God machines, p.62
God-Machines, page 62
Danial’s ears rang and his mind was numbed with shock. He had done that. He had killed, for the first time, extinguishing the lives of a slew of heretics as easily as he might crush worms beneath his boot. The surge of exhilaration was overwhelming. The kingsward was jolted back to reality as a cannon-round punched through his shield and exploded against his Knight’s chest, staggering it. Sparks drizzled from several cockpit systems, and Oath of Flame gave a rumble of mechanical protest.
‘Shield, brother!’ barked Jennika, hammering battle cannon rounds into the stalled enemy tanks with precision. Danial hurriedly adjusted his ion shield to protect his steed. Despite the jarring impact, he was grinning like a lunatic. He could hear Luk laughing.
‘What a shot,’ crowed his friend as he let fly with his own thermal cannon into the remaining enemy tanks, ‘Danial Tan Draconis, master marksman and slayer of heretics.’
More traitor vehicles exploded, trapping the enemy infantry between the flaming wrecks to their fore and the hungry wildfires now sweeping up the street behind them. Enemy runes scattered on Danial’s auspex as traitors smashed through shop fronts and hab windows in their desperation to find safety.
‘Don’t let them disperse,’ said Jennika.
‘Understood,’ responded Danial, striding forward to get a view over the top of the blazing traitor tanks. His heavy stubber kicked to life, hosing high calibre bullets into the ragged traitors still caught in the street. At the same time his thermal cannon flashed again, burning through the front of the nearest building and annihilating the infantry trying to escape through its corridors and chambers. Rebar supports melted, masonry evaporated, and a great slab of the hab-block’s frontage sheared away to crash down upon the processional like an avalanche. Danial’s auspex showed Jennika and Luk wreaking equal havoc, as enemy runes snuffed out like candles in a high wind.
Danial’s strategic overlay showed that the story was the same all along the battlefront. The renegade rabble of Pentakhost were no match for the Knights of Adrastapol, and were dying by the thousand. A handful of Knights showed minor battle damage on their manifolds, but it was nothing that the Sacristans would not soon fix. Tertiary vox data flashed back and forth amongst the Astra Militarum as they prepared to deploy their artillery batteries and blast a firebreak through the middle of the city. The wildfires had done their job, and now the Imperial forces would preserve what they could of Pentakhost for their own use.
As the last localised enemy runes blinked out, Danial slowly backed Oath of Flame into the intersection to survey the annihilation that he and his comrades had wrought.
‘Is this what it means to be a Knight?’ he breathed in awe.
‘It means victory,’ replied Luk, burning with pride and excitement. ‘It means death to our enemies.’
‘It means duty,’ said Jennika, though Danial could hear the exhilaration in his sister’s voice also. No one could wield power like this and not feel something. His heart was hammering in his chest. The whispers of his ancestors had grown to a clamour, still indistinct but surely congratulatory and full of bloodthirsty excitement. Danial wanted to fight again, to feel the godlike power at his fingertips. But the battle was won and the flames closing in.
‘We should return to the keep,’ said Jennika, her voice steady again. Danial pipped his vox in acknowledgement and turned his steed. They had claimed victory here, but as his natural pragmatism beat out the newfound flames of battle-lust Danial remembered that this was just the beginning. They had their beachhead, but there was a world out there yet to be re-conquered.
CHAPTER 2
High King Tolwyn Tan Draconis strode along the colonnade with purpose, his booted footfalls echoing from the vaulted ceiling. The High King of Adrastapol was tall and rangy, his wiry strength and irrepressible energy belying his advanced years. His neatly trimmed beard and moustache were both silver-hued and waxed to fine points. Tolwyn’s long hair was a similar shade, his golden circlet standing out proud against it. Five elaborately worked servo-skulls hovered along above his head, each hand-crafted to resemble the heads of mythic beasts – the pegassus, the chimaer, the minot, the wyvornne and, of course, the dracon. The High King had remained in the armoured bodysuit of a Knight at war, his only concession to tradition being the rich crimson-and-black quartered tabard his servants had draped over his shoulders and belted at his waist. Tolwyn had not even taken the time to wipe the sweat from his brow, nor the dust from his boots, and for good reason. He marched to a council of war. This would be a gathering of martial men and seasoned warriors. He must establish himself as one of their number, rather than appearing to set himself above them. The High King knew his own worth as a warrior and tactician, but as with any courtly matter, appearances were important. He might not have a taste for politicking, but one did not reach the station that Tolwyn Tan Draconis had without knowing the steps of the courtly dance.
Though he was about to tend to matters of state, the High King was in fine spirits. His bold opening strategy for the war had run like clockwork.
‘And the casualty reports?’ he asked the burly warrior who kept pace at his side.
Markos Dar Draconis glanced at his ornate data-slate. Everything about the herald, from his scarred, bald head to his pugnacious manner spoke of a lifelong warrior. The data-slate seemed gaudy in his hands, thought Tolwyn with amusement.
‘None, my liege,’ grunted Markos, ‘unless you count the Guard, I suppose.’
Tolwyn frowned.
‘I do, old friend. I must. And so should you. These are our valued allies, soldiers of the Imperium every one. They might not have our grandeur, or nobility…’
‘…but their purpose is every bit as just,’ finished Markos grudgingly. ‘So you always say, my liege.’
‘And so I always shall. Until we’re so old and shrivelled that the closest we come to war is hunching over the regicide table and squinting at the pieces,’ chuckled the king.
Markos laughed.
‘Hah, let us both die bloody in battle before we suffer such ignominy.’
‘Indeed, old friend,’ nodded the High King, ‘but come now, what of our allies’ casualties?’
‘Blessedly light,’ said Markos after glancing at his slate. ‘Two platoons of Tanhollis Highlanders took a mauling when the traitors tried to push up the western flank, but they held. Lost four Cadian tanks to lucky shots. Nothing in orbit, the enemy’s star ships have stayed well clear of ours and vice versa. Seems a pissing contest’s likely to leave both sides with wet shins.’
The High King snorted.
‘Pray never become a diplomat, Markos.’
‘Pray never make me, your highness,’ replied the grizzled herald.
‘And what of my son?’ asked Tolwyn as they approached a set of heavy brass doors. The Cadian veterans guarding the door snapped to attention, saluting crisply and slamming their las-rifle butts against the marble floor.
‘Your son still lives,’ replied Markos after a pause, ‘and for that alone I’m thankful.’
‘Come now,’ replied the High King, stopping beside his old friend. ‘That seems a touch uncharitable. I have it from several sources that he performed admirably for his first engagement, as did young Luk.’
Markos shifted, clearly uncomfortable.
‘Well, if that’s what you’ve heard, my liege…’
‘Markos,’ pressed the High King, ‘we’re better blade-brothers than that. Aren’t we? I’d know what you think.’
Markos Dar Draconis sighed and nodded.
‘Very well, my liege. I don’t think either one of them is ready. Nor, for that matter, are Sylvest Dar Draconis or Suset Dar Draconis. All four faced their Becoming a matter of weeks before we took ship…’
‘You yourself first piloted a Knight in anger on the very morning after your Becoming, old friend,’ said the High King with a smile.
‘Aye, but that was necessity, sire. I’d have asked politely, but the orks didn’t seem inclined to wait while I finished my training.’ Both Knights laughed, and the High King noticed the Cadians’ mouths quirked a little at the corners. Markos became serious again as he continued.
‘The Chimaeros ward suffers from an overabundance of youthful arrogance, and a surfeit of common sense. He’ll be a fine blade given time, but for now he’s dangerously untempered. As for your lad… Danial’s never been a brawler, Tolwyn. You know his taste for books eclipses his want for fisticuffs, wenches and wine. He hesitated off the drop. He stood overlong once clear, and only got himself into the fight after Lady Jennika gave him a boot up the backside. Even then he followed her to battle like a lost puppy.’
The High King raised an eyebrow at such harsh assessment, but the smile still had not quite left his face.
‘I asked for honesty, I suppose. Markos, my oldest friend, I fear sometimes that you simply do not see Danial’s inner strength. Just because he is a little different to most lads his age…’
‘A little different?’ the herald cried. ‘My liege, he’s eighteen winters whelped and hasn’t even taken a woman! He…’ Tolwyn held up a gloved hand, suddenly serious.
‘Enough. There is honesty, and there is disparagement. We will continue this discussion in a more private setting. For now, please remember that he is my son, and the heir to the throne. If you are so sure that Danial is not ready for his responsibilities, then I would appreciate your every effort in preparing him for his mantle, rather than declaring him unfit.’
Markos’ face coloured. He swiftly knelt before the High King, and bowed his head.
‘Apologies, my liege. I shall do penance for my outburst.’ Tolwyn reached down and took his herald by the shoulders, urging the heavily muscled warrior to stand once more.
‘Your contrition is enough, along with your solemn oath to help my son take his rightful place.’
Markos nodded.
‘Of course, my liege. I swear it on my throne.’
‘Good enough,’ said Tolwyn, a smile creasing the corners of his piercing green eyes. Dracon’s eyes, they called them, an inheritance common to all those of true House Draconis blood. ‘Now, the war council awaits.’
Turning, the High King made an expansive gesture at which one of the Cadians waved a key-wand and the huge brass doors swung ponderously open. Taking a deep breath, the king adjusted his smile to one of war-weathered confidence, and advanced as though to battle.
The chamber into which the High King led his herald was vast, so much so that a Warlord Titan might have stood at its centre. Before the war, it had been the grand dictatorium of the Pentakhost Administratum. Now it had become Tolwyn’s strategium. The domed, frescoed ceiling was all but lost in shadow, despite the grey daylight that streamed through the arched windows of one wall. Electrosconces were set at intervals, between dour portraits of robed worthies. The floor of the enormous circular space bore a huge icon of an aquila picked out in tawdry looking gilt. Yes, thought the High King, this place is as vast and soulless as the organisation it aggrandises.
A large group of men and women were gathered around a massive holo-projector table. As Tolwyn made his entrance, the buzz of conversation that echoed around the room petered out and all eyes turned to him and Markos. In response, Tolwyn’s attendant servo-skulls blared a sudden, static-laced fanfare into the cavernous chamber.
‘His majesty, High King Tolwyn Tan Draconis,’ said Markos, the herald’s voice booming into the hollow vastness. ‘Ruler of Adrastapol, master of House Draconis, liege-lord of the five houses and shield of the Majestis System. Make obeisance.’ As one, the Knights amongst the assembled worthies dropped to one knee, their heads bowed. The rest, Astra Militarum officers, Adeptus Mechanicus representatives and assorted planetary functionaries, all responded with their own gestures of respect.
The High King waved his servo-skulls away with apparent irritation. All part of the act, of course.
‘Such ceremony,’ he exclaimed, sweeping a wry grin across the assembled war council. ‘Hardly appropriate at a time of war. Please, as you were, my friends.’
Tolwyn covered the distance to the holo-table while the Knights rose to their feet, taking in the gathered officers and aides as he did so. There were the rulers of the other Adrastapolian Houses; Grandmarshal Gustev Tan Minotos, huge in his archaic battle-armour, his spectacular facial hair waxed into eccentric patterns; Archduke Dunkan Tan Wyvorn, with his hard face and a jocular grin that never quite reached his eyes; Marchioness Lauret Tan Pegasson, a coldly handsome woman clad in a half-armoured gown, her ice-white hair hanging in a cable-threaded braid down her back. And of course, Viscount Gerraint Tan Chimaeros, handsome and charismatic despite the scars that laced the left side of his face, and the hissing mechanical brace that encased his left arm and leg. Each of the nobles had their own retinues, their respective Exalted Courts along with favoured retainers, partners and the like. Tolwyn made brief eye contact with Viscount Gerraint’s raven-haired consort, the Lady Alicia Kar Manticos, and she favoured him with a warm smile.
The Knightly retinues brought the numbers around the table to nearly fifty. Then there was the delegation of Sacristans, massed from the mechanist fraternities of each House. Robed half in their Houses’ colours and half in Martian red, the strange, cybernetically altered artificers were led by High Sacristan Polluxis Dar Mechanicus. These were the secretive figures who kept the Knights of Adrastapol operational, and the High King made sure to direct a nod of appropriate respect in Polluxis’ direction. The High Sacristan inclined his own cowled head in response, clustered eye-lenses glowing like coals beneath his hood.
Alongside the leaders of Adrastapol stood the variously appointed commanders of the Cadian, Mubraxis and Tanhollis regiments. Each was attired in the ceremonial dress uniform of their world. Each made for a striking spectacle with their attendant throngs of senior officers, aides du camps, servitors, bannermen, astropaths and – in the case of the Mubraxian Sheik Halna’sir – a trio of lean canid-looking beasts on chain leashes.
There was also a huddled gaggle of officials from Donatos’ Administratum, struggling to look at home amidst such a gathering of warriors. On the far side of the table hovered the corpulent Bishop of Donatos, Sacred Pulcifan, his robed bulk held aloft upon a suspensor throne. Next to him stood the High Justice of Donatos, master of the planet’s Adeptus Arbites. Commander Korgh of the planet’s defence militia looked pale and exhausted in a crumpled uniform with a stone of penance heavy around his neck. Captain Vostrie of the Imperial Navy had ferried the invasion to this war-torn world and acted as representative for the fleet. The list went on, a total of several hundred names and faces. With his mnemetic augmetics and attention to detail, High King Tolwyn had been sure to learn them all. One never knew when such information might prove useful.
Tolwyn stopped before the holo-table and rested his palms upon it.
‘My lords and ladies, commanding officers and worthy adepts. Welcome to the beginning of Donatos’ redemption.’ Tolwyn paused for a moment, allowing a wave of applause and table thumping to pass through the gathering. ‘Our initial assault drop was a complete success. Our beachhead on Donatos Primus is secured. Congratulations are in order, as are thanks to those brave soldiers of the Cadian and Tanhollis regiments who gave their lives to make it thus.’ Another round of applause, this one louder. Tolwyn received the appreciative nods of the Cadian and Tanhollis commanders, and returned them in kind. As the applause died away, the leader of the Administratum delegation raised his stave of office. Tolwyn paused in his prepared address, making a gracious gesture to the administrator to proceed. Tall and spare, the robed man cleared his throat and bowed low.
‘Before you proceed, High King, I would say, on behalf of all of Donatos’ surviving loyal rulers, just how eternally grateful we are for your most efficacious rescue of ourselves. Truly did we believe that the turncoat hordes would tear us limb from limb, that they would soon overrun the barricades of the Pentakhost Arbites fortress and end our lives in their wickedness. For our salvation, we give thanks to the Emperor, and to you.’
The High Justice’s scowl deepened at these words, while militia Commander Korgh flinched as though awaiting a kick. That wouldn’t do, Tolwyn thought.
‘First Administrator Hullis, isn’t it?’ asked Tolwyn. The Administratum man nodded, clearly pleased to be properly acknowledged by such an august personage as a Knightly High King.
‘My warriors and I appreciate your thanks,’ smiled Tolwyn graciously, ‘and I am glad that we were able to break the besiegement around the Arbites precinct fortress. It is good that so many of this world’s rulers could be saved, even if Governor Gnossul could not. But also I must express my own thanks. No, I must give my heartfelt congratulations. To all the brave men and women of the Donatosian Adeptus Arbites, and to the loyalist soldiery of the Donatosian planetary militia. You have my thanks, and the Emperor’s.’
From across the table, the High Justice and Commander Korgh both made the sign of the aquila. Korgh, in particular, stood a little taller at Tolwyn’s words. The High King was well aware that the man had been derelict in his duties, for the pernicious corruption of Chaos had spread through the ranks of his soldiers under his very nose. No doubt Commander Korgh would face execution for his failures. But for now he was needed. Twelve regiments of loyal Donatosian militia were still in the field, according to initial reports. Still fighting to prove their loyalty against their fallen former comrades. Morale was likely to be dismal. They needed their commander to stay strong.
