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Forsaken – Extract

A Black Library Publication

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Forsaken

By Danie Ware

The great ship groaned.

She hung in the void like a thing dead: a steel shell, gutted and creaking. No life stirred upon her gantries or gunnery decks, no figures knelt within her silent chapel.

Her levels were dark, her lumens exhausted.

And yet, somewhere in her cavernous depths, there glimmered suitlights. Six shifting circles of pale visibility shone out like search beams, glittering from the frost-cold steel of the walls.

A squad of armoured warriors followed a walkway, single file. Though they walked slowly, their steps echoed in metallic ripples from the endless, empty mazes of corridors and conduits.

And with them, there came the faintest glimmer of song.

Domine, libra nos…

Holding her place in the centre of the line, both hands on her bolter, Augusta Santorus raised the Litany of Battle alongside her Sisters, their harmonics like tendrils, unfurling through the chill. Ahead of her, Sister Superior Veradis moved at the front of the exploring squad, her bolt pistol in one hand and her auspex, its screen shimmering a dull green, in the other.

From the lightning and the tempest…

The litany was familiar, steadying. It flowed like shared strength between the six figures, their blood-scarlet armour all ceramite and plasteel, their cloaks black and white. Each one bore the embroidered symbol of the Bloody Rose, the Order Militant of the Adepta Sororitas dispatched to scout this floating corpse. Their mission, to look for survivors – and to protect the interests of the Ecclesiarchy, to whom this ship belonged.

But, search though they might, the cruiser Santa Xenia hung silent, her carcass already rotting.

‘Keep the line tight.’ Veradis’ orders sounded quietly in the squad’s vox-beads. Amid the flow of the litany, the Sister Superior was listening.

Our Emperor, deliver us…

Behind Veradis, Augusta continued to sing, her voice weaving in with that of her Sisters. In the chapels and cathedrals of the schola on Ophelia VII, it was easy to perceive Him, standing stern and patient at prayer, or overseeing their combat training as they battled beneath His gaze.

But here–

The thought was unworthy and she silenced it, concentrating on the hymn.

From plague, temptation and war…

The litany was absolute: He was everywhere. As the squad moved down another metal stairway, past another layer of hatches and vents, so they raised His name, and His presence walked with them.

Our Emperor, deliver us…

Even here, down in the depths of this great, steel sepulchre.

‘I fear the spirit of this vessel is fading,’ Veradis said, her tone still quiet. ‘Yet the retention of her atmosphere and grav-field suggests that she may still be occupied. We will proceed along the lowest gantries, down towards the fusion reactor. If any spark of life remains, I suspect that is where we shall find it.’

‘Aye.’ The squad returned their obedience, and Augusta followed the line as it turned through a T-junction and began to move lower.

From the scourge of the Kraken…

But still, she kept the hymn in her heart.

The ambush was loud, and clumsy.

They had descended two more levels, right down to the creaking, filthy access paths of the Xenia’s lowest helots. Pict screens set into terminals fizzled with white noise. They cast ghostly illumination on rust-flowering walls, and upon their own half-loose wiring, hanging like exposed nerves.

Augusta’s red boot came down beside a fallen servo-skull. It grinned eyelessly back at her, mocking.

‘’Ware!’

The cry came from ahead, from Sister Leona. Instinctively, Augusta dropped to a combat-crouch, her bolter covering the corridor. In the narrow beams of the suitlights, she had an erratic, confused view of incoming motion: of muscle and steel; of bared, yellow fangs; of the eager, jagged glint of corroding augmetics. A second later, there came the thunderously red muzzle flash of Leona’s heavy bolter, opening to its full suppression. The noise was tremendous.

Over the vox, Veradis gave orders, her tone calm: ‘Leona, lay down covering fire, keep them back.’

‘Aye.’

Our Emperor, deliver us…

The bolter hammered its song of war. The shapes stumbled, cursed, bellowed, fell. Voices bawled, coarse and mocking. There was an answering return of fire, and the smashing of melee weapons against metal armour. Explosions chewed up the corridor and ricocheted, sparking, from the walls.

Water and refuse scattered under repeated impacts.

‘Emlyn!’ Veradis snapped. ‘Do you have contact?’

‘Aye!’ At the rear of the squad, Sister Emlyn’s response was drowned out by another burst of bolter-fire – the ambush was converging from both ends. Beside Augusta, Sister Lucienne spat a curse – in the turmoil and the bad light, it was almost impossible to see.

From the blasphemy of the Fallen…

The litany spilling from her like determination, Augusta came back upright, trying for a clear line of sight. Somewhere in the darkness, deep, tuneless voices launched into a squalid ditty, then scattered again, laughing.

Orks.

Augusta’s heart thumped in her chest.

Orks had found the floating ship – scavengers, perhaps. The seethe of muscle and weapon took on form and comprehension, became shapes she recognised. She’d never seen an ork in the flesh, but she’d studied their images on the schola’s data-slates many times… she’d just never realised how big they were, how slavering and coarse.

Her voice sang, furious and elated.

Our Emperor, deliver us!

They were xenos, invaders on an Ecclesiarchy ship.

And they would die.

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