Once again, the God-Emperor's might raised the Holy Sun above the horizon, shining down on all things and nourishing the grapes and olives on the hillsides. Today, all was as usual on Limnos III.
The main continent, the portion that rose above the sea, resembled a gigantic letter C. A gap nearly a thousand kilometers wide split the continental plate, allowing seawater to pour in and form a vast inland sea.
In the northern region of the main continent lay the City-State of Nopé, and within it, the Palus Family's mountain woodlands. Skaman Palus rode a Rift-Hoof Beast through the family's hunting grounds with his kin and allies. They hunted giant boars and deer. As head of the Palus Family, Skaman had always believed that hunting made for the best social gatherings. Those who came were family members or close allies. While they caught up, they also protected the family's vineyards and wheat fields.
The current Consul's term was nearly over. With enough support from the Councillor families, they could put an end to the Grandi Family's decade-plus run in office.
As usual, the hunt came first, giving the young men a chance to burn off their energy. After the exhilarating hunt came the feast, where the energetic young men would chat, wrestle, or spar.
Skaman and the other elders would lounge on reclining chairs, enjoying fine food and wine as they discussed the politics and economy of neighboring city-states.
Skaman brought his thoughts back to the present. The hunt wasn't over yet. The young men tightened their reins and gripped their spears and javelins, each eager to claim a heart.
Skaman merely tugged lightly at his reins to keep pace with the group. He ran a hand over his slightly graying beard and watched the energetic young men.
He was old now. The opportunities should go to the young, just as his father had once given him the chance to hunt a lion. As he grew older, his eldest son would take up his mantle. These young men, too, were the family's future. They were the ones who would rule in the days to come.
"Wine."
Skaman held out a hand to the Steward, who was jogging beside him. The Steward immediately passed him a waterskin. Skaman bit off the stopper and tipped it back, sending the sweet wine down his throat. Hearing it gurgle as it went, he wondered if he might be suffering from heatstroke. His head was buzzing, and it seemed as though the air around him was trembling.
"My lord! My lord!"
Skaman felt the Steward pushing at his thigh, which irritated him. The Steward had served him for decades, yet seemed to have forgotten his manners. Perhaps a few lashes were in order when they got back. Skaman decided to finish his wine first, ignoring the Steward's warning as he drank on. The buzzing in his ears grew louder, until it became a terrible roar that battered his fragile eardrums.
"My lord, my lord!" The Steward pushed harder and more insistently, and Skaman had no choice but to lower the waterskin.
For some reason, a sandstorm had swept over the hills, forcing him to squint. Even the Rift-Hoof Beast beneath him grew restless. Bracing against the gale, Skaman looked up—and his hand jerked, sending the waterskin slipping to the ground. He managed only to utter one phrase:
"God-Emperor above."
A Silver Dragon was flying toward them across the sky. It had short wings and a massive body, and it was breathing fire as it descended vertically. Only after it landed did the dragon's throat gradually fall silent.
The dragon's belly slowly opened, and towering Iron Giants strode out with heavy, swift steps. There were seventeen of them in all. Just looking at the Giants filled people with fear. No one could bring themselves to flee, as though this was simply how things were meant to be.
The servants fell to their knees, praying and weeping. The young men were just as helpless, and Skaman was little better. But decades of life experience let him recover more quickly. The dragon and the Iron Giants seemed to resemble the figures in the murals at the Emperor's Temple: the Iron Angels of the God-Emperor, tearing open the sky and descending to earth, as told in the tales of the sages.
The Iron Giant at the head of the group came straight to Skaman. With a hiss of escaping air as his helmet's seal disengaged, he reached up and removed it, revealing a face younger than Skaman's.
"Do you speak High Gothic?"
The Angel spoke in a deep voice, yet somehow it put Skaman at ease. At least the Angels had human forms. He might not look very old, but Skaman wouldn't presume to judge an Angel's lifespan by his own experience.
"I do."
They said the language had been passed down from the God-Emperor's servants. It wasn't often used, but nearly everyone among the city-states' upper classes learned it—or at least, they had once.
The Angel pointed at the Steward and servants, who were kneeling and trembling like leaves.
"Who are they?"
"My Steward and servants."
"Good."
Good? What was good about it? Skaman hadn't even had time to react before what happened next shattered the image of Angels the Mercy Sect's priests had taught him.
The Angel in front seized the kneeling Steward and drew a dagger from his waist. It was as long as a sword. The Steward pleaded with his lord, whom he had known since childhood, but Skaman could only watch from the side. He struggled to swallow and didn't dare move.
Peter drew the Combat Knife around the Steward's skull. Ignoring his frantic struggles and screams, he placed one hand on the skull and wrenched it upward. He opened it like a coconut, revealing the white matter inside, soft as tofu.
At the same time, several other Angels followed Peter's example and grabbed nearby slaves. Filon yanked a young man off his Rift-Hoof Beast, holding him up like a chicken. Filon didn't even bother to "open the lid." He simply opened his gaping jaws and bit into the top of the man's head.
What happened next made Skaman's stomach churn. The priests of the Sect of Punishment had been right. Angels were the God-Emperor's warriors. They were punishment and death, wielders of the sword against enemies and rebels. Mercy had nothing to do with them.
Meanwhile, Peter closed his eyes and focused on activating his Gene-Psyche Nerve, an organ implanted in him during his nineteenth Gene-Modding procedure. It let gene-enhanced warriors extract the hereditary material responsible for memory from the creatures they ate. By absorbing an enemy's flesh and blood, they could obtain the enemy's memories. In theory, of course, the organ could be switched on or off, or its degree of activation adjusted. But some Astartes organs had limited effects, failed to work, or were overactive. None of those outcomes was good.
Straining to sense the mortal's memories, he discarded the irrelevant ones and absorbed as much useful knowledge as he could: geography, politics, faith, and language. As his superhuman organs did their work, Peter murmured:
"More than twenty large settlements called city-states, and countless smaller ones. The continent is mostly mountainous, with little arable land. Parliamentary government; they elect a Consul. Citizen militia. A localized faith in the Emperor. Technology has advanced, but only to a limited extent."
Filon spoke his mind and cut in:
"Looks like the Imperial administrators have spread the parliamentary system again. Before the Imperium conquered them, they at least had a unified dynasty. Now they're more shattered than a glass dropped on the floor. There is one piece of good news, though: the Imperium's population census back then was wrong. Women, children, slaves, and foreigners weren't counted as people."
Peter ignored Filon. He knew the Voidsmith couldn't keep his mouth shut, so he let him talk. Turning to Skaman, he spoke in the local language, haltingly:
"Councillor Skaman, take us to meet the Consul."
"Ah!?"
Skaman didn't understand.
Peter sheathed his Combat Knife.
"Don't just stand there. I've got a whole planet to take over."
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