Moral Support (Chapter 3, Part 1)
The blood of Private Awan and Corporal Saqqaf stained Bracha’s hands.
Any squad could have been assigned to escort Bracha to Fort Jahangir. If not Gvish’s people, someone else’s would have died in that ambush. He was objective enough to recognize that. However, if not for Bracha’s favoritism, it wouldn’t have been Awan who got dragged to the ground by the barbarians and struck in the face with an axe. It wouldn’t have been Saqqaf who took an unlucky musket ball to the neck and bled out before the gold dust settled.
If you weren’t so desperate for my brotherhood, Inquisitor, my people would still be alive.
Mercifully, Bracha didn’t provoke Gvish with more jabs at small talk. He even surrendered his seat in the sidecar so that Gvish could carry Saqqaf’s body, offering to drive the bike bearing Awan’s corpse himself. Gvish allowed him. It was the least Bracha could do.
Fort Jahangir came into view after another hour’s ride. The star fort squatted in a clear-cut valley, resembling a meteor embedded into a crater. Its sprawling concrete walls were seven meters tall and gilt with gold leaf to negate magical assaults. Railroad tracks extended from the south gate, a steel tail that reached back through the forests, out into the sunlit savannas to the south, and onward from there into the Empire’s heartlands. Rays of concrete stretched from the fort’s other gates and connected to glassy roads at the tree line. A dragon tower loomed at the center of the fort. It was as tall as Thunderhead Hill, with a massive carmot lamp that threw silver light up against the ashen clouds and banished the shadows within the clear-cut zone.
Gvish and his squad arrived at the northwest gate at the same time as a lumber convoy. Enormous, steel-wheeled tractors, the not-so-distant precursors to the squad’s motorbikes, dragged enormous wains laden with tree trunks. Saffron-clad Frontiersmen drove the tractors and rode as outriders on motorbikes of their own. When they saw Awan and Saqqaf’s white-wrapped bodies, they respectfully saluted. The tractors slowed down to allow the squad to approach the gate first.
A Spartoi titan guarded the gate itself. The enormous construct was made entirely out of carmot. Just like the first titans that the Archon had fabricated at the foundation of the Empire, its likeness matched the cataphracts of Old Kimia, complete with a conical helm and flowing mail of hexagonal scales. The wall of the fort only came up to its waist. Molten orange sparks shone in the slits where its eyes would be. A massive scythe, perfect for hewing through legions of human-sized infantry, was held upright in its hands.
Seeing the titan should have heartened Gvish. It wasn’t fundamentally different from a Habarzelan golem. Both were fueled by the Soul, and both were tools to preserve civilization. What’s more, all soldiers knew that a titan’s likeness was meant as a memorial to their sacrifices. The cataphracts of Old Kimia had died so that the Empire could be born. Because the Empire had been born, the people of Ir Habarzel had been liberated from captivity, and they had prospered in peace and safety in the centuries since.
Today, all Gvish could think was that the titan’s lusterless black hue made it look like a carbonized corpse.
Bracha’s soul must be just as black by now.
The titan – or, rather, the alchemist riding inside its chest – took note of Awan and Saqqaf’s corpses. The engine of Gvish’s bike stuttered as the titan drew more of the Soul out of the land and up into its massive frame. It raised its scythe over its head. The alchemist’s voice boomed from its throat, feminine but deepened by the sheer scale of the titan.
“Glory through death for the Carmot Throne,” she sang. “Let the Archon remember them. Glory awaits in the Courts of Dust. Let the Shepherd welcome them.”
The latter half of that dirge did little to brighten Gvish’s mood.
A city of thousands packed the interior of Fort Jahangir. Every building was constructed either entirely from concrete or with a facade of granite or marble. To save space, none were less than two stories, and most of the barracks had four. An orderly grid of concrete streets ran throughout. Tractors and motorbikes shared these streets with auto-carriages that whisked officers between buildings. Normally, the dirt paths alongside the streets would be reserved for horses, but some engineer had repurposed the space for raised sidewalks, like in the Empire’s cities. Carmot lamps glowed in many of the windows. A low groan filled the air, echoing from the sawmills along the periphery that processed logs into usable timber.
The dense cityscape testified to the Empire’s industrial capacity, alchemical innovation, and mastery of the Soul. The entire installation had blossomed in a year. That had been before the railway was built and tractors had been invented. Gvish knew the work could be done even more quickly now, since alchemists could focus on molding and curing concrete rather than transmuting construction materials. He’d seen enough barbarian encampments – for that matter, enough barbarian cities – to know they couldn’t build anything like it, not without decades of labor and prohibitive expense.
Most of the people on the street were military. It was a sea of Frontiersman yellow, though there were smatterings of Ranger green and the cadmium orange of the Security Corps. A few civilians, mostly alchemists, were also about. All had stopped at the sound of the dirge. Gvish’s squad slowed their bikes to a parade speed, giving the soldiers time to salute Awan and Saqqaf. Many of those salutes were quick and perfunctory. In his peripheral vision, Gvish saw people whip away and return to their business before the bodies were even past them. He seethed in silence at their false brotherhood.
This much could be said for Bracha: he at least respected the dead. He didn’t pull his bike to the side of the road when the squad passed the Inquisition lodge. Instead, he rode with them to the mortuary, only dismounting once the squad halted in the shadows of its black marble walls and gilt chimneys. He peeled off his goggles, allowing the whole squad to see the remorse in his eyes.
“You have my sincerest condolences for the loss of your comrades. The Archon himself will hear how they died for him and for the Empire,” he declared.
Gvish grasped the hilt of his shamshir. The alternative was to belt a morality officer across the face. They died for your delusions, Inquisitor.
The rest of Bracha’s promise was just as hollow. The Archon wasn’t some all-knowing or all-benevolent god. He was a daímōn who’d lost interest in the Empire centuries ago. The whole point of the Inquisition was to enforce his vision of civilization on his behalf. Someone who’d ignored the Empire across countless wars wouldn’t shed a tear over two dead Rangers.
Gvish choked out, “When will you need us to be ready to escort you back to the outpost?”
“Sunrise tomorrow. If my guest isn’t here already, she’ll arrive tonight.” Bracha hesitated.
A more personal apology was coming. Gvish had no patience left for it. He asserted control of the situation. “All right, lads. Let’s get our brothers inside.”
The word choice hadn’t been deliberate. Nevertheless, Gvish saw something flicker behind Bracha’s eyes. It was as if, for the briefest moment, Bracha was puzzling through why Gvish would find brotherhood with non-Habarzelans, but not with him.
That light died quickly. Bracha nodded wordlessly and set off on foot, back towards the lodge. Gvish waited just long enough to ensure he was really leaving before dedicating his full attention to his people.
Thank you all for reading! Chapter 3 Part 2 arrives next Friday!
If you’d like to read more adventures from the Kimian Empire, you can find them here!
