A gaunt cleric in a purple monastic robe stood upon the pyre and loudly recited the old man's six crimes as he hung nailed to the post.
"First crime: you refused the priests' proposal to collect indulgences, denying the faithful the chance to redeem their sins."
"Second crime: you rejected the devout brothers' request to renovate the cathedral, forcing the Emperor's holy radiance to dwell in this narrow, broken shell."
"Third crime: you prevented Baron Harko from erecting a colossal statue of the God-Emperor, depriving this pious son of the Emperor of the chance to express his devotion."
"Fourth crime: you did not permit priests and brothers who had dedicated their whole lives to the God-Emperor to purchase property of their own, leaving the truly faithful to languish in suffering instead of receiving the rewards they deserved."
"Fifth crime: you openly denounced the doctrine of the Emperor's perfection that we uphold, seeking to tarnish the image of the Perfect Lord."
"Sixth crime: you dared to call the great Ecclesiarch Vandire a usurper. What blasphemy could be fouler than that?"
"As believers in the God-Emperor and loyal servants of the Perfect Lord, we are ashamed of your betrayal!"
"As punishment, you will be displayed here for six days, and then die beneath the cleansing flames of holy fire."
The old man bound to the stake opened his mouth, clearly trying to say something.
But because his tongue had already been cut out during earlier inhuman torture, only broken, indistinct whimpers escaped him.
Those sounds were quickly drowned beneath the jeers and curses of the crowd below, common folk who did not understand the truth but felt righteous anger all the same.
The purple-robed cleric looked at the swelling fury of the masses, and a slow smile curled beneath his hood.
Everything was unfolding exactly as planned.
The sect he belonged to, the Cult of the Perfect Lord, was a newly risen branch of the Imperial Creed.
They believed the God-Emperor was the embodiment of perfection, while humanity had been formed from the flaws and dross He had cast off.
To prove their loyalty to the Perfect Lord, humanity had to punish itself, because in doing so they were helping the Emperor chastise His own imperfections.
Naturally, after that punishment, the Emperor would permit His followers to indulge themselves, because flaws had to be acknowledged and nourished.
Such doctrine had very quickly been embraced by the people, and the Cult of the Perfect Lord had taken root across Swuvi with remarkable speed.
And now, they had seized their chance, successfully crushed the old conservative Ecclesiarchy, and become the dominant faith on Swuvi.
In truth, ever since Vandire rose to power, similar events had been happening on many worlds.
A great many Ecclesiarchy factions had taken the opportunity to launch all-out attacks against the conservative branches that once held them down.
If the Emperor truly still watched all this, then perhaps by now He could smell quite a lot of loyal barbecue.
Of course, whether these groups fighting to seize the dominant place in the faith were truly branches of the Ecclesiarchy at all... that was another question entirely.
...
With the thunderous rumble of the orbital elevator, Gaia, carrying a man-sized cargo crate on her back, and Solomon, whose expression was still terrible, arrived in Hecius, the central royal city of Swuvi.
It was a vast city whose architecture was strikingly close to that of the Middle Ages, and even the clothing worn by its residents matched that style.
If not for the occasional crude signs of augmetic modification visible on some of the locals, and the strange machinery fused into the corners of the streets, Gaia might have thought she had somehow transmigrated all over again.
"According to the Forge Lord's map, we should probably start by looking for clues at the Mechanicus training ground on the outskirts."
As she surveyed the scene beyond the orbital elevator, Gaia spoke to Solomon.
"How are people like us supposed to get into a place like that..."
Solomon was still grieving over his lost throne gelt and answered with a heavy sigh.
And that was indeed the problem.
Based on the clues Tylvius had given them, the only direction they could start with was Mechanicus territory.
But because the Forge Lord feared giving hostile parties something they could use against him, he had not provided the two of them with anything that could prove their connection to him.
Which meant they were now faced with a very real problem:
How were they supposed to make legitimate contact with the Mechanicus on this world?
On a knight world, the Mechanicus did not come here for nothing. They were here to train and maintain war machines. That kind of important position was obviously not something two random nobodies could casually reach.
And they were not just random nobodies.
As untrustworthy outsiders in this charming and welcoming land, they were guaranteed to run into all kinds of trouble.
Realizing that, Gaia felt a little stifled. She made up her mind then and there.
Once Dushi finished rebooting and had enough power to talk again, she was absolutely going to make that riddle-spewing Men of Iron spit out every last thing he knew.
Just as the two new arrivals stood there in confusion, staring blankly at each other with no idea what to do, a monk in a coarse hemp robe stepped through the crowd of locals who had been watching the outsiders and came to stand before them.
"Oh, beloved children of the God-Emperor, you seem somewhat lost. Would you permit me, this humble servant of the Emperor, to guide your path?"
Gaia looked at this man, who radiated the unmistakable air of a cult preacher, and one eyebrow rose slightly.
According to Tylvius, the only faith permitted to spread on Swuvi was the Imperial Creed.
And missionaries of the Ecclesiarchy generally preached the Emperor's gospel to commoners through public sermons and gatherings. Only the wealthiest nobles who donated the most would ever have a chance to receive one-on-one guidance from one of the Emperor's holy men.
What this man was doing, however, looked far more like the methods of some fringe sect that would get stomped flat by both the Inquisition and the Ecclesiarchy if anyone official noticed it.
Just as Gaia was feeling puzzled, the strange longsword hanging awkwardly at her hip, having been forced there by the crate on her back, suddenly let out a silent tremor.
Along with that tremor, Gaia felt a towering surge of fury and grief, and even a trace of bloodlust was stirred within her own heart.
She was deeply startled.
Fortunately, none of that strange reaction showed on her face.
Solomon, meanwhile, had his attention fully caught by the overly eager monk.
He looked the man up and down. His clothes were simple, and his expression and mannerisms were exactly like those of the truly devout Solomon had seen before.
The only thing that struck him as odd was the scarring hidden beneath the long sleeves of the robe.
The man had concealed it well, but with the movement of his arms, Solomon still caught a glimpse through a brief gap. They were unmistakably the marks of whipping.
Still, considering how strongly Tylvius had implied the influence of the Ecclesiarchy on Swuvi, Solomon did not reject this man's excessively warm goodwill.
"Oh, honored preacher of the God-Emperor, we truly have felt somewhat lost since arriving here."
"We came to visit an old acquaintance among the servants of the Machine God, a man who once followed the Emperor-blessed fleets of the Navy alongside me to spread the might of the Imperium among the stars."
"I heard long ago that he had since come to Swuvi and become a repairman. As it happened, I was passing through today and wished to look him up and renew our old friendship."
Watching Solomon say all this while his soul flashed like a disco ball, Gaia, whose inner turmoil had finally settled down, gave a faint nod.
Not bad.
This man's talent for making things up was getting better and better.
(End of Chapter)
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