Silence. A moment passes as Vennedes considered Eriko's words, but it feels so much longer. That lone stolen second feeds the hollow silence behind the squad, growing it deeper. Caelia nervously checks her psy-crystal as she lines her weapon up. It glows brightly in the presence of Eneresh. And perhaps, whatever waits beyond.
"I know what's waiting for me in the courts, Sister. At best I'm looking at a stint in the Penal Legion, and poor Eneresh even worse," she says, trying and mostly succeeding at keeping her voice level. "But I'm no heretic. And whatever's coming just mulched my men. If it's coming for me and Eneresh too...Well. I suppose you're the only chance we have. I-" she hesitates, a hiss in her voice. "I'll cooperate. I'm-sorry, Eneresh."
Eneresh smiles weakly, wincing as Vahn motions her to stand. "I am too, Vennedes. This is all my fault..."
Palais butts in. "We're heading up to the roof. You will surrender yourself to our authority, or you will face the consequences, Vennedes."
"Crystal, Sister," Vennedes voice rings out. "Try not to die, Eneresh."
The crowd outside is rapidly dispersing, terrified by the same looming silence that has set Zahn Vayneth's men shivering and clutching at holy tokens donned across their bodies. The bounty hunter breathes a quiet prayer, as Vahn checks his hand laslocks. A handful of the militiamen have taken up positions, praying over their autoguns and laslocks and chainblades as the silence deepens.
Palais turns toward the group. "Sisters! Take up positions. Ilana, you guard Eneresh. Maria, I want you at the front as a shield. I'll be beside you. Caelia, Eriko, rear guard. Everyone else, you are to use us as cover," she says, turning her gaze across the handful of individuals readying their weapons. "You should go. This isn't your fight."
Most that remain take the Sister-Superior's word as their blessing, scurrying down whatever corridor is nearest.
"I've sinned," a hard worn man covered in gang and religious tattoos mutters as he loads his autogun. "I'll fight what comes. Give you time, maybe."
"Xidawang im mi xom. Feth whatever's coming, mi'm na scared," an older woman with blackened teeth and peeling skin says, gazing down the corridor with the sights of her rusted las-lock.
Palais pauses a moment, then raises a hand. "Emperor bless you," she says, and then turns away. "For the blood is martyrs is the seed of the Imperium. You." She stabs a finger at the young man, as he checks his Rosesworn rifle with shaking hands. "Lead the way."
The lad swallows. "Right to are, sésata, mi'll tenye to fo da roof ere wa moment," he says, tapping the Aquila tattoo across his chest. "Da emperor protects, ya."
The boy turns, and the group rushes toward the stairs. Behind them, the silence lengthens.
"To any of my people who are still alive, you have endured so much. Murder, plague, heresy."
Gunfire echoes up the stairways and corridors, a rapid staccato of las and stub fire. Then the brief screams. And then, silence.
"I am proud of each and every one of you. Amidst the turmoil, we have come together as a community, regardless of our origin. From breadmakers to gangers to guilded merchants, we have fought and survived against the evils that have sought to bring us low. Even now, I've heard that the cultists at our door have been sent to flight. But in their defeat, they have sent something terrible to try and finish what they couldn't. But the God-Emperor of Mankind, who watches over us all, has sent us aid."
Vennedes voice rings out through the darksome corridors and stairways as the squad and their allies trudge toward the roof. Maria and Palais lead the way, an armoured bulwark for the child guide. The building is a maze of interconnected rooms, misleading staircases, and doors that seemingly go nowhere. Side corridors and hidden ambush routes exist at many turns, but the boy leads the group well, stopping here and there to consider graffiti and peeling signs, or to mutter to himself in his bizarre low-gothic as he considers the path.
"The Daughters of the Emperor are here. They have come to slay the beast in our house. Do not fight them, for they are our deliverance. Scatter, retreat. If you see a cultist, kill it. But leave the beast to the Sisters of Battle."
At every turn there is a new fortification, a new ambush position. Gangers and militia and terrified civilians given guns or spears or whatever killing implement was on hand or could be improvised, watch as the scarlet armour of the Sisters of the Burning Rose loom out of the dim corridors, and they stand aside. They scatter down the corridors, or give directions, or fall on their knees and weep for forgiveness. Sometimes shots are fired, ringing harmlessly off power-armour, and usually these poor souls quail in terror upon realizing the figures falling upon them were no monsters. A scarce few try to fight-perhaps they are tainted, perhaps confused. They die. All others, Palais warns to make way, and leave before your pursuer finds them, blessing them for their obedience. Most listen. Some do not. Sometimes shots echo up the halls. Sometimes screams trail after the Sisters. In the maze, it can be a question if it even came from behind or elsewhere in the building.
"Thank you all, for all that you have done for me, and for one another. But our fight is over."
A light dies, down the stairs. Then another. It doesn't shatter or produce a spray of sparks. One moment it is alight, the next, it flickers and dies. Another, and another. The mercenaries are all breathless in their prayers, stumbling over the words as they beg the Saints and Emperor for intervention. And then, from the darkness, one can just hear it. It is not so terrible a sound. It is even, in a way, familiar. The fall of a heavy boot, disciplined, paced, onto hard rockcrete. Another boot fall, the sound ringing off the walls. Another, each step taking up a measured, military cadence. There is no rush to the steps, no haste. It is slow, steady, constant. Wholly, and inhumanly, constant.
"I will make my own way out. Have no fear for me, or the Sisters, my friends. The Emperor protects."
And even as the group rushes ever upward, it only seems to grow ever closer. Muscles strain, lungs ache for air. Hardened warriors, hateful witch, and civilian guide alike gasp for breath. And the footsteps grow closer, and the darkness looms nearer, and there is nothing but a hollow silence beyond.
The guide does not accept this easily. The group doubles back, hurries through secreted side corridors, and hurrying past false paths and rooms certain, he assures Palais at every point, to mislead the beast at the group's back. And the footsteps grow closer, and the darkness looms nearer, and there is nothing but a hollow silence beyond.
"Oh Emperor, oh Saint Selverus, what is it? Why can't we lose it?" A mercenary hisses, clutching his autogun tight.
"The feth is this?" The injured bounty hunter breathes, wincing in pain with every step as struggles to keep up with you. She turns into the yawning darkness, eyes wide. "Throne, how much farther?"
"Na much farther, na much farther," the boy hurries, glancing back over his shoulder. "Feth, feth, xidawang im almost lik da red koyo."
"The beast was strong, and the beast was fast, and its teeth were long, and its hunger vast," Eneresh mumbles under her breath, tears trailing down her cheeks. "Have you heard the tale of the Red Koyo, o child of Dreverarch?"
"Shut up!" One of the mercenaries barks, shoving Eneresh forward. She staggers, nearly falling before Vahn catches her, pulling her to her feet. He hisses it at the mercenary.
"Now is not the time!" He snarls.
"I've heard the tale of the Red Koyo, witch," the bounty hunter breathes, pushing off a pipe running along the wall. "Doesn't...fething...fit. The King of Sky and Fire gave us steel, and the children of Dreverarch came upon it when it was resting, and set it to flight, but every time it would lie its head, we would be there,. It ran far and wide...And in the end..."
Eneresh smiles, sadly. "It could never escape, and the children of Dreverarch did make sacrifices of it to the heavens."
And the footsteps grow closer, and the darkness looms nearer, and there is nothing but a hollow silence beyond.
The boy slows to a sudden halt as the group rounds a random corner, a wide smile suddenly flashing across his face as he gestures toward a looming statue of some robed angelic figure. "Hah, through xiya, sésatas," he says as he presses his hand down on a high gothic rune inscribed along the statues base. With a hiss, a secreted door hidden in the shadow of utility pipes slides open. Even to someone with preysense, it is as though the doorway simply appears from thin air.
The boy bows, and with some trepidation, Maria ducks through, the pipes scraping along her power reactor as she ventures into the hall behind, followed swiftly by the rest of the group. A desecrated library, long ago crudely renovated into sleeping quarters, lies on the other side. leading to a staircase leading up. The boy takes in a series of deep breaths as he walks past rows of bunk beds leaning against cleared off book cases and tents lining the alcoves. Behind the group, the door seals shut in an instant, leaving no apparent trace of your exit.
"Na finding any fo milowda ere xiya, sésata, unte its straight fo da command center xox xidawang staircase. Sort fo wa secret evacuation route?" he says, nodding at the Palais.
"No...Finding us here, Sisters. It's straight to up the the command center. Secret...evacuation...route," The bounty hunter translates, trudging past the dilapidated book shelves.
"Good," Palais mutters. "I've had enough of the local..." she trails off, as beyond the wall, heavy footsteps fall. A dreadful, hollow silence falls.
And then with a terrible, piercing shriek, the secreted door comes away, a storm of dust and sparks filling the air. Lights across the back of the library dim and die in an instant, leaving the hall in shadow. With an acknowledging snarl, photovisors flicker on, and through the darkness-Oh, but there is fire. It is an inferno, a terrible flame, that smolders in the cracks between the gems and the plates. The crown laid across its back and draped across its back are broken in a thousand places, each chain-link shattered and reknit and blazing with the light of a soul aflame. Blood drips from regal fangs and royal claws, a single smile spread across both its faces.
Caelia and Eriko stagger back against the stairs, photovisors overloading for a brief moment. Gunshots flash into the dust and darkness, striking-What? Nothing?
A hollow silence descends.
"Up the stairs, up the stairs!" Palais hisses, half turning. "Regroup at the command center."
A voice rings out. It is smooth, svelte, but commanding. Regal, in every sense of the word, but there is something wrong about it. "Come now, Palais, O little fire. It is not in your nature to run, Sisters of Battle." The footsteps ring out, louder and louder, each measured and disciplined. Flickering stab-lights pierce the gloom, and the gleam is almost blinding. "Are we truly so fearsome, cousins? We have not come to sup of your souls, O Children of the Burning Saint."
In the light, richly engraved armour-plate shines in the light. It gleams like wet skin, and the engraving move as though swimming just beneath the surface. Well crafted sabatons slap in a disciplined, military rhythm against the rockcrete. Each footstep leaves the flooring cracked, and smoking. A long, elegant blade reaches out from the darkness, terminating in something between a hand and a hilt, metal plating and flesh flowing together. In the other, bone ivory gauntlets clench an engraved bolt pistol. A helmet, thick and richly engraved with the maw of a dragon, smiles at you with white, glistening, fangs, and beneath the visor is nothing but the light of flame. A cloak of shattered chains adorn its scalp fall from its back, each smoldering and cracked.
"We have no quarrel with she who cast down the false god of the Despertillo, O Slayers of Nightmare," it says. "We have come for our own, and no other. But ah, it is not in your nature to negotiate, even if you have been made to. You will fight. We wish it were not, for We have tasted of you, Caelia, O Daughter of Betrayals, and I weep for the blades at your back. As we have of you, Ilana, O Maiden of Angels, who defied the heresy of the Word of Oblivion, that made dear Maria, O Rock of Faith, be born into suffering and anguish. Even you, Eriko, despite your sins against the Pantheon, we cannot help but pity you, O Failed Saviour. Yours are tales of woe, that does our heart ill to consider ending. And yet, on our honour, we are obliged: Give Eneresh unto us, or we shall have quarrel with you."
"You will not have her!" Palais barks, even as she brings up her bolt pistol. "No matter what manner of beast you are!"
It raises its blade arm in salute, light-catching across its wet hide. With a sound of scraping metal, its cloak of chains rises up like a living thing, smoke billowing from it in the shape of blackened wings.
"We are Beholden," It says, as behind it more shapes unfold from the darkness, clad in the flickering camo-cloaks and fetishes of the cult. At their head are two towering warriors, augmetics visible beneath their thick robes and intricately decorated masks, shock clubs flaring in their grips.
And for a moment, there is nothing more than that brief, dreadful, hollow silence.
