She wasted no time on clearing the maze, injecting yet more Green to enable a sprint into the concealing marble jungle of the temple ring. It took only a short while to find the tomb of Empress-cum-Emperor Azireh, Lizanne having marked its location thanks to Chamberlain Yervantis’s clumsy hints that morning. She made a wide circuit of the structure before approaching, finding no sign of anyone else in attendance. Lizanne read the archaic Eutherian inscription above the tomb’s entrance as she came closer: Greatness can rest in the most fragile vessel. Pausing to take in the sight of the Divine Azireh’s marble features in all its hawk-nosed imperiousness, Lizanne doubted this woman had ever exhibited a moment of fragility in her life.
Touching a tentative finger to the solid oak door covering the tomb’s entrance, she was unsurprised to find it unlocked. Got here early, she surmised, flexing her fingers over the Spider’s buttons before pushing the door fully open. For a second she saw only blackness, until the faint moonlight illuminated enough of the interior to reveal the curved bulk of Azireh’s sarcophagus and the pale grey cascade of hair crowning the head of a stooped man leaning heavily on a walking-stick. The long grey tendrils shifted as the man turned to her, his features lost to the gloom. There followed a moment of mutual scrutiny, seeming to last quite some time to Lizanne though in fact it couldn’t have been more than a few seconds. Finally the grey hair swayed again as the stooped man gave a short, irritated wave with his stick.
“Close the fucking door, love,” the Blood Imperial told her, speaking in Varsal, his accent coarse, aged and distinctly lacking in nobility. “And let’s get on with it, eh?”
CHAPTER 10
Sirus
Fire!
The volley crashed out in a single, jarring blast, each bullet fired at exactly the same instant. The targets, wooden man-shaped facsimiles positioned one hundred yards from the line of Spoiled marksmen, each received a simultaneous hit dead centre of the chest. Sirus watched the Spoiled reload their rifles with an uncanny, synchronised uniformity. At first their contingent of riflemen had consisted of former soldiers and constables, all possessed of an ingrained familiarity with fire-arms. Now their number had swollen to over six thousand and included Spoiled-born tribesfolk as well as converted townspeople. They fired as one, reloaded as one and marched as one, all guided by the expert, if often tortured mind of their new general.
Grand Marshal Morradin had reacted badly to his conversion, emitting a rising howl of rage and disgust as his fingers explored his remade features before launching himself at Sirus. The marshal’s large, vise-like hands came close to crushing Sirus’s windpipe before the collective will of the other Spoiled closed in. Sirus had seen the change in Morradin’s eyes as his hands slipped to his sides, the murderous intent drowned under a barrage of invading thoughts. But still he resisted, Sirus sensing a ball of rage and defiance simmering away at the core of his mind.
That is unwise, Marshal, Sirus warned him. He will expect complete obedience.
The marshal’s eyes flashed at him, the deadly promise shining clear and bright for a brief second before his rage subsided once again. Sirus felt the reservoir of defiance diminish further, subsiding into a fluttering spark, weak but not yet completely extinguished.
Very good, Sirus told Morradin. Now, it’s time for you to begin your task.
Thanks to his father’s influence Sirus had avoided conscription into the Imperial army, but his extensive historical knowledge told him that successfully training a body of soldiers required months, if not years. Grand Marshal Morradin, however, managed it in barely two days. The ability to convey orders directly without use of subordinates or messengers greatly accelerated all aspects of the process. The abilities of their most expert marksmen were instantly communicated to every soldier. The gunners allotted to their small collection of cannon had learned the art of gunnery from the sole artilleryman to survive the city’s fall. They all now also possessed deadly hand-to-hand combat skills thanks to the knowledge shared by the tribal warriors amongst them.
However laced with self-loathing it might be, Sirus could feel Morradin’s pride at what he had accomplished. They stood together on a raised dais overlooking the Morsvale garrison parade-ground, watching the mass of Spoiled soldiery perform a sequence of manoeuvres. They formed companies, squares and skirmish lines with a swiftness and precision that would have shamed even the Household Guards
An army to conquer a world, wouldn’t you say? Sirus asked him.
A flare of anger coloured the marshal’s reply along with a grudging if inescapable expert recognition of the power of what he had created in so short a time. Trained the Household Division myself, he mused. Years of drill, route marches and floggings. Made them the best three legions ever to march under an Imperial banner. But this . . . He waved a clawed hand at the unnaturally even ranks of the companies on the parade-ground, his scaled lips twisting into a mirthless grin. This is a kind of legion never seen before. A legion of flame, with which our monster-god will burn the world to cinders.
Sirus had initially tried to caution Morradin’s thoughts but soon gave it up as the White appeared utterly indifferent to their personal exchanges. Every task it demanded of them was done, swiftly and completely. If those it commanded chose to hate one another, so be it. Sirus often wondered at the level of their master’s ambivalence towards its slaves. Are we no more than useful beasts of burden? Does it look on us as we looked upon its kind?
Don’t flatter yourself, boy, Morradin growled in his mind. We’re lower than maggots to that thing.
And yet it needs us. Sirus nodded at the mass of troops as their ranks split apart then came together again in response to the marshal’s unspoken commands.
For now, Morradin replied. Makes you wonder what it’ll do with us when it’s done.
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