Assassinorum kingmaker, p.31
Assassinorum Kingmaker, page 31
Sycorax made her body rubbery and slim, slipping through the press of bodies. She could see the grey rectangle of winter light above the heads of the milling crowd.
But then heavy stubber rounds tore through the door and thumped into the massed flesh of fleeing nobles.
Clack-clack. Clack-clack.
Four footmen went down, tight grouping. Close range. One fell away from the tripod-mounted heavy stubber that had just sprayed a burst through the basilica’s double doors. They were rushing the open doors of the basilica, pinning the fleeing nobles inside.
Raithe thanked the Emperor for gifting him with such acute paranoia. Otherwise he might not have bothered to sneak in the Klavell compact. With Sycorax holding his gear, it hadn’t seemed necessary.
But it was necessary. It completed him.
And despite the cataclysm, he was glad his role had suddenly become simple.
Put bullets in bodies.
Raithe saw a footman draw an autogun up to his shoulder. He swung the iron sights onto the man’s head and drilled a neat hole in his skull.
‘We’re not getting out this way,’ Raithe said. ‘They have support weapons.’
‘Better out there than in here,’ shouted Lisille Lycan-Bast. She and most of the Lists – what remained of them – sheltered in a baptistry. No one had any weapons. Weapons apart from swords were, generally, not allowed at a coronation for fear someone would kill the monarch.
Too bad it’s the other way around this time, Raithe thought.
‘Sycorax,’ he sub-vocalised. ‘While you make your way here, see if you can herd some nobles to the baptistry. At the end of this, we want some pilots left.’
He gave them about ten minutes before they were overrun. And that was if the Crown didn’t finish them first.
Rakkan expected the gate to squeal as it opened, given the dampness of the tunnel and salt encrustation on the walls.
But no. It swung inward on hinges as well oiled as those on a Knight’s joint. As he pushed it, Rakkan realised that while the door itself was ironwork, its hinges were corrosion-resistant adamantine.
The iron lattice formed curling, spiralling wave patterns that overlapped one another. In the centre a sword emerged from the waves. And above it, an arching scroll device read FANG.
Rakkan had been so small when he’d last been here. The place had appeared so much bigger then, when they’d laid his father’s lead-lined casket inside. A chamber twelve-feet high, stone niches piling the dead four deep.
Now, he saw how cluttered and claustrophobic it was. A far cry from the marble vaults of his mother’s Astair line. The Fang had always been of little prestige. A servant line, one step above vassalage. Even Baron Kraine had not bothered much – it was out of the way, and over the centuries the stone niches had all been taken. Rather than expand the space, caskets had simply been stacked along the walls like crates in a storage depot.
As far as Dominion was concerned, the soul lived in the Knight. The body was just rotting matter.
Rakkan found the casket easily. It was the first inside the gate, on the right, pressed sideways against the weeping masonry of the stone wall.
‘Hail, father.’
He unlocked a glove and laid a hand on the lead box, feeling the embossed letters.
Sir Selkar Fang
Knight-Pilot of Jester
Saviour of High Monarch Yavarius-Khau
Slain in Victory
Rakkan’s hand curled into a fist, and he thumped it on the metal.
‘I tried, father. I truly did. Spent my life trying to better myself. Escape this poor man’s bloodline. Be more than you were, than your mother was, to stop the cycle. Be the first Fang to pilot a Questoris Knight. To be no man’s squire… and look where it’s led me.’
The sob crept up, hidden behind the anger. He sucked air, eyes misting. And he all at once felt like he was drowning, looking at a smoke-twisted sky and choking on his own fluids. Text repeated in the corner of his helm’s vision. Scrolling. Looping. Idiotic.
>What is the duty of a wounded Knight?
>What is the duty of a wounded Knight?
‘I don’t know!’ he shouted. ‘I don’t know. You weren’t here to teach me. All the tenderness you showed, and all I can remember of you is dying, burdening me with your charge. What the hell were you thinking, knowing I would inherit Jester? That I would have to see you like that, feel you like that. Leaving me a message devoid of love or care, just, Tell my son to rise from his blood.’
>ENTRY: TO RISE FROM HIS BLOOD
>Entry Accepted
>Fang Line Established
>Declare Yourself, Knight
Rakkan stopped at the sound of movement.
Large movement.
In the rear of the vault, the coffin-laden wall pivoted on its axis, revealing a glowing light beyond.
>Declare Yourself, Knight
‘Linoleus Rakkan.’
>Hail, Linoleus Rakkan, scion of the Fang Line, son of Selkar Fang, pilot of noble Knight Armiger Jester.
>THREAT NOTICE: Planetary alarms triggered. Ship detected in upper atmosphere. Hostiles in sector seven-two. Heaven Defence West besieged. Detestable House Morvayne has landed.
>Defence Activation Authorised
>Will you ride to the defence of the realm?
Tentatively, drawn by the light, Rakkan stepped through the swinging wall. Took off his helmet so he could better see.
So awestruck was he, he didn’t even notice when the door closed behind him.
‘I have been waiting,’ said a voice like thunder over the red sea.
‘The baptistry!’ Sycorax shouted, trying to herd the crowd. ‘There, there’s shelter.’
Smoke filled the basilica, and it was impossible to see. Terrified nobles with drawn faces and terrible slick burns kept storming out of the haze. She pushed them towards safety. Many failed to listen, having never seen her before.
There had been a lot of survivors at first, now not so many.
‘Koln? Gwynne?’ she voxed, not bothering to hide her voice.
A blue glow lit the smoke, and she threw herself flat, a streak of solar radiation splashing a pillar thirty feet in front of her, heating it until the stone ran and dripped like wax.
‘Raithe? How’s the door?’
‘Holding, for now.’ She could hear the pop-pop of gunfire behind his voice. ‘I need my gear.’
‘Coming.’
A form, ash-covered, staggered from the smoke. At first she mistook its shape for a robed sacristan, but then she saw it was a woman.
It wasn’t until she coughed and turned her face towards her that Sycorax realised who it was. She had a scalp wound and part of her hair had caught fire and burned. Her bell skirt was in shreds.
‘Baroness Dask?’
‘Who…?’
‘Get to the baptistry, baroness, there’s shelter there.’
Dask nodded and staggered backwards, holding a palm to her head wound.
Then Sycorax heard the whine of a las-cell bank and turned to see the volcano lance, the red glow in its throat visible as she looked right down the barrel.
‘Keep going, keep going,’ said Koln.
They sprinted along the side of the basilica vault, dodging in and out of chapels, vaulting fallen shrines and ranks of devotional candles.
But then, they met the choir.
A sacristan staggered out of the steps to the choir loft, mechadendrites waving. Its ocular augmetics were a deep purple with a light that matched the sickly glow from the Crown’s own lenses.
The corrupted thing twisted its head around unnaturally far to look at them, hissed and clicked like an aggressive insect.
‘Eigggggghhhttt…’ it said.
Koln shot it through the head. Put a second las-bolt in its brainpan as they passed. Her digital weapon was ancient, with a clear beam – low noise, no visual giveaway.
‘They’re Transmuted,’ Gwynne said, trying to hold back a digestive system purge.
‘We’d be too if you hadn’t cued me,’ said Koln. ‘I just hope the Arch-Maintenancer managed to kick hers off as well.’
‘And if she didn’t?’ Gwynne asked.
Koln dropped to one knee and stitched three shots into an incoming sacristan, who scuttled at them on all fours like a lizard.
Behind them there was a spectacular rumble and crash as part of the upper vault arches fell, shorting out the ceiling field. Winter sunlight ghosted through the smoke.
‘Then we deactivate her,’ said Koln. ‘Permanently.’
‘Here,’ Sycorax threw the bag to Raithe, who caught it with his left hand, and drew his Exitus pistol from the outside holster pocket. ‘We have maybe one minute before the Crown gets here.’
‘Have you seen Rakkan?’ said Raithe.
Heavy bolter rounds crashed into the basilica door above his head. He spun into the open and put two shots into the weapon’s ammo hopper, detonating it.
‘If they took him with the honour guard, either he’s joined, or he’s dead.’
‘That lot in the baptistry keep asking for him. They think he’s a war hero, that he’ll know what to do.’
Sycorax swore and reached for the injector embedded in her thigh.
‘I’ll take care of it.’
Lisille Lycan-Bast was holding a prayer, a last prayer for deliverance, when Rakkan walked into the baptistry.
No one asked why he was wearing an armoured black bodyglove, sprayed in the quartered colours of Stryder-Rau, a detail Sycorax was grateful she’d seen to, thinking that in a pinch she’d better blend into a crowd.
Kawe was the first to see him.
‘Rakkan!’ he said, jogging over and gripping his cousin’s arm. ‘Glad to see you here.’
The others looked up from praying. They were spooked, defeated. Weaponless and unmounted. Betrayed.
There were Lycan-Bast and Lambek-Firscal. Sir Sangraine, the amiable pilot of the Armiger Fencer. Mauvec Kawe. Lady Catalea of the Rau Warden Aegis of Hope. A few other Questoris and Armiger pilots.
And Symphonia Dask, shell-shocked.
‘We could use a veteran campaigner,’ said Lycan-Bast. ‘Save Baroness Dask, none of us have been in a war.’
‘Well, good news,’ said Rakkan, flashing a grin. ‘This is a war. And you’ve survived so far. Which means we’re all veterans now.’
The floor shook, and rockcrete powder spilled down from the ceiling above.
‘Now, we haven’t got much time, so who knows this basilica best?’
It was the silhouette that gave Tessell away. So many arms, so many mechadendrites. No one else had a shape like that.
Too bad they only saw her through the armoured window of the communication tunnel next to the dais. Too bad it was double-locked with a data-port and internal pin.
The Crown of Dominion was behind them, still sweeping towards the gates, venting its wrath on any survivors it found. Everyone else was gone.
Traitor Knights, Transmuted sacristans.
All that were left were the bodies.
‘Where does this lead?’ Koln asked.
‘The Cathedral of Maintenance Altar,’ Gwynne said. ‘Our shrine.’
‘And what’s there?’
Gwynne shrugged. ‘Ritual objects. Masks of the dead heroes. Our records and monasteries.’
‘Any military assets?’
‘No, just…’ Gwynne’s eyes widened. ‘Oh, Omnissiah. Our store of Knights. The unformatted ones, ready for their human component.’
‘You reroute the door control, I’ll handle the lock.’
Gwynne plugged into the access port, brow furrowing as she cycled combinations. Koln activated the melta-torch in her finger and found the locking pin. Within moments, she’d sliced through it.
‘How are you–’ she began.
The hatch slid open.
‘Access granted,’ said Gwynne, then stopped when she saw the body inside. ‘Is that…?’
‘Holy Throne,’ said Koln. ‘I think it is.’
It was hard to tell, given all the blood – but Baroness Achara, herald of Dominion, lay dying at their feet.
‘Waiting?’ asked Rakkan. ‘Waiting for what?’
‘For thee, Sir Rakkan,’ the voice answered. It filled the chamber with a rolling echo.
‘What is this place?’ asked Rakkan. He shaded his eyes so he could see it better. He could ken no point to it. An underground dome-cavern, thirty feet wide, with a plasteel grating floor. Below the floor was green seawater underlit by spotlights. The rippling liquid cast an ethereal spirit-light on the ceiling and walls, and he realised this sea-cavern must be deep enough to be below the algae layer.
In the centre of the room, a circular hole in the decking gave access to a curved thing coming up from the water. Rakkan first thought it was some kind of animal, until the hatch opened and he saw the lights of control consoles dancing inside.
‘This is your legacy,’ said the voice. ‘The legacy your father left for you. That his mother left for him. And her father left for her. All the way back to the unremembered days. The secret he would have told you, had he not died so young and unexpectedly – but he left you the key. I had not thought it would take so long for you to discover it. But I have been patient.’
‘You knew my father.’
‘All too briefly. But a good man. He would have done much if called. What will you do, now that Morvayne has defiled the sacred soil of our kingdom? Will you mount up, and rise from the bloody sea?’
‘You are a Knight? I… I am not bonded to you. I’ve never piloted anything but a humble Warglaive. And how can you speak–’
‘You will find it natural. My controls resemble a Warglaive. You’ve already piloted the squire, now it is time to pilot the Knight.’
‘The squire?’ he asked.
‘Noble Knight Jester. It is my pair. We are bonded. Have been so since before the rockets left Terra. The pilot of one is the pilot of the other.’
Rakkan found himself drawn to the upper shell of the machine. From its time underwater, green kelp had grown on the hatch, lying shaggy on the otherwise thick adamantine. Rakkan lowered himself inside, if only to see what the controls were like. Old leather creaked as he lay in the seat.
‘You want me to ride for glory, I presume,’ he said, glancing at the control panel.
‘No,’ rumbled the Knight.
Rakkan could feel it vibrate under him, a Throne Mechanicum so powerful it was nearly alive. ‘But…’
‘This machine is a defender. Bound to Dominion. There is no honour in this charge, no cheers of victory on the tournament field, no campaign badges or banners. It only does its duty.’
‘And what duty is that?’
‘To rise from the bloody sea, take the enemies of this world, and hurl them screaming back into the darkness. To bring song to the hearts of friends, and terror to the hearts of foes. Is that what you want?’
Rakkan smiled. ‘Yes, that would be splendid.’
‘Then don your father’s helmet, Sir Rakkan.’
He slipped it on, attaching the cable of the Throne Mechanicum.
Hail, Sir Linoleus Rakkan, the helmet said. Will you pledge to ride to the defence of the realm?
‘Yes,’ said Rakkan, teeth clenched, ready for what must come next.
The data-spike snapped down into his skull, and in an instant, he saw battlefields and tournaments. Burning stars and stomach-dropping voids. Places he had no memory of and monsters unnumbered. A kaleidoscope view of a thousand lives, smashing and separating. Mosaics of memory.
And his father. He felt his father.
Tell my son to rise from his blood.
And when he opened his eyes, he was another being entirely.
Seventy yards. That’s how far it was to the crypt entrance. Seventy yards of nearly open ground in front of a rampaging Knight Castellan.
But they couldn’t go out the doors. They couldn’t go back into the basilica. And they couldn’t stay here – the damn structure was coming down around them.
Which left the run.
And maybe one trick.
Raithe hefted the rifle, feeling its adjusted weight with the ploin-sized rifle grenade slotted into the stock rather than a barrel. He glanced around the side of the door, letting his mask get range. A hundred yards, maybe. The Crown picking its way around an enormous hole it had burned in the floor.
‘Remember,’ said Rakkan/Sycorax. ‘Just to the first pillar.’
Raithe took a breath, rehearsed the move in his mind, then spun around the wall and took the shot.
Tonk.
The grenade arced a shallow parabola up and into the vaults, then down right into the Knight’s face.
‘Go!’
They ran.
A blue cloud, flecked with silver tinsel and shot through with lightning, bloomed in front of the Castellan. The ion shield flared amber, and the Crown bellowed, striking out with its meltaguns.
Blind.
Raithe slammed his back against the first pillar, sliding his head to the side to get a look at the armoured monster.
It stalked to the right, shaking its great head.
‘Load,’ he said.
Rakkan loaded and twist-locked the second haywire grenade into the rifle stock. Raithe had brought them in case they’d needed to get past an Armiger or two in order to kill Yavarius-Khau.
An Armiger or two, though. This was their last grenade. Even given the high priority of Assassinorum requisitions, the logistical strain of the Indomitus Crusade had meant the Mechanicus could only deliver two.
He felt a pat on his shoulder, saw Rakkan give an unusually lopsided smile. ‘Ready.’
He spun and fired, and they ran.
A siegebreaker shell burst against the basilica wall, shattering a mosaic and sending multicoloured tiles the size of autogun rounds zinging through the air. One tile embedded itself in the skull of an Armiger pilot Raithe didn’t know. Chunks of stone buttress the size of groundcars fell across their scattered knot of running figures, crushing Sir Kestegal of Rau. Along with the masonry came a huge downrush of particlised grey stone, reducing visibility to a few feet.
