Knightsblade

by Andy Clark

  ‘They’d have taken a single tower for a short while,’ Garath’s tone was singularly unimpressed. ‘Their technology is made from scrap and rubbish. They have no honour or discipline, and they throw themselves at our walls like rabid wulfdenkyne. Every raid by our air forces thins their ranks. Every attack costs them a hundred lives to every one of ours that falls. These xenos are going to break themselves against the Draconspire until they’re all dead, you’ll see it.’

  ‘They won’t run out of bodies in a hurry,’ said Reikard, punctuating his words with raking volleys from his gatling cannons. ‘I heard another two warbands arrived from the south overnight. We’ve killed thousands of the brutes, but they spring up as fast as we put them down. They’re like fungus after rain.’

  ‘It would not do to forget their heretical technologies, either,’ said Nilsoch, his lecturing tone rankling Garath. ‘The orbital augury suggests a substantial reserve of super-heavy war engines and aerial assets that the orks have not yet committed. I suspect the warlord is testing our defences in an attempt to exhaust our supplies.’

  ‘Oversized rubbish and flying rubbish is still rubbish,’ said Garath scornfully. ‘They can’t keep throwing bodies at us forever, and I don’t believe for a second they’ve got the brains to do anything cleverer than that. They will be worn down, and when our relief force arrives, slaughtered.’

  Garath fired again, his shells arcing perfectly between a pair of lumbering walkers to hit a larger super-heavy tank that crawled behind them. Garath’s shot was sublime, punching through a corroded armour plate he had spotted and touching off the tank’s internal magazine. It lifted into the air, a colossal firework whose fury flattened the walkers nearby and killed dozens of orks.

  Iron Drake rumbled in appreciation, and the ghosts of his throne filled his thoughts with congratulatory whispers.

  ‘Hah,’ he laughed. ‘That’s it, see? They’re fleeing again.’

  Sure enough, the orks were turning aside from their attack, dashing in all directions. Tanks ploughed straight through mobs of infantry, flailing green bodies vanishing beneath their tracks. Lighter vehicles jounced away, piling on speed as they skidded out of Garath’s line of fire.

  ‘Wait…’ said Reikard uneasily. ‘They’re turning aside, not running away. What is this?’

  ‘Caution, sires,’ said Sacristan Nilsoch. ‘I am detecting a significant energy build up in the greenskin rear lines. Postulate Gargant weapon system. Power growing at an exponential pace, this is highly alarming. Sires, I recommend–’

  Nilsoch didn’t have a chance to finish. Garath saw a titanic flash of light from the dust clouds wreathing the ork rear lines. Alarms shrilled in his cockpit, warning of a power spike, then everything went black.

  In the High Strategium, the electrosconces extinguished as one, dying along with the holoscreens, the cogitator arrays and even the strategium servitors. Sparks exploded from the holoprojection of the Draconspire, and people cried out in shock as the image vanished.

  Danial stood in the gloom, a useless control wand in one hand and a dead vox-horn in the other. He took a slow, deep breath. Luk’s voice was gone, choked off in an instant. He would have to trust his friend, and the Emperor, that Luk had received enough of his message.

  Voices cried out, demands for clarification, prayers to the Emperor and the Omnissiah, shouts of pain as people stumbled into one another or tripped over obstructions in the dark. Nestled within the inner spire, the strategium was a fully enclosed space and, with its lumen and monitors extinguished, it now lay in complete darkness.

  Panic built like a storm rising.

  Danial stood and raised his voice.

  ‘Knights and adepts. Be still!’

  Quiet rippled outwards from him as those within earshot obeyed, and passed his instructions on to those in the higher galleries and recessed vox-pits. Danial felt his subjects waiting tense and quiet for his words. Distant cries and rumbling booms could be heard through the walls, and he fought down his own panic as he wondered how far this machine curse had spread.

  ‘Chief adepts,’ said Danial. ‘Locate the saviour shrines and illuminate the chem-lanterns within. Pass them out.’

  Shuffling could be heard, and a few moments later, cold yellow light sprang to life amidst the galleries. As the chem-lanterns were distributed, Danial glanced at Suset, her worried face barely visible in the wan glow.

  ‘Lady Gatekeeper?

  ‘Duty Sacristans,’ she called. ‘Attend the emergency generatorum, begin your rites of awakening. We need a return of power as soon as the Omnissiah wills. Chief adepts, perform full section check. If we have any functioning systems, I wish to know of them. The rest of you, until we know what has occurred you will wait by your stations. Militia, open the reserve lockers and distribute small arms.’

  As purposeful bustle replaced near-panic, Lady Suset turned to Danial.

  ‘My liege, what has happened? Is this an attack, do you think?’

  ‘It must be,’ he said. ‘This is no localised machine-spirit failure. Even my crown has ceased to function.’

  He glanced at Markos, who scowled and tapped his vocal augmetic, then angrily shook his head.

  ‘We need to know how widespread this is,’ said Suset. ‘Have they hit the high strategium somehow, or is this everywhere? If so…’

  ‘It could be catastrophic,’ said Danial, nudging one of his fallen servo-skulls with his toe. ‘We’ll make for the north rampart, third fief. Vox Polluxis and–’ Danial caught himself. ‘No vox. Throne. Gather the younger adepts, anyone swift-footed with a good knowledge of the ’spire. Have the scriptorium adepts manually copy out instructions by hand for them to circulate. Fiefs and sections are to establish their own runners, restore light and distribute arms, then await further instruction.’

  Suset nodded, then turned and began issuing orders.

  ‘My lady?’ said Danial. She stopped and looked back. ‘Get this strategium barricaded as soon as you can, and call up a platoon of militia to secure it. I want you to coordinate communications from here. If the orks are attacking then this chamber has to stay secure.’

  ‘I know what to do,’ she said firmly. ‘Worry less about me, and more about the Draconspire. I’ll send word when we’ve got everything secure.’

  She turned and marched away towards the Sacristans who were huddled around the backup generatorum. Danial noticed most of them were dragging deadened mechanical limbs, or supporting comrades who could not walk at all.

  Danial strode from the grand strategium with his herald, Bannoch’s squad and a small group of scribes and runners in tow.

  Long before they reached the battlements, Danial could hear the swelling roar of fighting outside. Making his way up a steep flight of stairs, he staggered, grabbing the railing as the ’spire shuddered around him.

  ‘Artillery,’ said Bannoch.

  ‘The shield is down,’ said Danial. ‘Dracon’s blood.’

  He hurried up the remaining stairs and through a richly appointed meeting chamber. Several dozen refugees crowded there in the pale light that fell through the chamber’s windows. They looked out of place in their serfs’ garb, seated on velveteen chaises or crouched under olidarne-wood tables, shielding their children with their bodies.

  They stared at Danial with huge eyes as he passed.

  ‘Be calm, my people,’ he said. ‘The Knights of Draconis protect you. We are your shield. No harm shall befall you, you have my word.’

  As he walked through an archway into the adjoining corridor, he muttered to Bannoch.

  ‘Send one of your men to Lieutenant Drahn. Have him organise militia squads to round up all the refugees and move them to more secure containment in the high spires. Not too high though, throne knows the situation on the high-atmosphere levels. I don’t want these people in harm’s way, and I don’t want them in our way if fighting breaks
out.’

  Bannoch nodded, pointing to one of his accompanying soldiers who hurried away.

  Meanwhile, Danial led the way through an armoured door that opened onto the northern battlements of the inner ’spire. Daylight and smokey air washed inwards as he and Markos heaved the door open, accompanied by the shocking din of battle. Something exploded nearby, and they ducked instinctively. Bits of stone and metal rattled down around them.

  Danial straightened, swept back his cloak, and strode out onto the battlement.

  A broad firestep stretched away to right and left. Wide enough to accomodate two Leman Russ battle-tanks abreast, it curved along the facing wall of the spire, which was dotted in places with windows and doorways. Ramps led down to lower firesteps, and up to the next one that protruded from the wall some fifty feet above.

  Hefty ferrocrete crenulations protected the battlement. Militia clustered behind them. In places there were gaps where lucky shells had blasted chunks out of the masonry. Here and there, fires were burning and corpses strewn. Squads of soldiers dashed up and down, following the bellowed orders of their sergeants. At a glance, Danial could see the emplaced weapons sat silent and useless, their crews praying over them in frustration.

  He lent over the parapet, staring out as the wind tugged at his cloak. Below, beyond the Draconspire’s myriad roofs and turrets, and its outer battlements where soldiers milled and fires burned, were the orks.

  Thousands upon thousands of them.

  The beasts crashed against the walls, their feral warcries carrying up to where Danial stood. Fleets of light vehicles hurtled around the Draconspire, raising clouds of dust as they strafed the battlements. Even now, grapnels were looping up over the outer walls, the distant figures of militia frantically hacking at them with blades and striking them with gun-butts. Steeds stood dark and silent in their cannon slits, guns drooping, postures slumped.

  Hundreds of ork tanks and artillery pieces elevated their barrels and coughed smoke as they launched shells towards the walls. Massive walkers loomed over them, war effigies of every size and weight class. Those engines’ guns boomed, raking the walls with laser blasts and streams of shells.

  Barely visible amidst the greenskins’ rear lines, Danial’s eyes were drawn to the foul xenos banners rising over the proud ramparts of the Northrise Battery. Near it loomed an especially enormous and hunched Gargant, which was blazing merrily and gouting smoke.

  ‘There,’ said Danial, ‘the architect of our woes.’

  The engine’s right arm, and much of its torso, was taken up by some kind of unidentifiable energy weapon that was now wreathed in flames. Smoke rose from the distant machine, while frantic figures swarmed across it in bucket chains. A cone of devastation led from the Gargant’s feet to the north wall. It was littered with greenskin vehicles and downed aircraft.

  Markos nodded, his expression murderous.

  ‘Throne, it looks as though we’ve lost it all,’ said Danial. ‘Wall guns. Void shields. Even the manportable weaponry has perished.’

  ‘At least the blast missed our aircraft, sire,’ said Bannoch, gesturing skywards. Danial saw Marauder bombers and Vendetta gunships lifting off from high perches, stooping to begin fire missions in support of the beleaguered outer battlements.

  ‘Those high enough to avoid the blast,’ said Danial. ‘We need to know more about this phenomenon, and quickly. If this is permanent, the siege just became a question not of weeks, but of days.’

  Markos nodded, gesturing to the outer walls and their blazing battlements, then running a finger across his throat.

  ‘You’re right,’ said Danial. ‘The outer wall is too long, too thinly defended for us to hold against orks without guns. We need to pull back, take stock, dig in. Re-arm.’

  Markos looked at him enquiringly. Danial pulled his grandfather’s amulet out from under his tabard and ran a hand over its surface.

  ‘You always told me I read too much, Markos,’ he said with a humourless smile. ‘Well, all those days spent locked away in the Draconspire libraries may yet prove our salvation. From the Tome of Kings, I followed the clues hidden in Pastalius’ lore, to the archival writings of Elderknight Gajeydrin. I wanted to show Lady Jennika, to have her reason it out, but then of course all of this began. Markos, I believe that father left me a map, whether he knew it or not. A map that may lead to our salvation. But before I test the truth of that, we need to control this situation.’

  Danial pointed to the young adepts that had accompanied him to the walls.

  ‘Take this down and distribute word,’ he said. ‘You to the first fief, you to the second, you around the third. Outer walls are to be abandoned, effective immediately. All forces that can are to fall back to their rally points around the second perimeter. No breach of the second wall can be permitted. If admitting warriors will risk this, those warriors are not to be admitted.’

  He paused, allowing their scratching quills to catch up. Something exploded nearby, and everyone ducked save Danial and Markos. Smoke drifted around them. The cries of fresh wounded echoed along the battlements.

  ‘Barricades are to be constructed at every strategically viable juncture within the second wall structures, and every door and window is to be reinforced,’ he continued. ‘Use whatever necessary for this. Nothing is sacred. Distribute all available close quarters weaponry. Break out the squires’ crossbows and distribute them to the militia.’

  ‘They’re primitive, but they’ll put a quarrel through an inch of steel,’ said Bannoch.

  ‘There’s a few hundred at most,’ said Danial. ‘Nothing like enough. You,’ he pointed to a sandy-haired young scribe. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Paladhin, sire,’ stammered the runner.

  ‘You are to go straight to High Sacristan Polluxis’ shrine,’ said Danial. ‘Find out everything he has managed to discover about this phenomenon, and relay that information to Lady Suset in the High Strategium. You have my personal authority in this, code phrase Regulatum. Polluxis will respect that code-word. Paladhin, you are to be the conduit for information between Polluxis and she until I command otherwise.’

  Markos pointed to himself, and to Danial, then looked enquiring.

  ‘We are parting ways,’ Danial said. ‘Gather a force and assist in the fighting retreat from the walls. Markos, I need you to make sure no orks get into the second line, do you understand?’ The herald nodded, face grim. ‘Bannoch, you and I are going down to the lowest undercrypts of the Draconspire. If the writings of the Lords of Draconis are true, then we are going to unlock the Ancestral Armoury.’

  Flickering light returned to Garath’s cockpit as he pumped his emergency breaker. He heard air circulating, but little else. Iron Drake remained unresponsive. Dead. He couldn’t even hear the ghosts of his throne, and his neck was agony where feedback from his neural jacks had scorched his flesh.

  ‘What in Throne’s name happened?’ he wondered aloud. ‘One way to find out.’

  Garath unhooked his weapons from his cockpit rack, but frowned as he found that his laspistol was lifeless.

  ‘Dracon’s blood,’ he cursed, casting it aside. At least his draconblade was unaffected.

  Garath climbed his cockpit rungs quickly, and swore again as he saw that the hatch release rune was dead. Something exploded outside his steed, causing it to sway like an autopennant in a high wind.

  Gritting his teeth, Garath unlocked the manual hatch release and pumped the handle several times. He recited the prayer of unlocking as he worked, beads of sweat running down his forehead. On the fifth recital, the bolts released with a thump. Garath pushed his hatch open and gulped a lungful of fresh air.

  Pulling himself up onto Drake’s carapace, he saw Sire Reikard atop his own steed, which was similarly lifeless. The tall, dark haired Knight shrugged helplessly in Garath’s direction. Garath pointed at the ground behind the gate, then slid acros
s Drake’s carapace to the dismounting ladder.

  As he did, a volley of shells whooped overhead and exploded amongst the lower towers of the Draconspire.

  ‘Damnation. The shield,’ he hissed as more shells rained down. Above him, men were blasted from the battlements with screams of terror.

  Garath broke into a run the moment his feet hit the ferrocrete, meeting Reikard directly behind the armoured slab of the Ironclaw Gate. From outside, ork war cries rose like a tidal wave. Explosions flashed atop the walls, and militia corpses littered the marshalling yard.

  ‘What in Emperor’s name happened?’ asked Reikard.

  ‘Does it look like I know?’ said Garath. ‘The power has failed. The damned greenskins must have worked some sort of tech-heresy.’

  ‘We need to muster the militia,’ said Reikard. ‘They need to hold the walls.’

  ‘They can’t,’ said Garath. ‘What we need to do is–’

  He was interrupted as something struck the Ironclaw gate with a thunderous boom.

  ‘Shells?’ asked Reikard, looking at Garath doubtfully. Another thunderous blow shook the gate. Rivets popped loose like bullets.

  ‘No,’ said Garath. ‘We’ve got to get everyone back. Now.’

  ‘You men!’ bellowed Reikard, trying to attract the attention of the militia on the wall.

  ‘They’re too far away and the damn xenos are too loud,’ said Garath as another impact shivered the gate. ‘We’re going up. You take the sector eighteen stairs, I’ll take sector nineteen. Pull them back to the wall keeps then dig in. Orders will come.’

  ‘We’ll have to abandon our steeds,’ said Reikard.

  ‘I never thought this day would come,’ said Garath bitterly. He cared for Iron Drake a great deal more than any living creature he had ever met, but to remain was to die.