It was the rising of the sun above a horizon still shimmering with heat haze that marked the moment the Baphometadon horns were blown, signalling every living creature — wild or half-tamed — to leave the surface of Terra and seek shelter in the darkness below. And so did Chian Shen, after an exhausting night watch over his slave lord’s most favoured communication post in the midst of the vast ruins of the Asiatic Dust Fields. A slight breeze accompanied the rising light, whirling powder-fine sand into chaotic spirals and shifting patterns.
For a short, pain-filled moment, he stared at the pale, cloud-hidden orb of heat, risking his highly sensitive eyes, before descending the broken steps into the recently excavated basement of the ruined structure. Soft and soothing shade welcomed him until he left the morning glare behind and the shadows of pillars and shattered inner walls, cast by a pale glow-globe, began to dominate. Chian’s underground lair was sparsely furnished: two worn blankets — now neatly folded in a corner — a ticking fluid recycler, and a stack of nutrition bars stashed in a hollowed niche in the wall. Not much — yet for a people accustomed to carrying the totality of their possessions upon their bodies each day, it was already considerable.
Though Shen
was scarcely thirteen years of age, he was a slave-prince of the Dust Scorpion
tribe. Begotten by his master and borne by a certified wombress, he stood high
above the common masses of the regional Xeric tribesmen. Most trusted by his
lord, he had been raised and trained to undertake the pilgrimage down into the
Great Pit and, in time, to be elevated by those awaiting him there.
Being chosen would bring the desired prestige and honour to his slave-masters household ... and a live beyond restrictions for the boy.
The Dark Solstice — the longest night of the year — was soon to come, and he would begin his third trial.
Completion upon the Third was said to prophesy a great future in the service of the Sun Lord — the one dwelling in a palace of white marble and shimmering gold upon the highest peak of Terra in the West, radiant in his glory. A march of only a few days would bring the boy to what the followers of the Golden Emperor, in their stone-crafted palaces and lush gardens, referred to as the Falls — desperately ignoring their existence even as they looked eastwards to watch the sun rise, just as the boy had done. Of course, there was no water left to fall there — only cold, dry air and gusts of icy wind. It was simply the place where the mighty heights of the Himalazians fell to their knees in reverence before a hostility truly meant for the sons of men. They bowed their ice-capped heads to the Dust Fields — a land so barren, so inhospitable that it was almost impossible to fathom how life could exist there at all. Yet it did. Chian and his people were proof.
He knew that no one had ever succeeded upon the First, and only a handful upon the Second — legendary men whose honoured names would never be forgotten. Val Umbrion. Ash Varruk. And, of course, Arkhas Fal — the most prominent among them, all living legends in their own right. Chian had nearly followed in their silent footsteps, but he had closed his eyes too early in order to behold the Umbra configuration in all its light-swallowing splendour, stumbled upon the narrow path cut into the mining pit’s wall, and fallen, breaking both legs and several ribs in the descent. He had tried desperately to crawl the remaining few hundred metres, but the sun had already reached its zenith, and light poured into the depths of the pit, extinguishing his hope of success.
This time would be different.
He had
honed his night vision to near-perfect acuity, rendering the darkness no longer
an obstacle to his descent. His reflexes and muscular strength had been driven
to their limits by constant combat and wrestling against his peers and older
battle-slaves for days without end. He had steeled his will by remaining
outside into the morning hours, enduring the crippling pain.
He had also modified his needle-gun to fire farther and faster, and with frightening precision. For days on end, he had hunted the most vile, venom-swollen Glass Spiders, harvesting their toxin to prepare his ammunition. During long hours of the night, he reforged the shade-algorithms of his combat mask, forfeiting much-needed sleep and rest. He had also saved the combat-drug rations handed out by his master on special occasions, storing a considerable supply of Krrf to accelerate his nerve conductivity beyond human tolerance.
Now he was ready to face the deadly traps and blinded assassination-slaves under the watchful eyes of the Pale Ones deep in the lower pit once more.
And this time, he would not fail.
This time, he would become one of them ...
-Garvus Xarchys was an experienced fighter. He would not have reached the age of thirty-one had that not been the case. His clan was famed for forging the most cruel and merciless murderers from the gene-enhanced carcasses of young boys sacrificed upon the thorn-altars of Myconae. An heir to the old Spartians, he was — the most ancient and most legendary warriors of Boetia’s lost history. As a Vrykolakas, he had been and should always be the alpha predator in any conflict. Armed with an entropic infuser replacing his right hand and a serrated plasma-axe sizzling with raw destructive power, he was the living epitaph of death incarnate.
But now he felt like a whelp fresh from the graveyards.
His hyper-induced adrenal gland pumped potent meta-epinephrine through his veins as usual, yet he still could not follow the movements of his opponent. This cursed slave-serpent of the Golden Tyrant moved as swiftly as gunsmoke ejected from a ballistic mass accelerator, and the veils and strips of cloth decorating his armour made him resemble a mystic Erincian manifesting from Garvus’ darkest nightmares.
The man had slain a dozen of Garvus’ personal blade-serfs before the corpse-gladiator had even readied his weapons — and he was upon him now.
All his experience in the cult pits and upon the burned battlefields of Mediterraneum counted for nothing as he was struck hard across the face by the grip of his enemy’s pistol. Blood burst from his mouth as his jaw splintered and his iron teeth were torn from their sockets.
Garvus raised his fire-arm — the crude fusion of flesh and weapon still pulsing in constant pain — in a desperate attempt to shoot his foe when he felt the superheated suppressor of his opponent’s weapon forced into the open wound of his bleeding face, cauterising the flesh for a split second.
He was already dead before the coughing report of the M77-S Union bolt pistol reached his ears, his cranium rupturing under the explosive force of the igniting mass-reactive round.
Before his broken body had even collapsed, his killer was gone — as silent as he had appeared.
