Kingsblade

by Andy Clark

  The holographic image fuzzed for a moment, before being replaced with a cycling series of schematics. Massive, armoured redoubts flicked past, mingled with servitor batteries, automated silos and bulky generatorum bunkers.

  ‘The Adamant Citadels,’ began Polluxis, his voice a flat digital emission, ‘are a bespoke defensive measure implemented upon Donatos by the Adeptus Mechanicus. Spread across the primary continent according to a sacred algorithm, these fortifications are servitor crewed, and maintained by the priests of the Donatosian Mechanicus. Though each complex varies in precise form and function, they dominate many of the continent’s strategically valuable sites and were intended as an incorruptible defence for the planet against just such human failings as were displayed by this insurrection.’

  A few officers around the table stirred uncomfortably at this notion, but Polluxis seemed unaware.

  ‘So what happened?’ asked the High King, though he already knew the answer.

  ‘It was at this point that the real enemy revealed themselves upon Donatos,’ replied the High Sacristan. The image on the hololith flickered again, and Tolwyn heard gasps of shock at the figure now displayed. One of the Adeptus Astartes, the Emperor’s own Space Marines, rendered tall and terrifying even in hololithic facsimile. Yet this figure was no exemplar of piety, no champion of the Emperor’s light. Strange sigils had been scrawled across the Space Marine’s armour. Spikes and hooks jutted from it, and upon its shoulder guards was a screaming daemonic visage. The figure’s face was the most shocking aspect of its appearance – its flesh was pale, webbed with black veins, and its deep-sunk eyes glowed with inner light. From the abomination’s forehead jutted a pair of long, curling horns.

  ‘A Chaos Space Marine, sworn to the dark forces who oppose our beloved Imperium.’ Sire Markos pronounced the words with distaste. ‘Some of you may never have heard of such a thing. Some may be about to voice protests that such an abomination could not exist, perhaps even that it is heresy to suggest it. Don’t. You have all been cleared, as of this moment, to view the crimson level data-scrolls exloaded to your briefing slates. Read them. Absorb them. Believe and fear them. Seek spiritual counsel if you need it. This is a traitor Space Marine, of the excommunicate-diabolus Word Bearers, and it is the face of our enemy.’

  The chamber erupted in a hubbub of oaths, muttered conversations, cries of horror and fervent prayer. The High King allowed it to continue for a moment, before raising his voice to restore order.

  ‘Friends, decorum! This briefing is not concluded. Yes, this is shocking news to those who were not aware, but I would ask you to proceed with faith and courage. We shall be victorious here. Now, High Sacristan, if you would, how came these abominations to undermine the Adamant Citadels?’

  All eyes turned back to Polluxis, whose augmetics clicked and whirred in the sudden silence.

  ‘It is… unclear to us at this time, my liege.’ Tolwyn gestured sharply to cut off any sudden resurgence of panic, allowing the High Sacristan to continue. ‘The Donatosian Mechanicus recorded some form of hostile machine-spirit emanation. They describe it as a haunting, a form of diabolic scrapcode set loose by members of the Word Bearers against the shield installations. Whatever they did was… highly effective. Within days, the enemy had turned the Adamant Citadels to their cause.’

  ‘The rest is depressingly predictable,’ continued Markos, cutting across another swell of muttering and prayer. ‘With the Adamant Citadels as their rallying points, and the leadership of an unknown number of these traitor Adeptus Astartes, the heretics swept the Donatosian militia aside. Every attempt by the militia to slow the enemy advance, or to retake territory, resulted in costly defeat. Finally, the loyalist forces were driven back to sheltered enclaves outside the range of the Adamant Citadels’ missile silos and plasma bombards. Besieged, scattered and outnumbered, it appeared only a matter of time before the remaining loyalist forces were overwhelmed.’

  ‘However,’ said Tolwyn, taking up the briefing from his herald, ‘the valiant loyalists were not entirely without success. First and foremost, they were able to defend the astropathic sanctum in the spire capitalis long enough for a distress call to be sent. It was heard by segmentum command, and a response was orchestrated. As the closest militarised world to Donatos, Adrastapol and her Knights were tasked with leading the invasion to retake this vital world. And so. We. Shall!’

  The chamber echoed to the sounds of applause, and shouted oaths of vengeance.

  ‘But that is not the only success of this world’s brave militia,’ said Tolwyn. ‘Before being forced to fall back to Pentakhost, a regiment of Commander Korgh’s brave loyalists succeeded in an act of sabotage that may bring us swift victory in this war. Commander?’

  Korgh’s eyes widened as he found himself the sudden centre of attention. The commander straightened his neck despite the heavy stone that hung around it. He stepped forward, accepting the proffered control wand from Sire Markos and taking a moment to familiarise himself with its workings. Hesitantly, Korgh gestured at the holographic image and, after a couple of tries, managed to bring back the map of Donatos Primus. The commander scrolled the image until it showed a region to the north of the peninsula beachhead, a break in the industrial sprawl that appeared to be mostly vast, blackened craters.

  ‘According to intelligence provided by the Mechanicus,’ began Korgh, his voice a harsh rasp that grew in confidence, ‘the Adamant Citadels have – had – two primary sources of power. One in the continental south at the peninsulum manufactorii, and the other located in the valle electrum just north of the equator.’

  ‘And your boys blew one sky high!’ barked Grandmarshal Tan Minotos with fierce approval.

  ‘Um… yes, sire,’ replied Korgh. ‘The valle electrum is sited amidst a range of armoured hab-mountains, reachable only through heavily fortified canyons cut into the continental bedrock, and protected from above by a double layer of void shielding projected from the mountaintops. Even had we been fighting at full strength, we could not have assailed such a place once its Adamant Citadel was turned against us. However, through sheer good fortune a couple of troopers in the Nineteenth Regiment had been… uh… well, they had been making a few credits on the side through elicit trading in the peninsulum manufactorii before the war broke out.’ Tolwyn sighed quietly to himself as Korgh pressed on. Not a bad officer, thought the High King, but criminally lax. No wonder the rot had spread so fast.

  ‘Those men knew of tunnels, decommissioned waste pipes that led for miles beneath the peninsulum manufactorii and right in under the primary plasma generatorums. A regiment went in, the entire Nineteenth, carrying every explosive charge and melta weapon we could scrape together. Not a man of them made it back.’ Korgh faltered, his eyes haunted. ‘They succeeded in their mission,’ he continued. ‘They blew the peninsulum manufactorii generators sky high.’ The commander’s expression was a mix of sorrow and pride as he concluded his account. His shoulders sagged as though delivering his tale had exhausted what small reserves he possessed.

  Sire Markos nodded his thanks to Korgh, his face neutral as he took back the control wand.

  ‘The results of the detonation were immediate,’ he said, zooming the map out to show the continent as a whole. ‘With one site destroyed, the burden of powering the Adamant Citadels fell entirely upon the site at the valle electrum. It wasn’t equal to the task. Though our auspex sweeps show the valle electrum site to be still fully operational, the enemy seem to have been forced to sacrifice some of their outlying defences to avoid losing them all. Moreover, surging power destroyed the Adamant Citadels closest to the peninsulum manufactorii site. In a matter of hours, the enemy lost their advantage south of the equator.’

  ‘And that,’ announced the High King, ‘is our good fortune. It is for this reason that our initial drop point was chosen. With our beachhead secured, we shall push north and drive the foe before us. Shorn of their Adamant Citadels, many of those we face are little better than rabble. Fana
tical, certainly, but no match for Knights and trained, faithful Imperial Guardsmen.’

  ‘A straight lance-thrust to the throat,’ said Viscount Gerraint, stroking his scarred chin and nodding. ‘While the enemy’s defences remain weak, we march upon the valle electrum and destroy that too.’

  ‘Just so, old friend,’ said the High King, grinning. ‘With the Adamant Citadels eliminated, our enemies will have no answer to massed lances of Knights. Their air defences will be all but eliminated at a stroke, as will their anti-orbital capabilities. Even with these traitor Space Marines in attendance, we will overwhelm our foes, link up with those loyalist forces remaining in the northern hemisphere, and crush the rebellion utterly.’

  ‘A bold plan, my liege,’ said Lauret Tan Pegasson.

  ‘A simple and effective one,’ added Archduke Dunkan Tan Wyvorn, his tone eager. ‘It sounds glorious. One hopes only that our allies will be able to keep pace.’

  The Astra Militarum officers bristled at the implied insult. Not for the first time, High King Tolwyn found himself exasperated by Wyvorn’s lack of tact.

  ‘I assure you, sire, that the men of Cadia are left in nobody’s wake,’ replied Colonel Brost coolly.

  ‘Nor the men of Tanhollis or Mubraxis,’ finished Alicia Kar Manticos smoothly, surprising the men around her who had almost forgotten her presence. ‘But there will be specifics to discuss. Logistics. Preparatory strikes to plan and routes to plot. I believe I speak for all these fine and noble Knights of Adrastapol when I say that the counsel of the Astra Militarum, the Imperial Navy and all local leaders will be invaluable in planning this attack.’

  Tolwyn smiled gratefully at Gerraint and his consort. He truly understood how his old comrade could be so completely in love with that exceptionally capable woman.

  ‘Just so, my lady. But that, my friends, is why we are here. So that all of us, together, can plan the war that will deliver Donatos back into the Emperor’s grace. Captain Vostrie, why don’t you begin by giving us the Imperial Navy’s perspective on matters of planetary strategy, and then we can proceed from there…?’

  The High King smiled as the Navy captain stepped forward and began his own report. They had accepted his plan with a gratifying absence of dissension, and now the re-conquest could begin just as he had planned it. Let them discuss the specifics, and feel as though all had taken an equal part in orchestrating the war to come – Tolwyn understood the necessity for a commander to massage the egos of his subordinates and allies. Donatos would be his victory, and he would win it in the Emperor’s name.

  Greatness was close. His fingertips brushed against it. It was a hot breath on the back of his neck, a buzzing headache pressing behind his blood red eyes. Varakh’Lorr felt the favour of the Octed burning about him like phantom fires, whose heat was but a tingle, whose smoke was but a faint tang upon the air. Yet the threat of immolation was real enough. Succeed, and those flames would flow into him and remake his mortal flesh into something as divine as themselves. Fail, and the fires would consume him utterly.

  If he was honest with himself, the Dark Apostle found the danger intoxicating. He could feel the veil thinning around him, see the warp pressing in on all sides. He stood upon a cliff edge, and dared the drop to take him. Power tainted every breath he took into his lungs, potential curdled every exhalation. How the mewling sheep of the Imperium lived with their dull, unexceptional lives he had no notion. Idiocy, perhaps. Inadequacy.

  The question was beneath him and the Dark Gods’ work was still incomplete. Irritated by his moment of distraction, Varakh’Lorr shook himself from his reverie.

  ‘It is happening more frequently,’ rumbled Gothro’Gol. ‘Your mind leaves us. It must return.’

  Varakh’Lorr scowled at his bodyguard, but the Terminator’s expressionless helm gave nothing back. The Dark Apostle’s visage reflected in his bodyguard’s eye-lenses. A mask of stitched human flesh, the Red Veil, pieced together out of strips of flesh taken from eight separate planetary governors. Fierce, bloodshot eyes staring through the stolen sockets of eight screaming victims. A trio of barbed horns rising like a crown from amongst the nest of cables that covered his scalp. Many would already have called this the face of a daemon, but Varakh’Lorr knew better. And he knew that his bodyguard was not wrong.

  ‘The blessings of the Octed,’ he responded. ‘They press close upon my mind. But I shall not lose focus. I am the master of this power.’

  Gothro’Gol said nothing in return. He merely loomed, a silent immensity of tusked, spike-studded ceramite and plasteel. The hum of his armour’s power plant filled the ransacked chamber in which they stood. His bulk was so great that his shoulder-guards nearly scraped the ceiling. Fully armoured, Varakh’Lorr’s bodyguard was nearly twice the size of the Dark Apostle. He made any space seem small.

  Not that this place had been huge to begin with. Just some menial chamber, for some menial human administrator who thought himself important. Its former occupant was still present, in fact. His component parts hung from the chamber’s electrosconces by tangles of razor-wire, while his blood had been used days earlier to daub the eight pointed star upon the chamber’s floor. He had been the one in charge of this generatorum complex. Pathetic though he was, the butchered administrator had been the worthiest offering the Word Bearers could find.

  ‘I won’t fail now, Gothro’Gol,’ said the Dark Apostle, almost to himself. ‘I won’t feed the Dark Gods scraps such as this. They desire the ninth feast, and I must deliver or be damned.’

  ‘Yes,’ Gol replied, his voice so deep that it rattled the shards of glass scattered across the floor.

  For a moment longer, Varakh’Lorr lingered in the administrator’s chamber, marshalling his thoughts and shutting out the insistent clamour of the warp. Every day was a struggle now, but he was its equal. And his army awaited its master.

  Sweeping back his cloak of rune-scrawled parchments, the Dark Apostle pushed through the aquila doors of the office and strode out onto the balcony beyond. The sky opened suddenly above him, a vaulted maelstrom of churning cloud and crackling, red-tinged lightning. Before him, the valle electrum spread out like some vast machine. So grand and complex was the sight that even one as jaded as Varakh’Lorr had to acknowledge its magnificence. Macrotemples and forge-works sprawled away in all directions, interspersed with coolant towers, exchanger-shrines and electro-hazed pylons. A neat grid of ferrocrete transitways cut through them, dividing the industrio-urban enormity into neat blocks. The ordered, confined minds of the Mechanicus were much in evidence here. Behind Varakh’Lorr loomed the thrumming enormity of generatorum block two. Its twins – generatorums one and three – flanked it at a distance of precisely one mile to each side. Each was a breathtaking immensity of pipework, gothic venting towers, capacitor-shrines and sweeping, armoured flanks. Varakh’Lorr could feel the power washing off them, and hear the steady whine as they fought to maintain the Adamant Citadels across the continent. Dark Mechanicum servitors crawled like arachnids across the huge generatorums, labouring tirelessly to keep the overtaxed machineries working.

  The entire city, from its pounding industrial heart to the decaying worker-habs that ringed its outer districts, was cradled within a vast stone fist. The mountains rose all around it, towering, gale-swept stone and jagged crags studded with the glowing lights of tunnel-habs and defence complexes. Atop the northernmost mountain – known locally as Ironpeak – squatted the Adamant Citadel, its macrocannons and missile batteries flickering with dark corposant. The other mountaintops, five in all, played host to the void shield generators that maintained an invisible barrier high above Varakh’Lorr’s head. This might be a glorified power-plant, but it made little effort to hide its true nature. It was a fortress, and a formidable one at that.

  Even the greatest fortress was useless without an army to defend it, of course. The Dark Apostle paced to the shattered edge of the balcony, and looked down upon his. Hundreds of feet below him, packing out the mile-wide Plaza of Unre
lenting Toil from edge to edge, were the turncoat hordes of Donatos. Thousands upon thousands of planetary defence troopers, labour-gang serfs, mutant underhabbers and wild-eyed cultists gazed up at their master from below and screamed their desperate adoration to the skies. The sound rose like a wave, threatening to overwhelm even Varakh’Lorr’s resilient senses. More worshippers surrounded the plaza on all sides, he knew, clustering at manufactorum windows and packing out the streets in the hope of catching a glimpse of their saviour. The thought dragged a fang-filled leer across his face, and the remains of his eight most powerful victims leered helplessly with him. Yes. Greatness was close.

  Varakh’Lorr raised his arms to the tortured skies, and activated the vox-amplifier built into his armour’s gorget.

  ‘People of Donatos,’ he boomed, his voice godlike as it cut through the mindless roar of the crowd. ‘Seekers after redemption. Victims of the false Emperor. I bring you word of this galaxy’s true gods, and I tell you to rejoice!’

  The din from below became even more deafening at his words. Crude icons waved. Firearms were discharged into the sky, las-bolts flickering upwards in thin streamers. The faithful scrambled atop one another in their desperation to be closer to their saviour, and Varakh’Lorr’s contempt for them grew. They were barely even human, livestock fit only for the slaughter. Yet even pitiful beasts such as these could serve a purpose.

  ‘You,’ he shouted, his voice echoing from the high buildings that edged the plaza, ‘you have risen up. You have raised yourselves from perdition and taken the freedom you deserve. You have pleased the gods greatly!’

  Screams of adulation and hysteria washed over him at these words. They redoubled as huge, armoured doors swung open at the front of the generatorum building. Tainted fume spilled out, mauve clouds of psychotropic incense billowing over the ragged edge of the crowd. Those engulfed went into paroxysms, flailing and shrieking as they vanished from sight amidst the swirling vapours. From out of the doorway emerged the Word Bearers. Varakh’Lorr’s faithful, his true warriors, enacting his will as they had since the very beginning.