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Our Lady of the Voyage – Extract

A Black Library Publication

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OUR LADY OF THE VOYAGE

Kate Flack

The ancient transport shook around Sister Wulfryth as it screamed through the outer atmosphere of Syphus XI. A veteran of many drops, she ignored the growing roar, focusing instead on the green hololith before her. Flickering in the coffin gloom, the shape coalesced into the face of a man, a Ministorum priest. Thin, sculptural, with a lone augmetic eye, this man had seen long service on the God-Emperor’s battlefields. Wulfryth’s jaw tightened as she memorised every aspect of her target.

‘Desertion, theft of a relic, possible defection… A long list of crimes, old man.’

The image continued to rotate even as the shuddering of the craft grew. Wulfryth dismissed the display and closed her eyes. Outside, the thickening atmosphere clawed at the craft, threatening to tear it apart, yet inside there was nothing but the sound of Wulfryth’s prayer of safe landing, calm and sure in the darkness.

A few minutes later, the transport landed. Steam flared around the Battle Sister as she emerged from the drop-ship, only to be snatched away by the freezing wind. She peered down her nose at the landing ground. It writhed with activity – servitors unloaded heavy cargoes as tech-priests scurried and fussed, blessing the landing craft’s systems with petrochemical chrism. Behind the noise and the bustle, off towards the front line, came the endless boom and thump of the huge artillery pieces belonging to the heretical Vortheeni forces.

Everywhere was a sea of slate-blue uniforms – the men and women of the 22nd Range-finders, a local regiment nicknamed the Bluejackets. They were a pale and thin lot, almost a full head shorter than the Battle Sister. She was tall and powerfully built, honed by decades of training within the Order of the Ebon Chalice. Her wargear gleamed with spotless perfection, an exemplar of the Order’s famed discipline.

Wulfryth strode from the landing site, taking in every detail of this new battlefield. It sprawled across a wide valley, miles of siegeworks cut through acres of frozen mud. To either side, snowbound mountains loomed. Ahead lay the dam-citadel of Vortheen. It squatted on the horizon, vast, dark, impenetrable. She stared at it for some moments, recalling her tactical briefing on the place. Somewhere in its chthonic depths were said to be power generators of some long-forgotten design. The Adeptus Mechanicus lusted for the citadel’s secrets, insisting the heretic stronghold be handled with care. And so, a lengthy siege was the order of the day.

Keen to report for duty, Wulfryth picked up her pace through the maze of siegeworks. As she followed the narrow passages, the thronging chatter of the landing site fell away, leaving only the sound of her ceramite boots on the duckboards and the ever-present boom of artillery. Except… the guns had fallen silent. Wulfryth stopped to listen. Something felt wrong. Instinctively, her hand crept to her aquila pendant.

There came a roar. An explosion.

A blast of warm air slammed into her, blinding her with dirt. Las-fire sounded from further along the trench, unreal, muffled to her stunned ears. She wiped the filth from her eyes and unslung her bolter. Her instincts kicked in and she ran towards battle. She rounded a corner and found herself blocked by Guardsmen spilling from a dugout. Some were half-dressed, others confused. Only one had his wits about him, a sergeant in a dirty greatcoat. She skidded to a halt in front of him.

‘Report!’

His blue eyes blazed with insolence as he met her gaze. ‘Around that corner are a dozen sappers and a breaching party of Vortheeni. Throne knows how, but they’ve tunnelled right into our trench. They’re here for the munitions crypt. In five minutes they’ll be through the door and setting charges. If it blows, every soul from here to the mountains is paste.’

Wulfryth glanced quickly over the men before pronouncing her plan.

‘I shall lead the attack. Fall in with me.’

She turned to leave. The sergeant caught her arm.

‘No. The lads aren’t armoured like you. Against a scatter gun they’ll be meat in seconds.’

Wulfryth stopped and glared down at his filthy paw on her immaculate armour. He at least had the sense to let go. She swallowed the urge to backhand the man and spat a reply.

‘Then their deaths will serve the God-Emperor.’

‘We’re not here to die. We’re here to win.’

Wulfryth’s fist tightened, but her control held. She glanced again at the men, formulating a different tactic.

‘I will draw fire. Take your men up and out of the trench. Form a killing line and shoot the sappers from above.’

‘Alone?’

‘One Battle Sister is more than enough.’

Wulfryth held his gaze, daring him to disagree. After a moment, he nodded and turned to his men.

‘All right, lads, you heard the Sister. Get ready to go up an’ over!’

Path cleared, mission set, Wulfryth advanced. The bolter in her hand felt heavy and powerful, a rock of surety. She reached the corner and held a moment, silent prayer on her lips. The battle thrill rose within her, driving her heartbeat, filling her limbs with strength. Prayer done, she went to work.

A quick glance around the corner. Angled trench. End blocked by heretics. The enemy were strangely geared, equipped with long breaching shields and lobster-back plate. Good against las-fire, near useless versus a bolt-round. Her lips split in a savage smile. They were not expecting Sisters of Battle.

Stepping out, she fired her bolter, aiming low. The rounds exploded, shredding feet and legs to ribbons of meat. The first rank fell in writhing ruin. The second rank screamed and opened fire, scatter guns blasting a wide arc of buckshot. Some scythed her cheek, yet she did not care. Wulfryth’s bolter answered with a roar of its own. Heretics flew backwards, shields and bodies a punctured mess. She quickly stepped over them to the end of the trench. Hugging the corner for cover, she risked a glance ahead.

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