Art by Chase Toole
The Warden of the Void kicked rocks the size of Ork heads out of his way as he approached where his commander sat. The walls and the streets around him bore scorch marks from repeated jump insertions and teleport flares, like someone had taken a flamer to the entire city square.
One of the jump marines might have had a flamer, he thought. He didn’t exactly get much chance to use it.
He found Kallor Veyran, the Oathbound Serpent, sitting on the ground with his back against the smoking remains of an upside-down turquoise Rhino. His face was streaked with soot and blood welled from a gash on his forehead. He was holding something in his hands, staring at it; the Warden couldn’t tell what.
“A token,” the Warden said, tossing the folded cloth in his hands at Veyran’s feet.
Veyran threw whatever was in his hands towards the Warden. “Likewise.”
The Warden caught it in mid-arc with an unusual metallic clang. He held it up, studied it for a moment, an odd cross between a trident and a fork, about 25 centimeters, blades long and thick and sharp. After a moment his eyes opened wide in a combination of surprise and respect.
“Shrike?” he said.
Veyran nodded. “Shrike.”
“Dead?”
“No such luck,” Veyran said. “Did manage to send some very old Raven Guard to meet their father, though.” He reached forward to pick up the token the Warden had brought him. It was some sort of rolled fabric; as he unwound it he squinted at the markings on it. Not to see it better – he certainly didn’t need any help – but to focus his attention like a scientist studying a specimen. The fabric was lush and red, something worked over by artisans, with repeated script in gold filigree.
He looked up. “The writing. Chogoran?”
The Warden tilted his head a fraction and shrugged as much as power armor would allow. Maybe.
“You,” Veyran said, clearly not believing any of this, “killed Aethon Shaan.”
“Well, no.” The Warden grimaced. “Between Night’s Terror and the Shatterwing we hit him with more lightning claw strikes than I would have thought possible in one fight.” He spat. “Nothing could get through. Like trying to kill smoke.”
“That’s what the Inquisition says about us,” Veyran said.
“It must be frustrating.”
Veyran held up the cloth. “At least you managed to relieve him of his most dangerous…” He glared at it. “Pennant.”
The Warden shifted his position and opened his mouth, ready to argue the point. Veyran held up his hand to forestall him: not now. “Just tell me – “
“The Veil-Speaker?” He actually grinned. He made a show of carefully considering his next words. “He… fell. Heroically. Enemies on all sides. Fighting to the last.”
“Shame,” Veyran said.
“Isn’t it?” He reached a hand down to his commander, pulling him to his feet.
Veyran surveyed the smoking ruin of the city. “Not a total loss, then.”
The Warden made a face of mock surprise. “Is it ever?”