The Serpent. That is what the Band of Kurnous had decided to call the river that had tantalized them since they first set foot on Sú-il Bhán. When the sun sank behind the mountain ranges that overlooked the Ork encampments, the meandering river changed from a pale blue to near-black. Its many bends and ebbs wove through the valleys and between the ridges. Before its termination at that mysterious edge, the calm water became hemmed in by the thickest parts of the gallery woods on either bank. All agreed it appeared as a surreptitious snake slithering into brush, perhaps to await its prey. To the pathfinder and daughter of Saim-Hann, she saw her Craftworld’s icon: Dromlach, the Cosmic Serpent.

  Its current was gentle, and the trickling water whispered through the dense woods. Firebugs flickered, illuminating bushes, stones, or shredded white and brown bark. Stray artillery rounds from Ork batteries had dislodged trees large and small, causing them to lean over the water or cross the river entirely. Some had been hit directly and what remained of their trunks floated eastward. Chunks of trees bobbed and rolled lazily in the gentle current, although not quite carefree, for they strangely kept to the center of the river.

  Dark, hulking figures prowled through the woods. In the nearly tranquil night, disturbed only by distant heavy guns and the sharp action of skirmishes, their heavy footfalls over grass, twigs, and branches carried very far. Orks, laden with armor, shooters, and loose ammunition, marched detached and scattered from one another. Snorting and grunting, their breath hot in the cool night air, the less-bored of the patrolling sentries surveyed their surroundings. Many paused in their trek to chomp on squig jerky or slurp fungus brew from a canteen. If not for the taller, larger, angrier Nobs, these lesser boys would have been content to find a grassy spot to nap in.

  As the patrol moved on, one Ork paused to relieve himself at the water’s edge. It took a great deal of effort to remove his hide trousers, bedecked with armored plates. When he finished, sighing shamelessly, he spotted the collection of ruined trees in the water. One of the largest pieces caught his eye, and snickering to himself, he drew his shooter, aimed, and squeezed the trigger.

  Crack! Maerys tilted her head back as the bullet struck the trunk beside her. Shards and splinters fluttered onto the water and dusted her masked cheek, concealed by her holofield. The echo of the pistol’s report faded into the night as the Ork guffawed. He pulled the hammer back on his six-shooter and aimed again, but a Nob stomped up behind him. Smacking the back of the smaller Ork’s head with the flat of his ax, he pointed westward.

  “Ya wantz da Eldah tah find us?” snarled the Nob. “Stop wastin’ dakka!”

  Maerys shifted herself to the other side of the log. Her movements were soft and subtle, barely causing a ripple in the water. Pulling up beside Irlikae, also invisible with her holofield, she held her long rifle with one hand and balanced the barrel on the trunk. The scope fell and rose with the tree’s buoyant bobbing, then steadily stabilized. Filling the lens, the Nob’s red eyes burned like fire in the darkness and his sinewy, scarred, green skin glistened with the evening damp.

  She raised her free hand, her fingers extended, and then snapped them into a fist. Simultaneously, she squeezed the trigger. The thin, blue-white energy bolt flashed and lit up the water and nearby trees. It opened the Nob’s skull and his eyes rolled into the back of his head. Kalvynn hung upside down from a tree branch over the lesser Ork and opened its throat with a deep swipe of his dagger. As the monster clutched its neck, Oragroth swung from another branch and kicked it into the river in a massive splash just as the Nob sank beneath the surface.

  “Wot was dat!?”

  “It was by da water!”

  Oragroth and Kalveynn hid as the rest of the patrol skulked over and lined the water’s edge. Barrels swept back and forth, their eyes searched from left to right, then up and down. Stick bombs were removed from harnesses and fat, green fingers wrapped around the pin. One Ork activated his crude flamer and the muzzle coughed as a blue tuft of flame rose from it.

  Dozens of energy bolts streaked from the river, trees across the river, or the branches right over the Orks’ heads. From behind, in front, and either side, they were sliced apart by traces of light. None had a chance to fire or lob an explosive. All moaned and crumpled into the water. The flamer hissed as its spark was snuffed out. Too heavy for the current, the bodies sank to the bottom, leaving naught but clusters of bubbles that soon fizzled out.

  Maerys returned to the other side of the long and looked into the gallery woods. She waited for muzzle flashes to ripple and shells to fall. Even with Hoec’s Glimpse, all she saw were firebugs. All was still and tranquil, even as a soft breeze passed between the trees. She removed the goggles and let go of the trunk.

  “Irlikae, you have peered into the future ahead of us,” she whispered, removing her mask. “Shall we encounter more scouts?” The Void Dreamer pulled herself along the side of the log and gazed at the dark river. Her green eyes glowed, as if residual effects of her powers lingered within.

  “A cool wind rippled between the trees,” answered the void dreamer. “It was steady and calm. But at the rustle of leaves, many eyes of red, orange, and yellow were drawn that glowed within the night. And the beasts of the wild cursed the wind for disturbing their slumber, but they did not press their snouts to the leaves. So each leaf carried on the wind, tumbling yet directed.”

  “I would prefer you spoke forthrightly to promulgate your visions,” remarked Amonthanil, his voice hushed even over the links. “Even if your usual graceless speech is a blunt, burden to bear,

  “Do you have no respect for the seer?” asked Meslith, her voice as sharp as a blade’s edge. “Perhaps, you have been too long from Alaitoc and you have forgotten deference, Starstrider.”

  “Perhaps, he does not understand the vision,” said Lotien from his hidden position. This earned a giggle from Fyrdra the Risible.

  “You should translate its meaning, Bonesinger, for he does not understand its depth.”

  “Starstrider, do you miss the guidance of your Exarchs yet?” asked Tirol, acerbically.

  “I do not need it explained,” said Amonthanil, tersely. “There may be more stalkers out ranging, but should we remain furtive on the path, even in further encounters, we will proceed unmolested.”

  “The path is clear,” said Alimia, who swam adroitly through the water beside Maerys. “As Cegorach rode upon Dromlach’s back, we will ride the river.”

  “And we will discover the knowledge it so hides,” said Maerys in return.

  Maerys released the log and swam forward. Behind her, other members of the Band of Kurnous followed. Nimble and dexterous, they sliced through the water. Mesh armor did not impede them. Their speed was only aided by the current, which ran more rapidly the further they went. Each stroke of their arm covered expanses of water and the woods on either side of them became a dark green blue. Alimia was a dart in the stream and she hardly rose for a breath.

  There was a certain kind of emancipation in the roll of the river. Without her foot anchored to soil, she felt as though a tether were broken. Maerys did not concern herself with the coalition, its objectives, or the geography the Autarchs had squabbled over. All seemed so infantile at that moment. Even her own goals seemed a distant, vague thing. She merely wanted to see where the river led to, to satiate her own curiosity. The thought of the secret at its end brought a delighted smile to her lips, even as she broke the surface to draw breath.

  Land was on either side of her, yet she felt as if she were in an ocean. If she closed her eyes, she thought of that old ocean world. Warm in air and water, serene in its wind and tide, she had floated on her back and slept in the surf's embrace. She felt fatigue as any other would in that moment, even if it was a vague, fuzzy notion in the back of her mind and limbs. But if she rolled over and shut her eyes, sleep would take her in a moment. Reposed, she would let the current take her to its treasure.

  Too much, too far. She could not lose sight, she could not lose her grip. Maerys slowed, reached out, and clutched the exposed root of a tree slanted over the river. It was toughened and the uneven edges dug into her palm. Her slickened hand became covered in dirt that coated the root. It was but for a moment, a mere grain in the hourglass. But it was enough. She released the root and pushed off the bank.

  The river ran on. White ripples appeared more frequently. Some of the Rangers leaped out of the water or caught a low-hanging branch to pull themselves out. They joined those on the banks or in the trees, swinging, sprinting, skipping, scurrying from branch to branch. Only the eye of an Aeldari could catch their rapid, agile, brilliant movements. Brief flickers in their holofields revealed their darting forms, cartwheeling, diving, and launching themselves between the treetops. At one moment, Kalvynn jumped to a lower tree and landed on its thicket branch with the palm of his hand. With all his might, he pushed off, fell freely for a moment, righting himself in the process, and caught a different branch. As others followed his example, it appeared as though a Harlequin troupe had joined them and decided to make a great showing of their acrobatic skills.

  Yet the gallery woods grew more dense. It seemed to crowd in around the river, not embracing it but clutching it more tightly. The ground became thickly settled between the trunks and collections of boulders. Hedges became thick enough to be impassable. Branches became so laden with packed leaves that a Ranger could not break through. Some dove into the river, their lithe forms hardly making a splash.

  Another bend, stronger eddies. The trickle of water grew into a steady stream, then a flow. Here, the greater current had eroded the banks. Many trees had fallen and dipped into the water or leaned on the opposite bank. The water level rose, bringing any on the surface nearly level with the bottom of the logs. Hooded heads sank out of sight but Maerys and others caught the first trunk and, riding the momentum of the current, curled themselves around the tree and heaved themselves atop it.

  Bursting forward, casting a shower of droplets, Maerys skipped and leaped from trunk to trunk. Some were closer, others farther, but there was no distance great enough to break her stride. If a tree did not present itself, she sprinted across a patch of sand on the embankment or jumped between larger rocks. At times, she landed on all fours and jumped again, pouncing as if she were a gyrinx attacking a foe.

  Such movements exacerbated the wounds she had sustained days ago. Frydra had mended them both through salve and psychic soothing. Yet, even with her efforts and Maerys’ natural recovery, there was still pain. As the obstacles cleared, she returned to the river. Despite her mesh armor and the layers of her coat, the coolness of water alleviated the sore heat. It would have been trivial to control her flesh, to dampen the nerves and smother the strain. Yet, Maerys found that she did not want to. She wished to focus and rather than a distraction, her wounds kept her alert.

  The twists of the river suddenly disappeared and the galleries opened. Before her was the cliff—that sudden, sharp dropoff she had stared at from Hoec’s Perch. Here, the current was its fastest and most ferocious. It led to a frothing, seething white tumult of spray and water. Maerys did not need to give a command for those in a river to reach the banks. With the precision and unison of a Harlequin performance, the formation of swimmers departed for either bank. Two hands reached out and she grasped them. Oragroth and Irlikae, both damp, pulled her onto the bank. The hunter merely nodded, but Irlikae smiled fondly. She did not seem to mind her slick hair that wreathed her face or the coolness of the air. The Pathfinder found herself smiling back.

  “It is so vast,” murmured Alimia. “It is all horror.”

  “Do you now wish this knowledge had remained hidden?” asked Meslith, quietly. Maerys joined the other Pathfinders and Rangers at the cliff’s edge. With but one glimpse, the beating of her heart grew faster.

  It was not a natural cliff they stood upon, but the edge of a colossal sinkhole. The remnants of human buildings and fortifications were embedded in the tiers of broken, uneven, jagged earth. Entire sub-fortresses had been buried with only the tops of their crippled spires appearing from the muck. In the northeastern corner, there had once been a massive manufactorum complex. Like a colony of burrowing insects, its labyrinthine tunnels had delved deep, deep into the earth. Its destruction and collapse had left its own, gaping cavity in the bottom of the sinkhole.

  Yet, this deeper gash was surrounded by infrastructure. An Ork settlement was built within the sinkhole. Many huts of various sizes, from squat blockhouses to fortified towers, filled the southern basin. Much of its defense works were built upon the southern edge. Lines of bunkers and towers traced a paved, dirt road that led up to the Field of Arches. A convoy of trucks carrying all manner of metal sheets, timbers, girders, and other equipment trundled up the slope. From where the Band of Kurnous stood, they saw the red and yellow lights of the main encampment, many leagues away.

  The center of the complex appeared to be a massive slave pen. Like those they had seen upon Pail Shil-ocht, these were yards divided by thick walls of scrap metal, wood, and scavenged armored plates. Walkways were patrolled and guarded by heavy gun positions. Great cages littered the yards without any order. Some were even stacked atop one another, creating bizarre interconnected pillars that could be mounted and walked upon. Many of the unfortunates in the prison did not have the apparent luxury of being confined to a cage, which at least offered some protection against the elements. Interior pens, constructed out of so many layers of razor wire they could dwarf even a towering Wraithguard. Those within were afforded only ditches scraped into the earth to sleep in. Rows upon rows of ditches—these were more graveyards than pens.

  The northern side of the sinkhole was heavily industrialized. Rudimentary factorums, shops, and plants abutted the slave quarters. Smokestacks belched putride columns of grimey smoke. Despite their distance, Maerys and the Band of Kurnous tasted the acrid, polluted air on their tongues. Rumbling, rattling engines and furnaces emitted sickly, yellow and orange lights. Whirring, sizzling, and hammering carried from hundreds of mekboy tools. In what passed for garages, the hulks of new vehicles steadily rose. Cranes lowered turrets and armored plates onto battlewagons and tanks. Blowtorches and sparks lit up the shop interiors.

  Larger cranes, colossal winches, and primitive pulley systems lined the cavity from which the industrial center ran from. Maerys knelt and lifted her long rifle. Through her scope, she saw the cranes lift huge slabs of wood from within. These carried crates, belts of ammunition, firearms, fuel barrels, and sometimes vehicle parts. Turrets, cannons, treads, plating, engines, sometimes entire hulks were retrieved.

  “The might of go-Klamma’s host is fostered here,” murmured Lotien. “He digs into the earth and steals from the graveyard of the Imperials’ arsenal. His scions pervert and manipulate all they touch into their substratal, unevolved, yet ferocious war machines.”

  “It is no wonder how the Speedboss was able to throw so many engines against us,” remarked Amonthanil. “He has the means to wage a long war against us.”

  Maerys’ eyes were drawn to the stretching, shambling, shuddering line that snaked into the sinkhole. How her heart seized, how her blood ran cold, to see both human and Aeldari slaves alike, being driven into it. Runtherds whipped, clubbed, and kicked them along. They, the poor souls, clad in rags and scraps of cloth, emaciated and bleeding, staggered on. One by one, they disappeared in the fiery hollow.

  “And they build it upon the backs of enslaved aliens and our stolen kindred,” said Maerys darkly. She scanned the slave pens, observing the many hundreds circumscribed to cages and corrals. Humans and Aeldari were mixed and packed together, shoulder to shoulder, heaped on one another. More runtherds lumbered through these sections of the prison, throwing open enclosures and gathering up captives. When fifty or more were bundled together, they were brutally driven out by whips and electrical prods. Some groups were forced into the industrial yards while others were marched to the pit. There, they joined the other slave workers on their trek below. Returning shifts passed by them; so exhausted, wounded, disheveled, and hopeless, they did not react to the violations of their captors.

  “Oh, Isha,” murmured Irilkae as Maerys stood back up. She grabbed the Pathfinder’s arm and pulled her closer. “We must save them. We must! I do not need my runes to squint into the fabric of what-might-be to know that if we do not act soon, many of these souls will perish.”

  “This band does not yet number two hundred and you ask to battle against Orks in their thousands?” asked Livae.

  “Even if I were alone, I would gladly give my life in the attempt to save but one Aeldari,” said Frydra, sternly.

  “As would I!” added Irlikae. “I would rather lose my soul than abandon a kindred.”

  “I do not propose abandonment,” defended Livae. “Only that we commit ourselves to sounder minds and not acquiesce to fervent hearts. We need the support of our host.”

  “You forget the goal of this expedition,” said Tirol. “We came to find an alternative path to flank the Ork defenses. Instead, we find their logistical hub. It must be brought to ruin.” Maerys expected others to interject. She felt the fire burn in Amonthanil and Kalvynn’s souls, yet they were dimmed as Tirol’s stony demeanor suddenly dissipated. “But the cost may be too high if we slaughter indiscriminately. Perhaps, it is best if we return to the host and make our finding known to the Autarchs.”

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  This is he said more to Maerys than the other Pathfinders. She gazed soberly at him, then drew away from the pack. She felt their eyes upon her back, imploring, warning, anticipating. After drinking the cold air, she released a breath. A small, white cloud appeared before her lips and faded on the breeze. Beads of water coursed down her cheeks, rang along the lines of her sharp face, and dripped from her jaw. Her ears twitched inquisitively as she stared at the slave pits.

  Oragroth drew beside her. He did not face the same direction as her exactly, nor did he gaze at her. She felt him there, cold and solemn, yet there was some kind of warmth. A flicker of flame—of hope. She faced him just as he turned. The hunter covered his eyes and lifted his hand. Maerys nodded, but she gestured towards the sheer drop of the sinkhole’s edge at their feet. Holding a finger before her, she wove it from side to side, her eyes following. Finally, she cupped her hands together as if they were an orb, and steadily raised them. When they hung over her head, she separated her hands and extended her fingers. Oragroth’s hardened face lightened with a small smile. Glancing at Crúba, he hooked his thumbs together, raised his hands, and gently flapped them like wings. Maerys released a breath of a laugh, held up her hand, and then let it drop.

  As Oragroth snorted, her smile faded and her eyes widened. She passed by him, gazed at the waterfall, and then peered over the edge. Just below them was a wide, deep basin of water which fed a small river that terminated into the cavity at the eastern edge.

  “The Ranger sees much through the lens of a long rifle,” murmured Maerys. She turned around and faced her warriors as they assembled. “But the lens is narrow and its gaze is not unlimited. If we return, we do so with only half of what our allies must know. We must delve into the stronghold and see for ourselves their numbers, their fortifications, and the number of captives.”

  “I will take my Rangers along the southern edge,” said Meslith. “We will record the guard positions, where their weaknesses and strengths are.”

  “Critical industry is a priority,” said Kalvynn. “We will penetrate as far as we can.”

  “Good. Amonthanil, Alimia, your teams will accompany me to the slave pens. We will discover the number of slaves. Tirol?”

  “There is a low ridge to the left of the basin’s shore below. Long Livae and I would do well to establish a post there to watch over you.”

  “You would prefer a fight, would you not?” asked the Fate Dealer, chidingly.

  “I would obey Khaine,” he replied, “but I follow Desrigale.”

  Maerys nodded and reached into the pocket of her coat. She produced a small, wraithbone orb with a purple activation rune. “When we have what we need, we will assemble back at the basin, and we will use this portal to return to the Webway.”

  “It will be a long climb down,” said Amonthanil.

  “We are not climbing,” said Maerys. All looked at the waterfall and then back at her.

  “You better hold onto me,” said Frydra to Lotien, drawing the shorter Bonesinger close.

  Pocketing the portal and shouldering her rifle, she stepped away from the edge. The Pathfinders and Rangers understood at once and followed. Maerys pressed her lips against her two fingers and then pressed them against her spirit stone. Nodding at Oragroth beside her, she sprinted forward. Crúba sprang from the hunter’s shoulder just as they leaped from the edge of the cliff.

  Close enough to the waterfall to feel flecks of its spray, Maerys fell with her arms outstretched. As her hair fluttered behind her and her coat rippled, she seized the moment and let it slow. Weightlessness. Flight. Unbounded. Another tether separated. To be lost in the essence seemed so enticing as to be irresistible. It was a dream she did not wish to stir from.

  She roused herself, nonetheless. The dark pool of water raced towards her. Crúba dove faster than her and with a flap of his wings, leveled out just above the water. Maerys shifted her weight, straightened her form, crossed her arms over her chest, and pressed her legs together. She looked up to see the other Rangers in their multitude doing the same, mere streaks descending from above.

  Maerys entered the basin, disappearing in the white maelstrom of falling water. Her immediate reaction was to gag. The taste of the water was so metallic it was poisonous. As her eyes opened, they stung from the pollution. But all breath left her lungs as she found herself surrounded by corpses. Humans, Aeldari, even a few Orks, all in various states of decay. Hollow-eyed, broken, ripped open, the remnants of their intestines spilling out, some bereft of much of their flesh. Below these suspended carcasses were heaps of bones and half-buried skeletons. An Aeldari’s arm, still possessed of the muscles on its arm, reached out to her.

  She clawed her way to the surface. The heads of her fellow Rangers bobbed around her and they made their way towards the bank. Kalvynn and his team departed, as did Meslith’s. Tirol and Livae took their squads up the ridge. The others lingered on the shore, their long rifles scanning the Ork base. Maerys pulled herself onto the dark sand and pebbles and found Lotien leaning against a boulder. His eyes were squeezed shut beneath his matted hair. Frydra drew a rune suspended on a leather cord and pressed her hand to his right leg.

  “I told you to hold onto me,” she whispered to him, then turned to Maerys. “His leg broke upon a rock. I will bind it, but he must remain here.”

  Maerys nodded, but her head fell as pain arched up her back. The claw’s mark must have opened from the impact. Frydra noticed her gritted teeth, cupped Lotien’s cheek momentarily, then forced Maerys onto her side. She pressed both hands to Maerys’ armor and the Pathfinder breathed in relief as the wound was bound. Oragroth ventured closer, crouched behind the cropping of rocks that concealed them, and met her eyes.

  “You should not have done so foolish a thing when you are still injured.” He paused, chewed his lip, then shook his head. “I am your second, Desrigale. You should have sent me to lead this.”

  “Yet, I had to,” whispered Maerys. “I will lead, not command, and I will prove it to all.”

  Oragroth placed his hand on her shoulder plate. Something glittered there in his concerned gaze—again, it was warm and fluttering. She smiled and put a hand on his arm, squeezing it tightly.

  “Keep down,” hissed Amonthanil. Maerys heard the approach of heavy footsteps squishing into the sand. Despite Frydra’s protestation, she crawled to the rocks and peeked over the edge. Two Orks, one a massive runtherd, one a smaller, thinner painboy, approached the water’s edge. Gretchin lined up two dozen humans and two Exodites, all naked and quivering, at the water’s edge. Nearly thirty other Orks stood by, watching, guarding.

  “Deez runtz ain’t good enuff fer work,” said the runtherd. “Take yer pick o’ da lot, Urrok.”

  The painboy, wearing a bloody white apron over his armor, walked up and down the line of slaves. All recoiled from his presence or bowed their heads, too terrified to gaze up at him. Urrok fixed the goggles over his eyes, growled, and waved dismissively.

  “D’ere runtz fer a reason, Nod-Slash. Ain’t no fun rippin’ up skin an’ bones.” He stopped in front of a human, looked him up and down, then raised his gauntlet. A massive, dirty needle protruded from a filthy syringe mounted on its back. He drove it into the man’s skull, killing him from the blow. A gray and pink content slid up the needle and filled the syringe. “Maybe I’z can make sumthin’ fer dah boyz outta this.” He walked down the line, killed three more that way, and stopped in front of one of the Exodites, dead on the ground. “Dis one’s already dead! Ooh, hold on. I wonder wut an Eldah-humie mix would do.”

  Maerys nearly wretched as Urrok slammed the needle into the dead Exodite’s head. Irlikae covered her mouth and gasped into her palm as Alimia restrained her. Urrok finished, then looked at the other Exodite. He was the only one who had not shivered, nor had he jolted upon the death of his compatriot. Long, light brown hair covered his face. A snarl of a smile split Urrok’s face.

  “He’z got sum fight in’em. I’ll take him. Da rest iz yer’s.”

  “Fine. He’z been trouble. Tried to escape twice; but nobody gets outta Da Slamma. Now, it’s time fer a little fun.” Nod-Slash marched up to the nearest human. He was large, but not muscular like other Orks. His huge arms stretched from a thick trunk with a bulbous belly. Placing his whips on his back-mounted arsenal of prods and grabbers, he picked up the human with both hands. Just as the woman screamed, he engulfed her head with his maw and ripped it off. With a few, loud crunches, he reduced the skull to powder and swallowed it. “Ha! Even when d’ere all skinny, dey still taste good!”

  As he tore off the body’s arm and slid it into his mouth, he nodded at the other humans. Orks closed in, guffawing as they ripped them to pieces. Some were crushed or beaten to bloody smears on the sand. Others were opened with daggers or slashed apart, then consumed. But a few of the Orks were just delighted to hold the last few slaves under the water until they stopped thrashing.

  Nod-Slash picked up the body’s leg and gnawed on its foot as he walked away. “C’mon, boyz, let’s get da next drive goin’. Da boss wantz his trakks! Oh, dis is good. Hey grot, gimmee dat brew.”

  The group stamped away, their raucous voices fading into the industrial noise that overtook the settlement. Maerys’ heart felt broken and her body empty. But her jaw clenched and muscles tightened. All the pain in her back instantly disappeared. Nod-Slash—she would remember him. Her eyes were drawn to the more southerly side of the slave pens, adjacent to the Orks’ living spaces. Urrok disappeared down a passage in between the prison walls and the huts, dragging the Exodite behind him.

  “Alimia, take the northern side of the pens,” ordered Maerys. “Oragroth, Irlikae, Amonthanil, stay with me.”

  They vaulted over the rocks and became shadows. Maerys reached the wall of the slave pens, activated her holofield, and proceeded around the corner. She moved briskly down the avenue of uneven walls and ramshackle huts. It was dark and claustrophobic. Lanterns hung on wooden posts swayed and creaked. The flames created smudges and smears of morose, orange light. Such auras made the darkness around them all the deeper and more impenetrable. Each building took a grisly shape, as if they were looming monsters of their own. Lanterns burning within lit up the windows with a ghastly yellow glow.

  A snort and grunt made Maerys pause. She looked up and around. An Ork leaning over the railing of the pen wall scratched his jaw and spit a gob of putrid saliva onto the ground beside Maerys. He pulled away, stomping back down the walkway. The urge to press on was difficult to resist, but she felt movement to her left. Groggy Orks left one of the huts, coughing and grumbling about the lateness of the hour. They were masked in the darkness, noticeable only by their hulking masses. All, save on, trekked towards the single road out of the sinkhole. The last in line leered in Maersy’ direction, his eyes appearing as two, detached, levitating red dots. Try as she might, Maerys could not look away from them; the gaze was terrible, yet fascinating in its otherworldliness. Finally, with a disinterested huff, the Ork joined his kindred.

  Maerys led the way. The path tightened and grew crooked. Instead of diverting down one of the roads between the huts, they squeezed through the alley between a blockhouse and the prison wall. On the other side, they found themselves presented with a road straight ahead along the wall, another leading directly left, and another that cut diagonally between the two.

  No sentries guarded the intersection, and she took a cautious step forward. A rattle of chains made her spin to the right, rifle up, but the barrel soon fell. What had appeared as another straight section of the wall had been a bulwark, blocking her view. On the other side, instead of a solid metal sheet or wooden barrier, were a series of steel bars with a cell door on the end. The cage was illuminated by a single, weak torch.

  Bedraggled figures approached the bars. Rough, human hands coiled around them. There were bearded faces, tear-stained faces, and youthful faces. Humans gazed out at her, their sunken eyes mesmerized.

  “Why are they here and not with the others?” whispered Irlikae, joining Maerys.

  “It matters not. We are not here for them,” growled Oragroth. “When they realize we will not save them, they will scream. Let us silence them before they expose us.”

  Irlikae was about to protest but Maerys grabbed her arm. A clenched hand passed between the bars. Turning over, the fingers opened, revealing a shining, round, green stone outlined in silver.

  “A spirit stone…” said Irlikae, her voice a whisper. Another arm reached out, displaying an orange stone. Then another, with a blue orb. Another, another, and another, until twenty arms held out the precious gems.

  “Is this a bribe?” murmured Oragroth. “Payment to save them?”

  Maerys approached the cage, knelt, and gently took the green spirit stone. She ran her hand over it, then looked into the face of the human who gave it to her. A middle-aged woman, just developing lines at the corners of her face. Deep, tan skin, matted black hair, scars on her face and exposed shoulders.

  “Why?” asked Maerys in the Gothic tongue.

  “It belonged to one of your people,” whispered the woman. “One of the simple kind, like the one the torturer took away. He told me to take it when he died so the greenskins would not defile it. He said it has his soul now. Is it true?”

  “Yes. His soul is safe inside it.” The woman appeared relieved. “Why did you accept it?”

  “Xenos he was, but chains care not for race or creed. All they do is bind and those who suffer them are all one. We are the playthings of the mad one, the one who prods and needles in the big house. We are his subjects. I did not want him to have that Eldar’s soul. Take the stones, flee this awful place—only the Emperor can save us.”

  Maerys felt the fire ignite. She took the human’s hand. “Where did the mad one take his captive?” The woman pointed down the diagonal road. Maerys squeezed her hand and stood. “Irlikae, Oragroth, collect the stones. Amonthanil, take the path ahead. Be swift, see all you can see of the pens.”

  “What of you?”

  But Maerys did not answer. She ran down the path, the darkness and lights becoming a blur. Her feet took her around shape corners and wide bends. A big house, a big house…there! One hut loomed over the others. Smoke wafted from its metal chimney and a light emanated from an open hatch in the pitched roof. Even with such radiance, she felt the darkness within its walls.

  She clambered up some pipes on the adjacent hut, padded across its flat top, and hopped onto the big house. Despite its rough construction, she landed with such poise she did not disturb the metal sheets. Crawling up to the hatch, she peered inside. Directly below was a long table surrounded by smaller stands covered with trays of soiled tools. The Exodite lay on his back, restrained by dozens of leather belts over his arms, legs, upper torso, and head.

  “Snapslasha alwayz wanted ter make a betta brew for da boyz,” muttered Urrok. “Well, he ain’t ere’ no more. So I’ll make sumthin’ even betta den wut he waz makin’. Sumthin’ dat’ll mak’em more cunnin’ and stronga. And you’z gonna help me, Elda boy.”

  Urrok appeared beside the Exodite. He now wore another gauntlet on his other hand and instead of articulated fingers or needles, it instead possessed a radial saw. The small engine whirred and the blade began to turn. “Let’s see wut we can make wiff dem gutz. You’z fellers got sum fancy tubing in d’ere.”

  It was enough. Maerys drew her dagger, jumped through the hatch, and landed on the Ork’s shoulders. Urrok roared and staggered back, trying to get his hands on her. But Maerys held firm and drove the dagger into his eyes, face, and neck. The monster thrashed about, unable to bring his needles and saw to bear. Eventually, he slammed himself into the side of the hut, breaking through countless drawers, shelves, and the wall itself.

  Wrenched off, Maerys landed on her feet. Unleashing an enraged howl, Urrok charged back into the half-collapsed dungeon and swung at her with the saw. In one motion, she drew her power sword, activated its cell, and cleaved through his arm. Urrok roared as blood oozed from the wound, but undeterred, he came at her again. Maerys ducked and dodged, the brown needles nearly cleaving her cheeks open.

  A flurry of shurikens struck Urrok’s flank. It was enough to stagger him. Maerys drove her sword through his stomach, ripped upwards, and pulled away. Groaning, Urrok collapsed onto his back in a heap of medical tools. Oragroth entered the room and sheathed his pistol. “They will be upon us now,” he said.

  Together, they removed the Exodite’s restraints Maerys picked him up and pushed his hair aside. Dull green eyes, bereft of emotion, looked back at her.

  “Gaoth trí-na Crainn?” he croaked, then pointed to an emerald orb on the table beside him.

  “Yes, we are going to take you home.” Maerys picked up the spirit stone and placed it in her kit. “Oragroth, help me.” Both took an arm and led the prisoner out of the house. Just as they did, they heard alarm bells clang and shouting. Maerys activated the link. “All bands return to the basin, we shall retreat into the Webway!”

  Maerys and Oragroth ran back up the path. They heard shooting from across the encampment. Just as they approached the intersection, Amonthanil’s cohort appeared. Forming a perimeter, they fired down the road they had just come from. “Irlikae, take him!” yelled Maerys, forcing the Exodite into her arms.

  “What about the humans!?” she asked.

  “Forget them!” shouted Amonthanil over his shoulder. “It is our own lives we must save!” Irlikae looked at Maerys, her eyes imploring, begging, refusing, unable. The Pathfinder stared back at the psyker, faced the Rangers firing at the approaching Orks, and then at the humans. Then she saw his face. Kind violet eyes, a gentle smile, strange whiskers on his face. She shut her eyes. There were harder eyes, yet they possessed the same color. Scruff, scars, strength, scorn, yet still, softness.

  She drove her sword, still brimming with energy, through the cell door’s lock. Opening it and sheathing her sword, she extended her hand to the woman who gave her the spirit stone.

  “Come with us!” Maerys pulled her out and the others followed. “Amonthanil, go!”

  The escapees fled with the Aeldari as they hurriedly retraced their steps. Bullets snapped over their heads and crashed through thin walls. Orks appeared on the perpendicular roads to the south and the Rangers fired quickly as they passed.

  “They’re too slow!”

  “Take them in your arms!”

  They broke into the open space before the basin. Meslith, Alimia’s, Kalvynn’s teams appeared at the same time, all running across the sand. Tirol and Livae’s squads unleashed one fusillade after another, cutting down ranks of approaching Orks eager for the kill. Fyrdra appeared, Lotien over her shoulders, shuriken in hand, firing as well.

  “Maerys, they’re all coming!” shouted the Soul Weaver. “We must flee!”

  “Make way for the portal!” Maerys drew the orb and was prepared to activate the rune. Then, Irlikae seized her arm.

  “We cannot take the humans into the Webway! It is perilous to them, they know not how to navigate its realm! They are sick, injured, and tired! Even with us to guide them, they may become lost or perish!”

  “To fight our way out of this pit is impossible!” yelled Tirol. “Maerys, cast the portal!”

  Maerys gazed at the humans, draped on the backs or in the arms of the Rangers. As horrified as they were, she saw the glimmer of hope. Their enslavement was at an end, freedom from barbarity mere moments away. But the Orks closed in, the scattered, confused response giving way to greater numbers. Their gunfire grew louder, the march of a horde grew thunderous, and engines roared to life. To throw the portal, to vanish before the eyes of man and Ork alike, it would be so easy. But she looked upon the humans, gazed into them, and saw their broken tethers and chains.

  Maerys slid the orb back into her pocket and gazed up. The ridge Tirol and Livae occupied was traversable. It led to a series of treacherous mounds and wreckage that led all the way to the southwestern rim of the sinkhole.

  “Up the ridge!” she shouted, shoving Rangers and humans alike up the slope. “We make our way up the ridge! Tirol, Livae, suppress them!” Bullets sliced into water and sand, hammered rocks, tore through her garments, and grazed her armor. “Keep going! Alimia, go! Fyrdra, move!” All clambered upwards, upwards, sliding, crawling, jumping, firing. A few cried out in pain and were caught by comrades. “Leave none behind! Kalvynn, take him!” Mortar shells fell around them. Chunks of the rock face were blown off. Shards of stone showered their heads. “Keep going! Amonthanil, stay with me! Don’t look back, Meslith! Oragroth, hurry! Come on, come on, come on!”