Chapter 69: Playing Nice
The acrid stench of seared blood and burning ether assailed Kiphoris's senses, tearing through the filters of his rebreather with ruthless ease. It was broken; it must have been. It had probably cracked during his fight with the Harmony creature, or maybe Krinok before that. Either way, he was going to need a Splicer to take a look at it.
Except his personal Splicer was gone.
Abandoned him.
Left for a Lightmonger.
A human overcome by a centuries'-long tantrum.
Didn't they know what they had done?
Didn't they care?
Kiphoris was afraid of the answer. Yes, he presumed with dwindling hope and faltering confidence, but... did they? Not like he did, that was clear, but at all?
No. No, as misguided and traitorous as it had been - scorning his leadership and loyalty - their hearts were set in the right direction. Their eyes, though, were shadowed over with something bitter; they saw not the world as it was but the world they wanted - and only that. Kiphoris saw both and still he knew the present was the more pressing of the two. Paradise was a dream, and though a dreamer he knew it was nothing more than a figment of ambition and hope. Paradise didn't exist. Good endings didn't happen. Good people seldom had good things happen to them.
He looked around - at the burnt-out shell of a human settlement. They really didn't. There were always those who selfishly preyed on goodness to fill their own larders. Krinok's rot was the worst of it. It had to be cut out, Kell or no Kell. Why couldn't they have seen that? Ikharos agreed, he had agreed and agreed, gave in to Tarrhis's plans and promised his support - but where was he? When the Scars needed him most?
Someone said something. Skriviks. Kiphoris heaved a choked breath and carried the body to the flames. She was still wrapped in the bearskin cloak he had won for her. Her armour was bloodied and scratched, whittled away by remorseful scavengers and cold quartermasters right to the biosuit beneath. He bore her weight all the way to the neat slab of wood and charcoal dragged out from neighbouring buildings and laid her down as gently as he could manage. Sundrass deserved all the respect he could give her.
The slab to her right bore the form of Tarrhis, life-Baron and father-abandoned. To her left was the ragged carcass of Ralkrosk, Krinok-rewarded and Palkra-slain. All were nobility, even if the latter was despicable and hated. All were to be cremated with what little honour could be bestowed on the dead.
A Vandal approached with a flaming censer hanging from blackened chains. Kiphoris took the proffered tool of tradition and whirled it about, then tossed it into the stolen Cabal oil placed beneath the slabs. Flames instantly caught, flaring up with a hissing roar. The bodies were enwrapped in a heated embrace.
It was all that he could do for them now.
Kiphoris retreated to where a scarlet pavilion had been hung over the alley between two collapsed buildings. It was there that Skriviks, Archon and Regent, had emplaced what remained of Tarrhis's command structure while the squabbles of succession were worked out over the radio. Palkra was there, seated on a stretcher with a Splicer tending to his broken leg, but as soon as he caught sight of Kiphoris the racer dismissed the physician with a low growl.
"Leave us," he ordered. "All of you! Leave us!"
The other Eliksni present - technicians and lesser officers - bowed their heads, averted their eyes and scurried away. Only the Captains remained.
Palkra's expression was full of trepidation, grief, regret and... uncertainty. "Kiphoris," he gruffly greeted. "Vel."
"Velask," Kiphoris grunted. He sat down on a nearby crate, still within sight of the other eliko. "How do you fare?"
With a grunt, Palkra leaned forward and tapped his splinted leg with a claw, then hissed. "Bah! I will live; this will not take long. I will have mine-second fetch enhanced ether."
Kiphoris looked up and narrowed his eyes. "Tarrhis decreed that enhanced ether be supplied to warriors fit to fight, no other."
Palkra frowned and stared back. "Tarrhis is dead."
"His orders stand; they were made with a sober mind. We must bolster our forces."
"I am a Captain-"
"Then order a mage to heal you!" Kiphoris snapped. "You will not waste our resources on yourself!"
Palkra glowered. "I... don't like you grieving," he said bitterly. "You test mine-patience, Dreamer."
"Toss your concerns elsewhere; I care not."
"Pfah! You will!" Palkra sat up. "You do not command me, Kiphoris. I am a Captain, same as you, and with our Baron deceased-"
Kiphoris stood up and stalked over to Palkra, rising up to his full height. His peer went still and silent. "Tarrhis's place may be empty, but you will not be the one to fill it."
"So say whom?" Palkra challenged with a hiss - though his eyes betrayed his wariness. "You?"
"Eia. I."
"You seek to replace the void Tarrhis left behind? You? A stray Wolf pup?"
"Careful, Pikeman," Kiphoris leaned close, baring his teeth. "Wrath drives me onwards, thirsty for the blood of those who wrong me. Do not invite it upon yourself. You will not survive it."
Palkra, scowling, said little more after that. Nothing except, "Go to Skriviks, Dreamer. Or Inelziks, or... or someone else. They will feed your desire for revenge, not I. I want no part of whatever mess you make now."
Kiphoris huffed but did not move. The camp was as much his territory as it was Palkra's; he was not going to give it up. Vengeance, though, did call to him - but it was sure to find him soon enough anyways.
He had called to it in his dreams.
Kiphoris tried to rest - he really did - but Sundrass's eyes pierced through his calm and haunted the forefront of his mind. They were a quad-pronged needle, tearing through every other thought, forever pointing him in one direction like a compass pointing north: to Krayd. Krayd the Coward. Krayd the King-Detritus. Krayd the half-eliko, the craven-Captain, the lapdog of murderers larger than he. He was going to die. Kiphoris was going to kill him.
No.
No.
No, he wasn't.
Kiphoris was going to hurt him, to break him, to feed him to something else, something monstrous, something hungry.
By local midnight the Captains' corner saw new activity; Nyreks arrived, forlorn and shaken - and not only with mourning or loss. "I saw something," he said, "in the wastes around this city. Something large."
"What-?" Palkra pushed himself up. "What did you see, commander?"
"I... do not know. A beast of some kind. A-"
"I will investigate," Kiphoris declared. "Who have you told?"
Nyreks looked at him, inner eyes shuttered with nervousness. "The night watch and the commanding Captain. They may have told Skriviks-Archon." Then his eyes widened. "I told... do you think it is-"
"I imagine so," Kiphoris said lowly, nodding. His claws tapped the hilt of Ka'Den. Will I? Won't I? Will I? Or won't I? "Which way?"
"East, into the swamps."
"I will go. Go tell the night watch to hold their fire no matter what they see, Nyreks; I will return shortly."
Palkra gawked and rumbled. "You... you cannot think to bring that beast in here!"
Kiphoris offered his fellow Captain a final scathing look before leaving. Only when he turned the corner and was out of sight did he allow his shoulders to slump.
Oh Sundrass...
The swamps were wet, murky and home to too many buzzing insects. It smelled rank, like the wastage port of an old Ketch - and even then many times worse. Kiphoris stepped forth only reluctantly, staying by the paths formed of solid earth and winding tree roots where he could, all too wary of sinkholes and hollow bogs. Swamps were disarmingly dangerous places, he knew. Navigating through the wasteland was not dissimilar to traversing across the wilds of the Reef, where balance and fair footing were all that separated life from death.
His quarry was far from subtle. Tracks, massive and deeply-embedded, dotted the wilds just beyond the sight of the city walls. Whatever left them was large and possessing of mean claws, with weight behind them too. Kiphoris continued on with his pistols drawn, certain nothing would come of it but wary nonetheless.
Birds tweeted and frogs croaked - all was well. Insects continued to bother him, to fly against his rebreather and nip at the skin of his exposed neck. He growled and tried to swat the mosquitos away, but to no result. It was too much; Kiphoris wanted them gone.
The insects dispersed.
All went quiet.
Something breathed on the back of his neck.
Kiphoris released a tired breath. "Arke." He turned around. And froze. The creature behind was too large to have feasibly snuck up on him - and yet it had. The beast was massive, towering, packed with bulk and muscle beneath a taut leathery skin coloured like brackish water on top, light sediment around the belly and with great orange whirls on both sides of its mighty sail-like raised spine. A long paddle-like tail flicked behind the massive beast while hook claws dangled from short arms under its chest. A long-snouted head pressed closer to Kiphoris, inquisitive. The skull of the creature was not unlike a heron's, if more brutish and armed with conical fangs. Two golden eyes studied him from the rear of the skull, well away from the end of the snout
Fear blossomed. For a moment Kiphoris gave into the paranoia, the idea that he'd made a terrible mistake, that this wasn't what he'd thought it would be - but just as quickly the animal's form shifted and fell away as dust, becoming smaller and smaller, smaller than even he. In the end an Awoken woman looked at him, arms crossed over a Corsair uniform. Her eyes - too gold, Lima's eyes never used to be so gold - twinkled with silent laughter. "You called, o Captain mine?"
Kiphoris sucked in air through his teeth. His hand shot out, catching Arke by the neck. Gold eyes widened with surprise. They widened further when he lifted her up into the air and walked forward, slamming her against the bark of an old and lost ash tree.
"How... dare you," Kiphoris snarled. "Remove this..." he gestured to her form, "skin at once!"
Arke's expression hardened. A ripple swept over her - and left her still as Awoken, but someone else. Something else. A Techeun with Illyn's pale hair still falling out of her hood, but the smile was all Nascia's. Kiphoris staggered back, letting go. Arke landed gracefully, hands clasping behind her and starlit face looking up at him. Gold light flickered out from beneath the covering in front of her eyes.
"I have come," she said, with a touch less warmth than before, "o Captain mine."
Kiphoris expelled a cloud of frosted ether. "Enough. Never provoke me like that again. Never."
Arke did not reply. Instead she changed once more, becoming a grown elika in the grey robes of a houseless scribe, near as tall as he was - as a Captain should have been. Her plumage was of bluish-white like frozen ether and her eyes - they were still gold. She smiled coldly, mandibles shivering.
It was going to be difficult to get her past the night watch, Kiphoris thought. Not to mention the fuss Palkra was sure to put up, and then the swift orders to deal away with her from Skriviks once the Archon realized what they had in their midst, but...
They couldn't.
She was a weapon.
Their greatest weapon.
"I have a wish to make," Kiphoris said quietly, partially as an apology for his rough handling, and partially to see his own desires become reality. Arke trilled invitingly, looming closer. Her mouth parted, fangs glistening in the evening's halflight.
"Make your wish, o Dreamer mine," she whispered.
Kiphoris's hands balled into fists, all four of them. "I wish... I wish for you to kill Krayd." He looked up at her, trying to impart his sheer rage, his trembling need to see retribution done. "I wish to be there to see it."
Arke sighed happily. "It will be done. It will be done." Her own claws flexed and moved with the eagerness of one about to set out on a hunt.
"Where is he?"
"Your Archon knows, lost Wolf. He knows now. Shall we go to him, to... expedite this want of yours?"
Kiphoris grunted, shaking. Was he making a mistake? Inviting her to act upon a wish made with hate? Yes, a part of him said, full of fear and paranoia. No, another argued, overcome with a need for vengeance and then... then to pave the way for the real challenge: swiping away all that stood to threaten his people's very survival.
They had a place in the universe.
They had a place on Kepler.
Kiphoris was going to make sure of it.
000
He almost let go. He almost let himself be dragged away by the weight of the weapons he had strapped to his back. He almost... gave up. It would have been easy - so easy. And safe too. The little... what was it again? Umbral centre, Elkhon had called it. The umbral centre stood to destroy all he wanted to see survive into the next dawn. It threatened to unravel all the hasty plans he'd enacted since he'd first woken up in a city slated to burn.
Ikharos broke the ocean's surface with a gasp, kicking hard. The sleek, dark holsters on his back - each of the three as long as he was tall - weighed him down some, making it a struggle to keep himself up. Something above hummed and groaned and slid out of shimmering stealth to dive low just over him. The growl of thrusters roared in his ears and the voice - the voice of the Warmind still echoed alongside it, rattling around his eardrums with no end in sight.
I WILL JUDGE.
He had to suppress a groan and snort both; judge? So typical, so predictable, so unfortunate. Judge who? How harshly? Oh, Scipio's demand had been hard to accept, but with the promise of specialized superweapons so close at hand... who was he to deny the Warmind's decree?
Ikharos reached up and grabbed hold of the bars that extended just below the drop-hatches lining the underside of the Skiff's tail. He pulled himself up, straining against the grasp of gravity, and clasped the three-fingered hand that lowered through. As he got his feet onto the bar, more hands joined in and snagged his sleeve, dragging him up and into the airborne vessel. Ikharos heaved a deep breath and offered Raksil a grateful nod. The hollow-eyed Vandal stiffly returned it and tossed him a hollowhot towel.
Ikharos shrugged off the straps pinning the cases to his back and gently, so gently, laid them down on the floor. After that he stripped away all his equipment save for his biosuit and hastily toweled himself off. "Now we head for the Cabal!" he shouted into the hold, and hopefully as far as the cockpit. The hatches in the floor closed off and the Skiff shifted forward with a low boom. Melkris slipped back in, handed Ikharos his folded up robes and glanced questioningly at the cases. Neuroc lurked only just behind the shockshooter, silently appearing out of the dimly-lit hold like a bright eyed will-o'-the-wisp.
"Don't touch," Ikharos warned them. He pulled his robes and armour back on, buckling clasps and activating magnetic locks. "I mean it."
"What are these?" Melkris asked.
"Handheld warheads, essentially."
Melkris pulled back as if burnt. "Warheads?! On a Skiff?!"
"Yeah." Ikharos dragged the crates containing the Valkyries into the hold, secured them with a length of deactivated Arcwire, then climbed ahead. He pulled himself into the cockpit, taking the co-pilot's chair. "We're good to go now. Make a straight heading for the legion."
"I know," Calzan murmured, eyes locked on the array of flight controls in front of him. "Do they know we are coming, Kirzen? If they shoot at us-"
"Neuroc sent word ahead," Ikharos told him. "So they shouldn't."
"If they do?"
"Then we'll all crash and die." Ikharos paused. "Except me," he added, "but I'll avenge you."
Calzan grumbled. "That is hardly reassuring."
"If it's comfort you want, you're asking the wrong Guardian."
From the air the Cabal camp looked to be growing, steadily edging towards and threatening to consume the dark mass of huddled huts and ramshackle buildings that made up Carvahall. Lights danced around the village, from torches wielded by simple soldiers on patrol, to vehicles on standby, to pyres set up at different corners of camp and spewing rolling towers of heavy black smoke into the air.
More funerals.
More bodies to burn.
Unlike Aroughs, though, the place was still visibly alive. The Cabal were still kicking, still going strong. The moment Calzan de-cloaked the Skiff on Ikharos's orders, two Threshers dropped out of the clouds on either side and blared demands across a forced connection. Ikharos replied in grunting Uluruant, "I'm here to meet with the Primus."
"Who-" the Uluru operator on the other side began to ask.
"Ikharos Torstil or Merida-X8, you choose."
Silence ensued. Then, "Follow our flight path to the east. We have cleared and reserved for you a safe place to land. Do not disembark; a regiment will approach to escort you to the Primus. Am I understood?"
"You are," Ikharos affirmed, trying to keep the exhaustion out of his voice. "Follow, land, don't leave until I get an escort. We're clear."
"Good. Align - now."
At a muttered urging from Ikharos, Calzan directed their Skiff to gently flow with the Thresher pair towards an empty and bare field outlined with blinking red lights. The Skiff landed slowly, insectoid-like legs extending just as they docked. Calzan kept the engine on, hands still on the flight sticks. Ikharos retreated back into the hold and said, "We're here. Palancar Valley. Melkris, Raksil - with me. Neuroc?"
The Psion descended from the ladder to the command deck above, datapad tucked under her arm. Reaching the bottom, she stood straight and nodded, affording him a detached if agreeable look.
"I want you to swear you won't tell anyone about where we went," Ikharos requested. "It's classified information."
"Where?" She muttered. "I have no idea what you mean."
"Yeah, yeah - but I want your oath in the Harmonic tongue."
Neuroc's Y-shaped pupil flickered. "I don't know the words, human."
Ikharos grimaced. "Fine, here: Eka weohnata néiat segja anneinn uma hvar vae gangaí."
The Psion stared at him for a moment, then quietly repeated the oath. It was enough for him.
"Kida?" Ikharos turned to the Frame. "I've requisitioned valuable equipment from Scipio. Guard it."
Kida saluted, rifle in hand, and moved to where the packed-away Valkyries had been secured. Ikharos grabbed his own rifle, then thinking better of it shoved it behind one of the benches lining the hold; he didn't have the energy to explain to the Cabal why his gun had a floating petrified heart encased in a paracausal ring-cage lined with Hive runes. Nor was he looking forward to even carrying it in the first place, but...
He needed to understand. He needed to know why the Dark was in him.
Ikharos exhaled heavily. Questions for another time, with less people. He patted his Lumina to check it was still holstered by his hip, then made his way to the back of the Skiff where Neuroc, Raksil and Melkris were waiting.
"You are careless," the Flayer murmured. Ikharos gave her a surprised look. "And fortunate we are so... reasonable."
"I'm careless," Ikharos snorted. "So says the Cabal who allowed an entire Hive brood to smuggle themselves on board their carrier
Neuroc's eye tightened - though with what emotion he couldn't be sure. "You allow sensitive information to slip through your fingers. Don't you fear us using this against you?"
Ikharos spared her a tired, irritated look. "Maybe I do - but at the end of the day, if your people step out of line I can clear you away within a week. I'm Risen, paracausal, and I know how to beat your people at your own game."
"Do you?" Neuroc challenged. She sounded... curious. Amused, even.
A shout echoed from the front of the ship. "Kirzen!"
"Patch them through!" Ikharos called back, sliding his cracked helmet back on. The inbuilt speakers groaned and played through a garbled version of what was assumedly an Uluru's sonorous voice.
"Merida-X8, you are permitted to disembark. If weapons are drawn we will assume hostile intent and open fire."
Ikharos pursed his lips. "Understood." Switching to Low Speak, he said, "Holster your weapons. Cabal sound nervous. They'll have shaky trigger fingers."
Melkris closed his inner eyes. "I do not like this, Kirzen."
"We need-"
"You should march in like the Kells of old, with glittering blade and head held high!"
"No offense," Ikaros said slowly, "but the time of Kells has long since passed. This isn't fabled Riis."
Raksil nudged Melkris with his elbow. "I believe he means to say that we must place all our hope in caution and cunning."
"Where is the pride?" Melkris bemoaned. "Where is the confidence?"
"Left it in Aroughs," Ikharos breathed. He opened the rear hatch on the Skiff, fingers dancing over the ramp controls. Artificial light cut through the gloom of night and into the red-lit interior of the Eliksni craft. Ikharos stepped out, hands held up but Light close at hand. A squad of Legionaries armed with slug rifles had formed up nearby, stiff and with narrowed eyes. At their head stood a burly figure with a slug launcher casually leaning against their massive shoulder.
The Valus grunted and stepped forward. "Merida-X8."
Ikharos sighed. "No one ever gets my name. Valus Shu'av."
Shu'av stopped and looked down at him with his head bared. He was a frightening thing, all scars and leathery skin with small fangs proudly displayed in a mouth lacking an upper lip. Uluru were a strange distortion of the human form, closer to what was deemed natural than most other extraterrestrial sapients but all the more alien because of it. Or, well, Ikharos thought, watching as Neuroc walked past with closed fist against her cuirass, maybe not.
At least Uluru he could read. At least them he could understand. The rest? Only Eliksni came close - and that was simply because of exposure, nothing else.
"Torstil," Shu'av rumbled, less uproariously than before.
Ikharos glanced up at him. "Or maybe they do. Will your Primus see me?"
"Oh yes, he will. The High Vigilant too." Shu'av turned about and barked at his gathered soldiers. They moved as one, separating into two lines - an honour guard. "You heard about the Singers?"
"From Neuroc, yeah," Ikharos said, falling into step beside the lumbering Valus. He had to walk quickly to keep pace with the giant. "How badly did they hit you, if you don't mind me asking?"
Shu'av scrutinized him for all of a moment before grunting, "Enough to earn our ire. We'll pummel them for it."
"Good," Ikharos replied. "They deserve all the punishment coming their way."
The route they took was different than when he'd last visited, but the end destination was the same. The Primus's prefab was in the exact same spot, though it did look a little worse for wear. Soot marked the outer walls and a chunk had been taken out of one of the corners, burned right to melting point. Largely, though, it was intact. Shu'av led them past the tusked Centurion pair standing guard on either side of the entrance and into the office. Invoctol stood within, one arm wrapped with a stained bandage, and glanced over the active holotable with Zhonoch - one of the prisoners Ikharos had spoken with when Tarrhis had been alive. Before Aroughs had ever happened.
His stomach twisted into knots.
Whatever the two had been discussing was tossed aside the moment the door slid open. Ikharos stepped forward, opposite Invoctol, and straightened his back while clasping his hands behind him. "Primus," he greeted with forced pleasantry.
"Ikharos," the oversized Psion whispered, eye flicking back to the image hovering over the table. It displayed the Magnus Vae in all its wrecked glory, still leaking soulfire smoke and the occasional Thrall. "Word has reached me that your allies were beset by Singers too."
"What a way to begin," Ikharos sighed. He evenly met the Psion's one-eyed stare. "Yes. I imagine the Scars fared worse than you, given that... nevermind. Not just us either. The elves too."
"The elves?" Invoctol sounded surprised. "Are they... Ah, so the Harmony see them as a threat?"
"No. I mean... I don't know."
"This changes little. Our primary directive is-"
"It changes everything," Ikharos retorted. The Cabal all turned sharply to look at him, ranging from simple staring to malicious glaring. "The Harmony have dared us to get involved. This isn't about them weakening us. It's-"
"They have seized soldiers," Zhonoch interrupted, voice oddly muted. "The Singers took captives."
Ikharos paused. "I believe they did the same in Osilon and Aroughs," he admitted, frowning. "They... they took Krinok."
"The Scar Kell?"
"Once. Now... dead, likely, or worse. These are Sword Logic worshippers. They could have been looking to fuel rituals." He looked over the hologram. "The bulk of the Hive are moving to engage the Harmony at this very moment. We need to blunt their efforts - both sides."
He fell silent. No one said anything for a long time - though not because of concurrence or anything so agreeable, no. The gathered Cabal all gave him incredulous looks.
"I'm a Psion," Invoctol began, "and I listen. I used to be, in part, an operator of the BattleNet. Listening was my primary task. I have listened to many commanders, gifted and foolish, make their plans - and your pitch, human, approaches the height of foolishness. You demand that I take my soldiers and send them to die in between both Hive and Harmony?"
"You make it sound so bad," Ikharos irritably muttered. "We need to act - right? Or are you content to let them gather power?"
"You believe they will grow with this."
"Don't you?"
Invoctol grimaced. Or, at least, it looked like he grimaced. Psions were so unexpressive. "Yes."
"We have no choice."
"I will not-"
"You sent them to die in the Magnus Vae," Ikharos pointed out. Outrage rippled through the gathered officers but he ignored them. "You sent your soldiers into the heart of a Hive nest. That was suicide."
"It was not," Shu'av rebuked. "We survived."
"Yes. Because I was there," Ikharos snapped. "I saved your hides against my better judgement."
Zhonoch growled. "Our soldiers are of far higher quality than Hive riff-raff."
"That makes no difference when you face an ocean of Thrall. The Darkblade took the warriors, but there were still plenty of spawn left. Sure, you would have grabbed your tank eventually, but with heavy losses. I grabbed their attention to keep your people from being slaughtered. I-"
"Why?" Shu'av asked, his hairless brow furrowing. "Why did you do that, human? I still don't understand it."
"Because..." Ikharos hesitated.
Invoctol saw right through him. "Because he needs us alive. We are the torch in the dark, the shield guarding his vulnerable people. We serve a purpose for him."
Ikharos glowered. "And maybe, maybe, I felt a little bit sorry for you all. Brutes and bastards you might all be, you're still people. Hive..."
"Aren't," Shu'av finished. The Valus looked thoughtful. "Doesn't change what you propose."
"You haven't heard what I'm proposing - just asked after my aim and assumed from there."
"Then what is it?"
"Shadow the Hive," Ikharos gestured to a tiny holographic Ogre limping from one end of the Magnus Vae to the other. "The Darkblade has the Harmony's scent. Let them find each other. Let battle commence - and then we go in and sweep up."
"'We'?"
"I want them dead as much as you, if not more." Ikharos asserted.
"They attacked your beloved humans." Invoctol's eye narrowed. A low whine built up in the back of Ikharos's head. "So... compassionate."
"They attacked your soldiers," Ikharos retorted. "Killed a few, surely. And the Hive! They killed your comrades in spades, took your carrier, sent you scurrying for cover. Doesn't that bother you?"
Invoctol's face shifted. He stepped back. Static crackled around his head. "So it does."
"Are you up for another thunder run?"
"A thunder run? Do you understand what we need to make a thunder run happen, human? Numbers and agreeable conditions, as well as a suitable environment. We need a place to corner the Hive and dash them against the rocks, but if they so choose to make battle in the open-"
"The Amarz Amalz," Shu'av grunted, looking at Invoctol. "If they do stay out in the open, we can provide steel in place of rocks."
"And leave this valley undefended?" Invoctol challenged. He turned back to Ikharos. "Did your Eliksni allies put you up to this? Hope to divide my legion in two, offer them free bounty?"
"No," Ikharos replied. "The Scars and I have since parted ways."
Invoctol tilted his head, then glanced past Ikharos. "But you are joined with Vandals."
"They followed me out."
"They... ah." Invoctol hummed. "So you are a mercenary. Seeking a new employer?"
Ikharos huffed. "I'm not... look, we get this done, we'll see what negotiations we can make."
"Join the Empire."
"No thanks."
Shu'av rolled his shoulders. "It would be easier if you joined, human."
"I don't do well with authority," Ikharos told them. "Or slaughtering innocents, human in particular."
"We haven't slaughtered any not holding a weapon," Invoctol said, gesturing to the door and the outside beyond. "We harm none who do not resist. Look at Carvahall."
"I have. You've done the bare minimum expected of any reasonable sapient."
Rather than with outrage, Invoctol shook with mirth. "Then you have not looked close enough. Their quality of life has vastly improved. Something you haven't done for anyone."
"Well, I haven't really been in a position to, what with our current world-ending predicament." Growing annoyed, Ikharos snapped, "we're here to talk about the Hive, nothing else."
"We're here to talk about an alliance, human." Invoctol swept a hand across the table. The image shrunk, revealing more and more until it boasted almost all of known Alagaësia. "You desire our assistance in removing a threat to your protectorate. I wish much the same; this world is near meaningless without your people. Even so, I am not so foolish as to undertake this extermination alone. If you cannot offer the assistance of the Eliksni brigands, then what help can you possibly offer?"
"Myself?" Ikharos raised an eyebrow. "I kicked your soldiers around in Ceunon. Shu'av can attest that I did the same with the Hive."
"He did," the Valus muttered.
"And," Ikharos continued. "I killed two Harmony while your troops floundered against one."
Invoctol looked at him for a moment, then reached under the table and pulled a spear - a Harmony spear - out. The blade still glowed, and just below it were the splashed stains of silver blood. "Do not think yourself the sole power here," the Psion quietly told him. "You are here under my hospitality, human. It is more than an Uluru commander would have given you. Even so, I must request that you stifle yourself. Diplomacy is too... fragile for undue aggravation."
"My answer's the same. Myself."
"You are but one body," Zhonoch pointed out. "Even glorious Acrius couldn't found the Empire alone."
Ikharos sighed. "I have a crew of Eliksni on standby. I have a battle-ready Skiff. The elves seek retribution as well; some of them have sworn to help."
"Have they?" Invoctol made a curious sound. "How interesting."
"Are you going to help or not?"
Invoctol's features didn't give anything away. "This is no easy decision. I will discuss it with my staff."
"Then...?" Ikharos ventured, with hope and some expectancy.
"You will have your answer on the beginning of the next local solar cycle." A myriad of fantastical colours crossed the Psion's eye. "Leave us."
"Fine. We'll be-"
"Here. You will remain within reach, human, while we consider your... offer." Invoctol nodded to Zhonoch. "Show the human the truth of my claim. Show him how our vassals have fared under our tutelage."
The night was abuzz with the sounds Ikharos could only identify as a Cabal war camp - like any other campsite hosting soldiers, but dialed up intensity-wise three times over. Soldiers talked, machines clanked, equipment rustled together, fires hissed, and above it all lurked the headache-inducing weight of the Psionic metaconcert. The joined consciousness of countless Psions noticed him, stared at him, pointed him out as something other, something foreign and unwelcome, and it wasn't pleased with what it saw. Ikharos sucked in a trembling breath and tried his very best to ignore it - but it was a losing battle.
Zhonoch led the way, stiffly marching ahead of the three. Raksil and Melkris awkwardly conferred amongst themselves, eyeing the Cabal soldiers they walked past with thinly veiled unease - and the soldiers stared back, some with curiosity but most with hostility. There was no love lost between the Eliksni and the Uluru.
"What is happening?" Melkris whispered. "Why are we not returning to Calzan?"
"Because the Cabal want to show off the humans they enslaved," Raksil replied. "They want to show Kirzen how benevolent and merciful they can be."
"You can speak Ulurant?" Ikharos inquired with some surprise, glancing at the noble heir.
Raksil blinked with his outer eyes. "Eia. It is important to know the languages of powerful peoples, yes?"
"Oh, it is, just... didn't think many Eliksni wanted to bother trying."
"Javek knows."
"Javek reads."
"So do I," Raksil admitted. "And you, Kirzen?"
"I learned by listening to radio chatter."
"Ah. Was that... difficult?"
"Oh yes, particularly when the Cabal I was eavesdropping on were speaking in code. Sometimes all I learned was complete non-"
"Enough with your barking," Zhonoch growled, glancing over his shoulder. "Speak your own tongue, human."
Ikharos trained his eyes forward, on the village they were steadily closing in on. "What, am I not allowed to converse with my guards?"
"Not unless you want a Legionary to stab you. This is for your own protection, mind," Zhonoch said warningly. "We're trained to have one reaction and one reaction only when we hear the bugs chitter."
No love lost indeed.
The crop fields surrounding the village were doing pretty well, Ikharos found. It was a reluctant thing, to admit to himself that yeah, agriculturally Carvahall was doing fine. It looked, even at a glance, like they were only just starting to exercise simple and effective farming techniques - like swapping fields out for different crops year after year to reach the best yield. Those same crops looked to have been growing at an exponential rate too, given the season and the state of the soon-to-be produce. Psionic influence he assumed. He wondered, did it grate on the nerves of militant Psions to toil in the dirt, even with only their minds? Did it bother Invoctol that his would-be conquerors were presently exercising more humanitarian efforts than actual conquering?
It bothered Ikharos - and in a way he didn't expect either. The Cabal were being... nice. Or at least decent.
Then why had the Red Legion been so extreme? How come the expeditionary legions had been so uncompromising? It wasn't all that fair. Maybe the Cabal saw the humanity of Sol as rivals and the humanity of Kepler as... something lesser. It irked him - because while it fanned his pride, it did little to help the thousands killed in the Red War. People who had died for nothing. Maybe not nothing - a dictator's greed, for certain. Said dictator's death wasn't enough. Not to even the scales. Even the near destruction of all that remained of the Red Legion hadn't been enough. Humanity deserved recompensation. Weregild - blood price.
And here the Cabal were, doing just that - unwittingly.
Why couldn't they have done it consciously?
Why couldn't they have done it years before?
If the Cabal could be so... reasonable, then why the hell had they been so vicious in their razing of the Last City and crusades against the Reef?
It wasn't fair though it was beginning to get there, but Ikharos - he didn't like the way the rebalanced scales had been represented. Perfectly fair it may have been one day - just... maybe not in his eyes.
The village's interior wasn't exactly bustling, but it was far from dead too. The odd Cabal soldier patrolled here and there. People - human people - were in the midst of waking up early for the oncoming day and getting ready for work. Those who caught sight of them - or rather the Eliksni - stopped and stared, but everyone otherwise acted as if the giant Uluru were nothing new. Strange and still fascinating perhaps, and not a little out of place, but nothing totally extreme.
It was weird.
Ikharos couldn't have imagined any species not at least human in part receiving the same treatment in the Last City. It just wasn't something he could picture. His own death-defying people and the rare visiting Reefborn were largely the furthest to seeing aliens the masses of the Last City got to in their day-to-day lives - the nightmarish experiences of the Red War notwithstanding.
Zhonoch brought them to the village tavern (Ikharos remembered the place from the previous year) and rapped his knuckles against the door. The door swung open and a man - with a short and mashed face with bags under his eyes - peeked out. The man's eyes widened first at the sight of the Uluru, then threatened to fall out of his head when he spied the Eliksni pair. "Oh... gods..."
"Food," Zhonoch grunted. "For these creatures. And I. You will be compensated - with gold."
"To ease the burden of conquest?" Ikharos muttered. Zhonoch glanced at him, small eyes narrowing with suspicious consideration.
"Smart for a smallman," the Uluru mumbled in Ulurant. His head swiveled back to the tavern owner. "Human?"
"Uh... yes m'lord!" The man ducked inside and closed the door after him.
Zhonoch motioned for Ikharos to stay, then walked around the building, disappeared from view, likely did some rummaging from the sounds of it and returned with a low rickety wooden table, which he then placed down in the open area of beaten, dry earth beside the tavern. They received a few looks from native villagers and patrolling soldiers both, but no one otherwise interceded. Zhonoch looked at them, then placed his rifle on the ground and drew a gilded sword from over his back and planted it blade-first on his other side. Finally, he undid the clasps on his helm and balanced it on the pommel of the upended cleaver. The Uluru knelt down and put his hands on his lap, looking every bit the traditional Torobatlaan warrior.
With a mental shrug Ikharos sat cross-legged opposite the Imperial warrior and waited, idly glancing around at the surrounding village. His companions reluctantly joined them, keeping their weapons near enough to twitching claws. Melkris fidgeted nigh on uncontrollably, looking this way and that with little muttered growls about Cabal being... Cabal. Raksil, though, was perfectly still and perfectly quiet. He waited, like Ikharos, with intrigued patience betraying none of the distinct inner discomfort that was surely raging beneath.
The tavern owner reappeared some time later with four plates, then four tankards of what looked like mead, and then a few platters of only-just-prepared food. Ikharos helped himself to three boiled potatoes and a strip of meat from the succulent capon put on display, wolfing it down with a ravenous hunger he hadn't noticed before. Zhonoch was, oddly enough, more reserved when it came to the miniature feast and simply pulled a leg from the capon, tearing the meat off rather quickly. He pushed the mead back to the centre of the table, as if to say: I can't drink that. Someone else can have it.
Melkris, though, was the opposite. Where Raksil and Ikharos only sampled a couple of choice pieces, the shockshooter exploded in a fit of gluttony. The chicken disappeared, and Ikharos even had to go so far as to warn the Eliksni, "Don't eat the bones. They're fragile and will splinter if you try to gnaw on them."
Melkris, fortunately, must have heard because the bones were from there on ignored - but nothing else was. There was little about the meal that was truly extraordinary, but it was pleasant and filling - and the message it imparted was clear enough. The village was reaping an unusually bountiful yield as a result of the Primus's patronage. They were eating well - well enough that what had been offered to Ikharos and his retinue could be spared without second thought.
The tavern owner floated by, his expression one of uneasy bewilderment as he watched Melkris gorge himself.
"Thank you very much," Ikharos murmured to the man, who in turn nodded. He made a little show of sipping the mead - and though the drink wasn't to his tastes (his preferred choices where alcohol was concerned were of a select few), he wasn't fool enough to deny that it had been brewed - or however mead was made - well. It was sweet and strong, as the thirsty masses were wont to pay for. He looked up at Zhonoch and found the Uluru thoughtfully peering back. "I see your point - though I don't concede the argument."
"Independents," Zhonoch gruffly snorted. "You could reap the same benefits, you know. You would be the pride of the legion, our Auxiliary Elite."
"I like that you bought me breakfast-"
"Consider it a debt repaid."
Ikharos schooled his features, trying not to let the surprise show. "Ah. Right. I wasn't on the verge of starving-"
"You were," someone said from within, stabbing in with another sudden shock.
"-but I suppose it's the thought that counts. We're even, then." Ikharos inclined his head, trying to rein in his racing heart. "Xiān?"
"We need to talk."
Zhonoch tilted his head to the side, as if listening to something. He grunted, "Primus Invoctol is holding council."
"Fucking yes we do." Ikharos frowned. "Are you not needed?"
Zhonoch huffed. "I am Vigilant, not a Valus."
"And what is it a Vigilant does?"
"I guard. I keep vigil."
"For whom?"
"For the legions. I keep vigil so those with malign intent don't earn sway with the common squaddies." There was a warning in Zhonoch's knowing look. Telling Ikharos to not try his luck with anything underhanded.
"Like with the Hive?"
The Uluru's face twisted into a scowl. "Yes."
"Hmm." Ikharos nodded to himself. Well, you obviously failed there.
"Later. Somewhere the Psions won't-"
"Fine," he snapped back, closing his side of the link out of frustration. Later was a promise. One he expected her to keep. "How long is this going to take?"
"You have somewhere to be, human?" Zhonoch asked.
"I do, actually. Coordinating with an elven militia, an Eliksni crew - y'know, doing the right thing?"
"The right thing?" Zhonoch echoed with amusement. "How-"
"Don't you start," Ikharos snapped. "Or you might end up like your Ghaul."
Zhonoch's eyes narrowed. "The Dominus? What do you know? What... what did you do?"
"Nothing directly, but to his dogs? I'll show you - when we track down those Hive, yeah?" Ikharos smiled coolly. "I promise."
000
There had been some hurrying, some talking, some arguing, and even some angry words exchanged between Zeshus and a number of her kin, including her Kell, but eventually they set off. Ahlok and Mezha were left behind with the Marauder Etralenk and an ether converter under the roof of Lord Däthedr and in the care of the elf-Baron's heir, Tenivarri. Javek had stuck around long enough to ensure the three were going to survive without the presence of Obleker (they were, easily) and then met with Formora just before the small elven host (was this all the soldiers they could field?) set out. What few other Scar exiles were with him accompanied the magical humans, ranging ahead at Javek's barked words.
The position of command he held was... a novelty. Others looked to him. For guidance. Instruction. Leadership. Javek wasn't so sure he liked it - well, the respect was nice, but the tasks set before him were stifling and the concern he felt for his fellows was stifling. What if they ran into Exos? An Ahamkara? Even a Dark Harmony? But, he supposed, that was why all armies had scouts. Even a militia as small as theirs.
Was it going to be enough?
"It will have to do," Formora had told him when he asked. "Ikharos is out to earn us an army at this very moment, and I have no doubt he means to be the tip of the spear when we strike against the Hive. Our duty is one of magic."
"Your duty," Javek pointed out. "Not all Eliksni can wield magic."
"No, but you can."
"I can, and Piriikse," Piriikse was another Splicer who had joined them in exile, "but no other. And we are not strong."
"Not strong?" Formora smiled - oh, to be as expressive as humans! "I hear you slew an Ahamkara with but a single spell."
Javek grimaced, mandibles slowly tapping against his jaw. "I almost expired," he admitted.
"Because of a hastily-worded spell, perhaps, but with time I think you will know how to structure one to be less taxing on yourself."
"Eia, I hope. But still - only Piriikse can cast magic as I do. What can we do to help?"
Formora gestured forth as they marched from Du Weldenvarden. "You are already doing it."
"Scouting?"
"My people know not the Hive, the Harmony, or the ways of war both of them live by. Your people are indispensable in this regard. You must teach us in turn."
They were teachers, then. To educate the elves by setting examples. That was something Javek understood; there was no finer way than with a practical demonstration. He nodded, just to convey he heard.
Some of the elves convinced their beasts with the sheening coats of hair, the 'horses' to accompany them to the edge of Du Weldenvarden. They could run as fast as elves and sometimes faster, but their real strength lay in their endurance - enough to press even lean Beraskes for all her worth. None could carry an Eliksni, though it was unneeded. Where some elves rode and others ran, Javek bounded along with his weapon - a shrapnel launcher - strapped to his back. It was... freeing, being able to roam like this. He felt like they had purpose, even if he wasn't looking forward to the battles sure to come.
They were going to kill the Hive. Harmony too. Enough was enough.
It was during the day they moved, but as night fell the pace relaxed and the elves stopped to rest as the gloom consolidated around them. The elven leaders present - Däthedr, Bellaen, Formora, Ästrith and Eilífa - ensured that all were well and none fell behind, be they elf or Eliksni. It was touching. For all their ignorance, the elves were at large a compassionate people. Javek found it inspiring.
The mood - determined, hopeful - took a turn for the worse, however, as they neared the territory of the fallen city of Osilon. Smoke still climbed into the air. Fires still burned. Elves - civilians, not the warriors and mages who had answered the call of Formora and her noble supporters - worked to put them out with magic, but a few continued to rage. Javek heard a tale that one elf had died trying to quench an inferno that had taken over his own body, incapable of battling the insidious magic within and exhausting himself so thoroughly he fell right into the arms of the Kell of Silence.
Javek joined Formora and the Lady Ästrith as they ventured into the razed city to see the devastation for themselves. Unlike Aroughs, there had been many survivors - most of the city's denizens, in fact. The elves were not creatures of instinctual violence; they had run rather than fight the unstoppable advance of Harmony burners. Tree-sung buildings hollowed out with flame and spear had been reclaimed, and the dead had mostly been put to rest, but even so - the fires.
They visited the same flame that had killed the unfortunate elf who had wanted only to go home. A lord, as it turned out, and once governor of the entire city. Idriath he had been named. The fire was all that remained of his manor, bright and white as fresh snow - but it seared with an intensity only plasma-burn could deliver.
"This is the sting of a Harmony's spear," Formora whispered. The deceased elf's heir - and last of his kin, apparently, as most had died in the attack - stood by her, form twisted with crippling loss. "This is their sting kindled forever. A scar within Du Weldenvarden's very heart."
The pale fire birthed new flames with spitting embers, which the returning natives were hard-pressed to battle at every turn. They were of the simple, causal variety unlike their mother, but they were unending.
"We can't keep fighting them," the heir of Osilon muttered. "Not even our greatest magicians can do so. We are tiring, Lady of Láerdhon." His eyes found Zeshus, looking at her with acute desperation and hope. "Your comrade - the Dauthné - did he... perhaps tell you of a way to fight this?"
"No," Formora regretfully reported, staring into the white fire with blazing hatred. "He did not." She raised her hand, as if to press against the vicious bonfire, then thought better of it. "Javek?"
"Eia?" He raised his head.
"How would your people combat this nightmare?"
Javek gave it some thought. "Fires are dangerous," he said warily. "Within a Ketch, fires steal all the air - and all the ether. If a fire grows, we corner it with metal and starve it out. Fires have no place among the houses."
Formora nodded slowly, then said to the heir of Osilon, "Clear the surrounding buildings, trees, foliage - all that can catch alight. You may not be able to defeat this curse, but you can strand it - keep it from destroying the rest of the city. Are there any others like this?"
"Three," the other elf replied with such profound sorrow, Javek almost volunteered then and there to help. But he couldn't. As terrible as the blazes were, there were foes yet more dangerous prowling across Kepler's as-yet untainted frontiers. Foes he had to face.
"You must do the same with them," Ästrith told him. "And quick, before they spread."
The heir hesitated. "You are going to avenge this injustice?"
Formora nodded. "I am."
"... There are many here who would join you, then."
"I take with me only those who understand the gravity of what we face and possess the bravery to continue on."
"Still many, my lady. Shall I send out a call?"
Formora hesitated. "Islanzadí may not be pleased if you do."
"Islanzadí is not here," the heir retorted. "We make our own choices."
"So we do. I am going to slay the Grey Folk responsible. Tell those who thirst for vengeance that. I hope it will sieve out those who would march with reluctance and doubt in their hearts."
"I will see it done. Thank you - for coming."
Formora offered her condolences once more and left. Javek and Ästrith left with her, and though the fires remained behind, Javek couldn't dispel the sight of it from his mind. It burned forever.
Like the power Ikharos had.
Like the power Orainthairr had.
Like the power Elkhon had.
The white flame was a pair of jaws yawning wide. It was the Maw, hungry for life and dreams and hope. It was the Maw, eating and eating until it was going to be the last thing in the universe - eternally alone, eternally hungry.
They passed Osilon, ranks bolstered with those seeking retribution for kin lost, homes vandalized and reputation ruined. The elves had found pride in being unassailable, Formora told him. Now that the ill-thought out assurance was gone, she was hopeful that it would push them towards better changes.
"I only wish it hadn't come at so horrifying a cost," she admitted to him. "Osilon shouldn't have burned. None should have died. Our ignorance did this to us - our ignorance and the Harmony. We must now do away with both."
Vengeance pressed their pace. Javek coordinated with the rest of his exile crew, assigning some to guard and even advise Formora whenever asked if he wasn't there, and to sniff out the land ahead. The scents of Du Weldenvarden were wild and varied - but the telltale stench of Hive and cold forge-heat of Harmony had become unmistakable to them. He sent out a half-dozen Shanks as well to scan for Exos waiting in ambush, but fortunately all reported back negative.
For the rest of the journey Javek either tended to Obleker or listened to reports on the secured radio channels he and his fellows had decided on utilizing. Mostly listening to old Calzan's stories or grumbling complaints about all things Cabal and weather-related, but sometimes to whatever updates Raksil and Melkris sent him. The latter he dutifully carried on to Formora the moment he heard them.
::Ikharos is insulting Cabal.::
::Cabal are insulting Ikharos.::
::Ikharos is insulting Cabal again. They are all getting very angry.::
::Calm again. The Psions are advocating for peace. An Uluru challenged Ikharos to a duel - asked to ring Kirzen's bell with a hammer. It was very confusing. The Primus denied the Uluru because Ikharos is an honoured diplomat. Cabal are arguing with themselves now.::
::I watched a Psion float.::
The last one was Melkris, Javek assumed. Or at least he hoped.
::She floated just as high as the animals with the long ears jump. I hunger for them - for the animals, not Psions. Psions taste hideous. Please find me a long-eared animal. They are starving us.::
Formora did a motion with her eyes as Javek told her. "That's Melkris," she said with a wry smile. "I trust Ikharos is feeding them, even if not himself."
Javek did a shrug. "Melkris should not go hungry; I gave him two dried ether bales before he left. Raksil, though, I worry for."
Formora's smile fell. "As do I," she said quietly, her steed cantering along the forest trail. Javek marched beside her, Obleker floating just behind. "His father..."
Javek felt his insides tighten with the reminder. "Tarrhis was fair," he chirped. "Tarrhis was good. Tarrhis was justified."
"He will be missed."
"Eia."
They arrived at Du Weldenvarden's western border with time to spare; Ikharos's negotiations with the Cabal hadn't yet finished. The militants still argued amongst themselves, apparently, weighing the pros and cons of fighting for a world not their own instead of simply leaving. Javek found it all very petty. With the machine-web surrounding the planet, it was everyone's world. One could not live on Kepler's surface and think that the dangers to face it did not apply to them.
But Cabal were stubborn creatures, even unto certain extinction, so Javek brushed his own frustrations aside and waited with the elves. Magic was exercised and swords were sharpened in the meantime. He learned more than a few handy spells simply watching elven warriors practice with gramarye, picking up on a few choice words and a number of methods with which to use those same words - and with deadly intent too. It was a weapon unequaled, magic, and he was both ecstatic and wary to all it offered.
It offered freedom unlimited.
But was freedom too much?
Could freedom corrupt?
"The only corruption you have to fear," Formora told him when he brought it up, "is of greed, jealousy, anger, hate, and pettiness. They stem from within, not without. We must not give in."
If that was true, it looked to Javek like the elves had given in. Even Formora - who hated the Harmony as much as, if not more than, the rest of the elves present.
The first day at the western border passed without incident. As did the second. On the third, as they were making their way northwards along the treeline, Obleker rumbled and whined. Something was closing in - from the air. Javek squinted his eyes against the bright cloudless sky, scanned the horizon... and spotted the lonely shape of a Skiff headed east, towards their vague position.
Two Cabal Harvesters trailed behind it.
A message pinged on his radio. Javek looked down and activated it, expecting a quip from Melkris or a succinct report from Raksil, but instead he found the message came in little Xiān's typical style, a cross between the two.
::We have them.::
AN: Thanks to Nomad Blue for editing!