by Andy Clark
She felt an urge to reach out and grip the weapon, but stopped herself.
‘What is this?’ she asked aloud. ‘A sacrifice? A trap? Emperor, if you can hear me, guide me.’
She checked her belt, and saw that she still had three krak grenades mag-clamped to it. Enough to blow the door off a bunker or wreck a battle-tank. Surely enough to destroy an altar to the dark gods, and the strange weapon it imprisoned.
Yet the blade was chained in place, like a warrior trapped against their will. It looked out of place here, a weapon of the Emperor, not of the daemon gods.
Jennika felt a surge of frustration. Now was not the time for her world to reveal more of its cryptic secrets. Yet she felt the gravity of this moment, as though falling into the chasm had plunged her into the gears of fate themselves. She must play her part, or be crushed by them.
She took a deep breath. Hoping fervently that it was the Emperor guiding her hand and not some other, darker agency, she sheathed her own weapon and reached out to grip the draconblade’s hilt.
The moment her hand closed around the weapon, she felt fiery warmth radiate through her. Fresh strength spread along her limbs, like the feeling of sunlight warming cold skin. The formidable-looking chains disintegrated, burying the altar in a drift of dead iron flakes.
She pulled, and the sword slid from the altar as though from a well-oiled scabbard. She raised the blade before her, and felt a deep sense of power radiating from it. The sword’s pommel was a stylised dracon’s head, the creature staring at her with tiny emerald eyes. Its blade was forged from a metal she didn’t recognise, and danced with a fiery sheen that had nothing to do with the light of the crystals.
That light, she realised, was beginning to fade. As though she had torn out its beating heart, the chamber was dimming towards darkness.
‘You are a mystery for another day,’ she told the sword. Acting quickly, she ripped down one of the unclean banners and wrapped the blade in its folds, bundling it in one layer after another until it was unrecognisable. She removed one of her bodyglove’s crossbelts, binding it several times around the blade before strapping it back in place. Now, with the strange sword strapped firmly to her back and the light fading, Jennika drew her own weapon and reignited its flame.
‘This won’t last long,’ she said. ‘Emperor, please don’t let me–’
She stopped at a sound of stone grinding on stone, and watched in surprise as a set of carved stone steps slid out of the chamber’s far wall. She made for the steps at a hurried limp, seeing now that they climbed up to a doorway that had slid open in the rock.
‘Where there are doors, there are corridors,’ she said. ‘And where there are corridors, there’s got to be a way out. I’m coming, Massata. You owe me the truth.’
Hours later, Jennika limped up a last stretch of stone corridor, past blackened statues of Chimaeros Knights, and out into the pale moonlight. Her blade’s fire had died long ago, leaving her to fumble along in darkness. Exhaustion clawed at her, and her vision swam, but the feel of fresh air and natural light on her skin was enough to make her gasp with relief.
The shattered spar of corridor emptied into a muddy clearing flanked by gnarled trees and a looming stone wall. Undergrowth rose around her, and the stars were dimly visible through gaps in the canopy.
Jennika took a deep breath, dreading what she might hear, then activated her short-range vox-bead.
‘This is Jennika Tan Draconis,’ she said. ‘Eduard? Nualah? Reith? Is anyone there?’
Static hissed, and she leant against a tree trunk, summoning the energy to try again. Then Lady Nualah’s voice was in her ear.
‘Lady Jennika! You live!’
‘Thank the Throne!’ exclaimed Sire Eduard. ‘He said you were dead!’
‘Who?’ asked Jennika. ‘The inquisitor?’
‘Yes,’ said Lady Nualah. ‘He and his party emerged a few hours ago, my lady. They reported you had fallen in battle. They said your last words were a demand that they go at once to the Draconspire and report the scale of the Chaos threat. Massata ordered us to stand guard, to watch for Chaos worshippers emerging from below ground until he could return with a sufficient force to purge them.’
‘I did fall,’ said Jennika, pushing herself upright. ‘Into a chasm. But the Emperor saved me, and by his name I made no such request. The inquisitor has been lying to us. Who knows what he would have done to me if I hadn’t fallen by chance.’
‘I said as much!’ said Sire Reith. ‘Didn’t I say as much?’
‘This is verified,’ said Sacristan Traxin. ‘As is our pleasure at your survival, my lady.’
‘Reith offered to escort the inquisitor,’ said Sire Eduard. ‘To ensure he delivered his message safely. Or to try to patch him into the global strategic vox.’
‘Massata refused on both counts,’ said Reith angrily. ‘To the first he said he needed all three steeds here to form an effective cordon, and to the latter he said he couldn’t risk so dangerous a message being heard by the wrong people. It had to be delivered in person.’
‘Dracon’s blood, but it’s good to hear your voice, my lady,’ said Nualah. ‘We were on the verge of dismounting and making our way into the ruins to search for you, and never mind the inquisitor’s orders.’
‘Well, I’m here now,’ said Jennika. ‘Release a flare and I’ll come to you. We must pursue him.’
To her west, a hissing projectile leapt into the heavens, drifting slowly through the dark sky and burning red like draconsfire. Jennika straightened her back and limped in that direction.
‘Lady, he left hours ago,’ said Sire Eduard. ‘He and his retinue took the Charger and headed out through the wilds. If he wasn’t making for the Draconspire, we may have lost him.’
‘Factual amendment,’ said Traxin. ‘As a precautionary measure, I had my Crawler’s machine-spirit fixate the engine-spoor of the inquisitor’s transport when we first departed the Draconspire. I reasoned that it would be sub-optimal for so august a personage to become separated from his escort.’
‘Fixate his machine-spoor?’ asked Jennika. ‘Do you mean you can track it?’
‘Inquisitor Massata’s transport is currently one hundred and three miles from our position, travelling south-west at an average speed of approximately forty miles per hour. I can continue to monitor this information indefinitely, within a two-hundred-mile range.’
‘Excellent work, Sacristan!’ said Jennika.
‘Even if you could have mentioned it sooner,’ muttered Reith.
‘The Omnissiah bequeaths knowledge only when the time is auspicious,’ said Traxin, sounding singularly unrepentant. ‘Furthermore, I cogitated a high probability that, if I were to divulge this information sooner, your compromised emotional state might have led to your pursuit of the inquisitor before we had recovered Lady Jennika.’
‘You presume to know my mind, Sacristan?’ said Reith angrily.
‘Peace, Sire Reith,’ said Jennika.
‘We know he’s not headed for the Draconspire,’ said Lady Nualah. ‘He might be making for the Shifting Pass? There’s nothing else out that way but the southern tail of the Adrapotines, and the Valley of Kings.’
‘Nothing we know of, anyway,’ said Eduard. ‘More to the point, he is travelling quickly. He risks catching the orks’ eyes. Why is the inquisitor in such a hurry?’
‘We should catch him before we’re forced to find out,’ said Jennika. ‘Traxin, prepare the medicae bay in your Crawler. I’m going to need urgent attention if I’m to pilot, but nothing more than the basics, you understand? We need to begin our hunt.’
Many miles distant, Inquisitor Massata sat in grim contemplation as his Charger rumbled through the wetlands. Its lights were the only glimmer amidst the vast darkness. The throaty roar of its engine echoed away into the silence of that dead region. Within its dimly lit cargo bay, the in
quisitor and his retinue sat in silence.
Most were wounded. D’bu’ko lay on a makeshift stretcher taking wheezing breaths, his fur scorched and his flesh blackened. Interrogator Nesh cradled a broken arm, his face like thunder. Venquist appeared catatonic, huddled in a corner and staring sightlessly into the middle distance.
On Inquisitor Massata’s lap lay a book. Its cover was so black that it seemed to suck in the light around it, and emblazoned upon it was a forbidden sigil wrought in blue crystal and gold. The inquisitor had chained the tome shut with blessed silver, yet still he could feel the evil radiating from it.
‘It is a malevolent prize that we have won,’ said Lintiguis Mortens. ‘It despises us, and it hungers for our souls.’
‘That is true,’ said Massata. ‘But it also contains within it the information that we require to finally vanquish our real foe. It is worth the price, and the pain.’
‘I doubt the Adrastapolians would see it that way,’ said Mortens. ‘Lord, is this truly the correct course?’
‘For years, we pursued the Dark Apostle,’ said Massata. ‘Years, during which Varakh’Lorr defeated us thrice. Always through the intercession of the foul daemon that he worshipped. Always at the cost of lives and worlds that were the Emperor’s rightful due. He almost succeeded on Donatos. You know this, Mortens.’
‘I do, lord,’ said Mortens, choosing his words carefully. ‘That is precisely why I fear that the sacrifice of another world, this time by your own hand, will raise the tally of the dead beyond that of which the Emperor would approve. Especially if we slay the very warriors who stopped Lorr when we could not. We have been on Adrastapol for four years now, lord, seeking absolute confirmation of the book’s location, building a true understanding of the Noble Houses. We have seen precious little evidence of the deviancy we feared.’
Massata sighed heavily.
‘When Varakh’Lorr died on Donatos, I dared for a moment to believe it was done,’ said Massata. ‘He was the mortal servant of That Which Dwells in Darkness, its foremost puppet and the key to its monstrous schemes. But there was another. This sorceress, Alicia. Born of this world, Mortens. The source of its corruption.’
‘True,’ said Mortens. ‘And had her taint spread to the other houses I would not question our course, my lord, but…’
He let the sentence hang.
‘It appears that it has not,’ said Massata. ‘True enough. They were still guilty of negligence. They still allowed this corruption to grow unchecked.’
‘They fought it, when we showed them their error,’ said Sergeant Kaston. ‘They are loyal. Pious. Valuable.’
‘But where the daemon has concealed one worshipper, it may conceal more,’ said Massata. ‘And were we to save these people we would then become embroiled in their war against the orks, wasting time we do not have.’
‘A war we started,’ said Kaston, and Massata heard anger in her voice.
‘Enough, my friends,’ he said. ‘I do not wish this course, but it is already set in motion. Sometimes victory requires the hardest of sacrifices.’
‘It’s not too late,’ pressed Kaston. ‘We could deviate. Reach a high-gain orbital vox. There’s the Draconspire.’
‘We would be cutting our cloth exceptionally close,’ said Mortens. ‘Captain Raniaraz’s timetable allows for little error, and Kaston’s piloting skills do not stretch into the realms of aerial combat. If we were shot down, or couldn’t reach the array in time–’
‘Then we would all die, and with us would go the true name of the daemon we fight,’ said Massata. ‘The stakes are too high. I do not do this lightly, but even if the Knights of Adrastapol have proven their purity, I must martyr them for our cause. We hold to the plan, rendezvous with the lander in the Valley of Kings and strike for orbit before Captain Raniaraz unleashes exterminatus.’
Smoke rose over Pass Khabyn. Luk sat in his throne and looked up through his steed’s mechanical senses, past thickets of evergreens to where gunfire flickered at its crest. Khabyn sat between two jagged peaks known as the Horns. Beyond, rising above their towering heights, the Pegasson’s Eyrie could be dimly seen through veils of mist and cloud.
‘The upper pass is thick with orks,’ said Ekhaterina. ‘There must be hundreds of the buggers up there.’
‘And precious few defenders at the barricades,’ said Luk. ‘I don’t see a single steed.’
‘There is one,’ said Sire Hw’ss. ‘It is toppled. Look.’
A pict-capture flicked up on Luk’s manifold, cribbed from J’madus’ long-range auspicators. A Knight of House Pegasson, slumped back against the rocks of the mountainside, pinned in place by metal harpoons that had pierced its limbs and torso.
‘Note the corrupted motive force crackling from those projectiles,’ said Hw’ss. ‘Another of the orks’ strange weapons meant to incapacitate war engines.’
‘The greenskins are all over its legs,’ said Maia in disgust. ‘They’re picking it apart while it still lives.’
‘Be that as it may,’ said Luk, listening to the whispers of his throne. ‘Even with a Knight to lead them, the holding force here is pitiful. Are Pegasson stretched so thin?’
‘If so then we may find scarce help for your friend here,’ said Ranulf. ‘But at least there are plenty of xenos to slaughter.’
‘Colonel Gesmund,’ said Luk. ‘We are going to lend aid to our Pegasson comrades. ‘Can your Tauroxes handle the rocky terrain along the pass’ edges?’
‘It’s what they were built for, sire,’ said Gesmund.
‘Split your force in two and enfold their flanks,’ said Luk. ‘We’ll go straight up the middle and catch them against the Pegasson barricades. Your job is to stop them escaping the kill box.’
‘Understood, sire,’ said Gesmund, and a moment later Luk heard the throaty roar of Taurox engines firing up.
‘Sacristan Dolvar, keep your ironlegs behind us. Support duties only, and watch for wreckage tumbling down the slope.’
‘As the Omnissiah wills,’ said Dolvar.
‘Exiles,’ said Luk. ‘Check ammo, address shields and unshroud your guns. Let’s wipe these filthy aliens out.’
The Freeblade Knights stormed up the pass. Snow swept around their legs like cresting waves, then slid away behind them in miniature avalanches. The angle was steep, and not one of the Knights had made it this far without suffering some form of damage from the roving orks they had encountered. Yet the steeds were strong, their spirits bellicose. Nothing could slow their advance.
‘Scanning them now,’ said Sire Hw’ss. ‘Strong infantry contingent as you would expect. Ingenious beasts though, they have modified their vehicles for the terrain. Chain tires, tracks, primitive but effective.’
‘In the centre,’ said Luk. ‘A war effigy, Stompa class. They’ve attached tracks to it, too!’
‘Throne, these xenos would be preposterous if they weren’t so bloody dangerous,’ said Lady Ekhaterina. ‘Those launchers must be what brought down the Pegasson steed.’
Luk saw the long, wicked-looking cannons sat atop the Stompa’s right shoulder, racks of spear-like projectiles lashed below them. The Stompa was grinding its way slowly up the slope ahead of them, barging through the middle of the ork horde. Already it was raking the beleaguered Pegasson barricades with fire.
If it reached the top, the battle would be over.
‘Concentrate your fire on the war effigy,’ said Luk. ‘While it has its back to us. Punish them for their complacency.’
His Knights opened fire, the shockwaves from their cannons causing the snow to leap and shiver. Shells and rockets whistled up the pass and struck the monstrous war engine. Armour plates buckled inwards, turrets and piping sheared away in blossoms of flame, and secondary explosions burst from the Stompa’s bulbous torso.
The ork advance faltered. The mobs and tanks towards the rear of the horde slowed, t
urning back towards the metal giants forging up the slopes towards them. Meanwhile, the Stompa itself ceased its grinding advance and began to execute a lumbering turn. Its guns kept firing, cannon shells strafing along the Pegasson barricades.
‘Shields up,’ said Luk. ‘Here they–’
‘Unidentified Knights in the pass,’ a woman’s voice burst from his vox, underpinned by the hammer of gunfire and the roar of greenskins. ‘Do you receive?’
‘We hear you,’ said Luk, angling his shield to deflect incoming rockets. His stubbers roared. ‘Who is this?’
‘Captain Erika Schaur, Pegasson seventy-second militia,’ she replied. ‘Identify yourselves.’
‘The Knight of Ashes,’ said Luk. ‘Leading the Exiles, and Gesmund’s Vesserines. We march to your aid.’
Captain Schaur’s pause told Luk his name had been recognised. He steeled himself for hostility.
‘Knight of Ashes,’ said Schaur. ‘With respect, your aid is more trouble than it’s worth. This pass is slated for collapse. The charges are primed and the orks are where we want them, but my sappers can’t blow them while you’re stood there.’
‘Damn,’ said Luk. ‘My apologies, captain. Exiles, new plan. Cripple the war effigy’s motive systems and push through the horde to the barricades. Gesmund, stay mounted and get clear. Reinforce Captain Schaur’s militia. Sacristans, split and follow the Vesserines through. Gesmund, keep them alive.’
A chorus of assent came back from all save Void. The orks surged down the pass, running pell-mell down the steep slope with no thought to their own safety. Projectiles hammered Luk’s shield. A hurtling war truck swerved around the blast of his thermal cannon and rammed headlong into Sword of Heroes’ shin, almost tripping his steed.
Luk fired again, pressing forward as he blasted greenskins to ash.
