‘What will you do, alone, if they prove false?’ asked Eduard.

  ‘Whatever I must,’ she said. ‘The High King already faces one enemy. I won’t let another strike at his back.’

  ‘We’ll come with you,’ said Sire Eduard. ‘And in full panoply.’

  ‘You will not,’ said Jennika. ‘So far, we’ve been lucky. There’s nothing out here to draw the orks except us. But luck doesn’t last forever, and I don’t want to be trapped in the ruins of Chimaer­keep by a greenskin horde. Besides, the inquisitor is right, our steeds would alert whatever lurks within these ruins, if they haven’t already.’

  ‘Lady, I truly–’ began Eduard, but he was cut off by Inquisitor Massata speaking over the open channel.

  ‘Lady Jennika, have you addressed whatever well-intentioned concerns your Knights are raising about this plan? Time is precious.’

  ‘I have set out their planned patrol routes and vox codes,’ she replied frostily, knowing that her lancemates were more than capable of deciding such details for themselves. ‘But at your instance, by all means let us proceed. I will not leave Fire Defiant in this clearing though, not so near these tainted corpses.’

  ‘A wise precaution, lady,’ replied Massata.

  Jennika checked her auspex and spotted a ruined folly, several hundred yards through the trees. Skirting the thicket, she picked her way through to the ruin, her steed’s footfalls shaking dust from its crumbling stones. Deftly, Jennika backed Fire Defiant into the hollowed-out tower, then began the dismounting rituals. Carefully, she invoked the ritual of watchfulness, which would send a fatal pulse of electrical charge through her Knight’s hull should any but she attempt to mount it.

  Be careful of this man, came the voices from her throne. The Inquisition are as dreadful as they are powerful.

  Nonsense, they are shining paragons who speak with the Emperor’s voice.

  Oh, but that is only their mask. I have seen such things – worlds burning, loyal servants slain in their millions. When a man sees lies all around him, he becomes twisted by them.

  ‘Calm yourselves,’ muttered Jennika. ‘I don’t know whether Massata is who, or what, he says he is, but I must hope so. I go into this with my eyes open and blade close. One way or the other, I will defend Adrastapol.’

  When Jennika became First Knight, Sacristan Polluxis and his acolytes had fashioned a unique bodyglove for her in honour of the appointment. It was more heavily armoured than most, though still sleek enough to fit within her throne’s webbing, and its squared-off plates were painted with the heraldry of her house. Onto its mag-belt she now affixed a heavy autopistol, several spare clips of ammunition and a long combat knife. Into its inbuilt back sheath she slid her draconblade, after muttering the appropriate prayers over its hilt. Finally, as she slid off her haptic gauntlets and affixed her vox headset over one ear, Jennika checked the ornate claw-ring that she wore upon her left index finger. It had once belonged to her mother, and concealed a digi-laser that could slice through steel.

  Satisfied, Jennika sent Fire Defiant’s machine-spirit into dormancy and shrouded its systems, lowering reactor output to minimum. Then she uncoupled her neural jacks and clambered up the ladder, leaving her shadowy cockpit behind.

  Jennika found Massata and his entourage waiting nearby. They had driven their hauler into the cover of a tangled thicket, and now stood armed for battle.

  The group set off through the tangled undergrowth, Massata and his bronze-armoured lieutenant leading the way, the rest trailing behind in combat formation. Insects chirruped and thrummed on all sides, and from overhead came the whooping calls of clarionhawks.

  Jennika fell in near the group’s rear. She would watch her new companions for a time, she thought, try to get their measure.

  They picked their way through tangled thickets, sticking to the densest areas of cover. In places, they waded through hip-deep mud and water, and Jennika drew her knife to pry rust-leeches off her armour. They made their way gradually closer to the ruined structures that loomed amidst the trees, and as they did so, the silence around them became ever more watchful and oppressive.

  ‘This place dislikes us,’ murmured the Kasrkin, falling into place alongside Jennika. Her rebreather helm hung from her backpack, revealing a hard, scarred face, short-cropped black hair and steel grey eyes. She cradled her hellgun close to her chest.

  ‘It is a dark place,’ replied Jennika. ‘Those who dwelt here made it so.’

  ‘Your people,’ said the Kasrkin.

  ‘Not my people,’ replied Jennika with a scowl. ‘The Noble Houses of Adrastapol walk their own paths. Chimaeros strayed, and took Wyvorn with them.’

  ‘Your world,’ replied the Kasrkin. ‘Your people.’

  They walked on in silence, sweeping the underbrush as they advanced. The fire-blacked ruins of the Chimaer­keep drew closer.

  ‘Sergeant Kaston,’ said the Kasrkin suddenly. ‘Cadian eighty-fifth. Made the mistake of saving Massata’s life at Haelen.’

  ‘I didn’t ask,’ said Jennika.

  Kaston grunted.

  ‘I’m not trying to make friends, your majesty. If we get ambushed, you’ll be more use if you know our names. The man in the bronzed carapace, with a face like an ogryn’s punch bag? Interrogator Nesh. The cult assassins are Shanema and Shemara. Don’t try to talk to them, no one does but Massata. The auto-savant, quills for hands? Lintiguis Mortens. The other one in the robe and staff is our astropath, Venquist. Don’t talk to him, either.’

  ‘What about the…?’ Jennika gestured to the ape-xenos knuckling along through the muck. She eyed its garish orange fur, its twinkling eyes and long, dextrous-looking digits.

  ‘D’bu’ko,’ said Kaston. ‘He’s a jokaero.’

  ‘Why does the inquisitor keep a xenos?’ asked Jennika. ‘Is it a pet?’

  ‘D’bu’ko’s species are uniquely gifted technologists, and highly intelligent,’ answered Lintiguis Mortens, dropping back to join them. ‘Lady Jennika, that ring that you wear upon your finger? D’bu’ko could construct a weapon thrice as deadly in a trice, using the meanest pile of scrap.’

  ‘That’s tech-heresy,’ said Jennika, horrified.

  ‘That’s jokaero. He’s useful,’ said Kaston, her eyes hard. ‘The Inquisition does what it must. The Emperor expects no less.’

  Jennika shook her head. ‘Whatever it is,’ she said, ‘don’t let it anywhere near the Sacristans. They would burn it.’

  ‘It is a comrade,’ said Kaston. ‘He’s saved more Imperial worlds than you ever will sat up in your high throne, majesty.’

  The Kasrkin dropped back, taking rearguard and leaving Jennika to trudge alongside Lintiguis Mortens. The man’s robes were drenched with mud and sweat, and his bulbous cranial augmetics clicked and chattered like clockwork.

  ‘The Inquisition,’ said Mortens. ‘It is not a typical Imperial organi­sation. Understand, lady, we are required to face terrible truths and wield strange weapons in order to do our duty. The ends justify the means.’

  ‘I’m sure that Gerraint Tan Chimaeros thought so, when he allied himself with traitors to reclaim a crown he believed to be rightfully his,’ replied Jennika.

  ‘No doubt,’ said Mortens, unperturbed. ‘The difference is that he was being led astray by a Chaos witch. Our prerogative comes from the Emperor Himself, and thus we are righteous no matter what we do.’

  Jennika glanced sidelong at the elderly savant, an eyebrow raised in surprise at his knowledge of Gerraint’s heresies.

  ‘You almost sound as though you don’t believe that,’ she said.

  ‘I believe that the more power one is afforded, the more cautious in passing judgement one must be,’ he replied. ‘We must be vigilant that one’s capacity to act does not overtake one’s ability to think, and measure, and observe. It is better if we recognise that we are righteous specifically because we understand how easily our power could corrupt us, or our fallible human senses fail us. Once we have defined ourselves in such a way, it becomes then our duty to watch for that same proclivity, or lack thereof, in those around us.’

  ‘You and my brother would get on famously,’ she said. Her faint smile vanished as her instincts prickled, and she hefted her autopistol.

  ‘This place sets you on edge,’ said Mortens. ‘It is evident in the other warriors of this group, also.’

  ‘I feel… watched,’ replied Jennika. ‘Don’t you sense that?’

  Interrogator Nesh gestured for silence, indicating they should advance cautiously and stay alert. They crept through the thorny undergrowth. The only sounds were the muddy squelch of their footfalls and the thrum of powered armour and weapons.

  The sense of watchfulness had become oppressive. The faint breeze that had accompanied them to the ruins grew still, and Jennika felt a weight settle in her chest, stealing her breath. Not a single avian or insect disturbed the sepulchral silence.

  Jennika advanced with her autopistol raised, hand near her blade. Mortens stayed close by her side. Kaston had closed up behind them, using one arm to cradle her bulky gun while sweeping the area with a handheld auspex. Ahead, the others had also closed formation.

  The undergrowth began to thin out, admitting watery daylight but leaving Jennika feeling exposed. Mud gave way to shattered ferrocrete paving, cratered by years-gone artillery fire and studded with jutting lengths of rebar.

  ‘We are approaching the outer ruins,’ voxed Interrogator Nesh. ‘Vigilance protocols.’ Sergeant Kaston broke into a jog, sweeping out around the right flank and leaving Jennika and Mortens at the rear.

  The remains of the Chimaerkeep loomed above them. They walked in silence through its sundered corpse. What had once been towering ferrocrete bastions were hollow shells, slumped under bombardment and blackened with cleansing fire. Courtyards were rubble-filled, dotted with weeds and crooked trees. In places, they walked through the flayed remains of corridors and walkways, often slanted at crazed angles and scattered with the remains of smashed statues and burned banners.

  ‘Did your people do this?’ asked Mortens as they picked their way through a ruptured tunnel between two ruins. Its walls were scorched, and daubed with aquilas and prayers.

  ‘We did,’ said Jennika. ‘We first purified House Chimaeros, and then House Wyvorn. I remember the fires as we shelled this place. The bombardment lasted for ten days, and then the militia moved in. They were led by Ministorum Preachers. They were… thorough.’

  ‘Well, your people’s vehemence cannot be faulted, at least,’ said Mortens. ‘This purge was driven by more than mere piety, I think. There is real hatred in this destruction.’

  ‘They betrayed us,’ said Jennika. ‘They betrayed the Emperor. You never hate any foe the way you hate a friend that’s betrayed you.’

  ‘Just so,’ murmured Mortens. ‘And what of the people themselves? The servants, the militia? Those Knights who did not fight on Donatos?’

  ‘They were tainted by association,’ said Jennika sadly. ‘They fought us. Their bodies lie in grave pits ahead. They…’

  Jennika trailed off as they emerged into daylight, and a grim sight was revealed. Around them towered the shattered remains of the central keep, which had been a spectacular structure before its ruin. Teetering segments of its outer walls still stood, but they were little more than a gutted shell. Rubble rose in jumbled mountains, glittering with shattered fragments of stained glass and dotted with the wreckage of thrones, tables, statuary, machinery, furniture and anything else that the hungry flames had not consumed.

  At the heart of the ruin was a wide open space. Cairns of fallen stone had been piled over the grave pits of Chimaeros’ people, each one topped with a black aquila and layered with prayer papers.

  In their midst, a massive slab of marble had been laid down to seal the entrance to the keep’s old catacombs. It was a symbolic gesture as much as anything, intended to wall in even the interred ancestors of House Chimaeros that they might be shunned and forgotten.

  Now, the slab was cracked down its middle, a ragged hole torn through it that led down into darkness. Chunks of marble lay scattered around, the distance they had flown attesting to the violence with which the slab had been broken.

  ‘Smashed,’ said Massata, deep voice echoing. ‘From below. From within.’

  ‘There’s trans-empyric residue here,’ said Nesh, gesturing to more outcroppings of the crystalline substance.

  ‘Disturbance around the corpse-pits,’ voxed Sergeant Kaston, sweeping her auspex across the area. ‘Something’s dug into them.’

  Jennika saw that Kaston was right. At least two of the grave pits had been defiled. Holes were burrowed deep into their flanks as though enormous maggots had penetrated the earth. Down in the gloom she saw a hint of bone and the leathery texture of ­mummified flesh.

  ‘Wulfdenkyne haunt this region,’ she said. ‘Perhaps they could have dug into the pits to scavenge?’

  ‘Feral canids, shifting rubble to reach old corpses?’ asked Kaston. ‘Unlikely.’

  ‘It seems as though your world’s secrets do not care to stay buried,’ said Massata.

  ‘Whatever has done this,’ said Jennika. ‘I swear by the Emperor’s Golden Throne that I will see it ended, and Adrastapol purified.’

  Massata nodded.

  ‘Five minutes, then,’ he said. ‘Check equipment, ration and hydration intake, say any prayers you need to. Then we go into the darkness, to discover what manner of hell is brewing beneath this place. And to destroy it.’

  CHAPTER 7

  Danial stood in the grand strategium, an island of calm in the midst of frantic bustle. His Exalted Court were gathered at his back alongside High Sacristan Polluxis, while countless adepts, serviles and scribes hurried to and fro.

  The High King was clad in his armoured bodyglove and flak tabard, and Oathkeeper was sheathed at his hip. Dan­ial’s arms were folded across his chest. His piercing green eyes remained fixed upon the chamber’s primary holoscreens. Each showed a region of Adrastapol – the runic designators detailing friendly and enemy troop strengths, strategic locations that required defence, routes of attack and retreat, and a hundred other minor details.

  ‘How up to date are these displays?’ he asked. Markos checked a data-slate.

  ‘They vary,’ he said. ‘Central Valatane regions are almost in real-time. We have Polluxis’ heavenly host to thank for that. Further out, we’re relying on what satellite-augurs we have left. We’re looking at high-altitude auspex sweeps, voxed reports, but many are hours old.’

  ‘Throne,’ breathed Danial. ‘Look at them all.’

  From the Minotane wilds to Pegasson’s mountain valleys, and great swathes of the Valatane, green runes swarmed.

  ‘They overran the stockade at Fort Charon a day ago,’ said Sire Percivane. ‘They’ve broken into Mount Imperius twice in the last twelve hours, but each time they’ve been thrown back. Fort Redfang is besieged. High Kelt is burning. The agriplexes along the Lancepoint are all seething with xenos.’

  ‘Sire Gallaghor got his people clear of Charon before the end, I see,’ said Danial. ‘That’s positive.’

  ‘Dracon bless that bald bastard. He always was too stubborn to lose a fight,’ said Markos.

  ‘There are more reports of heretical technology filtering in, also,’ said Percivane. ‘Electrified net launchers, cannons that disorient or temporarily exorcise machine-spirits, magnetic beams that pin war engines in place to be torn apart…’

  ‘The old precept’s tale that orks are stupid never seems to ring true,’ said Markos. ‘It’s no mystery how these xenos filth stole so many Imperial tanks, is it?’

  ‘Circulate another warning for all Knights to watch for ­unusual ork weapons,’ said Danial. ‘Throne preserve us from seeing them do that to a steed. What word from Houses Pegasson and Minotos?’

  ‘The master of vox reported last contact with House Pegasson two hours and sixteen minutes ago,’ said Suset, checking a sheaf of parchment proffered by a robed servile. ‘The passes, Kaurel through Iassos, remain secure. They’ve collapsed pass Nauthwyn with explosives to halt a greenskin breakthrough. Though they lost three Knights, the Marchioness believes they slew over one thousand orks in the avalanche. Passes Khabyn, Jessitha and T’ayel are contested… They’re considering further detonations.’

  ‘And Minotos?’

  ‘Last in contact thirty-eight hours ago,’ said Suset. ‘Their message was delivered by a vox adept, and stated they are holding the enemy at bay.’

  Sire Garath snorted.

  ‘Well, isn’t that noble of them,’ he said archly.

  ‘The briefer the message, the more their pride is hiding,’ said Danial. ‘Kurt’s people must be badly unseated, for us to receive so little word. Otherwise he’d be only too pleased to tell us all the victories he’s won alone.’

  ‘If only we had steeds to spare that might march to their aid,’ said Sire Percivane. He gestured at several screens. ‘But by the look of that, the Emperor is preparing to test our mettle, also.’

  ‘That is why I summoned you all,’ said Suset, gesturing with a control wand. Several feeds slid from secondary imagers to the primary holoscreen, forming a composite tapestry of the Draconspire, Northrise Battery, the Lanceway and the Valatane heartlands.

  ‘Two warbands,’ said Danial. ‘One from the north. One from the east.’

  ‘You might as well call a Knight a servitor, my liege,’ said Garath. ‘Those aren’t warbands. They’re hordes.’

  Danial drank in the data, his crown supplying supplementary information streams that overlaid his vision.

  ‘Conservative estimates put the eastern horde at twenty to thirty thousand greenskins,’ he said. ‘The one coming from the north is five, maybe six times that size, but a good six hours further away. We’ll be meeting our eastern visitors in under an hour. They have aircraft, armoured fighting vehicles, infantry, heavy and super-heavy walkers.’

 

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