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Apex Predator – Gavin G Smith
About the Author
An Extract from ‘Kingsblade’
A Black Library Publication
eBook license
Apex Predator
Gavin G Smith
Screaming woke Sethana; it was the ambient sound of Turris.
It took her a moment to understand where she was. The sleeping pit dug in the cold earth felt like a shallow grave.
There was someone standing over her.
Sethana’s ripper pistol was in her hand before she pulled focus and recognised the robed, multi-limbed silhouette that was Malachi. Originally the sacristan for the fallen Tears of the Golem, Malachi was now the lance’s sole remaining sacristan. He was responsible for the maintenance, such as it was, of all the battle-scarred Knights.
Sethana sighed and lowered the pistol.
‘What?’ she asked. Her body ached from sleeping in the armoured suit she wore to pilot Heartsbane, her Warden Questoris-class Imperial Knight.
Malachi, his reconstructed face shadowed by his torn hood, pointed north. Sethana turned to look. The shattered spires of the broken hab towers looked like a forest of splintered, blackened bones against the blood-red flames. The northern front had fallen. The whole of the horizon was on fire.
Sethana picked her way through standing water, knee-high sucking mud and the general filth of the trenches. She waded past hull-down Leman Russ battle tanks, and Basilisk and Bombard artillery pieces. The vehicles were a mixture of those belonging to the 114th Morassian Street Fighters regiment of the Astra Militarum, and Turris’ own Home Guard. The vehicles and artillery were crewed by emaciated, terrified men and women, many of them barely older than children. They watched her pass without a flicker of hope on their faces, but they hadn’t succumbed to the Ruinous Powers yet, and they remained strong enough to hold a lasrifle. Many of the Home Guard had seen their parents and siblings die, or become the very same mutant warp spawn they fought. They were survivors. Everyone left alive on Turris fought now; everyone had picked a side. Sethana had tried not to listen to the rumours of cannibalism in the trenches, though her pilot suit hung loose on her frame and hunger gnawed at her innards as well. There was some whimpering from the survivors huddled round their fires trying to keep warm, but nobody spoke.
‘Is Oakspear’s ion shield working again?’ Sethana asked.
‘After a fashion,’ Malachi answered.
Sethana turned to glare at the sacristan.
‘It is only due to the Omnissiah’s bounty that I was able to do that much.’
Sethana bit back the urge to snap at him, to tell him to do better. She knew Malachi was doing exceptionally without access to a sanctum or a machine shrine.
‘And Sir Dugness?’ she asked.
‘He awakes screaming, as do you all…’
‘Has his nerve gone?’ This time she did snap.
‘That is beyond my field of responsibility and my understanding, I’m afraid.’
They were using the ruins of one of the hab towers as shelter, an ad hoc sanctum without the facilities, for what was left of her lance. The hab tower had been cored, hit during the orbital bombardment early in the conflict. Looking up they could see a cross section of the various levels where the inhabitants had lived and worked. The Knights stood in shadow, titanic warriors whose history was written on their battle-scarred armour. Sir Harvan’s Knight Crusader, Oakspear; Lady Melodia’s Knight Paladin, Green Hell; Sir Dugness’ Knight Errant, The Huntsman; and her own Knight Warden, Heartsbane. Even on the worst days on Gryphonne IV, Sethana had always been eager to pilot Heartsbane. Now it was only her zeal that provided her with the energy to make the long climb.
‘What will you do?’ Malachi asked.
Out of the shadows behind the sacristan the other three pilots shambled towards them. They were as physically exhausted as Sethana but they managed to hold their heads high.
‘Head north, look for survivors, try and protect them so they can regroup,’ she told Malachi, but both of them knew the war was over. It angered her. She was one of the few who had survived the tyranids, only to be stranded here because the astropaths had been among the first to fall and now there was no way of calling for aid.
‘They’re still out there,’ Sir Dugness said, joining them.
Sethana could hear it in his voice: he was on the edge. He was a good pilot, a valiant Knight, but everyone had only so much to give. Sethana knew she wouldn’t be able to fully trust him in what was to come. She could not believe she was even having these thoughts – a measure of what Turris had done to him, done to them all.
‘They killed Tears of the Golem and The Harvester,’ said Dugness. ‘Karane and Verna were both experienced pilots, veterans of Gryphonne IV, yet they were just cut down, hunted like prey.’
‘Get a grip of yourself,’ admonished Sir Harvan, the oldest of their number, and Sethana’s second-in-command. Once he had been a jowly, fleshy man, but now his skin hung loose, the result of the privations of campaign. ‘You’ve spent too long unchallenged by a real fight. The Golem and The Harvester were both significantly outnumbered. We can–’
‘We don’t know what happened!’ Lady Melodia broke in. ‘And they still outnumber us. They’re hunting us one by one.’ She had been small and wiry; now she was just gaunt and drawn, like the rest of them. Melodia was the youngest. This was her first campaign, and it would probably be her last.
‘What do you want to do?’ Sethana asked, trying not to let her exhaustion sap her own will. She needed a stimulant, and she needed the Throne Mechanicum to reinforce her own flagging resolve. ‘These Knights are in the service of the Ruinous Powers, the most insidious enemy of the Imperium, of humanity. We either fight or we fall,’ Sethana told them, but Melodia and Dugness were right in that they were facing a truly formidable foe. The lance of Heretic Knights, spawned by the warp itself, had appeared just over two standard weeks ago. They had destroyed the other two Knights in Sethana’s lance, and she knew they would be coming for the rest of them. They were led by a Knight Tyrant the Morassians had named the Death of Hope.
Sethana only slipped the once on the long climb to Heartsbane’s cockpit, finding herself dangling thirty feet above the jagged rubble by one hand.
Inside, the cockpit had once felt safe, like home, despite it being where she rode into combat. Now it just felt cold and empty as she sank down into the Throne Mechanicum. All that mattered was killing as many of the Heretic Knights as they could before they themselves were destroyed. Sethana found herself smiling as she suppressed her exhaustion and felt the tendril-like cables slither out of the throne and into her interface plugs…
…bright sunlight filled the cockpit as Sethana saw the contrails from the rocket motors of all six of Heartsbane’s Ironstorm missiles streak ahead and then explode against the ion shield of a huge, blue Knight Castellan. This was insanity! To fight a Castellan, one-on-one, with a Warden!
What am I doing? In her exhausted brain, it took Sethana a moment or two to work out what was happening. How she had been transported, and where she was. She was just a passenger now, in the memory of Lady Isabella of Swinford Hall, who piloted Heartsbane in the tourney field at Golem Keep. She had no time for this, but it appeared that the ghosts in the Throne Mechanicum had something to show her.
Lady Isabella, laughing for the joy of it, ran her Knight Warden into the buffeting fireball rising up and around the Castellan’s ion shield. Sethana hated this feeling of being trapped. She needed to take control of the familiar Knight. It
was madness to use Ironstorms at this range, and pointless against a Knight with a functioning ion shield. But Sethana was just along for the ride. Fire surrounded Heartsbane, then Sethana felt her stomach lurch, as the Warden left the ground. There was a moment’s dawning horror and then the sickening crash as the two Knights collided. The Castellan staggered. Heartsbane landed and then pushed her advantage. Strike after strike with twin Reaper chainswords, forcing the Castellan back, never letting it recover its balance, never giving it the chance to bring any of its weapons to bear.
Until the Castellan started to topple. It was like watching one of the huge Raisan oakwoods being felled. Sethana felt the impact as the Castellan hit the ground. Heartsbane put one knee on her opponent’s scored and dented chest, forcing it back down as it tried to rise. The Knight Warden crossed the twin Reapers and held the huge chainswords to the Castellan’s neck joint. There were huge fountains of sparks as spinning teeth bit into adamantium.
‘Yield!’ Lady Isabella shouted over the vox-horns between her laughter. It was the first real chance Sethana had to get a good look at the Castellan through Isabella’s eyes. It was blue in colour, and bore a red serpent symbol on its armoured carapace.
‘This is an affront!’ an answering hail from the Castellan began, but Heartsbane just exerted more pressure and the Reapers bit deeper. Sethana could feel Lady Isabella’s savage joy at her victory. Her ancestor would not hesitate to decapitate the Castellan, tourney field or no.
‘Yield! Yield!’ the Castellan’s pilot cried over the vox-horns, to the cheers of those watching the combat from behind the plasteel screens of the audience chamber.
Sethana was expecting this to be the end of it. A lesson taught by one of the ghosts that resided in Heartsbane’s Throne Mechanicum. A possible tactic for a smaller Knight to overcome a monster like a Castellan, though Sethana couldn’t shake the feeling that Lady Isabella was a lunatic. There was more, however.
Lady Isabella knocked on her uncle’s door. It was to be an informal meeting; there were no servants to announce her, though she nodded to the two liveried guards either side of the double doors. She entered when called.
Baron Godfrey, was tall, with a solid build, his dark hair silvering at the temples. High cheekbones and an ornate augmetic eye added to an aristocratic bearing that could have easily been seen as haughty or arrogant had he not smiled so easily. He sat behind his polished oakwood desk sipping raenka from a resin tumbler.
On the other side of the desk, seated in one of the well-upholstered armchairs, was a powerfully built, balding man, his frame just going to seed, in the blue ceremonial uniform of House Lucaris. Sir Ivandar, the pilot of Reign of Iron, the Knight Castellan she had fought and defeated in the tourney earlier in the day. This was the first time they had met. It was considered bad form for two Knights to meet before they fought for the first time. He, too, had a tumbler of raenka, and judging by the redness of his face, it wasn’t the first of the day either. A smouldering lho-stick filled the baron’s study with thick, sweet smoke.
‘My niece, Isabella, who represented us on the field today,’ the baron said by way of introduction.
‘A pleasure to meet you,’ Lady Isabella said, giving a small informal bow.
‘I wish I could say the same,’ Sir Ivandar said, turning away. ‘Really, baron, the tactics this young woman employed today are not the done thing.’
Isabella rolled her eyes. She had heard it all before. She moved over to the raenka decanter on the tantalus and helped herself to a generous tumbler of the spirit.
‘Effective, though,’ Godfrey said.
‘There are forms to be respected,’ Sir Ivandar huffed.
Isabella leaned against the wall, looking out the window as she took a sip of her drink, enjoying the sweet burn. She could feel the stone hearts of the xenos golems that the keep had been built from against the palm of her hand.
‘Forms that provide you with an advantage?’ Isabella asked. She was looking up at the sky. Half the night was filled with the stars of the Segmentum Tempestus, the other half only the blackness of the empty void beyond the galaxy.
Her uncle chuckled.
‘Had you tried that on a battlefield you would have most assuredly been destroyed. Such tricks do a lady of your standing no credit.’
‘How will I ever find a husband?’ Isabella mocked. She was looking at the huge trees of the forest that covered much of Raisa’s surface. They looked like a silent army of guardians beyond the clear-cut area surrounding Golem Keep. She was eager for the next hunt, to stalk the abhuman tribespeople under that dark canopy.
‘If winning is so important to you then you may notch this woman’s borderline cheating up to a victory if you please, but–’
‘Call me a cheat once more,’ Isabella invited him with mock sweetness as she turned from the window to look at him. It was only polite to meet one’s opponent after a bout, but Isabella wasn’t enjoying the experience.
‘Really, Sir Ivandar, is this the sort of behaviour you feel should represent House Lucaris?’ the baron asked. ‘You’re not being very gracious.’
‘I apologise, baron, it’s just that when I see the tenets of chivalry flouted in such a way… but we have more important things to discuss. Perhaps if Lady Isabella would leave us?’
Baron Godfrey studied Sir Ivandar for a moment or two. His face was expressionless, though all traces of his easy good humour had disappeared.
‘No, I don’t think so. Anything you have to say, you may say in front of my niece.’
Isabella crossed the room and perched on the side of her uncle’s desk. She would have quite liked to leave, as she didn’t relish Sir Ivandar’s continued company. It seemed, however, that the baron saw some advantage to her presence, even if that was just in needling a rude house guest.
‘Really, baron, this is a delicate matter…’
‘Then perhaps House Lucaris should have sent someone with manners,’ the baron suggested.
Sir Ivandar’s face hardened. ‘Careful, baron,’ he warned.
‘If you do not wish to discuss it in front of my niece then perhaps this meeting is at an end,’ the baron said and started to get up.
‘The Emperor has betrayed us–’
Isabella leaned forward, staring at Ivandar.
The baron sat back down again. ‘The Emperor has betrayed you, you mean? I’ve always found our dealings with the Imperium quite equitable. After a fashion, anyway.’
‘The Emperor has betrayed humanity–’
‘Those are not your words. Say what you have to say,’ the baron snapped. Now it was clear why her uncle had wanted her to stay. He needed a witness to this conversation, so there could be no possible misunderstanding of his position in the future.
‘The Warmaster Horus–’ Ivandar tried again.
‘Is a dog who has turned on his master.’
‘You have ever felt yourself independent of the Imperium! Why would you, of all the houses, defend a man who has turned His back on humanity to hide on Terra?’ Ivandar was shouting now, his already red face darkening.
‘Because I hold true to the treaties I have signed, agreements I have made, and oaths I have sworn. If House Lucaris wishes to turn traitor, that is your concern. I pray you don’t meet my niece across a battle line, for your own sake.’
‘How dare you!’ Ivandar was on his feet.
Isabella straightened up, wishing she had something more substantial than a ceremonial dagger riding her hip.
‘Choose your next words very carefully. Do not add the quality of foolishness to that of gracelessness,’ the baron warned, his hands steepled in front of him.
‘She is a disgrace, and you are a minor house of savages. You will find yourself ground underfoot unless you accept our generous offer!’ Ivandar’s hands were on the baron’s desk now. He was drooling onto the polished wood.
<
br /> There was a look of naked disgust on the baron’s face.
‘Leave now,’ Isabella said quietly.
Ivandar cast a look of contempt in her direction before making his way across the study. He turned back to face them both at the door. Isabella saw the needler in his hand. She started to move, knowing she could never reach him in time as he aimed the weapon at her uncle. The needler whispered as she interposed herself in front of the baron.
Isabella hit the floor, the crystallised neurotoxin surging through her blood. She saw one of the guards go down by the door, Ivandar’s running feet disappearing down the corridor. She felt the baron gathering her up in his arms, heard him calling for a medic. The last thing she remembered was her uncle carrying her to the Chamber of Echoes, in the sanctum. Laying her down on the Throne Mechanicum so she could die with honour and merge with Heartsbane, becoming one with the Knight Warden’s machine-spirit.
‘Sethana!’
‘Sethana!’ It was Harvan’s voice over the vox.
Sethana’s eyes were wide open. She saw Heartsbane’s cockpit overlaid with information from the Knight’s auspex. According to her systems, mere moments had passed. Plugged in she effectively became Heartsbane – pilot, machine-spirit and the ghosts of pilots past becoming greater than the sum of all their parts. Instead, she had been taken away to relive the memories of a distant ancestor gone some ten millennia.
‘Sethana, answer me!’ There was urgency in her second-in-command’s voice.
She closed her eyes. The connection to Heartsbane had reinvigorated her to a degree, though even that was dimmed by her fatigue. Frustrated by physical limitations that struggled to live up to what her duty required of her, she knew she would have to stimm again.
‘Heartsbane to Oakspear, I’m fine. Just a little feedback from the throne. Lead them out, Harvan.’
The front collapsing had not resulted in an orderly retreat. Unfortunately it had meant that the Home Guard and Morassian survivors were the ones who’d broken first, the cowards fleeing the continent-wide rout. Sethana and her lance had voxed instructions to the survivors, ordering them to coordinates where they could regroup. The House Cadmus lance protected the retreating forces from the cultists and mutants. As a result the Knights of the House Cadmus lance were so far apart that they were effectively operating as independent units.
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