It was the break of dawn, and the great dunes of the Thirsting Sea glowed a tremendous orange, while the reverse of the dunes remained in deepest shadow. From the air, it resembled the stripes of a great jungle cat. Above this vast emptiness, and silhouetted against the rising sun, three shapes flew across the desert at supersonic speeds. They hung low over the desert sands, scattering great clouds of particulates as they passed. The three shapes were long and bulky, with stubby wings and enormous jets. Each Transporter-pattern Thunderhawk carried underslung Repressor transports, and each bore the dark blue scheme and livery of the Adeptus Arbites.

Within the confines of the Repressors, the adepts of the Arbites readied themselves for war. They sat in silence, two straight lines of metallic-blue figures seated on the two rows of benches that ran along the base of the armoured vehicle while yet more Arbites stood on the platforms behind the seats, standing beside the closed portholes that allowed a standing arbitrator to fire out of the vehicle. Their leader, a stony-faced man whose own carapace armour was covered by an ornate stormcoat, leant over the driver’s shoulder at the front of the vehicle, watching their progress through the pict-screens.

As the first light of dawn caressed the city of Iram, bathing one side of the immense superstructure in a golden light, the immense gates of the city’s Arbites Precinct slid open. With mathematical precision, a convoy of six Rhino’s slipped out into the street, each a set distance apart. Sonorous sirens blared from the vehicles’ Laud Hailers and the pre-dawn darkness was shattered by the blue glow of their flashing lanterns. The few vehicles out in the city at this early hour practically threw themselves off the road at the convoy’s approach, knowing with all certainty that the armoured transports would run them off the road rather than slowing their inexorable advance.

Their progress did not go unnoticed, for the Arbites were a seldom-seen sight in Imperial cities, and they almost never appeared in such force. The Arbites were not the common law enforcement officers of the Imperium, that duty fell to the forces under the command of the Planetary Governor. Iram only differed slightly from this norm, for it was a Doctrinopilis of the Ecclesiarchy and so the Ecclesiarchy took responsibility for its domain. Technically, the city of Iram was managed by the Emir, an appointee of the Planetary Governor, but in reality, it was the Archbishop that ruled and his Enforcers of the Faith that kept order.

These blue-robed figures were left dumbstruck as news of the Arbites convoy filtered through their channels; Imperial law and custom placed the Arbites above the Enforcers, and so they could not simply inquire as to the Arbitrator’s destination. Still, the Deacon-Militant of the Enforcers dispatched his men to the streets, determined not to be shut out by the Arbites. These troopers reported back to their commanders in shock when the Arbites convoy split to cover the three dormitories used by the College of the Penitent Priest.

As the Rhino’s rear hatches dropped to the earth with a calamitous crash, the Arbites erupted from their transports with cold fury, storming the halls with flash grenades and less-than-lethal ammunition, dragging students from their rest and lining them up against the wall. The students were brought into the corridors, dressed in whatever they had been wearing in their beds, and restrained for collection at a later date. The Arbites entered the Faculty’s hall with much less restraint, and a few of the college’s teachers met their advance with illegal firearms. Their efforts were cut short in a hail of shotgun shells, and soon all three halls were firmly under the control of the Arbites,

Simultaneously, the three aircraft continued on their approach to the Doctrinopolis, issuing a terse denial to the inquiries of the city’s Air Traffic Control. The mandate of the Arbites placed them above any earthly authority, for they were an Adeptus of the Imperium and drew their mandate from the Imperial Senate itself. Still, their arrival did not go unnoticed and hurried transmissions were sent from a single ATC officer to seven of the colleges, passing through a network of back-channels and noospheric feints.

The aircraft roared over the First Tier of Iram, scattering the morning peace in the roar of their titanic engines. The Thunderhawk Transporters descended to near street level before depositing half of their Repressor transports. This first duty completed, the immense aircraft made their way to the towering flanks of Iram’s superstructure, passing into the Second Tier through the narrowest of gaps. The enclosed space increased the roar of their engines to deafening levels, and their approach woke the whole tier. The last of the Repressor transports were deployed amidst the shattered glass of mid-level tenements, and the Arbites riot officers within moved to reinforce the garrison at the Halls.

On the first tier, the Repressor convoy wound its way through the empty city streets, laud-hailers proclaiming their presence through wailing sirens and recited Warrants. The College of the Penitent Priest loomed overhead, as the remote-operated storm-bolters atop the vehicles cycled their ammunition into the ready position. At the entrance to the college, a lone figure in flack armour ducked out of the door just long enough to send a Krak missile hurtling down the city streets, before a withering hail of bolt-shells drove him back indoors.

The missile shot wide, shattering against the ornamental façade of one of the lesser spires, and the Arbites transports prevented any further insults by sending shot after shot into the frontage of the collage. Ornamental stonework and wonderous works of wrought iron fell to earth as they collapsed beneath the storm of bolt-shells. The Repressors moved ever onwards, splitting as they neared the building to cover the three entrances. Two of the vehicles halted before the marble staircase that lead to the structure’s grand entrance, disgorging four files of Arbitrators who clambered up the stairway like a swarm of beetles.

The final Repressor made a beeline for the garage door that served as the service entrance to the complex. The door itself was shot through with holes, and would likely never work again, so the Repressor simply pressed onwards. Behind the door, the minimal defence offered by four armed guards was shattered as several tons of ceramite barrelled through the metal gate, crushing the hapless guards beneath its armoured treads. The Arbites stormed out into the carnage, as the Repressor deployed smoke canisters to hide their advance. Gunfire echoed throughout the lower levels of the College, startling the women who lay bound in cells on either side of the passageway.

The College’s guards, and many of the faculty, put up a nearly suicidal defence, managing to slow the Arbites advance at the cost of their own lives. The College’s grand entrance hall became a killing field as two heavy stubbers were brought to bear from a balcony at the far end, firing down the length of the chamber at a line of Arbites huddled behind man-high tower shields. For their own part, the Arbites responded with volleys of shotgun fire, switching out their flechette shells for solid slugs, but they simply couldn’t hit the guns without putting themselves at risk. Grenade launchers were brought up, and flash canisters were hurriedly exchanged for frag shells that flew over the shield wall and into the balcony, collapsing the entire structure and tearing the gunners to ribbons.

The fire teams made up for lost time, sprinting down the length of the chamber until they found themselves in a much more comfortable warren of corridors, where judicious use of flash canisters and shotguns could solve every problem. Beneath their feet, the Arbites were in the process of securing the basement. They had interrupted one College member mid-coitus, and had bound his naked form in chains to the side of the Repressor, so that all might see his sins. His partner had not been secured, her wounds were too great and she had died immediately following her rescue. The squad commander was looking down at the corpse, her helmet gripped tightly in a gauntleted fist.

Up and up the tower they climbed, detaining those few College members who surrendered, or who survived the fury of Imperial justice. They found the room where their informer had fallen, the ground still caked with dried blood, and the data-room next door, still stacked high with innumerable written records and video tapes. Senior Arbitrator Atreades gave the piled documents a single look before immediately ordering a pair of Arbitrators to secure the files for transport.

In the warren of corridors beneath the College, the first of the captives were being released from their cells before being brought to one of the waiting Repressors for identification, interrogation and hopefully repatriation. The squad commander stepped out of the mysterious room with the corpse at its centre, her helmet still held in her hand in violation of standing regulations. As she passed the Arbitrators engaged in opening the cells and freeing the captives from their esoteric bonds, one young woman with coffee-coloured skin and matted and dishevelled black hair broke free from her liberator, running towards the squad commander.

One of the Arbitrators raised his shotgun to fire, only to lower it as the poor girl fell to her knees at the commander’s feet, her arms wrapped around the stern woman’s legs like they were the curtain walls of the Imperial Palace itself. She began to cry, first silently as tears fell down her cheeks before breaking out into sobs that grew and grew until the entire corridor filled with heart-wrenching wails. The Arbitrator, her own sandy hair tied behind her head in a tight bun, looked down at the wailing girl, dumbstruck, before dropping to one knee and embracing her in a reassuring hug.

Luka was woken by the sound of supersonic engines roaring past her chambers near the top of the colosseum. She had rolled out of bed before she was even fully aware, tearing yet another set of sheets to ribbons and catching her spikes on the metal springs within the matrass. When her consciousness had fully reasserted itself, she had already dropped into a crouch below the level of her small window, and her arm was reaching for the autopistol on her bedside table.

Her chambers were sparse, but not ugly, and located perhaps four-fifths of the way up the College of the Purifying Blade. She had a closet, that held numerous spare sets of loose-fitting robes and tan-coloured combat-fatigues, a simple bed on a metal frame and a desk that was currently entirely unoccupied, and would remain so for some time. She was not illiterate, but there was no reason for the cult to know that. There were two doors set into the walls, one that lead to the corridors of the staff quarters and one that concealed a small bathroom, complete with an icy shower. Some semblance of a view, and some small amount of relief from the agonising heat of Iram, was provided by a small window that Luka left open at all times.

There was a hawk perched on her window, looking stunned form the pass of whatever that low-flying aircraft had been. It’s sandy-brown feathers were rustled and its eyes were darting around the room in confusion. Luka gingerly stepped up to the open window, and reached out with her had to caress the wonderous creature. Luka loved birds, having never seen any before she had first arrived on Iram, and she caressed the creature’s feathers with a gentle touch, keeping her wicked spines well away from the hawk’s soft feathers. The bird preened, before flying away as the peace of the moment was interrupted by a loud banging at her door.

“Get dressed, Spikes,” came the authoritative voice of Vladimir Benevente, “we have to move, now!”

Without waiting for a word of reply, the Iberian nobleman burst into her room, handing Luka an autogun and a set of webbing full of ammunition.

“What’s going on?” she demanded as she rooted around in her closet for a pair of undamaged trousers.

“The fucking Arbites are making a move on one of our associate colleges. Looks like a simple cock up, so we should be safe, but the council’s called a meeting and we’re needed to provide security.” He threw a shemagh into her arms as she slipped on a loose-fitting vest, indifferent to the way her spikes tore the fabric. “Cover yourself, we’re just mercenaries now.”

“What’s the Council,” she demanded, even as she complied with his order, “and why not use the senior students?”

Fortunately, the senior instructor was not put out by her request, perhaps because she was working and talking at the same time.

“The Council’s made up of all the college heads who share our goals. They hate each other’s guts so they only meet occasionally, and each brings their own security detail. The students don’t know about any of this, and you mustn’t tell them. Their duties lie on other worlds, but Iram is our city and we’re responsible for the upkeep of the other operation here. That’s all I can say, Spikes.”

“No worries,” Luka said as she struggled to wrap the shemagh around her head, before Vladimir simply stepped over and did it for her, “you say we guard them, then we guard them. That’s why you’re the warlord.”

“Now there’s a title I could get used to.”

Vladimir lead her out into the corridors of the staff quarters, and it immediately became apparent that something was amiss. Fire teams of security personnel were moving down the halls, carting heavy stubbers and autorifles. The training staff, each either imported from offworld like Vladimir or saved from the slave-pits like Luka, stepped out to follow the Iberian nobleman, until he led a section of eight men and woman. Though they normally dressed in a riot of clothes and carries whichever weapon they were most suited to, the instructors had foregone their usual equipment for anonymous smocks, shemaghs and identical autorifles.

Vladimir himself was dressed like a paramilitary officer, in a dress uniform that was almost, but not quite, the same as that worn by fifteen different organisations in Iram alone. Anyone looking their way would simply assume they were a group of tribal mercenaries contracted out to one of Iram’s many corporations. Their transport was similarly discreet, an unmarked van that had been gutted and filled with enough seats for all of them. The instructors entered the back of the van while the Benevente stood back to greet the immense form of Confessor Sacharine, and the significantly more wizened Master Crozier.

The two priests stepped into a chauffer driven car, while Vladimir took the passenger’s seat at the front of the van, one of the other instructors acting as the driver. The car left first, weaving its way through the first of the morning’s traffic, with the van following behind at a discrete distance. Luka had some knowledge of the city’s layout, but the van was windowless and there was only so much she could see past the other instructors. Instead she settled into the rudimentary battle-drills of her autorifle, going through the normal safety rituals and loading a full magazine. Around her, the other instructors did the same.

Eventually the van slowed, before stopping entirely, and the instructors filed out with a terse word of command from Vladimir. Luka found herself beneath the metal superstructure of the First Tier, outside a nondescript building near the centre of the Second. Despite herself, she let out a sigh of relief at the sight of the comforting ceiling. For the first time in a while, she felt at peace with her surroundings. Vladimir noticed her distraction and placed a hand on her shoulder, kindly but firmly bringing her back to the here and now.

“Remember, Spikes, we’re here to work, not admire the scenery.”

“Right, sorry.”

Vladimir raised his voice to gather in the instructors, even as several other vehicles began to pull into the walled compound.

“Alright, listen up! You’re on perimeter duty. That means you find a vantage point and keep an eye out for trouble. Do not fire your weapons unless someone shoots at you; the absolute last thing we need right now is to bring the Arbites down on our heads. Faisal, you’re in charge of the squad. I’m needed at the meeting inside.”

The squad of instructors dispersed, moving to positions around the compound overlooking the streets beyond. Luka hung back, reaching out to Vladimir as he walked away. Her hand brushed against his shoulder and he turned slightly, only to be pulled back as she grabbed him by the lapels and brough his lips up to her own. They stayed there for a few moments in a passionate embrace, their hands wandering even as the other instructors started to take notice and cry out good-natured taunts. After a while, Luka pulled back from the kiss, knowing that she couldn’t hold him forever. Before he left, she dropped her head ever so slightly and spoke in a quiet voice that only he could hear.

“Warlord.”