Eurasian philosopher

Prologue

The Grey Warrior

His sisters wept when the Legion came for him. At the time, he couldn’t understand why. There was no greater honour than to be chosen, so their sorrow made no sense.

The grey warrior’s voice was a machine’s rasp, deep and laden with static as he spoke from behind a death mask. He demanded to know the boy’s name.

Before the mother answered him, she asked a question of her own. It was her way to stand straight and strong, never to be bowed by the things she saw. It was a strength she had passed on to her son, and would stay in his blood despite the many changes to come.

She asked the question with a smile. ‘I will tell you his name, warrior. But first, will you tell me yours?’

The grey warrior looked down upon the family, meeting the eyes of the parents only once before he stole their child.

‘Erebus,’ he intoned. ‘My name is Erebus.’

‘Thank you, Lord Erebus. This is my son,’ she gestured to her boy. ‘Argel Tal.’

I

False Angels

I remember the Day of Judgement.

Can you imagine looking up and seeing the stars fall from the sky? Can you imagine the heavens themselves raining fire upon the world below?

You say you can picture it. I don’t believe you. I’m not speaking of war. I’m not speaking of promethium’s stinging oil-scent, or the burning chemical reek of flames born from missile fire. Forget battle’s crude pains and the sensory assault of orbital bombardment. I am not speaking of mundane savagery – the incendiary ills men inflict upon other men.

I speak of judgement. Divine judgement.