The Emperor's Finest [Finished 24/11/07 | Downloadable]

[LordBlk]

wow i mean really wow that was an awsome story and the last few chapters have really captivated me

 

you have touched my hearth with this story and it will remain a moral lesson for me forever

 

 

 

one thing though is that the pheonix had no arnament whereas in the next chapter xin uses it to try to kill okarth

 

 

 

you should look into a career in writing cause it is awsome the way you write

[Zonorhc]

wow i mean really wow that was an awsome story and the last few chapters have really captivated me

 

you have touched my hearth with this story and it will remain a moral lesson for me forever

 

 

 

one thing though is that the pheonix had no arnament whereas in the next chapter xin uses it to try to kill okarth

 

 

 

you should look into a career in writing cause it is awsome the way you write

 

 

 

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

[Zonorhc]

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.

[LordBlk]

very nice

 

how many times has larandus almost died by now?

[Zonorhc]

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.'

[Zonorhc]

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.'

[Zonorhc]

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.

[Zonorhc]

EPILOGUE

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

IN THE AFTERMATH of the battle, the Imperial Palace Guard came in force.

 

 

 

Three jet-black flyers with golden chevrons painted on their wingtips screamed overhead as they hovered in place, black-armoured men rappelling down on cables suspended from their hatches, swords drawn and guns blazing. The rebels, who had by this time withdrawn behind the protection of the walls, were desperate men. They had the remnants of the rabble that fought outside the walls, and the final vestiges of what was once the Sons of Zannariamus' elite. They were ferocious fighters, well-armed and fanatical. They still numbered over a hundred and fifty at this point.

 

 

 

The twenty-four Palace Guards tore through them with sickening ease, losing only one man.

 

 

 

Later, Larandus learned that Qudea had lost six of her Deathguard in the bloody confrontation outside the walls, and eight more in the final stages of the battle. He found her in the bailey of the ruined stronghold, bodies strewn all about her as she gave the mercy of death to the dying. The remaining Deathguard followed her silently, still mounted as they chanted prayers.

 

 

 

'I thank you for your help,' he remembered saying to her. 'You did well, Priestess Qudea. I will mourn for the loss of these good men.'

 

 

 

'I will not,' she told him. 'They did their duty as Koroon demanded, and in dying they only serve him all the more. That they fell here only means that they were intended to fall here. Life ends, Agent. Duty never does.'

 

 

 

In later years, she would die fighting by his side against a necromantic cult of sorcerers in the city of Liras.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In the days following the deaths of Ancrus Zren and Okarth, rebels and Dragon Cultists poured from hidden strongholds in the eastern mountains, aimlessly sowing terror and chaos for months to come. The fortress Larandus had compromised, he later learned, did not house the entirety of the Army of Light, but was merely supposed to act as a staging area. Had he struck but a few days later than he did, he would have faced a much larger force.

 

 

 

It took a reserve legion of musketeers and a team of Pathfinders to finally defeat the gathered Army of Light as they descended from the mountains south of Zelke. The battle took two days and cost thousands of lives on each side. The Sons of Zannariamus' power had been gathering for years, but Larandus' action and the intervention of the Palace Guard decapitated their leadership, leaving them without guidance, just another crazed, maniacal mob of anarchists, seen by the populace as a host of bandits rather than the ravening, fanatical horde that Larandus knew them to be. But their devastating movements prior to the Battle of Oridel Pass showed that they had reliable intelligence on the disposition of Imperial forces and the locations of supply depots. Their influence, with the backing of the Cult of Vrakyl, reached even into the highest tiers of Imperial government.

 

 

 

Larandus was tasked to lead a great purge of the Imperial Administration, rooting out hundreds of cultists and sympathisers. He personally executed thirty members of the Imperial nobility in those bloody winter months. Finally, with the coming of the spring thaw, the Sons' influence had been broken, but Larandus was sure that the group's parent Cult was still alive and well. The Dragon Cults were notoriously tenacious. They had survived for thousands of years, and would likely continue to exist for thousands more.

 

 

 

In the month of Iuras, in the spring of the Imperial Year 1891, the Vrakyl Insurrection, as it was labelled in the secret records of the Imperial Archives, was declared concluded.

 

 

 

A month later, Prince Terendal was crowned Emperor Terendal Garaz XII. The ceremony took a week, and passed without incident. Delegations arrived from all the lands of the known world, from neighbouring Ventar to far-away Irdin Tor and even the Northlands. The new Emperor would be instrumental in the final achievement of peace with the former colonies of the Dramaskan Empire. The intrigues of that monumental settlement, in which Larandus played a part, are recorded elsewhere.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The telepath Dansh became the first of his kind to be granted a state funeral, on the request of Larandus and with the support of Lord Sezarn. The ceremony took place in the gardens of the ruined Temple of the Emperors in the dead of winter. There were few people in attendance: only Larandus and his staff, Lord Sezarn and the hundred or so telepaths who served in the Imperial Palace, who came to witness the greatest honour to ever be bestowed upon their mistrusted kind. The assembled telepaths' collective emotions triggered a powerful emphatic response for miles around. Citizens found themselves inexplicably bursting into tears or feeling elated, as though they had just been granted a great privilege.

 

 

 

Dansh's body was cremated and the ashes interred in a crypt beneath the Palace, formerly reserved exclusively for the remains of Greycoats. Larandus could think of no greater honour to bestow unto his oldest and most loyal servant.

 

 

 

Later, the precedent established by Dansh's service and subsequent honours helped to cement the role of those with psychic talent in the service of the Emperor. It would take decades more before they would be fully accepted and the stigma lifted, but for the moment, it was enough that they were no longer hidden from sight, but rather made known as legitimate servants of the Empire.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Xin survived his flight from the Cult of Vrakyl's stronghold and returned, alive and well, to the Palace two days after the assault. The Valkyrie had suffered tremendous damage in the ensuing air battle, and he had had to make emergency repairs in order to be able to limp home. Larandus found that he was pleased to see the half-elven rogue alive, and later formally adopted him into his staff.

 

 

 

Xin received a full pardon for his past transgressions in recognition of his services to the Empire. He married Siel in a small ceremony during the autumn of 1895, and retired from active service to become a lecturer and flight supervisor at the newly established Academy of the Winds in Velind.

 

 

 

Siel made a full recovery after her injuries at the ruined fortress and was back in the field within a week. When she married Xin, Larandus offered to allow her to retire from service, but she insisted on remaining in his employ, a gesture which he felt flattered by and found to be very beneficial in some of his later endeavours.

 

 

 

Xin died two years later, when a trainee pilot lost consciousness mid-flight and crashed into the Valkyrie's starboard engine, rupturing fuel lines and bulkheads in the cabin. He was boiled alive, still in his pilot's seat. Larandus and Siel mourned for months. The body was never found.

 

 

 

He held Siel in his arms in the winter of the following year, trying vainly to keep her alive as she bled to death on the slopes of Mount Valtere. Never before in his life had he felt so helpless. The would-be bandit king who shot her would later be captured, and Larandus personally tied the noose that killed him. To this day, he wears the bullet that killed Siel around his neck as a reminder of her service.

 

 

 

After Siel's death, Larandus dissolved his staff and began to operate independently, with only minimal involvement with the Imperial Palace. In truth, up to that point, he was one of the few Greycoats who still maintained a staff at the Palace; many of his kind opted to remain in the field constantly. It was, indeed, a lonely life.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The official records showed that the Vrakyl Insurrection never happened. The contributions of Larandus and his staff, Qudea and her Deathguard, and the sacrifices they all made, went towards nothing. As far as the citizens of the Empire were concerned, nothing happened. The mass raids conducted by the Army of Light following the assault on their stronghold looked to be nothing more than the actions of unusually large numbers of brigands. The Ministry made sure that the population remained ignorant.

 

 

 

Larandus did not resent Lord Sezarn's decision to keep the story of his greatest achievement from reaching the ears of the citizens. He did not do what he did for the adoration of the people or for any self-aggrandising desire for recognition. That was not what was supposed to matter to a Greycoat. Some might do their work for the honours that would be bestowed upon them, or for the material benefits that came with their reputations, but the greater number of them endured the long hours of investigative research and fought the hidden enemies of Dramaskus for the thrill of the chase, the heady rush of combat, the exhilaration of success, and the profound happiness of serving the Emperor and his Empire.

 

 

 

For Larandus Zekar, that was enough. He was an agent of the Empire, one of the Emperor's finest.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE END.

[LordBlk]

very well written very well indeed

[Zonorhc]

What happened to my other readers?

[Xewleer]

I personally found no appropriate words, so I thought it best to remain silent. I enjoyed reading this very much, no real flaws at all. One of your best, for sure.

[dragoncmd]

only finished the first chapter. zonorhc, is this homebrew, planescape or somethign else?

[Zonorhc]

Homebrew, of course.

[dragoncmd]

ok, I was wondering cause I knew you had written some planescape fanfics before.

[Zonorhc]

Only once.

 

 

 

And anyhow, this is now my pet setting, as I've been running D&D games in it for the past two and a half years now.

[Zonorhc]

Update: I've collated all of this into one .pdf file. It can be downloaded here, free of charge.

 

 

 

Also, it comes with cover art.

[Xewleer]

Nice, I took it as soon as was feasibly possible, and I like the cover art, though, I never imagined that he had a hat.