Not to worry. He would include it in his victorious address to the people, perhaps as a sly barb at their expense.
Hixos’s thralls had proven as good as the slave-lord’s word. They had deactivated the great shield generators that protected the pal¬ace district, allowing Uluszekh’s Doom Scythe wings to strafe the outer defences before the ground troops moved in. Ghost Arks had moved slowly through the streets of the capital, their grim clarions heralding the imminent end of the overlord’s reign as the confeder¬ate Legions advanced.
Open war was not an elegant affair, but it was permitted under the forms of martiality as a symbolic show of force. In these things, the old ways mattered a great deal - whether by duellist, general or dip¬lomat, the conflicts between the noble households had always been settled in just such a manner, since the earliest days of the Triarchy.
Following their thrall guide, Uluszekh and a cohort of his Immor¬tals emerged from the immense hypaethral structure in the precinct beyond the grand avenue. The Tyrant of Ghyr was clearly not accus¬tomed to walking into battle unseen and unchallenged, but with victory so close at hand he was also clearly quite willing to endure the indignity of it. He hailed Amontar as the two parties met.
‘Greetings, friends. Fate smiles upon our enterprise, does it not?’
With his dagger concealed behind his back, Amontar nodded respectfully. If he could have forced a smile, then he would have.
‘Indeed. We encountered little resistance - the vizier held true to his promises.’
A flash of heavy beam-weapon fire lit up the skyline, somewhere off towards the equatorial generator sinks where the fighting still apparently raged on.
Uluszekh gestured to the great throne room doors. ‘Will you lead the way?’
Amontar snorted. What kind of fool do you take me for, he thought, but managed to be far more diplomatic in his response.
‘It would be unseemly for either of us to be seen to enter first, under the circumstances.’
The Tyrant nodded. ‘Together, then. We have nothing to fear from the regent any longer.’
Their warriors drew back the vast, graven doors on heavy iron chains, and the two lords strode into the throne room side by side. Flanked by their household guard, they were a sight that could have driven even a phaeron to surrender.
But the throne was empty.
No lychguard stood sentinel over the grand dais, no Immortal cohorts were arrayed to repel them.
Somewhat confused, Uluszekh directed his warriors to spread out through the chamber’s expanse. ‘Perhaps he—’
Laughter echoed from above them. Amontar’s eyes snapped up to the shrouded galleries, where Turakhin lounged against a golden balustrade as though he might be casually taking in a mummers’ performance.
We are betrayed. Damn you, Hixos.
‘My lords,’ the regent cackled, ‘surely you can’t be looking for me, with all your warriors in tow? You look very small from where I am standing.’
From the shadows in the arched recesses of the throne room, the unmistakeable, bulky silhouettes of the praetorians emerged - Metzoi’s entire battalion, by the look of it. Their staffs and particle casters were trained and ready.
Amontar whirled around, realising too late that they were com¬pletely surrounded.
Turakhin made a grand flourish. ‘As you can see, your pitiful coup has failed.’
A short, plaintive cry drew Amontar’s attention to the alcove behind the main dais - Judicator Metzoi shoved a bedraggled looking Hixos into the light with the pommel of his sword. The slave-lord fell to his knees, his eyes beseeching his fellow conspirators for some kind of deliverance. Three of his alien thralls lay dead, their throats cut.
‘Forgive me, my friends…’ he mumbled. ‘We were discovered.’
Turakhin was joined at the balustrade by Heqiroth. Uluszekh sagged at the sight, even as his staff was taken from him.
‘You see?’ Amontar spat. ‘I warned you. I warned you both! We should not have trusted the vizier.’
The regent and his advisor made their way down the black mar¬ble staircase to the throne room floor, watching as the confederate troops were led away. Turakhin continued to laugh.
‘Good, loyal Heqiroth - there is little that escapes his ear in courtly matters. You should not have underestimated him so, or maybe one of you would be sitting upon the throne of Borsis at this very moment.’ He drew up next to Uluszekh, running a mocking finger down the captured lord’s cold cheekbone. ‘If you could stop plotting against one another for long enough, of course…’
Heqiroth stood just behind his master, fixing them with a piercing stare. His gaze now spoke of a resolve and intensity that Amontar would scarcely have guessed him to possess.
‘It was simple enough to win their confidence. They knew that a covert intrigue would never be sanctioned by the judicator, after the fact. They needed to abide by the forms of martiality, if they wanted to seize the throne from you.’
His eyes seemed to sparkle at the thought.
‘In fact, my lord regent - there is something else.’
Turakhin did not turn to face him. ‘Oh yes? Present what you have, good Heqiroth. Though there is little that can further compound the misery that will soon be heaped upon these traitors…’
Heqiroth retrieved something from a pouch at his belt. ‘It is a modest token, from Overseer Ruadzhe. He bid me reveal it to you only when the conspiracy was unmasked.’
The vizier placed it in Turakhin’s open hand. The overlord looked down, as did Amontar.
It was a small, black pyramidal object. Its smooth inner surfaces seemed visible, moving and spiralling, whirling through infinite fractal loops, drawing the eye inwards… ever inwards, down into the darkness of an unknowable and eternal voidandnevershouldasentient— mindwitnesssuchhorrorssuchhorrorssuchhor—
Amontar let out a shriek, tearing his gaze away from the tesseract and sprawling to the floor. White flashes crazed his vision, hot needles of agony searing into his mental processes as he broke the contact.
Turakhin was not so fortunate.
His eyes wide and fixed upon the stygian depths, he simply van¬ished into the space between moments. The unassuming artefact dropped to the floor, clattering against the marble and letting out a faint, dying wheeze of quantum impossibility.
Uluszekh and Hixos stared. Amontar shook his head to clear the afterimages of his brush with oblivion, but he could only stare too.
Stooping to retrieve the tesseract labyrinth, Heqiroth turned to regard Amontar where he lay on the polished marble. The red gemstone at his breast seemed to pulse with an inner fire, and he hissed in delight.
‘I should thank you, really,’ said the former vizier. ‘You were the per¬fect distraction while I made my final preparations. The lie wrapped in half a truth is so much easier to believe.’
Amontar rose shakily. He could not feel his own heartbeat.
Heqiroth turned to the dais where Metzoi still stood. ‘Judica¬tor Metzoi, appointed representative of the Triarch and praetorian guardian of Borsis - the forms of martiality have been obeyed. I stand victorious over the deposed regent, with fully two-thirds of his legions loyal to me and all conspirators against the throne brought out into the open. Will you honour my claim?’
Disbelief and outrage fought for dominance in Amontar’s breast. Unthinking, his fingers fell to the grip of his concealed dagger.
‘You will never sit upon the throne of Borsis!’ he cried, and rammed the envenomed blade between Heqiroth’s ribs, up to the hilt. It stuck fast.
There was a moment of awkward silence in the grand chamber.
Heqiroth glanced down at Amontar’s blade, then to Amontar himself.
Then he turned back to the judicator.
‘As you can see, the Magadha dynasty is plagued by madness. They fight amongst themselves, and are unfit to rule the Bor Enclave any longer. Noble Nephrekh will rise to relieve them of the regency, by your leave, and purge the alien menace that t
hreatens our borders.’
He stepped away, and Amontar numbly released his grip on the knife.
‘It is you who are mad, vizier!’ he gasped. ‘The judicator battal¬ions are sworn to protect the overlord. You have falsely imprisoned their master!’ Desperately, he pointed at Heqiroth. ‘Kill him! Kill this usurper!’
The praetorians remained unmoving. Heqiroth spoke quietly, almost as an aside to Amontar and no one else.
‘Do not embarrass yourself further. The judicator protects this world, not the regent.’
Amontar stumbled away, unable to process what he was hearing. He looked at Uluszekh with fresh eyes; where before had stood his sworn ally and rival for the throne, he now saw only a ghastly, tot¬tering revenant of dark metal.
Heqiroth addressed the judicator once more. ‘I ask again, will you honour my claim?’
Metzoi cast his inscrutable gaze over the assembled warriors, lords and praetorians. He looked down at the dead alien thralls at his feet, and then to the empty throne.
When he spoke, his voice was deep and resonant.
‘The forms of martiality have been obeyed. The Triarch praetorians will honour your claim, Heqiroth of the Nephrekh dynasty. Take this world to war.’
Heqiroth laughed his triumph, long and loud.
Tugging Amontar’s dagger from his ribs and letting it slip from his fingers, he took slow, deliberate steps towards the throne, and savoured each one. Standing before the ancient seat of power within the Bor Enclave, he gestured to the Magadha - no, NJephrekh - guards.
‘Activate the holosphere.’
Amontar winced as energy pulsed through the conduits at the base of the throne, casting Heqiroth’s skeletal form in a pale under-light that made him appear even more sinister. Hixos, still on his knees upon the dais, buried his face in his hands, lest his shame be caught in the glare of the new regent’s vainglory.
Heqiroth laughed again, and snapped around to face the holospheric field.
‘Loyal citizens of Borsis - your overlord is no more. I, Heqiroth of Nephrekh, have cast out the weakling Turakhin, and I stand before you now as the validated regent of the Bor Enclave!’
Across the world, vast projection cones would be relaying his words to every mausoleum, necropolis and monument district. The mindless commoners and drone-warriors of the Legions would find their eyes drawn irresistibly to the great, lambent figure that now addressed them from the dark skies.
None could fail to hear the commands of Overlord Heqiroth.
‘There is a creeping evil at the borders of our domain, and I would see it eliminated once and for all before it challenges the eternal supremacy of the necrontyr race. We shall halt the advance of the alien vermin, and kick over every rock until we have driven them into extinction.’
As one, the praetorians around the throne room began to beat a fist upon their golden breastplates - a ponderous, fearful rhythm that underpinned Heqiroth’s words. Cowed by the rising sound, Uluszekh tried to catch Amontar’s eye, but the Lord of Xanderat found that he could no longer bear the sight of him for even a moment.
Heqiroth continued. ‘Even though the subsumed Legions of Nephrekh are fewer in number than they once were, Borsis is far from helpless. The Triarch praetorians have kept a great secret upon this world, and now is the time to unleash its true power. We have not had need of such destructive weaponry since the days of the War in Heaven, but the necessary modifications will be made…’
As he spoke, his fingers strayed to the red gemstone mounted where his heart should have been. It pulsed in time with the prae¬torians’ beating, and Amontar caught the faintest impression of a shimmering, quicksilver shape at its centre.
It was moving. Writhing. Yearning to be free.
Still illuminated by the hazy glow of the holosphere, Heqiroth noted Amontar’s gaze and transfixed him with a fearsome, malig¬nant stare. In that moment, there seemed no end to the depths of his hatred.
‘Judicator Metzoi,’ he hissed. ‘Prepare the World Engine.’
The Lords of Borsis - L J Goulding Page 2