The bolt slides forward with a satisfying thunk and I fire again, autogun rounds flying downrange into targets as they appear. They swing up at random intervals and distances and I bring each one crashing to the ground. Eight, nine, ten! I leap off the fake roof and sprint to the next set of cover, a foxhole dug into the ground. My weapon stays pointed downrange the entire time; I am being judged on discipline as much as martial skill. The moment my boots hit the ground I am firing again, more targets appearing and falling before me. Though I dare not take my eyes off the range before me, I know that my three comrades are doing the exact same thing on three identical ranges to my left and right. No one faces the Warrior’s Trial alone, and I am only one part of a larger whole. Past the raised mounds of earth collecting any rounds that miss their target a magnificent mountain valley stretches out before me; the Raptor’s Nest has been my home for the past week, and it will be for at least five weeks more…

The crackling of the fire and the sound of acoustics break me from my reverie, and I eagerly tuck into my bowl of steamy risotto, lovingly prepared by the Nest’s permanent staff. My brothers in arms sit beside me, laughing, swapping stories of the days deeds and dulling the pain of the day’s challenges with spirits. Before us a great bonfire burns ringed by Death Cultists, their skin-tight bodygloves writhing sensuously in the firelight. They dance to the accompaniment of dozens of different instruments, the warrior poets competing with each other on guitars, flutes and harmonicas. The result is a discordant mess of sounds that is rendered strangely appealing by circumstance. Young men in the uniforms of the Noble Houses, egged on by their fellows, will sometimes run into the circle, ducking and weaving amongst the girls who avoid their grasp with a dancer’s grace. Rarely, very rarely, one of them manages to snare a dancer, either by virtue of his own skill or finding a girl who sees potential in him and willingly slips into his grasp. The captured prey is then slung over his shoulder and carried off to the billets, to the cheers and laughter of men and women alike. The ritual keeps our people strong; weak men will be unable to catch a dancer, whilst a girl who presents too easy a target will be ignored. This is the duty of the Nobility, to ensure each generation grows stronger than the last. Outside of the Nest, marriages may be arranged for political gain, or even out of mutual love. Here, the girl will be taken to her husband’s home after the Trial, and forget all her prior allegiances; the new couple duty bound to raise the next generation of warriors. None of the PDF teams involve ourselves in the dance, though we are all of noble blood. In a way, we are the end product of these rituals, the warriors strong enough to be sent off world to fight across the galaxy and carve our legacy into our enemy’s skulls, rather than hope to see our children accomplish the same. My eyes are drawn to the Masters of the Hunt, who watch silently from the wings, their presence lending spiritual legitimacy to proceedings, marking it as sacred in the eyes of the Lord of Battle…

The valley is peaceful, its depths covered in a rolling forest. We have been traversing this forest for two days, weighed down by our packs and carrying unfamiliar weapons. We have been dropped in to the valley with eight other teams, and the same is happening in eight other valleys. The weapon in my hands is strange, it is a facsimile of my rifle, made heavier by bulky electronics that fire a small laser. We each wear vests and armour covered in discrete sensors, if the enemy ‘kills’ us then the armour releases a strong paralytic, rendering us helpless. We have already seen the effects on two teams, and we have no intention of experiencing it ourselves. My point man signals discretely, he has found our prey. Another PDF team is moving through the forest before us, their equipment the very mirror of our own. We do not act suddenly, but rather slowly creep towards our prey. They are bombing up their magazines in a small depression in the ground, and it is disappointingly easy to encircle them. The tranquil silence of the forest gives way to the dull chatter of blank ammunition as we let loose. Our enemy barely has time to draw their sidearms before they all collapse on the floor in a paralytic heap. We had been tracking this team for a day, waiting for just this moment, and were now one step closer to joining the Eight…

My squad lay in a paralysed heap around me. We were part of the Eight, inducted fully into the Warrior Lodge and had achieved more in our lives than any other on this world, but still it wasn’t enough. I craved more, craved the chance to be called the best, to be brought before the Master in the Mountains and ascend, and yet this band of women were making a mockery of me, of us. We fought against them in a melee under the scrutinising eye of a Lodge Master, a demigod amongst men in ancient and powerful armour. I felt the heft of a blade in my hand, again coated with a paralytic, and weighed up the two opponents that still stood. The girls hid their faces behind iron masks depicting grinning skulls, but I could feel the mocking stares that lay behind them. We trained for years at close quarters combat, but these damned women descended into the underhive every day and tested their skill against the scum who dwelled there. I cannot win this alone, but I refuse to go without a fight. These whores expect me to take the defensive, so I rush them swinging my blade against the one on the left. She ducks, her mind doubtless reeling with countless ways to dodge the slash that would leave her paralysed and her team dishonoured. She is entirely unprepared for me to reverse my blade and plunge it past her ribs and into her heart. Again and again I stab her as she writhes on the floor in agony. They will have their victory, but they will always remember the man who took their partner. These cults are arranged along family lines, I have killed their sister or cousin, and they will always remember me whenever their family gathers. A heeled boot catches me on the chin and I am forced onto my back, the sole surviving cultist standing over me, ready to plunge her own blade into my skull until an armoured hand envelops her shoulder, holding her back. This ancient warrior, this god amongst men, who has seen more war than I ever will looks down at me and smiles, his scarred face splitting to reveal a row of teeth filed down into points. He speaks in a voice that screams of blood and battles won and lost on a thousand different worlds, it hurts my ears to even listen but I am enraptured by its sound.

‘You were defeated by your foe, but rather than give in to your fate or collapse in moral decay you chose to make their victory as costly as possible. You will not see the Master in the Mountains, but you have earned my respect. Go, and take what you have learned here to heart.’

The sight of this horrific figure was enough to drive Amelia from the man’s rapidly collapsing mind, blue balefire flickering around her as she withdrew her presence from his mind. Normal doctrine would have her stitch back together the prisoner’s broken mind as best she can, but there was nothing more she needed from him. She tried to stand, but her legs failed her and it took all the effort she could muster to support herself with her staff. Flavius moved from the corner of the room, where he had been standing with his rifle levelled at Amelia’s head, to offer support but she waved him off. The weakness was temporary, as her mind grew used to her own limbs again.

‘How long was I out?’ she asked offhandedly; time held little meaning inside someone’s head.

‘Fourteen hours Ma’am’ Her Sergeant replied, and Amelia began to notice the tiredness in his voice, he had clearly stood at his post for the entire duration. Amelia began to understand the degree of loyalty she now commanded amongst her followers, though she still wasn’t sure if she was worth it.

‘Get some rest for eight hours, Corporal Al’Said can take over your duties for now. Then get your team ready to move.’

‘Yes Ma’am.’ He replied, relief evident in his thoughts. Once he had left, Amelia took a few moments to compose herself before stepping out of the cell. She found Helena waiting for her outside, her features still hidden beneath grey robes. She did not speak, perhaps she did not feel it was her place, and so Amelia broke the expectant silence.

‘Contact Magos Zeletrass’ staff. Ask them for any reference to the “Raptor’s Nest”, it’s a special forces base built into a mountain range with eight valleys. Also, look through local legends for any reference to a “Master in the Mountains.” I need to send a report to the Inquisitor.’

‘By your will, madam.’ The girl bowed again and left, the perfect image of deference. Amelia saw far too much of herself in that girl’s struggle to keep her head down, or, more specifically, who she had been before her recent meteoric rise.

Her cogitator whirred and groaned as it transferred the report of her findings to the Inquisitor. The machine was unwieldy, but essential in secure communications, especially as she didn’t actually know where the Inquisitor was. The message she sent consisted of all the proper greetings, followed by a report on everything she had learned of the Warrior’s Trial, as well as her recommendations for future actions. She busied herself with a written Interrogation report until an hour later, when her Cogitator let out a brief chime. She had received a message from the Inquisitor that was brief, but expanded her scope considerably.

‘Message received. Permission granted.’

A small smile played its way across Amelia’s lips as she summoned her Adjutant. The girl was through the door almost immediately, but showed no visible signs of having rushed. This was clearly the product of some secret magic known only to the Administratum.

‘Madam, the Raptor’s Nest has been located. It’s listed in the records as the private retreat of a minor noble house.’

Amelia smile became a wolfish grin and Helena’s mind fluttered, unnerved by her superior’s open display of emotion.

‘Get us a transport from supply, then contact the Defence Force and inform them that we are requisitioning one of their regiments for an airborne assault.’

‘Madam?’ Helena was understandably taken aback, but Amelia wasn’t in the mood for delays.

‘I want us to be out of here and on route to the regiment within eight hours.’

Confusion warred with duty on Helena’s face, but duty trumps all in her eyes and she hurried off, no doubt to coordinate a hundred different things at once. The next few hours passed at a breathtaking pace; her limited office and quarters, as well as those of her team, were packed away and loaded onto the back of a long, vector-thrust transport usually used to carry drop-trooper platoons. Sergeant Flavius, his eight hours of rest only preserved by Amelia’s direct order, woke after a restful night to find a trio of menials standing over him, waiting to collect his belongings. Hasty signals were sent from the Precinct to Fort Badajoz, where an entire regiment of Iberian Cazadores had been roused from their sleep and reissued rifles. No doubt the fort was in an even greater panic than the precinct; the Inquisition, the ghost story used to frighten wayward children, was coming to their barracks without so much as a word of explanation. Flight plans were hastily scheduled, with both Iberian Flight operations and the Battlecruiser that still menaced the space above the world, and civilian flights along their approach vector were grounded, causing minor delays at airports worldwide. After eight hours of this chaos, a long transport ship lifted vertically out of the hanger, before shifting its engines for supersonic lateral speed.

Colonel Miguel Forjaz looked out across the airfield and saw only pandemonium. He had been roused in the dead of night by the Duty Officer, who had been almost paralytic with fright. They had received orders from the General Staff to prepare for the arrival of an agent of the Inquisition. That wasn’t strictly true, Colonel Forjaz reflected, the General Staff were currently rotting in cells; their orders had come from the office of Marshal Taimur, the Tallarn Officer who commanded the Inquisitor’s forces. Perhaps fifteen Officers in the Defence Force had ever met the man yet he already had a reputation as a terrifying monster who consumes the souls of mortal men to prolong his unnatural life. Such was the nature of the Inquisition that any rumours about them would immediately spiral out of control, and the Inquisition were coming here!

His men had grumbled when he used the Fort’s emergency broadcast systems to rouse them from their rest, but unhappiness had been replaced instantly by fear once told of their new commanders. One thousand two hundred men had shot out of their beds and into uniform, each man desperately checking the kit of the man beside him so as not to be damned by the actions of another. This frenzied attempt to ensure that no button was out of place inevitably lead to a scrambled attempt to clean the billets, as the irrational fear of the Inquisition deciding to see if their sheets were neatly folded set in. When the men emerged outside and, perhaps for the first time, truly saw the dilapidated state the fort was in another bout of mass hysteria began, and details were organised to trim back the weeds poking through the hard standing and ensuring the Officer’s Mess was in a fit state to receive Throne Agents. Just as the place was beginning to look somewhat presentable Colonel Forjaz was again interrupted by an officer, who brought an unthinkable message.

Since the arrival of the Inquisition in orbit over Nova Iberia, all the world’s armed forces from the lowliest municipal magistrates’ enforcers to the bodyguards of the nobility had been ordered disarmed. Colonel Forjaz was expecting to be ordered to surrender facilities for use by the Inquisition, just as Special Forces command would occasionally swoop in and ‘appropriate’ his Fort. He had just received an order to rearm his men and to prepare the entire regiment for an airmobile assault; they were not to be shifted aside in favour of elite forces instead, for the first time in his thirty years in the Military, the 43rd Cazadores regiment would be going into combat. If the announcement of the Inquisitor’s arrival threw the Fort into anarchy then the order to rearm sparked a near riot of hurried activity.

The armoury doors were unlocked by the Provosts, and the long process of redistributing arms began. There was only one armoury in Fort Badajoz, and the queue to collect weapons stretched all the way to the perimeter fence. As the long line of men slowly filed through the armoury, each collecting a simple rifle before proceeding to the magazine to collect boxes and boxes of brass encased cartridges, Forjaz dealt with a logistical issue of an entirely different scale. On paper the Cazadores had a hundred and twenty helicopters assigned to them, enough of the rudimentary machines to lift his men into any warzone and back, however only around half were functional, the remainder having fallen into disrepair or scavenged for parts to fix other aircraft. The fort’s only enginseer and his acolytes were working on reconsecrating some of the junked aircraft, but their rituals were simply far too lengthy. Instead, Forjaz called in every favour he had within the Planetary Air Defence Force, managing to rope in ten twin-rotored helicopters capable of carrying fifty-five troops each, if half that number sat on the floor. He even managed to gain a squadron of fixed-wing propeller aircraft, armed with air-to-ground missiles.

It was as he was watching the aircraft approach the runway that he was interrupted for a third time, the look of weary resignation he gave his aide enough to make the man offer a brief apology before continuing. Air Traffic Control, always slow on the uptake at the best of times, had finally deigned to inform him that a transport in service to the Inquisition would be touching down in ten minutes. Only a lifetime of discipline kept the Colonel from collapsing, though he did offer an expletive loud enough to silence the fort. He looked at his men, three quarters of whom still had yet to receive arms or ammunition, whilst the remainder sat around in huddles cleaning their disassembled rifles. Those men hurriedly reassembled their weapons, haste, and their Colonel’s obvious panic, causing agonising delays through rudimentary errors. In the end, when Colonel Forjaz spotted an indistinct black shape in the distance, roughly half his men were arrayed in a parade ground formation in front of the Regimental Headquarters. The remainder were still queuing outside the armoury, each man sprinting to join the formation after receiving arms and ammunition.

The aircraft that approached was painted a dark grey, with a pitch black Inquisitorial sigil barely visible on its flanks. Colonel Forjaz thought it was coming in too high and would miss the runway until, to his amazement, the four great engines supporting the craft tilted and it descended vertically to a gentle stop one hundred meters from his formation, its rear ramp staring him down. There was a mechanical whirr as the ramp descended, then a pregnant pause before a group of figures emerged from the darkened interior.

The agents were led by a stern looking woman in a black stormcoat open to display a majestically crafted breastplate. Her sunken features silently judged the men arrayed before her from beneath fiery red hair surrounded on both sides by a nest of wiring emerging, horrifyingly, from the woman’s skull. With a start, Forjaz linked the wires, her staff and the symbol of the eye on her armour, and immediately shifted his attention to her retinue; anything to avoid thinking too loudly about the horrific witch-beast the Inquisition had sent to steal his thoughts. His eyes glossed over a girl in simple grey robes before locking on to the two soldiers that flanked her. Never in his thirty years of service had Forjaz seen anyone quite like the two men flanking the witch. Clad from head to toe in dark grey armour that seemed to be made of some kind of ceramic and wearing dark red fatigues of synthetic material their faces were concealed by respirator masks with baleful red eyes. They carried lasrifles of a size Forjaz had never seen before, their magazine wells connected by long wires to battery packs slung over the soldier’s backs.

Professionalism kept Forjaz from turning to compare his own men to these newcomers, but he knew that his own men would share the expression he was currently trying very hard to suppress. The Cazadores wore simple uniforms of brown cloth, made in an underhive factory by underpaid workers. Their only armour to speak of was a simple steel helmet only rated to protect against glancing hits by conventional shrapnel. Their weapons were automatic stub rifles, and they carried one hundred and twenty rounds of brass-cased ammunition in four magazines held in simple webbing. Compared to these soldiers, his men may as well have been carrying sticks.

Burying his doubts beneath his long-practised professionalism, Forjaz stepped forward to salute the witch, who he assumed was the leader by virtue of her position at the front.

‘Mamzel, I am Colonel Miguel Forjaz, commander of the 43rd Cazadores regiment of the Nova Iberian Planetary Defence Force. I hereby formally hand over command of the 43rd, as well as elements of 227 and 130 Squadron, Planetary Air Defence Force, to you.’

The woman returned his salute with the sloppy air of the contemptuous or amateurish and reached out to shake his hand.

‘Colonel, I am Prime Agent Amelia Lafayette of His Imperial Majesty’s Most Holy Inquisition, I accept formal command of the regiment, though you will retain de facto leadership in military matters. I need you to take a mountain.’