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Paragon of Faith and Other Stories – Extract

A Black Library Publication

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Chapter One

A distant boom rattled the glassaic windows of the black stone cathedral. Standing upon the compound’s curtain wall, Sister Aenor studied the rising plume of smoke in the distance. Different from those of the manufactoria of this shrine world, which were constant narrow lines of light grey smoke, this one was thicker. Darker. A cloud of war.

She heard the familiar hydraulic hiss of heavy footsteps and turned to look inside the compound. The black-and-white helmed face of Sister Liis stared up at her, red eye-lenses glowing beneath an embossed golden fleur-de-lys. She stood at the foot of the cathedral’s rockcrete steps, a formidable sight in her Paragon Warsuit, its reactor humming loudly with anticipation. Almost twice the height of any man and three times as wide at the shoulders, the mighty walker was easy to wield in battle, despite its heavy plates of black ceramite armour and rigid frame, and incredibly strong. From its deadly skull-crushing sabatons and massive pauldrons, which bore the weight of heavy weapons with ease, to the blessed housing that nestled both the Sister’s helmed head and the warsuit’s machine spirit, it was an instrument of the God-Emperor’s wrath that few warriors of the Adepta Sororitas were blessed enough to employ.

‘Are we needed?’ Aenor asked her.

‘No,’ Liis projected through her helm’s hailer. She released the control handle for her right mech-arm, which wielded her massive war blade, then raised her helmplate. Dark hair framed the Sister’s face, highlighting the ragged scar that ran across the space where her eyes of flesh once sat. Staring back at Aenor now were two augmetics that glowed red, nestled in their metallic compartments. To be a Sister was to bear scars for the Emperor. An honour. Though Aenor still had her own eyes, she’d almost lost her nose in a prior battle. A thick scar now ran diagonally across her face from under her left eye, down to the right of her mouth, the tip of her nose fused back in place by thick, jagged tissue.

‘This is but a minor rebellion,’ Liis told her. ‘Palatine Dirix will deal with them swiftly.’

‘Yes,’ Aenor said, unable to hide the disappointment in her voice, ‘while we perform mere sentinel duty.’

Liis’ red augmetic eyes remained fixed on Aenor. ‘Perhaps we should go pick a fight with the locals? Shake out some heretic scum. It’ll give us something to do.’ A smile flashed at the corner of Liis’ mouth.

Aenor twitched a smile in return. ‘And have the Palatine lecture me on impatience, again? No. It’s my job to keep the warsuits in line and our orders are to guard the cathedral, so we must remain.’

Liis allowed a grin to break across her face. ‘I won’t tell if you don’t.’

Aenor chuckled and waved her off. ‘You’re a bad influence, Sister Liis.’

‘And I get worse when I’m bored.’ She lowered her helmplate, grabbed the control of her mech-arm again, then began to walk her warsuit away.

Aenor turned back to the dark grey smoke, where flashes of frag grenades now erupted, tarring the sky black. The breeze blew strands of white-blonde hair across her face, carrying with it the aroma of ash and fire and the sound of a beautiful hymnal, projected from the laud-hailer of her distant fighting sisters.

‘Paragon Superior?’ Noa’s voice sounded behind her.

Aenor turned to the young novitiate.

‘We are ready for you,’ Noa said, bowing her shaven head. She was dressed in her leather bodice, black vestments hanging from her waist, sewn with a white cross bearing a red heart at its centre: the icon of the Valorous Heart. She stood on the curtain wall, perfectly framed by the cathedral’s grand tower, where up on high, glassaic windows in the shape of the aquila beamed the light of a thousand candles. At barely eighteen Terran-standard years, Noa had tended Aenor for many months now, eager to one day join the ranks of the Sisters she served. She was slight of build, though her musculature was beginning to strengthen with age, and she was agile and quick to learn. Noa’s intense blue eyes seemed to observe everything, while her small ears hung on Aenor’s every word. Providing Noa lived long enough to see it happen, she could make a strong Sister one day. She was certainly faithful, and eager. Aenor had been the same, once. Ignorant to the many horrors of the galaxy.

Another boom sounded in the distance, and they both turned to see another plume of smoke begin to rise amid the muzzle flash of bolters.

‘Should we make haste?’ Noa asked, moving to stand beside her.

‘We should certainly make ourselves ready. Preparation is the key to winning a war.’

‘And are we at war?’ Noa asked, studying the commotion in the distance, snatches of barking bolter fire and screaming voices carried to them upon the breeze.

‘There is no peace amongst the stars, Noa. Only war.’

‘Even in a such a holy place as this?’

Aenor glanced at Noa, the novitiate seeking her wisdom, then looked back to the battle in the distance. ‘Carduus Ensis was born of war, don’t forget. A rebellion stirs here now because of the millennia of peace it has been blessed with. Peace breeds laziness, and rebels grow opportunistic. If we don’t stamp it out quickly, war will surely follow.’

Noa stared at her. ‘None shall taint the Cathedral of His Light while we stand watch.’

‘No. They shall not,’ Aenor said, studying her. ‘So long as you keep me armed, novitiate.’

Noa quickly bowed again and took a reverent step backwards. ‘I am your loyal servant, Paragon Superior.’

‘Then come. It is time.’

Aenor entered the cathedral’s armoury, into the blessed space where the machine spirit of her warsuit took rest. Backed into its U-shaped wooden platform, it was an empty vessel, compartments open, ready to receive her.

Two platforms stood beside her own. One was empty as Liis already bore her suit, while in the second platform stood Fio’s empty and closed warsuit, the Sister now resting after her long night watch. There were few differences between their warsuits, though primary among them was the placement of candles atop Aenor’s, either side of her encircled fleur-de-lys. The candles were a blessing bestowed upon her as Paragon Superior. The other main difference was the weapons each bore. Aenor’s and Liis’ suits wielded war blades, mag-locked to their right hands, while Fio’s bore a mace. Where Liis’ suit bore a heavy flamer on its left arm, Aenor’s and Fio’s suits carried heavy bolters. Built into their pauldron cavities were secondary weapons. Liis and Fio bore bolters there, while Aenor’s suit bore grenade launchers. And like every Sister in service to the Emperor, the addition of sacred parchments affixed to their armour was, of course, individual to each.

Upon seeing Aenor’s entrance, the two other novitiates dedicated to warsuit support, Helene and Eleanor, stood to attention.

The three novitiates bowed to Aenor and waited to commence the sacred ritual.

‘Let us begin,’ Aenor commanded.

She moved to stand before the platform’s steps, closed her eyes and whispered a prayer to the God-Emperor, while the three novitiates readied with candles, flame and incense. When Aenor’s prayer had been whispered, Noa brushed sacred ash along Aenor’s forehead in the pattern of the aquila.

‘May the God-Emperor bless the union,’ Aenor said.

‘The God-Emperor blesses this union,’ the novitiates replied.

‘May the machine spirit bless our union,’ Aenor said.

‘The machine spirit blesses your union,’ the novitiates replied.

They bowed as Aenor climbed the steps, bringing her before the mighty warsuit. She felt her body surging with adrenaline from being this close to it, from having been chosen to receive such a blessing. The warsuit had become an extension of her own body, much like her regular power armour. Being outside of it she felt naked, as though she stood outside of her own skin. Standing before the warsuit now, wearing most of her basic armour but no reactor backpack, she felt it especially so. Unfinished. Imperfect. She longed for the warsuit to complete her.

The black armour gave a dull shine in the lumens, radiating power and strength. She touched each of the purity seals, the sacred parchments affixed with wax to the armour. Reciting each benediction, she gave prayer for protection against the forces of heresy and evil, which the novitiates repeated in echo, rousing the machine spirit to her presence.

Once all the parchments had been touched and recited, Aenor turned her back to the warsuit cockpit, ready to become one with it.

Together with the novitiates, she began to recite the verses from The Passion of Saint Lucia. She stepped backwards into the legs of her warsuit, her boots nestling into the poleyn cavities, locking into its stirrups. With her feet in place, she nodded to the novitiates, who set about locking the suit’s cuisse armour around her legs, then arranged the sacred black vestments trailing from her waist to her warsuit’s calves, sprinkling the cloth with holy oils and kissing the icon of the Valorous Heart. Next, they secured the tasset around her hips and the pelvic guard, adorned with His golden skull.

With the lower half of her body now locked into the suit, the verses of The Passion of Saint Lucia continued as Aenor pressed her back against the bulky housing of the warsuit’s reactor, her head cradled beneath its ceramite pauldrons. The novitiates proceeded to seal the breastplate armour, adorned with a golden fleur-de-lys, across her torso, while Aenor threaded her armoured arms through their allotted openings. Next the novitiates sealed Aenor’s gorget around her throat and locked it into her breastplate.

Noa then passed Aenor her helm. She placed it over her head and brought it to life, confirming its subsystems were online: the photo-visor to aid her in various light conditions, the preysight to enable her thermal vision, the targeter to assist in locking her prey, and the comm-link to connect with her sisters and to wider channels.

‘Helm subsystems, functional,’ she confirmed, analysing the data display.

The novitiates then guided her gauntleted hands to the controls of her mech-arms, the last element to unify her with the sacred warsuit. Her fingers took hold of the control handles, clasping them tight as though holding the blessed hands of the Emperor Himself.

Silence fell.

Aenor whispered a final prayer to the God-Emperor, then said aloud, ‘It is time for the machine spirit to rise.’

She closed her eyes as the novitiates moved to the rear platform and placed two thick candles either side of the fleur-de-lys atop her warsuit. The candles were lit as the final verses of The Passion of Saint Lucia were spoken.

Another moment of silence filled the air before the small rear doors of the warsuit were opened. The novitiates ignited the reactor and Aenor felt the machine awaken with a hum that steadily climbed to a buzz, then a low growl, which vibrated along every fibre of her being. It felt as though the blood in her veins now rushed with fervour and passion – ready to serve Him.

She smiled. ‘Blessed be the machine spirit entwined with mine own.’

‘Blessed be the machine spirit entwined with thine own,’ the novitiates replied, then moved to stand on the platforms either side of the warsuit.

With the machine spirit fully awakened, Aenor gripped the hand controls tighter. With a hydraulic hiss, she raised her mech-arms. First her left arm, which bore the payload of the heavy bolter, then her right, which carried the war blade, its power field crackling with blue light. The blessed blade was of incredible size, even in the hands of her warsuit. It was as long as any human and could slice through rockcrete with ease. She eyed the sword’s hilt, adorned with a golden skull and the wings of the aquila, shining in the lumens. Next, she checked the readings on her helm. The war blade was fully charged and mag-locked, the blessed heavy bolter fully armed, as were the grenade launchers built into her hulking pauldrons.

‘I am one with the machine spirit of this blessed warsuit,’ she said, her muscles engorging with the blood of anticipation and her heart swelling with pride for the honour bestowed on her. ‘Together we shall cleanse the impure and bid vengeance in the God-Emperor’s name.’

‘Praise be to the Emperor,’ the novitiates replied, bowing. ‘And blessed be the Paragon Superior.’

Aenor left the armoury, praying that today she would be blessed with the opportunity to use her holy warsuit for more than mere sentinel duty.

Aenor stood outside the portcullis of the cathedral compound, awaiting word from Palatine Dirix and her squad, hoping she would be called into action. As the hours passed, however, she’d grown less hopeful. It appeared peace had been restored without need of her warsuit. It was a good outcome for the Imperium, but rather disappointing for herself. She hissed quietly at her own ego; heard the Palatine’s voice inside her mind, admonishing her.

Aenor scanned her surrounds, her vision tainted red through the helm’s targeter. Outside the portcullis a small market square took up the available space, filled with locals and pilgrims alike. Despite her boredom, she kept her eyes sharp for any signs of apostasy.

‘Another uneventful day, I take it?’ Fio’s voice called from behind.

Aenor turned to see her sister approaching in her warsuit.

‘Enjoy the rest while you can, sister,’ Aenor replied.

‘Oh, I do.’ Fio stopped beside her, the two warsuits gathering stares from the market crowd. Fio raised her helmplate. Her hideously scarred lower cheek gave the impression she was giving a grimacing smile, while her upper cheek sported a black fleur-de-lys tattoo. ‘Liis tells me the Mechanicus temple was attacked.’

‘It was.’

‘There’s no pattern,’ Fio thought aloud.

Aenor looked at her sister, her bald head already glistening with sweat from the confines of the warsuit, despite the machine spirit’s air systems.

‘A pattern to what?’ Aenor asked.

‘To the attacks,’ Fio responded. ‘So far they’ve hit military targets, the Sanguinary shrine, one of our own, and now a Mechanicus temple.’

‘Do not seek reason in the actions of heretics, sister,’ Aenor said.

Fio gave a throaty chuckle. ‘Apostate fools.’

Aenor smiled. ‘They are indeed fools if they think they can best the faith of the Valorous Heart. Or our stamina.’

‘Or our steel.’ Fio tapped her hallowed mace against the ground, its power field crackling blue as she did, drawing more stares from those traversing the market stalls.

Aenor smiled beneath her helm. She held out her war blade and Fio tapped her mace against it, causing a spark and buzz as the blue power fields impacted.

Fio looked as though she was about to say something further, before her eyes caught on something in the distance. ‘The Palatine returns.’

Aenor turned to see Dirix leading her regular squad through the market square. The seven Sisters parted the crowd merely with their presence, many locals and visitors pausing to bow in reverence to them, some tossing their sacred thistles at the Sisters’ feet in offering.

‘A battle well fought, Palatine?’ Aenor greeted her.

‘A mere skirmish,’ her craggy voice answered over the vox-channel. ‘We cleansed the roadways of the vermin rebels, but a handful managed to flee. Our work here is not yet done, but for now you and I have other matters to attend to.’

‘Indeed?’ Aenor asked, with a spark of anticipation.

‘General Waite pays a short visit to this fair city.’

‘General Waite? Of the Grendorff Grenadiers?’ Fio asked with surprise, her depth of knowledge and memory never ceasing to impress Aenor.

Dirix gave a nod. ‘Bishop Koebayth and the governor have requested our presence at their meeting.’

‘Why us?’ Aenor’s brow furrowed. ‘We are not ones for politicking.’

‘I said our presence was requested,’ Dirix said bluntly. ‘That does not mean they wish to hear our thoughts, Aenor. I suspect the governor wishes to make a strong impression on the famed general, and your warsuit will surely do that.’

‘I am for battle, not for show.’

‘We do this for the God-Emperor and the bishop, Paragon Superior. No one else,’ Dirix said firmly, then turned to Fio. ‘Keep patrol of His Light. Until these rebels are quashed we must not leave it unattended unless necessary.’ Dirix turned back to Aenor. ‘We leave shortly.’

Aenor stood in her warsuit by Palatine Dirix’s side, with a scattering of the shrine world’s politicians, lawmakers, faith leaders and other dignitaries, waiting for the general’s arrival and that of the governor himself. She towered above them all, constantly drawing their curious stares. They were gathered in the grand reception room of the governor’s opulent residence, which had high vaulted ceilings and large doorways. Despite the room being lit by many candles, the light was unable to reach the corners, and the darkness there felt symbolic. Mostly of Aenor’s mood at being forced to be present at this unbearable reception, but the darkness also reminded her of the rebels themselves. They’d been hiding in the shadows, undertaking surprise attacks, slowly encroaching upon His light in Carduus Prime. Needless to say, she kept close watch on the dark corners with her helm’s preysight.

Standing beside Aenor and the Palatine was the Emperor’s most holy servant on Carduus Ensis – Bishop Myhkael Koebayth. He was a blessed sight, draped in his red-and-gold robes, the official planetary colours. Around his waist were chains bearing sacred parchments, prayer beads and the skull icons of the God-Emperor, while around his neck, hanging from more chains and curving his back with its weight, was an aged, leather-bound sacred tome. In one hand he bore a staff adorned with skulls and flame, while the other remained listless by his side, weighted by his jewelled fingers. Upon his head sat a red velvet mitre bearing a golden skull. As a representative of the blessed Ecclesiarchy, it was the bishop’s life that both Aenor and the Palatine would give theirs for first.

An announcement was made by one of the governor’s local troops, a Carduus Corps soldier, then the grand doors opened and the famed General Waite entered with two of his colonels. Waite was a broad man with short grey hair, a neck of enmeshed scars, and arms which had both been replaced with sophisticated augmetics. As he neared, Aenor found it hard to tell where his pale blue irises ended and the whites of his eyes began.

‘General.’ Dirix stepped forward to meet him, giving a nod. Her unhelmed face was an extreme contradiction, with the left side a melted mess from enemy flame and the right side utterly untouched. Her hair, white with age, was severed at the jawline and brushed in such a way as to hide the unscarred side of her face. ‘I am Palatine Dirix,’ she told him. ‘Allow me to introduce you to Bishop Koebayth.’ Dirix motioned to him and stepped aside.

Waite moved towards the bishop, who held out his bejewelled fingers. The general took them in his augmetic hand and kissed the central jewel, before stepping back again.

‘Blessed be the Emperor’s light,’ Waite said, his voice coarse from years of barking orders on the Imperium’s battlefields.

‘It is an honour to have a hero such as yourself visit our fair city of Carduus Prime,’ Bishop Koebayth said. ‘The governor looks forward to making your acquaintance.’

‘It’s an honour to be in your presence, and that of the governor,’ Waite replied before motioning to the two soldiers with him. ‘Allow me to introduce Colonels Hardinge and Boyko. Two of my best commanders.’ Aenor eyed them carefully as the bishop held his hand out for their greeting. Hardinge was tall and lean with a sour face and yellowed hair, while the dark-haired Boyko was stocky and square-jawed with a broad nose that looked like it had been broken repeatedly.

Waite sized up Aenor’s warsuit then turned his eyes back to Dirix. ‘What brings you to these parts, Sister?’

‘Palatine,’ Aenor corrected him. Dirix shot her a glance.

‘Apologies.’ He gave a curt nod to Dirix. ‘I just thought you and your Paragon Warsuit would be better placed in the midst of battle than on a peaceful shrine world such as this.’

‘A small group of rebels are being a nuisance,’ Dirix told him. ‘We’ve destroyed most of them, and the few that remain shall suffer a similar fate.’

Waite nodded in understanding. ‘All worlds have their fair share of vermin to be exterminated.’

‘Indeed.’

Aenor noticed Colonel Boyko staring up at her curiously. She turned her helmed face to his.

‘I’ve not seen one of these devices before.’ He motioned to her warsuit.

‘You’re in luck, colonel,’ she responded. ‘We have three here in Carduus Prime.’

Another announcement was made and Senator Pieter Lored swept through the open doors. He was lean of frame and soft of skin. It was clear he’d spent a lifetime in the halls of the Administratum, but given his senatorship, Aenor doubted the man was weak of mind. He immediately headed for the famed general, like a moth to the flame. Dressed in his garish white robes, he clearly wanted to impress Waite. Bishop Koebayth set about the introductions, just as Senator Natasja Karol arrived.

Natasja made a grand entrance in a glorious red hooded robe, embellished with jewels and looking every bit a match for the bishop. Despite her already-imposing presence – she was tight of jaw and steely of eye – she was surrounded by several guards in visored helms, carrying autopistols. Dirix also noticed the armament.

‘We gather for dinner, senator. You look ready for war.’ She smiled.

‘Politicking is war, Palatine,’ Natasja replied, smiling back. ‘Besides, I’ll lower my protection when our shrines stop exploding.’

Aenor detected an accusation beneath her words, and Dirix must have, too, because Aenor saw her body tense slightly, bristling beneath her power armour.

‘We have nothing to fear,’ the bishop said confidently, displaying his yellowed teeth in a smile as his eyes darted to the general. ‘Not with the Carduus Corpsmen stationed throughout our shrine world, nor with the Valorous Heart at hand.’

‘Indeed.’ Natasja gave a nod, glancing up at Aenor’s warsuit, before turning back to the bishop for introductions with the general.

Finally Governor Roche graced them with his presence, his late arrival clearly a deliberate display of power. Dressed in robes hemmed with white fur and bejewelled shoes, his enormous belly pressed against the golden skull of his belt buckle. His brown hair was in coils, while a polished gold-rimmed monocle sat perched over his right eye. He arrived with such pomp and pageantry that Aenor had to fight herself not to walk out in disgust. She’d only met the governor twice since being deployed to Carduus Ensis, and he very much struck her as a man filled with vanity and possessed of grotesque wealth. However, as he was vehemently faithful to the God-Emperor, and as Carduus Ensis had grown to be such a sacred and holy site under his leadership, she chose to overlook his ego.

A dinner announcement was made and the governor took his place at a long table overstuffed with food and wine. He was flanked by the bishop and Waite, who in turn were flanked by the two senators, while Aenor and Dirix stood in the corner, helmed and watching. Aenor felt as though she were about to crush her own teeth with the tedium of it all.

‘We are His holy warriors,’ she said to Dirix over their vox-channel, ‘and yet we are forced to stand here for show like prized idols.’

‘Silence!’ Dirix hissed, helm fixed on the feasting table.

‘What brings you to our fair city of Carduus Prime, general?’ Pieter asked.

‘My visit is only brief. We are en route to war,’ the general said bluntly. ‘We’ve received word of a tyranid attack on Puris Vettan. I visit to provide the governor with an update this evening, then tomorrow at sunrise I shall give worship at the Eld Basilica, before leaving to rejoin my fleet en route to the battlefront.’

‘Do you fear the tyranids will reach this sector?’ Natasja asked, concern snaking through her voice.

‘There’s a chance, of course,’ Waite told her. ‘Carduus Ensis is next in line if Puris Vettan falls.’

Boyko leaned forward. ‘Don’t worry, we of the Grendorff Eighty-Seventh Infantry will do our job. You’ll never know the tyranids even existed.’

‘Praise be to the Grendorff Grenadiers,’ Pieter said, raising his goblet.

‘To the Grenadiers!’ Boyko and Hardinge said in tandem, raising their goblets also. Waite allowed himself a small smile at their loyalty.

‘Indeed,’ Governor Roche said, as he finished licking the grease from his fingers. ‘I sense, general, that you and your men are much like this shrine world. You have stood the test of time with faith and might, and you will never be broken.’ Roche smiled at him, lips slick with oil. ‘Carduus Ensis came from humble beginnings. Millennia ago it was a mere agri world, feeding the Emperor’s armies with its thistles. But when the forces of Chaos tried to dim His light, the saints of Carduus Ensis rose up and waged a bloody battle to ensure that it remained. Though the planet was near destroyed, we rebuilt Carduus Ensis into the most shrined world in the sector.’

‘So I’ve heard.’ General Waite nodded as the governor sipped his wine. ‘It is said for every saint the war created, there is a shrine, temple or basilica erected in their honour. So large and bloody was that battle, half of Carduus Ensis is now claimed as sacred soil.’

‘It is.’ The governor smiled, his teeth stained red from the wine. ‘And ever since, we have dwelled in peace.’

‘And long may it continue,’ Natasja said, raising her goblet.

‘Yes!’ Pieter raised his goblet also. ‘To General Waite, the Grendorff Grenadiers, and to the God-Emperor Himself!’

More goblets were lifted high and the room shouted with glee, while Aenor’s temper simmered with their insulting omission.

Aenor stood on the rooftop of the governor’s residence, lined with grotesques and blackened with the grit of time. She had withstood as much of the imbibed politicking and revelry below as she could, before requesting the Palatine’s permission to undertake a patrol. She knew Dirix had seen through the charade, but she’d allowed it all the same.

She stood now, helmplate open, studying the six docking spires set at intervals around the city. Each projected thousands of feet into the atmosphere, ships of all sizes tethered to them. Most were those which bore cargo and pilgrims, but among them she spotted General Waite’s majestic Claymore-class corvette, the Iron Storm, home to two thousand of the Grendorff Grenadiers’ finest. Aenor found herself envious of their honour, en route to a mighty war as they were. Here she was, a Paragon, and yet she’d been relegated to deal with a mere band of rebels on an otherwise peaceful shrine world.

She lowered her eyes to the large plaza situated before the governor’s residence. At this hour it was beginning to empty of pilgrims and shrine-worlders, as dusk had fallen sharply and the night surged forward. The city’s serfs were lighting the last of the floodlanterns around the plaza and along the roadways leading back to the Cathedral of His Light, which shone like a beacon of faith to all.

She studied the blessed structure in the distance, three times the size of any other planetary establishment, affixing her eyes to its main tower. Penetrating each of its four walls were the large glassaic aquilas filled with the glow of many candles. Dedicated cathedral serfs worked tirelessly to keep them forever aglow. Their duty was to not only shed light below into the cathedral’s sacred ossuary, where the saints rested, but to shine outwards to all as a sign of His omnipresence.

A flutter of wings nearby caught Aenor’s attention. She spotted a Carduus crone perched on the edge of the rooftop, its sharp claws digging into the rockcrete. The creature was as ugly as the grotesques around it. It stared at her a moment, black eyes and long beak glistening in the growing lumen-light below. It gave a hideous squawk, then it stretched its leathery wings and flew away towards the mountains to nest for the night.

‘Prefer the company of crones, I see,’ Dirix’s gravelly voice remarked behind her.

Aenor turned to see the Palatine approach, removing her helm.

‘The air is much less pungent up here, Palatine,’ Aenor replied as Dirix stopped beside her.

Dirix looked up at her. ‘The scent of politicking too strong for your delicate nose, is it?’

‘We both know my nose is far from delicate, Palatine,’ Aenor said with a smile. Dirix glanced at Aenor’s scarred appendage without humour.

‘You are a great warrior, Aenor,’ Dirix said, ‘but you have much to learn about leadership.’

‘I don’t lead the warsuits to your standard, Palatine?’

‘In battle, yes,’ Dirix said, ‘but leading our sisters is more than just physical might, Aenor. The might of your mind is of just as much import. Leadership is equal parts fighting the battle, strategy, and discipline.’

Aenor eyed the war-burned side of the Palatine’s face.

‘A warrior must have patience,’ Dirix said, ‘for war, and for her elevation through the ranks. That patience comes to us through discipline. The discipline to endure all hardships. And that includes the tedium of politicking, Aenor.’

Dirix looked down upon the plaza in thought. ‘War erupts on our planetary neighbour, while here in Carduus Ensis things grow unstable. Do you know what that means?’ Dirix looked back at her.

Aenor considered the question. ‘Darkness grows in this sector and we must be vigilant.’

‘Yes,’ Dirix said. ‘And vigilance takes patience. You pretend not to think, but I see you do.’ The Palatine moved closer to her. Though Aenor dwarfed her in the warsuit, the stare Dirix gave her managed to shrink her back down to size. ‘I have always seen that in you. That is why I chose you to join my mission. But I can see my favour, and my decision to raise you up the ranks so quickly, has spoiled you. I’ve enabled your impatience and your impertinence, but that will desist moving forward. Being a Sister is not just about physical battle, Aenor. The mental battlefield is just as tough. If you are to lead your sisters you must have full control over your mind. You must control your temptations, your frustrations – your impatience.’

‘If I am impatient it is because I have fought many battles by your side to earn my place in this warsuit, and yet I find myself unable to wield it.’

‘You will use the warsuit when I order it,’ Dirix said, eyes as cold as the ice moons of Cirisco.

A distant bell tolled and they turned towards the sound. It came not from the Cathedral of His Light, but well beyond it – the Gordana Progenium, named after Canoness Gordana of the Valorous Heart, who rested among the saints of Carduus Ensis. Gordana had fought long and hard during the war, had shed her blood to preserve His land, and sainthood had been her reward. Now, many pilgrims travelled to Carduus Prime to not only pay tribute to each of the saints, but also with a desire to earn a place in the revered Gordana Progenium and, God-Emperor willing, be recruited into the Sisters of Battle.

‘A sign,’ Dirix said, motioning in the direction of the tolling bell. ‘Saint Gordana speaks from beyond and calls time on this conversation.’ The Palatine moved to rehelm, but paused, looking back at Aenor. ‘I made you Paragon Superior, Aenor. Did I do so in error?’

Aenor felt a spike of shock, deeply hurt by the thought. ‘No, Palatine.’

‘Then obey my command and do not fail me.’ Dirix turned and began to walk away. ‘Come. We escort the bishop back to His Light.’

A Black Library Publication

‘Infernal Motives’, ‘Our Lady of the Voyage’, ‘Joy of the Martyr’, ‘Redemption Through Blood’ and ‘The Fires of Our Faith’ first published digitally in 2024.
This eBook edition published in 2025 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd, Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

Represented by: Games Workshop Limited – Irish branch, Unit 3, Lower Liffey Street, Dublin 1, D01 K199, Ireland.

Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.
Cover illustration by Betty Jiang.

Paragon of Faith and Other Stories © Copyright Games Workshop Limited 2025. Paragon of Faith and Other Stories, GW, Games Workshop, Black Library, The Horus Heresy, The Horus Heresy Eye logo, Space Marine, 40K, Warhammer, Warhammer 40,000, the ‘Aquila’ Double-headed Eagle logo, and all associated logos, illustrations, images, names, creatures, races, vehicles, locations, weapons, characters, and the distinctive likenesses thereof, are either ® or TM, and/or © Games Workshop Limited, variably registered around the world.
All Rights Reserved.

A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN: 978-1-83609-252-0

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

eBook license

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