by Andy Clark
‘No doubt,’ said Mortens, unperturbed. ‘The difference is that he was being led astray by a Chaos witch. Our prerogative comes from the Emperor Himself, and thus we are righteous no matter what we do.’
Jennika glanced sidelong at the elderly savant, an eyebrow raised in surprise at his knowledge of Gerraint’s heresies.
‘You almost sound as though you don’t believe that,’ she said.
‘I believe that the more power one is afforded, the more cautious in passing judgement one must be,’ he replied. ‘We must be vigilant that one’s capacity to act does not overtake one’s ability to think, and measure, and observe. It is better if we recognise that we are righteous specifically because we understand how easily our power could corrupt us, or our fallible human senses fail us. Once we have defined ourselves in such a way, it becomes then our duty to watch for that same proclivity, or lack thereof, in those around us.’
‘You and my brother would get on famously,’ she said. Her faint smile vanished as her instincts prickled, and she hefted her autopistol.
‘This place sets you on edge,’ said Mortens. ‘It is evident in the other warriors of this group, also.’
‘I feel… watched,’ replied Jennika. ‘Don’t you sense that?’
Interrogator Nesh gestured for silence, indicating they should advance cautiously and stay alert. They crept through the thorny undergrowth. The only sounds were the muddy squelch of their footfalls and the thrum of powered armour and weapons.
The sense of watchfulness had become oppressive. The faint breeze that had accompanied them to the ruins grew still, and Jennika felt a weight settle in her chest, stealing her breath. Not a single avian or insect disturbed the sepulchral silence.
Jennika advanced with her autopistol raised, hand near her blade. Mortens stayed close by her side. Kaston had closed up behind them, using one arm to cradle her bulky gun while sweeping the area with a handheld auspex. Ahead, the others had also closed formation.
The undergrowth began to thin out, admitting watery daylight but leaving Jennika feeling exposed. Mud gave way to shattered ferrocrete paving, cratered by years-gone artillery fire and studded with jutting lengths of rebar.
‘We are approaching the outer ruins,’ voxed Interrogator Nesh. ‘Vigilance protocols.’ Sergeant Kaston broke into a jog, sweeping out around the right flank and leaving Jennika and Mortens at the rear.
The remains of the Chimaerkeep loomed above them. They walked in silence through its sundered corpse. What had once been towering ferrocrete bastions were hollow shells, slumped under bombardment and blackened with cleansing fire. Courtyards were rubble-filled, dotted with weeds and crooked trees. In places, they walked through the flayed remains of corridors and walkways, often slanted at crazed angles and scattered with the remains of smashed statues and burned banners.
‘Did your people do this?’ asked Mortens as they picked their way through a ruptured tunnel between two ruins. Its walls were scorched, and daubed with aquilas and prayers.
‘We did,’ said Jennika. ‘We first purified House Chimaeros, and then House Wyvorn. I remember the fires as we shelled this place. The bombardment lasted for ten days, and then the militia moved in. They were led by Ministorum Preachers. They were… thorough.’
‘Well, your people’s vehemence cannot be faulted, at least,’ said Mortens. ‘This purge was driven by more than mere piety, I think. There is real hatred in this destruction.’
‘They betrayed us,’ said Jennika. ‘They betrayed the Emperor. You never hate any foe the way you hate a friend that’s betrayed you.’
‘Just so,’ murmured Mortens. ‘And what of the people themselves? The servants, the militia? Those Knights who did not fight on Donatos?’
‘They were tainted by association,’ said Jennika sadly. ‘They fought us. Their bodies lie in grave pits ahead. They…’
Jennika trailed off as they emerged into daylight, and a grim sight was revealed. Around them towered the shattered remains of the central keep, which had been a spectacular structure before its ruin. Teetering segments of its outer walls still stood, but they were little more than a gutted shell. Rubble rose in jumbled mountains, glittering with shattered fragments of stained glass and dotted with the wreckage of thrones, tables, statuary, machinery, furniture and anything else that the hungry flames had not consumed.
At the heart of the ruin was a wide open space. Cairns of fallen stone had been piled over the grave pits of Chimaeros’ people, each one topped with a black aquila and layered with prayer papers.
In their midst, a massive slab of marble had been laid down to seal the entrance to the keep’s old catacombs. It was a symbolic gesture as much as anything, intended to wall in even the interred ancestors of House Chimaeros that they might be shunned and forgotten.
Now, the slab was cracked down its middle, a ragged hole torn through it that led down into darkness. Chunks of marble lay scattered around, the distance they had flown attesting to the violence with which the slab had been broken.
‘Smashed,’ said Massata, deep voice echoing. ‘From below. From within.’
‘There’s trans-empyric residue here,’ said Nesh, gesturing to more outcroppings of the crystalline substance.
‘Disturbance around the corpse-pits,’ voxed Sergeant Kaston, sweeping her auspex across the area. ‘Something’s dug into them.’
Jennika saw that Kaston was right. At least two of the grave pits had been defiled. Holes were burrowed deep into their flanks as though enormous maggots had penetrated the earth. Down in the gloom she saw a hint of bone and the leathery texture of mummified flesh.
‘Wulfdenkyne haunt this region,’ she said. ‘Perhaps they could have dug into the pits to scavenge?’
‘Feral canids, shifting rubble to reach old corpses?’ asked Kaston. ‘Unlikely.’
‘It seems as though your world’s secrets do not care to stay buried,’ said Massata.
‘Whatever has done this,’ said Jennika. ‘I swear by the Emperor’s Golden Throne that I will see it ended, and Adrastapol purified.’
Massata nodded.
‘Five minutes, then,’ he said. ‘Check equipment, ration and hydration intake, say any prayers you need to. Then we go into the darkness, to discover what manner of hell is brewing beneath this place. And to destroy it.’
Danial stood in the grand strategium, an island of calm in the midst of frantic bustle. His Exalted Court were gathered at his back alongside High Sacristan Polluxis, while countless adepts, serviles and scribes hurried to and fro.
The High King was clad in his armoured bodyglove and flak tabard, and Oathkeeper was sheathed at his hip. Danial’s arms were folded across his chest. His piercing green eyes remained fixed upon the chamber’s primary holoscreens. Each showed a region of Adrastapol – the runic designators detailing friendly and enemy troop strengths, strategic locations that required defence, routes of attack and retreat, and a hundred other minor details.
‘How up to date are these displays?’ he asked. Markos checked a data-slate.
‘They vary,’ he said. ‘Central Valatane regions are almost in real-time. We have Polluxis’ heavenly host to thank for that. Further out, we’re relying on what satellite-augurs we have left. We’re looking at high-altitude auspex sweeps, voxed reports, but many are hours old.’
‘Throne,’ breathed Danial. ‘Look at them all.’
From the Minotane wilds to Pegasson’s mountain valleys, and great swathes of the Valatane, green runes swarmed.
‘They overran the stockade at Fort Charon a day ago,’ said Sire Percivane. ‘They’ve broken into Mount Imperius twice in the last twelve hours, but each time they’ve been thrown back. Fort Redfang is besieged. High Kelt is burning. The agriplexes along the Lancepoint are all seething with xenos.’
‘Sire Gallaghor got his people clear of Charon before the end, I see,’ said Danial.
‘That’s positive.’
‘Dracon bless that bald bastard. He always was too stubborn to lose a fight,’ said Markos.
‘There are more reports of heretical technology filtering in, also,’ said Percivane. ‘Electrified net launchers, cannons that disorient or temporarily exorcise machine-spirits, magnetic beams that pin war engines in place to be torn apart…’
‘The old precept’s tale that orks are stupid never seems to ring true,’ said Markos. ‘It’s no mystery how these xenos filth stole so many Imperial tanks, is it?’
‘Circulate another warning for all Knights to watch for unusual ork weapons,’ said Danial. ‘Throne preserve us from seeing them do that to a steed. What word from Houses Pegasson and Minotos?’
‘The master of vox reported last contact with House Pegasson two hours and sixteen minutes ago,’ said Suset, checking a sheaf of parchment proffered by a robed servile. ‘The passes, Kaurel through Iassos, remain secure. They’ve collapsed pass Nauthwyn with explosives to halt a greenskin breakthrough. Though they lost three Knights, the Marchioness believes they slew over one thousand orks in the avalanche. Passes Khabyn, Jessitha and T’ayel are contested… They’re considering further detonations.’
‘And Minotos?’
‘Last in contact thirty-eight hours ago,’ said Suset. ‘Their message was delivered by a vox adept, and stated they are holding the enemy at bay.’
Sire Garath snorted.
‘Well, isn’t that noble of them,’ he said archly.
‘The briefer the message, the more their pride is hiding,’ said Danial. ‘Kurt’s people must be badly unseated, for us to receive so little word. Otherwise he’d be only too pleased to tell us all the victories he’s won alone.’
‘If only we had steeds to spare that might march to their aid,’ said Sire Percivane. He gestured at several screens. ‘But by the look of that, the Emperor is preparing to test our mettle, also.’
‘That is why I summoned you all,’ said Suset, gesturing with a control wand. Several feeds slid from secondary imagers to the primary holoscreen, forming a composite tapestry of the Draconspire, Northrise Battery, the Lanceway and the Valatane heartlands.
‘Two warbands,’ said Danial. ‘One from the north. One from the east.’
‘You might as well call a Knight a servitor, my liege,’ said Garath. ‘Those aren’t warbands. They’re hordes.’
Danial drank in the data, his crown supplying supplementary information streams that overlaid his vision.
‘Conservative estimates put the eastern horde at twenty to thirty thousand greenskins,’ he said. ‘The one coming from the north is five, maybe six times that size, but a good six hours further away. We’ll be meeting our eastern visitors in under an hour. They have aircraft, armoured fighting vehicles, infantry, heavy and super-heavy walkers.’
‘Our scribes-strategic believe that the horde coming from the east is led by a lesser ork war leader,’ said Percivane. ‘Aircraft sorties have struggled to get close, but they’ve identified the black-and-white colouration of the Goff Clan, and banners pertaining to a war chief named Drogg. The northern horde is more easily assessed. Predominately the colours of the Death Skull Clan. We’re seeing some truly massive war engines, and the Sacristans are at a loss to categorise their armaments. And, sire, they’re flying the banners of their master. It appears that Warlord Gorgrok himself has deemed us a worthy challenge.’
‘Drogg will move in first,’ said Danial. ‘What is he trying to do? Encircle us? Pin us in place, cut us off before his master arrives?’
‘Maybe not,’ said Markos. ‘In the last war, it was the Goffs that fought first, and fought hardest. Big beasts, all scars, tusks and hate. And headstrong, too, bucking to be in charge all the while.’
‘So this is a leadership challenge,’ said Danial.
‘Could be, sire,’ said Markos. ‘Orks respect strength. If Drogg reaches us first, and pulls down the Draconspire before Gorgrok arrives, he’d able to challenge for leadership of the whole horde.’
‘I’ll die before I let the ’spire be taken as some warlord’s trophy,’ said Suset fiercely.
‘No doubt the xenos’ optimal resolution would involve all of our deaths, your own included,’ said Polluxis, earning himself a glare that he blithely ignored. ‘Fortunately, the greenskin forces from the east stand a statistically vanishing chance of achieving such a goal by themselves.’
‘They dash themselves against our defences,’ said Danial thoughtfully. ‘We kill perhaps a third of them from the walls, maybe as much as half, before they pull back and wait for Gorgrok.’
‘If we mount up and add our fire through the cannon-slits, it’ll be half the horde for sure,’ said Garath. ‘We can tear them in two.’
‘Even if we do fell half the horde, that still leaves over fifteen thousand greenskins to reinforce Gorgrok when he arrives,’ said Danial. ‘Besides which the survivors will have tested our defences. They’ll be able to advise their master on attack patterns and our weak spots…’
‘What are you thinking, my liege?’ asked Suset.
‘If we launch a counter-attack as they reach the walls, while they’re still disordered, we could tear the heart from this first horde by killing Warboss Drogg, and put his green curs to flight,’ mused Danial. ‘Let Gorgrok’s orks see the aftermath of the slaughter. Let it slow their advance, give them pause.’
Lady Suset nodded. ‘It is more chivalric than just hiding behind the walls. I’ll oath my blade to that.’
‘It’s a risk,’ said Percivane. ‘We’ll suffer more losses.’
‘Also, there’s the danger that the orks mire us in battle out there,’ said Markos. ‘It’s a five hour operational window at most, but the first waves of Gorgrok’s horde could be here much sooner if they scent a fight.’
‘Polluxis,’ said Danial. ‘What are our chances of defeating both ork hordes without leaving the safety of the walls?’
Polluxis was silent for a several moments, his eye lenses dimming slightly as he cogitated the question.
‘Chances of meaningful victory stand at thirty-nine percent against such numbers,’ he said. ‘Chances of any Draconspire defenders surviving for more than a month of besiegement stand at forty-eight percent.’
‘And if we break Drogg’s horde before Gorgrok arrives?’ asked Danial, ignoring the grim looks exchanged by his comrades.
Again, Polluxis paused.
‘Gorgrok is likely to be delayed as his forces overrun Northrise orbital battery,’ he said. ‘Addendum, I would advise its immediate evacuation. With that delay factored in, forty-eight and sixty-one percent, respectively. Not accounting for further greenskins that may be drawn into the siege at a later date.’
‘Noted, Polluxis. I have already ordered the evacuation,’ said Danial. ‘Meanwhile, have we received any word from long-range vox? From my sister, or any relief forces on their way? Anything from Mount Imperius’ astropaths or deep-void auspex?’
‘Nothing,’ said Suset.
‘Then for the time being we must assume that we are alone, and fight this battle ourselves,’ said Danial. ‘Those are poor odds to gamble the future of House Draconis upon, but they are better than the alternative. Everything we achieve now gives us more chance to tilt the fight further in our favour.’
‘Jennika would do it in a heartbeat,’ said Markos. ‘Who am I to risk any less for victory?’
‘My blade to it,’ said Garath. ‘I’m sick of waiting for them to come to us, anyway.’
‘Very well,’ said Percivane. ‘Let us do the Emperor’s work, High King Danial.’
‘Then sound the clarion and let every Knight of House Draconis mount their steed,’ ordered Danial.
Suset twisted the control wand, opening a ’spire wide vox-channel.
‘This is the Gatekeeper,’ she said, sending her booming voice through corri
dors and chambers. ‘Greenskin attack is imminent. Full siege protocols are now in effect. Militia Captains Rance, Kauff, Lesinger and P’larmin have martial authority over their fief-zones as of this moment. Let the clarion sound, and the Emperor guide our blades.’
As her announcement ended, a droning note rose from gargoyle-mouthed vox-speakers throughout the Draconspire. From the lowest undercrypts and the highest towers, to the armouriums and the Chamber of Ghosts, the sound rose higher until it became a clarion call.
Danial met Suset’s eyes and saw the eagerness for battle dancing within them.
‘To war,’ she said fiercely.
‘To war,’ he said.
The Firemaw Gate swung open, huge cogs and gears churning in its frame, hauling apart the towering slabs of ornamented plasteel and adamantium. Oath of Flame stood waiting for them to part. Arrayed behind Danial’s steed across the marshalling square were thirty-five Knights of House Draconis, a gathering of ironclad giants. From the fortified buildings surrounding the square, House militia looked on proudly, cheering and waving banners.
Checking his vid-feeds, Danial saw the scene being repeated at each of the other eastern gates in the outer wall. The entire strength of House Draconis was massing for the salient. One by one, his Exalted Court voxed confirmation that their war parties were prepared. Behind the Firemaw, Ironclaw, Drakeswing, Blackenfang and Draconseye gates, Knights massed.
‘In the Emperor’s name, and those of our ancestors, we march out,’ said Danial, gripping his grandfather’s amulet. ‘Destroy them.’
‘In Excelsium Furore!’ shouted Markos.
‘Wield the fires within!’ bellowed the Knights in reply. With a rumble of generators and howl of servomotors, the Knights began to move.
Danial stalked Oath of Flame through the gate, passing through a long, echoing tunnel and seeing faces staring down through murderholes from the battlements above. Then he was out on the Valatane, and the noise of the approaching horde hit him like a physical blow. Screaming engines and rumbling tracks mingled with the animalistic battle cries of thousands of xenos. Plumes of smoke and dust wreathed the horde as it approached, reducing the orks to a huge dark blur racing swiftly closer.
