Prologue: Where the lights fades into shadow

Across the cold, dark and limitless sky were scattered tiny beacons of icy motionless light, shimmering only with the blurred vision of light imperfectly caught as the position from which observed moved quicker than the image took to travel towards it. It had a jarred effect, especially to the edge of the window, but it still remained a glorious vision of the eternal oceans of emptiness which separated the tiny islands of life which inhabited it. Only at this juncture, with the relative speed of the carrier brought down could such a panoply of titanic beauty be observed in all its mind blowing awe. A philosophical observer might have reflected on the millions and billions of void which divided the far flung worlds of this galaxy, the domain of the enlightened, and whatever dark barbarism the theologians postulated lay beyond, but this observer was not a philosopher. He had no time to be. He knew the numbers of many of the stars he saw in the observation window. Many he had been on. They did not concern him now. What did was the larger of the objects he saw in the centre of the window, glowing with ever increasing brightness as they drew near it. The home of a people who had brought their own fate upon them. The destination of their mission.
He was a well built man with a stern bearing, his face hardened to accept all realities and face them with determination. His golden hair flowed to the shoulders of a circular black cape which reached to his waist. His suit, well cut but in utilitarian fashion of a coarse but still not inexpensive material was in a matching colour, as were his ankle boots. The only other colour visible on his person consisted of the golden weapon belt around his waist, more there for the sake of appearance and tradition than its actual value in a combat situation, to which various apparatus were attached, and the insignia on his chest, five concentric circles. He did not move, gazing into the vastness at the one solitary star in the centre staring with impassive features and an iron stance. A voice from behind him broke his reverie “Are you that eager to see it, Trindan?” The observer turned and looked down from the balcony where he stood to the foot of the steps where the speaker stood, dressed identically, aside from the black, gold plumed, vizored helmet he carried under his arm. He was a trifle shorter with darker hair and slighter of frame, yet his jaw was more firmly set and one hand rested on the weapons on his belt, his mouth constricting into what could be seen as an expression of wry amusement, his blue eyes wildly dilated, betraying the use of the considerable amounts of Jeral, often referred to in combat circles as the battle powder.
The man addressed as Trindan moved down the steps towards him.“I would rather not see it at all. Not now. But it is what we must do. And thus I watch it.” His companion glanced almost absently at the stone faced features of the shaven headed slave, grey robed in the corner of the deck and smiled wryly. “I hope now that you of all our warriors, the one who has been honoured highest, are not losing your nerve. This after all could be our finest hour. We all desire the opportunity to crawl before the feet of the celestial son of heaven as well.”
Trindan glanced once more to the vision outside. The honour he had recently received had been due as much to luck as judgement, he was aware. The man with whom he now spoke, his greatest comrade, was a least as worthy of such treatment and both men knew it. The other man continued. “I still believe no less than I did at that conference that this could be the greatest triumph we, the greatest flotilla in the Empire could achieve. We may be allowed to assume the position of Trusted after this. Look at it like that. Then nothing matters except achieving that victory.”
Trindan viewed his companion slowly before replying “The difference between impassioned talk in the grandeur of a Chamber of Lords of the Empire and the grim reality of combat is very great, as both of us have cause to know. We have no real idea at all of what we face here, none. We may be the greatest flotilla in all the Empire, but we are still just forty eight vessels. Not a lot to take out an entire culture. There are millions, maybe billions there – what do they have? Do we have any concept? I know the strength of our artillery, but it is not invulnerable and aside from that all we have is oaths and promises. We just don’t know what the odds against us are, and ten to one against would be naively optimistic.”
The eyes of his companion twinkled as he turned and clicked his fingers at the slave in the corner, who disappeared into an alcove cut into the silver walls of the deck. “And how many times have we had such odds against us? And come out better for it? It is only when you grapple with death, you really know you are alive. You know that, you share that with me. It’s all the more reason to make sure we win.”
The slave reappeared carrying a silver pipe. He presented it to Trindan. The other man gestured for him to take the pipe. “Have some Jeral. It’ll put you in the mood more.”
Trindan hesitated before nodding slowly. He took hold of the pipe and raised it to his lips. The other man lifted his index finger and touched the bowl, in so doing allowing a burst of flame to dart forth from his finger tips to ignite the white crystals contained within. He gave a short laugh. “Let the march go on.”



Trindan and his companion moved slowly down the arched silver corridor in a state of calm. Life, space and the momentum of the universe seemed to be moving along with them, in harmony to their quick, authoritative steps, seemingly taken with casual ease. At the end of the corridor was a set of tall, golden doors which marked the boundary between the main area of the carrier and the docking zone. The flurry of activity which had marked the last hour was gradually beginning to subside, the thud of boots along the corridor fading into the slow, dull beat of the auxiliary navigation systems. Standing beside these doors, clad in the same uniform as Trindan and his friend were two other officers, their equals, both men they had shared moments of glory and of pain with. They looked up at the arrival of their comrades, eagerly fingering the weapons at their belts, half dazed and half exhilarated by what they faced. One advanced from the golden door, arm raised in salute.
“Brothers. Friends, Trindan, Jeh, Vercak, I find it hard to use great eloquence here – I feel this is our hour. I pray that our celestial father has seen fit to defeat the forces of darkness and disorder in a manner befitting our name.”
Trindan’s friend saluted in return. “I understand. Words are sometimes not enough. I suppose all that we need to say is; We are the vanguard of order. The truth is with us. Let no one doubt it. The words we spoke when we planned this are no less true now. We know what to do. What we do now is not so very different to what we have done time and time again before. This is our real test. Here and now we will know, and the galaxy will know if we really deserve the reputation we have created for this flotilla. This is a real chapter in the history of the Codex and we are players in it. Let our names appear in the annals – and more!”
Trindan turned slowly to face his companion. He knew him for one of the most loyal and finest conditioned of all the Servants, Jeh D’lakarsha, a Lord whose orthodoxy could never be challenged, yet suddenly he seemed to see an added edge to his devotion, the light in his eyes fuelled by more than just service to the light and the triumph of the Codex. For a fraction of a thought his mind wavered, a question was raised, a doubt in his mind about the structures which governed his whole being. Then it was gone. They had passed through the doors, and into the transporter box beyond which carried them to the docking area. His companions seated themselves on the hide couches within and lit a final pipe of Jeral, though the Emperor knew, they hardly seemed in need of it. The call of battle was in them all. Trindan accepted a couple of drags then passed back the pipe, his mind dangerously full of thought on a day when it should have been devoid of all but the desire to conquer. Seconds later, the doors opened and they marched outward into the docks. They were standing on a balcony, above a vast open space lined with forty eight Attack Arrows, all pointing outward to the enormous ten foot thick steel door which separated the deck from the universe beyond. Lining the space in front of these sleek black vessels were the crews of each of the four squadrons. As the four senior officers appeared on the platform a roaring, exhalant cheer burst from the homogenous lips of the men. They were, Trindan reflected, genuinely jubilant at the prospect they faced. They would have been prepared to lie, cheat and kill their families for the chance to serve on this mission, and some no doubt had. Even if they did end up in a thousand pieces floating miles apart across a heatless sky, they would have flown for the Emperor in a holy campaign against the dark, with Lords who had become legends in their own lifetime. The cheering went on for several minutes as a group of Grand Masters approached the Lords on the balcony. They kneeled when they reached the appropriate distance. “Greetings, Valued Lords. Your vessels are ready for departure. All capability primed.” One officer kneeled in front of Trindan. “First Squadron ready for departure O Lord Trindan Kholiaos.”
Similar rituals were observed with his companions. All four officers thanked the delegates and the party moved down the steps to the floor of the deck to join the crews. When they reached the ground Trindan turned to the assembled crowd. “Well, this is it. The truth be with us. The light must win.”
Jeh nodded. “And us with it.” He saluted “There is no law but the Emperor.”
A ring of salutes greeted him in reply. The assembled officers then bowed to each other and departed to their own crews.