"So…so many…"

- Unidentified com broadcast, Western Line. [transmission sequence terminated error #3043 Timestamp Code 11/2552]

It was the dead of night, and the hunt was on.

There were five of them in the Infiltration Pack. Jiral'ja specialists, born and raised since birth to strike fear deep into the souls of their enemies. Terror was their speciality, and the Brute Stalkers did it masterfully. The Infiltrators wore cyclopean helmets, their single ocular visor depicting the world in a fuzzy mural of sickly green and murky grey. Personally, Kelb hated having to wear the Infiltrator Scope. The filter did exactly that - it filtered. It sanitised what they did, removing the visceral joy of the hunt; the savage splendour.

Without the helm, he would have been able to fully appreciate the glorious slaughter unleashed by the Pack twice already. There were three more suspected Human warrens left in this sector, before they were to make for the extraction point. Either old and frail, or young and tender, the Humans encountered thus far had offered little resistance, but Kelb wasn't in this for the challenge. They had feasted well, and his belly was full. That was all that mattered.

He held up his balled fist and his fellow Jiralhanae halted, reluctantly. Like Kelb, their blood was up, and their fangs had tasted flesh already. It was all he could do to stop himself leaping out and mauling their latest target outright.

But he was Jiral'ja. The best of the best. The Sangheili had never appreciated the Jiralhanae's capacity for intelligent, asymmetrical warfare. Nor did their frail Human companions; Brutes, that was the word the whelps had for them. Brutes. What nerve. It took a special kind of arrogance to defy the new arm of the Prophets; an arrogance borne from heresy. The thick-muscles in his jaw bunched. His fur bristled. Let them label us with their titles. By Truth's Glorious Will, we shall not disappoint their expectations. He licked his lips, realising he was still hungry for the prospect of further slaughter.

Restraint, Kelb, restraint. Remember your training.

The street was clear for now. So fixated on defending the outer walls, they had left their interior virtually undefended. Only the occasional patrol slipped by, and the Jiral'ja wisely let them be, choosing instead to blend with the shadows as the Humans strolled by, heedless. Restraint, that was the key.

The Jiral'ja Stalkers were different from their warrior brethren. They were - in Jiralhanae terms - the surgical scalpel to the Covenant Army's sledgehammer, choosing their fights carefully, before slipping away undetected. Still, the scale of their deployment was unprecedented: some thirty Infiltrator Packs having skulked their way into the midst of the Human fortress, and the rest of the Jiral'ja were poised to storm the Northern Gate, pending the High Chieftain's command.

Kelb shook himself. It was time to focus.

After all, the next Human shelter was just around the corner. Kelb ran his forefinger down the edge of his Ripper's barbed tooth. The skin split instantly, a tiny skein of blood trickling down onto the sandy earth below. Good, the blade was keen. So was he.

Wordlessly, they activated their stealth-shrouds once more; fizzling into a blurry rumour as they edged toward their target - weapons raised and claws ready.

Sarah chewed her lip, looking up from her notepad with a frown. Something was wrong.

She set her crayon down, pulled her headphones off and pushed away from the small table. The room had been a pre-school, once, and she found the babyish colours - all splotchy and vibrant - oddly soothing. The other kids were scattered about, snoozing and snoring and dribbling to themselves, their brows occasionally knitting in time to the thud of shell-fire outside. They had told them that it was just thunder, but Sarah knew better. There was no way she'd sleep now. Something prickled at the skin on the back of her neck, and as she stepped toward the entrance hatch, a trickle of uncertainty blossomed into outright fear. Something was definitely wrong.

She reached up on her tip-toes and stabbed at the door activation switch. An angry red bleat answered her. Child-locked. She pursed her lips in thought then, having failed to think of any other strategy, stabbed the switch again and again.

Miraculously, the door opened. Sarah gasped.

The door hadn't opened because of her. There was an old man standing before her, and a surge of relief coursed through her. It was Mr. Jenkins, their kindly old guard. He used to be a janitor, before joining the militia, and she had known him from school as a decent sort, soft-spoken and kind-eyed. She smiled brightly at him.

"Yellow Mr. Jenkins!"

He didn't reply. Instead, he simply stood there, unsteady and swaying on his feet.

"… Mr Jenkins?" she queried again, head cocked to one side. "Are you okay, Mister?"

Harold Jenkins paid no attention to her. Indeed, he wasn't paying attention to anything at all. His mouth hung open in a wordless scream, and he staggered forward on his feet like a drunk over treacherous cobblestones. His eyes rolled back in their sockets, a stark white. He managed a choking croak.

Then he face-planted.

Sarah shrieked. The other children were awake now, and when they saw what she saw, they joined in. Sarah's ear-drums warped from the high-pitched sound, but she didn't care. She was too busy on staring down at Mr. Jenkins.

And the gaping hole where his lower spine used to be.

"Argh, that noise!" Sraald roared, clamping his hands over his ears. Their Infiltrator helmets were designed to pick up the slightest sound: sentries' foot-steps, hidden booby-traps, even breathing; anything remotely sensitive. Two dozen screaming children were the audio-equivalent of a nuclear bomb in a teapot. Kelb pried his helmet from his head, blood streaming down in thick ropes from where his ear-drums had burst.

"Silence them all!" he roared, raising his Ripper, "Murder the wretches!"

The ensuing gunfire was deafening, only it wasn't their own. Storming in through the entryway behind them was Gregor Abelev, a shotgun in his hands and murder in his eyes. Despite the sound of its name, the M84 Combat Utility Weapon was not a particularly delicate weapon. A relic from days long since past, it had carried members of the Abelev line - soldiers all - through conflict after conflict. True to its nature, the title Old Reliable was scrawled down the length of its barrel in jagged, scratchy script.

A wide barrelled shotgun, it was designed for close quarters, and right now it was being applied with textbook lethality.

The Infiltrators combat harnesses were minimally shielded, in order to facilitate superior cloaking systems. They paid for this vital weakness with their own flesh and blood. Quite literally.

His first shell removed most of Sraald's shoulder, spinning him around. The second and third pulped the Brute's torso utterly, reducing the Infiltrator to little more than a stack of ragged meat on legs. Abelev managed to wing two more of the Brutes, who were blown back off their feet. Their Rippers discharged into the ceiling above; spilling a dusty shower of disintegrated plaster.

Abelev knew surprise would only do him so well, and dove to the ground, pumping shell after shell into the startled Brutes.

The surviving Jiral'ja responded with admirable discipline, sending a blizzard of return fire overhead by reflex. The doorway behind him sagged under the barrage, the jamb all but shredded. Gun-smoke and the acrid stench of cordite tainted the air. All he could see was the constant strobe of muzzle flashes.

Abruptly the Brutes ceased fire, so did Abelev. So furious to kill their attacker, both parties were out of ammunition. As the rest of his warriors scrambled to reload, Squad Leader Kelb smirked.

Clutched in his hand was a Type-2 Antipersonnel Fragmentation Grenade, looking for all the world like some volatile grappling hook.

"Careful Human, I would hate to see what this would do to all those Younglings in the room adjacent." Kelb gestured toward the room full of shell-shocked children.

Abelev's blood ran cold. Old Reliable was a devastating asset in a pinch, but its reload speed was its greatest sticking point. Over eager and out of practice, the major had committed the cardinal sin of any close-quarters battle engagement: poor ammo conservation. A schoolboy error; one that would cost him. His reckless charge had doomed not only himself, but all of the children too.

He had only one thing left in his favour: sheer balls. The Brutes had no idea he was out of ammo, and he had no intention of letting them know anything to the contrary. A man of many vices, Abelev was an avid poker player. Right now, this was the most important bluff of his life. He held the shotgun steady, unwavering, unblinking. Second ticked by. Neither party moved. The only sound was the sound of their own breathing, as the Jiral'ja backed up slowly, the grenade still held in Kelb's hand. A stalemate. The silence was overwhelming.

It didn't last long.

The wall behind Kelb didn't fall down. It exploded. There was a cloud of smoke and imploding masonry. Then pain. The Hunters' roar shook the entire building as they surged in through the debris, shields raised. They hit the Jiralhanae at full speed, pancaking them against the walls. The grenade detonated as it was crushed, shrapnel whistling over Abelev's head. Incensed at having their beloved friend threatened, the Hunters stomped their feet on the ruined corpses of the Infiltrators, denting the floor with the clanging swipes of their shields. Soon only a bloody smear was left.

They continued pounding the smashed bodies long after they had stopped breathing. Abelev almost felt sorry for the Brutes.

Well, almost.

"Jib! Jubb!" Sarah squealed, stepping out into the hall, blithely ignorant of the thick ropes of splattered gore which caked their carapaces and dripped down onto the buckled tiles. Either she's in shock, or she's getting far too used to life on Crassus, Abelev thought to himself.

The Hunters snuffled their approval, stamping their feet in greeting, before bowing out into the street beyond. In their place a flood of militia - concerned parents all - stormed into the building, Amanda at their head. She swept Sarah off her feet, her eyes closed. For the second time, she had almost lost her baby.

Abelev, for his part, was more or less ignored, the colonists far too intent on checking the children.

"Yeah, don't mind me." Abelev muttered, "I'll just lay here and have a heart-attack."

As he clambered wearily to his feet, winded, Abelev cursed himself for being so out of shape. Had he not let himself go, he would have gotten here sooner. His knees ached. His back ached. Christ, everything ached. Maybe he was better off in a command position.

He plucked a spent cartridge from the ground, pocketing it as a souvenir. The major looked down at the Brute he'd taken to pieces. He grinned.

And miss out on schooling aliens? That'll be the day.

"Thank you."

He turned around. Amanda was looking at him squarely, and for once there was no scorn or bickering between them. Only gratitude; honest and sincere.

"I know we don't always see eye to eye, Major, but for what it's worth… thank you."

"Thank me when we've won," he answered smartly, shouldering his shotgun and sauntering out into the night. He keyed his com as he made his way back to the Command Centre, still riding the combat high.

"Shipmaster, thanks for sending the Hunters for the assist."

"I did not send them, Major Abelev." Vtan's voice came back, "They were assisting me in hunting the Jiral'ja insurgents, and departed without warning or instruction."

"So you didn't order them out toward Sector 14-E?"

"No, Major Abelev, I did not. The Mgalekgolo's loyalty is unquestionable, but oftentimes they are known to possess their own motivations. It does puzzle me however; it would take something of critical important for them to deviate from their assigned duty."

The major spared a glance back at the ruined schoolhouse. Amanda stood outside, holding Sarah in a tight embrace. The Hunters stood over them, shielding them from all would-be attackers.

"Yeah, you could say that," Abelev replied.

Meanwhile, the battle outside the city raged on without cessation. Commander Song found himself directing the artillery cars to engage the enemy's western attack, and with good reason. The Super Scarab was back.

"Elevation thirty-two!" Song ordered.

"Elevation thirty-two, aye!"

"Fire!"

The howitzers roared. In the distance through his eye-scope, Song watched as the salvo tore across the front of the Super Scarab. The image flickered out of a view for a moment. When it cleared, the Ubiquitous Triumph marched forward, unscathed.

"Hit it again!" Song cried.

"Firing!" Ensign Parker shouted. The platform shook.

Nothing. It wasn't even breaking stride as the shell slammed home. Its hull was stained and scorched, but for all intents and purposes, they hadn't even so much as dented the thing. It was barrelling down on the Western Line, its own emplacements blazing.

"Keep it up, I don't want that bastard coming any closer."

The next ammo cart rattled in. It was empty. Song frowned.

"Call for another reload," he instructed.

Another cart trundled in. It too was empty.

"That's it, Sir. The munitions store is empty." Parker said with some finality, looking up helplessly, "We're completely out of ammo."

The Ubiquitous Triumph was almost on top of them. Its mouth turrets flared hungrily in the night as it warmed up. There would be no time to escape.

Song lowered his binoculars and closed his eyes, resigned to his fate. He was tired. For three straight days, the artillery crews had placed fire for effect on the Covenant army, unloading an estimated three thousand rounds of explosives over a seventy two hour period. His men had worked tirelessly around the clock, giving it their all. They had done their best, and that's all that could be asked of them.

"It's been an honour, gentlemen." he told them. He saluted them, crisp and sharp. They did likewise.

Then the artillery platform exploded.

The massive howitzers split the sky with a droning lurch as they toppled down onto the buildings below, flattening some of the railway line as they descended. Sixty thousand pounds of metal ripped clean through some of the supply pipelines. A torrent of fuel and water gushed out onto the streets below. Sparks ignited. The fuel lines exploded, a wall of flame flaring up and immolating the defenders nestled across the top of the Western Pipelines. They shrieked and thrashed as they flung themselves to their deaths, limbs flailing as they tried to leap to safety. Their screams were mercifully cut short as they hit the ground.

To date, the initial Covenant attacks had been probing strikes. Torikus had carefully bided his time over the past three days, patiently goading the Human artillery to the point of exhaustion. This accomplished, there was nothing to stop them advancing upon the Curtain Wall unmolested. A full assault was ordered, and the High Chieftain spared no expense. He committed his full reserves to the attack. It was an all or nothing gamble, and characterised the Brute leader's penchant for knowing and exploiting the Humans' limitations.

Unchecked by the presence of enemy artillery, the Jiralhanae forces wasted little time in making the Humans suffer for having denied them their victory so long.

To the West and South, the attacks were the most successful. The Humans, lacking the incisive leadership and tactical coordination of the ODST or the unparalleled combat skill of Rukth's Special Operations Sangheili, soon found themselves in a losing battle.

Marikos' arms were numb. The chain gun sawed the enemy down in droves, and still they charged, driven by a fanaticism he himself once knew. He'd sent his ammo carriers back to fetch more panniers. The current basket was almost empty. The Outcast was alone in this trench section, which was stacked with fallen Humans. They had given their lives admirably, but they were not Sangheili. As it stood, Marikos was alone.

Well, not quite alone.

The only company in this section of the trench was a loathsome Human, a cowardly runt by the name of Cauldwell. He had soiled himself, and was doing little to help, choosing instead to cower at the base of the trench, his fingers jammed in his ears in a vain attempt to blot out the deafening carnage unfolding around him. His fake-tan was dripping down over his forehead as he sweated, and his hair - normally slicked back and sharp - was tousled and frayed. He wasn't cut out for war.

Marikos called out to him over his shoulder, never taking his eyes off the oncoming packs of Jiralhanae as he cut them down.

"Come, Human, come and face your death by my side! Stand firm before the enemy!"

Cauldwell didn't answer. He didn't sign up for any of this. His talents were book balancing, filing PPR reports and driving stock prices. He was an MD of Traxus Heavy Industries, and he was good at it. Besides, he'd seen what had happened to those who had gotten up to fire their guns. Not his scene, thanks. Better to stay down here, and let that alien freak do all the fighting.

"Damn you, fool!" the Outcast brayed over the sound of his monstrous cannon, "When the Jiralhanae take you alive, you will have reap the full reward for your cowardice!"

With that he charged over the trench lip, straight into an advancing pack of Brutes.

Seconds later, Marikos' gun abruptly cut out. Steam rose up, twisting from the barrel, which spun and whirred though no bullets came out. His ammo was spent. With a roar he hefted the weapon over his head, wielding it like a cudgel. He bludgeoned two of the Brutes to death before the rest overwhelmed him, their weapons chopping and biting deep into his flesh.

Cauldwell didn't see any of this. He was too busy curled up in a foetal ball of unbridled terror, repeating the distressing mantra his numerous psychiatrists had taught him over the years. Eyes squeezed shut, he rocked back and forth, whispering over and over.

"Keep it together, keep it together, keep it together…"

He was still muttering to himself when the Brutes found him, two minutes later.

As Abelev entered the command centre, it became apparent that all hell was breaking loose in his absence. The gun emplacements along the Curtain Wall were all but dry, and there was no time for fresh supplies to be brought up. The missile batteries were dry, and - bereft of support - the Inner Trenches were on the brink of being overrun. The display map around the city was swarming with a pulsing blur of red "hostile" indicators. Friendly green circles, denoting allied UNSC and Sangheili forces, were winking out at an alarming rate.

"Goddamn it, where the hell is the Shipmaster?" Abelev demanded, snatching up the main command headset and putting it on.

"He departed for the armoury some time ago, Sir." Williams reported, before returning to directing a particularly distressed militia unit.

"Jesus Christ," Abelev spat venomously, "Just when I thought he was getting useful…"

He turned his attention back toward the orchestrating the beleaguered defenders. The Western Line looked like it was about to fall. It was time.

May God forgive me.

"Recall all external forces." Abelev ordered, "Prepare to initiate Tactical Response 23."

Grier's men were being blasted back off the fire-step, tumbling down on top of the men waiting below, who grimly pushed the corpses aside and took their place. The monstrous Scarab blotted out the sun as it strode over them. Covenant soldiers on the side decks snapped shots down at them, the trench doing little to protect its occupants at such a vulnerable angle. The militia returned fire, though they stood little chance of being able to hit anything.

"MG's dry!" Trooper Lisk cried, snatching up his MA5B and resuming his suppressive fire. All across the line, similar reports were heard. The enemy roared eagerly as soon as the support weapons died out, and redoubled their efforts to storm the Human positions.

"Fall back, men, fall back!"

Suddenly new shadows fell over them. A line of Brutes, Grunts and Jackals had crested the trench, and were unloading into the Humans with gleeful abandon. Further down the trench, one of the fuel tanks of the incinerator units was breached. A curling fireball engulfed dozens of militia, turning them into human infernos which jigged and flapped as they thrashed about.

Grier raised his weapon, and managed to squeeze off two or three well placed bursts before he too was mowed down. The first of the Inner Trenches had been overrun, and those in the second trench - having seen what had befallen their comrades up front - broke ranks and fled, streaming back toward the Western Gate.

Through a combination of human error and technological faults, several squads were informed of the withdrawal far too late. They were surrounded as they made to join the retreat, their com-links picking up their final, tortured moments. In the Command Centre, an uneasy silence took hold as the com operators listened to these wretched, final broadcasts.

The Western Line had been routed.

To the South, a similar story played out. Only this time, there was no hope of retreat.

Sustained Covenant plasma bombardment had fused the door mechanism of the Southern Gate shut. The top of the Wall itself was a twisted lump of slag, having taken a series of savage blasts from the Type-47 Scarab assaulting from the South-East.

Hundreds of militia beat their fists raw against the gate in impotent panic, desperate to get inside. The defenders within were forced to listen to their desperate pleas for help as the Covenant closed in. Trapped like rats between the Curtain Wall on one side and the Covenant army on the other, Charlie Platoon and their accompanying forces had little choice but to fight on to the bitter end.

A salient had formed, and they were surrounded on all sides by hordes of encroaching attackers. Of Lieutenant Lewis' original platoon, only a pitiful sixteen remained. She didn't have to be a tactical genius to know the outcome in advance. She reached for a new mag, slapping it home.

"Alright, marines. Let's see how many of them we can kill."

Over the next twelve minutes, the remnants of Charlie Platoon accounted for over two-hundred and sixty two kills against overwhelming odds.

No one witnessed their heroism.

At 04:30 on the morning of the fourth day, the Curtain fell.

It was approaching the end-game now. TR-23 was in full effect, and the battle was coming down to the wire. From this point onward, there could be no more retreat. To those in the city proper, the echoing sounds of the battle were growing louder and louder, as the Covenant assaulters attempted to clamber over the Curtain Wall using all manner of techniques.

The fight itself almost became medieval; improvised siege ladders, grappling hooks, even vats of burning tar. Only the jet-packs used by the more specialised Jiralhanae elements marked it as a battle of the 26th century. The humans denied them for as long as they could, pushing the massive ladders back and hurling everything from grenades to stones to even their own helmets down upon the seething mass of invaders below.

Eventually Jiral'ja sapper teams, operating from both inside and outside the city, brought the wall down in several places, allowing a horde of Brutes to flood into the city. They were met at every stage by answering militia counter-assault parties. These flashpoints would quickly become areas of intense struggle, as the humans tenaciously fought to deny the enemy access to their beloved city.

Eventually, it was Abelev's Scorched Earth policy that settled the matter. Satchel charges, spread out across the base of the Curtain Wall's foundational supports, detonated, collapsing the wall and wreathing the entire city in a pall of ashen, sooty smoke. The death toll on both sides was unspeakable. Only a select few sections of the wall remained, and these became largely ignored as the battle spilled out into the streets beyond.

Throughout those same streets, the situation was as follows.

To the West, the militia had fallen back into the habitation blocks, hastily attempting to collect themselves as they struggled to implement Tactical Response 23. Only the commendable leadership of Grier's 2-i-C, Captain Banning, prevented the enemy from surging deeper into the city. Marshalling her forces throughout the western habitation blocks, she began a cohesive defence in earnest, halting the enemy advance before it could delve deeper into the city streets.

Bogged down within the confines of the thick-walled, white-washed structures, the Brutes would have to fight street to street and room to room, the colonists punishing them with overlapping fields of fire and a zealousness borne out of pure, unstinting human hatred.

In spite of Torikus' earlier predictions, only the Northern Line still held. Irritated at having been proven wrong, he tasked the Jiral'ja shock troops with taking this final point of resistance. It was perhaps a waste of resources, considering the Curtain Wall had been breached elsewhere, but he would not have his will denied by a pack of loathsome Sangheili heretics.

The East was an altogether more orderly affair, the Jiralhanae having to wade through ambush after ambush as Sergeant Murphy oversaw the tactical withdrawal. Problems arose in that vast tracts of the Southern line had been utterly annihilated and, as such, Murphy's forces were in the precarious position of being flanked at any moment. Anxious to protect the refugees hidden in the shelters beneath the southern mining complex, he sent Murphy's Militia, under Sergeant Howard, to rally and bolster the defences there accordingly. Confusion was rife amongst the human's rank and file, and Murphy found most of his time occupied with rallying the scattered elements of the southern defences, redeploying them as part of his own cobbled-together command.

For the rest of the conflict, tactical command of fully half of the city was now his responsibility.

It is understandable, then, that he failed to notice absence of the Sangheili Outcasts, who never made it into the city with them.

"Has anybody seen the Elites?" Perry asked, as their Warthogs sped through the city's outlying streets.

Nobody had a chance to answer. People were too busy shouting and shooting. Murphy was preoccupied by his data pad, busy trying to interface it with his helmet's VISR system. Moments later, yet another fire-fight had begun, and Perry had forgotten his own question.

Firmly embedded in the midst of the struggle, the Outcasts had been cut off from the main retreat.

They had used their stealth talents to the fullest, allowing the Jiralhanae to hurry past without a second thought. Now they crouched in one of the forgotten Outer Trenches, huddled in a tight circle. Each one of them clutched a BR-55, the weapons looking tiny in their massive hands.

Molikos looked at each of his fellow exiles in turn, blinking slowly.

"Marikos has fallen." Molikos announced.

They hissed in outrage. Molikos nodded.

"It goes without saying, Brothers, that we are to repay the blood-debt thrice-fold. Honour demands it."

"But how, Brother?" That was Kimyos, one of the youngest Exiles, "We may have evaded them for now, but getting back into the city will be impossible."

"Then we take the war to them, friend Kimyos." Molikos traced a rudimentary map of the city in the sand. "They wish to take this city, but to do so, they need munitions, food, supplies. The backbone of any army. I would have us sever that backbone. Are you with me?"

They rumbled their approval. He pulled his cloak around him.

"Then we go north, to the desert, Brothers. Even when engaged in combat with a mighty foe, only the most foolish of warriors would ever turn his back to the serpent lurking in the shadows."

With that, they disappeared, sloping off into the endless sands beyond.

When the Loyalist's main camp erupted in a billowing geyser of fire twelve hours later, the Separatist/Human forces could only speculate as to what had happened. Starved of their own supplies, the Covenant ground forces were forced to take Horizon not simply out of religious reasons, but also basic necessity. They would either win, or starve to death out in the unforgiving wastelands of Crassus.

The stakes had been raised.

Abelev found him in the armoury.

There were no weapons here, not anymore. The room's shelves were long-since looted; only the occasional stray shotgun shell or empty box of ammunition laying idle on the forlorn prep tables which dominated the centre of the room. It, like many similar stockpiles around the city, had been stripped bare. The place was all but abandoned, and Vtan had chosen it precisely because of its relative seclusion from the rest of the Command Centre.

To prepare for one's final battle was a solemn thing indeed.

Vtan had prepared himself in accordance with the old customs, using the precious few supplies he had managed to take with him from the Pride of Sanghelios. He had bathed himself in unguents, treating his scaly skin with scented oils in accordance with warrior tradition. His armour, no longer scoured by dust and sand, was polished to a dazzling mirror sheen. Its silver edged trim winked brilliantly as it caught rays of light cast out from the glowing oil lamps. In the dim half-light, it almost seemed golden in places.

Abelev folded his arms across his chest.

"Don't make me tell you twice, Shipmaster. You're not going out there."

"I am left with no choice, Major Abelev. It is shameful enough that I have dallied here so long. Do not attempt to stop me, or I shall kill you where you stand."

"You'd try." Abelev snorted.

Vtan slowly shook his head, almost mournfully, and spoke as thoughtfully as ever.

"There comes a time, Major, when the last order has been given, and the last command has been heard. When one has nothing left to do but to throw his forces to the winds of battle. To throw back his head and hope that one's skill alone can cheat both fate and death. Using naught but one's own blade if necessary."

He snapped the blade on, then snapped it off once more. Satisfied, he gave a single nod, before looking up toward Abelev.

"That time is now."