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The Nature Of Prayer – Extract

A Black Library Publication

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The Nature Of Prayer

Danie Ware

The voice is quiet, a ghost-whisper in electro-candlelight.

‘–geant Delgardo, Ninth Catachan, Thunderrock Mine, Carngamal. Emergency protocol alpha-delta-beta-one-point-seven-niner, requesting evacuation, anticipate hostiles. This is Sergeant Delgardo…’

It’s the faint crackle of a recorded vox-cast, repeating over and over, and it brings the Sisters, wary, from their prayers.

‘Did you hear…?’

It’s a shiver down their backs, a call across the void. In the Chamber of Reflection, high above the oculus deck of the frigate Shield of Jenia, the four of them look at one another. They are leaderless, now, on their return to the Convent Sanctorum, their Sister Superior having given her life in sacred martyrdom, defying the horror of the Enslaver on Saadet. Sister Augusta, her heart still pounding from the power and holiness of Veradis’ death hymn, stares from one face to the next. Emlyn, dark and fierce; Leona, lined and serious; and Lucienne, Augusta’s closest companion.

‘…Delgardo, Ninth Catachan, Thunderrock Mine, Carngamal…’

Hissing and distant, it comes from the servo-skull that sits at the chamber door. Empty black sockets stare at the small altar and the statue of Saint Celestine, the Ardent Blade in her hand. Augusta has no idea how the broadcast has managed to reach the ship, let alone the chamber itself.

‘…requesting evacuation, anticipate hostiles…’

‘It is surely a trick of the enemy,’ Lucienne mutters.

Emlyn, the oldest of them, says, ‘No foe would know that protocol number. We must fulfil our mission. Our Sister Superior gave her life to retrieve the Coffin of Saint Myra, and we must return it to the convent, and to the canoness.’

‘But Carngamal is close,’ Augusta challenges. ‘Within two days. And I… Truly, Sisters, I would welcome the combat.’ There is a smoulder in her voice – rage and loss – that she does not attempt to suppress.

‘I also,’ Leona says quietly. She has a new heavy bolter, requisitioned from the ship’s store, now lying at Saint Celestine’s feet, seeking the God-Emperor’s blessing. It lacks the engraved prayers of its predecessor, which gave its life with the Sister Superior. ‘And Veradis, blessed be her memory–’

‘Would surely not suffer the foe to live,’ Augusta finishes. ‘We owe it to her, Sisters, to her sacrifice.’

And Emperor be with me, for I need to release my grief.

I need to fight.

Bless us, O Emperor. Bless us with your light.

Across the chamber, Sergeant Delgardo’s voice continues, a phantom in the tiny room’s quiet. Beneath it, the ship’s engines rumble, a deep and harmonious vibration. After a moment, Emlyn gives a nod and stands, her scarlet ceramite clattering.

‘Very well,’ she says. ‘I hear you, and I concur. You must know, my Sisters, that I feel as you do. I do not comprehend how this message has reached us, but its timing is surely His will. Take up your weapons, and we will find this sergeant.’

At Thunderrock Point, the lightless landing pad is deserted. Comms from their shuttle receive no answer, and the Arvus slows carefully as it comes in. In the glare of its lumens, the ceaseless, pounding rain shines like silver.

Augusta prays aloud. ‘While I may walk worlds of darkness and terror, there you shall walk with me. I shall know no doubts, no fears, in your name.’

The vehicle hovers. The ramp’s hydraulics hiss and rainwater comes pelting through the gap. As the first flecks hit her visor, she stifles an odd, visceral shiver.

‘Jump!’ Emlyn orders, and the four of them are out in a moment, landing smoothly and forming an immediate compass defence. The hangar’s doors do not close and the rain pelts harder than ever, but the shuttle lifts and turns, illuminating every corner…

Nothing.

The whole place is silent as a cemetery.

Whatever Delgardo’s hostiles may be, they are not here.

Wet robes flapping, the Sisters still wait for a full five seconds, auspex and weapons ready, but it is Augusta who sees them first.

Bodies.

‘Pilot! Ready about!’ She barks the command and the shuttle swings round – a tight and noisy manoeuvre in the small space. Convection winds blast soggy debris, but the Sisters hold their footing. Their gazes follow the white blaze of the vehicle’s lights.

And there, close to the hangar wall, a crashed Aquila, lying on its side. Its jungle-camo paint is wind-scoured and there’s a tumble of bodies about it, some of them badly burned. The closest is that of a big, muscular figure, stripped down to a vest and fatigue-green trousers. It lies face down, two pips tattooed on its shoulder. Beside it, another carries a full-backpack vox-array with a single still-blinking light.

As Leona kicks the officer over, heavy bolter at the ready, Augusta sees that under his red bandana the man’s face is gone, eaten away, as is most of his chest. One arm ends in a stump and there’s a huge wound across the other – made by some massive claw or blade. His vox-operator is slimmer, though not by much, the bead still in his ear.

The bodies are washed clean but heavily decayed, and the sight is gruesome.

‘We are too late,’ Lucienne says softly.

But Augusta, head turning, catches sight of something else – a curve of shining black that reflects the shuttle’s lights. ‘Pilot, increase lumens to maximum.’

A glare of white brings the corner to full brightness, and she backs up with a sharp curse, bolter trained on the gleam.

‘Weapons!’ Leona says.

The order is reflexive, and unnecessary. Bolter gripped hard in her hands, Augusta can see more clearly now, and realises that the shine is not just a single creature – it’s a pile. A rotting heap of things – dead things, things with chitinous bodies and claws, things with sharp teeth bared in final, horrific grimaces. All show multiple laser wounds, testimony to some stubborn, final stand.

‘By holy Dominica herself.’ Emlyn’s voice is rough. She looks about them, her helm turning facelessly. ‘Tyranids.’

Stand with us, O Emperor!

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A Black Library Publication

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