Zonorhc

Old topic is old.

CHAPTER XII: ENDGAME FOR TWO HOURS, Larandus stared at the sky. Xin left the Phoenix behind, opting to take the newer flyer, which he had named Valkyrie. According to Dansh and his repertoire of obscure knowledge, the name came from some far-fetched northern legend about women who came to battlefields to take the dead to the afterlife. Larandus did not set much store by superstition, but he thought that Xin's choice of names were strangely morbid and more prophetic than he liked. Still, the flight was more comfortable than those he endured in the Phoenix. He was not entirely sure that he managed to appreciate the merits of this craft the last time he had flown in it, during that frantic escape from the desert prison and the firefight in the Teeth of Heaven that Xin let them experience. The last he heard of that accursed prison, Lord Sezarn had dispatched three flyers' worth of Palace Guard to clear it out. If he thought that was an unnecessary amount of force, he did not seem to have any intention of reducing the number of men he used. The Dramaskan landscape rolled by, far below the flyer. Larandus did not pay it much attention. Looking down, he thought, only made his head spin. But whenever he did, he saw sights that few men ever see: fields like patchwork, herds of animals like swarms of tiny ants, streams like silvery snakes. There were a few large harvester engines crawling over the season's late harvest, and there were troops of people doing the same work by hand. There were merchant caravans lumbering along the paved roads, and Ministry patrols staying vigilant against bandits and other criminals. Southward they flew, like a bird fleeing the winter. There were ruined towers and ancient shrines, relics of a time when Dramaskans lived in the wilder parts of the land. Once, Larandus saw what looked like a camp near a ruin. Treasure hunters, adventure seekers. Those ruins were structurally unsound, and all manner of beasts had taken up residence in their deep bowels over time, but the profits involved in retrieving and selling the artifacts to be found within stirred up the courage in most men. Then they were soaring over the city of Cammar, ducal seat of the Empire's heartland. It was so unlike the great capital that it almost seemed to be in an entirely different land altogether. From the air, it looked like little more than a village, so tiny it was in comparison to the sprawling bulk of Dramaskus. The towers were fewer and more graceful, built to please the eye rather than simply perform a function like housing workers or businesses. There were signs, though, of newer structures being built in the fashion of the capital, and those marred the essential beauty of Cammar. There were glittering domes below, and wide, meandering streets that did not possess the harsh grid-like quality of the Imperial capital's. There were gardens and wide open spaces within the city itself. The ducal palace was the only structure that looked vaguely militarised, with its high walls, its battlements bristling with cannon and flags flying from its tall spires. It was a reminder of the Empire's governing principles: no matter how beautiful and innocent a place could be, there would always be a fist of iron and sharp steel to govern and protect it. The flyer shot over Cammar, losing altitude as Xin guided it down gently. There was a field to the east of the city where they were to meet Qudea prior to the final assault on the Cult of Vrakyl's stronghold. Xin slowly lowered the Valkyrie down onto the lush grass of the appointed rendezvous point, creating rippling waves of green as he extended the landing gear and set the craft down. Larandus unbuckled his harness and stepped out of the craft, gathering his coat around him. There was a chill wind blowing in from the eastern mountains, and it cut through his clothing like a knife of ice. A scent of damp earth and grass wafted over him. Siel, Dansh and the six Pathfinders with them remained on the flyer, as this would only be a brief stop. Qudea was waiting for them, her thirty Deathguard astride their huge warhorses, the white pennants on their lances fluttering in the wind. She was wearing a black robe with silver trimming over her own armour. There was a curved sword hanging from her belt. The Priestess looked frail to Larandus, but she must have been far stronger than he gave her credit for if she could stand so easily, clothed in so much steel. He noticed that she had a white mask, as her Deathguard did, but she had not put it on yet. There was a company of men from the Cammar 31st with them, under the command of a grim-faced captain named Orvan. A hundred men with pikes, swords and crossbows. That was all that could be spared by the southern garrisons, as fighting had begun in earnest along the western frontier. 'Agent,' she greeted him with a nod. 'The time has come.' 'Yes,' he said. 'Let us be done with this business.' He gave her and the Deathguard a nod, wishing them good fortune. The white-armoured warriors dipped the tips of their lances in unison as a show of acknowledgement. Qudea gave him a brief, cold smile as she masked herself. She mounted her own horse easily. The Amardians were a people well accustomed to riding, and they produced the finest heavy cavalry in the known world. Larandus watched them leave, hoping that that would be enough to see them through. The plan was for Qudea, her Deathguard and Orvan's infantry to create a diversion, while Larandus and his small force slipped in quickly to eliminate the leadership of the Sons of Zannariamus and whoever they worked with in the Cult of Vrakyl. Larandus was not so eager to face Okarth again, but the prospect of facing down Ancrus Zren almost made him quiver with anticipation. He had not forgotten his treatment at the rebel's hands. The six Pathfinders with them sat in their harnesses silently, their carbines resting across their laps and their swords under their seats. Darksight goggles rested on their brows over their eyes, waiting to be slipped down for use. They were the best of the best, the elite of the Dramaskan Imperial Army, reserved for special operations deep behind enemy lines. They wore mottled stealth cloaks over dull body armour, their belts hung heavily with spare ammunition, hand-bombs and emergency supplies. The flyer roared to life shortly after Qudea and her men departed. It would take them far less time to reach the Cult of Vrakyl's stronghold in normal circumstances, but the mission demanded that they fly a circuitous route to avoid detection, using the mountains as cover. Larandus sat back and waited, checking his revolver over and over to keep his mind occupied. He so hated flying. Larandus saw vestiges of cloud cover as Xin banked the Valkyrie hard, the sun flaring in the portholes as he turned southward. There were rocky, snow-covered peaks rushing past Larandus' field of vision as Xin began his descent, another hour after leaving the field near Cammar. Shadows flickered across the mountains' faces as sunlight flitted through gathering clouds. Then he heard Xin curse, and the cockpit instruments began beeping shrilly. 'Flyers! Brace!' said his voice over the intercom. Larandus echoed his curse under his breath. Enemy air cover was the last thing they needed to come across. Vaguely, he remembered that the Sons had been gathering their resources for years. He knew they would have flyers, but he felt sure that they would have enough of an element of surprise to avoid them. There was a brief chirp, and Larandus felt the Valkyrie shudder as its guns opened fire. From the cabin, their sound was only a deep, throaty rumble that reverberated through the craft. He heard Siel whoop from the cockpit. Xin had apparently made a kill. Larandus lurched in his seat as Xin began to dodge incoming fire, using every ounce of his skill to avoid the enemy flyers' guns. Larandus felt his stomach rise as the flyer dived suddenly, then level out. There was a dull boom from outside. One of the enemy flyers had tried to copy Xin's move and ended up as a smouldering wreck on a rocky field. Then Larandus heard a noise of tearing metal, and watched in horror as the section of the passenger cabin was sheared off by a lucky hit, tearing apart one of the Pathfinders and dragging him, screaming, out into the air. Out of that hole, Larandus watched the ground fly past in a blur. Xin was flying extremely low. An alarm was wailing, and the cabin was bathed in red light. The craft shuddered as Xin fought to steady it. It was less agile now, with a section of its hull torn away, but no vital systems had been damaged. Xin was good, Larandus had to give him that. He banked, and Larandus saw a pitched battle below as cultists threw themselves at Qudea's force in the field before the ruined fortress' crumbling gates. He saw a white wedge driving into them as the Deathguard charged, lances couched. The Valkyrie banked again, denying Larandus the sight of the ensuing carnage. Another turn. He saw rebels being cut down by the disciplined advance of the Cammar 31st. Another turn. He saw more rebels coming in to join the fight. This was the Army of Light that Taldran had spoken of. What they lacked in skill, they certainly made up for in numbers. Qudea's force could be overwhelmed if she was not careful. Then another turn. He vaguely heard Xin saying something about making a final approach. They would have to drop onto a roof and make their way from there. Xin could not do anything better with a damaged craft and enemies chasing him. But Larandus was not paying full attention. He was fixed on the scene he saw below him. Qudea, dismounted, cut off from her Deathguard by the press of bodies. Glowing white energy arcing from her sword as she cut this way and that. Xin was flying so low that he could see the Priestess clearing a circle around herself, sword in one hand, a heavy medallion in the other. In a brief lull, she raised the symbol of her god, pointing her sword at the oncoming mob. Larandus shuddered as he realised he was witnessing Amardian sorcery, but he could not tear his eyes away. In a flash of light and blood, he saw twenty men explode. Their bones were ripped right out of their bodies, still articulated, as their muscles and bloody organs, still wrapped in skin, fell forward, screaming. Then, by some dark magic, their animated skeletons turned and began to fight against the rushing cultists. The spectacle revolted him. All of it happened in the space of a few seconds. Then they were flying over the ruined barbican and then over the old stronghold's bailey and courtyards, surrounded by broken masonry. The flyer slowed to a hovering stop over a flat section of roof, with crenelations still intact. Xin was shouting 'Go, go!' over the intercom. The remaining Pathfinders were out of their harnesses in an instant, grabbing their swords and leaping gracefully out of the open hatch. Larandus followed, holding onto his peaked hat, dropping only six feet to the solid masonry, with Dansh and Siel close behind him. He felt dry heat wash over him as the Valkyrie's engines roared, the craft shrieking into the sky with two flyers in pursuit. Soon, it was gone, out of sight behind the mountains. With five Imperial Pathfinders and his two longest-serving colleagues, Larandus made his way down a stairway leading into the heart of the fortress, towards their target. They made their way down crumbling stairways and torchlit corridors, Larandus in the lead with a Pathfinder beside him. The place was dusty, and the stench of age and decaying plant matter hung heavily in the air. Crawling vines had worked their way through the stones in places. There were no tapestries or carpets, and the place was numbingly cold, so stark and out of the sun as it was. Dansh was not helping matters by scanning constantly with his mind, frost filming over the floor where he stepped, the coldness of the corridors keeping it from melting away. They were no longer trying to hide. Their enemies already knew they were here. Now, they were only trying to make the best time they could. Qudea and her force were only intended to keep the strength of the cult's Army of Light busy with the credible threat they posed, but they were not enough to storm the fortress except by some great fortune. Or Qudea's sorcery, Larandus thought. The sight of the rebels' skeletons coming to life and leaving their bodies was still fresh in his mind. Despite Qudea's attack, there were still men in the fortress, probably recalled at the last minute when their enemies realised that the attack was intended as a diversion. In a chamber that may have once been a banqueting hall, Larandus' group ran into a small force of rebels. These were not rabble, evidenced by their disciplined use of cover and their use of guns. Larandus and the Pathfinders took cover behind blocks of masonry that had fallen from the ceiling a long time ago. Sunlight streamed in through the holes they had left behind, lighting up the dusty chamber with blades of radiance. Shadows flickered in the strobing light of gunfire. The Pathfinders were true to their reputation. Their carbines barked only occasionally, each shot well-aimed and intended to conserve ammunition. Siel and Dansh were nearby, her with another carbine and him with a revolver. Shots buzzed overhead, gouging holes into the ancient stones. Then one of the Pathfinders, after a quick assessment of their enemies' positions, pulled a pair of hand-bombs from his belt, releasing the catches and throwing them into the rebels' midst in one smooth movement. There was a loud bang, and then Larandus was leading his men out of cover, bravely facing the fire of those of their enemies who still managed to shoot, gunning them down, then laying into their stunned opponents with cold steel. Pausing only to check that all the rebels were well and truly dead, they moved on. They lost one Pathfinder in the final charge. Finally, they reached an immense chamber, dug into the mountainside, that had once been the chapel of the fort's Imperial Cult mission. The statue of the First Emperor had been cast down, and a huge effigy of a winged reptile with wicked teeth, wrapped around a spire of rock, stood in its place. It was great and terrible to behold. The chapel was lit with thousands of candles in large candelabras and in tiered banks along the walls. The roof had fallen in in places. Stone chips and debris littered the floor. Immediately, they were diving for cover as gunfire cracked around the chapel. The Pathfinders were firing with discipline, but they were soon running low on ammunition. Soon, the skirmish would be down to blades. The enemies were firing at a much greater rate, and they would finish their stocks of ammunition quickly. Larandus was not firing. He was saving his revolver for when the shots would matter. 'I'm out!' Siel called as she emptied the cylinders of her carbine into an unlucky rebel. The man bucked upwards as the first shot smashed into his chin, then jerked backwards in a macabre dance as the rest of her bullets found his torso. Her cry was echoed by one Pathfinder, shortly followed by the other three. Larandus heard cursing from the rebels. They, too, were out. The Pathfinders loosed their remaining hand-bombs at the rebels' positions, throwing up mangled bodies and gobs of gore with bone-shaking rumbles of noise and blinding flashes. But there were survivors, and now they emerged from cover, weapons in hand. The Pathfinders met them eagerly, swords in hand and working with practiced efficiency. Siel followed them in, her knives more than a match for the rebels, though their desperation pressed her into the defensive more often than not. Larandus waded into the combat, his sabre drawn. He dodged a high cut from a sword-wielding rebel, then parried the following thrust to the left, his sword rasping against his opponent's blade as he forced it down, striking the man in the face with the grip of his revolver as he closed in. He followed the stunning blow with a draw-cut that spilled the rebel's guts out onto the floor. He turned in time to block another rebel's scything blade, and broke the man's kneecap with a booted heel. He finished him off with his sabre as he lay writhing on the floor. The Pathfinders were putting the last of the rebels to the sword. He saw Ancrus Zren just as Dansh cried out behind him. He felt the temperature in the chamber drop dramatically, and his breath began to mist in front of his face. Blood on the floor was beginning to ice over. Siel shrieked, and he saw her hurled backwards into a pillar. She collapsed, unconscious. There was a psychic battle in progress, but his attention was fixed on his once torturer. He only spared enough attention for the rest of the battle to notice the Pathfinders collapse, gibbering as they clawed at their faces, caught too close to Okarth as he stepped out of the shadows, his mind locked in battle with Dansh. Zren was coming at him with a sword. They clashed, forte to forte, his face inches from Larandus'. He could smell the stench of Zren's breath, could hear the snarl forming in his throat. His eyes were bloodshot, and filled with a furious fire that Larandus was sure his own eyes matched. He pushed away from Zren, circling as he brought his blade down in a draw-cut. Zren parried, and Larandus sidestepped his thrust. Their feet were stepping lightly between fallen men and over slippery puddles of frosted blood. For several exhausting minutes, they traded blows. Then, far quicker than what Larandus had seen before, Zren lunged. He only barely managed to drop his sabre down and push the blade away with the basket hilt, but it still managed to draw a gash along his side. Larandus gasped with the pain, then found himself on the floor, his beloved sabre clattering uselessly beside him. He had stumbled over a corpse as he reeled from the blow. His side burned. He coughed up blood. He saw Zren advancing, laughing. The tip of Zren's sword was at his throat. 'You can never do anything right, Greycoat,' Zren taunted him. 'You could at least die with dignity, I suppose.' Staring at Zren's mocking face with hatred, looking down the bloodstained length of his sword, Larandus had other ideas. The point of Zren's sword hovered by his throat, taunting him. He would wait there while Larandus bled to death, even if it took hours. Larandus shot him. With a gasp, he stumbled backwards, his free hand clutching at the wound in his stomach, his eyes wide with shock. Larandus' revolver whined in his hand. Struggling to his feet, Larandus thumbed the hammer back. Zren was on the floor now, their positions being ironically reversed. He refrained from making Zren's mistake of long-winded taunting. 'You idiot,' was all he said as he put a bullet through Ancrus Zren's forehead. His skin [puncture]led. He almost stumbled from agony as the wound in his side began to freeze over. He remembered that Okarth and Dansh were still fighting. Dansh was on his knees, the floor around him completely frozen. The ice was splitting the ancient stones like a miniature glacier as it spread out even further. Vapour in the air was freezing up and falling like snow around him. Okarth, no more than ten feet away, was similarly exerting himself. Dansh's expression was one of pure agony, his eyes shut tight in his pale face. Tears were freezing as they came. Larandus stumbled towards the battling pair just as Dansh's mind collapsed. For a moment, Larandus glimpsed visions that mortal minds were not meant to see. He saw suns dying, mountains crumbling to ash. He saw entire universes aflame, and a great monster, a dragon, consuming worlds. And those were only the horrors that he could describe. In one brief moment, he was exposed to terror that went beyond imagining. He fought the psychic assault. His brain was on fire inside his skull. His mind was slowly being torn apart, but he fought with every shred of strength he could. Because it was his duty, he fought Okarth's assault. Then, as soon as it had come, it was gone. Larandus' thumb was pulling back the hammer on his revolver, his hand working automatically as he emptied the revolver into Okarth's skeletal frame. Concentrated as he had been on Dansh, he had no power to spare to defend himself against physical attack. Larandus reduced his chest to a pulp before the weapon clicked empty. But by then, it was too late to save Dansh.

CHAPTER XI: ALLIANCE THE DEATH-CULT came at dawn. Larandus could say in all honesty that he was not a man easily cowed. No Greycoat was. But the sight of the thirty towering, masked warriors in their white armour was enough to unnerve the best of men. They were eerily quiet as they strode down the hallway to present themselves in the Eagle Hall. They came riding huge black warhorses, which the Palace stable hands were visibly uncomfortable handling. They left their armaments with their mounts, but even without their lances or broadswords, they were incredibly intimidating. Their leader, in contrast to the train of warriors, was a frail-looking, white-haired Amardian woman by the name of Qudea. She wore a simple white robe and a heavy medallion depicting a skull without its lower jaw. For some reason he could not quite explain, Larandus found the sight of her more disarming than the thirty hulking Deathguard that came with her. She was a priest of the Amardian death-god, Koroon. They were the first delegation from the colonies to come to the Imperial Palace, and Larandus found it interesting that the Amardians chose to send death cultists to the talks. 'You are not comfortable,' Qudea told him as he escorted them to the Eagle Hall. He was in full dress uniform, and he wore it for its effect, as well as to remind himself that he was at least as dangerous as any of these hulking warriors. He hoped that was the case, at least. 'I am unused to being in the company of your kind, Lady,' he replied. She gave him a mirthless smile. 'Many are, Agent. Many are.' She had a lilting tone to her voice, and her words were heavily accented. 'It is not customary for the Amardians to send a priest and her holy warriors as a diplomatic envoy,' Larandus commented. 'I was not expecting this sort of delegation.' She waved away his statement. 'We are not here to talk of peace, Agent. We are here because Koroon's work demands that we be here. No doubt you are aware of the heresies being committed in your Empire? The Grinning Skull will not abide these wanton acts of heathen sacrifice. A death not dedicated to Koroon is a death cursed and wasted. Understand that, Agent.' So they were here to work against the Cult of Vrakyl, Larandus realised. He did not think the news would have spread so far. He forced himself into passivity. Would he have to work with this death-cult? He saw how they could be useful, and he knew that Lord Sezarn would not tolerate foreigners, especially dangerous ones like these, to roam freely in Imperial lands without supervision. Larandus thought that he would prefer flying with Xin to spending more than an hour, if even that, in the company of these cultists. There were rumours that every one of them was a sorcerer, and their priests could raise the dead to fight for them. He found the idea repellent. He was not comfortable with magic, preferring instead the subtle mind tricks of telepaths. At least they could only affect the living. The Eagle Hall was empty save for Lord Sezarn, who sat in his hover-chair in front of the Eagle Throne's dais. He was still crippled, but he managed to exude an air of authority that would have been hard to match, let alone outdo. He looked every bit the Minister of the Interior, and the mere force of his presence was enough to remind anyone that they stood before one of the most powerful men in the Empire. He greeted the Amardians with a curt nod. 'The Emperor sends his regrets,' he said, his voice echoing around the cavernous chamber. 'He has pressing matters to attend to. I trust you had an uneventful journey, Priestess Qudea?' 'Save the pleasantries,' Qudea told him gently. The Amardians were notoriously to the point. 'We are not here to bandy words. We are here to perform the work of Koroon. This heathen cult of the Dragon has been found performing acts of depravity in our lands, and we are only here to ensure that you understand we are not working against the Empire.' Sezarn's eyebrows rose. 'There is more to this, Priestess. We have our own business regarding the Cult of Vrakyl. You would do well to cooperate. If our aims are like, then we might perform our tasks that much better.' 'I thought as much,' said Qudea. 'We do not intend to lose time investigating, however. Our divinations have shown that the Cult intends to slaughter a great multitude, in order to bring their sleeping god to life. We cannot allow this.' 'With all due respect to your faith,' Sezarn ventured, 'while we do believe that they plan to liquidate a large number of people, the more... superstitious aspect of their act does not worry us so much. We of the Empire do not set much trust to acts of the divine.' 'Are you willing to take the risk, though?' Qudea asked him pointedly. Slowly, hesitantly, Sezarn shook his head. 'Good. Then we can agree that we work for sympathetic causes. You can worry about your citizens. We can worry about a wayward heathen god. I am sure that we find some way to cooperate. Who do you have leading your own investigations?' Larandus was dreading that question. He barely suppressed a groan as Sezarn said, 'Imperial Agent Larandus Zekar. The one beside you, Priestess.' Despite her personal power and differing priorities, Larandus found Priestess Qudea to be a keen learner. She readily accepted his findings as fact. She did not insult his intelligence by doubting his work. In the space of a day, she had studied all of his reports surrounding this case, and had presented him with her own findings and deductions. Her writing was concise, simple and elegant. She was not one to bandy idle words when more important things needed to be said. Though Larandus found her prose exhaustingly focused on religion and superstition, he recognised her work as one of measured thoughts and cunning logic. It was a pity that they were technically at war, he thought. They could have learned much from each other in terms of scholarship. Of course, he took her religious dogma with more than a grain of salt, but he still paid heed to it. After all, he did not want to take the risk that it was true and be unprepared for it. She respected his work enough to take it seriously, after all. He could at the very least be civil and do the same for her. That the thought would not even have crossed the minds of many Greycoats to take the colonials seriously was a tragic failing in Larandus' eyes. 'Know your enemy,' his old mentor, Ryzal, once told him. That meant to take them seriously, because they took themselves seriously. 'Is it true, Priestess,' Larandus ventured, 'that you of Amardia are sorcerers?' He wanted to be sure. She answered with a smile. Always that cold, emotionless expression. 'No, Agent. We are not sorcerers. We merely channel the energies of our faith and use the power to perform our holy work.' 'I see,' Larandus said. So they were sorcerers. Sorcerers and mages. To many people, there was no distinction, but as Greycoats often needed to deal with threats of the magical sort, they were taught the differences. Mages learned their art and the discipline that came with it; sorcerers were dangerous mutants, born with a spark of magic in their bodies and commanding it without any learned self-control. There was considerable enmity. Mages persecuted sorcerers, and for their part, sorcerers hated their oppressors with a passion. The results of feuding were generally catastrophic. Dramaskus City was largely spared from such arcane fury, as its wild magic made the practice too risky. 'What of you?' Qudea returned his question. 'I have heard that you Imperial folk make use of the mindtouched. The telepaths, you call them.' 'Only some of us, Lady,' he told her. 'Many of my people fear the telepath. I myself find them very useful, but most hate them because they are so very different from us. Like sorcerers, they are different from the day they are born. Many cannot abide them, but I believe they make excellent servants of the Emperor.' 'Indeed? We have a few in Amardia. They are celebrated in my land. Their souls are blessed by the creator god, Andur, and each is fated to fulfill a single purpose of import. At least, that is our belief. When one is found, it is taken in by Andur's priests, and schooled in their ways. It keeps them safe, and allows them to perform their intended duties.' 'That seems to be nothing more than just another form of oppression,' Larandus told her frankly. She laughed, a sound as chilling as her smile. 'It is, indeed. It is interesting how the gods work, is it not?' There was only one temple dedicated to the death-god in the entire city of Dramaskus. It was a stark edifice of white stone, surrounded by expansive graveyards and mausoleums. Larandus had only ever seen the temple from a distance, and being so near to it made him uneasy. It was little more than a high, domed marble roof supported by a ring of columns. In the centre, there was a raised altar of white marble with only a simple black cloth cover it. The grim symbol of Koroon covered most of the floor. The interior of the dome was painted, strangely enough, with pastoral scenes of peasants harvesting wheat and other crops. According to Qudea, the death-god was also the Amardian deity governing the harvest, just as their creator-god promoted growth. The Amardians, Larandus thought, were rather dualistic people. They were as capable of creating works of great beauty as they were of destroying them. Their faith was centred on principles of opposing halves and continuing cycles of growth and decay. It was not an uncommon system of belief, given the elementary nature of the seasons and the eternal cycle of day and night, but the Amardians were the only proponents of such philosophy to ever grow into a powerful civilisation. It was fascinating. Larandus thought that he would have studied the colonial civilisations more had he not become a Greycoat. Qudea and her thirty Deathguard performed their rites at dusk. Larandus later learned that the priesthood of Andur conducted services at dawn. More of this cyclic duality. Larandus took Siel and Xin with him to watch the rituals, out of respect for their allies. Qudea had invited Larandus to attend the ceremony, reasoning that it would allow him to better understand the principles that drove her and her Deathguard. He certainly wanted to have a fair knowledge of their psychology, so that he could anticipate how they would act when the time came to root out the Cult of Vrakyl. As their faith governed their lives, he thought that by watching the Deathguard at prayer, he could at least find some measure of understanding. The ceremony was as sombre as Larandus expected it to be. Qudea's sermon was unexpectedly long-winded, given what Larandus knew of her, but he understood that she was as devoted to her god as he was to the Emperor and his Empire. She could spare her breath for his doctrine. There was talk of duty, of obligation and honour. Larandus found that the religious dogma was, in many ways, similar to the indoctrination that he received as a student of the Academy, the Imperial creed that was now very much a part of who he was. The finer points of mysticism and theology, he did not pay much attention to. It was superstition, after all. He only gave enough thought to it to understand that Qudea and her warriors saw themselves as being guided by their god in this task, and they were willing to do anything to deny the Cult of Vrakyl their 'heathen' sacrifice. Koroon was a jealous god when it came to death and the souls of mortals, apparently. After the sermon, the Deathguard took it in turns to mount the dais and receive Qudea's blessing. They still wore their masks, but were clad in drab grey robes instead of their armour. Even under their bulky coverings, Larandus saw that they were, to a man, heavily muscled and powerful. They moved with a grace born of many battles. They all had an air of menace and power, and Larandus had no wish to find himself out of their good graces. Once done with the blessings, Qudea led the Deathguard in a low, sorrowful hymn. Larandus did not understand the words, but he felt the spirit of their song in their sombre harmonics and low tones. He shivered, not from the chill breeze that blew through the temple's columns. Siel and Xin were visibly uncomfortable. They possessed that fear of the unknown that was characteristic of all humans in general, and Dramaskans in particular. The following day, Qudea asked Larandus to take her to the site where the Temple of the Emperors once stood. He obliged out of respect, not knowing exactly what her reasons were. He took Dansh with him; Siel and Xin were out of the city for the day, seeing to the flyer they would use in the coming mission. Larandus planned to head south and strike at the Cult of Vrakyl within the next few days. Qudea had one of the Deathguard with her, a giant of a man named Rordis. He walked with them without speaking, striding easily in his plate armour as though he wore nothing at all. Lord Sezarn provided an escort of six Palace Guard, and they matched Rordis in their graceful movements. Their black armour was a stark contrast to his white. Their hands never strayed far from their weapons. Larandus thought that they were trying to impress the big Deathguard. He was sure that they did not need to; the Amardians knew the Dramaskan Palace Guard by reputation, and respected them in the way of worthy adversaries. The alliance was merely an excuse not to rise to the challenge. The Temple of the Emperors was a burned out shell resting in the midst of expansive gardens in the inner city. Mourning hung heavily on the air like a cloud as Larandus watched the crews of workmen still clearing away the debris of the fateful fire. He could see where the temple had been struck with mining charges. The priests and devotees inside at the time stood no chance. The place was never guarded, there being no need to. It was sacrosanct, and the very idea of it being defiled in this way was unthinkable, at least before the Sons of Zannariamus had struck. 'A pity,' said Qudea, he hands clasped behind her back as she looked at the ruined monument. 'My people helped build this temple, when we were still slaves of your Empire. When I saw it last, it was almost as beautiful as the Great Temples of Andur and Koroon at the holy city's Plaza of Dawn and Dusk. It stood for more than a thousand years, and is now a testament to Koroon's will that all things end.' 'I did not know,' Larandus apologised. 'Of course you didn't,' Qudea forgave him with a cold smile. 'Why would they tell you that the temple they built to honour their deified Emperors was created by the hands of barbarians? At any rate, you had no need to know. But we never held this against your Empire. It was a beautiful place, and those who built it later said that they had been proud to make such a thing for a people mighty enough to become their conquerors. Remember, Agent, we only broke away from your Empire when you ceased to remind us that you had reason to rule. A pity, indeed. My people value strength, and even in these waning days, your Empire still possesses a great amount of it.' 'I did not visit it often,' Larandus told her. 'My work does not allow me much time for diversions like these. I admire the Blessed Emperors, but I would not shirk my duties to worship them. They would not wish me to, I think.' 'Good,' Qudea approved. 'Duty should never be abandoned for the sake of worship. However, in our case, duty and worship are one and the same. Koroon is a demanding god, but a practical one.' 'I would think so. I am sure there is plenty of work for him.' 'One would hope, Agent. If there was no death to placate him, then we are not doing ours properly.' 'This is what you really think of our allies, Zekar?' Lord Sezarn asked him that night, as he sat behind his desk, reading Larandus' report. 'Yes, Lord,' Larandus said. 'I would not put it into my report if it was not the truth as I see it.' 'You must remember, Zekar, that whatever else, these people are still our enemies. We are only working with them because we have a common enemy. It would not do for one of our own to admire them so, least of all an agent of the Ministry.' 'Take it as you will, Lord,' Larandus told him. 'I only meant to say that I respect Lady Qudea and her Deathguard for their principles and abilities, not that I sympathise with their cause. I agree with you. Regardless of our joined causes, they are still secessionists, and we do need to retake those lands for the betterment of the Empire. But I think that we should not be so heavy-handed with the way we distribute propaganda to encourage the people to hate them, not if we want to reintegrate them into the Empire. Their beliefs, while flawed by superstition, are remarkable similar to our own. They are very similar to us, but it's their differences that make their ideologies less than agreeable.' 'Have you arranged your plans for this operation?' Sezarn inquired, letting the matter lie. He clearly had no wish to argue the point with Larandus at this point in time. 'Yes, Lord,' said Larandus. 'I have made the necessary requests, and coordinated my plans with those of Lady Qudea. We will make our move in two days. The Priestess and her Deathguard departed earlier, and will meet us at Cammar.' 'I saw them leave,' Sezarn said, 'you do not need to remind me. By the Emperor, I hope that this matter is settled soon.' Larandus nodded his agreement. 'I hope so, too, Lord. For all our sakes.'

CHAPTER X: INVESTIGATION THE MINISTRY'S INTERROGATORS acquitted themselves well. Taldran had spent the past two days lying on a table lit starkly with glaring white glowlamps. Teams of six interrogators each worked in shifts to keep him alive and in as much agony as humanly possible. From his seat in the observation gallery above the interrogation floor, Larandus saw nigh on every torture imaginable inflicted on the prisoner. Taldran screamed for hours. Now, he lay on the slab silently, mouth working soundlessly and tears streaming from his eyes as the interrogators carried on their work. Beside Larandus, Lord Sezarn watched his staff perform their duties on his cousin with hatred in his eyes. He did not take the news of Taldran's defection well. That he was now in a hover-chair for the better part of the next three months due to his wounds did not help Taldran's case at all. The Minister had fallen on the traitor with the full fury of the Ministry, and Larandus almost felt pity on him. Given the pace of their work, the interrogators could keep him alive for another two weeks. Two weeks of knowing nothing but pure agony, essential fluids and nutrients pumped directly into his system to sustain him. The interrogators did not limit themselves to physical torture, Larandus knew. At times, they would clear out the chamber, leaving Taldran completely alone in the darkness. Sometimes he would hear noises in the dark, and sometimes the lights would abruptly flicker on, only to die again. There was no order to the torment. Taldran had no rhythm for his mind to hold on to. Larandus understood almost all the methods the interrogators used, having studied them himself. When he saw a novel new way of extracting information, he would note it down. There was a considerable amount of innovation in this field, especially since the years he spent at the Academy. Sometimes, the interrogators would bring in a team of telepaths to visit on Taldran's mind horrors beyond description. Their ministrations walked on the fine knife-edge of sanity, and always left Taldran trying to break his restraints and curl up into a ball, sobbing. Instead, his tears flowed freely down his face and onto his mutilated body. Larandus had never realised before how easily the interrogators of the Ministry of the Interior could break a man. Taldran was the first he had ever watched being subjected to this punishment. The interrogators were imaginative, intelligent and almost boundlessly cruel. Their continued existence was necessary for situations like these, when information needed to be extracted with all speed, and the wrath of the Empire visited on its worst enemies. Okarth's link with him was broken, and the act had shaken Taldran before the interrogators even strapped him into the angled slab. The other occupants of the chamber below were silent, black-armoured Palace Guard, cradling specialised large-bore carbines in their gauntleted hands. Lord Sezarn did not want to take chances with Taldran. 'I think the prisoner is ready to talk,' Larandus said quietly. Sezarn looked up at him, scowling. 'He hasn't suffered enough yet, Zekar,' he said. Larandus peered at the bound, writhing form of Taldran below. No, he had not suffered enough. The extent of his treachery warranted agony far beyond what even the interrogators could provide. 'All things considered, sir,' Larandus said, 'I would much rather begin extracting information before the interrogators broke him completely.' Sezarn waved his agreement. 'Quite so. Do be quick. I am not yet satisfied.' The interrogation chamber was a wide, cold space under the Ministry annexe, with walls of white tile and innumerable implements of torture hanging on its walls, displayed almost reverentially behind glass screens. There were tubes and piping crawling across the ceiling, feeding power to the lights and even more sophisticated instruments nearer to the slab, which sat in a pool of furious white radiance. There was a wide grate in the floor beneath the slab, collecting blood and keeping the rest of the slightly sloped floor spotless. Cabling trailed behind a tiny automated scrubber, which made its rounds of the chamber on spidery legs, wiping stray flecks of gore from the walls and floors. Scented smoke spilled from a hanging censer in billowing clouds. The interrogators were all uniformly clad in robes of brilliant scarlet, their faces covered with burnished silver masks. Their hands were gloved, and moved with graceful expertise. Larandus had never seen an interrogator unmasked. He was not sure that he wanted to. They were, according to others, perfectly human in appearance, but their work left them dead inside. Larandus had no wish to see their blank eyes and inhumanly cruel countenance. Deep inside, he loathed them, but accepted them as servants of the Emperor. Just another necessary evil. Larandus wore a simple black suit, with his grey coat on his shoulders. The Palace Guards at the door saluted him smartly, their faces hidden behind the black iron masks of their helmets. They wore archaic plate armour, and besides their carbines, they had wicked swords hanging from their belts. The interrogators stepped away from their work, bowing slightly as he approached. Taldran was a mess. Most of his skin had been removed, and there were needles in his flesh. His eyes were wired open, water dripping into them, his lips cracked. 'Hello, Taldran,' Larandus said simply, pacing around the slab. It was made of polished marble, almost as though the prisoner was some sort of votive offering. 'It's nice to see you well. Are you liking your stay?' There was a groan. Larandus walked around to face him. 'Your cousin is not happy with you, Taldran,' he told the raw, bleeding form before him. 'I might consider persuading him to restrain the interrogators a little, but only if you tell me what I want to know. Is that too much to ask?' Taldran whimpered pathetically. There was the barest hint of his head shaking. 'Good,' said Larandus with a mirthless smile. 'How long have you served Okarth?' 'Since... capture,' Taldran managed to breathe. His voice was weak, and it must have taken a lot of effort to speak. But he could talk, and that was enough for Larandus. 'Promised me... life... power...' Larandus shook his head slowly. 'Were you the one who told him I was in Zelke?' Taldran nodded. 'I didn't appreciate that, Taldran, do you know? But I won't hold it against you. After all, if Okarth hadn't been there, I wouldn't have hurried back so soon. I bet you weren't expecting that, were you? Your master thought his plans safe enough to gloat about them. Now they've failed. Imagine that.' 'Not... yet...' Taldran gasped. 'Emperor... dead...' 'Yes,' Larandus said. 'But we have a new one. You know that. You didn't kill him. Now, enough of that. Tell me, Taldran, where is Okarth? What were his plan after killing the Emperor?' 'Don't know...' 'How unfortunate,' Larandus shook his head, standing. 'The interrogators might have to keep working, after all.' 'No...' Taldran's voice was pleading. 'No... please...' 'Tell me, then. Give me a reason to reconsider.' 'Army... of light... cleanse... the broken people... of the Empire...' 'What is this light?' Larandus asked. 'What did Okarth show you?' Taldran shook his head weakly, silently. 'Tell me!' Larandus snapped. There was a shrill beeping from behind him. 'Heart rate rising,' one of the interrogators said, her voice cold and muffled by her mask. 'Subject is under stress.' 'Tell me, Taldran,' Larandus persisted. 'What is this light?' More silent shaking. Taldran's body began to convulse. He let out a piteous wail of agony. 'Subject is seizing,' the interrogator said. 'Telepaths report implanted psychic trigger. Continued inquiry about this subject may cause subject's death. Subject is losing consciousness.' Larandus stared at Taldran as he writhed on the slab. At least he knew that the 'light' was an important enough subject for Okarth to have spent the power necessary to embed a trigger in Taldran's mind. There was no way to remove it without killing the traitor. 'Bring him back,' he told the interrogators as he turned to leave. 'We are not finished with him.' 'As you wish,' said the female interrogator, giving him a short bow as her fellows began to go about their work once more. Siel recovered from her mental trauma over the two days following their capture of Taldran. On the third day, Larandus was pleased to see her taking Xin down to the Valley of the Emperors to exercise their idle muscles and enjoy the fresh air. The downpours had all but stopped, and cold winds were blowing through the Dramaskan valley. Larandus stood by the window of his parlour, staring out across the magnificent landscape of the inner city. There was an eagle circling overhead, searching for prey. The clock showed noon, and the weak sun was obscured by silver-edged clouds. There were carriages and hover-coaches hurrying up and down the Emperor's Way. The word in the city was that the old Emperor had succumbed to a sickness that he had fought for years, and Dramaskus was in mourning. The bleakness that enveloped the city was tempered with a sense of hope, however, as the people were celebrating the ascension of the new Emperor. According to custom, Prince Terendal would not truly be the Emperor until his coronation at the beginning of the new year, still some months away, but the knowledge that they still had an Emperor would keep the Dramaskans' spirits up through the winter. The news of the Temple of the Emperors' destruction had not been publicised, and the official story was that it was undergoing reconstruction. The Imperial Senate did not think twice of tightly controlling public opinion. Lord Sezarn, especially, was prepared to do almost anything to curtail the damage done by Okarth's plotting. The Empire, Larandus thought, survived by lies as much as anything else. 'He is irredeemable,' Lord Sezarn was saying. He was sitting in his humming hover-chair as Larandus walked beside him down one of the Palace's expansive corridors. 'What he did was inexcusable. Party to a conspiracy, attempting to kill a member of the Imperial family, attacking Imperial servants. No, we have to execute him.' 'Has he provided any new information?' Larandus ventured, hoping against hope. 'No,' said Sezarn. Larandus said nothing. He still did not like Sezarn. After all, it was him who forced Taldran into that raid that led to their capture by the Sons of Zannariamus. But then, he thought, if Taldran had not been snared by Okarth, the Sons' plans would still have been carried out, if a little later. It was merely a stroke of luck that events had turned out they way they did. Still, Larandus now at least held a little respect for his superior. It took a certain measure of devotion to condemn one's own family to the ministrations of the interrogators. For his part, Larandus still believed that Sezarn was furious with him over the fiasco surrounding his son a few years ago, but at least now the issue of Taldran's trial was out of his mind. Traitors like Taldran, after all, did not deserve trials. 'You realise, of course,' Sezarn said, 'that the colonies will try to test the new Emperor's power once they learn of his ascension. This matter of the Sons of Zannariamus has to be resolved soon. I do not want Imperial resources to be split between this and a possible confrontation along our western borders. The Senate has made it clear that they intend to reassert Imperial authority in the colonies in the next round of talks, but I know damn well that it won't lead to anything but another skirmish.' 'I am doing my best, Lord,' Larandus said pointedly. 'Of course you are, Zekar,' Sezarn dismissed him. 'But you might have to make do with less. I hear the Amardians have been seen moving in force through the Fields of Steel already, and a delegation is on the way. The Rallenes are licking their wounds from their last confrontation with the Arragesh, who're taking the Amardians' lead to march east. The Dollurh and Delrani might be following, if they're done feuding.' 'Do you think that this conspiracy may have been calculated to allow the Empire to be easy pickings for the former colonies, Lord?' 'The possibility has crossed my mind. What are your thoughts, Zekar?' 'This... "light" that Taldran keeps mentioning. Kelsen also said something about it before he died. It sounds like some sort of religious symbol or figure, and we know that the colonies are deeply superstitious, with the exception of Rallim. My thought is that the Arragesh may be pushing their agenda here, as they worship a sun deity.' Sezarn shook his head. 'Sound reasoning, but I doubt it. The brutal murders linked to the conspiracy are completely out of character for the Arragesh. The temples of Halura in the city were decrying them for months, remember? They were blaming the Amardians.' 'I don't believe their accusations, Lord,' Larandus argued. 'The Amardians' death-cult are not as public about their murders, and those usually occur in their temples. The Ministry is aware of this, Lord. You even sanction their activities because they almost always remove our inconveniences. However, one other possibility has struck me as very probable.' 'Go on,' Sezarn said, intrigued. 'The Cult of Vrakyl,' Larandus said. 'I thought there might be a religious connection, but I wasn't sure. I had my staff look through the Archives and the libraries in the Tower of the Art for information on more obscure religious sects. There is a group within the Dragon Cults that worships the outcast dragon-god Vrakyl. They say that the dragon-god demands ritual murders, and death on a large scale. It certainly suits the agenda that Taldran hinted at.' 'Are you sure, Zekar?' 'I have an idea, Lord...' The interrogators were preparing fresh instruments when Larandus and Sezarn entered the chamber. Taldran was moaning softly on the slab. They had been working on him constantly since Larandus last saw him two days ago. He was alive, given a liberal definition of the word. A group of blue-robed telepaths were leaving the chamber, having finished their work on the prisoner. Taldran was barely conscious. It was taking at least as much effort to keep him alive as it did to leave him on the edge of death. The interrogation chamber was even colder today, and Larandus drew his coat around him. Sezarn moved his hover-chair to position himself in front of his wayward second cousin, his lip curling in disgust. Here was a man he had trusted, now everything that he as a faithful servant of the Emperor abhorred. 'I am merciful, Marcus,' Sezarn whispered as he turned away to give Larandus the floor. 'This is more than you deserve, Taldran,' Larandus said as he stepped forward. 'I would have them keep you alive for far longer, so you know the price of betrayal. But your knowledge will serve the Empire far better than your suffering ever will. So, tell me,' he asked, leaning forward, 'what do you know of Vrakyl?' Almost immediately, Taldran began to jerk in agony. Larandus stepped back, his suspicions confirmed. He looked to the interrogators. 'The subject is dying,' said one as he leaned over a glowing panel. 'The psychic trigger is more powerful for that line of questioning.' 'Let him,' Sezarn told the interrogators. 'Let his death be his final act of service.' Larandus spent the next few days sequestered in the Archives, digging up as much information as he could about the Cult of Vrakyl. The Imperial records showed that it was largely a minor nuisance, operating out of an ancient ruined fort in southern Dramaskus. The site was sacrosanct, being a site of religious significance, and thus local authorities had never had a powerful enough excuse to root out the cult that had hidden itself there. The Dragon Cults were far-flung and powerful, and nobody had any wish to antagonise them. There would be widespread repercussions. People would go to surprising lengths in the name of faith. That was the price of superstition, Larandus thought. Take the provinces of the Amardian region, for instance. Four great temple-cities, each home to one or more great temples to the innumerable gods that the people of the plains believed in. Worship of the six most powerful was spread throughout the known world, and rivaled even the Imperial Cult in influence in the city of Dramaskus itself. In the name of those gods, oceans of blood had been spilled, and many more wars would be fought, in Larandus' estimation, before their followers killed each other off. The Sons of Zannariamus were originally just another group of anarchists, until the Cult of Vrakyl managed to put one of theirs in charge. Then, the rebels began to sacrifice 'informers' - really, just the men and women who were considered expendable. The ultimate goal was to plunge the Empire into chaos with the death of the Imperial family. To what end, Larandus was not certain. He was no expert on religious ritual, and he had no wish to involve the Amardian death-cult in the matter as of yet. Dansh was helping him in his research. He took some time to recover from the shock of fighting Okarth, and was still weaker than ever. Larandus heard from his staff that Dansh had been spending long hours in meditation and other mental exercises. He thought that to mean that the telepath was preparing himself for another confrontation with Okarth. Telepaths could not see into the future, but Larandus thought that Dansh was showing an incredible amount of foresight. He knew that he would appreciate Dansh's aid later, though. Siel and Xin were taking more time to reacquaint themselves with each other. Larandus allowed them their time alone. He had no pressing matters for them to attend to, and allowing them to sort themselves out was a way of avoiding any inconvenience later. He was not entirely sure of what to make of Siel's relationship with the half-elven pilot. He had no experience in that area; he had no time to find any. Duty consumed him. Privately, he gave Xin his unvoiced thanks for keeping Siel's mind away from her recent trauma. The confrontation at the drop-off near Zelke had affected her deeply, and Larandus felt that allowing her to divert herself with Xin was better in the long run. Dansh agreed, and that was enough for him. The research work was taxing. They were exhausting the Archives with their cross-referencing and thorough investigation. However, their efforts were well rewarded. Five days after Taldran's death, he dropped a thick report on Lord Sezarn's desk personally. 'They have an army,' he said. 'We have two weeks before they make their move.'

Tell your parents you want to get into Warhammer 40k. Watch them cry.

I once knew a teacher who tried very hard to push her ultra-radical environmentalist views on students and fellow staff members. She had posters up and everything. In response, the other teachers in her staffroom started photocopying large articles and textbook excerpts for use in class. Some dealt with environmental management, just for irony. It was hilarious at the time.

INTERLUDE: VISIONS A MEMORY. Dramaskus City, Forge District 11, four years earlier. The air reeked of wood smoke and pulverised concrete. There were troops of workmen scurrying about, pushing carts full of debris and pulling objects free of wreckage. There was a containment crew huddled around a ruptured boiler, working frantically to kill it. There were carriages and hover-coaches parked around the scene. Occasionally, one would hurry off, spiriting away the wounded for treatment at medical facilities, or taking the dead to morgues for later identification. There was a row of corpses laid out on the street, shrouded with canvas covers. A crowd had gathered outside the black and yellow rope the local watch had set up around the area. A light rain was beginning to fall, and it threw up an oily stench as it soaked the hot, dry pavement. Some browncoats were moving along the edge of the crowd, keeping them pacified, but really, they did not need encouragement. There was a Greycoat on the scene, and the last thing anyone wanted to do was cause trouble. The people looking on were shocked, and they demanded answers. So did Larandus. This residential tower was, until the night before, a home for hundreds of workers who made their living in the vast smelteries and forges in this part of the city. Larandus was not pleased. He never liked to see Imperial lives wasted like this, not when they otherwise would have contributed greatly to the Empire's glory by toiling in the Emperor's forges and filling production quotas. He was not concerned out of any soft sentiment, but because it was his duty to protect people like these from the enemies of the Empire. Now, there was a gaping hole in the skyline where clouds could be seen, grey as the iron that once made up the tower's supports. The structure was now little more than a crumbling, gnarled amalgamation of concrete and metal, the remains of its iron skeleton twisted as it raised broken beams and unrecognisable fingers of warped steel to the sky. There was no full report to speak of the event. 'You're not having a good week, are you?' Dansh said beside him. He was dressed in a long, dark green coat, which, as per usual, accentuated his spare frame and large head. Many of the crowd were averting their eyes from him, but some were openly staring. Larandus shook his head. No, he was not. Five days ago, he came across a report that an old companion - Larandus hesitated to call him a friend, though that was what he was - Eldrin Kelsen was killed in action against some cultists in Liras. Larandus thought it was a tragic loss for the Empire; Kelsen was a good man. The Interior Ministry needed more of his sort. Two days later, Siel had been shot while trying to stop an armed robbery that she had chanced across while out in town. She was in the infirmary, and while she had been declared stable, the physicians insisted that she remain there for another week or so. Now, there was this disaster to add to Larandus' list of worries. A browncoat handed him a preliminary report, saluting him as he took it but never meeting his gaze. They were calling it an accident. A boiler was apparently modified against regulations and moved to make space, but then ruptured close to a steel support. Then all the other boilers in the tower increased pressure in the pipes to compensate for the loss, and when another blew out, the building was doomed. A drystar boiler was quite a powerful explosive. Larandus did not like this explanation. He refused to believe that three hundred Dramaskan citizens had just died because of a boiler malfunction. To add to that, he had a hunch. 'Call in a few more telepaths,' he told Dansh as he examined the ruins. 'I want to have a personal look at what happened here.' Dansh nodded. He did not need to be given a reason to follow orders. Larandus had some idea of the amount of faith that the frail little man placed in him, and made at least a little effort to keep him up to speed. Of course, Dansh was intelligent enough to come to conclusions on his own, but Larandus was reassuring himself more than anything else. Dansh rarely protested, and then only if there was a considerable amount of danger involved. 'It is done,' said Dansh, after a brief moment of blankness in his pale eyes and a sharp drop in temperature. 'I don't suppose I need to remind you that what you intend to do is a risky and largely untested procedure.' 'I know,' Larandus nodded, picking up a shard of metal, 'but it's been done before. I want to see with my own eyes. This was no accident.' In his hand, he held a piece of brass casing. It could not have been part of a boiler, but it looked as though it had exploded. The four telepaths arrived an hour later, and the crowd parted quickly to allow the black hover-coach that carried them through. They were almost uniformly pale and unhealthy in appearance, their heads shaven and tattooed with black hawk designs. Their leader, a skeletal man named Joun, gave Larandus a short bow, shortly followed by his three subordinates. They were all dressed in plain, unadorned robes of dark red. Larandus had them take position near the tower, with Dansh to guide their minds. He explained what they were to do, and they nodded their understanding only hesitantly. Sending a conscious mind into the past and replaying events in sequence was not a conventional method of investigation. It was dangerous, and despite having telepaths in attendance, very few Greycoats took them seriously enough. There were, after all, mages to do this sort of work with a little more flash and more signs that something was actually happening. Larandus, however, had learned to have faith in the abilities of Dansh's kind, for they were seldom led astray. An interesting side effect of their unconventionality was that very few people ever thought to defend themselves against telepaths. He could feel the minds of the telepaths joining in concert, with Dansh gently driving their collected consciousness into what he desired. Larandus felt the crowd around the area shiver: the temperature had quickly dropped, and the light rain was freezing as soon as it struck the ground. Some people groaned from the sympathetic vibration of the telepaths' minds. Larandus' skin [puncture]led with goosebumps as his breath began to mist in front of his face. 'It is ready,' Dansh's voice said in his head, breathy and echoing. 'Come into the circle.' Steeling himself, Larandus stepped into the circle of telepaths, and tendrils of icy pain crept through his mind as he lapsed into unconsciousness. He opened his eyes. The tower was intact before him. It was night time. The streetscape beyond the tower's immediate vicinity was an indistinct, wavering blur. A pair of men were walking into the tower at ground level. There was a larger group high above, on a bridge junction. Larandus took the exterior stairways quickly and reached the group in the middle of a conversation. All of them were dressed in nondescript bodysuits with plates of dulled steel sewn on. One wore a grey coat and peaked hat. Larandus recognised him as Agent Taldran. So it was a raid. A narcotics mob, from what Larandus heard. Taldran had finished his short talk to his men, and paused to look out beyond the tower before entering. He must have been trying to see if anyone was watching. To Larandus, the cityscape was the same shimmering blur that he saw on the street. Trying to pick out shapes in the distance caused physical pain in his skull. It was like being in a bubble of reality, floating in a sea of shadows and madness. His mind was struggling to make sense of the memory-world. He followed Taldran's retinue in. They were in a hallway, with doors marching along either side towards the far end. Taldran had men posted at each one, and they burst in on signal. Almost immediately, there was gunfire. One of Taldran's men jerked backwards, holes blossoming in his chest as he screamed with his last breath. Larandus felt his death like a lance in his mind, amplified by the psychic connection he had with the memory. There was more shouting and gunfire. A burst of pain signaled multiple deaths happening in sequence. Larandus fought to maintain consciousness. Taldran was following his men into one of the apartments, and Larandus followed him in. He was pumping shots into dim figures in the orange half-light of the room, the sound of his revolver loud in Larandus' ears. Taldran bent down to pick up something, then his face contorted in rage. He cursed loudly. 'Pull out!' he screamed at his men. 'This was a ruse! They're downstairs!' His retinue began to rush back out onto the balcony, firing at indistinct shadows that were trying to flee from the tower. Larandus shook his head in frustration. With that many men, Taldran should have posted a few outside to prevent anyone from escaping. They began to rush down the stairs, forcing their way into the lower levels, guns blazing. Larandus was now constantly aware of death; his mind was ablaze with the psychic screams of the dying. He followed Taldran down. He was shooting indiscriminately, not pausing to check whether he was hitting mobsters or fleeing civilians. Taldran was not taking chances, but he was doing that with reckless abandon and without good judgment. Larandus wanted to scream at him, for all the good that it would do. One of Taldran's henchmen tumbled backwards over the balcony's railing, his forehead a shattered mass of bone and gore. Larandus felt him die. Inwardly he cursed Taldran. His ill preparation had cost him the element of surprise, and now he was becoming desperate. Larandus could sense the desire for success radiating from him in waves. He was at the point where he would do anything to destroy a few mobsters and addicts. He shouted something that Larandus could not hear over the gunfire, and two of his men ran downstairs, each carrying a brass cylinder with a glowing blue light on one end and a heavy seal on the other. Larandus recognised them as mining charges, used for boring holes into rock faces. Realisation dawned on him. This was no accident, and there was nothing he could do about it. He felt helpless. Taldran was calling the few of his men who remained back. They were fighting a surging tide of roughly dressed men and women, laying about themselves with swords and guns as the mob hurled itself at them with tools and other makeshift weapons. The fighting was vicious. Taldran's revolver barked again and again. He had a wicked gleam in his eyes, and he appeared to relish every shot. Larandus hated him. It was as though he did not regret his bumbling. His incompetence was only leading to more death on both sides, but he seemed to enjoy the idea of killing as many of the mob as possible by his own hand. If he did his job properly, Larandus thought, that might have robbed him of his fun. Larandus remembered him as a bully back at the Academy, always ready to torment those weaker than him, and always doing so with glee. He always made sure to never get caught in his acts of malice. He was the sort of Greycoat that fostered the reputation of ruthlessness and terror that was the hallmark of the Ministry's agents. Larandus could find nothing to respect about the man. There was a woman, unarmed, clawing her body away from the press of bodies. She was a civilian caught up in the fury of the assault, dragged unwillingly out of her home by the mob as they swept out to fight Taldran's men. Larandus could hear her wailing as she dragged herself along the iron balcony. She was bleeding from a cut on her brow, but otherwise would live. Taldran shot her. Larandus would never forget her eyes, staring up into the sky as her body jerked from the force of the round that penetrated her lower back. She could not see him, but he felt as though she was accusing him of abandoning them. Ultimately, he knew that the mob was responsible for sweeping her into this situation. But he also knew that it was a Greycoat that put the bullet into her. The psychic scream of her death rang loud in Larandus' mind. Then he saw Taldran backing away over a bridge, becoming just another indistinct blur in the distance as mining charges detonated below and sent a shudder through the structure. Then the scene was frozen before Larandus' eyes: men fighting as the balcony twisted with a scream, a cloud of dust rising from below as the tower collapsed. It was a brutal way to destroy what amounted to little more than just another armed gang. Then the world was moving at full speed once more, and Larandus fell into darkness as the tower fell around him. He could hear screaming. All around him was darkness, and he felt dampness on his face. He thought he was dying. Someone was shouting his name over and over. He felt himself shaking. Eyes snapping open with a gasp, he realised the screaming was his own. Dansh knelt down over him, gripping him by the shoulders and calling him. He was flat on his back on the pavement. His body was aflame with pain, and the agony in his mind was beyond description. Dansh saw that he was awake, and grimaced. 'Don't move, Larandus,' his telepath said. 'What happened?' he managed to gasp. 'Feedback. I got you away before the worst of it, but it's pretty bad. Joun's died instantly, and one of his men broke. We had to kill him before he did any damage. You're hurt. Don't move.' 'Taldran,' Larandus whispered. 'It was him.' 'I saw,' Dansh said. 'Worry about that later.' He stood, looking at someone out of Larandus' field of vision. 'I will send a message to the Palace. I want the two of you to recover a psychic record.' 'But -' 'Do it, damn you!' Dansh shouted, the sound uncanny coming from such a small man. 'I don't care if it kills you! We need that information!' Larandus only vaguely knew what he was talking about. Somehow, a telepath could record what he saw in his mind in a special receptacle, but from what he knew, it took a great amount of energy and was only slightly less dangerous than the memory channel Larandus had just experienced. He tried to prop himself up on his elbows, but the pain was incredible. He was vaguely aware of wounds covering his body. 'Don't move,' Dansh told him again as he knelt back down. 'The psychic feedback caused the memory to affect you as if you were there yourself. I'm keeping you alive, but we need to get you to a good physician, fast.' 'The Ministry,' Larandus choked. Dansh nodded. He looked drawn and tired. 'Iliena will take care of you. Just relax for now.' Larandus blacked out. In retrospect, he never really thanked Dansh properly for saving his life then. As it turned out, the effort of extracting the psychic record did end up killing the two remaining telepaths. Larandus appreciated their sacrifices in pursuit of the Emperor's work, but knew that nobody would mourn them. When a telepath was taken into Imperial service, it was because everyone else had already shunned them. The had no friends, no family. Even while serving the Empire, they were mistrusted and considered dangerous outcasts. In more ways than one, they were remarkably similar to Greycoats. Larandus respected them. They understood that they would never hold the hearts of the people or even those they worked with, but still they did what was required of them because they were faithful and loyal servants of the Emperor. Larandus saw the telepaths as exemplars of what it meant to serve: no matter the stigma, no matter how it personally affected them, to work for the good of the Empire was more than enough to keep them going through the worst of times. Sometimes, Larandus regretted ever thinking of them as below him. What he learned at the Academy reinforced those prejudices, but he now believed that many things which people shunned were much easier to accept if they were used for the good of the Empire. As he expected, his investigation of the disaster yielded few results. The case he had against Taldran was on shaky ground, as the only witnesses to the even were himself and Dansh, and the only evidence they had were a few fragments of brass and a psychic record which was still not considered conclusive evidence by the courts. Larandus thought that a failing of the system, because while it readily accepted like evidence acquired through arcane means, it was not yet ready to do the same for psychic material. As it was, the case was inconclusive, but left open for later appeal. Taldran and his cronies escaped justice for the time being. The proceedings had not endeared Larandus to him. Lord Sezarn had formally requested Larandus to make an official apology, but he insisted that he would not, until the case was carried to completion. The matter did not improve Larandus' relationship with his superior, as he had pursued a case earlier which concluded with the Minister's son being placed under house arrest. At that time, Larandus thought that there would never be anything to make him see the Minister eye to eye. Fate, of course, had different ideas.

In chapter 7 it says that the Phoenix has a gun mounted under the nose, but it doesn't have any under the wings.

Fixed up chapter 1.

CHAPTER IX: SUCCESSION THE IMPERIAL PALACE was ruled by silence. Valkair Sezarn, Minister of the Interior, stared out of the lancet window of his high office, watching the sky weep. The revolver in his hand felt reassuringly heavy. Reports were scattered across his expansive blackwood desk, all frantic, all begging for action. For now, he ignored them. There was more important work to be done. In the distance, the Temple of the Emperors was burning. Orange light and dark smoke poured out from it into the misty rain. That had been the first move in the Sons' endgame. Already, the inner city was under lockdown, all flows of information stifled to prevent a mass panic. An accident in the power generators, they called it. The gates were sealed for the citizens' safety. Sezarn snarled. Where was Zekar? He had run away without telling anyone where he was going. He would demand answers. The clock struck five. Sezarn leaned forward and rested his forehead against the cold glass, helpless. Zekar's last report was on the desk behind him. Sezarn had been reading it for the last two hours. There was a conspiracy in the Imperial Palace, it said. Sezarn found it unthinkable. All his staff had been screened. Zekar was looking for more details, but now, Sezarn knew that it was too late. He despised the upstart, but he knew deep down that Zekar was a faithful servant of the Emperor. Suddenly there was a sharp burst of pain in his head. He gasped, dropping his revolver and eyes snapping open as he brought up both hands to steady himself. The agony almost brought him to his knees. His mind was being assaulted with barbed hooks and fiery brands, and terrible voices gibbered on the edge of his consciousness. The voices. He had been hearing them for some time now, thinking them only after-effects of the incredible stress his duties imposed on him. The pain passed. Sezarn shook his head to clear it. Picking up his revolver, he hurried out of his office, out of the Ministry and into the Palace proper. Larandus bound his wounds as well as he could. The flyer's medical supply crate was not very well stocked, but it was the best he had to work with before reaching his infirmary. Injured as he was, he was not sure that he could spare the time for proper treatment. The flyer was descending as it entered the Dramaskan valley, and Larandus forced himself to sit in the cockpit with Xin, watching as the tall, floodlighted spires of the Imperial Palace came ever closer. The Palace was a serrated mass of black stone, outlined against the lighter grey of the rain, its peaks picked out by amber lights streaming from below. 'Land there,' Larandus said, pointing. 'In this weather?' Xin protested. 'Too many obstructions. It's too crowded, we'll be torn apart. This thing's too old to do any fancy flying.' 'Do it!' Larandus ordered. Smoke poured from the inner city, and Larandus felt as though there was a lead weight in his stomach. Were they too late? No, he reasoned. But they might be. The scream of the Phoenix's engines echoed across the Valley of the Emperors as it slewed around to land. Spires and towers rushed up to meet them, the blue light of the flyer's wake playing across their sharp angles and glinting off their polished ornamentation. Xin struggled with the controls as wind buffeted the craft, lightning flickering overhead. Larandus gasped as the port wing clipped a spire, sending a violent shudder through the craft and a spear of black basalt tumbling to the ground below. Shrieking like a great bird of prey, the flyer landed heavily in the courtyard just inside the Palace gates, kicking up mist as its engines blasted away the water on the ground. Larandus was out of his harness and stumbling through the passenger cabin before Xin had fully touched down. Siel was still huddled in the corner, her knuckles white as she gripped the rail. She was still in psychic shock, her eyes wide open and her mouth operating soundlessly. Never before had she been assaulted the way Okarth had done, and her mind was not trained to combat such attacks. Larandus hoped that she would retain her sanity even after the vicious mental wounds the rebel had dealt her. Dansh was still on the floor. His breathing was steadier now, but he was still unconscious. He had endured the brunt of Okarth's attack, and would need treatment to keep his body alive. 'Take them to the infirmary!' he shouted back towards the cockpit, over the roar of the engines. 'I have to go ahead. Stay ready to fly.' He splashed down onto the courtyard, sabre in hand, while the flyer was still powering down. He did not waste time to take a firearm, and Xin's carbine was not, by his estimation, a good choice of weapon in the Palace's corridors. Though hardly a master, he trusted his sword. His legs protested their agony as he ran up the wide steps leading up to the Palace doors. Once, he slipped and caught himself with an outstretched hand against the edge of a step, sending fresh jolts of pain through his aching body. He continued on, his cloak soaked and hanging heavily around him. Lightning played across the sky, lighting his way. The Emperor was in danger, he knew that much. As to where the threat would come from... Larandus did not know. That alone terrified him. He threw off his cloak at the door and entered the Palace in his grey and gold. Sezarn hesitated for a moment as he saw the flyer touch down on the courtyard, spumes of water erupting around it. He saw a dark form leap out and begin to rush madly towards the Palace. Zekar. He forged ahead, crossing the bridge and not slowing down even after he reached the dry comfort of the tower opposite. Zekar would be heading for the Eagle Hall, where the Emperor would be sitting in council with his closest advisors. Sezarn should have been there. Inwardly, he cursed the necessity of his duties to the Emperor forcing him to abandon him in his darkest hour. More pain shot through his skull, and he faltered. Blinded, he missed an iron railing and stumbled down a short flight of steps. He felt rib break, and pure agony wrapped around him as he struggled to pull himself back up. The voices were talking to him, giving him orders. He rubbed his forehead, and his hand came away sticky and red with blood. The fall had split the skin. There was no time to worry about that now. He picked up his revolver and painfully regained his feet. Sezarn ran on, towards the chambers of Rezagan. He would see to the Prince of the Eagle Crown. The palace seemed to be deserted. Larandus stumbled through its wide corridors, with portraits of great lords and busts of past Emperors watching his every step. There were banners hanging from the high ceilings, the Imperial eagle flying ahead of him as he made his way to the Eagle Hall. The hallway leading to the Eagle Hall's vast blackwood doors seemed to stretch for eternity. It was wide, wider than many streets in the city, and its tall crystal windows rose three storeys up its white walls, showing the rain that lashed against their ornate brass frames. There were balconies watching over the processional hall from high above, and far above them, the ceiling was painted to resemble a magnificent summer sky, the sun an enormous golden glowlamp with mirrors that amplified its light so that it was always daytime in the hall. The floor was of hexagonal black tiles, each inlaid with a golden eagle. Innumerable side passages led away from the hallway, towards the various other parts of the Palace. Servants darted out of sight before him like nervous fish before a shark. Larandus thought nothing of it. He knew he did not exactly look the paragon of friendship and goodwill at the moment. Finally, he reached the doors of the Eagle Hall. They were gargantuan in proportion, each one two storeys tall, the coat of arms of the Empire displayed across them and surrounded by an intricate laurel wreath which alone had taken a decade to carve. The doors were operated by hidden mechanisms which made them as easy to open as any other, despite their size. Slowly, Larandus pushed the doors open. Sezarn took the final flight of stairs, each step echoing in the marble hall around him. A black and gold banner hung high overhead. Glowlamps illuminated the hallway with pale light, and servants scuttled away at the sight of him. By now, he thought, Zekar would be at the Eagle Hall. The time was coming. Revolver in hand, he slammed open the final door, and faced the heir of the Dramaskan Empire. For a moment, Larandus thought the Emperor was safe. Terendal Garaz the Fourth, Emperor of Dramaskus, sat on the far end of the hall, rising from the great throne as Larandus entered the hall. He was tall, his grey hair worn long and bound in a tail behind his head. He had keen, searching eyes and a bold, aquiline nose. He wore a simple robe of black silk, and clutched the Staff of the Eagle in his hand like a cane. There were a few nobles in attendance, and he could hear their shocked gasps as he strode in, sword in hand. Even from here, he saw that Lord Sezarn was not in attendance. 'Your highness!' he called out, taking his badge of office out of his coat and displaying it for all to see. 'Larandus Zekar, Imperial Ministry of the Interior.' 'What is the meaning of this?' shrieked an indignant, powder-faced nobleman. Larandus ignored him and walked steadily ahead, towards the dais where the throne stood. 'You are in danger,' Larandus said, mounting the steps. His sabre glinted in the light of the glowlamps. 'I will escort you to a safer location.' 'I'm afraid I can't allow that,' said a deep voice as a figure stepped out from behind the throne, grey coat buttoned up and peaked hat firm on his head, revolver in hand. 'You're just in time, Larandus,' said Eldrin Kelsen. 'Old friend?' Larandus whispered, disbelieving. Kelsen laughed. 'The same,' he said, his bulky frame dwarfing the Emperor before him. A livid scar split his face from eyebrow to chin. 'No,' Larandus breathed. 'You're dead. I saw the reports.' 'No thanks to the Empire that abandoned me,' Kelsen hissed. 'I've seen the light, Larandus. You cannot imagine the rapture.' The court was frozen around them. It was as though time had stopped for a moment as Larandus stared at the dead, blank eyes of his old companion at the Academy. This was not the Eldrin Kelsen he knew, the rogue who was always free with a smile and accompanied Falon on his conquests in Velind, nor the Kelsen who spent hours in the chapels, praying to the First Emperor for guidance. The Kelsen he knew was dead. 'Okarth,' Larandus said. Kelsen laughed again, cold and mirthless. For a moment, Larandus saw a flicker of life in his old companion's eyes, and anguish played across his face like the lightning outside. No, this was not Kelsen, but a twisted, malicious mind in his body. Larandus did not want to believe that Okarth could truly force him to do something so contradictory to the oaths they had sworn. He would not have befriended a traitor. 'Fight it, Kelsen,' Larandus urged, the point of his sabre dropping. 'The Temple has fallen,' Kelsen said. 'The Emperors have forsaken Dramaskus. It is only a matter of time before the people learn of it, and then there will be chaos.' The revolver in Kelsen's hand lowered a fraction. Then he fired, the sound deafening in the silence. The Emperor stumbled forward with a gasp, the bullet punching into his back. The Staff of the Eagle clattered to the floor and rattled as it rolled down the dais' steps. Larandus caught him as he fell, but knew that it was useless. He felt the Emperor jerk as two more bullets found their mark. 'No!' he roared, and the court erupted in chaos. He let go of the dead Emperor, knocking the revolver out of Kelsen's hand with a blow from his sabre's hilt. He followed up with a draw-cut that Kelsen forced away with the sheath of his own sabre, then stumbled back as the traitor bashed him with the hilt. Larandus rolled painfully down the steps of the dais, then came up on guard as the assembled nobility rushed madly for the doors. 'What is it like to fail, Larandus?' Kelsen taunted as he slowly descended, sabre in hand. 'How does it feel to lose what you've tried so hard to protect?' With a yell, Larandus lunged at him. Their clashing blades rang out in the empty Hall. The faces of dead Emperors looked disapprovingly down on them. Parry, feint, off-side cut - they traded blows. Larandus' strength was flagging, but he drew on his fury to power his efforts. They circled in the growing pool of the Emperor's blood, dealt each other wounds to add to the spreading crimson. 'Stop fighting, Larandus,' Kelsen urged him, his voice cold once again. 'You've failed. There's nothing more you can do. The heir dies as we speak. The Empire will fall.' Larandus replied with a cut that opened Kelsen's cheek. There was a howl of pain. Now, Larandus wanted blood. He would put his wayward comrade out of his misery, at least, and free him from the clutches of the telepath. Okarth would pay. Kelsen had been a good servant of the Empire. 'Give up!' Kelsen managed to gasp. 'Find the light, Larandus, and you'll see what I, too, saw. Turn your back on this oppression and join us.' 'Millions will die,' Larandus told him. 'Millions of Imperial citizens, if there is no Emperor to guide them. Our enemies await the slightest sign of weakness, and without the Emperor, the people will falter and be easy prey.' 'It's a small price to pay!' Kelsen spat. 'The Empire is dying, Larandus, and in delaying its fall you only prolong its suffering.' Larandus struck again, feigning an off-side cut which quickly became a sweeping cut from the other side and then a downward slash as he recovered. Kelsen lost an arm and his sabre, falling to the floor, his coat soaking up blood. The point of Larandus' blade hovered by his throat. 'The Empire will live,' Larandus told his foe. 'If it costs the lives of thousands, the Empire will live. We make sacrifices because the needs of the many outweigh the desires of the few. You rebels don't understand that.' 'A death in the service of the Empire,' Kelsen managed to gasp. His eyes were pleading, but his hand was searching for his fallen revolver. Okarth's control was slipping, but remained. Larandus crushed his fingers with a boot. 'Is nothing less than a hero's death,' Larandus finished the quotation as he bent down and took up the gun. 'But yours is.' 'The heir,' choked Kelsen, blood bubbling from his mouth as Larandus pointed the revolver at its previous owner. 'Save the heir,' he whispered as Larandus shot him. The ascent to the Imperial family's chambers, Larandus remembered later, was the greatest trial he had ever had to endure in his life. It was not because of the physical exertion, though his entire body was aflame with agony as he forced himself up the many stairways that climbed the Palace. Blood pounded in his ears, and his legs were leaden. Each step reminded him that of his incredible fatigue since the skirmish on Mount Kalad, but he persevered. No, the greatest challenge was fighting off the panic which welled up inside. If he could not save the Emperor, then he had to at least protect his son. He would not have the fall of the Empire on his conscience. Hot pain raged behind his eyes as he fought with all his will against despair. His hatred for Okarth sustained him. There seemed to be no end to the suffering that the rebel telepath would cause him. His two closest associates were ruined, the Emperor dead, and an old companion corrupted, all because of Okarth. When the time came, Larandus promised himself, he would make Okarth suffer. He never rescinded on his promises. That meant he had to survive this climb. Then he was stumbling down corridors, Kelsen's revolver in his hand, his sabre in the other. He only had to turn to the left here... The door of the Prince's chamber was open. Despair gripped Larandus' mind like ice. He forced himself in. Marcus Taldran was there, in the chamber, revolver in hand. In front of him, shielding the heir, was Lord Sezarn, pointing his gun at his own cousin. 'Step aside, Valkair,' Taldran was saying. 'Now.' 'I trusted you, Marcus,' Sezarn told him. 'Don't do this. The Emperor will hear of it.' 'The Emperor is dead!' Taldran hissed. 'Don't you realise, cousin? This is fated! It has been written that there can be no light until the Empire falls. My master has given me the honour of being the instrument of that light.' 'No,' Sezarn whispered. 'You lie. You are not Marcus! I've heard your whispering! Did you think I wouldn't have a bond with my own servant?' Larandus stepped into the room just as Taldran's revolver barked. Lord Sezarn was thrown backwards as the bullet smashed into his chest. One more shot, and Sezarn was down the floor. Blood covered the rich furnishings around him. Larandus quickly brought up his revolver and fired, winging Taldran, who screamed as he turned around and fired back. 'Zekar!' Taldran bellowed as his shots tore into the doorframe Larandus ducked behind. 'I'll have you dead!' Larandus broke cover, took aim, and pulled the trigger. There was a click. The revolver was empty. Taldran grinned wickedly, took aim, then pitched forward as Sezarn shot him from behind. There was a graze along the side of his head. He was unconscious, but alive. Glancing to see that the Prince was safe, Larandus hurried over to the fallen Sezarn. He still despised this man, but he realised that for all that he was unscrupulous, Valkair Sezarn was still a faithful servant of the Empire. 'Zekar,' Sezarn gasped. 'Tell me he was lying.' Larandus shook his head. 'I'm sorry, Lord,' he said. 'I could not save him.' Sezarn's face contorted in anguish. It was his duty to oversee the safety of the Emperor, and he had failed. Larandus understood his pain. Decades of service, only to have it all end like this. 'You did your best, Zekar,' Sezarn whispered, blood pooling around him and trickling out of his mouth. 'I know you did. You are a good servant.' 'The Empire lives, Lord,' Larandus said, looking up at the Prince. Rezagan Garaz, now the Emperor Rezagan Garaz the Twelfth, twenty years of age, little more than a boy. But he would serve. He had to. He stepped forward now, his bearing regal, his appearance an echo of his father. He wore a simple black robe, as his father had. There was a golden eagle on the breast. 'Take Lord Sezarn to the Palace infirmary, Agent Zekar,' he said, his voice commanding. 'There is much to do.'

CHAPTER VIII: DEFEAT FOR THE FIRST TIME since he entered Imperial service, Larandus was wracked with indecision. On the one hand, he saw an opportunity to seize Okarth and eliminate the threat that he posed before any of his plans could come into fruition. On the other, he felt in his gut that capturing the telepath would prove to be a more difficult task than it seemed, and he did not want to back Okarth into a corner before he had all the answers he needed. It was unlikely that Okarth would talk if captured, and he did not want to risk Dansh in a psychic interrogation. He had seen what could happen when a desperate telepath was interrogated, and he knew he could not afford to lose Dansh at this point in the investigation. Larandus convinced himself that he would not look for Okarth in this downpour. He would not know where to look, and the weather would only complicate matters if things spiraled out of his control. That was what he told himself. A part of him was secretly afraid of Okarth's power, reluctant to bare his mind to the telepath's ministrations once more. He was not sure that even bringing Dansh would help him. That part of him did not want to take risks. Instead, he spent the next two miserable days in the parlour of their suite at the Golden Wheel, poring over regional maps and documents the administration provided him. Bandits operated from the caves scattered around Mount Kalad and the surrounding ranges, and Larandus was sure that in one of them would be where Xin's contact would be based. The information he had at his disposal was largely insufficient. The Ministry excelled at collecting information about people, but he thought it to be sorely lacking in knowledge about the back country and 'minor' criminal elements like bandits and highwaymen. To be fair, some of that lack of knowledge was due to the efficiency of law enforcement: petty criminals like those rarely lasted a week before seeing the inside of a prison cell or dangling from the end of a short rope. The maps he had available to him were mostly old geological surveys, with a few extremely specific tactical maps that the Pathfinders used for training, or had been used in the past for eliminating bandit camps. There was one topographic map of the region, but it was a decade old and useless to him. The documents he took from the council archives were no more helpful. There were a few reports of old bandit activity in the region and measures that the local law enforcement took to curb it, but it left a greater part of the potential hideouts unaccounted for. Xin's contact could be hiding anywhere. While he scrutinised the local records, he had Dansh blank out their suite from psychic detection, a process which took hours and left him unconscious for hours. It took him the better part of yesterday to recover his strength. Then Larandus had him systematically scrub the minds of every one of the Golden Wheel's staff of any trace memories of a Greycoat and his retinue staying at the hostel. The new story was that they were a group of Dramaskan thrill-seekers. For all intents and purposes, they were nothing more than a few bored, wealthy people with too much time on their hands and not enough sense, looking to 'adventure' around the area, but were stranded in Zelke until the rains let up. Danh had offered to deal with the local council staff's memories in the same manner, but Larandus thought it best not to tamper with the minds of Imperial servants. They would have been psy-shielded on the day they were inducted into their posts, at any rate. Siel and Xin checked on the Phoenix twice a day, and after the third visit, they informed him that they had covered the flier with leaves and bracken to conceal it from prying eyes. They were quiet in each other's company, which suited Larandus fine. He did not ask questions. His own interactions with Xin were still awkward, and he knew the half-elf was uneasy about being alone with him. Larandus did not blame him; he had, after all, almost killed him twice. In time, he knew, they could learn to trust each other, unless anything happened before to prevent that. The storm intensified on the third day, with lightning ripping across the sky and thunder roaring over the mountainside town. Their suite brightened every few minutes as a pearly bolt blasted against the mountain, or as the gloomy sky erupted in alabaster light. Most of the time, the thunder was a distant rumble, but occasionally it would be a sharp crack like an enormous whip, rattling the tiny windows of their rooms. Xin told them that it would be impossible to leave Zelke now until the weather improved, and they had no choice but to take his word for it. They had no experience of flying themselves. They took their meals in their suite, preferring not to mingle with the staff any more than they needed to. It suited their cover identities as wealthy Dramaskans to prefer the company of others with money to that of simple servants and innkeepers in remote towns. The food was passable, if simple, and always hot. The power generators in the hostel were not being repaired anytime soon, not in this weather, so the vent fans were still out of commission. Their suite was thus almost perpetually cold and clammy, and the air sometimes tasted stale. It did not circulate overly well underground. Sometimes, they would venture upstairs and stand on the balconies for fresh air, but always they would do so in silence. By the fourth day, Larandus had still found no results, not even the vaguest clue as to where the rebel contact would be based. Even though he was limiting his search to the immediate vicinity of Mount Kalad, that was still a considerable amount of land to search, and there was nothing to even indicate anyone living out there. 'If it helps,' Xin suggested, 'the bootprints the contact left around the drop-off always had pale dust in them.' It did not, at least to any considerable degree. Pale dust could have come from any of a hundred natural caverns around Mount Kalad, whose entire north face was an eroded mass of sandstone. Still, a hundred possible caverns was better than the five hundred Larandus would otherwise be faced with. By the fifth day, the worst of the storm was over, but still Larandus was hard-pressed to find a clue. They might have to wait for the meeting that Xin arranged, after all, rather than finding their rebels early and subjecting whoever they caught to rigorous interrogation. Larandus did not appreciate the delay. There was some good new, however, when Dansh ran a careful psychic search of the town and found that Okarth had left the previous day. Larandus was reassured, but not too much. That could mean that Okarth was baiting them to come out, or worse, was putting whatever his plan was into motion. On the sixth day, they began to pack away their clothes and other possessions, and made ready to leave. Larandus returned the maps and documents he had borrowed to the council chambers, and met the other three out beside a deserted smithy as they came back from stowing their luggage in the flyer. It was still raining, but it had once again dwindled to a light drizzle, as it had on their first day in Zelke. 'Have the flyer ready,' Larandus instructed Xin. 'We're going to go up to the drop-off and take the rebels' reply. When we get it, I'll have Dansh contact you and you can pick us up directly from the mountain.' 'Why don't we just take the flyer up?' asked Siel. 'It'll save us the walk.' 'I can't do either,' Xin shook his head. Larandus realised for the first time that he had not seen the half-elf's cocky grin since their short fight back in Dramaskus. 'There's nowhere to land, and even if I had the gear to do it, none of you know how to mount or dismount from the air. Sorry.' 'No, it's okay,' Larandus said. 'Just wait down here and be ready. We might have to be away in a hurry, and it never hurts to be prepared.' 'Understood,' Xin nodded, and he jogged off into the rain towards his beloved machine. Larandus was not taking chances this time. Okarth had known to search the town. That meant that for the entire time that he had been in Zelke, he had known that they were, too, but could not find them because of Dansh. He did not come across to Larandus as the sort of man to leave a threat at his back, and thus the logical conclusion was that he was setting a trap. Larandus presumed that Okarth would have known from the rebels in the area that someone had left a message at the drop-off, and that the coincidence would be obvious. Larandus was preparing for the worst. He was fully armed this time, his revolver already loaded and plenty of ammunition in his pouch, and his sabre at his side. Siel had an array of knives across her chest, and Xin's carbine in her hands. Dansh was unarmed, but his mind was more powerful than any firearm, and he could defend them against psychic assault. Cloaks held close against the rain, the three of them began the ascent towards the ruined shrine on Mount Kalad. The mountainside shrine was as Larandus remembered it. The hike up was as arduous as it was before, but this time, they had a little more light to work with. Dansh was panting as they climbed. Stamina was not one of his gifts. By the time they were taking the last bend in the trail that would lead them to the drop-off, Dansh's hands were raw from holding onto a rough stick he had found earlier and used to help keep himself steady on his feet. Ice was forming around Dansh's feet as they crept up towards the shrine. Tired as he was, Larandus was thankful that he still had the presence of mind to keep them concealed. He had to grab hold of Dansh a few times when he stumbled, his concentration on maintaining the psychic mask impairing his ability to notice the spots on the trail where water or mud had iced over. Taking Dansh with him along the path, he had Siel circle around the shrine, hiding in the trees. He could hear movement. Someone was waiting for them. There was a loud crack as a twig snapped. Larandus hissed a curse as he dragged Dansh down to the ground with him. He realised a moment too late that he was not the one who had made the noise. Then a rebel was on top of him, the two of them rolling in the mud and trading blows as his opponent tried to plant a knife in his eye. He butted the rebel in the face with his forehead, then kicked him off. He rolled to his feet, drawing his revolver and blasting his opponent's chest open with a shot. Gunfire cracked around them, hard rounds whipping through the undergrowth and splintering bark, kicking up fallen leaves. He could not see how many there were, but from the noise, there must have been at least five. He pulled himself around a tree, revolver in hand, searching for targets. He saw a raised gun, and ducked back just as a bullet tore through the sodden bark of the thin tree he hid behind. Two more shots buzzed past, one of them splintering the wood some more. He returned fire, forcing his attacker down, and quickly relocated himself behind more substantial cover. Another rebel materialised in his field of vision, and he snapped off a pair of shots in quick succession, winging the man and forcing him out of sight. The Sons of Zannariamus had been ready. Okarth was with them, Larandus was sure. It was only a matter of time before he saw the telepath. He paused, reloading his revolver even though it was only half spent. He did not want to be caught in the middle of a bigger firefight with only three shots. The gunfire stopped. Now they were hunting. He kept himself low, circling the clearing where the shrine was. Siel had once commented that he had no talent for sneaking, but by anyone else's standards, he thought, he could be as silent as a bribed Customs officer. There were faint shapes in the rain, moving slowly around the altar of the drop-off shrine. He did not want to lose his advantage of stealth for the sake of an easy kill, however. Suddenly there was a rebel in front of him, also creeping through the undergrowth. For a moment, he saw a pair of bloodshot brown eyes above a mask of brown cloth drawn across a pale face. Then he was on the rebel, clamping his hand over the surprised man's mouth and striking him in the side of the head with the butt of his pistol. There was a shout; someone had noticed his rapid movement. Cursing, he rolled away into the undergrowth. He heard shooting: the short, shrill bark of revolvers and the deeper report of a carbine. Siel was trading shots with the rebels, but both sides had ample cover. He heard more shouting from the far side of the drop-off. There were more rebels coming. He very much doubted that they would find any details of a potential rendezvous. As an afterthought, he also did not fancy their chances of escaping alive. Then Siel dropped down beside him, a graze on her cheek from a close bullet. That shocked Larandus more than anything else. Either these rebels were extremely lucky, or very skilled. Larandus did not like either alternative. 'Find Dansh, tell him to get Xin up here,' Larandus told her in a whisper. 'Go!' 'Okarth will find us for sure,' Siel protested. 'We have to get away on foot.' 'We can't - not with Dansh as tired as that. We'll have to try and stall them. Do it!' he delivered the last in a hiss. It was an order, and he expected Siel to follow it, now of all times. She hesitated for a moment, and complied. At the same time, Larandus began moving in the opposite direction, and snapped off a shot at one of the Sons hiding by the shrine. The bullet ricocheted off the altar, and multiple guns answered his challenge. He ducked away from the tree he was behind, and watched it as gunfire shredded it a second later. Siel opened up from the other side of the shrine, putting a round through a Son's head. She had found Dansh, and the way she was breaking concealment meant that he had sent the message, and Okarth knew they were there anyway. Then there were three men rushing out of the undergrowth at him. They had circled around his flank while the ones at the shrine drew his attention. Not stopping to curse his inattentiveness, he whipped around, revolver roaring. One of the men was spun around by the force of a bullet that tore into his shoulder, and fell onto the Son behind him. The remaining rebel barreled into Larandus, knife in hand. They rolled for a moment, trading blows. Larandus did not have enough room to pull out his sabre. He did the best he could, given the Son's advantage in size. He used his elbows and his knees, throwing blows with fist and revolver grip that were answered with equal force. He felt his ribs crack under a punch. Then his head was hanging over empty air, and rain clouded his vision, wind howling in his ears. In their struggle, they reached the edge of the ravine near the shrine. He pumped his knee up hard and pulled, throwing his attacker over his head and casting him down, screaming, into the foggy abyss below. Larandus stood quickly and drew his sabre, meeting his next two attackers head on. He gave one a gash across the chest, but they kept coming, forcing him back. He did not want to risk a look behind him to see how close he was to dropping off the lip of the gorge. He could hear rocks tumbling away as his heel nudged them. One of the rebels advanced, and his head exploded. Siel was firing the carbine one-handed, the barrel wavering unsteadily without another hand to brace it. With her other, she was dragging Dansh. The small telepath was screaming incoherently, hands clawing at his face. Okarth had struck him. Surprised, Larandus' attacker could not avoid the blow that he dealt him with the hilt of his sabre. He had little time to savour the little victory, though, as more rebels came. They rushed, disregarding their safety, intent on bringing them down with sheer numbers. Their eyes were wild with bloodlust. Okarth was driving them into a frenzy, desperate to be rid of Larandus and his retinue, heedless of the mindless waste of life. Larandus emptied his revolver into the charging mass, and saw Siel doing the same with her carbine on the edge of his vision. Men fell, gore erupting in mists from shattered bodies. More stumbled over the corpses, but the greater balance kept coming. There were at least twenty of them, all dressed roughly, all carrying some sort of hand weapon: swords, knives, clubs, axes. Okarth had indeed been ready for them. Driven by his psychic goading, his men surged forward with insane abandon. This was a crowd that was single-minded in its bloodlust, and did not care about pain. It was unable to. But ignoring pain was not the same as ignoring death: a frenzied man still died like any other, though without fear of the agony that would come. They were determined, but that would only carry them so far. Battered and wounded in several places, almost senseless with the mental pain that accompanied the throbbing of Okarth's goading, Larandus barely heard the shrieking engines of the Phoenix over the pounding in his ears. By then, it had risen above the lip of the cliff, its nose-mounted gun roaring. The charging crowd was vaporised. Shrieking, men were torn apart by large-calibre fire, their blood exploding forth from ruptured bodies. It was as though a gigantic rocksaw had just been employed on the hapless rebels. Then the fire stopped, and the survivors, who had been shielded by the sheer amount of bodies between them and the flyer, were charging again. Xin pulled the flyer around, hovering perilously close to the cliffside, the passenger hatch open. 'Get in!' his voice called from the intercom by the door. That Larandus could hear it was a testament to how close Xin was taking the craft to the rocks. Another foot, and the shuddering engines would tear themselves off the craft as they ground against the cliff. Siel threw Dansh in first, then followed after. Larandus barely cleared the lip of the ravine when a hot lance of pain tore into his mind. Gasping, he managed to grab hold of the edge of the hatchway, but little more. His legs dangled over open air beneath him. His sheathed sabre banged against the side of his leg, sending up fresh jabs of pain. His revolver tumbled away into the abyss, his blood dripping after it. Okarth was behind him. He could only barely see the telepath over his shoulder, but he knew that there was an expression of cold, calculating rage on his face. He could hear Siel screaming. Dansh had already fallen silent. There were two Sons left on the ledge with him. They jumped, one grabbing hold of the flyer's starboard wing, the other latching onto the engine cowling. Xin must have felt the impact, because he banked the flyer hard, away from the cliffside. Larandus was flipped against the hull, and grabbed onto the open door of the hatch before he slipped away entirely. He slammed onto the starboard wing as Xin righted the craft. The Son who landed on the engine was thrown hard over its exhaust vent, and shrieked madly as the blast of the thruster boiled him alive from the inside before hurling him against the cliff face, from which he bounced limpy into the yawning ravine. The one who grabbed onto the wing steadied himself into a crawl, knife in one hand as he advanced. Larandus did not want to relinquish his hold on the flyer to draw his sabre. He kicked, and the Son recoiled before advancing again, eyes wide with madness. Larandus' next kick dislocated his jaw and made him lose the knife. The last sent the rebel tumbling away after his weapon. 'You are too late,' Okarth called from the edge of the cliff. 'My pawns are in place, and your Emperor will die.' Then he laughed, a short laugh, but it chilled Larandus to his core even as Okarth created fresh bursts of agony in his skull. 'You have failed. I will let you enjoy your torment.' Almost blinded by pain, Larandus hauled himself into the flyer, shutting the hatch behind him as Okarth began to walk away. Almost immediately, the noise of the engines became much quieter. 'Xin!' he cried. 'Kill him!' 'On it!' came the half-elf's voice as he brought the craft around. 'I was waiting for you to get in!' Larandus stumbled into the cockpit in time to see the gun roar into life. Bits of rock exploded along the clifftop, and trees were reduced to pulp. Okarth, however, was completely unharmed. He laughed, mockingly, his over-thin body exposed as his cloak fluttered in the wind, his clothes pressed against his bony frame. Larandus fought down despair. They could not even destroy this monster. They'd failed. He'd failed. Unless... 'How quickly can you get back?' he managed to gasp out at Xin. 'In this weather? An hour and a half to Dramaskus,' Xin informed him. Larandus gave him a nod. 'In the name of the Emperor, do it!' He stumbled back into the passenger cabin, his head swimming. He slammed against the wall as Xin pulled the flyer around, and only barely managed to strap himself in, the straps painful against his bruises and wounds. His vision wavered. Dansh was unconscious on the floor. Hanging onto a rail for support, Siel was curled up in the corner, weeping softly. That was the first time Larandus had ever seen her cry. He did not blame her. As the Phoenix sped, shrieking, away from the ruined shrine, Larandus thought that he could still hear Okarth laughing in his head.

I'm slowly memorising the poem. In Old English. When I'm done, the earth will witness my ascension and despair.

CHAPTER VII: SEARCH IT WAS RAINING when they returned to the field north of the city to meet Xin. The hover-coach rattled under the downpour, and the landscape outside its thick glass windows was dark. It was a late autumn storm, and rain lashed against the iron sides of the vehicle. The horses plodded slowly down the dirt track leading to the appointed meeting site, the driver hunched in his coat and wide-brimmed hat outside. Larandus peered out of the window, trying to find the flyer Xin was bringing. He saw nothing but the greyness of rain and tall grasses waving in the wind. There were occasionally clumps of rocks and trees to break the gently rolling contours of the land. 'You don't trust him,' Dansh said plainly, breaking the silence inside the coach. He was in a plain black robe, a dark green cloak with an ample hood folded across his lap. He looked even smaller than usual with the bulky clothing. 'Thank you, Dansh,' Larandus scowled. 'You can stop listening now.' Dansh laughed, a reedy sound that sounded as pathetic as he looked. 'I don't need to read your thoughts to see that you are apprehensive about this deal with him. After all, you did try to kill each other only two days ago.' 'Are you sure that he's clean?' Larandus asked him, trying to change the subject. This brought another laugh. 'You've been asking that since yesterday. Yes, he is clean. I oversaw the process myself. That telepath... Okarth, you said his name was. He did leave a nasty surprise, but it was nothing we couldn't deal with after the shield was extracted.' 'Still,' Larandus insisted. 'I've got a bad feeling about this.' 'We know,' Siel told him. 'But it's not Xin. Don't worry, boss. He'll get us there safely or not at all.' 'The last part is what I'm worried about,' said Larandus. 'I know I said I'd trust him if you'd vouch for him,' he told Siel, 'but I know it when my gut tells me something's going to happen.' 'You're anxious,' Dansh said. 'It's the pressure. Try not to blame it on Xin. Remember, you didn't trust Siel to begin with. Nor me, for that matter.' Larandus grunted, but said nothing. 'What did Lord Sezarn say yesterday?' Siel inquired, changing the subject. 'We've got until the end of the year to sort out this case before he decides that we've been negligent in our pursuit of the matter.' Larandus sniffed. 'So, we have four and a half months. I want this over earlier than that, not because of that fool's orders, but because this conspiracy has been going on for far too long before we even found it. It is our duty to the Emperor and his Empire to eradicate this threat as soon as we can. Moreover, Sezarn said that if we don't get results, he'll give the case to Taldran.' 'You don't like him much, do you?' asked Siel. She was idly honing the edge of a knife, her legs crossed in front of her. She was wearing a close-fitting bodysuit with dulled metal plates riveted over vital areas. She had a bandoleer across her chest with a goodly number of blades in it. 'No,' Larandus told her flatly. There was really no need for exposition. His dislike of Taldran had been clear to them since the day they began working for him. 'There,' said Dansh, pointing out the window. Larandus turned to look, and saw a faint blue glow through the rain. It had not been there before, so clearly Xin had been waiting for them before bringing the engines of his craft to life. The coach stopped a short distance from the flyer, its forward glowlamps describing a clear path to the machine's open hatch. The hover-coach's engines' whine was drowned out by the deeper hum of the flyer's great thrusters. This flyer was different to the one they had used last time. It still had the same overall dimensions and the long, sleek design was more or less identical, but it had no armaments under its wings, only below the nose. Instead of guns under the wings, it had another pair of engines. On the nose, just below the cockpit, the name Phoenix had been painted on in orange lettering. It was smaller than the other craft, only twenty feet from sharp nose to barbed tail. 'What's a phoenix?' Larandus asked Dansh as they stepped off the coach, pulling cloaks over their heads and making their way to the open passenger hatch of the waiting flyer. 'It's a bird,' Dansh informed him. 'A mythological one. The Shai-var elves say that it's made of fire and is reborn from the ashes when the fire dies out, which happens every thousand years or so. There's only one, apparently, and nobody has ever seen it.' 'Superstition, then,' Larandus dismissed the story. 'I don't suppose there is any chance that we'll all be reborn if this thing goes up in flames.' 'No,' Dansh agreed as they pulled themselves up into the flyer's belly. Still remembering his last flying experience, Larandus elected to sit in the passenger cabin, allowing Siel to take the seat beside Xin in the cockpit. This flyer could only hold four other passengers, unlike the other, which could have taken eight. The passenger seats were arranged along the sides of the craft, and had a space beneath each one to stow gear. Larandus and Dansh buckled themselves in while the craft shuddered as Xin powered up the engines. Dansh looked uneasy in the pale amber light of the cabin. Apparently he did not enjoy flying, either. Small portholes showed nothing but rainfall outside. 'This is an older model,' Dansh shouted over the rising shriek of the engines. Larandus could barely hear him. 'Originally, the Imperial Army intended these to be scouting machines, but later decided that they preferred them to act as rapid insertion craft. Like mounted infantry, but airborne.' Larandus laughed. He knew Dansh was only talking to keep his mind off the imminent launch. He probably knew this much from reading Xin's mind while they worked on the shield. 'Do they have enough pilots?' he asked. 'No,' Dansh said, 'but there's been talk about making a new division of the Army. For airborne training and operations, but Lord General Karlatos wants to keep everything under his tight control.' Larandus was about to reply when the craft bucked violently. Suddenly he felt himself being crushed against his seat. His stomach felt like lead. Then the craft tilted forward, engines roaring, and they were away. Larandus kept his mouth closed and tried not to think about flying. The Phoenix banked towards the north-east, and out of the portholes, Larandus thought he could see the ground tilting above them. His stomach turned. He was looking almost directly down, his harness tight against his chest and stomach. Then the craft righted itself, but Larandus' vision spun for a while longer. His ears popped as Xin brought them higher and put more thrust behind the craft. He did not like this. He felt helpless, buckled into his flight harness, seeing nothing but rain and the occasional darker blur as they flew through low clouds. 'Zelke in one hour,' came Xin's voice over the cabin's intercom. Larandus was not sure that he could endure flying for that long. The rain had dwindled to a light drizzle by the time Xin landed the flyer in a forest clearing outside the mining town of Zelke. The downblast from its engines cleared away all the debris that had accumulated in the clearing over the years, and the force of its landing tore away grass and small shrubs. Larandus stepped out of the craft unsteadily, his legs dead from inactivity and his coat buttoned up against the wind. Dansh stumbled out after him, followed by Siel and Xin. They all had the hoods of their cloaks up to protect them from the rain. Xin carried a carbine, which was really nothing more than a long-barreled revolver. It was a scout's weapon. Larandus had Siel and Xin lead the way into the town, which he himself had never visited. Zelke was huddled against the face of Mount Kalad, a sprawl of stone and wooden buildings with a few concrete and iron constructions at its heart, housing the town's Watch and administrative offices. There was better visibility up here due to the lighter rainfall, and Larandus could see the great mineheads and tunnel entrances in the distance. There was a paved road leading from the town, down towards the Dramaskan valley, along which the last caravans of the year were hauling wagonloads of ore for processing in Dramaskus' great foundries. Until spring, Zelke would be a dead town. A few windows glowed through the swirling drizzle, but for the most part, the town seemed to be deserted. Puddles and mud were already icing over. It was much colder up here than in the valley below. The buildings were all constructed partly below ground to insulate them from the bitter cold in winter, and shield them from the blistering sun in summer. Winds roared through the mountains around Zelke, and howled around mining shafts and the natural caves that dotted the region. They passed a patrol of watchmen on their way to the administration complex. Up here, they all wore fur-lined coats of dark green over archaic chain armour. Bandits were more of a problem in remote towns, and the rough terrain around Zelke only encouraged them. The guards held pole-arms of various descriptions, but they all had crossbows slung over their shoulders. They all had the hoods of their green cloaks pulled over their heads in the rain. By the clock that rose above the administrative buildings, it was three hours past noon. It felt like it was already nighttime. The streets were so empty. Larandus was not uneasy, but it was certainly a strange sight to see streets all but deserted when they would be crowded in similar conditions in Dramaskus. It was uncanny. Siel found them rooms in a well-to-do merchant's hostel near the administrative centre, named - rather unimaginatively, in Larandus' opinion - the Golden Wheel. It was a large two story building on the outside, but once inside it became clear that the bulk of its rooms were below ground. The staff, for their part, were polite and did not ask questions. Discretion was a necessity for dealing with their regular client̮̬̉̉le, and now that one of their guests was a Greycoat with his retinue, they were very discrete indeed. Siel and Dansh made sure their room was secure. It was in the first basement, and was well-furnished, if not richly. It had small, high windows to let the light in, and it did not leak. The air carried a heaviness that was due to being underground. The vent fans were apparently out of commission for the moment, the power generators having been flooded in the recent downpours. The entire place was running on auxiliary power, and that was only enough to keep the glowlamps going. 'I will drop off a message tonight,' Xin said as they unpacked their luggage. 'Hopefully, there will be a response by next week, and we can be on our way before the first snows hit. This isn't a very nice place to be in winter.' 'I would think not,' Larandus agreed. 'Siel and I will come with you. Dansh can stay here and contact us if there's any trouble. The drop-off isn't too far out of town, is it?' Xin shook his head. 'Only half an hour's walk, but it's up in the mountains. They said it's for security reasons.' 'And their responses always come within a week?' Xin nodded. Larandus thought about that. 'So they must have a base somewhere nearby. Otherwise it would take them too long to check for messages, consider the offer, and leave a reply. I'll take some maps from the local council and have a look for potential locations. Siel, have the staff send our meals down, please.' A few hours later, they left Dansh in the room and began the trek up into the mountains. Xin promised that the ground they were to cover was not too rough, and that they would be back soon. The rain was now a a fine mist, descending on Zelke like millions of tiny crystals. It did not soak them as it did earlier, but it obscured vision greatly. The sun was setting as they began their climb. They brought small portable glowlamps, but the going was not too terribly easy. Once out of Zelke, the land rose sharply, and they had to negotiate game trails still slick with mud from the earlier rainfall, with rivulets of water still running downhill. Zelke soon dwindled into a small cluster of lights in the land below, then disappeared altogether as they path twisted around the side of Mount Kalad. Larandus thought that they would be walking for hours. Occasionally, they had to hold on to the rough trunks of small trees to continue on their way, and once, Siel barely avoided a fall that would have broken her neck. The trail was blanketed in twilight shadows, and their glowlamps cast stark shadows against the rock face. Larandus felt naked and exposed in the darkness. He only had his revolver and a few extra rounds, and Siel only took a pair of knives. Xin left his carbine behind in the Golden Wheel. They were not expecting any trouble, but Larandus found the entire place unsettling. In all his years of work for the Empire, he had seldom had reason to leave Dramaskus City, and in truth, he was out of his element here. His experience of the wilderness was sorely lacking, he realised. Siel was slightly more comfortable than he was, and Xin seemed to be perfectly at ease despite the flickering shadows and the strange noises. Larandus was more comfortable in the back alleys of Dramaskus' slums than out here on this trail on Mount Kalad. His eyes were moving restlessly, trying to find a threat. It was almost as though he wanted danger to find them, so that at least he could see it or know what it looked like. The darkness beyond the light of their glowlamps was unsettling him. In the city, at least, he had an idea of what would be in the darkness. It did not stretch away into infinity like the fog-obscured land below the mountain, punctuated only by tall spires of rock and the crowns of evergreens. It was only half an hour after they left Zelke when they reached the drop-off, but were it not for the sun still being visible, Larandus would have sworn it had taken far longer. Below them was the obscuring mist of rainfall, lit up by the setting sun until it shone like amber. Zelke was a tiny clump of lights below, like a miniature star. The drop-off was an ancient ruin, set near the edge of a small ravine. Xin explained that it was a shrine to some abstract idea or another. Larandus thought it unlikely that anyone would visit it still. It was a small circle of rough-hewn stone pillars, the space in the centre no more than ten feet across. Some of the pillars had long since fallen, and the ones that were still standing were broken, their heads scattered along the ground. There was an eroded lump of rock in the centre which might have once served as an altar of some sort, and Xin left a sealed packet in a cavity in the side. Larandus wandered over to the edge of the ravine and gazed at the wonder before him, entranced. He had seen its like from his window looking out into the Valley of the Emperors, but the sheer scale of the shrouded land he saw from this lookout amazed him. After what must have been five minutes, he turned around to tell his companions that they were returning to Zelke. Siel was nowhere to be seen. Xin was walking towards him, one of her knives in his hand. Larandus' revolver was in his hand before Xin could open his mouth to speak. He pointed it at the half-elf's chest. 'Don't move any closer,' he said softly, eyes narrowed and menace oozing from him like a cloud. 'Explain yourself.' Xin had a shocked expression on his face, and backed away slowly. 'Take it easy,' he managed to stammer. 'I didn't mean any harm,' he said. Larandus' thumb pulled back the hammer on his gun, the metallic rasping and the click loud in the silence. He knew it had been a mistake to trust the half-elf. He should not have let his guard down. 'Where is Siel?' he demanded, the nose of the revolver still aimed at Xin. 'Right here,' she called out, stepping out of the trees. The knife in her hand dropped to the ground as she saw him, revolver pointed at Xin and a murderous look in his eyes. 'Boss! No!' Slowly, Larandus pushed back the hammer and lowered his weapon in relief. So he did not kill her and was not about to plant the knife in his back. He felt stupid. The trek up here had stretched his fraying nerves, already stressed from the pressure of the task before him. He should not have allowed his unease to develop into paranoia. He did not trust Xin, but he knew that he should have known better. 'Anyone who is not your friend may be your enemy,' was the old lesson he had learned in the Academy. He had no true friends, so naturally he was a very suspicious man. 'Xin thought he heard something, and I went to check it out while he told you,' Siel told him. That explained the knives. Siel would not take any chances. If there was a threat, she would have wanted everyone to be armed as well as they could be. Larandus cursed himself. Of course she would not just disappear. Xin might be good, but he was not that good. Holstering his revolver, he stepped away from the edge of the ravine. 'Sorry,' he mumbled to Xin as he walked past. They took the trek back down to Zelke in uncomfortable silence. Heavy rain began to fall again shortly after they returned to the Golden Wheel. It pounded against the walls and roof, and the noise reverberated through the entire structure and came as a dull roar to their rooms below the ground. The windows were obscured by water pooling outside. Siel was worried about the flyer, but Xin reassured her that it would be perfectly fine. They found Dansh in the parlour of their suite, with Xin's carbine in his hands as he sat in a chair facing the door. He looked relieved to see them. The gun looked like it was straining his arms just holding it. Larandus did not want to see what would happen if he tried to fire it. 'Is there a problem?' Larandus asked as they shrugged off their damp cloaks and hung them on pegs by the door. 'Actually, yes,' Dansh said, uncocking the weapon and putting it on the table. 'Twenty minutes ago, someone swept the town with a psychic locator. I managed to shield myself, but I did not want to check if you three were in town already. I did not want them to know where I was, but if they caught you, I wasn't taking chances. It's a good thing we're still in the exclusion zone, because if they used a mage, I wouldn't have known.' 'There's something else,' Larandus said. He knew that expression on Dansh's face. 'Yes,' the telepath said. 'I ran my own sweep after the first one was over. I kept it slow so nobody could tell. 'Okarth is in Zelke,' said Dansh. 'He's looking for you.'

Oh god, they're in my city! CALL THE #$%@ INQUISITION! QUICKLY! SUFFER NOT THE POLITICALLY CORRECT TO LIVE!

Out with your teacher, in with the Commissars. Distributing propaganda should not even be on a teacher's list of priorities. I've had hardcore vegan teachers and hardcore unionists for teachers, but they saved the propaganda for the staffroom. When students are involved, they have to try not to impose any radical opinions.

Beowulf kills Grendel's mother with a sword he finds in her lair, after the long swim I mentioned earlier. Because it turned out it would take too long to kill her with his bare hands, and the sword was shiny and magical, so he had to have it.

I totally got the wrong idea from that title. This thread is so much less awesome now.

I see the problem. =p

INTERLUDE: INSTRUCTION A MEMORY. Velind, Imperial Service Academy, fourteen years earlier. Larandus ducked a punch from his opponent, retaliating with a swift low kick, his steel-toed boot cracking against a kneecap. He was puffing from exertion, his uniform drenched in sweat and stained with blood. He was bleeding from a split lip and bruises covered most of his body. His opponent was similarly sweating and injured, but they still had plenty of energy for the fight. He took a punch on his forearm and dodged a kick. His opponent tried to follow and grab hold to throw him, but he was too fast. He moved inside the other student's reach and gave him a solid punch to a kidney. He followed up with a knee to the groin and a headbutt, then followed his opponent as he staggered backwards, howling from the pain in his genitals. He struck again, using the heel of his palm this time, and his opponent collapsed. Then he was aware of the crowd of other boys cheering the fight on. There was a roughly circular space fifteen feet in diameter, and he was the only one left standing out of the original six. His knuckles were raw and bleeding, and the white shirt of his uniform was dirty and torn in a couple of places where he rolled on the ground earlier. His breeches were as stained as black could be, and his boots needed a polish. The dirt he stood on was muddy with blood and sweat, and the air was heavy with kicked up dust. The sun was a blazing ball of heat high overhead. It was a Dramaskan summer. Above the entire scene were the columns and tiled roofs of the Academy. The fight had been in one of the instructional cloisters, and the place roared with unintelligible noise as the crowd of students cheered, laughed and jeered. The two masters in attendance were writing notes on clipboards. Many of the faces Larandus could see were smiling. He was not. It was painful to smile, and besides, he had blood on his teeth. Some of it was not his. 'Larandus Zekar,' called one of the masters, and almost immediately the crowd silenced itself, the students parting to create a space and snapping to attention, eyes fixed ahead and faces unreadable. The speaker was Olkan Verdren, one of the Academy's combat instructors. He was a wiry man, deceptively frail in appearance, and his black robes concealed muscles that were tough as whipcord. Many students discovered that the hard way on their first day. For Larandus, that was eight years ago. 'Congratulations,' said Master Verdren, without any hint of a smile. Word was that his face had been paralysed back when he was in the Imperial Army, and while the surgeons tried their best to fix it, he was now physically incapable of smiling. 'Full marks. Clean yourself up and head to your next class. These five,' he waved at the other combatants for the benefit of the audience, 'have earned themselves latrine duty for the week.' He paused to look at his clipboard, then called more names: 'Falon, Gierz, Kelsen, Ming, Rafilz, Taldran. Coats off and into the ring.' Larandus did not stay to watch the next fight. Falon and Kelsen were as close as he had to friends here at the Academy, but he knew Taldran was going to win that fight. He did not like Taldran. He'd served with the infamous Agent Sezarn during his two years' compulsory field experience, and Larandus heard about the brutal executions they performed. His mentor, Agent Ryzal, taught him to abhor the methods Sezarn used. He did not speak out openly, though, despite his misgivings, for he was a friend of Agent Sezarn's father, the Minister, and did not wish to shame him. Lord Sezarn was a fair man, by all accounts. His son, however, was a piece of work. Taldran was no less of a snobbish oaf than his mentor. With the sounds of the fight dwindling behind him, Larandus strode through the Academy's cold, echoing hallways. The interior was rich but severe in its execution: hexagonal black basalt tiles inlaid with golden Imperial Eagles, its walls a pale, creamy marble, its windows high and narrow, and the only wall hangings being a black and gold Imperial banner at evenly spaced intervals. The windows looked out onto the sweeping lawns of the Academy, and their glass was clear and clean by the efforts of hundreds of students on disciplinary duties. Likewise, the floors gleamed. Larandus' dormitory was in the north wing of the Academy, in the second and third floors reserved for final-year students. He had spent the past seven years looking forward to the time when he would sleep in one of the larger senior dormitories, only to find that once there, he would have precious little time to enjoy their comforts. For five years, he slept in one of the junior rooms, little more than a cell with a hard pallet, a washbasin, and a small wardrobe for his few clothes. For two, he had slept wherever the demands of being Agent Ryzal's aide allowed him. All those years of sleeping in discomfort only made him appreciate the little time he could spend in his new quarters. There were a couple of books lying open on the desk where he had left them the night before. Adreim's The First Emperors and Ezann's Litanies. The former he read because it was required reading, the latter because he enjoyed it. It was his final year at the Academy, and there was almost no time for things he enjoyed. He had no doubt that there would be none at all once he entered Imperial service. He struck the thought from his mind. Service to the Empire was pleasure in and of itself. Gingerly, he cleaned up and made himself presentable with the washbasin in front of the mirror. He donned a fresh uniform and left the dirty set in the basket for the servants to clean later, wincing at the way the linen rubbed against his bruises. He pulled on his coat, knowing that the discomfort at wearing it in the summer heat was nothing compared to the disciplinary action that would be taken if he was found without it. There was nothing to be done about his lip at present. Limping slightly, he made his way to his next class. It was a week later, and he was sitting in the Academy's huge dining hall with a bowl of stew in front of him. The clock showed eight, and the sky outside was dark. Falon and Kelsen were talking about some girls they had met out in the city over the weekend. Larandus' attention was focused on his food. He lifted up each spoonful mechanically, and consumed each mouthful with equal focused disinterest. He tried to avoid the onions. They did not have good onions here. Falon asked him something, and he turned to look at his friend. Falon was popular with the girls in the city. He was easygoing, handsome and generous with his money. He was not what anyone would expect as a future Imperial agent. He would not be one either, Larandus thought, judging by his poor grades. Falon was good with a gun and had an ox's constitution, though, so he thought he would just join the army if he failed to make the cut for the Greycoats. According to Kelsen, the girls they knew in town were already calling him 'soldier boy' and giggling behind their hands as they said it. 'What was that?' Larandus asked Falon to repeat himself. 'I wasn't listening.' 'I asked if you wanted to come out to the city with us this weekend,' Falon said with mock exasperation. 'You never come with us.' 'I went once,' Larandus pointed out as he returned to his stew. 'Yeah, but that was once!' Falon insisted. 'You didn't even get drunk or anything. I'm sure there are women out there who would spend a night with you.' 'I'm sure there are,' Larandus echoed. 'But frankly, I am not in any hurry to meet them.' 'Zekar doesn't like women,' sneered Taldran as he walked past. 'Do you, Zekar? No, he doesn't. He likes to put his pistol into the wrong holsters, doesn't he?' 'Go away, Taldran,' Larandus sighed. He did not want to endure Taldran's taunting today. The last time he allowed himself to be baited, Taldran had been hospitalised for a week, and he had been cleaning windows for a month. Taldran, however, would not be dissuaded. He was not above this simple taunting. 'Know who else liked that, Zekar? I heard a rumour, Zekar. I heard your father did, before he got himself killed. Did they tell you about that, Zekar? I bet they did. I bet they -' Larandus did not let him finish his sentence. He was up before Falon or Kelsen could stop him, and he had smashed his fist against Taldran's face before they could stand. Taldran was bigger than he was, but he did not finish at the top of the class in unarmed combat for nothing. Another two blows, and Taldran was reeling against the wall. Another, and his nose was broken. Another, and he was on the floor, whimpering. 'That's enough, Zekar,' said a cold voice behind him. It was Master Verdren. 'Go to my office. Now. You two,' he told Falon and Kelsen. 'Take Mister Taldran to the infirmary.' It was rare for Larandus to snap the way he did. His blood boiled, and he wanted to beat Taldran some more. What he said was completely uncalled for. Larandus felt that Taldran had harassed him for all these years out of jealousy or spite. He did not actually know the reason. Perhaps he was just that way. Master Verdren's office was a dark, cold room with wooden paneling on the walls and a single glowlamp on the desk providing illumination. The curtains were drawn across the tall lancet window. Apparently, Master Verdren did not like to see the stars. 'Shut the door and sit down, Zekar,' Master Verdren said, taking a seat behind his bare desk. Larandus had only ever been here twice before. There was an old musket hanging on the wall, and a suit of archaic plate armour stood by the door, an equally ancient halberd in its gauntleted hands. There was a painting of a battle scene, and a bookshelf creaking under the weight of the many volumes in it. On one of the shelves, there was a well-maintained sabre, its basket hilt chased in gold and the black scabbard inlaid with golden eagles. Larandus sat on the small wooden chair in front of the desk. 'While I approve of your efficient technique,' Master Verdren began, his face impassive as always, 'I do not feel that your fellow students are the best choice for practicing ambushes. What do you think, Zekar?' 'No, sir,' Larandus replied, meeting the master's gaze. He hesitated for only a moment before adding, 'He was insulting my father, sir.' Master Verdren nodded. 'Indeed. I heard. However, you should have maintained discipline. I realise that emotions might be running high at this time, what with your examinations over and graduation next week after you receive your results, but that is no excuse for students running amok.' 'Sir, I was provoked.' 'I realise that,' Master Verdren said. 'I would have done the same, in your place. Your father was a good man.' 'You knew him?' Larandus could hardly contain his curiosity. He had only really heard of his father, never saw him. The matrons at the orphanage were not very forthcoming, either. Remembering himself, he added, 'Sir.' 'For a while. He was very happy when he found out that you had entered this Academy. For his sake, I am proud to have been here to see your successes.' 'Sir.' 'However, that does not mean that I can be lax on discipline. You will be scrubbing floors in the junior dormitories this weekend. It will help remind the students that even the best can be humbled by the system. I trust that you have made no plans for the weekend, Zekar?' 'No, sir.' 'Good. Go now. I will not make you apologise to Mister Taldran, but I expect that you will control yourself for the remainder of your time here. Is that clear?' 'Yes, sir,' said Larandus as he backed out of the room. Turning around at the doorway, he was stopped by Master Verdren. 'Zekar,' he called, standing up and taking something from the bookshelf. 'I think it is appropriate that you take this now,' Master Verdren said, handing him the sabre. 'It was your father's. The Imperial Army had it sent to me after he fell in battle. He died well.' Larandus nodded, his face impassive as he took the weapon. It was reassuringly heavy, but he could tell that it was finely balanced. 'Any death in the service of the Emperor is a good death, sir.' 'Good night, Zekar,' said Master Verdren as he shut the door. It was on an overcast day the following week when their graduation ceremony was held. They were out on the Academy's parade ground, with banners hung up and few in attendance. It was an important occasion, but not a big one. Fifty students out of the original cohort of six hundred were going on to enter Imperial service as Greycoats. Larandus finished at the top of every subject, but accepted his awards only half-heartedly. He was in his new dress uniform: plain black shirt and breeches with black leather jackboots, and a long, grey coat that went below the knees. He had a peaked cap with an Imperial Eagle on the front. A pistol was holstered under the coat, and he had belted on the sabre Master Verdren had given him. Now they were standing in ordered ranks, in what would be the last time they would be together before going their separate ways. Rarely did Greycoats congregate in large groups, all of them being too busy seeing to their own affairs to spare the time for reunions, and many being at odds with each other ideologically. It was a sad fact that they all would be working for the good of the Empire, but few of them would see eye to eye about how one should go about doing that. Already, just in this past year, differences had begun to arise between the students. Some of it came from their mentors during field experience, but most of it was due to the simple fact that people did not all think alike. They were fragmented, but they had to present a united front to the rest of the Empire. The Headmaster, Ulchen Tarndair, mounted the podium to speak to the assembled students. The other masters were seated behind him, and behind them hung great black banners displaying the Imperial Eagle sewn in gold thread. 'Servants of the Emperor,' he began in his great, booming voice, his scarred hands grasping the edges of the lectern as they did when he was about to make a speech, 'for that is what you are now, you who stand before me. Eight years ago, many more of you endured my address, but you who remain are those who have been deemed worthy to serve the Empire as only its finest can. 'Your trials here at the Academy were only the beginning. Some of you already have an idea as to the dangers you will face out in the world. Some of you will not have had very eventful apprenticeships, and those have been disciplined for not making enough of an effort.' There were laughs, and Tarndair waited until they died down before continuing. 'All of you are as prepared as anyone can ever be to combat the myriad threats that assail our great lands. Your loyalty to the Emperor and his Empire has been tested, and none of you have been found wanting. You are now among the most diligent and resolute servants of the Emperor. You are the shield of the Empire against all the malign forces which seek its downfall. What our mighty armies cannot defend against, we count upon you to combat. You are the bulwark, but you are also the sword in the hand of the Emperor. You will defend, but you will also punish. You will seek out those who threaten our great land and destroy their menace at the source. 'Many of you will die. But a death in the service of the Empire is nothing less than a hero's death, and that is what you all will be remembered as. When you die, there will be nothing but glory awaiting you. Your names will be held beside the names of the First Emperors, and They will smile upon your souls! 'For you are the Emperor's finest, and there are none more deserving of that name.' There was applause and cheering. Larandus clapped softly, but he was silent. From the stage, he imagined that Master Verdren gave him an imperceptible nod and a smile that he could not possibly have made.

So fundamentalists do strange and often cruel things in the name of their beliefs. What's new?

Damn straight.

Good idea, taking a crappy vehicle that can barley land. But think of what you can do with all that barley!

I still haven't gotten my head around TG2. Nodes seem so unnecessarily complex for someone who is used to sliders and punching in numbers in TG1.

That list is good. This post gets my Seal of Approval.

CHAPTER VI: DEALS FOR HIS PART, Xin appeared more uneasy about being held captive than about his potentially imminent death. It was a two hour journey by hover-coach from the tenement Xin had inhabited to the Imperial Palace. Larandus and Dansh sat on one side of the spacious interior, with Xin bound in front of them. Larandus had bound their prisoner's wounds hastily, and now sat staring at him. Dansh was busy firing off synapses in Xin's brain, forcing his body to slow down the bleeding. They had to reach the palace quickly, before Dansh became exhausted and Xin bled to death. Larandus' shot had not severed an artery, but the leg wound still oozed blood at a disquieting rate. The coach glided through the streets of Dramaskus City silently, with the driver only having to slow the two horses that pulled it occasionally. Most people made themselves scarce at the sight of the black-enamelled stagecoach, with its golden eagle insignia and the eye and crossed swords of the Interior Ministry. People averted their eyes and scurried away like mice before a great cat. The sky was a matted grey, stained with brown fumes rising from the city's foundries, manufactories and power generators, and the guttering torches which provided light in the poorer parts of town. It was only noon, but the overcast and the haze worked together to make it seem as though night had already fallen. The days were becoming ever shorter as winter crawled inexorably closer. Larandus could tell that Xin was not too terribly comfortable at ground level. From what he knew, the half-elf had developed a love of flying that bordered on compulsion. On the ground, he did not have the freedom of the air, nor the speed and raw power of an Imperial flyer. He looked resigned and sullen. That may have been due in part to the revolver Larandus kept pointed at his chest. Every now and then, the coach passed through a shaft of light that managed to pierce the clouds and was lucky enough to find a gap between the tall towers of the city and their multitude of criss-crossing bridges and clotheslines. When that happened, the coach would swerve ever so slightly as the driver, accustomed to the gloom that permeated the city's streets, would shield his eyes from the sudden burst of light. Those times were the only ones when the vehicle actually seemed to be moving. The low hum of the lift engines made the interior of the coach vibrate slightly, but otherwise, the lack of friction from the street and the measured pace of the horses made it quite a sedate ride. Quite unlike the bone-shaking speed and the rattling hull of a true flyer. Larandus could see the transition between districts clearly as though an invisible wall hung in the air between different neighbourhoods and segregated different groups of people. For a time, the coach wended its way through the harsh, grid-like streets of the slums and then the workers' districts, which had been designed and built in the heyday of Imperial power and adhered to then-prevalent ideas of utilitarianism and stark order. The buildings were almost all identical, with concrete fả̮̤̉ades and iron stairs and balconies climbing up the sides. Most rose up seven storeys, and almost none were below four. Each would hold four or five families per story in small, cheap apartments. Some buildings held businesses on one or more levels: tailors, seamstresses, taverns, banks and the like. About a quarter of the buildings were abandoned. There were noisy marketplaces in every plaza, to provide the goods that could not be found on smaller roadside stalls or tower shops. Occasionally, there was an open space with a few dead trees, chain-mesh fencing and hints of grass breaking through old asphalt. Some of them had cast-iron hoops and goalposts for recreational activities. Then, almost abruptly, there would be signs that the people were wealthier: there would be posts lining the road with real glowlamps set in them. The buildings would be older but better maintained, and some would be built of brick and mortar rather than just concrete around a steel skeleton. The towers might rise up to nine storeys, but some buildings might even have only one level - a mark of prosperity in the city of Dramaskus, where space was scarce. The clothes hanging above the streets and alleys between towers would be of better cuts and colours. It would be cleaner, and it would not be unusual to pass ten alleys without once seeing a robbery in progress. The people here could afford to live well, and every benefit of Imperial citizenship was enjoyed. The hover-coach passed through the district known as the Old Wall, which, as its name suggested, hugged the ancient fortifications that once surrounded the old city, before it expanded to its current twenty-mile diameter. What was once the foulburgh had been developed over the years into a prosperous community of professionals, businessmen and other well-to-do people. There were some who had clawed their way here from life in the slums with only guts and sheer willpower. Most of them ended up in the City Watch, which meant that Old Wall was one of the safest places in Dramaskus City. No wayward youth, no matter their parents' wealth, would risk a confrontation with a browncoat who had been living by his wits and fighting real street gangs since he could hold a club, not when the guardsman was being paid well with taxpayer money to keep the streets in order. Then, the coach passed through the immense barbican which was all that remained of the old city wall. Beyond it, there were only few buildings, mostly upper-class residences and a few businesses. There was far more greenery here, with great tracts of land used for parks or memorials to dead emperors or great battles. The nobility did not live here: their mansions and palaces were on the far side of the old city, well away from the rabble of the eastern districts. The road was arrow-straight now, and almost deserted save for a few other hover-coaches carrying dignitaries and Imperial servants. It opened out into Garaz Square, a vast plaza reserved for festivals and formal occasions. It was half a mile on a side, and the wind blew through the huge black and gold Imperial banners hung behind the great platform where the Emperor would stand to address the people. Rain had begun to fall by the time the hover-coach reached the other side of Garaz Square and began the final leg of the journey to the Imperial Palace. The Emperor's Way, this final road was called. On either side, there were great banners fluttering in the wind. The land gradually sloped downwards until the road was on a raised causeway of rock and stone, high above the artificial valley. In ancient times, legend had it, this whole part of the city had been wilderness, and the first wooden fort of the Dramaskans once stood on the ground where the Imperial Palace was now built upon. When the city had expanded beyond the old walls, the land inside had been reclaimed by the mandate of the Emperor and turned once more into a semblance of what it once was. Fat drops of rain pattered against the hover-coach's roof and windows, and fog hung low on either side of the road. There was an artificial lake down there, where the ancient moat was said to have been. There were rocky spires rising out of the ground, and there were nests of golden eagles on them. There was ample small game in the valley for them to sustain themselves on. The rain was pouring down in sheets by the time the hover-coach reached the end of the road and passed through the gates. The Imperial Palace rose into the sky, more than eight hundred feet above the ground at its highest point. It was an awe-inspiring structure, with soaring arches and spires, great domes and towers. It was said that from the highest spire, one could see the entire city and the landscape beyond. Xin had been gazing out of the window for the last stretch of the road. He was trying to hide his amazement at the sight of the man-made valley, and when they reached the palace, he looked a little more comfortable at the prospect of soon being in one of those high towers, away from the ground. Dansh sent word of their arrival ahead by telepathic message. By the time their coach stopped and the engines' whines died away and the vehicle stood on its metal struts, servants had rushed up to the coach door with wide umbrellas and cloaks. They, too, averted their eyes from Larandus. Most of that was fear. Part of it was the sight of Dansh, who was not entirely accepted even among other Imperial servants. He could have taken Xin into one of the dedicated interrogation chambers under the Interior Ministry annexe. Those were well-equipped, and were staffed by specialist interrogators who could keep a man barely alive for weeks. He could have decided then and there to simply have whatever Xin knew extracted from his mind with both physical and psychic interrogation. However, he had a conscience, unlike many Greycoats. Instead, he had the half-elf taken to the infirmary chamber attached to his own quarters. Besides Siel and Dansh, Larandus had a small staff of thirty people: scribes, porters, personal guards and physicians among others. It was a regulation, albeit a rarely followed one, that each Greycoat have at least two medically trained staff. Larandus made it a point of pride - one of his few, at that - that he had spent a small amount of his personal fortune on training and equipping his three physicians, the brothers Feldren and Keldan, and their senior, Iliena. Feldren and Keldan had been civilian doctors in Old Wall for fifteen years before Larandus took them on. In two months' time, they would have been working for him for almost ten. Iliena had been a medic in the Imperial Army before earning her discharge. She had lost her left arm while tending to a wounded man in battle, and a tech-surgeon had replaced it with a multi-functional limb with built-in surgical tools. Between the three of them, Xin was in good hands. Siel did not take the news that he had shot Xin easily, though she knew why he had done it. They were in the parlour of the annexe's living quarters. He had drawn up a chair by the window and was quietly sipping from a glass of Ventaran whiskey. She was pacing around on the carpet, staring at the Arragesh patterns on it. 'Why does he want to talk to you?' Larandus asked without turning around. The window distorted the scenery outside as rainwater flowed down its panes. Normally, one could see a beautiful vista from this window, which looked out from the fifth story of the Ministry building towards the valley that was once the old city. Siel took a while to answer. He could hear her pacing back and forth, which he knew she did for his benefit. He would know she was pacing even if she had been customarily silent, because that was what she did in the rare times she was under stress. The noise was just there to remind him that she was not entirely happy. 'He doesn't trust you,' she finally said. He barked a short laugh. 'Our reputation always precedes us,' Larandus chuckled, quoting an old Academy axiom. 'It's not that,' she insisted. 'It's probably because you know he once worked with... with them. He knows how long you've been following this case; I told him when we were on the way to rescue you. It doesn't take a brainjob to figure out that you're probably desperate to close it, especially with Sezarn breathing down your neck. He doesn't trust that you won't do whatever it takes to get what he knows out of him. He won't even trust you to get rid of the shield without trying to mess around with his mind.' Larandus stood up to face her, setting his whiskey down on the window sill. 'That is because I am willing to do whatever it takes,' he told her. 'As a servant of the Emperor, nothing less will suffice. That includes allowing him his request, if it will yield results without wasting valuable time. If he will not provide you with the information we need, I will see fit to use other means.' She looked as though she was about to protest, but Larandus cut her off. 'However,' he said, 'I will not be overzealous. You know that I always try to find the most efficient solution, Siel. You also know that I don't like to waste potential resources. That you live now is testament to that. I think he can be useful. I won't trust him until we clean out his mind of all traces of Okarth's influence, but after that, if you believe we can trust him, I will listen to your judgment.' She nodded, understanding. Over the years, she had had plenty of opportunity to find that he was not an unreasonable man, as far as Greycoats went. He had been at the top of his class at the Academy, and experience had only steeled, not jaded him to Imperial service. 'I hope,' Larandus continued, 'that he does talk to you. For all our sakes. I think we're running out of time.' Larandus spent most of the evening in the parlour with Dansh, waiting for Siel to return with Xin. She had agreed to speak with him in the formal meeting room, which Larandus had had purpose-built. It was secure against all forms of eavesdropping. Even Dansh could not reach into it with his mind. The rest of the staff were in their own quarters, except for the four guards, who were doing their rounds of Larandus' private chambers. The rain had not stopped since it began earlier in the day, and the night outside was uncharacteristically dark with clouds obscuring the light of the Belt and the two moons. Glowlamps lined the causeway leading to the Palace, attached to the banner poles. They were like tiny stars, seen from the window in the parlour. The banners that fluttered under them were like huge bats as they flapped in the wind and rain, nothing but shadows under the glowlamps. Far away, Larandus could dimly see the glowlamps lighting Garaz Square, like an earthbound constellation. Beyond that, the city was all but invisible through the downpour. Dansh was sitting at the table in the corner, enjoying a book. Ezann's Litanies, Larandus knew from the cover. It was his personal volume. He did not claim to be a religious man, but he venerated the Great Emperors as any good citizen should, and respected their deeds. So did Okarth, apparently. The browncoats returned what they had found at the old palace earlier today, and among the papers was a copy of Ezann's work. 'What do you think of Ezann?' Larandus asked Dansh, for the sake of speaking. Neither of them had said a word for the past two hours. 'Mm?' Dansh looked up from his book. 'I think he is an excellent historian and poet. He certainly manages to maintain accuracy without compromising textual integrity, and his works have an epic feel which is laudable for a writer of his time. I must confess, though, that I find some of his metaphors quite simplistic and characteristic of his aristocratic background in their prejudices, but that is, of course, understandable.' Larandus gave him a flat stare. 'That was, of course, not the answer you were looking for,' Dansh mumbled, clearing his throat. 'I should know better than to discuss literature with a fighting man.' 'That's not an entirely fair assumption,' Larandus pointed out, but of course Dansh knew that. It was a joke of his. 'Have you read what he says about the War of the Houses?' he asked. Dansh nodded, and he continued, 'What does he say about the cause of the war?' He knew the answer, of course, but if Dansh could come to the same conclusion, he knew he would be on to something. 'House Zannariamus tried to wrest control of the Great Alliance by destroying House Garaz,' Dansh recounted. 'It was not the Imperial House, then, of course, but it controlled the ancient church which in turn held the ancient Dramaskans together. They tried to frame House Garaz in a noble murder, but were later exposed and destroyed. Another House, Kellere, died out during the war. You know this. Why are you asking?' 'What if these Sons of Zannariamus have a similar aim in mind?' Larandus mused out loud. 'The Imperial Cult doesn't control anything now, but it certainly has a great deal of influence in legitimising the rule of the Emperor.' 'And if it falls, and lies spread through the populace, the Emperor might face a revolt?' Dansh continued his train of thought. He made a point of not just reading Larandus' mind. He considered it rude. 'It certainly has the sort of ring to it that most anarchist cells have.' 'Yes, but this group has plenty of resources at its disposal,' Larandus continued, smiling now that Dansh had caught on to his hypothesis. 'Perhaps there is some other agency behind it?' 'Perhaps,' Dansh agreed, 'but without further proof, we cannot jump to conclusions. Any number of parties would benefit from destabilising the Empire. Do remember that we are still at war with the Amardian Alliance and the Rallenes.' Larandus was about to speak when the door opened. Siel walked in, Xin in tow. 'Well?' Larandus said. 'He'll help,' Siel told him. 'I think it's better if it comes from him.' Larandus gave Xin a nod. Dansh focused slightly, probably trying to read Xin's surface thoughts. The psychic shield would stop him probing, but it would not stop him from knowing if Xin were lying. 'She's convinced me,' Xin began in his slightly clipped accent. 'Maybe I can return to the Emperor's service after all.' 'Only if you can be useful,' Larandus said. 'Tell me what you know about the Sons of Zannariamus.' Xin shrugged. 'Not much to say. I used to meet up with someone who worked for them, used to sell guns and ammo. Bigger things like the flyers, they must be getting from somewhere else. Didn't really ask about their business, but they're definitely stockpiling weapons for something. Might be big. I don't have the records any more, but I must've sold them a lot.' 'How much is a lot?' 'I got a small waterfront property in Ventar,' he said. Larandus almost raised his eyebrows. Even a small house could set a minor noble family back a considerable amount. 'We'll have the Imperial Army's records searched for missing equipment. Where did you meet up with them, and how did you communicate?' 'There's a drop-off up north, near the mining town, Zelke. I'd leave a note there, and a week later, I'd get an answer saying if they're interested and when and where to meet the contact. The probably have an operative up there.' 'When was the last time you contacted them?' 'Four years ago,' Xin replied. 'I know other people have been selling to them since then. The arrangements might still be the same.' 'When did they shield you?' Xin shrugged. 'Dunno. Never checked that.' 'Is that all you know?' Larandus asked. Xin nodded, and so did Dansh when he turned to make sure. 'Good. I think I might find you useful, Xin, if you would like to work for me. However, there has to be some measure of trust in return. I will have the psychic shield removed from you now, and you will have to trust us not to do anything untoward. Is that clear?' Xin nodded again, a muscle in his cheek twitching. He was clearly uncomfortable with the idea of anyone messing around with his mind. 'We're not sure if there's anything else that might have been put there. You'll have to trust us. In the meantime, get some rest.' Siel was about to lead him away when Larandus stopped them again. 'Oh, and Xin? Don't take the bullet to the leg personally. I shoot all my employees at some point.' Siel glared at him before leading Xin away.