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Vol. III: Chapter 7

  For a light cruiser, a class considered puny compared to heavier ships, the Keeper of Sorrows was quite labyrinthine. Maerys could have spent hours upon hours venturing through the ship’s corridors and chambers. Those pale walls hummed with somber life and yet she felt enriched by the sensations. Somehow, the life force of the ship felt welcoming despite its cool interior.

  Strangely, it reminded her of the forest worlds she would lose herself in or the ocean planets that she waded through for days. To drift through the Keeper of Sorrows’ confines appealed to her. But Maerys would not allow herself. At least, not then.

  She came to a chamber deep in the center of the ship. The doors parted on their own. Whether it was the ships’ spirits or some kind of sensor, Maerys did not know. But she tensed as she felt a great swell of power from within. It seemed a confluence of so many divergent and disparate powers, guiding them all back to their center. Overcoming the jolt, Maerys ventured inside. There, she found a number of tubular cases, each containing floating runes. Some were dark as night, others were too bright to look at directly. Many of the gems were a myriad of shimmering, shifting colors. All yielded an aura of deep, refined power.

  In the center, Irlikae sat with her legs crossed on top of a cushion. Her own Runes of Witnessing orbited her center, like two planets rotating around a star. She hummed a slow yet joyful hymn to herself. Swaying to the rhythm, she was lost in the song of communion. So great was her concentration that locks of her black hair and the ends of her green gown rose as well.

  Maerys remained still and she refused to exhale. Even the slightest movement or sound might have disturbed Irlikae and she dared not interrupt a seer of any kind. But the Void Dreamer’s song came to an end. As if taking a long, refreshing gulp of air after submerging in water, Irlikae breathed and opened her eyes. The Runes paused, then dropped right into her outstretched hands.

  “Exquisite,” the Pathfinder complimented.

  “I like to think so,” replied Irilikae. But then her floating locks descended over her face. Hastily she pushed her long hair back. “Well, not that exquisite, I suppose.”

  “You are quite different from many of the Corsairs I’ve seen,” said Maerys as she approached. “Loud, riotous, unsavory. You are gentle, kind even. Although, for our race, you seem to lack an element of…grace.”

  “I will not pretend to be a poet or an orator. My speech is plain as are my ways. It feels more honest to me. All my passions and eloquence I reserve for my powers.” Irlikae gestured to the cushion in front of her and Maerys sat before her. “I am honored by your visit.”

  “You have no reason to be, for I fear I have been curt with you.”

  “I apologize also, as I portrayed my curiosity as chiding and infantile.” Maerys held up her hand, the fingers slightly and gently curled. She complemented the signal with a softer smile. Irlikae bowed her head, gratefully.

  The Void Dreamer, freed from her communion, sat very simply. One knee was drawn to her chest and the other leg remained outstretched. She propped herself up with one hand while the other rested on her knee. Maerys felt stiff, her legs neatly crossed and her back erect. Greater still was a feeling of imprudence. This was not a realm she was accustomed to. The bridled power of the runes were foreign and they seemed to sense that she was a stranger.

  Maerys gazed around the chamber and Irlikae followed suit. “I make a point to visit these chambers on all our ships. It both soothes me and grants me vigor. I believe my runes draw new power from it. If I spend too much time studying in Dryane’s libraries, they’ll gather dust.”

  She must have just come from the Keeper of Sorrows’ own study hall. A stack of tomes stood beside Irlikae’s seat. All of them were leatherbound, human books. The Void Dreamer noticed her curiosity and held one up. “Dryane acquired these from a trade vessel that clandestinely dealt with our kind before it was destroyed. These are books about some of the known star systems in the galactic west. I thought to find Mare Album there.”

  “How strange that you use the human tongue for our destination instead of our own.”

  “Humans beguile and intrigue me. How such a race grew to dominate the galaxy after our fall is worthy of study, don’t you think?” Maerys’s eyes fell to the deck and she found she could not answer. Many times she had observed the humans through the scope of her rifle; through the lens she became acquainted with their mannerisms, eccentricities, and habits. Lacking in elegance and poise, indeed, yet they did not require such facets in most capacities.

  She remembered Marsh Silas and Hyram. The former smoked nearly constantly and would shift his pipe between the corners of his mouth when agitated. The latter had a habit of smiling to subdue his partner’s harsh remarks. Hyram’s front teeth were just a bit larger than Marsh’s and this made his smile seem all the larger.

  “What would such a study yield? I fail to see how its results could aid us.”

  “Perhaps, there is much we could learn about ourselves,” proffered Irlikae. “Our own empire fell and I doubt humanity will survive, let alone change its hateful, spiteful, narrow-minded ways. Yet humanity carries on while we merely cling to our silken threads.”

  Maerys hesitated, then looked away from the Void Dreamer. “Apathy for all things different is how we have characterized humans. But the two who captured me were exercises in empathy. Seathan Hyram and Marsh Silas—”

  “That is certainly a peculiar name…”

  “—were the true defiance of all I ever thought and knew of the Imperium. Two men who changed, one before I met him, and the other before my very eyes. Others would have killed me; they captured me. Others would have tortured me; they created a ruse to spare me. Because…”

  “Because they believed it would have been wrong to punish someone who committed no crime, regardless of their race.” Irlikae tapped her bottom lip. “Fascinating.”

  She stood and carried the books over to Maerys. She knelt beside the Pathfinder and opened the pages. Maerys hesitated, then turned the first page. Her eyes glided swiftly over the words. “I am pleased to know that someone with your gifts also bears a keen intellect,” said Maerys.

  “Spells such as the images of Mare Album are not my greatest strength, but they will suffice. To speak between minds, to peer into the future, to snatch one by their blood, these are my powers. But I hope you rely on me nonetheless,” said Irlikae. “I have been a follower of High Count Dryane for many years. Your name has often been on his lips.”

  “I tremble to think of what rumors he’s spread” said Maerys, doing her best to sound jovial.

  “Oh, he was generous in his tales. He spoke of your wandering heart, your bravery in battle, and a little of your home, Yme-Loc.”

  “Yme-Loc, yes.” Maerys nodded slowly. Her mind grayed and her heartbeat slowed. She breathed deeply. “I have not returned in well over a century.” She looked up. The Void Dreamer’s eyes glittered with tears. In the stark light of the suspended runes, they appeared as diamonds tumbling down her cheeks. She sniffed them back and smiled understandingly.

  “The sorrow you feel at the mere mention of it is as vast as an ocean.”

  “Tis a sorrowful place. In my lifetime there has been much suffering. Home it may be, but I cannot say that it was ever a truly happy place.” Maerys reached back and freed her voluminous, dark hair from its knot. Her locks dropped over her shoulders, covering the orange pads to her dark gray thermal layer. With her fingers, she started to break the tangles. “I sought the Paths, first as a matter of duty, then spite, then out of rage, and finally for an escape.”

  Irlikae knelt on the cushions behind Maerys, gently pushed her hands away, and carefully ran her fingers through the Pathfinder’s long hair. At first, Maerys remained stiff and alert. Her senses flared as she felt the closeness of Irlikae’s air. But the steady, nearly rhythmic gliding of her fingers soon became soothing and she closed her eyes.

  “To find an escape on the Paths is futile,” said Irlikae. “One may only leave it, reach the end, or become lost upon it.” She paused and looked up at the ceiling. “I suppose to be lost is some manner of escape.”

  “I dare not ask a Farseer or Exarch of their belief.” Maerys lowered herself and rested on her side as Irlikae continued to sift through her hair. “The Path of the Dreamer was the last I walked.”

  “Ah, if an escape is sought, then it is to be found when we sleep.”

  Maerys remembered hardly waking during those years. In those moments, she saw her skin clinging to her bones, her flesh wasting away even as the healers rejuvenated her. Witnessing such horrors drove many from the Path but she stayed, if only to glimpse a life of her own design.

  “It is there I came to the conclusion that the spirit of the Craftworld was too heartrending. To breathe upon Yme-Loc was to taste millennia of loss and loneliness.”

  “Such an aura could drown those unable to control both mind and spirit.” Irlikae draped some of Maerys’s locks over her shoulder and spun her fingers through them with the grace of a performer plucking on the strings of their instrument. Maerys could just about hear the tender notes. “It was wise of you to leave your Craftworld. Although, I find it is the reversal of my life. Born as an Asuryani and you became an Outcast; I am Voidborn, and sought a Craftworld.”

  Maerys could not help herself. Eyes wide with shock, she turned to look at the young Corsair. “A Corsair walking a Path?” She suddenly felt embarrassed at how incredulous her tone sounded. She bowed her head and looked away. “Tis not too rare a thing, I suppose.”

  But Irlikae merely giggled and started to make a long braid with Maerys’s hair. “Your surprise is amusing nonetheless. Although, you might be astonished to know it was Varanatha, which you fought for alongside Dryane.”

  “You volunteered for Varantha’s temples? Why, it appears many Corsairs know it's ranks. That’s noble of you, their mission is inspiring.” But the Void Dreamer suddenly appeared embarrassed and she quickly folded her arms over her chest.

  “Volunteered, perhaps, is not the most accurate word. I was found to be…troublesome. Too many questions, too much eavesdropping on the Felarchs, too many unbridled displays of unchecked power—”

  “What?”

  “So mother feared for my safety and deposited me there at Dryane’s suggestion. Even though I did not relish the Paths and I eventually left, they taught me to control my talents and there were some pleasant souls among them. Tis true, many of mine-own kin are unsavory and crass. I credit my time on Varantha for making me more sociable.” She leaned around Maerys’s shoulder. “Imagine me if I only wanted to pillage, reave, and assassinate a Felarch for a higher station.”

  “How terrifying,” laughed Maerys. Her gaze grew wistful then. “Our journeys bear many similarities.”

  “We are both dreamers.”

  “I wonder, in all the times you guided a ship through the Sea of Souls, if you saw what I have seen in my sleep. The world-runes of our people, portrayed on banners, fluttering in the breeze under the brightest, most golden sun. Asuryani, Corsairs and Outcasts, Exodites, even the darkest of our kind, together in a place that knew only joy and peace. Is that not a dream worth pursuing?”

  “To translate thoughts and make them matter, yes. But many Aeldari see naught but darkness as they sleep; there is nothing to make reality.” said Irlikae, sadly. Maerys’s gaze fell, then.

  “Can you show us Gaoth trí-na Crainn?” Irlikae sat back and lifted one of her runes with but a glance. Her green eyes flashed, the stone lit up, and then she swept her hand across the deck. The wraithbone deck gave way to the dark blanket of space. Stars twinkled underneath their feet and asteroids floated carelessly by. In the distance was the Exodite world, its expansive forests glowing.

  Maerys removed her boots and her bare feet touched the invisible deck. It was as cool and smooth as glass. “Three Craftworlds, an entire Corsair fleet, and many other Outcasts have come together to fight for those Exodites below us. I want to believe that we will succeed. But what comes next? Does the coalition disband and we all go our separate ways?” She clutched her ruby-colored spirit stone. “He may be abrasive, but Tirol saw the truth of it. I want this coalition to stay together even after our goals are met. If this band can remain whole, then surely so can they.”

  “But like those distant fleets and roaming Craftworlds, we are as scattered as the stars and the spaces between them widen evermore,” murmured Irlikae. “It must have brought you pain to see the fissures between us.”

  “Pain is something I have long-shouldered as an Outcast.”

  “You need not bear it alone.” Irlikae sat before her. “You needn’t convince me. The way of the Corsair cannot last. I am with you. But you need more than myself, Amonthail, and Kalvynn.”

  “But how shall I win over the others? Or Tirol?”

  “Not Tirol. Not yet..” Maerys heard the call of a bird. She looked up and a single faolchú swept over their heads. Irlikae swept her arm upwards, slowly. The deck above them turned into a gloomy, overcast sky. From the clouds emerged more faolchú until an entire flock appeared. At first, they maintained multiple formations. Then, the first bird swept among them and the flocks scattered. They circled in confusion, rose back into the clouds, or dove away.

  Maerys stepped aside as one of the images passed by her. Another dove right at her but faded just before it struck. A streak of cold seemed to snatch the warmth from her body and a chill shot up her spine. Overhead, the sky gave way to a deeper, purplish hue and then the blackness of the void. The faolchú rose, brightened, and became stars lost among those already burning.

  “To be led somewhere without understanding why,” murmured Maerys. “How could they ever follow?”

  “The Band of Kurnous must be united. You must show them that you are capable of leadership. I know Oragroth, he is stubborn but not implacable. He may not be swayed to your dream of reunification—not yet. What you want cannot be inspired by one speech or act. But if you can show him that you are trustworthy, he will add his voice to yours.”

  Suddenly, the images above and below faded and Irlikae smiled. “And I believe the opportunity to begin soon approaches.”

  The doors slid open and one of the mariners appeared. “Pathfinder Desrigale, High Count Dryane requests you and your second aboard the Sandstorm. The coalition convenes.”

  It was as if he were back in his youth. Night after night, Marsh Silas found himself sitting in Fort Carmine’s canteen with his mother, Ghent, and of all people, his childhood friend. Ellery Overton. Surrounding them were the old hands of Bloody Platoon who had grown up with them in the training fortresses. The smokey air was filled with raucous laughter. Amasec tankards smashed together, splashing the contents over men’s trousers.

  “Silas had gotten it into his head that he would find better purchase on the fishing line if he were higher up than that little boulder,” explained Overton, smiling at the assembled faces crowding the table. Marsh groaned and buried his face into palm. “Elevation? This is a rocky, knobby little rock in the Caducades Sea! All we have are some windswept trees. So Sy clambered up, cast his line, but it was not five minutes before his weight and a strong gust of wind snapped the branch!”

  Overton took a drink while he waited for the snickers to pass. “He dropped like a stone in the surf. Oh, I wish you could have heard the sound he made. Twas not a mere yelp nor a shrill scream, more of a series of choked grunts choked from a tangle of flailing limbs. Clement and I pulled him out and nearly put him in the fire to get his temperature up, for it was the middle of winter. That day we went hungry, for Silas was the only fish we caught.” The Kasrkin laughed into their cups as they looked at their platoon leader.

  “We all had to lay by the fire, for this old bastard is forgetting that he and Clement both slipped on the rocks as they helped me. They plummeted into those black waves with as much dignity and grace as I did.”

  “Remember what Clement said? ‘Well, if I had to perish during the Month of Making with anybody, I suppose you two arseholes are it.’ He always had a smart remark. Oh, what a fellow.”

  “Here’s to him.” The men all raised their drinks and repeated the departed Whiteshield’s name. Even Ghent, the lad’s executioner, held up his cup. After they finished, Marsh put an arm around his old friend and shook him. “Now, enough about the old days. Give us some adventures of what it’s been like to serve off Cadia!”

  “Did you forget sir, I was off Cadia before either of you,” grumbled Honeycutt. “I’ve plenty of stories to share.”

  “Oh yes, stories like, ‘I sawed this poor bloke’s leg off,’ and, ‘I had to slap a bionic arm on this sod’s shoulder,’ and, ‘you should have seen the size of the hole in this fellow’s chest.’ I’d prefer not to heave all I’ve eaten tonight,” mocked Walmsley Major. Many others added their voices and Honeycutt waved them off, angrily.

  Overton leaned back in his chair and tilted his head back, thoughtfully. “The 412th has seen some proper scraps. Heretics, secessionists, traitors, and more than a fair share of xenos. It was upon Lorn V we encountered foul Orks and those poncy Eldar.”

  “Aeldari,” said Marsh before he took a sip. Overton glanced at him, confused, but Marsh Silas just shook his head. “Nothing. Go on.”

  “Fighting Orks and Eldar, that must have been one hell of a battle, sir,” said Walmsley Minor.

  “It goes to show you the fighting spirit of Cadians,” remarked Yoxall. “Opposed by two armies and yet they survived. Thanks be to the God-Emperor.”

  “Aye, what a hard fight it was, for there were not just xenos but traitors also. Many casualties were sustained and while we lost our heroic commander, we escaped Lorn V with our lives. What could have been an overwhelming defeat was minimized thanks to the efforts of those brave Shock Troopers.”

  Again, cups were raised, men cheered, and they drank heartily. Marsh sighed loudly when he finished and wiped the foam on his lips with his sleeve. Overton laughed and then jostled Marsh Silas by his shoulder. “You might be a noble officer now but you certainly act like an enlisted man.”

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  “Oh, sir, trust us, he acts like an officer when it counts,” complained Drummer Boy. “He doesn’t let us have any fun these days. No more raiding the mess hall after hours, no more stealing from the armory or other units, no more roughhousing with Interior Guardsmen…”

  “Yes, it is almost as if we made something of ourselves and we are expected to maintain a bearing with greater discipline to set an example,” replied Marsh, sarcastically. “I know that’s quite hard for a rascal such as yourself. If you want, I can take those stripes away.”

  “I’ll gladly take those stripes!” exclaimed Rowley before she biffed Drummer Boy. She was deep into her cups and leaned on her old mentor as she sputtered.

  “It’s good to see you’ve made something of yourself, Overton. I still remember when you were a wee green shit who barely knew his left flank from his right,” said Honeycutt over his cup. “But you managed to keep yourself and look at you know, a major with a ribbon rack bigger than this big oaf’s.” Honeycutt nodded and winked at Marsh and the drunken platoon laughed heartily.

  Marsh Silas listened to the banter as he happily finished his drink. The amasec settled warmly in his belly. He peered at the bottom of his empty tankard and stood up. “I’ll get us another round,” he said. Crossing the canteen, he weaved between the packed tables of off-duty Kasrkin. Men spat chewing tabac into spittoons, drank gallons of amasec, and stuffed their faces with fresh food. Countless pennants, old battle flags, and banners hung on the walls. Many were inscribed with the names of famous heroes of the regiment or decisive battles the unit fought in.

  Through the clouds of lho-stick, he approached the bar. He nodded at the keeper, pointed at his table, and waved his forefinger in a circle. The keeper responded with a thumbs-up and he ordered his menials over to the table. Marsh leaned against the counter as his cup was filled. He smiled at the sight of Bloody Platoon and his family chattering away. Their faces, flushed from alcohol, glowed. Even Sydney, seated between Hyram and Isabella, was positively giddy as he happily devoured his meal. His parents, at that moment, appeared closer than ever.

  Marsh’s smile grew and his violet eyes, always so piercing, twinkled blithely. He couldn’t make out the words, but he didn’t need to. The laughter, their grins, their linked arms—it was so joyous. Such a sight should have been captured in a pict or depicted in a painting. Were such pieces of art only to portray scenes of grandeur? Columns of marching troops, distinguished generals, and glorious battles? What of the small and the intimate, the moments between men? Should they not be recorded, also?

  Something tugged at his sleeve. Marsh looked from side to side, and saw no one but Prince Osgood and some of the other officers at the end of the bar. There was another tug. “Oi, down here, sir.” His gaze plummeted and there stood Tolly, the top of her bushy-haired head just above his waist. Marsh’s smile instantly disappeared.

  “Abhumans aren’t allowed in this hall. This better be urgent, sergeant.”

  “You weren’t serious about flogging Errol, were ye? Because he ain’t a bad sort, he’s just a bit of a jokester. Why, we Halflings have light fingers; it’s a way of playing between friends, that’s all.”

  “I’m your superior officer, not your friend.”

  “Aye, but ye made a good impression upon us. Tough but fair. We’d prefer someone a bit more easygoing but we sure do like fairness. He wouldn’t o’ given it back if he didn’t like ya.”

  “I don’t tolerate thievery in the platoon.”

  “Beg pardon, sir, but a Halfling can hear a lot of chatter when folks don’t look down. You used to have to do a lot of stealing before ye were a Kasrkin, aye?”

  Marsh Silas squeezed his eyes momentarily, set his tankard down hard on the bar top, and then bent over. He stuck one of his large fingers in Tolly’s face, almost striking the tip of her nose. “Listen to me, my men and I only stole when we were short on supplies and we needed food, medicine, or ammunition.”

  “It was fun though, wasn’t it?” said Tolly with a devilish grin. Memories of young Guardsmen fleeing Liternati guards with sacks of salted grox jerky, fresh vegetables, and premium lho-sticks flashed through Marsh’s mind. He grumbled and stood back up.

  “Have you carried out your work for the evening?”

  “I’m just on break, there’s plenty to do.”

  “Then get your arse out of here and get it done,” snapped Marsh and he pointed at the door. Tolly, still smirking, gave a mocking salute and turned around.

  “My arse is on the move sir, enjoy the view,” she chimed and started swaggering away.

  The platoon leader pinched the bridge of his nose, disturbing the bandage somewhat, and shook his head. He snatched his now-filled tankard and took a long drink. “And you’d like to see those things running around the regiment?”

  Marsh withheld a groan as he lowered the tankard. Prince Osgood looped in front of him and leaned on the top of the bar. The noble officer started tapping the counter as if he were annoyed and in a hurry. With sharp violet eyes and closely cropped auburn hair, he was a spitting image of the illustrious General Osgood who fought at the Battle of Eagle’s Gate. His ancestor’s heroic exploits during the Crusade of Thunder were still fervently discussed among the Cadian nobility.

  With him was 1st Lieutenant Pletcher, a less renowned but just as experienced soldier. Commander of the 5th line platoon, he kept his blonde hair short and maintained a stern, purple gaze. Stocky and hard, he was still an amiable sort. Although Marsh could not count him as a friend like Gabler, they had enough of a rapport.

  “What are you trying to do, Cross? Turn us into troupes of freaks?” continued Osgood.

  “Oh, so you’ve heard?” teased Marsh. “My, you’ve got a good ear. If only you were as good a shot as you are an eavesdropper.”

  “Petty insults from an upjumped enlisted man,” retorted Osgood. Pletcher glared at the Prince then. Grabbing him by the shoulder, he turned him around so they faced one another. The shorter, stockier Pletcher raised one of his meaty fingers and wagged it in Osgood’s face.

  “Have you something against men who earn their commissions by merit and action? Some of us were born in a creche, not a noble caste, my Prince.”

  “Do not call me that!” Ignoring Osgood’s demand, Pletcher offered a more courteous smile.

  “I admit, having some extra personnel on the platoon level to assist with certain affairs will free us of some duties. But muties? Surely, you cannot condone that.”

  “An unexpected development, not of our own choice,” answered Marsh. “But an intriguing experiment it shall be.”

  “Oh yes, experiments,” Osgood said over his shoulder and then marched up beside Pletcher, who shrank from him, more from annoyance than fear. “We may have served together for some time now, and I was proud to fight alongside you at Rapitur, but now you teeter on the ridiculous and pointless. Mutants do not belong in a Kasrkin regiment, and though I respect the Mechanicus as I do the Adepta Sororitas, their embedding directly with a platoon is improper.”

  Marsh Silas looked past the pair. Hyram and Overton had left the table and were approaching. Their expressions, while not concerned, indicated alertness. Finishing his drink, Marsh wiped his mouth again on his sleeve and set a few Thrones down on the bar top. “I would prefer you call them Abhumans, such as they are. You may have your doubts, but we shall see if we may make some good of this reform.”

  “Silas, we’re going to get some fresh air,” said Hyram without breaking stride. As he passed Osgood, the executive officer knocked his shoulder against the Prince’s. Marsh Silas winked at the noble and then followed his two friends.

  The night air was cool and crisp. The noise of the kasr was dampened by the fort’s high walls. Searchlights combed the skies and the side lamps of Valkyries passed by overhead. Other than the regimental security forces patrolling the walls and the campus, the interior compound was empty of rankers. Prince Constantine, the regiment’s executive officer, rode one of his black coursers slowly along the perimeter. The slow, steady clop, clop, clop carried over the quiet night.

  Marsh Silas took out his pipe and stuffed the bowl while his compatriots lit their lho-sticks. Overton took a drag on his own and then chuckled at Marsh. “Still fussing over that thing?”

  “There isn’t a better way to smoke, old friend.” Marsh took a few puffs, then blew smoke rings into the air. He stepped closer to Overton and then wrapped his arm around his. “It’s been damned good to have you here, Ellery. It’s had the most positive effect upon me and my platoon.”

  “As you and Bloody Platoon have had upon me. I knew one day you would become an officer and you would take care of them.”

  “Twas not me alone. After you, it was my brother Hyram who led us. Were it not for him, many of our battles would have gone much differently.”

  “I would not have made much difference if it were not for your teaching.”

  “And I would not be the man I am without yours.”

  “You both should have commanded companies by now,” said Overton. He pulled away from the pair and stood just on the edge of the rockcrete path. The tips of his boots crunched into the gravel. After a few moments and tapping some ash into the rocks, the major turned around. “It appears that many of your fellow officers don’t appreciate some of your reforms.”

  He took a long drag and waved his hand ambiguously to the fort. “Aye, the enlisted men surely love you, for they are no longer subjected to corporal punishment and wage deductions. They have liberty while in garrison, better food, better pay, and better access to learning materials. Senior officers tend not to like it when junior officers are more popular.”

  “Von Bracken might balk at some of our efforts but I doubt he’d block our promotions,” protested Marsh Silas. “He knows what I’ve been about before I joined the Kasrkin.”

  “I doubt he understands,” said Hyram, quietly. “Ellery is right, at our age and experience, we ought to be in command of one of the companies, perhaps even a battalion. I hear the whispers. The command echelon often sees us as upstarts.”

  “Doubly-so, given the most recent attempt. Trying to make a family of so many different parties is a far cry from getting different Adepta to cooperate.” Overton finished his lho-stick, flicked onto the ground, snubbed it out, and immediately lit another. “I tell you, it wasn’t virtuous reformers that saw us survive Lorn V.”

  He swept a hand through his blonde locks and sighed uncomfortably. Overton shook his head and turned away momentarily. Marsh and Hyram walked up beside him.

  “The after-action reports are rather unilluminating, as usual,” said Hyram. “It must have been far worse than the propaganda reels made it out to be.”

  “It was worse than I made it out to the men. The campaign to secure the Titan was terrible. The Blood Legion tore us to ribbons during the landing. We had to fight our way out of the city through a horde of Orks to retrieve the Titan’s crew, then fight our way back. Beset by Orks and Heretic Astartes, we were forced to cooperate with the Eldar.”

  It was unthinkable! Marsh Silas coughed as he puffed on his pipe and Hyram dropped his next lho-stick. The former circled around and placed his hands on Overton’s shoulders. “Impossible, why would Sturnn do such a thing!?”

  “The Eldar had assisted us in our prior engagements, but only for their own ends. When they came to us, seeking refuge from the Orks, Sturnn obliged but only to keep them close. He was certain they would betray us, and twice they did. I don’t know whether Sturnn was killed by shuriken fire or felled by an Orkish blade, but when I got to him, his head was gone. We failed to preserve the Dominatus from destruction and thousands of good men and women lost their lives.” He finished his lho-stick and dropped it on the ground. “All because of Sturnn.”

  Marsh Silas took a few paces away and brought his pipe to his lips. He felt their eyes linger on him. “How can you say that about the general?” asked Hyram, remaining by Overton. “He was a Hero of the Imperium who had waged countless successful campaigns and operations. Surely, you cannot judge him by one mistake.”

  “The skeletons left upon Lorn V have plenty of reason to judge, for their sacrifice was all for naught. A leader may think their strategy is as sound as the foundation of a fortress, yet they may fail to consider the molding to be incorrect or the material to be impure. It was the wrong decision, crowning numerous other mistakes; the landing, frontal assault, the distribution of our forces.”

  “He thought he was doing the right thing,” said Marsh without looking back. His eyes had glazed over and his lips, although near the neck of the pipe, remained still. Footsteps clapped upon the pavement and he felt Overton draw nearer.

  “You know just as I do that on the battlefield, a leader has to make many difficult decisions. What may appear to be the best decision might soon unveil itself as the worst. Right can very quickly become wrong. Sturnn may have believed he was right, but the intention counts for little when it got not only himself but so many others killed.” Overton lit his third lho-stick and gazed up at the night sky, its vastness interrupted only by the gleam of searchlights. “I earnestly hope these efforts of yours are for the best but tread lightly, Silas. Tread lightly.”

  The Chamber of Summits felt vacant. There was not as large a body as that first day; only the host leaders and their closest officers were present. On the right side of the table, High Count Dryane stood with his two consorts, Elsarsys and Caellatela, and one-eyed Forromare who maintained his snarl-like smile. At the opposite side was Yltra with Celasho, who appeared as dark as ever. Pleasant Dochariel, however, balanced his foreboding presence.

  Caergan stood only with his Wayseer Elamlion. While the Autarch patiently waited for the Saim-Hann party to arrive, Elamlion came off as distant and detached. His eyes, although a clear and crystal blue, possessed a certain blankness that Maerys found disturbing.

  “Oragroth, how do you find life among the Maerys’s Rangers?” asked Caellatela, haughtily.

  “Stimulating,” he replied. The Kurnite Hunter dipped his fingers into his pocket and procured a small pouch. He reached within and procured a small piece of indistinct, cooked meat. Crúba, who had been very still upon his shoulder, leaned forward and gently plucked it from his fingers. As Oragroth put the pouch away, he glanced back at the Felarch mistress. “Tell me, do your knees ache from your many visits to the High Count’s chambers?”

  Dryane threw his head back and laughed while Caellatela’s face burned. Autarch Yltra’s scoff at the end of the room was loud enough to make the bulkheads rumble. “You people are disgusting,” she muttered.

  “Is there character to be found among those whose strict breeding is tantamount to manufacturing?” asked Elsarsys.

  “Is there integrity to be found among the lecherous and debaucherous?” countered Celasho.

  “Or is there honor to be found in the murderous and destructive?”

  “Enough, Elsarsys,” ordered Dryane. But the tension persisted and the dark room, despite the colorful fruits of the trees in their pedestals, grew all the darker under the watchful eyes of their gods. It was enough to seize someone’s heart and hold it captive.

  On many of her hunts, Maerys had spent hours and days waiting for the opportune moment to eliminate her quarry. Such concentration had consumed every segment of strength, both of body and of mind. In such times, she drew upon all she learned during her journey along the Path of the Dreamer. Although it was so long ago, she recalled the power to control her dreams. If she willed it, she did not sleep but instead fell into a trance. There, reality became clay she was free to shape.

  But she did not alter or create. Rather, she returned to times she had found beautiful. The sweetest memory of all was an ocean world she discovered. There was no name for it, no record, no sign that any other species had visited it before. As she closed her eyes within that chamber, she was back there. Pure sky and still water blended together. All winds died away and the tides receded.

  She waded through it, letting her long, flowing sleeves become damp. A mere tap on the water’s surface with her fingertip created ripples, ripples, ripples. There was nothing to discover, nothing to fight over, nothing to hoard. Just the experience of water and quiet. Why had their ancestors not relished in such gifts? If only the rest of Kurnous and Isha’s descendents could learn to hold them dear…

  “Stir yourself.” Oragroth’s voice drew her reeling from that memory. Maerys opened her eyes as the starboard entrance to the chamber opened. Chief Oromas, Princess Kelriel, and Arganel the Striker marched in, all clad in scarlet armor. Oromas maintained his vigorous, dominant stature, folding his arms over his chest and leaning back. Kelriel instead gripped the edge of the table and leaned forward. Arganel was placid and reserved, distant from his uncle and cousin.

  “What is the meaning of this call?” asked Oromas. “Our hosts are not entirely summoned; one thousand of my riders are still not with us.”

  “I have come to discuss a strategy, noble rider,” said Caergan.

  Dryane waved his hand over the table. Blue lights flowed through the carvings of beasts and warriors to the glass globe in the center. The sands within shifted into two orbs; one was the planet of Pail Shil-ocht and the other its only satellite. After a full rotation, the two orbs of sand congealed into an image of just the moon. “Before you is Sú-il Bhán, the temperate moon of our target. To the mon-keigh, it is known as Messis. It too is infested with a population of Orks. Although not as great as the population of Pail Shil-ocht, the forces there still pose a threat.”

  “Threat? All it will take is one swift strike near our target and then a delaying action to grant enough time to apprehend the crazed Wayseeker,” said Yltra.

  “It is never so simple. The Orks number in the hundreds of thousands and forever seek battle. A rapid action is out of the question as well as a conventional war of attrition. Our strategy must be careful and precise, bleeding the enemy of his strength. We harass, lure them out, and eliminate their forces in various strikes and weaken their positions until it is affordable for us to attack in force.”

  “A strategy the Asuryani have utilized for millennia,” complained Oromas. “You need not explain it even to us.”

  “My uncle means to say that Saim-Hann, though we wage war fast and in great numbers, appreciate the value of this strategy,” explained Arganel.

  “Then I shall forgo the prelude. I propose we make Sú-il Bhán our paramount objective. We shall convert it as a staging ground where we can call upon further reinforcements if necessary and gather in preparation for attacks from the void or through the Webway.”

  “There are indeed some gates active on these worlds, hidden though they are,” said Elamlion, his voice brittle. He motioned to the orb, his blue eyes flashed, and several similarly colored dots appeared on the moon.

  “I see sense in it,” said Oromas.

  “As do I,” added Dryane.

  “Biel-Tan agrees.”

  “I am for it,” said Maerys and the host leaders all bowed their heads. The very first vote, she thought, and there wasn’t a single naysayer among them. She withheld her smile, for she did not want to ruin the professional and diplomatic air of the room.

  “Then, I suggest you and the Band of Kurnous scout the moon for a suitable staging ground for our base.” Dryane and the other Autarchs all agreed and Maerys knew whether she voted against it would make no difference. Her force had trained for some time now, but they needed more. I will make the time, she decided to herself. “Splendid. Lastly, I suggest we further deplete their numbers before the first shot is fired. There are multiple tribes across these worlds, tethered only by their clannish foundations. Orks are a fractious race, prone to fighting one another if there is no common enemy to unite them. Let us give them a reason to do battle with one another.”

  “Sú-il Bhán is occupied by Orks of the Evil Sunz and we know the Blood Axes operate from that world below. I propose to inflict a clandestine act of sabotage on the Evil Sunz and the Blood Axes be made to appear as the aggressors. Thus, evidence must be procured so as to implicate them. Maerys, you know Orks—what would be the spark to ignite the fire between them?”

  Maerys did not have to think long. She had seen their totems, what the warbosses and other leaders carried into battle. “Tribal banners, Autarch. Simple they are, but important. If a Blood Axes banner were left in the wake of a calamity, the Evil Sunz would hunger for revenge.”

  “Could the Band of Kurnous then infiltrate Pail Shil-ocht and retrieve one?”

  A pit grew in Maerys’s stomach even as she remained stone-faced. “It would be a difficult mission, Autarch Caergan,” she said. “To succeed in the ploy, we could leave no trace of our efforts. Not a single ork could be felled by our weapons lest they grow suspicious.”

  “It is a task the Band of Kurnous is altogether unprepared for,” said Yltra.

  “I am not versed in the arts of these actions,” offered Kelriel, “but could not a single individual complete this mission?”

  “What use of this fifth host if only one of their number acts?” asked her father. “They must complete their tasks as a unit, not as individuals.”

  “It would be a nigh-insurmountable task even for the most able Pathfinder,” said Dochariel. “Maerys, I do not wish to doubt, but can it be done?”

  She looked at the globe. Sú-il Bhán spun slowly, a green and gray rock trapped within the glass. A seer was not needed to imagine the massive hordes of Orks that infested the moon or the planet below it. An ocean of them, seething, swelling, swarming over the Aeldari hosts. How many spirit stones would be lost? Who would be left standing after the decimation?

  “It will be done,” said Maerys.

  “It must be,” said Oragroth, his tone firm. The vote was cast; one by one, the Corsair leader and the Autarchs decided in favor. Yltra was the last to submit and she did it with great disdain evident in her implacable green gaze.

  “I leave it to you to prepare a plan of action to submit before this council,” said Caergan.

  “Think well, think long,” Oromas warned. “This will be a proving of yourselves.”

  Maerys and Oragroth bowed, then exited the chamber together. As they passed under the fluid white lights above them, the silence between them grew thicker. Even the halls were deathly quiet, the entire population of the Sandstorm suddenly absent.

  “Thank you for supporting me,” said Maerys. Oragroth just grunted.

  “If you know Orks then you are not a fool. I must protest that I agree with Autarch Yltra, abrasive as she is. We are not ready, yet we must stir the Band of Kurnous and trust their arts.”

  “I am in agreement also.”

  Oragroth stopped and scoffed, the many small braids swaying back and forth over his eyes. “Is this band not your fantasy of a miniature empire? What is the point if we do not apply ourselves as a whole?”

  “Do not speak as if you share in my vision,” replied Maerys, turning around and facing the Kurnite Hunter squarely. Oragroth tilted his head back, his dark eyes intrigued. He folded his arms across his chest and waited. Gathering herself, Maerys pulled her hair back save for the long braid Irlikae had made. “This task is beyond dangerous. We may be marksmen and scouts all, but our cohesion cannot be tested in a matter so complicated. I will not ask them to.”

  “You are the leader, you do not ask, you command.”

  “I have not earned the right to command,” said Maerys. The words surprised her, but she believed in them. She did not wait for Oragroth to reply. “We need the most experienced. Myself, you, the Pathfinders, and Irlikae. The less of us, the better.”

  Oragroth observed her carefully. Crúba squawked and tilted his head from side to side. It was almost as if he were speaking. The Kurnite nodded approvingly. “A fire burns within you. One new to me, but familiar to you. Perhaps, you are ready to don the War Mask you once wore?”

  “The Path of the Warrior is long behind me. What stands before us, I am ready for it. Are you?” Maerys waited, stalwart and poised, yet her breath hitched in her throat. Oragroth glanced at Crúba once more and he released a disbelieving breath of a laugh.

  “Very well, Desrigale, I am game for this deadly errand.”

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