Book Three: The Heart of Yang Xiao Long

Chapter 105: The Witch and Her Fortress

"There are no words for it but 'furnace'." - Artisan Inferiosa Ohma Polendina

Cadia burned. Weiss did not need to look out the window of her Aquila lander to confirm that. As it broke through the war-smog that shrouded humanity's greatest fortress, she forced herself to bear witness anyway.

Weiss had seen Holy Terra. Weiss had seen daemons, fought them, banished them - the Warp-soaked nightmares that once assaulted her, revealing vistas of glistening, unreal horror.

None of it could have prepared her.

There was a gaping hole in her witchsight, a black abyss in the unseen fabric of non-reality, silent, all-consuming. It lorded over the fortress world like the Blood God on his brazen Throne, but it showed no preference to Imperial or heretic dead. It simply hungered. An invisible rent that devoured the souls of the countless dead.

The scale of the battle was tearing apart reality itself, although invisible to the blunt and unattuned. They felt it though, a crushing misery that suffocated the entire subsector. Here, prayers to the Emperor thundered in the billions, their ultimate efficacy left uncertain.

Behind the skull-face of her ceramite helm, Weiss closed her eyes, sucked in a deep breath. Then she forced herself to look.

Cadia was a psyker-nightmare made reality. Kasrs burnt, reduced to piles of ruined bunkers. The endless kilometers of fortworks they once stood watch over were overrun with blood and bodies, the corpse piles and mass graves large enough to see from low orbit. Broken shrines to the Dark Gods littered the killing fields, surrounded by artillery craters and burning heretics, each one destroyed soon after it was erected. But Weiss knew there were countless others still standing, unassailable by the exhausted, overstretched defenders.

Colossal black scores of burnt sand and rockcrete had been carved across the land, as if a great daemon had grasped the world with its talons and scraped them along its continents. Craters did not dot Cadia's surface - they were the surface, an endless tapestry of impact sites and detonations. Not even the most airless, asteroid-besieged moon boasted such a scarred and broken face.

Bombardments, Weiss knew. The Imperial Navy had bravely held, breaking Abaddon's fleet at great cost, allowing them to provide limited support to what remained of the Lord Castellan's planetside defense force.

Even with uncontested control of the skies, they could not cut the Black Crusade's supply lines. Streams of reinforcements and bloodthirsty daemons poured out from rents in reality across the surface of Cadia, and without the means to reach the Warp Gates and cleanse them, they would stay open.

Hungering.

Something is wrong, the fragment of Ohma pulsed from her place in Weiss' neckslot. The pylons should have prevented this.

Weiss acknowledged her, but did not reply. Her mind still roiled, and sharing headspace with an STC - or at least, a fraction of a fraction of one - was still a foreign concept. Their arrangement would be a great boon in the months to come, but the specifics of how it would function were still undefined.

Uncomfortable, Weiss admitted.

Although miniscule in comparison to the great annihilations shown to her by Ohma, Cadia was different. It was no vision - it was here. Weiss would have preferred the Men of Iron to break the fortress world apart rather than see such suffering languished upon its surface.

Her hand tightened around Myrtenaster.

One day, no matter the cost… even if the Imperium should burn, Abaddon will die a long death.

Amongst such slaughter, would Corruption's End even make a dent? In terms of pure numbers, the answer was 'no'. A few million extra bodies was a single drop of blood flung into the grinding, planet-spanning ocean of screaming blades that was Cadia.

Weiss grasped for her relic, and found her hand empty. She nodded. It was where it needed to be.

And this is where I need to be. No matter how horrifying.

Ohma hummed in concurrence, a stirring of machine spirits. A bizarre and alien sensation.

"Touchdown in five," Chung called. His voice was dry and uneven. Typically when he weaved through a maelstrom of flak guns and AA missiles, he was unshakeable, smirking. Now, despite the clear skies, he longer maintained the illusion of perfect control.

Weiss knew the remnants of the Lord Castellan's general staff would appreciate her help, but for the sake of the defense - and the Imperium as a whole - she must use Corruption's End as a dagger. A small dagger compared to the enormity of the Cadian defense, but an elite force nonetheless. United by their achievement of defeating Josephus. Of finding Ohma.

Their love for Yang.

And you, Ohma reminded her.

Perhaps, Weiss allowed.

Ira's death taught her what happened when she took too much upon herself. Yang was right - for the foreseeable future, there would be no 'Saving the Imperium', no more Hallowed Inquisitor, no more of Ozpin's lies.

Here, there was only Abaddon. A foe to be turned aside. A blade at the Imperium's throat that would be blunted with blood and faith.

Chung set the lander down, the doors creaking open to blast the compartment with the scent of total war - blood, burnt metal, rust, ozone, promethium, cordite, unguent. Not even Uriel turned Weiss' stomach so cruelly.

Stepping onto the landing pad, Inquisitor Weiss Schnee once more stood upon the reinforced walls of Kasr Kraf, the sheer, towering battlements that safeguarded Cadia's capital and military headquarters. Below her stood the fortress-hive of Kraf, seven concentric terraces bristling with bunkers, batteries, and defenses, its streets a snarled tangle of rockcrete fortifications, defilades, tunnels, and enfilade routes.

Each layer teemed with activity. Entire army groups drilled on marching grounds, while dozens of tank platoons rolled out every second from the blackened, smog-blanketed forge districts. Armies - millions upon millions of souls - marched out from the lowermost gates in a neverending tide of steel and muscle, bound for the frontlines. Transports, supply haulers, and fliers by the hundreds swarmed about, enough to cover the entire hive in flickering shadows like dappled shade.

Decades ago, Weiss beheld Kasr Kraf and felt certain that Cadia would stand tall forever. Twenty years on, and she was a different woman.

A wall of jetwash sent her duster snapping as Serviceman Castellano landed, the doors shunting open to reveal her personal guard. Her kasrkin. Although they had adjusted their armor to bear the sigils of their respective kasrs, they still clad themselves in the Lady Highest's regalia, each pair of purple eyes hidden behind a grimm-mask.

Weiss allowed herself a single tremble of her lip before assuming her place at the head of her party. Darron and Chera saluted, a gesture she returned. Amidst the apocalyptic din of psychic noise born from the defense of Cadia, their pride and relief to finally be standing upon the surface of their homeworld shone as bright as Yang.

There were no words shared. None were needed.

They began their approach into Kasr Kraf, their marching order in perfect lockstep. They were changed men and women since they had left Cadia all those decades ago, but not even knowledge of Remnant could pry their heritage from them.

Above them, a swarm of red-robed ants labored over the great 'Two-and-Twenty' artillery batteries, so named for their two thousand tonne mass and the twenty thousand pound shells they fired. It had taken centuries just to reinforce the colossal flak towers upon which the guns rested, never mind repairing the ammunition feeding systems and barrel-exchange pylons.

Along the walls, crenellations, and reaching suspension bridges that linked together the towering spire-bunkers, regiments of cadians stood guard, most bearing the livery of the whiteshields - adolescents just beginning active service to their homeworld.

Kasr Kraf stood as ready as it could. Weiss prayed it was enough.

Her party entered the first gatehouse to the Kasr, under a three-story portcullis rife with murder holes and firing slits. The walls - thirty meter thick rockcrete - were a similar story, bearing row after row of metal studs, each concealing heavy bolters and flamers. Enough to stop a company of traitor marines.

As they approached the rear gate, a captain stopped them, reviewed their credentials. When Weiss flashed her rosette, the captain doffed her beret and bowed.

"The High Command is expecting you, Lady," she said.

"Thank you," Weiss replied.

Millenia-old gears screamed into action, and the gates parted a single meter. The Inquisitorial party filtered through, following their Lady. With each step, she felt a renewal of purpose, a fist of conviction steeling her hearts. The gaping abyss that shrouded Cadia seemed distant here, the Empyrean itself cowed by the grim, resolute defenders and their greatest fortress. Weiss knew it was only a temporary relief, but it was welcome regardless.

I am beginning to suspect why I am here, she mused.

They need you. Ohma pulsed.

Us, Weiss corrected.

Ohma did not reply.

It took another ten minutes of silent marching before the party was admitted into the heart of Kasr Kraf, enclosed on all sides by steel and rockcrete. Escorted to an elevator by a platoon of Kasrkin, they performed a perfunctory security check. They seemed to treat their masked elders with something that looked like reverence, but it was difficult to be certain behind their stolid faces.

With a grinding screech of metal and steel cable, the elevator plummeted, sucking the wind from Weiss' lungs. Red lights flickered on as the lift plunged into the depths of the kasr's fortworks. Once more, her hand sought the relic she no longer carried.

She stopped herself, leather gloves creaking as her fist tightened. Now, her faith alone would guard her soul. It shall be enough.

Yang, if you can hear me, intercede on my behalf. There was no response, but Weiss felt heard… as well as ridiculous, praying to one her oldest and truest friends.

Sparks filled the dimly lit shaft as the brakes began to scream. Seconds later, the elevator came to a halt, the reinforced doors shunting open to reveal the High Command of the Cadian Defense.

Weiss was instantly reminded of the Archives of Saint Totha, but even that great, bustling repository of knowledge paled in comparison to the sight before her.

Past the entrance hallway - attended by two Imperial Fists glowering at her behind their bloodred lenses - lay a great, swelling chamber, supported by four enormous statue-pillars depicting the Emperor, Sanguinius, Roboute Guilliman and Rogal Dorn. Their bases were surrounded by candles, purity seals, and votive offerings.

At their feet swarmed thousands upon thousands of officers, techpriests, and servitors. Comms officials attended towering cogitator banks, each spitting ream after ream of data. Even the walls were crammed with people, unsleeping techpriests synthesizing, processing, and directing the petabytes of data pounding through the machines. Servo-skulls were everywhere, hundreds of sanctified remains passing messages, recording data, delivering reports.

A chorus of a hundred Magi and their adjutants silently waged another sort of war, nestled into a pile of wires, cables, and cogitator screens that composed the western wall. Their instruments hummed and smoked as they battled heretek cyber-intrusions, belting out a constant stream of binary chants. Only a handful of the magi paid nominal respect to the human form - their apparent leader was little more than a bag of synth-grown organs suspended in a snarled mass of mechadendrites, cogitator parts, data pads, and a host of arcane instruments whose function Weiss could not begin to fathom.

A procession of techpriests silently marched before the chorus, washing their superiors with an incense-fog that billowed out from cog-shaped censers.

Do not fear, Ohma pulsed. In my current state, I cannot interface with their collective, nor can they detect me. I might be able to assist them eventually, but attempting to grant me access would create more problems than I could solve. Especially in this state of reduced capacity.

Understood, Weiss replied. She suspected that if a single member of the mechanicus suspected what thrummed in her neckslot, every single weapon in the entire command center would turn her and her kasrkin into cinders in less than a second.

That said, I pray you can assist them eventually. Weiss thought.

For now, Ohma replied, I am where I need to be.

The more they conversed, the quicker the replies came, the more natural it felt. After rifling through people's minds for decades, it felt strange sharing her thoughts with another so intimately. Strange, but... good strange as well.

I do not require access to your surface thoughts, Ohma noted. I can disable that feature, should you wish.

A matter for later, Weiss noted. A pulse of affirmation was her only reply. The Lady Highest and her party had been marching through central command for nearly three minutes, and they were still only halfway through the main chamber.

Cathedral is more like it, Wiess decided. A quick analysis gave her an estimate of nearly ten thousand souls in the chamber, a number that Ohma corroborated instantly with her own calculations. Neither could account for how many others labored in the innumerable chambers that existed beyond it, spinning off four enormous hallways.

One led to High Command, the innermost sanctum, the most important place in the entire Imperium after the Golden Throne. Weiss' destination.

This bunker was where the defense was organized. The brutal calculus, logistical work, strategic evaluations, they all happened here, as well as order distribution and coordination across millions of Regiments. Each officer represented a million men and women on the Tyrok Fields, at Kasrs Myral, Soliq, and Rantik.

Such was the press of bodies that it took them eight full minutes before they reached High Command. Another pair of Imperial Fists stood guard outside the massive blast-shielded doors, the laurel-wreath markings on their helmets denoting them as an elite honor guard.

They were perfectly still and silent, but Weiss could sense the pain that pulsed within them, the kind they had been trained to push to the deepest corner of their adamantium minds. They were walking wounded, all the Chapter could spare while on near-constant deployment.

"Brothers," she said.

"Lady," one returned, unmoving. The blast doors opened and Weiss entered, accompanied only by Darron and Chera. Their subordinates remained without.

The inner sanctum of High Command was smaller than she anticipated. It was thirty meters square, every inch bathed in a sickly green glow from a central holographic projector. Six magi hung from the ceiling, suspended by a bird's nest of wiring and cables which spilled out of their red robes like intestines, feeding the projector with constant, real-time updates. Eight esteemed Lord-Officers stood before it, assessing the situation, hands clasped behind their backs. Their uniforms were disheveled and loosely-worn, weighed down by responsibility and enough medals to up-armor a Leman Russ.

Towering above them all was Marius Amalrich, Marshal of the Black Templars, here to coordinate an operation with the Cruxis Crusade - the Black Templar fleet that served the Cadian Defense. His silent, glowering demeanor swallowed the room in a shroud of grim and terrible duty. He was over eight feet tall, his pale bald pate shining in the dim light, while a pair of orange eyes scowled out from a scarred, judgemental countenance. A stack of gilded martyrs' skulls protruded from his night-black power armor, itself covered in a gleaming white tabard that bore the sigil of the Black Templars.

"My Lords," Weiss said, offering them a curt bow.

"Such deference from a Lord Inquisitor," one of them rumbled. It was none other than Arcan Marius. "Captain," he added, nodding at Darron.

"Sir," Darron replied, snapping a clean salute.

"Lady Highest," another General added. Lord Marshal Attica. A tall and slim-faced man, a dark, mud-spattered cloak covered his resplendent uniform. Despite his rank and endless list of heroics, he wore only a single medal - the Aquila-in-Ebony, for valor under fire. "Your arrival is later than preferred," he said, his voice like crackling vox-static, "but welcome nonetheless. I heard your strike force slew Josephus the Corruptor, and secured an STC as well."

"You heard the truth," Weiss replied. "And now we are here to serve, with a new Saint as our Matron."

"So I heard," Amalrich said, his voice low enough to rattle loose machinery. When he turned to face Weiss, she could feel the room constricting. Ohma buzzed in her mind. "And the reason she is not with you presently?" He inquired.

"A pilgrimage to Holy Terra," Weiss explained, keeping her face as neutral as possible. Amalrich struck her as someone she needed firmly in her corner, and it took every lesson learned as an Inquisitor to present flawless confidence in the face of such scrutiny. "She plans to join us afterwards."

General Marius looked to his son briefly, who replied with a curt nod. "Very well," he said. "Although the Emperor would do well to hasten Her arrival. We are not Creed. Our defense is not sustainable." With a gesture, he invited Weiss to inspect the map of Cadia.

"Our recently-promoted comrade speaks the truth," Admiral Dostov supplied. "My fleet repelled Abaddon's as well as it could, at a hideous cost, but without our Lord Castellan's insight, our defense is stretched far too thin."

"Indeed," another General nodded, one Weiss didn't recognize. Much like Arcan, he was younger, only in his nineties. Another recent promotion. "Abaddon can no longer ferry reinforcements from the Eye of Terror, but I fear it is irrelevant."

"The pylons," Weiss declared.

Amalrich nodded. "Whatever their nature," he rumbled. "They must be reclaimed. Many Kasrs still stand simply because they are not pressed. Abaddon is hurling tens of millions of damned souls at the pylons still under Imperial control. His goal," the astartes noted, "could not be clearer."

"Without the pylons," Attica explained, "Cadia cannot stand. Every one that falls is another gap in our defense against the Eye. The stronger Abaddon's influence over reality. It is through damaging them that he reinforces and resupplies his armies. Lord Creed attempted to reclaim a dense cluster of them at the head of Army Group Macharius… but he was wounded. Then he vanished. It is due to Blackmane and his Chapter that the effort succeeded at all. Even then," he growled, "it is a temporary victory."

"I see," Weiss said. Ohma hummed, processing the information, recording, analyzing, and parsing every mote of data she could collect from Weiss' eyes. "Then Corruption's End stands ready to serve."

"The Cruxis Crusade has need of it," Amalrich said immediately. "Another attempt must be made to reclaim another pylon field near Thrasus' Clasp. Our scouts report that Abaddon's engineers are preparing to topple them next week."

"And we shall serve as a supporting element," Weiss supplied. The Black Templars would shatter the heretics, sow chaos and destruction. Corruption's End would hold the ground. Her fist tightened. Much like White Horses.

"Yes," Amalrich agreed.

Weiss, Ohma pulsed. Given the information presented, I believe there is an opportunity to maximize this assault's efficiency and chance of success. Behold.

Her neckport flashed white-hot before a packet of information exploded in Weiss' mind, an unfolding trickle of blue pixels shooting a shiver down her spine and a prickling sensation on her tongue. It swiftly became a battleplan, unfolding on her retinas like an organic HUD - perfectly readable, perfectly understood.

Weiss took a moment to devise how she would present the information to the generals - Ohma's analysis was excellent, but it must be argued for to be implemented. Zooming in on the map of Thrasus' Clasp - a plateau nestled between two vast mountain ranges - she presented the battleplan to the collected generals, who listened with taut jaws. The magi ran a few simulations, and a consensus was swiftly reached: valid.

"Astutely argued," Amalrich noted, brow furrowing. "And within our means."

"Many thanks, Marshal," Weiss replied. And my thanks to you, Ohma.

I am better suited to cyberwarfare, Ohma demurred. But I shall help however I can.

"A few more preparations will be made to support this offensive," Attica said, restoring the map to its default view. "In the meantime, we must make ready to strike. Every second is precious."

Weiss nodded. "We cannot simply wait in the kasrs for Abaddon to make his moves."

Amalrich made a noise of assent.

It was then that the Lady Highest noticed how tired the general staff was, their sunken countenances and the black bags under their eyes. Even Amalrich looked fatigued - something that was, as far as she was aware, impossible for astartes to feel.

Trillions-on-Trillions of lives hung on their shoulders, and now hers as well.

As Weiss departed the room to make ready for the assault, she knew it was only the first of many. But time was limited. Without Lord Castellan Creed, the Thirteenth Black Crusade had become a grinding, all-consuming stalemate, one balanced in the arch-fiend's favor. Without a decisive reversal, the Cadian Gate would be broken.

And Weiss knew that reversal would take the form of Yang.

Wherever you are, whatever awaits you on Terra, Weiss prayed, Yang, Holiness, I eagerly await our next meeting.

As she emerged from the fortress of Kasr Kraf, she realized she was smiling. Her kasrkin too, grinning behind their palewhite masks, finally at peace with their place in the Imperium, finally home.

For the first time in a long time, Weiss felt at peace too, her hearts beating steady and regular. Even as that black, avaricious void drank souls by the thousands, she knew she was where she needed to be. As jetwash from Chung's lander buffeted her, her grip tightened around Myrtenaster.

Ready, Ohma?

Ready.

A/N: Here we are again! Hope you all had a wonderful year. No excuses or blog-posting this time, and you already know the score. Life's busy, and I refuse to return to regular updates until I'm done. I did make some progress, but I will say this much - holding off on the return until the story is done-done continues to be the right call, especially at this stage.

There's been multiple times where I've decided to do big rewrites of entire chapters and change some developments along the way, months after writing them. If I'd been posting this story weekly, I would have turned this story into (even more of) a confusing clusterfuck, and you all have been extremely patient with me these many, many years - you deserve better!

Random, but it's funny that last year the update came out before Darktide dropped, and now we're poised to get another excellent 40k game - Rogue Trader! I loved Owlcat's last games, and I'm waiting for 1.0 to dig into this one.

Anyway, back to AWoBE - same deal as last year. Might finish it and start weekly updates sometime in 2024, or I might get slapped with the IRL stick again. I'd like to buck expectations this year, but we'll see.

Be advised - the next chapter is going to be very, VERY spicy.

Until then!