ‘A reminder does not hurt.’
Maryem tempered herself. She had grown unused to this level of personability. ‘You are correct, my apologies.’
‘Four more magazines.’ She helped Maryem attach them to her belt. ‘You have your own canteen and your medical supplies. Grenades?’
‘Too much, by the grace of the Emperor, she’d have to crawl across the battlefield.’
‘Then you’re good to go.’
‘A minute please.’ The eldest, Sister Drite, stepped forward and held her hands over the bolter, a prayer on her lips, crow’s feet gathered at the corners of her eyes. To be that age and still a humble Battle Sister, Maryem felt a degree of awe at the simple piety of this woman. She finished her prayer and looked up. ‘Welcome to the fold, Sister.’
Maryem couldn’t help but smile back. ‘My thanks.’
Inside, the Rhino was tidier than most Guard transports she had travelled in. Butts of smokes, spent ammunition casings, and rations papers often littered their floors. She would pretend not to notice as guardsmen sheepishly brushed them underfoot. Here, there was no litter, just orderly rows of weapons and an array of religious paraphernalia. Incense and texts took space alongside grenades and ammunition.
As Yelena and Sister Piety took the front cab, the rest moved to their assigned seats. Maryem was ushered to the back. Rosalia sat next to her after clamping the harness down around her shoulders.
They took off with a rumble of tracks, jostling the Sisters, and as the carrier moved, they sang hymnals. Maryem sat quietly at first but soon joined in.
Eventually, Erika spoke up.
‘Do you have recent combat experience, little Sister?’ It was a demeaning question.
Still, Maryem answered, ‘I was sequestered to the Order of the Valorous Heart for most of my time in the system. After that, I joined with the Jian Light Foot.’
‘Why the split with the Valorous Heart?’
‘We had irreconcilable differences in philosophy.’
‘Such as?’ asked Fedea.
It seemed an innocent question, but Maryem felt the need to defend herself, despite no accusation being levelled. ‘I believe in the sanctity of human suffering. Pain is a reminder of Him on Terra. Of the martyred faithful, Saint Katherine amongst them.’ The Sisters around her made the sign of the aquila at the mention of their God and patron Saint. ‘But it is my calling to lessen said pain, to take what is unbearable and make it less so with human science. Having sustained the wound is proof enough of piety. The Valorous Heart believes in embracing that pain, to take it upon themself with fortitude and stoicism.’ She remembered sawing off a mangled limb as the Sister beneath her prayed litanies through gritted teeth. ‘It was my weakness, but I felt I could no longer render my services to them.’
Erika shifted in her seat, ‘The Valorous Heart are capable. You have rendered them less so with that weakness.’
Maryem held forth her rosary, five beads notched separate by a lanyard, each one representing atonement due. ‘I have no interest in your condemnation, Sister,’ she bit back. ‘I recognise my fragility; I pay my penance.’
Rosalia spoke up, ‘The Valorous Heart’s loss shall be our gain. You are welcome with us, Sister.’
Maryem had the feeling none of the others would so directly contradict Erika. Rosalia removed her helm for the first time. Scars and puncture wounds criss-crossed the whole of her face, and it took little of Maryem’s medical knowledge to realise they were self-inflicted. Ritual scarification was not uncommon in the ranks of the Sisterhood, but to that degree and severity, there could only be one answer.
‘You were…’ She stopped herself. ‘Forgive me, Sister, it is not my place.’
Rosalia answered all the same. ‘I was Repentia. By the grace of the God-Emperor, I was returned to my Sisters. I shall speak no more of it.’
‘By His grace.’ Maryem would not ask more. Her Sister had been delivered back to them. That was enough.
‘By His grace,’ the Sisters echoed.
The Rhino thundered across the country, sporadically stopping to pass through armed checkpoints. On either side were burnt-out tanks, gun emplacements and destroyed fortifications. Departmento Munitorum paramilitary units patrolled the roads on half-tracks and horses, peaked caps with a red band and single armband denoted their allegiance on a uniform otherwise black. They shepherded herds of refugees in great, long lines. Many of whom threw themselves flat on their faces as the Rhino passed, begging for absolution. This wasn’t the Sisters to give.
Maryem held little sympathy for them; they had refused to defend the Emperor’s domain. They had allowed malcontents to walk amongst them undisturbed. They had bowed their heads under the traitor’s lash and meekly done his bidding, as if they didn’t already owe service to the God-Emperor alone, as if they couldn’t offer up an ounce of resistance. If they had no guns, had they not tools? If they had no tools, had they not their fingernails and teeth? Like so many slum yard rats could swarm an attack dog, the faithful could tear the sun from the sky. They had been apathetic to their surroundings till it was far too late.
Women, children, and the elderly made up the bulk of the lines. Despite herself, she offered up a prayer they would make the journey to the internment camps alive. To be processed was to be offered a second chance, a chance at redemption. They would shuttle off world to work camps, to a life of absolution and pure devotion.
The Rhino was stopped once again at a checkpoint staffed by men with cruel eyes, hard rubber batons and autoguns.
It took an indiscriminate amount of time until they reached the city limit. There was a degree of madness as they disembarked, soldiers rushing back and forth as artillery fired in a concussive crescendo. But as they stepped out of the Rhino, a man came rushing to meet them, thick telescopic glasses on his forehead, dataslate under arm, a stylus grafted in place of a finger. He ushered them through the battlelines to a command centre. Maryem caught up with him to ask after the Jian’s. They were engaged in the city but, unfortunately, on the opposite.
Volcas Minor was an industrial city of a few hundred thousand. Dissected by a river, it lived downstream of Volcas Hive. Once barges would have ferried goods and people to and fro constantly. Now it was burning, smoke blotting out the horizon.
Fighting raged across the river. Flashes of lasfire were answered by the chatter of autoguns. Only when the booming retort of a Leman Russ sounded did the fighting drop off momentarily. Only to pick back up somewhere else along the riverside.
Soldiers crossed between buildings with a pronounced hunch, a battlefield scurry adopted by all who live under the constant threat of sniper fire. The Sisters, by contrast, walked upright, armoured in faith, surrounded with purity, unconcerned with incoming fire.
Maryem watched as an injured man was carried away from the frontline. ‘I would like to attend to the wounded.’
Yelena nodded her approval, ‘I shall not keep you from your calling, Sister. I will come for you later.’
She found that the nearest hospital was primitive, an old warehouse divided by strung-up sheets. A bust of the Emperor sat proud, high on its wall, reminding the men within that they were not alone in paying a toll for the defence of the Imperium. Despite the conditions, its medicae moved with purpose and commitment, so she was content to play nursemaid.
The staff, at first, seemed to believe it beneath her but it put her at ease to be helping again. She moved amongst the soldiery, performing general upkeep: dressing wounds, distributing medication, and even helping a one-armed man shave, all the while with a litany on her lips. It came easily as she shifted from soldier to soldier, which she disliked. Devotion should not be easy. Familiarity bred contempt. She cleansed her hands of blood and notched another rosary bead. She would decide upon a new hymnal as she paid penance.
Yelena came for her late in the day, guiding her to the muster point.
A company of the 77th Elan Shock would provide support, bedecked in heavy armour, and backed with a fearsome reputation. The Sisters made ready to move. Maryem watched them preparing for battle. She watched as they quoted scripture together, hands clasped. Their closeness came as an unexpected sting against the individualistic nature of her own order.
‘Sister Maryem, a minute.’
She turned and Yelena was there.
‘I have spoken with the Guard Command. They would not say it outright, but it seems they regard our mission here as little more than bait to their own advancement. Should you wish, you can perform service here with no shame.’
‘You expected otherwise?’
‘I had hoped otherwise.’
Maryem shook her head. ‘I have Sisters amongst the living. I shall attend.’
Yelena nodded, as if she anticipated nothing else. ‘You are independent, but whilst in combat you will respect my command.’
‘With all due respect Sister Superior, my duty is to the wounded.’
Yelena smiled, ‘I will concede so long as you obey the spirit of the order. Yelena met her gaze, that softness alive in her eyes, ‘Are you ready, Sister?’
It chilled Maryem to be its cause, that her Sister might not think her capable, a distraction to be coddled. ‘I am,’ she stated, ‘And by the grace of the Emperor, I shall remain.’
Yelena’s face changed, in a heartbeat the shine in her eyes was gone, replaced by the stoic mask of war, ‘Then we move.’
They stayed out of sight of the riverbank to avoid detection, the dawn set to break, and the day’s first light just around the corner. The streets wound tight, ruined hab-blocks choked them with rubble and debris, many so obstructed that they required them to scramble.
The Elans moved with them.Veterens all, they kept pace, despite dragging their multilasers on tracked carriages through the streets. Whenever they passed close to the Sisters, they crossed their hands in the sign of the aquila, murmuring devotions. Sister Drite blessed any that stood alongside them long enough.
Finally, they arrived at the bridge. Wider than the streets it served, it stretched across the river with sandbags and barbed wire joining its gothic arches as decoration. Those guarding it seemed to be aware they were coming and remained hunkered down.
The Elan’s captain dropped down next to them. He nodded across the river. ‘They might not be expecting us, but they will be watching.’
‘Then we will go first,’ Yelena said.
‘Emperor go with you.’
‘He always does.’
‘We are the Sisters of Battle and we do not shirk from His enemies,’ Yelena began. Sister Vatre sparked up the pilot light of her flamer, tentatively holding it up to the brazier on Yelena’s powerpack. ‘He is the flame that guides us.’
The Sisters answered, ‘Ours is the hand that lights His flame.’
Yelena looked them over slowly, as if appraising their readiness. Her eyes stopped on Maryem. ‘Visor down, Sister,’ she said softly. Maryem fumbled to close it, embarrassment colouring her cheeks at the simple mistake. Yelena turned and marched out, disregarding the notion of cover.
‘With me, Sisters.’
The Sisters broke into two squads. Despite their rapid ingress across the bridge, they kept their bolters up and trained on the surroundings.
They got about halfway across before the world exploded in a hail of fire.
Maryem’s audio dampeners kicked in as gun fire raked the bridge. Dropping to a knee, the preysight snapped down a moment later, leaving her surroundings a blunt orange, while the buildings on the other side lit up with hostiles in sharp contrast.
The Sisters began to sing devotions. Bolters barked percussion to their performance as they returned fire. They surged forward unabated, and Maryem’s heart soared to watch them work, their faith so prominently displayed. The divine counterbalance of music and violence transfixed her. Sister Grace held soprano, her voice as steady as her aim. Breaking into two squads, the Sisters advanced in sequence, covering, firing, and reloading. Always moving, as they forced their way across the bridge. They switched verses as they advanced, and Maryem felt magnificently out of sync.
The Elans added covering fire. Their multilasers a fraction behind, saturating the opposite bank with lasfire. The crack of the autoguns slackened under the onslaught.
‘With me.’ Rosalia grabbed her by the shoulder, snapping Maryem out of her reverie and moving them, keeping her shield up. They dropped beside a sandbag emplacement and Maryem unslung her bolter and shouldered it. She would not sing with her Sisters, lest she spoil their song, but she could fight. A building rose up in front and a target reticle appeared on her HUD. She lined up the nearest target, squeezed the trigger and a mass reactive bolt fired out. She felt a rush of euphoria as he went down, divine justice manifested in the slaying of His foes. She switched targets as the preysight lined up her reticle once again. She snapped off another shot, then another before pushing off, feet pounding on rockcrete. Rosalia called after her, but she was caught in the moment, to heal was her vocation, but to chastise His enemies was a calling above all else.
Rosalia crashed them both down hard against a sandbag emplacement, she kept a hand pressed down on Maryem’s shoulder. ‘Do not run off like that Sister,’ she chastised.
Maryem recognised her fault—she had been too enthusiastic, the need to punish the unrighteous burned in her veins, but she took a breath, ‘Apologies, Sister.’
Rosalia removed her hand and offered it to her. ‘Tell me first.’
They pushed forward together. Catching up with the rearguard. One or two heads turned their way, but Maryem kept up her rate of fire and soon, through fire and steel, they had pushed their way across the bridge.
As they closed on the enemy Piety broke from the pack, the others laying down suppressing fire. She burst across the open space of the bridge and threw a bandolier of grenades through an upper story window. The explosions rocked the building and Sister Calor pushed up in support, her multi-melta fired up and she poured the super-heated charge into the first-floor as Vatre joined in, flamer lit and burning. Soon the building was ablaze like a candescent pyre. Maryem offered up a benediction at the Holy Flame.
The Elans came pouring past, spreading out and snapping off shots. More grenades followed. Explosions rattled all around as the Sisters formed up. Calor slapped Piety on the shoulder, ‘You did us proud, Sister.’
Sister Piety shook off the praise. ‘I was merely doing my duty. For Emperor and Mankind.’ She instead turned to Maryem. ‘That was quite some shooting.’
‘It was not through want of accuracy that I failed to become a Battle Sister,’ she spoke.
‘Nor aggression it seems.’
‘So why?’
Erika spoke up, over the internal comms. ‘Because she’ll have been too short.’
Maryem’s face burned with the truth of it. She had been passed over in the Schola Progenium. She had failed to reach the standard height and so they had put bandages in her hands instead of bullets. A Battle Sister was to be awe inspiring; a vestige of the God-Emperor made manifest. A Battle Sister stood tall in a crowd, was noticed on the battlefield, stood in stern judgement of the faithful. She had been short; the bolter made a poor fit to her younger frame. She fingered at the beads of her rosary.
Yelena took her hand, squeezing through the armour plate. ‘Then for what she lacks in height, she makes up for in ferocity.’
The captain of the Elans approached, a voxman beside him. ‘Colonel Danton will move to make his counterattack through here. Provided we can secure the bridge from counter battery fire.’ He held up a folded map. ‘The only place large enough to support guns of that calibre is here.’ He pointed to a large open square. ‘It is along your route.’ He traced a finger to prove his point. ‘I have men enough to hold this bridgehead, if you would make up the slack.’
Yelena spoke, ‘Then, by His grace, we are comrades for a while longer. Gather your men, Captain.’
Their advance had clearly thrown the traitors off balance. They had repeatedly counterattacked to try and retake the bridge, but the attacks lacked support and were hastily put together. The deeper they pushed, the more the professional soldiers gave way to brigands and rabble, and the lack of cooperation between warbands became evident.
The sounds of fighting were now ever-present. Explosions rocked deeper in the city. aircraft strafed overhead, and although the Elans took casualties, nothing could stop their momentum. Before long, they had overrun the square and spiked the artillery guns.
It was here that the Guardsmen would stay and hold to avoid overextending their lines. The captain promised to move for them as soon as he was relieved.
And so, the Sisters stalked through the streets, weapons sweeping from one ruined building to the next. Although it was clear they were being watched, Maryem’s preysight picked up and targeted shapes that hung just at the outskirts of her vision; there was no sign of attack.
‘What do they hold for?’ asked Fedea.
‘They fear righteous justice,’ Sister Vatre said.
‘They seek to draw us deeper in,’ tempered Piety.
‘To trap us,’ agreed Erika.
Vatre bellowed out to the street. ‘Then, they are cowards.’
No one answered the challenge, and the Sisters proceeded unmolested through the derelict streets until ahead lay the temple. A modest building of stone, it stood apart from the uniform rockcrete hab-blocks that housed the city’s workforce, backed by a sheer wall depicting the benevolent Emperor reaching down to his subjects, golden in his majesty, extolling them for the toll and strife they endure to keep his Imperium safe. It had been pockmarked by gunfire, but they had failed to deface it completely: the Emperor still stood, recognisably majestic amidst the damage.
The temple itself reminded Maryem of her own order’s holdings. They were also often of simple stone; the only stained glass would be in the main chapel and in the hospital wing. Here, the windows were shattered, graffiti scrawled across the stonework. Its bell sat outside, defaced and cracked, leaving the temple with no voice to call to the faithful.
The Sisters advanced across the courtyard with caution.
‘Why do they not catch us in a crossfire?’
‘They want us to see what’s inside,’ Yelena spoke, hushed over the vox.
They took cover beside the steps. Sister Erika tried the door. Her hand steady on the handle. ‘Open.’ She nodded to Yelena, and the Sisters stacked up.
‘Go!’
The first squad poured through the door. Slick and ready. After a few moments, a click sounded over the vox.
‘Come in.’
Maryem moved in with the second squad. The visual desecration hit her first, the smells being washed out by her helmet’s dampeners. The temple was built in two parts: a larger amphitheatre and, through a decorative set of iron doors, the nave. Though both had been subject to pillage and degradation, it was in the nave that the priest and his faithful had been nailed. They hung from the walls, grievous injuries suffered at the hands of the heretics adorning their bodies.
Maryem moved, prayer on her lips, revulsion in her heart. A strong hand stopped her.
‘Hold, Sister, there could be traps.’
Fedea and Piety held position at the entrance while the rest swept the room, removing and depositing the corpses in the centre of the temple. They handled the dead with care.
When they reached up to free the priest, he let out a feeble moan.
‘By the Emperor, he’s alive.’
Maryem pushed forward from Yelena’s grip. Dropping by his side, she placed her fingers to his pulse point, the micro sensors in her gloves picking up a faint beat. His wounds were atrocious, his robe barely hanging on to his maltreated body. His eyes flickered open, and he sat up, grabbing at her arm with a sudden burst of strength. It faded quickly, and she cradled him down to the ground. The man was dead; he just didn’t know it yet. Still, there had been recognition in his eyes.
‘Sororitas,’ he gasped through cracked lips. ‘The God-Emperor has delivered us.’ He lifted a shivering arm to where his disciples had hung. ‘They did not apostatise, they held faith.’
‘Sisters!’ A voice interrupted from outside, magnified by a crude amplifier. The priest trembled in her arms. ‘Sisters! We have come for you. We have come to bleed you. You will join the priest under The Skinner’s knives.’
Howls rent the air as Sister Grace called from the bell tower, ‘They are coming out.’
‘Take up positions, Sisters.’ They moved around Yelena like a well-oiled machine, needing little direction from their Sister Superior. ‘Can you see who’s talking? Do you have a target?’
‘Negative, he must be out of sight.’
‘Then chastise as you see fit.’
‘Ave.’ Her bolter boomed in retort.
‘Here they come.’
Elements moved well, likely the remnants of The Skinners guard regiment, using burnt-out vehicles for protection, advancing in staggered formation and utilising cover fire. Most, however, were a braying mob cheering for blood. They hung back as the soldiers moved forward.
Yelena slammed her visor back in place. ‘Purge the heretic, the mutant and the unclean! They do not breach this holy building again.’ She hoisted her bolter onto the windowsill and opened fire.
A torrent of fire hammered back at them, and once again, the Sisters took up song.
Maryem cradled the priest’s head as his eyes scrunched up tight at the sound of gunfire. There was little she could do. The pain medicine to ease his passing would be better spent on those who would survive. She unsheathed the misericorde at the small of her back. ‘You have done all that duty demands, Brother. Go with grace to His side.’ She sunk the thin blade in through his armpit and into his heart. His eyes opened wide one final time, and he let out a slow rattle as he slumped in her arms.
‘They have an autocannon!’ called Calor.
It opened up on the temple, blowing chunks of rock from the wall face and forcing the Sisters behind cover.
In the temple’s lone tower. Grace opened fire, stitching across its armour plate. She caught the gunners, blowing them apart in a hail of explosive bolts. ‘Reloading.’
More men rushed to take up positions at the dormant gun.
Yelena twisted and bellowed through the vox, ‘Get down!’
They unloaded upon the bell tower, and Sister Grace’s vitals flatlined on Maryem’s HUD.
Maryem didn’t wait. ‘I’m going.’ She bounded up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Pauldrons scraping against the narrow walls. The autocannon switched its fire, booming back down the stonework as it shifted target.
She pushed into the spindly tower. Sister Grace was dead. Slouched against the wall, huge gouges rent in her armour.
She crouched down beside her Sister, gently removing the bolter from her arms, before making the sign of the aquila. She hadn’t known her long, but the passing of a Sister was always hard. ‘God-Emperor, please accept my Sister; she arrives before you in honour and grace.’
Below, Erika bellowed over the vox, ‘We need that gun down!’
‘Popping smoke,’ called Calor.
Maryem shifted low and watched through the ruined wall of the bell tower as she vaulted the nave window, melta in hand and stormed into the cloud. Preysight tracked her amidst the chaos as she brazenly burned her way through the attacking hoard, gouts of flame licking up through the smoke as she cleared a path to the cannon. In response, more and more fire was directed her way despite the Sisters covering fire. Still, Calor reached the gun, bathing it in superheated air. A brace of grenades flew her way in response, someone shouted down the vox and even before her vitals blinked red, Maryem was storming back down the stairs. She crashed into the wall next to Yelena, ‘Pop smoke!’
Yelena twisted to her. ‘Sister Calor has done her duty to the Emperor and the Imperium. She is amongst the martyred faithful. She goes to Him with grace.’
‘She still lives!’
‘You don’t understand our creed, sister.’
Maryem shoved the bolter into Yelena’s arms. ‘Nor you mine!’ She snatched up a grenade. ‘Help or not. I’m going.’
She pulled the pin, tossed it, and vaulted after it through the window, feet crunching on shattered glass as the grenade burst, cascading smoke across the battlefield. Bullets cracked past as she weaved through the firefight. Another grenade popped nearby, billowing out more smoke. Her Sisters kept up their fire. She pushed on, Calor’s heart still beat weakly on the HUD. Without breaking stride, she dove over the melted remains of the autocannon, grabbed Calor and pulled her against its armoured wreckage. Her injuries were extensive, her forearms little more than ruined stumps, but still she would live. Bracing herself, Maryem hoisted Calor up onto her shoulders and stood.
A rifle materialised out of the smoke, then another. Maryem knew she would be too late as she reached for her bolt pistol.
Sister Rosalia blitzed through the smoke, crashing her shield into the first man. She swung her chainsword, burying its whirring teeth amongst the men in front of her. They broke in the face of her fury.
‘Move!’
Maryem pushed off. A man blundered out through the smoke. She gut-shot him and kept on moving.
The temple loomed up before her. Trusting in her armour, she pushed with all she had, heart beating in her mouth as she took the steps, bounding up them two at a time. She plunged through the doors, passing Vatre and Piety as she skidded to an uneven stop, breathing hard.
‘I take it back, little Sister. You would honour Saint Katherine with your service.’
Rosalia came in after her, landing hard on the stones.
‘The melta?’ asked Yelena.
‘Lost.’
‘Then we hold without it.’
Darkness had fallen as Maryem knelt by Calor’s side. she had stabilised her. Sister Grace lay with the priest and his congregation beneath the ruined visage of the Emperor. Their enemy had tried twice more to assault their position, sheer numbers had seen them reaching as far as the outer amphitheatre door. Punishing fire had pushed them back, but not without cost.
Vatre had run out of holy Promethium, so vital in turning the traitors back, and Rosalia’s chainsword was so choked with grime and gore it was now little more than a blunt implement.
Fortunately, the autocannon seemed to have been the extent of their enemy’s heavy weaponry.
‘Sisters!’ called the amplified voice. ‘Sisters! Time is running out. Abandon salvation, faith, hope. You will be under The Skinner’s knives soon enough.’
‘Blessed Emperor. What I wouldn’t give to shut him up.’
‘Discipline, Sisters.’
‘Here they come again.’
‘Hold to faith and fury. Make every shot count.’
The enemy came with everything they had. The heretics had descended into a horde at this point. Casualties amongst their more competent members seemed to have been absolute. Blasphemous rhetoric, combat drugs and the whip were now likely all that kept them in the field.
With broken voices, the Sisters once again took up song. Sister Grace’s soprano was noticeably missing but as they continued, the strength of it grew. Maryem stood from Calor’s side and joined with them, bolt pistol at the ready.
All manner of scum poured towards the building in a mad rush, as the Sisters opened fire. They trampled each other underfoot, shooting wildly. The sheer weight of their charge propelled them onwards, despite the bolts penetrating deep into their midst, their detonation showering the horde in viscera.
Maryem’s pauldron absorbed a stray round as she fired two-handed into the press. Her bolter clicked dry in the time it took to change to a fresh magazine, the horde was pressing up against the temple, pushing and jostling as they fought to reach up to the windows.
‘Cover Sister.’ Fedea dropped a belt of grenades out the window. Explosions rocked against the building.
Sisters Vatre and Piety pulled back into the nave, together they slammed the door shut.
‘They have rockets!’
As if to prove their point, a cacophony of concussive blasts shook the doors on their hinges; the second buckled them inwards.
‘Cover!’
The doors dented inward with a gout of flame. Men howling like beasts tried to pour in through the fire.
‘Cleanse them from this holy place!’
The Sisters met them at the door, raw fury at the heretics’ defilement. Bolt rounds hammered into the crowd, breaking their impetus, cutting them down as they fit through the gap.
But still, they came. Maryem fired her last bolt into the head of a man, squeezing through the door. She fumbled to holster the gun, nerves taut with adrenaline.
The fighting became vicious and close. The tight breach in the door acted in their favour, funnelling the horde tight, and the Sisters abused this vigorously. Their power armour allowed them to beat men down with their bare hands where necessary, and warded off blows as they waded amongst them. In the tight confines, they were without equal. Maryem watched, mesmerised by their violence. There was little she could do to help as, at last, the numbers willing to charge the door dried up, and the horde, instead, hung back. Sister Fedea went to push through, but Yelena placed a hand on her shoulder.
‘We hold here, Sister. let them come.’
The enemy remained encamped in the church amphitheatre. The Sisters could do no more than drive them from the nave now. Both sides had expended their ammunition. For the Sisters, the purity of combat would sustain them but to try to push through the ruined doors one at a time would be suicide.
‘Sisters, Sisters.’ The Skinner walked freely in the light of a new dawn, stepping carelessly over his own dead that littered the courtyard. Maryem got her first clear look at him. He was a large man, though he looked thinner and leaner than she had expected. He had retained his Guard issue trousers, but all that covered his scarred torso was a bloody butcher’s smock. A brace of hunting knives hung from belts across his body. Some makeshift metal mask covered his lower face, with a wicked hooked nose and painted-on teeth. ‘We have come for you. I have come for you!’
Yelena came to her side. They watched a large battering ram follow him. ‘My apologies, Sister. I may have led us into a trap that there is no escape from.’
‘We stand in the shadow of the Emperor. A fitting place to die.’
‘With fitting company.’
Despite herself, Maryem smiled. ‘I’m afraid I don’t have the voice for it but have always been partial to Requiem Mass.’
‘Then I will sing it for you.’
And so, she did. As dawn streamed through the windows, Sister Yelena stood before the altar of the God of Mankind and sang with parched lips, and it was beautiful. Across a floor of shell casing and blood, she moved. Maryem was captivated. Tears wet her eyes; it was everything she had been missing, everything she couldn’t attain with the Valorous Heart. Sisterhood.
‘Here they come,’ Drite called.
And just like that, the spell was broken. The battering ram hammered against the weakened door, and with a few short swings, it burst open. Heretics swarmed the gap like rats as more scurried up planks of wood and up through the windows.
‘To me, Sisters,’ Yelena called as the horde poured in.
They came desperate, with broken glass and sharpened steel.
The Sisters answered with faith, song, and fury.
Forming up in front of the statue of the Emperor, Sisters Erika and Rosalia took point, shields upfront. Erika held her chainsword up on the shield’s rim. Rosalia placed hers to her helmet, head bowed, she pulled the activation trigger. Once, twice, thrice. It came to life with a savage roar.
‘Blessed Emperor.’
Then, the lines met.
Maryem cut with a broadsword, the blade slick with blood, but for every man she dropped, another took his place. Fists and iron poles battered at her, despite the press, she refused to use the misericorde. The Emperor’s Mercy was not for these types of men, and she would not disgrace it so.
Drite went down in a press of bodies, and her vitals flashed amber. The Sisters closed the line. Maryem wished she could get to her but there was no time nor space in the press.
As if sensing the end, The Skinner strode through the doors, a large serrated blade in hand.
‘Sisters!’ He screamed out in his hoarse twisted rasp, ‘I will bleed you.’ His men fell back as he stepped into the press. ‘The time has come to be under the Skinner’s knives.’
Yelena went at him, screaming in righteous fury. Both sides paused to watch them cross blades. The Skinner was the far fresher of the two and well-built, but Yelena’s power armour kept her in the fight, her faith kept her vicious. They clashed and parted, only to meet again. He tried to bare down on her, to force her back with his strength. She headbutted him with a crack, and he fell away with a cry. The combat came alive again.
Maryem watched helplessly as cultists dogpiled Sister Yelena. Erika drove forward, chainsword swinging.
Maryem stabbed the man in front of her through the face, and he fell back, tearing her sword out of her grasp. She reached for her bolt pistol to use it as a club when the head of the man in front of her burst in a flash of light.
Lasfire punched into the crowd, disciplined and sure. Tan uniforms stormed up through the wooden ramps set against the windows.
‘Jians, forward!’
With a cry they met the rabble, bayonets fixed. They drove onto the mob. In the face of this new onslaught, the heretics broke. Some threw down their weapons and begged; others turned and ran. A rotund man walked casually through the scene, firing off rounds from a fat-barrelled revolver. He paused when he stood before Maryem, fur-lined coat resting on his shoulders.
‘Colonel Jiangjuna?’
He smiled, teeth lined with gold. ‘When they told me a Hospitaller had gotten herself into trouble, I knew it would be you.’
‘How did you get here?’ Had his Jian’s not been deployed across the battlefield?
He held up and wiggled a brace of frag grenades. ‘I, too, hold faith in high regard, but Sister, in a city, the hand grenade is king.’
She almost laughed despite herself.
Jianagiuna dusted down her pauldrons; his face held something of a fatherly affection. ‘See to your Sisters.’
She nodded and tore her gaze past him, looking for the others. Most were still standing. Despite her wounds, Drite was back on her feet. Two guard medics had Calor on a stretcher, Maryem would keep track of her destination. The Skinner was on the ground, knee to the back of his neck, as Sisters Piety and Fedea forced cuffs on him, wrenching his arms into an unnatural position. He howled and cursed, but he would live. Live to burn, raised high on the pyre the Ecclesiarchy would make for him and all those who followed his twisted delusions.
Maryem moved to aid her Sisters. Rosalia had pushed on with the guard, hate burning pure. Vatre stood slouched, exhausted and battered. Bodies surrounded her. Erika looked in a bad way, but as Maryem knelt by her side, her microsensors picked up a pulse. ‘I guess the Emperor isn’t finished with you yet, big Sister.’ She snapped her fingers at the guard medics to get their attention.
Yelena was last. Maryem had to push the bodies off her. Armour rent and helm torn off, her face was deathly pale. Maryem applied coagulate and bandages. As she worked, a thin trickle of blood seeped down from Yelena’s lips. Her pulse was still. Maryem ripped at her pouches, pulling forth a large needle; she flicked the safety cap off, and with a quick prayer, she tilted Yelena’s head to the side and plunged it deep into her neck. Adrenaline rushed into her system.
She dropped the empty syringe and grasped Yelena’s hands, squeezing them between her own, lifting them together and bowing her head, forehead resting against Yelena’s. ‘Sister Superior. Yelena. I did not brook the Valorous Heart’s need for unnecessary sacrifice, and on the Emperor, I will not brook yours.’
Hands squeezed back, faintly at first. Fluttering, Yelena’s eyes opened, that brilliant lustre dull but present. ‘I have Sisters amongst the living,’ she gasped out, gripping Maryem with growing strength through the gauntlets. ‘I shall attend.’
About the Author
Daniel Hackett is a mechanic from the granite city of Aberdeen, Scotland. With a passion for woodwork, mountain climbing, plucking an amateur tune out on the bass and engaging in more literary project’s than is perhaps sensible. A novice in the trade with little writing accolades to his name, outside of a poem in a primary school book, after which he bragged about his published works to anyone that would listen. Never mind that the entire class was also in the same book. He has set it his goal to update that list.
