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Mercy of the Dragon – Nick Kyme
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MERCY OF THE DRAGON
Nick Kyme
The final wall had fallen, and with it Venikov. The city had been called 'the Bloody Bastion' by the Ranknar Blood-Guard. It was impregnable, they had said. Now Venikov burned, its precincts as hollow as the confidence that had once proclaimed it unbreakable.
And as it fell, and burned, the Imperial war machine ground on.
Sarda watched the city fall through his omniscope, glad for the kilometres between him and the armour-clad star warriors who had laid siege to his world. The hills where he had led those fleeing the destruction of Venikov would do little to stop the oppressors, however.
'How many?' asked Veddus. Sarda thought the goreov priest sounded weary, not just with the fatigue of the war but a spiritual malaise that came with the almost certain knowledge that your culture and everything you knew would soon be extinguished and replaced by another.
But then Sarda had always thought too much. He had been thinking ever since the so-called Emperor had made his proclamation. The Emperor had spoken of unity and compliance, but to Sarda this had sounded like conquest and annihilation. He adjusted the strap on his leather hauberk, suddenly uncomfortable.
'Blood-Marshal Enoch has forged a last redoubt. At the old keep in southern Venikov.'
'How many, captain?' repeated Veddus, the sound of a cloak rasping as he swept closer.
Sarda tweaked the brass omniscope, adjusting the dials to focus in on the warriors and refugees fleeing Venikov. They were heading south, to the hills, to the next city on Erod. The last city. He adjusted his armour again. The studs were digging in through his padded jerkin. A rime of salt crusted his forehead where his leather helm met skin and made him sweat.
'A few thousand.'
'Is that all?' uttered Veddus, pausing at the thought.
Sarda heard the priest's breath reverberate against the brass mask. 'Over a hundred thousand men entered that city.'
'Blood-Marshal Enoch has another thousand trying to hold them off.'
'Teeth of Ranknar…' hissed Veddus.
Sarda doubted their patron god was listening. There was only one god that really mattered now, and he was on the other side. The Dragon.
'We'll need to fall back to Romistad. The Red Citadel is formidable,' said Sarda.
Veddus nodded, starting to grow in confidence again. 'Yes. Out here in the hills we are vulnerable. The Red Citadel can withstand a siege. Let's see if these curs have the stomach for it. I'll see the Dragon slain on our walls. Bled dry! I swear it by Ranknar!'
A great explosion lit the horizon to the north. Tremors were felt as far as the hills. They ripped Venikov and the old keep apart.
Sarda lowered the omniscope, and let out a long shuddering breath. He faced Veddus. The blank visage of the mask was reflected in the priest's eyes. The mask's stylised representation of a gaunt human face, edged instead of curved, could not hide his fear.
'What is it?' he demanded. 'What happened?'
'Blood-Marshal Enoch is dead, goreov.'
Veddus swallowed audibly. 'Are you certain?'
Sarda pointed a crimson glove in the direction of the city.
Except there was no city. Venikov was gone.
Only fire remained, a conflagration so large and ferocious it engulfed the sky like slow spreading ink and turned it red. And at the heart of the blaze, killing with fang and claw, a giant in emerald scale.
A myth brought terrifyingly to life.
Veddus scarcely had voice enough to name it out loud, 'The Dragon…'
'I am a son of a blacksmith,' said Vulkan, gazing across the desert, 'and you…'
'What?' asked the Outlander. 'What am I?'
Vulkan turned to regard the warrior next to him.
'You are no mere outlander.'
The heat of the day was fading on Nocturne and the tribesmen out on the ash plains were bringing in their herds as the two great beings stood on a high dune looking out at a world of fire.
The warrior bowed His head, acknowledging the truth. He then raised a gauntleted hand to the sun and watched the light reflect off the metal. He had shed a lie, this warrior, one meant to put the Noctumeans and their chieftain at ease.
'Am I not a man, Vulkan?' He asked, the rays catching not only His gauntlet but the rest of His armour-clad body, so that He shone with a radiant golden light.
'You look like a king,' Vulkan replied, and for the first time felt uncomfortable in the rough apparel of a blacksmith.
'I am no king, but is a king not also a man?'
'Not to the vassals of his kingdom.'
The warrior smiled, a mentor pleased with his student, and turned to face Vulkan. His hair caught on the hot wind, trailing like black smoke. His short red cloak fluttered, a statesman about to address his people.
'I am the Emperor.'
'Ah,' said Vulkan, his turn to smile now, 'greater than a king. And your empire is the stars?'
The Emperor followed Vulkan's gaze to the red-stained heavens and grew sombre.
'Not yet. There is darkness out in the void.' He looked back at Vulkan, His eyes cold with sorrow. 'That is why I need you.' This mood lasted only a moment before the warmth returned. 'A blacksmith's son. To help me bring the light.'
'Of creation?'
'Yes. And to be one of my generals.'
Vulkan scowled, suddenly ill at ease.
'I am no warlord.'
'And yet war has come to the galaxy. It must, Vulkan, and you shall be one of those who leads it. Mankind must emerge from Old Night and embrace the Truth.'
'Your truth?' The words had the bite of accusation that Vulkan did not try to soften.
'The Imperial Truth. That there are no gods and mankind's fate is what he or she makes it.'
'I know only the truth of metal and how it bends to fire,' Vulkan looked down at his hands as if imagining the fuller gripped against his leathern skin, 'the truth of what I can see, and the earth beneath my feet.'
'And that is why I need you.'
'I still don't understand.'
'You will.'
'And what if I do not wish to leave? General, warlord, call it what you will, but I have never imagined a sword in my hand or an army at my command.'
'You lead your people.'
'That is different. I protect Nocturne from those who would see it harmed, or enslaved. You are talking about conquest. I am a maker, not a destroyer.'
'You would prefer a hammer to a sword, and an anvil against which to strike it.'
Vulkan nodded.
The Emperor stepped out of the light and His lustre appeared to fade. He seemed smaller, more ordinary. His face looked weathered, as if He had spent some time out in the wild places of His world. It was the face of a farmer or a hunter.
'I want you to join me willingly, Vulkan. Will you allow me to convince you? I am confident you will see the necessity of your presence and see my cause as just.'
The wind rose across the desert, bringing with it the scent of ash. A mountain peak erupted, releasing a tongue of flame that tasted the heavens. From deep beneath the earth a sympathetic roar answered.
'The Time of Trial comes again soon,' said Vulkan.
'It does,' said the Emperor, 'and it touches more than just this world. This is a trial for all of mankind.'
Vulkan's gaze lingered on the mountain - its name was Deathfire - before returning again to the Emperor.
'I agree to your proposal. If you can convince me, I will leave Nocturne and
go with you. But I have questions.'
'Then ask, Vulkan, and I promise you I shall only answer with the truth.'
They had promised the truth, but had come cloaked in lies.
Sarda remembered these words from the Great Goreov, the Incarnadine himself. They were to be the priest's last - the violent kiss of heat as the temple dais turned into a storm of fire, and blood drowned out what followed.
The priests were all dead bar one, their faith slain along with them.
'We will still have vengeance,' said Veddus, leaning in to Sarda's ear. He could smell the alcohol on the goreov's breath. It had the tang of warm iron to it.
They had sealed the gates to the Red Citadel. Cannons girded its high, rust-red walls. Men thronged its battlements dressed in full martial panoply: Blood-Guard in crimson leather and Red Knights in ceramic war-garb that reflected their namesake. It was a long, deep wall the garrison held, one that stretched for almost a kilometre to both the east and the west. At the heart of the city, imposing and formidable, was Ranknar's oldest keep. It had never been taken. Ever. The Incarnadine who held it held Ranknar.
Yet as Venikov faded to a dirty orange glow on the horizon, those behind the walls cowered. They feared the fire. They feared the Dragon.
'We should not have refused them,' said Sarda, and felt himself yanked hard by his gorget to face Veddus.
'Renounce our faith!' the priest spat drunkenly, and drew a few eyes in their direction. 'You are a holy warrior of Ranknar…' He trailed off. The title had less and less meaning with every passing hour.
'And where is Ranknar now?' asked Sarda.
Veddus released him. 'He would not abandon us,' he rasped, and looked to the courtyard below. 'We must make a sacrifice…'
Sarda seized the priest's wrist as he made to draw his bloodletter. The knife's dark edge caught the fading light and flashed in Veddus' eyes, making him squint.
'It does not matter any more. What good would it do?' said Sarda.
Veddus made a half-hearted struggle. Those who caught his hungry gaze recoiled.
'We can still make an offering. And we have weapons. More than one. They have served Erod for centuries. The blessed of Ranknar. He would not—' The words caught in his throat as he joined the hundreds of others in the Red Citadel staring at the horizon.
A black, irregular line stood out amongst the smoke and the fading glow of fire. It was a slow moving tide a wave of elongated cannon barrels, tank tracks and riveted armour, and it was about to wash Romistad and the Red Citadel away.
'Raise shields!' a watchman cried.
'Ranknar preserve us,' whispered Veddus, as the heavens shook with manufactured thunder and the Imperial bombardment began.
And as the first enemy shells began to fall, and the cannons on the Red Citadel's walls answered, a dark mood came over Veddus.
'Gather them, Sarda.' The bloodletter kissed the warrior's neck and drew a bead of fluid shaped like a red ruby. 'As many as you can.' He looked to the Imperial line and the star-warriors advancing heedlessly into the Ranknar cannonade. 'I will anoint the bogatyrs, and then unleash them.'
'And if they fail?' asked Sarda.
'With faith, they shall not,' said the priest, bile colouring his voice. 'But if they do, then we both know we have one last gambit to play.'
'Was it a trick?' asked Vulkan, looking to the sky and half expecting the promised ship to appear, belching fire through a swathe of sulphuric cloud.
'A trick?' asked the Emperor.
'The way you shed your disguise. You didn't merely cast off a cloak or lower a mask, you changed… everything. Is this,' he gestured to the Emperor in His gilded glory, 'your true self?'
'Isn't identity a matter of perception? You see… what, a gold-clad ruler? A king, you said. Others might see something different. A man. A father.'
'But was it a trick?' Vulkan pressed.
'What does it matter? Please,' said the Emperor holding up a hand to show His sincerity, 'I am not trying to avoid the question, but I am interested in your rationale for asking it.'
'I would know the manner and design of the man who bids me leave my home and people. I am a simple man, but do not think of me as credulous.'
'You are neither, Vulkan,' the Emperor replied, but did not elaborate, 'and, yes, I suppose it was a trick of sorts. A means of determining the truth.'
'Then are you a sorcerer?' Vulkan asked. 'Was it magic?'
The Emperor's mood darkened, but fractionally, so that only someone who was particularly astute would notice. Vulkan slightly raised his eyebrow.
'Not a sorcerer,' said the Emperor. 'Magic… is not real, it is merely science yet to be understood. Show a primitive culture fire for the first time and they call it magic. Bring a starship to a backwards world yet to invent the combustion engine and it is hailed as witchcraft. Superstition, the darkness of old ways and the atrocities committed in their name, that is what I wish to bring an end to.'
'So, you are a scientist?'
'A reductive term,' the Emperor answered, thoughtful, 'but as fitting as any. I have a laboratory and have accomplished much to reach this point, through experimentation and endeavour.'
'And war,' said Vulkan. 'You are a warrior too.'
'Yes, and war. I won't lie, there has been blood spilled on this journey and there will be more. I never imagined the enlightenment of mankind would be an easy task, nor one accomplished without violence. However regrettable.' The Emperor's eyes seem to cloud for a moment then, lost in abstract thought. 'I have had failures. Some of which I shall never speak of.'
'My brothers?'
The Emperor did not answer, and that was answer enough.
'Will you not tell me of them?' asked Vulkan. 'Are they like me?'
'Utterly unlike you,' said the Emperor, brightening, 'and that is your single greatest trait. My proudest achievement.'
'Will I meet them if I agree to follow you into the stars?'
'Yes, you will, though I have yet to find them all. You will learn much from them, and they from you.'
Vulkan glanced down at the sand accumulating around his boots. The desert was shifting again. Soon it would swallow this ridge and another would emerge elsewhere.
'Are they from worlds like Nocturne?'
'As harsh and beautiful, you mean?' asked the Emperor. 'Some are. Some are kings, others are scholars, chieftains, slaves…' his eyes fell upon Vulkan, 'even blacksmiths.'
'What would they think of me? Could I really feel a bond of fraternity with them? And they with me?'
The Emperor smiled. 'Let me tell you of Ferrus.'
The Gorgon grinned, an altogether ugly expression on such a grizzled face.
'He is ferocious,' he said, his voice as gritty and harsh as his appearance. His black armour was shorn to the bare ceramite in places, though the scorch marks caused by fire barely showed. 'The way you described him, I thought…'
'You did not expect a warrior,' said the Emperor, His gilded panoply gleaming. He stood upon a blasted hillock, not that He needed the vantage to look imposing. His stature and power spoke for themselves. Despite the battles, He remained pristine. As radiant and terrifying as a nuclear sunrise.
'I expected a blacksmith, but he is a destroyer.'
Much of the outer lands beyond the major cities of Ranknar had been reduced to ash. A bombardment lasting several days had softened up the native defences, but had seen the same forces dug in instead of broken as the Emperor had hoped. The Imperial assault, when it came, swept across all six continents as relentless as a hurricane. Still, the Ranknar had endured, buoyed by their perverse faith, the reason for the Imperium's proclamation of extinction.
And so the Emperor had unleashed His Dragon, and the lands had burned. Only then, slowly swallowed by fire, had the Ranknar showed any signs of defeat.
'I thought the Wolf King had fury,' said Ferrus, admiring the choleric spirit of his newfound brother, 'But this… Where did you find him?'
'A death world,' sa
id the Emperor, His piercing gaze seeing more and ranging farther than any other on both the battlefield and second battle line where He stood with His son, Ferrus Manus. 'One consumed by fire.'
Ferrus gave a snort of laughter.
They watched from the blasted hillock, the troops and armoured divisions arrayed before them and ready for the Gorgon's command. His warriors, his Iron Hands. The Dragon led a company of them, and several cohorts of army auxilia. The scent of engines and hot metal from the idling artillery and heavy battle tanks wafted over the mustering, but petered out and was swallowed up by the stink of sweat and death by the time it reached the battle less than a hundred metres away.
Ferrus folded his silver arms, restive. They shimmered with an uncanny lustre, the metal of their forging as miraculous as it was mysterious. A massive warhammer lay against one armoured shoulder, a gift from Fulgrim and one he desired to bloody again. For now, he would do as his father ordered. He would watch, and let the Dragon wreak havoc. Ferrus suspected it was not only his newfound brother who was being tested this day.
'Draconic in both aspect and temperament,' he said, alluding to the savage scalloped war-plate worn by the Dragon.
'You taught him much of your craft, Ferrus?' asked the Emperor.
'None, in truth. He needed no help in that regard. When I reached the forge, he was gone and the armour with him.'
The Emperor smiled, as if pleased with His works.
'Your assessment?'
'Overly flamboyant, but it appears to serve well.'
'Him, not his armour, Ferrus.'
A raised eyebrow and a grunt of acknowledgement preceded the Gorgon's reply.
'He fights like a Medusan ur-wyrm. Are they all like that where he came from?'
'No, he is unique. As are you.'
His silver fingers clenched and unclenched without Ferrus realising. He nodded.
'He is impressive,' he admitted, then turned disdainful, 'but Russ and Horus, even Fulgrim, they match his prowess. I see nothing special about him.'
'You will.' The Emperor paused abruptly, and the Gorgon felt his hackles rise. 'They are opening the gates.'
Ferrus hid his unease at his father's use of prescience, remaining bullish. 'Then they are as foolish as they are blind. A sortie is insane. They don't know when they are beaten.'
Mercy of the Dragon - Nick Kyme Page 1
