by Andy Clark
The Exalted Court and their escorts climbed gilded steps, scattering to join friends and comrades already thronging the tiers. Leading the entourage, Danial passed Knights and lexographers, priests and courtesans, militia officers, artists, servitors and adepts.
‘It is sad to see the Minotos stands empty,’ said Suset.
‘It’s frustrating,’ agreed Jennika. ‘But at least House Pegasson are here in force.’
‘They’ve sent every Knight and dignitary they could spare,’ said Danial. ‘Just as we have. It’s a sign of the Emperor’s favour.’
‘There is the Marchioness,’ said Suset.
The royal box was above them. It was a formidable structure that jutted out over the seating tiers on a framework of gilded girders. Heraldic servitors were built into its structure, their faces distorted by augmetic speakers that blared hymnals. Their arms were heavy gun-units that tracked over each new arrival without exception.
Poised elegantly at the box’s railing was Lauret Tan Pegasson.
Brigantane, the once court-poet for House Chimaeros, had described the Marchioness as a woman carved from ice and starlight, with a heart to match. Her eyes were expensive augmetics dotted with silver pupils. They replaced her biological orbs that had been destroyed during her near-death on Donatos. Rejuvenat treatments had erased the deep scars from her face, leaving her skin smooth and pale. Her hair was white and swept back from her forehead in a series of elaborate plaits that trailed down her back and mingled with electrocables. The gown she wore was quartered in the ice blue and white of her house. Its cut concealed the bionics that made up much of her body. Lauret’s hands rested on the railing before her, one slender and human, the other a brushed silver masterwork whose inbuilt jewellery pulsed softly.
At her side stood three Knights of her Exalted Court and several other, more unusual figures. These wore hooded cowls, heavy cassocks and warrior vestments. Their faces were scarified and they bore weighty-looking staves. Religious tomes were bound to their bodies with chains. They were festooned with Imperial aquilas, tatters of scrollwork and scripture pinned to their clothing and flesh.
They stared as Danial and his retinue climbed the steps.
‘Marchioness,’ said Danial as he led the way into the royal box. ‘It is truly a pleasure to see you.’
Lauret bowed slightly and favoured him with a reserved smile.
‘High King Danial Tan Draconis,’ she said. ‘You honour my House deeply by your invitation. This is a moment worthy of remembrance, a grand gesture of solidarity.’
‘I am glad that you think so, my lady,’ said Danial.
‘It seems our lord Tan Minotos did not concur?’ asked Lauret.
‘It seems not, but I believe his position is softening,’ replied Danial.
‘He is young,’ said Lauret, turning back to the railing. ‘And he is of old Minotane stock. Stubborn and brave to a fault. Given time I believe that you are correct, my king. Kurt will see sense.’
‘We pray for his enlightenment, lady,’ rumbled one of Lauret’s attendant holymen.
Markos snapped. ‘You’re in the presence of the High King. Hold your peace unless called upon, priest.’
‘My lady, let us speak of more auspicious things,’ said Danial, ignoring the exchange. ‘I believe that Polluxis will begin soon.’
As true nightfall settled in the shadow of the mountains, massive chem-braziers ignited across the water. They threw dancing reflections on the reservoir’s waters, and revealed Sacristans gathered in great number on the opposite bank.
Robed half in the red of the Adeptus Mechanicus and half in the colours of their Noble Houses, the Sacristans made for a sinister sight with their strange, mechanical anatomies and heavy cowls. Cyborg cherubim and servo skulls hovered about them like familiars.
A pair of Sacristan Crawlers sat in their midst. The huge vehicles were nearly as large as Baneblade super-heavy tanks. They rested on armoured balloon tyres and bore the heraldry of House Draconis. Repair armatures and nests of servo arms were folded down atop their bulky hulls, interspersed with esoteric weapons systems and pulsing sensor shrines.
Stood atop one of these vehicles in a gilded pulpit was High Sacristan Polluxis. Clad in a more elaborate version of his comrades’ garb, he raised his arms high. In one hand the High Sacristan held a data-wand, which he flourished. When he spoke, his voice boomed from the vox-amplifiers of the Sacristan Crawlers. His words rolled across the dark waters like thunder.
‘Assembled lords and ladies of Adrastapol, Omnissiah’s blessings upon you. Tonight, you bear witness to a miracle of the Machine-God. I beg your reverent silence for the proceedings that follow. All vox traffic and communications are to be held in cessation for the duration of the ritual, lest they disquiet the machine-spirits or disrupt their divine harmonic frequencies. For High King Danial and the glory of Adrastapol, we begin.’
Danial found the rites of the Omnissiah’s faithful intriguing. Certainly, they were no shorter than the rituals of the Noble Houses, but the binharic chanting, the striking of the runes, and the strange mechanical arcana did more to hold his attention. With each new sluice consecrated and thrown open, Danial felt the rumble of fresh turbines turning within the dam. The subtle shudder was accompanied by plumes of smoke and fire from across the water as generatora and capacitor shrines roared to life.
‘It’s as though they awaken dracons on the far shore,’ murmured Suset. A glance at her enraptured expression told Danial that whatever interest he had in the proceedings, hers eclipsed it. Suset’s duties as Gatekeeper hadn’t dimmed her fascination with the secrets of the Omnissiah, a fact that set her at odds with Polluxis and his order on occasion. As the ritual of awakening entered its third hour, Suset’s eyes shone as brightly as they had when it commenced.
Danial was becoming restless, though years of experience at enduring his own house’s rituals had allowed him to perfect his façade of polite interest. Surreptitiously he glanced along the line of the royal box, hoping to see refreshment servitors moving amongst the stands. Instead, he frowned as distant movement registered in his crown’s auspex feed.
Magnifying his field of vision, he saw a robed adept hurrying along the top of the dam with a bundle of data-parchments clutched to his chest. The young man was challenged by a member of the Draconis militia as he reached the bottom of the pavilion steps. A quiet but animated conversation ensued.
Danial’s concern deepened. A glance at Jennika showed she had seen the same thing. She reached for the vox-bead in her ear, clearly intending to reawaken it. He shook his head. Not yet. It might be something minor.
That hope faded as the men took the steps at a jog, drawing whispers and sidelong glances from the nobles they passed. The pair were challenged by Captain Bannoch, and another exchange occurred beneath the muzzles of several servitor guns.
Bannoch skimmed the contents of the data-parchments and scowled. Across the waters the ritual rumbled on, but few eyes were still upon it. On Adrastapol, sacred rites were not interrupted for anything less than an emergency, and those in the stands knew it. Knights stirred. Bodyguards adjusted their stances and became quietly watchful, as knots of Consorts and Squires whispered together with increasing animation. ‘I’m going to see what this is before any further disruption is caused,’ said Danial.
Before Danial could rise from his throne, Bannoch hurried to his side.
‘King Danial,’ he said, leaning down and speaking quietly but insistently. ‘There is an urgent situation developing.’
‘A threat?’ asked Danial as Jennika reactivated her ear-bead.
‘Potentially, sire,’ said Bannoch. ‘Long range atmospheric auspex has picked up an incoming signature, descending at speed through the upper stratosphere towards this location. It is only minutes away.’
‘And we’re only hearing about this now?’ exclaimed Markos.
&nbs
p; ‘The auspex-adepts can’t account for it, sire herald,’ replied Bannoch. ‘This warning should have come at least half an hour earlier, but the contact simply appeared on their runebanks. As though from nowhere, as they put it.’
‘This is a question for later,’ said Danial. ‘Do they know what it is?’
‘Unknown, sire,’ said Bannoch. ‘It is too small for a void ship, but is possessed of machine signature. The readings coming off the contact are contradictory.’
‘Could be an attack craft,’ said Jennika.
‘Or a warhead,’ said Markos.
‘Has any attempt been made to hail the contact?’ asked Danial.
Bannoch nodded. ‘Nothing,’ he said.
‘We could intercept?’ asked Suset. ‘With the new aircraft and battery assets we’ve amassed…’
‘That won’t work,’ replied Jennika, listening intently to the chatter on her vox-bead. ‘It’s coming in over the mountains, threading the needle between our battery coverage. It’s either extremely poor fortune on our part, or forward planning on someone else’s. And the combat air patrol relocated southwards to avoid disturbing the ritual. They’re returning at speed, but they’re ten minutes out.’
‘What of your Knights on the piquet?’ asked Danial. ‘Jennika? Lauret?’
The Marchioness had plugged several of the cables from her cranial augmetics into data-ports on one armoured vambrace, and was watching intently as runes scrolled over its surface.
‘My Knights are moving to adopt a shield dispersal, liege, but the angle of approach will make it extremely difficult,’ she said. ‘Attempting to march up onto the dam would be too risky, and from down in the labour camp, even those with Icarus mounts will struggle to get a reliable shot before the contact is on top of us.’
‘The same is true of our Knights,’ said Jennika. ‘In respecting Polluxis’ ritual, we’ve left ourselves open.’
‘We’ve had no hint of danger,’ said Markos. ‘There’s been no warning from the Bastion Fleet, and Adrastapol hasn’t known the touch of hostile forces in three years now. Every possible strategic auto-séance was run for threat simulation in the planning of this event. It’s hardly an ill-judged lapse.’
‘Be that as it may, we must remedy it at once,’ said Danial. He stood, activating the vox-amp in his crown.
‘My lords, ladies and honoured guests,’ he began, his amplified voice carrying across the stands. ‘Please make your way swiftly down from the dam into the labour camp. Knights, awaken your steeds and proceed in full panoply to designated mustering points with weapons unshrouded. All other attendees, evacuation craft will ferry you from landing pads two, three, five and eight. Please proceed to your allotted departure point.’
The response was immediate, and every bit as calm and efficient as he might have hoped. Guarded by house militia, directed gallantly by the Knights in their midst, the worthies of Adrastapol filtered from the stands in good order.
‘Markos, relay my commands to the Labour camp overseers and militia captains,’ said Danial. ‘The labour parties are to be evacuated onto the Valatane. Have bulk landers standing by in case we need to pull them out altogether. And ensure the Sacristans are alerted also, they will have to appease the machine-spirits for this interruption later.’
‘My liege, the contact is minutes away at most,’ said Bannoch urgently. ‘It’s moving even faster than we projected. You cannot remain here.’
‘I don’t intend to,’ said Danial. He glanced along the top of the dam, where evacuees were still streaming in orderly lines towards the exit ramp. ‘Bannoch, vox my shuttle. Have them put down atop the dam. It will be far quicker than walking, and we need to get to our steeds immediately. Come.’
As they hurried from the royal box and clattered down the stairs, he watched the darkened skies intently. The mountains were looming silhouettes now, and the first stars glimmered above their peaks.
‘What is it, do you think?’ asked Suset.
‘Whatever it is, we’ll be able to see it soon,’ said Jennika. ‘The Knights have it on their strategic overlay now. It’s barely two minutes out.’
Danial could see the running lights of his shuttle as it rose from its landing pad and swept towards them. He glanced back at the skies, his eyes widening as he saw one of the stars flaring brighter than the rest, and growing larger as it rushed closer.
‘Emperor lend us speed,’ he muttered. ‘This will be a close-run thing.’
Danial’s shuttle swept in, the Aquila Lander lowering its rear ramp as it descended towards the dam. Downdraft from its engines battered them, snatching at their tabards and causing them to shield their eyes.
‘The last of our people are clear,’ said Sire Percivane.
‘If this truly is a warhead, that may not be enough to save them,’ said Danial.
‘My Knights are attempting interdiction,’ said Lauret, still watching her vambrace. From the camp below came the thump of gunfire, bright lines of fire whipping overhead.
‘The angle is wrong,’ said Jennika. ‘They won’t catch it in time.’
The shuttle thumped down and they hurried up the ramp into the transport bay.
‘Go,’ voxed Danial to the pilot, punching a rune to close the rear ramp.
‘There aren’t enough restraints,’ said Garath. ‘Just grab hold of something, all of you.’
The pilot fed power to his engines. They howled in response. The shuttle began to rise, sending choppy wavelets across the surface of the reservoir. Crammed into the compartment, everyone grabbed for restraint loops and webbing straps. Several stumbled. A Pegasson Knight staggered back towards the closing ramp. Jennik reached out and steadied her.
Lauret’s priests prayed loudly and fervently. Danial ignored them, clinging to a guide loop and keeping his eyes fixed on the narrowing slice of darkness beyond the ramp. The contact hurled closer with every second. His crown ran auspex trajectories, and his knuckles whitened on the guide loop as he saw their conclusion.
‘Pilot, bank hard right!’ he voxed.
The man knew better than to argue the commands of his High King. Shouts of alarm filled the crew compartment as the shuttle lurched. A priest hit his head and collapsed.
Then came a rumble that swelled into a shuddering bellow. The shuttle bucked again, its lumen flicking to crimson, and Danial gritted his teeth as he clung to his handhold with all his strength. There was a terrible lurch, the bottom dropping out of his stomach as the shuttle fell, and he braced himself for an impact.
Then the engines howled, and with a final shudder the craft managed to right itself. Danial glanced out the viewing port to see the lights of the work camp alarmingly close below. He could make out faces gaping up at the shuttle in shock.
‘My apologies, lords and ladies,’ came the voice of the pilot. The man sounded shaken. ‘The contact passed within yards of us. The violence of our manoeuvres was necessary to avoid collision.’
‘That man should receive a flogging,’ snarled Lauret’s herald, Sire Quensil Dar Pegasson. He stood protectively over the Marchioness where she had managed to strap herself into a restraint throne. Blood was running freely from a gash in the herald’s temple.
‘He just saved our lives,’ replied Danial sternly. ‘He deserves a medal.’
‘Pilot,’ voxed Lauret, ‘our thanks for your swift actions. Were you able to identify the object as it passed us?’
‘Yes, my lady,’ replied the pilot. ‘It was Imperial. A dropship or troop transport, from the bulk of it, but of a pattern I’ve never seen, and showing heavy combat damage.’
‘Current location?’ asked Danial.
‘The Valatane,’ said Jennika, one hand to her ear-bead. ‘The Knights are reporting impact ten miles out across the plains, due south.’
‘Have two lances converge on the crash site,’ said Danial. ‘They will assess from
a distance. All other Knights to maintain a defensive spread and watch the skies. There may be more craft incoming.’
‘Where shall I deliver you, my liege?’ voxed the pilot.
‘Take us to our steeds,’ replied Danial. ‘Have Polluxis despatch Crawlers to meet us en route. If anyone survived that crash, they will require the Sacristans’ medicae pods.’
Ten minutes later, Danial settled into his throne mechanicum. He slid his haptic gauntlets into place, drew his combat webbing across his chest, and closed his eyes as his neural jacks coupled with cold, metallic clicks. Data streams flowed into his mind, twining with the information from his crown. The whispering voices of his ancestors welcomed him back. Oath of Flame rumbled its own greeting, reactor humming as it powered up.
Danial felt power flow through him, and let his sensorium expand through the auspex feeds of his steed.
He ascended, and became a god of war.
Through his right arm, Danial felt the pulsing heat of his steed’s thermal cannon. Through his left, he felt the revving power of its reaper chainsword. With a thought, he activated Oath of Flame’s upgraded ion shield, a relic of his house installed to honour his high status, then he flicked a series of runic switches.
From outside, he heard the muffled hiss and clank as fuel hoses and ammo feeds uncoupled. He stepped his steed out of its Sacristan armature, and felt the ground shake at his tread.
He saw Lady Suset’s steed, Embersword, doing the same. Off to his right, Markos, Garath and Percivane followed suit in Honourblaze, Iron Drake and Firestorm.
‘Lady Jennika, Lady Lauret,’ Danial voxed. ‘We’re on the march.’
‘As are we,’ replied Lauret Tan Pegasson. ‘Meet us at this location.’
A rune flashed up on Danial’s strategic overlay. The location was a mile beyond the camp’s southern boundary along the line of his march.