Kingsblade

by Andy Clark

The High King snorted.

  ‘Pray never become a diplomat, Markos.’

  ‘Pray never make me, your highness,’ replied the grizzled herald.

  ‘And what of my son?’ asked Tolwyn as they approached a set of heavy brass doors. The Cadian veterans guarding the door snapped to attention, saluting crisply and slamming their las-rifle butts against the marble floor.

  ‘Your son still lives,’ replied Markos after a pause, ‘and for that alone I’m thankful.’

  ‘Come now,’ replied the High King, stopping beside his old friend. ‘That seems a touch uncharitable. I have it from several sources that he performed admirably for his first engagement, as did young Luk.’

  Markos shifted, clearly uncomfortable.

  ‘Well, if that’s what you’ve heard, my liege…’

  ‘Markos,’ pressed the High King, ‘we’re better blade-brothers than that. Aren’t we? I’d know what you think.’

  Markos Dar Draconis sighed and nodded.

  ‘Very well, my liege. I don’t think either one of them is ready. Nor, for that matter, are Sylvest Dar Draconis or Suset Dar Draconis. All four faced their Becoming a matter of weeks before we took ship…’

  ‘You yourself first piloted a Knight in anger on the very morning after your Becoming, old friend,’ said the High King with a smile.

  ‘Aye, but that was necessity, sire. I’d have asked politely, but the orks didn’t seem inclined to wait while I finished my training.’ Both Knights laughed, and the High King noticed the Cadians’ mouths quirked a little at the corners. Markos became serious again as he continued.

  ‘The Chimaeros ward suffers from an overabundance of youthful arrogance, and a surfeit of common sense. He’ll be a fine blade given time, but for now he’s dangerously untempered. As for your lad… Danial’s never been a brawler, Tolwyn. You know his taste for books eclipses his want for fisticuffs, wenches and wine. He hesitated off the drop. He stood overlong once clear, and only got himself into the fight after Lady Jennika gave him a boot up the backside. Even then he followed her to battle like a lost puppy.’

  The High King raised an eyebrow at such harsh assessment, but the smile still had not quite left his face.

  ‘I asked for honesty, I suppose. Markos, my oldest friend, I fear sometimes that you simply do not see Danial’s inner strength. Just because he is a little different to most lads his age…’

  ‘A little different?’ the herald cried. ‘My liege, he’s eighteen winters whelped and hasn’t even taken a woman! He…’ Tolwyn held up a gloved hand, suddenly serious.

  ‘Enough. There is honesty, and there is disparagement. We will continue this discussion in a more private setting. For now, please remember that he is my son, and the heir to the throne. If you are so sure that Danial is not ready for his responsibilities, then I would appreciate your every effort in preparing him for his mantle, rather than declaring him unfit.’

  Markos’ face coloured. He swiftly knelt before the High King, and bowed his head.

  ‘Apologies, my liege. I shall do penance for my outburst.’ Tolwyn reached down and took his herald by the shoulders, urging the heavily muscled warrior to stand once more.

  ‘Your contrition is enough, along with your solemn oath to help my son take his rightful place.’

  Markos nodded.

  ‘Of course, my liege. I swear it on my throne.’

  ‘Good enough,’ said Tolwyn, a smile creasing the corners of his piercing green eyes. Dracon’s eyes, they called them, an inheritance common to all those of true House Draconis blood. ‘Now, the war council awaits.’

  Turning, the High King made an expansive gesture at which one of the Cadians waved a key-wand and the huge brass doors swung ponderously open. Taking a deep breath, the king adjusted his smile to one of war-weathered confidence, and advanced as though to battle.

  The chamber into which the High King led his herald was vast, so much so that a Warlord Titan might have stood at its centre. Before the war, it had been the grand dictatorium of the Penta­khost Administratum. Now it had become Tolwyn’s strategium. The domed, frescoed ceiling was all but lost in shadow, despite the grey daylight that streamed through the arched windows of one wall. Electrosconces were set at intervals, between dour portraits of robed worthies. The floor of the enormous circular space bore a huge icon of an aquila picked out in tawdry looking gilt. Yes, thought the High King, this place is as vast and soulless as the organisation it aggrandises.

  A large group of men and women were gathered around a massive holo-projector table. As Tolwyn made his entrance, the buzz of conversation that echoed around the room petered out and all eyes turned to him and Markos. In response, Tolwyn’s attendant servo-skulls blared a sudden, static-laced fanfare into the cavernous chamber.

  ‘His majesty, High King Tolwyn Tan Draconis,’ said Markos, the herald’s voice booming into the hollow vastness. ‘Ruler of Adrastapol, master of House Draconis, liege-lord of the five houses and shield of the Majestis System. Make obeisance.’ As one, the Knights amongst the assembled worthies dropped to one knee, their heads bowed. The rest, Astra Militarum officers, Adeptus Mechanicus representatives and assorted planetary functionaries, all responded with their own gestures of respect.

  The High King waved his servo-skulls away with apparent irritation. All part of the act, of course.

  ‘Such ceremony,’ he exclaimed, sweeping a wry grin across the assembled war council. ‘Hardly appropriate at a time of war. Please, as you were, my friends.’

  Tolwyn covered the distance to the holo-table while the Knights rose to their feet, taking in the gathered officers and aides as he did so. There were the rulers of the other Adrastapolian Houses; Grandmarshal Gustev Tan Minotos, huge in his archaic battle-armour, his spectacular facial hair waxed into eccentric patterns; Archduke Dunkan Tan Wyvorn, with his hard face and a jocular grin that never quite reached his eyes; Marchioness Lauret Tan Pegasson, a coldly handsome woman clad in a half-armoured gown, her ice-white hair hanging in a cable-threaded braid down her back. And of course, Viscount Gerraint Tan Chimaeros, handsome and charismatic despite the scars that laced the left side of his face, and the hissing mechanical brace that encased his left arm and leg. Each of the nobles had their own retinues, their respective Exalted Courts along with favoured retainers, partners and the like. Tolwyn made brief eye contact with Viscount Gerraint’s raven-haired consort, the Lady Alicia Kar Manticos, and she favoured him with a warm smile.

  The Knightly retinues brought the numbers around the table to nearly fifty. Then there was the delegation of Sacristans, massed from the mechanist fraternities of each House. Robed half in their Houses’ colours and half in Martian red, the strange, cybernetically altered artificers were led by High Sacristan Polluxis Dar Mechanicus. These were the secretive figures who kept the Knights of Adrastapol operational, and the High King made sure to direct a nod of appropriate respect in Polluxis’ direction. The High Sacristan inclined his own cowled head in response, clustered eye-lenses glowing like coals beneath his hood.

  Alongside the leaders of Adrastapol stood the variously appointed commanders of the Cadian, Mubraxis and Tanhollis regiments. Each was attired in the ceremonial dress uniform of their world. Each made for a striking spectacle with their attendant throngs of senior officers, aides du camps, servitors, bannermen, astropaths and – in the case of the Mubraxian Sheik Halna’sir – a trio of lean canid-looking beasts on chain leashes.

  There was also a huddled gaggle of officials from Donatos’ Administratum, struggling to look at home amidst such a gathering of warriors. On the far side of the table hovered the corpulent Bishop of Donatos, Sacred Pulcifan, his robed bulk held aloft upon a suspensor throne. Next to him stood the High Justice of Donatos, master of the planet’s Adeptus Arbites. Commander Korgh of the planet’s defence militia looked pale and exhausted in a crumpled uniform with a stone of penance heavy around his neck. Captain Vostrie of the Imperial Navy had ferried the invasion to this war-torn world and acted as re
presentative for the fleet. The list went on, a total of several hundred names and faces. With his mnemetic augmetics and attention to detail, High King Tolwyn had been sure to learn them all. One never knew when such information might prove useful.

  Tolwyn stopped before the holo-table and rested his palms upon it.

  ‘My lords and ladies, commanding officers and worthy adepts. Welcome to the beginning of Donatos’ redemption.’ Tolwyn paused for a moment, allowing a wave of applause and table thumping to pass through the gathering. ‘Our initial assault drop was a complete success. Our beachhead on Donatos Primus is secured. Congratulations are in order, as are thanks to those brave soldiers of the Cadian and Tanhollis regiments who gave their lives to make it thus.’ Another round of applause, this one louder. Tolwyn received the appreciative nods of the Cadian and Tanhollis commanders, and returned them in kind. As the applause died away, the leader of the Administratum delegation raised his stave of office. Tolwyn paused in his prepared address, making a gracious gesture to the administrator to proceed. Tall and spare, the robed man cleared his throat and bowed low.

  ‘Before you proceed, High King, I would say, on behalf of all of Donatos’ surviving loyal rulers, just how eternally grateful we are for your most efficacious rescue of ourselves. Truly did we believe that the turncoat hordes would tear us limb from limb, that they would soon overrun the barricades of the Pentakhost Arbites fortress and end our lives in their wickedness. For our salvation, we give thanks to the Emperor, and to you.’

  The High Justice’s scowl deepened at these words, while militia Commander Korgh flinched as though awaiting a kick. That wouldn’t do, Tolwyn thought.

  ‘First Administrator Hullis, isn’t it?’ asked Tolwyn. The Administratum man nodded, clearly pleased to be properly acknowledged by such an august personage as a Knightly High King.

  ‘My warriors and I appreciate your thanks,’ smiled Tolwyn graciously, ‘and I am glad that we were able to break the besiegement around the Arbites precinct fortress. It is good that so many of this world’s rulers could be saved, even if Governor Gnossul could not. But also I must express my own thanks. No, I must give my heartfelt congratulations. To all the brave men and women of the Donatosian Adeptus Arbites, and to the loyalist soldiery of the Donatosian planetary militia. You have my thanks, and the Emperor’s.’

  From across the table, the High Justice and Commander Korgh both made the sign of the aquila. Korgh, in particular, stood a little taller at Tolwyn’s words. The High King was well aware that the man had been derelict in his duties, for the pernicious corruption of Chaos had spread through the ranks of his soldiers under his very nose. No doubt Commander Korgh would face execution for his failures. But for now he was needed. Twelve regiments of loyal Donatosian militia were still in the field, according to initial reports. Still fighting to prove their loyalty against their fallen former comrades. Morale was likely to be dismal. They needed their commander to stay strong.

  ‘Perhaps,’ gurgled Bishop Pulcifan with a scowl, ‘the Emperor would thank them better if they had not allowed this world to fall.’

  Tolwyn felt a flash of irritation. The interruption was counter-productive, a distraction, and from one who looked like he had never seen a battlefield in his life.

  ‘Pray tell us, your holiness,’ replied the High King frostily, ‘what is it that lies at the heart of this insurrection?’

  The bishop peered at Tolwyn for a moment, nonplussed by the question.

  ‘Why, that much is surely apparent,’ he blustered, fluid trickling down the tubes that jutted from his neck. ‘Corruption. Heresy! A paucity of piety that these men allowed to spread unchecked, that rendered the common man of this world so ungrateful to his Emperor’s blessings that he rebelled in great number.’

  Tolwyn nodded for a moment, then glanced around the table.

  ‘Viscount Gerraint Tan Chimaeros,’ he addressed the tall, battle-scarred Knight. ‘Who is it that administers to the spiritual wellbeing of the people of Adrastapol? Who bolsters the faith of our common flock?’

  Gerraint raised one eyebrow, seeming to consider before replying in his rich, deep voice.

  ‘Why, my liege, that would be the priests of the Ministorum.’

  ‘The priests of the Ministorum,’ said Tolwyn, nodding reflectively.

  ‘My lord High King…’ began Pulcifan, but Tolwyn raised a hand.

  ‘Colonel Brost. Amongst the men of the Cadian regiments, is it your officer classes who see to the spiritual wellbeing of the common soldiery?’

  Brost, a whip-thin soldier with hard, patrician features, shook his head.

  ‘No, sir, it is not. That duty falls to our regimental priests. Bloody heroes the lot of them, if I may say so, sir.’

  ‘You may indeed, colonel,’ replied the High King, ‘you may indeed.’

  ‘High King, I must protest…’ said the bishop again. Tolwyn cut him off with a sharp gesture.

  ‘Your protests, Bishop Pulcifan, are of no interest to me. Nor, one suspects, do they interest the Emperor. When a farmer’s herds are devoured by wulfdenkyne, or wander witless into a ravine, does he blame his fellow farmers? Perhaps the beasts themselves? Or does he accept that it was he who allowed his animal pens to fall into disrepair, and labour to fix them before more livestock are lost? Look to your own affairs, Sacred Pulcifan, before you level blame against the brave soldiery who have fought so hard to keep your holy personage safe. You have as much a duty to restore morale and spiritual cleanliness upon this world as any, and shoulder much of the blame for your flock’s failings. I would thank you to speak no further in this council unless it is to add something useful, pertinent or positive.’

  The bishop had turned white by the time Tolwyn finished dressing him down, and was barely able to stammer a suitably contrite reply. The High King ignored it. He had shown he could be kind, fair and a friend. He had shown he could be hard, and would not suffer fools. Pulcifan had helped him in that at least. The council was ready. They could begin the real work of the day.

  ‘We have wasted enough time on blame,’ said Tolwyn, hands spread in a conciliatory gesture. ‘We’ve foes enough outside these walls. I would have a strategic summation, please, that we may proceed with laying our plans for war.’

  At this, two robed figures moved forward. One was a tech-priest from Donatos’ Mechanicus priesthood. The other was a representative from the Sacristans of Adrastapol. Between them, the machine priests performed the rites of awakening, and the holo-table hummed to life. Its surface flared with light, and from it leapt a green, static-tinged image of the world of Donatos and its immediate orbital envelope. The two continental landmasses, Donatos Primus and Secundus, could be seen as the globe slowly revolved, dotted with icons denoting combat zones and sites of strategic importance.

  As the High King’s herald, it fell to Sire Markos to lead the briefing. Tolwyn made the appropriate gesture of permission, and Markos stepped forward with data-slate in hand. He accepted a control wand from the metal claw of the Donatosian tech-priest, nodding his thanks before clearing his throat and addressing the room.

  ‘As you know, Donatos is a class two industrial world, with strong ties to the Adeptus Mechanicus, and a duty to provide materiel to the Ryza warzone. Continent Primus is a rich industrial super-hive, a conurbation thousands of miles across, dotted with zones of rocky wasteland and spoilscape. Continent Secundus is an irradiated dumping ground that plays host to a handful of heavily shielded, fully automated recyc plants, and little else. As of ten months and six days ago, sidereal reckoning, an armed insurrection began on Donatos Primus. Manifesting initially as worker riots and spoil-gang violence in the nordindustriala hive sprawl, the situation worsened when militia squads sent to quell the rioters instead joined them. The situation spiralled out of control after heretical cult elements were revealed to be catalysing the violence, and within the first few weeks the nordindustriala and neighbouring manufactorii grandii fell into traitor hands.’

  �
�Why didn’t they just bomb the whole bloody lot of ’em?’ called Grandmarshal Gustev Tan Minotos indignantly. ‘No tolerance for dashed traitors!’

  ‘Not every problem can be solved with ordnance, grandmarshal,’ responded the Marchioness Tan Pegasson coolly. ‘A castle is of little use if it is nought but rubble.’

  ‘Milady is correct,’ said Markos, gesturing with the control wand to zoom the holo-map in upon the initial seat of the insurrection. ‘This entire region is of high value to Donatos’ war production output. Even had the militia been able to call upon sufficient artillery, air or orbital support to properly saturate the area, the collateral damage would have been deemed too great.’

  ‘And so the rebellion was allowed to spread,’ observed Gerraint Tan Chimaeros. ‘The lives of this world’s people were judged to be worth less than that of its machines.’

  ‘Assuredly yes,’ responded First Administrator Hullis. ‘Why, a single square mile of the manufactorii grandii has a net worth to the Imperium comparative to that of over five hundred thousand menial lives. The materials alone…’ the administrator’s querulous tones petered out as he caught sight of the thunderous expression on Tan Chimaeros’ face. The viscount drew breath to respond, but his consort laid a hand gently on his arm. Gerraint Tan Chimaeros subsided, settling for scowling in anger at the slowly revolving holo-map.

  ‘Whatever the case,’ said Sire Markos, picking up the thread of his briefing, ‘the rebellion spread rapidly through the northern sectors of Donatos Primus. The militia made efforts to stem the spreading tide, but, unsure of his soldiers’ loyalties, Commander Korgh deployed his men sparingly. He assumed, not unreasonably, that the Adamant Citadels would stop the rebellion.’

  ‘Elaboration, if you would, Sire Markos?’ requested the Mubraxian sheik. Markos in turn gestured to High Sacristan Polluxis. The High Sacristan stepped forward, a mechadendrite snaking from beneath his heavy robes to mate with a data-port on the holo-table’s flank. This honour should, by protocol, have been given to a representative of the local Mechanicus. That they ceded the duty to Polluxis said much for the Donatosians’ capitulation to their rescuers.