Maerys opened her eyes. A moment earlier she had been small again, her hands held by an adult on either side of her. Those smiles had been so warm, so inviting, so comfortably familiar. She longed to share them a while longer, perhaps forever. But the thunder of explosions to the west made her rise. She picked up her long rifle and joined the others at the edge of Hoec’s Perch.
Orks attacked the two ridges seized by the coalition once again. Armored gun trucks, light tanks, and fast attack vehicles charged across rotting corpses and bashed aside burnt-out hulks. To an unaware observer, they appeared to fire their weapons at nothing but the land itself. Those Biel-Tan defenders were embedded among the rocks and their support batteries were concealed. For such stalwart warriors, even they were wise enough to moderate their defense with holo-fields.
Purplish-white vortex bolts streaked from the ridge. Those vehicles struck by a blast from a distortion cannon were ripped up into rivets and plates. Green bodies were reduced to chunks and ribbons. Some were not outright destroyed, merely expelled from reality into the Warp. Missiles, starcannons, bright lances, and shuriken cannons shattered the second and third ranks. Any Orks who survived and drew near enough to the ridge disappeared in a white hail of shurikens.
Maerys removed the goggles and let them fall around her neck. Her dual gaze of amber and blue fell hard on drifting smoke and fires. Beside her, laying on the seat of her Raptor, Alimia stretched languidly. Her orange eyes remained half-closed and concealed behind her golden locks.
“Autarch Yltra’s strategy becomes ash like flesh immersed in flame,” she mused.
“The great wave Orks imagine does not always wash over the rock as they believe it will,” said Amonthanil. “Instead it breaks and recedes.”
“Their first attack in six days,” murmured Maerys. “Before then, they assaulted morning and night. With each attempt, the force decreases in size.”
“Perhaps, Go-Klamma has run out of Orks,” jested Alimia.
“Or Go-Klamma has been supplanted by a wiser lord,” suggested Amonthanil. He then smiled at Alimia. “If wisdom is to be found among the Orks.”
“Weakness can be smelled in the air and tasted upon the tongue,” said Tirol. The three Pathfinders found him delicately slicing the buds from more soothing limbs. When he filled his palm, he threw them into his mouth and chewed. “Yltra senses it and will wish to attack once more.”
“A farseer may sense such things, but an Autarch has only instinct,” said Irlikae, sharply. Tirol set down his knife and bundled the vines into a pouch. Sitting on the edge of the cliff, he turned around and glared at the Void Dreamer. In turn, Irlikae stood up from her campfire. She did not grimace nor brace herself, but her green eyes suddenly grew icy.
Maerys walked between them, held out her hands, and gently pressed them in their directions. Irlikae sank back down and continued to mull her wine while Tirol stood up. He approached Maerys with his knife. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the dagger up into the air. When it descended, he caught the very tip between his thumb and forefinger.
“The Band of Kurnous has done its duty,” he explained. “Now, the Ork menace knows we are here in force.” Rolling his hand, he shifted the knife and caught its grip. Turning his arm, he held the blade as if he were about to swipe at an imaginary target.
Maerys was about to retort when there was a flash within her mind. She found herself in the alley of an Imperial city and she stared at a wall of rockcrete bricks. There were no cracks in the wall nor any deformations. In a blink, the image was gone. She whirled around and nearly hissed Irlikae’s name. The Void Dreamer did not meet her eyes and blithely sipped her wine.
Tirol walked around Maerys, looked between them, and then pointed at Irlikae. “What mockery do you make of me?” he growled.
“Only the truth,” said Irlikae, cheekily.
“A truth should be spoken plainly and not whispered in the mind.”
It would have continued if not for Meslith’s arrival. Maerys was glad to see her climb the path to their perch. Although she was not winded, Alimia slid off her Raptor and shook the Pathfinder by her shoulder before she could even speak.
“You would not have needed to climb if you had just asked one of my Shroud Runners to carry you,” she said boisterously. Meslith, seemingly startled and confused by the Saim-Hann ranger’s sudden accosting, merely looked at her for a moment.
“Yes, well, I suppose not all of us enjoy the rush of air through our hair.”
“You Ulthwé souls are as dour as your armor. Did your pulse not quicken during our charge?” asked Alimia lightly, although she gave Meslith no time to answer. “One day, you shall witness the spectacle of the Saim-Hann races and you will be changed.”
“My home stands on the edge of the nether-realm’s transference,” said Meslith, darkly. “If you too were so cruelly restricted, delight would be rare to you as well.” Alimia snorted arrogantly but the Ulthwé Pathfinder ignored her as she approached Maerys. “I have been to see the host and Autarch Caergan asks for your presence. There are matters to be decided.”
Dry laughter from a nearby tree made Maerys turn. Livae, reclined on a branch, sank her teeth into a succulent golden fruit. Wiping juice from her lips, she then waggled her fingers in greeting. Then, she took her long rifle and dashed the stock against the trunk. A flock of birds they had taken to calling graywings for their cloudy plumes ascended into the sky, shrieking angrily. They returned shortly to their roost, although their squawking continued. Maerys’ eyes narrowed at the Fate Dealer, who looked back with a smug grin.
“You may make a mockery of the council,” said Meslith, coldly. “But it has achieved much in this short time. Surely, even you can see that.”
“Even as your Autarch’s voice is continually ignored?” asked Livae. She swung off the branch and approached. “Even our chief Pathfinder’s voice is cast aside by Biel-Tan’s battle-thirst.”
“When a hound has bled its foe, does it not tear out the throat?” asked Tirol, sternly. Livae rolled her eyes and looked back at Maerys. For the first time, her typical, casual aloofness faded and she gazed at Maerys imploringly, then met Meslith’s blue gaze which softened, then fell.
“I believe in this coalition, Maerys, but I have fears we yield too much power to the speaker of Biel-Tan,” said Meslith. “We are rangers and yet we are made to fight as Guardians and Aspect Warriors. This prevailing confidence smacks of arrogance, the root of the old empire’s downfall.”
“I will not allow such a dissolution,” assured Maerys. “We grow too bold and boldness leads to impetuousness.” She motioned to Alimia, who activated her Raptor. As she straddled the secondary seat, Maerys turned back to the other Pathfinders. “Remain here until I send word.”
Alimia lifted off from the cliff and gently glided back towards the main host. Meslith followed, riding with another Shroud Runner. Both Raptors came abreast of each other as they descended.
“Even if our way is the shadow,” said Alimia over the wind, “the rush of battle has been exhilarating. Never have I tread the Path of the Warrior, but this must come close to that euphoria.”
“I have,” said Maerys. Alimia’s head rose sharply and her ears twitched in surprise. Leaning back and bracing her hands on the sides of the Raptor, Maerys looked skyward. “One needs no further reason to kneel within an Aspect Shrine than simply to protect their Craftworld. Regardless, the warrior often possesses one, and mine was vengeance. It was an appetite that could not be satiated by any temple and it would have led to damnation or death had I continued.”
“It is understandable that you choose caution, then,” said Alimia.
“I chose peace,” countered Maerys. “I sought paths without war, to free myself of battle.”
“Yet we are drawn back to its rage,” said Meslith, her voice nearly lost in the breeze and thrum of engines. “Even though we have returned our arms and armor to the shrines, the fire still burns our flesh and the smoke chokes our lungs.”
“Even those of us who dare not tread the warrior paths are warriors still.” Maerys then smiled wryly at Meslith. “A trick played upon ourselves is surely cruel.”
“The cruelest, that we would so eagerly throw ourselves into danger when there are so few left,” she agreed.
Maerys felt a ponderous weight before her. She did not need to see Alimia’s face to know the trouble she now felt. The Shroud Runner always seemed so much more demonstrative of her emotions than most Aeldari. That must have been her boisterous Saim-Hann blood, making her jubilant and audacious. To feel the sudden claustrophobic discord, to see her so rigid even as her blonde locks fluttered, made Maerys feel like stone. She reached forward and gently grasped Alimia’s armored shoulder. This stirred her and she looked over her shoulder, still thoughtful, but thankful.
They swept into the staging grounds. More fortifications had been erected; curved defense walls, cylindrical watch towers, and bulbous bunkers created a bastion around a larger tower that served as headquarters. Sensor arrays rotated and powder nodes whirred with energy. Holo-field generators made these structures appear as surrounding terrain; to an Aeldari eye, nothing was hidden, but to a distant observer, they would glimpse only rocky crags and green valleys.
There were communal Aspect Shrines where warriors of different temples could congregate, as well as simple, rounded barracks. Many still chose to encamp in the natural gullies and nearby mountain passes. One merely had to pass through one of the hidden Webway Gates to find themselves back among the orbiting fleet. Yet, the base was a practical necessity, a waystation of a kind, controlling the flow of soldiers from the gates and the ships.
Maerys, Meslith, and Alimia landed within the compound. As the engines powered down, Maerys heard terrible wailing. The base had been built around one of the larger Webway Portals and a procession slowly approached its flowing blue energy field. The soul stones and bodies from the most recent attacks by the Orks were finally being taken back to their Craftworlds. Spiritseers guided the anti-gravitic caskets, their heads solemnly bowed while the stones of the fallen circled the air around them. On either side of the mass, the cohorts and companions of the fallen gathered. They appeared stoic and solemn, as if being reviewed by an Autarch. Attendants on the Path of the Mourner stood before them, wistfully weeping and screaming sorrowfully. Some sank to their knees, others morosely hid their faces, a few tore out locks of their hair. Such was the agony they bore for those who could not express it themselves.
Maerys felt the wind on her face and heard the scream of engines again. In her hands, she held the wounded gunner as his sucking chest wound exuded a torrent of blood. She saw Windriders torn apart by shrapnel and Fire Dragons crushed beneath wheels and treads. Drawing her hood and buttoning her coat, she veiled herself from the procession.
But as she walked underneath the foot of the mountain, she felt another presence. Two massive objects that dwarfed some of the hills and pilings around them. Both were confluences of energy, flowing with the power of hundreds if not thousands of spirits. Their power was a miasma of ancient voices whispering so much lore at once. She slowed and looked back towards the nearest sheer rock face. Great sheets of vines hung from its edges and trees clustered below it. Dwarfing their trunks and standing above the top of the high cliff face were two Revenant Scout Titans.
Tall and lithe yet formidable and fearsome, their long legs were taller than any spire. Aqua-colored gems studded their back chestplates and pauldrons, with the largest stone resting in their abdomen. One possessed a thin, spectacled visor intersected by a vertical extension, while the other possessed a horizontal lens with a corresponding ebony faceplate. Both helmets drew back into a long tail-like spine which curved upwards and over themselves. What appeared to be curvilinear engines atop their shoulders were titan-rated jump jets. Each arm was shaped into a weapon; one machine possessed pulsars while the other was equipped with sonic lances.
“They are the subject of your vote,” said Meslith. “Caergan requested their presence to range southward while we remain in the present region.”
“And Autarch Yltra will wish them to attack directly,” said Maerys, scornfully.
She left Alimia and Meslith by the entrance and hurried through the entrance. Maerys traversed a spiral staircase that ran up the sides of the tower. Passing smaller chambers reserved for healers, Bonesingers, and other specialists, she reached the center floor. All the banners and icons of the coalition members had been moved there along with the map. Dryane, Yltra, and Oromas, lacking their retinues, stood side by side at the head of the table. Caergan and two Ulthwé steersmen, stood with their backs to the entrance. All three turned when they heard Maerys approach.
They were twins, both pale, slim, brown in their eyes and hair. One wore a long braid while the other let his long locks flow freely over his black armor. He possessed a confident air and an eager smile, while his brother appeared reserved and doubtful.
“Pathfinder Maerys,” said Caergan. “Before you stand Those Who Protect the Imperiled Pass, the brothers Denris.”
“Taphelran,” said the assertive one. His brother looked Maerys up and down, distrustfully. But then he bowed courteously.
“Teltryan,” he said in a smoother, colder tone. “You are the one who stole the Ork banner.”
“I did not do so alone.”
“A daring act,” said Taphelran, flashing a sharp smile, “but there shall be tenfold more now that we have arrived.”
“We have arrived at our lord’s request,” corrected Teltryan. His gaze grew more cutting and his brother, without looking, craned his neck back in annoyance. Taphelran spun around and swiftly made a series of gestures with his hands, motioning between himself and the entrance. Teltryan freed his hands from the sleeves of his long robe and responded with his own, sweeping between themselves and then to the council.
Maerys walked by them, sensing an aura of annoyance from the Autarch. Just what the twins said to one another, she could not decipher. It appeared to be a family language, known only to them. Eventually, Caergan dipped his star glaive between them, dividing the brothers.
“The land to the south is open. Surely, as we realize this, so do the Orks. When Go-Klamma tires of sending token forces against our positions, he may send troops there. What could be a scouting party may evolve into a secondary force. Revenant Scouts are agile, swift, and with their holo-fields, furtive. If an attempt is made, then they will drive it back, leaving us free to conduct ourselves here.”
“Or, they can act as a spear and pierce their lines,” said Yltra. “What do the Orks have to resist us? The Imperium casts tin playthings into their wars but the Orks conduct their battles with rusty rubbish. Not a hundred of their primitive heavy guns could hope to bring down one.”
“The armor is not as thick as you believe,” said Teltryan. “We survive by holo-fields.”
“Pathfinder Maerys is an authority on reconnaissance, let her voice beheard,” said Oromas.
Maerys wanted to speak of how she and the Band of Kurnous had been afforded few opportunities for true scouting. But she knew it would satisfy only her frustration. She gestured to the map and its many lights and landmarks.
“My band numbers only in the hundreds and the land is vast. Lowlands to the north make forays there unlikely, but the south presents favorable terrain to followers of what they describe as the Cult of Speed. We are needed here, but Those Who Protect the Imperiled Pass would alleviate many burdens.”
She sensed Yltra’s displeasure and raised her hand. “The titans, as well as our heavier vehicles, should be kept in reserve. Orks are lustful for battle and see challenges in their enemies; the greater the foe, the greater the opportunity. Show our hand to them too early and they will rise to meet it. We may provoke them into a battle in which their numbers may prove overwhelming.”
Although Maerys appeared calm, her breath caught in her throat as she braced for the accusations. Would she be declared a coward or a dolt? But Yltra’s dubious glare became impressed and she nodded.
“The Pathfinder speaks true.” The other coalition leaders gazed at her in surprise. “If we are to meet the Orks in open battle, it should be on our terms, not theirs. I consent to the titans’ scouting mission.” Maerys did not know what to say. She thought only of what Tirol had said before the previous attack, and was thankful he was right.
The other leaders voted in favor one by one. Autarch Caergan appeared relieved and bowed his head towards Maerys. He then faced the steersmen.
“We are honored to have warriors like you present and we value your upcoming deeds.”
Before Taphelran could speak, Teltryan grabbed him by the wrist and squeezed. He bowed low, guiding his brother with him.
“We take up arms in the name of Ulthwé and commit ourselves to this coalition.”
He rose and led his brother from the dimly lit chamber. Once the echoes of their footsteps faded, Yltra pointed down at the map. All directed their gaze to a singular green light glowing on a hill a league in front of the ridges they seized before.
“Your Pathfinder, Kalvynn, still hides among the river waters, does he not? Has he investigated this position?”
“The hill was barren until a few days ago. It appears the Orks have built an outpost at the top. Although a garrison has encamped there and they’ve built some defense works, it is not heavily fortified. Kalvynn believes they are using it to observe the ridge and guide their attacks against it.”
“Then it appears we have an opportune target,” said Yltra, confidently. “We have lingered long enough, it is time to seize new ground. Let us destroy this outpost and take the hill. Only a small armored force is needed, not the full might of our arms.”
“My Wild Riders grow restless,” complained Oromas. “They wish to make their spears slick with Ork blood. This post, simple as it is, would alleviate some of their vexations.”
“Simple, you say, and deceptively so,” said Caergan. “Outposts are normally clandestine.”
“I believe an ork does not understand the word,” mused Dryane. “Nor could they pronounce it, write it, or spell it correctly, even in their own crude tongue.”
“Yet they had enough sense to protect their previous fortifications with natural barriers,” said Maerys, cutting off the High Count. Now she thought of Livae and hated that now she was correct as well. She gripped the edge of the table, shut her eyes momentarily, and shook her head. “We cannot continue to develop our strategies based on two successful attacks.”
She pointed to the cloud of green lights that represented the Ork settlement. “My rangers were only afforded one opportunity to infiltrate their fortress and there is still much ground to the northwest we have not seen. What lies beneath the river’s end is unknown.” Maerys finger traced the blue line that wove away from Hoec’s Perch. “Allow me to take my band up the river, we may discover a way to thwart the Go-Klamma’s forces without a direct engagement.”
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“Maerys, you are clearly more adept than I once thought,” said Yltra, curtly. “Yet, the advantage is ours now and I dare not give it up. If we press our attacks, they will surely break.”
“Break they must, break they will,” said Maerys, her brow furrowing. “But what of the cost? We have lost fifty more lives holding those ridges. Those are fifty lives that could have been preserved. I think we should give up the ground.” Yltra and Oromas both scoffed but the Pathfinder continued. “The Orks know we are out here, they will try to find us. A war fought by ambush conducted with smaller forces minimizes the risk to our souls.”
“The sooner a conflict ends, the less lives will be lost,” countered Yltra. “The beast is cornered, I will not bleed it, I will finish it. Taking the hill brings us closer to that end.”
Yltra raised her fist, as did Oromas. Maerys gazed at Caergan, who kept his arms folded across his chest, then at Dryane. The High Count’s suspended hourglass rotated more slowly then, nearly halting. But as he raised his hand, it resumed its usual speed. The Biel-Tan Autarch grabbed her helmet from the table’s edge. “You are all welcome to join me.”
Maerys did not bother to look at the other leaders. She pushed herself from the table and followed Yltra back outside. The latter donned her helmet and rallied her warriors, who eagerly took up arms and boarded their vehicles. Meslith and Alimia approached, confused and anxious. Maerys raised her hand towards Hoec’s Perch. She then gazed grimly at the assembling host of Biel-Tan, flooding from their shrines, quivering with excitement. She made a fist, thumped it against her chest, and then lowered it into her outstretched palm. Her Pathfinders, although concerned, acquiesced.
Maerys followed Yltra into the nearest Wave Serpent. Drawing her white banshee blade, the Autarch then held it over her head and regarded the crowd of Aspect Warriors and guardians around her. All wore their green helms and their snowy white armor seemed to glow in the bleak daylight.
“Kindred of Biel-Tan, the Orks have made a grave mistake; we shall make them pay for it.”
The warhost brought their fists to their chestplates three times in quick succession, then boarded their craft. The ramp shut and Maerys sat on the bulkhead seating beside Yltra. Across from them was Celasho the Singer. He wore a flowing green tunic over his white armor and possessed an elegant helm. Above the visor was the icon of Biel-Tan, all in glittering gold. The green trim was studied with white gems and a black headdress ornamented the back of the helmet.
As the gravitic engines hummed and the Wave Serpent lifted off, Celasho rested his deactivated Witchblade across his thighs. He ran his fingers up and down the polished green metal, whispering a kind of lullaby to it. His voice, rough as it was, felt soothing even as the notes were nearly lost. It was a strange thing, to see an Aeldari speak and move so delicately when the red visor lenses of his helmet glowed violently.
Do I frighten you, child? Like a hand grinding sand into an open wound, his hoarse voice grated through her mind. It was enough to cause Maerys to grit her teeth and look away from him. Do I remind you of an old fear? A mask you once thought you would wear, a path you would one day tread? Is that why you persist to thwart our way? Are you still afraid?
“You Outcasts remain a prevailing mystery,” said Yltra, suddenly. Celasho’s helmet dipped, his attention returning to his weapon. Maerys gazed at the Autarch searchingly, and realized by her posture she was unaware of the Warlock’s whisper. “In exile’s embrace, you shed much of our ways and yet return when there is peril.”
“Tread the Path of the Outcast and there is always peril,” replied Maerys.
“And to confront it without a War Mask,” said Yltra, more to herself than the Pathfinder. Maerys gazed at Celasho from the corner of her eye, wondering if he had indeed whispered to the Autarch. He continued to hum and murmur his song, seemingly unconcerned with their conversation. “It is our defense against the atrocious wickedness we must commit ourselves to,” continued Yltra. “Even we, the soldiers of Biel-Tan, have need of it, lest we fall in the grips of anguish. I’ve tread almost every warrior path there is. To transcend the risk of being consumed by the mask has been a great liberation.”
“If freedom is sought, you need only depart from Biel-Tan and wander.”
“It is not in my nature to forgo my duty to my Craftworld just to pursue fanciful quests.”
“If mine were a life of indulgence, you would not find me here fighting among Craftworlds I do not call my own,” said Maerys, coldly. “With or without the mask, I would gladly leave war behind, but I will always raise my blade in defense of all my people.”
“Ah, the warrior daughter of House Desrigale is revealed,” murmured Yltra.
The Wave Serpent shuddered and then its speed increased. Maerys felt the vibrations of shuriken cannons and bright lances. Although not a seer, she shut her eyes and through her attuned senses, formed a picture of the world outside. Glittering energy, flowing from the projector fin ports, enveloped the prow of the craft. Primitive bullets, airbursting shells, and even small rockets could not penetrate the sinuous, rainbow-colored field. The formation closed ranks and combined their shields, defeating direct hits from cannons and heavy machine guns. Such was their power that Maerys’ skin prickled as if exposed to cold air and her black locks floated from her shoulders.
A sharp incline indicated they had begun their ascent up the hill. It would only be seconds. Maerys stood up with the rest, standing on Yltra’s right while Celasho maintained the left. The Warlock looked at her one last time, his expression unreadable behind his helmet. No emotion or thought could be read from his threatening stillness. But she forced him from her mind, feeling only her rapidly beating heart and the snaps of electricity in her veins. They were the familiar, ancient cries of her blood, enchanted by the rush of her emotions. Fear, sadness, joy, they all flooded through her, fragmenting her face, tearing her heart apart. She breathed and shut her eyes; she saw two inviting hands reach down and clutching her own. Warm smiles, calming air, and at once, her heart felt whole again.
A cacophonous deluge of energy rocked the Wave Serpent as the battle line discharged its shields into the Ork positions. The ramp dropped and Yltra leaped out of the transport, beheading a staggering Nob trying to regain its senses. When one of its followers groggily lifted its ax to attack her, she jammed the barrel of her fusion gun into its belly. The orange melta-blast liquified the alien’s midsection, reducing him to slag.
Maerys jumped and rolled into a crouch. The energy output from the Wave Serpents had stunned the defenders at the crest of the hill. Groaning, clutching their ears, vomiting their breakfasts and fungus drinks, they clawed out of their works. Some were blinded, others deafened, and many were rendered immobile. An entire squad presented itself to Maerys; tightening her grip, she snapped her rifle barrel from target to target. Each trigger squeeze sent a white, needle-like thread of energy through their skulls, dropping the massive creatures into heaps.
Storm Guardians marched through the trenches, eviscerating paralyzed Orks with chainswords. Others melted holes through armored turrets with fusion guns or burned out bunkers with flamers. Those Orks who managed to withstand the Wave Serpents’ energy attack attempted to resist, forming stalwart lines of charging foes. But the Storm Guardians weaved between them, pirouetted on their heels, leapt and soared, all the while parrying, dodging, slicing, chopping, cutting. Crystal-tipped chainblades ripped through Ork sinew, cleaved off legs, hands, arms, and heads. Those armed with power swords seared through body after body, each swing and thrust leaving currents of blood in the air. Streams of red spiraled in the wakes of the Storm Guardians.
As the warriors bravely overtook the defenses, the other guardians and Aspect Warriors marched across the flat hilltop. Underneath the guns of the Wave Serpents, they were a scythe through the Ork counterattack. Mobs of them surged forward only to be felled by the combined weight of so many shuriken weapons. Dire Avengers assaulted positions, claimed ground, and moved on, while Dark Reapers marched relentlessly forward. Guardians who had pressed too far forward were suddenly confronted with a line of Orks. Just as they retreated, Howling Banshees somersaulted and jumped over their heads. They landed among their opponents to hack and slice them apart, leaving piles of dismembered limbs.
At the center of the hill was the observation tower, a very conspicuous yet armored bastion. It reminded Maerys of the flak towers she had seen when she infiltrated Imperial worlds. Studded with firing ports and cupolas armed with heavy guns, its occupants shifted their fire from the Wave Serpents to the Aeldari infantry. Biel-Tan warriors found cover behind rock pilings, fell back behind their transports, or drove Orks from their few remaining earthworks.
Maerys rolled into a depression and trained her rifle upwards. She was under the tower’s guns but could not draw a bead on any of the defenders. Lying on her back on the opposite slope, she had an angle on the lower cupolas. One shot, and an Ork sank into his turret. Another and the gunner teetered, then plunged over the side. A third—the lens filled with the face of a sharp-toothed, roaring Ork armed with a flamer.
She was about to roll out when a blast of purplish psychic power struck the burner boy. Bones broke, flesh stripped from his bones, and his armor crumpled off as if it were paper. The beast fell to its knees and moaned defiantly as Celasho the Singer finished it with a clean shot from his shuriken pistol. Maerys ran up and stood beside the Warlock as the last Orks on the hill attacked. As she sniped Nobs and those carrying heavy weapons, Celasho surged forward. He swiped heads from their shoulders with his witchblade, its edge glittering like gems caught in sunlight. The energy seemed to project off of the blade itself, driving into the flesh before the tip followed. Felling one beast, he spun on his heel and wreathed his arm in the same energy he projected before. Fabric of the Warp ran all the way up to his shoulder! Dropping his sidearm, a single strike of his fist tunneled into a surprised Ork’s chest. Pulling back, he pointed his bloody arm at a trio and unleashed the power, annihilating them as they ran. Only their smoldering boots remained.
An Ork fell from above. Groaning, it tried to stand up but Maerys sliced its throat with her dagger. Looking up, she saw the sky filled with Swooping Hawks! They dove at the observation tower, latched onto the sides, and fired grenades from their leg-mounted grenade packs inside. Explosions blossomed up and down the metal sheeting. When an opening did not present itself, they leveled their lasblasters, blew holes into the sides, and lobbed in explosives. Like birds of prey, they descended at frightening speed, striking at the exposed Orks in their cupolas with their blades. Some operated in pairs, stealing one’s weapon from his hands while the other landed the killing blow.
Dochariel appeared, his wings bright with energy, creating a streak of blue and white in the gray clouds. Lowering his hawk’s talon, he overcharged the weapon and the massive lasbolt tore a gaping hole in the side of the tower and out the other. Drawing his sword, its golden cross-guard coated in gleaming emeralds, he dashed into the tower. Flashes emanated from within and fiery gouts snarled out of ports. He appeared on the other side, splattered with Ork blood, then flew to the very top of the tower. Clearing out the gunners, he let the air spill from his wings. As he fell, he tore a hole in the rooftop with his talon, and then unleashed his grenade packs. Secondary explosions ripped through the tower and he followed a burst of laser energy through the lower wall.
He skidded to a stop by Maerys as the tower lurched, groaned, and then collapsed down the left side of the hill. Sections burst and metal timbers tumbled down the slope. Those Orks still inside were bashed and broken. As the remnants came to a rest, the gunfire faded and the hill grew quiet. Maerys looked around, seeing only a few Aeldari bodies among the heaps of Orks. Guardians and Aspect Warriors, drenched in alien blood, looked around. Wave Serpent engines hummed.
“The Orks would be foolish to tempt us with a target so carelessly placed,” remarked Dochariel. “Although, if they do so again, I shall not be found complaining.”
“Tend to the wounded, return them to our healers!” commanded Autarch Yltra, marching nearby. “Clear the wreckage and make ready, they will counterattack within the hour!”
Maerys thought to convey the wounded back to their encampment. Yet, she was drawn to the opposite crest when she saw Celasho standing alone. Standing at his side, she found him gazing eastward, where the Ork lands seemed strangely tranquil.
“My thanks, Singer,” she said. His sooty helm did not move. He did not seem to breathe. Maerys’ eyes drifted from Celasho to the landscape before them; a trio of distant arch-shaped ridges, a dense thicket, a vegetated hillock to their left. As she stared, Maerys steadily eliminated the background noise from the snapping flames and movement of Aeldari. All became still and silent. She reached for Hoecs Glimpse, draped around her neck, but her hand froze and her eyes widened as she heard the scrape of munitions sliding down metal barrels.
Hundreds of yellow flashes appeared throughout the thicket, atop the opposite hill, and behind the ridges. Rockets and mortar shells whistled towards them. Just as Maerys shouted for the others to seek shelter, Celasho crooned and swept his hands to either side. A great, blue shield of energy appeared and wrapped around the pair as well as those gathered nearby.
The barrage slammed the hilltop. Shrapnel, smoke, and soil flowed over the shimmering shield. Celasho groaned under the strain. Maerys instinctively crouched and covered her head. She looked up, watching numerous Guardians and Aspect Warriors disappear in the bombardment. All shuddered and the deep concussions clawed through her feet and rocked her entire body. It felt as though she would be shaken apart.
At last, the hail subsided. So much earth had been thrown up that a brown cloud roiled over the hill. What had been a flat, grassy top with a tangle of defenses had been reduced to a cratered knob. All the emplacements the Orks had built collapsed and trenches were caved in. Maerys thought of the numerous dead worlds she visited; gray, dusty, riddled with depressions and cracks from ancient battles.
Among the piles of disturbed earth she saw limbs and broken bodies. Yet, it was all so quiet. Maerys wondered, just for a moment, if she had truly died and now walked this strange afterlife alone. But dozens of pained cries from wounded Aeldari woke her from such a stupor. Warriors appeared from the few, crude shelters they had found or from underneath defensive shields, deployed at the last moment. Many had sought refuge within the Wave Serpents, which had departed just before the strike.
Celasho’s shield dissipated and the particles flowed back into his hands. But the Warlock gasped and collapsed into Maerys’ arms. As she caught him, she heard a cry of, ‘WAAAGH,’ and the roar of vehicle engines. Below the hill, an armada of fast attack vehicles, buggies, and warbikes came rolling up the slope. The leading biker revved his engine, ramping up and over the crest. A golden melta beam sliced through the bike and its rider, splitting them in half as they flew overhead. Yltra marched up beside Maerys and raised her fist. “Warriors of Biel-Tan, stand and hold your ground!”
Maerys knew they had to retreat, but the chance was lost. The Orks were upon them. As the Wave Serpents lanced back into their firing line, discharging their weapons over the heads of the assembling Aeldari, the first wave of Orks broke over the crest. Shurikens cut riders from their mounts while plasma blasts obliterated their growling, barking, screaming engines. Dark Reapers and Dire Avengers combined the weight of their weapons, ripping through the soft-skinned vehicles. Buggies flipped over and crashed into one another. Howling Banshees darted forward and weaved between the bikers as they drove onto the wide, flat hilltop. They were mere flashes, appearing and reappearing between the Ork vehicles. Banshee blades cleaved Orks from their seats and the shriek from the tall, maned helms reduced the riders to seizing, frothing hulks. Exarchs spiraled and leaped over buggies, tearing open canopies and drivers with mirror swords and executioner blades.
Heavier, tracked vehicles, studded with heavy stubbers, followed the first wave. Fire Dragons leveled their fusion guns, their golden devotional pennants swaying underneath the barrels. Long beams detonated engines and melted through armor. Orks and gretchin within the bowels of their demented, irregularly plated creations howled in pain. Dochariel led his Swooping Hawks from above, dropping low to behead a rider or gunner with a blade or dropping a grenade through a hatch or port. The Exarch dived directly for the earth, sinking his sword through the head of a tank commander, before releasing a grenade from his leg-mounted launcher into the machine. As he leaped off, the blast caused the ammunition inside to explode with such fury the turret flew off.
Guardian Defenders held their ground, rallying around their warlocks and grav-platforms. But many were not the children of an Aspect Shrine and were bereft of martial grace. Orks dismounted from their half-tracks and trucks, threatening the Aeldari with axes and swords. Guardians maneuvered away, relying on their shuriken catapults to cut down the attackers. But the monsters merely charged over their dead and crashed into their ranks to Maerys’ left. Even as she fired into their flanks, she watched in horror as Orks gutted the guardians. They swatted away their weapons and hacked them apart, covering themselves in bright, red blood. Some did not bother with their weapons, merely ripping limbs from sockets or pounding them down with their large fists. Wounded Aeldari were crushed underneath the massive, armored boots of Nobs and larger Orks. Others were minced by chain-choppers or pierced by snagger-claws fired from bikers. Those hit by such grisly tools were dragged behind the advancing warbikes, beaten to death against the ground. An unfortunate few were reeled back to the wielder and were killed with a dagger blow.
Maerys targeted the warbike mounts and fired rapidly, attempting to kill the drivers to free their hostages. Dochariel swept down in support, killed an Ork, and then severed the cable of the harpoon. But as he stopped to free the guardian, he was struck by a rocket and knocked over. Only his aspect armor saved him, but he struggled to stand back up. The guardian he tried to save was killed by the shrapnel.
The Pathfinder found herself running towards the Exarch. She fired as she ran and ducked under arcs of bullets and shurikens. Glaring bolts of plasma flew over her head from Wave Serpents and Fire Prisms. A delighted war cry made her turn—a warbike rider had spotted Dochariel and, eager to kill an Exarch, sped towards him. Maerys shouldered her long rifle and drew her sword. It was a long, subtly curved, blue blade. Its metalwork was so polished, it appeared as smooth and gleaming as sapphire. She activated the power cell and the blade shone with rippling energy. Running and jumping off a smoking enemy wartrack, she passed over the Ork rider and beheaded him with a single stroke.
Landing low on her feet, she rotated just as a wartrike passed her. The sword passed through the engine and then the Ork’s abdomen, separating him from his legs. Suddenly, there was a sharp pain in her lower back. Maerys sank to her knees, drew her shuriken sidearm, and gunned down a trio of smaller Orks rushing in behind her. Behind them came a Nob armed with a power-claw. Roaring, he jumped at her, the prongs of his weapon sparking with energy. Maerys rolled out of the way as he drove the claw into the ground. She swung at him but he deflected the blade with a swipe of his gauntlet. He drew his slugger but Maerys, darting right, deftly cut his hand from his wrist. But the Nob grew only madder as he swung, hooked, and punched at her. Maerys was forced to give ground, biding her time. Just as she leaped back, she felt the very tip of a claw passed across her back and she cried out. The Nob raised the power-claw high and braced himself—now! She charged at him, slid underneath his swing and between his legs, and jumped onto her feet. Without turning around, she shifted her sword and jabbed backwards. The blade found flesh and the Ork went limp.
Maerys withdrew her sword and hurried towards Dochariel. Her back throbbed with pain but she concentrated and cordoned off the affected areas. They became dull, distant aches, murmurs in her flesh so easily ignored. She turned Dochariel over and helped him stand. Just as she did, there was an explosion. Numerous pinpricks of unbearable heat struck her legs and she fell over.
Sitting up, she leaned against Dochariel and drew her long rifle. A familiar, red battlewagon appeared, its gripper-claw snatching a Storm Guardian and squeezing her until her torso burst. Hardtoof appeared in the open hatch, firing his backpack-mounted mortar and the twin-linked, pintle-mounted heavy shooters in tandem. Then, a massive battlefortress appeared beside his machine. Armed with a dozen rocket pods and a rear-mounted missile launcher, it unleashed a horde of explosives that smashed into the shields of the Wave Serpents behind Maerys. Dozens of nearby guardians, outside of their vehicles’ protection, were scattered.
The central turret of the rocket-fortress opened and Ratta Go-Klamma appeared. Dozens of Nobs crawled out of other hatches, forming a ring around him. Gretchin scurried over the craft, rearming its launchers. Maerys thinned the ranks of the speedboss’s retinue with her long rifle, but for every one she slayed, another took its place. Go-Klamma roared and pounded his fist on the turret’s cupola.
“I’ve ad’ enuff o’ deez Eldahs!” he yelled through a voice-amp. “Skewer, hit’em!”
Another wave of armored wartrikes and buggies rolled over the right side of the hill. Instead of slowing to shoot into the flank of the Aeldari force, they increased their speed and attempted to plow through the lines of Aspect Warriors. Many were able to escape the attack but some were ridden down and spiked on the sharpen prows. The Speed Freak Go-Klamma called upon, Skewer, rode an over-sized variant of the wartrike. He did not even bother handling the controls; with a massive chain-chopper in one hand and a rapid-fire shooter in the other, he tore through the Aeldari infantry. Laughing and screaming, he even stood up and cut a low-flying Swooping Hawk out of the sky.
Maerys stood up and braced herself. She shot another one of Go-Klamma’s Nobs to expose the speedboss. Just when the window appeared, he hunched his shoulders, exposing a newly-crafted set of shoulder-mounted miniature rocket pods. He fired one and the bundle of small explosives detonated in front of Maerys. She was thrown back against Dochariel and groaned as she felt the deep gash across her stomach bleed. “If it ain’t dat little Eldah bitch from before!” bellowed Go-Klamma, excitedly. “Get dem engines hot again, I’ma flatten her!” The rocket-fortress and other heavy vehicles crept closer. As the hulk drew nearer, she cut down the Nobs as they jumped off.
“Flee, Maerys, flee!” cried Dochariel. But Maerys remained, her back against him even as the rocket-fortress loomed over them. “Please!”
A sharp barrage of missiles struck the Ork line. Battlewagons, tanks, and wartrucks were burned and broken. Huge waves of energy reverberated through the air, shaking the ground below. These sonic waves struck Ork vehicles and rattled them with such force that they fell apart. Engine blocks collapsed, plating separated, rivets bounced, and Orks were burst open. Maerys looked over her shoulder to see one of the Revenant Scout Titans soaring through the air, its gigantic jump jets flaring. It landed behind the hill yet still towered over it. Steadily, it marched up the slope, continuing to tear apart the Ork lines with its sonic lances. Some sonic waves even tore open the soil and buried those vehicles that fell into the rifts.
“I am Taphelran, Protector of the Imperiled Pass!” boomed the steersman’s voice through his titan’s voice-amplifier. “Flee now or die where you stand!”
“Would ya look at dat!?” Maerys was drawn to Go-Klamma’s rocket-fortress. The speedboss’s red eyes looked up at the titan, delighted. “Now dat rioght d’ere is gonna be one helluva fioght! Da mekboyz is gonna be busy now! C’mon, ya gits, we’s done enuff for today!”
The speedboss, accompanied by Hardtoof’s wagon and Skewer’s wartrikes, rolled down the opposite side of the hill. Taphelran’s titan reached the top and continued to fire into the horde of retreating vehicles as they found cover within the tickets or behind the distant ridges.
After she caught her breath, Maerys forced herself to stand. Again, she cordoned off her wounds so the pain subsided, but she knew she needed aid. She took Dochariel by the hand and, throwing his arm over her shoulder, walked him towards the center of the hill. Aspect Warriors and Guardians, now safe underneath Taphelran’s sonic lances, exposed themselves. All were scorched and filthy. Many stopped to help a wounded comrade or collect a dead friend’s spirit stone. Despite their war masks, even the most deadly fighters appeared dazed and disappointed.
Maerys found Autarch Yltra and Celasho near a destroyed Ork bonecruncher tank equipped with a deathroller mount. Several guardians were impaled on the device’s spikes. An entire squad was piled up in front of it, gunned down by its autocannons. Their faces were frozen in fear and agony. Yltra held her helmet beneath her arm and her blonde hair flowed over her shoulders.
“I thought victory was at hand,” she said without meeting Maerys’ eye. “I saw it as if I were a Farseer; a few more sharp victories. Yet I rendered myself blind and my warriors have paid for my confidence. If I am remembered as the Autarch who was outwitted by Orks, it is well-earned.”
“No Aeldari believes Orks to be cunning,” said Maerys. “Any would have fallen for the trap.”
“Spare your consolations.” Yltra faced Maerys directly and walked beside her. “Just ensure that when you go up the river, you discover a way to bring Go-Klamma’s army to ruin. This cannot be the price we pay for victory.”
“I will find a way.” Her gaze drifted towards the distant river, then returned to the bodies at her feet. Her eyes, having darkened, lingered on those burnt, bloody corpses, eyes wide, faces upturned, hands open their spirit stones. Yet, the veil which clouded her sight lifted as tears rolled silently down her cheeks. She looked up once more, steadfast and determined. “I will.”
