Throneworld

by Guy Haley

  ‘So end those who would profane the holy grounds of Mars,’ said Kubik. His chair swivelled back and rose up high so that he could look down on the magi. ‘You two have proved yourselves to me. This will be but one of a cell. We must redouble our vigilance. Spies are everywhere. We will not be thwarted so close to success.’

  Urquidex struggled to control his telescopic eyes. The left developed a tic, the lens minutely focusing and refocusing. He knew very well there were more of them. He was in regular contact with one.

  ‘Yes, prime of primes,’ Urquidex said.

  He needed to speak to Yendl immediately.

  Nine

  The Last Wall attacks

  The ork moon hung over the holy orb of Terra, a rock that threatened an imminent drop, shattering the bland grey surface of mankind’s home.

  But it was no longer master of the void. Space Marine ships stood off outside the range of the moon’s gravity weapons, arrayed in attack formation. Seven mighty battle-barges, more than a dozen strike cruisers, scores of lesser attack ships. Behind them sheltered the huge Adeptus Mechanicus ark and factory ships, their metal bellies full of cybernetic armies ready to wreak cold vengeance upon the orks.

  There was one other ship of significance in the heavens. The mighty Naval vessel Autocephalax Eternal stood at high anchor, treacherously doing nothing.

  ‘Signal the Autocephalax Eternal again!’ said Koorland. He stood upon the highest dais of the Abhorrence, staring at the coward Lansung’s flagship through the centre of the grand oculus.

  ‘She is still not responding, my lord Koorland,’ reported one of Bohemond’s bondsmen.

  Koorland watched the other vessel as his own fleet flew past it.

  ‘Anchored there, doing nothing?’ said Bohemond. ‘The High Admiral will answer to me himself!’

  ‘Ignore it,’ said Issachar over the fleet vox. ‘There is more at play here than warfare. Some political move on the part of the High Admiral.’

  ‘Begin the attack,’ said Koorland.

  In precise formation, the combined fleets of the Last Wall attacked the orks while Lansung’s battleship looked on. Coming in three echelons, they speared deep into the moon’s attendant flotilla, obliterating everything they came across. Ork cruisers and captured Imperial vessels burst into short-lived blossoms of fire as wide spreads of torpedoes and projectiles smashed into them. Space Marine interdiction fighters sped out from their battle-barges, driving off ork fighters that came out to meet the fleets. Adeptus Mechanicus war arks came behind, shielded by massed arrays of arcane energy projectors. On board waited the Taghmata of Mars. Cybernetic fighter drones, piloted by disembodied human brains, swarmed in close support, shooting down ork rockets and vessels that came too close.

  The moon was vast, a planetoid hooked from its home and outfitted in an undeniably orkish manner. Craters had been bored out, turning them into caverns with deep black interiors studded with lights, the outer infrastructure of buried hangars poking out from them into the brilliant shine of Sol. Roughly built towers, docks and other carbuncular constructions scarred the surface. Its giant face leered at Terra, so the Space Marines saw it side on – beetling brows as large as continental shelves turned skyward, a false mountain range of a nose, a complicated mess of scaffolds and buildings a hundred kilometres long that made up the jutting lower lip. Things of greater scale existed in the galaxy, but none of them had been built by the orks.

  Koorland stood at a command podium on the bridge of the Abhorrence. With the plan in motion, he deferred command to the individual Chapter Masters.

  ‘Drive towards them!’ ordered Bohemond. ‘Smash them aside! Burn them all!’

  Koorland watched with a more sober eye, adjusting his plans and counter-plans as the battle unfolded. Part of him wished he were aboard Issachar’s vessel, but Bohemond had shown him great hospitality, and Koorland feared the headstrong Black Templars might stray too far forward in their desire to join with the enemy first if not supervised.

  ‘Stay back,’ said Koorland. ‘We are at the extremity of the ork gravity weapons’ effective range.’

  Bohemond made a noise in his throat, but did not dis­agree openly.

  ‘Maintain distance. Stick to the plan. Destroy the fleet. Make them come to us,’ said Koorland.

  The leading Space Marine ships came within lance range. Broad beams of energy striped the sky, impacting with the ork flotilla with devastating effect. Many ships detonated the moment they were hit. In response, a large part of the ork fleet surged forward.

  ‘An ork cannot resist provocation,’ said Castellan Clermont, Bohemond’s second. ‘All batteries prepare to open fire! Bona Fide and Ebon, maintain protective formation.’

  The moon awoke to the attack, coming alive with a frenzied sparkling as a million guns opened fire.

  ‘This is no threat!’ said Bohemond savagely. ‘We alone might have bested the moon at Aspiria had dePrasse not withdrawn himself! Now the orks face the combined might of four Chapters. They shall not prevail! Attack, attack, abhor the alien!’

  The leading munitions of the ork moon hurtled into the Space Marines’ echelons, void shields flaring with impact flux as they struck the staggered lines of ships. More powerful weapons slashed out from tottering citadels, wavering energy beams that cut into the smaller vessels. An escort dropped out of the Fists Exemplar line, venting atmosphere from its cracked hull in white clouds.

  ‘Stay on course! Bring the retribution of the Emperor to the fleet. Kill them all!’ Spittle flew from Bohemond’s ruined mouth as he spoke. Koorland could barely credit they were of the same gene line, so overpowering was the Black Templar’s fervour.

  ‘My lord,’ spoke the Black Templars Techmarine, Kant. His lips were stapled together – some show of contrition, Koorland had been told, although for what the Black Templars would not reveal. His voice was a miserable metallic drone, soullessly issuing from twin vox-speakers either side of his neck. ‘The ork moon exhibits a spiking of power.’

  ‘All hands, prepare for gravity attack!’ shouted Clermont.

  An erratic flashing blinked in the moon’s hollow craters. From pylons set about the face, squirming ribbons of energy rose, binding themselves into a thick cord. A sufficient build-up of power achieved, it snapped out like a whip, shearing through the orks’ own vessels before flicking along the Excoriators arrowhead coming up below the Black Templars’ line of attack. One attack cruiser took a direct hit, void shields giving out simultaneously. It imploded, the prow and stern folding up around a middle compressed to vanishingly small size. For a moment it sailed on bent double, carried forward by momentum, before exploding, buffeting the ships coming behind it with the wash of its breached reactor.

  ‘This is a new weapon,’ voxed Thane. ‘I have not seen its like before.’

  ‘Some kind of gravity lash,’ said Quesadra.

  ‘Such power!’ hissed Bohemond.

  ‘They are gathering to fire again!’ warned Kant, the faintest hint of emotion creeping into his machine voice.

  Once more the flickerings essayed from the towers on the surface, once more they gathered and shot out. Again the lash targeted the Excoriators fleet, grazing the fore section of the Remembered Sin, Issachar’s flagship, as it dissipated into a kaleidoscopic spray of particles. A portion of the Remembered Sin’s hammerhead prow collapsed into glittering clouds of smashed metal and air. The Remembered Sin was twisted into a spin, as if swatted by a god.

  ‘Issachar!’ demanded Koorland. ‘Status!’

  ‘We live,’ replied the Excoriator. Alarms whooped in the background. ‘But we will not survive another hit like that. We must get in closer, attack the moon directly. If we can strip away its weaponry, we shall stand a chance. Push through the fleet.’

  ‘I concur!’ shouted Bohemond. ‘All ships, onward! Arm cyclonic torpedoes. Target the moon.’

  I
t irked Koorland that he did not confer with him first, but he held his silence.

  ‘Fire control, liaise with the others,’ said Koorland. ‘Find a mutually acceptable firing solution. Multiple hits will give us the best results.’

  ‘Yes, lord Chapter Master,’ replied Bohemond’s bondsmen.

  The Abhorrence’s engines opened up, pushing it with indomitable power towards the moon.

  The sky around Terra was thick with debris. Shattered orbital fortresses and defence platforms floated in shoals of wreckage, making sailing hazardous for both sides. Ork fighters, keen to engage with the approaching ships, impacted with them in flashes of boiling fire. The Space Marine pilots, more cautious, better skilled, were taxed to the limit streaking through the metal-choked vacuum. The bigger ships could not avoid the debris, and all across the Last Wall void shields flashed and curled with impact flux.

  ‘Gravity lash arming,’ droned Kant.

  ‘Firing solution agreed, all fleets report readiness.’ The bondsmen manning the gunnery station looked to Koorland.

  A number of impact points flashed up on the hololith of the ork moon. Koorland nodded.

  ‘All ships, open fire,’ he ordered.

  Cyclonic torpedoes, each larger than a space fighter, slipped free of the launch tubes of twenty battle-barges and strike cruisers. Their engines flared, and they powered towards the moon with building speed, passing the emissions of the gravity lash coming the other way.

  Now they were closer, the lash struck with redoubled violence. The tip of it took the battle-barge of one of the Black Templars’ subsidiary crusades in the centre. The lash writhed and coiled about it like a python, collapsing the ship’s midsection so comprehensively that the remains of the prow and stern drifted free of each other. The stern detonated with the sunburst of reactor death, engulfing its escort vessels in nuclear fire. The lash had not done: it twitched through the crusade’s ships, smashing two more of them into nothing before finally dissipating. When it shut off, a single vessel remained, heavily damaged. It was targeted by a flight of ork destroyers. Fire sped between the crippled Imperial ship and its predators, but there could be only one outcome. The ship disappeared, replaced by a perfect circle of brilliant light that winked out as quickly as it bloomed.

  Bohemond roared at the oculus, slamming his fist into his palm. ‘They will pay all the more dearly for that!’ he yelled. ‘Prepare to fire a second volley of torpedoes.’

  The first launch had reached the moon, slamming all over the surface. Explosions lit up tits face with domes of fire and light. The moon shook under the impact. Tall plumes of ejecta reared up, gnarled fingers reaching for the Space Marine ships.

  ‘Ready to fire again!’ reported gunnery command.

  ‘Hold!’ ordered Koorland as Bohemond raised his hand. ‘Wait for the others.’

  ‘Koorland,’ said Bohemond.

  ‘Wait!’ commanded the Imperial Fist. ‘We are most effective working in concert. You will wait!’

  Shorter-ranged grav-weapons began their assault on the fleet. Clouds of energy bubbles projected at the ships crushed all those they touched. Long-ranged reverse tractor beams tore pieces from hulls or pushed vessels off course. For all the havoc wreaked on the moon’s surface, there were hundreds of thousands of weapons still, of all types, unleashing their full power on the approaching vessels. Void shields throbbed, and across the fleets they failed with oily pyrotechnic displays. Battle-barges shook under the barrage. Several of the smaller vessels were destroyed.

  By now the fleets were close to the moon, deep in the debris field. Here were thousands of captured Imperial vessels, many undergoing crude refits. The broadsides of the capital ships boomed constantly, blasting ork craft and pirated Imperial ships to pieces. Destroyers duelled with fast ork attack craft, and everywhere tracers of anti-interdiction fire streaked the sky.

  Icons flashed across Koorland’s station. Vox-confirmation came in from the rest of the fleet.

  ‘Now. Now open fire, High Marshal,’ said Koorland.

  ‘Do as he commands, open fire!’ roared Bohemond, but his men had already responded.

  More torpedoes raced towards the moon, pounding into the surface. The weight of fire issuing from the moon lessened.

  ‘Brother Kant, is the gravity lash disabled?’

  ‘Negative,’ said Kant. ‘They are charging to fire again.’

  ‘My lords! We have reports of multiple boarders across the fleets,’ reported the vox-master. ‘Teleport attack.’

  ‘They will have taken these craft the same way. They will not find us so easy to overpower,’ said Bohemond. ‘Seal the bulkheads! Weapons free. Activate corridor defences.’

  ‘It is done, my lord.’

  Koorland pressed his knuckles into his command station. ‘Bring the fleet around, get us between Terra and the face. The pylons have to be brought down.’

  ‘Too late!’ shouted Kant.

  The gravity lash arced directly towards the Abhorrence. The bondsman at the helm shouted, ‘Evasive action!’ and the ship plunged as quickly as it was able. The ribbon of gravitic energy raced over the command tower as it slipped down, shearing into the engine stacks of the battle-barge as they presented themselves.

  The ship lurched madly as the gravity wave perturbed its course, throwing men everywhere, an effect that worsened enormously when the beam cut into the stern. Koorland slammed against his command post and fell over it, the effects of the ork weapon making a mockery of the Abhorrence’s grav-plating. He fell down a deck that was suddenly vertical, skidding along the metal towards the back of the ship. Somehow, he got his feet under him and activated his maglocks. He lurched upright painfully, standing perpendicularly to the upended gravity. Men flew past him, dragged towards the artificial gravity well of the lash.

  The ship rolled violently to port. Through the oculus, Koorland saw the Bona Fide burning engines hard to clear the stricken vessel’s path. With a further mighty wrench to portside, the beam shut off. Gravity returned suddenly to the correct vector. Bondsmen slid down the back wall. Unsecured articles fell from the ceiling. Alarms blared, tocsins sang. The lights had gone out, replaced by the murky red of emergency lumens. Men groaned in pain. A dozen of them did not get up, but lay still.

  Throughout it all, Kant had remained stoically anchored in place by his master augur array. ‘We have lost our port engine assembly, my liege. There is heavy damage across all decks in the aft section. Several of our tower superstructures are no more. Multiple casualties among our bondsmen and servitors.’

  Bohemond picked himself up from the floor. Bondsmen medicae teams hurried in to help their stricken comrades.

  ‘Get us back on heading. Continue attack run.’

  ‘Gravity weapon charging again.’

  ‘My lords!’ called a bondsman at the auspex centre. ‘My lords, we have the energy signature of a large fleet approaching from Terra’s nightside.’

  ‘It cannot be the Imperial Navy. The Autocephalax Eternal stands off, and there are no other Naval vessels in the system,’ said Bohemond.

  ‘There was no warning of orks on the far side of the throneworld,’ said Koorland.

  ‘Gravity weapon is close to full charge,’ warned Kant.

  ‘Brace!’ shouted Clermont. The lightning discharge built, and Koorland prepared for the worst.

  The attack never came. The face side of the ork moon appeared to change shape, redrawn by a swift painter working in blinding light. The oculus dimmed itself at the sudden fire, and the Space Marines saw the moon’s face deformed by a dozen atomic blasts.

  From out of the maelstrom a fresh fleet came sailing, jet-black silhouettes set against the destruction they had unleashed.

  Adeptus Astartes vessels.

  A powerful, sonorous voice burst over the vox.

  ‘This is Chapter Master Malfons. The Iron Knigh
ts respond to the call of the Last Wall. We apologise for our tardiness, but we are here. The sons of Dorn stand together. Awaiting orders.’

  ‘The gravity lash is disabled,’ said Kant. ‘Auspex indicates eighty per cent of all ork surface weaponry non-functional.’

  ‘Malfons!’ shouted Bohemond. ‘Well met, brother!’

  ‘Continue attack run,’ ordered Koorland. ‘All fleets converge. Establish blockade pattern. Iron Knights, support the Fists Exemplar.’

  ‘Understood and confirmed, Chapter Master Koorland. And Koorland?’

  ‘Yes, brother?’

  ‘You have our regret at your loss. Moving in to support the Fists Exemplar now.’

  All around the moon, the night of the void turned to mottled day as the Space Marines broke off their charge to the moon, and dealt death to the remaining ork fleet. Caught within expertly intersected fields of fire, the ork vessels and captured Imperial mercantile ships were torn to pieces.

  ‘Now the real work begins. What will you do, brother?’ said Bohemond with an appraising look. ‘Join the fray, or remain here? You are the last of the Imperial Fists. Perhaps you should not risk yourself.’

  ‘Who will lead the attack? You?’

  ‘If you so command, then I will gladly lead,’ said Bohemond.

  Koorland examined Bohemond’s scarred face, but could not read the fragment of expression displayed there.

  ‘All fleets of the Last Wall, prepare to board the moon,’ Koorland ordered. ‘Adeptus Mechanicus arks, the way is clear for you to move in and begin your deployment.’ Koorland turned to Bohemond. ‘I will lead an attack party myself.’

  Bohemond gave him a wild look. ‘In that case, brother, I have a gift for you.’

  The ork bombardment had ceased, and now the halls of the Abhorrence resounded with the activity of men. As bondsmen and the servants of the Black Templars’ forge ran towards the vessel’s damaged sections, squads of Space Marines jogged towards their drop-halls and the embarkation deck.

  In Bohemond’s personal arming chambers, silence held sway. The cowled bondsmen still went about their business as if nothing had occurred, checking Bohemond’s collection of weapons for upset and damage, and setting right that which had been disturbed. Bohemond led Koorland through his spartan dayroom, through a small weapons workshop, an ammunition store and thence into his innermost sanctum, an octagonal room lined floor to ceiling with weaponry. Most of it was of fine Imperial make, adorned with emblems of the shield and the Templar cross, honour chains and shackles coiled carefully onto pegs beneath each mount. Intermingled were a number of weapons of alien make, of all types from the obvious to the obscure of purpose.