StarDestroyer.Net BBS

This was just an idea which struck me a little while ago, and it just wouldn't leave me, so I decided to write it up. I'd really like to see what you gys think of it. I've been very much inspired by the atmosphere of a universe called Words of Power, and while I don't think I've really captured it yet, I'd like to think this does have something of atmosphere and power about it.

That's just my ego talking everybody. The main character is pretty much stock for me, but I'd like to think that she's different in her own was, and in time I'd like to develope her to the point where she's interesting as well. Also, if anyone has any ideas about a title, that'd be real useful. Questions welcomed. And now, let us begin.


An Introduction

In the not insignificant history recorded within the gleaming, vaulted halls and glittering, crystalline domes of the Ministerium sa Herzoreach, there are certain noted events which stand above all others. The first and foremost is of course the founding of the Herzoreach, covered in a hundred thousand different volumes or more, most notably the black bound History. Naturally, one can guess that other important moments in continua would be the eight wars fought by the rittermen, from the earliest colonial pacifications in the deep jungles to the east, to the grander wars; the cross-continental tally ho against the Timurad across the deserts and planes to the west and south. From there, one might think of the advent of new technology and science: of clockwork men and steel hulks driven by hermetic combustion; of aerodynamic planes on the wing and free roaming aerostats held aloft by arcane spindrives and great tanks of alchemically treated, buoyant gas; of the Ministerium itself, centre of all science and governance and religion.

These and yet more besides make up the historically important verses in the protracted apologue of the Herzoreach. To recount them all in sufficient detail would be an errand in foolishness, for it covers many hundreds of loops of Mother Sahn around Father Delio, and many hundreds of named faces of repute. For the purposes of understanding this particular entry in grand historia, only two such faces and two such names are necessary. Both are similar, being men of science within the Ministerium. Both are similar, for the accounts of their exploits have been washed away, taken and hidden. The first is Megistus Harzad Ricktoverd, a name known primarily for his invention of the hermetic combustion engine, a technical theurgy that has changed the world itself. For his efforts, the Megistus would be granted the status of a Junker, his blood to be the hereditary rulers of the city-state Chernavoyl.

Though now of the nobility, and with newly curried favour among the lords of the Ministerium, Harzad sa Chernavoyl continued his epoch defining experimentation into the underlying currents of power that defined the working reality of the universe. And it is these experiments that would ultimately destroy the city and pollute its surrounding lands. For the Megistus opened up a hole so deep in a manner so violent that the shock of it against the skein of existence caused the patterns of life and order itself to become disturbed, in some cases totally disrupted. Words cannot accurately describe what the Chernavoyl Experiment caused; they can only speak of the horrors perpetuated there, of the things that the rittermen flashed away in burst of magnesium white light. Words can, in someway, relate what still lies there, hidden within the vaults beneath what was once the capitol administration of Chernavoyl, behind the ringed fortifications manned by soulless automata and the tireless abdead, beneath the merciless auspices of cannon and rocket. The greatest Megisti of of the Ministerium have written of it in secret papers for only the highest eyes. They have spoken of flux and principles of particle theurgy, divined of equations and quantitative evidence, defined in terms scientific what it might be, and what it might do. Yet words can never convey the abyssal missingness that is the hole in Karstian topography, the nothingness in Cartesia. The undeniable feeling that the hole is an absence of all that is right and a presence of a basal intelligence. There are perhaps whole conclaves of the Illuminastratum that watch this place, its mightiest agents gazing at this nothing and the nothing gazing back.

The truth of this matter is hidden. The Ministerium speaks of regrettable mistakes in the early days of fissionry; a fouled attempt to split the atom, and not a foolish attempt to split open spacetime itself. The other pertinent matter of historic significance is a favourite topic of rumour and grandstanding. As the Ministerium has chosen no lie, there are instead countless interpretations of the tale of Sioli Schwartzschild. The name of Graf Duhold sa Schwartz is almost as well known as that of Ricktoverd when it comes to scientific achievement, yet when questioned, few outside the Ministerium could actually say of what that scientific achievement was. They might speak of his near legendary distaste for tradition, a warping of his irreverent belief that there was 'no such thing' as a forbidden science. Yet perhaps if they knew that his experiments delved into the creation of life, they would not speak so highly of him. The creation of mindless, soulless automata is a tradition as old as theurgy itself. The animation of corpses, the crafting of flesh into new and useful shapes, the process of binding independent movement to clay or making separate mechanical components into one; all are practiced and accepted. Yet, to create true life? Indistinguishable in sapience and form? Unthinkable. Forbidden by the edict of the first Magister Megistus of the Ministerium, forbidden by all the laws of the Herzoreach, forbidden by the very values and morality of the citizenry.

Schwartz did it anyway. He created not a construct, but an actual person. There are some that name her 'homonculus', and some that believe that the masterful work done goes beyond a mere artificial replication. They say that Sioli, named as Schwartz' Child, is a further development of the pattern of life itself. An incomplete one, of course, marred by her irregular patterns of thought, yet she might have lead to a new era in science. Assuming, of course, that her 'father' had not been executed by the Illuminastratum for his crimes against science and nature and the edicts of the Ministerium.

*

Perhaps then there is a third name that should be known: Sioli Schwartzchild, though she believes that she has the right to be known as the heir of the true Schwartz name. With her creator dead, there was some debate as to what the appropriate course of action was in respect to her existence; some may have suggested executing her along with the disgraced Graf, but the laws of the Herzoreach, and the teachings of the Ministerium, do not allow for such actions to be taken against a child; especially one whom cannot be considered at fault. The Ministerium, being the ultimate bastion of scientific knowledge and moral conduct within the Herzoreach, not taken with bias for any one state or colony, took her into its care. For, argued Megistus Feirlan Radamath, though different and born from the womb of tainted science, Sioli was and is, born sapient.

Though their motives pure, Sioli's disposition did not lend well to her integration with other orphans in the Ministerium's care. Perhaps it was because of her appearance; though difference abounds among displaced children of other lands and even from different cities, Sioli's differences were married to a form which was also extremely similar otherwise. If not this disgust at a 'mutant' form, then perhaps it was the murder attempts. Though it is not truly known, even today, who tried, Siloi's life was almost taken on several occasions by determined assassins. Or rather, perhaps it was the knowledge that she was so strong – for it was Sioli herself who dispatched her would-be killers, not the adepts of the Ministerium. For any or all of these reasons, Sioli walked away from the Ministerium, and began to live across the myriad lands of the Herzoreach and, some suggest, beyond.

In recent years, her capricious, violent nature has lead the people to know fear in her presence, and hatred when her back is turned. It would not be so far fetched to propose that her capricious, violent nature was caused by the angry mobs that congregated in her presence. Indeed, one might call it a cataclysmic cycle; for it is the duty of the Herzoreach to protect the citizens of its nation-states, and the duty of the Ministerium to support the interests of the Herzoreach at large ... yet for each company of rittermen, each cadre of adepts, each formation of automata, each aerostat, each deadly expression of war that tries to protect the citizenry, her response only grow yet more violent.

An unfortunate cycle, that would ultimately come to head when Sioli Schwartzchild had lived for sixteen loops of the world around its star.


Chapter One

The city of Slamat was of such age that it possessed, for the most part, it's own unique architectural style. The pink cobblestones coating the sweeping rivers of Slamat's streets dated back over eight hundred loops, older than the Herzoreach itself. The squat sandstone buildings could also speak of great age in their sculpted facades, paint faded and surfaces cracked from countless rotations under the heat of Father Delio. However, amongst the murals both new and old, amongst the countless gilded sculptures and enormous marble fountains, the advances brought by the Herzoreach and its Ministerium could be seen and felt. Sparklights mounted in polished brass posts lined the roads and sat gleaming on corners. Traffic hummed along the main streets, smaller two and one wheeled conveyances darting amongst larger vehicles and out into the quieter backstreets. In the distance lay towering black silhouettes, like upward pointing black fangs framed by Delio's orange face; bulbous aerostats floated about them bereft of gravity, like some sort of giant, metal-skinned fruit.

All the trappings of modern society, not only found here in an old city like Slamat, but far beyond; on such dry and dusty continents as Rarwen, or even in the eastern jungles of Cuota, twice again as humid as Slamat. Young idealists would sit in the parasol shade of the cafés and gelaterias, referencing articles from newspapers, and commend the philanthropic efforts of the Herzoreach; older people who had lived through the last war might sit on their balconies, listening to their wireless radios, and raise toasts to the success of the Ministerium over unenlightened savagery.

Slamat was an old, old city, and it still possessed its old and only defense; the Caliway, a pit that had encircled the city-state's central territory as far back as a thousand loops. Once only fifteen feet across and narrowing to a point some twelve feet deep, it was now close to ten times that in width and dropped to a depth unknowable. Carved out by some Megistus' theurgy, it was a formidable defense, crossed only by the artifice of the Caliway Bridges, suspended by metallic conduits thicker than a man and supported by ribs of steel riven into the bedrock. At the will of their masters, each bridge could move, driven by titanic machineries, leaving naught but a long drop and a quick stop for all enemies bound to Mother Sahn's shell. And yet, the city had spilled over, expanding beyond the bounds set by the Caliway and Ministerium engineers. It had spread haphazardly, an infectious miasma of sandstone and plaster and rosy cobbles and farmland, until at last it reached its outskirts, nearly eighteen miles from its centre.

Slumped limply over the neck of her horse, Sioli looked down on the city from her vantage point on the mountain road. Eyes, half lidded, she reared up and wiped sweat from beneath her blue-white fringe, and could feel the eyes of a Slamat ranger burning on the back of her scalp. It had nothing, she knew, to do with her appearance, though she also knew that few (if any) possessed her pale blue hair colour, and none possessed her red pupils. She glanced back at him, clinging to the sheer rock face, then grasped the reins. Whirring and clicking, her mount began to move at something resembling a canter.

As she passed a rice paddy, planters ankle deep in muddy water glanced up from their work and glared at her, before sharply turning their eyes down when she looked their way. A plump woman hanging sheets that were probably supposed to be white saw Sioli and immediately pushed a small, dirty child behind a think leg. Sioli bared her teeth suddenly in a guttural snarl and the woman went suddenly white, letting out a pinched off squeak. With a clear, bell like laugh, Sioli shook her head and directed her mount further towards the centre of the road, before coaxing some more speed out of the beast. Its blank glass eyes reflected the hushing masses as they passed, but saw nothing. Sioli herself kept her chin up; how many times had she witnessed the crowds on the street stepping back, gathering little ones or lovers closer? She snorted at the thought of it.

As she approached one of the bridges across the Caliway, Sioli reined in her mount. Her bottom lip dropped slightly, and her eyebrows rose just a fraction. Truly, she had seen several bridges of greatly superior size, but the broad sweep of steel beam left her chest tight. The engineer behind the design had a particular vision, one of artistic simplicity, yet one which left the girl rosy cheeked as she pulled on to the bridge. A man behidn the wheel of his automobile saw her and immediately stamped down on the breaks; the sudden stop rushed through the traffic behind him like electricity through a copper wire.

Across the bridge, and into Slamat proper now. A few miles in and Sioli found herself circling a vast stone basin dominated by a massive statue that looked as though it had been carved out of raw granite. A brawny man with well-formed stone muscles clutched a slain woman in her arms; it was a fountain too, with water streaming from the hero's eyes and vomiting from the horrific wound sliced out of the woman's belly. Sioli's arm jerked and the horse staggered to a stop, brazen hooves not even skittering against the cobbles. She cocked her head and narrowed her eyes at the statue, as an open topped car swerved around her, a pair of its youthful occupants standing and making cat-calls at her. Sitting up straight in the saddle, Sioli shook her head and rode on with the clockwork accelerando of her horse in her ears.

Swinging off the main streets, congested as they are like a man with heavy phlegm, Sioli took in a slow breath and smiled. Above her head came the rattan snaps of slamming window shutters, and those lounging in the sun moved back into the shadows of open doorways, turning their sweat-streaked faces away on the occasion that Sioli paid them any attention. She halted the horse in front of a scattering of tables with wrought-iron spirals for legs, all with large shade-giving umbrellas with the same green colour scheme. In golden, sweeping cursive was the word 'Telletro', much as there was above and on the the windows of the building to her left. Patrons stared at her upon the back of her quietly chatter steed, the odd spoon of coloured gelato frozen in the state of passing from bowl to mouth. A young girl was sniffling, the front of her pink dress stained with a piece of ice cream cake that her mother had dropped with the new arrival. Sioli swung lithely from the stained leather of the saddle, and as her feet hit the sun-faded red, there was a skittering and scattering of chairs, and the crystal twinkling of shattering glassware. Shifting her sword from across her back to her side, Sioli watched them sprint and stumble and fall, then turned to the door of the gelaterie.

The door had been fitted with silver bells, and as Sioli shouldered her way through, they alerted the young owner with thick red curls to the presence of a customer. Apart from Telletro himself, working behind the counter, there were only a few inside. “Hastas,” he began, turning to see Sioli approach. His next words did not come out, though his mouth kept working in gaping, horrified rictus. She placed her hand softly against the cold glass of the counter top, and Telletro screamed, fell back against bottles of essence, and ran for the door. As though his scream had cut through a noose around their necks, the other patrons suddenly leapt to their feet and followed his lead. Sioli stared at the white back of his smock as he half-lurched, half-ran into the middle of the street. He glance back and saw the girl standing with her hackles raised and one palm pointing skyward. He screamed again, and ran from sight.

Scowling, Sioli rested her weight on the counter and looked through the glass as tubs of smooth, cool ice cream. Sighing, she vaulted over, snared a spoon, and scooped out a mouthful of something pale pink. As the blessed dollop of cold slid down her throat, she sighed, her eyebrows jumped. There was a man, his hair white and trailing from his spotted scalp like flowing weeds, sitting in the corner. “Disco.” she said, clambering over the counter and walking towards his table. Her hand snaked out and seized a tall glass filled with brown milk and whipped cream. She approached, sucking on the straw and let her toe sharply nudge a chair around next to the old man. Sitting, Sioli carefully placed down her milkshake, rested her sheathed sword against the table and turned towards him, broadly smiling. “Hey there grandfather,” she began. “You reckon I could have that cake there? You don't look like you're that hungry.” she neglected to mention that he looked quite dead, but that was unimportant. There was no response. “Really? Don't mind if I do.”

As her fingers touched the shallow dish, her eyes spotted the open black box of a phonograph. She stood up, held her finger in front of the dead man's face. “One moment, grandfather.” the old man remained silent, and when she returned from outside, made no comment as she placed a wide flat disk down on the music-maker. Sioli's little finger flicked against a switch, and she returned to the table, moving the cake to slap down the album cover in front of the man. As she sat down, whirring gave way to a short scratching, the twanging of guitar. “Death don't take no vacation!” she sang with the rich voice flowing from the speaker's mesh. She took a spoonful of ice cream cake, let out a shiver of pleasure at the taste, and turned back to the old man. “Hey, tell me grandfather, what sort of music do you get in Slamat?”

Silence.

“Huh, you don't know? Maybe you're new here too.” she used the spoon to swipe the top off the fluffy cloud of whipped cream in her milkshake. “You know this is pretty good; this town might be filled with out and out weirdings, but they make good desserts. Nice and cold, which considering the weather ...”

Old air stored in the man's lungs before he suffered from a fatal heart attack finally escaped him in a sighing wheeze. Sioli suddenly snapped her fingers and grinned. “Yeah, you know what I'm talking about. It's too Deliodamned humid.” she sucked on her spoon and slumped back in her chair, the ends of her eyebrows moving closer in a geologically slow collision. She tapped the tip of her nose with the utensil and said quietly: “You know what though? I kinda like it here.”

Almost concurrently with the end of her sentence, a loose cobblestone hurtled through one of the tall windows, pulling with it a glimmering glass geyser. Sioli watched the flat pink rock come to a stop against the wall, then glanced out from whence it came. A milling, multi-headed beast had gathered. In its many hands it carried makeshift weapons; tools of cooking and cleaning and a dozen other professions. Snorting into her drink, Sioli stood and slipped her sword into her belt. “I won't be long, grandfather.” she said, walking to the door.

Hate had overwhelmed fear, and numbers had made them bold. When she appeared, the crowd roared; not merely the young and hotblooded, but the older ones who should have known better. As she continued to sip at her milkshake, Sioli thought that if they didn't have a noisy, persuasive leader, they might not have tried. Her eyebrows steepled as she tried to fathom the question of who was the more stupid – the mindless mob or the man that lead them. She had to admit that the man, with sideburns that would not looked out of place within the Ministerium, did have an impressive oratory capability. He was quite enthusiastically brandishing about a basket handled sword with a long, straight blade; quite illegal in the modern Herzoreach. With a swish of whistling wind, he leveled its point at Sioli without a waver. He held it with such a determination is was as if he had iron rods for bones; clearly he was used to the weight.

“What are you doing in our city, monster?” he snarled. He sounded like he was in the Ministerium too, with eloquent pronunciation. If he was, he was nothing more than a clerk or lesser assistant. There was no smell of theurgy about him. “Have you come here to murder and main our children?” there was an outraged cry from behind him at that. His snarl slowly warped into an angry grin. “Yous should get yourself gone from here, lest we-” he cut himself off with a double swipe of the blade, and sneered at her.

“You get it right?” she asked, straw bouncing on her lip. His head jerked back and she sighed. “If you point your sword at someone, you either kill or be killed, that's it. You're not prepared for that? Then you shouldn't be playing with something that kills people.” she turned her attention to her milkshake. “You want me gone? Make me gone.”

In that moment, it felt for this man like the flow of time had slowed to the point where it moved like molasses. Standing between the nonchalant monster with the funny coloured hair and eyes and the angry monster that he himself had created, it felt as though he could wither like a flower under great heat. A quiver shot through his arm and up the length of his long blade, and he turned the shake into a mighty swing. He darted forward, drawing his longsword back before letting it lance forward at her chest. A grave moment of terror fell across his shoulder like the weight of worlds when he saw that she had almost casually moved aside from his ferocious thrust, turning her back towards him. Something vicious hummed and cut through flesh and bone, before returning to its nest with the clack of lacquered wood. The beweaponed arm came loose in a spreading tail of blood which splashed the cobbles a darker shade of red. Dark spots danced in front his eyes and he fell limply, gasping and thrashing with the pain.

“Petro!” came the the roar of another man, seeming as pained as the man bleeding on the road. His face tear streaked, he rushed forward with the makeshift club of a soup pan. Though larger and stronger than the other, Sioli turned and slashed out his throat with such effortless ease he might as well have been some sort of bush to be pruned. Ducking beneath the arterial spray, Sioli did not bother to resheathe her blade, and instead used it to reave through the mob. The serrated edge bit through flesh and bone alike, spilled entrails wetly against the road. Their boldness broke when half of them were dead in the opening seconds of violence. They tried to break away and failed when thrusts ripped the tendons from behind knees. Reversing her grip, Sioli lashed out and severed spines before they had a chance to fall.

Desperation took the few left breathing, and they came at her screaming. The sight of a mop striking down at her, tendrils flickering backward with the movement almost shocked Sioli to the point of inaction. Her blade flashed through ashwood handle and narrow female neck; as the body fell, a stocky, bewhiskered man in a white, red flecked smock lashed out with a broad bladed cleaver. Effortlessly, Sioli stepped back, skidded in the blood and swiped out his eyes with the expert precision he may have used on fine cuts of meat. Raking the sword up past her face, Sioli finished her milkshake. A younger man with a rolling pin fell past her, spurting blood from the shredded flesh clinging to his skull. A short swing cleared the blade of blood, but before Sioli could resheathe it, she was greeted by a sudden cacophony of clicks and clanks. Glancing up at the rooftops, she found herself coming eye to eye with rifle after rifle after rifle, all clutched in the hands of men with grim eyes beneath their helmets.

Rittermen, militant protectors of the Herzoreach. Every one clad in the finest armour the Ministerium could muster, each one bearing the enhancements and advancements of science. Each one reeking of theurgy. Glancing about, Sioli saw frost clinging to bodies and lightposts, and she honed in on the bright souls behind it. There, there and there: adepts of the Ministerium, clad in the high collared frock coats that served as a uniform. Beneath her feet, the cobblestones vibrated, and in the air came the sound of heavy metal clanking; at the end of the street appeared the squat shape of a hau. It's lines and dark colour did not suit Slamat's streets; nor too did the ominous presence of its turreted cannon.

Sioli's fingers tightened around the hilt of her blade, and she felt a shiver of something run through all those present. She smiled, then dropped the blade, letting it clatter against the damp stone. Raising her hands, she called “I surrender.” and a collective groan emanated from the ranks of the rittermen.

*

“So your reasoning behind murdering twenty three people is, and I quote,” Cordon Orselone tugged at the checked collar of his arsenic grey uniform and held up the transcript of her statement. “'They would have killed me if I had given them the chance', is that right?”

“That's right.” she nodded, rolling her wrists in the ridiculously thick and heavy chains binding her. “I decided to not give them the chance.”

Orselone scowled, and in the corner, so too did Megistus Artha sa Ixion. “I understand that you were actually attacked by a one Petro Restani and his brother, and you were within your legal rights to defend yourself.” he crushed his eyelids together and massaged them with thumb and ring finger. “However, you can't justify what you did on the basis that the might have harmed or killed you if you had stood there and let them attack you without reproach.”

Sioli cocked her head at the Cordon. “Isn't that the exact same reasoning the Ministerium used to justify the second war against the Timurad?” Orselone slapped down the narrow wad of papers in his hand, then half turned in his chair to glare at the Megistus. Ixion smoothed over one pale eyebrow, glanced at his gloved fingertips briefly, them moved over to the table. Sioli watched him place both hands down on the table, and examined his gloves; leather, and just as black as his coat. She could see conductive wire woven within them. He made a noise deep in his throat, and drew Sioli's attention to his face. Sioli's cheeks went pink.

If Artha sa Ixion cared, he hid it very well. He hid everything very well; no lines marred his face as they had before. He leaned in closer, looming over her, and his eyes became shadowed through some trick of the light. “I would not try to play innocent, Sioli.” he said, and his voice had a pleasant timbre, as though he had once been a fine singer. “Quite frankly, you are not. You dropped your sword only because you know that by law we can not harm you. I know that you're not completely sound in mind, but I would not suggest that you presume that we are also. You have done this before.” his mouth broke from a hard line into a toothy smile. “You're not going to get away with it this time.”

“Eh?” Sioli's head jerked back. “Of course I'm going to get away with it. You can't legally execute me, and there isn't a prison built that can hold me.”

“That's because,” a dry voice said, a hint of a smile about it. From the shadows another man appeared, very tall with a narrow build. He did not wear the coat of a Ministerium adept, but there was no need for him to; theurgy hung about him like an almost visible haze. “We haven't built it yet.” he smiled. “Hello, Sioli.”

“Sir!” she yelped, immediately standing up amidst a squeal of twisting, tearing metal. Cordon Orselone leapt back in surprise and half fell from his chair. The old man raised a hand and gestured for her to sit; at once, she did so, swallowed visibly and said: “Magister Megistus, I didn't quite expect I'd see you here.”

“Or in these circumstances?” he asked as he took Orselone's chair. Sitting, his smile did not waver as Sioli cast her eyes away and shuffled uncomfortably. Rather it grew, and he laced his long, dark fingers together. “Sahn has made four and a half loops around Delio since I saw you last. And while you have grown into quite the beautiful young lady,” her cheeks flushed almost cherry red at that, and she glanced up when he sighed. He looked very tired. “Your reputation has not. Does it sadden you to know that you are for the most part considered a monster by the people? They name you terrible things: 'Little Maiden of Murder' and 'Princess of Madness' are two of the nicer ones. Does it sadden you to know that you have become a killer?”

“But, but they-”

“No.” he said, and it was with such finality that Sioli recoiled as if struck. “I commend your dedication to your martial prowess, and most off all that you have attempted to hone your theurgic skills. However, I am disgusted by how you have used them.” when he looked up at Sioli, she could see his eyes were moist. “Do you have any idea how many people you have killed during the past three loops?” she slowly shook her head, blue bangs swinging. “It pains me that I know such a number.”

Sioli squeezed her bottom lip between her teeth. She opened her mouth to speak, but found that nothing would come out; and if something did, what possible worth could it have? An apology would be next to meaningless. Any sort of excuse would be unacceptable. Here, in front of the one person who could possibly pass as her father, she would not disgrace herself further. “I do not know.” she said finally, deciding that the truth would at least not deepen the Magister Megistus' shame. “Nor does it sadden me any longer.” she paused to wet her lips. “It once did. I think I just stopped caring.”

The Magister Megistus shook his head. “No my dear, you didn't stop caring. Instead you decided to become their monster.”

“Is that ironic?”

“Just a little.” he said softly, before clicking his fingers. The chains opened and fell away and hit the floor with a deep pulse of sound reminiscent of a steel drum. Sioli slowly placed her hands on the table, and the Magister Megistus covered them with his own. They were warm and smooth enough that it was as though his palms had been burnt. “So I'm going to take you away from them all. I will build personally a home for you, one that will keep the people from you, and you from the people. And together we shall stay there, you and I, until time takes us both.”

*

“This is ridiculous!” Megistus Ixion snapped, his blonde hair flicking out of place as he strode up and down the hall, gloved hands clenched. Vicious sparks crawled like electric blue worms across the seams of his gloves. He whirled upon the Magister Megistus, teeth bared. “The people will have your head Excellency!” Ixion swiped his hand downward diagonally for emphasis. “And besides that, the very idea is folly! You would let this murderer go essentially unpunished!”

“You forget yourself, Artha sa Ixion.” the Magister Megistus said, his voice carrying all the cold hostility of the northern ice shelves. At that, Ixion lowered his eyes and unlocked his hands. A hand came down on his shoulder, and he looked back up, at the warm blue eyes and assured smile. “Would you suggest that I let the mobs lynch her? I will not be known as the Magister Megistus who let such an act tarnish the grand historia of the Herzoreach. She is a child-”

“A child who snapped the battleship Esperance in two!” Ixion hissed, almost desperately, through his teeth.

The warm hand on his shoulder squeezed, firmly and insistently. “She is a child.” the Magister Megistus repeated, as firmly as his grip on Ixion's shoulder. “Hermann sa Thule will not be the Magister Megistus who allowed the Herzoreach to execute a child.”

“So then this is for your own personal gain?” Ixion spat, his fingers curling until his hands became fists. His lip curled. “You will not allow the Ministerium to bring her to justice simply so that your name shall go untarnished in the annals of history? Is that your game, Magister Megistus? And you speak of serving the interests of the Herzoreach!”

The Magister Megistus closed his eyes and released Ixion's shoulder. He held up his smooth palm, then brought the back of his hand across his subordinate's face. A shiver ran through the air, and up the length of Ixion's spine, though he was almost too stunned to heed the menace there. He turned his reddened, bleeding face back to his superior, and found that Magister Megistus' normally warm, friendly eyes now smouldered like twin blue stars. “Have you lost your mind with your anger?” Thule demanded, stepping forward, bringing both hands down to capture Ixion's shoulders. “You are a Megistus – you have trained your entire life to be a thinker of men, so think! Would you be part of the administration that ignored the edicts and laws set down by our mothers and fathers who came before us?” he shook his head savagely, his thin, white hair quivering. “Sioli is dangerous. Sioli is powerful. And Sioli will not go unpunished.”

He released Ixion, and the man stumbled back against the nearby wall, his chest shaking with each laboured intake of breath. “This will be my final act as Magister Megistus.” he said, more softly, the heat of his anger now passed. “I shall take her and remain with her during her imprisonment. I shall be the architect, and I shall hold the keys. I shall be her keeper until the end of her days.”

Interesting story, although the setting constantly reminded me of the Imperium of Man. (Maybe it's just because I've devoted several days to reading the Space Wolves novels.) Sioli seems to be an interesting character, and I'd like to see how her character develops in the coming chapters.

Sidewinder wrote:(Maybe it's just because I've devoted several days to reading the Space Wolves novels.)

It doesn't help that there's a glut of psuedo-latin floating all through the text. The setting is much more based on Victorian Britain and Imperial Germany; as indicated by the German sprinkled throughout. Even 'Herzoreach' was based on German, though corrupted.

Sioli seems to be an interesting character, and I'd like to see how her character develops in the coming chapters.

It'll be interesting to see if I can create a convincing vicious sociopath who is also likeable. I like a challenge.

P.S. Thanks for commenting.

Looking good so far.

I like the esoteric writing style; it's reminescent of older works like Tolkien, Doyle and Wells. Very formalized.

I'm back and the story still doesn't have a title. First off, thanks to Bladed Crescent for the interest. I'm always fond of knowing I have readers.

The story continues; originally, the chapter was going to go further, however, I realised that it would quickly become extremely bloated if I allowed myself to keep writing. In a way, I think it's even more purple than the first, so watch out for some bloated sentences.

Also, it was during writing this chapter that I discovered that I was essentially writing Sioli as a Byronic hero; so if you're familiar with the term, you'll sort of know what to expect.


Chapter Two

In the warm, yet ultimately artificial, sparklights that illuminated the well-appointed state room, the ring glittered golden. Sioli turned it over in her hands then held it back up; it was detailed like it was some sort of segmented serpent lusting after its own tail; eternally chasing and only to be satisfied if some person were to snap it closed. Its eye was a tiny, flawless ruby inscribed with an angular lemniscate: the symbol of the Ministerium. It was a beautiful piece of craftsmanship, so intricate in the detail paid to scales and teeth, yet all the same, it was unnerving. She stole a glance at the hardwood box lined with black velvet, where two more serpent-circles lay, smaller and more delicate, and connected by a hair-narrow golden chain. Sioli gently placed the article back in its place. As the lid clicked shut, the doors to the room swung open, and Sioli turned to see the Magister Megistus step inside. The incredibly tall, implacable figures of automata swung the doors closed in a burst of typewriter clacking.

“Do you recognise the shape?” Sioli shook her head as her mechanical 'guardians' returned their vicious quick-firers to a parade rest. The Magister Megistus raised his voice: “'The living being had no need of eyes when there was nothing remaining outside him to be seen; nor of ears when there was nothing to be heard'. There's more to it, but does it sound familiar?”

“This thing has an eye though.” Sioli remarked, pausing to open the box before holding up the ring so that the ruby caught the light. The Magister Megistus bent over and took the serpent between two fingers, examining it with crevasses flowing across the skin of his forehead.

“No matter,” he said, straightening. Balancing the ring on the tip of one finger, he exposed it to the light, much as Sioli had done before. “This is Ouroboros, an old symbol associated with the Ministerium. It has not been the official crest for more than nine hundred loops, yet it remains; perhaps as a reminder of our historical origins, and perhaps for other properties. Tell me, though you did not know what it was, what observations have you made regarding it?”

“It's some sort of restraint. It came in a box with handcuffs.” she hooked the smallest finger of her right hand through one of the golden loops, and brought them into view. “It's about the right size to fit around my throat. I don't see how that would do anything useful though. There's no chain.”

The Magister Megistus knelt at Sioli's side with the Ouroboros clutched in his hand. “That's because this one isn't designed to bind a person. It has been crafted for the express purpose of binding theurgy.” Sioli reached out and took the necklace, flexing it experimentally. Her lips quirked downwards, and she looked to Thule. “The Ouroboros is an old symbol of infinity, but also a representation of cycles. Look how the serpent sustains itself; though it does not seem like much, this is the basis upon which the entire theory is built. Should it be upon a person, and should they attempt theurgy, then it shall go no further than the channeling, for Ouroboros will devour it. Endlessly.”

“What if you take the tail from its mouth?” Sioli asked, raptly examining the moving maw.

The Magister Megistus did not smile, but instead pried the delicate article free and replaced it in the box. “Nothing more spectacular than light being emitted.” Down came the lid, the latch sliding into place with a smooth metallic sound. “However, it is not lightly that such a thing is placed upon a person. Theurgy comes from the very basis of existence itself; to have that essentially taken away ... I would rather not subject you to that, though my advisors demand that I immediately have you collared.”

“Why don't you?” Sioli queried, leaning back against the carved arm of her chair, watching the Magister Megistus through narrowed eyes. Her cheeks dimpled as he raised both palms skyward. “You have to have a reason. I'm very dangerous you know.”

With a groan and the creak of aged knees, the Magister Megistus stood up. He reached out and put a hand on Sioli's head, before ruffling her hair. “I believe that you are quite capable of controlling yourself, should you not be provoked. It is why you are guarded by a cadre of mechanicals as opposed to rittermen.” he gestured at the statuesque constructs rimming the walls with their fulgent seeing-lenses of glass, idle pistons and humming thermionic valves beneath steely plate. “However, I will leave it with you; should you feel the need, then you can put it on. Although, you won't be able to take it off.”

Her brows knitting together like wool off a needle, Sioli surveyed the Magister Megistus. She focused upon his smiling eyes, not in any way reminiscent of some predatory animal, but closer to the manner of a politician. “You know, I'm starting to think that thug of yours is right. You're crazy.” his head fell back and he let out a quiet laugh, rich as melted chocolate.

*

Beyond the ring-pit of the Caliway, a score of towers thrusted imperiously towards the sky, a collection of obliquely angled lattices of painted steel and hoary brass. Clinging to these vast industrial spires like bloated flies were aerostats of all make and descriptions; from the most primitive dirigible with its smooth helium balloon, to the cutting edge of airborne scientific chicanery: spinships, sleeker like some blessed crossing of a high flying plane and a seagoing craft, seemingly held aloft bereft of mechanism. However, smaller still buzzed other craft, driven by propeller and possessed of an agility far beyond that of the grand airships. Truly, it was the planes that were the flies, drawn to the supernatant carcasses and the broad metal plains of flight decks. In all, the Slamat Aerodrome resembled nothing less than an attempt at guiding chaos; directing a thousand different minds with their own purposes towards something like workable conditions. And at the heart of it rested the Cultivation of Civilisation.

More like flying artwork than a merely utilitarian mode of conveyance, Civilisation was stepped and shaped into sweeping curves, almost as if an attempt had been made at streamlining nothing less than a wedge of metal as massive as an ocean liner. Never intended for battle, the Ministerium spinship was inundated with arciform glass set along its length; lengthy galleria with marble floors open to Delio's shining face or, when night set in, the endless spiral conflagrations of stars. Up its length, from its deck for launching its only defenses, to the breathtaking observation platforms, to the bridge at the head of the ship. Standing on the upper of the three tiered platforms, Megistus Ixion let his attention rest upon the bulbous ranges of clouds; or perhaps on the riot of brass work supporting the bubble of glass overhead, the dynamic rhythm of tight curves supporting the twelve foot circle of glass at its apex. Perhaps he looked only to his mind, for Commander Rilich could see a white gloved hand tighten around the glossy gold of the safety rail. The professional ritterman judged that for the moment, the Megistus was best left undisturbed. However, Rilich could not have known that a disturbance wasp recisely what the Megistus required; though in all fairness, Ixion did not know himself.

For the subject upon which his mind rested was of course Sioli. The girl lay perhaps a hundred feet behind him, probably reveling in the luxury of the Civilisation's state room, but even with countless hallways, bulkheads and, most importantly, the Magister Megistus' orders between them, Artha sa Ixion found it difficult to contain himself. He raised his left hand and tugged at the silica glove, curling his splayed fingers until the bit viciously into his palm. His fist shook; in a way he was glad that he had chosen to wear such insulating gloves, yet he knew that if he was truly angry enough than his intentions would have been worthless. What could mere gloves do to retard the theurgy of a Megistus?

Drawing in a long breath through his nose, he counted upwards to ten, and then spoke. “You can stop lingering in the shadows there, Commander. I believe you have a message of some sort?”

That the Megistus had sensed his presence and intent was of no surprise to Rilich, who experienced something similar with rittermen below his rank, as well as civillians. He approached not with the sort of languid swagger that was developed to attract pretty young ladies, but instead with measured steps; glancing at him, Ixion could tell that such precision was his natural mode of walking. Perhaps it came from long years of military service, or perhaps more from the theurgy inscribed into his very bones. One thing that struck Ixion was that he and the commander were very likely close in age; men both too young to have experienced true warfare, yet both choosing to take positions of military importance. If Rilich noticed the scrutiny, he obviously allowed it to fall below the level of conscious attention. Ixion smirked.

“Something funny, Megistus?” the ritterman asked, though Ixion did not reply. Instead, leaning over the rail, he cast his eyes towards the lower and increasingly larger platforms, where crew manipulated the computing engines and other click-clacking instruments and the Captain gave her orders. He felt a shudder that did not reach the senses of the mundane; he could visualise it as a tiny depression in the greater framework of electromagnetics. They were spinning up, and soon would depart. He huffed a laugh through his nostrils and turned his attention to Rilich.

“There is something funny, Commander. Several things.” he turned his face towards the commander and smiled, almost savagely. “And none of them are at all amusing. You're in charge of this vessel's security; what do you think when you consider that we harbour Schwartz' Child?”

Rilich's eyebrows ascended marginally in polite surprise. He searched the Megistus' face for a moment, then looked to the bridge window as mooring towers swung away and new vistas became apparent. “We have a thousand rittermen aboard, a cadre of Doppelsöldner and two hundred automata of various make and capability. Right now, she is being watched by a dozen Totenprinz killers.” he jerked his head slightly towards Ixion and watched him from the corner of his eye. “I trust I needn't explain to you the capabilities of such war-robots.”

With a smile, Ixion turned and placed a hand on Rilich's shoulder. “Let me ask you another question,” he said, and Rilich nodded. “Consider the hypothetical situation where I myself were to suddenly rampage through the is ship. In your opinion are a thousand rittermen, a cadre of Doppelsöldner and two hundred automata of various make and capability, including a dozen of the new Totenprinz killing automata, capable of stopping me?”

“Well,” Commander Rilich paused, brow furrowed. “Well, no Megistus. I wouldn't think so.”

“Then clearly Commander, there is a problem.” Ixion let his hand slap the other man's shoulder twice reassuringly. “Now, your message. Something about dinner? I can't quite tell.”

*

Directed by radio transmissions and countless flashing lights, the Cultivation of Civilisation swept away from the aerodrome towers in a manner that seemingly defied the laws of action and reaction. In a way, the concepts behind the spindrive were simplicity itself; however, the practical applications were far more complex. A lay-person might refer to an aerostat such as the Civilisation having but a single drive, and indeed, it is likely that in casual conversation between even engineers and scientists that it would be referred to as singular. However, actuality would have it differently; the diamagnetic engine that kept the Civilisation aloft was not one but many spindrives working in carefully orchestrated harmony; a dozen whirling rings of charged magnets at tunable velocities and directions of rotation. The spindrive could not be said to be 'foolproof', for it was an advanced scientific device with its own engineering challenges; more importantly, they had moving parts.

However, when watching the massive silhouette moving across the orange sky, one might wonder how, when the spindrive was first conceived, people thought that it would be a dangerous method of transportation? Seeing such an ungainly, if beautiful, object move among the clouds with astounding grace ... how could the conception that such ships would be constantly dropping from the heavens ever have existed? All spinships carried tanks of gas sufficient in load bearing capability to allow such ships to fall in a way not fatal to its occupants, and yet it would seem to be entirely superfluous. As long as the world kept turning, then so too would spinships sail at speeds and heights beyond those of conventional airships. Observing the passage of the Cultivation of Civilisation, one could see quite clearly what benefits the Ministerium – or rather the benefits that science itself – brought into the world.

And indeed, what magnitudes of engineering, for the Civilisation made its way north, and to the north of Slamat lay mountains, of such height that they were an insurmountable barrier for early dirigibles. Though in the modern day aerodynes and spinships had the ceiling to bypass the Zulios, and indeed any mountain gracing the surface of Sahn, at the time, it seemed that the only option was to either go around, increasing the trip's length by many hundreds of miles; or instead, to simply go straight through. Megistus Armand Hestiue determined that boring through was the best option, and so in a pulse of neon brightness excavated his 'Slamat Gate'. Over many more loops, the glassy tunnel took on the true aspects of a gate, adorned with portals some two hundred and fifty feet wide, possessing a mural of such size that nothing has yet matched them.

On the balcony of Sioli's room, the girl stood with her guardian, watched over by two of the so-called 'Totenprinz' robots. She had seen the Gate before, though never so close. In the fading light as Father Delio sank below the ample curve of Mother Sahn's body, massive machineries shimmered dully, though the long, long work of teams of artists seemed almost washed out. Regardless, Sioli was awed into silence, perched on her toes with fingers curled around the spiraled railing. The great shifting mass of sandstone, woven in place by Megistus Hestiue all those loops ago, bedazzled; as they entered the great black mouth the Civilisation dawdled in order to exhibit the true significance and vastness of the task. Sioli's voice rose in a note of delight as more than thirty feet of stone slid languidly past. Craning her head back, she whistled at the smooth curve or roof, black and polished like obsidian. Then, she moved forward, throwing her upper body over the edge. Though he knew there to be no real danger, the Magister Megistus still reached out and caught the back of her collar. Behind him, he sensed the briefest of sparks within each of the automatons, though it was extinguished almost as quickly as it had been born.

“This is incredible!” Sioli gasped with such childish abandon that the Magister Megistus chuckled despite himself. “It's got to be more than five times our length!”

“It is roughly one mile, three hundred and eighty six feet long.” Thule said, drawing his hand across his body, gesturing from aft to fore. “Such a thing is not merely a method of getting moving north from Slamat, or south into it, but rather a monument.”

Sitting on the rail, Sioli brushed her index finger against her cheek. “A monument to the capabilities of the Herzoreach?”

“No Sioli,” he said, closing his eyes and smiling broadly. “A monument to sheer, bloody minded determination.”

*

The Cultivation of Civilisation carried a variety of passengers, most of whom were either rittermen of some description, or Ministerium lackeys without the gift of theurgy. Among those, however, there came a smattering of upper-class nobs who had managed to buy passage aboard such a prestigious ship. Some were Junkers – or rather, people could claim a measure of Junker blood – and others were scions of the business world. At the Captain's oaken table beneath the glassy webs of chandeliers and under the spell of beautifully tuned piano and carefully honed female voice, there sat those of greatest importance. Moving down from the Captain's position at the head of the table: her two commanders, Rilich of the general rittermen and Harst sa Fomor, leader of the squadron of escort birds. With them came a pair of lieutenants; again, one of the squadron, though the other was the most senior of the Doppelsöldner elites.

Further down sat a half dozen of the very wealthy and their spouses, if they were yet attached to a member of the opposite gender. A notable appearance was the starlet Lucy Hazel, who was at current glittering in the electric light and watching the other singer; the spoon in her hand tapped out a quiet rhythm in her soup. And at the very end, the Magister Megistus Hermann sa Thule, with Artha sa Ixion at his right hand. The topic of conversation, currently being driven full tilt by Amelie sa Mendlay, was of course Sioli. She had, Ixion reflected over a spoonful of creamed, butternut pumpkin, an incredible propensity for speech.

“But isn't she dangerous?” she said, fanning her throat and ample cleavage somewhat more insistently. “After all, didn't she sink a battleship?”

“The Esperance, lady.” Commander Fomor offered with a roughish flash of teeth; Mendlay hid her flushing cheeks coquettishly behind her gaudily patterned fan.

“Snapped it like a twig.” Ixion said bathetically, before slurping loudly at his soup. There were sudden whispers that ran the length of the table, before spreading to the others scattered around the dining room. Finished with his spoonful, Ixion continued. “And the Esperance massed almost forty thousand tons more than this vessel.”

The somewhat mousy wife of beefy businessman Arnof Borscht, gave a small scream before half-fainting; Amelie Mendlay's fan became a juddering blur.

“Please ladies, gentlemen,” the Captain said, moving her hands in what was undoubtedly intend to be a placating manner. One of her eyes twitched at Ixion, but her smile did not waver. “You are traveling with the Magister Megistus himself. There is no safer place in all of the Herzoreach.”

Clearly. Ixion thought darkly to himself, and out of the corner of his eye he saw the Magister Megistus force a bemused smile down with another spoonful of orange mush. Something invisible yet sharp raked his ear, though half-heartedly at best. Thule placed down his spoon and took up his glass.

“I assure you all that there is no danger to be posed by Sioli.” he sipped at the sparkling clear liquid in his hand. The corners of his eyes crinkled. “When I left her, she was about to enjoy a hot bath, and afterwards dinner. Sioli is easily placated by such excellent fare such as this. One of her primary concerns is her stomach.” that elicited a few laughs from the quests; surprisingly, grim-faced Lieutenant Daneis of the Doppelsöldner laughed hardest of all. For a time, the conversation moved to other subjects: the state of Borscht's shipping, the increasingly friendly diplomacy with the once-hated Timurad, the success of Miss Hazel's most recent concert. However, as steaming red shellfish was served, Yertuma sa Eirzat, older than the other women present yet still attractive, carefully fixed Ixion with a shrewd smile.

“You're not at all assured by the Magister Megistus' presence, are you, Megistus Ixion?” she said, the silver fork coiled between her fingers reaching up the side of her face. Ixion returned the gaze, and absentmindedly snapped a claw from his meal.

“The Magister Megistus is both wise and powerful.” Ixion remarked, placing down the shattered pincer. “I am not assured, however.”

Hushed murmuring rippled out from the Captain's table like a swarm of concerned bees. Fomor snorted suddenly, momentarily drowning out the humming gossip. “Not assured? Magister Megistus, you should be offended that your subordinate has no trust in your abilities.”

“And what do you think about this, Magister Megistus?” Eirzat asked, her lips not having shifted. She tapped the bloody shell of her lobster with the tines of her fork. All eyes were on Thule.

Dabbing at his mouth, the Magister Megistus laced his fingers and nodded his head. “I consider that my colleague has a past history with Sioli, that undoubtedly colours his judgments in this matter.”

“Oh my!” Mendlay sighed, her chest heaving, drawing fleeting glances in her direction. With a wicker snap she quickly folded her fan and reached out towards Ixion. Sucking on a long chitinous leg, he glanced at the hand and its copious, jewel-encrusted rings. When he brought his eyes higher, he found that the woman's head was tilted and she had a measured quiver of the lip. “You've fought the Princess of Madness before, Megistus?”

“Not quite.” Ixion replied.

“Tell them about Bethaid, Artha.” the Magister Megistus said quietly. At once, the rittermen at the other end of the table sat up straight, some even opening their mouths to speak. The Magister Megistus silenced them with the wave of one hand. He turned his head towards Ixion, and nodded just once.

Placing down the lobster leg and taking up his glass, Ixion closed his eyes for a few moments. “Bethaid is a city that lies within the lands that belong to the Ixion Junkers. It suffered the presence of Schwartz' Child some two loops ago. Don't think for a moment that I was there,” he said, waving a hand. “No, I came afterwards.”

*

On the approach to Bethaid, the world was stained red and gold. Cool winds shifted great masses of fallen leaves, leaving them spread as a damp, thick carpet. Amidst an outcropping of trees, two boys ran, sometimes stumbled against loose rocks or coltish tree roots that had pushed out from the ground. They burst from the trees, the taller, older one laughing in his victory. Their heavy boots, suitable for life on a farm, sank into the dewy layer of orange-brown, and the younger of the pair pulled his coat about himself a little tighter, squinting in the sudden light. In the distance, they could see a rising pall of smoke, beyond the hills. One of the brothers suddenly cocked his head, turning one ear from whence they had come; in the distance, there was something not unlike a droning whine, and it was growing louder. Then suddenly they were in the briefest flash of shadow as something passed overhead. Smiles broke out on both young faces and they began to sprint after the plane, regardless of the fact that it was far too fast to catch. Already it appeared smaller than a toy; the brothers followed.

Twin engined and swift, the aerodyne's destination was readily apparent; Beathaid, City on the River. And city it was! Though not a sky-high metropolis such as Ixion's capital, it could boast of its mighty ports on the incredible breadth of the river Ix. A city in two halves, separated by four hundred feet of water, and connected by bridges and ceaseless ferries. It had seen better days. From where he stood in his lofty position, Artha sa Ixion could see shattered buildings, smouldering fires and a bridge smashed and scattered into the Ix. His eyes slid to the left as the Sergeant approached; stepping back, he allowed the ritterman to haul upon the hatch.

“One minute, Megistus!” he shouted over the sudden inrush and roar of the wind. His hooded cloak, slashed with grey and blue camouflage patterns, flared out behind him, despite the weights in the hem. He turned his gaze down on Bethaid, and Ixion could see teeth clench behind cheek. The plane banked, descending, and light from Delio flashed against the auricupride shield on the Sergeant's helmet; the winged, helmeted horse of the 9th Ixion Airborne. Ixion shook his head, breaking off his scrutiny before turning up the wide lapels of his peacoat. The city expanded in scale with each passing arc-second.

As they slowed, the rittermen and Ixion were treated to the hollow clunk of a dropping bucket. Mechanisms twirled within the wings and they began to shift, reorientating, tilting. Half the wing tuned till the propellers became rotors, and they hovered roughly twenty feet above a singed park, the only area large enough and clear enough to land the plane. Not bothering to wait, Ixion step from the open door and landed lightly on the grass. Moments later, his escorts joined him, landing with considerably more weight. The Sergeant rose from a nest of cracks he had created in a stone path and marched on Ixion, snatching the Megistus by his broad collar. He dragged him down into a crouch.

“Megistus, I am supposed to be in charge of providing your security.” Ixion almost rolled his eyes; he didn't need a squad of crack rittermen to provide him security, but his father would have been adamant if it had been brought up. “It would be much easier to secure the area if you weren't in it.”

Ixion stood, pulling the Sergeant to his feet. He gestured at the surroundings; the ashy stumps of trees, the blackened grass, the craters and the seemingly crush hau in the middle distance. “What's there to secure, Sergeant? There are no lingering enemies here.” Ixion smirked, for the Sergeant was clearly not impressed. Then there was a sudden sound of movement, the clicking of rifles. Ixion was unceremoniously pushed out of the way. The Sergeant barked an order for the men to hold their fire, though none lowered their sights from the approaching figure. Ixion's lip curled.

It came upon them with impossibly smooth momentum, carrying itself amidst a faint whirring of machineries and the swirl of white cape. Rittermen followed its path apprehensively, turning their eyes to its bleached-bone head and demonic angles, sitting loftily almost a full foot above them. As it neared both Ixion and the Sergeant, it bowed forward deeply; the Megistus caught a brief glimpse of the bloody red lining, and the legs; legs with too many joints to be called 'human'. Raising its face, it locked Ixion with the aphotic wells in place of its eyes. Delicate vanes twiddled within openings upon the vaguely ceratopsid halo half-encircling the back of its cranium. Ixion realised, somewhere in the back of his mind, that it was breathing.

“Welcome, Megistus Ixion.” it said. Or rather 'he', perhaps, for the voice which reverberated outwards was masculine; deep like a sinkhole beneath the waves of the bloated ocean. “I am Osiris.”

“Of course you are.” Ixion sneered. “I suppose she isn't here?”

The man-machine reared up to his full and dominating height. “She is no longer in Bethaid. When we are done here I will join the hunt in the surrounding areas, though has very likely moved on much further.” he loped away and Ixion followed, as did the sergeant. “I have determined the progression of events. An adept is known to have seen her coming ahead of time; however, the when of the matter was not affirmed. She arrived during mobilisation. I have hypothesised that she has developed some sort of capability to avoid clairvoyance.” Osiris turned those black pits on Ixion, who shrugged. They crossed closer towards the road, stepping over stony debris from a shattered fountain. “Regardless, she was first sighted to the southwest, during exercises being carried out by elements of the thirty-fourth mechanised. Examining the site, I have determined that they opened fire upon her, and she retaliated, armed with a single-edged blade. From there, she moved in through the city.” with a sudden flap of cloak, Osiris' arm flickered out, pointing in the direction from whence they came. There was a path, Ixion noticed, of broken stone, bloody splashes and blackened patches, that inscribed up to their feet. Osiris wheeled his arm around slowly and settled it on the hulk of the König hau, its turret split asunder and the plates of its tracks scattered like sheafs of paper. Almost thirty tons with an eighty-eight milliinch gun ... totally useless.

Fingering his pharaohic wedge of chin, Osiris lead them on, past the hau and further towards the river. There were more useless vehicles here, and their guide focused upon a truck. Osiris bent towards its dark nose and ran the tip of his finger around the circumference of a hole twice the width of Ixion's thumb. There were six of these, closely clustered. “She carries a gun then?” the Sergeant asked. Osiris produced a silvery stud and dropped it into the Sergeant's gauntlet.

“Certainly a revolver.” said the machine-thing, before striding away.

The Sergeant held up the spent shell, squinting one eye at it. He moved his hand, presenting it to Ixion. “She never used to use guns, so I hear.”

“She never used to use swords, either.” Ixion replied, taking the casing. He rolled it between his fingers, reading out the inscription under his breath: Delio is in the heavens, and all is right with Sahn. He jerked it away suddenly, and then noticed the crevasse running across their path. Blinking, he let his left foot shuffle back from the edge. There was a brief ember of 'memory', though it faded away quickly enough. The flash of blade; the horrific inertia; a blossom of blue light. The road had collapsed into itself by several feet, and the damage sliced through a building. Ixion winced at the rubble, though there was a short relieved exhalation at the fact he could see no further. However, his eyebrows raised at a curious outcropping of concrete, seemingly removed from the destruction.

“Look there.” Osiris said, nodding his artificial skull towards the rough teardrop of stone. “Adept Groban Demhurst struck her here; however, she resisted.” he turned swung his body back around, and there seemed to be gold light behind the black glass; dancing like an elusive firefly. “Impossible without manifesting theurgy.”

There was a a moment of silence as Osiris bounded across the trench. The Sergeant turned towards Ixion, jerking like a marionette. His hand fastened against Ixion's sleeve. “How old is she supposed to be? They call her Little Maiden ... but, she isn't-”

“By now, she has lived fourteen loops.” the Megistus replied, before stepping lightly across the gap. The rittermen followed, grasshoppers falling into heavy crouches on the other side. Shuddering, as though shaking ice from his shoulders, the Sergeant followed, passing through his to catch up with Ixion.

“Adept Demhurst did not last very long.” Osiris intoned. He did not stop at the bowl-like depression large enough to swallow a house. They moved among the the remains of a handful of buildings, rubble and ruin radiating from the epicentre. There was a car laying on what might have been its roof; once all smart, streaming lines and now only twisted havoc. Ixion lingered. He did not need Osiris to tell him what had happened here. He could see it. A brave man with an arm gone and dripping. He closed his eyes and commended him to whatever deity he had believed in, even as sorcerous might tore him apart. Osiris paused, one foot poised above the ground; he spun and ambled towards the reflecting Megistus. “Do you see it, Artha sa Ixion? I know not of your talents; can you see the past?”

One whiskey-brown eye cracked open rolling towards the expressionless mechanical head. “Show me the rest.”

Osiris bowed low and swept his arm out, inviting the party on further. The river-front normally swelled with the comings and goings of ten thousand small-time merchants selling wares supposedly culled from all over Sahn. Today though, the promenade was quiet; though ostensibly open for business, the only ones visiting the cafés and public houses were rittermen. For even they required rest amidst such depressing devastation. “I would not worry so much about civillian casualties, Megistus.” Osiris intoned as they passed a row of covered, neatly organised bodies; as Ixion glanced at them apprehensively. “Most of them have not yet been fished from the river.”

Here was the bridge, and for a moment, Ixion was at a loss as to how it had been destroyed. “She didn't do this.” he said finally, stepping past the monstrous mechanical skeleton. Boats flitted across the Ix like beetles, mounted by grim-faced volunteers; the occasional adept strolled across the surface. Every so often, a sodden rag of a body would be dragged from the depths. “It was Harlan Meyer. He made the Ix rise up against her.”

“That is why there are pieces of the bridge scattered across Bethaid, yes.” Osiris confirmed, looming by the Megistus' shoulder and casting him into shadow. “The why though ... I believe he was enraged when the girl slew Megistus Charlir; I have determined that she held them in a standoff, threatening to destroy a pleasure boat.” he nodded down, and Ixion caught sight of gilded, battered wood. “In attempting to protect the innocent, the brave young woman was killed. Such is the nature of the adepts of the Ministerium.” Osiris reached above his head, flicking his hand back. Almost at once, a boat began to approach; metal hulled and slate-gray. In that moment, Ixion was granted another glimpse into Osiris' body: the layered plates of ivory that shifted – as though an attempt at imitating life – as the arm came down. Osiris covered himself with the cloak, and continued speaking. “Most of the collateral damage came from here, in only a few furious seconds. It is sad to say that it was the Megistus who caused most of it.”

The boat glided towards the stone of the river wall and the machine-thing stepped to the deck; the craft dipped dramatically before leveling out as Osiris moved towards the centre. Ixion and the rittermen of his escort joined him. As they slid across the breadth of the Ix, the Sergeant spoke. “I never worked with Megistus Meyer, but I knew him from reputation. I don't think he would have willingly caused this.”

“Quite.” Osiris replied, leaning towards the veteran ritterman. “Perhaps then he was goaded? Perhaps the young lady put him in such a position that he had but not other choice.”

“I doubt it.” Ixion said, arms crossed against his chest. “Reputation be damned.”

On the other bank, Osiris showed them to the final resting place of Megistus Meyer. He seemed almost unharmed, except for the gaping, ragged cavern passing through chest. He was laid, now heartless and cold, alongside his fellow Megistus and dozens of the other dead. Osiris made no comment here, nor was he asked any questions. Instead, he lead them on. Though strewn with bits and pieces torn from weapons of warfare, Ixion realised that their path was clear towards the Ministeria. He was not at all surprised when they crossed the gardens, all threshed and muddy through spilled blood. Not at all amazed at the still-warm glass. Even when he was presented with the body, grotesquely impaled upon the tallest of the three flagpoles, Ixion's demeanor barely wavered.

“Hello brother.” he said after a few minutes of deliberation. Even so far away, even with the rod passing through the back of his throat and emerging from a mouth filled with shattered teeth and pulped gums, there was no mistaking him. “I've been expecting you.”

“He died bravely, I feel.” Osiris said, gesturing towards the peaks and troughs of glass. Then he curled his clicking fingers, and an adept approached slowly, clutching a bundle in her arms. Ixion turned towards her, and saw that her face was streaked with tears. Osiris took her burden, wrapped in the Ministerium flag, before presenting it to Ixion. “This is now yours, as I understand it.”

Ixion cocked one eyebrow, then jerked back the cloth. He sighed, holding up the ornate, wire-bound hilt. “Of course.” he said.

*

There was blanket of hush across not just the Captain's table, but indeed the entire dining room. It lasted for about as long as it took for Ixion to crack open another lobster leg; like it was a starter's pistol going off, a gabble of voices exploded into life. Amelie sa Mendlay was practically hyperventilating, and Madam Borscht almost slid off her chair. The rittermen were leaned in close towards the Captain, but she simply sat silently, interwoven fingers sitting beneath her nose and eyes upon the Megistus. After a few moments of noise and excitement, it became more sedate, and the story was quickly garbled and corrupted as it passed out to further tables.

Yet on the Captain's table, no one spoke. Several times seemed as though Mendlay was going to gush something out, but the closest she got was a corybantic squeak. At last, it was Lucy Hazel who managed. “Your dislike for Sioli is much more personal than I had expected, Megistus.”

“Much more.” Eirzat agreed, almost sounding genuinely pleased. “Perhaps the Megistus feels some need for revenge; in his brother's name.”

“I don't see why.” Ixion said, pushing his plate and its mangled contents away. “When Sioli killed my brother, she made the only heir to the Ixion Junkers. I only gained from his death.” he glanced to the Captan. “Sir, may I ask leave of this table?”

“Go then.” she replied, eyes not upon Ixion, but instead firmly fixed upon his superior.

A good chapter. I like the details about the setting of the story, which now reminds me of the 'Final Fantasy' games. But what's a Doppelsöldner (it translates to "Double-mercenary")? A clonetrooper?

Sidewinder wrote:But what's a Doppelsöldner (it translates to "Double-mercenary")? A clonetrooper?

'Doppelsöldner' historically described a soldier who got double the pay of other men, due to their more or less elite status. In the Most Excellent Order of Rittermen, the name refers to the most elite and well equipped soldiers. Their angriffanzug provide considerably more enhancement and protection compared to the normal sort, and they have more interesting weapons. They make an appearence in full armour next chapter.