Chapter 70: Power/North/Haven

The Skiff slowed and tilted up, grinding to a stop in the open air scarcely an arrow's shot out from the treeline. Obleker hummed, quite possibly guiding the Eliksni craft to their position, and warbled with joy as the insectoid machine unfolded its legs and gently settled down. The other vessels, only vaguely familiar for her having glimpsed them in the distance before, plummeted down yet another small distance from the Skiff and hovered above the ground with thrumming engines and clanking weapons systems. They were Cabal. They had to be. There was no one else with the capacity to build flying machines. None save, perhaps, the Exos and Harmony - and they held no alliances with any Eliksni, particularly with those she called friends. No, these were not enemies. At least Formora hoped so; it depended entirely on what terms Ikharos sought with them.

Figures emerged from behind the Skiff - two Eliksni, one human. Formora dismounted from Elsvarí and walked ahead. Lord Bellaen, Lord Däthedr and Lady Eilífa fell in step behind her. Javek and Beraskes followed, just as two elven warriors - bearing Däthedr's colours - quickly moved to escort her and the nobles forth. Guards, trained in bladecraft and gramarye, sworn to life-service.

Ikharos met them halfway, walking stiffly. His helmet was tucked under his arm, still broken from the battle in Aroughs. The same went for his robes - still bearing damage, still scarcely doing their offering any protection. That was usually Xiān's job, fixing Ikharos's armour after every skirmish. Had something happened? Were they running out of Glimmer? Ikharos himself didn't look much better, expression charged with forced cheer. There were bags under his eyes and his hair was unkempt, completely disorderly. His stance, though, was one of victory.

He touched his primary two fingers to his lips and said, "Kvetha, maerr älfya." Ikharos glanced past them. "I see you've brought some friends."

"You requested assistance, no?" Bellaen quipped good-naturedly. "We are here now, Dauthné. Just like you wanted."

Ikharos's smile lessened by a fraction. "Never wanted any of this," he murmured, "but I expect it's the same for you." He took a breath. Formora took a step forward, company be damned, and touched his arm. Ikharos flinched beneath her touch, but relaxed a moment later and flashed her an apologetic look. He turned back to the others and jutted a thumb over his shoulder. "I, uh... had a talk with the Cabal. They were attacked, like your people were, and want to break even - against both of the cults."

As if waiting for the gesture, hatches swung open on either side of the Cabal vessels' bellies. Warriors - most huge and imposing, the rest slender and quick - dropped out and softened their landings with brief flashes of fire from the backs of their armour. The soldiers quickly arrayed themselves in marching formation, both regiments headed by an abnormally large Uluru specimen with wing-like ornaments jutting from their shoulders. All save three, who freely walked ahead without any concern for the deep-voiced orders being shouted at the rest of rank-and-file behind them. One was an Uluru, that was clear just from its stature, but the other pair were Psions. The first of the shorter, thinner creatures carried a long-barreled rifle and the second only a datapad. The three advanced on them, not a single hitch in their step. They walked as if they owned the very land they stood on, the very air they breathed, the very space they occupied - as if all the world was rightfully theirs.

Formora straightened her back and held her chin high - then higher as she was forced to crane her neck up to look into the Uluru's eyes. The hulking creature had a helmet over its face, but the two small visors on either side of its upper face glowed with a pale disdain, coldly scrutinizing her.

"Elf," the Uluru grunted, heaving the word out with a rumbling growl. "You are... Formora Zeshus."

"Formora Láerdhon."

"Láerdhon..." The Uluru tested the word. It managed it at least more eloquently than Eliksni usually did. Ah, but Uluru had mouthparts more in line with the human/elven norm, didn't they? "You met with the Primus."

"I did," Formora confirmed. "Were you there?"

"No. I was starving in the bug camp."

Formora was, for a moment, at a loss - but then she recalled. The Eliksni had kept Cabal prisoners, hadn't they?

"This is Zhonoch," Ikharos tiredly said, gesturing towards the Uluru. "He's the High Vigilant of the Soulrazer Legion and here to coordinate with elven and..." he hesitated, "and Eliksni leadership concerning the threats of Hive and Harmony. Behind him are Neuroc and Neirim - Flayer and Optus respectively. They're here for the same."

Zhonoch looked over the gathered elves and grunted, unimpressed. "Primus Invoctol has agreed to dedicate the legion's might to stamping out this infection. The Amarz Amalz will retread the path taken by the Darkblade while we cut a path directly north, to ensure the Hive do not turn about. We will reconvene seventeen chrens east of the far headland of the Ceunonian Fjord and reassess our approach and formations before engaging the enemy."

"That's thirty-four Eliksni rikhas," Ikharos supplied. "Or five human leagues. Clear?"

Her kin ruffled with only some understanding and not a little puzzlement. "Amarz Amalz?" Eilífa asked.

"Reinforced mobile fortress," Zhonoch explained with a muted huff. "An Imperial Land Tank."

"Apparently some Harmony tried to hit while they were attacking the Cabal," Ikharos added. "It looked like it didn't end well for them."

"No," Zhonoch confirmed with a glance at the Risen, "it did not." He turned about and marched back to his soldiers. Neuroc and Neirim lingered. The former stepped forward and inclined her head.

"I am Neuroc," she said, voice high-pitched and echoing with an otherworldly presence. Bellaen and Eilífi murmured to one another with surprise. "I have been assigned to liaison with the elven leader and Merida-X8."

Formora glanced at Däthedr, but he instead said, "Formora Láerdhon of House Rílvenar leads us."

Neuroc stared at her. "Understood."

Formora smiled tightly. "It is good to see you well."

The Psion said nothing. Neither did her silent companion, who studied each of the present elves and Eliksni with acute intensity - as if weighing their worth in a fight. A presence slowly circled around from the back of the group and arrayed herself somewhat in front of the elves, arms hanging out and claws resting on the pommels of sheathed blades. Beraskes bristled with hostility, hatred radiating off of her in waves. The armed Psion tightened its hold on its rifle. Neuroc did nothing, just turned on her heel and walked back after Zhonoch. Her acquaintance, Neirim, gradually followed - but not without a warning glare at the Eliksni Marauder.

Formora looked to Ikharos, hoping to see the spark of the Risen she knew, but he didn't look back. He just watched the Psions go with a vaguely puzzled expression. "Huh," he said to himself, then shook his head. "Nevermind." Ikharos turned around, hands clasping behind his back. "So... this is happening."

"It is," Formora confirmed. She glanced at the Cabal. "What is to be done with them?"

Ikharos waved flippantly in the direction of Uluru and Psions. "Leave them. We're here to work together - nothing else. They're not here to be our friends."

Formora thought otherwise, but didn't voice it. She mulled over the idea of sending gifts of goodwill to Zhonoch and Neuroc, and perhaps to save some for Invoctol - yes, it was a fair tact. Presently, though, she smiled and gestured behind her. "Lord Torstil, if you will...?"

The look he sent her was one of exasperation. That was better; he didn't seem so dire anymore. "Of course," Ikharos replied, allowing himself a strained smile. There was something distracting him, and with the tone he voiced his response, it was something she suspected he wanted to confront sooner rather than later.

Curiosity nipped at Formora's resolve, but she refused to let it show. Her fingers gently slipped into Ikharos's hand and she led him back to where her gathered fyrnvard awaited.

News of the Cabal and their promises spread like wildfire through the present elves. Formora had to step in to stop a few overeager älfya from running with laughter and song towards the Uluru warriors; the last thing they needed was to frighten the foreigners into abrupt violence. Ikharos even barked out a denial towards inviting the Cabal into their camp, and fiercely at that. Whatever was bothering him - and Formora had a fair idea as to what - it had drawn him into a brusque, snappish mood.

Despite his short temper, the Risen had been welcomed into the midst of her people without issue. Laughter and songs still flew, even if it did not reach the ears of the Cabal (did they have ears? Any of them?), and many words of support and gratitude were lavished on the man. He stepped through it all with exhausted indifference, looking for all the world like he was trying to weather a particularly vicious hailstorm.

"He is... less happy than I remembered," Eilífa murmured from Formora's side. "The hope has been drained out of him, though he yet fights on. What has happened?"

Elkhon, Formora wanted to answer, the unsaid name hanging bitterly on her tongue. The Dark. The Harmony.

And something else. A name she knew only from whispered tales and shuddering admittances.

Oryx. Hive. God.

But there were more, weren't there? A dragon, a witch, an Eliksni ghoul, and so much more. All with their claws in him. All dragging him down to the Deep.

Formora passed over the task of overseeing the planning of their next action to Lord Däthedr, advanced, took Ikharos by the arm and led him away - out of the public eye. Melkris stepped forward, perhaps realizing the necessity of a distraction, and enacted whatever latest ploy was on his mind. Given the Low Speak complaints and delicate giggling of the amused fey-kind they left behind them, it worked.

Only once they were well out of earshot, even for her people, did Ikharos dare pull away. He held out a hand and summoned Xiān - but the Ghost was slow to reveal herself. When she did, her fins hung with ennui and her eye was dimmed with distress.

"What do you want me to say?" She demanded, whispering, attention trained solely on Ikharos.

The Risen, for want of a better word, erupted. His face was a mask of pure rage, the rage Formora had only ever seen directed towards creatures she knew as monsters - but now his own Ghost, his own partner of heart-and-soul? "What do I want?" he asked, dangerously quiet. "This isn't about what I want. It's about what they-" he gestured in the direction of the elven host they left behind "-need. We're here to supply them, help them, save them. Both of us. You and I. I needed your help to get that done. I almost drowned. You left me to fucking drown."

Xiān shook. "Ikharos-"

"Don't 'Ikharos' me. There's nothing you can say to change that."

"I'm scared!"

Ikharos flinched, but then - his expression hardened. "You're scared? You? So it's perfectly alright for you to be scared and do fuck all because of it? It's perfectly fine for you to let people down because you're nervous? Not me, though, right? Not me. Not like I'm scared. Not like I'm tearing myself apart. Not like I'm-" Ikharos choked off with a wrenching sob, rising from the depths of his soul. "I may as well be dying, considering the state I'm in. It's all... it's all falling apart on me. On me. But I'm still going. I'm still here, still helping, still fighting, still ready to make the ultimate sacrifice. But you-"

"I'm scared of you."

Ikharos went still. His rage faded away on the spot, to be replaced with regret. Then - renewed purpose. "It doesn't matter," he muttered. "You can live in fear of me or die in fear of Nezarec. Your choice."

Xiān trembled. A part of Formora wanted to take the Ghost into her hands, to scold the both of them, tell them both to be silent and get along - but that wasn't her place. This was their business, no others', and to have interceded would have been the highest insult. Dragon Rider pair they may not have been, but in too many aspects they were similar - and it was that which stayed her hand.

"You were right," Xiān said, voice charged with sorrow. "You're always talking about Him. You talked about the dangers of killing Him and how you never wanted to mantle Him. I... I thought you were just being... you, taking it too close to heart, but... you were right. I ignored you, I-I... I didn't help. Maybe we could've caught this earlier, back when we were in a position to get help, but I didn't. I'm sorry."

Ikharos said nothing. His expression was of stony disregard. "Just do your job," he quietly ordered, "and we'll have no more trouble."

Xiān disappeared with a flash of transmat, leaving them alone. Formora felt out of place; this was not something she should have been present for, not something she should have witnessed. It was personal, perhaps more personal than she would ever understand.

Despite this, however, despite her reservations she had to ask, "What happened?"

Ikharos turned to her, appearing fit to fall over. "I... met with Scipio," he said.

But why-?

"We... had a chat. About everything - about what I needed to do with everything.

"And what do you need to do?"

"Kill Nezarec. Override the corrupted Submind's control over surface-level security installations. Wipe out the compromised Troubleshooters. Neutralize the Strife Cult. Excise the Shade infection. Just... everything." Ikharos sighed explosively. "Oh, and... bring the extrasolar lifeforms to heel."

"Extra..." Formora's eyes widened with comprehension. "The Eliksni. The Cabal."

"And whatever remains of the Hive, Harmony and others after I'm through with them. All in the name of Scipio, Overlord of Kepler." Ikharos looked back the way they came. "He gave me weapons. Well, I demanded them, but he gave them to me. Weapons to kill a god." He stepped away and staggered.

Formora moved forward and grabbed hold of his shoulder, looping her arm around his back to steady him. Ikharos shot her a look of unadulterated gratitude and breathed deeply, in and out.

"I'm tired," he admitted. "Haven't been sleeping... at all, in fact. This... thing is keeping me up."

"You're strong enough to resist it," Formora told him. "I know you are."

"I don't. I'm not" He looked away. "'Spose I can't help having it anyways. It's here and it's staying. Doesn't matter how many times I kill myself."

"You... killed-"

"It's not important."

"It is important," Formora sternly told him. She sighed. "Let's... get back. Others will worry after us if we take too long."

Ikharos forced himself back to standing on his own. "Right, yeah." He glanced at her. "How have things been going? How many-"

"Thirty-seven faedhír-älfya. Javek commands ten Eliksni of fighting capacity, a single Servitor, and five Shanks. With Raksil and Melkris returning, the Eliksni now number twelve."

"And Calzan with his Skiff. We have that. Oh, and Kida. We have Kida too."

"We do," Formora agreed. "What of the Cabal?"

"Zhonoch and Neuroc here hold sway over two Harvester dropships and nineteen Cabal soldiers - fourteen Uluru, five Psions. Primus Invoctol and Valus Shu'av command fifteen Threshers, nine Harvesters, fourteen Goliath hovertanks, twenty-one Interceptors and over four hundred souls' worth in infantry - all based from within the Amarz Amalz, their Imperial Land Tank. A rearguard fifty strong has been left behind to guard their holdings - Carvahall and the rest of Palancar Valley."

Four hundred warriors. Four hundred - armed with gun and blade and whatever other horrifically effective weapons the Cabal employed. It was a lot - particularly in the sense of how much monumental sway even a single Uluru would have held in an ordinary, pre-outsider Alagaësian battle. Enough to make an impact, perhaps. But how many were they going to need against the Darkblade and his Hive? Against Nezarec's Singers? Especially the Dark Harmony Ikharos had warned her of - Grey Folk wielding the Darkness itself.

They couldn't make mistakes. They simply didn't have the room.

Formora tugged on Ikharos's hand. "Enough dallying; come. Now is the time for sharing burdens with us. There is supper to be had and stories to share. You will enjoy it."

Ikharos groaned. "Fine."

"And then you will get some rest."

"Oh, I'll try, but no-"

"Or I'll send you to sleep with a spell," Formora warned.

Ikharos frowned. "... Oh yeah. You can do that, can't you?"

"I can and will."

"But I can ward myself against it too."

"You shouldn't."

"No, probably not. Still want to rebel, though."

"Of course you do." Formora tugged him again, almost pulling the man off his feet. He stumbled after her.

Ikharos slept in the Skiff. Formora tended to her people, explaining all she could of their new allies in the war against the Harmony and staving off what questions she couldn't answer - usually by promising Ikharos would do so when he awoke. Her älfya were a curious sort, particularly where new peoples were concerned, and where they had been enamoured with the Eliksni before they now desired nothing more than to investigate the Cabal only a half-mile away. It was amusing - if difficult to control.

"Ikharos spoke of them to me," Arahynn noted. "And now I find myself desiring nothing more than to confirm the proof of his claims."

Formora smiled, though inwardly she thought: You'll see soon enough. When we find the Hive and the Harmony thereafter, you will see it was all true.

There was a pit in her stomach, one she couldn't shake. The memory of the Hive Knight - so terrible, so powerful - stuck within her mind, flashing before her with every step closer to the encroaching horde. She was to face them again. Worse yet, her people were to face them - and without any prior experience either. When Ikharos returned, rested and fit to help, she was going to have him instruct the fyrnvard on how to combat Hive.

Then Harmony.

Neuroc came to her in the middle of the night, announcing her presence with a flash of rainbow-coloured light from her single eye. Formora's guards - two elves armed with spears and the dual-sword wielding Beraskes - barred the way but for an instant, only up until Formora bade them to let the Psion approach. She raised two fingers to her lips in greeting. The Psion brought a closed hand against her cuirass; it was likely some manner of Cabal salute.

"High Vigilant Zhonoch requests an estimated time of departure," Neuroc said.

Formora closed her eyes and sent a mental probe to the lords Däthedr and Bellaen with the same inquiry. They answered back in mostly the same fashion - it was her decision, as temporary director of the warhost. "On the morn," Formora told the Psion, "the moment the light of dawn strikes."

"Understood." Neuroc turned to leave.

Formora stood. "Would you please remain with us, Neuroc? We have tea to share and a curiosity to slake."

The Psion hesitated. Her eye flashed again, once, then she said, "As you will it, commander."

"No commander," Formora told her, "only I. You need not speak to me with titles."

Neuroc offered her an unsure look. "As you say." She removed her lower facemask, exposing a rounded chin packed with thin pallid flesh and a black-lipped mouth. Her Y-shaped pupil expanded and tightened at irregular intervals, like an astronomer attempting to find the perfect focus with which to study a distant stellar body.

Formora strolled away with the Psion and guards in tow and found her fellows - Bellaen, Ästrith and Eilífa - engaged in some obscure game concerning rounded metal cubes with magnetic properties, all done under the watchful gaze of a smiling Melkris. A warm yellow werelight hung in the air above them. The shockshooter saw them approaching first, though that was little surprise, and then the Lady Ästrith, who knelt in a perfect position to see them coming.

"Vel," Melkris chirped.

The three elven nobles touched their lips, each saying "Kvetha" in turn.

"Velask," Formora greeted, "Kvetha, all.

Bellaen peered up at Neuroc with a pleasant, if guarded expression. "Our welcome extends to you..."

"Flayer Neuroc," the Psion stiffly introduced. "Secondary to Vigilant Zhonoch and loyal to Primus Invoctol." She glanced around openly, parts of her face creasing. "Where is Merida-X8?"

The others were understandably confused, but Formora understood. "He is preoccupied," she explained, "easing off the stresses of battle."

"The battle of Aroughs," Neuroc guessed.

"Indeed."

"Battle done with Harmony."

Formora felt a little of the night's joy seep away, never to return. All because of one damning word. "Yes."

Neuroc nodded and, after a moment's consideration, sat down cross-legged to join in the game. A cup of tea, still steaming and fragrant, was poured and offered to the Psion. She took it and after some hesitation tasted it, and nodded in appreciation.

"What is the game?" Formora asked, pleased but trying not to show it overly much.

Melkris threw his hands onto the small area cordoned off for the spheres and tossed them all about, much to Eilífa's groaning chagrin. He pulled out one sphere and showed Formora the colour painted on both poles of the tiny globe - soft red. "This you," he said in halting common speech, thrusting it towards her. Formora stifled the need to grumble and took it. "Catch more."

Bellaen lifted his own sphere, silver but for the green circles on either side. "We each have our own. The aim is to catch the uncoloured spheres as quickly as you can, gathering as many as possible. If you connect with the sphere-construct of another coloured orb, you must both begin anew, the spheres rescattered. It ends only when one player has all the uncoloured spheres to themselves."

Formora sat with them. "How long does a game typically last?"

"We have been playing since sundown," Ästrith lamented. "Lord Bellaen is particularly merciless. He would rather no one win than be defeated."

The named lord hummed innocently, but then shot Melkris a pointed look. "I can sabotage the efforts of any and all," he said, "but for him. He... rolls with a precision even I cannot catch."

Melkris, incapable of saying much but understanding almost all, beamed with teasing delight.

Formora softly laughed. "Very well then. I will play."

"I will watch," Neuroc quietly said, eye darting between each of the coloured cubes. Beraskes reluctantly left Formora's side, eyes still trained on the Psion, and stalked over to the Lady Ästrith to mutter scraps of scarcely coherent advice into the elf's ear.

They played well into the night.

000

Ikharos roused only when Raksil shook him awake, and even then threatened to fall back into the arms of easy slumber. The one-time Scar-heir shook him by the shoulders again, snapping, "Kirzen!"

"I'm up," Ikharos irritably grumbled. He hadn't slept comfortably - but when did he? "I'm up! What is it?"

"Formora pak Zeshus requires your presence. The Cabal want to march."

"Then let's march." Ikharos swung his legs out from under the spare cloak he'd been using as a blanket and pushed up from the Skiff's inbuilt bench. He rolled his shoulders, stretched his limbs and moved his neck around. His elbows and knees creaked with disuse, yelling at him to stop moving you bastard, we were comfy. He yawned, found his sword and cannon and strapped them on either side of his waist, then reluctantly tugged his rifle out from behind the very same bench he'd been sleeping on. He stared at the unbeaten heart.

It was nothing short of a miracle he'd avoided having nightmares.

Ikharos pulled the Touch over his shoulder and attached it to his armour's locks, and only once armed to the teeth did he disembark. The rifle was cold against his back, the malign power of the it seeping through the impermeable materials of his robes and biosuit to leave a chilling tingle running up and down his spine.

Raksil wordlessly accompanied him, armed with a shock rifle and carrying two sheathed cutlasses. His armour gleamed with the aftermath of recent polishing and his cloak had recently been flushed with grey, forcing the Scar colours from the exquisitely-woven bannercloth. His helmet was a work of art in ivory and gold gilding, with narrow slits for his four blue eyes to peek out of and a reinforced rebreather to protect his mouth and mandibles. Two sets of curling horns wended away from the side and back of his helm, not long enough to single him out as being nearly a Captain in standing but enough to betray that he was highborn.

Now, though, he was just an exile with better personal equipment than most.

"You need to talk with someone," Ikharos gently told him as they walked towards the elven camp.

"Talk?" Raksil blinked. "Are we not speaking now?"

"You know what I mean. I'm... not great with this, so not me, but the elves are... yeah, they're all probably better with people than I am. I'll get Formora to find someone; maybe even she could do it."

"You mean mine... mine-loss."

Ikharos reluctantly nodded. "You've been through something awful. I like you, I trust you, I believe in you, and I appreciate you coming with us - but I need to know the soldiers I'm going into hell with are sound of mind. We're headed into the Dark's domain now, Raksil. You don't want to be carrying excess baggage for the Deep to cling to."

Raksil shot him an accusatory, knowing look. "As you do, Ikha Riis?"

That was a low blow. True, though. Truer than the Vandal had any right to know. "I've been in and out of the Ascendant plane more times than I can count; I'll be fine," Ikharos lied. Well, the second part was a lie - the first was, unfortunately, all too true as well. Now that had been hell, as honest to the word as any place could be.

Raksil grunted noncommittally. "I will think on it," he muttered.

No you won't, Ikharos almost said, but the eliko's business was his own.

Lord Bellaen met them just at the treeline, the Psion sharpshooter Neirim beside him. The elf touched his lips with two fingers and said, "Lord Torstil. Atra esterní ono thelduin."

"Mor'ranr lifa unin hjarta onr."

"Un atra du evarínya ono varda."

"What's the plan?"

Bellaen gestured them forth and guided them into the camp - though camp wasn't really the right word. No tents had been picketed, no fires had been lit, only Eliksni lamps and bedrolls had been set on the ground. All the elves had done was grow a couple of beds of soft moss and lit a couple of werelights; there was otherwise no sign they had stayed there in the first place. The leaders of the warhost, or fyrnvard, were gathered in the centre of it all. Warriors and mages stood around, sat up in the trees, patrolled around in the immediate vicinity, but compared to the Cabal not so far away the elves looked the disorderly and lax sort.

Formora saw them coming and smiled. Ikharos's heart melted.

The heart on his back, though, thumped. It thoroughly ruined his mood. It thumped again. And again. At first it was gradual, but the closer he walked to the group the faster it beat. Not as fast as to support life, no, and nowhere near loud enough to shatter the low chatter already in the air, but Neirim noted it. So did Raksil. So did Bellaen. Ikharos almost tossed the weapon into transmat. He even thought about going so far as cracking it over his knee, but no - bad idea. He needed it. At least until he could understand himself, understand why there was a spark of a dead god's power in his ribcage.

The heart rate reached an all-time high as he reached the highborn group, a crescendo of a single thump every five seconds or so. Something had the heart roused, rallied, anxious. Something was making nonexistent blood roar in veins long since cut away. Something nearby. Ikharos had no idea what; was the heart at least semi-conscious? Was it upset with him? Trying to drive him away from something? Even warning him? He didn't know. Neither did he really want to; a petrified heart wasn't all that high on his list of things to take advice from.

Formora glanced over his shoulder, at the rifle stock peeking over. "What is making that-"

"Ignore it," Ikharos sighed. "My gun's having a fit."

Smiles fell, to be replaced with confused expressions all around. Even Neuroc-

"What are you doing here?" Ikharos asked, frowning himself. He glanced back at Neirim, only just comprehending what he was seeing. "Hold up-"

"Zhonoch is advocating for an early march," Formora supplied. "And I invited Neuroc here so that we may speak with her."

Ikharos opened his mouth, then thought better of arguing. He shrugged. "Fair. So are we marching?"

"We are. I wanted to ask, though - would it not be more productive to ferry ourselves with Skiff and Harvester?"

Ikharos shook his head. "Our job's to do a preliminary sweep, then meet up with Invoctol. To be sure to be sure, y'know? Besides," he leaned on one foot, then the other, "Harmony have shown themselves to be rather adept at taking out airborne vessels. It's probably for the best to keep our ships out of reach while we move - at least if we're checking for cult incursions. Safer for all involved."

Formora nodded. "So be it. We will run, then."

"Or Sparrow."

"We have not the Pikes anymore."

"'Spose it'll just be me, then," Ikharos said. "I'll range ahead in that case, try to get a feel for any Dark. Keep your comms open and relay to me any developments. If that's all...?"

Formora didn't look quite so pleased. She still dipped her head all the same. "That is all."

"I'll be close," Ikharos promised - promised to her in particular. "Call if you need me."

Formora did call, and not five minutes after he left. "Stay safe," she told him.

"You too," Ikharos replied, just as softly.

The call cut off on the other end. Ikharos pushed his Sparrow onwards, tearing a swathe across the open fields beyond Du Weldenvarden's grasp. Magic flickered and crackled against his skin, but it was the low paracausal charge ever-present within the elven nation, not that of dragon-magic or Hive sorcery. He flew and flew for miles.

Nothing.

He felt nothing.

Nothing save for the anchor of ice-cold dread tethered to his back.

For four days Ikharos rode, spending each one riding first north to ensure that the forest ahead was unblemished, then south to double-check he hadn't missed anything and to return to the elves for the night. On the first night the elves did not stop to rest. Ikharos moved with them, marching with the Eliksni and watching as the neohumans flitted through the midnight gloom like ethereal wraiths, fey creatures born to magic and forever blessed with inhuman grace. The Cabal marched in tandem, out in the open where the elves took to the forest. They found no tracks and no traces of anything birthed in soulfire, no sign that any Hive had strayed from the Darkblade's suicide mission.

On the second night the elves stopped to rest, reassuring themselves of their just purpose and slapping imaginary bandages on the Harmony-inflicted wounds by reciting stories, singing songs, running and playing with the woodland beasts. A number tended to the beautiful horses that accompanied them and just as many pressed the Eliksni for entertainment. Melkris quickly rose to fame there, beloved for his endless jubilance and unceasing tricks. His jokes, played on both neohuman and fellow Eliksni both, won him many friends and fans. He became as popular as Javek - who, Ikharos understood, was valued for his seemingly limitless scholarly learnings. The Splicer knew and practiced sciences that surpassed even those of the greatest of elven philosophers and was regularly pressed for all he knew on seemingly inane matters - though usually pertaining to how science could meet with magic.

On the third night Formora pulled Ikharos into her arms and drew him into the shadows of Du Weldenvarden.

On the fourth night they reached the point where they were parallel with the northern headland of the fjord, which Invoctol was undoubtedly closing in on. Zhonoch walked into the elven camp with empty hands, unarmed save for the retractable wrist-blades strapped above his knuckles, and explained that they were to rendezvous with the Primus at midday.

"Tomorrow," the Vigilant promised, "we will consolidate our forces and drive a knife into the Hive's wretched heart."

Ikharos tried not to think about the heart embedded in his rifle, still holstered on his back. "I trust we still have vows of safe conduct?"

"You do," Zhonoch said to him, "and you," to Formora, "but we are willing to grant them to any you choose to accompany you."

"Lord Däthedr," Formora told the Uluru, "and Lady Ästrith."

"Javek," Ikharos added.

Zhonoch rumbled. "Noted. You may bring arms, but sheathed and holstered. A drawn weapon will result in a seizure of your person; a discharged weapon will result in the deliverance of Imperial justice." The Uluru glanced about the camp, eyes narrowed. "I trust you are ready for what is to come?"

Formora raised an eyebrow, as if daring the Vigilant to say something about the state of the elven host. "We are, twice over."

"Good." Zhonoch's heavy gaze settled on her. "We expect honour and honesty. This alliance is one of convenience, nothing more, but if you break it we will break you."

"Our causes are aligned; there is no need for threats."

"I'm saying this for the benefit of the brigands in your midst." Zhonoch pointedly looked at Beraskes, who hung just behind Formora. The Marauder hissed. "We will depart tomorrow." He brought a fist against his breastplate, "For the Empire," and marched back to his soldiers.

Neuroc lingered for but a moment, looking at Formora and then Ikharos, and followed her commander away.

"Charmed," Ikharos said, just to fill the sudden silence - because even his rifle had fallen silent. Melkris snorted; Eilífa laughed. He turned around. "Hive obviously aren't around. Say your goodbyes, farewells, adieus, whatever - we'll be leaving Du Weldenvarden behind us if your maps are accurate." He caught Formora's eye. "Can we... talk? We need to chat tactics."

"Of course." Formora turned to the other elves and meted out commands and orders. They offered no complaints, taking to every duty with boundless energy and fierce determination. Even Lord Däthedr, who would have ordinarily been the highest ranking elf present in matters of war, bowed his head and did as Formora quietly instructed. Finally, after a few minutes of passing on tasks, Formora took a deep breath and turned back around to Ikharos, the two of them alone but for the three guards - Beraskes and two elves.

"Alone," Ikharos said pointedly, "please?"

Formora dismissed her guards with a whispered word in the ancient language. One of them asked, "Are you sure, my lady?"

"I am. If there is a threat Lord Ikharos and I cannot handle, then your lives would be risked unnecessarily. Wait for me; I do not expect us to speak all night." Her eyes fell on him, question hanging between them.

Ikharos dipped his head. "No. Just want to know if you'd be willing to share some advice."

"Always." She looped her arm under his. They walked and left the elven camp behind. Formora quickly cast a spell to dampen their voices in case of eavesdroppers and raised murky barriers of dirt and latent water in the ground to obscure their forms.

Ikharos took a breath. "You've... been north, haven't you?"

"With Ilthorvo, indeed." Formora hesitated but for a moment. "Not so far as to chance upon Albazad. The weather grew treacherous, forcing us to turn back - but yes, we went some ways north."

"What's it like?"

"Cold."

"Hah," Ikharos said humourlessly. "That comes with the territory. I mean... geographical makeup, conditions, wildlife, resources."

"Scarcity and brutality are the tools of the north," Formora told him. "Only the hardiest of beasts and plants survive the north - though some of the former can grow to significant proportions."

"Like the creatures of the Beors?"

"Just so."

"And the rest?"

Formora took a breath. "Tundra. For a hundred miles on end. And beyond that - towering monoliths, bottomless fissures, lakes and rivers hidden beneath the ice, and then more tundra."

"Any people?"

"Not from what Ilthorvo and I saw, though the storm that barred our way... it hindered our sight."

Ikharos frowned. "A storm barred your way. Any connection to the storm that chased us? The same that kicked up a fuss because of the Hive?"

Formora's eyes widened. "Perhaps. I... cannot say, but now that you mention it..."

"Someone's got their hands on a Golden Age atmospheric-control installation. Strife Cult most likely." Ikharos grimaced. "That's something else to take from them, but first we have to find it. Kepler's a big world, Earth-sized, so that's... yeah, that's going to be like trying to find a needle in a haystack. And difficult besides, considering how easily they can tear us out of the skies with it..."

"Do you think the storm will assail us once more? On this campaign?"

Ikharos shrugged. "No way to know, but... we know it acts when anything of significance happens. No way to be sure except by moving on."

Formora made a face. "I dislike this uncertainty."

"Same."

"Right... Is that all?"

Ikharos leaned in and kissed her. Formora reciprocated and smiled. He pulled away after a long moment. "Suppose it is now." He slid his arms around her. "You should prepare your friends, people, all of them. The Land Tank's going to be... well, something I suppose."

"I haven't seen it myself either."

"Ah, but you know what to expect."

"No, I just know that my expectations are likely going to be shattered."

"Same thing, really."

"What will you do?" Formora asked, resting her chin on his shoulder.

Ikharos sighed. "Meditate with a side of self-study."

There was a long pause. Then, "It continues to bother you."

"It does."

"Is there nothing I can do to help?"

"Be yourself - perfection incarnate. It keeps me going, keeps me from straying into the Deep end."

Formora hummed. "I suppose I can manage." She pulled back, pointedly looking him in the eye. "But if there is trouble, don't hesitate to enlist my help. I am here."

Ikharos kissed her again. "I'll keep that in mind."

"Do." Formora reluctantly separated from him. The spells around them collapsed. "Do not tarry overly long, Ikharos."

"I won't."

"Goodnight."

Xiān dropped off the spectral analyzer and disappeared. Not a word was exchanged. Ikharos didn't feel like it; her silence was starting to feel natural, even if it left him in a wretchedly rudderless state - one which he was keen to rectify. He had his two firearms laid out on the grassy earth in front of him, dragging the tool over both of their frames. The Touch of Malice pinged Dark, clear as day and to no surprise. The Lumina's own subtler influences manifested as Light - misting out from the ivory shell of the cannon as if it had once been part of the Traveler's own carapace.

When Ikharos turned the analyzer on himself, the results were... murky. Light, particularly when he forced it to the surface, was prevalent and dominant - but the Dark within was waiting, biding its time, hibernating for when he next grew desperate enough to grasp for a power mortal hands should never have touched. The worst part was the connection between his umbral core and the terrible rifle on the ground. A lightweight residual bond, like a string of venom running taut between fang and bite-wound. It was an old bite too - but the fangs had been embedded in his flesh for a while.

It was true, then.

As if there had been any doubt.

"I did this," Ikharos whispered to himself. "I... I did this. To me. I... oh no."

The morning came too fast. Ikharos wandered back to camp, feeling the weight of all the world on his shoulders, and double-checked that his own preparations for the day ahead were through. He felt tired. Not bodily exhausted, not anymore thanks to his forced rest, but... spiritually. Mentally. Just about to check out, really. Or maybe not - checking out sounded too good to be true and the universe didn't like him catching a break.

He found himself joining the elven nobles as they converged on Formora by the edge of the forest, peeking out at the wide meadows beyond - and the sea far, far in the distance. They had been speaking about something, but fell silent as he arrived. Ikharos nodded in the direction of the distant fjord. "Have they arrived yet?"

"What are we to look for?" Bellaen asked, squinting against the gloom of the west. "I see nothing."

"Not yet."

"It's a long march, even..." Bellaen looked in the direction of where the accompanying Cabal had set down their equipment. "Even if our allies are hardier than I gave them credit for."

Ikharos shrugged. "It'll be here soon, I'm sure."

"What will?" Ästrith inquired. "Is there something... The mountain!"

Through the morning mist it looked as if a slab of rock had slid away from the distant Spine on the fjord's southern jaw and into the water, but Ikharos knew what it was. He watched with detached interest as the rectangular shape rode the waves - or more accurately, traversed the shallows boasted by where the fjord fed into the sea. "That's them," he muttered.

"Their Imperial Land Tank?" Formora softly questioned. "It's... massive."

"A fortress on tank treads, yeah. I've only been inside two in my entire life - mobile bunkers, essentially, with the capacity to hit back." Ikharos cycled air in and out, hands resting on his hips. "If Invoctol plays nice... if his dogs listen... if we don't anymore existentially-worrying snags, then... this could actually work."

It didn't take long for the Land Tank to cross over. Its front raised up as it hit the opposite shore and fell down with a crash that only reached them a half-second later. Tiny black shapes darted around it like buzzing flies - Threshers and Harvesters, awhirl with bloodthirsty anticipation.

Motion attracted Ikharos's attention closer to home; Zhonoch was trudging towards them, Neuroc in tow. Ikharos nudged Formora's arm with his elbow. "We're off. I'll get Javek."

Formora nodded. "Lord Däthedr? Lady Ästrith? It is time."

Ikharos had to resist the urge to take to his Sparrow and set off towards the Land Tank alone. Neither elf-horses nor Pikeless Eliksni were able to keep up with his Shrike and then there was the simple idea of riding towards an active Land Tank that made him think twice. His compromise with himself was to board the Harvester Zhonoch was taking to the Amarz Amalz with the elves and Splicer.

"This is an honour," Däthedr said to the Vigilant as they stepped into the dropship's hold. "To fly as a dragon does..."

Zhonoch grunted and looked at Ikharos. He offered only a one-shouldered shrug in return. "As you say, elf," the Vigilant rumbled in apparent disinterest. He barked something in Ulurant up to the pilot - so very like Ikharos was wont to do with Calzan in the Skiff. The hatches on either side of the Harvesters belly snapped shut. Formora had to pull Ästrith out of one of the hatch-frames so as to save her a limb. The ship around them shuddered and groaned as it lifted off, far less elegant than the Skiff or even any jumpship Ikharos had owned in his entire life had been.

Cabal tech was intuitive - though crude at the same time. It was all about purpose and little else. Certainly not comfort. Ikharos grabbed a handhold and leaned against it. Formora mirrored the motion and passed it on to the other elves. Javek had already secured himself - and was presently glancing around, looking terribly out of place. Eliksni and Cabal didn't mix, but then, Ikharos mused, neither did Cabal and Risen. Not unless there was drastic need - and even then not without immense reluctance. He was no different in that respect.

"We're closing in," Zhonoch reported not far into their flight. He turned to Ikharos. "Keep your weapons holstered and we won't have any trouble, human. Same for your magic - keep it out of the air."

"I'll try my best," Ikharos replied noncommittally.

Zhonoch growled, but he said little else. He simply didn't get the chance. A deeper rumble emanated from outside the Harvester, adding to the mechanical din. A part of the Land Tank opening, Ikharos suspected. The Harvester landed with a locking clank, docking supports gripped and secured. The hatches opened; bright light flooded in, banishing the dim crimson hue of the Harvester's interior.

Ikharos stepped out first, right into the middle of the understaffed hanger. A small honour guard had formed ahead, two lines of Uluru Legionaries armed with slug rifles and bearing freshly-painted armour. Banners flickered from their backs, stamped with a symbol quickly becoming familiar to him - that of the Soulrazer legion. Some insignias of the Worldbreakers persisted, but for the most part the cream and gold was taking over the blood-red, bruise-blue and leaf-green. One legion was annexing its sister-cohorts, as one nation would another. He wondered if it chafed on the soldiers of the latter.

Neuroc glided past, Neirim with her. Zhonoch followed them out and waited for the others. Ikharos felt the Touch of Malice beating, pumping, roaring in the face of... something. A broken Logic, perhaps. He didn't know; the weapon was in close transmat, on the edge of manifestation but far enough that Ikharos wasn't going to worry about it making a scene. It had done that too much already.

Formora, Däthedr and Ästrith followed after, each of them attempting to school their features into cold, unimpressed masks with varying degrees of success. The elder of the trio, Däthedr, looked at everything in an interest approaching analytical - even a touch morbid. Ästrith, though, was apparently finding it hard to suppress the faint tells of the awed grin trying to take control of her face. Only Formora managed to look like a cold-eyed professional - and even then it was clear she was taken aback by her surroundings.

"This place is... moving?" she asked.

Ikharos wordlessly nodded. He waited for Javek and, once the Splicer had cautiously stepped out of the dropship to join them, marched ahead. They passed the Legionaries without incident, who all formed up behind them and slowly brought up the rear. He spied technicians and pilots at work on the other docked vessels, mostly Threshers, and did a headcount of all the machines present. It looked like the majority of the flightships Invoctol had boasted to possessing were within. Given the presence of air support on the outside, it likely amounted to the Psion having told the truth. It was... oddly comforting to know.

Ikharos didn't expect the feeling to last.

The route they took was scenic, but only in the way a soldier would have understood; they passed loading bays where Uluru labourers and Psion overseers stacked oil barrels, weapons crates, fuel cells, and chains on chains of ammunition. There were more warriors lining the corridors too, for show and security both. A metaconcert stretched overhead, and given the puzzled looks the elves threw in the most random directions, Ikharos doubted he was the only one to feel it. He'd told them beforehand not to engage with it at all costs. Formora knew, she understood, she had felt it before, but Ikharos worried for the other two - but only a little. Ästrith and Däthedr both struck him as wise, careful individuals, and both often gave his words ample thought.

At last they arrived at the bridge of the Land Tank, where the metaconcert was strongest and yet, ironically enough, quietest. The chamber was large, with a walkway leading ahead for the commander to oversee all operations and with two descending levels on either side where Psion operators and Uluru officers ran the tank's systems with practiced efficiency. More soldiers lined all along the walls, armed to the teeth and watching Ikharos and his companions with close scrutiny. Zhonoch led him and the elves to the end of the walkway, where an elaborate rectangular holotable was on display. A chair - or throne, given how high-backed and gaudily decorated it was - rested on the closer side of it, in a perfect position to glance over at those on the left and right below as well as look forward, through the front windshield. The seat was occupied by the Primus himself, and on the left side of the table stood Valus Shu'av. Another officer, Val Erestus Ikharos believed, flanked the Valus. Neuroc walked ahead and took up position beside the Primus. Her companion, Optus Neirim, went with her.

"Approach," Invoctol brusquely ordered without looking.

Zhonoch walked to the oversized Psion's side and went down on one knee. The Primus gestured for him to rise - and Ikharos spied something like heartfelt affection in the towering alien's single eye. It disappeared the moment it darted to Ikharos and the elves.

Formora approached first - which Ikharos didn't feel like rectifying. She was the leader of the elven host and, by and large, probably more important in the political and diplomatic world at that moment. Besides, Ikharos reckoned, it was more pressing to deliver a smooth concordance of aligned purposes than trade more veiled and unveiled threats. Or something. In truth he just didn't want to do much talking - at least beyond what was necessary.

"Primus," Formora greeted, touching her lips. Whether the gesture was lost on the Psion or not wasn't clear. Invoctol raised himself up all the same, lazily bringing his hand to his ivory cuirass in a lax salute.

"Rílvenar," Invoctol replied. His eye found the other elves. "You have brought company."

"May I introduce Lord Däthedr of House Baharroth, patron of the fyrnvard, and Lady Ästrith of House Idharae."

Invoctol made a sweeping motion. "Welcome, elves of Du Weldenvarden, to my abode, to my kingdom, to my estate and property - welcome to the Amarz Amalz, the Tomb-Glutton."

Both elves bowed their heads and brought two fingers to their lips. "Thank you for your warm welcome," Ästrith replied. Ikharos had trouble deciding if she spoke sarcastically or not; her awe and bewilderment was at once banished from her, replaced with a cool formality not unlike Formora's, if a touch warmer and much less familiar.

"I must profess the same," Däthedr said quietly. His eyes roved about the chamber, wide with wonder. "This is incredible, lord."

"No lord," Invoctol said, voice tinged with amusement - and nowhere near as mockingly as when he'd taken the same tone with Ikharos during their previous negotiations. "I am Primus; I am general and legion-father, God-Thought and Dominion's Triune. The only nobility I can attest to is in how I will carry myself upon the battlefield - and within elder faiths long since stamped out." He turned to Ikharos. "Merida-X8. You are among us once again."

"It appears so," Ikharos agreed. "I trust we're ready to lay out a plan of action?"

"Indeed." Invoctol gestured for them to join him by the holotable. The orange light dancing above the surface morphed into a near-flat map of the local area, growing and growing to include more and more land in all directions. "We are here," he gestured to a spot a small distance northeast of where the Ceunonian fjord joined the open ocean, "and our immediate quarry are headed in this direction." A red dot blipped far northwards, moving out of sight. "The Hive have had ample time to cover a great distance. We can catch them, I'm sure, but they have now ventured into territory in which I know little of. An advantage, however slim, lies with them. We must rip this from them at the earliest convenience before we strike."

"We need to get eyes on them," Ikharos murmured, strolling around to the far side of the holotable. "Even a glimpse would work."

"We have that."

"We do?"

Invoctol waved to the hologram. If shifted once more, flattening in a vertical fashion. The newest display was of a HUD dotted with Ulurunt symbols - letters and numbers both. A holovid taken from a Thresher's inbuilt automated display. "I dispatched two gunships to trail the Hive horde."

"Are they still there now?" Ikharos watched as the display showed first a moving landscape below, then, at the top, the slowly growing form of a great black host of many, many bodies - some gangly, some engorged, most loping along with primal purpose.

"No." Invoctol waved again. The holovid sped up, right up until the camera tilted sideways all of a sudden, flickering feed covered over with fire and smoke. "Both vessels were destroyed - plasma burns, my salvage team has told me. Both Threshers were hit from above, not below."

"Harmony," Formora guessed.

Shu'av snarled at the hologram. "Yes. The damn silver-bloods..."

"They are aware we are following," Invoctol said, "or they must suspect it."

"I'm pretty sure they're counting on it," Ikharos tiredly reported. "Given that they hit all of us, and in such a way as to leave us scarred but alive, they want us to get involved."

"This is a trap," Invoctol stated. It wasn't a question. Däthedr and Ästrith wore concerned expressions, but everyone else - even Javek lingering to the side - were already in the midst of mulling over all the implications. "They may want to exterminate us all at once."

"Probably," Ikharos agreed, "which is why we don't get involved just yet."

Invoctol turned his head sharply, eye narrowed. "You... gathered us all here, human, and now... now you tell us not to fight?"

"No." Ikharos shook his head. "We need to fight, we just... need to pick our time to get involved wisely. Like you said, the Harmony are likely waiting for us to hit the Hive before they set themselves upon us all. A sound tactic - so why don't we do the same? Let the Hive march, let them sniff out the Harmony fortress, this Albazad. Let them force the Harmony in battle - so we can cut them down all at once."

Invoctol looked at Zhonoch. Zhonoch looked at Shu'av. The Colossus grunted, "It could work. We must hit them quickly, though, at the allotted time - before they grow powerful enough on death to curry more favour from their gods. But first we must be in a position to catch them."

"Therein lies their advantage and our first hurdle," Invoctol noted. "The local humans had no maps pertaining to the northern reaches. Do elves?"

"No," Formora said, "though I personally know these lands."

"You do?"

"I do. I flew this way with my dragon, centuries past. The terrain is rugged; difficult to traverse, even with a vessel as powerful as this one." Formora pointedly looked around the room. "I could pass on some of what I know, but... not all my knowledge comes from experience alone."

"From what, then?"

"It's difficult to... Dragon-memories. Ancestral knowledge, passed on through magic and blood."

Invoctol leaned back and exchanged a look with his officers. "You... are a Dragon Rider?"

"Was," Formora tiredly corrected. "No longer."

"Your dragon-"

"Is no longer here to assist us."

Invoctol's pupil enlarged. "So be it. Share what you can. We will need operations groups to scout the land ahead, to affirm what paths are stable enough for the Amarz Amalz to pass through and remove any and all lingering traps the Hive may leave us. I do not doubt they are oblivious to our presence either."

"I'll lead a group," Formora quickly said.

Ikharos looked at her, surprised. He started to reach out to her consciousness, but a thrum of the metaconcert had him scrambling back behind the defenses of his own mind.

"Though I have no doubts towards the worth of your warriors," Formora continued, "my own älfya may prove more attuned to the land. The terrain ahead is dangerous, precarious and near-inhospitable - we will be your guides."

Invoctol hummed. "A gracious proposal."

"A tactful one."

"So it is. I accept. However," at this Invoctol glanced at the other elves, "I am not so quick as to hand this authority and trust towards people unknown at the first offer. One of mine will lead another, with guides of yours to offer assistance where needed."

Formora made a show of giving it some thought. "This is acceptable. Who?"

"I." Zhonoch stepped to the edge of the holotable, glancing at Invoctol - there was the care and affection again, mirrored in his own eyes. It didn't last long; quickly hidden behind a veneer of professionalism.

"And-" Shu'av began.

"No," Invoctol said, cutting the Colossus off. "I need you here, to command my soldiers. You are my hammer. You will remain in a place I can properly wield you."

Shu'av bowed his head. "As you decree, brother."

Invoctol looked at Neuroc, then at Erestus, then-

"I'll do another," Ikharos said, surprising himself. He gave Formora a meaningful look, trying to say 'If you can do this, so can I' while also grappling with the childishness of the effort. He glanced back to the table and those arrayed around it. "The Eliksni... well, let's not skirt around the problem. The Eliksni don't trust you, nor do they like you. They trust me, however, and I'm under the impression they at least tolerate me, so they'll listen to what I have to say. Not so a Cabal commander. And they'll follow Formora's orders as well."

"Eia." Javek dipped his head, eyeing the nearby Cabal with wary consideration. "Will hear Ikha Riis and Formora."

"And they're as valuable as scouts as elves," Ikharos pointed out, "as well as excellent rangers."

"I have not the numbers to send out many vanguards," Invoctol murmured. "Nor am I willing to halve my garrison to ensure balance is kept. Will your squadrons be formed purely of your own followers, or do you seek to poach my own soldiers as well?"

"The latter," Ikharos affirmed. "Couple of Incendiors and maybe a Goliath per group. Your soldiers will still be in a position of strength, and they'll help us burn out any Hive who might've burrowed in on the wayside. We'll all be at an impasse."

"Perhaps - save for your own regiment," the Primus pointed out. "The Goliaths we stationed within Ceunon did not stand against you."

"Precious little of causal design will, but here I am, playing nice anyways."

"And what of the rest of your contingent?" Invoctol turned the focus back onto Formora. "What of the rest of your warrior-elves?"

"I will leave those under the command of Däthedr," Formora said, inclining her head in the direction of the elven lord. The älfa held his head high and cleared his throat.

"Thank you, Lady Láerdhon." Däthedr turned to Invoctol. "We would be honoured to assist your people traverse this tundra, Primus. Only a precious few times have our people ventured so far north, and never with the intent of war, but we know how to battle the conditions and resource-scarcity all the same. We could share this with you, if you find it agreeable."

"You will share this power with us?" Invoctol asked, eagerness colouring his voice.

"No," Ikharos cut in, perhaps too sharply. "No. You can reap the same benefits, but this magic remains with the elves. You'll have food and protection from the elements - which, given your own resource-short state, should be enticing enough."

"You still consider us foes," Neuroc said suddenly. "You would deny us every advantage to keep us weak."

Ikharos bit the inside of his cheek. "I've gone to lengths aplenty for your sakes," he shot back. "Oh, I don't fully trust you - no more than you trust me. This alliance is one of convenience and necessity both, as your Vigilant as seen fit to remind us time and again, and I'm happy to let it continue as long as we're all civil about it, but I'm not fool enough to hand you the knife with which to stab me in the back."

"And you ask me to trust you with my soldiers," Invoctol retorted.

"That's different." Ikharos crossed his arms. "I'd need the schematics to your Land Tank to even begin considering arming you with magic."

Invoctol stared at him. Ikharos stared right back, giving no ground. The Psion eventually grumbled, "Fine, human. But if my soldiers are dealt harm by your hand..." his gaze flickered over to the elves, "I will do the same."

"Fine," Ikharos echoed. "We're settled, then? Three groups pronging our advance?"

"We are 'settled'."

"Good. Then let's move onto the makeup of these squadrons. How many Legionaries can you offer? Incendiors? Interceptors?"

000

"Father," a Knight shouted with guttural affection, "the cutter-of-wings rouses!"

Kirrnaka-Hul lifted himself out of the hollow in the cliffside, dragging behind him a great brown-furred beast, and motioned with his bloodied axe. He was in a fair mood; they were making good time. "Fetch it. Bring it to me. Draw forth this Totem of None-Shall-Fly."

His son left, then returned with a brother and sister - Blades of Kâliir all - and Kirrnaka-Hul's own mate, the Wizard Viirloraak. She levitated between her hands the totem of Skyless-Space and Life-Within-Death-Without, and she placed it before him with great reverence. The broken blades that formed the relic of magic (both stolen and soulforged) trembled with anticipation. Kirrnaka-Hul dropped his deceased quarry - oh, how enticingly incredible the scent of rightly-spilled blood stank - and laid his empty hand against the totem. Razors flashed and bit into the flesh of his palm, seeking blood of its own. Kirrnaka-Hul allowed it only a morsel; only enough to allow for a single handhold and no more. He pulled away with a low snarl, shaking his wounded hand, and waited.

The blades separated - and an ember of soulfire took form, drinking in the blood, the dust, the chitin and bone and reforming an anchor within realspace. Cheirrlok stumbled across the ground, gasping for alien air, and when a Thrall pounced on him at the perceived weakness he caught it and closed his fangs on its throat, drinking in its lifeblood with immense thirst. His three eyes, so full of creative curiosity, found Kirrnaka-Hul and burned with fury.

"Tir-Argok!" Cheirrlok cried through a mouth filled with gore. "Tir-Argok falls! The Sky pierces our Honesty!"

Kirrnaka-Hul bellowed. "Tir-Argok?! What has befallen our scheming sister?!"

"Shattered! Fractured! Broken into shards!" Cheirrlok tore his Thrall's head from its shoulders to peel out the Worm larva within. "The Sky's falsified birds took her coherence and cracked it across their knees!"

Rage, rage, rage rage rage, rageragerage, rage against the world, rage against the otherworlds, rage against the gods above and insects below and Sky and Deep in equal measure, rage against it all. SHE. WAS. HIS. SISTER.

Kirrnaka-Hul roared. He heard Maalcoth doing much the same while tearing another Ogre's arms from its shoulders. "Pierce them! Pierce them with blade! Pierce them with bolt! Pierce them with word and fang and all the weapons at your disposal! Pierce them, Cheirrlok! Pierce them now!"

AN: Thanks to Nomad Blue for his ever vigilant editing!

Well, there goes the first story arc. Likely the largest, but as I've said before - I've no bloody idea how long anything is going to take. I expected to be here, on this arc like... months and nearly two dozen chapters ago. But hey, now I get into the stuff I've been looking forward to for a looooong time. Stuff I've been rambling about to my poor editor for a while now. Some heavy stuff, some ambitious stuff, some in-universe philosophical stuff... and maybe a revelation or two. Bah, I'll just leave it there.

Goodbye Alagaësia, hello Albazad!