The streets of Iram’s uppermost tier, usually a place for scholarly contemplation occupied by small groups of academics and students, thronged with the masses of humanity. Great red streamers flew from every window, and the citizen revellers waved their own red banners, or wore some item of red clothing. The most adventurous had painted their face a garish red shade, and the revellers crowded together in clusters around such figures in joyous merriment. Alcohol flowed freely, as people’s private stashes were quickly distributed, and the street hawkers had taken advantage of the crowds by lining the roads with wheeled carts, made to manoeuvre out of the way of any patrolling Enforcers of the Faith, whose blue robes made them easy to see, and to avoid.

The robed enforcers had the almost herculean task of keeping some semblance of order during the festival, but they were faced by unwilling crowds determined to keep the fun for as long as possible. This scene was being played out on every level of the city, and only a few parts of Iram were safe from the revellers. The Adeptus district and the Emir’s palace were secured by the Arbites, supported by the small garrison of Skitarii from the Mechanicus Enclave and the Emir’s household guards, the business district now thronged with corporate security in dozens of different uniforms, every company having contributed to the security of their little slice of the city, while the Cathedral was protected by the unbeatable force of a full company of Enforcers, and a squad of Sisters from the Order of the Bloody Rose. Beyond these spaces, anarchy reigned.

It was the Emperor’s Day, the celebration of the new year and the supposed founding date of the Imperium. The realities of the Imperium meant that this date was some seven months removed from Sumer’s own new year, for this was the date on which the Imperial calendar reset, based on the Solar year of ancient Terra. The difference between Sumer’s year and Terra meant that the date of the new year occupied a different day on the local calendar each year. This year, Emperor’s Day fell after a particularly busy work-period in the middle of Sumer’s year, and it seemed the entire city was seizing this much-needed chance to unwind. Tomorrow, everyone from the highest college master to the lowest bonded menial would stagger into work with a blinding hangover, wondering how they could ever have let themselves be swept up in yesterday’s events.

The Colleges of the Doctrinopolis, rather unsurprisingly, threw themselves headlong into the celebrations, either attempting to bring in the crowds for their own celebrations or engage in hopeless but well-meaning attempts to turn the day towards quiet contemplation. The College of the Purifying Blade was not one of the latter, and blaring trumpets and thunderous drums rang out from their Colosseum, drawing the crowds in. The Colosseum itself was a great circular tower, comprised of tiered layers linked by a long staircase that ringed the building. Its lower floors were where the business of the college was conducted, and the crowds simply ignored the grand entrances to this section in favour of climbing up the great spiralling staircase, specially covered by awnings of radiant red cloth, and entering into the great Arena that marked the top of the Colosseum.

On any other day, they would have needed to pay for the pleasure, but Emperor’s Day symbolised the coming together of the entire Imperium in blessed unity, and so the Arena was open to all who made the trip. Members of the College stood watch over the great gates, charged with closing them when the numbers got too great. It was not uncommon for crushes to form, and people had occasionally fallen from the great staircase in past years, but nothing so trivial as tragedy could dampen the festival atmosphere. Of course, even on this sacred day, there were still those who would pay for the privilege of a better view and for the discerning customer the lowest ring of seats, looking down over the sandy floor of the arena, had been sealed off by electrified fences creatively hidden by yet more red cloth so as to create a facsimile of the tents used by the desert nomads.

Within one of these booths, resting in the shade and enjoying an icy drink brought to her by a decorative-looking serving girl, Lara Cafferty, Throne Agent Brazier to a very select few, looked out over the sands of the arena. She couldn’t quite see the entire space, being too close to the perimeter wall, but the purpose of these booths was more to be seen rather than to see.

Currently she was being seen reclining on a long dining couch in a tight-fitting bodyglove, with a bright red sash tied around her waist, and watching over the empty arena with professional disinterest. She was also being seen nest to Confessor Sacharine, one of the College’s inner circle and her patron. He had invited her here to enjoy the fruits of her labour, and the chance to be seen in the company of the most influential men on the planet was an opportunity no sensible businesswoman would miss. She made an effort to act suitably appreciative.

Suddenly the trumpets died away, and the drumming stopped. The crowd, sensing the mood, fell into a mostly-appreciative and respectful silence as a wizened old man stepped up to an altar set into the curtain wall of the arena. Helena recognised him as the Master of the College, Lector Crozier. He held up his hand for silence, and the last murmurs of the crowd fell away. He spoke with a voice that had decayed with age, but his tone carried decades of authority and his words were carried to the farthest corners of the Arena by numerous vox-grills.

‘People of the Imperium, people of Sumer, people of Iram!’ Each place name was met by a progressively louder shout from the crowd.

‘We are gathered here today, on this holy site, to witness sacred battle. Oh God-Emperor of Mankind! Look upon us today and witness these acts of heroism! Witness these battles, and look upon true warriors! Let the Games begin!’

The crowd roared and rose from their seats, waving innumerable red banners in the air. There were perhaps two hundred and fifty thousand people in the stands, and their combined noise was deafening. It was matched only by the trumpets and the drums, which began the very moment the Master finished speaking.

‘I don’t think I’ve ever heard a sermon so short!’ Helena joked, struggling to balance her tone between elegant composure and the volume necessary to be heard over the crowd.

‘Master Crozier believes that actions speak louder than words,’ Sacharine’s voice cut through the din with ease and carried a natural authority, doubtless honed on dozens of battlefields, ‘and it’s a virtue we try to instil in our students. Don’t get the wrong impression, though. All my lads are quite capable of giving a long sermon when they need to, but the distinction between prayer on a battlefield and off it forms a central part of our doctrine.’

A line of eight students of the college, wearing light armour of leathers over white breeches and a deep red shirt the colour of freshly spilled blood, ran out onto the field and formed a line before the altar. In unison, they raised their Eviscerator chainswords into the air and let out a titanic cry.

‘We fight for the Throne!’

Their words were seemingly pious, but Helena picked up on the subtle wordplay. This was what made this place so dangerous, she silently remarked to herself; faithful students could be corrupted without realising it until they were already set down a dark path. Her face displayed none of this, and she leaned forwards in feigned excitement as the eight fighters spread out from the altar and raised their weapons into fighting stances. Silence fell over the arena yet again as she heard the slow creaking of a portcullis opening, and the clanking of chains beneath her feet.

Suddenly, eight lizards rushed out from beneath her feet and spilled onto the pristine sand. Their scales were the colour of the desert sand, but red warpaint had been painstaking daubed over them in intricate patterns. Each moved low to the ground on six legs, and was ten feet long on average. They stumbled for a moment as they grew used to the sunlight, but after a moment it passed and they began to pace across the space with the cautious strides of a predator forced into an unfamiliar situation. Their mouths opened, and they let out a low hiss that Helena felt in her bones.

‘I don’t think I’ve seen such creatures before.’ She exclaimed in feigned interest, leaning forwards even further. Confessor Sacharine was a true professional, and if there was one thing professionals loved talking about it was their profession.

‘Sahlehs. They’re a rather adaptable beast native to Sumer. Take a Sahleh at birth and you can raise it to do all sorts of things. The Governor’s Household Cavalry raises them to be obedient mounts, and some of his tithe to the Guard is in Rough Rider regiments. The nomadic tribes of the Empty Continent bulk them up to absurd sizes and use them as beasts of burden, each capable of carrying the supplies of six families. We keep them angry, and make them hunt for their prey. It makes them smaller, but creates excellent killers and a great crowd pleaser.’

The Sahlehs had charged at the eight students, and scales had met the whirring blades of chainswords. Helena started in genuine surprise as the whirling teeth seemed to slide of the lizard’s back, only a few flying scales showing the weapon had had any effect.

‘How incredible to find a creature so open to adaptations.’

‘Indeed,’ Sacharine mused as one of the students narrowly avoided being bisected by a vicious bite, ‘the Mechanicus thinks they were created artificially in the Dark Ages to serve in much the same role as we use them for.’

‘They don’t have shock collars,’ Helena noted, ‘aren’t you worried about losing one of your students?’

‘Not really,’ Sacharine waved his arm dismissively, ‘we only bring out the animals on special occasions like this, as a way to put on a good show, and each of the students down there is quite capable of dealing with one Sahleh. Sometimes we lose one incompetent, but I’d rather his weakness be revealed here than on a real battlefield.’

Now that Helena looked closer, she could see the truth in his words. The lizards were ferocious to look at, but the students were only suffering near-misses, and she began to see the subtle dance they were performing. It was artful, but Sacharine was right when he said that this wasn’t a real battlefield. Within a few more minutes, the students stood before the altar, unharmed and surrounded by slain lizards. They gave the same salute, before jogging off into one of the arena’s entrances as a series of menial in coveralls began hauling away the dead lizards, and raking the sand to hide the blood. The roar of the arena subsided into the low buzz of conversation as everyone discussed the fight, and the Confessor took the opportunity to turn once more to Helena.

‘You’ll like the next fight, it’s the first batch of your shipment to pass our training.’

Helena smiled, though her heart sank, and she leaned back in her chair to better look at the Confessor.

‘I trust our product has met your high standards.’

‘Indeed it has, my dear. It took them a little longer to adjust to the light, no doubt because they came direct from the underhive, but there are some very promising fighters amongst them. We put all our stock through training, using the same pool of instructors as our students in fact, and these new mutants passed our standards faster than any before them.’

‘So, what’s the match?’ Helena asked with growing trepidation.

‘Four of my finest against the eight highest-scoring mutants.’

Luka could hear the drumming reverberating through the small passage. Her grip tightened on the long metal spear she had taken from the gladiator’s armoury, while her eyes were locked on the small patch of light at the end of the tunnel. Most of the other mutants turned away from this light, preferring the familiar darkness of their surroundings, but Luka knew that any time spent adjusting to the daylight was time in which she was vulnerable, and she was determined not to be caught off guard. The spear was another tactical decision. Most of the seven other mutants had taken shorter weapons, used to fighting in the enclosed tunnels of the underhive, but there were one or two of the better warriors who, like her, understood the paramount importance of reach.

She heard the grinding of chains as the portcullis that separated them from the arena was raised up, shortly followed by the crackle of electricity as the handlers behind them ignited their electro-staves. Rather than wait to be forced out, Luka set off at a dead sprint towards the exit, trusting the more professional warriors to follow her as they would automatically follow the strongest warrior in their old warbands. The roar of the crowd grew louder and louder and, as she climbed the ramp, she saw more and more of the grand arena. Tiers of seats filled by more people than she had ever seen before, singing and cheering in a murderous ecstasy, and four figures in gleaming armour that shone the colour of polished silver, and were incandescent in the desert sun.

She took one final step as stone shifted to sand and she stood under the open sky, at the heart of the Arena, three of the warriors fanning out on either side of her with practiced wariness while the other four were discretely forced out with electrical burns. Once they left, however, their innate cowardice drove them to mimic the stances of Luka’s warriors, in much the same way that a cornered animal will draw upon its last reserves of courage. Each was dressed in simple strips of red cloth, held together by an unadorned belt at their waists. These outfits ensured that their mutations were clear to see, and the crowd reacted with horrifying boos and hisses as they vented their hatred at the mutants.

The four warrior-priests began barrelling down on them with the force of a mag-train, moving with a relentless, near-mechanical, gait towards the four cowards. Their Eviscerators were raised back and ready to strike. Luka did not know if this was because they wanted to eliminate the softer targets first, or because they wanted the main fight to be with the better warriors, but she wasn’t about to let them succeed.

No doubt, the priests had been expecting the better mutants to turn tail and flee, or simply let them kill the other four. When Luka instead aimed a thrust of her spear at the closest priest, he was caught completely off guard and almost bowled over by the force of her thrust. As she had feared, the blade of her spear, which was sharp in appearance only, skittered against his armoured shin before sliding off. The priest switched his focus and, with a deft turn of his chest, swung his blade towards Luka, who dropped to the grounds as the whirring teeth of the chainsword passed mere centimetres above her chest. Chainswords could not be treated like bladed weapons; any effort to parry them would result in your weapon being torn from your hands and even a glancing hit would rip out great chunks of flesh. Even the smallest of wounds would be debilitating. The only option was to duck and weave.

As she rolled, she saw two of the cowards bisected in a spray of torn flesh while one of the warriors, his spear shattered on the ground, was run through. She also saw an opening in her attacker’s armour and, driving the butt of her spear into the sandy arena floor, drove the bladed tip up between his legs and into the gap between his greaves, impaling him. She drew the blade out as quickly as she had stabbed it in, and rolled back to her feet. The fighter staggered for a few moments and the crowd, who may have missed the blow, watched in stunned silence as the warrior-priest fell to the floor dead. Luka savoured the fearful surprise she saw through his faceplate, before pirouetting around to keep the other three in sight.

Two of the priests hadn’t noticed their comrade’s death, so occupied with fighting other mutants, but the third let out a cry of rage and, pausing only to decapitate the mutant he had been fighting, rushed towards Luka with his blade whirring. Rage made his movements sluggish, and Luka was able to avoid his first titanic blow, but after a moment the priest paused, as if centring himself, and when he attacked again his movements were cold and precise, and Luka had a hard time keeping away from them. She leant on every trick she had learnt on the Silent Observer, calling on years of practice.

She had been trained as an infiltrator, and her skills were not the finely choreographed martial arts of an assassin, or the brutally efficient CQC of the Guard. Luka had learned her skill from gangers and scum, and fought with the dirty tricks and feints of a hardened criminal used to unarmoured knife fights that were short and brutal. If the warrior-priest was a mastercrafted weapon, then she was a well-made blade; less specialised, but more flexible in use. The one advantage she had against a trained opponent was the unexpected and dirty tricks that formal instructors often neglected to use.

When the warrior brought his blade up into a recognised fighting stance, Luka moved in for a spear strike aimed at bypassing the defence. The warrior had trained for this, and brought his blade down in an effort to bisect her spear. What he hadn’t trained for was for Luka to reverse her spear and, using the guard that ran along the back of the chainsword, sent the tip of her spear sliding along the metal and into the small gap between the priest’s gauntlet and greaves. Blood began to pour from his wrist and his right hand released his grip on his weapon. With his right side unguarded, Luka closed in, holding her spear near the tip like it was a dagger, and drove it beneath the priest’s shoulder, crippling him.

The priest fell as the pain outpaced his adrenaline, and he fell unconscious to the sands. Luka had been so focused on the fight that she hadn’t seen the other two priests dealing with the last of the mutants and she suddenly found herself alone against the two of them. The warrior-priests took their time, raising their weapons to the sky and basking in the adoration of the crowd. Luka had become the monster in their eyes, the great beast to be slain in the name of their god so that their comrades might be avenged.

Luka blocked out the roar of the crowd, and the boos and jeers they aimed at her, and raised her spear to her foes in a mocking gesture. They didn’t take the bait, their two slain comrades exemplifying the need for caution, but instead edged slowly towards her, using their chain-blades to ward off potential attacks. For a moment Luka considered taking up one of the Eviscerators from the priests she had slain, but the enormous weapon was far too heavy for her to use and a weapon that cannot be used is merely a liability.

Instead, she rolled to the right, putting one of the priests in between her and the other, and aimed a strike at the narrow slit in the priest’s helmet, through which she could see eyes clouded by a furious rage. Her strike missed, narrowly skirting along the metal plates of his helmet and scoring a deep furrow into the silver gilt. He responded almost immediately, and his strike tore Luka’s spear from her arms, disintegrating the shaft and scattering pieces across the arena. Luka backpedalled in desperation, narrowly avoiding a ceaseless barrage of swinging blades, before her rolls were interrupted by the corpse of another mutant. She took up his twin blades in her hands and, throwing one knife with practiced aim, moved in while the priest was distracted, sliding the knife up into his pelvis, before leaving it embedded in his gut.

She collected another spear from the ground, as the crowd shouted and jeered. Some even began to fling stones or food into the arena, though none made it close to her. The final priest had lost himself in a berserker rage, and his swings were wild and unpredictable. All semblance of his training had fled, and Luka was able to deftly slip past him before nicking his hamstring with the end of her spear. He fell to his knees and Luka sent him toppling backwards with a forceful kick to his chest. He lay on the ground, wheezing and breathless, and Luka raised her spear to the altar in a mock salute before preparing to drive the blade through the priest’s eye.

Before she could, she was struck by a horrifying electrical charge that burrowed into her neck and travelled throughout her body. Her limbs spasmed, her weapon fell from her hand and, surrounded by the mocking laughter of the crowd, Luka faded into unconsciousness.