The Destroyers had smashed through the secondary gate at the facility, the skorpekhs following behind, targeting enemy squads stationed at guard towers to either side. Impending energy signals from above grew sharper and sharper. Zozar took control of one of the Destroyers, spinning it around on a gravitic plume so that he could look up into the sky.

A cluster of fiery dots grew closer and closer.

A sudden impact on his rear thorax region forced Zozar to concentrate his cortical field back into his form. A condensed light weapon of some power had hit him, slashing away a portion of his main body. The molten remnants hissed and spat as a puddle on the floor, useless for reincorporation. Nevertheless, he sent a signal to the canoptek attendants and cryptothralls that had gathered outside to attend the damaged skorpekhs. While his fellow Destroyers rampaged across the machine-filled hall, Zozar turned his beam emitter on the heavy weapon gunner. A single blast turned both human and cannon into dissipating molecules.

A quick sensor sweep confirmed that the human resistance was broken. Energy readings showed a few clusters holding out, but most were dead or attempting to flee. He took off all shackle protocols and allowed his skorpekhs to pursue freely, their own urge to slaughter the only impera­tive they needed now.

Directing his consciousness to the lifting facility, the incoming orbital craft almost at impact point, Zozar felt less confident about ongoing developments.

Chapter Twelve

CHAPTER TWELVE

Rather than altering the timeflow while Zozar cleared the world of enemies, Simut whiled away the time in a mixture of reminiscence and daydreaming. Whether through imagination or recollection, he pictured the great feast days when the king summoned his full court and the skies were lit with polychromatic displays that lasted a full rotation.

A much-welcomed distraction from the spread of the sun-blight that was crippling their people. Beyond the garland-hung walls, the city seethed with discontent, only kept in check by the brutal presence of Phetos and his wardens. Locked in the high towers the greatest minds laboured at a cure for the flesh-devouring malaise that was running rampant across all of the kingdoms.

For a privileged few, for just one turn of dawn to dawn, there was release from the misery, to give thanks for another orbit survived.

One day they would return to the flesh, freed from both the sun-curse and the soul-theft. Such celebrations as the king would hold in the future would make the year-day banquets seem like a peasant’s spring feast. When he stood at the shoulder of King Szarekh, his stellar kingdom forged by his own hand, Simut would be a lord greater than any that–

‘Lord of the Stars, Eagle of Victory, Sun of the Dynasty.’ Phetos’ platitudes were like a thunderburst over Simut’s parade, ripping him back to the ­desolate reality of his tomb ship.