Chapter 26: The Duel
Formora waited, sitting as still as she could. The eyes of her guards saw everything. She'd never known any race barring her own to be so attentive. They watched her for hours and hours and never once complained. They were quiet, much like her, and did exactly what they were supposed to do. A strange device resting in the far corner lit up the chamber and threw monstrous shadows. She watched them back. Their armour was unique, much like the set Ikharos had gifted her, and of a unusual design. They bore helmet-horns of differing shapes, and each wore an abundance of weaponry upon their persons. Their size rivaled that of Urgals and their leader was easily as large as a Kull. She hadn't seen them fight, but she suspected they were physically powerful creatures too. What she had noticed was their speed. Much like Ikharos, these strangers were on terms with her own kind for being fleet of foot and quick of limb, and they were all the more dangerous for it.
Unlike most elves, however, these were trained professional warriors bearing the finest armaments she'd ever seen. Formora prided herself on her own martial ability, but she found herself at a loss on how to duel a single one of the creatures before her, even if it were only a swordfight. How did one fight an opponent with four separate arms?
Only a few hours after Ikharos left she heard what had to be a dozen newcomers march into the cave, though they didn't reach the chamber she was kept in. Following that, she caught an ear of the odd roars echoing through the winding reaches of the cave. Whatever it was, her guards didn't seem all that bothered by it.
Moliko arrived not long after and pointed to her with his sword. "Da!" He ordered. She assumed it meant 'move.'
Formora bristled, but as she had been left completely unarmed, she had little choice. She'd tried probing the minds of her captor earlier, but their thoughts were so foreign, so alien, the attempt left her disorientated and lost and without having learned a single thing. She did notice one thing, though, and that was the lack of spellcasters. That in itself was strange, as any and every Alagaësian-born military needed individuals capable of casting offensive spells and operating defensive wards. It wasn't a luxury; it was a necessity, and yet the Fallen made without.
Formora might have been able to cast spells to break free and disable her captors, but it was just as likely that they would suspect her to be behind the magic and kill her on the spot. They were too fast and too alert. She didn't dare try.
She followed Moliko, assuming they were to return to the larger chamber where the Fallen leader waited, but no, the foreign warrior led her out of the cave and into the open air. The falling sun painted the skies in a bright orange and the clouds above were few and far between. A collection of colossal insects stood about on thin legs all about the rocky hill, and others flew in place above. Their incessant humming unpleasantly filled her ears, and Formora cast a spell under her breath to lessen the toll of it on her hearing.
Fallen worked all across the clearing, lifting equipment and carrying it all into the insects. It was then she caught on that they weren't living creatures at all, but in truth metal ships capable of flight. The concept was boggling. And terrifying.
"Human," a deep voice announced from beside her. Formora twirled about, only just noticing the new Fallen beside her. It was as large as the one Ikharos had spoken with earlier, but its helmet bore fantastic wings rather than a fan-shaped crest. The Fallen were unlike anything she'd ever known, but this one's eyes seemed... kinder? The hostile glare she'd received from her other captors was absent. "How do you fare?"
"You... speak my language." Formora frowned. "How?"
"Language is only a collection of words. A clever mind may learn." The big Fallen's voice was deep enough to be mistaken for anger, but there was a soft lilt of amusement in there. "You look unhurt, human."
"I'm not a human," Formora defended, a bit too harshly if Moliko's hiss was any indication.
The one who spoke twirled about and sent Moliko scurrying with an unintelligible bark, then turned back to her and dipped his head. "Not human?"
"I am an elf," she corrected, damned be Ikharos' wild claims.
Kiphoris blinked all four eyes at once. "I know not of elf. What is elf? Like... Awoken, or... what is this?" The Fallen pointed to her ears. "I have never know human to have sharp-ears."
"That's because I'm not human," she continued.
"Elf then." She could hear the smile. It was definitely there.
"Who are you?"
"I am Kiphoris, Captain of Scar House. What of you?"
"I am Formora." She continued after a moment's pause. "Of House Rílvenar."
"Ah, you are noble too?"
Formora paused. She hadn't spoken to her family for a long time even before the Wyrdfall. Not since... No, Kíalandi had been her real family. The rest of them were nothing more than people she was supposed to care about, if only because they shared the same family name. "I was," she said softly.
"Ah," Kiphoris nodded, who seemed to understand more than she thought he would. A shadow fell over them both, and Formora almost cast a death spell on instinct, but stopped herself when she found herself staring up at the tallest Fallen she'd seen yet. It was twice as large as the likes of Moliko, perhaps more, and it exuded an aura of strength and absolute authority, only boosted by the broad crests of its helmet stretching out like two grand horns.
"Velask," it began in a sonorous voice. If dragons could speak with their very breath as other peoples did, Formora imagined they would have sounded like the creature before her. It glanced down at her. "Da yus?"
"He asks for name." Kiphoris bowed to the larger Fallen.
"... Formora," she answered hesitantly. The huge creature before her looked powerful enough to rip even the mightiest of Kull limb from limb with the utmost ease. She didn't miss the increasingly familiar smell of Fallen, heavy with the big one. They didn't stink like unwashed barbarians, but rather had an almost pleasant smell of a metallic sweetness. They seemingly took great care of their armour and weaponry, because it all shone brilliantly. Even their cloaks, if tattered, were washed and unstained. They are a proud people, she'd concluded, and they know the power they hold.
"Formora," the large creature pointed at her, then to itself. "Tarrhis-Mrelliks."
"He is Tarrhis, Baron of Scar House," Kiphoris helpfully translated.
"Da kenre aga?" Tarrhis pointed to one of the ships, marginally larger than the others and painted with flowing designs by an expert hand.
"He demands you join him on his Skiff. He will talk."
"Where will he be going?" Formora asked.
"The human city. Cabal are as... weakened animals. We will fight them and win." Kiphoris asserted it so confidently that it was hard to argue it as anything but truth.
Tarrhis, without waiting, stalked over to his vessel and slipped inside the hatch behind the heavy abdomen of the ship. Formora didn't dare move - the vessel looked to her like a vicious, malevolent scarab. Kiphoris lightly touched her shoulder. "It is not a trap," he promised, mistaking the reason behind her hesitation. "Tarrhis's Skiff is armoured. We will be protected."
"Is it alive?" She whispered, eyes trained on the 'Skiff'.
Kiphoris made an unusual clicking noise. "No. It is a machine. Metal and Arc. It is ours."
Formora exhaled and started walking. Other Fallen she passed didn't pay her more than a curious glance, busy as they were. They growled, yipped, and snapped, but they worked perfectly in sync with one another. Each one knew its task and purpose. Formora was impressed by their efficiency, but wary too. Like the Cabal, it wouldn't have taken many Fallen to pose a threat to the fragile stability of Alagaësia. Then again, it might prod her own people into finally taking matters seriously.
Her line of thought was cut short when she reached the ship. There was a series of eight hatches lining the underside of the tail, but a ramp had lowered from deeper in the ship to allow for easier access. Formora climbed up through the entrance and found herself in a large rectangular chamber lined with inbuilt benches on either side, all of it cast in an orange glow from what appeared to be werelights encased in crystal. Another circular hatch lay at the other end, and through it she could see three other Fallen milling about or sitting in seats that faced before a large glass screen. Tarrhis stood at the end of the rectangular chamber and talked with those in the front. Satisfied, the Baron turned about and braced himself against the wall.
"Formora," he said. "Ne ra tas Sha'ir. Da zes ta?"
Kiphoris rumbled. "Tarrhis-Baron asks to know Light-Thief."
"Light-Thief?" Formora questioned.
"Ikha Riis. Sundrass said you travel with him."
Formora nodded slowly. "I did."
"Is he alone?" Kiphoris asked. "Did he come with others? Other Light-Thieves?"
"What is your interest?" She pressed suspiciously. "Why are you even here?"
"It is a matter of honor," Kiphoris told her. "We know of him from wars-past. We must know his purpose here, upon this world."
"You want him dead?" Formora ventured. She coiled her grip around the threads of magic. She didn't trust anything. Couldn't.
"... Nama." Kiphoris shook his head reluctantly. "Tarrhis-Baron wishes to meet him, as Ikha Riis-Lord slew Taniks-Traitor, who killed the Kell of Scar House."
"Ikharos-Lord?"
Kiphoris's inner eyes narrowed. "Yes, he... Ah. You did not arrive with him? You are of this world." When Formora didn't reply, the Fallen continued, taking her silence as a confirmation. "Ikha Riis was an old freelance Kell, who fought other Kells for land and resources. He killed other Light-Thieves. It is widely known."
"He is a lord?" She asked curiously. It made some sense, considering quality of his armour and weaponry. Humans in places of authority hoarded such things. Still, she never saw the Risen as something approaching nobility. Not with how readily he tossed himself body and soul into every violent exchange he happened across.
Kiphoris nodded. "Eia, was. Freelance-Kell, then gave up land to join other Light-Thieves to serve Great Machine. You do not know this?"
"I know some of it from what he told me." Something just didn't add up, though. "You're going through all this just to speak with him?"
"Eia." She supposed that was the Fallen word for 'yes.'
"That Fallen, Sundrass, sent-"
Kiphoris growled. "Not Fallen."
"Pardon?" Formora asked quietly.
"We are not Fallen. That is a Light-Thief word. We are Eliksni, proud and strong."
"... Eliksni." It was a more appropriate - and less insulting - title for an entire race than 'Fallen'.
"Eia. And we have heard of Sundrass's trick. He now fights Cabal, weakens them. Tarrhis will direct us, we Scars, to fight them too. Light-Thief has weakened them. And Cabal have weakened the Light-Thief..." Kiphoris trailed off. Tarrhis growled something, to which the smaller Eliksni responded with his own animalistic snarls and clicks.
Other Eliksni piled into the ship, chattering to themselves and carrying as many weapons as they possibly could. Following them was what she could only describe as a huge metal eye that warbled and whirred to itself. Formora flinched when its gaze swept over her.
It was just her luck to get caught up in a foreign invasion the moment she returned to the continent.
000
There were times Ikharos felt were the universe's way of keeping him on his toes. After all he'd witnessed over the course of three long centuries, he'd figured he'd seen everything, but somehow there was always something new right around the corner, ready to throw his self-assured attitude out the airlock. Fallen used to be the cause of it, but they'd stopped being anything other than original after Twilight Gap broke their offensive. Sure, the Wolf Uprising and the Siva Crisis were new, but they had no more tricks up their sleeves.
Even so, a Captain stopping to talk to him in the middle of battle was unusual, Mithrax notwithstanding, even if it was just to convey its hatred. He knew Fallen and they knew him. He and the Devils always had a special relationship that needed no words. Scars, however, were a new element. He didn't know what to think of them, aside from the awful cloaks. He hated the red so much.
That damn colour had taken away too many good people.
"Light-Thief," the irate Captain snarled again, this time in English aided by a high-quality synthesizer. That was Ikharos' second surprise.
"Fallen," he evenly replied, unperturbed by the threat of his imminent demise. Death had long since lost its charm.
"You are murderer."
"I am," Ikharos admitted. He didn't care to lie. It wasn't who he was. "But you'll have to be more exact. I've killed a lot of people."
"You know mine-meaning!" The Captain roared.
"I really don't. If you mean Scars, then you'll be disappointed, because I just met your people. I haven't even had the chance to-" The Captain ripped off his own helmet, revealing a plumage of blue bristles running down his head. Ikharos's eyes widened. "Ah. You're the Wolf." He smiled to himself. "Now that's just fitting."
The Captain re-equipped his helm. "You slaughtered mine-kin!"
"They killed people!" Ikharos shot back, his voice fueled by sudden broiling anger. "Your kind turned on the Reef and stabbed the Awoken in the back! They took you in, gave you a home, and you killed them for it!"
"Don't you speak of matters you know nothing about," the Captain warned. "You are a Light-Thief! You have no brothers or sisters in Awoken!"
"Are you going to shoot me or not? You know as well as I do, Wolf, that no matter what happens, the end result will be the same."
"I will not beg." The Wolf's eyes narrowed.
"That would be weird, wouldn't it? You're the one holding the gun. No, I don't expect you to beg. I wouldn't care if you did. I don't care about you. I don't care about your new House." Ikharos bit and hissed out every single word. "All I want is to keep my people safe. If I were you, I'd fly as far from here as I could. You'll live longer."
"I will not flee. I am no coward."
"Coward or not, you keep pushing that gun into my face and there won't be a body left to bury."
"You are a monster."
Ikharos scowled. "Tell me, then, how my actions were unwarranted. Devils kill my people, Kings put a bounties on my friends, Winter attack our supply lines, and Wolves murder our allies."
"You are an enemy to all Eliksni. And you will face the-"
As quick as lightning, Formora was there and in a flash had tugged a second pistol from the Captain's belt. She aimed the clunky Arcarm at the Fallen's head, loosing that pissed-off glare Ikharos had always thought was reserved solely for him. "Don't," she warned quietly.
Both Ikharos and Captain stared at her. A moment passed before Ikharos cleared his bone-dry throat. "Formora?"
"What?" She snapped, her eyes trained on the Captain.
"You've got to, uh, switch off the safety."
"Quiet!" The Captain snarled. He turned his four eyes onto Formora and spoke in almost flawless English, "Stay away. This is a matter of honour!"
Other Fallen had begun to gather around them, many with weapons raised, though not one fired on Formora. Maybe they didn't fire because they know humans, wary about Formora surviving even a second after being hit and killing their Captain. They held their stances and whispered to one another in hushed whispers and low chirps.
A sudden bark grasped all their attention. Ikharos glanced past the Captain and watched as a colossal Fallen more than twice as tall as a human person marched towards them. The big guy had to be a Baron, or even a Kell, especially with that majestic helmet. It's glare, oddly enough, was settled on the Captain rather than Ikharos. He wasn't used to that; usually Guardians were the sole object of Fallen contempt.
He couldn't imagine why.
Ikharos grasped at what dregs of Void remained, grimacing when all he felt were little sparks of nothingness. The Light he needed to connect with the beyond was almost out. His Lumina was close but he didn't know if it had any bullets loaded. His best option was his sword, but the moment he moved the Captain could fire. Fallen were always too damned fast.
The Baron stomped his way to them, hefting a Shrapnel launcher with two hands. The big guy bellowed at the Captain in a dangerously gruff voice. The Captain wasn't fazed in the slightest, but Ikharos noticed Formora flinch out of the corner of his vision, though she didn't back down. She was brave to do so; Ikharos had seen Devils eviscerate people with their claws faster than the human eye could follow.
"Nama!" The Baron yelled, far louder than was necessary. Ikharos's ears rang uncomfortably. "Bas fre sha!"
With a final growl at Ikharos, the Captain lowered his Arcarm and stepped back. The Baron grabbed the Captain's shoulder and forcefully shoved him back in the direction of the Skiff, muttering something inaudible. The big guy then turned his stern four-eyed gaze upon Ikharos.
Formora shrugged, lowered her stolen pistol, and crouched beside Ikharos. Xiān fearlessly materialized beside her.
"Where's my knife?" Ikharos whispered to her. "I need it, quickly!"
Formora found it in its sheath. Ikharos didn't remember putting it there; everything had been such a blur. The elf gave it to him, sending him a questioning look, but he couldn't tell her at that moment. He lifted both knife and Orúm, his left arm aching with the effort, and then crossed them to form an irellis bow. The gathered Fallen held their breath and watched in awestruck silence. Ikharos placed the knife on the ground, blade pointed towards him, and splayed the fingers of his now free hand in a gesture of surrender and cessation of hostilities.
The Baron approached and knelt down, eyes darting between Ikharos and the knife. Finally, he brought a clawed fist against his his gold-gilded cuirass and said, "Tarrhis-Mrelliks pak Denaan."
"Ikha Riis," Ikharos replied. He didn't give voice to the derogative title given to him by the Devils. "Vel, Tarrhis-Mrelliks pak Denaan."
"Velask, Ikha Riis." The Baron looked about, and grunted with surprise when he saw the corpse of the tusked Uluru some distance away. Tarrhis rose back up. "Ra fre. En dir."
Ikharos closed his eyes. "Psekisk."
Xiān floated down beside him and spoke directly to Formora. "He's got internal bleeding, a concussion, and metal fragments embedded in his arm," Xiān reported. "I can deal with the metal, but we don't have the means to stop the bleeding. Cytogel only works on external wounds." She paused. "Scipio gave us medical supplies, but recovery nanites won't work. Guardian immune systems are hyperactive - the nanites would be eliminated before they could do anything. We usually rely on Light, but we've burned out."
"He's vulnerable," Formora realized, speaking softly. "Mortal."
"Um..."
"You're fortunate I need you." The elf muttered. "Where's the wound?"
"Here." Xiān used a brief laser to point to a ragged spot at Ikharo' midriff. It tingled, like a painfully intense version of pins and needles.
Formora placed her hand against the area. Ikharos groaned and gritted his teeth - it hurt like hell. "Heill du mïnen undir du hamr," she said.
The pain instantly dulled and flowed away, and Ikharos found he could breathe far easier than before. His relief was instantaneous; he smiled weakly. "Thanks," he said.
Formora nodded ever so slightly. "A concussion?"
"Whacked his head against the wall," Xiān explained. She looked over to another spot a few feet away, where a small crater had been smashed into the stonework. "Cracked the casing in his helmet."
Formora stared at the huge Uluru's corpse. "I wouldn't be surprised… "
"Hulunkles?" The Baron asked again, standing over them.
"Nama dir," Ikharos told him.
"Rhahaha," the huge Fallen laughed. "Eia, nama dir."
Ikharos eyed the nearby Fallen nervously and lurched to his feet. Formora offered her support, which he gladly accepted. His sense of balance had deserted him. "This is... not ideal."
"They haven't killed us yet."
"Torture it is."
She glared at him. "Now is not the time to jest."
Ikharos exhaled. "I'm getting loopy. I'll pin that on the blood loss. Besides," he whispered, "I'm only half joking."
"You need rest," Xiān told him. "If these guys can be reasoned with, we might just be able to make it out of this city."
"Ner bo hus!" The Baron roared to his troops. Ikharos stiffened as the Fallen raiding party yipped and separating into roving bands. He hated that sound.
"What did you do?" Formora whispered.
"I requested an armistice. That should shut the Wolf up. Fallen and their damn honour codes..." Ikharos scoffed. "It might let us survive this mess. We just need time."
"How long do you need?"
"If we were in Sol, a few minutes. Here? Days. Nothing less than a full Super will give us enough distance to make a getaway."
"You don't like them."
"I'm not overly fond, is all." He looked about. "Whatever happens, don't let them draw-"
"Ikha Riis!"
"Nevermind." Ikharos sucked in a deep breath and met the hard gaze of the Baron. "Eia?"
"Da Eliksni hus dis?" The Baron, Tarrhis, asked.
"Hus Mraskilaasan zes dir bo," the Warlock replied. "Nama hus Kalakhselen."
"Eia?"
"Eia. Bas das dir. Ze nan?"
"Ze nan." Tarrhis motioned to a trio of those Fallen who remained to watch the Warlock. They approached, armed with shock rifles primed to fire, and they looked mean. They didn't know what he was, exactly, but they knew he was dangerous. "Ra fre."
"Weapons," Ikharos told Formora. "Give them back the gun. And mine. Xiān, out of sight."
The Ghost withdrew from view, eliciting a couple of surprised yelps from their captors. They barked at Ikharos, but he didn't budge, not even deigning to explain why his 'Servitor' had disappeared. Formora handed over the shock pistol and the Lumina, and Orúm and the Hunter knife followed soon after. One of the Vandals carried it all, and the other moved behind the two with his rifle raised.
"What now?" The elf asked quietly.
"We hope the Cabal don't turn this around."
In truth, all that remained was a mop up. The Cabal, as every veteran from the Martian front knew, were a wall of metal and muscle, but once their formation broke then their orders and battle plans all but disintegrated. Their fight with Ikharos had forced their gaze inwards - and he had destroyed more than his fair share. With the Fallen Skiffs sweeping in a loss for the armoured giants was all but assured.
It was karmic justice that the Cabal were so blatantly humiliated by those they underestimated at every turn. Those that didn't fall back with their tails between their legs were cornered by Fallen gangs, and of those any who resisted were ruthlessly put down. Considering the bullheaded nature of Cabal, not many surrendered. Ikharos was surprised any of them would. Surely they knew as well as he did that prisoners of the Fallen didn't last long.
Which didn't bode all that well for him, either.
Before the battle had even been finished, Ikharos and Formora had been escorted to the eastern side of the city, which the Scars had already secured from the resident legion. There the elf treated his concussion with hushed spells that left him light-headed. When the pain in his arm became a dulled throb he knew his Ghost had transmatted the metal fragments away. Only couple of hours later, when Skiffs flew above the city uncontested and the firefights below had died down, did their guards bring them to the keep.
It would have once been an impressive feat of architecture, but in the battle's aftermath the seat of Ceunon's power was a sorry thing. Walls had been smashed open, the portcullis gate was nothing more than rubble, and a lonely Harvester burned in the courtyard while surrounded by its deceased crew. Fallen scurried about, some marred by injuries, but for the most part it had been a clear victory in their favour. It wouldn't last, Ikharos decided. Cabal weren't the sort to take a defeat like that lying down. They'd retaliate, or try to anyhow.
For the first time in months Ikharos encountered other human beings, Formora aside. They were few and far between, but there were the staff who worked at the keep and the other prisoners kept by the Cabal. Now they were lorded over by gruff Fallen. It wasn't necessarily an improvement. The servants stared, wide-eyed, at everything around them with fearful expressions. When they saw Ikharos, one or two physically recoiled. He couldn't blame them. He looked like a wreck, covered in scorch marks, bullet holes, and dried blood. His guards moved him along without even giving him a chance to get a word in, through the keep's entrance and into the grand hall - still pristine and untouched save for the rare corpse. Tables lined the centre of the room and unfamiliar banners hung on the walls alongside the skulls of hunting trophies. Tarrhis waited at the other end, standing on a dais where Ikharos assumed the local aristocrat received his guests, and appraised a Cabal shotgun in the bright torchlight. Other Fallen paced about or tinkered with their equipment, and those of higher rank presented other spoils of war to their leader. An unremarkable Vandal stood to the Baron's side, clutching something in his arms.
"Tarrhis-Baron!" One of the Vandal-guards with Ikharos announced in easy Low Speak. "We bring the Light-Thief!"
The room went quiet and each pirate turned to stare at Ikharos. The Baron put the shotgun aside and nodded. "Ah, Ikha Riis. Velask."
"Velask," Ikharos greeted stiffly.
"I have not encountered many two-armed humans, I admit, and none of them speak mine-language. Except for you. How is this?"
"I've... known of Eliksni for a long time. I learned from listening into Devil comms. A scribe of House Judgement helped me refine my speech."
"Judgement? I thought them shattered." Tarrhis stepped back and sat on the body of a dead Uluru soldier like it were a grisly throne. "Name the scribe."
"Variks, the Loyal."
"I do not know the name, though I did not know many of Judgement's banner," Tarrhis commented flippantly. He seemed, after a quick bout of scrutinization, to be a creature of glory and honour. His ornate armour bore marks of battle and he carried weapons with an easy familiarity - an old warrior. "This scribe must have taught you our ways. It has been some time since any performed the irellis bow." Tarrhis gave a pointed look to one of his Captains. The Wolf bowed down and held out his arms to signify his humility. Even so, the bastard managed to send a split-second glare in Ikharos' direction to show just how deep his grudge went.
"Some. I gathered most of it through exposure."
"I have heard claims you fought with other banners. Is this true?"
"... Yes." He couldn't think of anything else to say, and to weave a lie would have been instantly disputed by the Wolf. The Captain might have been enduring the Baron's disfavour, but he was still more valuable to them than Ikharos.
"And I have heard claims that you stole the Great Machine's blessings, twisted its power to your own ends. Is this true?"
"No," Ikharos responded hotly. "No, that is not true!" He glared at the Wolf. "What would you know about the Traveler's blessings?" He demanded angrily.
The Wolf rose up, rolling his four shoulders. "Your kind, the thieves, robbed us of our-"
"I was too dead to steal anything! The Great Machine chose people to protect it and provided them with power, nothing more!"
"Your people hoarded it! You kept our god from us, lured it away so that the Hive could destroy our home!"
"It was the complete other way around! The Hive didn't invade because the Machine left, the Machine left because the Hive were going to invade! They've been chasing it for millennia!"
The Wolf growled. Before he could retort, however, Tarrhis bellowed. "Enough!" He looked between the two. "This is a grievous claim indeed, Ikha Riis."
"I was promised, by Sundrass, that if I freed her scouts we could walk free," Ikharos tiredly pointed out.
The Captain in question, standing off to the side of the hall, spoke up. "You did not free them all. Muerniks is dead. Mine-promise is as dust plucked by a gale."
"The Cabal killed him before I got there."
"You should have been faster," Sundrass replied harshly.
"And you shouldn't have sent your scouts into Cabal territory!" Ikharos snapped.
Sundrass bristled and drew a blade. "How dare you-"
"I said enough!" Tarrhis ordered. "I command here, and I say none will die until my decision is reached." He refocused on Ikharos. "You have been accused of mighty crimes. What do you say to them?"
He took a deep breath. "All I've done, all I ever do, is protect my people. We've been hit hard. I just want to preserve what we have left. I haven't stolen the Great Machine's Light, you can be sure of that."
"There is little reason to believe you," Tarrhis began. Ikharos was in the midst of asking for handful of grenades from Xiān when the Baron resumed speaking. "Aside from one which Kiphoris-Veskirisk agrees upon. It is said you slew Taniks, the one who named himself Freelance Kell."
Ikharos held his head high and stubbornly met the Baron's glowing eyes. "... I did. What of it? Was he a friend of yours?"
Tarrhis rumbled deeply. "No, far from a friend. He was a traitor to all of Scar banner. You did mine-House an honourable favour by killing him."
"Not enough to let me go, I suppose."
Tarrhis's eyes brightened with amusement. "Not quite."
"Let her go." Ikharos gestured to Formora, who didn't understand a single word being said. "She's not involved in any of this."
"He will kill us all if we have nothing to threaten him with," Sundrass argued.
"No," the Wolf, Kiphoris, said suddenly. "If he had Light, he would have broken free by now." The Captain's voice rose as he grew ever more confident. "He has nothing left. He used it all on the Cabal. We should kill him now!"
Ikharos glowered. "You psekiskar!"
"I have reached mine-verdict!" Tarrhis announced. All attention diverted to the Baron. "Kiphoris is a Scar now." Tarrhis voiced each word with careful deliberation, looking around the room. "I trust him with mine-life. I trust him to guard our Kell. I trust him to speak the truth. However, it would be his truth, and I would be foolish to ignore the truths of the stranger before us. Ikha Riis, your words may indeed be false, but your actions have spoken for you. Sundrass has made you a promise and I would not be so quick to throw it aside." Tarrhis gave her a sidelong look of stern disapproval. "You have slain Taniks, of whom I have long since wished dead. These give you a measure of credence. As such, both of you are valued. Kiphoris-Veskirisk and Ikha Riis shall settle this in the old ways." The Baron leaned forward eagerly. "By right of sword."
The hall was filled with approving chitters from the gathered Fallen.
"In Elder Days, Kells would make their case through the strength of their sword arms under the gaze of the Great Machine," Tarrhis continued. "Neither of you are Kells, and the Great Machine is not here, but you are both warriors of caliber and it is my gaze which will rest upon you."
"Tarrhis-Mrelliks!" Sundrass called out. She pointed at Ikharos. "We have seen his power! Even a fraction of it may mean certain victory! By the law of duel, both combatants must fight on even ground!"
"Of course," Tarrhis dipped his horned head. "Set warriors armed with wire rifles on the walls. If the human uses the power of the Great Machine, then he will shot dead. But," at this he deepened his voice, "Kiphoris must set aside his shield and warp generator. There will be no trickery, through Light or machine, to decide this matter. What say you, fighters?"
"I accept," Kiphoris growled.
Ikharos sighed and shrugged. "Fine."
Tarrhis stood, his great frame towering over everything else. His helmet almost scraped the ceiling. "Clear a space!"
Ikharos's guards moved aside and tugged Formora with them. A third bowed and presented Orúm to him hilt first. He took it gladly. A quick look confirmed that Kiphoris was being prepared by a duo of his own underlings. They took his cloak and carefully bundled it up, and stepped back as the Captain slid twin shock blades from where they had hung from his waist. He activated the switches in the hilts. The blades crackled loudly with Arc.
"Dammit," Ikharos muttered. He drew his purple longsword and tossed aside the sheath, and he assumed a side stance, holding the weapon firmly in both hands.
"To death or surrender, those are the terms," Tarrhis told them. The Baron looked positively delighted with himself.
Ikharos kept his eyes on his opponent, but he was painfully aware of all the wire rifles audibly charging up. He wouldn't be able to escape the sharpshooters without a Blink, and even if he could it would only get him so far. His only consolation was that he was confident in his own physical prowess, to some degree, and that there was a chance the Baron was going to keep his word. If he survived, that was.
Kiphoris moved first and without warning, closing the distance between them in a sudden burst of movement. Ikharos only just managed to dip away from the initial strike, but the Captain was experienced, and he redirected the power behind the missed blow into a second accompanying attack. Ikharos jumped back from one of the swords, but the trap had been set and the second blade swept in low towards his ribs. He brought his sword down to block it, and when the blades crossed, he yelped as Arc surged through the weapons and into him.
Ikharos shoved back. Kiphoris leapt away from the half-hearted counterattack and began to circle the Warlock. Ikharos kept his front facing towards the Captain, recognizing the Wolf stance. When the Captain attempted to surprise him with a sudden thrust, he was ready and parried it quickly. The Wolf's eyes widened.
"Yeah," Ikharos grunted in English. "I've learned."
"From murder!" Kiphoris snapped back in the same tongue.
"From war. I'm just a soldier, like they were. You know that. Every one of your kind knows that. This isn't about them."
"It is of honour!" Kiphoris threw himself wholeheartedly against Ikharos's exhausted defense, swiping with all the wild fury of a bloodthirsty Devil.
"No, this is something else." Ikharos locked one of the swords against Orúm's guard, almost paralyzed with sudden agony, and used the bracer of his left hand to deflect the other weapon. The Ahamkara feathers held and, fortunately for him, hungrily absorbed the sudden influx of Arc. "You know me. How?"
Kiphoris didn't answer as he pulled back. They both watched one another carefully for the next sign of an attack. Finally, the Captain growled. "I saw you tear through my kin!"
"Mars?"
"The home of the screaming machines!" With a roar Kiphoris lunged towards him, swords pointed forward. He intended to skewer the Warlock.
Ikharos was hard pressed to raise his guard against a two-pronged attack like that, so he tried to sidestep it, but the Captain had anticipated it. One of Kiphoris's lower arms snagged on Ikharos's robes as he went and pulled on the resilient cloth, simultaneously slamming the guard of a sword against the side of the Guardian's helmet. Ikharos's vision went white for a moment, and afterwards he saw stars. He felt, too late, himself being lifted up and then slammed down on a table. Wood cracked and splintered beneath the force. Ikharos groaned and, miraculously, was able to lift up his longsword to block the two blades suddenly descending upon him.
The force of the strike was phenomenal, and his muscles burned and spasmed as Kiphoris pushed down ever harder with his electrified weapons.
"You were... at... the Citadel..." Ikharos hissed through clenched teeth. Oh, it hurt. He could still hear the crowd of Scars cheering in the background, but he zoned it out. He had to concentrate.
"Yessss." Kiphoris put all his weight onto his swords in an attempt to crush the human.
Ikharos curled up one leg and planted his foot against the Captain's chest and pushed hard. The Fallen stumbled back, and it gave Ikharos enough time to find his footing again before the fight resumed.
"Everything died there," he argued and made his first attack, an uppercut swipe that bounced off the Fallen's block.
"Not I." Kiphoris pushed forward, bracing their swords against each other. The Captain's head was only inches away from Ikharos's own.
"What we didn't kill the Vex did!" In a savage turn, Ikharos brought his leg about and kicked the side of the Fallen's right leg as hard as he could, shattering the knee joint. The Captain yowled. Taking advantage of the brief distraction, Ikharos slipped free of the sword lock with a flourish and struck the longsword against the wrist of one of Kiphoris' sword hands. While he didn't cut the limb off, he achieved what he wanted when the shock blade dropped from numbed fingers. The cheers died away.
Ikharos retracted his bloodied weapon and began his own assault, striking with as much force as he could muster. There was no fancy footwork or sleek movements, only brute force, and despite the pain of Arc he kept going until the remaining shock blade - held up to ward away the heavy downward swipes - shattered and Orúm planted into the stone floor. A thin, shallow slice across the Captain's chest began to trickle blood the colour of red wine, left by the tip of the old Dragon Rider blade. The Eliksni-forged armour had done nothing to stop the blow.
"Abandoned to their madness." Kiphoris glared up at Ikharos from where he knelt, features contorted into a snarl.
"You fell," Ikharos realized, muttering, "Into the Vex Network."
His knee cracked against the Captain's helmet with a crunch, sending the Fallen sprawling. Ikharos approached slowly, planted a boot onto the Captain's chest to keep him down, but it was clear Kiphoris was beaten. The Fallen weakly howled back up at him, eyes growing dim with pain.
"I remember," Ikharos muttered, only loud enough for Kiphoris to hear. The sudden onset of understanding was like being doused in ice-cold water. "I remember I tossed you aside. I didn't even look." He held Orúm in both hands angled towards Kiphoris's face, and ignoring the startled cries of the spectating Scars, he thrust downwards as hard as he could.
The blade lodged in the floor an inch away from the Captain's neck.
"Give up," the Warlock demanded, his voice devoid of vitality.
"You should killed me, Light-Thief," Kiphoris whispered darkly.
"Don't tempt me, Fallen."
"Why?!" The pirate demanded. "Finish it!"
"I'm a soldier. I kill when I have to, when war demands it. This isn't war. This... this is just petty revenge."
Kiphoris growled. For a moment, Ikharos thought he'd have to kill the stubborn bastard, but then the Captain spoke in Eliksni for all to hear. "You have victory, Ikha Riis. My accusations are… are as the void between the stars."
Ikharos tugged his sword free and stepped back. He could barely stand straight. Arc still pulsed unpleasantly within him. It was a nasty sensation. He constantly felt like he was about to throw up. His extremities tingled intensely.
A roar grabbed his attention. Tarrhis approached slowly, a living powerhouse that, at that very moment, could have dispatched Ikharos without breaking a sweat. No one else said a word. Finally, the Baron raised a hand and said, "The matter is settled. And has been done so honourably. The human is innocent. His freedom is guaranteed by me, and if any contests this judgement, they face my blade." A pause. "Splicers, tend to these warriors. They fought admirably."
Ikharos retreated after that - or rather, he tried to. The loose circle of Eliksni surrounding them dissolved as the bystanders approached. Ikharos closed his eyes; there were just too many of them. A sea of Fallen and he was drowning in panic. His only lifeline was a warm orb within his mind, a second consciousness full of support and sympathy.
Formora appeared by his side. "Is it done?"
"We're free," Ikharos answered. "They won't bother us anymore."
"What of the city?"
"I don't know. And, right now, I don't care." A weariness had descended upon him, and Ikharos found he was so hungry and thirsty he could barely speak. He felt mortal. Alive. And he didn't like it one bit. "Let's just leave."
"You'll die on your feet," Formora sternly told him. "You need to recuperate."
"We'll find a place outside the city."
"No we won't." The elf grabbed his arm and pulled him along through the crowd. Fallen moved quickly out of their way. "You're going to rest, and I'll gather supplies. If you're so set on it, we'll leave on the morrow."
"I'm starting to like her," his Ghost whispered into his mind.
Ikharos didn't have the energy left to argue. He scarcely remembered them moving through the keep, listening in to a quiet conversation between Formora and one of the castle servants, and then entering a room lavished with luxuriously soft furniture. The only thing he was looking for was a bed, and the moment his head hit the silk pillow of the clean, linen-covered mattress, he was out for the count.
000
Cadon awoke feeling cold. That was bad. If his time in the legions had taught him anything, it was that pain meant he was still alive. Numbness was a reason to worry.
It was too dark to see anything and the visor on his helmet was cracked. His HUD was blank. He hoped the fall hadn't damaged anything beyond repair. Supplies were too limited - though, at that moment, it shouldn't have been his greatest concern. He couldn't even feel the presence of his brothers. Cadon tried standing up, but a solid wall of stone lay over him. He was not like Uluru - he couldn't lift it up. He tried fiddling with the radio on his chest, but one of his arms wouldn't move, though whether it was pinned or broken he didn't know. Cadon thought about using the black oil to alleviate the numbness and heal whatever injuries he sustained... until he remembered he'd used it all to slow his fall.
With his other hand he clutched the radio and tried switching it on. It crackled and died away with a slow whine.
"Not like this!" He hissed furiously. His legs were miraculously fine and he tried to brace them against something, anything in this little pocket amidst the rubble. When he caught a grip, he pushed up and forward with his shoulder. It didn't budge. He tried again and again and again, and had been about to give up when the collapsed wall over him was flung away, and daylight streamed in. Heavy hands reached down to lift him out, and Cadon released a shaky breath.
His panic returned tenfold when the glowing eyes of Eliksni met his own.
AN: I appreciate everyone taking the time to read. Thanks Nomad Blue!