God-Machines, page 72
With that, the Dark Apostle motioned to one of his honour guard. The horned warrior loped across the dais and handed his master a flamer. Varakh’Lorr hefted the bulky, bio-mechanical weapon, staring for a moment into the rolling yellow eye that grew like a blister on its barrel. Then he levelled the flamer at the brazier below Daksha’s cage.
‘Gods of Chaos,’ boomed Varakh’Lorr, ‘I give you this offering. A traitor’s pain!’
He squeezed the trigger, and a sheet of green-tinged flame belched into the brazier. The fuel-rods heaped there caught light, and noxious fumes rose from the tainted incense coating them. Dirty flames leapt high, roaring hungrily towards Daksha.
It took the captive Word Bearer almost a minute before he lost control and started to scream. Even from behind his iron gag, Daksha’s raw howls of agony rang across the square as the flames did their work. The dying Word Bearer gave one last muffled howl of agony before the life left his body. Black lightning flared once across the skies, and was gone. The rain continued to fall in slow, lazy curtains, hissing and sizzling as it struck Daksha’s burned corpse and the scalding-hot bars of his cage.
Varakh’Lorr turned his back on the blackened corpse of the warrior who had failed him.
‘Assemble the senior Knights,’ he muttered to Gothro’Gol. ‘They will attend me in my sanctum.’
With that, the Dark Apostle strode from the dais with his cloak billowing behind him.
Gerraint Tan Chimaeros entered the inner sanctum of the Word Bearers with his head held high. Though his augmetic brace hissed and whined with every movement, it robbed him of none of his lordly dignity. He had never let it, just as he had never allowed his scarred face or the reduced station of his Noble House to render him any less than he was. If the Dark Apostle sought to intimidate his allies with displays of violence and ominous surroundings, he would find that the Viscount Tan Chimaeros was not so easy to cow.
Not viscount, he reminded himself with a grim smile. He was High King of Adrastapol now, and he wore the crown upon his brow to prove it. Taken from the wreckage of Tolwyn Tan Draconis’ Knight, won through conquest in the old way. He was the High King of a whole planet, and kings did not bow to priests, even in the temples of their gods.
Gerraint took in the blood-stained summoning circle and the huge Chaos star that hung from the ceiling. He saw the macabre trophies that festooned every pillar and arch, loyal defenders and servants of the Omnissiah reduced to wire-bound fetishes for the glory of the Ruinous Powers. The shadows seemed to twitch and stir unnaturally in this place, and the stench of blood and unclean incense hung heavy on the air.
Behind Gerraint walked the surviving Knights of his Exalted Court, and those of Dunkan Tan Wyvorn. Victory had not been won without cost the day before. But they were all of them accomplished warriors with the exception of the Sacristan, hard, battle-scarred veterans bound by oath to Gerraint’s claim of kingship. All wore rebreathers, given to them by robed acolytes of the Word Bearers so that they might breath clearly despite the psychotropic fumes that drifted through the sanctum.
‘We have allied ourselves to dark creatures here,’ murmured Gerraint to Dunkan Tan Wyvorn as they closed on the shrine’s servo-pulpit. The same acolytes who handed them breathing gear had bidden them assemble beneath the pulpit and await the pleasure of Varakh’Lorr.
‘But powerful,’ replied the archduke, his hooded eyes gleaming. ‘Powerful enough to ensure your rule of Adrastapol, my liege.’ Gerraint grunted in agreement. He had never liked Dunkan Tan Wyvorn, who all knew to be a man of cruel inclinations and unseemly personal ambition. Yet of all the Noble Houses, Gerraint had been surest of House Wyvorn’s support and discretion while planning his coup. Their distaste for the rule of House Draconis was well known. Besides, the archduke was a brutal and dangerous warrior, as were his Knights, callous fighters with more interest in victory than honour. Fitting allies, for a distasteful endeavour such as this.
And then there were the rumours of Wyvorn’s hidden strength, some secret weapon locked away within their House vaults. In Gerraint’s experience, it paid not to ignore such rumours.
‘He is not mistaken, Gerraint Tan Chimaeros,’ came the voice of Varakh’Lorr. The Dark Apostle stepped out of the shadows of the pulpit, resting his gauntlets on its circuit-inlaid railing as he looked down upon the Knights. Behind him loomed an immense figure in baroque armour.
‘Well met, Dark Apostle,’ said Gerraint, hiding his horror at his ally’s appearance with an effort of will. Brace whining, Tan Chimaeros inclined his head, careful to keep the depth of the gesture as to an equal at court. He would not show servitude to this monster, only martial respect. The Dark Apostle’s flesh-masked face seemed to writhe with a life of its own as he considered his response.
‘Easier than passing whispers through the mouth of a daemon,’ said the Dark Apostle. ‘This way, you can look me in the eye as you explain to me why you failed.’
Gerraint had known the threat was coming. His new ally would not have gone to such trouble and showmanship in the square, if not to make a point. Still, it took self-control not to quail in the face of the Word Bearer’s displeasure. Tan Chimaeros was tall, still built like a warrior despite his scars, but this looming monster of the Long War made him feel a squireling by comparison.
‘If there was any failing at all, Lord Varakh’Lorr, then it was on the part of that wretch you burned to death,’ replied Gerraint, his voice steely. ‘It would seem that punishment has already been meted out.’
Varakh’Lorr stared at Gerraint as though the Knight was some form of unpleasant insect he had found in his boot.
‘It would, would it, mortal? Throne-sworn Knights still walk this world. They are still a threat, one that you were meant to remove.’
‘Their strength is broken,’ replied Gerraint coldly. ‘House Pegasson are all but annihilated, House Minotos also. As for House Draconis, our Sacristans have confirmed that over half their number were slain during the battle. And I slew High King Tolwyn myself. The old Houses are leaderless, honourless and defeated.’
‘And yet,’ rumbled Varakh’Lorr. ‘Not all are slain. Our whispering friend tells me that the High King’s son yet lives to contest your claim.’
‘He’s just a boy,’ replied Gerraint contemptuously. ‘And a bookish weakling at that. My own son would have…’ Gerraint stopped himself, feeling a swell of anger and shame at Luk’s fate. Now is not the time for that, he thought.
‘Your own son is dead,’ smiled the Dark Apostle cruelly. ‘Is there any betrayal more terrible than that between the father and the son?’
‘My losses are not your business, Chaos worshipper,’ spat Tan Chimaeros, anger overcoming self-discipline. ‘I am not proud of the betrayal we have been forced to perform, the dishonour this has brought upon us. I am not proud of what I have sacrificed upon the altar of war. But they betrayed us first, they and their cursed Emperor. They broke the old ways, took the crown from those whose right it was, all in the name of their corpse god. What has He ever given my House but scars and pain?’
‘Little, I don’t doubt,’ nodded Varakh’Lorr. ‘But you are wrong, Gerraint Tan Chimaeros. Your losses, your sacrifices, they are my business. It is the price you have already paid that shows me your determination, your dedication to our cause. It is your sacrifices that tell me you are still a worthy ally – none would pay such a price for victory and then fail to claim it.’
Gerraint felt the truth of that, and nodded slowly. He had lost too much to step back from the precipice now, even if he was only now realising just how diabolical his chosen allies were.
‘True enough. The last Draconis heir must die, for only then is my claim secure. And you must know victory on Donatos, for only then will you aid me in my rightful conquest of Adrastapol. So what do you suggest, Lord Varakh’Lorr? How may we serve you and bring this war to a close?’
In answer, the Dark Apostle uttered a string of jagged, unnatural sounds that made Gerraint’s ears ring. From behind him came a wash of intense heat and a sudden emerald glare. He spun, reaching for his chimersword, expecting some terrible trap. Instead, his eyes widened as he saw that a great green pyre had burst alight in the middle of the summoning circle. Within the flames danced images, a flickering map of Donatos Primus that wavered and swam. Jagged runes flickered across it, and Gerraint swiftly recognised them as force markers and objective designators.
‘More Chaos witchery?’ he whispered.
‘You see that the Imperials retain their beachhead around Pentakhost to the south,’ said the Dark Apostle, ignoring Gerraint’s utterance. ‘And enclaves of planetary militia are still holding onto the voltaei langurum, the palacio metallurgum and the nordindustriala. However, following our victory yesterday, my brothers are leading offensives on every front.’
At these words fresh sigils blazed on the map, flowing streamers of coloured fire illustrating the enemy’s enclaves, and the traitor forces pushing into them.
‘What of air, and fleet?’ asked Gerraint, unholy firelight flickering in his fascinated eyes.
‘The orbital battleground is still contested,’ replied Varakh’Lorr, a note of irritation in his voice. ‘Even with your turncoat warships to aid them, my craft barely have the strength to match the Imperial Navy ships. This is why the situation upon the ground must remain stable. Once I complete the ritual, and receive my rewards from the gods, the enemy will have nothing that can stop me. But we cannot allow any interruptions.’
‘And the loyal Knights of Adrastapol represent the last real danger of such a thing,’ said Gerraint.
‘Just so,’ replied Varakh’Lorr. ‘The hour draws nigh, and all else is in readiness. I will soon begin my great ritual, but it will not be swiftly concluded, and should any interruption occur… well, the displeasure of the Dark Gods is nothing you wish to witness, mortal.’
Gerraint nodded, narrowing his eyes as he stared at the unnatural map.
‘The industria is a large area. When we hunt upon the plains, not all quarry is easily tracked. But there are other methods. My Knights and I shall locate what remains of Draconis and their allies, and we shall crush them for you. But only if they can be found before they link up with other Imperial forces. Our Sacristans estimate that there are still prodigious Imperial numbers in the field, despite all the damage done by our trap.’
‘Stay your mortal fears,’ replied the Dark Apostle. ‘Even if the Imperial lapdogs had the wit or will to reforge an army, our scrapcode fills the skies. My warp smiths tell me that its more potent effects do not stretch far beyond the valle electrum, but the Imperial vox and auspex networks have been corrupted planet-wide. They can neither see nor speak far enough to re-gather their strength.’
‘My lord,’ hissed Xedediah Dar Mechanicus, bowing his hunched and hooded form low. ‘If my brothers and I might be given leave to inspect the device by which you are projecting the signal, perhaps we might aid in boosting its efficacy? Our knowledge…’
‘Xedediah,’ spat Duncan Tan Wyvorn angrily. ‘You overstep, Sacristan. Silence, before I strike you for impertinence.’
‘Your knowledge is all you care for, machine priest,’ chuckled Varakh’Lorr. ‘Newly rebelled, no longer bound to the strictures of your Omnissiah. I see it, the desperate, acquisitive need in you. The greed. But trust me priest, you do not wish to meet my Mournful Angel.’
As if to underpin the Dark Apostle’s words, Gerraint heard something shift and scrape in the noisome shadows of the choristrium. He felt an unreasoning revulsion fill him as he caught sight of heavy, undulant movement amidst the darkness.
‘My Lord Varakh’Lorr,’ said Gerraint, turning back to the Dark Apostle as cold sweat trickled down his back. ‘We shall uphold our end of this bargain, and do our duty. I have your oath that you shall do the same?’
Varakh’Lorr sketched a mocking bow in response.
‘But of course, Gerraint Tan Chimaeros,’ he replied with a wolfish grin. ‘Now leave me. I have matters of ritual to which I must attend.’
Gerraint bowed, his Knights following suit, and turned his back on the Dark Apostle. He strode away towards the exit, feeling burgeoning relief at escaping this terrible place and its monstrous master. He was brought up short just paces from the doorway as the Dark Apostle’s words echoed after him.
‘Gerraint Tan Chimaeros. I would have you bring before me the one amongst your ranks who speaks to the daemon.’
‘That is me, Lord Varakh’Lorr,’ replied Gerraint stiffly. ‘As High King, it is my honour alone.’ He bridled as the Dark Apostle laughed in response.
‘You are many things, viscount. But you are not yet High King, and you are certainly no witch.’
Without looking around, Gerraint marched for the exit, his Knights trailing after him. There was much to be done, and little time to do it. The Word Bearers were abhorrent in ways he could not have imagined, but he would not turn aside now. Victory was within his grasp, and none would say that Gerraint Tan Chimaeros lacked the resolve to seize it, whatever the cost.
CHAPTER 9
Three days had passed. Three dark, fearful days of knowing little and achieving less. Danial hated himself for every second of them, but still he couldn’t see a path forward. An accord had been reached with the Cadians thanks to the diplomatic efforts of the Pegasson Knights and the comradely bluster of Grandmarshal Gustev. The worst injured of the Knights and Imperial Guardsmen had received what medical care could be offered in the apothecarian bays of the Crawlers. Busiest of all had been the Sacristans, who laboured tirelessly and worked miracles to repair the Adrastapolian steeds. Yet for all this, it felt to Danial as though they had achieved precious little.
As the fourth morning dawned on the surface above, the High King sat in his dislocated throne upon its heap of ruin, and brooded. Sire Olric and his sister perched on blocks of rubble to either side of him, waiting to offer counsel if it was needed. The rest of Danial’s forces were scattered through several of the subterranean warehouses, having spread out somewhat in search of space. He could see a few Knights from where he sat, Sylvest and Suset Dar Draconis crouched in the lee of a Sacristan Crawler. They were idly throwing dice with Sire Wallian by the light of the Crawler’s lamps, sipping from canteens of water and talking sparingly. Occasionally, one of the Knights would shoot a neutral glance at their new king.
‘For every task the Cadians and Sacristans perform, our Knights become ever idler and more frustrated,’ said Danial bitterly. ‘Morale is crumbling and discontent is growing. I don’t doubt there’s plenty of them muttering uncouthly about me by now.’
‘They await orders, my liege,’ replied Sire Olric. ‘They need to fight back, to return to their war.’
‘I know,’ sighed Danial, ‘and I with them.’
‘We can’t act until we know what is going on out there,’ said Jennika. ‘And Polluxis swears to the Omnissiah that he’s close to perfecting the data wards. It’s no failing to wait for all the facts before you make your decision. You just have to show confidence – show you know what you’re doing.’
‘Father would have known what he was doing,’ replied the young king, his voice sharp with frustration. ‘If he were still alive we’d have been out there by now, taking the fight back to the foe. He’d have found a way.’
‘Well, he’s not, Da, but you are,’ replied Jennika curtly. ‘Loathing yourself won’t help. Measuring yourself against father’s ghost won’t either. You were always very different men, but he saw the greatness in you, brother, as I do. You’re not King Tolwyn, you’re King Danial. So find your own strengths and use them.’
‘Wise words, Lady Jennika. Whatever we do, though, we should do it soon. Men of stern honour and short temper are given to foolish deeds when they are forced to stand idle.’
Olric was interrupted by a shout from the cavern’s exit tunnel. It was Sire Vancenz Dar Draconis.
‘My liege! A duel has been called!’
For a second Danial felt a flood of relief; he had half expected the burly Knight to tell him they had been discovered by the enemy. Then an unpleasant thought struck him.
‘Markos,’ said the High King. ‘And Luk.’
Danial saw his own alarm reflected in Jennika’s eyes.
‘Oh for Throne’s sakes,’ she cursed. ‘Prophetic words, Olric.’
‘Sire Vancenz,’ said Danial, leaping from his throne and hastening down the rubble with Jennika and Olric on his heels, ‘take us there at once.’
The clash of blades rang along the tunnel as they ran, mingled with shouting voices and the scuff of booted feet. Danial burst from the mouth of the tunnel into another of the huge, grim warehouse spaces. A dozen Draconis and Minotos Knights loomed in the shadows around the chamber’s edge, some still encased in Sacristan repair-armatures. At the centre of a loose ring of shouting Knights, Markos Dar Draconis and Luk Tan Chimaeros circled each other warily by the light of chem-braziers. Markos, heavy-set and pugnacious, wielded his draconblade, Orksbane. The weapon’s fuel reservoir was lit, the blazing blade leaving roaring fire-trails behind it with every swing. Luk was taller than his opponent by a head, and lither, but lacked his opponent’s physical strength. The young Knight held his chimersword in his off-hand, the weapon gleaming like spilt oil. Danial saw that his friend already had a split lip, and a scorched nick in one sleeve of his bodyglove.
Danial started towards the fight, but Sire Olric caught his sleeve.
‘My liege, an honour duel like this, with blades drawn…’
‘I know, Sire Olric,’ snapped Danial, pulling his arm away. ‘I do understand the importance of the Code. They can fight to the death, should they wish. We can’t interfere. But that doesn’t mean I have to approve of this idiocy.’
