*Dangerous? How?' asked Dalia, quite taken aback by the notion that she might be thought of as a danger to anyone, let alone the priests of the Mechanic.u.m.

*Mars enjoys a pre-eminent position within the Imperium thanks to our grip on technology,' continued Zeth. *Many of my fellow adepts fear the consequences of what might happen were that advantage to slip beyond their control.'

*Oh,' said Dalia. *So what is it you want from me?'

Adept Zeth drew herself up to her full height, the bronze of her armoured skin gleaming red in the reflected glow of the orange skies.

*You will be part of the salvation of Mars,' she said. *With your help, I will perfect my greatest work... the Akashic Reader.'

1.03.

ASCRAEUS MONS WAS a volcano, yet the atmosphere within the Chamber of the First was anything but warm. The fortress of Legio Tempestus had been one of the earliest established on Mars in ancient times and as one of the highest volcanoes on the red planet, it was fitting that it housed one of its most ancient and respected t.i.tan orders.

Carved within the basalt rock of the mountain, the demesne of Tempestus was known as a place of courage and wisdom, a place where warriors of honour came to settle their disputes without violence.

Indias Cavalerio watched from the Princeps Gallery as emissaries from many of the great Legios took their seats within the great amphitheatre carved into the cliffs of the enormous caldera of his order's fortress, knowing the smiles and warm greetings being exchanged hid undercurrents of mistrust and widening divisions.

Divisions that were becoming all too common on Mars.

There was Grand Master Maxen Vledig of the Death-bolts conversing with Princeps Senioris Ulriche of the Death Stalkers, their apparent bonhomie masking decades of disputes involving ancient territorial rights along the borders of the Lunae Palus and Arcadia regions. Across the hall, encased in his life-sustaining exo-skeleton and aloof from all others, was Princeps Graine of Legio Destructor. A dozen others had answered the call to attend the Council of Tharsis (as Lord Commander Verticorda had already dubbed it with his usual taste for the grandiose). Only Mortis was yet to appear.

Verticorda stood in the centre of the grand, echoing amphitheatre, leaning on his ebony, thunderbolt-embossed cane, and swathed in the shadow of Deus Tempestus, the First G.o.d Machine of Legio Tempestus.

Towering over the a.s.sembled warriors, the great steel engine had stood sentinel over the deliberations of Legio Tempestus for half a millennium, its majesty undimmed and its power tangible, though it had not moved so much as a single joint in over two hundred years.

Next to Verticorda was Lord Commander Caturix, the hunched, ancient warrior's brother-in-arms and fellow master of the Knights of Taranis. Where Verticorda was aged and revered for his wisdom, the newly appointed Caturix was beloved for his fiery pa.s.sion, which complemented his fellow commander's more cautious temperament.

Ever since Verticorda had bent his knee to the Emperor nearly two hundred years ago, the joint commanders of the Knights of Taranis had served as the Princeps Conciliatus between the warrior orders of Mars. It would be their job to ensure that the coming gathering was conducted in a manner befitting the most ancient warrior guilds, that tradition was upheld and honourable discourse permitted.

Cavalerio did not envy them that role, for tensions were running high and this latest insult to an adept of Mars had pushed the mightiest warrior orders of Mars close to open confrontation, a state of affairs that had not transpired on the red sands for uncounted centuries.

Not only that, but warriors from the Knights of Taranis had been involved in this latest combat, so they were hardly likely to be objective. Verticorda could be trusted to keep his anger in check, but Caturix paced the mosaic floor of the chamber like a caged beast.

Skirmishes between orders were far from uncommon; after all, warriors needed outlets for their aggression to develop their skills and foment the proper bellicose att.i.tude needed to command the G.o.d-machines.

Lately, these had threatened to boil over into outright warfare.

The sheer affront of the attack on Ipluvien Maximal's fusion reactor on the slopes of Ulysses Patera had sent shock waves through the Martian community (though to call such a compet.i.tive, uncooperative, suspicious and insular organisation as the Mechanic.u.m a community seemed perverse to Cavalerio).

He ran a hand over his scalp, the surface hairless and punctured by sealed implant plugs at his nape that allowed him to command the mighty engines of Legio Tempestus. Similar implants were fused to his spine, and haptic receptors grafted to the soles of his feet and along the tactile surfaces of each of his hands allowed him to feel the t.i.tan's steel body as though it were his own flesh.

Cavalerio's frame was tall and wiry, the dress uniform that had once fitted his well-proportioned frame snugly now hanging from his thin body, the result of decades spent vicariously exerting himself through the actions of a Warlord Battle t.i.tan instead of in the gymnasium.

As he looked over at the mighty form of Deus Tempestus, he found himself longing to ascend the elevator to his own venerable war machine, Victorix Magna. The glowering iron face of the ancient war machine stared down at him, the head of a mechanical G.o.d of war that lived in his dreams every night.

In those dreams he would be striding across the ashen red plains of Mars on his last march, Deus Tempestus responding to his every command with the familiarity of two warriors who had fought shoulder to shoulder since their earliest days.

Each time he would wake and, finding sleep impossible, walk through the darkened, spa.r.s.ely populated hangars of the Ascraeus Mons. The hangars were largely empty, since the bulk of the Legio's strength was deployed throughout the Warmaster's expedition forces, pushing the extremities of the Emperor's realm ever outwards and bringing the last worlds of the galaxy under the sway of the Imperium.

His steps would unerringly lead him to the Chamber of the First, where he would watch the sunrise, staring up at the shadowed form of the colossal war machine, its weapons silent and its war banners fluttering in the downdrafts from above.

Cavalerio's brothers fought under the command of Lord Guilliman, and he could think of no better warrior to lead so august a Legio. He and the few Battle t.i.tans now back on Mars were approaching the end of their refit after campaigning in the Epsiloid Binary Cl.u.s.ter against the green skin and would soon rejoin the war to a.s.sure humanity's birthright to rule the stars.

He eagerly awaited their redeployment, for life beyond the c.o.c.kpit of a t.i.tan was made up of long moments of incompleteness, every experience deadened. His physical surroundings were bland and tasteless without first being filtered through the Manifold of his Battle t.i.tan.

The moment of connection with an engine was painful, as though it resented the time spent separated from its commander, and it took time to wrestle the warlike heart of the machine to compliance. But once that union had been achieved... oh, how like a G.o.d did it feel to be master of the battlefield and lord of so terrible and mighty a power?

Separation was no less painful; the angry need of the t.i.tan to walk made it disinclined to allow its commander to leave without punishment. Aching bones, thudding headaches and searing dislocation were the hallmarks of a separation, and each time was harder than the last.

For now, it was possible for Cavalerio to retain some semblance of humanity, to walk as a man, but he knew it was only a matter of time before he would require a more permanent enmeshing within an amniotic float-tank of liquid information.

The thought terrified him.

He shook off such fears as he saw a ripple of motion near the floor of the chamber and heard a murmur of agitation pa.s.s through the Chamber of the First.

Cavalerio looked down from the gallery, seeing two warriors in long dark cloaks and grinning skull-faced helmets stride into the chamber with purpose and strength.

Legio Mortis had arrived.

*YOU DENY THAT your order took part in the attack on Adept Maximal's reactor?' demanded Lord Commander Caturix. *That engines of the Legio Mortis wilfully destroyed an artefact of technology and endangered the lives of warriors from the Knights of Taranis?'

*Of course I do,' snapped Princeps Camulos, his hooded features making no secret of his disdain for the accusation and his accuser. Despite Verticorda's cautious welcome to the a.s.sembly, Caturix had wasted no time in setting the tone by marching straight towards the senior princeps of the Legio Mortis and all but calling him out for the damage done to his warriors in the reactor's explosion.

Cavalerio watched the young lord commander, the youngest in the history of the Knights of Taranis, sneer at Princeps Camulos' answer, plainly disbelieving what he was hearing.

He watched as Caturix circled like a shark in the water with the scent of blood, forced to admire his nerve in facing down so senior a princeps.

Men had been rendered down into servitors for less.

Legio Mortis' disdain for the Knight orders was well known, as was their reluctance to share power in the Tharsis region from their fortress within Pavonis Mons. With the destruction of Adept Maximal's forge, it would be difficult for many of the local warrior orders to remain viable a leaving Mortis the undisputed masters of Tharsis, one of the most abundant and productive regions of Mars.

All of which was enough for the finger of suspicion to point squarely at Legio Mortis, but not enough to hang them. Mortis and Tempestus had long been rivals for dominance of Tharsis, but was that enough to condemn Camulos and openly d.a.m.n his Legio with this new atrocity?

Camulos was a towering bear of a man, more suited at first glance to be the chieftain of a tribe of bloodthirsty barbarian warriors, but his sheer self-belief and aggressive nature made him a natural t.i.tan commander, easily able to bend the will of a war machine to his own. His armour was black and glistening as though lacquered, the death's head emblem upon his broad shoulder guards a gruesome testament to his Legio's famed ruthlessness.

*I did not come here to be barked at,' snarled Camulos. *Keep your young pup on a tight leash, Verticorda, or I may break him for you.'

Verticorda nodded slowly. *The question is withdrawn, honourable princeps.'

Caturix whipped his head around to face his fellow lord commander, but a stern glare from Verticorda silenced the angry outburst that Cavalerio saw gathering in his throat.

*This council is not a trial or indeed any kind of inquiry,' continued Verticorda, his voice laden with centuries of authority and redolent with wisdom. *It is an organised debate whereby the warrior orders of the Tharsis region might gather to discuss the troubles afflicting our world and decide how to meet them without further bloodshed. Adept Maximal has suffered a grievous loss to his holdings, but we are not gathered here to a.s.sign blame, but to see how we, as the guardians of Mars, might avoid such things in the future.'

Cavalerio looked over to where the robed form of Ipluvien Maximal stood in the shadow of Deus Tempestus, as though he took comfort in the nearness of so complex and revered a machine. Adept Maximal had joined the proceedings immediately after the arrival of the Legio Mortis, his corpulent machine-frame wreathed in icy puffs of air vented from the layers of thermal barrier fabrics that cooled the spinning data wheels that made up the bulk of his body.

His head was an oblong helmet of gold fitted with a mult.i.tude of lenses upon telescopic armatures, and a mora.s.s of sheathed coolant cables emerged from beneath his robes like black tentacles, upon which sat hololithic plates streaming with glowing lines of data.

So far, Maximal had said nothing, save to acknowledge the primacy of Verticorda and Caturix in the proceedings, content simply to watch and record events as they unfolded.

*And how do you suggest we do that?' asked Camulos. *By accusing honourable orders of warriors of acts of piracy? To suggest that we would stoop so low as to attack the holdings of an adept so highly regarded as Adept Maximal is outrageous!'

Cavalerio looked over as Maximal inclined his golden head at Camulos' compliment. The words felt too tacked on to be believable. For all his bl.u.s.ter, the raid on Maximal's reactor bore all the hallmarks of Legio Mortis a swift, brutal and leaving virtually no survivors.

Only the three Knights had survived to speak of the attack, and all of them had suffered severe damage to their machines in the reactor's detonation. Gun camera footage of the confrontation had been lost in the explosion, and the only clue to the ident.i.ty of the attacker was a brief description from the sole Knight who had seen the machine.

*In any case, what possible reason could Legio Mortis have for undertaking such an act? We are all servants of the Warmaster, are we not?'

Mixed murmurs of a.s.sent and disagreement spread around the chamber, and Cavalerio felt his choler rise that so many could blindly agree with so facile a statement. Rivalry or not, such a comment could not go unanswered.

Cavalerio rose from his seat in the Princeps Gallery and said, *You mean the Emperor's forces, surely?' Heads turned as he rose to his feet and awkwardly descended the steel steps towards the chamber's floor.

Camulos watched him approach, squaring his shoulders as though they were about to brawl. *The Warmaster is the Emperor's proxy, it is one and the same.'

*No, actually,' replied Cavalerio, taking the floor, *it's not.'

*The Chamber recognises Princeps Cavalerio, the Stormlord of Legio Tempestus,' said Verticorda, using the war-name his Legio had given him in the early days of his command.

Cavalerio gave a respectful bow to the lord commander and then to Deus Tempestus before turning to Princeps Camulos. The man's wide shoulders and enormous presence dwarfed him.

*Pray tell why it is not the same thing?' demanded Camulos.

*The armies we serve are those of the Emperor, not the Warmaster,' said Cavalerio. *No matter that Horus Lupercal commands them, every man, woman and machine that fights in this crusade is a servant of the Emperor.'

*You are splitting hairs,' spat Camulos, turning away.

*No,' repeated Cavalerio, *I am not. I know that your Legio has pledged a great deal of its strength to the 63rd Expedition and to the Warmaster. I believe that to be dangerous.'

Camulos turned back towards him. *Dangerous? To swear loyalty to the glorious warrior who commands the military might of the Imperium while the Emperor retreats to the dungeons beneath his palace? To swear loyalty to the hero who will finish the job the Emperor is too busy to finish? That is dangerous?'

*The Warmaster is a sublime warrior,' agreed Cavalerio, *but it would be a mistake to think of those armies as belonging to him. Our first loyalty must be to the Emperor, and only a blind man could fail to see how this division is affecting Mars.'

*What are you talking about, Cavalerio?' snapped Camulos.

*You know what I am talking about. Nothing is said and nothing is ever recorded, but we all know that lines are being drawn. The divisions between the adepts of Mars grow ever more vocal and bitter. Long buried schisms are stirred and ancient feuds reignited. The attack on Adept Maximal's reactor is just the latest example of violence that's rising to the surface and spilling out onto the red sands. The factions of belief are mobilising and our world is on the verge of tearing itself apart. And for what? A semantic difference in belief? Is such a thing worth the bloodshed it will no doubt unleash?'

*Sometimes war is necessary,' said Camulos. *Did not the Primarch Alpharius say that war was simply the galaxy's hygiene?'

*Who knows? It is certainly attributed to him, but what weight do his words carry on Mars? Any war fought here will not be for hygiene, but for misguided beliefs and differences in theology. Such things are anathema to the Imperium, and I will not be drawn into war by the beliefs of religious madmen.'

*Madmen?' said Camulos, with exaggerated horror. *You speak of the senior adepts of Mars? Such words from a respected princeps.'

Cavalerio ignored the barb and addressed his next words to the a.s.sembled princeps and warriors of the t.i.tan orders. *Every day, the Legios and warrior orders receive pet.i.tions from forges all over Tharsis, begging our engines to walk. And for what? Differences of opinion in belief? It is madness that will see us all burn in the fires of an unnecessary war, and I for one will not lead my warriors into battle for such things. The Legios have always been the defenders of Mars, and we have always stood above the squabbles of the Mechanic.u.m. We have always done so, and must do so now. We must not allow ourselves to be baited.'

*True sons of Mars know that the fire of the forge burns hottest when it burns away impurities,' retorted Camulos. *If blood must be shed to preserve the glory of Mars, then so be it. Kelbor-Hal, the Fabricator General of Mars himself, receives emissaries from the Warmaster, and the great forge masters Urtzi Malevolus and Lukas Chrom have already pledged their labours to Horus Lupercal. Who are we to doubt their wisdom?'

*Then this is not about belief,' said Cavalerio. *It's rebellion you're talking about.'

A gasp of horror swept the chamber at Cavalerio's words. To even speak of such things was unheard of.

Camulos shook his head. *You are a naive fool, Cavalerio. The things you speak of have been in motion for centuries, ever since the Emperor arrived here and enslaved the Mechanic.u.m to his will.'

*You speak out of turn!' cried Lord Commander Verticorda. *This is treachery!'

An angry hubbub filled the Chamber of the First, with princeps, moderati, engineers, steersmen and armsmen rising to protest a either at Camulos' words or at Verticorda's accusation.

Following Cavalerio's example, the senior princeps of Legio Mortis turned to the shouting warriors and said, *We are shackled to the demands of Terra, my friends, but I ask you why that should be? We were promised freedom from interference, but what freedom have we enjoyed? Our every effort is bent to the will of the Emperor, our every forge dedicated to fulfilling his vision. But what of our vision? Was Mars not promised the chance to reclaim its own empire? The forge worlds long ago founded in the depths of the galaxy are still out there awaiting the tread of any Martian son, but how long will it be before the Emperor claims them? I tell you now, brothers, that when those worlds are held by Terra, it will be next to impossible to reclaim them.'

Camulos turned his gaze upon Deus Tempestus and said, *Princeps Cavalerio is right about one thing though: a storm is approaching where our vaunted neutrality will not stand. You will all need to choose a side. Choose the right one or it will devour even you, Stormlord.'

DALIA STARED AT the complex lines radiating from the plans before her, the notations in a tightly-wound gothic script that made reading them next to impossible. Numbers, equations and hand-written notes conspired to make the confusing arrangement of circuit diagrams, build arrangements and milling plans almost unintelligible.

*Give it up, Dalia,' said Zouche, with his customary angry tone. *We've all been over this a hundred times. It doesn't make any sense.'

Dalia shook her head. *No. It does, it's just a case of following the path.'

*There is no path,' said Mellicin, her voice arch and weary. *Don't you think I've tried to follow the plans? It looks like Adept Ulterimus didn't think the standard methodology applied to his own work.'

Dalia rested her arms on the wax paper upon which the plans had been printed. These, of course, were not the originals, which had been drawn many thousands of years ago, but copies transcribed by later adepts over the centuries. She closed her eyes and let out a deep breath. She knew she ought to be used to the defeatist carping of her fellows, but their daily negativity was beginning to get to her.

She took a calming breath, picturing the oceans of Laeran, as described by the poet Edwimor in his Ocean Cantos, which she'd transcribed nearly a year ago. The image of that far distant planet's world-oceans always calmed her, and she badly needed that calm now, for time was running out.

No sooner had Koriel Zeth welcomed Dalia to her mighty forge than the adept had turned on her heel and marched deep into the sweltering depths, announcing that Dalia was being taken to where she would be tested.

Dalia had never been comfortable with tests, knowing she tended to clam up, and her mind go blank whenever she was asked a difficult question, let alone made to sit any form of exam. She often wondered how she'd managed to pa.s.s her transcription a.s.sessments.

The gleaming halls of the Magma City were s.p.a.cious and functional, geometrically precise and machined with a smooth grace. Though there was utter devotion to function in its architecture, form was not overlooked and there was great beauty in the mechanisms of Zeth's forge. Menials and lowly adepts threaded the halls, chambers and cavernous works.p.a.ces, every one according Adept Zeth the proper respect as she pa.s.sed.

Each new chamber brought fresh wonders of engineering and construction: enormous, cogged machines surrounded by crackling arcs of lightning; thudding pistons driving unknown engines and enormous caverns of steel where thousands of techno-mats toiled at bronze work benches on the tiniest mechanisms with delicate silver callipers and needle-nosed instrumentation.

At last they came to a wide chamber lined with rack upon rack of gleaming tools and fabrication devices that she could not even begin to name. A tall plan chest stood at one end of the chamber and four robed individuals stood around a workbench at its centre, each one shaking her hand and nodding as she was introduced to them.

First was Mellicin, a tall, handsome woman of middling years from the Merican continent, with smooth brown skin and a grafted augmetic faceplate over the left side of her face. She had been coolly welcoming, her remaining eye sizing Dalia up and down with the look of a professional a.s.sayer.

Next was a swarthy, stunted individual by the name of Zouche, a native of what had once been known as the Yndonesic Bloc. His handshake was curt and his brusque welcome had a hollow ring to it. Dalia was not tall by any means, but even she towered over Zouche. She estimated his height at no more than a metre.

Next to Zouche was a woman named Severine, who had the look of a teacher about her. Her hair was pulled into a tight ponytail and her pale-skinned features looked as though they might crack if her thin lips creased open with even the fraction of a smile.

Last was a smiling youth who went by the name of Caxton, perhaps a year or two older than Dalia, with a boyish face and a tonsured mop of unruly black hair. His features were open, and of all the greetings she had received his felt the most genuine, and she recognised his accent as having its origins somewhere not too distant from her own homelands, possibly the eastern slopes of the Urals.

With introductions made, Adept Zeth had lifted a number of waxy sheets of paper from the plan chest and laid them flat on the workbench in the centre of the room.