High in the sky above the ruined hulk of the Pride of Sanghelios, a trio of dots appeared.
From a distance, one could have been forgiven for thinking they were just more birds scavenging the wastes, to be forgotten in an instant. As the shapes grew closer however, and began to resolve themselves into more defined forms, it became clear that these were far more dangerous than any vulture.
The Phantom assault craft were a flying contradiction. In one sense, they were bulky and bloated, thick-plated vessels designed for ferrying Covenant shock troops to and from the battlefield. True to all Covenant design, however, the ships also possessed a delicate sleekness. Curved, swooping lines lent them an elongated aspect. Arranged in tight V-formation, the sun winked off the edges of their gleaming hulls as they banked in for an inspection pass.
Aboard the point ship, the Malicious Intent, Alpha-Jiralhanae Traeltarus rolled his neck about in a lazy circle, cracking the tendons with an audible pop. His fingers drummed idly against the side of his massive fuel rod cannon. For the third time in as many minutes, he checked the ammo gauge once again.
It was a nervous habit. Although he would never admit it, the junior Chieftain was tense. High expectations had been placed upon him. Traeltarus had received this duty by dint of his status as a direct blood-relative of Shipmaster Torikus himself. The heated whisperings of would-be rivals ran thick throughout the many corridors of the Impacable, and this mission was a chance to see them silenced. No longer would his ability be in question.
"Pack-Leader, report from our fighter escort: hostiles sighted fleeing for the western canyons." The pilot's voice rasped over the Battle Net, "Permission to pursue?"
Traelterus reached up and clicked the button attached to the underside of his bronze head-crest.
"Granted." Traelterus ordered. "Accelerate to full attack speed. Extrerminate them like the vermin they are!"
Underneath his helmet, Pack-Chieftain Traeltarus bared his fangs in a tight smile.
Once and for all, he would be free of his uncle's shadow.
"Make haste for the canyons!" Vtan urged, "Keep moving, Brothers! The Jiralhanae are almost upon us!"
The survivors of the Sanghelios' crash, some fifty-three Sangheili, four hundred Unngoy and - sticking closely to Vtan himself - the towering Mgalekgolo twins, had barely freed themselves from the wreckage when they heard the tell-tale whoosh of anti-grav engines overhead. All semblance of battle order was forgotten as they fled for the shelter of the twisting valleys ahead. They did so not out of cowardice, but out of necessity.
Vtan knew the Jiralhanae's strategies well. They would first try and trap the Sangheili within the confines of their own vessel, slaughtering all those aboard in as brutal a manner as possible. In the event resistance proved too great, they would simply pen the Sangheili in, and obliterate the vessel from orbit in one fell stroke.
Failing that, the Jiralhanae ground forces would track any surviving refugees as they attempted to flee, making their locations known to the aerial craft which were inevitably to follow. With the Brute's quarantine now broken, the last of the three options was in play.
The Sangheili's only chance was to get under cover as quickly as possible.
Salvation lay two hundred metres ahead. A thick outcrop of mountainous canyons loomed up across the horizon. A maze of winding passages wormed their way through the rock-face, promising a warren of potential hiding places. If they could get there, then the Sangheili would be able to mount a reasonable defence, by using the Banshees lack of manoeuvrability against them. The alternative was to flee into the open desert, and be massacred accordingly.
Vtan closed his eyes, willing his legs to keep pumping forward. The sound of the Jiralhanae's collective engines grew louder. They were out of time.
There was a keening boom as a pair of Banshee attack-fighters swooped overhead, spitting a torrent of hissing plasma fire. Behind Vtan, Unngoy wailed haplessly as they were mercilessly strafed.
Fallen Sangheili tumbled to the dirt, their shields overwhelmed and bodies broken. Enraged, Vtan stopped and pointed at the Banshees circling around for a second attack run, oblivious to the lancing bolts of plasma which rent the ground around him.
"Mgalekgolo, turn and address!" he barked. They complied without hesitation.
As one, the Mgalekgolo halted, wheeled about, and unleashed a devastating salvo from their assault cannon. One of the Banshees ran straight into it, and its port wing exploded. The fighter was thrown into a reckless spin, before it struck the ground, skipped twice, then erupted in a spectacular fireball. Cheers ran up and down the Sangheili rank and file. The second Banshee, wary now at the loss of its wingman, withdrew. Gratified, Vtan led his people into the safety of the waiting canyons.
For the Sangheili on Crassus, the war had finally begun.
"Kilo-Six Four, I am reading multiple contacts in your sector, both airborne and available ground targets. Watch yourself, Warmonger."
Perry adjusted the throttle and flipped on the com. For safety's sake, he also took the liberty of prepping the Pelican's twin-linked chain guns.
"Acknowledged, Strongarm, I am in position to set down Fire-team Alpha-One. You just get your boys to the LZ intact, over."
"You telling me how to do my job, Warmonger?"
Elaina Santos, call-sign Strongarm, was a notoriously bellicose woman. Cute too. Such banter was tradition.
"Always, Strongarm." Perry grinned. "Warmonger out."
Perry peered of the viewport. In the distance, just off the port-side, he could see Strongarm delivering her "customers" to Fire-team Alpha-Two's insertion point. Alpha Platoon had been tasked with gauging the condition of the downed Covenant cruiser. Perry's orders were to set his cargo down in one of the wider valleys west of the crash, and then standby for extraction.
He spied the LZ; an open stretch in the mouth of one of the side valleys. He guided the craft down carefully, setting it down beneath the shade of the overhanging canyon wall. There was a gentle bump-hiss as the landing gear kissed the sandy floor. Perry powered down all non-essential systems, not wishing to attract any unwanted hostile attention. "Running quiet", as the Navy called it. He then released the magnetic grip-lock holding Fireteam Alpha-One's M831 Troop Transport. There was a rattling thud as the heavy vehicle fell free.
The hatch behind Perry slid open. Staff Sergeant Howard poked his head through the doorway. Only the sergeant's mouth and chin were visible beneath his helmet. Like most of the marines on Crassus, he opted to attach a glare-visor to his dark-green combat helmet. His lips were drawn, although this was nothing unusual for Howard, who lived up to his reputation as a by-the-book, no-nonsense hard ass.
"Alright, flyboy, you've done your part, just sit your ass tight while we do ours." Howard gestured over his shoulder with his thumb. "I'm leaving Hughes, Price, Long and Myers here to secure the LZ; you'll reach 'em on TAC-COM Channel 17. They'll keep you safe."
"Roger that," Perry nodded, tipping the rim of his impact-visor in a casual-salute. Howard nodded then disappeared down the rear dispersal platform without another word.
"Not much of a conversationalist" Perry quipped, watching as the Warthog trundled away, its six occupants bouncing about as its massive tyres crunched their way across the rocky valley floor. Wispy dust wafted up from the rear hatch, but Perry decided to leave it as it was. His helmet's filters could handle the dust, and the breeze was actually pretty good, once you got past all the sand.
Behind him, something sneezed.
Perry twisted about in his harness, craning his neck around. He listened. Did I just imagine that?
The perplexed pilot opened the com channel the sergeant had left with him.
"Hey, Warmonger here; did one of you boys hear something?" he asked.
"This is Corporal Myers, all quiet out here," one of the soldiers replied. "Something up, flyboy?"
"Uh, no, never mind." Perry mumbled sheepishly. He switched off the com.
"You're losing it, Dave." Perry shook his head ruefully, settling back in his chair.
Something sneezed again. This time, he definitely hadn't imagined it.
In one motion, Perry popped the restraints and slid a hand down to the side-arm strapped to his leg. He drew the compact pistol smoothly, racking the slide. Sliding out of his chair, he approached the source of the sound, weapon raised. It was a non-descript cargo locker, one of four cramped between the pilot's cabin and the "Blood Tray" where the marines had debarked from. Perry took a deep breath, reached forward, and hauled the locker open.
A yellow bundle burst from the locker in an explosion of tangled limbs and disposed MREs. Perry yelped and fell back against the far wall. After a moment of heart-stopping terror, he realised it was a child, wrapped in an environmental suit three times too big for her. The little girl was sneezing violently, her eyes watering from the dust.
"'Yellow!" Sarah Jennings beamed. "We're on an adventure!"
Perry recognised her immediately. After all, she looked just like her mother. At that moment, his brain was only capable of processing two words.
"Oh shit." Perry breathed.