Section II: Valor


Chapter Twelve: Initiation

9th Age of Reclamation, 16th Cycle
Human World – 'Crassus', Unknown System

Aten

I could not look at the fire for very long without feeling like my face was about to blister and peel off from the intense heat. The warmth of the flames was a welcome respite from the bitter cold that held this region of the world in its grasp, but I still would not have minded stepping back a few paces from the fireplace.

Timber from the partially-destroyed roof of the house I was in was what was fueling this fire. I do not know what kind of wood it was, but it popped somewhat loudly and gave off a strong—though not necessarily unpleasant—odor.

I was holding a metal rod with a brand fixed onto the end into the heart of the flames; obviously, the part I was holding was insulated with cloth and rubber so that I did not burn my hand off. I pulled it out of the fireplace, inspecting the brand at the end, which was glowing with the heat. Not quite satisfied, I thrust it back into the fireplace, allowing it to heat up a little more.

This was the first time the Q'Rumno had been given a rest since the long, bloody advance through the mountain ranges that now lay behind us. Integrated combat legions were now pushing ahead of our current position, laying siege to the Human cities that lay in the direction of the coast. And so, with a brief respite from the winter war raging across this hemisphere of the world that the Humans called Crassus, there were many issues that the Q'Rumno was now able to address and resolve—some of them official, and others…off the record.

The brand which I was heating in the flames had to do with one of these 'off the record' issues. The brand itself was the Forerunner glyph for valor with the Anâic rune for 'Q' emblazoned in the middle. The unofficial symbol of the Q'Rumno.

"Aten."

I glanced over my shoulder. Nuren, one of the older astiros of the Third Element, was poking his head through one of the windows. Checking on my progress, no doubt.

"Is the brand ready?" the other warrior asked.

I shook my head. "Another two minutes should be sufficient."

Nuren's mandibles clicked with impatience. "Bring it outside to the fire when it is ready, will you?"

I gave the astir a nod, turning my attention back to the fireplace. I slowly rotated the brand ninety degrees, making sure the distribution of the heat did not become unbalanced. The glimmer of excitement deep in my chest started to grow steadily. My two closest friends had no idea what was about to hit them tonight…just as I'd had no idea when it had happened to me, over seven months ago. Tonight was going to be a night for them to remember. And the timing was perfect…after the advance across these frozen plains, we needed something to rouse our wearied minds.

Another three minutes later, I pulled the brand back out of the fire. The heat of the fire had turned the brand a bright, glowing yellow. It was ready.

I exited the room and walked out of the house via the eastern wall, which no longer existed, blown away by the furious plasma bombardment that had taken place here when this area had still remained in Human hands. Luckily, the winds had died down, which made the cold easier to bear. Our combat harnesses had temperature controls that kept us warm, but they did not always keep us comfortable, and cold winter winds were more than enough to shatter any measure of comfort.

The oronos were all encamped in the ruined houses on this street, while the astiros had the pair of undamaged homes in the cul-de-sac. The veterans had started up a bonfire in the yard between these two former homes—this did not happen every night…but tonight was a special occasion. I walked across the street and headed into the circle of firelight. The fifty-odd astiros of the Third Element—including our Field Officer, Ta'rel 'Neiasree—sat around the fire in small camp chairs, tree stumps, and other makeshift seats. When they saw me approaching, Eolis—the senior astir—gave Nuren a nod.

Nuren slipped off into the darkness with three others. I took my place around the fire with the others, sitting on a short log with room for three. I was currently alone on the log, but I wouldn't be for very much longer. As I took my seat, I held the end of the branding iron into the bonfire to keep it heated.

Marel, who was sitting on the tree stump to my right, gave a low chuckle, gestured at the superheated branding iron. "The best part is always the look in their eyes when they see it," he said.

I had to agree. I had not flailed when I'd seen it myself, seven months ago, but there had definitely been a moment of intense surprise, of nervousness at the idea of superheated metal coming into contact with my flesh. But afterwards, when I was able to watch others go through the same thing…it was amusing, watching someone else squirm, about to undergo something you had already been through.

Within the next few minutes, Nuren and the other astiros returned, escorting none other than my friends Y'mir and Oros over to the makeshift platform set in front of the bonfire—composed of several of the larger equipment canisters. My friends looked around quizzically, not knowing exactly why they had been brought to the astiros' fire—the veterans rarely ever allowed the oronos into their close company.

Eolis climbed up onto the platform and raised his hand, calling for silence. The astiros all quieted down at the behest of their brother. "We are a minority," the senior astir declared, looking around the fire, meeting our gazes. "There are many who become Proselytes, there are many who pass the trials and join the ranks of the warrior crèches...and there are many who then take the Journey and join the venerated dead. That is the path of the majority…and it is a path that none of us have followed. It is a path that you, Y'mir 'Tahamee, and you, Oros 'Kusovee have not followed. And so, you join the ranks of a different kind of honored warrior…the venerated living. And because becoming an astir is, as I said, no small feat, we believe you should be given a…" the senior astir searched for an appropriate word for a few moments, before settling on, "gift...to remember the occasion by."

Amused laughter arose all around the campfire at Eolis's choice of words. He was right; it was a gift…although those of us who were at the immediate receiving end of the gift had not quite agreed with this sentiment at the time.

Eolis nodded over to me. "Aten, the gift if you please?"

Grinning wolfishly, I withdrew the branding iron from the fire and made my way around to the platform, inverting the iron and presenting it handle-first to the senior astir. Eolis took the iron and held it up to the skies, as if it were a sword of legend. He then leveled it straight at my two friends.

"Approach."

As Y'mir and Oros stepped forward, Nuren and the others removed the torso sections of their combat harnesses, as well as their helmets, leaving them half-naked in the cold. Y'mir stepped up onto the platform, where the senior astir commanded him to kneel. The islander sank to a knee and had just enough time to take in a deep breath before Eolis thrust the branding iron forward. The superheated metal made contact with his flesh with an unsettling noise that sounded like meat sizzling in a pan.

I suppressed the urge to cringe. This was not the first time I had witnessed this particular ritual, but I'd never gotten used to the sound of flesh getting seared.

Y'mir endured the pain like any true warrior should—he barely flinched, keeping all of his screaming inside his own mind. I was close enough to hear the low, barely audible grunt of pain, but the islander made no other sound. Many have criticized him for his eccentric humor and mannerisms, but no one could say that he lacked the heart and soul of a warrior.

Eolis pulled the branding iron away, turned to the side, beckoned Oros to climb up onto the other side of the platform. The process was repeated—the senior astir commanded the Urassan to kneel, pressed the branding iron to his chest, searing the small symbol over Oros's left-side heart.

"Congratulations, warriors...astiros," Eolis gave a faint smile. "You now have a future."

"To hell with having a future," Y'mir grunted as he shrugged his combat harness back on. "What I would rather have is a stiff pint of rum!"

Silence fell over the astiros who sat in the firelight once more. This was probably the first time a new astir had ever even spoken during the initiation—during my own initiation, I'd simply stepped down from the platform, taken my place in the circle, and did my best to forget the burning pain. I certainly had not cracked jokes…but then, I was not Y'mir.

After the brief lapse of silence, laughter rose up from the circle of astiros. Even Eolis joined in the laughter, exchanging several quiet words with my friend before allowing them to leave the platform and join the circle.

I had laughed as well, but not at Y'mir's remark. No, I found amusement in the fact that everyone else believed Y'mir had been joking. "I fear that mouth of yours will be the death of you, never mind the Humans…"

"And what a death it will be!" the islander beamed, sitting down on my log.

"Assuming I don't silence you first…" Oros muttered, taking a seat at the other end of the log, next to the islander.

The relationship between Y'mir and Oros was one of the most complex, bizarre friendships I have ever seen. I got on well enough with both of them, but with each other…much of their conversations could be summed up with spiteful jabs, slurs concerning their respective ethnicities, sarcasm, insults… If you did not already know the two warriors, you would probably think they hated each other. But the friction between the two of them was simply the way they interacted—it was the veneer of the friendship, not the core.

The initiation ritual was concluded with the branding. There was no feast, no great celebration to welcome Y'mir and Oros into our ranks, no words of congratulations, no pats on the back. Most, if not all of the traditions and customs of warriors in the field were similarly low-key. When a dead man survived his first battle, the fact that the others ceased to treat him like he was a ghost was enough of a gift. When a veteran oron was elevated into the ranks of the astiros, the acceptance of the senior members of the crèche was more of a treasure than any formal ceremony could ever hope to match.

Though they were doing their best to hide it, I could see that my companions were clearly still in pain. I leaned over to them, pulling down my thermal skinsuit far enough to expose the symbol of the Q'Rumno that was over my left heart. After seven months, the scars from my own branding had faded from an angry red to an ashen color—not pitch black, but still dark enough to be seen against my dark brown skin. "The pain will subside a little by morning," I said to them, "and it will fade within the week."

I still remembered with fondness my own initiation. The pain of the crèche mark, the warming glow that grew in my hearts as I took my place with the veterans, the feeling of complete acceptance. There was no longer anyone in the Q'Rumno who could look down on me. I am certain that my friends were having similar feelings.

And they had earned them. While the rest of the crèche was occupied with capturing the strongpoints of the Human defenses in this region, Y'mir and Oros had led a detachment of oronos against the enemy's artillery. While they did not destroy the Human artillery nests completely—it would have taken armored support to accomplish that—they were able to maul the vermin badly enough to force them to fall back.

It was customary to wait until the end of a battle before welcoming veterans into the ranks of the astiros, but Field Officer 'Neiasree had discreetly suggested to Eolis that we do it tonight, for reasons unknown.

After the initiation, the din around the bonfire quieted down as weariness began to take hold. Y'mir was the only one of us to break the silence. He was gazing deep into the fire. Shadows danced across his face, and the flames reflected in his eyes, masking the green in his irises. He then began to murmur softly, to himself, and perhaps to us, "Lo, on the tides of Winter's breath, our enemies greet us with gifts of Death… Their blood soaks our shores as we answer Death with War, a stain on our lands we shan't soon forget…"

I faintly recognized the poetry that my friend was reciting. It was one of a series of four poems written by Azaire 'Taham, who had served as Kaidon of his state during the Strife of Tears. It was an ancient war that had raged all across the globe millennia ago, long before the War of Unity. While the Strife itself could be discussed in great detail for years on end, the poem Y'mir was reciting referred to a period in the war when a combined army, spearheaded by the extinct Khewan Clan, seeking to gain a foothold from which they could begin their planned conquest of Yermo and the Western Massif, invaded the Taham Archipelago. The four poems were named after the four seasons—Autumn speaking of the islands in all their beauty; Winter speaking of the Khewan invasion of the Archipelago, the sorrow and desperation of Azaire's army as they were pushed to the very fringes of their home; Spring speaking of the coming of the monsoons, the storms and the rains… The destruction wrought against the Khewan-led invasion force, the patience of Azaire's forces as they waited for Nature to smile upon them once more; and, finally, Summer speaking of Azaire's victory over the battered and exhausted enemies.

Y'mir was uttering the Winter poem, which I suppose was appropriate, given the weather in this region of the planet. We were not a desperate remnant of an army on the verge of defeat, like the Taham forces from the poem…but then, I rarely ever question why Y'mir says the things he does.

By the time the islander finished the poem, even the quiet conversation around the fire had dwindled and faded to silence. The seconds ticked by, blending together into minutes. In this weather, there were no sounds of nature to fill the void, only the crackling pop of the bonfire as it died down into smoldering embers, and the low, ambient breath of the wind.

Before any of us could retire for the night, Field Officer 'Neiasree rose from his camp chair. He opened his mouth, started to speak, then seemed to change his mind. Instead, he made his way around the remains of the bonfire and stepped up onto the makeshift platform so that he could be seen by everyone in the circle.

"The Field Master received orders from orbit, earlier this afternoon," the Field Officer announced. "The Fleetmaster has been ordered to begin the cleansing of this world on the morrow. All ground forces have been recalled to the fleet. We will be returning to the Sacrosanct after sunrise."

I frowned, outrage beginning to boil deep within my hearts. The Humans here were not yet defeated—what right did the Navy have to rob us of our glory on the battlefield? It was insulting to the infantry to pull us away from battle while the enemy still had a fight left in it. As we started to voice our protests, the Field Officer raised his hand, quelling us with a glare. "These orders came straight from the Prophets themselves; there will be no disputing them. Now rest, my brothers—if we are decreed by Fate to meet our deaths, it shall not be on this world." The Field Officer, finished speaking, stepped down from the platform and slipped away into the darkness.

While I'm sure that we all still had more than our fair share of things to say about the premature pull-out, getting some much-needed sleep was a higher priority. Learning to grab extra sleep whenever possible was one of the first habits that became drilled into us as we started learning the ropes of warfare. Of surviving warfare, rather. Following this principle, I continued to voice my grievances with the others, but only after we were standing up and heading back into one of our houses.

"This is out of character for the Prophets, no?" I finally said to Nuren when we made it indoors. And I was right; the Zealots always made it a point to send in ground forces to defeat the Humans before cleansing their worlds—it would be viewed as dishonorable to simply burn them from orbit without meeting them in battle. And the Prophets, though they did not necessarily share this view, never usually interfered with our way of conducting warfare. Prematurely ending this battle was, as I said…out of character for them.

The older astir threw me a sidelong glance as he lay down in the blackened, burned remains of a couch, burying himself in his bedroll. "Aten?" he grunted from under the thermal blanket. "You're thinking. Stop thinking."

I took the hint and grabbed my own bedroll, which I had stowed in one of the corners. Y'mir and Oros had to retrieve their gear from one of the other houses, so they did not join me for another quarter unit. We all laid down our bedrolls behind the couch, sleeping close to one another for heat.

When I had first joined the Q'Rumno, there were nine of us who had been assigned to the Third Element. Y'mir, Oros, and I were the only ones from that group who were still alive. Over the last three years, the others had all died in the various battles we had taken part in ever since Eden. And somehow…we were the ones who continued to draw breath. And now all three of us were part of the astiros. However, unlike many of my peers, I'd never once questioned why I had managed to last so much longer than most of the others. Such things were beyond my comprehension. And, ultimately, knowing the answers would not change a thing. I would still be alive, the dead would remain dead. So why agonize?

One of the other astiros gradually dimmed the plasma torch in the center of the room, bringing the light down until the torch went out, plunging the room into darkness. We gathered our thermal blankets tightly about ourselves and huddled up, making our departure from the waking world into the realm of dreams.

I closed my eyes. Questions still buzzed feebly around my mind, questions about our sudden pullout…but my weariness quickly brought them to heel, and they meekly subsided, leaving nothing but the faint sound of the wind outside.