Krezoc found some cause for optimism in the landings at Deicoon. Krezoc was grateful Syagrius had sent the Pallidus Mor down first. That gave her the chance to take the field as she saw fit. The city, by all appearances, had not fallen to the traitors. The banners of the Imperium flew over its walls, the two heads of the aquila glaring a challenge. The city militia and the reserve of the Kataran Spears assembled outside the eastern wall in ceremonial greeting to the legio and the returning 66th. Nevaeh Eukrolas, governor of the city, sent word that she was coming to meet with the commanders of the battle group.
‘That is well,’ Syagrius voxed from the Currus Venatores transport when Krezoc informed him. ‘Make your arrangements with Governor Eukrolas. I will do the same with Governor Markos at Therimachus.’
Krezoc suppressed a groan, but not the frustrated slap she gave the arm of her command throne. Her moderati turned to look at her. She did not hide her grimace of anger from them. She should have known better than to see benefit to the Pallidus Mor in the order of deployment. Syagrius had simply used her forces to test the ground. She knew the answer she would receive before she spoke again, but she had to hear the words aloud. She had to make Syagrius articulate his madness. ‘We will not be holding Deicoon together, then,’ she said.
‘I see no need.’
‘With respect, marshal, the need is to mount our full strength for an attack to retake Creontiades.’
‘By attempting a crossing of the Kazani bridge? Are you that eager for another defeat, princeps?’
‘The traitors will not remain cantoned on that island,’ Krezoc said.
‘I agree. They will not. This is why our first task is to secure Deicoon and Therimachus. We will make them impregnable to attack, and let the enemy break himself against the walls of our strength.’
‘Our forces will be divided…’ Krezoc began.
‘The cities will be held,’ Syagrius insisted. He ended the transmission.
‘Is he a coward?’ Konterus asked.
‘Therimachus is a suspicious distance from the front,’ Vansaak said.
‘No,’ Krezoc said, as she detached herself from the mechadendrites of the throne and felt the wrench of loss that accompanied every separation from Gloria Vastator. ‘He is not a coward.’ She almost wished he was. His decisions would be easier to anticipate and counter. ‘He is misguided. We will win this war all the same.’
She stood for a moment, looking through the armourglass eyes of the Titan. The Warlord faced east, towards the strait. Though it was midday, the clouds over Creontiades were so black they reflected the glow of the fires in the city. The skyline was a faint smudge on the horizon, but Krezoc thought she could see the movement of huge shapes, and the shadows of the conflagration to come.
Chapter 5
The Kazani Strait
The landscape surrounding Deicoon rolled with low, rocky hills and, closer to the city, slag heaps. It was a geology of petrified waves, a panorama of upheaval ground down by erosion, but sharp as exposed bones. It was hard land, and it had shaped its city.
Nevaeh Eukrolas met Krezoc in military uniform. It bore the crossed spears insignia of the Kataran 66th, though her rank was a ceremonial one. Her greeting was bluff, almost boisterous in its presumption of the fellowship of arms. She walked with a brisk, emphatic stride, and Krezoc could well believe that Deicoon’s governor had, in her youth, served with the 66th, or at the very least in the militia. That had been a long time ago, though. She was part of the ruling family of Katara. Her brother was lord-governor of the planet, and her cousin ruled in Therimachus. Her path was that of the nobility. Krezoc wasn’t sure if her martial bearing ran deeper than nostalgia and self-image. She hoped it did.
They travelled from the gates in Eukrolas’ personal transport, a repurposed Chimera whose roof folded back to allow a parade throne and dais to be raised. Krezoc sat beside the throne. Rheliax and Drahn took seats on the dais. They rode through the streets of Deicoon, ostensibly to inspect its defences. They were also on display themselves, exhibits brought to reassure the populace and bolster its morale.
‘Have you heard from the lord-governor?’ Krezoc asked.
‘There’s been nothing from Hallard since the uprising began. We assume the palace was one of the first targets to fall.’
‘I’m sorry to hear it.’
Eukrolas shrugged. ‘Can’t be helped. He should have known a cult was growing in power right under his nose. Especially if it was large enough to take over the city.’ She clicked her tongue in disgust. ‘My brother is my brother, and kin is kin, princeps senioris, but the fact is, vigilance and preparedness were never my brother’s strengths. He’s a politician, and he’s a good one, but there are times when that isn’t enough.’
‘Such as this one.’
‘Precisely. I think you’ll find our defences are serious ones.’
Drahn looked back in her seat. ‘What we’ve seen is most impressive,’ she said to Eukrolas.
‘Glad to hear it. Glad to hear it. We don’t do things by halves in Deicoon. If it’s supposed to defend, then by the Throne, it had better well defend.’
The walls surrounding the city were almost as thick as they were high, and squat, massive cannon turrets dotted Deicoon. Their guns pointed down the length of the main avenues. These radiated in straight lines from the inner keep, where the region’s government was housed, giving the cannons a clear line of fire on anything entering from one of the city’s gates.
Deicoon was the most heavily industrialised city on Katara. The route from the east gate took Krezoc and the other princeps past one gigantic manufactorum complex after another. It was like passing through a thunderous, pounding canyon of rockcrete and iron. Clusters of chimneys spewed smoke into the air, blanketing the city with smog. The people of Deicoon thronged the pavements, chanting their governor’s name and cheering the princeps. The shouts were raucous and hard. The people, the city and Eukrolas were all carved from the same stone. They were cause for optimism, Krezoc thought.
The keep dominated the centre of Deicoon. It was a massive upthrust of curving ramparts. It was higher than any of the hab blocks. It was a broad-shouldered colossus that guarded each cardinal point of the compass with a macrocannon. The guns were monsters, worthy of void-ship armament. The keep needed to be as big as it was just to support the means of its defence. The range of the cannons would extend far beyond the walls of the city.
The transport drew closer to the keep and fell under the shadow of the east-facing macrocannon. ‘Thunderstrike-pattern?’ Krezoc asked.
‘Yes,’ said Eukrolas.
‘I see.’ Thunderstrikes were older and not as powerful as the Mark VI Mars-pattern macrocannons. They were rarely used on Navy combat vessels any longer, though transports still made use of them. Even if they were lesser armament in void wars, planetside they would be devastating. ‘I’ve rarely seen four guns like those in such proximity on land,’ Krezoc said.
‘Really?’ Eukrolas sounded very pleased.
‘Do they see use often?’ In the mission briefs, she had seen nothing about civil wars on Katara.
‘They haven’t been fired for many centuries,’ Eukrolas said. ‘Their existence is enough. Who’s going to be stupid enough to go up against them?’
‘Who would have any desire to try?’
‘We haven’t had political battles since the start of our dynasty,’ Eukrolas admitted. ‘But we’re prepared. Good thing we are, for days like this.’
‘True,’ said Krezoc.
‘My brother didn’t understand.’ She shook her head. ‘The elite have to be strong. The universe doesn’t grant any favours. We’re ready, he wasn’t, and look what happened.’
‘The macrocannons wouldn’t have helped Creontiades,’ Rheliax said. Not if the assault came from within.’
‘But they would have helped,’ said Eukrolas. ‘It is
n’t just what they can do. It’s what they mean. Vigilance. Rigour. If something like them is guarding the distance, that means the rest of the city is doing its duty. You see?’
‘What are your troop levels?’ Drahn asked.
‘Better now the Sixty-Sixth is here. Before, a few companies of the militia and reservists. Plus what the Adeptus Arbites can put in the field.’
‘Not much for a city of this size,’ said Rheliax.
‘It’s been enough,’ Eukrolas said. She gazed up at the macrocannon as if she had built it herself. ‘This is a city of iron, princeps. So is our faith.’
You haven’t been attacked yet, Krezoc thought. Still, the defences were looking solid. If the keep was properly crewed, all guns fully operational, then the city was as good a stronghold as she could expect. That would give her more freedom of action. ‘There has been no sign of cult activity?’
‘None. We’ve taken the warning seriously and we are investigating. So far, nothing. I’m not surprised.’
‘Oh?’ Eukrolas’ utter confidence made Krezoc uneasy.
‘Creontiades made itself vulnerable to corruption. All those crystal towers. All that pride in the beautiful. You’ve never seen it?’
‘Only some hololiths on our journey here.’
‘It’s something to see. The Jewel of Katara!’ she announced sarcastically. ‘The city as crown!’ She shook her head. ‘Beauty, pride and weakness. I often think they are the same thing. Don’t you agree, Princeps Krezoc?’
‘Creontiades was certainly unable to deal with the threat,’ Krezoc said, carefully neutral. Eukrolas might be right, but there was a risk that in emphasising the city’s weakness, the governor might be underestimating the strength of the enemy.
Eukrolas did not appear to notice the equivocation. ‘Deicoon isn’t easy prey,’ she said. ‘I promise you that.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’
The transport arrived at the base of the keep. A squad of honour guard waited before the heavy, adamantine doors. The soldiers’ uniforms were similar to the one worn by Eukrolas. They were neither militia nor Kataran 66th, though their insignia shared elements of both. They were yet another force, and Krezoc guessed they were a private army, pledged to the protection of the Eukrolas family. The fifteen-foot-high doors parted with a clanking of gears as the princeps of the Pallidus Mor approached the entrance two steps behind the governor. Krezoc had fallen back to let Eukrolas dominate the arrival, and to snatch a few words in confidence with her fellow officers.
‘Well?’ she said quietly, as the door finished opening and a cheer went up from the assembled serfs inside the keep.
‘Lots of defences,’ Rheliax said. ‘And the people seem to take what is coming seriously.’
‘Though this is based on initial impressions,’ Drahn added.
‘Those are all we have time for,’ Krezoc said. She thought for a moment, eyeing the thickness of the walls as she passed through the opening. The passageway through the wall ran for fifty feet. ‘Unless we see something alarming in the keep, I’m going to declare the city as well defended as it can be. That gives us more freedom to act.’
‘Will Marshal Syagrius agree?’ Drahn asked. She was more inclined to doubt and question than Rheliax. By the standards of the culture of the Pallidus Mor, he was unusually cheerful. She balanced him by being suspicious of every positive development. She had her sense of humour, though. Krezoc was sure Drahn would greet death with a sardonically raised eyebrow.
‘The marshal commanded that the city be secured,’ Krezoc said. ‘It has been. We’ll ensure its defences by taking the fight to the enemy.’
‘He really won’t like that,’ Drahn said, but she was grinning.
‘Good,’ said Krezoc.
The bridge over the Kazani Strait was, Ornastas believed, far greater a wonder than even the tallest and most graceful of the spires of Creontiades. It was a gargantuan cantilever structure, spanning a sea in eternal fury. The strait rounded a cape where two powerful ocean currents met. The winds over the bridge never ceased. They warred with each other, shaking the trusses that rose hundreds of feet into the air. The mile-wide span groaned with the strain, yet Ornastas could see no sign of its sway. The iron network of the superstructure was composed of girders so huge the bridge never appeared delicate, even from a distance. It was an arrogant defiance of gravity and storm, reaching for miles across the strait. Below it, the turmoil of the waves crashed against rockcrete supports so massive they seemed more like volcanic cones than the work of human hands. Aquilas with wingspans of hundreds of feet surmounted the apex of each truss. The bridge had stood for millennia, a testament to Imperial power. It was also the most vital artery of Creontiades, the route over which the vast majority of its trade to and from the other cities travelled.
There was no traffic over the bridge now. A few burned shells of vehicles were scattered along its length. The uprising had been so fast, the heretics had sealed the city before there had been a concerted attempt to escape. We must succeed where others failed, Ornastas thought. Creontiades was isolated, and the bridge was the way to safety and to continued resistance for Ornastas and his followers. They had made it this far from the city without being found. They were at the edge of a cliff overlooking the cauldron of the strait far below. The waves reached up in their anger, rising fifty feet or more. The bridge was a few hundred yards to the right. Near the start of its span, the heretics were gathering in greater and greater numbers. They came in a chaotic mixture of vehicles, civilian and military. They did not yet venture onto the bridge. Instead, they moved the transports off the road, leaving the way clear. Then they disembarked and clustered in chanting mobs, all facing east, back towards the city. They were waiting for the monsters that would lead the invasion.
‘They’ll see us when we start to cross,’ Velatz said.
‘I know.’
Ornastas scanned the terrain between them and the heretics. There were enough outcroppings to provide cover all the way to the bridge, and anchoring walls formed a gateway onto the span. He felt sure he and the citizens he now thought of as his resistance fighters could reach the southern wall undetected. Once they set foot on the road, though, they would be completely exposed. The first cultist to look to the west would see them. They could not cross the bridge that way.
Aldemar had been studying the bridge silently since their arrival. Now he said, ‘I think there might be a way.’
‘Tell us,’ Ornastas said.
‘It is dangerous.’
‘Every breath we have taken since the uprising began has been dangerous. Show us the way.’
Aldemar pointed to a spot where the truss met the anchor wall. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘Below the lip of the roadway.’
Ornastas squinted. In the failing light of the day, and with the winds whipping his face, it took him a few moments before he could see what Aldemar meant. There was a ledge running the length of the bridge about ten feet below the road. It looked like an access route for construction crews. Ornastas could just make out what must be ladders at strategic points along the span. From this distance, and against the massiveness of the rest of the construction, they resembled threads leading up and down into the trusses.
He wondered if the ledge was as narrow as it appeared to be. If so, it was nothing more than a catwalk. There were no guard rails, and the ledge was completely exposed to the wind. Once over the strait, the gusts would be even more fierce. A blast at the right angle would snatch a person up like a leaf in a storm, and plunge them into the maws of the waves.
‘Well done,’ Ornastas said to Aldemar.
‘Like I said, it’s risky.’
‘It is also a chance. The only one we have.’
They headed off, a score of insects crouching low and clinging to the edge of the cliff. As they drew nearer to the wall, the edge became more broken, the footing more treacher
ous. They climbed down, finding a crumbling shelf that followed a jagged path to the base of the first truss. The wind screamed against the cliff face and was strong enough to carry stinging spray. The rocks were wet. Ornastas shuffled sideways, facing the cliff, using his free hand to grab every handhold he could find. Progress was awkward with the staff, and would have been unthinkable without it. This was the icon that had guided the way. It was hope in concrete form. He would hold it high for his followers even under fire from the monsters that were soon to march from Creontiades.
They passed underneath the roadway, entering the shadow of the bridge. There was a gap of about a yard between the shelf and its nearest approach to the catwalk. Ornastas looked down at the drop, fighting vertigo. The modest jump felt like a leap into the void in the buffeting wind. He straightened, faced straight ahead and placed his faith in the God-Emperor.
He jumped. There was a moment of terrible flight, and then he landed on the iron platform. He stumbled, felt his balance waver. He leaned sharply to the right, banging his shoulder against the metalwork. He winced, but he was steady again. He moved forwards, out of the way, and looked back. One by one, the members of his flock made the leap. He saw his moments of terror and relief reflected in each of their faces. His robes flapping violently in the wind, he stood tall, the staff raised, a sight to keep the faithful strong as they crossed the gap.
Midway through the process, Dessican, another of the manufactorum serfs, misjudged his leap. His foot caught the edge of the catwalk. He slammed down at an angle and slid off the edge. He did not take his eyes off Ornastas. He remained true to the cause to the end, and he did not scream. He fell in utter silence, a stone dropping into the howl of the wind. He vanished into the heaving darkness below.
Warlord: Fury of the God-Machine Page 9
