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"Maladar! Maladar!" The boy shot away from the pursuing woman, running down the carpet of the great hall. Two women reached for him and missed as he swerved out of the way. He ran pell mell down the hall laughing. Several arms reached for him. He dodged out of the way.

Then arms grabbed him from behind and swooped him up into the air. Maladar giggled. "Ho, little prince. You should head your mother." The bearded knight gently turned and handed the boy to the nearest maid.

She bowed lightly and took the boy. His mother was just behind her, slower in her heavy robes and ermine. The knight bowed. He was a young man, handsome and new in court. He wore dyed blue wool garments and the fur of the fearsome hexede as a cloak.

"Thank you for your assistance, Sir Eridan," said Queen Navidia.

The young knight smiled. "My pleasure, majesty. I must confess that I did not imagine I would serve the Line of Alidar in such a fashion."

"Only the Prophets can read the destiney the Fates have woven for us, sir knight."

"True majesty."

The boy waved at the knight as the nursemaid followed the queen back to her quarters.

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Eridan accompanied the young prince to the Solarium. There King Nazurn of the Line of Alidar could look out and see the city before him and the wide expanse of his realm through the great window. He took up his place by the door. He was permitted a sword in the king's presence, as he had become the prince's bodyguard.

The boy stood at attention. "Father?"

Nazurn smiled. He was a big man and his hair was only now turning to grey. "Come here Maladar. What do you see?"

The boy walked over. "The castle. And the town. And plains and farms and stuff."

"Good. This is only a fraction of our realm. We could climb to the tallest tower and everything we could see would be ours. This is what the Fates have given into my hands and then it will fall to my sons. Should the Fates will it, that might be you. Do you know how many people there are in the town?"

The boy shook his head. "More than 50,000. Can you count that high?"

"Yes," responed Maladar. Five hundred hundreds." He turned to his father. "Is that all the people in the world?"

Nazrun smiled. "No, my son. Only a small part. But we have the power to wreck the lives of each one of them. And a duty to protect them. The Fates have put us in our place, but the thread has yet to be woven into the tapestry. We are one of the hands on it. We are accountable for the lives of all our people. Do you understand?"

The boy nodded solemly. "We must help them."

Nazrun nodded. "Yes, that's exactly right my son. But not everyone realizes that. Some men would take more than what the Fates have given them and they would abandon the responsibilities set before them."

"A king should fight them," Maladar responded fiercely.

"That is true, my son. Now listen closely. There is a man, another king, he calls himself High King Haradin of the Line of AKelad. He wishes to rule everything, even though the fates have not written that for him. He has even abandoned the Fates and the Prophets."

The boy's eyes went wide. "Why?"

"Demons from beyond have promised him great power if he heeds them. They have given him weapons and promised him dominion over everything under the sky. So now he marches under their banner as well as his own. He wars with his neighbours as we speak. We must be strong as well."

"We should help his neighbours."

"We do, my son. We send brave knights, gold, and grain to swell their ranks. But soon we may have to do more. Do you understand."

"Yes father. We must fulfill our destiney as woven by the Fates."

"Yes, my son." Nazrun kissed his boy on the forhead. "Now run along now." He nodded to Eridan. The knight followed the prince out, leaving his father to look out over his domain.

Damn, you're just churning them out. And they're all good. Is this one an original? I also liked the Lion King reference.

Yes, it's original. No intentional Lion King reference. Maladar shows up briefly in In Memoria. This is his story.

"So all the west has fallen." King Nazrun turned to look out his window. "Haradin now controls the north and west. His control of the coastal cities of the west expands his wealth and reach. Many of them chose to capitulate to him and they have had their titles affirmed in exchange for their fidelity. His army swells and his weapons are superior to all."

A one-eyed man much more plainly dressed than the rest of the courtiers spoke. "Only his Lifeguards and Iron Guard Legions has the devil-weapons. It is true that his cannons are superior to most, but their is nothing extraordinary about them."

Eridan objected. "That is not quite so. He employs handguns in much larger numbers than other armies. His models are superior in reliable and accuracy than ours. And he has many of them. His armies are battle hardened."

"Do you counsel surrender, my knight?" asked the king.

"I counsel caution, majesty. His unholy priesthood has swelled in numbers and been given much wealth. They have raised an unnatural and deadly legion of stunted dwarfs to fight armed with demonic weapons. They call them selves the Hawk Guards and rumour has it they do not die as men die."

"We shall see," replied King Nazrun. "High King Haradin's territory is vast and much of it does not love him or his false god. He has made many slaves on plantations and in his mines. We strike now, before his can gather his strength, before he is ready and collapse the whole shacky structure. We strike before he can consolidate his victory. Prepare yourselves for war."

His courtiers bowed and left. "Bring my wife and son to me." Eridan nodded and left.

Soon the elegant blonde woman he had married and come to love came in with their nine year old son. He embraced her silently. "Is it going to happen?" she said softly.

He nodded. "Better now when we can win than latter when we can only lose." He turned to his boy. "My son, the war is upon us. I will be away. Heed your mother, Lord Eridan, and the rest of your tutors."

"Yes father."

"That's a good boy."

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Old Kelam of the Line of Gerkan looked at his brother kings. "They knew we were coming. That is the only way they could have mustered an army in our path so quickly. The must be half dead from the forced march."

"We have the numbers," Nazrun responded. "More than two to one, even if they found out by some means of hellish sorcery." He put the telescope to his eye. He could just make out the huge main banners, one of the Line of Akeld and the other of the false religion. They had elevated to equal status to their army.

"Not many pikes and little cavalry," he remarked.

Kelam grunted. "They place great faith in their cannon and their handgunners."

"Too much. They can kill, but they are slow to load and they have neither lancers nor pikemen to shield them. We will bleed, but we can ride them down." He raised his sword.

"True followers of the Way. The Fates have woven a disaster for our enemies and given us victory! They are many, but they have not spears nor pikes. They have few lancers. They have placed all their faith in their guns and it has betrayed them. Their Threads will be cut here! Ride for glory! Ride for victory! Ride for Destiny!"

A great howl came up from the combined armies. Spears were lowered and the horses began to move. They became an advancing line, a then a galloping army, and then a tidal wave coming to crash forward on Haradin's troops.

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"Here they come," said Private Stone.

"Stupid indigs," muttered Private Adib.

Lieutenant Cryse did a last check. His heavy stubber teams were set up and ready with extra ammo belts. Along the line troopers crouched, ready to unleash a hell the indigs couldn't believe. "Third platoon ready," he said into his vox.

Captian M'Sain replied. "The colonel wants us to hold out fire until five hundred meters and then let them have it."

"Hold 'til five hundred!" he yelled. The local troops on the sides who made up most of the army had begun to fire their cannons. Most missed. A few hit. The explosive shells that the Guard Arnament Masters had helped them make for their improved cannons inflicted carnage that would be considered terrible if the real butcher's work wasn't about to begin.

The locals on the side, they were PDF he suppossed, inched forward with their muskets that were superior to the even cruder indig designed guns. This should have tipped off the indigs, but it was too late to change course now.

About five hundred meters now. "Fire!" he screamed. His four heavy stubber teams opened up with a lound chattering. Along the line the weapns of other platoons and companies began to fire. The hissing snarls of lases joined them and the louder booming of his heavy weapon section's autocannons. The charging tidal wave of men and horses dissolved into a froth of bodies and body parts.

Yes! It's a man's life in the Imperial Guard, killing horsemen in droves.

Queen Navidia gripped her son's hand tightly. For the first time she did not regret the difficulties she had conceiving. To worry about one child was frightening enough. To fear for more children would be unbearable. It was all she could do not to clutch Maladar to her chest.

The doors swung open. Haradin's Lifeguard strode in bearing the banner of their high king, two crossed red swords on a black background. The banner of their obscene god, a double headed eagle, followed. The Lifeguard were expressionless behind their helmets of blackened steel. They wore cuirasses of similar make and the sword's of a knight, but slung upon their backs were lasguns.

More of the Lifeguard marched in. They checked the courtiers and nobles for weapons and then made a signal. Another column of Lifeguards preceeded High King Haradin and his retinue. Among them was a man wearing a red robe marked with the aquilla who barely came to her chin. One of the foreign dwarves. He moved slowly, like an old man.

Another was her husband. Shackled like a slave, his face marked with dry blood, but alive and walking. Her heart leapt. And then the beast himself

Haradin was not a spectacularily man. He was of average height and perhaps a little slim. His dark beard and hair were cut short. He wore a robe of hexede fur over black tunic and breaches. Alien devices hung on his belt. He carried no sword. He did not look like monster until you met his gaze. Navidia flinched.

"We are beaten," she said, 'under the laws of war. Our threads are bound to yours and the Tapestry is shall reflect your glory." There, she had spoken the formal words of surrender. She had scant faith in him honouring them. Twice, she had tried to escape the doomed castle but both attempts had been thwarted.

"Where is your weaver?" he commanded. Joshia stepped forth. Haradin pulled a golden pistol from his belt. There was a crack and a blue-white beam struck him in the chest, blasting it open. Joshia fell. "So much for the old way," he said as he holstered the pistol.

"I am master here and forever. The God-Emperor's servants have come from beyond the sky and given title of the world to me, for I have promised to hold it for him and be faithful. All who cling to the lies of the old ways shall perish or live as slaves!"

He gestured to Nazrun. "Behold your mighty king. He is dust beneath my heel. Behold the glory of the Line of Meridu! Where is his power now? What kind of man is he?" With that he savagely backhanded Navidia. The queen was sent sprawling to the floor.

Maladar charged forward, but strong and mercilous arms restrained him. He screamed and kicked, to no avail. He screamed and wept and nothing changed.

Haradin tore her robe from body. She shrieked and struggled. He struck her hard in the stomach and she had bent over double. She fought back. He struck her again and again. Then he went about the brutal business of rape.

After he finished he dragged her up by the hair. "So much for the might of Meridu." Haradin tossed her to the side. "It suits me to give my Lifeguard a queen to be their whore."

Haradin turned to the boy. He smiled cruelly. "As for the boy-"

"No!" came Eridan's cry. He got two meters before half a dozen las beams struck him in the chest. His torso literally exploded outword in a rain of blood and bone fragments. He toppled.

Haradin savagely tore the boy's breeches off. "The Men of Meridu are no more. This one I will use as a woman and then make him my dog."

When he was finished Maladar lay on the carpet bleeding while the High King fixed his clothes. He turned to Nazurn, who was sobbing with grief. "I've taken your wife and your son. He will never be a man now and I will chain him like a dog to the pedestal of my throne a feed him the scraps from my table. When I am bored with him, I'll kennel him with my hounds. I wonder if they will accept him or rip him apart?"

As the king sobbed, Haradin raised his laspistol and shot him in the head. "So passes the last of the Line of Meridu. This world is mine and none exist that can stand against me."

What a nasty nasty man. Frankly, I'd have shot him on the spot, had he not been chosen as Governor of the God-Emperor.

The Imperium is a nasty, nasty organisation. Even the Emperor, the best of them, is a million times worse than Hitler. He's just their type.

NecronLord wrote:The Imperium is a nasty, nasty organisation. He's just their type.

Yep. Ambitious enough to betray his way of life in exchange for more power, callous enough to butcher millions to get it, and brutal enough to commit atrocities to maintain it. He's got Imperial Commander written all over- oh, wait, he is one.

They chained him naked to the pedestal of Haradin's throne, just as the high king said. They set a minder next to him, a stone faced veteran with an iron bar. Should he do more than whimper, he was struck. Should he soil himself or disrupt court and bones would be broken and the beating would not cease until he was silent. He learned to hold it in, no matter how much his bladder ached.

They would walk him out into the courtyard to relieve himself in the corner like an animal. Sometimes they would leave him leave him chained to the throne, other times they would chain him in the courtyard next to the kennels. When the filfth got to heavy or the stentch to strong they would wash him down with hoses.

Haradin did not feed him from the table, although the servants fed him scraps from the table. Haradin's hounds got the best, somedays he did not eat at all. When Haradin was in an indulgent mood he was fed delicacies. The son of the last of the Line of Alidar was pet.

A few times he was raped but guards or court functionaries. Several times Haradin was present and laughed, although the high king never touched him again. He prefered tall blonde women, his rape of Maladar had been purely about domination, sadism, and power. It had been about turning a prince into his bitch.

Maladar watched the proceedings of the court from the steps of Haradin's throne. He saw tribute being brought in and rulers kneel. He saw men and women abase themselves before a man who could destroy them at a whim. And the saw the Imperials.

They were strange. Short and slim for the most part, with otherworldly clothes that Haradin and other nobles occassionally wore. They had given him weapons to conquer the world with and they also brought in door lighting, power generators, running water, pic screens, and voxes.

The Imperials bowed down before Haradin and acknowledged him as lord, but they did not grovel. The priests of the Emperor praised him and asked for lands and territories, which he gave them. The colonel of the Imperial Guard saluted him and bowed, despite the awesome weapons his midget soldiers bore. The fearsome black garbed Arbites and the deformed Astropaths acknowledged his authority.

So Maladar watched and learned. He had nothing else to do and his mind was keen. He was scarred and battered from beatings and abuse, skinny from malnurishment, but something still burned within. He watched the high king rule and saw how his orders played out. He saw him consolidate power and crush his enemies. His saw the destroyer of his life become even mightier and learned his art.

Some nights he dreamed of slowly killing Haradin. Some nights he dreamed of killing all of those who raped and tormented him. On other nights he dreamed of raping and torturing others, running wild like a beast and glutting himself on the pain of others and the pleasures of the flesh. On some nights he dreamed of attacking Haradin and being gunned down, of ending it all in a brief moment of freedom. But he did nothing. He was Haradin's dog. Only in his dreams was he free.

Change came slowly. Electrical systems filled the palace and autocannon turrets topped the defensive towers. Great factoriums sprun up on the outskirts of the city, worked by freemen and slaves. Steel was produced in undreamed of quantity to lay the backbone of the new rail project.

And for Maladar? Change meant he was unshackled from the throne. Five years had past and Haradin had knew amusements and no need for such measures to remind visitors of his authority. The Imperials were not impressed by such barbarism. To him he was the ruler of a backward world and it was their opinion that mattered.

So pic screens and cogitator systems replaced prisoners of war. Synthetic fabrics and circuitry replaced woven tapestries. Dogs were no longer permitted to lounge at their master's feet. As the wheels of progress ground forward, the question came up: what to do with Maladar?

He was the broken and shamed prince of a restive province. Not much of a symbol, but enough of one not to be entirely discounted. He could be remade into a servitor, but then he would not be recognizable as a warning to others. So what remained?

Killing him was considered, as was sending him to a distant mine to die. But ultimately another solution was settled upon in the minute or so when Maladar's fate was being decided. He had been raised like a dog. Let him be a slave in service to the kennel master.

So two burly guards hauled him down to the kennels and instead of shackling him to a post they brought him inside. Istran stopped sharpening his knives and looked up. He wasn't big man, the most impressive thing about him was his thick black beard, but he had a certain presence. "What is the High King's will?" he asked. He knew of Maladar, of course. He even felt pity for the boy, although he did nothing to aid him in any way. He had sons of his own to worry about and his own hide was precious to him.

"He's to be your slave," said the senior of the two guards. "He is to spend the rest of his time working with the dogs."

"As the High King commands," he replied. The guards turned and left the boy crouching before Istran. The kennel master looked at him for a moment and then grunted. "Stay here boy." He went into another room and game back with tattered tunic and breaches. "Put these on."

Slowly, reluctantly, Maladar did so. The kennel master went over to a cuboard and pulled out bread and cheese. "Eat up boy," he said. Maladar hesitated and then tore into the food, biting huge out huge chunks, chewing rapidly, and swallowing them down. Istran put a mug of wattered beer before him. "This'll help wash it down."

So the next stage of his life began. Istran was harsh, but not cruel. Istan had to but raise a hand and Maladar cowered and was docile. He learned the names of the dogs, their habits, and their personalities. Slowly, they became his friends. He avoided the other servants and soldiers of the castle, as many of them sent abuse his way if they saw an opportunity. He was still the lowest of the low. But now he was the lowest slave instead of the lowest dog.

He began to put on weight, although most of that was muscle. He was always hungry, but fortunately the kennel master did not lack for food. He began to grow and put on weight.

But that was not the only change. He began to see auras around others. Sometimes he saw ghost images that may have been their thoughts or passing fancies. He could change the path of skipping rocks and falling dice.

He knew what this meant. He was a Thread of Gold, chosen by the Weavers. But what did that mean now? The followers of the Weavers had been beaten. In the city below, a great cathedral was being raised to the God-Emperor of Mankind.

But it did not last. As he pondered what was to come next, a hunting party approached the kennels. Among them were many Imperials, their scrawny forms appearing child-like on top of horses. One of them was different than the others. His aura was strong and regular. He looked straight at Maladar. "Who is that?'

"A mighty prince," a noble joked. "Can't you tell?" Laughter errupted.

"Who is he?" the Imperial repeated.

"A slave. The son of a dead king. What is it to you?"

"Not any more. He belongs to the Imperium."

"The High King-"

"Will not fight me on this. His days on this world are over."

Very good fic just so you know it, very good indeed, though I got to say that the High Kings rule can't be that secure what with his rather high handed attitude to ancient customs.

Still do I see a future as a Khorne Champion for our Prince?

Haradin is so high handed because he feels he has to be. The Imperials gave him power to have an Imperial administration, which means the local religion has to go and the Cult of the Emperor has to be promoted.

Haradin suppresses his enemies with brutal terror and rewards his followers with the spoils of victory. Maladar and his mother are publicly raped so everyone knows what happens when you defy Haradin. You die and your women and children suffer a living death. Maladar remained a public trophy and reminder until it was more important to impress the outworlders with a veneer of advanced civilization than intimidate the locals with gruesome threats. Of course, by that time the Arbites and Ecclesiarchy have arrived in meaningful numbers.

As for Khorne, that would mean abandoning those psi powers that are getting him out of that hell hole.

Norseman wrote:though I got to say that the High Kings rule can't be that secure what with his rather high handed attitude to ancient customs.

He has the Imperial garrison to protect him. When you have a modern army and the most powerful weapon that can be mounted against you are muskets and eighteenth century cannon...

Still do I see a future as a Khorne Champion for our Prince?

I don't get the impression that's where this is going, unless there's something I don't know about. Although there would be a certain irony in that.

It took a while for a smith to remove the iron collar around Maladar's neck. He winced as he saw the mass of sores and scar tissue underneath, but otherwise did nothing. The imperials locked a slim collar of metal and grey plastic in its place.

The auras and pictures vanished when it was locked on. He could no longer hear the whispers of thoughts or change the path of bouncing stones. It did not surprise him mutch. The Imperials had triumphed over the Gold Threads. Their technosorcery was greater than Woven Fate.

The Arbites took him from the castle out into the town towards their courthouse. It was still under construction, but one of the wings was in use. It would be a mighty fortress one day, and even now only Haradin's forces could hope to successfully beseige it. Heavy guns covered the approach and Maladar watched them with a cool and detached eye. The strong had decided to change his fate. What chance did he have of resisting? None. So he went placidly to the deepest darkest cells.

The Arbites fed him regularily and well, if plainly. He lost track of time, but time beyond the moment had ceased to matter to him anyway. He understood how it was important, for others. But in his life he was powerless and had not control. What would happen could not be changed by him. He was not beaten, starved, or uncomfortable. It was one of the best times of his life.

It came to the end, of course. It had been about a month, give or take a handful of days. The cell opened and three men entered. Two were cloaked and masked as well as garbed in strange black armour. They carried shock staves. The other was hidden in a robe.

The shocked him and he spasmed. Like other off world Imperials, they weren't very big. They shackled him in the moments it took him to recover and told him to remain silent and march. He did so.

They lead him to a horseless coach of great size. A panel slid open and he was ordered to enter. His shackles were attached to a bench inside. There were others within, all young adults. They were similarily shackled. Then the coach began to move.

It was a bumpy ride and it lasted about an hour. Then the panel slid open again and the shackles were released from the bench.

"Out!" a voice ordered. Maladar obeyed. The sun was bright and he blinked against its glare. A huge metal vessel lay on the plain before them. It was the size of a keep and encrusted with gargoyles faces and strange minarets.

One of the others, a slim girl, was shocked for being to slow. A great door opened in the vessel and a ramp extended More handlers appeared. Some had guns. The prisoners were driven on board and into a large room containing even more prisoners. Most were young adults, but almost every age group was represented.

There was a roar and the vessel shook and then the ground fell away. Maladar waited patiently for the masters of his fate to deliver him to the place of their choosing.

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It did not take long before the ship shuddred. Loud clangs revirberated through the hull and soon enough, the prisoners were lead out in single file. Maladar waited his turn and moved promptly when ordered.

They brought him to a room with a technoscience torture machine. He waited for them to use it. They ordered him to strip and he obeyed. It hummed and several arms moved to stab him. The wounds were minor. And that was it. They gave him a one piece coverall and told him to put it on. Puzzled, he obeyed.

They lead him to a large room with many bunks and then the door closed behind him. There were a half dozen boys her age in the room, all but one of them smaller and scrawnier than Maladar.

A small blonde boy looked up. He spoke Low Gothic, something Maladar had learned by sitting and listening in Haradin's court. "Throne! You must have come from a real warp pit. Grab yourself one of those bunks and settle in. You're going to be here for a while."

Junghalli wrote:When you have a modern army and the most powerful weapon that can be mounted against you are muskets and eighteenth century cannon..

Only Haradin's troops have 18th century firearms. Late fourteenth/early fifteenth was the cutting edge before the Imperium showed up.

Not that there is much a difference if you are going up against the Imperial Guard.

Edit: BTW, I appreciate the input.

Very cool, IO. Maladar's views on Imperial technology are quite nice. And why is everyone on that Emperor-forsaken pit so large?

Ford Prefect wrote: And why is everyone on that Emperor-forsaken pit so large?

So I can have Maladar suffer from a crappy diet during early adolescence and still be fucking huge, of course.

Their ancestors had a bit of gene tinkering to adapt them to their heavy g hellhole. That's why they think ordinary humans (they haven't seen marines) are small and skinny. That's also why the Imperial official at the surrender moves like an old man. He's new to the planet isn't adjusted to the gravity.

Imperial Overlord wrote:
So I can have Maladar suffer from a crappy diet during early adolescence and still be fucking huge, of course.

Their ancestors had a bit of gene tinkering to adapt them to their heavy g hellhole. That's why they think ordinary humans (they haven't seen marines) are small and skinny. That's also why the Imperial official at the surrender moves like an old man. He's new to the planet isn't adjusted to the gravity.

Of course! I just thought he was really, really old, at the time (you know, for a Warp-traveller). And out of curiosity, does Maladar actually meet a Marine in In Memoria? I'd read it and all, but it's so long.

And are we all in agreement that Maladar's home planet is a hellhole? Because I like to think of it as such.

Ford Prefect wrote:
Of course! I just thought he was really, really old, at the time (you know, for a Warp-traveller). And out of curiosity, does Maladar actually meet a Marine in In Memoria? I'd read it and all, but it's so long.

And are we all in agreement that Maladar's home planet is a hellhole? Because I like to think of it as such.

Not in Memoria, but Hethor does and Hethor and Maladar are close to the same size. Marines are bigger.

Lots of Imperial planets can be classified as hellholes.

True true.

The inquisitor touched a glyph on the side of the data slate. It shifted to the next image, displaying a strongly built, dark haired young man. His face held a grim expression. The image scrolled up and displayed file notes. The inquisitor looked up. "Tell me about this one."

Magister Kala looked over at the inquisitor. This was a part of the job, providing psykers for the Inquisition, but it always made him uneasy. This time was no different, maybe even worse than usual. The Inquisitor looked so normal. A moon faced man in an non-descript white robe with gold trim. He looked like nothing more than a moderately important member of the Administratum.

"Maladar. He's . . . odd. A lot of rage, a lot of control. He was a slave on some backwater world."

"He's fairly large for a slave."

Kala shrugged. "High G adapted. He's scrawny compared to most of the locals, from what I understand. Some of them are as big as Astartes."

"Continue."

"Beta level. Mind reader with a little telekinesis. A strong biomancer. Absolutely brutal in psychic assault."

"Hmm. His file notes passiveness."

"He won't do anything that isn't specifically allowed. He performs highly in all academic subjects, so it isn't stupidity. When it comes to training combat skills, he comes alive. He's absolutely driven. I think they broke him on whatever hellpit he comes from. I don't know if he has the personal initiative you are looking for."

"Inquisitors need personal intiative, but not all psykers in the service of the Inquisition are inquisitors. He'll be useful. One way or another."

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The light to Maladar's cell flicked on. The adolescent rolled to his feet. The door slip open, revealing a moon faced man in a white robe. Maladar was a head taller than him, and although slender by the standards of his homeworld of Alitar, he was built like a warrior-saint. Scars criss-crossed him body.

"Maladar," the moon faced man said. It was clear that he had authority.

"Yes," the boy replied. He made no move to cover his nakedness.

"Put your clothes on. You will no longer be staying at the Schola Psychia."

"Yes lord," said Maladar as he slipped on underware and stepped into his one piece cover all.

"Maladar, how would you like to hunt down and destroy the enemies of the Emperor as you see fit."

Images floated through Maladar's brain. Liscene to kill, to break bones and shatter jaws, to bite flesh and gouge eyes, to rape and kill, to rip and burn and tear. An unholy grin appeared on his face. "Nothing would please me more, lord."

Maladar slammed his fist in the the punching bag. He had been at this for half an hour. Extra practice time was a reward for scoring so high on his academics and he excelled in that area. It was easy, in fact. Nothing more that rote memorization and reading the teacher to give the analysis he or she wanted.

He danced around the heavy bag and struck again. Sparing practice was fine, but not as pleasing as he thought it would have been. The rules and the safe guards existed to prevent inflicting serious injury on the students. He struck again and again and again.

His knuckles had begun to bleed again. He lifted his hand and sucked on them. The pain was sweet. When he was working the equipment he could almost see the bodies of his tormentors, almost feel their flesh under his fists.

"Hey! New Boy!"

Maladar turned to the shout. Jerone and his cronies walked in. They weren't heavy gee like himself, but they were big and heavy. Jerone was blunt, but Makar was strong, damned strong. Not that all blunts were easy targets. The conditioning and disciplines that they were taught here gave them formidable defences and iron hard wills. They had decided to torment him of late, spilling food trays and the like, which the school officials had not interviened to stop.

Jerone smiled as he walked into the deserted gym. "So, working out are we? I saw you talking to Sasha today. I thought I told you to stay away from her."

Well, that was true. Maladar really didn't understand how human relations were suppossed to work. At the Schola Psychia, everything was forbidden. His childhood told him the strong took what they wanted. But here there were both freedoms and restrictions. And the women were equal to the men. Sasha was . . . . nice and fairly smart, but not interested in him in that way. As far as he could tell. It was fairly confusing.

Maladar just looked at him and said nothing. Seriously injuring Jerone would be trouble and he was under no illusions that the Inquisition wasn't capable of punishing him even more horribly than Haradin. "I'm talking to you, little bitch," Jerone continued. Maladar clenched his fists.

Makar was circling to his right, Vel to his left. Bad. Vel was blunt as well, but tall, lean, and inhumanely fast. Makar was almost as big as Jerone. "I was thinking, maybe I shouldn't be worried about you hanging around Sasha. I think maybe you learned to like taking in in the ass. Is that right, bitch? Did you like it? I think you learned to like it."

Maladar lashed out with a devestating telepathic blast. Makar blocked it and both men were frozen for a moment. Vel lashed out with a high kick. Maladar blocked as Jerone swooped in, sending a flury of strikes at Maladar's torso.

Malaldar fell back, blocking most of Jerone's blows as Makar struck him with a focused telepathic attack that began to bore through his defences. Vel maneuvered. In moments, Maladar was going to go down.

But Maladar was far faster than a man his size should be. He counter attacked by shoulder charging Jerone and knocking the lighter man down. Vel leaped in, kicking. Maladar swept those aside with his arms, which ached with each blow they deflected. He smashed a fist into Vel's stomach and doubled him over. A two handed axe blow smashed his right shoulder. Vel went down.

Jerone kicked his legs out from under him as pain exploded in this skull. Makar was boring through his final layers. Jerone fired kicks at his ribs. He blocked or deflected most, but one got through. The pain did nothing to impair him.

He fired a telekinetic strike against Jerone. Makar was on the job and bled away most of his force. Jerone was tossed up and came down on his feet like a cat. Maladar fired needles into Makar's mind, but he dealt with him easily. He put power back into his bore. Maladar let loose a gasp as a surge of pain almost blinded him.

Jerone feinted high, fooled him, and slammed a fist into his short ribs. Maladar flinched from the blow. He had been good. He had obeyed the rules. He had been good for years. And it meant nothing. Nothing. He was just another dog. Just another boy. To be beaten, brutalized, and raped at whim of others.

Something exploded in his head. The blast of telepathic force staggered both Makar and Jerone. A monster leapt from its layer, a construct of warp energy touched and shaped by all the rage and shame in Maladar's mind. It was warp energy given life and shape by those emotions. The construct flew through the warp towards Makar's mind and began to tear.

The psyker staggered back and dropped his bore worm. Maladar lashed out with his foot, taking Jerone by surprise. His knee cap shattered and he fell. But not yet out of the fight. Maladar was just able to take Jerone's shot to his thigh instead of his groin.

Maladar stepped back and smashed Jerone in the chest with telekinetic fist that sent him sprawling. Makar shook his head and glared over at Maladar. He had shredded the chimera ripping into his brain and was ready to continue fighting.

Faceless guards stormed into the room. Maladar let his arms fall and the enforcers take him into custody.

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Inquisitor Heradine was of broad shouldered man of ordinary height. His right eye was a red lensed augmantic and rubies decorated and accentuated his many facial scars. He wore mesh armor under a dark red robe.

Maladar watched him from the infermary bed. "Were you satisfied by the results inquisitor?"

"How did you know?" was his mild response.

"This enviroment is too controlled for the masters not to be able to control blatent bullying and the timing of the enforcers was too coincidental."

"Yes. We were finding your progress unsatisfactory. You masters had broken you too thuroughly. We needed to spur you to break that programming, or shunt you to a support role."

"Did I pass?"

"Yes, and so did Jerone and the others. Obediance is good, but we need inquisitors to be able to take actions on their own. When pushed, you broke rules. You chose to fight and live instead of bow down and submit."

"Yes," said Maladar. A fierce light burned in his eyes. "Yes, I did."

The woman looked up. She was a bit taller than average, dark hair with a few streaks of grey, fairly normal build for an inquisitor. "Ah. Maladar. I am Kyra Neven, Inquisitor of the Ordo Malleus."

"I'm to be assigned to you," he replied.

"Yes. I need a weapon. A combat psyker. An interrogator with potential is a bonus."

"You've seen my record. You know what I'm capable of."

"I have. And you are damaged."

Maladar shrugged. "I live. I survived. I can serve. Your choice."

She nodded. "Good enough."

And that was that. Maladar was now an interrogator serving under Kyra Neven. Other interrogators spent their last night partying with their friends and lovers. Maladar had none. No one saw him out as he left the grim stone buildings of the academy and into the Neven's ship.

A slim man showed him to his cabin, the most spacious room he had possessed since his mostly forgotten boyhood. A huge comfortable bed, a desk with a cogitator, a vast wardrobe, furs underfoot, and silks and the bed. The meagre duffel in his hand held all of his worldly possessions.

The through it on the bed. "Let's go," he said to the twig.

"Alright," he said. The wiry man lead him into an expensively furnished sitting room. Kyra was there, where a black body glove. A bulldog of a man was playing regocide against small nervous looking man who wore grey clothes shot through with gold threads. Kyra looked up as he entered the room.

"People, we have a new comrade. This is Maladar and he is my new interrogator. So, let's see, you've already met Calidan Vils. The former chain dog here is Yvarine Recket. Our fancily dressed navigator is Gerran Balmish. The team also includes Sebesten Rores and Callix, but neither of them are on world at the moment."

She hesitated. "Welcome to the Great Game of the Inquisition Maladar. We'll see how well you play."

Kyra Neven strode through the courthouse, Maladar and Yvarine following in her wake. She past a dozen judges standing at attention and armed to instantly enforce the Emperor's justice. She stopped at the end of the hall. A junior judge looked up from his desk by the door and saw the rosette hanging on her neck.

"Inquisitor,-"

"Tell the senior judge I need to see him. Now."

"Yes lady." The young man pressed a button. "Senior judge their is an inquistor here. She needs to speak with you immediately." There was an unintelligable reply. "He says he'll be ready in a moment."

"Fine," she replied. A minute past. Then two.

The junior judge looked up. "Enter."

The door slid open and Kyra strode inside. The senior judge wore an elaborate robe of black silk lined with white fur. It helped conceal his considerable bulk that was undoubtidly difficult to fit into combat armour. His hair was receeding and a lank grey. His long nose was tipped with a sore. A blonde girl, really a waif, was wrapped in a red robe and standing in the corner. "You missed a bit here," said Kyra, touching the left side of her mouth.

The senior judge stuttered as his concubine attended to her make up. "Ah inquisitor, please forgive-"

"I am interested in your duties as enforcers of Imperial Law, not your antics with your leman."

"Ahh, of course inquisitor. How may I assist you?"

"You had a large number of psykers in your custody waiting for the Black Ships. Yet when the Schola Psychia showed up, you had none."

"Ahhh, that matter. Inquisitor Nikal Heros took charge of them. And then he burned them."

"He did what?"

"He burned them all."

"There was no report of this."

"I'm sorry inquisitor. I can't explain it. We don't pry into Inquisition business."

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The holo flickered and then solidified. The entire subsector floated in mid air. Kyra Neven addressed her staff. She pointed to three red glowing systems. "In the past six months, Inquisitor Nikal Heros has decided to wipe out groups of psykers in Imperial custody. One was from the recently reclaimed feral world of Credera, another was mostly from the tainted slums of Rocktown, and the last because several of them were distantly connected to knwon heretics."

"Clearly, Heros has decided to wipe out any psykers he can. Monodominant extremism rears its ugly head. They can be tools of the Ruinous Powers, but they are also essential for the functioning of the Imperium. He's neglected to make anything in the way of formal reports to the Ordo regarding his purges, other than a few highly misleading statements regarding "supression of potential heretics."

"His tragectory is fairly obvious. In these circumstance, Imperial authorities will be torn and unreliable. We need to hunt him down and stop him before his obsession kills anynore valuable psykers."