Knightsblade

by Andy Clark

  ‘Slay the warlord,’ said Ekhaterina. ‘Break the horde.’

  ‘My lady, you will speak only when the Marchioness addresses you,’ said Sire Quensil, earning an imperious stare from Ekhaterina.

  ‘It is true that orks are known to fall to infighting, should their leader be slain,’ said Lady Eleanat. ‘The disruption amongst the invaders should we achieve that feat would be substantial. It would allow for a counter-offensive while the xenos fought one another for dominance.’

  ‘More to the point,’ said Luk, ‘it would allow us to rescue House Draconis and the High King before they are overrun.’

  ‘You have come to ask me to lend my strength to this endeavour, yes?’ asked Lauret.

  ‘I have, my lady,’ said Luk.

  ‘Impossible,’ said another of the Pegasson Knights, a tall woman with short-shaved hair and a bionic eye.

  ‘Lady Shellaine,’ said Lauret warningly.

  ‘I’m sorry, my liege, but we’re fighting our own war here,’ the Knight pressed on. ‘The orks are contained in the lower passes, but if we were to remove even a portion of our strength there is no guarantee that would remain the case. Are we to abandon our own keep that we might save House Draconis’?’

  ‘You have only the word of this traitor’s son that he even spoke to the High King,’ said one of the priests. ‘My lady, he may have sworn away his titles, but he is still his father’s son. And his mother’s.’

  This last was added venomously, and Luk scowled.

  ‘The Knight of Ashes hunts his mother, to kill her,’ said Lady Maia. ‘We follow him because we believe in him. We believe in his hunt. We turned aside from that hunt to save your lives. Learn respect, priest, or I will teach it to you.’

  ‘My lady, these rogues make threats!’ exclaimed the priest.

  ‘You provoke them, Gastor,’ said the Marchioness. ‘And you all speak out of turn. Silence. Yet the priest raises a valid concern, Luk. You have been gone many long years. The timing of your return is fortuitous at best, suspicious at worst. We do not know what may have befallen you. Your… prey… is a known witch and enchantress. How do we know that you have not returned in her thrall to do us harm?’

  ‘We came at the behest of an Imperial seer, an oracle who speaks the word of the Emperor,’ said Luk. ‘You are the Lady of Miracles. Surely you recognise them when they occur?’

  Lauret stiffened in her throne, but her expression remained neutral.

  ‘Even allowing for the Emperor’s divine intervention–’ began the first priest, but Luk cut him off.

  ‘I will submit to whatever tests you can devise,’ he said. ‘So long as they are quick. I am pure in my faith, and so are my comrades. But time is of the essence. You are winning the war for now, my lady, but if Pegasson waits until all else is lost, then soon enough, you will fall also.’

  ‘Marchioness, he speaks truth,’ said Lady Eleanat. ‘You know this. The orks’ greatest strength is elsewhere, fighting Houses Minotos and Draconis. If… when… they fall, we cannot fight a world of orks alone. Our stores will dwindle. Our soldiers will die. Eventually we will lose Adrastapol to these aliens, and then how will the Emperor judge us?’

  ‘My lady,’ said Gastor. ‘I know little of strategy, but I know that the Emperor will judge us more harshly if we allow the honeyed words of a heretic to lure us from behind our fortress walls to be destroyed by foul xenos.’

  The Marchioness frowned.

  ‘Leave me now. All of you,’ she said. ‘I must pray for guidance.’

  ‘My lady,’ said Luk. ‘Please. Don’t take too long.’

  ‘All are to leave the presence of the Marchioness at this time,’ announced Sire Quensil, his voice resounding through the throne room. Lauret had closed her eyes, and her throne pulsed with soft light as its circuitry sparkled.

  ‘Come,’ said Lady Eleanat. ‘Follow me, I’ll quarter you in one of the upper guest chambers for now. I’ll find you some food, and water to bathe with, too.’

  They followed the Knight from the throne room, and up through more corridors and stairways.

  ‘We can’t wait long,’ said Luk. ‘The Iron Maze is many days’ march away, even in full panoply. And the Draconspire is besieged as we speak. We still don’t know what’s happening there, why they suddenly lost vox, we don’t even know–’

  ‘I understand, Luk,’ said Lady Eleanat. ‘But the Marchioness has difficult decisions to make. She must think of her own people, and after Donatos there is not a Knight on Adrastapol who would not look twice where they tread, lest they walk into a trap.’

  Luk sighed.

  ‘My House’s final legacy,’ he said.

  ‘No,’ said Eleanat, opening the doors to a broad, airy chamber. ‘You are your House’s final legacy, Luk, and the only one that matters.’

  He smiled wanly at her, and led the Exiles into their temporary accommodation.

  The room was large and well lit, with comfortable padded chairs and a guest bed along one wall. It had a writing desk, a long bookcase, and a picture-window of thermo-baffled armourglass that afforded a stunning view of the wooded passes below. Lady Hespar settled herself on the bed with a warning that she would fight any who tried to deny her of it, while Sire Hw’ss gravitated towards the bookshelf. Luk, meanwhile, went and stood at the window. Maia joined him.

  They both stared down at the violence taking place below.

  ‘Strange to watch, not fight,’ said Lady Kastarada.

  ‘Frustrating,’ said Luk. ‘I didn’t come all this way to sit in a comfortable bed chamber and watch others die for this world. Danial needs our aid.’

  ‘Rest,’ said Ekhaterina from the bed. ‘When they bring food, eat. Have a damned wash, Throne knows you could use one. We all could. Your Marchioness will make her decision soon enough, and then it’ll be back to the blood and thunder before you know it.’

  ‘Lady Hespar posits the optimal course,’ said J’madus, riffling through the pages of a leather-bound tome. ‘Just as a steed needs fuel and maintenance, so too do its biological actuators. Besides, we cannot depart until we know whether Ranulf will be joining us, and Colonel Gesmund’s men no doubt require rations and a chance to rest also.’

  Luk sat at the writing desk and dragged his fingers through his hair, sighing heavily.

  ‘I will not be too late,’ he said. ‘I refuse to fail them.’

  ‘You won’t,’ said Maia.

  Three hours passed, during which they ate the food that was brought to them by harried-looking serviles, and washed off the grime of war using hard soap and pitchers of cold water. The Exiles took advantage of the rare moment of peace, all except Luk. Lady Hespar dozed, Maia meditated and Hw’ss read. Luk did little more than pace.

  Finally, the door opened again and Lady Eleanat entered the chamber.

  ‘Your man, Vo-Geiss, will live,’ she said. ‘He’s full of elixirs and restoratives now, and he’ll need bionics in the long term. But he’s stable, and given a week or so he should be able to fight again.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Luk. ‘What of our request?’

  Lady Eleanat took a deep breath.

  ‘After careful deliberation, the Marchioness has elected to act. She will not draw more Knights from the defence than she can afford, so offers a force of forty-eight steeds.’

  ‘That is… generous,’ said Luk, struggling to hide the disappointment in his voice. Not enough, he thought. Nowhere near.

  ‘It is pragmatic,’ said Lady Eleanat. ‘But there is more. The passes are secure, and our defences are strong. With the winds so high, and storm belts rolling in, we have little need of our fighters and bombers at this time. Thus, barring a few reserve squadrons, Lauret Tan Pegasson pledges the entire air force of House Pegasson to your cause.’

  Luk blinked.

  ‘That’s certainly a little more than pragmatic
!’ he said, excitement building in his chest.

  ‘Indeed,’ said Lady Eleanat. ‘Over two hundred combat aircraft, and a sufficient fleet of heavy lifters to transport not only your small force and all of ours, but whatever Knights House Minotos pledges to your cause, if they choose to do so.’

  ‘Lady Eleanat, please give the Marchioness my warmest thanks,’ said Luk. ‘That is wonderful news.’

  ‘You can tell her yourself, Knight of Ashes,’ smiled Eleanat. ‘She will be leading the Pegasson force. The Marchioness Tan Pegasson rides to House Draconis’ aid. Let the xenos fear her wrath.’

  Danial, Suset and Markos crouched behind a barricade made from statuary and furniture. They wore sleek, armoured bodygloves with servo-joints and thrumming refractor-field generators built into their backs. The suits were prizes from the archeotech trove that Danial had unlocked deep below the Draconspire, as were the weapons they cradled. Heavy bolt guns of an archaic style, with deep magazines, long plasteel stocks, and machine-spirit targeters that meshed directly with the wielder’s subconscious mind.

  Markos raised his head above the barricade, pulling it back quickly as ork rounds chewed into wood and stone.

  ‘They’re coming again,’ he said, his voice a faltering rasp of static. He scowled, and rapped his knuckle against his vocal augmetic.

  ‘That won’t help,’ said Suset. ‘The Sacristans said the effects are wearing off gradually. Just be patient, Markos.’

  The corridor rang with a savage alien war cry.

  ‘WAAAGH!’

  ‘I wish they’d stop shouting that,’ snarled Danial.

  The corridor was a short one, adjoining two barracks chambers within the second wall of the Draconspire. Already, ork corpses sprawled upon its flagstones, blown open by bolt rounds, their blood congealing in thick pools. Now a fresh wave of orks charged over the fallen bodies, filling the corridor like a tidal wave of green muscle and flesh. Spiked armour plates struck sparks from the walls.

  Beady red eyes stared and hulking bodies jostled as the greenskins charged. They fired crude handguns that sent thumb-sized slugs thumping into the barricade.

  In return, Danial and his comrades rose into firing crouches and let fly. With the orks packed so tightly, it was impossible to miss. Mass-reactive bolts punched through rusted armour and leathery flesh, detonating deep within their targets.

  Blood sprayed the walls. Severed limbs spun through the air. Heads exploded.

  The lead orks fell, only to be trampled by those behind, who were gunned down in turn. Still they came on.

  A shot struck Danial’s armour’s refractor field, causing a burst of light as it rebounded into the wall. Suset cursed as another slug struck her shoulder, staggering her and spoiling her aim.

  ‘Damnit,’ she said. ‘This archeotech is amazing, but it takes some getting used to.’

  ‘Blades!’ croaked Markos. As one they mag-locked their guns to their bodygloves’ thigh plates, then drew and ignited their Draconblades.

  ‘Where in the Dracon’s name is Bannoch?’ asked Suset.

  ‘No time,’ said Markos.

  The first orks spilled over the barricade. Danial lashed out and hacked the head from one, while Suset drove the point of her blade into another’s eye. Markos impaled the first brute to come at him. It erupted into flames, and Markos shoved it away.

  More orks scrambled over the barricade. The lead greenskin swung a snarling chain-choppa at Danial, and the High King’s arms were numbed by the shock as he parried.

  Suset hacked down a snarling foe then cut the legs from under Danial’s attacker, allowing him to run it through and finish it. He nodded thanks and she shot him a fierce grin.

  An ork leapt from atop the barricade and bore Markos to the ground. The monster hammered its gun butt into his face, and blood sprayed as the herald’s nose broke.

  Markos’ augmetic spat angry sounds, and he punched his armoured fist into the side of the ork’s head. On the third blow, its jaw broke with a sickening crunch. As the ork pulled back, Markos drove his sword up through its throat and out the back of its skull.

  Danial cut down another enemy, then staggered as a crude axe rebounded from his chest-armour.

  ‘Bannoch!’ he shouted into his vox-bead. ‘Where are you?’

  Faint static answered, and Danial cursed. The Sacristans were gradually coaxing the machine-spirits back to life after the orks’ attack, but it was a tortuous process. Many systems were still inoperable.

  The rattle of gunfire erupted at the orks’ rear. Flares of light flashed along the walls and ceiling.

  ‘Draconis!’ Danial heard Captain Bannoch’s shout, taken up by the men he led. The orks faltered. Some turned back, while others pressed forward with frenzied determination.

  ‘In Excelsium Furore!’ bellowed Danial, cleaving his blade through an ork’s chest and kicking its burning corpse aside. He vaulted onto the barricade, sweeping his sword in blazing arcs and driving the orks back into Bannoch’s guns. Markos and Suset joined him, forming a second wall of metal and fire the orks couldn’t break. A savage blow threw Danial sideways into Suset, but before his attacker could capitalise on its success, its head exploded and sprayed them both with gore.

  The headless xenos thumped to the floor, twitching, revealing Captain Bannoch lowering his smoking bolter. A dozen men and women of the militia stood behind him, breathing hard and clutching autoguns and crossbows. Several more lay amidst the dead orks, hacked down even as they pressed their ambush home.

  ‘You left it late, captain,’ said Danial.

  ‘We ran into resistance while flanking, my liege,’ replied Bannoch. ‘Gens and Haller were lost to an ork flamethrower.’

  ‘The ambush worked,’ said Danial, wincing at his burning aches. ‘That’s another corridor cleared.’

  ‘The last,’ said Suset, frowning as she pressed her hand to her vox-bead. ‘It sounds like the breakthrough has been driven back to the ramparts.’

  ‘Then that’s where we need to be,’ said Danial.

  They jogged along the corridors of the Draconspire, guns at the ready, picking their way through areas where corpses lay amidst burned wreckage. Crossing a junction, they met a pair of militiamen limping the other way, holding each other up. One man’s face was a mask of blood.

  ‘What news from the ramparts?’ asked Danial.

  ‘They’re pressing hard, my liege,’ said the more coherent of the two. ‘We’re all that remains of the ninth. Word is the orks broke the defences at Blackiron tower, and they’re spilling along the western wall.’

  ‘Get yourselves to the medicae station in Caogan’s Gallery,’ said Danial. ‘Warn them there’s been another ork breakthrough, and to be ready to move the wounded if they must.’

  ‘Yes, sire,’ said the militiaman, limping away with his wounded comrade. Danial and his Knights shared a dark look.

  ‘Losing battle,’ said Markos quietly, the crackle of his augmetic fading in and out. ‘If Polluxis could get the shield back up…’

  ‘They’re inside the shield now, anyway,’ said Suset. ‘They’re shelling from the outer districts.’

  ‘Luk will be here soon, with enough Knights to see the orks butchered,’ said Danial. ‘We just have to hold them back until he arrives.’

  ‘Luk is an exile,’ said Suset. ‘My liege, we have to consider the possibility that he may fail us, or else the other Noble Houses won’t obey his summons.’

  ‘He will be here, and they will listen,’ said Danial firmly.

  They pressed on, staggering as the corridor shook and the lumen flickered from some huge detonation.

  They passed through the Preceptor’s Chapel, where shards of stained glass lay scattered, and exhausted militia prayed to the Emperor for strength. Near the exit, a runner caught up to them. The young man handed Danial a scroll, then bent double with hi
s hands on his thighs as he strove to regain his breath.

  The High King unfurled the parchment and scanned its contents.

  ‘Word from Polluxis,’ he said. ‘Automatic weapons are back to seventy-five per cent function, as close as he can gauge. His Sacristans have got a number of the inner wall guns working again, thank the Emperor, but the outer emplacements are lost. Las weaponry is taking longer to coax back to life, and he advises we remain wary of our plasma weapons for fear their machine-spirits might rebel.’

  ‘What of the steeds?’ asked Suset. Danial shook his head.

  ‘They’re quiescent, not dead,’ he said. ‘That’s something. Polluxis has yet to reawaken even a single one, but he says he’s making progress. A number are stirring. He’s managed to bring a few Crawlers to operational status, but says that many of their finer systems were burned out in the attack.’

  ‘Damn,’ said Markos. ‘Can’t counter-attack. What use–?’ His emitter cut out again, and he thumped it angrily.

  ‘We can still fight, sire herald,’ said Danial. ‘We can still set an example, and make our ancestors proud. House Draconis has the fighting strength to make the orks pay in blood for every yard of ground they take. So that is what we will do.’

  Markos saluted with his blade.

  ‘Autoquill?’ Danial asked the runner. The lad pulled a stylus from his robes and handed it to the High King, before turning his back so Danial could lean the parchment upon it.

  ‘Take these instructions to Sire Percivane in the High Strategium,’ said Danial. ‘Tell him there are greenskins on the western wall. We need a salient through the Wyreweaver’s District with squadrons of Huntsmen and infantry to cut off the ork reinforcements. Tell him to locate Captain Kauff and have her reroute the sixty-fifth, sixty-sixth and eighty-first militia companies to sectors eight through eleven west. Second fief. We’ll catch the greenskins in a vice and crush them on the battlements.’

  The runner furled the scroll.

  ‘And, lad,’ said Danial, ‘tell Sire Percivane not to overexert himself. He’s lucky to be alive. Again. His faith will only sustain him for so long.’