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Excited whispers spilt from the shadows, speaking over each other.
The Mistress will do it again.
We need more power.
Give us more souls.
Let us touch them, break them, drain their life force.
Feed us, Mistress; we are hungry.
‘Ready yourself; it is almost time,’ the androgynous voice of the Lord of Change spoke in Orlaana’s mind.
‘Yes, my Lord,’ her sing-song voice answered, drowning out the whispering condors. ‘I will not let you down.’
‘If you bring me my dues, you will be greatly recompensed. Bring me his blood!’
‘Yes, my Lord.’
Orlaana shuddered in excitement, causing the plumage on her head to spread into a colourful makeshift crown. An excited smile brightened her visage.
The sorceress remembered the success of the last scion of Tzeentch, who succeeded in the same quest she would attempt today. For his outstanding accomplishments, the sorcerer was granted eternal life. Orlaana wanted to be a perpetual so that she may serve the Lord of Change forever. She wished for people to know her name and quake in fear when they heard it. She basked in the power surrounding her.
He awaits, Mistress.
The hushed voice of the cyan condor pulled Orlaana from her reverie. Her sightless onyx eyes opened. As the third eye awakened on the sorceress’ brow, she could see the flying scions of Tzeentch and the plethora of phantom colour that trailed behind each bird. Ambling silently through the underground maze leading to her prey, she focused on her task.
Orlaana followed the cyan light as the din of battle became louder, and the condors’ whispered voices quieted. She revelled in the death cries on the battlefield. Her skin prickled with power as the sounds of chainswords and bolter fire decreased. Orlaana’s feathered crown lay flat as she pulled a hood over her head.
‘Now,’ spoke the voice of Tzeentch in her mind. The glorious red and golden eye on her forehead blinked, allowing her to see him near the cave entrance.
Orlaana could smell the tangy sweat and coppery scent of blood. She heard him panting. The sorceress blinked with her three eyes, allowing her human sight and causing the kaleidoscope of colours to retreat into the shadows. His back was turned to her. The giant super-human leaned against the cave wall. He was one of the Emperor of Mankind’s most glorious creations. A mane of silver hair fell over his pauldrons, obscuring the insignia of the Dark Angels. He wore armour of green and held the Master of Mankind’s golden shield. In his other gauntleted hand, he held a sword. At the sight of the powerful golden relic, Orlaana doubled over in pain. She had not expected him to keep something of such great power.
Orlaana righted herself as best she could, ignoring the pain. The sorceress wouldn’t let a relic stop her. She remained hidden in the shadows. Orlaana needed something from the Lion. The Crimson King had been so quick to accept a deal. He saved his sons by sacrificing one of his eyes. Today, The Lion would do the same. He would give Orlaana what she needed to protect his sons.
‘Make the deal, and I will raise you up into my ranks as a daemon to be reborn, immortal!’ ordered Tzeentch.
Orlaana nodded and inhaled deeply as she listened to the Primarch’s thoughts. She readied herself for the task at hand. The sorceress could hear the Primarch’s thoughts as clearly as if they were spoken. Not once did he think of the rotting corpse of his so-called father on the golden throne. Not once did he beg his father for help to save his sons. He blamed Luther and Horus; he also blamed himself.
Orlaana hesitated. Magnus the Red had expressed thoughts of concern for his children, but the Lion did not. Doubt threatened to weaken her, but the Lord of Change demanded blood, and Orlaana would comply. It had been done once before, she thought, surely she could do it again.
The sorceress gathered her courage and exhaled deeply. She stepped out into the dim light and approached the Primarch.
‘My Lord,’ she sang, feeling the Primarch startle, though his posture did not show his surprise, ‘your sons die on the battlefield. The foul beasts of the Lord of Change are killing the very last ones. If my Lord is willing to accept my help? The cost is small,’ she asked, her beautiful, melodious voice making her words challenging to resist.
Lion El’Johnson turned to face the woman, his wisened features stern and his gaze cold. Orlaana reached for him with one hand and a black-clawed finger, a gentle smile on her face. ‘A drop of your blood, my Lord, freely given, and the warp entities will die. Your remaining sons will live.’
So close, she moved her finger slowly, reaching for the rivulet of blood dripping from a scratch on his cheek. Her body shuddered with excitement. Suddenly, a sharp pain pierced her abdomen, and she fell forward onto a blade. He pulled the sword from her middle and watched her fall to the ground. Her chaos eye blinked as the world spun, and the Primarch of the First stood above her with renewed vigour. He shouted, ‘For the Emperor!’ and charged back into battle.
She has failed the Master.
We can feel her power fading.
She promised us the Primarch’s power.
What will become of us?
Orlaana's onyx eyes finally closed as the condors and powers lent to her by the Lord of Change took off into the air and disappeared in a swirl of chaos light.