The Divine Rite: A Warhammer 40,000 Fanfiction

Part 17

The Basilica Exsolutus reverberated around me with every step, every breath, every beat of my heart was echoed by the air, heavy with anticipation. I knew what was expected of me the same way I had known the true names of those who whispered in my ears once I was ready. So I faced north, my eyes traveling far from my body across the mountains and into the plains of ice that lay beyond. And I whispered to those who awaited my words.

“Mordred of the Nine, come to me.”

A mountain of muscle turned, clad only in a loincloth of hadryll leather. The man adorned himself with the hide of a super predator, a monster of nightmares that wandered the ice wastes, blurring into invisibility so perfect was its camouflage. He wore nothing else, his pale flesh showing no discomfort in the frigid climate. In his hand he gripped a bronze axe. The weapon was as cruel as the wielder, as brutal, for neither could afford weakness in that land. I knew then that there was a lesson here, something to be learned from Mordred, as there was from all of the nine.

Many were the places in the galaxy that had no room for mercy. This was the face of but one.

“Katherine of the Nine, I come.” he growled, suiting action to words as I already knew was his custom. He bounded south in long, loping strides, untiring and implacable.

The Ravenous Blade was on his way.

To the Northeast I called. “Jakera of the Nine, come to me.”

My eyes were carried over the ice wastes and into the chill desert lands I’d heard of only in legend. The cold mountains turned dry and rocky as they meandered here, a barrier north of the sands that held back the rain they thirsted for. I found my gaze settling upon a beautiful woman, her features sharp as a blade, her eyes sharper. Jakera smiled in a pleased but unpleasant fashion, this dangerous woman finding humor in the cruelty of the galaxy. She had to, for her dwelling lay in the shadows beneath a city of sandstone, a warren of poverty and crime.

Sometimes black humor was the only way to keep from breaking apart.

“Katherine of the Nine, I come.” she declared, fingers twitching hungrily. And she strode into the darkness, elegant and certain, for she was the Shifting Glass.

My eyes wandered south into the desert proper, following the dunes until they blazed with heat as intense as the cold clinging to their northern cousins. Here the inhabitants were bundled up to protect them from the sun, not from the frost, the hardy folk mirroring each other though they were from far different climes. It was a place born of silence, where wasted words were discouraged. “Veros of the Nine, come to me.” I breathed, barely willing to speak, to break that sacred quiet.

A robed and cowled man, features entirely hidden, turned, and the shadows turned with him. They coiled about his towering, slim form in a way both comforting and threatening. Educated eyes stared back, and I sensed a smile upon his lips. A cultured voice, both comforting and containing unspoken threat, replied. “Katherine of the Nine, I come.” and he flowed across the sands as a snake slithered through grass. Not all work could be done in the light of day, and one who called the shadows home would never be without shelter.

Southeast, into lands shrouded in humidity, choked with jungle growth. “Laena of the Nine, come to me.”

A woman as impermanent and changing as the mist laughed delightedly, her eyes dancing with joy. Hers was a countenance that was marred only by humor, the corners of eyes and mouth crinkled with it. All else was flawless. Those eyes changed from the deep green of the jungle to the warm brown of the plains as she returned my gaze. “Katherine of the Nine, I come.” she purred, slinking out of her pillow bedecked chamber. It did not do to take the fleeting, rare moments of bliss for granted, and let them slip through your fingers. Here was a woman who revelled in what luxuries she could find.

South, beyond my home, to the isolated islands adrift in an uncaring ocean. “Pael of the Nine, come to me.”

A statuesque man, not rippling with muscle, but cut cleanly from onyx and brought to life, turned in reply. He stood, legs unfolding, arms going to rest at his sides. He wore clothing of grass and leaf, hide and bark, and his eyes were as soothing as the sea. Alone on his island, here in an archipelago torn by war, he had found peace. He was peace. For when the world burned around you, sometimes the only thing to do was ensure your own mind did not catch fire. “Katherine of the Nine, I come.” And so the Sandstar did.

Southwest, to towering palaces of marble, to decadent robes of white silk. “Kaeliss of the Nine, come to me.”

A woman turned slightly, peering over her shoulder as she reclined on her divan. A dozen servants surrounded her, grapes in hand, other delicacies held at the ready. The cushions were plump, embroidered with gold, and the divan itself was crusted with precious metals and jewels. And yet surrounded by luxury, I could sense that this woman despised it. The softness, the ease, in all her life she had never been truly challenged. And so it was with desperate yearning that she stepped delicately from her repose, crowned head inclining ever so slightly. “Katherine of the Nine, I come.” she promised, the shackles binding her wrought of gold, but shackles all the same.

West, not to another ocean, but a great sea that rivaled them. “Boestro of the Nine, come to me.”

A great man, not tall, but broad as several of his crew, turned curiously. A frown hid behind his bushy beard. One hand rested on a cutlass at his waist. Around his wrist slithered a Hsrish, an insect known for a venomous sting and aggressive nature. Yet it was tame as could be, loyalty to the man it called master imprinted on its very core. Here was a man who commanded those to follow not out of duty or fear, but out of devotion, for here was a man who got his hands as dirty, as bloody, as any of his fellows. “Katherine of the Nine, I come!” he bellowed, the crew of his ship startling at the sudden, sourceless declaration. And the ship came about.

Northwest, to the coast of that frozen northland, where neither mountains nor plains held sway. Here the land was ruled by rocky crags, but icy outcrops, broken as a dropped mirror. “Narissa of the Nine, come to me.”

The gracknyl came to a stop, clawed feet sliding across the ice, churning it up. The monstrosity stood fifteen feet tall at the shoulder, the four legs supporting it each thicker than a man. It’s lashing tail was knotted with calloused bumps hard as bone, and the immense head was nearly all fang filled mouth, large enough to gulp down humans in single bites. Or rip them in half with one chomp. Yet it whined in concern, the rider suddenly distracted for a reason it could not discern. Those who could warm the most savage of hearts would forever be in the presence of ferocious allies. The fur clad warrior, bronze tipped whip coiled at her hip, bronze sword upon her back, peered back from beneath her hood, and grinned. “Ah sister, at last, I come.”

And I stepped back from the altar, the rest of the Nine on their way. I did not know how they would find me, or how long they had waited. It didn’t matter. Find me they would, as I had found the Basilica. As I had found the Chaos Gods. And I turned to the new temple, to the sleeping chapels I had awoken, and I smiled. Soon I would have company. I needed to prepare.