Kingsblade

by Andy Clark

  ‘And the loyal Knights of Adrastapol represent the last real danger of such a thing,’ said Gerraint.

  ‘Just so,’ replied Varakh’Lorr. ‘The hour draws nigh, and all else is in readiness. I will soon begin my great ritual, but it will not be swiftly concluded, and should any interruption occur… well, the displeasure of the Dark Gods is nothing you wish to witness, mortal.’

  Gerraint nodded, narrowing his eyes as he stared at the unnatural map.

  ‘The industria is a large area. When we hunt upon the plains, not all quarry is easily tracked. But there are other methods. My Knights and I shall locate what remains of Draconis and their allies, and we shall crush them for you. But only if they can be found before they link up with other Imperial forces. Our Sacristans estimate that there are still prodigious Imperial numbers in the field, despite all the damage done by our trap.’

  ‘Stay your mortal fears,’ replied the Dark Apostle. ‘Even if the Imperial lapdogs had the wit or will to reforge an army, our scrapcode fills the skies. My warp smiths tell me that its more potent effects do not stretch far beyond the valle electrum, but the Imperial vox and auspex networks have been corrupted planet-wide. They can neither see nor speak far enough to re-gather their strength.’

  ‘My lord,’ hissed Xedediah Dar Mechanicus, bowing his hunched and hooded form low. ‘If my brothers and I might be given leave to inspect the device by which you are projecting the signal, perhaps we might aid in boosting its efficacy? Our knowledge…’

  ‘Xedediah,’ spat Duncan Tan Wyvorn angrily. ‘You overstep, Sacristan. Silence, before I strike you for impertinence.’

  ‘Your knowledge is all you care for, machine priest,’ chuckled Varakh’Lorr. ‘Newly rebelled, no longer bound to the strictures of your Omnissiah. I see it, the desperate, acquisitive need in you. The greed. But trust me priest, you do not wish to meet my Mournful Angel.’

  As if to underpin the Dark Apostle’s words, Gerraint heard something shift and scrape in the noisome shadows of the choristrium. He felt an unreasoning revulsion fill him as he caught sight of heavy, undulant movement amidst the darkness.

  ‘My Lord Varakh’Lorr,’ said Gerraint, turning back to the Dark Apostle as cold sweat trickled down his back. ‘We shall uphold our end of this bargain, and do our duty. I have your oath that you shall do the same?’

  Varakh’Lorr sketched a mocking bow in response.

  ‘But of course, Gerraint Tan Chimaeros,’ he replied with a wolfish grin. ‘Now leave me. I have matters of ritual to which I must attend.’

  Gerraint bowed, his Knights following suit, and turned his back on the Dark Apostle. He strode away towards the exit, feeling burgeoning relief at escaping this terrible place and its monstrous master. He was brought up short just paces from the doorway as the Dark Apostle’s words echoed after him.

  ‘Gerraint Tan Chimaeros. I would have you bring before me the one amongst your ranks who speaks to the daemon.’

  ‘That is me, Lord Varakh’Lorr,’ replied Gerraint stiffly. ‘As High King, it is my honour alone.’ He bridled as the Dark Apostle laughed in response.

  ‘You are many things, viscount. But you are not yet High King, and you are certainly no witch.’

  Without looking around, Gerraint marched for the exit, his Knights trailing after him. There was much to be done, and little time to do it. The Word Bearers were abhorrent in ways he could not have imagined, but he would not turn aside now. Victory was within his grasp, and none would say that Gerraint Tan Chimaeros lacked the resolve to seize it, whatever the cost.

  Three days had passed. Three dark, fearful days of knowing little and achieving less. Danial hated himself for every second of them, but still he couldn’t see a path forward. An accord had been reached with the Cadians thanks to the diplomatic efforts of the Pegasson Knights and the comradely bluster of Grandmarshal Gustev. The worst injured of the Knights and Imperial Guardsmen had received what medical care could be offered in the apothecarian bays of the Crawlers. Busiest of all had been the Sacristans, who laboured tirelessly and worked miracles to repair the Adrastapolian steeds. Yet for all this, it felt to Danial as though they had achieved precious little.

  As the fourth morning dawned on the surface above, the High King sat in his dislocated throne upon its heap of ruin, and brooded. Sire Olric and his sister perched on blocks of rubble to either side of him, waiting to offer counsel if it was needed. The rest of Danial’s forces were scattered through several of the subterranean warehouses, having spread out somewhat in search of space. He could see a few Knights from where he sat, Sylvest and Suset Dar Draconis crouched in the lee of a Sacristan Crawler. They were idly throwing dice with Sire Wallian by the light of the Crawler’s lamps, sipping from canteens of water and talking sparingly. Occasionally, one of the Knights would shoot a neutral glance at their new king.

  ‘For every task the Cadians and Sacristans perform, our Knights become ever idler and more frustrated,’ said Danial bitterly. ‘Morale is crumbling and discontent is growing. I don’t doubt there’s plenty of them muttering uncouthly about me by now.’

  ‘They await orders, my liege,’ replied Sire Olric. ‘They need to fight back, to return to their war.’

  ‘I know,’ sighed Danial, ‘and I with them.’

  ‘We can’t act until we know what is going on out there,’ said Jennika. ‘And Polluxis swears to the Omnissiah that he’s close to perfecting the data wards. It’s no failing to wait for all the facts before you make your decision. You just have to show confidence – show you know what you’re doing.’

  ‘Father would have known what he was doing,’ replied the young king, his voice sharp with frustration. ‘If he were still alive we’d have been out there by now, taking the fight back to the foe. He’d have found a way.’

  ‘Well, he’s not, Da, but you are,’ replied Jennika curtly. ‘Loathing yourself won’t help. Measuring yourself against father’s ghost won’t either. You were always very different men, but he saw the greatness in you, brother, as I do. You’re not King Tolwyn, you’re King Danial. So find your own strengths and use them.’

  ‘Wise words, Lady Jennika. Whatever we do, though, we should do it soon. Men of stern honour and short temper are given to foolish deeds when they are forced to stand idle.’

  Olric was interrupted by a shout from the cavern’s exit tunnel. It was Sire Vancenz Dar Draconis.

  ‘My liege! A duel has been called!’

  For a second Danial felt a flood of relief; he had half expected the burly Knight to tell him they had been discovered by the enemy. Then an unpleasant thought struck him.

  ‘Markos,’ said the High King. ‘And Luk.’

  Danial saw his own alarm reflected in Jennika’s eyes.

  ‘Oh for Throne’s sakes,’ she cursed. ‘Prophetic words, Olric.’

  ‘Sire Vancenz,’ said Danial, leaping from his throne and hastening down the rubble with Jennika and Olric on his heels, ‘take us there at once.’

  The clash of blades rang along the tunnel as they ran, mingled with shouting voices and the scuff of booted feet. Danial burst from the mouth of the tunnel into another of the huge, grim warehouse spaces. A dozen Draconis and Minotos Knights loomed in the shadows around the chamber’s edge, some still encased in Sacristan repair-armatures. At the centre of a loose ring of shouting Knights, Markos Dar Draconis and Luk Tan Chimaeros circled each other warily by the light of chem-braziers. Markos, heavy-set and pugnacious, wielded his draconblade, Orksbane. The weapon’s fuel reservoir was lit, the blazing blade leaving roaring fire-trails behind it with every swing. Luk was taller than his opponent by a head, and lither, but lacked his opponent’s physical strength. The young Knight held his chimersword in his off-hand, the weapon gleaming like spilt oil. Danial saw that his friend already had a split lip, and a scorched nick in one sleeve of his bodyglove.

  Danial started towards the fight, but Sire Olric caught his sleeve.

  ‘My liege, an honour duel like this, with blades drawn
…’

  ‘I know, Sire Olric,’ snapped Danial, pulling his arm away. ‘I do understand the importance of the Code. They can fight to the death, should they wish. We can’t interfere. But that doesn’t mean I have to approve of this idiocy.’

  He and Jennika joined the circle, expressions stern.

  ‘Sire Markos,’ Danial said, his voice carrying over the shouting crowd. ‘I thought this was settled. Are you so set on vengeance that you’ll fight an innocent man to the death?’

  Markos kept his eyes locked on his opponent as he replied.

  ‘He called the duel, lad, not me,’ barked the herald. ‘But I’ll fight it. And I’ll do it for you. You’re soft on this traitor, and it’ll get you killed. No one else apparently has the balls to deal with the problem, so I have to.’

  ‘It’s all right, Da,’ said Luk. ‘This crazy old fool can’t get it through his head that I’m not my father.’

  Markos laughed mirthlessly. ‘If you were your father, I might actually feel worried.’ The herald spun his sword around, its flames growling through the air. He launched suddenly at Luk, moving fast. The herald’s downwards blow was aimed straight for his opponent’s neck, but was blocked in a shower of sparks by Luk’s chimersword. The Chimaeros Knight spun away rather than lock weapons, tossing his blade swiftly from his left to his right hand, and aimed a cut at Markos’ midriff that the burly herald barely intercepted. The two Knights stepped back from one another once more, and resumed their wary circling.

  ‘Sires, this is bravado and idiocy,’ said Jennika, exasperated and angry.

  ‘The High King,’ spat Markos, ‘has thus far seen fit to leave our enemies unmolested, lady. So if I can’t kill the enemy out there, I’ll kill them in here instead.’

  Luk snarled and lunged at Markos from across the circle. The young Knight aimed the point of his blade at his opponent’s weapon hand, trying to knock the sword from Markos’ grasp. The herald parried, then drove Luk back with a series of hard, heavy blows that rang against the younger Knight’s guard. Seeing a momentary opening, Markos drove a kick into Luk’s stomach. The Chimaeros Knight was thrown back into the edge of the crowd, winded and gasping. Knights gripped Luk and pushed him back into the circle, where he wheezed for breath as he raised his guard once more.

  ‘Sire Markos,’ tried Danial one more time. ‘There’s no honour in this.’

  The herald did glance his way for one moment then, and Danial was surprised to see sorrow in his eyes.

  ‘No lad, there’s not,’ replied Markos. ‘And I don’t want to believe that he’s a traitor either. But someone has to cleanse the taint of House Tan Chimaeros, and if you won’t then I’ll do it for you.’

  With that, the herald turned back to his opponent, who had recovered his breath and was tossing his chimersword back and forth from one hand to the other. The weapon sang weirdly in the air with each pass.

  Markos Dar Draconis advanced on his enemy, swinging his blade in a blazing figure of eight.

  ‘Don’t worry, boy, I’ll make it quick,’ growled Markos as he advanced. ‘For old times’ sakes.’

  Seeing the older Knight trying to force him into a corner, Luk feinted then threw himself into a forward roll, passing Markos before he could react. The younger Knight came up fast, spinning as he did and whipping his singing blade around in a tight arc. It met Markos’ draconblade, and sparks flew. Danial watched grimly as the two Knights traded a rapid flurry of blows. Luk was marginally quicker, but Markos’ sheer strength must have been sending numbing shocks up his opponent’s arms every time their blades met.

  ‘Whoever wins this,’ said Jennika, ‘it’s our loss in the end.’ Danial nodded, then hissed as Markos’ sword drew a line across Luk’s chest. It had been a bare touch, just the tip of the sword connecting at the furthest extension of its arc, but it was enough to spatter blood across the dusty ground and leave a smouldering rip in Luk’s bodyglove. If the Tan Chimaeros Knight had been a fraction slower in weaving away from the blow, Danial’s best friend would have died there and then.

  Luk made to back away, Markos’ face grim as he pressed forward to retain the advantage. The next second Luk was spinning, turning his feigned retreat into a graceful pirouette. As he spun, Danial saw his friend give the hilt of his sword a hard twist. With a clatter the blade came apart, segmenting and lashing out like a whip made of metal discs. Danial’s eyes widened as Luk’s suddenly fluid weapon wrapped around Markos’ sword hand. The herald roared in pain as the blades dug deep, reflexively releasing his grip on Orksbane. Another flick of Luk’s wrist saw the blazing sword skitter across the stone floor.

  Disarmed and wounded, a lesser Knight might have conceded and hoped for mercy. Markos instead closed his injured fist on the metal cord strung through the chimersword and gave it a savage wrench. Surprised, Luk was pulled forward off balance. The crunch of breaking cartilage was loud as Markos drove his forehead into the bridge of the young Knight’s nose, and blood sprayed. Luk reeled, and Danial muttered a curse as Markos repeated the brutal attack, hammering his opponent backwards and forcing him to relinquish his hold on his own weapon.

  ‘You don’t want to turn this into a brawl, boy,’ said Markos, dropping the chimersword in disgust. ‘It’ll hurt more.’

  Luk was still reeling, blood pouring from his smashed nose, as Markos bulled forward and caught him around the waist. Hoisting the young Knight off his feet, the herald slammed him backwards. Luk’s head cracked against the floor. Markos straddled his opponent’s chest, grabbed a fistful of his bodyglove, and hauled Luk’s head and shoulders up. Markos balled his wounded fist and drove it with brutal force into Luk’s face, slamming his head back into the ground with a crack.

  ‘Go on, Markos, beat him to death,’ yelled Sire Garath above the shouts and cries of the crowd. ‘Show him what traitors get.’

  Markos looked around, locking a disgusted glare upon Sire Garath.

  ‘Dishonour doesn’t beget dishonour, Garath,’ growled the herald. ‘You know better.’

  He rose, leaving Luk bloody and dazed on the ground. Danial’s old discipline master, and mentor of long years, walked across the circle to reclaim the sword with which he would kill Danial’s best friend, and the High King could only watch with mounting dread. He wouldn’t look away, he vowed to himself. He had fled his father’s death, but he wouldn’t run away from Luk’s too.

  Then Jennika’s fingertips brushed his arm, a subtle gesture. He shot a glance at her, then followed her gaze and his own eyes widened with surprise. Luk was watching Markos as the herald bent to retrieve his sword, and carefully, slowly, scraping his hand across the floor. The young Knight was not as brutalised or stunned as he seemed.

  Markos turned, took three swift strides, and raised Orksbane above his head.

  ‘Sorry, lad,’ he said.

  Markos’ blade swept down, but struck only rockcrete. Luk had rolled aside, and now flung a handful of dirt into Markos’ eyes. The herald choked, then roared in anger as Luk pistoned a kick straight into the side of his kneecap. There came another terrible crunch of cartilage, and Markos’ shout became a strangled cry of agony as his kneecap was driven sideways out of its joint.

  Amidst howls of outrage from around the circle, Luk rolled away and came back up on his feet. He was reeling and punch-drunk, and his eyes were already blacking around his broken nose. Blood was also trickling from the back of his head, Danial saw, but Tan Chimaeros was up while Markos had crashed down onto his side, face white with pain. Luk staggered to his chimersword and scooped the weapon up, before turning back towards Markos Dar Draconis.

  ‘Stay down, old man,’ spat Luk through broken teeth.

  Still the herald forced himself to his feet, only to fall again with a hiss of agony as his shattered knee refused to support him. Unbowed, he drove the point of his sword into the floor and pushed himself up once more, heavily favouring his undamaged leg. Slow and determined, Markos raised his burning sword and took guard stance.

&nbs
p; ‘I don’t kneel before traitors,’ he spat.

  ‘Good,’ said Luk with a ghost of his normal, cocksure smile. ‘Then you’ll have no trouble kneeling to me.’

  He lashed out with his chimersword, and Markos parried. Both combatants were sluggish now, one crippled by pain and the other most likely concussed. Still their blades clashed, then clashed again. Markos stumbled and almost fell, but managed an ungainly hop to keep his feet. Luk swung wide more than once, while blood spattered from his face and pattered on the rock floor.

  With a sudden roar Markos lunged, over-extending in an attempt to surprise his foe and ram his sword through Luk’s chest. Luk threw himself desperately aside and lashed out, his chimersword clattering apart and wrapping around Markos’ sword. The herald fell, unable to stop himself, and with a snarl and a flick of the wrist Luk constricted his weapon’s bladed coils and snapped Markos’ draconblade in two. The severed halves of the blade rattled away across the floor, trailing burning fuel behind them, and in their dying light Sire Markos rolled on his back and looked up.

  ‘Bravo, traitorson,’ he gasped. ‘Now finish the job with honour, eh?’

  Luk slowly raised his weapon. Across the circle he heard Sire Garath spitting curses as two other Draconis Knights held him back. Slowly, deliberately, Luk looked around the circle of Knights. Then, he twisted his hand upon his weapon’s hilt, uncoupling its blades. Instead of lashing out, Luk dropped the weapon in a useless tangle.

  ‘I won’t kill you, old man,’ said Luk wearily. ‘There has been enough of that.’

  Turning his back on Markos, the son of Gerraint Tan Chimaeros knelt before Danial.

  ‘High King of Adrastapol, Danial Tan Draconis, hear my vow, I beseech you,’ said Luk, his voice grim and formal.

  ‘I hear your vow, Luk Tan Chimaeros,’ said Danial, remembering the correct words for the ritual. He knew now what his old friend was about to do, and that it could not come easily.