by Andy Clark
Stubber. Lead your targets. Tight spread.
The words came unbidden to Luk’s mind, flowing from his throne. His body responded without conscious thought, a twitch of haptic gauntlets. Shots sawed out from his heavy stubber, ripping through the charging cultists in a welter of blood. All three tumbled to the floor, no more than ten feet shy of Oath of Flame. Danial, pouring steady fire into the missile teams beyond the barricades, would never have had time to turn and engage. He had seen his peril though, and voxed a breathless thanks a moment later.
‘Fine shooting, Tan Chimaeros,’ said Sire Markos. ‘We’ll make a Knight of you yet.’
‘I’m already a Knight,’ muttered Luk. Still, he couldn’t help but marvel at Markos’ skill. Honourblaze strode the line of the barricade, trampling those few lucky enough to avoid its fire. Towards the western bank, several fuzzy auspex runes resolved into a squadron of traitor Leman Russes. Vanquisher pattern, Luk’s databanks told him. Armour killers, and precisely the sort of threat Danial had been concerned about.
Honourblaze’s gatling cannon reduced two of the tanks to rolling fireballs. The third let fly, bucking on its tracks as its preposterously long main gun spat a shell at Markos’ Knight. Deftly, the Herald caught the shot on his ion shield and rode out the explosion as it billowed around him. In four swift strides he smashed through the marble archway and brought it thundering down on the heretics below. Honourblaze crushed the turret of a Vanquisher in the body of the tank with its gauntlet. Fire squirted out of the vehicle’s sundered hull, before it exploded.
It wasn’t that Danial had been wrong, realised Luk. And it wasn’t that Markos had failed to recognise the potential peril, much as he might have seemed dismissive. It was just that Sire Markos Dar Draconis was so good at what he did, so at one with his Knight, that he was supremely confident in his ability.
Straightening up from the ruined carcass of the traitor tank, Honourblaze turned to face its compatriots, and the Cadians who even now were securing the barricades and bayoneting the last living heretics. The herald ran his Knight’s auto-pennants up to full mast, and raised his gauntlet high.
‘Honour and glory!’ he bellowed, and the two younger Knights echoed him.
‘Honour and glory!’
‘The bridge is ours, and you both made it through alive,’ said Markos, gruff but satisfied. ‘Well done. Have the Sacristans get that battle-damage patched, then we press on. There’s miles yet to go before nightfall, and precious little honour for those who fall behind…’
Days passed in fire and blood as the Imperial forces advanced from their southern beachhead. The Knights of all five Adrastapolian Houses acquitted themselves with honour, while the soldiers of the Astra Militarum and Imperial Navy proved their worth time and again. There is a lesson in this: never underestimate the aid given by the lesser arms of the Imperial war machine, for the Emperor made us all with strengths that we might turn to his cause.
One-by-one, the magna destros manufactii, the imperatos magnificat, the diocese promethean and the totalum hespraxii were all wrested from traitor hands. As High King Tolwyn’s crusade pushed north, it continued to secure lines of supply and designate rune-marked fall-back positions. Though swift, the advance was thorough, methodical and expertly orchestrated. Several times the foe massed in numbers great enough to necessitate true and glorious battle. On each occasion the High King led his warriors into the fray in person, his ancient Paladin Fyreheart plying its relic laser-blade with humbling skill, while his inspiring words rang through the vox. Though he was many miles away, marching amongst the reconnaissance groups, it is said that Danial Tan Draconis listened in remotely to his father’s heroics, and did burn with fierce pride at their magnificence.
Though the Chaos worshippers sent hordes of cultists, mutants and traitor militia into the fray, they could do little to slow the juggernaut of Imperial retribution. With gunfire and blades they were purged from their improvised strongpoints, the survivors fleeing north in terror of the iron gods marching at their heels. Imperial forces saw no sign of the traitor Space Marines who had supposedly marshalled the uprising on Donatos, and some – those who had not seen the traitors’ craft in the void above, nor faced them in battle – began to whisper that perhaps they were just bogeymen, figures of phantasm invented to justify the horrors wrought on this world. Whatever the truth, the Knights and their allies pushed on with impressive speed.
Less than a month sidereal after the attack upon Pentakhost, they came within striking range of the valle electrum. There the Imperial invaders massed their forces amidst the city-sized ruin of a macrofactorum complex, and prepared for the attack that would end this war.
– Extracted from the writings of Sendraghorst,
Sage Strategic of Adrastapol,
vol XVII ‘The Donatos Uprising’
Danial stood atop a promontory of rocks and brass piping, amongst the great and the good, and tried to look like he belonged there. His tawny-blond hair was no longer shaved close to his skull in the squire’s style, but it had not yet grown out enough to banish the ghost of his former incarnation. His physique was slight compared to some of the men around him, despite his half-armoured Knight’s bodyglove, and he was shorter than many of them as well. At least, reflected Danial, he had the beginnings of a decent beard. Otherwise he would have felt even more a child amongst this company than he already did. Around Danial were gathered the senior officers of the invasion force – the lords and ladies of Adrastapol, each accompanied by the handful of Knights that made up their Exalted Courts. The commanders of the Imperial Guard were also present, their garb and ways strange to the kingsward as they stared through magnoculars, consulted the readings of their seers and muttered earnestly with their closest lieutenants. The worthy leaders of Donatos were there too, though they were much subdued – watching others reclaim that which they could not protect had left some of the planet’s leaders shame-faced and tired. Others, particularly the corpulent bishop, had become ever more venomous.
At the head of the war council, perched highest atop the rocks with his hair and cloak billowing in the wind, was Danial’s father. Today, King Tolwyn had chosen to appear as the gallant regent, the inspiring hero who would bring his followers victory. His garb was regal, and a wreath of olidarne leaves – brought all the way from Adrastapol in stasis for such an occasion – sat upon his brow. His draconblade, Drakesclaw, was belted at his hip. The High King’s servo-skulls hovered above him as he stared north towards the stronghold of the enemy.
Danial had always been in awe of his father, of the man’s grandiose presence and the ease with which kingship came to him. Be it statecraft or war, High King Tolwyn was always strong, always sure and always beloved. Danial had no idea how he would ever live up to his father’s example. One day though, he would have to. House Draconis might be progressive enough to accept women as Knights, but the laws of succession were clear. Only a male heir could take the throne, and Danial was his father’s only son.
The kingsward noticed Jennika crooking an eyebrow at him. Taller than Danial by an inch or so, and older by three years, his sister looked every bit the seasoned Knight from her stern features and piercing eyes to her regal bearing. With her short-cropped hair and dracon tattoos, the Lady Tan Draconis had her mother’s sharp-edged beauty. So others assured Danial, though he had been too young to remember when the High Queen passed.
‘I know that look, Da,’ murmured Jennika. ‘Less thinking, more listening.’
Danial focused on the war council. Tolwyn turned to face his assembled war leaders, smiling confidently. Behind him, across a blasted plain of cracked bedrock and flattened ruins, the hab-mountains towered high over the line of defence bastions about their feet.
‘There stands the stronghold of our enemy,’ began Tolwyn. ‘The entrance to the valle electrum. The power source that is keeping our foe’s greatest weapons in operation. Already we have driven them from the south, pushed them back to the very gates of their fin
al fastness. When we conquer this place – and we shall – the Adamant Citadels cease to function and the traitors’ last hope is undone.’
The assembly gave a rousing cheer, applauding wildly. Some, Danial noticed, seemed less enthusiastic; while the Archduke Tan Wyvorn and Grandmarshal Tan Minotos reacted with bombastic cheer, the Marchioness Tan Pegasson and her Exalted Knights responded with polite reserve. High Sacristan Polluxis gave little reaction, eye-lenses shining inscrutably from beneath his cowl. Danial supposed that was just the way of those who communed with the Omnissiah. Luk, brawny and raven haired, stood at his father’s side. He was cheering and clapping along with the rest, and shot Danial a roguish wink that the kingsward couldn’t help but smile at.
‘One last obstacle remains to us, my friends,’ said Tolwyn. ‘We must advance across this plain and carry the mountain pass into the valle electrum. This will be no easy task, but we have a plan and we shall see it through. Gerraint, if you would?’
The Viscount Tan Chimaeros inclined his head with a hiss from his bionic brace. He squeezed his consort’s hand, and clambered up a runged pipe to stand at Tolwyn’s side. Danial watched Alicia’s face as her lord stood tall alongside the High King. She really was beautiful, thought Danial wistfully. Dark and mysterious, somehow, with flecks of icy blue in her pale green eyes. One look at her expression and you could see the intensity of emotion she felt for the man she stared up at. It was almost hypnotic, and the kingsward tried to shake off the daydream of that man being him.
‘We begin our advance at dawn tomorrow,’ announced Gerraint. ‘The hab mountains to the north are held against us, in force if our auguries are to be believed, as are the defensive structures you can see stretched across the pass. No doubt, the enemy also has forces that they will put into the field to try to stop us. As such, our advance must capitalise upon the full might that we wield together. It must be as swift and deadly as the Emperor’s own judgement.’
More applause at this. Danial joined in, impatient to hear the actual meat of the plan. He had never understood those who could be satisfied with platitudes and pomp over actual strategic substance, but he supposed he saw their uses.
‘We will commence with a full bombardment by the artillery companies of the Tanhollis Highlanders and Mubraxis Dustdogs. They, along with waves of airstrikes from the Imperial Navy, are going to soften up the enemy’s batteries and spread fear and confusion amongst their ranks. With the foe suppressed, our Knightly lances will advance while the Cadian regiments provide supporting reserves.’
Danial saw no hint of displeasure on the face of Colonel Brost at this inglorious assignment. There was only duty and determination on the man’s hawk-like features.
‘The Marchioness Tan Pegasson and the Archduke Tan Wyvorn will lead their Knights upon the flanks, and commence ranged bombardment of the hab mountains. Scans suggest those slopes are crawling with weapons emplacements and fortified battlements, so the role of eliminating these dangers will be crucial.’
Unlike the Cadian, Danial noticed that Tan Wyvorn’s face darkened at his secondary role in the battle. There was little glory in bombarding castles from afar. The Lady Tan Pegasson’s face stayed neutral, and the kingsward wondered what went on behind that icy veneer. He suddenly realised that Markos was glaring at him, and hurriedly returned his attention to Gerraint’s speech.
‘The main thrust of the attack,’ said the viscount with relish, ‘will be performed by Houses Minotos, Chimaeros and – of course – Draconis. The High King and his House will march at the lance’s tip, while the Knights of Chimaeros march at their left shoulder and Minotos at their right. Our task will be to punch through the defences in the mountain pass, eliminate any enemy forces that may sally out to meet us and secure a route of ingress to this crucial traitor fortress.’
‘Hah!’ shouted Gustev Tan Minotos, ‘we’ll show ’em the Emperor’s mercy eh, lads? And it ain’t that blessed merciful!’ The grandmarshal’s Exalted Court rattled their heavy minotane hammers, slapped one another on the back, and made a show of twirling their ostentatious moustaches as they shouted oaths to slaughter the traitors in the Emperor’s name. Danial saw some amongst the war council shoot wry glances at one another, but he’d seen House Minotos fight. Behind the bluster and preposterous showmanship lay a lethal military machine, and he didn’t believe that the grandmarshal was as pompous a fool as he appeared.
‘Thank you, Gustev,’ smiled the High King, raising his hands for calm. ‘You have all heard the plan. You all know your roles. Data-slates will be disseminated with specifics and chrono-marks. Read them. Understand them. If you have questions, be damn sure to ask them. We attack at dawn, ladies and gentlemen. Until then.’
As the war council broke apart and flowed back into the armed encampments below, the High King beckoned to Danial and Jennika.
‘Come,’ he said, beaming at them, ‘we’ll clamber back down together and share a bite to eat, eh? Last meal before the battle and all that?’ Danial flushed with pleasure at his father’s words. It was the right of the High King to feast with whomsoever he chose before a great battle like this. That he chose the quiet company of his children over the boisterous cheer of his Knights was a mark of great respect.
‘We’d like that, father,’ smiled Jennika. ‘Very much.’
‘Excellent,’ Tolwyn clapped his hands. ‘My habitent then.’
The three of them clambered down the rocks and piping together, making their way back into the whirlwind bustle of a vast encampment on the eve of war. The ruins of the macrofactorum spread for many miles, bombed out sheds and fire-gutted workhouses looming like the carcasses of behemoths between cratered roadways and ruptured fuel bowsers. The Imperial forces had reclaimed every square foot of the place for their own purposes, from the Cadian and Mubraxis sentries who patrolled its outer edges to the ranks of Knights that loomed, silent and inert, at its heart. As the three Draconis nobles walked through the bustle and clamour of the camp, they saw Sacristan work teams clambering across the Knights’ hulls, many using the pneumo-rigs on their Crawlers to access upper carapace armour, or engine and weapon systems. Welders sparked. Holy incense billowed, and the smell of fresh paint misted the air as the Knights’ battle-scarred panoply was retouched to its full magnificence. They saw Knights in every panoply, from the ice blue and silver of House Pegasson and the orange and brass of Minotos to the sharp, acid green of House Wyvorn.
They stopped for a while to watch Magos Xedediah Dar Mechanicus and his Sacristans perform the Rites of Sanctity over the looming grey-and-green Knights of House Chimaeros. As the throne-checks and repair work were completed on each Knight, the Sacristans sent servo-skulls wobbling aloft with heavy tanks of unguent. The oily liquid was sprayed liberally across the armoured forms of the Knights, lending them a rainbow sheen that swiftly faded as Xedediah and his acolytes chanted in jagged binharic blurts.
‘Why do they do that to their Knights?’ asked Jennika. ‘The steeds of Draconis don’t need placating so.’
‘Danial?’ asked Tolwyn, knowing his son would have the answer.
‘It is a blessing peculiar to House Chimaeros, one that Wyvorn have adopted from them in recent years,’ explained Danial, hoping as always that he didn’t sound too pompous while dispensing the fruits of his long hours in the librarium. ‘House Chimaeros’ motto is Fortis vo Modifactum.’
‘Strength through adaptation. I know that, little brother. I like our motto better.’
‘But did you know the ritual is tied to their motto? This is the Baptism of Wisdom, during which the Sacristans beseech the Knights’ machine-spirits to take from their foes that which they can use, and turn it against them. I’ve never seen it performed before – Pollandrus of the Quill writes about them using incense rather than unguent, but I suppose that’s the problem with written accounts compared to the real thing.’
‘Only you could come out with something like that, Da,’ laughed Jennika.
‘Come on,’ Tolwyn urged t
he two of them, wrinkling his nose. ‘It might be a baptism of wisdom, but it smells like a baptism of raw eggs and grox dung.’
The three of them shared a scandalised laugh, and walked on through the evening gloom. They passed Astra Militarum troopers knelt in prayer, their regimental priests walking amongst them to give benediction. Servitor-loaders lumbered by, grotesques of flesh and metal burdened with huge crates of ammunition or tanks of promethium fuel. Armoured transports rumbled and roared. Smoke billowed and servo-forges flared. Warriors of the Knightly Houses practised their blade-work by the light of chem-stove fires, the real life swordsmanship a crucial aid to piloting their Knights in close quarters combat. Some wore hobbleframes, stylised harnesses that restricted the limbs and imitated the range of movement that most Knights could offer in battle.
Eventually, Tolwyn and his children reached the High King’s capacious habitent, a veritable pavilion of coloured plastek and ironwork blazoned with the colours of House Draconis. They passed the Knights who stood guard outside, Danial smiling at the towering Sire Daeved and receiving a slight, friendly nod in return. The other guard, Sire Garath, ignored Danial entirely in favour of turning a barely appropriate leer upon Lady Jennika. She, in her turn, ignored the lecherous old war dog, breezing into the habitent behind her father.
Inside, the structure was a mix of Imperial technology and old Adrastapolian grandeur. Beautiful furniture carved lovingly from olidarne-wood sat alongside a portable hololith and a massive, rune-dotted vox array. A rack of draconblades – the ritual swords of House Draconis – dominated part of one wall, beside a mechanical water purifier that was as ugly and functional as the swords were ornate. Chem-lamps hung from hooks on the habitent’s ceiling frame, casting a cold phosphor light that was softened by ornate dragon lanterns and candelabras. Tolwyn’s sleeping quarters were veiled behind heavy gas-curtains in one corner, while a hand-scribed map was spread across a wooden table that dominated the middle of the habitent. Hololithic figures and flags flickered across its surface, a lithocaster updating the campaign map constantly with projected troop strengths, military movements and up-to-the-hour orbital auspex data. Danial made straight for this map, while Jennika and her father went and sat in two of several ornate chairs near the habitent’s chem-hearth. The night had gotten cold, as they were wont to do on Donatos.
