Judicator, The House Of Tiamat

Episode 6 in the Judicator Series

by Şerban V.C. Enache

Copyright 2021 Şerban Valentin Constantin Enache

***

Foreword

It is a time of storms and strife.

Once, Mankind had aimed to conquer the galaxy, had aimed for eternal rule. The mother promise at victory’s end – ascension to godhood. Final triumph had been so close. Yet the ambition proved folly and brought ruin to His race. A thousand cursed years of stellar chaos nearly shattered the whole of the Empire.

It was called Ancient Ragnarok, that cosmic cataclysm. It destroyed the Sol system and severed countless colonies from Government sight and rule – some, from reality altogether, lost in nether gulfs. Man’s Empire is now a shadow of its former self in both means and wit. Superstition and sorcery abound. Uncontrolled mutations of flesh and mind threaten its very existence and purity – risking untamed doorways into the mad realm of Hyperspace (the Aetheric plane which allows interstellar travel at faster-than-light speed, but also home to infernal powers and eldritch nightmares).

Situated at the Via Umbra’s southern galactic hemisphere in relative seclusion, the mass of Humanity enjoys a safer, albeit arduous life. The outer Principalities, though, face legions of inhuman enemies – rivals of flesh, soulless metal, and demonic spirit. From within, blasphemous renegades aim to rot at unity. From without, alien races and stygian horrors conspire and assail. Despite it all, Man’s Empire yet stands strongest among the stars, making holy war and enduring unholy invasions.

The Imperial Government, a round table of iron hands in tetrad unity. First conqueror and first protector of Mankind, the Astra Imperatum, leading fleets of titanic warships and brave land armies. The Technomancers’ Guild, alone responsible for the Empire’s advanced machinery, arms and ammunition. The Church Palatinus, light of Humanity and praestitor of the Divine Creed. Last, the most secretive and feared of all the orders, the Arbiter Magistratum, the Bureau of Judicators, the Inquisition: a small, yet tireless host of proficient agents, versed in the wiles of the demon and alien.

For ten centuries since Ancient Ragnarok, the League of Mankind has struggled to reclaim its lost worlds. And its future remains uncertain...

The House Of Tiamat

Planet Nippur – (untouched by the strife of galactic conflicts between the races and empires who deemed it unfit for conquest) – was a Feudal World of harsh wilderness, home to brute nations, strong and warlike, that fought over living space and ancient feuds. But Star Command had finally decided to change the planet’s fate and bring it back to Imperial fold. As the eyes and ears of the Inquisition, Heranar accompanied the space fleet Orban’s Pride, the task of which was to secure the system and establish a planet-side presence in garrison and military installations.

But as the fleet was nearing its exit from the Empyrean, onboard instruments showed no possibility of translation into real space. Navigators were left baffled and tried to hide their fears. These quartered humans without sight – without eyes natural or bionic – were responsible for any successful Warp crossing. Strapped in their modular units, they were like children fresh out of the vats. Brail keyboards were left untouched. No traditional or heterodox input had done anything to alter the course...

Warp-stranded the fleet remained for almost seven ship days.

Alone in the combat room, armored, and armed with the Colt Walker – Hera tried to kill some time – making sure her marksmanship didn’t rust. But an Aetheric manifestation interrupted her training. “What in the worlds of hell?”

In theory such a thing was most implausible, for the ship’s Hollow Field protected against the Empyrean’s touch, keeping real matter whole and sovereign through the realms unreal and chaotic. The alien geist appeared like many circles revolving on top of each other; and with tongues of cool flame spoke a dialect foreign to Hera’s memory, yet oddly enough, a dialect she seemed to know well as if by instinct.

“The Almighty of this place has bound your legions of iron to Her prison. Forevermore shall ye remain captives in the Mavros Angal, pit of oceans desolate unreal. Unless...”

She could only wonder at the specter’s aim; but sometimes, the denizens of the Warp behaved well like humans. What she heard sounded like parley.

“Extend your offer, then. Name your price.”

To which the geist answered, “Nippur’s soil awaits your feet...”

Uneven and soft under her weight became the ground. The room was no longer narrow, but open to a vast landscape at the hours of eventide. And her chamber’s ceiling with lights artificial had turned into an open sky, rich with plasmatic auroras. Mountains and hills stretched as far as the eye could see. The closest things to Heranar were two trees: a matriarch and patriarch whose lion branches hugged each other, sharing great manes of ebon malachite.

Drawn to these ancients and careful of her every step, she no longer felt in peril, but curiously free – though part of her (the one cold-calculating and rigorous) judged all this as phantasm, illusions conjured. Out of the great trees, a beast partially emerged. It was a giant python, the eyes and scales of which reflected the boreal wind-fires of the night sky. Hera stood her ground, not wishing to provoke the animal or make it too curious of her own presence. Sound and light earthbound she detected from a nearby ridge, sounds that belonged to no reptilian fiend, but to the order equine. This animal Hera was not afraid to approach. It was night black with hooves aflame.

“Ride the devilmare... Come to me...”

The animal of sable cosmic knelt, allowing Hera easy access on top of its back. The beast’s mane, as she felt it, was like shade, mercurial as ink, yet silk-firm that she could grab onto. The Aether gave the being haste, and somehow, it nourished the rider too – abating all want and winter’s chill. Into the unknown she rode, the devilmare leaving brief trails of spark and flame as a living comet abroad in a night of dream.

***

Inside the tent, she saw a man...

Robes of hide he wore. His face was that of the stern patrician; cheeks, nose and brow painted chalk-white. The eyes beneath his black beard were not true eyes at all, but glass of viridian hue. Judging by his sewnlike features and golemlike frame, he was as a hybrid from the womb of peoples crossed with sorcery – as if he had been bred by shaman raiders and alchemists. Yet Hera easily allowed for the chance he was in fact a Super-soldier, lost from his Regiment during the age of Ragnarok.

The barbarian introduced himself as Rornir-Khan. He was dedicated to mighty works, plans great and ambitions terrible – per the will of his goddess Tiamat. Rornir-Khan explained that the world’s tribes and creeds had largely forgotten his goddess, becoming decadent, idle, and heathen; putting the lesser gods (Tiamat’s children and grandchildren) above the proto-matriarch divinity.

From his tale, Hera surmised she was dealing with the powers of the Dark Divine, powers with which she was hardly a stranger – at least when it came to Suthanat – despite her faithful service to the Empire and its Pantheon of Light.

“Tiamat seeks vengeance,” Rornir spoke with the focused passion of the madman or prophet. “Seeks to deafen the babel. To lay down their shrines and towers. Crush those children false and schismatic, would-be usurpers and plotters of matricide, with their mortal priests and followers too. And to bury their statues and altars beneath the courts of Her law and Her megaliths triumphant!”

“Then have her do all the work!”

The barbarian grinned not unkindly. “Does Wotan conquer your space battles for you, without ships and weapons? Does Hristos render mercy to all who seek it? Or only to those He deems fit? What of Allahr? Does He not value courage? Azura Mazdra, the moral path? Vulcan, His priestly smiths productive? All gods seek our struggle in tribute. It’s so simple, even the tribes of Ancient Terra know this – ”

“The Old Earth is dead, just like the Sol system: a cold, desolate tartarus.”

Rornir was taken aback by the news. Still, he remained calm. “It’s the gods who rule the universe, Heranar, and through us they shape reality. We have free will, yes, but our freedom is like the worm in the earth... I need not say more.”

With that she couldn’t argue. “So what about me? What’s my role in this?”

“A powerful Necromancer, immortal and skilled in devildom, would see me and my plans annihilated. He’s my strongest rival, for he dwells in a land of cursed earth, Zibalba, country of snow and mist, over which my familiars cannot cross. The foul, hungry soil saps the vigor from my spells while giving strength to his. Thus, I need an ally to vanquish him... you, carrier of the biskelion mark.”

The import of his words thrilled Hera’s being, a desire for the unknown; the secret thirst and hunger of all crusaders, warlords, poets, and prophets and wizards. She had no true choice to make; yet no alternative was required. “Swear that after I help defeat your nemesis, my ships and I get freed from your cosmic trap, and out of your debt, and all this unspoiled – flesh, matter, and souls intact. Swear me this!”

“By the dugs and womb of Tiamat, I swear to thee.”

Hera and Rornir-Khan clasped forearms. She felt his limb as skin quilted over iron.

***

Rornir-Khan assembled his faithful band of desert raiders, some five hundred strong on camelback – warriors deadly with the scimitar. Spiked helmets they wore, a weapon of last resort with which to impale their enemies. Only a single company sported firearms, bolt-action rifles. The rest employed more primitive things like the bow and arrow, and falcons they used to aid on the hunt.

“We don’t get to ride with them?”

“We don’t get to ride at all, but to run, my dear.”

“What? On foot? Are you mad?”

“I am as sane as you,” Rornir chuckled. “My band is off to organize the other clans. But Gom Raa is our destination. Have no fear. The Aether will sustain our limbs and guard against the sun’s hot belly and the night’s fierce cold.”

At such revelation, Hera’s blood sang with joy. The brain didn’t need to process all this, the soul could handle it on its own. The path of sand awaited their tread.

***

A sea of heat ripples they traversed, saw dunes and cacti, crumbled statues of nameless figures, broken walls and snake-haunted ruins of centuries past. Forgotten stone, scarred by wind and gravel, housing empty shade and few memories chiseled. They made perfect hideouts for thieves and cutthroats, or perfect campsites for travelling merchants seeking rest from a day’s long journey.

Rornir-Khan and Hera had no need of respite, felt no hunger and no thirst. Like the shaman warrior had promised, Tiamat’s breath ensured for everything. Along the way, Hera’s eyes scoured not just the land, but also the heavens. Though too rare to hinder the sun’s rays, the desert clouds were beautiful beyond measure; composed of undulated lines myriad, threads and threads of sky-snow-sand...

The long day’s light finally ebbed into darkness over the Nippurian earth.

Under the blanket of night they moved through the streets of Gom Raa. The northern port district, always a busy place, so the Khan explained. Its lifeblood was trade, most of which conducted through the Harpy Cult’s sister states of Arahs and Al Jubair.

First target was the bastion, the place with the grain and oil reserves. Second was the city palace – the Palace of Enlil – in which the elites of Gom Raa celebrated the dark holidays of Dyonishar, another hydra head of the Adversary Eternal.

Having reached the bastion walls, those guarding its threshold were strangely nowhere in sight. The sentries within, however, lay dead at the hands of turncoats: souls among the bastion’s defenders who owed big debts to money lenders. In exchange for treason, Rornir’s birds and spiders from many a guild had promised to clear their debts – that, and a little bit of profit for them too. Hera and the Khan went inside.

Evil work was to be performed this night... The bastion serfs caught by the invader force begged for mercy. Sadly for them, they failed to impress anyone, least of all Hera – for though civilized, inquisitorial business had accustomed her to the savage things from the backwaters of the galaxy. Wet gurgles these pleas became, as the Khan’s men slit their throats casually as if preparing fowl for a night’s roast or stew.

Rornir had brought inside twin gifts, the sight of which made Hera quake.

“Unless I’m mistaken, sorcerer,” she said in low breath, “that’s a high-power explosive device of alien make.”

“It is of Raxxar origin,” he confessed.

“How? Where did you get it?”

“Visitors from far away, my dear; would-be scouts and colonists. Nippur is no stranger to them. But the Almighty plays tricks on them too.”

“You bargained with the Raxxar for their weapons?”

“Hmm, only if you consider extortion a contract,” Rornir said grinning. “Don’t fret. I am many things, girl, but a xenophile I’m not... For me, it’s just means to an end. We’ll destroy both palace and bastion – all the cellar rooms, all supplies and treasures gem and coin. But first, I wish to show you something...”

The barbarian wizard led Hera into a different chamber and from there through a dark passage that seemed to stretch on forever. He led her by hand in the thick gloom – his glass eyes having no need of light to see.

“This path takes us from the bastion to the palace. A clever way out for the aristos in case of a siege. But through spies human and preterhuman I came to learn another secret: the Palace of Enlil rests upon a strong geomantic vein, that when disturbed ruptures the Warp in ways convenient for my schemes. How sweet Thy vengeance shall be, Grandmother Tiamat. Your demons beneath Gom Raa, unleashed.”

The Khan’s words were so rich in prophetic surety, Hera believed him.

It’s like I’m trailing a wraith that’s holding my hand tightly as a frozen corpse, but in whose chest burns the fiery heart of a devil. Be it dream or madness, I feel it the work of Providence, the moment of the Lightning Tower soon to come...

***

Inside the luxurious palace, a wide animated room they discovered; and roguelike peered into it, making use of unguarded secret oblongs. Aphrodisiac vapors of purple and pink crowned the unfolding atmosphere – and the backdrop, icons and statues of shameless design, with the evil flute players of Dyonishar bathing the ears of those gathered in slow, monotonous ecstasy.

Men and women of high rank, noble blood or fat purse, indulged wines of pagan vintage, subservient to beastly wickedness. In their sick feasts and orgies, they tortured and molested children – the street-urchins who begged to survive on rented territory from the local thieves’ guilds. These poor souls looked drugged out of their mind, unable to speak, to move, or cry... Sadists were the aristos who flayed them, and hematophagists were those who tickled their wounds and sipped their blood.

Over lavish pillows pools of men and women were sprawled, teat to chest, rear in lap, some kissing and biting, hands searching frantically for the naked skin beneath the silks. Emulating the Borborite, Sethianic slime habits – dark desire swelling in them seeing the tortured victims – they drank their own emanations and those of their fellow degenerates, some out of curiosity, some out of sheer disgusting greed.

In a different corner of the wide space, on a couch of vermilion, they saw a group of men and women spitting on upside-down crosses in malefic blasphemy against the Savior. They used the objects, whose parts they insalivated, to impale themselves in the nether regions; and soon after, smeared dejections over their bodies in the belief it would act as a better balm on the skin than those of oil and leaf – bringing sybaritic joys to Dyonishar with all his names and depictions...

Near the twisted scene, on a dais of fur and feathers richly coloured, two souls completed the satanic orgy: one effeminate greenhorn and a fat bearded elder (accompanied by flute players) sang hymns to Marduk and Ishtar – slayers of the Ancient Dragons: Apsu-Engor and Tiamat, the serpents of cosmic waters fresh and salt.

Seeing all this, Hera’s being grew hot with temper storm of fiery hatred. To butcher them to the last with mace and sword wasn’t good enough; neither to shower them in lead. No. Righteous flame would lick them clean of life and corruption. Rornir-Khan had the right of it, and his alien bombs would do the job. Blood gods favored the red essence spilled from wounds; but Allahr wanted ash out of His conquered foes.

***

With the Raxxar devices planted in both Palace and bastion, swiftly enough they went back to a safe point from which to depart the place running.

“Pray it doesn’t rain, lads. I wish to see fiery totems for the Grandmother’s benefit.”

Hera glared at the Khan’s men, his traitor servants and cutthroats. Given their dishonest way of living, none dared to question Rornir’s commands, and they obeyed with high spirits. It’s not just dread, but admiration that fuels their loyalty. Of that I’m certain. And somehow, that spell haunts over me too...

Next, by simple wire, the charges were triggered. With japes, curses, and laughter, everyone bolted for the outside like pyromaniacs. Pushing through the crowds ahead to clear a path, their aim was to reach safety outside the city walls. Busy with their decadent, opioid carnivals, the citizens of Gom Raa paid them little resistance or concern. Close to the way out, Heranar turned to see the fruits of their insidious actions. She chose well her moment...

The bastion released a great hellish roar of flame and thunder. Splinters of wood ablaze came out of the edifice – the structure, a burning totem of violence and ruin. Wind-driven sparks adorned the raging inferno, as stone and brick came tumbling down with dust and crackle. Then, a second explosion, the Palace of Enlil went up in the same manner; the blasphemous orgies it nestled, wiped out – Dyonishar’s anguish, the Grandmother’s delight, the flaming laughter of the heathenness Tiamat.

“Look on, for Arahs and Al Jubair will be next,” Rornir whispered to his new and only woman disciple of foreign blood from foreign stars and lands.

Possessed by righteous vigor, Hera smiled, pleased with the violent purgation of that palace of degenerate filth, criminals and freaks. She tried to close her sight, yet the infernal crown above Gom Raa was already etched behind the skin of her eyes. All she could see was the future – a wound above a world, a tear in the fabric of the sky, and dark clouds becoming ruby over a silent city’s grave...

***

The Harpy Queen, Ishtar, goddess of ambition, matron of prostitutes – was worshiped by the sister cities of Arahs and Al Jubair. She had aided Marduk in his matricide, so Tiamat’s servants on earth had to set a loud and fierce example.

The Harpy’s clergy and trade houses were an interesting mix of matriarchy and polygamous plutocratic male rule. By taking many wives, they left the young males with no bride of their own. Too many fell in love with harlots in the whorehouse, and much grief and tumult this produced; but never enough to spark a full-on rebellion to overthrow the Harpy Cult in those parts of the earth it ruled. The Khan knew this, and his promises to those disgruntled made them question their plight – and many now saw in the Grandmother a chance at revenge: chaos preferable to the rotten order of today.

The races upon which the Khan’s horde was built consisted of the Edomites, the Eryans, and the Mungol-Tai from the planet’s vast Eastern steppes. Hera couldn’t help but notice the legacy from which the Nippurians drew inspiration: the Asia continent of Old Earth during primitive ages, rich with the cycles of glory and downfall.

By terrible witch rites and demonian Warp spells, Rornir conjured and settled demons (djinn) in the hearts of his warriors, those with the soul urge for such union. Among the chosen were those weak of muscle, bitter of memory, or those left disillusioned with life. The Khan insisted that such pairing of souls would strengthen the might of his horde; and that no demon could injure their spirit more than life’s betrayals.

One of these men, a great warrior of Edomite blood, Hera tried to dissuade. She had seen him fight in the practice routines and for real during the sacking of Gom Raa and its surrounding estates by the Khan’s collected horde. Nubar al Enoch was no giant, but average of build and smart – a wolf with the cunning of a snake. She also appreciated his stoic conduct in and out of battle, and his knowledge of folklore.

Pressed to renounce the demonian rite, al Enoch opened up to her...

“I loved only one woman in my life: a slim, foreign beauty of white flesh and raven hair. But she wouldn’t have me – for I was a commoner without wealth. Angry with myself and with the world, I nurtured the trade of war and grew skilled at it, like the men of my lineage, poverty-stricken hill people who became sellswords. Yet, I abstained from the brothel and from the liquor of Ishtar. And I refused to rape the women of those I conquered. I’ve always been sullen; but the Khan has promised me a djinn – and by its power, I shall slay a great many for the glory of Tiamat!”

“You lived by a worthy code,” she told him honestly. “You priced your manhood above the foolish sins. No shameful disease did you contract or spread, and you dishonored no man’s wife or daughter. In my faith, we call it Așa, the righteous path. Just think. Had you slept with that woman who loved you not, she might have gotten heavy with child; and as result, discarded the babe with no feel for it or you.” Heranar caught him firmly by the wrist. “Keep your heart human and your soul.”

Later that evening, Hera was called inside the Khan’s pavilion.

“I would spare you the morrow’s slaughter, but all who serve Tiamat must kill in Her name.” Using a fingernail of lunar caustic, the Khan inscribed certain letters beneath the Judicator’s gorget in a cross surrounding the golden skull motif therein, symbol of the Empire’s churchly dread knights. “Take heed,” he told her. “Lest you die before your oath is complete. By these runes of Tiamat, bullets may evade you, arrows, but not the sword, neither the flame, nor a fiend’s talon. Be wise to that.”

***

When these brute nations went to war, there was no display of refined strategy, no ordered movement or tightly knit formations, drums of drill, line officers barking orders to keep the rank and file honest to a pre-established battle plan. The thinking was short and limited – the weapons parochial, the foot quick, and the will eager for blood, mayhem, and spoils. Mounted riflemen fired rounds of lead, trying to both aim and direct their steeds. From what she could tell, the nomad bandits, corsairs and warlords aimed high to catch the riders and not the animals carrying them. Better to kill the owner and steal his beast than to kill both. Yet smoke and bullets weren’t everything. Spear and scimitar met too, so did the arrow and the shield. And the Khan’s devil men fought as greedy beasts, hellbent on the delirium of slaughter.

The horde’s throat mixed shouts of bane with songs of glory – whereas only curses they received from the opposing legions. Flesh was baptized through steel, and bullets in litanies of grey smoke flew – discharged from primitive rifles not so gracious to the arrows loosed with feeling over greater distances.

But soon, amid the chaos, contraptions of higher technology emerged. From the air, now filled with the roar of machines, came grenades of spark and shrapnel. These bearers of new death were the pilots of gyrocopters. On this Feudal World, these were the Harpy Cult’s creation of wrought metal, pistons, and gas tanks: synthetic harpies which could dominate the battlefield. Hera saw what looked like mail rings covering the cabins of these flyers – so that bullets and arrows were useless against them.

Bullets and arrows; but not laser rounds. The Colt Walker was the logical choice. Hera’s aim was true and the shot lethal. With the pilot dead, his blasted gyrocopter went down on the wrong side of the battlefield, into the horde’s flank. Realizing her mistake, she imagined the Khan telling her, Whose side are you on!?

The resultant dust made it hard to see, hard to breathe and fight. Between coughs, Heranar switched tac and aimed for the gyro-engines and gas tanks. The flyers exploded in the air, this time shattering more evenly over and between the hosts. And with that, she kept the laser pistol cool, wanting to save ammo.

Blades, arrows, skill and courage would win the day – compounded by the abhuman strength of demon-tainted hearts.

She was stuck in with a squad led by Nubar al Enoch. Valiantly did he fight and with brains too: a blade dancer carefully dealing cuts and swings while fending off rival steel from the opposing multitudes, crying out, “Death to the Harpy!! Tiamat triumphant!! In our blood the Grandmother lives! Our blades, Her vengeance!”

In contrast to al Enoch, Hera wasn’t possessed by the same religious fervor, for the horde’s creed was not her own. Still, killing unruly heathens was perfectly in line with the True Faith, duty of every citizen of the Empire fit to bear arms.

Naked adrenaline drove her onward, that and her tempered, iron will. She did her best to score high on the collective tally, looking through the iron sights of her bolt-action rifle – an antique weapon received from the Khan’s smugglers. Reloading the thing was a chore, but strangely pleasant, a feeling advanced weaponry often failed to capture. New rounds she put in, locked in place, aimed and fired – tasting the rich sulfur upon nose and tongue...

In less than an hour, the Harpy legions were routed, and the battlefield – though a haze of dust and corpses – sounded most lively with the cheer of the living proud. The city states of Arahs and Al Jubair, with their armies devastated, would be easy prey for the large, barbarian host. Those desert clans that had remained neutral would surely join them after hearing the day’s news; and wind of this would travel swift indeed...

Hera scoured the dead and wounded for Nubar al Enoch after the pious warrior had failed to answer her calls. She came across a sight obscene: one of the possessed was inflicting knife stabs into a rival soldier long-dead. He was speaking with the tongue of madness and drooling as if rabid.

“Enough, you devil! Stay yourself!”

The Warp-tainted freak looked up at her in alien fascination, which soon turned to stark insanity. And the next thing she knew, he came upon her like some hungry savage from the pit of life. The maniac stabbed and stabbed like he was the son of blood gods butchering a sacrifice. Hera used the rifle to resist his blows, breaking the weapon in the process. Luckily, where his hits connected, the micro-ceramic armor held strong.

“Svaros! Svaros! Mavral!” At the Khan’s wizardry, the possessed man fell to his knees and twisted as if in chains – the evil power no longer fuelling him, not even his mad babble. “Stupid djinn,” said Rornir. “The bloodlust gets them carried away... Come, Heranar. I will take you to your friend...”

Paying the madman a final stare and a kick to the ribs, Hera walked with Rornir and found the pious al Enoch, throat slashed, the sand beneath, red. But through the surrounding smells of sweat and viscera of the many fallen – one odor was not foul, but strongly rich and pleasant. “Basil,” said she.

Though proud and prodigious, Rornir-Khan knelt to draw a hand reverently across Enoch’s face, closing his eyes so the hero could stare into the afterlife. “Given the opportunity, he could have forged his own clan. He would have died a patriarch of corsairs – his children, the bane of caravans and silk roads. But fate wished him a Saint of Tiamat, one of several; and his bones shall rest beneath the Grandmother’s megaliths. Mourn him not, for Nubar is in heaven, in the hall of ancestors.”

“And what of your devil-tainted men?”

“No one with demons in his heart can be called a Saint. My possessed fighters who survived this day... well, look around, my dear. You’ll see none of them standing straight. They are slowly dying. By nightfall, the demons in their breasts will have fled, taking in payment their souls into the stygian realms of Aether.”

The use of foul magic and human sacrifice left Hera in no mood to celebrate. “Was it worth it, Rornir? To win your war in such a way? By such means?”

The Khan nodded, his glass eyes and chalk-white face, a testament of iron-clad surety. “I forced the djinn on no man. Yes, it was worth it – in Tiamat’s name.”

***

Having beaten the city states of the Harpy goddess, the Khan entered the biggest port in Arahs and requisitioned all available ships therein. His men stuffed the cargo holds with all things required, and days later their small fleet set compass for the North. Hera took space in the most fearsome vessel – a grand barge of fine, red wood and exquisite sail by the name Prodigious – with Rornir stoic at the helm.

But the seas didn’t stay open for long. Pirates caught their scent, gave them prudent chase, and on a cloudy day decided to strike...

“What foul god to these thugs worship?”

“The Storm Lord,” Rornir answered. “The island dwellers of Old Zelund sing, plunder, and slay for the new gods, but the Storm Lord is favorite among them. Master of all thoughts greed. Ruthless when angered. Always in flux. Ally of Marduk.”

“His name? Never mind the titles.”

“Ishkur Lil.”

“Hmph. Nice phonetics,” said Hera. “They’re gaining on us, as you can see. Our supply ships haven’t any hope to outrun them.”

“I can see that. What do you have in mind?”

“We’ll go kinetic one way or another. Why delay reckoning? Let’s halt the ship and raise the white flag of surrender. Doubtless they’ll be greedy to conquer the lavish Prodigious, leaving our weaker vessels alone to advance.”

The Khan nodded, thoroughly convinced by her reasoning. He turned to the smaller ships which flanked his own. In preternatural manner, his strong voice carried to all corners. And it also carried a dark iron inside it – one that impaled the hearts of his men with dread and reverence in equal measure. “Let the wind kiss your colours!! Keep true to your course!! We’ll stay behind and give the rats a proper welcome!!”

Those aboard the Prodigious – sons of desert and steppe – cheered with hatred and passion, hatred for the enemy, passion for leader and cause. Unlike other warlords greedy and jealous, Rornir-Khan had no problem in sharing his bounty and sharing it with fair measure. Each man under him took pride in his duties. Each man was rewarded. And for that, they were sanguine.

“Lower mast!” Rornir shouted. “Hoist the white flag! Battle arouses the gods, Heranar. Today we’ll give pleasure to Tiamat and pain to Her rotten son of storms.”

“Ever the optimist you are.”

“How can I not be? The pirates can always turn tail. My men, however, must win or perish.” Rornir drew his own steel, a blade with weird writ along the fuller. “Each symbol is a different power of Tiamat in the creeds of our three races: over the land for the Edomites, over the sea and its salt for the Eryans, over the inner and outer hells for the peoples of Mungol-Tai. I shall wield this blade today, but on Zibalba, it will be yours to handle against the cold, lifeless minions of Suthanat.”

“One fight at a time, barbarian. Let’s focus on the now.”

It didn’t take long. The pirate ships got close, then closer, and rain started...

Employing grappling hooks, clenched firmly into the woodwork, gave the pirates leverage. The larger of the enemy warships, twins in size and sail, were clawing at the Prodigious. With invader and invaded trading bullets, the pirates pulled and pulled, slowly closing the distance and allowing their swordsmen to jump through.

Bullets flew over Hera, whistled in her ear, but failed to hit that which Tiamat’s runes protected. Even through the rain, the markings of lunar caustic upon Hera’s gorget didn’t wash out. She saved her laser rounds for enemies at short range – better the odds the Colt Walker would punch through two, even three men instead of one.

Rare was the day chance turned so fiercely from grim to good. Fortune was the province of the gods – the servants of Tiamat against the Storm Lord.

The Khan’s blade caught the first foe straight into his midriff. The barbarian sorcerer was tall, generous in girth, but his broad frame was deceptive, for he was not slow by any means. Another came at him, trying to hack at his feet. The poor fool stumbled in his attempt and received a deep gash to the throat in recompense. Five men banded together and came at them. With only enemies in her line of sight, Hera shot the Walker without risk of committing friendly fire. The boom of guns, the rattling of sabers and the foul curses of men – all were dwarfed under the heaven’s storm.

Fresh invaders landed on their ship, and Rornir took them head-on. With preternatural haste he drove his weapon, point first, into the scum’s entrails. The blade escaped through the back, as the pirate soldier was lifted off the ground. The Khan roared at his feat, roared as a bear, as a lion, and crocodile.

“For Tiamat!! For life anew!! The Grandmother reborn!!”

The next foe he rammed with his pauldron, knocking the man’s spark out. But next, unluck caught up with him – for he was kissed by another’s blade deep across the left arm. Busy with her own band of sea brigands, Hera couldn’t offer any help – not that he needed any. Even injured, the Khan still pulled his own weight.

“Bold work! But not strong enough!” Rornir pushed back. Both men reeled from his action and were quickly dispatched by Edomite hands. Left alone, the other pirate lost all courage to fight. He dropped his blade and jumped ship, screaming. “Good choice, lad! Good choice... And I see our own boarding action is going well too.”

The Khan’s forces were winning every fight. Some, profiting from the change in odds, went beneath foreign decks to emerge with plunder of their own.

“Oh, the irony,” Hera mused, adding a fresh power cell into her pistol’s chamber... She witnessed the unfolding war, moving from bow to stern, searching for the better view as she stole some respite from the whole thing. The killing, though, and the tempest – it was all a great performance. Painters would have loved to see it, study it, drink it in through all the senses, and give it life forever upon the canvas. A shame we didn’t think to bring a painter along.

Still, the scoundrel sons of the Storm Lord weren’t vanquished yet.

To this end, Hera proceeded to take the fight to them, crossing the rails, landing on a foreign deck to sure up a band of Rornir’s Edomites. Horns sounded – each, a signal, just like every pause between them. Blades locked against each other, sang the chorus of inanimate things sharp, each swordsman aiming to hit his foe without receiving hits in turn. Above their heads, thunder and shower. All of it, so beautiful...

“Try killing me, wench,” one of the pirates cursed. “Try killing me!”

Several blows and swings later, Hera made good on his wish, cleaving the fool at the waist. The sound was peculiar and low, feeble skin and moist flesh parting at her will; another life claimed. “Careful what you wish for.” She retreated the blade from her enemy – exposing gore to the rain.

This deed of hers was noticed by a foe of superior rank: a man clad in stolen fineries and regalia, his leatherlike face, full of scars and blisters.

“By the Lord’s tempest! A she-devil!”

Recognizing her valor, the pirate lord called on his men not to interfere. She issued the same command to her nearby group of Edomite warriors. And so everyone gave them a small berth in which to do single combat. Offworlder and Nippurian highborn clashed, two very different fighting styles – their blades shrieking against each other with each metallic kiss. Hera attacked; her foe parried and countered.

Their weapons danced to every command, every order sent by the brain to the arm, until both of them invited retreat and repose. Despite the deal between them for single battle, Hera didn’t lose sight over the larger conflict. Neither did her foe.

“Never seen a woman fight as good as a man afore.”

“You’re too kind.”

“Won’t you marry us, we the sons of Old Zelund?”

“I regret, no. Polygamy is not my thing.”

The pirate lord chuckled, as did she; and then another exchange of cuts and thrusts ensued, with neither soul obtaining the upper hand.

Next though, the odds tilted in her favor. Lightning and thunder came in the same second; and Hera went in for the kill – this time, catching the pirate aristo off guard. Crimson water escaped from his wound. A morsel of flesh was all that remained intact of his throat after the fine clean slash she had delivered. With his bloody demise, the opposition received a great blow to morale – while from Hera’s side only roars and cheers came: throats singing victory beneath the thunder and the thrum of tempest rain.

This is not the Storm Lord’s fury, but his anguish, Hera thought.

Carefully traversing the wet rails from the pirate ship onto the Prodigious, she called home the crew – her shouts, stern and lively.

“Fun’s over, you men! Leave the rats to drown! Get on the ropes and sails!” They obeyed as if she was the Khan, a notion she rather fancied.

But then the true leader and warlord barked his vitality. “The Storm Lord thinks to wash his shame! So he sends us wind for the North! Onward to Zibalba!”

Sheathing her weapon, Hera looked to Rornir. “Your enemy’s blade cut deep.”

“Hmph. Not nearly deep enough.” He forced himself to stand and pointed to the fresh prisoners, choosing the youngest looking soul about them. The Khan’s men dragged the captive inside the lower cabin, and Hera followed...

Few lamps stood lit inside Rornir’s quarters. Every piece of furniture was nailed to the floor, walls, and ceiling – to preserve order when in capricious waters. The lavish finery from the ship’s previous owners had been split among the tribes as just reward. Rornir had chosen to make the cabin feel more like home. With pelts of sable and carmine, and lamps of viper oil, he had accomplished this whim.

“Bound him to my slab, then leave. Not you, Hera. You stay.”

As the men departed, she saw an evil sparkle in the Khan’s green eyes of glass, a stygian gleam that came not from without, but from within his dark soul and brain. Extending his good arm over the captive, the barbarian sorcerer uttered incantations almost lyrical; but one word she did recognize – Necarra...

“Sufletul damil. Avar Necarra. Vier nost hakar. Tau al suflu damil. In nuem Necarra!”

The young captive squirmed and whimpered, as the Khan’s devilry caught shape and scent, ghost maggots that crawled on zephyrs stale and fetid. The bound prisoner twisted less and less until all vigor left his body. He gave his last breath not as a young handsome man, but as a thin, feeble creature of white hair and sunken face.

And just like that, the barbarian sorcerer was no longer injured; the blood on his left arm, no longer a flowing red, but static soot she realized and confronted him.

“Sorcerer, warlord, and nosferat.”

“Are you truly surprised?”

“A little, yes. I didn’t know I shook hands with a vampire.”

“From the moment we’re born, we begin to die,” he said thoughtfully, wiping the dust from his arm with a wet rag. “I simply hasten the demise of my foes while slowing down my pace toward oblivion. Surely you’ve acted on the same principle in your long life, extended beyond what’s natural through the wonders of your genetic arcana – ”

“It’s not the same! Our biomancies involve implants, chems, and radiation. Your method is the stuff of devilry.” Hera took the poor victim in her arms, quite light in weight after the abominable magic performed. “I’m throwing him to the sea, lest you be a cannibal and devour him too.” The Khan laughed at the sharp remark. It was a loud, sinister thing to her ears, but it must have been pure joy for him.

“Man flesh is good; but the skin and bones, not so much. Hahaha...”

***

By the black tides of several fortnights, the fleet finally arrived into the cursed North, the snowy domains of Ussabar the Necromancer. No djinn, free of form or bound to the hearts of men would serve the Khan’s horde in this forsaken country of ruin, tomb and grave; forsaken to the elder powers of decay...

They scouted the surroundings, and only then established camp. The work followed them into the night. Shatters of moon Zibalba had, ever present in hours light or dark – the shards, in permanent sync with the earth’s rotation. Catching the half-light of the sun, the lunar fragments appeared like skulls among the stars.

It was cold in the North, but they were fortunate and no winds of bitter ice assailed them. Hera didn’t complain. In her personal garb augmented by a traditional shepherd’s greatcloak – and next to the fires – the time that passed was warm enough.

Every bandit, corsair, cutthroat nomad and pillager rubbed at his charm or talisman and muttered wishes for Tiamat to spare them of evil: night things and cruel weather spirits. Though regions cold weren’t Hera’s first choice, least of all a nation’s graveyard, she didn’t feel herself a foreigner in these parts.

Strange histories lay behind Zibalba – tales from brave adventurers who tried their luck in the North only to return in fewer numbers, mad with fright, seeking hermitage or monastic life. Much of this dark lore shared by the Khan’s people seemed implausible to Hera. Then again, Nippur itself was anything but ordinary. And the weird, undeniable... Just like my purpose on this world, though often it feels like a dream.

Later that night, fresh game was brought and placed on a wooden slab, a wild boar with the horns of an ox. In the outskirts of Zibalba, living animals were still loose and uncorrupted. The Khan hunched over the carcass with his knife.

“All my hydromancies, pyromantic rituals, geomantic formulae, wind measurements, and my lone hours of stargazing – all led me to this place, here, now...”

“And this final haruspication will show you the outcome?”

“It will,” he told Hera, beginning the disembowelment. “If the liver is too hard, the enemy is yet too strong to assail. Too soft, and the fault lies with us.”

“And if it’s just right?” she asked.

Rornir-Khan smiled; that was answer enough. It didn’t take him long, and the shaman sank his teeth into the iron-rich organ. “Have your fill, men! The Grandmother favors us! Tomorrow, we’ll make Her proud...”

Thrilled, his men howled and danced in the light of lunar fragments, torch, and campfire – cauldrons steaming with bones in stew.

During her career with the Inquisition, she had handled many interrogations; some subjects innocent, most guilty. He was many things, Rornir-Khan, but lying wasn’t his forte... Even with his glass eyes that make it easier to conceal emotions.

Instead of confronting him on it, Hera gently whispered in his ear. “Remember our deal, Rornir-Khan. I won’t be stuck on Nippur with my fleet forever in Hyperspace... Come what may, do your best – for I shall; for that is all we can do. We will succeed, and you will honor your oath to me.”

“Pray it be so. From your mouth to the Grandmother’s ears.”

***

She narrowed her gaze, smelling and tasting a foul odour in the wind that pushed against them. The foul thing was not without form of presence to the eye; it appeared as a thick fog, eating their way. Tendrils of icy foreboding gripped the horde.

“It smells like rotten flesh,” said the Khan, his humours clearly out of balance; as well as those of his men around him. Even the animals agreed with their riders. They became uneasy, startled by the foul mist ahead. Though the warriors appeared grim, faced with the cold air and the long road, they complained nothing of it. Rornir-Khan had forced no man on this mission. They had all agreed to follow and serve in the name of Tiamat and thus bring honor to their line – past and future...

Rornir formed a vanguard to investigate what appeared like queer mounds in the mist, electing his bravest and pious warriors for the task, Heranar among them.

“The first man to turn and run I will flay alive. Keep true to your oaths. Though my familiars cannot provide aid across this cursed earth, the invisible touch of foul plague spirits that travel upon evil winds to enter and sicken flesh will not harm you – I promise. Out here, panic is more deadly than the plague.” Nomad, corsair and cutthroat pledged new vows to strengthen the old; and they resumed their march...

Each step into the foul cloud seemed strangely muffled; the snow ground beneath their feet, quieter. She had the distinct impression they were entering a corner of mixed dimensions where venomous Aether slowly polluted the not so sovereign laws of reality.

The heavens faded to a dull grey, and the stench upon the wind’s breath was of rot, of flesh betrayed by life to death. The rank and file muttered; though veterans of war and pillage, Zibalba was unlike other parts of the globe; it was a land of frost, ghost winds and pestilence. No tribe ventured here to scrape a living, no hermit, or band of outcasts. Life was better in a lord’s dungeon, where madness – sad in itself – was still preferable to the stygian silence of the grave: the partially excarnate souls of lost kingdoms roaming the nights and sleeping the days. Such were the gifts of Suthanat: the cold, unfeeling peace in the house of unlife.

They reached the heart of the mist and what it contained.

“Demon dogs! A wall made of dead.” Rornir pointed to heaps of rotting carcasses, the stench of which made his soldiers curse in revulsion.

The gathered mounds were ugly to look upon. Limbs, torn and cut, skulls, ruined by weight of blow. Blood, dark and frozen upon the snow ground. Armor and swords were buried under frost with sullied cloaks of fur and jerkin vests. Each and all of the dead, covered by festering wounds. Here in the cold North, the smell of spoiled meat should have been less of a weight upon the nose. Yet it was as strong as in the middle of summer in the southern lands below.

“They’re arranged in such a way as to resemble a geomantic shape: the tail of the basilisk – nasty omen. Guess it’s Ussabar’s way of receiving outlanders... You’re a sleuth by trade. Come with me.” Rornir handed her a plague doctor’s mask, so she could handle the foul smell without puking. “The rest of you! Hold position!”

I’m a detective, not a bloody grave robber.

Still, Hera dismounted and soon enough she was shoulder to shoulder with Rornir-Khan, pulling and pushing unceremoniously through broken backs and savaged limbs, inspecting the tattered remains for any mark of fealty left uninjured. She grimaced at the horror of it all behind the mask; the beak holes which contained the aromatic web did little to freshen the foul air, but it kept her from retching.

Evil talk amongst the soldiers started. Amulets were rubbed, gestures with hands and fingers were made, plus other superstitious rites...

Betwixt corpses clad in armor and furs Heranar searched. Answers had to be found somewhere, most likely in the small details of a soldier’s attire: a pendant, a jewel, a bracelet... Landed warriors were bound to have such objects close to their skin. Men would carry such things either for good luck in battle, as a remembrance, or for their own status. Of course, after any fight, the possessions of the defeated and of the dead were at the victor’s mercy. She found no such objects of interest.

Brushing aside dead limbs, Rornir tried to interpret the heraldic devices on surcoats and standards. He had a hard time recognizing any of the blazons, in part because of the cloth’s condition – torn and soiled by blood and viscera.

“Old tribesmen, far too old, beyond remembrance. Early generations of Nippurian settlers. Most wicked is our foe, like all Necromancers really.”

“But the nature of their wounds,” Hera insisted. “Some injuries appear too old but fresh, others too recent and already decayed. It makes no sense.”

“Those blessed or cursed by Suthanat manifest themselves in mysterious ways. We’ll know more once we arrive at Corhag’s.”

Hera and the Khan turned to walk away from the mounds. As they did so, a queer shift in the air occurred, and along came the movement and sound of writhing things... The damn fog became colder – the grey sky appeared to fade, losing itself in the mist, becoming one with it. Then the mounds, quivering, spoke...

“We are maggots on the corpse of Man... We are flesh born of undeath...”

Nomad and raider took note of the maleficent proclamations, and made to draw their blades. A vexing effort, since the frost had sealed swords to scabbards. Nonetheless, their fearful alacrity produced steel, as the heap of corpses writhed in life – a power unknown and unseen, returning them from the beyond. One mound, then the other, and then the last of them came to move; cold fingers crackling into purpose from slumber. Joints and muscles pulled and twitched as the dead rose in hellish grace, each weapon and shield raised by a demon’s limb in obvious threat.

The ghouls appeared as men, but they were inhuman – vessels of corpulent flesh, as if baptized from pestilence and rot. The strigoi host was ready to fight, to claim the warm flesh of their prey upon teeth and blades. Flesh eaters. Blood drinkers.

“Come as one!” The Khan ordered, his voice, loud and martial. “Protect our lady and protect her with your life!”

“My thanks,” said Hera, pulling off the mask. “But each should see to his own foe.”

“We’re not fighting mortals, woman, but monsters.”

“Yes we are. And I’m good at slaying both.”

Battle began. A lumbering husk approached with nothing but cold murder in its hollow eyes. The abomination was clad in black iron and tattered furs. She smiled, for it came alone without aid from its putrid kin.

For all the weight of sheer force, guile was better, able to flow like quicksilver and measure itself against any foe. Defiantly Hera stood before the unholy creature – making no effort to answer its slash in kind – guiding it, awaiting the opportunity for a singular strike to be enough. “That’s right, you devil. Come this way.”

At the last moment, Hera fled from the monster’s axe and turned on the fiend’s back with martial vigor and stoic resolve. Hera’s attack was ranged, unleashing the Colt Walker’s laser fire through the monster’s helm, into its skull, flooding it with the strong dose of coherent radiation. Such a slick kill Hera would savor in consequence.

From nearby, Rornir-Khan took note of this martial sequence.

Hera’s foe crumbled to its knees and fell silent upon the frozen ground. No hiss of curse or retribution from its lips. No cry of pain. No limb jerking in reaction to defeat. In this, the second death, the northman warrior was silenced as natural... One could only hope that this time, the silence would last forever.

The Mungol-Tai, born into the saddle in the far steppes, were again proving themselves, the last time in the desert, now in the snow – having made their way through the loose formation toward the front, swords and flails working to strike at the enemy from the backs of swift destriers.

With the change in odds, Hera wasted no opportunity to cleave into the marching dead. Eryan and Edomite joined her in that impulse. Fighting corpse-men was far from a confluence of martial conquest and grace. Ponderous was a better word for it. The undead creatures were strong; but they lacked haste and balance. Under the shroud of unnatural mist and miasma, the battlefield took on its own voice – the grunts of flesh wraiths, those of the living, and the sound of faithful horses keeping their masters high. Among the living, one voice was the loudest, that of Rornir-Khan.

“Your putrid throng shan’t stop me, Ussabar! I’m coming for you!”

A corpse-man with a red bulbous eye came into the reach of his runic sword. The devil had a round shield, wielded a short axe, and gurgled for attention. Employing Hera’s successful tactic, Rornir invited the fiend to strike first – and it did. He avoided the axe and steered his blade below the shield, cutting into the devil’s flank. With the help of an ally’s mace, the thing was put down in a puddle of sickly ichor.

Meanwhile, the riders had a busy time working their advantage – attacking from height and moving at speed. Their combined retinue was swiftly bringing down the wretched throng. Hera’s sword, however, finally broke under the pressure of battle, and from the multitudes of Eryan soldiers, a morning star was given her just in time to defend herself – the object’s weight and balance, much different to a saber or scimitar.

Grip firm over the haft, Hera smashed the weapon’s spiked head into the creature’s own. Wet bone came out of the blow in fragments crimson. And soon after, with the last of the fiends vanquished, the heavy mist turned light, revealing a nearby hillfort.

Though a blatant triumph over the foul slaves of Ussabar, a triumph obtained on cursed ground, nobody danced, nobody sang, nobody cheered – not even the brave Mungol-Tai, so tempered in savage lands and bitter feuds.

Heranar broke the eerie silence. “Rornir... I’m tired... I want bread, smoked bratwurst, sowbelly... And to drink... some root tea; boil the hell out of it.”

“Corhag’s fasthold, what remains of it, is close – less than an hour’s march. We’ll make camp there and feast.”

***

They reached the place in question unmolested, the horde’s morale slightly improving. Around the fasthold ruins, a perimeter was set with traps and lookouts posted. The fasthold was a vision of emptiness: half walls, a dried up well, the skeletons of ramparts, pillars holding cracked ceilings, and nearby a roofless crypt...

Quickly enough, the Khan’s warhost found the necessary space to share. The animals were watered and given fodder, alongside shelter and rest. Wood was thrown inside the few hearths still good enough for use; and heat quickly formed inside the chill ruins. Into these firesides their weapons were dipped, to purify the metal of the accursed blood spilled earlier.

Stomachs growled, tongues licked lips in anticipation of meals hot and drink spicy – the aromatic vintages plundered from the three cities. In song and prayer they feasted; their shoulders, without weight – their hearts, light as feather. Belief, larder, spirit, fires and smoke. A perfect way to meet the cold lunar eve of Zibalba; though a country cursed, still beautiful – silver white over ebon malachite...

Rays few before dawn, Heranar left the tents for the roofless crypt. Good souls of fine breed had lived here, so Rornir-Khan had insisted yestereve, remembering the rich, dark history of his planet. The line of Corhag, unbroken from the first settlers, went into oblivion during the bane nights of Ragnarok millennia ago. It was during this time the children of Nippur had switched from the faith traditional, to the one pagan with Marduk at the helm – while the worship of Tiamat had been short-lived in between.

Hera sat in the roofless crypt alone on the bedside of a tomb. In the shade of stones, surrounded by death-white marble and dark granite, among the buried, sleeping cadavers of Corhag’s line, she felt no dread. Only peace...

***

Shortly after leaving the fasthold, the mid day hours came and with them the blight throng of Ussabar. Cold was the sun beneath a mantle of seamless cloud. Ussabar tried to appear kingly, donning armor pieces of bronze and gold inside his throne on-wheels: a scarlet chariot crowned with trophy and sigil ivory. Despite his opulence and chromatic taste, wretched was his army in sight and sound: tattered banners, tired exhalations from the dry throats of flesh wraiths dragging chains and rusty weapons – soldiers and beasts animated by foul plague magics from the Warp.

Against such foes, Tiamat’s horde stood its ground; each warrior, possessing stoic resolve. Though serving a goddess of the Dark Divine, Hera was proud to share rank with such men in whose breasts burned the fire of the jihad, the purpose of the crusade.

Rornir-Khan was fast to initiate a skirmish of wits. “Zibalba is too cold and desolate! You’re a king among the dead! But where is your queen!?

“There is truth to what you say, barbarian. Sometimes I do feel alone, and sad, and weep for a bride to have. A woman makes a man’s house a home...”

“Come now – wise, mighty Ussabar – you’ve had many brides during the moons of your long life. But I guess laying with cadavers gets boring easily.”

At this, the Necromancer frowned. His pale face grew whiter, and his eyes completely dark, darker than the blackest coal. He made no sign to his army unliving – and yet sensing the change in his mood, Ussabar’s legions let out the torturous cry of the abyss, into which demon ghouls sought to drag the idiot living.

When he spoke, the Necromancer’s tongue was that of the serpent, but with the weight of the cairn. “I told you once in your divinations helter-skelter. Twice through the obsidian cyclops jewel. And I tell you now for the last time! The Elder of Decay wants no part in your schemes; no part in Tiamat’s upheaval; for She is louder than Her children – and Suthanat wills the snow-grave peace upon Zibalba.”

“Snows fall – they melt. The time for peace is over. Today! We! Make war!”

And war began, with those behind lines – the wounded and the sick – striking deep melodic gongs alongside rhythmic drumbeats: songs of fierceness, awe and beauty. Hera felt her soul uplifted. This was what it meant to be alive...

She fought the blight fiends with sword and pistol: the blade’s slash and the Colt Walker’s laser fire, biting into armor, rotten flesh and stinking marrow.

Though a servant of the Light Divine and bearer of Suthanat’s crooked biskelion, here on Nippur, she was also the Grandmother’s herald of vengeance, now wielding the Khan’s runic blade – just like they agreed months before. Grains of red oxide her foes bled, and fire they caught from her laser rounds – lengthy, dry hairs burning along the tattered clothes. She was an instrument of crystal purpose and killer instinct; the weird writ along the blade’s fuller, pulsing with the Aether strength of Tiamat.

“Galinthean!” The Necromancer howled to Hera, as if with the longing of scavenger beasts across the Northern nights. “Leave the side of that demented sorcerer! His schemes lead to sorrow and ruin! Join me, your brother, in Suthanat’s eyes! The crown of crypts I offer thee upon the tomb throne, and the glories of unlife!”

Evading mace, sword, and flail, she countered swift and true with blade and laser bolt. To the promise of queendom and glories necromantic, whatever those were – Heranar showed contempt, a war maiden’s fury, reaper of unlife. And she was carving a path toward the splendid chariot of the fallen damned with help from the Mungol-Tai: slick, singing blades in the hands of natural-born killers. Each grunt, shot and slash, a step closer to the day’s victory and Tiamat’s vengeance fulfilled on earth.

“Death is my weapon,” she proclaimed. “Death is my fate... But never! My! Master!” Wielding the Khan’s bewitched runic sword, Heranar took the Necromancer’s head from his shoulders – and all that became of lavish Ussabar were wretched mummy rags holding a pound of worms crawling in venom filth.

The unseen Warp ways shifted, and the Necromancer’s army became still...

Rornir-Khan exulted in triumph – the warrior spirit inside him, tamed by glory final. Gently he reclaimed his blade from Hera’s fingers.

“By our deeds, Zibalba is free of its curse. And in this land, no longer profane, but cleansed through our sweat and blood, Tiamat... will live again!!”

***

The next day, near the woodlands, Hera and the shaman had final words. The Zibalban sun was warm for a change. The snow was starting to melt; and basil hovered wraithlike in the air. Perhaps, from the heaven hall of ancestors, al Enoch was smiling.

“Can my people return here?”

The Khan brushed his beard thoughtfully. “Your empire-minded compatriots? Hmm. To visit, yes, maybe, but not to settle and proselytize. This world belongs to Tiamat; and She grows weary of foreigners who overstay their welcome.”

“Strength and honor,” said she.

“Faith and fire,” he answered back.

They clasped forearms, the Khan and the Judicator; this time, Hera felt his limb flesh, not iron. And with this gesture began the final spell.

“Oh, Matriarch of the World, Queen of Nether Skies, of Salt and Sea – Tiamat, hear my thoughts and prayer. Set free those invaders from your heavens dark, their ships and crew. Allow my friend to go in peace, and ensure them safe passage away.”

Hera’s perception dilated as reality around her quickened. The trees – spirits of branch, stem and corona began to shake as a raging sea, but one of emerald, golden-touched by the new sun. Zibalba was no longer dead, but alive...

Through a dark tunnel of sepia weed Hera was transported, lit with silver lashes of coral deep – the chitin beings of ocean graves; some sort of Warp organisms, benign she guessed. Flying through Tiamat’s cosmic strait, Hera’s senses melted into each other, just like her thoughts. She felt her being unsolid, mouth unvocal, mind becalmed and purged of care. By soul vision did she taste the Aether way...

***

When she regained consciousness, Hera was back on solid ground in the combat room aboard the capital ship. The date was different, though, 130 ship days after her sorcerous arrival on Nippur in a night of dream. Moreover, the Khan’s runes around her golden skull were just now beginning to fade, the four markings in lunar caustic turning a feeble grey against the black until no trace of them was left.

Moments later, the com-channels came alive with the most welcome news of imminent translation into real space...

After the event occurred, bringing the whole fleet not to its scheduled destination, but to the same place from which it started, Hera went to see the Master of the Fleet. Being a godly man and the farthest thing from a glory hound, it took little effort to convince him not to retry the mission, both agreeing to explain the failure with their parent factions (Star Command and Magistratum) through the invocation of Hyperspace anomaly.

“Recommended course of action? Indefinite delay,” she assessed in her inquisitorial report. It was better like this – swift and elegant – for the Via Umbra held strange worlds and fierce powers that were better left undisturbed.

Looking back on Nippur, one memory stood out against the rest. The trees – spirits of branch, stem and corona, shaking as a raging sea, but one of emerald, golden-touched by the new sun, emissary of the Grandmother’s epoch...

****

The End, but before you go...

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My dark-humored short story Talking Crows and my medieval fantasy series Of Hate And Laughter, book 1 An Empire of Traitors, book 2 A Heretical Divide, book 3 A Dance With Fools And Devils (with two volumes in the works before the series is concluded).

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