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The Reskard Purgation – Extract

A Black Library Publication

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THE RESKARD PURGATION

Jude Reid

Even before she sets foot into the camp, Celestian Superior Morvenn Vahl of the Order of the Argent Shroud knows that something is wrong – there is an unmistakable tension in the air that mingles with the smoke of the corpse-pyres and sets the bruised and blistered skin beneath her bloody armour prickling with unease. Canoness Ligaea is waiting for her on the open ground below the steps of the Argent Shroud’s command cathedrum, her polished battle plate and the drape of her ceremonial vestments a stark contrast to the tatters of Morvenn’s own.

‘My lady.’

The Canoness silences her with an upraised gauntlet. ‘They are waiting for you inside.’ She inclines her head to the cathedrum’s silver doors.

Morvenn shakes her head in the vain hope that the movement will clear her thoughts. ‘Forgive me, my lady. Who is waiting?’

Ligaea glares back at her. ‘The Ecclesiarchal delegation from Holy Terra.’

‘For me?’

‘For you, Celestian Superior. Attend to them. Immediately.’

Morvenn looks down at her filthy armour, at the clotted blood on her vestments, the bloody prints left by her sabatons in the broken earth beneath them. Whatever the delegation have come for, she is in no fit state to meet them. She draws a deep breath.

‘My Canoness. I have failed in the mission you gave me.’

The old warrior’s face might be carved from granite as she meets Morvenn’s gaze, not a trace of warmth in her voice or in her eyes. ‘I assumed as much.’

‘There are facts of which I should make you–’

The Canoness cuts her off, her voice sharp as a monoknife. ‘Now, Celestian Superior.’

‘As you command.’

The silver doors of the command cathedrum swing open before her, revealing the full splendour within. At some point during her absence, the grey stone walls have been hung with banners in silver, red and black, the crowned skull of her Order emblazoned with the fleur-de-lys of the Adepta Sororitas on ancient tapestries and altar cloths. The air is heavy with incense, the vaulted ceiling rustling with the fluttering of cherubim trailing parchment banners bearing inspirational verse. A trumpet-servitor blares off a fanfare as she crosses the threshold, its eyes hollow and dead above the brazen mouthpiece embedded in its flesh.

‘Hail to thee, Morvenn Vahl, Celestian Superior of the Argent Shroud!’ a man’s voice booms. The speaker is standing on the dais by the altar, the crimson of his mitre and vestments turned to fire by the light streaming through the stained glassaic window. A pair of priests stand beside him, one at each shoulder, each wearing a long scarlet cassock, one holding a chalice and the other a power sword of ancient design. The cathedrum is full of the faithful – crusaders lining the aisle, preachers and zealots filling the pews, even a choir of servitors awaiting the order to sing.

Whatever the Ecclesiarchy is here to do, it has come in force to do so.

The Ecclesiarch raises a hand, and a flurry of white doves rises into the air, their golden beaks opening to sing in a curious metallic harmony. A cherub with a golden skull in place of a face flutters skyward, and the trumpet-servitor blares out another peal of music. Morvenn stops at the foot of the steps, bows her head, and makes the aquila.

‘My lord.’

‘I bring glorious tidings from the High Lords of Holy Terra.’ The Ecclesiarch’s vox-amplified voice fills the cathedrum. ‘The long darkness that began when Abbess Sanctorum Sabrina was lost on pilgrimage to San Leor is at an end! A new day dawns for the Adepta Sororitas. A new leader has been chosen.’

The air has taken on an expectant hush. Morvenn’s entire body is aching, her broken ribs grating with every breath. Irritation flares in her. Why is he here? Why is it so important that she should know who has been chosen to lead the Adepta Sororitas right at this moment?

Realisation dawns a split second before he speaks.

‘To you falls the honour of service as Abbess Sanctorum of the Adepta Sororitas.’ He inclines his head in a stiff little bow. ‘You shall serve the God-Emperor in this highest of offices, the strong right arm of His Holy Ecclesiarchy, bearer of His will into the darkest of places.’

The cathedrum erupts in a roar of holy fervour. Words break through the wall of sound – ‘Praise be to the God-Emperor! Praise His chosen servant!’ – but the world seems suddenly distant. Blood rushes in Morvenn’s ears, the moment taking on a peculiar, surreal quality. She is to be Abbess Sanctorum. They have chosen her from amongst all possible Sisters, to sit as first among equals, beholden only to the Ecclesiarchy itself. Why her, and why now? What could she possibly have done to deserve this honour?

She waits until the sounds of celebration have subsided, then waits longer still, until the priest is staring at her expectantly.

‘Holy Sister, perhaps you did not hear…’ he begins.

‘I heard you, my lord.’ She chokes the words out. ‘You have my thanks.’

‘Very well then. Abbess Sanctorum, we must depart for Holy Terra wi–’

‘I have not yet given you my answer.’

‘You have not–’ An expression of astonishment crosses his face. He gives a frustrated shake of his head. ‘Well, give it then and have done with it.’

Morvenn forces herself to take a deep breath before answering. ‘A decision of such magnitude requires careful consideration.’ She glances over her shoulder. The Canoness is standing, framed in the doorway against Reskard’s burning sky. ‘I must go to the Shrine of Saint Silvana and pray for guidance.’

The Ecclesiarch puffs himself up like an affronted dove, all jutting chest and flapping, indignant mouth. ‘Celestian Vahl, perhaps you do not understand the magnitude of the honour you have been offered.’

Morvenn turns on him, and something in her expression makes him step back, his eyes widening in sudden fear. She keeps her voice very soft. ‘I have said I will think on this.’

The cardinal swallows, recovering his composure with visible effort. ‘Very well, Celestian Vahl, but be quick. The God-Emperor must not be kept waiting.’

She ignores him – ignores the stares of his retinue as she retraces her steps down the aisle; ignores the outraged whispers that turn from a rustle to a roar. The Canoness is glaring as she passes, her jaw set and her lips pursed in a bloodless line of fury, but Morvenn does not stop until she reaches the Shrine of Saint Silvana, a simple chamber of white marble where the battle’s dead lie in state. The cool serenity of the chapel washes over her as she walks inside. Saint Silvana stares down at her with immortal patience from the rose window, the last of the day’s light turning the sword in her hand to flame and bathing the shrouded corpses in its silver light. The doors close behind her, and then there is only the silence of the tomb.

‘Blessed saint, grant me your guidance.’

Morvenn removes her helmet, lays it at her feet, and kneels by the altar, her hands folded on the pommel of her sword.

‘What must I do?’

Before the mission from which she has just returned, she would have accepted the Ecclesiarch’s offer without hesitation.

But everything was different then.

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