Becoming - Andy Clark Read online

  He cursed again before clenching his haptic gauntlets. His steed growled in readiness.

  Punching one gauntlet forward, Markos commanded his Knight to fire its thermal cannon. The weapon blasted a glowing crater in the pass, obliterating a swathe of ork vehicles. Markos laughed in sudden elation and triggered his steed’s heavy stubber, swatting crude greenskin ornithopters from the air.

  Feeding power to his motive impellers, Markos guided Dracon’s Wrath up the valley. He caught up to the rear of the lance a mile from the Drakebite pass, trampling ramshackle ork vehicles and blasting mobs of roaring infantry.

  Enemy resistance grew as the Knights neared their destination, the trickle of xenos becoming a flood. Masses of roaring foot troops swept towards them, firing wild hails of bullets. Most ork weapons had little hope of damaging a Knight, but here and there a crude rocket corkscrewed out of the press to explode ferociously against an ion shield or hull.

  ‘Don’t let them close,’ warned Sire Daeved. ‘In great enough numbers these beasts can pull down even a Knight, and their leaders have weapons that rip through armour and cables.’

  The Knights slowed, concentrating fire into the onrushing horde. Amongst the sea of greenskins came lumbering scrap-metal walkers and smoke-belching tanks that added their firepower to the fusillade. It was nothing compared to the devastation the Knights unleashed, however.

  Gatling cannons roared. Stubber fire crisscrossed in sawing lines. Thermal blasts reduced swathes of greenskins to ash, even as hurtling rockets engulfed hundreds more in flame. Step by step the Knights drove the orks back, shattering their morale with a concentrated barrage that echoed along the pass.

  Cocooned within his cockpit, Markos felt his fears wither like parchment in the heat of the draconsfire. With every shot he fired, every mob of foes or rumbling war machine he obliterated, his confidence surged. He was destruction and death. He was a Knight, and he laughed in exhilaration as he killed.

  The bellows of the enemy rang in his sensorium. Their stink penetrated even the sealed environs of his Knight, though Emperor only knew how. The violence and savagery of the orks was a primal force, revealed in terrible clarity by the acuity of his Knight’s sensorium. But they were small, crude things when compared to the war gods they faced. Markos felt the heady rush of invincibility, and embraced it.

  Markos targeted and fired, targeted and fired, sending howling greenskins fleeing in terror. He had an aptitude for this. He was already the master of his steed, and with a little concentration he could begin to sift ghostly voices from amidst his throne’s background murmur.

  Bewareoverconfidenceyoung Knight you mustwatchyour flanksdo not allowthemto surround you as I did that wasmy end watchyourammunition countersyou must…

  The roar of engines filled the sky as a squadron of greenskin aircraft hurtled over their retreating comrades, jockeying for position and trying to ram one another into the walls of the pass. A ferocious storm of rockets and shells battered the Knights’ ion shields. Markos cried out in shock as the helm of Sire Ronauld’s steed exploded, burning Ronauld to ash and throwing his Knight onto its back. Markos knew a moment of vertiginous panic, cringing back from the hail of shots exploding against his shield. Panic threatened, but with a snarl he pushed the feelings down, mastering himself.

  The Knights retaliated, Icarus fire sending three of the ork planes spiralling away to explode amongst the lower valleys.

  ‘They’ll return,’ voxed Tolwyn. ‘I’m reading another wave of xenos in the pass. We strike now.’

  ‘Wait, Tolwyn,’ said Gerraint. ‘What is that on the auspex? It’s huge…’

  Markos felt his heartbeat quicken as a moment of ominous silence filled the vox.

  ‘Skarjaw…’ breathed Tolwyn.

  Markos followed the designator rune that had blinked up on his retinal display. Emerging from the darkness of the pass was an immense beast of war. As tall at the shoulder as a Knight’s carapace, the huge monster lumbered along on four muscular legs that ended in clawed hooves. Its bloated bulk was covered in scales as thick as tank armour, and its foam-flecked jaws were filled with enormous tusks. On its back was an armoured howdah like a small castle, thronging with orks. A huge cannon jutted from it, and enthroned atop the howdah was an ork of remarkable size and ugliness – Warlord Skarjaw, the greenskin despot who had launched the invasion of Adrastapol and cost this world millions of lives.

  Behind the monster came two more like it, also fitted with swaying howdahs. Fresh waves of orks charged into battle around their trampling feet.

  ‘Crusaders, Wardens,’ said Tolwyn. ‘Bring the pass down, now.’

  ‘By your command, Gatekeeper,’ replied Lady Bellah, her voice icy calm.

  ‘The orks are too close,’ said Gerraint, echoing Markos’ panicked thoughts.

  ‘I know,’ replied Tolwyn, accelerating his steed into a charge. ‘We’ve got to hold them until the avalanche begins. With me!’

  Markos poured power into his steed’s actuators and broke into a loping run. Sires Gerraint, Hectour, Daeved and Archivauld followed suit, while Lady Bellah coordinated the fire of the Wardens and Crusaders.

  So few against the horde. It was the stuff of tales and tapestries, but it was nothing like Markos had imagined. Tales didn’t tell of the disorienting din, the confusion of smoke and flame, and the pounding jolt of the Knights’ footfalls or the gut-wrenching terror of staring straight at your own death. Tales, it seemed, rarely matched reality.

  A storm of firepower whipped overhead, missiles and shells tearing at the walls of the pass to blast loose huge boulders and spread cracks across the rock faces.

  Down below, the orks levelled their own firestorm. Sire Daeved swore as Skarjaw’s howdah fired its cannon. The shell punched through Daeved’s shield and tore off his steed’s chainsword in a shower of sparks. Another of the howdah guns put a round into Sire Gerraint’s leg, reducing his steed to a limp. The ork planes swept overhead, ploughing furrows of gunfire through their own forces in their eagerness to destroy the Knights.

  Then Markos was into the melee, and everything was madness. He trampled a mob of orks, kicking their claw-fisted leader a hundred yards as he remembered Daeved’s warning. He bored a crater in the nearest monster with his fusion blaster. Shots rang from his Knight’s hull, striking from every side. A sea of brutish faces surrounded him, roaring in mindless ferocity.

  A rocket exploded against Markos’ generator housing, and he swore vehemently as he was forced to shut down a leaking plasma feed. He stomped through a swarming mass of greenskins, fighting to dislodge the axe-wielding xenos that were trying to scale his Knight’s shins, while deflecting a barrage of energy blasts with his shield.

  A Knight doesnotfightalone lookto your lancemates young Knight

  Markos snatched a glance at the wider battle, just in time to see Skarjaw’s monstrous steed gore Sire Archivauld’s Knight Paladin. The war engine was hurled from its feet by the monster’s bullish charge, before being crushed and trampled beneath its hooves. Archivauld’s Knight shuddered with secondary detonations, and Skarjaw bellowed in triumph, his bestial features underlit by the fires of the burning Knight.

  Markos was moving before he realised it, angling his shield to absorb the worst of the enemy fire as he accelerated towards Skarjaw. Sire Tolwyn got there first, shouting a challenge through his steed’s vox amplifiers. Skarjaw roared in reply, directing a hail of shots into Fyreheart. The howdah cannon boomed but Tolwyn swatted the shot aside with his shield, then stepped deftly around the monster’s lunging tusks to ram his reaper chainsword into its neck. Sparks flew. Adamantium cutting teeth met iron-hard scales and ripped right through. Blood sprayed Tolwyn’s steed as he drove his blade deep into the monster, churning through flesh, muscle and bone.

  Markos fired his thermal cannon, burning through the monster’s hide. Still the creature stayed on its feet, maddened by pain. It barged forward, impaling itself further on Tolwyn’s blade but crunching its tusks into hi
s steed’s chest. Tolwyn cried out in pain. His steed staggered. If the Knight fell, he would meet the same fate as Archivauld.

  Markos wouldn’t reach the fight in time. Yelling incoherently, he opened fire.

  A column of searing energies decapitated Skarjaw’s monstrous beast, burning away its flesh and bone. Tolwyn’s blade came free, glowing with heat wash, and the headless monster staggered. Warlord Skarjaw was still howling in fury when his steed slumped sideways. Its massive weight crushed the howdah into the ground, cooking off its cannon ammo in a devastating fireball. Gore and flesh rained down, all that remained of Skarjaw and the monster he rode.

  As Markos’ ears stopped ringing, he heard another sound swelling through the clangour of battle. It was the thunderous rumble of falling stone.

  ‘The pass is coming down,’ voxed Lady Bellah. ‘Sires, pull back now or be buried.’

  With the orks in confusion and the rock walls collapsing, the surviving Knights fled, angling their shields behind them to catch the enemy’s last desperate shots.

  Dust billowed as the fury of the mountains pounded down upon the orks and trapped them, cutting them off from the Draconspire once and for all.

  Sire Markos sat back, smirking at the squires’ rapt expressions.

  ‘And that,’ he said, ‘is the story.’

  ‘So you saved my father from being crushed by a rampaging monster,’ said Danial. ‘My thanks, Sire Markos. Without your heroism that day I wouldn’t even be here.’

  ‘Well,’ said Markos. ‘You’re welcome, I’m sure. But as I say, that’s the story.’

  Luk frowned.

  ‘What do you mean, sire?’

  The Herald leaned forward, and his voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper.

  ‘If you repeat this to anyone, you’ll wish you’d had it as easy as the Tyrant of Farhaj. Understood?’

  They nodded.

  ‘By the time we got back to the Draconspire, my tale was already set in stone. The tapestry was woven, as they say. A half-dozen witnesses swore they saw me kill the monster. Me, a Knight that had just Become, saving the firstborn son of House Draconis. An inspirational tale of heroism to broadcast far and wide. And so they did, and I’d like to think it helped us win the war that much faster. Throne, perhaps it even put some steel in the spines of those Pegasson dogs. Later, when the war was done and the taletellers had embellished some more, it turned out to be a great tool for inspiring young squires. So I let it lie. But it’s not the truth.’

  Danial frowned.

  ‘Then what…?’

  ‘In that last moment when I fired, my throne overwhelmed me. I couldn’t even aim my shot, let alone fire it.’

  ‘So who killed the beast?’ asked Luk. ‘My father told me that you ripped a tooth from the ork’s jaw to keep as a trophy!’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ said Markos. ‘Could have been the ghosts fired my weapon for me. Could have been one of my comrades did the deed. For all I know the orks did it themselves. Half the time their guns don’t work, and the other half they can’t aim straight. It doesn’t matter. My point is that I, and by extension your father, were either very lucky that day or very blessed. There’s a lesson in it for you both. Becoming isn’t just a rite, and nor is it easy. Show weakness, prove unworthy and you’ll end up like poor Lorrence. But even then you can’t just rely on skill alone. Our steeds are vast, powerful machines and the ghosts of our thrones help us to be wise, but by itself that isn’t enough either. What I’m saying, lads, is that even once you’ve Become, even if you rise to be the greatest warrior of your age, you still need the Emperor’s favour. Every day. Without the good luck He sends, even the mightiest of us will fall. Do you understand?’

  Danial and Luk nodded solemnly.

  ‘Good. Then you’ll understand, too, why it’s time you got off your arses and to your prayers. Consecrate your minds and souls, then get a good meal and a few hours’ sleep. You’ll need it. When next I see you, you’ll have Become.’

  Danial and Luk thanked Markos, rising from their thrones and hurrying away. As he stepped through the arched doorway, Danial glanced back. His eyes widened as he saw Sire Markos reach into the neck of his tunic, fishing out something that hung on a leather thong around his neck and looking at it with a wry smile.

  It was a long, cracked ork tooth.

  About the Author

  Andy Clark has written the Warhammer 40,000 short story ‘Whiteout’, the Age of Sigmar short story ‘Gorechosen’, and the Warhammer Quest Silver Tower novella Labyrinth of the Lost. Andy works as a background writer for Games Workshop, crafting the worlds of Warhammer Age of Sigmar and Warhammer 40,000. He lives in Nottingham, UK.

  When the swarms of Hive Fleet Hydra descend upon the world of Vondrak, the Knights of Cadmus answer the call to war.

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  Published in 2016 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd,

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  ISBN: 978-1-78572-269-1

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