Black Legion: 04 - Last Stand (3 page)

He almost laughed at himself at taking such pleasure in the myth of impregnability of the planet. If the world were so untouchable, there would have been no need for defences in space, but he wouldn’t be the one to tell this to the Emperor. Babylon Prime had been dedicated to wealth and beauty in ways he could never have dreamt. The sky was clear blue, kept clear by the heavy use of meteorological control satellites. Half of the planet was covered in rich oceans teaming with diverse life, and the many landmasses were only partially urbanised with cities built of cleaning metal, glass, stone, and crystal.

What’s that?

A noise caught his attention, and he twisted about to find a Taochi warrior and six Anusiyans had entered his chamber. All of them were fully armoured in their ceremonial purple plate and carried ancient weapons that looked as if carved from solid gold. The Taochi was massively built compared to the Medes warriors and looked as though he was in charge, an odd change that surprised Tissaphernes.

“What do you want?” he said.

The bitterness in his tone was angry enough to be obvious even to the indifferent Taochi, but not too irreverent that it may be noted and brought to the ear of Artaxerxes. He might be one of the Satraps, but there were two dozen more, and he knew too well that his value was only so high. One wrong word, and the God King would see his head removed and placed on the end of a pike. The Taochi looked directly at his face and spoke with a guttural, almost animalistic voice.

“The Emperor has summoned his servants.”

He then beckoned towards his six escorts.

“You will come with us.”

Tissaphernes hissed with irritation but dared not deny their authority. He hadn’t even noticed the insignia on the chest of the Taochi. It was simple carving but marked out the Taochi warrior as one of his race’s elite warlords. Their race had been chased from a hundred captured worlds by Cyrus the Great, the Empire’s greatest Emperor, and now served as shock troops.

“Who are you?”

The Taochi growled and said something completely unintelligible.

“What?”

He cleared his throat and then after a great struggle managed to pronounce the word in a tone that was easier for the Satrap to understand.

“Arteshban...Rostam.”

He seemed to have trouble with the last word.

“Leader of the Imperial bodyguard.”

Tissaphernes was genuinely shocked at this. The title of Arteshban was the highest position in the Imperial Army, effectively a general that was able to command a force of millions into battle. It was an honour only awarded to the Satraps and a handful of the most trusted nobles in the Empire. The Taochi were a broken, weakened race, and the idea of having them as commanders sent his mind reeling.

“Rostam. Who named you after our great champion?”

The Taochi warrior grinned.

“The God King let me choose any name I wished for my serving name.”

Tissaphernes adjusted the clasp on his cloak as he continued.

“Why Rostam?”

Again the warrior maintained his smile.

“I asked who the greatest champion in all of the Empire’s history was. He said it was Rostam, the slayer of mighty beasts and a warrior of no equal.”

Tissaphernes was beginning to get bored. Although he was intrigued by the story of Arteshban Rostam, he was finding it difficult to spend time in front of such an uneducated and uncivilised brute as the Taochi. He looked away and sighed before cutting off the warrior in mid-sentence.

“Very well, let us go.”

Imperial Palace, Babylon Prime, Core Worlds

Tissaphernes marched quickly through the outer limits of the Palace along with his unusual entourage. As expected, his escort said nothing, other than Arteshban Rostam. The Taochi warlord was proving unsettling for him as they moved block by block. It was quite clear to him that the Emperor had specifically placed him in the outlying apartments, both to remind him of the opulence and wealth of Babylon Prime, and also to put him in his place. Proximity to the Emperor was one of the clearest measures of your position in the cursus honorum, and that was beginning to frustrate him.

I am a Satrap, one of the thirty-four, and yet the Emperor places me in the same area as the planetary governors.

The anger began to well up inside him as they continued on the route through the Palace. It took almost an hour before they finally reached the inner curtain wall, the first marker that indicated they had reached the so-called Crimson Keep, the most lavish part of an already excessive world. At the gatehouse, itself an anachronism to a time thousands of years earlier when such fortifications were necessary, they met their first obstacle, a force of a hundred Taochi, each armed and armoured in the same fashion of Arteshban Rostam.

“What is this?” demanded Tissaphernes.

He would normally have expected to stand tall over subjects and soldiers alike in the Empire, but these Taochi were bigger than the Medes in every way. With their armour and weapons, they could have defended the entrance against even a Terran assault force. That brought a smile to his face.

The God King is frightened. He thinks the Terrans might come here, and at the same time wants to remind me of his power. The fool.

Arteshban Rostam called out to them in his own tongue. They quickly separated into two wide blocks, leaving a narrow corridor for the entourage to enter. As they passed through the first of three gates, the Satrap heard something above him. He looked up and spotted the dozen murder holes fitted in the arched ceiling above them. There were Median soldiers up there, but it was hard to make out their armour and weapons through such small holes.

Murder holes, here?

The very idea of fitting them into the Imperial Palace shocked him. The last person to enter Babylon Prime with an invading army had been the Medes themselves, when they created their first empire in this very star system. Murder holes were an ancient and barbaric device where weapons and deadly liquids could be poured down upon attackers. It was the ultimate in low-tech defences, and he doubted it would be even partially useful against warriors such as the Terrans. Arteshban Rostam watched him as they passed the second of the inner gates that had been pulled up into the ceiling.

“The God King demanded that all defences were upgraded to match the standard set by his illustrious ancestors.”

Tissaphernes listened but said nothing in reply. The accent was again incredibly thick on the creature’s throat, yet his command of the language was greater and more precise than he’d anticipated.

“The murder holes were my idea. Something we had on our own worlds before the cleansing.”

That last word came across as bitterly as he might have expected. The Taochi were a proud race and one that had been difficult for the Empire to defeat. It had taken generations to complete and cost millions of lives, but in the end, the Medes had succeeded and punished the remaining Taochi by destroying their worlds and scattering them through the Empire. They were now a people with no home, but their traditions and strengths remained.

“It is strange that Artaxerxes chose to elevate so many Taochi to his guard.”

Arteshban Rostam laughed at this; something that annoyed the Satrap even more.

“I do not see how.”

The creature did not even use his correct title. If he had been a Medes or automaton, then Tissaphernes would have seen to having the creature’s head removed for his insolence. On Babylon Prime, he was just another of the senior leaders of the Empire, and drawing the blood of the commander of the guard would be suicidal for him.

“Taochi have always been honourable. We fought, and we lost. We have never revolted and serve our new master well.”

Tissaphernes looked at him, wondering if any of what the creature said was true. He knew they were indeed strong, brave, and foolhardy. But he also knew they were a proud race of warriors, and he had no doubt that with the right support they would instantly turn on their masters without a moment’s hesitation.

Surely our great Emperor knows this as well? So why employ them?

They continued along the open areas filled with gardens, water features, and pleasant paths until passing through another set of guarded gates. As before, they were protected by a large number of warriors but this time only thirty, and they were all Medes, with a Median noble commanding them. They were dressed in the same uniforms as the Taochi and all carried the long rifles common to the Imperial soldiers. The commander waved them through, without even sparing a glance in the direction of the Satrap.

“Who else is here, and why were you sent to bring me?”

The Taochi warrior chuckled to himself, and they moved on to enter the Royal Court of the Imperial Palace. The open space led to a massive set of steps that moved up to the second floor of the ancient Royal Keep, the heart of the place. It flicked an odd gold and crimson colour in the light of the sun.

He knew the Emperor would be waiting inside the structure, but that wasn’t what had caught his attention. He stopped and found himself staring at the spectacle standing before him, much to his own annoyance. Arrayed along the great line of steps waited a formation of a thousand median nobles, all female, and every one of them stripped completely naked with nothing but the headgear of their homeworlds to distinguish them.

“The display of respect and allegiance,” said Arteshban Rostam.

The small group moved though the throng of Medes, and Tissaphernes found himself unable to keep his eyes from the great display of flesh that lay around him. He could see females of every age, shape, and colour and would have enjoyed nothing more than to spend the entire day in the open space and admiring their diversity. A shape on the steps drew his attention away from the naked flesh and sent a shiver down his spine.

“Mitra,” he hissed under his breath.

The Median warrior was bigger than Tissaphernes and would have rivalled even one of the mighty Terran warriors in stature. The figure was oiled and muscular like a wrestler. He was stripped to the waist and wore a plainly decorated cloth around his body. It was pale and lacking colour. His head was covered in a dull metal helm that looked a thousand years old. He stood to attention with his feet wide apart, and in his right hand a long glaive that stood four metres in height. The blade took up almost a metre of its length, and it glistened silver.

“The Emperor’s Justice,” Arteshban Rostam said.

The name was the colloquial term for the warrior responsible for both the personal bodyguard and executioner for Artaxerxes. The secondary role he had performed more than a hundred times, and it was rumoured he had never needed a second strike.

Interesting. Why is he here when he was not present at Cunaxa?

They pushed on to the steps and covered the ground quickly. Mitra moved nothing but his eyes, as they passed him and entered the large entrance to the main floor of the Royal Keep. No sooner were they inside, and the great doors creaked shut behind them. For a second, the Satrap sensed danger and reached for his belt, but he was unarmed.

“My Lord, in here, I will be your protector.”

Even through the thick accent, the Satrap could detect the sarcasm. The warrior pointed inside the structure. It was a large rectangular building with a single long table running down each side near the walls; enough space for a hundred guests on each side. At the far end were three steps and another table that face back into the hall. Behind this was the throne of the Emperor, raised a metre from he ground so that all might see the greatness. The seat was empty, at least for now.

So, I am summoned and find everybody else is already here, apart from him.

The tables were filled with scores of people, and as he moved along its length, he quickly recognised them. Most were high-ranking dignitaries of the smaller territories of just a few worlds. There were regional clothing differences that marked them out to the trained eye. It was the few so-called heroes of the battle at Cunaxa that appeared to be receiving the greatest attention. Halfway along the hall he stopped and looked at a dozen Terrans and Medes who were busy sharing war stories and drink. In the centre of the group was the Zacynthian warrior Mithridates.

That self-congratulatory thug, his achievement was nothing.

There were some who said it was the mercenary that delivered the blow that killed the rebel Cyrus. The story went that as the rebel moved to attack the Emperor, this lowly Terran leapt out and stabbed Cyrus with a bayoneted rifle, but that wasn’t the way Tissaphernes recalled the story. As he remembered, the Emperor had thrown a device at the enemy and mortally wounded Cyrus. The foot soldiers had merely finished off what he had done himself. The Terran spotted him and called out something, but Tissaphernes chose to ignore him and instead proceeded further along the hall. He finally reached the last section and relaxed a little upon finding their positions rose in importance to match his own.

“Your brothers,” said Arteshban Rostam.

He pointed to where a single seat remained from the seventeen on this side of the hall. There were eight seats on the one side and the other nine facing them. A mixture of male and female Medes from across the Empire were there, exchanging niceties and dining from a line of identical golden goblets. He approached his seat and sat down only to find a Mulac directly opposite him. They were an odd group of pirates, mutants, and raiders that had settled in some of the border regions of the Empire. This one was sitting with the Median Satraps, however, and that unnerved him, as these creatures were no Medes.

“You must be Tissaphernes,” said the Mulac gruffly.

“Must I?”

The Mulac snorted with amusement, but a low ding sound from behind him stopped him from speaking further. The hall hushed, and every head turned to face the throne. In walked Mitra who then stepped to the side and waited as patiently as he had done so on the steps. In chorus every single guest rose to their feet and lowered their heads. The golden form of the Emperor in his long flowing silks approached his seat and lowered himself. He wore the finest gold with strips of black and amethyst sewn into the material. Once he was comfortable, he indicated for them to return to their seats.

“Satraps, warriors, and governors of the Empire.”

The voice of the Emperor was clear and perfectly enunciated. No amplification circuits were required, as the acoustics of the room were perfectly attuned to spread his word to ever corner.

“I have brought you together to deal with a problem of great proportions.”

Tissaphernes watched his Great King speak and began to feel a mixture of irritation and anger build inside him. The mention of a problem was a concern to him, especially as he had heard nothing of the other Satraps being summoned to deal with the problem. As he understood it, the fight against the rebels led by Cyrus was to be dealt with by him, and now he anticipated the announcement of an attempt to defeat the Black Legion.

“We have a threat assembling on our border, one that threatens a hundred worlds, and I require all of my noble Satraps to assist in defeating it.”

Tissaphernes was very surprised to hear this.

What? The Terrans are hardly going to threaten a hundred worlds.

“The Satrapy of Mudrya has been turned against the Empire by the outlaw Amyrtaeus of Sais.”

This news shocked many in the hall, but Tissaphernes was only surprised it was not the Terrans that concerned the Great King. He had seen the reports on Amyrtaeus of Sais for the last few years. The outlaw had fought a successful guerrilla war against Medes rule in Mudrya for years.

“The leaders of my Kibris-Finiqyah Armada have failed in their duties and have been captured by Amyrtaeus.”

He looked out to his stunned audience as they waited to hear his orders.

“Each of you will provide a division of ships and a siege army within one month to join my Royal forces under the command of Arteshban Rostam.”

The noise coming from the hall was a mixture of shock and horror. The Arteshban had almost been accepted by most as the commander of the forces on Babylon Prime. The idea of the feral monster being placed in charge of a mighty invasion force was something very different. The creature moved from a position to the side of the grand podium and knelt down alongside Artaxerxes.