by Andy Clark
And then he was before the throne, and the dracon banner was being raised above it, and the banners of House Minotos and Pegasson were being raised alongside. No banners for Houses Chimaeros or Wyvorn, thought Danial numbly. Not any more.
The next moment he was sitting, and High Sacristan Polluxis was there beside his throne, bearing a small metal casket in his flesh-and-metal claws. His silvered mechadendrites slithered to open the chest, and plucked from it a simple circlet of adamantium and gold. The crown, Danial knew, was not the one that had belonged to his father. That one had been lost when he fell. This was a replacement, fashioned within the belly of Polluxis’ Crawler, fresh and untested. Just like me, thought Danial with sick fear as he tried to ignore all the faces turned towards him, all the staring eyes.
Then Jennika was there, taking the crown from Polluxis’ metal tentacles and placing it reverently upon Danial’s brow.
‘Kneel,’ she said, her strong voice carrying through the cavernous space. ‘Kneel for Danial Tan Draconis, High King of Adrastapol.’
As one, the assembled Knights drew their ceremonial weapons, their draconblades and minotane hammers and pegassine rapiers, then sank to their knees with their heads bowed. Some went more grudgingly than others.
‘All hail the High King!’ shouted Jennika, raising Danial’s sweating hand in her own.
‘All hail the High King!’ they shouted back. And just like that, amid a chorus of raised voices, in a coldly lit, dusty cavern on an alien world, Danial Tan Draconis became High King of Adrastapol.
The rain still fell in curtains as Varakh’Lorr marched along the Saints’ Walk, beneath the gaze of immortalised Imperial heroes. Famed generals, accomplished Magi and Space Marine lords, all watched the arch-heretic stride past, and he fancied that he saw screaming ghosts of their mortal selves writhe behind their stony features as he did so. The statues had been defaced by the Donatosian rebels, their necks wrapped with barbed wire nooses, their limbs broken off and their age-worn marble smeared with bloody Chaos runes.
‘They were ripe for revelation, these Donatosians,’ said the Dark Apostle. ‘Desperate for a way to escape their rotting Emperor.’ Gothro’Gol, pacing steadily along at his master’s back, said nothing in reply. They were walking through the streets of the valle electrum’s inner districts, towards the Square of Martyrs, and though this was firmly held traitor territory the hulking bodyguard had his reaper autocannon primed and ready.
Always vigilant, thought Varakh’Lorr, and never mind that a squad of Word Bearers shadowed their lord; the Dark Apostle knew from long experience that Gothro’Gol trusted no one else with his master’s safety. The monstrous Terminator was a tether of sorts. Gothro’Gol had been with him since the beginning, his faithful ally and protector for thousands of years by mundane, mortal reckoning. The quiet warrior had tied his colours to Varakh’Lorr’s banner with absolute conviction, and never once wavered. The Dark Apostle knew that Gothro’Gol’s apparent lack of personal ambition and absolute loyalty were every bit as much a mask as the Red Veil. Still, it had proved valuable. More and more, as Varakh’Lorr’s quest for immortality progressed, his huge bodyguard had served as a solid link to reality. He was the anchor that kept his master from drifting upon the tides of empyric power. It would be a shame, thought Varakh’Lorr, when the day came that he had to cut that tether loose.
Today was not that day. Today was a different warrior’s time to meet the gods.
Emerging from between the towering statues, and the gothic data-shrines that loomed behind them, Varakh’Lorr and his honour guard entered the Square of Martyrs. It was a huge plaza, one of several that dotted the inner city, and was ringed by towering buildings meant for industry and commerce. Crowds of the emancipated faithful thronged the edges of the square, as they did wherever the Word Bearers went. They massed at windows and flooded the entrance streets, but were held back by cordons of devoted turncoat militia whose ragged uniforms and armour were daubed with the Word Bearers’ holy symbols.
Varakh’Lorr’s warriors awaited him. Further battalions of traitor militia were drawn up in serried ranks, eyes shining with fervour at the honour of assembling for their master’s pleasure. Looming over them were the turncoat Knights of Adrastapol, still scarred and mud-spattered from the battle on the plains the day before. Their bulky repair vehicles idled in their shadows.
At the heart of the square stood a black marble dais raised there for the Dark Apostle’s purposes. The edifice was precisely eighty-eight feet high, with eighty-eight graven steps leading up to its apex. Atop the dais rose a barbed metal frame, a cruel looking thing from which a brass cage hung suspended over a huge iron brazier. More Word Bearers stood in a wide circle around the dais, all those who were not still fighting in far-flung warzones across the continent.
As Varakh’Lorr gained the marble steps towards the top of the dais, cries of adulation and worship rang from thousands of throats. Gongs clanged, bells rang, weapons were discharged into the skies, and he felt all eyes fall to him. Especially those of the Word Bearer who languished in the brass cage.
As he reached the summit of the dais, Varakh’Lorr’s honour guard spread out around its edge. Only Gothro’Gol remained at his shoulder. Ignoring the figure in the cage, Varakh’Lorr turned slowly, his arms raised as he looked out upon his worshippers.
‘People of Donatos,’ he boomed through his armour’s vox amplifier. ‘A great victory has been won!’ Cheers washed over him like waves, and Varakh’Lorr leered with the helpless remains of eight stolen faces. ‘The Imperial invaders thought that they could march up to our gates and knock them down.’ Howls of anger and rage came from the crowd. ‘They thought they would find us weak, easy prey for their weapons of oppression.’ Another wave of fury rolled in and Varakh’Lorr basked in their hate, his altered senses perceiving it as billowing crimson storm fronts.
‘But they were wrong!’ he shouted, and the crowds went mad with excitement. ‘Through their own ignorance and arrogance our enemies walked straight into our trap. Through the might of my divine Word Bearers, the conviction of our enlightened allies amongst the enemy ranks, and the faith of your Donatosian Army of Liberation, our enemies were crushed!’ The people of Donatos screamed their devotion, earning nothing but contempt from Varakh’Lorr. ‘The gods are pleased!’ He roared, and they roared back.
‘And yet,’ said the Dark Apostle, his tone suddenly sombre. The crowds quieted, straining to hear their prophet’s sermon. ‘The war rages on. Our oppressors are not yet defeated, and that is thanks in part to a traitor in our midst.’
Varakh’Lorr turned, at last, to look upon the Word Bearer trapped in the brass cage. The warrior had been cruelly stripped of his armour, even those components that had grown to become a part of him. He was beaten and bloody, and a metal gag had been sutured across his mouth. He stared with intensity and hatred, straight into Varakh’Lorr’s eyes. The Dark Apostle drank in that hate, and returned it with his own.
‘Daksha,’ he intoned, weighting the name with all the scorn and anger he felt. ‘Ever too hasty. Ever too eager for glory, with no thought for the consequences of your deeds. You are the Blood Lord’s fool.’
The muzzled warrior gripped the bars of his cage with flayed fingers, and grunted in anger from behind his iron muzzle.
‘This traitor,’ cried Varakh’Lorr to his assembled flock, ‘failed me in the battle yesterday, and in doing so he failed us all. Worse, he failed the gods. He it was who was ordered to bring the bridge down into the western industria once the trap was sprung. He, it was, who disobeyed those orders, knowing that our enemies would see their escape route open and come to him. This fool underestimated our foes, and in doing so he allowed them to escape the noose!’
Varakh’Lorr swept his gaze across the raving, frothing crowds around the edge of the square, and smiled cruelly.
‘Fear not, my friends. The enemy will still be defeated, for they enjoy but a stay of execution. The same cannot be said for Daksha.�
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With that, the Dark Apostle motioned to one of his honour guard. The horned warrior loped across the dais and handed his master a flamer. Varakh’Lorr hefted the bulky, bio-mechanical weapon, staring for a moment into the rolling yellow eye that grew like a blister on its barrel. Then he levelled the flamer at the brazier below Daksha’s cage.
‘Gods of Chaos,’ boomed Varakh’Lorr, ‘I give you this offering. A traitor’s pain!’
He squeezed the trigger, and a sheet of green-tinged flame belched into the brazier. The fuel-rods heaped there caught light, and noxious fumes rose from the tainted incense coating them. Dirty flames leapt high, roaring hungrily towards Daksha.
It took the captive Word Bearer almost a minute before he lost control and started to scream. Even from behind his iron gag, Daksha’s raw howls of agony rang across the square as the flames did their work. The dying Word Bearer gave one last muffled howl of agony before the life left his body. Black lightning flared once across the skies, and was gone. The rain continued to fall in slow, lazy curtains, hissing and sizzling as it struck Daksha’s burned corpse and the scalding-hot bars of his cage.
Varakh’Lorr turned his back on the blackened corpse of the warrior who had failed him.
‘Assemble the senior Knights,’ he muttered to Gothro’Gol. ‘They will attend me in my sanctum.’
With that, the Dark Apostle strode from the dais with his cloak billowing behind him.
Gerraint Tan Chimaeros entered the inner sanctum of the Word Bearers with his head held high. Though his augmetic brace hissed and whined with every movement, it robbed him of none of his lordly dignity. He had never let it, just as he had never allowed his scarred face or the reduced station of his Noble House to render him any less than he was. If the Dark Apostle sought to intimidate his allies with displays of violence and ominous surroundings, he would find that the Viscount Tan Chimaeros was not so easy to cow.
Not viscount, he reminded himself with a grim smile. He was High King of Adrastapol now, and he wore the crown upon his brow to prove it. Taken from the wreckage of Tolwyn Tan Draconis’ Knight, won through conquest in the old way. He was the High King of a whole planet, and kings did not bow to priests, even in the temples of their gods.
Gerraint took in the blood-stained summoning circle and the huge Chaos star that hung from the ceiling. He saw the macabre trophies that festooned every pillar and arch, loyal defenders and servants of the Omnissiah reduced to wire-bound fetishes for the glory of the Ruinous Powers. The shadows seemed to twitch and stir unnaturally in this place, and the stench of blood and unclean incense hung heavy on the air.
Behind Gerraint walked the surviving Knights of his Exalted Court, and those of Dunkan Tan Wyvorn. Victory had not been won without cost the day before. But they were all of them accomplished warriors with the exception of the Sacristan, hard, battle-scarred veterans bound by oath to Gerraint’s claim of kingship. All wore rebreathers, given to them by robed acolytes of the Word Bearers so that they might breath clearly despite the psychotropic fumes that drifted through the sanctum.
‘We have allied ourselves to dark creatures here,’ murmured Gerraint to Dunkan Tan Wyvorn as they closed on the shrine’s servo-pulpit. The same acolytes who handed them breathing gear had bidden them assemble beneath the pulpit and await the pleasure of Varakh’Lorr.
‘But powerful,’ replied the archduke, his hooded eyes gleaming. ‘Powerful enough to ensure your rule of Adrastapol, my liege.’ Gerraint grunted in agreement. He had never liked Dunkan Tan Wyvorn, who all knew to be a man of cruel inclinations and unseemly personal ambition. Yet of all the Noble Houses, Gerraint had been surest of House Wyvorn’s support and discretion while planning his coup. Their distaste for the rule of House Draconis was well known. Besides, the archduke was a brutal and dangerous warrior, as were his Knights, callous fighters with more interest in victory than honour. Fitting allies, for a distasteful endeavour such as this.
And then there were the rumours of Wyvorn’s hidden strength, some secret weapon locked away within their House vaults. In Gerraint’s experience, it paid not to ignore such rumours.
‘He is not mistaken, Gerraint Tan Chimaeros,’ came the voice of Varakh’Lorr. The Dark Apostle stepped out of the shadows of the pulpit, resting his gauntlets on its circuit-inlaid railing as he looked down upon the Knights. Behind him loomed an immense figure in baroque armour.
‘Well met, Dark Apostle,’ said Gerraint, hiding his horror at his ally’s appearance with an effort of will. Brace whining, Tan Chimaeros inclined his head, careful to keep the depth of the gesture as to an equal at court. He would not show servitude to this monster, only martial respect. The Dark Apostle’s flesh-masked face seemed to writhe with a life of its own as he considered his response.
‘Easier than passing whispers through the mouth of a daemon,’ said the Dark Apostle. ‘This way, you can look me in the eye as you explain to me why you failed.’
Gerraint had known the threat was coming. His new ally would not have gone to such trouble and showmanship in the square, if not to make a point. Still, it took self-control not to quail in the face of the Word Bearer’s displeasure. Tan Chimaeros was tall, still built like a warrior despite his scars, but this looming monster of the Long War made him feel a squireling by comparison.
‘If there was any failing at all, Lord Varakh’Lorr, then it was on the part of that wretch you burned to death,’ replied Gerraint, his voice steely. ‘It would seem that punishment has already been meted out.’
Varakh’Lorr stared at Gerraint as though the Knight was some form of unpleasant insect he had found in his boot.
‘It would, would it, mortal? Throne-sworn Knights still walk this world. They are still a threat, one that you were meant to remove.’
‘Their strength is broken,’ replied Gerraint coldly. ‘House Pegasson are all but annihilated, House Minotos also. As for House Draconis, our Sacristans have confirmed that over half their number were slain during the battle. And I slew High King Tolwyn myself. The old Houses are leaderless, honourless and defeated.’
‘And yet,’ rumbled Varakh’Lorr. ‘Not all are slain. Our whispering friend tells me that the High King’s son yet lives to contest your claim.’
‘He’s just a boy,’ replied Gerraint contemptuously. ‘And a bookish weakling at that. My own son would have…’ Gerraint stopped himself, feeling a swell of anger and shame at Luk’s fate. Now is not the time for that, he thought.
‘Your own son is dead,’ smiled the Dark Apostle cruelly. ‘Is there any betrayal more terrible than that between the father and the son?’
‘My losses are not your business, Chaos worshipper,’ spat Tan Chimaeros, anger overcoming self-discipline. ‘I am not proud of the betrayal we have been forced to perform, the dishonour this has brought upon us. I am not proud of what I have sacrificed upon the altar of war. But they betrayed us first, they and their cursed Emperor. They broke the old ways, took the crown from those whose right it was, all in the name of their corpse god. What has He ever given my House but scars and pain?’
‘Little, I don’t doubt,’ nodded Varakh’Lorr. ‘But you are wrong, Gerraint Tan Chimaeros. Your losses, your sacrifices, they are my business. It is the price you have already paid that shows me your determination, your dedication to our cause. It is your sacrifices that tell me you are still a worthy ally – none would pay such a price for victory and then fail to claim it.’
Gerraint felt the truth of that, and nodded slowly. He had lost too much to step back from the precipice now, even if he was only now realising just how diabolical his chosen allies were.
‘True enough. The last Draconis heir must die, for only then is my claim secure. And you must know victory on Donatos, for only then will you aid me in my rightful conquest of Adrastapol. So what do you suggest, Lord Varakh’Lorr? How may we serve you and bring this war to a close?’
In answer, the Dark Apostle uttered a string of jagged, unnatural sounds that made Gerraint’s ears r
ing. From behind him came a wash of intense heat and a sudden emerald glare. He spun, reaching for his chimersword, expecting some terrible trap. Instead, his eyes widened as he saw that a great green pyre had burst alight in the middle of the summoning circle. Within the flames danced images, a flickering map of Donatos Primus that wavered and swam. Jagged runes flickered across it, and Gerraint swiftly recognised them as force markers and objective designators.
‘More Chaos witchery?’ he whispered.
‘You see that the Imperials retain their beachhead around Pentakhost to the south,’ said the Dark Apostle, ignoring Gerraint’s utterance. ‘And enclaves of planetary militia are still holding onto the voltaei langurum, the palacio metallurgum and the nordindustriala. However, following our victory yesterday, my brothers are leading offensives on every front.’
At these words fresh sigils blazed on the map, flowing streamers of coloured fire illustrating the enemy’s enclaves, and the traitor forces pushing into them.
‘What of air, and fleet?’ asked Gerraint, unholy firelight flickering in his fascinated eyes.
‘The orbital battleground is still contested,’ replied Varakh’Lorr, a note of irritation in his voice. ‘Even with your turncoat warships to aid them, my craft barely have the strength to match the Imperial Navy ships. This is why the situation upon the ground must remain stable. Once I complete the ritual, and receive my rewards from the gods, the enemy will have nothing that can stop me. But we cannot allow any interruptions.’