Yarrick: The Pyres of Armageddon

by David Annandale

  ‘You will when the greenskins come to destroy what little you have and kill you for sport. The orks are coming to Hades, and if we don’t stop them together, we will die together. Tell me, do you think the people of the hive above have what it takes to stand against the xenos?’

  He laughed. So did the others. I had asked an absurdity.

  ‘Then someone has to lead them,’ I said. ‘Someone who knows Hades well enough to use it against the greenskins.’ What I said was the simple truth. The recruitment of the civilians in Volcanus had been necessary but insufficient. We had to keep the Steel Legion and Hive Militia units intact and focused. If the civilian forces could operate with something like effectiveness on their own, then their numbers might truly count for something.

  And the gangs knew the subterranean paths of Hades. That too, was crucial.

  The gang chieftain wasn’t laughing now. ‘Keep talking,’ he said.

  I smiled. I had told Helm I would turn the hive into a weapon. This was another step.

  2. Von Strab

  The governor of Infernus walked with von Strab onto the upper spire landing pad. The shuttle was ready. There was a conversation von Strab was eager to have aboard. He had no interest in what Erner von Kierska had to say. But in a few minutes von Strab would be on his way to Hive Tartarus. He could afford the illusion of patience.

  ‘I still don’t understand why I must stay,’ von Kierska said.

  ‘You would abandon your duty?’ von Strab asked, finding the right mixture of shock and implied punishment.

  ‘Or course not. I just think in Tartarus I would be able to make decisions in a more sober fashion. Mistakes happen in the heat of the moment.’

  The argument was almost plausible. Von Strab countered with one even stronger, and just as much a lie. He put his arm over von Kierska’s shoulder. ‘The people need you here, Erner. They need to see you standing with them. Leadership is from the front.’ He smiled. ‘If you try to leave, I’ll have you executed.’ He kept smiling until he was sure the threat had registered. Then he extended mercy. ‘Don’t think you’re being abandoned. There is something I must do in Tartarus that will turn the tide of the war in our favour once and for all.’

  ‘Really?’

  Von Strab almost laughed at the idiot hope on Kierska’s face. ‘Yes.’ This was very close to being the truth.

  ‘How long will it take?’

  ‘A few days, I think.’

  ‘The orks will be here before then. What do I do?’

  ‘You don’t believe the Steel Legion will hold them back?’ The outrage came so easily. It was a gift.

  Von Kierska’s fear of the orks overrode his fear of von Strab. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t.’

  They had reached the shuttle. The hull door was open, waiting. Von Strab put a hand on the ladder to the passenger compartment. ‘Then it falls to you to be creative where Colonel Brenken fails.’ Her name curdled on his tongue. Since taking over from General Andechs, she had wrested more and more of the control of the Steel Legion from von Strab’s hands. Her death would be helpful to him. Based on what had happened to Mannheim, that death would not be long in coming. ‘What is needed is a dramatic move. No one has tried negotiating with the enemy yet.’

  ‘Negotiation?’

  ‘It’s a thought.’ He climbed into the shuttle and slid the door shut against von Kierska’s entreaties.

  Inside was a squad of his bodyguards. Alayra Syranax sat in a seat close to the cockpit, next to the luxurious travel throne reserved for the overlord. Von Strab settled himself in it. ‘Well?’ he asked.

  ‘They’re almost ready,’ Syranax said. ‘The degradation over time has been considerable.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Proper functionality cannot be guaranteed.’

  Von Strab waved the problem away. ‘Then we’ll deploy them all. Enough will work.’

  The shuttle’s engines rumbled and the hull vibrated as it lifted off. Von Strab glanced through the viewing block. Infernus dropped away. Von Kierska was a forlorn figure on the landing pad. Von Strab thought about what he had said to the governor, and hoped von Kierska would do as he suggested. The longer the orks remained concentrated in the vicinity of Infernus, the better.

  He felt no regrets. The only ones he had ever experienced involved missed opportunities. The campaign decisions he was taking came easily. As far as he was concerned, there was no such thing as a difficult choice. This was the mark of a born leader.

  He turned back to Syranax. Time to work out the details of the orks’ extermination.

  3. Wismar

  Von Kierska called the mission an honour. Edgar Wismar had his doubts, though not his choice. The Arvus Lighter he piloted felt thin in a way it never had when he had flown the governor from one hive to another in the past. Then, he had been pleased by the political doors opened for him by the skills he had learned during his service in the militia. His days as a combat pilot had ended over half a century ago now. His family connections had been enough to find him a first position in the periphery of the Lord von Kierska’s retinue. He had spent years establishing his reputation for discretion, loyalty and moral flexibility. He was a politician, but one who could fly on his own, if necessary. And discretely, if desired. Von Kierska had found him to be valuable, and Wismar had moved closer and closer to the inner circle. He had never thought about his training with anything other than pride.

  Until a few hours ago. When von Kierska had approached him with the most important mission of his life, Wismar had thought for several minutes about blinding himself. In the end, he had lacked the courage. He didn’t think he had the courage for what he was doing now. Only a sense of unreality was keeping him on course. This could not be happening. He wasn’t flying west of Infernus. He wasn’t really about to attempt this madness.

  The Pallidus Mountains were off his starboard wing. He thought about turning north. He was beyond von Kierska’s reach at this moment. No one could stop him. But where would he go? He pictured landing in the Fire Wastes, and how long he would survive after landing.

  No. He had no choice but the mission. Von Kierska must see some hope in it.

  Wismar saw the orks sooner than he had expected. They were so close. At most a day’s march from Infernus. The army stretched further than he could see into the perpetual crimson night, a mass of soldiers and war engines no force could hope to stop. Wismar brought his aircraft in lower. He thought he should find somewhere to land.

  Because he had to make a decision, and because he had to take action, his mind went blank with terror. His hands froze on the controls. He stared through the canopy as if he could arrest time and hold the landscape motionless. But it continued to move.

  The aircraft dropped lower. The orks were closer.

  Squadrons of bombers flew by, and he screamed. He screamed again when jump-packed orks streaked up from the ground. One landed on the canopy. It grinned at him.

  For some time then, the only thing he was aware of was screaming. But his body must have remembered the necessary skills. He did not crash. When he stopped screaming, his aircraft was motionless and on the ground. It was surrounded by the jump troops. They were doubled over with laughter. He stared at them, and at last recalled his mission. He hadn’t been shot down. The orks hadn’t ripped the canopy off. His continued existence was cause for hope, though it was also a source of terror.

  He raised the canopy. He climbed out of the cockpit and dropped to the ground. His legs collapsed under him. He grasped the landing gear to pull himself up. The gale of the orks’ laughter was a physical blow. When he stood, he tried to take a step forward. He could not. His hand was welded to his craft’s gear. The orks stopped laughing and stood in a semi-circle before him, grinning, waiting for him to entertain them again. These greenskins were different from what Wisbar knew of the xenos. Their armour and
equipment appeared to be well maintained. It gleamed. The icon on their chest plates was a fanged skull over two crossed axes.

  Wisbar cleared his throat. He cursed von Kierska as he prepared to end his life in a state of abject fear and humiliation. Now the moment had come, the ludicrous nature of his mission was apparent, as it should have been all along. But he had no course of action other than to follow this path until its end. He said, ‘On behalf of Lord Erner von Kierska, governor of Hive Infernus, I have come to discuss terms.’

  The orks waited, their grins growing wider all the time. There would be laughter again, and that would be an end to him.

  Wisbar sobbed, and then he started to laugh himself. ‘Of course you don’t speak Gothic,’ he said.

  But they did.

  4. Yarrick

  ‘Who are your primary rivals?’ I asked Beil.

  ‘No one.’

  I gave him the flat gaze I would to an insect pest. ‘I have no use for the delusional.’

  He looked away from my stare. ‘The Rachen,’ he said.

  ‘Time for a parley. You’re going to take me to them.’

  ‘Why?’

  I was honest. ‘Because I am not making you lord of the underhive. And because alliances will be necessary. Whatever your conflicts are, they are now irrelevant.’

  He said nothing, looking sullen.

  I leaned towards him. ‘Do it.’

  He glanced at the other gangers. They were looking at me with a mixture of curiosity, respect and alarm. I was a mad old man, and clearly dangerous. I also had authority. I could do things for them.

  Beil nodded.

  I pointed at his troops. ‘They’re with us only to the edge of Rachen territory,’ I said. ‘We’re already fighting one war. Anyone who tries to open a second front I shoot on the spot.’

  Beil grimaced, but again he nodded. He was young, faster than I was, and stronger. But I would have killed him. He knew it.

  We descended lower. We took forgotten shafts and crevasses between collapsed foundations. The stench and the darkness thickened together. The shadows of ruins became more jagged and less defined. We entered a world of refuse hills, swamps of waste, and the broken bones of the city’s beginnings. We passed a heap fifteen metres high of gears, whose teeth were as long as my arm. Just beyond them, a huge wheel turned above our heads. It had lost its purpose centuries ago, yet it ground on, an idiot leviathan drawing on the power of the grid, even this far down. It marked a boundary. Beil’s troops stayed on the other side.

  The temperature climbed. An amber glow pushed back the night.

  ‘What is that?’ I asked.

  ‘The leavings,’ Lanner said. ‘The Emperor grant the containment holds.’

  ‘Doesn’t,’ Beil said. ‘Not always.’

  We moved on, and the source of the light became clear. The molten spillage of Hades’ hundreds of foundries flowed down the channels to these depths, cooling but still liquid. It collected in reservoirs created by design and by chance. As we advanced deeper into the heat, I saw evidence of construction work on all sides. The reservoirs would fill, I realised, and there was no way to empty them. So the routes of drainage would have to be altered, channelling the lethal rivers to new containment ponds. For several hundred metres, we walked along the iron wall of one makeshift reservoir. It throbbed with sullen light. The sides were flaking. Lanner’s concern was more than justified.

  Past the reservoir we started down a narrow passage between huge plates of iron. They might have been intended to be the cladding of void ships. A cluster of shadows waited for us.

  ‘Atroxa,’ Beil said, in warning and acknowledgement.

  The shadows moved into the beam of Lanner’s torch. They were more degraded and more savage than the Heirs of Grevenberg. They were barely human. Things of grey and muck. Some had filed teeth; others had their mouths lined with jagged scrap metal. The tips of their fingers ended in rusted, curved barbs. Atroxa was a hulking figure coiled in muscles and barbed wire. Her lips were pulled back in a permanent snarl over iron fangs. Her face was a gargoyle of overlapping scar tissue, spikes and blades. ‘Beil,’ she said. She spoke with difficulty, and her voice was a harsh rasp, iron dragging over a tomb.

  I have heard some, who should know better, say that the most degraded humans muddy the distinction between themselves and the orks. This is a lie. The difference is there, always. I was about to use it.

  ‘Do you fight well?’ I asked Atroxa. ‘I think you do. Time for you to shed blood. The Emperor commands it.’

  5. Setheno

  The vox-casters across Infernus were appealing for calm. They should have been calling for action. Instead, von Kierska’s nasal voice intoned platitudes about faith in the Emperor, the time of trial, and the patience to see it through until the coming of the dawn.

  Something was very wrong.

  Setheno moved along the Avenue of Labour Repentant. It spiralled around much of the middle height of the hive, linking manufactoria. The traffic along its length was normal. Von Kierksa’s speeches urged the citizenry to continue in its duties. There was no sign of the Hive Militia.

  Setheno saw the shadow of Armageddon Prime fall over Infernus. The regiments at Brenken’s disposal were insufficient. The destruction of the 167th and 203rd armoured was a grievous loss. There was also confusion among the officers regarding the chain of command. There had been unhappiness with Andechs’s subservience to von Strab, but there had also been clarity. Now Brenken and the overlord issued conflicting orders. Von Strab demanded all regiments but one to depart for Tartarus. Brenken commanded they stay. The four remaining colonels split, each faction convinced it was serving loyally. The 46th and 73rd mechanised infantry had stayed.

  Not enough. Not nearly enough.

  Setheno had left Brenken and the outer defence preparations when she heard the vox-casts begin. She had been waiting, sceptically, to see what von Kierska would do to galvanise the population. What she now heard and saw was worse than she had expected. She was surprised. The sensation was an unpleasant novelty.

  At last she spotted a militiaman. He was standing near the open gates of a manufactorum. He was being a visible presence of order for the flow of workers entering and leaving. Nothing more. Setheno strode towards him. When he saw her coming, he backed away until he was against the building’s facade. She loomed over him. ‘What orders are you following?’ she said.

  ‘We were instructed to stand down, canoness.’ His voice was barely audible over the pedestrian and vehicular traffic. His shoulders were hunched, anticipating her blow.

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘Lord von Kierska.’

  ‘You obey a coward,’ she said. ‘Or worse.’

  Then she was running, making for the high-speed funiculars to the spires. She voxed the regiments. Brenken came on after a few minutes. ‘Von Kierska has demobilised the militia,’ Setheno told her.

  ‘Throne,’ Brenken swore. ‘Why?’

  ‘I will know shortly. Von Strab’s hand is in this, I’m sure. Be prepared for the worst.’

  ‘Which would be what?’

  Setheno didn’t speculate. The possible answers were many, all of them bad.

  An hour later, she was in the administrative spire. Even with so many of von Strab’s personal staff gone since he shifted Armageddon’s seat of power to Tartarus, the halls were too empty. The few serfs Setheno saw fled behind closed doors or down side passages as soon as they saw her. Von Kierska’s weak gruel of a speech followed her from floor to floor. The content appeared to have looped to the beginning once more. Setheno thought she was hearing a recording, but then von Kierska coughed, cleared his throat, and resumed. The spineless hope was mind-numbing.

  Setheno slowed as she walked down the main corridor of the governor’s quarters. There was one person visible. He sat outside the council chamber. Setheno rec
ognised him as a minor noble, one of von Kierska’s coterie of sycophants. His arms were wrapped around his knees. From his throat came a single, high-pitched keening note, a whining ‘Eeeeehhhhhhhhnnnnnnn.’

  The man twitched at the sound of her boots. He scuttled to one side, arms up to ward off the world. Setheno drew her bolt pistol. ‘What has happened?’ she asked.

  ‘He gave me orders,’ the man sobbed. ‘I followed them. That’s all. I had a mission. He promised… He said it would all…’ The cry began again, louder, more despairing, ‘Eeeeeeehhhhnnnn!’

  Setheno pushed through the door to the council chamber.

  The entrance was at the bottom of an inverted amphitheatre. Concentric, narrowing curves of benches were laid out on a rising slope. The higher the seats, the greater the importance of the councillor. The governor’s lectern was at the peak. Von Kierska was there, speaking into a vox horn. He read from a sheaf of vellum he held. His hands shook.

  There were orks in the room, lounging on the benches, watching the governor squirm. There were three of them, one half-again as large as the other two. They wore light armour painted with double-axe icons.

  As soon as Setheno opened the door they reacted, spinning and hurling cleavers at her position before they had even properly seen her.

  They used the wrong weapons. The blades clattered against her armour. She charged forward and fired her bolt pistol at the largest ork. She blew off its right hand as it pulled a sticky grenade from its bandoliers. It snarled in pain and alarm and jumped away from its severed limb. The grenade went off with a blast of flame and oily smoke that hurled chunks of wood and stone across the chamber.

  The other two orks trained their shotguns her way. They ducked behind benches for shelter. Setheno drew Skarprattar. She fired to the right, suppressing that ork while she ran straight for the other’s position. It popped up as she jumped onto the row of benches one down, and then leapt again. The report of the shotgun was huge. The burst hit her right leg, pitting the armour, striking with enough force to throw her jump into an awkward spin. She brought Skarprattar down and cleaved the ork’s skull in two as she fell. She hit the ground hard enough to have broken the bones of an unarmoured human. The other ork fired its shotgun, keeping her down. The chieftain barrelled through the pews, unfazed by burns and amputation. Setheno waited. More shotgun blasts chewed through the weak barricade. The weapons were ferocious in strength. A few direct hits could well punch through her armour.