The Grey Knight: Chapter 1 (PREVIEW)

Chapter 1: Entombed

The dead can’t walk.

Another of those small, comforting lies.

He’d heard many of these simple platitudes. Telling someone it will be all right when you both know it won't be. Telling someone there is plenty of time, knowing that they will rush anyway.

Yet here, breathing in the musty, stale, ancient air of the cavern he stood within, he knew the lie.

The dead can’t walk.

He knew that corpses did not get up and shamble toward anything. That wasn’t what he feared.

But looking out amongst the townsfolk in the dim light of the sheltering cavern, he understood that they were all dead.

Just as he was.

He was just the only one who knew it.

Malcolm’s thoughts were interrupted by the loud clanking noise to his left, jerking his attention that way. He relaxed as he saw one of the massive fans in the cavern shuddering to life, the ether-powered motor rumbling as the blades began their sluggish but accelerating spin.

The faint thrum of the fans starting up was joined by a loud sputtering hiss. Throughout the large cavern, oil lamps were being lit by fumbling, inexpert hands. The overhead ether lamps couldn’t cover the spacious underground shelter, but the smaller lamps the miners had used were almost all here… and they let him see the sorry state of the townspeople.

Even in the large open cavern, it was incredibly crowded. Malcolm leaned over, grasping the slipshod railing that had been set up earlier this week. He looked out over frightened and murmuring townsfolk, with too many of them dirty, injured, or both. A small section near the entrance had been set aside for the badly-wounded, using blankets hastily grabbed during the evacuation to form makeshift beds.

It looked like a lot of people, but Malcolm knew that this made up less than half of the town.

“SNUFF THOSE LAMPS!”

The voice boomed in the cavern, echoing off the walls, and most importantly carrying over the increasingly loud thrum of the fans. Malcolm rubbed at the side of his head as he glanced down the small catwalk, to see the heavyset man standing at the other end belting out the orders.

“THESE FANS WEREN’T MEANT FOR SO MANY PEOPLE! WE CAN’T BE USIN’ FIRES! ETHER LAMPS ONLY!”

Jackson, the bellowing man in question, had been the mine foreman. Middle-aged and with a huge handlebar mustache that immediately drew the eye, his almost comical appearance became a powerful commanding presence here in the mines.

Lights flickered as they were extinguished so quickly after being ignited. Malcolm sighed as he saw the discontent on the townspeople. Dirty, aching, dispirited… displaced.

“Everyone! Please listen to Mister Jackson!” This voice wasn’t as loud, but still carried. The young man nearby was shouting, but the slender body didn’t have the lungs or volume of the mine foreman. He tried his best, but the sandy-haired man – little more than a boy – couldn’t compete.

Next to Malcolm, an older man looked over the crowd, stroking his nearly-white beard. His head was bald, but like many of those in here, it was streaked with soot and dirt. A small bruise was forming over his left eye, and the poor lighting made it look even more swollen and purple than it really was.

He turned to Malcolm with a thoughtful gaze. “You should probably address them, my lord. They’ll need to hear you reassure them.”

“I’m not sure I can,” Malcolm replied. His brow creased as he looked over the miserable people crowded just below him. The railing creaked, and he released it from the white-knuckled grip that he’d tightened upon it. Breath came in an unsteady, deep inhale.

This far from the fans, the old man could speak in a lower tone and still be heard. He did so now, murmuring quietly. “You know, then. What they will do.” His eyes were the deep green and sad, the skin around them showing a spiderweb of creases around the temples. The lines of experience.

Malcolm could only nod in reply. His eyes looked away from the old man – the town Elder. Arthus, his name was… and Malcolm knew the townspeople trusted the elderly one much more than they trusted him.

With good reason. Arthus was the one who really ran the town and knew all the day to day functions. Malcolm was a figurehead who mostly signed papers, and he knew it.

“Please, my lord,” Arthus entreated again. “You and I are the only ones who know how this will end, but the people deserve to have hope in their last moments. It should come from you. Give them something to do. Something to keep them from feeling what has happened.”

It made sense, even as much as Malcolm knew that it would be useless in the end. He took a deep breath, the air laden with the unwashed stench of numerous peasants and lower class townspeople below. A mining town was not the place to be known for its lovely scents. But figurehead or not, Malcolm was in charge of this town.

He raised his hand and waited a few moments as the whispered discussions died down, and most of the eyes turned to face him. His stomach turned, knowing what was to happen to these people – his people.

“Everyone!” Malcolm called out loudly, causing a startled jump in the nearest of the townspeople. He didn’t have the booming voice of Jackson, but he’d been trained on how to project his voice. It came out clear and piercing, just as he’d been taught.

“The battle outside may last a while, but we should not be in here long.” That was true. “Overnight, at most. The Covenant war machines were terrifying to us, but many of you saw what came to our aid. Two Plates should be enough to defeat them.”

Just not enough to hold it against the nearby forces, Malcolm thought to himself before continuing. Hopefully none of the townsfolk, unschooled in the ways of war as they were, would note that problem.

“In the meantime, we must be prepared. The cavern we are in was not meant to hold so many people. Conserve your strength, avoid using fires, and concentrate on the wounded. Food and water should go to them first. We should have enough to last the night.” He pointed to five men in turn near the front. “You five, get a head count of who is in this cavern and who is in the tunnels.”

Malcolm pointed to a woman he knew. “You get a tally of the supplies and who may be able to help. Recruit three or four more to help you.” He didn’t know everyone in the town – there were far too many for that – but he had lived as the Lord-Regent for several years now. Some of these faces were familiar.

“Jackson!” The burly man was already there when Malcolm called for him, fidgeting with one of the curls of his mustache. “Find any of your miners here and have them keep everyone close by, but find spaces for the ones who aren’t wounded but need rest. Make sure no one goes into the ruins.”

As Jackson nodded, Malcolm felt the discontent and misery in the room lighten. In truth, the foreman had likely already been doing what he was ordered to do, but he raised no objections. The man was wise, and understood what Malcolm was doing.

It gave the people purpose to see their Lord-Regent doing something to ease their suffering.

Arthus nodded approvingly, which told Malcolm he hadn’t made any major mistakes. Anything that the young noble had forgotten, the man would likely smooth over quietly and without fuss.

Easel, the younger man who had tried to calm everyone earlier, stepped back from the rail to join Malcolm and Arthus. The boy’s eyes had the same stark green as his grandfather, and a similar strong jawline and hooked nose. Malcolm could believe that Arthus had looked like this when he’d been a young man.

“Will the Plates really be able to drive off the Covenant?” Easel breathed the question out with some quaver, his hand drumming fingers against his thigh. The boy was supposed to replace Arthus as Steward, but his experience was nowhere near ready for this.

The reminder was a gut punch to Malcolm. He inhaled sharply, his left hand clutching at his Witness. His thumb ran over the embossed metallic bracer around his right forearm, feeling it thrum under his touch – a subtle pulse that wasn’t quite in time with the loud rumble of the fans.

Easel was all bright-eyed and wondering now. Many of the townsfolk had seen the Plates arrive. Tall, armored figures each over twice the height of a grown man, striding purposely toward the town. Even if they were mass-produced plates, their carriage and elegant lethality stood in stark contrast to the squat, box-like armored tanks that the Covenant had brought.

It was natural for the boy to be excited, but for Malcolm it was just a knife-twist of heated shame. A reminder of his failure, his disgrace. His reason for exile into this dying border town running a barely-profitable ethercryst mine.

Arthus knew his shame, but stayed quiet and looked at Malcolm with a subtle, resigned nod. Easel was ignorant of what would happen, but he was the one doing the work today, with Arthus struggling to walk these past few months.

I may be a disgrace, Malcolm thought, but I am still the Lord-Regent of Hilton, and of the Great House of Vayne. These are my people and I will do right by them until the end comes.

“They can,” Malcolm confirmed. “They will. The problem is what comes after.”

He looked about to ensure no one could overhear, and tried to keep his voice level. “The Covenant has an entire army not far away. The Plates are only two in number. They can easily win this engagement, given some time… but the Covenant will send more, and I know the Kingdom doesn’t have anyone else nearby. They can’t hold the town. They’ll win the day, but lose Hilton.”

Easel was young and naive, but not stupid. His face fell. “Will we have enough time to evacuate?”

Malcolm shook his head at the same time Arthus did the same. “No. Going into the mines was a good idea, if not for the ruins. They’re the cause of all this. The Covenant wants them too badly, but Valen won’t let them go that easily. They’re too valuable to lose.”

Naive, not stupid. Easel looked blankly at Malcom and Arthus for a long moment… before his face paled. “They’re not here to rescue us, are they? They’re here to destroy the ruins.”

Arthus patted his grandson on the shoulder. “Yes, boy. And we are an inconvenience now. Valen takes care of its own… but ruthlessness is strength.”

Ruthlessness is strength. A common refrain in the Kingdom of Valen. Few living there realized how easily that statement could be turned upon themselves.

Arthus kept most of the bitterness out of his voice and simply let his statement sink in. Malcolm nodded, confirming to Easel what would likely happen to us all. Perhaps some would survive, hidden away elsewhere… but the town had fled to the cavern that the mine had broken into, presuming it was safe. The very ruins that had been discovered so recently, promising prosperity, had now doomed everyone.

The relative silence held for a long moment, only the constant rumbling whirr of the fans filling the ears of the three. Malcolm could see Easel’s face twisting and frowning as he thought through everything that was implied by what Arthus had said. Malcolm let it happen.

“MY LORD!”

A shout broke through the sobering thoughts, as one of the men that had been assigned to counting ran up the short staircase to rush toward the trio.

Malcolm stepped forward, forcing his morbid thoughts away for now. The town needed a confident, strong leader, and they were not dead yet. Until that time came, he would hoard what little pride he had left and reassure them.

“My lord,” the man huffed again, panting in the heavy, cloying air. “Some of the children that came in with us are missing.”

A surge of irritation rose up in Malcolm, but he shoved it down. The man was worried, he could see that. “Then arrange a search party. Bring some of the miners, they know the layout. Don’t panic.”

Shaking his head, the man straightened, still breathing hard. “No, we know where they went. That’s the problem, Lord Vayne.” He lifted an arm, trembling from exertion, and pointed.

Malcolm followed the line of the pointing finger and cursed under his breath.

The debris where the side of the cavern had collapsed had largely been cleared away, revealing the whole problem that had caused this situation. Two large doors of an unknown metal, dark green and dusty, marked the entrance to the ruined complex of the old Empire that the miners had found.

In the faint hazy glow just at the edge of one of the ether lamps, Malcolm could squint and just barely see the doors in the darkness.

Doors which were cracked open a small amount. Small, but just wide enough for a skinny, inquisitive body to squirm through.