The grand streets of Lloovre Marr were quiet and deserted. Vehicles and market stalls had been abandoned by the sides of the roads, and the doors to buildings had been left swinging in the breeze. The population had left in a hurry, and it looked as though they had not anticipated returning. Lights still burned behind some of the windows, but Macha was certain that these had simply been left burning when the occupants left-there were few signs that anyone remained in the capital.
The eldar convoy moved along the central boulevard with swift urgency, heading for the very heart of the city. Jetbikes flashed through the adjoining streets, running parallel to the convoy to ensure that it was left unchallenged. The boulevard itself was lined with tall, white statues. Each depicted a human figure, usually a warrior, presumably from the history of the city. Their heads were all turned towards the centre of the city, as though gazing up towards the great palace of the governor that dominated the administrative core of the capital.
To Macha’s eldar eyes, the statues looked clumsy and ugly-not merely because they depicted the disproportionate features of the mon-keigh, but also because the artisans had been poor. In general, reflected the farseer, this was true of all human art-it all seemed so rushed and underdeveloped. It was almost as though art were a hobby, rather than the highest expression of the soul. It would be inconceivable that the Biel-Tan would grant a commission of the magnitude of a public statue to an artisan who had not been walking the Path of the Artist for many centuries, perhaps even millennia. The commission itself might take decades to fulfil. But these pathetic lumps of stone looked as though they had been turned out in a matter of months, by artisans barely old enough to hold the tools.
Shaking her head in disbelief and pity, Macha took a moment to consider what these statues said about the soul of the mon-keigh. Each of them represented a warrior, and each was gazing on the buildings of the Administratum, fierce with pride. It is not the art itself that these humans exalt, realised Macha, but power and war. Art is merely a means to praise the warriors-and combat is the highest expression of their souls. She nodded to herself in satisfaction, as she thought about the dedication of the mon-keigh’s Space Marines, and compared their abilities to wreak destruction with the mon-keigh’s pathetic attempts at the construction of art. For the eldar, war was embraced as a artistic path-the most feared of many equal paths to truth and glory. For the humans, it seemed, the whole society was subordinated to war-only in war did the human soul find itself. They were only slightly more civilised than orks.
Behind the statues, running along both sides of the boulevard, were grand stone buildings, each rendered in the same white stone. The structures grew larger and more imposing as the eldar moved further and further into the city-as though the heart of the city warranted the most glorious architecture. All of the structures showed signs of age and decay, giving the street the aura of an ancient capital of culture, resting on the strong arms of thousands of warriors that had died for its glory.
The last time Macha had been on Tartarus, Lloovre Marr did not even exist. This end of the valley had been nothing but thick forest, huddled in the basin of the valley’s flood plain, where the soil was richest and most fertile. She had known, of course, even then, that the mon-keigh would recover their strength and rebuild their cities on Tartarus. She had even seen that they would build here-away from the sites of the destruction of their other cities, starting afresh, carving their new capital into the cliffs with their very hands.
That had been why she had picked this site, where her secrets would be buried beneath the cheap grandeur of the Imperium of Man. The mon-keigh would never think to look right under their noses. And, sure enough, the whole population had left at the first rumblings of a problem, never even pausing to see what they were leaving behind.
As the eldar convoy neared the end of the boulevard, Macha let a faint smile float across her lips: this grand capital city was nothing more than a tiny blip in a war that had begun countless millennia before mankind had even made its first leap into space; for the sake of Khaine, she had been a farseer for longer than these buildings had stood against the elements of Tartarus. And now she was being chased across the planet by two bumbling platoons of children-one carried with them the doom of Tartarus and its surrounding systems, and the other brought hope with them, like a delicate, flickering candle. She had never thought that the once mighty eldar would be reduced to playing nanny for the younger races of the galaxy-but here she was.
The end of the boulevard opened up into a wide plaza, in the centre of which was the focus of the gazes of the all the statues along the way. A huge figure rose out of the pristine white flagstones-a statue taller and more magnificent than any of the others. It was the figure of Lloovre Marr himself, the founder of the city, acclaimed as the first governor general to rule Tartarus in the Emperor’s name. The official historical record recounted stories of his valour and strategic genius, organising the planet’s defences against the incursions of ork raiders and the uprisings of cultists.
In one hand, Lloovre Marr was holding his sword, pointing up into the heavens, as though redirecting the admiration of his people towards the Emperor himself. In the other, a great slab of white stone represented a scroll, on which Lloovre Marr was reputed to have written the constitution of Tartarus, pledging its future to the cult of the undying God-Emperor, and vowing never to permit the seeds of heresy to take hold in this fertile soil.
Macha smiled to herself at the constellation of ironies as she realised that the monument had been constructed directly upon the site that she was looking for.
Just before they broke the tree-line, the Blood Ravens’ convoy drew to a halt. The co-ordinates that Isador had deciphered from the eldar menhir on Mount Korath, before they had blown it up, seemed to refer to a point in the middle of Tartarus’ capital city. On their way down into the valley, the Blood Ravens had seen hints of an eldar trail, as well as tracks of Chaos assault bikes, so Gabriel was certain that they were on the right track. All sign of the Alpha Legion had vanished half way through the valley, but Gabriel had pressed on after the eldar, fearing what might happen if they reached their goal. He disliked such games of cat and mouse, but he took some solace in the fact that he was the cat. At least, he hoped that he was the cat.
The convoy stopped in the fringe of the forest and Gabriel jumped down from his temporary vantage point on the roof of his stationary Rhino, making his way to the very last line of trees before the ground fell away into the plain in front of Lloovre Marr. With Isador at his shoulder, Gabriel dropped to the ground as the foliage thinned, and he crept further forward.
Lying flat against the earth, Gabriel took out his binocs, letting them whir and blip until they clicked into focus against the great wall of the city before him. The once shimmering rockcrete was now a pitted and stained mess where ordnance and flamer gouts had smashed into the formerly smooth surface. The wall’s gun emplacements had been shattered and cracked with precision fire, but the great gates showed no sign of damage at all.
“Do you think the defenders repelled the attack?” asked Isador, trying to make sense of the unexpected scene.
“No. There was only a minimal force left to defend the city, thanks to Toth’s alarmist pronouncements. There is no way that they could have confronted the eldar,” replied Gabriel, half-whispering.
“Then what happened?”
“It looks to me,” answered Gabriel, thinking as he spoke, “as though somebody inside the city opened the gates and let the eldar in. There seems to be no damage to the material of the gates at all so I think that they were open before the first shots were fired.”
“Then why was there firing at all?” asked Isador, seeing the logic in Gabriel’s train of thought, but still unsure.
“Perhaps not everyone was ready to surrender,” answered Gabriel. “The Guardsmen were left here without any senior officers-each would have had to make their own choice, and bear the responsibility for it.”
“So, someone opened the gates, and somebody else started firing…” said Isador, incredulously shaking his head. “These Tartarans are an inconsistent people-with cowards and heroes in equal measure,” he added, thinking back to the stand against the orks at Magna Bonum.
“I’m sure that the same could be said of any planet,” responded Gabriel thoughtfully. “Even Cyrene,” he added without meeting Isador’s eyes.
A rustle in the foliage made the Marines turn-Matiel was working his way through the undergrowth towards them, keeping as low as his power armour would let him, before sliding down onto the ground next to them.
“Are the eldar manning the gun emplacements?” asked the sergeant, staring forward at the walls and shielding his eyes. The red sun was setting behind them, and it bounced off the reflective surface of the walls before them.
“I don’t know,” replied Gabriel, honestly. “But it would not be characteristic of the eldar to appropriate the weapons of humans, so my guess would be that they would make their stand on the other side of the walls, making us waste our energies destroying the wall itself before we even engage the aliens.”
“What do you suggest, captain?” asked Matiel with a hint of impatience.
“I suggest that we do not disappoint them,” said Gabriel, standing up out of the foliage and making no attempt to conceal himself. “The time for subtlety is over, my friends. This is a situation that calls for the exercise of power.”
As he rose to his feet, threads of blood trickled down the chest plate of his armour. Isador sprang up to inspect the wound on his friend, but found none. Instead, he noticed that his own armour was running with blood. As Matiel climbed to his feet to join them, his red armour was slick with streams of blood as well.
“What’s going on?” asked Matiel, flicking his eyes from Gabriel to Isador and then back to his own chest.
Gabriel knelt back down to the ground and pressed his hand into the earth. It compressed like a sponge, and a little pool of blood oozed out over his fingers, filling the depression. He looked up at Isador. “The ground is saturated with blood.”
“The historical records show that Lloovre Marr was constructed on the cusp of the water-table, Gabriel. All of those pumping stations that we saw near Magna Bonum were used to lower the water-level so that the city would not subside,” explained Isador, his voice tinged with disgust as he realised what was going on.
“So, all of the blood spilt here over the last few days has seeped down to this level, turning this place into a swamp?” asked Matiel, sharing Isador’s disgust.
“There is more than a few days’ worth of blood here, sergeant,” replied Gabriel standing once again, “however bloody these days have been. This swamp must have been forming for years.”
“Surely the people of Lloovre Marr would have noticed this?” said Matiel, stubbornly entertaining his own disbelief.
“Yes, Matiel,” said Gabriel. “I’m sure that they noticed it, and I would be very interested to know why this city was built here in the first place. The blood-drenched history of Tartarus is beginning to look rather more sinister, is it not, Isador?”
“Gabriel, the city was built by the founder of this planet, three thousand years ago,” replied Isador.
“Yes, but as we have just discovered, the eldar were here before then. Why should we not believe that humans were here before then as well?” asked Gabriel.
“But why would there be no records?” countered the Librarian.
“Why indeed?” replied Gabriel, nodding as though his question answered itself.
“Your conniving will cost us this war, sorcerer,” bellowed Bale, his huge scythe swept out towards the raging battle before the walls of Lloovre Marr. The Blood Ravens had broken cover at the edge of the tree-line and were lashing out with their heavy weapons, bombarding the walls and the city beyond with cannons and rockets. “The false-Emperor’s lackeys… those Blood Ravens have beaten us to the city. While we hide in this cave like cowards, they fight like warriors against the aliens.”
“They are merely puppets, my lord,” responded Sindri smoothly, as though unperturbed by the Chaos Lord’s anger, but watching the blade of his scythe carefully. “You have been generous with your patience up until now, Lord Bale, and I beg only a little extra indulgence. Events are proceeding to my… to our benefit, according to my devices.”
“Are you blind, sorcerer? As you gaze into the patterns of the warp, are you rendered utterly oblivious to the events of reality?” Bale was in no mood for Sindri’s empty assurances-the Alpha Legion had a proud history and it was not forged by shying away from combat.
Although the Alpha Legion was counted amongst the Space Marine Chapters of the First Founding, it had been the last of this most glorious group, and its primarch, Alpharius, had vowed that his Marines would prove themselves the finest of the Emperor’s warriors. More than anything else, Alpharius despised weakness and cowardice. Long ago, it was his passion for strength and power that had drawn the primarch to the side of Warmaster Horus, welcoming the opportunity to test his Marines against the might of their brother Space Marines. Alpharius had gloried in the war that engulfed the galaxy as Horus turned against the Emperor in those fateful, ancient days, bringing the Imperium to the point of annihilation. And in the millennia since the end of the Heresy, which saw Horus killed and his forces driven from the heart of the galaxy, hunted constantly by the misguided fools who remained loyal to the false-Emperor, the Alpha Legion had not once shied away from battle. Indeed, they searched it out, eager to test themselves against the self-righteous, loyalist Space Marines, like the Blood Ravens.
“I see the battle, my lord, but it is of no concern to us,” hissed Sindri, squirming slightly. “The Blood Ravens are but hapless fools before the might of the Alpha Legion-they are no test of our strength. Far better to let the eldar deal with them, preserving our own forces for more worthy foes.”
“As I recall, sorcerer, you once told me that we could leave these Marines to the orks-you were wrong then. What makes you think that the eldar will fare any better against these Blood Ravens?” asked Bale, spinning his scythe with slow menace.
“The eldar are entirely a different matter,” answered Sindri, shrinking slightly from the scythe and dismissing the question of the orks quickly. “They are an ancient and formidable force, my lord. And they know why they are here. Their farseer will ensure their effectiveness. They do not go to war for fun, my lord, but with the determination of an ageless purpose.”
“It sounds as though they are a foe worthy of the Alpha Legion, sorcerer. So why must we sit and watch these Blood Ravens steal our glory?” said Bale, bringing the debate into a vicious circle that was echoed by his spinning scythe.
“My lord, we will have our chance to fight-have no fear of that. We must merely seek to apply our force at the most advantageous moment. Alpharius himself taught that the enemy is humiliated most when they are defeated with the least effort. Let us humiliate these Blood Ravens completely,” responded Sindri, finding his escape route at last.
“If you fail me in this-” began Bale, a hint of acceptance in his voice.
“-yes, then I will suffer greatly… and gladly. I understand,” interrupted Sindri, recovering the initiative. “Just be ready to move when I instruct.”
A rocket whined overhead, crashing into one of the once grand buildings at the back of the plaza. The formerly smooth masonry was already a ruin of pits and pock-marks, and tendrils of smoke had stained the once pristine white surfaces. The rocket punched through the outer wall of the building and detonated inside, blowing a section of the wall out into the plaza in a shower of debris.
Macha didn’t even flinch as the ordnance flashed over the monument in the centre of the plaza. She stood calmly in its long shadow, watching the sun dip down towards the horizon as the daylight started to die. The Blood Ravens’ rockets seemed to slip directly out of the red sun as they strafed across the city from the launchers outside the gates.
The city was crumbling all around her, and Macha shook her head in amazement as she watched the mon-keigh bring destruction to this monument of their own magnificence. How much more impressive is their ability to destroy than their ability to build, thought the farseer.
The Striking Scorpions were darting around the statue of Lloovre Marr, erecting a ring of barricades and defences in case the Space Marines broke through the city wall. The Scorpions were perfectly adapted for this kind of close-combat-their temple prided itself on a matchless reputation for proximal fighting. Their helmets integrated the notorious mandiblaster arrays-a pair of weapon pods positioned on either side of the warrior’s face. This Sting of the Scorpion could fire bursts of laser-accelerated plasma into the body of a close-range opponent, lacerating their armour in advance of a strike from the Scorpion’s chainsword.
In the midst of these Aspect Warriors stood Jaerielle, issuing directions and manoeuvring great lumps of masonry into position as though they were weightless. The Striking Scorpions obeyed their exarch without question, transforming piles of debris into elaborate barricades that rivalled the surrounding buildings in their elegance-giving off the sense that they had been there for as long as the city itself. For the exarch, war was the highest form of art.
Farseer Macha watched the symphony of preparation with a mixture of admiration and terror. She realised that she was in awe of this exarch-the eldar warrior, once known as Jaerielle, who had lost himself to the temptations of Khaine. And in that moment, she also realised that his transformation was not yet complete. He was destined to be both more and less than an exarch.
Flickering visions burned themselves into her mind, and Macha slumped towards the ground, unable to sustain the barrage of images that pummelled against her consciousness. The eruption was unbidden and powerful, shaking the farseer to her soul. The pictures flashed and spiralled through her mind, sizzling with potency and branding their images into the backs of her eye-lids.
Seeing the farseer waver and stumble, Jaerielle vaulted over the barricades and sped to her side, catching her falling form an instant before her head crashed into the flagstones. He scooped her up in his arms and carried her over the barriers, climbing up the steps at the foot of the grand statue, where he placed her gently onto the ground. She sat, propped up against the figure of Lloovre Marr, staring at Jaerielle with her eyes wide.
“What do you see, farseer?” asked the exarch, searching Macha’s face for a sign.
“The past and the future coalesce in the present, exarch, and the dizzying confusions of temporal distance are focussed only momentarily,” said Macha, conscious that there was no time to explain properly. She started again. “I see the past and the future as one, Jaerielle, and I see you in both. You are the same, and yet you are different, as though transfigured by some greater power. You are fighting everything, and overcoming all, and yet you are dead to yourself.”
Macha’s head was jittering spasmodically from side to side, and her body seemed to have lost all of its strength. She slumped over to one side, and Jaerielle caught her again before she fell.
“They are calling for you, Jaerielle. Their voices run through my mind, like beams of light falling into a warp-hole. They are reaching for you, trying to pull your soul back to them. You have been chosen, Jaerielle-and now that you are chosen, you have always been so. The future loops back through itself, touching your soul and setting you apart from the beginning. You were here before, and now you are here again. This is your place-it is where you are, and where you cannot be otherwise. You were here on Tartarus three thousand years ago-and you watched yourself die then. Now you must be reborn.” Macha’s voice was rasping and low, as though she was struggling for enough air to give sound to her words.
Jaerielle peered uncertainly into the farseer’s fathomless eyes, uncomprehending but feeling the truth of her rambling words.
“Farseer, you cannot ask for anything that I do not willingly give,” he said, bowing his head even as he held Macha by her shoulders.
“It is already given, yet the souls of the Biel-Tan already sing with praise for the sacrifice that you are about to make. The blood of many foes stains our hands, and there will be more to come before this war is over. Your hands drip with the blood of the mon-keigh and the ancient daemons of this world, as though today’s battles and those of long ago were one and the same. Your soul cries out to Khaine, the Bloody-Handed God, and demands union with his substance, just as the souls of all those who have gone before you call out to you.”
“Yes, farseer, I can feel the truth of it,” replied Jaerielle, his own eyes burning with certainty and excitement.
“The other exarchs and the seers of the Court of Biel-Tan are calling for you, Jaerielle. I can feel the touch of their voices, icy with the depths of space. The shrine of the avatar is aching for you. You must go to them-you, who are the best and the worst of us all. You must go to them now, so that you may return to us in our time of greatest need-returning as the very incarnation of Khaine himself.”
Macha drew herself up onto her feet, supporting herself against the statue behind her. She held out one arm, pointing into the flagstones on the ground nearby. As she muttered some inaudible sounds, a translucent haze jetted out of her fingertips, pouring onto the stone tiles, where it pooled and shimmered.
“You must go. You must go now,” she said, as rockets fizzed overhead, blasting concussive waves across the plaza as they punched into the buildings on all sides. She staggered under the effort of concentration, struggling to keep the portal open amidst the gathering turmoil of battle.
Jaerielle hesitated for a moment, staring at the farseer, desperate for a last sign of guidance. But Macha would no longer look upon him. It was as though he were suddenly repulsive to her, as though he were already the bloody hand of a war-god, bent solely on death and destruction, utterly without balance. Searching her face, Jaerielle also saw fear flashing over her features-there was nothing so terrifying to the eldar as the loss of balance in one’s soul.
He walked slowly over the shimmering pool on the flagstones, following the stream of warp energy that poured out of the farseer’s hand. Looking down into the pool, he could see the distant throne room of Biel-Tan as though it were a rippling reflection. Arrayed throughout the great chamber were the exarchs of the other shrines, and the seers of the grand council. They were waiting for him-the most lost soul of all the Biel-Tan. They waited to sacrifice him to Khaine, so that he might be reborn as the god’s avatar.
“You are lost on the Path of the Warrior, Jaerielle of the Striking Scorpions-your soul is lost to you already. Now it belongs to all eldar. May Kaela Mensha Khaine find you worthy of becoming his avatar,” said Macha, sharing a brief, compassionate glance.
And with that, Jaerielle stepped onto the warp-pool, sinking into it as though it were water, and vanishing from the face of Tartarus.
C.S. Goto (ebook by Undead)
01 – Dawn of War