Damien Rai walked along the trench-way, straddling the edge between the real world and the realm of nightmares.
To his left, the dim sun shone through the rings, glittering on the faces of the icy fragments. Saturn loomed in the distance, a turbulent, yet faceless orb of pale atmosphere. Beyond the edge of the rings, several of the majestic planet's moons were visible.
To Daimen's right rose the jagged façade of the Dreadnaught. Rank upon rank of carved bone massed like a fell mountain, ensconcing terrible halls and chambers that were home to the darkest monstrosities to befall the universe. The rings of Saturn didn't dare stray close to the Dreadnaught. Its wicked malevolence pushed them aside and bound them into a circle, like a festering cyst in the skin of reality itself. Within the ship's macabre depths, death was the shape of reality.
Turn here, the Voice said in his head, We are close.
Damien paused, his boots sinking slightly in the layer of dust and mold spore that covered the broad walkway. There was an opening in the bulwark a short distance away, shadows swirling in its depth. Damien entered.
Immediately, he felt the thin heat of the sun vanish completely. The air became thick and oppressive, with a musty scent detectable even through the filtration of his helmet. Even the faint gray light from spores clinging to the ceiling felt strangled and resigned. These halls were as dead as the corpse they were carved from.
The corridor continued inward for a modest distance, then terminated before a flaking iron gate. Hideous gothic lamps hung on either side, casting a sickly yellow glow. His double shadow stretched towards the distant opening behind him.
A disc of carved bone hung from the center of the gate, its surface glowing with serrated runes. The lock bound the gate shut with heavy chains.
Damien raised his left hand and pressed it against the runes. Open it, he mentally commanded.
Why? the Voice demanded, What do you hope to accomplish by visiting her? Your death, perhaps?
I'm sure you'd like that, Damien replied, Now, open the path.
The Voice reluctantly relented. A moment later, the symbols carved into his bone armlet flashed, and a pulse of mist washed down his arm.
The surface of the rune melted in the mist. He withdrew his hand, and the rune and chains burned away, leaving only a stench of ash behind. He pushed on the gates, and they parted with a tortured creak.
He stepped through the gate, and the hallway opened up into a truly enormous space. The far side of the broad, slanting volume was less than a hundred meters away, but it stretched for kilometers on either side. The ends were lost in the hazy distance. He overlooked the chasm from a narrow ledge.
"Emralda," Damien prompted. His Ghost appeared in front of him and began scanning. She didn't ask; She already knew what he needed. A moment later, the glowing outline of a bridge appeared on his helmet hud.
The Ghost vanished again without a word, though he didn't miss her sideways glare at his armlet.
Damien stepped up to the edge of the chasm, near the digital outline. The air rippled, and a long span of oily brown stone appeared across the gap. The floating bridge easily supported his weight.
Mariel-3's distant, static laced voice crackled in his ear as he crossed the abyss. "I've reached the Cellar," she said, "What's your status?
"I'm still on route to the sanctum," Damien replied. His voice echoed volumously in the stillness.
"Okay. There's a Swarm Prince here. It looks like he's guarding some sort of ritual, but I'm going to have to deal with him before I can investigate," she said.
"Copy that," Damien acknowledged. He heard a distant roar through the channel, followed by the clash of metal. The feed went silent after that, muted by Emralda.
He reached the ledge on the far side. The bridge vanished as soon as he stepped off.
Three ornate archways were set into the wall, each leading further into the Dreadnaught.
Which way? he asked.
Left, the Voice replied.
He entered the indicated corridor. The accumulated wormspore was thicker here. It brushed against his salmon red robes as he walked, leaving a trail of fetid dust in his wake. There was more of the bioluminescent mold here. The little gray stalks carpeted the ceiling. A few even drifted lazily in the air.
The corridor eventually ended at a dark doorway. He hesitated at the entrance, staring into the wall of blackness. It seemed to devour the light coming from behind. The back of his neck tingled; The shadows were watching him.
Damien stepped into the chamber, and the shadows enveloped him. Emralda did not illuminate the way for him. She new better than to expose her Light in this place.
The shadows writhed as he passed through them. Though he couldn't see anything, he could sense its vastness around him. This chamber was grand in its Darkness.
It wasn't until he neared the far side that the shadows decided to attack.
The shrill scream came from the side. Damien spun, lashing out with his palm and summoning a voltage across his body. The Arc energy flashed with an angry buzz as his blow connected with the thrall's skull.
The thunderstrike illuminated the half-dozen thrall with ghostly blue light. It incinerated the first thrall's head and shoulders, and effortlessly lanced through the rest of the pack. Their remains fell to the ground in smoldering piles of ash.
Damien blinked the spots from his eyes and continued through the darkened chamber. He felt the hissing Voice exhale. He couldn't tell if she was satisfied with the death of the thrall, or angered by it. Perhaps she was both.
He sensed the darkness narrow around him. He was in a corridor again, with a faint light in the distance. He followed the path, until the world fell away, and the full majesty of the Dreadnaught was made plain before him.
The corridor ended on a tiny ledge in an inscrutably vast chamber, which made the previous chasm seem like a petty vestibule. The far side of chamber was yet kilometers away, the gothic front haughty and imposing in its distance. The floor and roof of the cavernous space were lost behind stagnant curtains of haze. The ends of the great space tapered in the distance, quite possibly spanning the whole length of this festering, grand corpse-vessel.
Damien exhaled slowly. He had visited the inner sanctums of the Dreadnaught many times now,yet their sheer enormity still struck him dumb each time. The scale of the space seemed to be in defiance of the universe itself, a brazen affront to the rules of physics and practicality.
The chasm though, was not empty. Towering drums of carved bone hung in the abyss, suspended by chains many meters across. Long curving walkways spanned the gaps between the hanging cairns. One walkway even connected to the wall of the chamber a short distance away.
Which one? Damien asked.
The highest one, the Voice answered.
But of course. Anak-Yul was an exalted Hive, possibly even Ascendant. Her abode would be in a place of contempt. He quickly located the highest platform, a great cylinder hanging only a few hundred meters from the distant ceiling. He sighed and started towards the nearby walkway. This was going to be a long climb.
Damien felt a vague tugging at the base of his spine as he set across the hanging bone walkway. He knew that sensation well. As he delved deeper into the Dreadnaught, his connection to the Light outside strained and stretched. Even now, his Light was slowly fading, though it would take a few days to go out entirely. Regardless, he did not intend linger in these grand tombs.
Ah, now I see, the Voice hissed quietly, From her, you seek the answers to your puzzle. She will not give them to you. She does not deal with the unworthy.
She will not have a choice, Damien sent back. He stepped off the walkway and onto the first hanging crypt. There were two more walkways branching off it, one leading up, the other leading down. He took the one leading up.
You are not strong enough to face her. She and her mate slew an entire star system in tribute to the Lord of Shapes. Her Sword Logic is sharp and deadly.
Your memory has grown short of late, Damien replied. So Anak-Yul had a mate. That was good to know. I've killed others like her, he continued, Including you.
My death is but an afterthought, the Voice spat, But yours…yours will be one I savor for millennia.
That's enough. With a thought, Damien sent a pulse of Light into the bond around his arm. It sparked on contact with the bone, and the runes flashed with power. The Voice screamed as the Light burned her and briefly turned the remnants of her existence into pure pain.
"Do not forget," Damien said aloud, "You are my prisoner."
The Voice growled quietly, then fell silent.
He glanced again at the loop of bone around his upper arm. Several small fragments of dirty brown-green crystal were set between the etched runes. Bits of claw and tooth dangled from it, and the bone itself had a smooth, slightly burnt appearance.
The Voice was right of course. She would be the death of him. The tattered remnants of wizard's soul were trapped in the armlet, shackled by runes of her own dark magic, and sealed with a searing of Light. The Shadows of Yor insisted that the "cleansing ritual" he had used would keep her in check, prevent her from poisoning his mind, but they did not know the Hive as intimately as he did. As long as the soul existed, his sanity was in danger.
For now, he was in control. But he'd inexorably bound himself to the wizard long ago, even as he tore the crackling Arc energy from her talons and made it his own. The day would eventually come when her whispers burrowed into his heart like a rotting worm, and he would fall.
He just had to finish his work before that day came to pass.
"Mariel, what's your status?" he asked, mostly to distract himself from that line of thinking. His voice sounded contemptuously small in the vast space, yet it echoed conspicuously.
A burst of static came through his earpiece, followed by the distant, grainy sound of a Void anchor sucking in its victims.
"Still working on that Swarm Prince," Mariel's strained voice replied. Something exploded on her end.
"Understood," Damien murmured. Her line went silent, and he was once again alone with his thoughts, though he could still feel the Voice lurking in the distance.
The minutes bled by as he wove his way across and up the hall of crypts. He idly wondered if there was a pattern to the web of walkways. Knowing the Hive, it would probably be some description of death.
At last, he crossed the final bridge. The crypt before him was larger than most, and the chains it hung from bore sharp barbs. As he stepped up to the top of the great bone drum, he noted a series of low concentric wall segments, forming a gallery across the platform. Arranged inside were smaller circles of silvery, too-thin liquid. Most of the platform was covered in a crust of hardened fungus and broken bones, except for a narrow strip around the edge. A jagged pillar of brown crystal rose from the center.
In front of the crystal floated a slender, emaciated figure. She hovered with her back to him, head bowed. The tassels of her tattered midnight blue raiment trailed on the ground beneath her.
Damien slowly inhaled. Here at last was one who could give him the answers he needed. It had taken him months to realize there was something wrong in the first place, something shifting within the shape of reality. And it took him yet more time to discover the source. And now, with the distraction of the Red War concluded, he could finally get his answers.
He walked forward, stepping lightly on the crust of hardened bone powder. He stopped when he was midway between the crystal and the edge.
"Anak-Yul," Damien called out, forcing his voice to remain level. "I would beseech of you a request."
The wizard's reply was long in its coming, and when it arrived, the rasping syllables blistered his ears. Damien forced the deadly words out of his mind, and instead focused on the Voice in the back of his head.
"You are not welcome here," the Voice translated, "Interloper."
Anak-Yul punctuated the last word by stabbing the fabric of reality with a lance of power. She slowly spun to face Damien, green curls of putrid smoke dripping form her claws. The ribbons of her robe flapped in some unfelt breeze.
"Is death not a currency in these spaces?" Damien asked, "Is it not woven into the fabric of reality? I have slain thousands of your brood, and the brood of others. By the logic of your immutable laws, you must grant me an audience."
The wizard hissed, a terrible noise that seared the world around him. Damien forced the urge to recoil. Anak-Yul was indeed strong in death. Perhaps even an equal to Omnigul.
"What you carry is not the Sword Logic," she growled, "You are of the Sky, an impotent shield forged to protect the pathetic and the week." Anak-Yul's gaze landed on his armlet. "You hide behind the death of something greater, you pretend to obey the shape of reality, but it is a lie. You cannot claim to be strong in death until you make death part of yourself."
Damien steeled himself and straightened to full height. This was going to be difficult, off course.
"Anak-Yul," Damien insisted, "You bear the mantle of the Honest Worm. Truth is your currency, and lies are your tithes. Your chosen purpose is to weigh the veracity of the material world, and with it, create meaning. You have no choice. Answer my question;
"The Ascendant Plane has begun to bleed into the space surrounding the Dreadnaught. This subversion has been driven by a sequence of jagged black runes. Who wrote the runes, and for what purpose? By the weight of the many deaths I have wrought, I demand that you answer my question, as required by the laws of this place."
The wizard growled, rising up in the air. Acrid smoke leaked from her claws. "Ah," she crooned, "but the deaths you hold are stolen. You died once before, and therefore, you are unworthy touching eternity. Only by the gift of the Sky do you stand before me. And such weakness can never be the truth."
Damien took a deep breath and stepped towards Anak-Yul. She floated away and rose up, higher than him in all respects. He was close now. His next words were crucial.
"And what of your own self, Anak-Yul?" he asked innocently, "Do the Hive not owe their existence to a similar gift? Would you be here now, without the charity of the Worm Gods? You are a hypocrite, and by this truth, I declare you unworthy."
The scream that came next threatened to split Damien's skull. He stumbled back, his boots splashing in the too-runny fluid.
When the terrible sound finally concluded, Anak-Yul floated high over the gallery, a burning shroud of smoke enveloping her demonic form.
"You cannot begin to comprehend the affront you just committed," she hissed, her words like daggers, "Even if your existence was worthy, your logic is not nearly enough. You would need millions of deaths to match mine. And you can start with yours!"
The final word landed like a dagger through his forehead. Then she was gone, vanished in a knot of reality. The smoke dissipated, and for a moment, the gallery was still.
The chorus of screams came next, rising up from all around in an overlapping din.
Damien scrambled back as the fluid around him began to writhe and boil. Twisted, bony forms emerged, dozens of them across the top of the platform.
Anak-Hul was right about some things. He wasn't of the Sword-Logic, and any he amassed rolled off him like beads of water on the window. His existence was fundamentally apart from hers.
So he just had to do things the direct way.
The horde of thrall burst from the silvery pools. And as they did, Damien drew on the full power of his Light, and gave himself to the Arc.
Lightning exploded from his body in all directions, vaporizing the nearest thrall. He growled and forced his mind to go blank, seeking the place of balance. His body became a conduit for the storm.
A pack of thrall, sensing his succulent Light, charged. He raised his hands, and they were gone in a flash.
More thrall circled around the edges of the gallery, waiting for an opening. Perhaps if they attacked together, they thought maybe they could overwhelm him. He wouldn't give them the chance.
He pushed forward, skimming the ground on a cushion of ions. Electric death shot from his outstretched hands. There were dozens of thrall on the outer ring of the gallery. He scattered them like fallen leaves.
In a few moments, the outside of the gallery was clear, save for the combusting embers of the dead. He turned back to the center of the platform, where a half-dozen rifts of green power were coalescing. The rifts burst, and two-dozen acolytes dropped onto the platform.
Damien swept forward, burning through the closest acolytes. They fell easily, but his power was draining quickly. Already, he had only a few seconds left.
He pushed himself backwards with a final shove of Arc energy, then reached over his shoulder and drew his scout-rifle.
The acolytes fanned out across the gallery, forming defensive lines. Damien fired from the hip at the nearest ones, staggering them and cutting them down before they could ready their shredders.
He ducked behind one of the low walls and reloaded as the acolytes in the back opened fire. Purple blades of energy sliced through the air.
He raised his rifle to his shoulder as he stepped back into the open. Several Void bolts struck him immediately, but he ignored them, trusting his shield to hold for a few moments. He started picking off the acolytes with quick, precise shots to the head.
The acolytes scattered behind cover as they realized they were outmatched. Already, less than a third of their original numbers remained. Damien reloaded again, then summoned a handful of Arc energy. He threw it at one of the walls the acolytes hid behind. Flashes of lightning rained down from the ceiling, vaporizing the acolytes.
Only five remained, hiding behind two more walls. Damien rushed forward and pushed off the ground, soaring into the air on a cushion of Light. He shot three of the acolytes as he arced towards one of the low walls. The last two acolytes, cowering behind that wall, fell to a thunderstrike.
Stillness settled over the gallery. An acolyte's corpse hissed and popped as it decayed. Somewhere in the distance, a chain creaked. And below it all, the Voice hummed with wicked contentment in the back of his mind.
"Anak-Yul!" Damien shouted, "By the logic of the sword, and the deaths of your brood, I demand you answer my petition!"
Silence.
Damnit. Though he spoke with bravado, there was nothing he could do to actually force her to face him. He gambled on her subservience to the laws of the Hive, but those laws were not something he had sway over. If she decided to simply leave, and abandon-
A distant crack echoed across the gallery. Acrid smoke bleed into the air around him, quickly thickening to the point where he could only see a few meters. Damien spun around, searching the burning fog for movement. What was Anak-Yul trying?
He felt the growl more than heard it. The deep, rumbling note shook the base of his skull. There was a heavy crunch, accompanied by a slight tinkle, and another, and another. The footsteps of something very massive. And they were coming towards him.
Ah yes. Anak-Yul's betrothed.
A towering silhouette emerged from the smoke, dark and broad. Limbs like tree-trunks, claws as long as Damien's forearm. Jagged plates of dark blue bone clad his form, and rusted chains and tattered cloth tassels hung from his shoulders. Three acid green eyes burned through the shadowy smoke, and on his shoulder rested a corroded cleaver as big as Damien. There was a deliberate weight, an inevitability to his stride. This was not a mere creature. This was an embodiment of death itself.
The knight heaved the cleaver off of his shoulder and slammed it into the ground with enough force to shake the entire gallery. He rested his hands on the hilt, waiting. A challenge. If Damien claimed to be strong, then he would have to face their strongest. An ancient demon that had crushed entire species beneath its boney foot.
Damien sighed and slid his rifle back over his left shoulder. "Emralda," he commanded, holding his hand out by his side.
A shimmering line appeared, and Damien's own sword settled into his palm. Made of welded, silvery metal, with a gray-blue crystal set into the thick and narrow guard, the blade seemed like a mere toothpick compared to the ancient knight's massive cleaver.
He raised it anyway, falling into a stance. This sword was still new to him. He'd only had it a few weeks, and had only used it against mere thrall and acolytes. Now came the true test. He angled the layered tip towards the knight. Challenge accepted.
The knight raised his sword in acknowledgement, and tried to chop Damien in half.
Damien dodged sideways. The momentum of the knight's lunge carried him past Damien, the blade smashing through a mound of dried fungus. Damien twisted, bring his own sword down on the knight's exposed forearm. The blow lacked power though, and his blade barely scraped the bone armor.
The knight recovered and brought its cleaver around in a horizontal slash. Damien danced back, smoke swirling with his movement. The knight swung at an angle, forcing Damien to frantically slap the blow away. He didn't dare try to parry or block the knights attacks. His strength and weight would crush Damien. Even the simple deflection nearly made him stumble.
So instead, Damien evaded. He continued backing away, dodging the fury of the knight's attacks. His main focus became maintaining his footing on the uneven ground. His boots crunched on bone and splashed in silvery liquid as he vainly searched for an opening. One mistake, and he was dead.
Damien ducked, a savage chop nearly taking his head and shoulder off in one slice. He nearly stumbled into one of the low walls. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple. He had managed to land a few light blows on his opponent, but they were ineffectual against the thick bone. He somehow had to reach one of the unarmored joints.
The smoke made it nearly impossible to maintain his bearings. They were near the center of the gallery when they started, beside the central crystal. He had a plan, but it would only work if knew exactly where he was.
Damien started backing up. Seeing him retreat, the Knight pressed forward. He smelled weakness in the move, acknowledgement that Damien was weaker. His attacks turned furious and primal.
Damien stepped back, and instead of crunching on decaying mold, he felt his foot brush against hard, smooth bone.
Now!
He tensed. The knight lunged. Instead of retreating, he lunged towards the knight. The knight's momentum carried it forward, and its foot came down on empty air. The knight twisted and caught the lip with his heel, wobbling as he found himself leaning over the brink of the platform.
Damien rammed his sword into the back of the knight's knee.
The knight roared as the blade between the two joints and severed the ligaments and tendons. Damien felt a brief flash of connection with the ancient being as its leg collapsed under its weight. Then he tore the sword free, and the knight tumbled into the abyss.
Akra-Eir, Lore-Bane, was no more.
Damien raised his sword, inspecting the blade as impressions of the knight's conquests continued to wash over him. To kill with a sword was to build a bridge with your victim. And Elva had crafted this sword, the Inclement Terminus, from Vex metal. In the Hive's dichotomy, everything had a purpose, and the purpose of Vex machines was information. So this sword was a bridge of knowledge, capable of ripping thoughts and memories from its victim.
He stood, satisfied. The bond on his arm vibrated with warm approval. He could even hear the Voice humming in the distance.
The smoke still hung over the gallery like a pall. Damien summoned down a flash of lightning. The superheated bolt broke the magic, letting the smoke bleed away.
That revealed Anak-Yul hovering at the center of the platform, before the jagged crystal.
"Tell me Anak-Yul," Damien said, striding forward with confidence, "Did Akra-Eir have a throne world? Or did I do the universe a favor by ridding it of his imperfection?"
"You cheated," Anak-Yul hissed.
"If he was actually worthy, he wouldn't have fallen for that trick in the first place."
Damien drew a thin stream of Arc energy into his body. He channeled it down his legs and let it leak into the ground, building up a charge. The repulsion levitated him into the air, putting him at eye level with Anak-Yul.
"Now," he said, "I believe asked you a question. Who created the runes, and why?"
Anak-Yul drew near; close enough for him to smell her fetid breath. "What makes you think I would ever answer that?"
"Oh, nothing really," Damien said, "I just needed to get with arms reach."
Damien raised his sword and rammed it through the wizard's chest.
She screamed an ear-splitting shriek as she fell backwards. The rending sound broke his concentration and made him fall with her. She landed on the side of the crystal, and he used his weight to ram the blade into the brown translucent mass.
A vague series of impressions flashed past Damien. He sent a mental command to his armlet, causing the runes carved on it to flare with power. Anak-Yul writhed as her body, impaled on the blade, began to decompose. He seized the strongest of her thoughts and pushed it into the armlet, praying the runes of binding would latch on to it.
Anak-Yul burst into flames. Damien stumbled away from the conflagration. Her body was gone in mere moments, crumbling to ash as her terrible scream finally faded.
Damien sank to his knees, his entire head throbbing. A single image remained, burned into his mind: A crumbling Old-Earth cathedral, its cracked façade browned with age. A pair of square towers had once stood before. One had been slender and elegant, the other broad and sturdy. Both had been crushed when Hive seeders landed on them.
He sighed and pushed his way to his feet.
Do you recognize that place? the Voice asked, her voice curious.
"Yes," Damien replied, "Though I've never been there myself."
He gripped the hilt of his sword and yanked it out of the crystal. He held it out, and Emralda transmatted it away without comment.
The Voice hissed in delight. Every day you grow stronger. You're almost ready.
She fell silent as Damien crossed the gallery and began the long trek back to the trenchway.
"Damien," Mariel's voice crackled in his ear, "It's done. The prince is dead."
"Did you find anything?"
"Yes," Mariel said, "He was guarding a censer with a similar sequence of runes on it."
"Can you show me what it looks like?" Damien asked.
"Already did. Check your Ghost."
Emralda appeared in front of him and projected an image an oblong shape standing in a pool of still liquid. Smoke curled form the black, jagged runes carved on it.
"I've seen something like that before," he said, "A wizard in the Arcology was using it to torture a Fallen captain."
"I feel sorry for the captain," Mariel said, "Did you get anything useful out of Anak-Yul?"
"Maybe. Does Old Havana mean anything to you?"
Mariel inhaled sharply. "Havana? I tracked a small Hive invasion there years ago Several seeders landed there, led by Omnigul. It's been dead for decades though. The Hive abandoned it after Mare Imbrium."
"Whatever happened there, it's what Anak-Yul was thinking about when I asked her about the sequence."
Mariel was silent a moment. "Which should we look into first?"
"Both," Damien said, "You've been to Havana before, you already know the lay of the land. I'll return to Titan and start digging around the Arcology."
He could sense the hesitation in Mariel's voice. "You certain that's wise? Ikora wants us together at all times. I'm the only one she trusts to take you out, in case, you know."
"I do know Mariel, and I'm still a long ways from becoming the next Dredgen Yor. The current situation is far more concerning." He caught a flicker of a feeling from the Voice. Concern? Contempt?
"There aren't many beings left in the system that are powerful enough to bind our reality to the ascendant realm," he continued, "The runes are too blunt to be the work of the Deathsingers, so it has to be someone else. Someone we don't know about."
There was a long pause before Mariel answered. "Okay. I'm trusting you on this, because the last time we left the Hive unchecked for too long, I lost my entire fireteam, and the City lost a third of its Guardians."
There was a click as the line closed, and Damien was left alone with only his thoughts, a Ghost that refused to speak to him, and the ever present Voice for company.