by Richard Fox
Aignar nodded and Cha’ril dropped the nut into the grave.
“The deeper we plant, the stronger the bond,” she said.
“I am Armor.” Santos spread soil over the coffin.
“I am fury.” Aignar gripped a clump of dirt in his metal hands and tossed it into the grave.
“We will never fail,” Cha’ril said. “The Iron Dragoons live on in you two.” She looked down at the coffin and said, “It was my honor to fight at your side.”
Aignar’s hand snapped straight and saluted, holding it long enough for Santos to match him. They lowered their hands slowly. As one.
Chapter 39
A Geist pyramid orbited far over Nekara. The base oriented to the planet, each corner lit with soul fire and trailing a faint wisp of energy. The planet’s atmosphere was alive with storms;, and smoke and ash hung over the continent-sized pieces sliced off by the Ark like scabs.
Pallax stood in a grand bay, silent as he regarded the broken planet. The concave wall lined with blisters the size of city blocks, the nascent shape of Geist war creatures writhing within. He wore a robe made of obsidian flakes, each glinting with internal life.
Noyan wore platinum armor, the tendrils of her hair squirming against her head and shoulders. Slack-jawed and dead-eyed thralls huddled behind her.
“It’s coming,” Pallax said.
“You’re a fool.” Noyan’s hair twisted into braids. “We let the Ark slip through our fingers. This is not how we pledged to serve Malal.”
“No, no, my dear, this was Malal’s will. The prophet showed us where to find Malal. A gate at the center of the galaxy. He laid out the path…now we have one final test to prove we’re worthy to exist for all eternity at his side.”
“It will take centuries at sub-light speeds to find planets full of the unenlightened ready for Malal’s word,” Noyan hissed. “The prophet decimated our pilgrim fleet. Our offering to Malal is a shadow of what it once was. There is a path…but a difficult one.”
“Malal demands every soul.” Pallax raised a finger. “And every soul will be his. The pilgrims ships can be replaced, our ranks of thralls replenished with the unworthy.”
“We have to find them first,” Noyan said. “They’re not coming here.”
Pallax reached to the void and something flashed against the endless black, like a new star.
“Faith is not its own reward.” Pallax’s mouth pulled back to smile. “You must trust Malal, my dear…he may try us, but he also grants us the occasional boon.”
A dark basalt hunk tumbled through the bay’s force field and smacked into his palm.
“Now…what have we here?” He peered closer at the material and snarled with pain. The basalt stuck to his palm like it was glued as he tried to shake it off. He dug claw tips into the basalt and ripped it out of his other hand, taking off several of his fingers.
Pallax hurled the material into the chest of a thrall. The thrall’s jaw worked as the dull gray of his body morphed into basalt, lit from within by gold sparks. Pallax raised a hand and the thrall’s feet lifted off the deck before the transformation could spread to the ship.
The thrall broke apart, reknitting into a crown of thorns.
“This…is helpful,” Noyan said. “Their star gate—their Crucible—it can be rebuilt.”
“And then we will take Malal’s glory across the galaxy.” Pallax twisted his hand around and the small Crucible rotated slowly. “We will bring his word to every planet with intelligent life. Those that refuse the word will have their souls offered to Malal in tribute. We will stand in glory beside him. No one will stop us. Not the prophet. Not her Armor. No one.”
Chapter 40
Sunlight burned through the last of the morning fog. Distant towers resolved from the waning gloom and Roland felt a moment of awe as he realized just how many arcology towers made up Navarre’s capital.
He stood on the Roost, the highest balcony on Tower 1 from where the Lady led her Star Nation. Those gathered stood in ranks, the crowd almost identical to Stacey’s transfer back into her flesh and blood body. Roland was in the front rank, Makarov and senior Navy officers to his left, Davoust and Legion to his right. The Templar had their own small formation, just apart from the rest.
Roland still felt out of place, though he wore a Legion uniform. His white tabard was gone, and a red Templar cross medal at his neck was his only token of his former battle brothers. He rolled his shoulders against his new uniform. The black fabric had taken on some of the humidity. He tugged at his high collar and got a quick and disapproving glance from Marshal Davoust.
A V-formation of Shrike fighters soared overhead, the rumble of engines drowning out all other sound. Roland looked up and caught his breath when he realized the Ark was in low orbit, gleaming in the sunlight. The rock that once encrusted the bottom of the Qa’resh massive ship was gone, and the unsymmetrical structure struck Roland with a certain beauty.
The double bang of spiked halberd pommels against the floor announced Lady Ibarra’s arrival. Roland straightened his back and raised his chin slightly as he locked his ankles and legs together, hands pressed firm to his sides in the position of attention.
There was no chill as Stacey passed through the ranks to the front. She wore a simple uniform with only the Ibarra Nation crest pinned to her upper chest. Seeing her as a young woman still unnerved Roland, as the soul within was a good deal older and more tested than her appearance let on.
She went to the edge of the Roost and set her palms against a bronze handrail. A cheer rose from below.
“Front rank,” Stacey dropped a hand below the bar and motioned forward, “join me.”
Roland went forward in step with Davoust and the cheer grew louder as he walked straight ahead and ended up to Stacey’s right, Makarov to her left. Small video drones buzzed around them, and multi-story screens on each side of the archology towers broadcast a live feed.
Brigades of legionnaires filled a massive parade ground several stories below the Roost. Armor, to one knee and with swords drawn and points down in prayer, formed a line between the Legion and the Roost, echoing the Martyr’s Square on Earth that memorialized the final sacrifice of the Iron Hearts, Templar, and Hussars at the end of the Ember War.
Roland’s heart ached to see Armor, their rain-slick metal glinting in the sunlight.
“You’re still the Black Knight,” Stacey said to him. “You’re still our champion.”
“I can’t fight for you with sword and plate, my Lady. But my iron is within,” Roland said.
“And you’ll temper that iron into something greater than your Armor,” Stacey said. “And soon. This Nation will need you.”
“By my honor and my ar…”
Stacey smiled at him, an expression he still wasn’t used to seeing from her. “We’re both getting used to a simpler existence,” she said. “But we are our decisions and our actions. Not our shells. Let’s begin.”
Stacey raised her arms up and the cheers from the Legions changed to a chant.
Ferrum corde…ferrum corde…
She lowered her hands to the rail and the chant faded away. A drone the size of a sparrow flit near her and hovered just ahead of her chest.
“My Nation.” The words echoed from the towers and across Navarre. “My Nation, we are victorious. The Kesaht have crumbled, and the final Toth with them. Bastion, which called for our destruction…is no more. The Terran Union remains, and through your sacrifice, this Nation earned their respect and honor. This Nation stands secure. Our fleets will colonize new worlds, and any who threaten our worlds or our way of life will feel the fury of our retribution.”
She looked up to the Ark as the crowd broke out in thunderous applause.
“First, humanity defeated the Xaros. Now we stand dominant over the galaxy…but not for long. There is a darkness rising. The Xaros and the Kesaht wanted our lives, wanted to spill our blood for the crime of existing…but this new threat will come for our very souls.”
>
Roland felt a tinge of fear as memories of Nekara came back to him.
“The Geist are coming,” Stacey said. “They are coming for all of us. And we are not ready.”
The crowd went silent.
“Nearly a century ago, an Ibarra was warned of a coming threat to all of humanity. It was enough. Now I warn the Ibarra Nation of the Geist, of soul thieves dedicated to worshiping Malal, the greatest monster this galaxy has ever seen. I don’t know how much time we have, but with us is the last Aeon, the Ark, and the iron heart of this great Nation.”
Ferrum corde! shot from the crowd.
“There is no rest in victory,” she said, “for another war is coming, and that war will see us victorious or our Nation utterly destroyed. There can be no peace with the Geist. No coexistence. We will fall or we will triumph.”
Stacey put a hand on Roland’s shoulder and his face appeared on every tower.
“Saint Kallen is with us,” she said. “God is with us. Legends fight beside us. It is up to every soul in this Nation to prepare, to build fleets and train warriors for the coming war. When we go before judgment in the next world, let none be found wanting…myself most of all.”
Stacey gripped the handrail and Roland realized what an awesome mantle she’d taken upon herself. After all she’d been through and suffered, she still fought not for herself, but for humanity. The pity he’d felt for the loss of his plugs melted away. She was right; his strength and iron were within. They did not come from his shell.
He said a silent prayer for Saint Kallen, the crippled soldier whose inner strength had inspired so many to fight on.
“A great work lies ahead of us,” Stacey said. “A…crusade across the stars that will ensure humanity endures. Let all who carry the Templar cross be united in faith and purpose. Today, our crusade begins. And we will cleanse this galaxy of the Geist and any who would join them.”
Stacey put a fist to her heart then thrust it overhead.
“Ferrum corde!” she shouted.
Roland beat a fist to his chest and raised it high.
“Ferrum corde!”
THE END
The Ember War Saga continues with the THE IBARRA CRUSADE!
Coming 2020.
FROM THE AUTHOR
Hello Dear and Gentle Reader,
Thank you for reading Ferrum Corde. I hope you enjoyed your time with Roland and the Armor! This is the last story in the Terran Armor Corpse series, but the Ember War saga continues. There will be prequel novels in 2019, and the third series will begin in 2020.
Please leave a review on Amazon and let me know how I’m doing as a storyteller.
I’ve been a fan of science fiction since I saw Star Wars in the theater when I was a wee lad. My love for all things spaceship and giant robot has only grown over time, I’m fortunate that I can add a few new stories to the genre.
Drop me a line at [email protected].
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Also By Richard Fox:
The Ember War Saga:
1. The Ember War
2. The Ruins of Anthalas
3. Blood of Heroes
4. Earth Defiant
5. The Gardens of Nibiru
6. The Battle of the Void
7. The Siege of Earth
8. The Crucible
9. The Xaros Reckoning
Terran Armor Corps:
1. Iron Dragoons
2. The Ibarra Sanction
3. The True Measure
4. A House Divided
5. The Last Aeon
6. Ferrum Corde
The Exiled Fleet Series:
1. Albion Lost
2. The Long March
3. Their Finest Hour (Coming early 2019!)
Read THE EMBER WAR for Free
The Earth is doomed. Humanity has a chance. Read where the saga began!
In the near future, an alien probe arrives on Earth with a pivotal mission—determine if humanity has what it takes to survive the impending invasion by a merciless armada.
The probe discovers Marc Ibarra, a young inventor, who holds the key to a daring gambit that could save a fraction of Earth's population. Humanity's only chance lies with Ibarra's ability to keep a terrible secret and engineer the planet down the narrow path to survival.
Earth will need a fleet. One with a hidden purpose. One strong enough to fight a battle against annihilation.
The Ember War is the first installment in an epic military sci-fi series. If you like A Hymn Before Battle by John Ringo and The Last Starship by Vaughn Heppner, then you'll love this explosive adventure with constant thrills and high stakes from cover to cover.
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Here’s a sample for you:
CHAPTER 1
THE NEAR FUTURE
Humanity’s only hope of survival entered the solar system at nearly the speed of light. The probe slowed as the sun’s heliosphere disrupted the graviton wave it rode in on from the abyss of deep space. Awakened by the sudden deceleration, the probe absorbed the electromagnetic spectrum utilized by its target species and assessed the technological sophistication of the sole sentient species on Earth.
The probe adjusted its course to take it into the system’s star. If the humans couldn’t survive—with its help—what was to come, then the probe would annihilate itself. There would be no trace of it for the enemy, and no chance of humanity’s existence beyond the time it had until the enemy arrived. The probe analyzed filed patents, military expenditures, birth rates, mathematical advancement and space exploration.
The first assessment fell within the margin of error of survival and extinction for humanity. The probe’s programming allowed for limited autonomous decision making (choice being a rare luxury for the probe’s class of artificial intelligence). The probe found itself in a position to choose between ending its mission in the sun’s fire and a mathematically improbable defense of humanity—and the potential compromise of its much larger mission.
Given the rare opportunity to make its own decision, the probe opted to dither. In the week it took to pass into Jupiter’s orbit, the probe took in more data. It scoured the internet for factors to add to the assessment, but the assessment remained the same: unlikely, but possible. By the time it shot past Mars, the probe still hadn’t made a decision.
As the time to adjust course for Earth or continue into the sun approached, the probe conducted a final scan of cloud storage servers for any new information…and found something interesting.
While the new information made only a negligible impact on the assessment, the probe adjusted course to Earth. It hadn’t traveled all this way for nothing.
In the desert south of Phoenix, Arizona, it landed with no more fanfare than a slight thump and a few startled cows. Then it broke into the local cell network and made a call.
****
Marc Ibarra awoke to his phone ringing at max volume, playing a pop ditty that he hated with vehemence. He rolled off the mattress that lay on the floor and crawled on his hands and knees to where his cell was recharging. His roommate, who paid the majority of their rent and got to sleep on an actual bed, grumbled and let off a slew of slurred insults.
Marc reached his cell and slapped at it until the offending music ended. He blinked sleep from his eyes and tried to focus on the caller’s name on the screen. The only people who’d call at this ungodly hour were his family in Basque country…or maybe Jessica in his applied robotics course wanted a late-night study break.
The name on the screen was “ANSWER ME”.
He closed an eye and reread the name. It was way too early—or too late, depending on one’s point of view—for this nonsense. He turned the ringer off and went back to bed. Slee
p was about to claim him when the phone rang again, just as loudly as last time but now with a disco anthem.
“Seriously?” his roommate slurred.
Marc declined the call and powered the phone off. He flopped back on his bed and curled into his blanket. To hell with my first class, he thought. Arizona State University had a lax attendance policy, one which he’d abuse for nights like this.
The cell erupted with big-band music. Marc took his head out from beneath the covers and looked at his phone like it was a thing possessed. The phone vibrated so hard that it practically danced a jig on the floor and the screen flashed “ANSWER ME” over and over again as music blared.
“Dude?” said his roommate, now sitting up in his bed.
Marc swiped the phone off the charging cord and the music stopped. The caller’s name undulated with a rainbow of colors and an arrow appeared on the screen pointing to the button he had to press to answer the call. When did I get this app? he thought.
Marc sighed and left the bedroom, meandering into the hallway bathroom with the grace of a zombie. The battered mattress he slept on played hell with his back and left him stiff every morning. Dropping his boxers, he took a seat on the toilet and answered the call, determined to return this caller’s civility with some interesting background noise.
“What?” he murmured.
“Marc Ibarra. I need to see you.” The voice was mechanical, asexual in its monotone.
“Do you have any frigging idea what time it is? Wait, who the hell is this?”