A Leap of Faith: a 40k short story

A short story from the depths of Commoragh

Well, my short story didn't get picked up from the Black Library submissions for this year (which is all terribly sad).

But I figure there's no harm in sharing the short story I penned for it along their theme of a duel, titled: "A Leap Of Faith".

I hope you enjoy!

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The Emissary of Death walks across a broken world, beneath the gaze of ghosts.

Ahead, four gaunt figures loom in the mists that pull at her, resolving themselves as grand statues. They stand sentinel over a dais cast in marbled stone, with veins of inky black and the cream of old bone. At its centre lies an empty void, perfectly circular but cracked at the edges, as though it has been driven into the blackened bone by great force. The sentinels above wear the visages of her kin’s greatest gods, though she feels little reverence for them; that died a lifetime ago.

Lounging on the shoulder of a god is a woman the Emissary knows intimately, in life and death. Crimson hair flows around her slender form, framing a face as sharp as any blade.

“Took your time,” The Queen of Knives says. She hops down onto the statue’s outreached arm, the blades woven into her hair clinking softly in that airless place.

“Infiltrating Commorragh is no easy thing,” Yvraine says. “I do not come here lightly. If Vect or his hounds knew I was here, it would be the end of everything.”

Lelith Hesperax laughs, her voice as cold as murder. “Old Asdrubael has eyes in many places, but even he doesn’t know all of his city's secrets. Much as he might pretend he does.”

“Then how do you?”

Lelith smirks. “I have my ways.”

She strides across the span of the statue’s arm, her bare feet sure along the razor of the statue’s ancient wraithblade. An eternal fall yawns beneath her languid gait.

“I heard of this place from a dying farseer, who’d been a guest of the Hex’s oubliettes a little too long.” She frowns. “Her’s was not a grand death. Such a waste… But her final testimony was intriguing, nonetheless.”

“I cannot linger here,” Yvraine scowls. “How does this place further what I must do?”

From the heart of the pit a flickering light grows. It swirls, incandescent, in shimmering tones of magenta and violet. Yvraine takes a step back, though the scent of the rift is not the rank stench of the great enemy. It is something altogether older, more familiar.

Lelith drops from her perch to land soundlessly at Yvraine’s side. She steps close.

“Things have been strange in the city, since… well. Since you broke it. Places shifting and twisting and sometimes vanishing altogether. This is one of those places. A wound in the fabric of unreality. This is not a where, I think, but a when. Somewhere from before. Perhaps not our before. But it might lead you to the next step in your journey.” She shrugs. “I don’t care to understand it all, but I did comprehend one thing.”

The wych smells of rust and sweet violets. Lelith dances her fingers across Yvraine’s collar, then wraps her arms round her shoulders and pushes.

As they pitch backward into the churning maelstrom below together, Lelith smiles wickedly.

“It requires a leap of faith.”

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Thanks for reading! We'll be back with more journalistic musings soon.

Until next time,

Alex