Chapter 54

For five days and five nights, Midha, Singer of the Fifth Tidal Opera and Consort of Stars, fought against the chitin-wrapped might of Arex'Araz, Son of Kirrnaka-Hul, at the northern fangs of the Spine. Glaive met cleaver. Blade met blade. Voice met voice. Blood met blood. They battled for control of the valley's entrance. They battled for their gods.

"My Logic is greatest," Arex'Araz asserted, "for it is the proven Logics of cunning, inquiry, and war reunified. It is Honesty."

And, true to his words, his strength threatened to overpower that of Midha. But the Singer of soft melodies protested thus: "My lord's Logic is new. It is refined. It is the gathering of all strengths, be they of cunning, inquiry, war, or beyond. My Logic is the Final Aria. It will be the Final Shape, built of harmonious notes from all corners of dead existences."

His glaive pushed back the cleaver, and he in turn forced the Knight into giving ground.

"Your Song is gathered weakness!" Arex'Araz snarled and, gathering all his terrible might, tossed Midha from the mountainside.

But Midha's voice was strong, and the songs he formed were stronger still. Metal warped. Bony limbs sprouted from his back, as per the directions of his words, and almost immediately oxidized in the cold alien air. Thin metal flaps stretched between long skeletal fingers. He lifted up on Song-born wings and returned to battle. "My Logic is evolution. My voice is the culling of ancient weaknesses and the growth of beneficial adaptions."

His spear found shoulder. Cleaver found wing. They bled on one another - dark dust and liquid silver - and they continued to struggle.

"My father, my Ascendant, will crush your bleating orchestra!" Arex'Araz threw himself in one final attempt to cut down the errant Harmony.

But Midha was calm and collected. His glaive snaked past cleaver and ruptured a throat. The Knight fell to his knees as green blood dribbled down his chest and pooled in his armoured plating.

"My lordly prince welcomes your father," Midha whispered to his latest victim. "He will dine richly on the chaos your kin will wreak. We all will." He cupped the Knight's sharp cheeks. "I honour you, Arex'Araz, for this feast. I will carry your voice with me forever more and grow stronger for it. Elrunono." (Thank you.)

His glaive twisted deeper and emerged out on the other side, awash with the taste of victory. The Knight's fiery eyes flashed one last time, and Midha drank the light in through his hungry receptacle. With a final lilting laugh, he dropped the Hive beast and leapt from the cliffside, taking to the skies. His soul was sated and his hunger abated, but he would feed again.

Soon.

000

The neurojammers had returned to the front of the tent holding the prisoners, just in case the Psions became... fidgety. Kiphoris wouldn't budge on it. Ikharos couldn't blame him; the Flayer getting loose would be nothing short of a disaster, and it would've been the Eliksni who suffered.

The unfortunate side-effect was that his mind was confined to the limitations of his own head. Xiān was already there, so at least he had someone to talk to, but if he needed to speak to Formora or, Traveler forbid, even Kiphoris in private, then he'd have to leave the tent to find them. But that was an if. And, thus far, he was making good progress by his lonesome.

He summoned Xiān in his hand, well out of reach. All eyes were on her. Muscles tensed, fingers curled. One of the Uluru started grumbling something murderous.

Ikharos ignored them. When Xiān projected a scrawl of rough Hive runes, he turned to the Psions and asked, "Recognize any?"

The closest one - the soldier - stared at Xiān for a couple of moments longer than Ikharos was comfortable with, but it eventually switched to the hologram. "Where did you find these?"

"They were on the Broodqueen's robes. This one," he pointed to the largest glyph, "is a crest of some sort. Brood-rune. Anything?"

The Psion didn't say anything for a long minute, but his pupil enlarged ever so slightly. Potent thoughts flickered behind his gaze. "Hive are not my expertise."

"Pity. Most of my questions involve them. You'll have to find some answers, or we're not going to make much progress." Ikharos sighed. He gestured to the central element of the glyph. It was a pair of knives originating from the same point but separated and shooting off into different directions upward. They formed a cup in which rested five eyes. Skeletal wings embraced the knives and their caged eyes on the outside. "Just this. What does it say?"

The Flayer stood and shuffled closer. Her Arc bindings crackled unhappily. "I know this one. It is Aur... Aur...?"

"It's Auryuul," one of the Uluru grunted begrudgingly. The large one. "Worm-speech."

"... Aur-yuul?" Ikharos grimaced. "Long-Honesty?"

"Great Honesty."

"How do you-"

The Uluru, Zhonoch, glared at Ikharos with beady black eyes. "This brood isn't new to us."

"Tell me about them."

"Water. Get us water. And some more food. Then, human, then we'll talk."

"What have you learned?"

"That Cabal are the demanding sort. Have any food? Anything other than ether?"

"You're truly negotiating with them?" Kiphoris narrowed his inner eyes.

"Hey, I'm getting answers," Ikharos replied defensively. "They know things. About the Hive. Things that might help."

"We have no food to spare."

"Fine." Ikharos groaned and looked about. "I'll do it myself."

"Where-"

"Look, if anyone asks, I'm going hunting." He marched away from the holding area. "I won't be long!"

Ikharos moved through the forest's undergrowth as silently as he could manage. The sounds of the Eliksni camp had long since disappeared behind him, lost to distance and physical barriers. The low whistling of weak gales filtering through the trees was all that remained. Sometimes, the odd bird cried out, but for the most part the woodland was plunged into an all-consuming quiet.

He enjoyed it for what it was: a brief change in scenery. If nothing else, he was glad to be out of the stifling clutch of the neurojammers. The Psions had his sympathy for sure. It wasn't just the nausea that bothered him; the neurological confinement brought out an animal panic in him, a need to break free and run away.

"So here I am. Running away." He leaned his rifle against his shoulder. It was an old, causal thing - little more effective than a civilian stun-gun where his usual assortment of foes were concerned. Still, it was the cleanest, most humane weapon in his arsenal and one of the few capable of not instantaneously and utterly annihilating/disintegrating/devouring whatever beast he brought down.

"Running towards the fight, more like."

"Don't you think-"

"Ikharos, you're just foraging for food. Sweet Traveler above, don't turn this into a philosophical debate."

"... Fine."

"Good Warlock. Oh, and, uh, look over there. Tracks."

Ikharos' head snapped around. He crept closer and knelt by the tiny game trail leading through the maze of shrubs and tall grass. The tracks were old and shallow, but they were large - relatively speaking, in any case. The prints were of defined hooves, pointed forward like a duo of heavily blunted claws. Other tracks of varying size were scattered across the trail. "Herd came by."

"Red deer?"

"Too large. Elk, more likely. Passed through a few days earlier. Migrating north to chase the cold."

"We're pretty close to the Hadarac drylands and elk don't like the heat. You sure?"

"Could be a local breed. Accustomed to much more temperate climates. I doubt Du Weldenvarden sees much change in winter either. Cold's hardly a danger and there's lots of vegetation around these parts. Considering how warped things are in the Beors it's not that much of a jump."

"Fair enough. We gonna try and catch 'em?"

"Take too long. Cabal aren't patient, and the Psions look fit to fall over."

"We could ask Formora to grow more food."

"No. I think this is a test. The Uluru would prefer something more solid than a handful of berries, and if I can show that I'm able to supply-"

"Then they'd see you as an able slave and nothing more."

"Cabal are tribal creatures. They value the art of hunting-gathering. They value action. Slaves are those who wait at the village for the warriors to return with fresh bounty. This isn't slavework, this is... well, dinner first and foremost. Besides," he shrugged, "I want this. I want to get out, do something on my own terms. Something alone." His glove-clad fingers brushed over a hoofprint. "Fresh. A straggler."

"Big."

"A stray bull. Following the herd's scent. Probably wants to wrest control from the herd's leader."

"Is that what we're doing?"

Ikharos frowned. "How'd you reckon that?"

"We're involving ourselves in Eliksni decision making."

"I'm not replacing anyone."

"No, but you're cutting yourself a new position regardless."

"Unintended. We need their support, that's all."

"And when we don't?"

"Then we settle things diplomatically and go our separate ways."

"Good."

"Think I wouldn't?"

"No, I know you'd do right by them, but I'm supposed to be your moral compass. I lowkey despise you being a morally-sound guy. You're really undercutting my duties as your Ghost."

"Sorry?"

"Just find the damn bull."

"Got it."

He found the bull elk some twelve miles away, ambling along without a care in the world. Its coat was lighter than those he knew from Earth, but in every other sense it was identical:, broad body, thin snout, plush neck mane, and heavy antlers with six sharpened tines each. Its pelt was a darker brown around the neck, but the rest of the body was turning a dull reddish-brown in preparation for summer.

The animal freely bugled, occasionally slowing its already leisurely pace to deliver extra loud cries. It evidently didn't fear predation, given how boldly it broadcasted its position. And why should it? It stood five, almost six feet tall at the shoulder. Too large for most local hunters to even dream of taking down.

Ikharos crouched down, still half a mile away, and braced the rifle's stock against his shoulder. He took aim and, for a short while, followed the bull's progress. It strolled on and, passing a shallow pond, dipped its head in and splashed with its antlers. Water cascaded over its back and ran through its coat.

"Majestic."

"Sure. Take the shot?"

"Gimme a moment." Ikharos lined up the shot with the space just past the bull's shoulders. He took in a deep breath, held it... and pulled the trigger.

His rifle roared. The Elk stumbled back and, after a moment, fell down with a brief flailing of legs. It stilled only a few seconds later.

"Clean."

Ikharos exhaled and stood up. "Thanks." He rapidly closed in on the downed animal and found, much to his relief, that his shot had been fatal. The bullet had penetrated the scapula directly, delivering near-instantaneous death. Some mud and water had been scattered around it in its death throes, but the struggle had been nothing more than the automatic response of frightened nerves.

Ikharos gently lowered his rifle to the ground and dragged the elk over to a dry spot, then rolled up his sleeves. He slipped his knife out of its sheath at his boot and, in a single practiced movement, split the animal from sternum to tail in order to take care of the immediate problem of disposing the waste. He went a ways further and, slowly but surely, extracted the innards and laid them out away from the carcass.

The body steamed in the cool evening air. His gloves and arms were coated with gore.

"We're not alone. On your six."

Ikharos turned around and held his knife out, for all the good it would do. Three drawn bows were aimed in his direction. The three green-garbed elves behind the weapons gave him hard, uncompromising looks.

"Human. This is not your land."

Hesitantly, Ikharos raised his hand and made as if to touch his lips with two fingers. He stopped at the last moment, so he wouldn't get blood on his face, but the gesture was clear enough even then. Arms relaxed and strings were carefully released. "Kvetha. Atra esterní ono thelduin."

Eyes widened. The foremost elf, a slender man with a copper scarf over a leaf-green tunic, blinked and asked, "You know our words?"

"I thought the greetings were dragon words?"

"Adopted by us, aye. You have not sated my curiosity."

"I'm Ikharos Torstil. Dauthné."

"Dauthné?" To Ikharos' relief, the elf-man seemed to at least partially recognize the title. "I thought you were in Ellesméra."

"I was. Now I'm not."

"Yet you came from the south."

"Yep."

"Ellesméra is to the north." The elf's eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"I was with the Eliksni," Ikharos explained. "We flew around."

"On the insects?"

Skiffs. "Yeah."

"... Apologies..." The elves touched their own lips with clear uncertainty. The other two exchanged bewildered looks. Their leader cleared his throat. "I am Velryth of Kirtan. Well met." He looked past Ikharos. An unpleasant expression crossed his face.

Ikharos found his bearings and said, "Sorry, didn't mean to intrude. I'll be out of your hair in a minute."

"You felled a large beast," one of the other elves called out. It sounded like a challenge. "Too large for you alone."

"Not alone."

The elf relaxed and lowered her bow completely. Her fellows did the same. "You must not waste it."

"I won't?" Ikharos hesitated. "Sorry, am I breaking some law here?"

"None hunt in these parts," Velryth pointed out.

"So I'm poaching?"

"... No. But humans do not live here. This is not their land to do with as they wish. Not your land to do with as you wish."

"Do I have to pay a fine?" Ikharos did some calculations in his head. Or rather, he fielded them to Xiān. She begrudgingly reported that yes, they could spare a couple cubes of glimmer if need be.

"No. But do not make a habit of this."

"Alright. I won't." Ikharos turned around, wiped his knife down and sheathed it, then lifted the elk and hefted it onto his shoulder with a grunt. He collected his rifle and made to leave.

"You have a long way to go," the third elf called out, bemused. His hair looked more like golden feathers than normal strands. "Surely you cannot carry your prize all the way back."

Watch me. "I'll be fine, thanks."

Velryth gave his companions very pointed looks. "Farewell, human."

"Same to you." Ikharos kept his gaze on the path ahead and started marching back the way he'd come.

When he arrived at the camp the sun had almost entirely fallen out of the sky. The perimeter guards chirped him polite greetings and gave the elk hungry looks. Ikharos warded them off with a firm "Nama."

The guards left him be with disappointed clicks and dark mutterings. Ikharos ignored them and carried on. He hadn't spent the entire afternoon just to hand out fresh game to the Vandals and Dregs on duty. Even if he knew one of them.

"For me?"

"Melkris, go away."

The shockshooter kept pace. "I am not hearing a-"

"No."

Melkris huffed playfully. "You are only a little human. You cannot possibly eat all of this."

"It's not for me."

"Formora? She is just like you. Too thin. Too few limbs."

"Not for her either. She doesn't like meat."

"Elves," Melkris snorted derisively. "Who, then?"

"The prisoners."

"Cabal?"

"Do you have other prisoners?"

"Nama."

"Then who do you think?"

"Why Cabal?"

"What better way to loosen a tongue than with a hearty dinner?"

"Please loosen mine."

"No. Go away."

Melkris' forked tongue flicked out. "It tastes magnificent. A little scrap?"

"How big would this scrap be?"

"Give me a leg."

"How about no?"

"You're mean."

"Yeah, that's my whole get-up."

"Ah, still mine-favourite human."

Ikharos groaned. "Not sure I like that."

Xiān appeared between them. "Who's your second?"

Melkris had perked up upon her manifestation. "Zeshus."

"Really?"

"Eia. She killed the Wish-Beast! And... I do not know many other warrior-humans... Not good warrior-humans..."

"What about Ghosts? Who's your favourite?"

"You, of course!"

Ikharos frowned. "Wouldn't she be your least favourite too? You haven't met another Ghost."

Five eyes unhappily narrowed in at him - one orange, four blue.

"Jerk."

"Psesiskar."

"You know what, forget I said anything." Ikharos looked around. He headed in the general direction of where Cabal were being kept. Alas, the smell of a fresh kill drew in more hungry Eliksni. And an elf.

"You are wasteful," Formora scolded as she approached. She was holding something in her arms - something small and wriggling and alive. A vaguely familiar Vandal stood beside her.

"The others said the same thing," Ikharos replied.

"What others?"

"Elves. In the forest."

"And they didn't shoot you?"

"I can be convincing."

"No you can't," Xiān muttered. Melkris snickered.

Ikharos duly ignored them. He continued, "But this isn't for me. It's for the prisoners."

"Why... why didn't you send Eliksni to catch something?"

"Because I wanted to get out and do something useful." He dropped the carcass on the ground with a thud. "Want to help?"

"No."

"Suit yourself. Melkris, back off."

"Nama."

Ikharos pointed at him with his knife. "Back. Off. This isn't yours."

"But we are friends, yes?"

"Friendship's a social concept, not a binding contract. I don't owe you anything. Don't touch it." He slapped away the shockshooter's reaching talons with the flat of the blade. "Bad."

"Ow..."

"I warned you."

"He did," the other Vandal murmured.

Ikharos looked up at him. "Da yus?"

"Raksil-Va'ha."

"Kelekh-Tarrhis?"

"Eia."

"Thought so. You're the spitting image of your father. Just... you know, almost three times smaller."

Raksil snorted, amused. "Have not earned a noble title yet. But I will."

"Confident."

"Eia, perhaps. When Kiphoris-Veskirisk is raised up-"

"Kiphoris is getting a promotion?"

"Eh... not yet. But it is certain to happen. When the banner is ours and the old ways reaffirm themselves, Tarrhis will doubtless reward him."

"Good luck on that."

"We need no luck. Not with Machine-Blessings."

Ikharos froze up for a split-second. "Sure..." He went back to work, quickly finding a spot to slip his knife in and begin skinning the elk. "Xiān, light please?"

"Right." Her eye lit up, revealing just how ruined his gloves were. Shirt too. He was looking at yet more arduous chores ahead of him.

"You could have avoided this, you know."

"Yeah. But I don't really care."

"Suit yourself."

"I don't know whether to feel insulted," Formora muttered, "or amused. This was a gift. Surely you could have worn something else."

"Probably," Ikharos agreed. He tried shooing Melkris away for the umpteenth time with limited success and kept on cutting. "But hardship builds character. Or so I've been told."

"Mine-father says the same," Raksil remarked. "I don't believe him."

"The self-assured young seldom do." Ikharos held up his hands. "Xiān, a little-"

"I'm not cleaning up after you." She jerked a fin towards whatever was in Formora's arms. "Same goes for that, by the way. Not a chance. I'm drawing a line here, and I'm not crossing it for anything."

Ikharos looked over. "What is that?"

Formora hesitated, then held out the tiny red-scaled thing. "I... don't know. It's a... a fighting beast?"

"War beast," Raksil corrected. "And runt of the litter."

"A pup?" Ikharos perked up. He planted his knife in the carcass and held out his hands. "May I?"

Formora took one look at his gloves and shook her head. "You're filthy."

"I'm sure he'd love it. Is it a he?"

"I don't know."

"Well, what do you know?"

"That it's a wonderful little creature." Formora cradled it closer and stroked its back. The little monster yawned, revealing an oversized mouth full of jagged teeth. The hound seemed perfectly content to be held. It looked to Ikharos like some adorably hideous crocodile-pug-bear hybrid.

"Its mother almost tore off my leg," Raksil grumbled and tapped his hip with a secondary arm. "Here is our vengeance: raising her children to be strong, noble beasts."

"What're you using them for?" Ikharos asked.

"Mine-father wants to train them to guard our devious Kell. The others are there now. This one is... too little. Too young."

"Your Kell's a hatchling, right?" Ikharos grumbled and resumed cutting. Finally, he managed to rip a significant portion of the pelt away. "Not a bad idea. A hound's loyalty can't be bought."

"Teeth of Yul," Zhonoch said through a mouthful of venison. His small sharp teeth whittled the flesh down to the bone, which he then cracked open to get to the marrow. Ikharos tried not to let the display bother him, but it was a close thing. "Beacons of Honesty."

"So... a Worm Sect?"

"Partially. They don't work under the Great Wyrm directly. They have other masters."

"The sisters?"

"Not them, last I heard. Other Ascendants. Lesser."

"And when was that?"

"Just before getting here," the Uluru said defensively. "Their friends were in the Epirion system. Skimmed the after-reports. Some sightings of Yul runes during the initial ground engagements."

"Could you have picked them up there?"

"The Auryuul? No. I was investigating rumours of infection before Epirion. Went as far back as Canaban, almost a year back."

"Psekisk." Ikharos stood and started pacing. "This is bad." He halted and sent Zhonoch a questioning look. "How'd they infect so many Legionaries?"

His piggish eyes narrowed. "Ground Wormhusk."

"... Yeah, that'd make them receptive to a Witch's whispers. Dammit."

"So!" The Uluru slapped his legs. He was hardly subtle; he wanted to move on to something in his favour. "You're picking at Hive?"

"I did," Ikharos replied cautiously. Then, after a moment: "I am."

"They've a Broodqueen."

"Dead. Well, somewhat."

"Somewhat?"

"You know what Hive are like: they're finicky where death is concerned."

"There's others, too. Other Wizards."

"I know." Ikharos stopped in place. "Give me more."

"More?"

"You've given me too little. Even out the bargain."

Zhonoch looked like he was about to retort, then thought better of it. "If you say so, human. Got a datapad?"

Ikharos had one transmatted into his hand. "Here. Why?"

"I've files to give."

"That'll work."

"But I want your word." Zhonoch, even bound by Arc and plasteel restraints, managed to look semi-threatening, what with his mean little eyes, bloody grimace, and general air of disgruntlement. He gestured to his fellow prisoners with a massive hand. "You know what we want. You'll have your files when we have our dues. Swear it."

"Fine. I swear-"

"Ah ah. I want the good words. The magic words. You know what I mean."

Ikharos crossed his arms. "That's asking a lot."

"So are you."

"Give me those files, then we'll see about your demands"

"Not until I have your oath."

"I could call in the Splicers, you know. Take everything you have by force."

Zhonoch grinned toothily. "I'd like to see them try."

Ikharos stared him down and mulled it over. Without another word, he turned around and left the Cabal with what remained of the elk.

"They want-"

"A stable supply of food, water, and maybe the chance to get back to their friends. The last part is contentious, I know, but I'm sure we can negotiate something more... favourable."

"We cannot let them go," Sundrass growled heatedly. Ikharos spared her an impatient glance - daring her to say what she wanted to say. Something aimed at his integrity, no doubt.

"I know. Maybe if you'd, oh I don't know, paid attention to what I just said? Then you'd realize I'm of the same opinion."

"Enough," Tarrhis snarled. "Cease this squabbling at once."

Ikharos kept his expression blank and eyes forward. He found a petty delight in hearing Sundrass hiss in discontented acquiescence.

"And what," Tarrhis continued, turning to Ikharos, "will the Cabal offer us in return?"

"Information regarding the Hive. Names. Goals. Tactics. The works."

"What does that matter?" Sundrass challenged. "Hive are Hive. They are monsters deserving only of death and pain. What is there to understand beyond that?"

Ikharos resisted the urge to snap back. He kept his voice low and talked slowly. "How these things fight and plan depends entirely on who they direct their worship to, what they want, and ultimately who leads them. This brood is unusual, which makes them unpredictable. And unpredictable Hive just won't do."

"You fear them."

"Only fools don't fear the Hive."

"And you killed their king?" Sundrass barked a mirthless laugh. "What a hero you are. Terrified of mere Thrall!"

"ENOUGH!" Tarrhis slammed a hand down on the holodesk. Glass cracked. Sparks flew. Sundrass flinched and lowered her eyes. "Ignore mine-orders again, and you will lose your arms."

"Apologies, mine-Baron."

Tarrhis returned it with a primal growl and clacking of fangs that went beyond mere language. Sundrass bowed down and held her arms out from her body in a display of humility. He begrudgingly relented. "Kirzen is a guest under elder laws; I have invited him to our council myself. Speak out of malice again, and I will assume you are working against me." His chest heaved, as if a roar was struggling to rip its way out of the Baron's throat. "Ikha Riis. Deal with the Cabal. Find out what they know. If it pleases me, then their needs will be met." Tarrhis narrowed his four eyes. "But freedom is something I will not grant them. Not for Hive-whispers."

Ikharos stiffly nodded. "I'll talk to them first thing in the morning."

A small tent had been set aside for him. It didn't come close to what rooms the elves had supplied him with, but he didn't much mind the difference. It was a war camp, not a luxury suite, and they were very much at war. His mind couldn't be affixed to meaningless creature comforts.

He tossed aside the lámarae clothing in a rough pile. They would need washing. A little touch of Void would go a long way in extracting the smell and stains of blood, but at that moment he couldn't care less. Sleep called to him. He staved off the task for the next day. Better than letting it eat up what few hours of rest were available to him.

A threadbare mattress had been shoved into the corner. More than a Dreg would get. Ikharos supposed he should have felt honoured. Instead, he gritted his teeth and hissed out his complaints as a twisting coldness snaked through the flesh of his stomach and disrupted every attempt he made at easing his aching body.

The Dark had its claws in him. It wasn't letting go.

In the end, he shot up breathless and started to pace the length and width of his tiny tent. He was tired. Sleep was a rare commodity, but when he found the time to spare he expected it to come to him. No such luck.

"Dreams?" Xiān asked from beside the beaten pillow. Her eye flickered on.

Ikharos scowled. "I wish."

"Careful."

"Arke's not here."

"Doesn't mean another isn't lurking nearby."

"If they show themselves, I'll kill them."

"Relax. There's your problem. You're overstressed."

"That would be ideal." He swung an imaginary sword through the air. His nonexistent foe, a snarling Ogre, fell away with an empty cry. "Hive are here."

"Aw, c'mon, are we back to this? Yes, they're here."

"Not just them. Harmony."

"Uh, yeah?"

"And Elkhon."

"Are you bemoaning our chances? That's what has you up?"

Ikharos pointed to the pale gouge-mark on his stomach. "This is what's keeping me up."

"... Oh."

"Can't you feel it?"

"Look, I'm tired too, give me a break." She shut off her eye and awkwardly turned into the pillow by moving her pinions. "Go for a walk or something."

Ikharos reluctantly slipped into his biosuit and combat robes, if for no other reason than he had nothing else to wear, and quietly slipped out into the night. The camp was far from asleep - Eliksni didn't find issue with the dark like humans did. He wandered off in no direction in particular, until he found himself by the edge of camp. On a whim, he climbed atop a nearby Walker and sat on the turret.

It offered a... unique perspective. Usually he destroyed them wherever he found them, but this one was an asset to his allies. Not a weapon wielded by longtime foes.

There was a flicker of movement on the edge of his vision. Ikharos twisted around and pulled out his cannon. Melkris raised his primary arms in mock surrender.

"I'm too pretty," the shockshooter protested. "Don't shoot."

Ikharos groaned, holstered his Lumina, and scooched over. Melkris clambered up and sat beside him. "That was quick. You weren't watching me, were you?"

"Guarding," Melkris corrected. "Watching is only one part of mine-job."

"That's a tad disconcerting. You didn't tell me about this before."

"There was no time."

"Hold on, there was loads of time."

Melkris shifted a few inches further. "Did not want to irritate you."

"I'm not irritated," Ikharos grumbled. He caught himself. "Okay, maybe a little. But I don't need guarding."

"Of course you do!"

"From what?" He held out his arm. "Nothing more dangerous here than a hungry badger."

"... I was waiting. Wanted to speak."

"Prepared to wait that long?"

"Was hoping you would wake up early. You never sleep as long as other humans, Ikha Riis."

Ikharos sighed. "What did you want to speak about?"

Melkris fidgeted with his hands, as if unsure where to put them. "I wanted to ask about the Great Machine."

"... Go on." Ikharos' impatience disappeared in an instant, replaced by sympathy and a strange sense of shame.

"Why did it leave us?"

"Because it's not in its nature to fight."

"But... it created you."

"To fight for it. The Traveler itself won't fight. It can't." But it can sure as hell kill. Just ask Ghaul.

Melkris chittered unhappily. "I have heard many tales about the Great Machine. Has... has it left others before?"

"Yes." Ikharos beckoned to the north, to where Albazad probably was. "The Harmony were as much its children as we are."

Melkris's eyes widened. "What... what happened to them?"

"The Hive did. Oryx and his sisters tore right through them. Frankly, I'm surprised any survived. The slaughter was absolute, according to their records. Every world, including their capital Ana-Harmony, fell to Thrall, Knight, and Wizard."

"The Great Machine left them."

"It did."

"It left them to fall."

"Yes."

"Left them to die."

"Yes."

"Will it leave the humans?"

Ikharos shrugged: no idea. "Maybe. Maybe not. I think we were the final straw. It didn't want to see anything else fall to ruin and misery. Or maybe it has another motive. Regardless, it fell silent and motionless, with only the Ghosts to show for its efforts."

"How can we trust it, if it leaves us to die?"

"Simple: we don't. Trust, I mean. Don't mistake me, I respect and admire the Traveler for all the good it's brought, but I wouldn't trust it as far as I can throw it. So much bad has come to pass because of it. No matter how far society and technology develops, causing numerous extinctions and near-extinctions is pretty damning. Nothing will outweigh those crimes."

"Do... Do we punish it?"

"No. No way. That's a Dark path to tread. No, we do as we always do: look to our own. If the Traveler offers us power and weapons, take them. But don't throw yourself heart and soul into worshipping the ground it flies over. You'll only find disappointment."

"Mine-people do worship it."

"No harm in doing so from afar."

"But you don't?"

"I only saw the Traveler when I was almost two-hundred years old. Before then, I relied on nothing and no one but myself and Xiān. Why should that change? The Traveler's impressive, I won't lie about that, but my trust is earned, not given. And it hasn't done anything to earn it." Ikharos paused. "I trust you more than I do the Traveler."

Melkris offered him a solemn, serious look. "Thank you, Kirzen. I hope I will not fail you."

Ikharos' stomach knotted uncomfortably. "Don't say something like that. You don't owe me anything. I'm not your Captain."

"Nama. You're mine-favourite human." A playful glint returned to the sharpshooter's eyes. He looked all the better for it. It dulled, though, and a painful melancholy fell over the Vandal. "Sometimes, our faith is all that keeps us going. But it's hard. So hard. How do we love something that left us?"

"You want words of comfort. I have none."

"Nothing?"

"The best I can tell you is that this world is out of view. Or it was. If we drive the Hive and Harmony to complete extirpation, maybe it'll continue to be so. We just... we need to do whatever we have to quickly. Before the sisters take notice."

"Our salvation lies in quick action."

"It does. But neither can we be overly hasty. Nezarec isn't just another beast to be felled. He's a god. And killing gods takes more than guns and ships. We need to be smart. We need to be careful."

"That is a given."

"Should be. Don't know if your leaders share that sentiment." Ikharos cycled air in and out of his lungs in a steady rhythm. The cold slithering feeling in his abdomen subsided to a light tingling, but he was under no illusions it was gone. He didn't think it would ever leave.

"Bah, they are smarter than they look." Melkris leaned back to lie against the Walker's hull. "I heard shouting earlier. Did Kiphoris-Veskirisk finally push Tarrhis-Mrelliks?"

"Sundrass, actually." Ikharos frowned, troubled. "Does Kiph commonly clash with Tarrhis?"

Melkris waved his concerns away. "Oh yes, but not worry for him. They are loyal to one another. Their problem lies in their differing natures. Mine-Baron is traditional. Mine-Captain is not."

"One stuck in the past, the other in the future."

"Eia, it is so. The rest of us are content to enjoy the present."

"If only we were all so lucky."

"You are not alone in that, Kirzen." Melkris' voice lightened considerably. "Many envy me, with mine-beauty and mine-intelligence."

"Suuure." Ikharos leaned forward, resting his arms on his legs. "Hey, I've got a question of my own."

"Ask it."

"Why are you so... odd?"

"Odd?" The shockshooter sounded aghast. Even so, he didn't budge from where he'd sprawled over the turret. "I am magnificent! Nama, you are the odd one, you strange undying human."

Ikharos smiled apologetically, though Melkris couldn't see it. "I spoke poorly. How about 'abnormally lighthearted.'"

"Eia, that is better. Less insult."

"Wasn't meant to be one."

"Wasn't it? You're a very rude little creature, you know. But you are right, I am lighthearted. My hearts are always full of floating joy. It is simpler to be happy with what I have than grow bitter for what I don't."

"That's not it. You're not just content. You're... You're always poking. Always prodding. You drive poor Javek up the walls."

"'Up the walls?' Is that a human phrase?"

"Yeah."

"I like it. I am taking it. It is mine now."

"You can't own a phrase."

"Nama, mine. Keep away."

Ikharos groaned. "Just answer the question."

"I, ah, want others to laugh? Or make noise. Always better to hear others. I hate the quiet."

"Why's that?" Ikharos asked softly.

"Quiet means dead. Quiet means loss. It was quiet when Monoliks-Fel and Atrobels-Syn were lost. It was quiet when Shades went for our hearts. It was quiet when Star-Eater took Riilix and Revlis and Kalaker. I... do not like the quiet."

"Easy thing to hate. At least it doesn't hit back."

"At least." After a long minute, Melkris poked his shoulder with a claw. "Lighten up, Kirzen. Your foul mood is becoming contagious."

"Foul's anger. This is... dismay. Regret. Shame."

"Let it all go."

"You think I haven't tried? Can't. Either I nip the problem in the bud or I suffer the consequences, and the problem is as immortal as I am. More, even."

"Your Shade-kin."

"That's the one."

"Is she so dangerous?"

"My kind are quick killers. Sure, a Hive god can kill millions in a single battle without breaking a sweat, or a Cabal warlord could crunch up planets for getting in his way, but my people... we kill fast. Battle of attrition's not in our interest. We hit our enemies where it hurts - in one savage strike. That's how we operate. And that's what we're dealing with." He paused. "Kiphoris is right. Even if not where he intended."

"What did mine-Captain say?"

"This is how Eliksni feel. Surrounded by those who wish me ill. But Elkhon... this is how the Eliksni of Sol feel when faced with Scorn."

"Rotting mutants," Melkris snarled. His hatred was as sudden as it was potent, and he hadn't encountered the Scorn once in his life. Even across the stars, Ikharos mused, the Scorn were reviled by their own. Fikrul's grave-lifted children were despised universally. "May their suffering be eternal."

Ikharos lifted an imaginary tankard. "Cheers to that."

He spent the rest of the night doing the opposite of what he should have. No sleep was to be found, so he sought to do something useful with his time. He ventured to a nearby stream and scrubbed the blood out of the lámarae. The work was mind-numbingly boring and it scraped his hands raw, but it was a welcome distraction. He needed to look ahead and lay down plans, not reflect on mistakes made or monsters met.

When that was done, and the sun threatened to rise, he headed back to the Cabal with a datapad in hand and a grumbling Ghost on his shoulder. The Uluru didn't look pleased to see him and the Psions were, as ever, unreadable.

"Vae weohnata taka onr vethr un adurna ai onr vanta älf, mar onr verdur taka edtha hvaët eka threyja." He looked at Zhonoch expectantly. Even without knowing the ancient language, the general meaning of his oath was clear.

"Fine, you blighter." The Uluru's lips peeled back to scowl. "Take it."

A message popped up on his datapad. He accepted the invited connection and downloaded the offered files. Xiān swept it for bugs and purged the unnecessary files. "Thank you."

Zhonoch impatiently waved him out. "Leave us to rot, smallman."

"Gladly," Ikharos muttered. He walked out and didn't look back.

The files saw him back in his tent an hour later, scouring through them for anything and everything. It was there, sitting on the flattened grass with his legs crossed and his hands tapping away at his datapad, that Formora found him. She wasn't alone. The little pup from the day before scurried around her feet.

"Does Tarrhis not want that back?" He asked. The whelp of a war beast hesitantly shuffled forward to sniff at one of his boots.

"This one is too far behind its siblings." Formora knelt down. Her fingers brushed against the beast's back. "Raksil offered it. I accepted."

"We have enough pets."

"You have enough pets. Neither Kida or Arke are mine." When the pup tried to catch one of her fingers in its mouth, she pulled it back and tickled the beast under its squashed jaws. "I will rear this creature myself."

"Why?"

"My life has been defined by death for too long. I need to change that. To balance out all we're doing. Thus, I will care and raise this little one."

"Do you even know how?"

"No." She met his gaze. "That is one of the reasons I'm here. Surely you are familiar with these animals."

Ikharos shrugged. "Never had a dog, let alone a war beast."

"But you do know what it is."

"I can tell it's probably male. I can tell you it's a runt. And I can tell you it's got a hell of a lot more growing in its future. Give it a few months, and you'll have a loyal scale-bound hound to follow you into battle for the next couple of centuries."

"They can live that long?"

"Oh yes. A fraction of an Uluru lifespan, but much longer than most Earth-based fauna."

"And… how can you tell it's a male?"

"Because of that."

The beast had turned on its back. Formora had been absentmindedly scratching its stomach, but stopped as soon as Ikharos drew attention to it. She curiously asked, "What about this?"

"It's showing weakness. They're pack animals, like wolves or dogs, but they're matriarchal. A female war beast would've taken off your hand for that."

Formora looked down. "I see no malice in this creature. A hunger, but nothing evil. No need for a fight, no desire to dominate."

"It wouldn't. Not so young. Maybe wolves aren't the right analogy..." Ikharos clicked his fingers. The biologist in him was coming out. "Hyenas! Yes, hyenas are closer - in social structure if not physical form. Matriarchal pack-hunters. Similarly brutish physique too. Though... maybe not entirely the same, since their packs are competitively-based rather than cooperatively-based. So not directly comparable..."

"What are hyenas?"

"Earth animal," Ikharos explained. "They look like bears pretending to be wolves. Hideous laughs. Strong bite."

"Humorous imagery." The beast started yipping and whining for attention, waving its little paws in the air. Formora rewarded it with another series of scratches. "What will he eat?"

"Whatever's available. War beasts aren't picky. They're omnivores, I think, but of the carnivore-leaning variety. Du Weldenvarden'll be down a few dozen squirrels."

"I have already made my decision. I don't think I'll regret this."

"Suit yourself."

"What of you?"

"Eh, I'm more of a cat person, and even then-"

"That's not what I meant." Formora smiled softly. "What are you doing?"

Ikharos' own expression fell away, only to be replaced by a dark grimace. He lifted his datapad. "Reading up on our resident infestation."

"The Hive?"

He nodded. "They don't work for the sisters."

"That's good, yes?"

"Because they work for a Worm God."

"Oh."

"Yul, the Honest Worm."

Formora's relief died away. Her expression soon mirrored his own. "Has it arrived? This Worm God?"

"No. This sect's probably just one of many to serve Him, but still... They need to go. Before they draw Him here."

"They do. But that was always our plan."

Ikharos inclined his head. "It was."

"Is there anything else?"

"Well, we put names to faces. Kirrnaka-Hul, the Headsman, and Maalcoth, the Twisted, who each worked as champions of Xivu Arath, the Hive God of War. Tir Argok, Mother of Loyalty, and Ir Eirim, the Changeling, who both called Savathûn's High Coven home. And then there's Cheirrlok, the Deathsmith. A former scholar from the Blood of Oryx." Ikharos looked off into space, troubled. "He must've gotten out of there just in time..."

"They're drawn from all corners of Hive society," Formora surmised.

Ikharos solemnly nodded. "Don't know why, don't know how, but what's clear is Yul is poaching notables from different sects."

"Why?"

"Beats me. Maybe the death of Oryx has shaken His faith in the Osmium dynasty. Maybe He never intended to stay loyal in the first place. What matters is His soldiers and His lie-masters are here, on Kepler."

"Could they be here for Nezarec?"

"I don't know. Maybe." He held an empty hand. Little sparks of Arc jumped between his fingers, like antsy crickets. One of the sparks flew off without his complicit permission, drawn by an external force. He looked over at Formora. She'd caught it ably enough, but looked utterly lost on what came next.

"Don't do that," Ikharos said, a tad gruffer than he intended. "If that'd been any bigger, you would have hurt yourself."

Formora gave no indication of having heard. One hand was still draped over the tiny war beast, but the other was cupping the spark of Arc like a prized gem. She added her own to the mix. A lance of subtle Intention ran up her arm and joined the ember of his Light in a dazzling display of crackling energy, filling her palm with bright blue power.

Ikharos took her hand in a firm grasp and extinguished the lot with a flicker of pure Light. "Seriously. Don't turn yourself into a conduit. Not around here."

"That was..."

"Exhilarating?"

"I was soaring through the skies again." Formora shivered.

"You were, but the landing was going to be rough. If I hadn't caught you..."

Her fingers tightened around his. "Arc is... overpowering."

"Solar's gentler. Here." Ikharos dropped the datapad and cupped her hand in his both of his own. He formed a small sphere of tender heat. It was nothing more than a sliver of a Rift, but the warm aura emanating from it was as comforting as a lit fireplace on a cold winter's eve. It brought with it the feeling of being home.

He felt a small weight press against his leg. Ikharos looked down. The pup had propped up against him to see what they were holding. The orange glow of the Solar orb reflected back from its big dark eyes. Ikharos, on a whim, rested his hand over its neck. The scales under his fingers were smooth and warm to the touch. A tiny hum vibrated out from the beast's core.

"What will you name him?"

Formora briefly glanced over to the pup. Her free hand fell over the back of Ikharos's. It was electrifying - and not just because of the Arc. "I don't know. I think... a Cabal name?"

"Dhua'ualk? Gra'ourg? Thov? Aro'auch?"

She winced. "Perhaps not."

"How about a dragon name?"

"... Nireith." Formora offered the pup a tender smile. "Ono eru Nireith."

The pup pawed at Ikharos to be lifted. He cupped it under its belly and raised it up. It basked in the heat and emotion of the handheld Rift, positively purring.

000

His sons and daughters raged. It was a righteous rage. A rage against false logic. A rage against loss. A rage against mourning. A rage against missing prey. A rage against hungry parasites. A rage against weakness. A rage against defeat.

A rage against him and his failings.

Two rose up with readied cleavers and biting words. Kirrnaka-Hul accepted their challenge. He sanctified the edge of his axe in the blood of a fallen silver singer and took up a stance in the centre of their writhing nest. His other children watched. As did his siblings, and their children, and their children's children - and on and on, all generations, all waiting for the sign of a victor deserving of their station.

His challengers were twins. Kirrnaka-Hul remembered their birth. He had separated a single larva in two, just as the great King had done to create his beloved Deathsingers. It was not song-writers Kirrnaka-Hul raised, though. They were champions of blood and bone and blade. Executioners of those he deemed unworthy. Glorious ranks, proper ranks, a rank he himself had held in War's own horde. Slayers of those who did not follow the true Logic of bladecraft. Killers of those born to die.

They sought to test him and, if they defeated him, discard him as yet another unworthy pretender. Kirrnaka-Hul did not blame them for it - nay, he welcomed their challenge! He was a proud father, for his children were strong and righteous and unafraid.

Thus he hefted his axe and bade them welcome in the only way that mattered: honest combat. "Come, o strong Aachlor and mighty Faahlok, I am waiting!"

His axe was a familiar weight, even to his tattered muscles. It was just as much a part of him as his own arm. More - it was his one and only right to existence. It was his anchor, his lifeline, his soul. And he wielded it well.

Aachlor, bolder than his brother and firmer of faith, was the first to strike. His eyes burned green, full of fire. His blade swung and the air before it shrieked in unconscious terror. Axe met cleaver with a metallic roar. Kirrnaka-Hul's fingers tightened around the time-worn grip. His atrophied body surged with hunger. Death was but a whisper away and he could almost taste it. It was nectar sweet, ambrosia to murder-eaters, and he loved it.

His son struck again, as quick as he could, and his sword found flesh. Dust burst. Blood welled. Kirrnaka-Hul shrugged the blade from his shattered shoulder and returned the blow. Axe cracked into shell. Muscle parted. Organs burst. Aachlor fell, grunting and dying. Kirrnaka-Hul crushed his skull underfoot.

Faahlok edged forwards, left cautious by sister-whispers and brother-death. He held not only a sword but a spear ripped from the dead grasp of a silver warrior brought down by his own swarming spawn. It hummed with old memories of a battles waged eons ago, and it still carried the burning fang of an ancient dead-star-bite. Burning energies coiled around the glowing, leaf-shaped blade. It hungered - not for death, but for agonized cries and the silencing of lesser voices.

Kirrnaka-Hul met him halfway, bloodied and roaring. Faahlok was a navigator of stratagem just as Aachlor was a breaker of spirit. Their paths complemented one another, and through battle they worshipped the overarching Logic of war in their own differing ways. To fight Aachlor was a test of strength. To fight Faahlok was a test of awareness.

Blade met blade, and hadium locked against hadium. Kirrnaka-Hul could scarcely hear anything above his own roars and the excited chitter of his Worm. But he could feel well enough, and he certainly felt the sting of a plasma-coated spear slipping through his ribs.

Pain gave way to rage. And his rage was unstoppable. Cleaver cracked, silver-stained axe met neck, and with his free hand Kirrnaka-Hul ripped Faahlok's snarling head from his shoulders. The second of twins fell away with a shower of dust. Wizards flitted forward to catch the dying embers of his soul.

Kirrnaka-Hul dropped the head and ripped out the spear lodged in his chest. It burned his hand beautifully - it was an enchanting weapon. A weapon born of forced sacrifice, carrying the frozen memories of old strength.

"These are known to us!" He announced, holding the spear high. "And we are known to them! They are Harmony: once uplifted by falsehood, shattered by honest truths, reformed through schemes, raised on blade. They have survived the ravages of all broods - but not ours! They are strong, but we are stronger still for we are honest to ourselves." Kirrnaka-Hul looked around. "I march north! I march to power!"

A ravenous cry of hungry blades echoed throughout the husk of the dead Cabal starship

Cheirrlok ordained him with blood and soulfire. "I name thee claimant to Harmonic Song. Braver than all the rest, adored by He-Who-Speaks-Honestly, for you shall resume our crusade. Navigate these depths of power, o dear brother, and we will follow your example forevermore."

"Oryx is dead!" Tir Argok, devoid of flesh and bone and blood and dust, cried out. "The Whisper Queen has moved to seize his holdings, but conquest is not her realm. Hark, brother, listen! The way to teaching the truth to our people, to all peoples, is this way! It is north!"

Kirrnaka-Hul growled for silence. It was almost heresy. To other broods, those led by stale tradition, it certainly would have been just that. Subversion was not in his nature. That was an art belonging to his sisters. No, he was a follower of War. But War had failed him and Maalcoth. Just as Deceit had failed his sisters. Just as Curiosity had failed Cheirrlok. Noble Oryx had showed them the dream of daring. Xivu Arath had given them the drive to fight. Savathûn taught them the strength in treading new paths. All unwitting patrons.

War had failed him. He would not fail War.

His Worm chewed on the lining of his stomach. He cracked a hand against the place over his stomach. "Silence! Silence! Cease your biting, Thief of my glories!" Kirrnaka-Hul looked up and met the expectant, derisive, hard gazes of his siblings. Maalcoth salivated. Tir Argok seethed. Cheirrlok waited. "The Sky's accursed birds will catch our scent. They will seek to shatter our Logic and steal our tribute."

"Ir Eirim works against their efforts."

"She is the patient predator, but I am not. I needs must hunt what lies north. I must slay this false-god and hammer out a temple from his lifeless shell. Cheirrlok! How goes your forging?"

Clever Cheirrlok procured from his smoky corner of the ship a dark totem of chitin, runes, stolen song-words, and captured soul-kindling. "Here is my creation. The Sky's soaring scavengers will chip their beaks upon this bladed shield. No bird shall prevail were the waves of the Deep roam."

"Fair Cheirrlok, you have forged a fine shield. But it is a finer sword; a sword to clip wings!"

"I have charged it with scraps of death. Inversion is the way of the navigator. I have inverted my death into my breaker-of-wings. It is a totem of no-Sky-shall-fly. I swear this, brother Kirrnaka-Hul." Cheirrlok paused. "I admit, I am curious to see how far the Sky's birds will fall."

"You are always curious," Maalcoth sighed. The ship shook with the force of his voice.

Tir Argok's searing eyes glinted with dangerous amusement. "It is his nature to be curious. Thus he must always be curious."

But Maalcoth just shook out his scarred arms and looked at Kirrnaka-Hul. "A wager, brother. The first to slay a Sky-puppet may claim ten years' worth of tribute from this husk-temple of yours."

Kirrnaka-Hul's axe glinted with Harmony blood. He raised it up for all to see for it was his will, his authority, his word. "I will win this contest."

Maalcoth laughed. Kirrnaka-Hul laughed with him. He loved his siblings. He loved his family. He loved to test them - for to test them was to threaten them with hunger and injury, which would force them to grow stronger. His love was honest.

And the Honest Worm approved, for trueness to one's nature was the greatest honesty of all.

AN: Thanks to Nomad Blue for editing!