"Long have I thought about the Jiralhanae, and their sudden elevation. How did they fight so well? How did they earn such dear victory in the early hours of the Great Schism? They came to the Mendicant City prepared for war. Our garrison forces were unprepared in body and in spirit, and so they were vanquished at little cost to the Jiralhanae..."

"...Had not the Parasite interrupted their plans for conquest, I fear that they would have taken High Charity. To the shame of my ancestors by blood and by heritage, they would have conquered High Charity."

Field Marshall Oular 'Kandonomee, recorded in his second volume of his untitled memoirs.


Evening period, Fiefdom Port of Clan 'Umtalla

It had been years since Quatch had heard the sound of an army on the move.

Armor clanked, engines whined, orders and oaths were shouted to and fro. The footsteps of marching warriors echoed up and down the highway that led to the pier, ringing off the bulkheads to either side and the ceiling above. Traction sleds, used to carry cargo in every port in the Covenant empire, now bore Jiralhanae warriors by the dozens. Alongside them ran lances of Unggoy and Kig-Yar and the Jiralhanae privileged to lead other species into battle.

The noise they made bore down on Quatch like a physical object, drowning out the distant crumps of battle that rattled the deck beneath his hooves. The worst was the battlesong, a call-and-response in rough warrior cant.

"We took up arms for Tartarus!" a warband leader sang, his words rendered harshly by audio amplifiers as big as coffins.

"Sons of Dosiac!" came the thunderous reply from hundreds of Brutes.

"We pledged ourselves in life and death to the Fist!" the officer cried.

"Blood of Dosiac, ready to be shed!" the ranks responded.

Both the officer and his warriors sang in unison to a cadence Quatch knew well.

"Though the Fist was the first martyr,

we will follow him even now!

We'll quarter the Sangheili who slew him,

and we'll slaughter ten million more!

With our lives we will avenge

the victims of the heretic hordes.

We live, we die, we'll be reborn!

The first ranks of the Great Journey,

vanguards of the Covenant faith!"

Any song sang by hundreds of Brutes in a closed area would be loud, and this one shook dust from the ceiling. Worse than that, it made Quatch's blood run cold. He pushed himself deeper into cover and further out of sight, which was a feat since fifteen other Kig-Yar were hiding back there too. When the crew heard the legion coming, they ran for a service hallway, used by Yanme'e stevedores and Unggoy slaves to get around. But the door was shut, and whoever was on the other side refused to unlock it.

So they hid in the gap between a crate and the bulkhead, praying that none would notice them. All it would take was one warrior to look back the way he'd come, to peer into the shadows by the access door.

Quatch looked down the gap to Taol, who stared back. Between them were fourteen sailors at the very brink of hysteria. Nak was gnawing on an unlit thallit stick. Pem was hugging his stolen longarm spiker as if it was his long-lost brother, and Bon was braiding a length of cable together, either fashioning a weapon or just working off nervous energy.

Beside him, Lan and Heik were probably the worst. Lan was still like a bead of glass in a vice, the feathers in her mane twitching in ripples. Heik could see the legion of Brutes just as well as Quatch could, and the battle hymn was getting to him. The radio operator slumped to the floor and clamped his hands over his ears.

Quatch was terrified. He also felt his bile rise. The warrior cant the Brutes sang in was the same one he'd learned in his time in the legion, a creole of Pan Sangheili diluted with words common to Kig-Yar, Unggoy, and Jiralhanae tongues. The cadence of their oath was the same as the Litany of Salvation in Hardship, and the Creed of the Airborne, and the battle honors of the 56 Dasim of Eayn Dragoons. He'd sung those tunes a dozen times or more, crammed with his cohort into the belly of a dropship as it carried them to an uncertain fate.

He remembered the faith those songs had kindled within him, the sense of companionship that had grown in those dark hours. Even though he would shortly be thrown into battle against the condemned Humans, and though he was led by madmen who thirsted for suicidal glory, he was not alone.

It was different now. The song echoed up and down the hall, so loud and overwhelming, and he felt so very alone.

The noise abated as the sled that bore the warband leader and his amplifiers disappeared around the corner. Now the Brutes that marched past shouted boasts to one another, and fired their guns overhead in jubilation. Gun carriages and assault support vehicles threaded their way through the ranks, followed by a clanking four-legged excavation crawler of all things.

The warriors on foot thinned out and the battlesong faded, and for a moment Quatch dared to think the worst was over.

Then a massive Jiralhanae warrior lumbered around the corner.

Quatch heard a gasp, the quick breath before a scream. Quick as lightning, he clamped his hand around Heik's beak. The signalman choked and snorted, as loud as thunder to Quatch's ears.

The Brute stood there, peering into the shadows. Quatch imagined he could see those eyes glittering under the brim of his helmet, daring him to panic, like an apex predator waiting for its prey to bolt so it could enjoy the thrill of the chase.

And even though the singers were gone, their bloodthirsty song still grated on Quatch's nerves. He could hear its echo in the blood pounding in his ears.

The Jiralhanae cleared his throat.

Quatch slowly reached for the pistol hanging from his belt loop.

And Heik sneezed.

That would have been the end of them if the Jiral himself didn't explode into a coughing fit at the same time. He doubled over and coughed so hard his armor plates rattled against each other. When he was done, he spat into the corner and turned to stand sentry. It was only then that Quatch got a good look at his face. Half of the warrior's face was covered in savage cuts that wept blood, from claws or shrapnel the Boatswain couldn't tell. One of the Brute's eyes was swollen shut. He was half-blind, and probably couldn't hear much over the agony of his wounds.

Quatch saw that his crewmates were staring at him, either looking to him for guidance or waiting for a hail of spikes to pin him to the wall. He smiled and leaned over to Lan. "We're not out from under the knife yet, but if we stay silent, this bastard can't see us."

That did something for her. The feathers in her mane calmed, and she turned to whisper to Bon.

Quatch watched the news spread down the line, sailor to sailor. The three keelworkers passed the message to each other with whispered words and hand signals that Quatch couldn't read, and the last one in line passed it on to Dwe, who closed her eyes and made the sign of soulful gratitude before telling Tair. The atmosphere in the narrow gap changed from near panic to relief, so that the sailors at the end were becalmed before the news ever reached them. And Taol went from concerned to… less concerned. Which was a big change for her.

Nak took out a lighter and tapped it inquisitively against his thallit stick. Quatch clicked his beak in the negative. He was sure that the old man was joking, and if he wasn't, then his exaggerated disappointment was a wonderful save.

Quatch turned back to the highway, and wondered why such a crippled warrior was stationed as a sentry. Was he a fanatic, or sworn to a callous commander? Even the most hidebound warriors Quatch ever had the misfortune of serving under would have considered such grievous wounds grounds for days of rest.

The answer coasted into view. It was a large traction sled, the kind used to carry large starship components, and the bed was piled high with loot. Crates, clothes, machines and urns of beer, the wealth of thousands of worlds. And that was just in the first sled. Two more followed in its wake, flanked by assault vehicles and troop carriers, and then came the irregulars.

Wave upon wave of Kig-Yar and Unggoy marched after the loot wagons, though if Quatch had ever marched with such poor form in the Dragoons, he would have been beaten. They slouched and skipped and adjusted armor that they were clearly unaccustomed to wearing. They were civilians looted from the city, and they would either be cannon fodder or slaves. Jiralhanae barrier troops marched alongside them, herding them with harsh words and the lash.

Quatch sat down next to Heik, fearing that one of the warriors would glance in this direction and see him. Heik tried to pry Quatch's fingers off his beak, so Quatch gave him a good shake until he stopped.

Heik would have to be patient. They all did. They would get out of this mess just fine so long as they waited for the right moment.

Waiting was the hardest part of all.

Too hard for some of the crew, apparently. Bon pushed past Lan and peeked around the corner. Quatch motioned for him to get back in cover, but was ignored. Bon studied the procession for a while, and when he was done he pulled a grease marker from his coveralls, wrote the interrogative glyph "Next?" on the shipping container, and offered the marker to Quatch.

Quatch took the marker and wrote "Stay and wait."

"What's the plan, Chief?" Even in writing, Bon's habitual sarcasm bled through. There was a line by the symbol for "chief" that could either be the diacritic for newly bestowed status, or the diacritic that indicated a temporary nature.

Quatch circled his previous statement and added "Until Brutes are gone." Then he scratched off the diacritic with his thumb.

"Could take a long time," Bon wrote.

"Not that long. Once was pinned down by artillery and airstrikes in the legions. Three days."

Quatch kept writing. It wasn't a good memory, but he'd already made peace with it, and the act of writing it down kept his mind off the Brutes. Besides, as long as he held the marker, he didn't have to read Bon's bellyaching. "Three days cooped up in a cellar built by the Humans as their artillery shelled our half of the city. Shell strikes like earthquakes. Our shelter caved in on the second day, but we dared not reposition. The barrages halted only to let their armor advance. I saw Mgalekgolo and strike teams battle the Human growlers and creepers in the street outside our pile of rubble. That time passed. So will this."

Bon snorted in frustration and turned to walk away, but Quatch grabbed him by the shoulder.

"Can you talk to the others with hand signals?"

Bon fished another grease marker out of his coveralls and wrote "Yes. Why?"

Quatch showed him the communication unit strapped to his wrist. The whole crew had them, either wrist-mounted and stowed away in pockets. The casters couldn't talk to each other directly. Instead, their communiques were relayed through the Libation's comm mast, and were therefore independent of the port's infrastructure. And Quatch's unit couldn't find a signal.

"The Libation is gone," he wrote.

"What about local channels?" Bon replied.

"I don't trust the local channels," Quatch wrote. Bon clicked his teeth and circled that statement.

"We can talk with keelworker signals," Bon wrote. "I'll tell the others."

"You stay with me, Dith stays with Taol, Pem and the others stay with Nak. Taol and I scout forward, Nak's group stays behind. If I am lost, Taol takes command, then Nak. Pass it on,"

Bon circled Taol's name and added an interrogative. Quatch ignored him. He knew that wasn't going to be a popular decision; Taol wasn't well-liked by the rest of the crew. But she was crafty, and besides Quatch she was the only one with any military experience.

"You've got a plan?" Bon asked?

"We run away or we hide. For now, we wait."


Midday, Hidden in the Upper Moorage

Burning with shame and rage, young P'thon 'Umtalla vowed that he would would run no more. He vowed a swift and bloody end to the Jiralhanae who taken the dock and slaughtered his kin, and he swore that he would take up arms and personally correct the family's fatal mistake.

He wasn't a warrior, not yet. His blooding years were nearly here, or they would be in a time of relative peace. Like every other of his male kin who came of age, he was to be pledged to the service of a shipmaster known to his family. Serving aboard his warship, he would learn the virtues and earn the honor that his family's status dictated. He would learn naval strategy and grand tactics, how to fight pirates and how to curry favor with the Ministries. Above all, he would learn the art of logistics, how to keep open the supply lines that feed a navy on the move.

Only when he proved his merit would his kin take him back. Then he would learn a new life, the life of a merchant and manager of the family's vast fortune. This was true of all the Umtalla men. The Umtalla family's naval tradition was long and broad, and their connections to the officer corps of their home sector were deep and personal. From this, the family had profited handsomely even before they came to High Charity. After all, did warriors not need to eat? Did their weapons spring from the ground? No, it was sold to them, and the Umtalla's keen knowledge of naval affairs had turned the tide of a dozen wars.

But for all that experience, not a single Umtalla warrior in living memory had ever fought in a ground war. And so, when the Jiralhanae horde marched onto the family's dock, P'thon's kin were blown away like leaves in the wind. The young Sangheili had watched helplessly as his mother and his brothers were cut down in the crossfire, and it was cold comfort that his closest uncle had taken him by the nape of the neck and ordered him to run and hide. He was too young to fight.

Anger coursed through his veins, hot and impotent anger. He couldn't fight, and he was afraid to die, and he hated himself for it. He crept in the shadows like a loathsome insect, scurrying through the halls reserved for the stevedores as the hairy savages destroyed the world he knew. He hated the Brutes for slaughtering his family and plundering their warehouses like animals. But he couldn't stand up to them. He wasn't even sure he could take a lone Brute on his own. And, shamefully, he hated his own family for dying so easily. Even the Umtalla, a merchant clan, acknowledged that war was the true measure of the Sangheili. How could they just lay down and die without felling a single Jiralhanae?

But P'thon would avenge them. The Heirarchs themselves had gone mad and sparked a civil war, one which would not soon be over. P'thon intended to take one of his family's finest vessels, one of the convoy escorts. He couldn't run it on his own, and he didn't have the resources to keep it going in a time of war, but he could sell it to someone who did. With that money, he could outfit an entire legion of the Covenant's finest warriors, and then he would find the Field Master to lead them into battle. The young Sangheili would learn how to wage battle, the bloody and violent art of the infantry, and when he was a learned man he would seek out the Brute who killed his family.

For that reason, P'thon stayed in the shadows long enough to hear the Jiralhanae warriors chant the name of their chieftain. Then he crept through back alleys and the tunnels reserved for the Yanme'e stevedores until he reached the highest of the Umtalla clan's docks, the ones reserved for the fast ships and the convoy escorts. The Silent Resolution-class escorts lay in their cradles like predatory fish held in suspended animation. Their engines, though cold, were swift and powerful, and their weapons were the sort that commerce raiders feared. And P'thon, young as he was, knew how to fly them.

But the Jiralhanae had beaten him there.

The young Sangheili watched in disbelief as the hairy warriors took up guard positions at the entrance to the dock, and three more marched to a convoy escort. It was the near one, the Dying Vow of Rhi 'Umtalla. He expected the Brutes to batter down the main airlock with their fists, or cut it open if they were particularly intelligent for their species. Instead, the lead one with silver fur pulled a severed arm from a bag and waved it under the airlock's biometric scanner.

The scanner whined. The airlock doors flashed crimson light and went still. Nothing else happened.

The silver-furred Brute tried again, with as much success.

One of the other warriors suggested that he massage the arm to get the blood flowing. The tawny Brute snarled at him to shut up. Again and again he submitted the severed arm for the scanner's inspection, to the same level of success.

P'thon didn't know how the Brutes beat him to this dock or from whom they learned of the biometric locks, but he wasn't about to stay and find out. There were two convoy escorts in the dock, and the far one was as yet unguarded. He'd steal that one, but he needed a distraction. Something to draw the Brutes' attention.

He looked around his corner of the dock, where all the regular supplies were kept. He was hidden among barrels of lubricant and specialized heat transfer fluid, and further away were barrels of cleaning solvent. The young Sangheili had plenty to work with.

P'thon stalked through the barrels and tanks like a shadow until he came to a barrel full of oxygen-scrubbing chemical. That would do. He pried at the spigot with a hard knife until a seam gave way and cold liquid poured out, and then he left a small plasma blade lying on the floor nearby. The liquid washed over the blade moments later, vaporized, and then caught fire. A loud report rang out through the dock. Sheets of flame and oily black smoke rose through the equipment racks to the ceiling above. A cry of alarm rose up from the Brutes, soon drowned out by the fire suppression systems.

By then, P'thon was sprinting through the shadows beneath the cradles, hearts hammering, the taste of blood in his mouth. He could almost hear his family's battlehymn as he swung around a pylon and drew a bead on the escort's airlock. This sprint, he knew, were the first steps on the long road to revenge, and he savored every one.

White hot pain lanced through his right leg, and his feet went out from under him. P'thon stumbled and fell to the ground in a heap.

He tried to get up, but his leg wouldn't respond. More pain washed over him every time he tried to move. The young scion of the 'Umtalla clan looked down and saw a pair of red-hot spikes embedded to the bone in his thigh.

A shadow fell across him. P'thon thought it was the silver-furred Brute, but the pain battered him like waves against the shore, and his thoughts were carried away on the tide. He felt the Brute lift him by the arm, and he saw the Jiralhanae smile cruelly as he inspected the tattoo on P'thon's wrist, and he heard the Jiralhanae growl in satisfaction.

"You'll do."


A/N: This took a long time to write, and I wound up cutting some of it for review.
Two weeks after I posted the first chapter, I got a summer job with long hours and long weeks. It took me a while to get free time to write, and a while after that to get back in the groove. Hell, there's a scene in the next chapter that I rewrote four or five times before it finally clicked, and I'm still not 100% satisfied with it.

Trust me, eight months between chapters is not going to be the norm for this story.

It's a new year. Overall, a lot of good things have happened, and I think it's only going to get better from here.