Chapter 47: Aiat
Something is happening.
He blearily opened his eyes and strained them against the darkness of his stifling helm. He felt, more than anything else, the Thrall and Acolytes scurrying around his body in the confines of the sleeping-cell. It was a cramped, stifling crypt of alien making, but it had its uses. Sweet-voiced Ir Eirim had convinced him of that. Kirrnaka-Hul raised his heavy head. He could smell the salty fear of war-wedded Cabal nearby, though he knew not from whence the scent came. A deep growl built up in his chest. His hand clenched around the familiar age-worn grip of his axe and he bucked against the walls of his metal cocoon.
Sounds. There were sounds. His hearing had returned to him. Noise filtered in from outside. That in itself was more telling than the cries of his soon-to-be prey. The vacuum had been filled with air that tasted like cold steel and wretched oil. There was a medium around him for their gasps and shouts to ride over. The crypt had been pierced.
Our façade shatters. We are discovered.
He let loose a deep-set groan that reached beyond the realms of matter and physics. "Wake. Wake, my brothers. Wake, my sisters. Wake, my sons and daughters. Wake, children of my clutch-mates. Wake. Our time is upon us. Wake."
What cryogel-mists remained in his cramped crypt shattered and broke upon his dead tongue. Metal buckled around him. His Thrall-spawn chittered and snarled. The older Acolytes bit out threats to keep them silent. With a mighty push, Kirrnaka-Hul shoved his beloved axe forward and tore through the walls of their cage in one savage motion. He ripped free. Sharp steel scratched against his calcified shell, but he was beyond caring. Kirrnaka-Hul filled his vacuum-dried lungs with fresh air and exulted in the mouth-watering flavour of new hunting grounds.
Five Cabal stared at him, at the Thrall crawling over his body, at the Acolytes that squeezed past him, and at the other pods shaking with activity. Two of them shivered in terror. The remaining three smiled warmly.
Kirrnaka-Hul scoffed. More of his sister's cattle.
"Cull them," he ordered of his underlings. He shook the Thrall from his back. They fell and scampered across the floor - straight to the misguided savages.
The two yet free Cabal - one Uluru, one Psion - broke out into a run. Their fear was palpable. It was delicious. His Worm roared for blood. Kirrnaka-Hul slammed a fist against his chest in hopes of jostling the parasite. "Silence," he growled, but he moved to engage the cravens all the same.
All around him, crates full of brethren trembled. Their occupants slammed fists, hammers, boomers, and blades against their cells and they cracked through the metal shells like larvae hatching from eggs. He chuckled with approval for the image; it was a beginning renewed. A beginning he could live for.
Kirrnaka-Hul tossed the thought aside and reverted his attention to the task laid out ahead of him. He was on the hunt. Nothing else mattered to him. Not in that moment. He saw his prey running from him, saw their exposed backs and breathed in their horror. He thundered after them, hefting his axe onto his shoulder. They headed towards a door. Kirrnaka-Hul gritted his filed fangs and drew his weapon back. A light flared from the doorway, momentarily catching him unawares, and something with force slammed against his head. Diluted pain marked where the slug had cracked against his helmet. He tossed all the same. The axe scraped along the metal floor with a metallic shriek and narrowly missed the larger of the fleeing Cabal. It slammed against the doorway. The sharp light was gone. He hoped his axe had crushed the shooter.
A scream split the air. Ir Eirim sped past him, screaming obscenities at the fleeing pests. Her tattered robes of bruised purple and sickly yellow trailed after her.
She was going to kill them.
But they were his.
With a bellowing laugh, Kirrnaka-Hul stampeded ahead. His sister was almost upon the smaller Psion, but he didn't care for that one. And he didn't need his axe to rend an Uluru's head from their shoulders. All he needed was to-
His Uluru twisted around and tossed something at him. It was cylindrical, just like the scrolls Tir Argok hoarded, or the ammunition shells Cheirrlok experimented with. Neither interested him. Kirrnaka-Hul raised a hand to swat it aside. The moment his blunted claws touched the cylinder, it came apart in a bright flash of shrapnel and searing heat. His world became fire.
000
Darkness surrounded him.
It took him a few seconds too long to realize that it was just his HUD being offline. Zhonoch groaned. He slapped a hand against the side of his helm and threw it off. His skull pounded with a dull ache. A whine pierced his eardrums and gradually faded away.
He lifted himself up and quickly looked around. He was in the corridor outside the cargo hold. But why…?
"Fool."
Neirim stood over him. His shattered rifle was left discarded on the floor. The Psion glared at him. There was blood on his armour. A thin metal shard had lanced his shoulder. "You could have killed us all."
Ah. The bomb.
"And you could have warned us, Slip." Zhonoch lifted himself up with some difficulty. He felt dazed but otherwise unharmed. His armour had shielded him from the worst of the explosion, though it had still bodily thrown him into a wall. "Where's Neuroc?"
Neirim looked around, eye flashing urgently. The distorted entrance to the cargo hold was almost entirely blocked by the monstrously huge axe. Flames flickered around it. Movement flashed. Zhonoch fumbled for his slug rifle - needlessly. Neuroc slowly climbed around the massive weapon. Her armour was covered in ash and dust. She stumbled into the corridor and fell to her knees. Neirim rushed over.
"By Acrius, you lucky-" Zhonoch began.
Neuroc coughed fitfully. "Wizard took the blast for me," she rasped hollowly.
A mere mention of the Hive brought him sudden clarity. Zhonoch clamped his teeth down on his tongue. "Hive. Hive!" He pressed a finger against his radio. "Tlac?! Shu'av?! Orche?!"
Crackling static was all he heard.
"Comms are down," Neirim hollowly reported. "Infected must have known. They're paving the way for the Hive."
"We need to move! Need to warn them!"
"Wait," Neuroc gasped. She put a hand to her chest and gulped in the smoke-free air. "Ah... There."
"Can you walk?" Neirim asked her, concerned.
"I... can. I can. Go."
Zhonoch didn't wait around. He ran as fast as he could. A fleeting moment passed before the Psions darted after him.
000
Kirrnaka-Hul waved the smoke from his vision and tugged his axe free. His Worm twinged with disappointment: their prey had escaped. He pummeled his stomach twice more. His exoskeleton chipped and threatened to crack under his blows. "Be quiet!"
He peered through the wide open exit. The corridor was too narrow for him to comfortably walk down. He'd have to cut his way through if he wanted to follow. The Cabal were out of reach. Kirrnaka-Hul gritted his teeth, but he was satisfied with the knowledge that they would die regardless. Tir Argok's puppets would end them. If not, then his children would claim their souls.
The squeals of claws on metal had become incessantly loud. His brethren and spawn furiously beat against the walls of their cells until ruptures appeared and widened. He heard more of the same beyond the walls of their holding chamber - followed by a deep, earthshaking groan he'd recognize anywhere.
"Maalcoth!" Kirrnaka-Hul bellowed. The groan tapered off. "Maalcoth, o dear brother, wake! It is time for feeding! It is time for bravery and pain! Tir Argok, o dear sister, wake! It is time for ambition and schemes!"
The very ship around them shuddered with the renewed struggles of his kin. With a mighty crack, one of the crates shattered open and spilled out a horde of Thrall. Above the newborn wretches floated Tir Argok, broad of crest and bright of eye. Shadows spilled from her limbs and red afterglows trailed from her eyes.
An Echo was to be born.
Tir Argok, Broodqueen and scheme-sister, locked her gaze onto his terrible visage. "Where is Ir Eirim," she asked, "singer of tricks and keeper of secrets?"
"Gone," Kirrnaka-Hul huffed in his guttural voice, hoarse with disuse. "Gone and gone."
"Then I shall miss her melodious tone. Her temptations gift unto my plots a keen edge deserving of its own logic."
"A logic of illusions?" He asked, aghast. Around his feet surged a sea of hunting Thrall and Acolyte. Seventeen Knights pushed through, the fangs of a greater beast. Those seventeen took up position around Kirrnaka-Hul and bared their blades, parting the ocean of lesser spawn.
Tir Argok laughed and laughed. "A logic of delivering one's foes unto destruction! Her logic is not to be denied, for it is her purpose that steadies the rivers of tribute!"
"Tribute," Kirrnaka-Hul repeated. His maw was dry and his stomach was empty - empty save for a parasite that continued to bite him out of unending hunger. "Now is not the time for deep thought or slow digestion. Now is the time for sinking blades and paintings of blood!"
"The Uluru are brided to war. These feedings will be hard won."
"We are war. Hard won or no, they are ours to reap!"
Tir Argok laughed. "And we are cunning. Through stolen cunning and predicted war we will feast."
"So feast we shall!" Kirrnaka-Hul raised his axe. His Knights, his beloved Blades of Kâliir, cheered with whetted craving and undying loyalty. They surged with him and marched off to war founded by cunning.
000
Tlac didn't know where it started, but the firefight that flickered on the edges of the periphery steadily grew to accompany half the camp. The infected made no effort to disguise their loyalties - they fired on Soulrazers and Worldbreakers both, completely uncaring of the consequences. It made it easier for him to rally together those who appeared uninfected and mount a counterattack.
No word came from the Magnus Vae. Not from Zhonoch, not from Neuroc, not from Neirim. There was only static. The infected must have activated radio jammers. They knew what was happening. And, most likely, Zhonoch was dead.
"You're in charge," Shu'av told him moments before running out of the bunker and joining the fight.
Tlac steeled his resolve against the mounting horror and panic and heartbreak. Orche and Cadon were an immeasurable help in that regard. At least he still had them.
Holograms floated and flashed all around them. Their combined voices reached hundreds of confused Uluru and their thoughts spoke to regiments of screaming Psions, correcting what messes they could and salvaging all that was left of others. Still, something was wrong. Something was terribly wrong. They could hear someone laughing on the edges of their minds.
Tlac knew that laughter.
000
The Faelnirv-ether concoction went swimmingly well. The clean, cold sweetness of the ethereal Eliksni lifeblood blended well with the taste of mulled berries offered by the elven ambrosia, culminating in a mixture that Ikharos could only label as "wine worthy of gods."
Kiphoris had initially challenged the bold statement, but a mere sip of the divine beverage convinced him otherwise.
"Is this what happens when the Traveler's children manage to get along?" Ikharos mused. "We find new ways to get intoxicated?"
"Wine is... everywhere," Kiphoris replied. "And it is not just us who share in that."
"Vex don't."
"Vex are not alive. They do not love, they do not fear, they do not dream."
"Hive love. Hive fear. Hive dream."
"Hive are... something other."
"And Cabal wine is awful."
"Very bad. But it is still wine."
"Suppose so. I guess our peoples just have good taste." Ikharos raised his glass. It was a smooth, crystalline thing that probably took an elven artisan years to form. Or maybe just a couple of hours if magic was involved. "To this. Or whatever it is."
"To this." Kiphoris raised his own cup. It looked tiny in his grip.
Intoxication was the wrong word. Ikharos didn't feel woozy or light-headed - it was going to take a lot more than handful of bottles of cider to do that - but his hyperactive metabolism couldn't overcome the strange magic in the drink. It brought out something in him. A creativity and liveliness that didn't feel natural. Like a miniature Dagshelgr.
He snorted. Dagshelgr in a bottle.
Kiphoris lazily looked over. His plumage of blue setae was painted black in the flickering light firelight. Not a Wolf. Not in that moment. He was something else.
"What is it?" Kiphoris inquired.
Ikharos shrugged. "I feel... poetic, if that makes any sense. Like I want to create something."
"... As do I," the Captain professed. "I itch for the chance to wind threads around mine-fingers and weave them together. I wish to make a banner. Its appearance is hazy to me, but I know that once I make it, it will be clear."
"You are a 'gentle weaver.'"
"I am," Kiphoris said defensively, eyes bright. They dimmed as he winced. "I was..."
"But now you're a Scar. What do Scars do?"
"Rear young."
"Have any young to rear?"
"I did. I passed the duty onto Raksil, son of Tarrhis."
Ikharos raised an eyebrow. "What, don't like children?"
Kiphoris closed his outer eyes. "I do not mind them. But I had a mission to uphold. I could not care for a hatchling - even one of Kell-blood."
"Oh, so it was your little Kell?"
"Eia. Mezha-kel. Last surviving heir of Valdas-kel. The hatchling has great spirit, or so I am told."
"And he's the Eliksni you want to crown?"
"Tarrhis will remain Baron-Regent until Mezha-kel has proven his worth and earned his command of the Kelekhselen."
"Long way to go."
"Eia." Kiphoris hummed. "What of you, Ikha Riis? Where does your house stand?"
"I have no house."
"City-House."
"Yeah, no."
"Not City-House?"
"Er... No. It's still my cause, but I'm... no. I'm not with the city."
"Why have you left your house?"
"Didn't just leave."
"... Ah."
"We don't have a House of Exiles like your people. Our outcasts aren't near so organized."
Kiphoris hummed, deep in thought. "Why would they see fit to be rid of you? You are a warrior of worth."
"Symbolism. Killing Riven came at too high a cost. Especially for an off-the-grid mission. My off-the-grid mission."
"And where did you go?"
"Well, not the Moon. I didn't think the House of Exiles would take me under their wing."
The Captain grunted. "Unlikelier things have happened."
"They have, but I wasn't going to test my luck. Besides, I already had digs in the Reef."
"Hard-earned?"
"'Course. I killed a bloody dragon for them. And a whole host of Scorn anarchists. And a bunch of Taken."
"What are they like?"
"The Taken?"
"No. The Scorn."
"Well... Eliksni, but mutated. Badly. As in bloated-flesh-rising-between-plates mutated. What equipment they have is crude. But so are their minds. Whatever scraps of life remain in those corpses has degenerated into primal madness."
"Those are Eliksni no longer."
"No one's going to argue with you there," Ikharos took another swig
"... So the Reef took you in?"
He nodded. "Petra-"
"Venj? Daughter of Amethyst?"
"That's her. Petra had me all set up - quarters at four-Vesta, access to Reef archives, and even a damned citizenship. She even let me keep the key to the Dreaming City."
Kiphoris blinked. "Truly?"
"I mean, the talisman wasn't that valuable when the gates were left wide open, but that's besides the point."
"The Dreaming City is open?" Kiphoris leaned forward, eyes bright.
"And overrun with Taken, yep."
The Captain shuttered his inner eyes in a grimace. "Nothing lasts."
000
They cut through the hull of the ship without issue. Blades rose and fell in tandem, accentuated by deep growls and metallic screams. Through bulkhead after bulkhead they cut, ignoring the sounds of skirmishes elsewhere in the Cabal ship. There was more prey outside and they only had to clear a way to reach them.
At last, a sword pierced the hide of the Cabal beast-of-burden. The soft light of night filtered through. The Blades of Kâliir struck again and again with renewed vigour. Kirrnaka-Hul added his own mighty blow, and his axe cracked through metal with a satisfying crunch. His spawn rippled out of the ship as a wave of claw and tooth. The battle outside, between as-of-yet sane Cabal and their addled counterparts, lulled into a brief spell of quiet before the explosive cracks of gunfire began anew.
Kirrnaka-Hul pushed through the hull and out into the wider world. He stood up and breathed in the air of a new world. There were so many more scents. Too many to understand. But he didn't care for that. He would leave Tir Argok to dissect what illicit learnings she gleaned from their surroundings. All he sought was the opportunity to test his axe.
An explosion - bright and fierce - ripped away a dozen newly-awoken spawn. Kirrnaka-Hul traced the shot back to one of the floating Cabal machines. Its barrel glowed with heat. He did not wait for Maalcoth to follow him through. Kirrnaka-Hul surged forwards. The machine sent forth a barrage of bullets and missiles. He shrugged them off and reached out, snagging his claws on a thruster.
The hovertank tried to dip away, but his grip was strong. Kirrnaka-Hul huffed at the flames that licked his hand and tossed up the machine with all his might. The machine, helpless to do anything but continue firing at him, flipped over onto its top. Its heavy turret was instantly crushed under its own weight, and Kirrnaka-Hul imagined he could hear the panicked cries of the crew inside.
He lifted his axe and planted it deep into the belly of the Cabal beast. A gout of stinking flames flared up around the blade. Kirrnaka-Hul pressed a foot down on the tank and ripped it out. Ash, molten metal, and burning oil splattered across his torso. His Worm drank it in. It devoured the violence he offered and happily coiled about. Kirrnaka-Hul growled. He hated it. Hated it. Wanted nothing more than to cut out his own stomach out just to deny it a meal. The only thing stopping him was that it would have meant his own death.
The parasite's spines prodded the lining of his stomach. It wanted more. He snarled and begrudgingly moved on to further acts of mayhem, gritting his fangs all the while.
I will one day be masterless, Kirrnaka-Hul promised himself. And nothing will command me. No sire, no spawner, no Ascendent, no Worm. I will be a blade free of scabbard. None will sully my infinitesimal edge.
He bellowed and swiped with all his mustered rage, tearing apart war machines, Cabal, and mind-broken cattle in his personal quest to numb the bite on his soul. An army arrayed itself before him, bristling with guns. He summoned his fury and shattered it. Oil sizzled on his chitin, rockets tore chunks out of his shell, but not a drop of blood was spilled. He was battle-rage incarnate.
A heavy planetcracker slammed against him, enveloping him in destructive energies. Spawn and Cabal died by the dozens, but not he. He stumbled, and yet he kept his footing. The flames parted before his axe, terrified as only unthinking superheated molecules could be. Kirrnaka-Hul marched out of the newly-dug crater and bellowed into the night. It was a wordless cry of dark joy and expectant ambitions. His sons and daughters, the Blades of Kâliir, took up the call as they committed to their butchery. They wetted the ground with blood and oil, salted it with fire and logic. It was readied.
Tir Argok raised herself up for all their spawn to see and congratulated them with a scream full of death. Those hapless foes in range fell to the ground, bleeding from shattered ears. Kirrnaka-Hul's dear children ended them with flashing swords. They offered up the deaths as two-part tithes. One half they gave to him, as was right and proper. The other half flowed to Tir Argok, who did not feed herself or her Worm with it, but chewed the deaths into a new song. It was glorious, the song, for it bonded cunning with expansive creativity - the latter a gift from dear, loyal Cheirrlok.
Tir Argok, shrill and purposeful, herded into place minds and materials. She would grow a garden. An orchard. And they would taste of the fruits it bore - greed, secrets, and violence.
Spirits broken and formations shattered, the Cabal scattered and fled to their flight-ready ships. Kirrnaka-Hul roared. "I offer you battle and you cower and flee?! You thrust aside my most treasured gift?! Slay them, my children! Slay these inconsiderate beasts! Slay them all!"
His spawn, and the spawn of his siblings, all cheered.
Some Cabal remained to cover the escape of their comrades. In them was a bravery Kirrnaka-Hul could not ignore. They readied themselves to fight, and die if need be. Their logic was flawed, but their dedication was to be commended. So he stepped forth to praise them in the only way he knew how - through war.
Artillery hit him and his spawn, but he and his Blades held strong. Tir Argok's cattle fired back, ever subservient in their dust-induced delirium. Kirrnaka-Hul was not satisfied. As he marched, he found himself thoroughly disappointed. Cabal fought as a machine, not as warriors. They considered themselves as nothing more than cogs and gears. Not as creatures capable of greatness. It was a tragedy. He would have to liberate them from the despicable illusion.
Figures stepped out of the shieldwall. Psions. Three of them. Small as they were, Kirrnaka-Hul knew them to be keen-minded sorcerers as worthy as any newly-metamorphosed wizards. And the ones before him were brave to offer him a fight. He was impressed with their audacity. It earned them clean deaths.
The Psions lifted no weapons. They brought no munitions to bear. No, they garbed themselves in power and rose into the air. Kirrnaka-Hul paused. He sensed something was amiss. He held to his axe and readied himself.
The three Psions flew against each other and... became one. A single Psion, as tall as any Uluru Colossus. They rivaled his Knight-spawn in stature and his Wizard-kin in mind. The newforged Psion raised a hand. A whip of psychokinetic energy lashed out. Kirrnaka-Hul caught it on his chitinous bracer and closed in for a kill.
He had humoured them long enough.
The mind-woven whip wrapped around his wrist crackled with sudden power. Intention so bright and so bold it shocked him to its core. The Psion's will was just there, beneath the surface, and Kirrnaka-Hul saw it for what it was. It loved its duty. It loved its place in the world. It loved those it surrounded itself with. It loved its own power. It loved each of the three parts that it consisted of. One of those parts held another love, one of admiration and endearment. A love so recently broken, giving way to a blinding rage.
It did not love war.
It saw battle only as a process by which results could be made. As little more than a puzzle that required focus and dedication, but no more than that. It spent no adoration on the deaths of its foes. It found no satisfaction in the collapse of an opposing army's will to fight. Kirrnaka-Hul felt a begrudging respect for his opponent. He would kill it gently, with a kind smile and little suffering.
"Hold, brother!" Tir Argok called. He bristled and ignored her, drawing closer to the Psion. "Hold, I say! Hold!"
He reluctantly held in place. Seeing the line of Knights draw short, the Cabal gradually beat a fighting retreat, fending off starving Thrall and brave Acolytes with some measure of skill. The whip relaxed and fell away altogether. The Psion pulled back with its army, whose cohesion was shaken but still in place.
"Why do we wait?" Kirrnaka-Hul demanded. For the umpteenth time, he cracked a fist against his abdomen to still the prickly parasite within. "Why? It is our time to hunt!"
"And hunt we shall, but not without care. Do you feel that?"
He did. The air held a biting edge to it, but it was not of their making. Nor of any brood he knew of. The edge was sharp enough to cut his streams of tribute, held back only by cautious fear. It scratched noisily against his own bladed soul. "This world has been claimed?"
"It may be," Tir Argok sang.
"We shall take that claim for ourselves."
"Temper yourself."
"My axe hungers for blood. I shall sate it upon the ichor of cretinous Cabal."
"No. We do not fight with war alone. A cunning blade is as effective as any warhammer. Unto us our enemies shall be delivered. Our blades will be whetted with cunning and war in equal measure. We needs must starve ourselves in preparation for a banquet. Now, brother, purge what remains of the war-pretender's stink. I will sing us a haven where lies and swords may grow unabated."
000
When the fire died out, Ikharos snapped his fingers and revitalized it with a spark of Solar. Only he, Kiphoris, and Arke were up. Everyone else had retired for the night. Lady Violmedr, of the Mídhran branch of House Rílvenar, had been so kind as to grant them access to the guest rooms for the duration of their stay. Ikharos hadn't looked at the chambers that had been assigned to him; he was enjoying himself too much.
There was a simple pleasure in watching the fire burn while nursing what Faelnirv remained. Kiphoris's quiet, thoughtful presence did not hamper the experience - rather, it enhanced it. Ikharos was glad for the company. Even Arke's little whispers could not dampen his high spirits.
They talked at irregular intervals. Each and every topic they touched upon was colourful and varied, and Kiphoris had much to say on all of them. They talked of how the Skiff was, by far, the optimal war machine in the technology-dry environment of Kepler. They discussed the advantages in operating with small, mobile units as opposed to the sprawling armies fielded by the Cabal. Most of all, they reflected on what they missed most about from the Reef. It was something they continued to fall back upon. Something they both found a comforting familiarity with.
"Faelnirv is good," Ikharos muttered. He swirled his goblet. There wasn't much elven liquor left. "But I think the Awoken wine has it beat."
"I agree, but that isn't to say that this does not have its own exquisite qualities. Mine-blood is afire."
"Mine too." Ikharos frowned. "My fingers tingle, but not... not as if I were drunk. This stuff isn't strong enough for that."
"I fear I am close. How have you...?"
"Boosted metabolism. Nothing a few whiskeys can't handle. Which is why I don't drink whiskey."
"Whiskey does not agree with me."
"I agree."
Kiphoris narrowed his inner eyes. "What does that mean?"
"Well, you're a big guy. If you have one too many drinks, you're going to be a hazard."
"I do not lose my footing easily."
"Neither do I, but drunkenness doesn't care about that."
"... Perhaps you are correct." Kiphoris sipped his drink. His plumage was flawless ultramarine in the brighter Solar light, not a speck of any other shade upon them. The picture-perfect Wolf noble. His dried-blood cloak dotted with golden circles shattered the illusion.
"How does a stray Wolf make it to Captain of the Scars?" Ikharos blurted.
Kiphoris briefly looked over. "Through actions. I proved myself, as all nobles do."
"Doesn't make your situation any less unique. There's got to be more to that story."
"I had skills the Scars didn't. They appreciated my dedication and rewarded it."
"Dedication to what?"
"To repaying the debt to mine-saviours. To helping mine-people."
"So you're a bleeding heart do-gooder."
"I try."
They fell back into silence. The flames of the hearth were mesmerizing. Each crack and pop pulled Ikharos's control. His tense body relaxed, and the batterings of the journey dropped away. It was like being bathed in Light.
"I miss showers most of all," he thought aloud. "There's no showers here. Baths, sure, but only if we're lucky. Only other way to wash is to find the closest river."
"It would not take much effort to build pressure-chambers. I have no doubt that Tarrhis has already ordered the construction of portable units."
"'s not the same. It's a petty issue, sure, but it's the creature comforts that make fighting a war somewhat bearable."
"If mine-Scars claim a permanent camp, I may see to it that showers are built."
"Thanks? I... wasn't complaining, just reminiscing. That's... highly generous."
"Your point is valid. These small things would please others too. Our situation is dire. Mine-people need something to keep them fighting on."
"I could create all you wish for," Arke offered. She was sitting behind the armchairs. Her head lay down on the floor between them. "As long as you wish for it."
"No thanks," Ikharos automatically replied. He didn't give it a second thought. "I can survive without."
Her head rose up, blocking his view of Kiphoris. "Are you sure? A fulfilled desire would please us both."
Ikharos reached out and gently pushed her out of the way. Her feathers were soft to the touch. An intense heat radiated out from beneath them. "It would please me to drink in peace."
"Is that a wish?"
"A complaint."
"You could-"
"Yeah, yeah, I could wish something, I get it. Nice try, but you'll get nothing from me."
"Not today." Arke shivered her jaws. Her golden eyes gleamed. "But there will be other instances."
"Then be a patient dream-eater and get your head out of the way."
Arke laughed and laid back down, wings folded tightly against her sides. Her flanks heaved once as she expelled a small cloud of smoke from between her interlocking fangs. The room filled with the fragrant smell of cinnamon.
"This is so weird," Ikharos muttered. He finished off the last dregs of Faelnirv-ether mix and leaned his head back. "I don't think I'm going to sleep tonight."
Kiphoris clicked his mandibles together. "Neither shall I."
"Too wired."
"Eia."
"This was a bad idea."
"It was your idea."
"I know. One in a million, that."
He did, in the end, close his eyes and allow idle dreams to steal him away. They were brief, boring, and by the time someone roused him to wakefulness in the morning, he had forgotten all about them. When the blurred myriad of shapes and colours finally made sense to his groggy mind, Ikharos discovered that the person responsible was still waiting for response.
"Morning," he yawned.
Formora raised an eyebrow. She stood over him, arms crossed, and the corners of her mouth upturned ever so slightly as if to threaten him with the faintest of smiles. "Do you not realize there is a room readied for you?"
Ikharos blinked. "Room? Oh yeah. Yeah." He frowned. "Must have forgotten."
"I find that difficult to believe."
"Maybe I just decided not to move." He nodded to himself. "Yeah, probably that. Chair's too comfortable. What time is it?"
"The sun has only just risen."
"Too early. You're heartless." He peered past her. "Kiph's up?"
"I don't think he slept at all."
"We drank quite a bit. He probably doesn't have the same affinity for it as I."
"So I gather."
He tried moving his limbs, but they were leaden with exhaustion. "What..." IKharos paused, allowing his mind to catch up. "What happens now?"
Formora shrugged nonchalantly. "We follow the plan. We must convince my people to train the Eliksni."
"Good to hear, but I meant with you."
Formora took Kiphoris's empty seat. "I am once more a member of both elven society and the aristocracy. I am of House Rílvenar and the last of Láerdhon. As such, the holdings of Cirrane and the archives of Manin-Kvaedhír now fall to me."
Ikharos sat up. "You have a fief?"
"Not in the same context that a dwarven or human noble would, but yes."
"What does that make you? A Baroness? A Viscountess?"
"I am Lady Láerdhon of Cirrane. Nothing more, nothing less."
"You're a... forget it."
"What?"
"Nothing."
"Were you trying to be funny?" Formora raised an eyebrow.
"Trying, yes, but I'm too tired. You know, when I said you could talk to me about whatever, this isn't what I had in mind."
She grinned. It was honest and mischievous all at once. "I thought you didn't need sleep."
"I don't need much sleep," Ikaros corrected with as much grouchiness as he could muster. "But when I do, I appreciate being left to it"
"Apologies."
"Nope, won't work. I'm going to hold it against you all day long."
Formora appraised him with sudden intensity, but her eyes were full of mirth. "I... cherish this," she said after some time. "We speak with fearless honesty to one another. It is refreshing and endearing. I do not wish to see it end soon."
Ikharos smiled back. "So do I. It's nice to have people to talk with. Makes my stay here a little less lonely." He paused and returned Formora's gaze with just as much vigour. "How are you feeling?"
"Shocked. Happy. Suspicious. Hurt. Angry. I cannot choose any one emotion above the others."
"A monstrous amalgamation of sentiment."
"Just so."
Ikharos nodded and let the topic drop. He wasn't sure where to go next. Xiān was no help. She was content to let it play out, much to his dismay, and left him rudderless.
Grasping at straws, he looked over at Formora and remarked, "No armour?"
Her combat suit had been replaced with a fine green tunic, black leggings, and boots of a material that didn't quite look like leather. A short tan cloak hung from her shoulder, fastened with a brooch depicting a sparrow. Her dark hair was, as usual, swept back to bare her pointed ears and reached just far enough to drape over her shoulders. A silver circlet rested above her brow. Her green eyes stolidly met his own.
"As well-crafted as my armour is," she began, "I cannot bear to consistently wear it every day. Especially here. There are many things expected of me. We elves are not warriors by nature, supposedly. Weapons may be a source of pride, but the wearing of armour when it is not needed is both an insult to our hosts and to our beliefs." She snuck a pointed look at him. "And this is not restricted to just us."
"Me?" Ikharos pursed his lips. "I like wearing armour. It helps me feel safe."
"Are we not safe here regardless?"
"There's no place the Dark can't reach."
"The Dark isn't here. Not in Ellesméra. You donned a different attire at Tarnag. Can you not do the same here?"
Ikharos hesitated. "That's different?"
"Indeed. Ellesméra is better hidden than Tarnag. And the forest provides a kind of sanctuary that the valleys of the Beors never could. I implore you to consider what I've said."
Ikharos almost argued. Rational thought won out in the end. "Fair enough."
"Thank you."
"Any other warnings?"
"Be careful."
"Of anything specifically, or in general?"
"Both," Formora said with a shrug.
He frowned. "... Elaborate please?"
"Unless violence or poison takes us, we elves live forever, and without a war to continuously draw our full attention - as it is for your Risen - we have created for ourselves a political pitfall as a bloodless substitute. Every smile has a hidden motive. Every posture has an agenda. Every word has a double meaning. You are a new element to this game. You will be subjected to dozens of maneuvers to test your strength."
"Attacks?" Ikharos hand drifted towards his knife, just to make sure it was still on him.
"Not of either physical or mental nature, no," Formora quickly promised. "But against your standing on the grand political stage, yes. Some may offer themselves as allies, others as foes, but all want something. My people are not endlessly generous. They preach peace, yet lust after conflict all the same."
"You don't approve, I take it."
"No." Formora grimaced. "There is a war to be fought, and yet my people continue to wage their mock battles without a care for any other peoples. You and I know that there is a world beyond the borders of the forest. We know that it rises to crush us all underfoot."
"So we have to prepare the elves?"
"Maybe. Yes. But it is not so simply done. I have some experience with these... games, but I profess that I am not that much more diplomatically inclined than you are."
Ikharos grunted. "We're creatures of pride, you and I. Politics is a distasteful necessity - but there's only so many hurdles to jump. The battlelines have already been drawn. All the elves need to do is pitch in."
"Agreed."
It turned out that Formora had woken him up earlier than he thought, as the wait for their hosts stretched on and on. Ikharos didn't begrudge her, though. She needed someone to confide in, and he had offered himself up as that someone. But that didn't mean he didn't yearn after lost sleep. The urge to close his eyes and doze away was strong.
It was Lifaen who awoke next. The elven sentinel climbed down the stairs and offered them an awkward greeting. He couldn't seem to believe that Formora was there, no matter how many times she politely engaged him in menial conversation. It was almost worrying that he was more forthcoming with Ikharos himself. Narí followed not long after, though he had none of the same limitations as his noble-born friend. He wore an easy smile brimming with relief, which only grew when he greeted everyone in turn. Ikharos respectfully looked away as Narí and Lifaen tenderly embraced one another.
Celdin followed mere minutes later, Kiphoris right behind him. The other Eliksni and their small Servitor filed in after the Captain. The elves began to move around the room, gathering cutlery and dishes which they then set the central table with. Lifaen briefly disappeared out the front door and returned with fresh bread, a small pot of butter, and an assortment of fruits.
Kida spontaneously appeared at some point and dutifully waited at Ikharos's shoulder, rifle clasped in metal fingers. Ikharos figured the Frame had opted to play at being a bodyguard for the day. He didn't oppose it. He hoped the lifeless soldier would unnerve the elves of the outside city and halt them before they so much as attempted to prod at his 'power base'. Was that what Formora called it? It was ridiculous all the same.
Violmedr arrived last of all. She offered warm smiles for all and bade them to sit and enjoy the meal. It was basic and yet all the more appetizing because of it. The simple tastes and textures were heightened by whatever magic the elves used to grow the food. Ikharos settled for little - only a few buttered slices of still-warm bread and a handful of wildberries.
"Where's Arke?" He asked a few minutes in.
Kiphoris pointed with a free hand towards the doors. "Outside."
"Ah."
"If it is not presumptuous of me," Lady Violmedr began, "may I inquire as to what Arke is? She is beautiful - a worthy reflection of the dragons themselves. And yet, she is not of Saphira's kin. Is she a dragon from another land?"
All eyes instinctively went to Ikharos. He tried not to let his irritation show. "Arke is an Ahamkara. An alternative term for them is Wish-Dragon. They're from... well, I don't know. Somewhere else."
"Wish-Dragon?" Violmedr asked, confused.
"They feed not from ingestion of material to be chemically converted into energy, as we do, but from the gradient between reality-as-is and reality-as-could-be. In essence, they fulfill wishes to eat. But the temptuous and self-serving nature of the Anthem Anatheme - the method by which the Ahamkara warp reality - can lead them to… become rather gluttonous. Often to the detriment of those who make the wishes."
"How so?"
"Some desires end innocently, but more often than not a poorly worded wish can backfire on whomever constructs it. Ahamkara do love to crush dreams."
"Then..." Violmedr's warm expression began to fall apart. "Arke is..."
"She's barred from granting wishes of sapient beings unless either Kiphoris or I give her explicit permission," Ikharos explained. He hoped it would assuage the fears prompted by Arke's presence, but he wasn't confident. It hadn't worked for him either. "As it is, she can only feed from wild animals. It's the only working compromise we have right now."
"Compromise? So you have struck a pact with her?"
Ikharos nodded. "To some degree. She won't attack anyone, I promise. She's sworn as much in the ancient language."
Violmedr looked momentarily worried. "I had not presumed she would." She shook her head. "What strange days these are. Much has transpired beyond Du Weldenvarden without our knowledge. I fear we have allowed ourselves to grow blind." She glanced around the table. "Ah, but do not let my worries bother you. As your hosts, we shall do our utmost to ensure a comfortable stay while in our grand city. House Rílvenar is at your service. And we are in your debt." Her gaze found Formora. "You have both brought home one of ours and redeemed us of the shame that has plagued us this past century."
Formora bowed her head. "I am at fault, my lady. I did not-"
Violmedr raised a hand, silencing her with a mere motion. "We have heard your confession, Formora Láerdhon. I do not blame you. The fault lies with the usurper-king Galbatorix. We will repay all the pain he has caused us in kind."
A quiet fell over the table. It was shortly interrupted by a knock at the door. Celdin rose up and answered it. He came back and bowed to Violmedr first, then Kiphoris and Formora. "Islanzadí Dröttning awaits the presence of Kiphoris-Vodhr, Ikharos Shadeslayer, and Formora Láerdhon."
Violmedr and Lifaen shared a knowing look. Ikharos glanced at Formora, hoping she had an explanation handy, but she was just as clueless as he. Ikharos stood, dipped his head, and said, "Thank you for the meal. May I excuse myself? I need to change into more fitting attire."
Violmedr nodded. "You may. Have you packed clothes with you?"
"Some."
"I will see to it that you are supplied with clothes of elven make."
"Uh, thank you. I don't want to impose."
"You are a guest, Shadeslayer. We will weave our finest lámarae into a garb befitting of you."
Ikharos offered his thanks for the third time and hastily retreated up the smooth bark-and-wood stairs. His room was on the third floor, just behind a heavy, blank wooden door. He slipped in and stopped to gawk. It wasn't so much a room as it was an apartment. The main room was elegant, with a werelight trapped in a crystal cage in the centre of the ceiling above. The furniture was rich, stylish, and the cushioned seats all looked immensely comfortable. If it had any function beyond being a place to relax, he couldn't pick up on it.
There was a large study with bookshelves packed with scrolls, occupied mostly by a heavy carved desk and a towering wooden chair, off to one side. Opposite it was what he imagined to be a wash room with a large mirror built into the smooth bark-covered wall and a simple tub. The final room, and largest, was a neatly-furnished bedroom. The bed itself was wide and laden with sheets made of yet another unfamiliar material, but just from a glance he could tell it was luxuriously soft.
"We're living the good life," Xiān giddily remarked.
He said nothing, only held out his arms. She appeared for an instant, just long enough to swap out his armour for his Reef livery. He swept his black cloak over one shoulder and walked into the washroom to look at himself in the mirror. He made use of the basin of water left out and hurriedly washed his face and hair, then dried himself off with a towel. The man he saw on the clear surface was still far from presentable.
Ikharos grimaced at the sight of the softly glowing marks running across the side of his skull. He pressed his fingers against the eldritch scars, but there was no change; he couldn't feel anything beyond a slight pressure. "It's not going away," he bitterly observed.
"Hurry up."
He stayed to glare at himself for a few seconds longer, then left to meet with the others.
Kiphoris was waiting by the foot of the stairs, Kida beside him.
"What's the occasion?" Ikharos quickly asked in Low Eliksni, keeping his voice down.
"I do not know," Kiphoris muttered back. The Captain walked with him to the door. "But Islanzadí has gathered all those who are not elves - in essence, our travel companions."
"We just play along?"
Kiphoris nodded. "Until we find reason not to."
Everyone that had trekked alongside them from Tarnag to Ellesnméra, barring their elven guides, were present. Arke shivered her jaws and greeted Saphira with a low growl. The blue dragon returned it, playfully flicking the end of her tail.
"Is Obleker staying?" Ikharos asked Kiphoris.
"Eia."
He turned to Kida. "Remain here," he said in English, "and guard Obleker. Clear?"
Kida saluted. "Affirmative."
"Good boy." Ikharos faced Islanzadí. She, in turn, looked between him, Kiphoris, and finally to Formora.
"Follow me," she simply said, and began walking away. Her retinue - Arya, Lord Dathedr, and a handful of other elven aristocrats and courtiers - moved after her. Saphira, Eragon, and Orik went too, and from their expressions they were just as lost as Ikharos was.
After a moment's consideration, he shrugged and followed. Kiphoris and Formora walked on either side of him. Melkris and Javek brought up the rear, armed to the teeth. Arke stalked alongside them. Her every exhalation released a faint pulse of purposeless dragon-magic. Ikharos tried his very best to ignore it.
Islanzadí led them all to the edge of Ellesméra, where she stopped and turned around to coolly regard them. "Before we go any farther, all of you must swear in the ancient language that you will never speak to outsiders of what you are about to see, not without permission from me, my daughter, or whoever may succeed us to the throne."
"Why should I gag myself?" Orik demanded.
Kiphoris shuttered his inner pair of eyes. "Eia. I am beholden to Tarrhis-Mrelliks. I cannot keep secrets from mine-people."
"It is not a matter of trust, but of safety. We must protect this knowledge at all costs - it's our greatest advantage over Galbatorix - and if you are bound by the ancient language, you will never willingly reveal our secret. You came to supervise Eragon's training, Orik-vodhr. You came to see Eragon and Saphira delivered to us unharmed, Kiphoris-Veskirisk. Unless both of you give me your word, you may as well return to Farthen Dûr."
Orik begrudgingly acquiesced, but Kiphoris - noble, proud, cunning Kiphoris - growled deeply. His mandibles clacked against his jaw and his inner eyes were fully closed. "I am Scar-bound. I will keep no truths from Tarrhis-Mrelliks. If your secret means danger for mine-people, I will act to save them." He glared at all the watching elves. His bubbling anger was obvious even to those uninitiated in Eliksni body language. "We will not cripple ourselves with chains of magic."
Ikharos coolly looked between the two. His impression of Islanzadí wasn't high, but he felt uneasy betraying his fellow hominids. That said, he couldn't help the keen feeling of kinship he had for the Eliksni. They were far from home and thrust into a wild world full of new magics and terrible monsters. He no more trusted their elven hosts than the Scars did.
He almost joined Kiphoris in opposing Islanzadí's verdict, but cool fingers lightly brushed over his arm.
"This is overtly bold of her," Formora whispered to his mind. "Islanzadí Dröttning means what she says. It may be worth learning whatever secret they keep. Can you not slink out of the oath regardless?"
"Unless I make my oath vaguely worded, no. It would otherwise be too direct a spell for me to destroy altogether. And I think our hosts would notice if I make a shifty promise. They strike me as being too sharp for their own good."
"Then we must make a gamble."
"Must we?"
"Does curiosity not strike at you?"
"It does, but I'm too wary to entertain it."
"Whatever Islanzadí offers may be advantageous."
"It may also be of the dangerous sort."
"Danger is a common constant in both our lives. Is this risk truly abnormal?"
"There's foolishness in making such a daring claim." Ikharos reluctantly relented, saying, "So be it. I'll make the oath."
Under Xiān's direction, Ikharos stepped closer to Kiphoris. It was a small gesture, and one he'd hardly pay any mind to under any other circumstances, but he tried to adopt the thinking of an elf. And it worked. It garnered attention - a flickering of disapproval flitted across Islanzadí's face and Kiphoris threw him a quick look of muted thanks.
However, he had another point to make. One more bluntly put in comparison.
"I am willing," he began, "to swear to secrecy in the ancient language because I have chosen to trust." He paused. "But trust goes both ways. If this is some sort of a trick, you'll have more than just a couple of disgruntled guests."
Islanzadí furrowed her brow. "This is no trick, Shadeslayer. The only offense taken will be self-inflicted, of that you have my word."
He wanted - no, needed - to cement himself as an independent party, not a decorative follower whose only purpose was to stand around. "And I take none." Ikharos dipped his head out of respect - for her station only. She had failed many of his expectations thus far, and he didn't anticipate her meeting any others. "An angry Risen is never a quiet one. If I am upset, there will be no subtlety to my aggrieved state. Rest assured, I am only speaking out on the behalf of my allies." Because you won't.
He looked over to Kiphoris. The Wolf quickly caught on. He calmed and allowed for an almost imperceptible nod. "So be it," he uttered gravely. "I will make mine-oath, but I expect fair treatment."
The queen's critical frown deepened. "You assume much of us, Kiphoris of House Scar."
"And you presume too little of mine-kin," Kiphoris retorted boldly. "I am not here to become a trifling entertainment."
Islanzadí fixed him with a stern, scrutinizing look. Seeming left unsatisfied, she looked around at the others and said, "For those who do not know the words, say this: Hvaët eka eddyr uma eom sjon eka weohnata néiat share medh annaí némedh du eïnradhin abr Islanzadí Dröttning orono Arya Dröttningu."
Those gathered - all who were not of elvenkind - echoed the oath. Formora was the very last to do so, prompted by expectant looks from Islanzadí and her gathered courtiers.
"Thank you," Islanzadí said. "Now we may proceed."
They walked on, soon reaching a knoll where the vast blanket of trees was replaced by a bed of red clover that ran several yards to the edge of a stone cliff. The rockface extended for miles in either direction, and a sea of rich pines and cedars stretched out to the horizons far below.
Ikharos looked around. There's nothing-
The dull thud split the air. Followed by a second. And a third. And a fourth, a fifth, a sixth, a seventh, and on and on. His fingers wrappped around his Lumina's grip. The sound was unmistakable. He'd heard it too many times to count over the course of the journey to Ellesméra.
They were wingbeats.
He glanced at Formora. "Is it...?"
She scanned the skies. "It can't be. He killed them all. He..."
"It's big," Ikharos surmised. "There's only a few creatures I know of large enough to be that loud. Is it truly out of question that he didn't kill every single one?"
"He did. I know he did. He swore as much to taunt me. He had no reason to lie. Not while I was under his command."
"Reality seldom meets our expectations."
Beyond their mental conversation, no one uttered a word. Silence reigned, broken only by the claps of heavy wings. From below the edge of the cliff rose a huge gold dragon with a Rider on its back. Ikharos watched it rise - as well as how Formora gawked. Her eyes initially lit up with sheer elation, but that quickly changed - and drastically too. Something caught her attention and her joy morphed into fear-stricken horror. Ikharos followed her gaze. The dragon hung in the air before the cliff. Its lustrous golden scales glittered in the morning light. It was three, perhaps four times as large as Saphira, and thicker of limb and tail. Its horns were incredibly large, providing for it a fearsome bony crown. The Rider, silver-haired and garbed in white, sat upon the crook of its back.
It was a breathtaking sight, but it did little for him. The primal magnificence of draconic kind was largely unappealing. He didn't much care for it. Not as the elves so enthusiastically did, what with their smiles and bowed heads. Eragon stepped forward and fell to his knees, overcome with awe. Him Ikharos could understand. The boy had little choice but to see dragons in a kinder light, bonded as he was.
As the dragon turned to land, Ikharos saw what had struck Formora so, but he could not divine a connection between the scarred stump in place of one of the golden's dragon's forelimbs to her dire expression. A whirlwind of dry twigs and leaves heralded the dragon's return to solid ground. It swept its massive head around, first taking in the sight of Eragon, then Saphira, a lingering stare at Arke, and finally... Formora.
They know each other.
Ikharos inched closer to her. The dragon noticed. He tightened his hold on his cannon in a way that the reptile could easily see. It was as close to saying "Do anything, and I'll make you regret it" as he could get without actually speaking.
The Rider carefully descended from his steed along the dragon's intact front right leg, then approached Eragon, his hands clasped before him. He was an elf with silver hair. He had an air of great sadness and compassion about him. It was familiar. Too familiar.
The Speaker sighed. It was a sound borne of pent up frustration and helplessness. "It will leave us."
His free hand balled into a fist.
"Osthato Chetowä," Eragon said. "The Mourning Sage... As you asked, I have come." He touched his lips. "Atra esterní ono thelduin."
The elven Rider smiled. He took Eragon by the shoulders and lifted him upright. "Oromis is my proper name, Eragon."
Formora took a step back.
"What's wrong?" Ikharos asked her.
"They're... They're alive." Her eyes never left the dragon.
"Who are they?"
She didn't answer him, too caught up to summon a response.
"You knew."
Ikharos swiveled around. Islanzadí glared at the elven Rider, her voice growing in volume. Her face was flushed with fury. "You knew of Eragon's existence and yet you did not tell me? Why have you betrayed me, Shur'tugal?"
Oromis transferred his gaze onto the queen. "I kept my peace because it was uncertain if Eragon or Arya would live long enough to come here; I had no wish to give you a fragile hope that might have been torn away at any moment."
The queen raged. "You had no right to withhold such information from me! I could have sent warriors to protect Arya, Eragon, and Saphira in Farthen Dûr and to escort them safely here."
"I hid nothing from you, Islanzadí, but what you had already chosen not to see," Oromis rebuked. "If you had scryed the land, as is your duty, you would have discerned the source of the chaos that has swept Alagaësia and learned the truth of Arya and Eragon." His eyes drifted over to Ikharos. He, in turn, offered the Rider nothing of his emotions or his thoughts, setting his features into a cold, unreadable mask. "But there was never any danger. From the moment I learned of the troubles set to reach Tronjheim, salvation was already flying to their rescue." He switched his focus to Formora. His smile lessened fractionally - and the change was potent.
Islanzadí's shoulders slumped. "I am diminished," she whispered.
Ikharos felt not an inkling of pity for her. It took all his willpower to keep from speaking out and ridiculing her. If it weren't for the proximity of the unfamiliar dragon, he might have even failed at that. The great golden dragon craned its Pike-sized head around and looked at Formora with one massive golden eye. "... You."
Formora bowed her head. "I... my regret is without end. Glaedr-Elda, I was-"
"We have been informed of what drove you," Oromis declared. His tone made clear that he was far from pleased... but not quite angry. "We knew you were troubled, but to fly to his arms?"
Formora froze. Her fear turned into something else. "... To his arms?" She whispered. "You believe that we voluntarily offered ourselves up? That I offered myself up?"
"Is it not the truth?"
"We were trapped!"
"Trapped, yes, but was it not a trap you willingly flew into?" Oromis asked.
"There was nothing willing about it! He broke into my mind and tied every part of me to his command!" She trembled - with anxiousness or anger, Ikharos could not discern. "I was a slave. He took everything from me. Do not presume to know me - you, who failed to see the threat he posed, who advised the order to abandon the people we swore to protect."
Anger, then.
Glaedr growled. The sound reverberated through the ground beneath their feet. "You have always struggled beneath the yoke of authority. You made the first step. To rebel is in your nature."
"Was my nature," Formora tiredly corrected. She exhaled, slowly. Her shoulders dropped. "I was forced to change it to escape him. Alone."
At that, Glaedr ceased and pulled back as if burnt. Oromis solemnly bowed his head. He walked forward. Ikharos tensed, but Formora touched his elbow and shook her head. The elder Rider stopped three paces before her and said, in a grim and apologetic voice, "Your loss is one I can scarcely imagine. Had we known-"
"No," Formora bit out. "Don't. If we discuss that, what civility we cling to will devolve into accusations and pain."
"Very true." Oromis scrutinized her intensely. "... You have found your bearings."
Formora frowned; she was evidently caught off guard.
"I always recalled you to be ill-fit for the life decided for you," Oromis continued. "I attributed your fall to one of desperate longing for a new vocation."
"Only partially true. It was overconfidence and carelessness," Formora tiredly replied. "I thought myself above the dark ministrations of an outcast. A mistake I paid for dearly."
"A mistake to be rectified?"
"Yes. As you may have noticed, I have already begun." She motioned to the watching Eliksni. "See the changes I bring, the companions I keep. All in an effort to settle the scales."
Oromis smiled at Kiphoris, Javek, and Melkris in turn, looking over each of them with bared curiosity and open welcome. "A fair effort at that."
"Alas, I fear nothing will outweigh the blood spilled."
The older Rider's smile fell. "Blood is a heavy weight to bear."
"And it's pulling me to the ocean floor."
"Good," Glaedr growled, accentuating the retort with an angry snap of his jaws. Formora half-heartedly glared at him. Guilt robbed it of its sting.
Satisfied, Oromis turned back to Ikharos. The Warlock's heart raced - there was something in the Rider's stare that didn't sit right with him. An unwarranted familiarity. Ikharos held the Void close. All it would take was one wrong move, and he could cut down both Rider and dragon where they-
"... You are here," Oromis breathed. A note of excitement accompanied the elf's words. Murmuring and confusion swept through those watching, but Ikharos ignored them in favour of focusing on the man before him. "Eld domia dauthné."
Ikharos shivered. He almost shot the Rider then and there. The phrase - Dominator of the avoidance of mortality - struck a chord in him. It reached into his very core and played his soul like an instrument.
It terrified him.
"You know?" He croaked. "How?"
Oromis smiled gently. He radiated geniality and patience. Despite himself, Ikharos could only respond with mistrust and disdain. There was no rational thought behind it - he felt an instinctual need to fight back. He needed to act on some sort of aggressive action, if only as an outlet for the sudden onset of fear and paranoia.
"How?" Ikharos repeated, more forcibly. He narrowed his eyes, just to convey that no amount of smiles would disarm him of his suspicion.
Oromis stalled. The elf drew himself up - not confrontationally so, but rather to convey his own ability to stand tall in the face of hostility. He held himself as independent and capable, and yet there was still some measure of deference towards the Warlock.
Ikharos recalled Formora's warnings about postures and actions. Even the most trivial of movements held meaning. He finally understood how important it was - to see it in action was far more convincing than any vocalized explanation. It was yet another language he had to learn.
"If you find it agreeable, I would like to speak with you," Oromis carefully requested. "I believe there is much that we might discuss."
"I would like that very much." Ikharos watched him just as closely. He checked for the slightest hint of malevolent intent and found nothing. It only made him all the more uneasy.
Oromis's gaze flitted over to the Eliksni so quickly that Ikharos barely caught it. It took him another couple of seconds before he deciphered the meaning behind it. The Rider was, in his own way, asking permission to move on. It was polite. More than Ikharos deserved. He, in turn, gave the slightest of nods: go ahead.
He stepped back, just one pace, so he stood in line with Formora and Melkris. Their presence boasted support and safety, even if they didn't know it. They were a safeguard to keep his back covered as he traversed the unknown.
000
::Sybil-3, Sybil-3, this is Druid-4, come in. Over.::
She stopped walking and sidled past a black marble column. On instinct, one of her hands rose up as if to hold the imaginary field radio closer to her ear. When she noticed, Sibyl scowled and dropped it against her side. Her fingers dug into the metal of her palm.
::Druid-4, this is Sybil-3. Go ahead. Over.::
::Enlightened-Delta-III reporting unusual bio-energy readings. Over.::
She smothered a pang of impatience. He was just doing his job. ::Make this quick. Waystation status? Over.::
His reply came through as a buzzing grumble. ::Horizon clear. Over.::
::Understood. Send data-feed ASAP. Over.::
::Roger wilco. Over and out.::
She sighed with phantom lungs and stepped back out into the corridor to resume her march. A grand door waited at the end, black as night with white veins crackling across like lightning. Two Strife-born stood guard with their molecular-sharp cannibal-forged halberds crossed in front of it. She didn't say anything and neither did they. There was nothing to be said.
The door opened an hour later. The halberds uncrossed. Dervales drifted through. Ribbons of red and gold streamed from his sharp shoulders. His horns gleamed magnificently in the lantern light.
Sibyl-3 bowed her head. "Seneschal Harmonic."
"You are here to speak with Her Ever-Grace?" He elegantly sang. She could almost taste the titanium residue drifting from his exoskeleton.
She nodded. A sense of foreboding - irrational, ridiculous, ultimately wise - loomed in where she imagined her heart had once been. A place that beat no more. "I am."
Dervales swept out an arm behind him. His body dazzled. Muscles and bones swam beneath the natural-grown metal that clothed him like a skin-tight glove. "O enraptured ours... she awaits."
She took advantage of the open invitation and walked on. Dervales swept ahead. His every movement was full of alien beauty. Sibyl forced herself to look away. The corridor stretched on and on ahead of them. Pedestals lined the walls, upon which were seated grand crystals of incredible size and magnificent quality. They chimed and trilled as she passed, each perfect note more alluring than the last. An enchanting choir consisting solely of gems.
Another set of doors lay at the end of the hall. Unlike the last, however, it boasted no guards of any sort. The din of whispered chanting drifted out through the crack between the doors. She couldn't make out what was being said, nor did she want to. The business of the Enlightened was their own. She was happier sticking with what she knew.
The doors opened upon their approach, though they were pulled by no hand or mechanism. Beyond waited a vaguely oval room with a smooth pit in the centre. A glaive stood balanced on the floor before the pit. A half-dozen Enlightened knelt before it, swaying and praying to their matron. Sibyl steeled her nerves. She had only been twice before and it never failed to make her imaginary heart race. She could almost hear it beat against the stifling confines of her chest.
Thum-thump.
Thum-thump.
Thum-thump.
A wordless voice of unparalleled beauty cut through the intonations. The Enlightened fell silent. As one, they rose to their feet. All but two turned and filed past Sibyl and Dervales. The remaining pair - one horned, the other crowned with short crimson braids - remained where they were. Their red eyes found her. One of them smiled.
Sibyl seethed. She hadn't come for them. She had no patience for-
"Peace."
She stilled.
A form rose from the circular pit. It was little more than a silhouette of shadow, but the power behind it was yet impossible to dismiss.
"Peace," it, She, said again. Gently. Tenderly. Motherly.
"Forgive my intrusion, your Ever-Grace." Sibyl went down on one knee and locked her gaze on the obsidian floor.
"Rise, o machine-born daughter mine." The immaterialized figure stood above them all. Two misted horns swept back from a blank face. "You are troubled, yes? You come in search of guidance?"
"I do," Sibyl admitted. She cast the two Enlightened a disdainful look - she didn't want them to hear.
"They are my children too," the silhouette reminded her. "Squabble if you so wish, but do not forget to cherish them. They have gone to great lengths to join us."
"As you say." Sibyl looked away.
"What ails you? Is it... impatience? Frustration? Lack of understanding? Concern?"
Sibyl blinked. As useless as the human gesture was, she felt, deep down, that it was the right response. "All of those."
"And this is... because of your soldiers?"
Sibyl didn't answer. Not immediately. She took a while to simmer in the broth of emotions that had her by her throat. Yet, after a time, the truth was wrung out of her - not with force, but with loving compassion. "Yes. They're my soldiers. Mine."
"You fear for their future?"
"The bugs have their datachips."
"And you believe this places their souls in danger."
There was no question. Sibyl raised her optics - not to glare, just to look. The silhouette defied belief. It was a dark mirror in which a thousand splendid songs melded together in perfect harmony.
Harmony.
"Why?" Sibyl asked.
The silhouette cupped her edged cheeks in hands devoid of warmth. "We must listen to their song."
"The bugs? Or the renegade?"
"All of them. All songs deserve to be heard. All songs deserve to be remembered."
Sibyl offlined her optics. "Thus all songs will survive within the notes of our orchestra. So sayeth Nezarec, Composer of the Final Verse."
Though she could not see it, she sensed the shadow's pleased grin. "The fifth Understanding. Indeed, o daughter mine. It is so. Then is this purpose your soldiers are carrying out not the noblest of all? Is it not the bravest sacrifice they could make? They are so selfless. Your children are devoted. I will cherish them for you."
They would be cherished. Cared for. Loved. Relief fell upon Sibyl. She hummed and carefully broke away. "I see now."
"You do."
"It was never the datachip that would save us. It was always... Him," she whispered.
"None will be forgotten," Ezyrax vowed in her Harmonic tongue. "Their songs will help build the greatest performance of all."
Sibyl offered a wavering smile. It was all she had to give.
::Sybil-3, Sybil-3, this is Druid-4, come in. Mayday. Mayday. Mayday.::
She turned around. ::Druid-4, Sybil-3 here. What's your status? Over.::
::Bio-energy readings identified. Code: Black Hammer. Mayday. Mayday. Mayday.::
AN: Thanks to Nomad Blue for editing!