The Hour of Revelation: The Third Enthralling Sanctifier Shenaria Calvert Chronicle

By Steven Popper

Shenarias sacrifice was in vain, and the Temple lies destroyed

The forces of good lie confused, scattered and broken

A ghastly sacrifice engenders a diabolical summoning

Chaos and rebellion break out on all civilised worlds

An innocent child is vindictively hunted down

The Supreme Sanctifier succumbs without even realizing

The insidious Enemy Within finally reveals itself

and a small, unarmed community at the foot of a mountain is all that stands between humanity and its final doom.

Shenaria is gone, and the End of Everything still beckons. Bereft of her leadership and wisdom, and separated from each other, Matthias and Modesty struggle to prevent the forthcoming apocalypse; but Modesty is betrayed and Matthias is on the run and wanted for murder.

How can they possibly triumph against the greatest evil of all?

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Mar 30, 2012
• ISBN: 9781467885461

Steven Popper

Steven Popper is a university lecturer working in the fields of child development and teacher training – but that is just his job. In real life he is husband and father to the best wife and son on the planet (both of whom are in this book), and a fan of thrilling futuristic adventure stories from ‘Captain Scarlet’ to ‘Star Trek’ to ‘The Terminator’. ‘The Hour of Revelation’ completes his enthralling trilogy of Sanctifier Shenaria Calvert Chronicles, which have all been written for his son, who one day will be old enough to realise what they are about and tell him what he thinks of them. In addition, Steven knows the real Shenaria Calvert, and is anxiously waiting to hear whether his final and lovingly-crafted rendition of her astonishing adventures is sufficient to meet her full satisfaction. Words cannot convey the peril he faces if she decides that it does not - he would be better off going up against the Twelve in mortal combat. Still, Steven has been bold with Shenaria in the past, and is now much too set in his ways to change how he faces the world.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Lady L’ucilya’s final victory was over Death itself.

For agonising weeks Death had called to her. It had taken all dignity from her frail, wasted frame, and taunted her with memories of how perfect her body had been. It had flattered her with glorious visions of how magnificently she would be commemorated once her life was over. It had seduced her with visions of deceased loved ones tenderly beckoning her to join them. It had goaded her with thoughts of her failure, and how death was her proper punishment. It had tempted her with echoes of the beautiful peace and much-wanted release that would be hers once she relinquished her soul.

She resisted all of it, though the strain showed in her face and the painful spasms that jittered through her emaciated body. Her faithful maidservants found the sight of her approaching death almost impossible to bear, and her privileged chambers were full of lamentation and sorrow. Death used even this, working on her sympathy for those who cared for her, as if to suggest that she should release them too.

But Lady L’ucilya would not die. Not until the moment had arrived. Not until her work was done.

For a whole month, while the rest of the universe tore itself into shreds trying to come to terms with the shocking and violent destruction of the sacred Temple of Valhalla on Earth, Lady L’ucilya carried out her final preparations. Maidservants took turns to scribe for her, though she could only manage utterances of a few words at a time. They read Lady L’ucilya’s words back to her, and noted when her eyelids flickered her approval. Often she would fall into long intervals of troubled sleep, but her servants remained by her side, ready to continue their work. This went on for days. The task exhausted what little reserves remained to Lady L’ucilya, but she was adamant that her wishes be clearly understood once she was gone.

She knew that any lack of such clarity would give rise to tensions and disagreements within the Twelve, and she could not afford for that to happen. With the Temple wiped out, and the foul diamond-star still polluting the skies, Lady L’ucilya well understood the urgency of the situation.

In fact, she understood even more than most, for she had uncovered the genuine Enemy, and been vanquished by him. As she lay dying, insidious corruption from the unnatural wound she had received flowed and gestated within her body. The Enemy had used a tainted and demonic blade, and even she, the hitherto-undefeated head of the Fortress of Assassination and the leader of the Twelve, had fallen immediately. Her Enemy had smiled coldly at her, then left her for dead, laughing at the way he had profoundly betrayed her trust and satisfied that his true allegiance remained a secret.

He should have finished her off. He had forgotten that once the elite assassins Lady L’ucilya led–the Twelve–determined upon a target, then that target would be pursued until he was dead. The Twelve had never, ever failed.

Actually, thought the fading Lady L’ucilya wryly, that wasn’t entirely true. An indomitable man called Matthias had more than held his own against them in the recent past.

She grimaced at her lapse of concentration, and, with some effort, brought herself back to the task at hand. Words rasped through her parched lips, to be recorded by her faithful maidservants. Her weak exertions caused her pain, but she refused to give into it. Death would have to wait until she was done.

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One week later a proclamation made its way round the Fortress of Assassination. All staff of whatever rank, whether the elite of the Twelve or the scullery-maids of the kitchens, were ordered to assemble in the solemn Chapel of Remembrance at precisely mid-day. The proclamation bore Lady L’ucilya’s private seal–something that had not been seen for many years.

As a consequence, twenty minutes before noon the austere grey building was full to capacity. Those fortunate enough to squeeze into the basilica before attendants closed the great arched doors were squashed shoulder to shoulder along the simple wooden pews and iron-railed galleries. Those left outsikde peered through the pyramid-shaped windows as best they could, sat on the stone benches scattered in the chapel’s immaculate gardens or huddled together under loudspeakers that had been carefully hung from the gargoyles that punctuated the smooth stone exterior.

Rank was forgotten. Senior tutors of assassination sat alongside ablution-cleaners; initiates knelt beside their stern examiners; weapons engineers and security staff mingled with the Fortress’s elite and powerful. Even the Twelve themselves had to jostle for their seats as much as the next man. Lady L’ucilya had long insisted on a policy of total equality for chapel attendance, being firmly of the mind that all were equal in the eyes of the merciful Saviour-King they had come to worship, and this edict was respected automatically by those who had looked up to her for so long.

As mid-day approached, an atmosphere of mourning descended over the crammed chapel. The sad congregation knew that this would be Lady L’ucilya’s final appearance. In truth, the great majority of them expected that they had come to see the last rites being administered to her dying body, and, as the slow and solemn music began, and the whole assembly rose, hot and bitter tears swelled up in many people’s eyes.

A beautiful choir floated up the aisles, singing The Answer Lies Beyond, and the mournful crowd rose and sang along.

Then a young woman walked onto the nave. She was dressed in a cloak of ermine and lilac, embroidered with the Fortress’s crest and the green pyramid of life, signifying the eternal relationship between humanity, the Saviour-King and the rest of creation, with the Saviour-King represented at the peak of the pyramid, and humanity and the rest of creation each at one of the two bottom corners. Even though the business of the Fortress was assassination, Lady L’ucilya’s respect for life had been immense, and in her eyes the only authority to cause a single creature’s death had to come from the Saviour-King or be on his behalf. All other killing was murder in her eyes. Those who did not know her well were confused by this seeming paradox of the caring assassin. Those who did understand her knew how tender she could be–and how dangerous.

The young woman reached the altar and stood by it, obviously composing herself. Her glossy brown hair fell in ringlets over her neck and shoulders, and her shapely lips trembled in her cherubic face. Her dark eyes were full of moisture that threatened to spill down and humanise her formal garb.

The higher-up in the congregation recognised her as Alena of Macedonica, the figure that Lady L’ucilya had picked above others of more senior rank to take charge during her illness. None had dared to challenge Lady L’ucilya’s decision, though it surprised all, most notably Alena herself. But Lady L’ucilya had long been known as an acute judge of character, and the Fortress had respected her decision in the belief that whatever qualities Lady L’ucilya had seen in Alena would surface at some point.

This was to be proven true, though at this stage none of the assembly could have guessed at the astonishing events still to come. Nor did they have the slightest inkling of how, in the future, Alena’s actions would help change the destiny of untold worlds.

The young woman spoke.

‘Friends’, she said, in a sad, musical voice, ‘the Lady L’ucilya thanks you for your attendance. Please join with me in the Saviour-King’s Prayer.’

As the congregation filled the chapel with their voices, two other women, also dressed in ermine and lilac, took their places near the altar. These were known as Lady L’ucilya’s personal attendants. Then a third woman entered from behind the proscenium arch, and stood by the font. She was dressed in black, except for a red veil that completely covered her face. No one recognised her at all, and the throng’s chanting faltered a bit as she emerged.

Then a fourth woman walked in, and the whole assembly gasped in awe.

It was Lady L’ucilya herself. Her long white hair, now thin and patchy, fell across her plain and simple yellow linen gown. Her feet were bare. Her thin and bony hands manipulated the two crutches she moved upon with difficulty and awkwardness. Her aged, lined face seemed to crack with the effort as she dragged herself towards the centre of the stage, and her dry mouth rasped as if parched beyond endurance.

Haralam, an athletic young man, and one of the Twelve, jumped up from his pew at the front of the chapel and made as if to come and assist her. She stopped dead and stared at him with a look that could have startled lions.

‘Sit down!’ she croaked, loud enough for all to hear. ‘How dare you suggest I need help!’

Haralam fell back into his seat, his ears burning red with shame and embarrassment. Lady L’ucilya stared at him contemptuously for a moment longer while she gathered the little strength she still had, then turned and continued on her way. It was only when she reached the centre of the stage that she accepted any aid from her two handmaidens, who each took a crutch away and supported her in its stead.

She took longer than she wanted to recover, her lips chewing and quivering in frustration, then raised her head and looked out at the audience. Her expression had lost none of its familiar determination, and several onlookers blanched as she gazed in their direction. Then she smiled, and the warmth of her feelings for those who had toiled for her so steadfastly radiated throughout the chamber.

‘Faithful servants and friends’, she began, then broke off as a fit of coughing overtook her. One of her maidservants wiped her mouth with a cotton cloth, then the other raised a small flask of liquid to her lips. She drank for a moment, her shrunken body shaking, then tried again.

‘I have enjoyed leading you, and you have made me proud’, L’ucilya continued without further preamble. ‘Together we have completed many tasks on behalf of the glorious Saviour-King, blessed be his name. Now I have one last errand to charge you with, and you will carry it out—to the letter. Do you understand?’

A chorus of ‘Yes, Lady’ answered her. She stared at the crowd as if to check that every individual present had added his voice to the reply.

‘Good’, she rasped, ‘then listen to Alena. She will read out a statement I have prepared.’

Lady L’ucilya nodded, and a wicker chair was brought out for her to sit on. Her two maidservants lowered her into it. Once she was settled, Alena stepped forward, unrolled a scroll and began to read.

The first few words Alena uttered consisted of pleasantries and thanks, and the audience’s attention fell more on the sad sight of their beloved mentor lying so small and piteously in her chair than on the words she had dictated. But then everything changed. Gasps came from the crowd as Alena told of how Lady L’ucilya had been betrayed: of her first suspicions that the man who had commandeered the services of the Twelve was not all that he seemed; of Lady L’ucilya’s subsequent investigation into him; of the final trap he had laid for her, and how she had fallen into it.

The final revelation was of the demonic nature of L’ucilya’s wound, and the name of the traitor who had administered it to her.

An appalled silence filled the chapel as Alena drew to a close. Then, slowly at first, but rapidly increasing in volume and speed, came the cries.

‘Revenge!’

‘REVENGE!’

‘REVENGE!’

The crowd stood. They beat their fists on the balustrades before them. They stamped their feet. They shouted and yelled, full of fury and disgust.

‘REVENGE!’

Lady L’ucilya struggled to her feet, holding her chair for support The crowd hushed.

‘No’, she managed quietly, ‘though I thank you for the sentiment. Not revenge. Something much more substantial. The utter destruction of the Enemy and all his works. The heretic who has just been named is certainly powerful—as you can tell by the exalted position he holds—but he is a lackey nonetheless. He is not the principle target. You will use him to get to his Master, and it will take all your courage and wit and strength to do so. Indeed, you do not yet understand who his Master is, or the true magnitude and significance of this task. It will be the greatest mission this fortress has ever attempted, and it may well be its last. Many of you will die, but, if so, it will be in the service of the glorious Saviour-King. Will you accept this undertaking?’

The congregation stood.

‘Yes’, they shouted, as one.

Lady L’ucilya closed her eyes and breathed out as if relieved.

‘Then there is one more thing to do’, she said. ‘I am too weak and too near death to lead you any more—no, don’t pretend otherwise. I will not have the honour of guiding you in this mission. But I have chosen the one who will lead you, and you will obey and respect this person as if it was me. Do you understand? You will not dishonour me by disobeying this, my last order. Show me your palm if you understand.’

A loud cough came from a young man taking up two spaces on the front pew. He was dressed all in black, except for a bronze chainmail jacket and gloves. His pointed face was scarred down the right cheek from eyeball to chin, and his eyes glistened with emotion. His hands had inadvertently balled into fists, and he looked as if he could lash out at the slightest provocation.

Lady L’ucilya turned an infuriatingly mild expression towards him.

‘Yes, Petronius?’ she asked witheringly. ‘Do I take it you have some objection?’

The young man’s face whitened, and his frame shook with the need to observe protocol.

‘No, Lady’, he replied, in a slithery voice, ‘it’s just that . . . well, we of the Twelve have not have the privilege of knowing whom you have favoured as your choice. Whoever it is, this person has not had the opportunity to prepare.’

L’ucilya gazed at him.

‘Meaning, of course, that you had expected to receive more notice about your ascension to my position. Don’t deny it: I know all about your ambition.’

‘My Lady’, began Petronius—

‘Be quiet!’ ordered L’ucilya sharply. ‘Don’t interrupt me again! You will recognise your new leader’s authority like everyone else here!’

She glared out at the crowd, keeping back a coughing fit through force of will alone.

‘Is that clear?’ she hissed. ‘Show me your palm if you understand! Now!’

A few souls stretched out their right arms and raised their palms into the air. Then the others followed, until the chapel was full of upraised arms. L’ucilya took in the sight for a moment, then shakily raised her own frail arm in reply. She looked down towards Petronius.

Reluctantly, and with hesitation and disapproval obvious in his face, Petronius lifted his arm too.

‘You have promised’, stated L’ucilya. ‘Then it is time for me to step down. I am no longer your leader, but just an ancient woman waiting for her death. Your new leader is strong and healthy, and I commend her to you.’

She sighed, and her handmaidens caught her as she collapsed into her wicker chair once more. One of them turned and nodded to the red-veiled woman who had stood completely still during Alena’s and L’ucilya’s speeches.

Now she stepped forward, briskly undoing her veil as she did so. She pulled it aside, and looked down upon the assembly.

A host of faces stared at her, some etched with curiosity or hesitation, others glaring with open hostility. She met their gaze impassively, her golden eyes giving nothing away.

Alena spoke, breaking the uncomfortable moment.

‘Lady L’ucilya presents to you your new leader: Modesty of Granaria.’

A ripple of surprise passed round the chapel, for surely this was the woman notorious as the only person who had ever turned down a place among the Twelve. And now she was to be its head. A few of the gathering wondered fleetingly if Lady L’ucilya’s judgement had deserted her at the end, then immediately felt guilty at having such disrespectful thoughts.

Modesty raised her chin, and there was total silence. She stared at the assembly a few seconds more, calmly taking in the sea of expressions that met her gaze.

‘We have exactly seven days’, she said. ‘Get yourselves fit and prepared, then meet me in one week in the arena to receive your individual instructions. You will all have a part to play.’

A hand went up from one of the front pews. It was Petronius. Modesty turned her golden eyes upon him, and he flinched despite himself.

‘Yes?’ she asked.

‘What is our mission to be?’ asked Petronius.

An imperceptible smile crossed Modesty’s lips, and her burnished eyes flickered.

‘The vengeance you desired, to begin with’, she answered. ‘We are going to capture, interrogate and kill the treacherous Cardinal Thropez.’

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The next day Modesty visited Lady L’ucilya’s private chambers. She had worsened during the night, and her weak and spindly body could no longer sit up. As Modesty entered, a nurse was spoon-feeding her some fortified gruel, while another attended to her catheter. Several others busied themselves preparing medicines and ointments. Candles made of patchouli and tea tree oils burnt on little china saucers placed at regular intervals around the decaying body. Modesty closed her eyes, deeply saddened at the sight of her old mentor brought so low.

Lady L’ucilya waved all her servants away. Their hesitation clearly showed on their alarmed faces, but none of them dared disobey the most august head of the Fortress of Assassination, and they left, mumbling prayers and blessings. Once they were out of the small, mentholated bedchamber, L’ucilya weakly beckoned Modesty over. Modesty rose, discarded her rain cover to reveal the sleek midnight-blue cat-suit beneath, then crossed to the musty-smelling bed and knelt by it. She took L’ucilya’s wrinkled hand in her own and bowed her head.

There was a moment of companionable silence.

L’ucilya broke it.

‘Hush, child’, she said, almost inaudibly, ‘You knew this moment would come. There’s no need for this.’

Modesty said nothing, but gripped the older woman’s hand more tightly. L’ucilya regarded her carefully.

‘It still worries you’, she suggested gently.

Modesty looked up, uncomprehendingly, not expecting this conversation.

‘What?’

‘The decision you made, and whether or not it was right. You wonder whether, had you stayed with Shenaria, any of these events would have happened.’

Modesty sighed.

‘We’d argued’, she said. ‘I was angry about what had happened to Matthias. Shenaria gave me the choice: to stay or to go. Then you arrived with your request, and I agreed.’

‘Do you regret it?’

‘No, no. But you’re right: I do wonder. If I had stayed with Shenaria, then maybe she would not have done what she did. Maybe I could have prevented it.’

L’ucilya shook her head.

‘I doubt it’, she whispered. ‘I knew Shenaria. I knew what she was like once she got an idea into her head.’

‘But to destroy the Temple!’ blurted out Modesty. ‘To reduce the most sacred of all places to dust! What could have possessed her?’

Modesty’s eyes filled with tears, which she tried to blink back before L’ucilya could see them. Her normally calm body shook with emotion.

‘Do you think something did possess her?’ asked L’ucilya carefully. ‘I’m speaking literally. She came across many demonic manifestations in her work. Do you think one of them could have consumed her?’

Modesty rose and crossed to one of the small arched windows that looked down upon the Fortress’s immaculate Gardens of Tranquillity. She gazed outside, composing herself with some effort. Then she sighed and returned to the dying, but still lucid, woman.

‘It was always her deepest fear’, she replied. ‘She once confided it to Matthias and me. She knew that one of two destinies awaited her: to die in the Saviour-King’s faithful service, or to become corrupted by Malevolence and lose her soul. She didn’t look forward to a happy retirement!’

‘And which destiny do you think overtook her?’ asked L’ucilya.

Modesty’s face became cold.

‘I know what the authorities think’, she responded. ‘I know they consider that Shenaria turned against everything she ever believed in and became a heretic and apostate, or, at the very least, went mad through her constant battles with Malevolence and so fell prey to it. I do not believe it. The Shenaria I knew would have killed herself before betraying the Saviour-King, whom she loved so dearly.’

As Modesty spoke, a memory of her argument with Shenaria filled her head. She recalled the bitter words she had spat out before turning her back on the woman who had once rescued her:

The Shenaria I knew would have found a way.

A tear rolled down her silky cheek. L’ucilya raised her withered hand and placed it over Modesty’s in a gesture of compassion.

‘No’, said Modesty, her lips trembling, ‘I do not believe it. Whatever happened at the end, Shenaria was as loyal and faithful as you or me.’

‘Ah, yes’, breathed L’ucilya quietly. Her energy was fading now. ‘In that case, pupil, if Shenaria did not betray us all, then why did she destroy the Temple?’

‘I . . . can’t say. She must have had her reasons.’

‘Precisely’, whispered L’ucilya. ‘And perhaps, to succeed in our task, we need to find out what those reasons were.’

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Two days later Lady L’ucilya was dead. Her corpse had been discovered in the early hours by an inconsolable nurse, who had woken everyone with her frantic wailing. White-faced doctors had rushed to her bedchamber, but there was nothing to be done.

L’ucilya’s body was cleaned and, following strict instructions she had laid down, dressed in the simple linen frock she had used for acts of worship and laid in an open sandalwood coffin, which was positioned on a stone table in the middle of the central boulevard that ran through the Gardens of Tranquillity. Her long white hair was brushed so it fell over her shoulders. The worn-out prayer-book she had used since childhood was placed in her little hands, opened at the devotion of her choice: His Hand in Mine. Photographs of her loved ones were placed around her. The many honours and awards she had received were fastened to the outside of the coffin, so all the many who trooped past to pay their last respects could be reminded of the stature and achievement of the woman they had lost.

All wept openly at the sight of their beloved mentor lying dead, though it was noted by many in conversation later that a profound aura of peace and serenity seemed to shine from the dead woman’s face.

Eventually the members of the Twelve carried her coffin to the Chapel of Remembrance that they had all so recently attended together, and a heartfelt service of thanksgiving was held for this most astonishing lady. Then she was buried under the shade of a weeping willow, which had always been her favourite type of tree.

Modesty sat by her old mentor’s grave for a full day and night, heedless of the elements, praying softly. The other members of the Twelve noted this, and the resistance some of them had felt towards Modesty’s leadership was muted to some degree. Eventually one of the Twelve, a green-eyed girl called Amandala, went out into the rain to join her. Modesty stood sharply as the girl approached, gazed a final time at Lady L’ucilya’s resting place, then walked away leaving Amandala standing alone under the wet and dreary sky.

Three days later, Modesty appeared at the arena that the Twelve used for training. Now no hint of grief could be seen on her stern and forceful face. Her metallic eyes flashed with purpose, and her cat-suit-clad body had never seemed so dangerous.

They all stopped still as soon as she walked in, even Petronius. She stared at them all, murder in her golden eyes.

‘It’s time’, she said.

CHAPTER TWO

Above ground, the buildings were beautiful. The polished marble walls were immaculate, the burgundy carpets that covered the hallways were plush and without wear, the discreet, high-up triangular windows let in exactly the right amount of gentle light, and the arched ceilings far above were covered in stupendous frescoes delineating the Saviour-King’s triumphs in beautiful, eye-catching hues.

This was the inner heart of the Praesidium, the Inner Temple’s majestic centre of operations on Mars—which was now all that was left of Earth’s Inner Temple anyway, since it had been so devastatingly destroyed nearly a month ago. The ‘Seat’, which wielded supreme power, assembled here. The Conclave itself, which ruled on all spiritual and theological matters, came together with the most senior representatives of military and civilian arms of government to make decisions that affected all Valhallan worlds.

Below ground, things were different. Cleanliness and comfort were entirely absent. Increasingly narrow and lichen-covered passageways led into a dungeon hewn from the planet’s natural reddish stone. Evil-smelling liquid seeped from the walls and floor, and noxious sulphuric fumes rose from cracks and cavities that lay everywhere. Guards who entered the dungeon wore gas masks, face protectors and impermeable gloves to protect themselves. Those unfortunate enough to be imprisoned there had no such niceties, and it was rumoured that any sustained exposure to the harsh and unforgiving elements was just as agonising as the dungeon’s rightfully-feared tortures.

Currently, two prisoners were experiencing just how true these rumours were. One of them had been incarcerated in the lowermost level for nearly a month now. His lips and skin had cracked and reddened. Pustules and swellings had broken out across his body in response to the acidic air he was forced to breathe. His beard had grown uncontrollably, and was knotted and lice-ridden. Bruises from his mistreatment covered his face and limbs. The ceremonial armour that he had been wearing since the aborted ceremony chaffed against him, and hung loosely over his emaciated frame. His fingers were caked with blood from thousands of scratches caused every time he lay his hands against a wall or rested them on the cold, jagged floor.

A lesser human would have died after a week. This man, however, had learnt to bide his time. He took good care to eat anything that his jailers condescended to provide him with, and rested whenever he could. He continued to survive.

The other prisoner was not faring so well. His normally powerful frame had lost much of its bulk. His face had become pock-marred and sore. His military posture had collapsed and his breathing was rasping and harsh. His broken wrist throbbed unendurably. Instead of chewing his trademark cigar, his mouth was reduced to drooling uncontrollably; a blood-spattered drool that betrayed the damage done to his inner organs.

His name was Captain Bremman, though he himself preferred the title ‘Colonel’. He had been captured in the remains of his colonial mansion in Zilbrassa, on the planet Antrobus II.

The aghast military sent to investigate the unprecedented destruction of the Temple of Valhalla on Earth had soon discovered twisted and melted shards of metal among the rubble of the pyramidic structures. Forensic teams soon determined that these belonged to a rare type of rocket that was sleek, aerodynamic and extremely menacing: a Deliverer of Judgement. One of these could travel thousands of light-years, seemingly in the blink of an eye. It could be targeted with exactitude. And it could carry a payload of fifteen devastatingly powerful nuclear missiles.

After the shock of this discovery had passed, the scientists and military experts prayed with gratitude that such weapons had not been used. Appalling as the destruction of the Temple was, the thought of what it could have been like had the rocket been equipped with radioactive warheads was too much to bear.

Then, painstakingly, the fragments of rocket were analysed for their composition and clues as to their origin. It did not take long for the most senior munitions experts to discover that the rocket, and five more like it, had been procured by one ‘Colonel’ Bremman, currently on record as living on Antrobus II.

Vicious kill-teams made up of elite First Valhallan soldiers swooped down on Bremman’s jungle property, expecting to be met by either a frenzied and bloody last-ditch defence or a long-abandoned centre of operations. Neither was the case.

It did not take the First Valhallans long to realise that their assault on the base would not be resisted. They dashed through the already-ruined jungle flora towards the ruined building that was all that remained of Bremman’s mansion without a single shot being fired in its defence. As they approached, the captain signalled his troops to halt, then circled the front of the battered structure warily. Shattered windows and caved-in brickwork met his gaze, as did burnt and blackened wooden railings and decking and smashed-in doors.

They found Bremman in a hideous, over-large gilt chair, one which seemed to be created out of gold and scarlet serpents. He was rocking backwards and forwards, the Saviour-King’s Prayer repeatedly on his lips, spittle dripping down his once-starched uniform. He had wet and soiled himself, and huge tears poured from his reddened eyes. His fingers gripped the carved snakes’ heads so tightly that they bled profusely. He stank so dreadfully that even some of the seasoned soldiers of the First Valhallans had to cover their noses. He stared into the middle distance, the Saviour-King’s Prayer perpetually on his lips, and did not even seem to notice as the grim soldiers hoisted him up and led him away.

Now he lay incarcerated in the Praesidium’s dungeons.

When his guard next opened the weighty cell door he found Bremman lying on the dank, dungeon floor, breathing with great difficulty. It seemed that the sporadic torture and the unforgiving elements had finally been too much for him.

The guard cursed, knowing that if Bremman died before giving up every last piece of information that he possessed, then there would be trouble. But he was quick-thinking man. He raised the alarm, and called for a priest.