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The Iron Kingdom – Extract

A Black Library Publication

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Chapter One

MOTHER OF IRON
PROTECTORATE
BURDENS

Orlah looked from the great window of the lunarium upon a firmament of stars, and knew her daughter was out there somewhere amongst them.

The night was bright. Cellenium cast its sickle-edged glow onto the estate below and the cityscape beyond. There was a time, not so distant, that Orlah had stood in this exact same place and beheld devastation. Horror in the streets, entire fiefdoms burning, the pillars of smoke so high they touched the clouds. Those had been dark days when they thought the time of endings had come, when all contact with the Imperium had abruptly and suddenly been cut.

Predators had come, sure as anything, drawn by blood in the water, drunk on the fear of their prey. Except they had been mistaken, these opportunistic bandits. Orlah had raised the household Knights and they had marched out from their ironclad keeps into the palace, through the Gates of Ryn, gates her great grandfather had laid in generations past, out into the city. To fight. To purge. To cleanse. A night of honour and restoration, the night the Ironhold had declared her independence.

Kamidar, principal seat of governance and epicentre of martial prowess in the system, had led the charge. And from there, the fighting spirit had spread.

It had been the same across the entire protectorate. At Galius, where the skies had burned red with the light of ten thousand fires. And Vanir, whose ruling family had been slain and its citizens enslaved. Orlah had liberated them, inspired them. To rise, to fight, to endure.

Through it, through the many uncertain nights of horror that followed, of not knowing whether they would live to see dawn, the peoples of the Ironhold had shown their determination to survive. And survive they had. Six years as the hells reigned, Orlah had clenched her mailed fist around her borders and kept them safe.

And now this.

Word had reached her, with some of the interpretative unreliability of astropathic messaging, of worlds that had been stripped to the bone and left as hollow shells; of a war machine thoughtless and uncompromising in its hunger to push ever onwards. She knew how voracious a crusade could be. She had fought in enough, but never like this. The stories beyond her borders were sobering to say the least.

She held the esteemed position of queen, and of a Knight world, no less. Kamidar, named for the house that ruled her, a reign that had lasted millennia. That afforded a certain independence, a spirit of self-sufficiency and pride that had only grown during the years of isolation. Ever had the Imperium been careful in its courting of the Knightly houses, for they commanded a martial power few other worlds could equal and possessed a heritage stretching back all the way to the Dark Age of Technology. Such historical provenance was not discarded easily, and though Orlah and her fellow nobles of the many Knight worlds across the galaxy were a part of the Imperium, they considered their relationship with it that of an alliance rather than as a humble vassal.

In her life, both as a warrior and a royal head of state, she had become accustomed to wearing armour. But now, and for the first time, she wondered if it would be thick enough to withstand what was coming.

She had instructed the braziers to be kept low, the dusky light a balm to turbulent thoughts, and the world beyond the window seemed all the brighter for it. The city looked stunning, awash with light and glory. Statues rose above the grand colonnades, their long shadows enfolding Martial Square and Victoris Plaza. Ancestors rendered in marble, fierce, benevolent, their cold eyes turned towards the heavens. There her people went about their business, labourers returning from the fields and factorums of Harnfor, the traders closing up their wares, the watchmen with their long lumen-poles lighting the night darkness. They lived, they toiled, and went about their duties to the protectorate. Together, they had endured. They had thrived. By contrast, the palace felt quiet. As a tomb, Orlah thought sombrely.

A patrol returned, not so far from the city walls and beckoned in by pike-armed sentries. Through the gatehouse they went and into the square, the engines of their vehicles idling. A convoy of three transports, a cohort of thirty soldiers alighting from each, dressed in the green and gold of the Kamidarian Sovereigns, begrimed and weary from a long stint out in the wilds.

‘Has there been any sign?’ Orlah asked of the dark, watching as the Sovereigns unpacked heavy cannon and other armour-shredding weapons from their armoured transports.

‘Some…’ said Ekria, and came to stand by her queen’s side, though she kept a respectful step back. ‘It always amazes me how you are aware to my presence,’ she confessed.

‘Ears of a vulpine,’ Orlah answered, giving a half-smile that swiftly faded. ‘You would not think Lareoc would be so difficult to find.’

‘The wilds are extensive, your majesty. Plenty of places for a resourceful man to hide, even one as conspicuous as the Knight Errant.’

‘I rode every inch of those wilds as a girl. I know how far they stretch. And how deep.’ She paused a beat. ‘And it is former Knight Errant,’ Orlah corrected, but her interest in this subject was already fading as her gaze returned skyward.

‘Former, yes, your majesty. He will be found soon.’

‘Which one do you think she is?’ asked the queen, abruptly changing subject. ‘Sirus, Yemneth, Elynia…’ She referred to the stars, winking at the edge of the Kamidar System, already in their death throes.

‘I do not know, my queen. She will not be far.’

Orlah stiffened at the name, felt a pang of something in her chest. It reminded her of a knife, twisted and left in the wound.

‘Even as a child, she could name them all. Every one. I would tell her stories of how the constellations came to be, of our ancient myths. Dracons and knights. Stories of honour and magick. I never cherished those days enough, before the Rift, before all of this…’ She paused, the weight of her silence heavy as a gravestone. ‘In a flare of dying starlight, she was gone, Ekria. Silver against the night.’

‘You steeled her, trained her – you could have done no more to prepare her, my queen.’ Ekria took a step forwards, offering support through proximity, and Orlah was glad of her presence, but her grief was like an ingot of lead in her stomach.

‘Am I?’ she asked, despair pulling on her.

‘I beg your pardon, your majesty?

‘A queen,’ Orlah answered simply. ‘I do not feel like one in this moment, though I wish I could. I wish I could don my armour and have it shield me from the world…’

For a moment, she caught her ghostly reflection in the glass. Tall, a long white-and-gold gown trailing from her silhouette. An ornate guard over her left shoulder, rendered into the image of a gilded dracon with rubies for eyes. A little more silver in her dark hair than there once had been. Dark skin like polished onyx. A handsome woman, she supposed. Powerful, proud. Bereft.

‘But I feel like a mother,’ she said, ‘raw and exposed, waiting for a dawn I wish would never come.’

‘At least she returns now.’

‘Yes, and I will greet her as her queen, but I will mourn for her as her mother. My dear Jessivayne.’

Her hand strayed to the torc around her neck, and the sharply cut black garnet in its centre. Her mother had worn it, and her mother before her. And so it went. It should have gone to Jessivayne next, but now…

‘How long before they arrive?’

‘The astropaths estimate six days before they reach high anchor in our atmosphere.’

‘Make all necessary preparations.’

‘Of course, your majesty.’

‘Thank you, Ekria.’

She reached out to clasp her servant’s pale hand. It was warm, and supple. The equerry had served House Kamidar for years but had aged little during that time. Orlah felt she had aged a century in a day when she heard of Jessivayne’s death.

‘This will be the last time,’ she said, releasing Ekria’s hand and turning her own into a tightly clenched fist.

‘My queen?’

‘That I show weakness,’ she answered sternly, turning her face from the widow of memory and gently embracing the darkness.

Of the many vessels comprising Fleet Praxis, Ariadne’s main concern was the Fell Lord, its flagship and the war throne of Admiral Ardemus. It was also where, as one of the quartermasters senioris, she was stationed. Her remit, though, extended far beyond that. To the entire battle group. Fuel, rations, munitions: each had a count, had a cost. Ariadne’s job was to levy that against the needs of the crusade. Balancing the mundane arithmetic of war was as crucial as the fighting itself. And not without its frustrations.

‘Are you telling me the ship isn’t there?’

The ship’s bosun nodded, a little breathless as he fought to keep up with the quartermaster.

‘Well, Mavik?’ Ariadne pressed, turning her stern gaze on the lowly bosun as she marched across the deck towards the bridge.

‘That is to say, madam quartermaster,’ the bosun gasped, his face flushed with effort, ‘the Navigators can find no sign of the Mercurion. Both it and the Hermes did not emerge from translation with the rest of the armada.’

Ariadne cursed under her breath. ‘Both good ships. A goodly portion of our additional fuel and rations were aboard the Hermes.’

The Mercurion was a warship, effectively the other vessel’s minder, but that had counted for little it seemed. She tapped a sequence of icons on her slate’s claviboard, prompting a screed of information to appear on the screen.

‘This will hurt us.’

Reports fed through on her ocular augmetic, and she blinked from one to the next, assimilating and assessing reams of data in a matter of seconds. It was ugly, her bionic, a boxy, metallic adjunct to her own flesh-and-blood eye that she could never remove. Vanity had never been Ariadne’s preoccupation, though she still had her youth, her raven-black hair and jade-green eyes. Men liked her eyes. Ariadne found their attention tedious. She valued efficiency and accuracy – traits useful to a crusade quartermaster – and that was all.

She worked rapidly, a gently flashing runic notification in the corner of her ocular’s retinal display reminding her of Ardemus’ summons.

‘The impatient bastard wants the stars before we’ve barely had chance to glimpse them,’ she muttered.

‘Madam?’

‘Nothing,’ Ariadne snapped. ‘We’re already stretched. We’ll have to make further changes, tighten our belts again.’ She began calculating, shifting resources from one place to another, accounting for the loss of fuel and rations represented by the absent vessels. It was possible they would rejoin the armada but her experience of the crusade so far suggested otherwise. Once a ship was lost, it tended to stay that way or else reappear on the other side of Sanctus, minus its entire complement and gutted prow to stern. Even the Mechanicus reclamators left those ships alone, some salvage simply not worth the risk.

‘If I may, quartermaster…’ ventured the bosun, and again Ariadne gave him the hard emerald of her sharpest glance. Couldn’t he see she was trying to ameliorate a crisis?

‘Speak then,’ she scathed, when he didn’t immediately continue.

‘What of the Ironhold? They will have rations, fuel. Supplies of all kinds.’

Ariadne’s expression softened as she considered the bosun’s line of logic before answering, ‘We don’t know what we can count on from the protectorate. My understanding is the admiral wants to turn it into a forward base, one of the redoubts.’

‘I only ask because I heard Usullis is prepping a vanguard to move ahead of the main battle group with Imperial sanction to make landfall on the principal world and begin asset appropriation.’

Ariadne stiffened like a knife in her slate-grey uniform, her rapid march slowing but a fraction at this new information. Usullis was her contemporary, an unsubtle man who had made more than one pass at her over the years. She thought of him as a blunt and brutal instrument.

‘Tell me everything. Now.’

‘They are scheduled to make landfall two days ahead of the main fleet with a flotilla of resupply frigates and a small Naval escort. There is to be a warship amongst their number, the Vortun’s Ire. That’s a Militarum carrier, madam, it’s–’

‘I know what it is,’ she snapped. ‘Throne… he’s been given leave to land soldiers?’

‘That’s my understanding, madam.’

‘When?’

‘Imminently, as soon as the briefing is concluded.’

And he had kept that information from her. Worse, Admiral Ardemus had not seen fit to inform her either; but then again, he had matters on his mind that went beyond how many beans were in the fleet’s silo ships. The groupmaster was an ambitious man, capable but ambitious. He would be chafing at this duty, preferring to be out in the void killing heretics and whatever else deigned to stand up to him.

Ariadne consoled herself with the knowledge that nothing could be done in that moment, and besides, the door to the bridge section now loomed, and Ardemus’ briefing. The heavy blast doors were open, an angular arch edged with marble statuary beckoning her into a deep, umber gloom. She passed a pair of guards on the way in wearing tan uniforms beneath bronze breastplates. Each had a silver-chased autocarbine held at parade height, eyes forward, glowering from beneath steel helms. Polished soldiers in shining chrome. Other officers had already begun to gather as she took her place amongst them in the oak-panelled opulence of the strategium, exchanging the odd banal pleasantry where it was offered, a nod or a glance to others as she recognised them in their fine Naval and Militarum uniforms.

It was a lavish chamber, low-lit with a hololithic table in the middle. No seats: Ardemus would suffer no one in his presence to slouch or recline when discussing the business of war. The walls were hung with ancient star and seafaring maps, protected behind gently flickering stasis fields. Other navigational artefacts stood upon plinths or inside plasglass cases: a sextant, a brass scope, an ancient compass. Ardemus had assembled this collection over several years, a testament to his vanity and yearning for tradition. Most prominent was a long harpoon, its blade still sharp and held aloft by suspensors above the other antiques.

Ariadne could practically feel the admiration and jealousy emanating from the other officers, certainly those who were physically present. One of their gathering showed no interest, however, and Ariadne risked a glance at the Holy Sister in her blood-red plate. Prayer scrolls and miniature skulls hanging on votive chains gave her a baroque, almost otherworldly aura. So armoured, she stood a good head and shoulders above most of the men, and this made Ariadne smile despite herself as they vainly puffed up their chests and straightened their backs in an attempt to match her. None could.

Save for the warrior who followed in slowly on the admiral’s heels.

This one made Ariadne’s skin crawl, for he was a brutish monster with a slab-like, symmetrical face, eyes like flint and just as sharp. His armour, unlike the Holy Sister’s, was a functional, brutalist thing, painted in muddy yellow and black, the sigil of a winged lightning bolt on his hulking left shoulder guard. As he entered the strategium he had to stoop below the arch and had already removed his helm, which he held in the crook of his left arm, his right free to draw the broad blade at his hip should he need to. Violence bled off this man in a near-palpable fume. He was badly scarred, metal plates bolted here and there to his jaw and skull, the remnant surgeries of some injury once suffered. Pitiless, he had the reek of death about him. His name was Renyard, a captain of Space Marines and the admiral’s war dog.

Ariadne instinctively retreated a few steps away as Renyard came amongst them, as did many of her fellow officers. Even the Holy Sister fractionally shifted her stance, a predator reacting to another and wary of its intent.

Only the admiral appeared unperturbed by the warrior’s presence.

Ardemus was a heavyset man, broad-shouldered even without the golden epaulettes of his light blue Naval uniform. Three gilded chains hung from neck to shoulder and a sword and pistol hung from his belt. He had fair hair, with eyes like storms, and was well groomed. Attractive in a stern sort of a way.

‘In four days, the first of our ships will have made landfall on Kamidar, principal world of the Ironhold Protectorate,’ he declared proudly. ‘Our mission here goes beyond the refit and repair of our vessels. We are to raise a bulwark in the Imperium’s name, for the crusade. We shall do so with alacrity and purpose.’

He paused, taking in the room. A few of the assembled worthies flickered, comms distortion rendering their holos indistinct for a second or two before realigning again. A hundred and sixty-three vessels made up Battle Group Praxis, a formidable armada, the majority of which would take up anchorage above Kamidar while the rest would be sent to the other two worlds of the Ironhold. Their captains and officers were many, and all were required to attend Ardemus as he held forth.

‘Our hosts here are the Kamidarian royal household,’ he went on. ‘They are Knights of an esteemed order, a martial culture, led by a warrior queen who commands a small empire. I believe the burden we carry to her is partly the reason for her allowing us to land resupply ships pre-emptively. The Kamidarians have not seen or heard from the Imperium in many years and their customs and beliefs may have diverged from our own during this time. Even at their most loyal, Knights have ever been strong-willed. They are very proud. Be wary, then’ – he glanced at the hulking Space Marine at this point, but the warrior gave nothing back save the uncompromising steel of his glare – ‘but also understand this is the sovereign territory of our God-Emperor, regardless of its distance from the Throneworld or how long the protectorate has had to endure in the dark, on its own. They are still of the Imperium, proud or not. There is the belief among some quarters that we may find an unwillingness here to comply, but our calling is just, our need beyond any alliance.

‘So know this… I will claim these worlds and take from them what the crusade needs, what Praxis needs. It is nothing less than our duty. Our right. We begin with Kamidar, for that is the seat of governance and the other worlds of Galius and Vanir will follow suit.’

The other officers nodded or murmured agreement at this, like vassals come to pledge their loyalty and swear fealty to Ardemus’ throne.

‘Are we expecting resistance?’ asked Shipmaster Tournis of the Valiant Spear. His image flickered, grey-blue, then stabilised. A good-looking man, tight of frame but muscular with a neatly trimmed beard and close-cut hair. A patch covered one eye, an old injury that Tournis wore well. He was a crusade veteran and master of the second most powerful ship in the Praxis armada, second only to Ardemus.

‘We should always expect resistance, captain,’ answered Ardemus, mildly chiding. His rivalry with Tournis was a poorly kept secret. ‘But the protectorate are our kin, at least in kind. We are liberators, bringing sanctity to the Imperium. Our torchbearer fleets have already sown the seeds and now we have come to reap the harvest. It may be distasteful to some, but we have our orders and we are in need of the supplies and materiel they can provide.’

‘Is that why you are sending Quartermaster Usullis and a military escort as a vanguard to Kamidar, my lord?’ Ariadne spoke, the words on her mind coming out of her mouth before she realised she had uttered them.

A tremor of annoyance flickered over the groupmaster’s face. ‘We have a long task ahead of us and must work swiftly. Usullis will steal a march for us, requisitioning the materials and resources we need so that we may get underway without unnecessary delay. As such, I have no desire to prolong this meeting further with inconsequentialities, Quartermaster Ariadne.’

‘Of course, sir.’ Chastened, Ariadne wanted to disappear into the crowd but Ardemus had already moved on. Though she doubted this would be the end of the matter.

‘We all know how dark a day it was for the Imperium when Cadia fell,’ said Ardemus, casting his eye around the room at the blanched faces, the clenched jaws, the officers with balled fists at their sides. There had been none darker. It had heralded the Rift, after all, and ushered in the blighted era they now fought to overcome. ‘A fate no one could have predicted, and one that is the reason we are all here. Our mission is ordained by none other than the Regent of Terra himself.’

From the sudden fervour in his voice, Ariadne could tell on which side of the argument Ardemus fell when it came to whether or not the returned primarch was a god. He believed. Utterly. She had never met the Avenging Son, though she had heard his voice across countless addresses to his troops, to his crusaders. To think he had lived over ten thousand years ago, and had come back to them at mankind’s bleakest hour… Man or god, it didn’t matter what she thought. He was all that stood between the Imperium and oblivion. Privately, she wondered if it would be enough.

Ardemus nodded to one of his functionaries, who unobtrusively activated the hololith.

And with a flicker of light, Lord Guilliman appeared.

A stilled reverence fell across the chamber, as every officer present knelt. Even Renyard appeared humbled and struggled to meet the primarch’s gaze.

‘Even now Fleet Secundus fights to hold the galactic north, the first line of defence against our enemy, who pours through the Cadian Gate in droves,’ Guilliman said, his tone – even through the holo – so rich and deep it did not seem possible to have been uttered by a human mouth. But, of course, he wasn’t human. Not really. He was so much more.

Massive and dominant in his ornate, gold-edged armour, a laurel about his head like a crown, the iron halo he wore a brilliant gilded sunburst that framed his patrician countenance. Filigree and intaglio adorned his singular war plate, festooned with a swathe of purity seals affixed by the highest ecclesiarchs. Guilliman was something from myth, brought back to fight Ruinous Gods and halt mankind’s imminent destruction.

‘It is a bitter campaign, grossly attritional, but know that its continued success means nothing less than the safety of Terra. To staunch the threat of attack from this ill-favoured quarter, a robust chain of resupply must be established. Through the strategic positioning of bastion or redoubt worlds, we can ensure Secundus remains well strengthened for the rigours it must face. But should it fail, should our enemy slip through its pickets, then our defences behind it must also be strong. Here then is the wisdom of a hemispherical chain of fortified strongholds, arranged strategically so if one falls another will stand in its place. Each supporting the other. Defence in depth. Our Anaxian Line.’

He stopped to smile, a cold but bracing appraisal of his troops, raising his chin as if to behold them all with his highest regard. Ariadne felt her heart beat faster, her pride and determination swelling. She could appreciate how such a being had once commanded an empire. Some said he still did, and had no inclination to relinquish it.

‘You, brave men and women of the Imperium, are tasked with securing our eastern lynchpin, Kamidar and the Ironhold Protectorate,’ Guilliman continued. ‘There are few greater burdens than this. If Kamidar holds then the Anaxian Line holds and our enemy from the galactic north will be stymied. These redoubts are the crusade’s lifeblood. Without them, we cannot hope to prosper so far from Terra. Know that we will have to journey far from the Throneworld before this is over. Our supply lines are crucial. The acumen of our logisticians and Munitorum adept-generals is crucial. In order to attack with purpose, we must also be sure of keeping what we have already won. This, then, is the singular purpose of the Anaxian Line and its importance to the crusade. I know you shall all undertake this task valorously. Together we shall overcome and light a beacon through mankind’s darkest hour. I have sworn it, so it shall be. Ave Imperator. Courage and honour to you all.’

The recording ended, the image stuttering as it stalled in place until the functionary turned it off again.

Slowly, the officers rose to their feet. The Holy Sister ended her genuflection with the utmost poise, making the sign of the aquila. Even the brutal Space Marine grunted his assent. A hush descended, the reverence for the returned primarch slow to fade.

Ardemus was the first to break it.

‘And thus is it spoken. From the very lips of our saviour, the Lord Guilliman himself. I hope you feel as humbled as I do in receiving these orders. To live in such times of peril and magnificence…’

His gaze roamed the room, fixing every officer whether present or not. It alighted on Ariadne last of all and lingered, a calculated move and one that said he had not forgiven nor forgotten her outburst.

‘Ours is nothing less than a sacred calling, god-given,’ said Ardemus. ‘What we do is nothing less than the Emperor’s will, so be about your tasks without hesitation or doubt. This is the fight for humanity’s survival and we shall not be found wanting.’ He nodded then, fierce conviction in his eyes as they left Ariadne and roamed again. ‘Dismissed.’

A worm of unease coiled in Ariadne’s gut as she made her way back to her quarters. She had left some data-spools there and wished to retrieve them before presenting any sort of report to the groupmaster. Ardemus was so full of piss and vinegar that she doubted he would have much time or interest in ration shortfalls or their diminishing fuel, but she had a duty.

She almost missed the armour-clad warrior coming the other way, her head so far into her data-slate and her calculations that they almost collided. An awful sense of disquiet, something only half-fettered but repelling, made her look up. Ariadne pulled up short, and the warrior came to a sharp stop herself as she looked down on the quartermaster like an adult appraising a truculent child. Despite all her years of experience, her esteemed position in the Departmento Munitorum, Ariadne quailed a little before the woman.

She was like some grim, silver goddess from a forgotten era. Not one of the Sororitas like the Sister in the strategium; at least she had radiated grace, even compassion, behind her stern appearance. This one standing before Ariadne was a warrior-queen with dark shadows around the eyes and the aquila marked indelibly into her skin. She wore slight, almost form-fitted, archaic armour. Ariadne knew who she was but dared not speak her name, dared not even think it for fear she would know and disapprove.

Instead, Ariadne uttered, ‘My pardon, milady.’ She cast her eyes down, humbled and disquieted.

The warrior didn’t reply, though gave a slight narrowing of the eyes, and waited for Ariadne to step from her path before striding on. Ariadne let her go, not moving, listening to her boot steps, grateful to hear them receding. The sense of disquiet faded as the sound diminished, and she breathed a sigh of relief.

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A BLACK LIBRARY PUBLICATION

First published in Great Britain in 2023.
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Cover illustration by Johan Grenier.

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