Only Human Saga: Barely Human

By TK Shideler

1200 years after an apocalyptic event known as the Cataclysm, the Remnants of Ironhelm struggle to survive in a hostile world populated by horrifying creatures known as the inferi. Everything changes when one of the Great Enemies, a World-Eater, arrives and threatens to consume the planet. Now the Descendants must fight for everything they've known, battling the World-Eater and the inferi, while simultaneously fighting the darker parts of themselves.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jan 7, 2016
• ISBN: 9781329813809

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Only Human Saga: Barely Human

Only Human Saga: Barely Human

Copyright 2016 by TK Shideler

All rights Reserved. Published in 2016.

Printed in the United States of America.

ISBN: 978-1-329-81380-9

Cover Photo taken by Hannah Shideler

Copyright 2013.

There’s so many stories where some brave hero decides to give their life to save the day. And because of their sacrifice, the good guys win. The survivors all cheer, everybody lives happily ever after. But the hero never gets to see that ending. They'll never know if their sacrifice actually made a difference. They'll never know if the day was really saved. In the end, they just have to have faith. Ain't that a bitch?

-Epsilon (Church), RvB

Barely Human

Part I

Iron Angel

And yea, though I walk through the valley of shadow and death, I shalt fear no evil, for the Saints walk with me.

Saints’ Enchiridion

Prologue

I write this entry with no illusions that it will ever be seen by its intended readers. I write it with the hope that, someday, it might be found and shown to our people so they may understand.

We have made fatal errors in our time here. Many Remnants have died in the name the Saints. If it weren’t for our lineage and our immunity to the inferis virus, we would be dead too. As much as I curse my half-inferi blood, I must also embrace it. It is the only thing that has allowed us to survive this long. The restoration of our entire species rests upon our ability to survive. It is a tiresome burden, but one that we must shoulder with unflinching resolve.

Suffer in silence. A time-honored tradition of the Saints and their shai’drah. Our lineage, our blood-borne gift is a secret we must keep if humanity is to survive. But it is a secret I grow weary of keeping. We live now with one engineered constant in our lives: a complete and undying hatred for the inferi. But as much as I abhor them…they are my brethren. Every Saint’s lineage is tainted by the gifts: immunity, strength, speed, knowledge. And of the Saints, six of them —my mother and father among them—had the true gift. They were able to do things even the other Saints could not; gods among demi-gods. With everything, however, there’s a price.

The Saints are not gods sent by the stars as our people believe them to be. My mother and the Saints came to this land 36 years ago and were called saviors of mankind sent to deliver humanity from evil. When, in truth, they were but men and women younger than I am now. If our people ever knew the truth behind the Saints, they would tear down everything we have been struggling to build.

People need their gods. In my years I have found that to be one of life’s greatest parodies. Humanity cannot survive for itself. When the lights go out Remnants need assurance. But those old gods are forgotten. This new breed of Mankind needs a new breed of gods: ones they can see, hear, and touch. Gods that are powerful and more ruthless; who can do what mere Remnants cannot. And that is why the greatest truth of our world will be built upon a delicate lie.

Revealing our half-breed ancestry would not only destroy the godly illusions these people project upon us; it would turn them against us; it would tear us down and make the Saints into mere shadows. Only human. And without us, Mankind’s fragile existence is destroyed. We will have failed.

And so this is how we plot our own demise. This is how we plant the seeds of our future suicide. This is the gun pointed at the head of Mankind. In order to save our species, we must sacrifice the truth: bastardize the Saints and their purpose. My mother once told me, Be careful fighting monsters, lest you become one. I can’t help but wonder if we are the monsters. If the demons without are actually less dangerous than the cancer within. Corruption and lies are deadlier than inferi serum, and until the Remnants worship us completely we’ll be walking on glass. One wrong move and everything is lost. May we be able to forgive ourselves.

Keep and strengthen us…I know I wouldn’t.

— From the personal journal of Aiden, son of Taylor and Elizabeth, circa 36 Post Cataclysm.

Chapter One: Iron Angel

Azrael knew it was here. It had to be. His Ring was warm on his finger, like it had been lying in the sun for too long. As he kept going down the hallway of the ruined structure, the Ring began to vibrate. His heart leapt. He was close now. The Relic was close.

He kept his senses primed. Every speck of dust that rustled, every ancient rock that shifted, and every step of his echoed in his ears. Outside of the Protectorate, inferi could be everywhere; ambushes could prove fatal, even for a Deathwatch.

He turned a corner, pausing as his search brought him to a blank wall. He searched for a way around it, in vain. He cursed in his head. Travelling through miles of Protectorate, only to be halted by a wall? Azrael raised his hand, placing it against the stone. His Ring went crazy, drumming against the stone until it was practically scraping against it. He smirked. The Relic was close enough.

Azrael stepped back, squared his shoulders, and then Spartan-kicked the wall. It cracked under the force and then caved in as he shoved his leg forward. As the rock collapsed and the dust settled, Azrael paused, listening. No unusual sounds, other than the shuddering of the ruin from the collapsing wall. Azrael pushed his way through the collapsed wall, holding his hand out in front of him. His Ring vibrated with varying intensity as he scanned it across the room, and for a moment he was confused. The Relic had just been here.

He dropped his hand, surprised when it suddenly began to shudder furiously. He stared down at the chunk of rubble at his feet and knelt down. It was the size of his hand if he spread his fingers and easily the length of his leg. He placed his hand on the stone as his Ring’s vibrations became so steady that they seemed to make his whole hand buzz and tingle. He reached down, gripped the chunk of stone, and pulled it apart with both hands. Like a piece of porcelain, the rock shattered cleanly. Something clattered to the ground, and as it did Azrael felt his Ring go still. He looked down.

It was a sword, an intricate weapon with a design very different from the crowblades used by the Deathwatch. It was double edged like his, but lacked the gap in between used to capture inferi talons in combat. The blade’s edges swept inward, curved out toward the bottom, and then tapered into a razor sharp point. A blood channel ran down the length of the weapon. Its hilt was plain, the handle designed to be gripped single or double handed. It was beautiful, and as Azrael hefted it he noticed the distinct lack of weight: it was balanced perfectly, as if made of pure air. As he gripped it, the weapon seemed to whisper reassuringly: like a mother speaking to a son. He held the blade in both hands and closed his eyes, waiting for his Ring to make the connection to the ancient technology. It did so by harnessing his psionics, a gift that he had inherited from his ancestors: Taylor, the Savior, and Elizabeth, the Iron Rose. Although any Deathwatch could sense a connection using their Ring, only Azrael and his lineage had the ability to form a true bond with a Saint’s relic.

In the darkness of his closed lids, he sank into his mind. Then there was a flash of sparks. Voices murmured, filling his heart with a sudden purpose. Lightning crashed against a stone and sundered it. An entire planet was immolated, wiped clean by a light that swept across the surface. In the wake of this purge came a great burden; a weight of knowledge that Azrael felt keenly, along with an incredible sadness and regret. This relic, whatever it was, was incredibly powerful. Finally, Azrael found what he was searching for. He flexed his psionic mind, and in the echoing darkness, he received an answer.

Darg’Kana…

He snapped from the psionic vision. Retributor, he murmured out loud, that is your name, isn’t it? He paused. Something about that named seemed familiar, but where from? When he searched, he found the answer locked away in one of the mind-rooms he refused to enter. He accepted that he might not ever know.

He received a gentle psionic nudge from the weapon. The message was clear. It was bonded to him. Now, it would know no other master. He stood, giving it one last glance, before he mag-locked the weapon to the back plate of his cuirass. It rested there, whispering to him. He silenced it with a gentle brush of his psionics. He made his way back down the hallway, retracing his steps out of the bowels of the ruin. This place, at the outskirts of the Sacred Realm, had once been a great city. He had learned about it in Historia texts that he had studied during his Deathwatch schooling.

Long ago, before the time of the Saints, mankind had built great cities like his home, Ironhold. Their works had spanned the globe, great feats of engineering that had touched the sky. But when the Cataclysm and the inferi came, mankind was unprepared. They had been decimated, almost driven to extinction. Against the destructive fury of the World-Eater Linger, they’d had little chance of surviving.

But the Saints did. It was written, in the Saints’ Enchiridion, that they had descended from the stars on pillars of light. Taylor, the Savior, greatest of them, had come crashing down through the heart of Linger and used his power to destroy him. From there, the Saints had pulled Mankind from the edge and showed them the path to retake their planet.

At least, that’s what the legends said. Azrael, being a shai’drah, a direct Descendant of the Saints, had been told the truth by his father long ago: that the Saints had been kids half his age, mutated by the same virus that had created the inferi, and given a shot at surviving. By some stroke of luck—as well as great sacrifice—they had. But future generations could never know of this secret, and it was one that every Descendant told it was sworn to protect. The Saints had taught the Remnants to hate the inferi, and to use that hatred to survive. To betray the secret meant revealing that the Saints and their Descendants were part inferi, and would destroy everything they had struggled to build.

And build they had. Mankind had constructed great things with the help of the Saints and their incredible technology. The fortress cities, the Saints’ Hammer, the Deathwatch, all of them were testaments to mankind’s will to survive. The Saints had taken that will and honed it to a fine point.

Azrael came from his thoughts suddenly, as if woken from a daze. He had been so engrossed in his thoughts that he now found himself in the open-air court at the center of the ruined structure. Above him, metal beams of the frame that still held fragments of glass stretched out like an iron spider web. Buildings from other cities in the surrounding area had been salvaged in construction of Ironhelm’s fortress-cities. But the Sacred Realm had remained untouched: it was considered holy ground, the place where the Saints had made planetfall and brought their righteous fury to bear against the enemies of mankind. The truth of it, however, was much darker. The Saints had made the place forbidden so that no Remnant could stumble upon their secret. The whole manticore-and-horse show made Azrael despise the Saints’ Cult, regardless of who his ancestors were.

Azrael paused. The air here had suddenly become extremely quiet. His fingers twitched. Something didn’t feel right.

He spun around, his Vengeance rifle raised, as something leapt at him from a pile of rubble. The high caliber rounds roared from the weapon, tearing into the shadow as it reached the light cast by the moon above. In that instant, Azrael registered his attacker’s identity: a manticore, its jaws split in a pained bellow, eyes slick and black. The explosive rounds detonated along its underbelly, thinning ribcage, and exposed spine. Azrael sidestepped and the thing slammed into the ground. He watched in slow motion as the thing landed, rolled three times, and then came to a skidding stop at the opposite wall. He stood from where he had crouched to open fire, and as he did he maglocked his Vengeance rifle to the lower part of his cuirass. His lip curled up in a sneer as he popped the tabs on his Deathshroud: the long black coat that added extra protection and acted as one of the two badges of Deathwatch office. He needed to be able to move for what came next. Manticores were pack animals. They never travelled alone.

As if they understood they had been found out, six inferi peeled themselves from the shadows. Eight feet tall, as tall as Azrael but with half the muscular build, each of the creatures looked like a starved Remnant stretched too thin. Their legs were bent into three joints, allowing them to slink low to the ground and disguise the power hidden within their frames. Whipcord tendons slid along iron muscles. Their fingers were like talons, each capable of rending armor and flesh. Their black eyes gleamed and their lower jaws split as they hissed, revealing needle teeth. Azrael flexed his senses, pinpointing the location of each of the creatures as they stepped from the shadows. He had been fighting the inferi for the better part of five decades. He had shot them, stabbed them, and torn them apart with his bare hands. So this was nothing new. He reached up, gripping the handle of the newly acquired relic.

Let’s see what you can do…

As one, the inferi lunged.

Retributor sang. The weapon connected to Azrael’s Ring, and through it, his spirit. It became a part of him. His eyes became black as oil as his Saintly gifts roared through his veins. Two of the inferi were beheaded by a great sweep of the blade before they could reach him. A third was gutted as Azrael lay the blade across his shoulders and spun on his knees in the dirt, placing himself behind the fourth inferi. The blade swept across the back of the creature’s neck and severed it before Azrael drew the short secondary blade all Deathwatch carried, known as a shiv; an appropriate nickname considering that it was a shiv to a Deathwatch, but could be a short sword in the hands of a Remnant. This weapon Azrael buried up to the hilt in the inferi’s skull. He spun around, tearing the blade out with a sound like ripping paper as he brought Retributor down with a wicked backswing that cleaved the next inferi from the shoulder to its chest. The last inferi charged him, talons raised. Azrael knew what it was going to do before it even did it. He sidestepped its swipe, spun around its back slash, and ran Retributor through its chest. It shrieked, stunned as he severed its spine. Its shriek ended in a gurgle as he withdrew the blade and cleaved its skull through the middle.

The whole combat had taken less than thirty seconds, but Azrael was heaving, his body shaking with adrenaline. Thanks to his Descendent metabolism, however, the shaking dissipated almost instantly. His eyes returned to their steely blue as his body went through a physical reset: an instant after the duel had ended his body was back to normal. He glanced down at the blade. It was clean of any blood or inferi serum, and he chuckled. He was going to like this relic.

He maglocked it again and then went to the one inferi he hadn’t popped. He knew what Markus would’ve told him: it was sloppy. He hadn’t stayed focused on his form. He lacked discipline. The inferi was already shuddering and shaking itself back to life, the gash in its body from its shoulder to its groin fusing as its incredible physiology began to heal it. Like the Deathwatch, the inferi could survive almost anything. Only destroying crucial parts of the brain would put one down for good, and doing that was part of Deathwatch combat form. Markus definitely would’ve had something to say about that.

As he knelt down, slamming his shiv into the shaking inferi’s skull, Azrael’s smirk turned into a frown. It had been weeks since Markus, Descendant of the Saint of the same name, had left. He had gone deep into the Sacred Realm, alone with his Initiate, to eliminate a nest of inferi there. He still hadn’t returned. Even amongst the Deathwatch, who were used to going out into the wilds alone or in small groups, only Azrael stayed out that long alone. Two weeks of operation without contact was rare, and at three weeks it seemed like Markus had signed up for the Last Ride.

Azrael stood, wiped his shiv on a spare cloth, and sheathed it. Then he left the ruined plaza and walked out into the night. The darkness of the crumbling city around him was hardly that; to his superman senses, it could’ve been as bright as day. The piercing cold was halted not only by his Deathshroud, but by his physiology as well. He could be in the burning heat of the deserts or the frigid cold of the Frozen Wastes and still run the same temperature as a Remnant. He took a moment to take in the harsh beauty of the city around him. People had lived here once, mankind’s past selves. They had been weaker, yes, and less prepared for disaster. But they were the people the Saints had been forged from. And while he resented the great lies of their origins, they had still saved Mankind.

Azrael flicked three of the fingers on his Ring hand. The sequence deactivated the camouflage field on his transport. Where the Knights of the Deathwatch had once ridden horses, modern Deathwatch rode iron ones. The war bike was easily as long as he was tall, probably even longer. Its wheels were thick and filled with a special polymer foam designed to allow the bike to run with punctures in both tires. Its sleek shape was plated with thick armor and compartments, and its seat was designed for the comfort of long rides and the fury of mounted combat. Azrael unlimbered his rifle and locked it to the right side just behind his seat, with the handle facing up and toward the front at an angle for an easy draw. Azrael contacted the ring with the bike’s main console and the vehicle immediately jumped to life: the fission-powered energy core brought the systems online, ready and hot, in an instant. Behind him, vents spat hot air and flared out as he revved the engine. He withdrew a pair of riding goggles, pulled them over his head, and took off from the edges of the ruins. As he skirted above a crater a mile across, his gaze happened to fall upon the Sacred Realm itself. It lay a few miles in, the buildings gazing at him almost innocently over the great expanse of the industry around it. For a moment Azrael had a recollection of the nightmare that had happened there: blood, red lightning, and his father twisted into an inferi. He shuddered. He had no desire to return to that place ever again. In the fifty some odd years since he had been there, he’d managed to avoid it. He silently hoped for a hundred years more.

The open landscape sped past him. Now in the flat, cracked earth that made up much of the space between the Sacred Realm and Ironhold, Azrael found the remains of an ancient highway and followed it. On either side of him, great spires of rock reared up from the ground like great claws. They scratched the belly of the clouds, as if they were the talons of some great beast lying under the tortured soil. Slowly the tortured soil gave way to more fertile land. This in turn gave way to more, and Azrael kept a mental note of his location. He guessed his place on the map correctly just as his bike’s console blinked at him. He had re-entered the Protectorate, and now was under the protection of Ironhold.

A high-pitched hum made him turn. Right on time, he said. Something fast, round, about the size of a children’s kick ball, sped up to him. It tracked above him, locked onto his course, and then shot down a barrage of lasers. Satisfied with his identity, the drone warbled and peeled off to continue its search along the Protectorate’s boundaries. Azrael smiled. The drones were Deus ex Machina’s eyes and ears, and made up most of the Protectorate’s layers of security. Seeing the tiny flier made Azrael feel truly at home.

Soon, the fertile earth gave way to open farmlands: the first true indicators that he was nearing Ironhold. As the sun began to rise, farmers and outskirt laborers began to rise and come out of their dwellings. They would wave as he passed, if they could, and he’d return the wave. Then the outer wall of Ironhold came into view. At first it looked like a thick line above the horizon. Then the thick line gained traces of construction: lines of interweaving metal beams, plating being lifted and locked into place, and the occasional flash of a snap-welder. Then the road gave way to dirt, and then newer and even fresher rockrete. He passed by the autonomous drones running construction on the Secondary Wall: the second wall to be constructed since the foundation of Ironhold. This outer wall had been started just five years ago in order to enfold the rapidly expanding city limits. It used to be that only autonomous units and the bravest Remnants lived outside Ironhold’s great Iron Wall: the massive, kilometer high wall that protected the most essential parts of Ironhold. But now, Remnants from all walks of life were constructing settlements, factories, public facilities, and farms out here. As he made his way through the last of the open farmland and into the hub of the outer city, Azrael saw them going about their morning tasks. It was humbling to him; to see these people, men and women without any enhancements or the protection of the city, braving potential inferi attacks until the wall was complete. It meant that mankind was finally regaining the courage to take back their world.

As Azrael turned a corner, he caught the first glimpse of the Iron Wall. It caught the sunlight, the slanted surface shining in the flare like obsidian. Across the entirety of the wall were hundreds of parapets, automated cannon turrets, and drone deployment nodes. Just the sight of the Wall and its impressive size made Azrael’s heart swell in his chest. The inferi, in all their assaults on his city, had only managed to scale and cross the wall once. He approached the four-story gate, slowing as he neared. He waited for the door’s security to acknowledge him, scan him, and grant him entry. After a few seconds, it did. There was a series of shuddering thuds, metal scraped against metal, and then the two halves of the door parted enough for him to pass through. He nodded his thanks to Deus ex Machina as he went through the portal and into the bustling city that was his home. The day was just beginning, but already the Iron City was alive and active. With a population of roughly thirteen million and a total square mileage of 6,000 miles, it was the largest fortress city in Ironhelm; second only to Tempest, the city tasked with restoring the Remnant population. Azekial, his uncle and Lord Archon of the Deathwatch, had once told Azrael that its citizens screwed and did little else.

What Ironhold lacked in population, it made up for in quality. It was the home of the Deathwatch and the center of all things military in Ironhelm. It produced its own food, water, and had huge stores of ammunition, weaponry, and raw materials; all constructed and organized by the miracle that was Deus ex Machina. Every member of society that was able was required to be a part of the citizen militia, which underwent quarterly drills. And then there was the Deathwatch: 999 of mankind’s greatest warriors. Inducted at a young age and genetically modified to be incredible killing machines, they were the bane of the inferi and the Saints’ blessed sword made in the flesh of men and women. And he, Azrael, was one of those Deathwatch.

As he continued down the highway connecting the main gate to the center of the city, he caught sight of a procession of black-robed figures making their way down the walkway. He couldn’t help but frown slightly. They were members of the Saints’ Cult, heading toward Remembrance Vale. The spiritual heart of the city, the Vale was a marble square where statues of each of the Saints, godly figures wrapped in intricate sweeping robes, stood over a great pool of crystal clear water. It was a place of worship and contemplation, and although he visited for his mandatory Cleansing rituals required by the Deathwatch, Azrael rarely chose to go there. But he did spend time in the devis around it. Ironhold was divided into twenty-six distinct sections, or devis, and the one surrounding the Vale was second in size only to the Unity devis at the base of the mountain. This central devis, named after Taylor the Savior Himself, was where the Deathwatch came to blow off steam. The Angel’s Coven, a Deathwatch-only club, was located here, as well as a number of less reputable brothels, companion houses, and bars. But during night hours, only Deathwatch or their guests were allowed: one of the perks of sacrificing your life fighting the inferi.

But that wasn’t Azrael’s destination. He took an off ramp, moving up a sweeping hill and toward the western side of the city. Behind the horizon of the cityscape was the Crescent: mountains that acted as natural protection for the fortress-city, starting from the massive Terminatus Mountain and looping around on both sides to provide a natural stronghold. Azrael followed the highway as the buildings became increasingly sparse. Soon the highway turned into a two-lane road, with forests on either side. He followed this road for several miles until the forest dissipated, revealing a series of buildings resting comfortably at the base of the mountain. Azrael couldn’t help but release a relaxed sigh as he approached his estate. He was greeted at the door by one of the Remnants that kept the grounds, Lorgyr. The man waved to Azrael.

G’day Master, he called as he opened the gates. He noted the second handle poking up from Azrael’s back, the hunt was a success I see?

Azrael nodded and smiled. Indeed it was. Glad to see you have not burned down the city in my absence.

Not quite yet, Lorgyr grinned. Shall I have the Artificer ready his forge?

No thank you, Azrael parked his bike outside the main building of the estate and killed the engine. This Relic is going to be a part of my personal kit. I’ll have my uncle confirm.

Lorgyr nodded, closing the gate as Azrael pulled his saddlebags and rifle from his bike. Of course Master, of course.

Azrael waved his thanks and then moved through the doors to his home. He stepped through the entryway and into the central room of the house: the welcoming room. He inhaled, taking in the sweet cherry fragrance that Inara, one of the Remnants working his home, used to cover up the scent of blood and gun oil upon his return. Even as he thought it, she approached, her olive skin shining in the sunlight that streamed in through the open windows.

Welcome home Master Azrael, she chimed, her face spreading in a smile as she curtsied respectfully. It is good to see you home. You have matters to attend to, several stylus’ came in while you were away.

Azrael gave her a soft smile. Thank you Inara. He paused, then, were any of the stylus’ intel on Lord Markus’ disappearance?

Inara’s face darkened. No, Lord Azrael. I am sorry.

Azrael’s face fell, but he nodded and waved Inara away dismissively. It is all right, he told her, I will take care of them later.

Inara nodded and departed, leaving him there alone. Normally a Deathwatch Peer had an Initiate that took his equipment to the armory, maintained his kit, and made sure everything was ready for battle at any notice. These Initiates also took care of any household pleasantries, leaving the Peer free to train and hone his skills. But Azrael had no such Initiate; he was still in the five-year period of mourning after his last Initiate, a young woman name Mirasmi, was killed by inferi.

But someone did come to greet him. Azrael smiled as, from the room to his left, a shadow the size of a horse emerged with jet black fur and two gleaming yellow eyes. The shadow walked forward on soft pads, and without hesitation, Azrael reached out.

Hey Azarius, he murmured.

Azarius growled and pressed her forehead into his palm. Her psionic message came to him in a rustle of golden leaves in an autumn breeze; a clear welcome that only he understood. Since she had been gifted to him as a pup, Azrael and Azarius had been bonded through their shared psionic connection; one shared by all inferi organisms and, coincidentally, the Descendants of Saints that likewise had been psionic. Azrael laughed as he turned left, moving past the intricate furniture and to the private room that was his armory. He set his saddlebags down outside the door and moved to his workbench with Azarius following. As they crossed the hallway she houghed, nudging him with her shoulders, motioning toward his office with her nose. She linked him an account of detailed images of digital stylus’ and their delivery by a man in pale blue robes. The Postmaster.

Then she showed him, in his head, how she had successfully defended their household by chasing the man to a mile outside of the estate.

Azrael sighed with exasperation, placing his hand on her head. She gave out a soft groan of exclamation, her tongue lolling. He hefted his Vengeance rifle, dropped the magazine, and ejected the still-chambered round. He set this on a table before lifting the rifle and setting it down into its gravclamps. It hovered above the table, securely locked, and he reached to a shelf above the desk. From it he pulled a nanocleaner, a silver cylinder the length of his finger. He twisted it once to the right and then nestled it into the barrel of the Vengeance rifle. The thing emitted a high-pitch whirring sound as it began to spin in the barrel, before it disappeared into the gun. In twenty minutes the weapon would be cleaned, any problems diagnosed and repaired, and registered kills from the weapon would be programmed into its memory. The rifle was more than just a weapon; it was, in its own way, a relic. This one, though, was of Azrael’s family. This Vengeance rifle had been passed down through his family, and it showed: with each honorary title or award granted to its bearer, its external surface altering itself to represent each of the honors awarded. An inferi skull around the barrel signified Azrael’s thousandth kill with the weapon, which he had earned last year. The golden trim along the edges symbolized his ascension to Lord Captain, and the obsidian-black side plates marked him as a shai’drah. The weapons legendary name, Judgement, was stenciled in silver lettering along the handle, which in turn was decorated with bright markings telling the story of Saint Taylor’s descent from the heavens. Azrael smiled at the weapon and then turned to another workbench in the center of the room.

As he thought it he relayed to her, psionically, the finding of the blade, replaying it from his memory like an aged holofilm. He detached his back blade maglock unit, and from there drew the two swords: his Deathwatch crowblade, Fury, and the relic, Retributor. Azarius whined, sniffing the new sword. He knew she missed him and was curious to know what happened, but taking anyone other than a Descendant on a relic-hunt was forbidden by the Deathwatch Code. Azarius snorted, making it clear she didn’t trust the new weapon.

He set the blades down on the table and, although he didn’t need to, performed visual checks on each of the weapons. When he had completed the checks he reattached them to their maglock units. Then he reached up and pulled his Deathshroud from his shoulders. This he hung on a gravity stand designed to hold his armor. His model was built of the highest grade of materials and the most recent repoprocessors: able to, like the nanocleaners, diagnose and mend any damage to the coat and ensure that it was still in good condition. When he was sure that the Deathshroud was in place, Azrael backed into a gravity field. He had to close his eyes for this part; it always made him feel weird. He gritted his teeth.

It started as a barely noticeable tingling, like the kind that used to creep into his arms as an Initiate when he practiced Gap drills past the point of exhaustion. Except this spread all over him, and soon it felt like insects were crawling all along him. He had to remind himself that it was normal: nanomachines hidden in the gravity field went through the complicated process of stripping his armor and leaving him in nothing but his ballistic underlayer. He tried to stay still, but the feelings on his limbs made it difficult. Even after countless thousands of times performing the Ritual of Disarmament, it still made his skin crawl.

Finally, it was over. The slight weight of his body armor fell from him as the nanomachines pulled it from him. He stepped quickly from the field, shaking himself. He turned to see his cuirass, shoulder guards, arm and leg armor, all floating in place where it would be under his Deathshroud. As he turned, he thought he caught a glimpse of movement as the nanomachines did their work.

After removing his ballistic underlayer, Azrael went to his personal quarters and performed the Ritual of Cleansing. The hot water and non-scented cleansing oils washed the blood and grime from his skin, and after he had dried he performed a physical inspection of himself. There really was no need, but it was part of the Ritual, and discipline was one of the first Principles a Deathwatch learned. He performed a visual inspection first: his eyes traced the patterns of his god-like figure, each muscle shaped like it was chiseled from stone. He was three meters and 170 kilos of pure muscle, super dense bone, and toughened skin; all thanks to his Descendant status.

When Aiden had created the Deathwatch Order, one of the first things he realized was that the Deathwatch needed to be stronger, faster, and better in order to effectively combat the inferi. After many failures, Aiden had introduced the Iron Trials: a series of genetic, physiological, and metabolic augmentations inspired by the Saints’ abilities, mimicked through a series of chemical changes. This altered a Deathwatch Acolyte’s body and, if they survived, ascended them to the rank of Initiate. Although Azrael had never undergone the Iron Trials, as he was of Saints’ blood, he had undergone Initiation and the tests that followed. The next several years, decades if necessary, were meant to help the Deathwatch hone his or her newfound power into the ability to fight and kill inferi. After seven years as an Initiate, Azrael had been elevated to full Peer status at Markus’ behest. The Deathwatch Order’s wisest Mentors taught the Deathwatch that a Remnant against an inferi was prey; but a Peer against an inferi was an even match. Discipline, skill at arms, and determination were what made the Order so powerful.

As always when he did his visual inspection, there was nothing: no scars, no scrapes, and no bruises. His body healed them all too quickly. The only exception was the jagged line that ran across his left eye. This was a genetic scar, passed down through the generations from Azrael’s ancestor: Taylor, the Savior. But it wasn’t the only physical alteration passed down to him. As he thought it, Azrael allowed his inferi side to surge forth. His normally electric-blue eyes turned black as oil, spreading from his vertical-slit pupils until his eyeballs were nothing but black orbs in his skull. He forced the instincts to retreat, and his eyes returned to normal (for a Deathwatch). Sometimes, when he let his inferi side out, Azrael wondered what would happen if he alerted others to his half-inferi blood. Then he remembered his Deathwatch training and their militant prayer: destroy, eliminate, abhor, terminate, hate. Death to inferi.

Maybe keeping some secrets was a good thing.

After completing his inspection, Azrael donned a set of house robes in his Deathwatch livery. After prolonging the inevitable, taking as much personal time in his quarters as possible, he resigned himself to the fact that the business stylus’ weren’t going to take care of themselves.

Alright, he said aloud, running his fingers through Azarius’ fur, let’s go tackle that paperwork.

He left his personal quarters and moved to the study. His shoulders sagged as he approached the wooden desk and saw the stack of notices hovering in the air. He sat in the tall-backed chair and opened the first stylus: a notice about his recent reacquisition of relics and the Order Historia’s desire to take them for study. Azarius curled up alongside the desk, a giant black mass as she closed her eyes. Azrael sighed and ran a hand through his blonde hair. It was going to be a long day.

+++

Noon came and went, and Azrael was still tending to the stylus’. Finally at half past three he decided to take a break; his brain felt like mush, and a headache was beginning to build at his temples. He got up quietly so as not to disturb Azarius as her body rose and fell with her breaths. Such petty things he had to deal with here, whenever he came back from the field. He knew that some of the more annoying folks requiring his attention waited until he was gone in the hopes that he would accept their offers out of exasperation. Life in the field, fighting for his life, was almost more desirable than being home.

As he flushed his mind of the tiresome thoughts brought on by the stylus’, Azrael made his way to the central courtyard of his estate. The sun was still high in the sky but was slipping toward the western horizon just above the mountains. He inhaled the clear air, breathing deep. He hoped that this moment would never end. But it always did.

As if on cue, he heard footsteps behind him. He closed his eyes, trying to guess the owner of the approaching sounds. Light, and treading softly. The smell of perfume made him guess a woman. Cherry scented. He smiled. Inara again.

Master Azrael, her voice confirmed his guess, and he turned to face her. She gestured to the house. Lord Archon Azekial is here to see you.

Azrael’s mood brightened instantly. He followed Inara inside to find his uncle standing at the door in the entryway. The same height as Azrael, Azekial’s Deathshroud was trimmed with gold to signify his ranking as the Lord Archon of the Deathwatch: its leader in all respects of the word. The single black cord around his right shoulder also indicated his rank as the City Marshall. In all things, civilian and military, Azekial had the last word. He was built similarly to Azrael, but with a bit more fat on him due to being retired from the field. His hair was white but thick, and a beard more like a mane traced along the chops of his jaw and above and below his mouth.

Azrael, he exclaimed as they approached, "glad to see your return to the Iron City has been uneventful!

Uncle, Azrael embraced Azekial tightly, and then the two grasped arms in the symbol of Deathwatch greeting. Not as uneventful as I would like, he admitted, nodding toward his office, Paperwork.

Ah yes, Azekial chuckled dryly, the power of the almighty stylus. In the city it is more powerful than the sword.

Stick a politician in front of an inferi and tell them that, Azrael joked. Azarius nodded.

Where is Azarius?

Sleeping. She’s only had three naps today, after all. Azrael gestured to the living room. Come, sit uncle. A drink?

For neither of us I’m afraid. Azekial’s demeanor turned serious as he sat across from Azrael. Azrael raised a quizzical eyebrow and Azekial sighed.

We have received news of Markus.

Azrael was instantly focused. He leaned forward.

What has happened? Has he returned? By the look on Azekial’s face, Azrael knew that the news was grim.

He has not returned, Azekial growled, but his Initiate has.

Azrael narrowed his eyes. His Initiate returned? How has the Black Counsel not handled this transgression yet? The Black Counsel was the group of high-ranking Deathwatch tasked with dealing with Deathwatch of any rank who strayed from the Deathwatch Code. They were unnamed so as not to entice the wrath of the Peers, but when they donned the Black Mask they were able to dispense justice of any kind, at any point, upon a Deathwatch that had broken the Code. And abandoning another Deathwatch—and not just a brethren Deathwatch, but your mentor—was never taken lightly. It was expected that the Initiate die in battle alongside his mentor. For Azrael, it was a particularly sour note: Markus had been his mentor.

Azekial held up a hand. I understand your feelings toward the situation, but I have not told you all of it. He paused, as if thinking of how to say what he wanted to say, and then gestured for Azrael to move closer. Azrael scooted his chair forward, and then Azekial spoke in low tones. Gyralt returned to us alive, at his insistence, because he and Markus found something. In the Sacred Realm. Something we have never seen before.

Azrael stood, nodding to Azekial. Let me get my kit.

Five minutes later the two of them were on the road, Azrael in full kit and Azarius running alongside them. Although the bikes exceeded speeds of 100 kilometers an hour she had no problem keeping pace with them: in fact, by the psionic emissions she was giving off, she loved the chance to stretch her paws. The sun was just beginning to touch the tips of the mountains of the western crescent as they passed the Taylor devis and turned north. They followed the highway, and Azrael knew where they were going: devis Unity, the original fortress and foundation of Ironhold. Located on an isolated twenty square kilometers at the base of Terminatus Mountain, Unity was where the main political and military command infrastructure of Ironhold was located. The Deathwatch command tower, the Nexium, and the Saints’ Hammer command node were there, as well as emergency barracks, weapon stores, and underground access to emergency supplies. Unity was separated from the main city by a chasm which spread from one side of the mountains to the other, accessible only by the Iron Arm: the eight-lane bridge that spanned across the chasm. It was the only way across, lined with gun turrets on either side that sat cold on their tracks. They had never been tested, and Azrael wondered if they even received their routine maintenance anymore.

They crossed the bridge and immediately turned toward the Nexium: the hundred-story tower of black metal, the Deathwatch’s crosshair-like symbol emblazoned on its front in fluorescent red. They parked and Azrael bid Azarius stay near their bikes. They wasted no time moving inside. The Nexium was large, the base easily the size of Azrael’s entire estate. Ceremonial pillars spiraled along the inside toward the point, and waterfalls of glowing blue water cascaded down from thin-air using unique Saints’ blessed gravity tech. Hidden underneath the marbled floor of the Nexium—and ready to be transmatted up at a moment’s notice—was the Deathwatch command center. They ignored all of this and, instead, went straight to the nearest gravity elevator. As they entered and began to ascend, Azrael shifted anxiously. Anticipation coursed through his veins, and one hand rested instinctively on his shiv.

If he abandoned Markus out there, I’ll bury my blade so deep in his throat his descendants will taste it.

Although he tried to keep the thought to himself, he noticed Azekial glance in his direction. He made a mental note to hold his psionics in around his commanding officer.

They reached the floor for their destination: not one of the interrogation rooms above, much to Azrael’s surprise, but Azekial’s war room. He followed his uncle through the double oak doors. Azekial’s war room was large enough to fit a table for twenty and wide enough for a full complement of politicians and their guards to stay comfortably. At the far end the windows looked out over the city, holographic screens hovering in the air at head level. However, these were all blank. His attention was instead drawn to the three Deathwatch, standing over a dirtied figure sitting in a chair. He was eating, his mouth stuffed full of some kind of chicken that smelled delicious. It reminded Azrael that he hadn’t eaten since he’d returned home. The three Deathwatch turned. Azrael recognized them: the woman in the front with black hair, Rene, nodded to him, as did the grey haired man with a salt-and-pepper beard, Rohn. The last man stood a good head over the other two Deathwatch, his bald head shining in the light and his twitching mouth surrounded by wiry black hair: Raphael. Unlike Azrael he was a shai’dor, a Descendant of one Saint. He was the owner of the Angel’s Coven Retreat and known by the Deathwatch as the Voice of Ironhold for his uplifting speeches and likeable character. As Azrael neared the table, he realized Raphael was trying to hide a smile.

What in the Saints’ damned names could be so funny? Azrael thought.

Initiate! Rohn barked. On your feet inferi humper! There are officers in the room!

Gyralt dropped his silverware and was instantly on his feet. He struggled to swallow the last of the food in his mouth, his right fist slamming to the center of his chest in the Deathwatch salute.

Lords! his face was red as he attempted to project his voice as loud as possible, Initiate Gyralt reporting!

At ease. Azekial bid the Initiate be seated and indicated the plate of food, Finish your meal, Deathwatch.

The Initiate didn’t budge. With respect, sir, I need no further sustenance. I merely wish to report my findings.

Azrael looked the Initiate up and down. His armor and black robes were filthy, covered in mud, blood, and the dull orange of inferi serum. Given the physical and genetic modifications but lacking the full discipline and training necessary to become a Deathwatch, Initiates were given armor that was unenhanced: steel plating, normal cloth for their robes and cloak, and unadorned kit. Azrael noticed that his shiv and crowblade were gone. Had he lost them, or had the Deathwatch taken them from him? The man’s almond eyes glistened, red from lack of sleep, and fresh scrapes and bruises covered his face. He had obviously been in one hell of a fight.

Where is Markus? Azrael had to resist the urge to spit the question out. The Initiate’s eyes fell to the floor.

"He… he fell, m’lord. In glorious battle against the