Chapter Eight: Revelation

16th June, 2533 (UNSC Calendar)

Ninth Age of Reclamation, 8th Solar Cycle (Covenant Calendar)

Eayn, Y'Deio System

Kig-Yar cuisine is, from the point of view of most other sentient species we share this galaxy with, an acquired taste at best.

Most of the other races of our Covenant were certainly averse to what we ate. The Sangheili were always too proud to eat anything other than the delicacies of their own homeworld. The Jiralhanae were the same - they loved nothing but the meat of roasted beasts from Doisac. The San 'Shyuum always preferred their own herbal teas, brewed from plants preserved from their lost homeworld, to any blends from our teahouses. As for the Unggoy - they were content with that crap they sucked on from their food nipples.

For us though, hok-vash - our most popular stew - is the food of the gods themselves. It does not merely contain various meats and fish, but also several kinds of vegetables - most commonly roots and tubers, though this can vary with a touch of various spices - that give it flavour.

Right now I was lapping up a dish of hok-vash served from a single huge steaming pot of the stuff for breakfast, together with my comrades in the recruits' feasting hall. A one-pot meal is traditional among our people, served at any time of day.

All those diverse flavours, meats and tastes...you can find it all in hok-vash. It remains my favourite meal to this day...


At this precise moment, Trau was feasting from a broad dish of...I could just about call it stew...which he told me was named 'hok-vash'. We were once more in the tea-house, in our second day of the interview.

Right now, he was continuing his account over lunch - which for him was a bowl of the stuff.

I forced myself once more to look at the bowl of animal parts - including heads and eyes - fish heads and fillets with their bones still visible...and several other ingredients that were beyond description.

The whole thing smelled like chum - the foul combination of fish guts and blood used to attract sharks. According to Trau though, it was the most sweet-smelling dish ever made.

I struggled to keep the toasted sandwiches I was eating down in my stomach where they belonged. I just about succeeded.

"Would you like to try some, Mr Crawford?" He asked, as he eagerly lapped up the stew. The way he ate suitably reminded me of the ravenous canines for which his people were named. "It is edible for humans."

I almost retched at the thought. Still, when in Rome...

"Of course."

He served me a portion on a smaller plate - a mere taster. I took it from him.

Not wishing to cause offence, I speared part of it with my fork and put it in my mouth.

It will surprise the reader that the eyeball of - whichever of the many animals it was that went into the making of the stew - tasted so sweet. At the same time, the smell was so overwhelming that the taste was almost impossible to appreciate. The rest of the stew did indeed have a huge variety of flavours - ranging from sweet to extremely bitter, with varying degrees of spice. The whole combination felt unnatural, almost inedible...and yet strangely satisfying.

Trau saw my forced approval as I gradually finished the rest of the portion, forcing it all down my throat.

"Would you like some more?"

"No thank you." I had already finished my sandwiches - and at that moment, one taste was enough. "I'm full right now."


As I said, an acquired taste. But let us return...

Following our dismissal from the courtyard, we had eagerly filed into the feasting hall for breakfast while the Majors analysed the results of our marksmanship tests. At that moment, we were all gathered around a round table, as per tradition in a Kig-Yar lance. All soldiers of the same rank are equal, and thus there is no formal hierarchy by seating arrangement in our messes.

There were paintings, blue and white tiles and woodblock prints throughout the mess hall, depicting naval and land battles between the clans during the seafaring age. Swarms of arrows and clouds of gunpowder smoke, the lethal forms of ancient corsair ships plying white-crested deep blue waves, soldiers and pirates armed with crossbows, swords, shields, pikes, pistols and bayoneted muskets - no detail was spared in the artwork all around us.

Alongside the paintings there were framed astrolabes, compasses and other navigational instruments, ancient helmets and hunting trophies, crossed cutlasses and bolt-rifles. Nevertheless it was the artwork that drew the most attention in that room, through the sheer richness of detail that went into it all.

The painted tiles in particular, with their illustrations always in blue and white, are a common form of Kig-Yar art. We call them pan-ra-tars - visions on tiles. They traditionally adorned the walls and fireplaces of comfortable homes on Eayn, as well as those of teahouses, inns and taverns. They are one of Eayn's luxury exports, popular with our merchants but now also with some wealthy San 'Shyuum and Sangheili.

The tiles in the mess-hall also depicted scenes of history - the corsair ships, the great merchant hulks and carracks of the seafaring age, our first spaceflights and the founding of the first asteroid colonies. Yet there were also mythological scenes - great mother Chu'ot birthing the children that would go on to orbit her, Chu'ot watching over the first Kig-Yar as they grew from their early innocence to harsh maturity, facing all their temptations.

The greatest temptation and flaw of our people was heavily depicted, as a demon that grew fat on Kig-Yar souls. It was represented by an obese, monstrous, deformed Ibie'shan carrying overflowing buckets and bursting sacks of food and gold in many of its multiple flabby arms; while using its free hands to grasp the mortals it fed on, those who were drawn in by its allure.

That demon had a simple name: Greed.

Each lance had a round table to itself, with a pot of hok-vash stew in the middle. It was the typical setting of our meals, really.

Seated beside me, Par guzzled several tan-back eyes in one portion of his stew. The amphibian they come from is a native of T'Vao, and thus is a very common delicacy among my kind. The eyeballs popped in his mouth, their contents spilling out as he savoured them before swallowing. He finished off with a satisfying burp.

Then he turned to me, continuing a little conversation we'd been having.

"So you're still willing to bet that you'll be an irs-van in the next hour?"

I nodded, downing my half-full cup of water as I did so. "Any bet you want to make, I'll match it. There's no way I failed - not for any amount of gold."

Yes, I was still young and cocky back then. Still, I felt little reason to doubt myself - my shot had definitely landed within the target circle, I had seen it. Par, as I said, had little reason to believe he would be made a marksman.

Not that he cared.

"Then I'll bet anything that I made kut-van," he jeered. "It's what it was born for. It's my destiny."

"Same my end for irs-van," I retorted.

"Whatever, titch." I was much shorter than him, you understand.

He wasn't being rude, or anything - it was just how we interacted. It was a testament to how close we were that we really could get away with saying to anything to each other. Such are the bonds that the barrack blocks breed.

You're probably curious about the different designations of our warriors - irs-van and kut-van. So I will explain.

The terminology dates back to the early seafaring era. The irs-van were from the beginning ranged warriors, marksmen who typically fired on their enemies from the masts, rigging and crow's nests of a ship. In the early days they would have been armed with bows or crossbows, before they took up firearms - muskets and bolt-rifles - as time went on.

It was in this theatre that the Kig-Yar tradition of proficient marksmanship began. Naval battles would involve ships closing in not just with cannon but also with packs of irs-van clustered throughout their rigging and masts; any ship that was not armed with heavy cannon would be guaranteed to have a contingent of irs-van. These warriors were the seeds of our modern snipers.

The irs-van did also take part in land-fighting - but in the early seafaring era that role was seen as the domain of the kut-van, the close-quarters fighters. These warriors would be armed with cutlasses or pistols, with some contingents carrying broad shields - which our present day hand-held energy shields are modelled on.

Kut-van armed with such shields would be inclined to operate in regimented formations, often combining their shields into a tight wall or tortoise formation. These warriors were mostly used in pitched land battles or boarding actions at sea - in proper formation, they could smash through the opposition like a battering ram. Today's Ruuhtian and Ibie'shan kut-van regard themselves as being the descendants of these warriors.

Kut-van that did not use shields would operate in smaller groups - commonly termed 'kill squads' - that served as more mobile light infantry, forgoing protection in favour of speed. These light kut-van were most effectively employed in raids of coastal settlements, or attacks on poorly defended merchant ships. For that reason they were mostly found among pirates, while shielded kut-van were typically employed by soldiers and militia.

T'Voan kut-van are of the lighter version - we do not carry the shields of our Ruuhtian brethren. We make full use of our speed and agility, so it is only natural that our kut-van would model themselves on the kill squads of pirate light infantry. That same model is also used by our commandos, who ironically spend most of their time fighting pirates.

That roughly covers the simple, binary caste system that exists among our warriors. Of course, combat doesn't always fit neat little boxes. Even if I qualified as an irs-van, I would still have to fight close-up if the situation called for it. T'Voans were employed as shock-troops - warriors who breached the enemy lines - so in my case that was very likely.

"It does not matter how I would choose to fight."

I suddenly looked up from my food to the speaker, as did everyone else on our table. I recognised the voice immediately - it was Kreth.

He continued, wistfully, as if his mind were far-off from the rest of us by many miles.

Which it often was.

"That choice has already been made for me. I cannot change my fate - that has already been determined by the Gods. The oracle said as much. My destiny has already been decided for me. I cannot affect it."

We sat for a moment in awkward silence. This often happened when Kreth spoke. Finally, Par sneered in response.

"If I thought like you, I'd already be dead. We all would be."

"We all will be soon. The Journey calls to all of us. All of our deaths are required for it."

More awkward silence. Kreth had a fine talent for making everyone else uncomfortable. He was a good comrade, reliable to a fault - but it was times like this when I felt like putting something in my ears, or failing that over his mouth.

Par just grunted and returned to eating, as did everyone else. Kreth sulked, having once again failed to convert the rest of us to the blessed Path.

I always did my best to ignore Kreth and his mad piety - but the man was just impossible to ignore. I knew little of his background - supposedly he was orphaned at an early age, ended up in fosterage for most of his life and was left with a large will. Such people are typically drawn to religion; he always said how he spent the last of the money he'd inherited on his pilgrimage to High Charity. To him it was a worthwhile investment.

It was not my place to control other people's beliefs, and I knew all too well what it was to lose family while young. What I could not stand was somebody trying to impose his faith on everyone else - for that reason, I did not like spending too much time with Kreth. Nor did many of the others. Kreth would spend more time with his fellow zealots at the shrine than his own lance.

In battle however, we would all have to rely on each other. So we would always do our best to tolerate Kreth's strangeness and focus on his qualities as a soldier - which by all account was undisputed.

Still, there was always a distance between him and the rest of us - one that hopefully would not affect our functioning as one unit. Since he seemed to actually believe that crap about death being the most glorious path on the Great Journey - and seemed eager to follow that path - I wondered if Kreth might just become a liability in a combat situation, regardless of his advanced skill.

Before I could properly finish my thoughts however, the bell rang. We were being summoned. A grunt sounded across the table as we got up to leave.

"Into the hands of fate," the oldest of my lance-mates huffed, "wherever we get put."

That was Shik, the former asteroid miner. He always stayed solid in the face of just about everything. Even when we had passed through the hell that was Var'ka'mar, he had never once broken down or cried out - he just kept moving in steely silence, and had been the first to clear the swamp.

If there was any one of our lance who obviously struck me as being a born survivor, it was Shik. He seemed to go into any situation accepting whatever fate awaited him, ploughing on regardless, always ice-cool under pressure. He was physically tough and strong, too - his strength was closely tied with that of Par in our lance, and though Par had the advantage in being younger, Shik made up for that in sheer experience.

As with Par I felt safe sticking close to him in the worst situations - someone like that was good at keeping himself alive, and would likely help to keep you alive in a fight too. When you have a man like Shik backing you up, you reckon nothing can take you down - you'll stand with them in a fire-fight, no question.

Of course, if they took the first bullet...

We filed out of the mess hall and into the stone corridor leading to the assembly ground. As we did so, I heard a sniggering voice to my right.

"Hey Trau - you do know that the kut-van get paid more, right? Heard it this morning from a couple of blokes from West Barracks. You're missing out aiming for sniper, brother!"

"Rubbish," I retorted. "I know you just want the sniper position all to yourself - more pay for you, Salz. That's why you're trying to talk everyone else out of going for it."

"Yeah, except I'm going to be first in line for mercenary work anyway, once my brother hears how many kills I'll have chalked up."

"Someone will chalk you up first, if you don't shut it," Par growled dangerously. "Trau and I might just be the ones to do it."

"I'll be long gone before then! Who came first in the last run Par?"

Par was still peeved that Salz had beaten him to the finish line in our last cross-country run - so he just replied with an irate grunt.

"There you are then! I'm going to be way ahead of you lot."

Like I said, Salz was the eternal optimist as well as the eternal entrepreneur. Not only that, he was also our resident wind-up merchant, as you may already have noticed. Sometimes he'd wind-up Kreth for fun - but ironically he got on better with the squad zealot than anyone else.

He never got tired of taking the piss - and as much as we all wanted to strangle him sometimes (Par especially), we loved him and laughed with him just as much. He'd wind you up in a flash, but you could always trust him to keep everyone's spirits high.

Soon enough, we reached the courtyard. Ribib, our Unggoy Deacon, was conspicuously absent - though the two Huragok were still there, on hand to maintain our weapons. The three Majors of East Barracks, together with Champion Xen, awaited us.

Needing little encouragement from our overseers we lined up and stood at attention, waiting for our results with baited breath.

"Recruits of the East Barracks," Xen began, after a patient wait of five minutes or so. "We have analysed your results - your pained wait will soon be over. Know that, regardless of your result, you have passed every other test we have put you through. We are proud to have trained you - whatever craft you will practice here-on, whatever weapon you will take up as your own, know that it is a certainty that you will become proud warriors of the Covenant and our blessed Proph..."

I tuned out the rest of his speech. I was never good at paying attention to long speeches - whether they came from the Prophets, our clan leaders, or anyone else. A man can only concentrate on another's words for so long, before his mind becomes clouded and he is no longer cognizant of all that he hears, along with all things around him...

"Recruit Trau?"

Shit. Why do I keep doing that?

Xen's voice brought me back, and I stiffened to attention. "Champion."

I was just glad no-one else was fixing their gaze on me - though I thought I could hear a brief sigh from Major Nix. Still, it was quite a shock that I was first to be called in receiving the results.

Our Champion gave me a curt nod. "Your senses, awareness levels and reactions all need improving, recruit. But fear not - we shall give you the remedies you require, as you follow the path of the irs-van."

I managed to hide the grin. Had it shown, it would have swallowed my whole face.

I had done it. Eat my heart out, Par.

"Step forward and accept your rifle - the first of many."

I obeyed, stepping towards the weapons rack. The Champion moved towards me, stopping in front a set of Type-31 Needle Rifles. He pondered before them briefly, before speaking again.

"Those of our kind who accept the title of irs-van fight with the needle rifle first, initiate. That is the official policy of the Covenant Army, and of this training ground. Am I understood?"

"You are understood, honoured Champion."

"Of course. However, this rule only applies to a majority of our kind. There is always a minority who are different."

I cocked my head, struggling to understand what my highest superior was saying.

"You are one such initiate. Your marksmanship tests have shown exceptional promise. For that reason..."

Xen moved to another weapons rack, before removing the rifle in question.

"We have decided that your skills are best tested with this - a carbine of the Sangheili themselves."

I was speechless. The Type-51 Carbine was officially known as the Sangheili Carbine in the army, due to its origins. It was commonly called the four-jaw gun among the Kig-Yar ranks - but even so it was at the time considered a prized weapon for any of our marksmen. So much so that often only commandoes like my father had the privilege of wielding it.

For our ranks, it was like gold. Though most irs-van were given needle rifles, I'd heard talk of this rule gradually being relaxed. Production of the Type-51 was slowly increasing as the Sangheili arms forges expanded on war profits - the blueprints had also been handed over to the Ministry of Preparation. The four-jaws, who once would have fallen on their swords before permitting their ancient weapon designs for the likes of us, were starting to become more pragmatic.

Even they valued our skills as marksmen - so there were more field masters who were trying to equip of us with better weapons. Before, they wouldn't have cared. Only now, after facing an enemy who could actually fight back, were most Sangheili commanders realising that war was serious business. It does not reward pride or pettiness.

For now, the Type-51 was a rare gift for a Kig-Yar irs-van - the needle rifle was still produced in far greater numbers. So you can imagine my shock at being given one.

"The weapon is yours, initiate," Xen resumed. "Perhaps you would care to demonstrate it?"

He gestured with a talon, and I turned to that direction. Another target had been set up - this time it was not an energy field. It was but a single rack, with a single holder containing a lone coin of brass.

I cradled the carbine in my talons, adjusting myself to its weight. I knew what was expected.

"If you can shoot that coin," Xen continued, speaking aloud so all could hear, "then we will all know for sure you are worthy of mastering this weapon." He then softened his voice, speaking only to me. "Take your time."

I raised the weapon, putting my right eye to the sights. The Type-51 - like all modern military-grade firearms - usually has a proximity signal link, which transmits the carbine's targeting systems to the heads-up display of the user's helmet. This system is mostly designed for Sangheili combat armour - but it is also compatible with our targeting headgear and commando helmets.

This system negates the need for the carbine to be fitted with a manual sight, as a targeting helmet creates the necessary holographic reticule and zoom option required for the carbine, along with any other weapon - but as a humble recruit I had no such helmet. At least, not yet.

Thus the Type-51 I now held was a training version, fitted with an external sight. It did not make a massive difference, however - the sight was much more miniaturised compared to what it would be on a human rifle.

It suited me very well. Through the sights, the holographic reticule was arranged in a perfect honeycomb of seven neat hexagons - the four-jaws liked their weaponry elegant and fancy.

I for one wasn't complaining - it made their carbine so easy to aim.

I spied the target rack, adjusting the zoom controls - two smooth buttons just where the carbine's stock met the barrel. The thing was a dream to hold - light for a Sangheili weapon, easy to keep steady - a designated marksman's dream, basically.

It helped that it had two grips - one forward and one behind - which were the two holes at the back. This allows for a flexible arm span, and for the shooter to change stance easily. Useful for my kind.

Even though the Sangheili had originally designed the carbine for themselves, the Ministry of Resolution had the design adjusted just enough to make it compatible with our anatomy as well. They had done a good job - which was a rare feat for them.

I tightened my talon on the trigger of the weapon, just in front of the forward grip, as I moved the centre of the honeycomb to the coin - which was roughly over one hundred metres from my position, at the far edge of the training grounds. The Type-51's range exceeds that distance - but the zoom settings are not as great as they would be on a particle beam rifle.

They were, however, sufficient for this task. I lined up the reticule, centred on the coin - and took the shot.

The gun gave a whining-bark as it fired - the recoil was less than I expected, but I sure did feel it. I imagined it would be less of a kick by Sangheili standards. Still, the recoil was contained enough by the carbine's design for an accurate shot.

The round - a solid, super-heated projectile, forged from radioactive material - travelled at supersonic speed from the barrel, much faster than any plasma charge. Projectile weapons are not as primitive or ineffective as commonly dismissed.

Anything it hit was unlikely to survive - and even if the victim did survive, any round travelling at such speed would leave behind a lot of damage, not to mention the first-degree burns and radiation poisoning it would inflict. What would it be like to be hit by such a weapon? For that matter, what would it be like to hit another living being with it?

With a ping of shot brass, the coin vanished, blown away by the supersonic slug of toxic radioactive crystal. Most likely it was just simply vaporised.

I allowed a grin to slip through. Nailed it.

Xen nodded.

"A fine shot recruit. But perhaps you would care to compare it," he said, while picking one of the Type-31s from their respective rack, "with our more common tool?"

I nodded. Such a comparison would be useful - and there were still a few Sangheili who did not approve of our use of their carbines. The Type-51 was based on an ancient weapon that pre-dated the Covenant, after all.

I handed the four-jaw gun to the Champion, while taking the grip of the needle rifle in the other hand. I then steadied it in both of my arms, getting the feel of this very different rifle.

It was slightly heavier than the carbine, but easy enough to handle. I took a look through the scope - unlike the carbine, an external scope is fitted to every standard-pattern Type-31 rifle, so it can be used with just the naked eye.

Which was an advantage for it, I suppose - it saved us from relying on helmets and eyepieces. Equipment failures happen, and our targeting headgear was not immune. It also didn't help that they had those damn lights on our eye-scopes...

The scope display is a standard oval - but it does the job with a decent zoom. The needle rifle was also simpler to reload, through a basic breech-loading mechanism. The Type-51 had a larger magazine with more rounds to play with, but it ejected upward from the top of rifle; so if you weren't careful, you could end up getting brained by it. In the heat of battle this was an easy mistake to make - and our skulls are not as thick as those of Sangheili.

Two of our Minors, under Xen's orders, had moved some sacks of moss and animal matter into another target rack. Once they were clear, the Champion gave me permission to fire.

I let loose a number of the deadly long blamite shards, watching with satisfaction as two of them super-combined into one of the large sacks, shearing it in an explosion of tinkling crystal.

I'm no scientist, so don't ask me how blamite works. All I know is that you don't want to get hit by it - one shard is bad enough, as it will explode and leave a mess, not to mention trace-fragments that cause blood-poisoning. But having those things super-combine...well, what that can do to an organic being makes for a horrific sight.

One that I would have to get used too.

It only takes two rifle shards to cause such an explosion, as I found when I tried the Type-31 out for the first time that day. The standard Needler requires more shards - at least seven - to produce the same effect. The chain-reaction was enough to cause damage to any number of targets nearby - as was shown by nearby sacks flying in different directions from the explosion, torn to pieces or even partly vaporised. The rifle lacked the Type-33's tracking abilities, however.

I also noticed that while the Type-31 propelled the shards at lethal speed, it was nothing like the supersonic velocity and impact of the Type-51's ammunition. So the stopping-power wasn't as great; one of those shards would kill somebody instantly if you got them in the head at a suitable range, don't get me wrong, but the Sangheili Carbine personally struck me as producing a more certain kill.

From what I'd heard, it could knock a hostile on their backs at close-range. Now that I'd fired the carbine for myself, I was ready to believe those tales. Having a good man-stopper at my command would come in handy in tight spots - and for a soldier in the field, it wouldn't hurt to have more rounds in my magazines.

After thinking it through, I made my choice.

"I respectfully request that I take up the Type-51, noble Champion."

"Your request is granted, initiate."

I returned the needle rifle to the rack - within seconds of doing so Xen handed me back the carbine. As I cradled the weapon with eternal thanks, the Champion fixed me with his immolated face. His burned flesh still seemed crisp from his near-death on Doisac, even after all these years.

In spite of this, I could see the soft smile on his face. A smile of pride.

"I will see to it that the legion that we are assigned accepts your use of that weapon. Worry not - I have good standing among the Sangheili."

That was something not many Kig-Yar could claim. He clapped me on the shoulder, and then summoned more recruits to take up their weapons.


The rest of that morning and early afternoon was spent on weapons training. Everyone got a weapon, everyone was declared kut-van and irs-van that day.

Par, predictably enough, became a kut-van - and the Champion saw to it that he was equipped with a Type-33 needler. Such a weapon would be an undisputed asset at close-quarters - of course, he'd have to make sure he was a good distance from any crystal explosions.

Kreth and Vek (the latter was a surprising choice for me) also became irs-van. However, the Champion deemed issuing one Sangheili carbine was pushing the limits as it was - so they both received needle-rifles. Vek was fine with that - but I can still recall Kreth's pained and envious look of rejection in my direction as I held the Type-51. Perhaps the Oracle had promised him the four-jaw weapon, too.

We three were the only ones in our lance of eight to become irs-van. Together with irs-van from other lances, we were at the long firing range set up in the courtyard for most of the rest of the day - the others who had become kut-van were receiving hand-to-hand combat training in the Coliseum down in Vara.

We would be doing the same too, soon enough - but Xen had decided that it was best that we irs-van devote ourselves to sharpening our marksmanship as much as possible.

Using the same energy fields that we'd previously used for our marksmanship tests, we were told to constantly keep improving our score - and new challenges would be added. For example, the holographic energy fields - at the command of the nearby Huragok - would levitate and shift around the area, and we had to hit them as moving targets.

We did it again and again. As I've said, training is nothing but repetition. The sound of my Type-51 rang out across the training ground that whole day. Champion Xen supervised our irs-van training - the Majors were all down in the town arena, no doubt enjoying the show of our lance-mates beating and slashing each other to a pulp.

It was only in the very late afternoon, just as evening was beginning - that the kut-van returned to the courtyard in a brisk formation jog. Sure enough, they were covered in cuts and bruises. It was a wonder they were able to still walk, much less run.

I counted myself lucky. Vek stood there, his mouth open in horror. Even Kreth looked just a little shocked.

Major Krel was chuckling to his heart's content as the others lined up. I saw Nix giving a neutral glance in his direction, but was all.

Xen turned to the irs-van before him.

"There is a final session today - but it will not be physical. Join your lance-mates in the briefing theatre."

That was a surprise. I knew the briefing theatre existed - it was an underground space, accessible from the Southern gateway. But we had never used it before - nearly every day's briefing had been done outside, in the training ground. This had to be something special.

We deposited our weapons back into the racks, where the Huragok checked them over. Ribib the Deacon had emerged too, no doubt eager to make sure his consecrated weapons had not been tampered with. We then joined the kut-van as they dispersed to the briefing theatre.

"Major Fark will be presiding over this," the Champion continued as he lead us from the firing range to the growing group of recruits filing towards the Southern gate. "Pay close attention to his words and knowledge - they will be as vital to the survival as any skill you learn in the field."

We obeyed, and sure enough I found myself heading through the side entrance in the Southern gatehouse, down a flight of torch-lit stairs - and into the briefing theatre.

It was a large, hemispherical room, with many rows of seating. In a pit in front of these rows stood a podium, and behind it holographic screens used for presentations. By the time I found my seat, just near Shik and Par (who were covered in bruises from the arena) Majors Nix and Krel were already seated just behind the speaker's position on the podium.

In front of each of our seats was a single, polished data-slate. Right now they were inert - but I knew they had to serve a purpose.

Major Fark only entered after everyone had sat down, a hushed silence passing in the wake of his arrival. He moved quietly and elegantly - it took us a moment to realise that he'd actually arrived.

Fark was very different from Nix and Krel, and for that matter the other Majors who presided over the other half of the barracks. He was someone you didn't want to mess with, like the other two - but unlike them, I never saw him scream at people. The only occasion when he did raise his voice were when the recruits he commanded were at a distance, or whenever there was background noise. He seldom indulged in sadism or humiliation of recruits the way Krel did.

No, his demeanour was much cooler, icier - when he got angry with someone, he was always dangerously quiet, stating the recruit's failure point-by-point, with painful logic and precision. Very similar to how Nix had coolly lectured us all on the human Imp warriors - but Fark did that sort of thing far more often. Like I said, he never had to scream to get his points across. He commanded the 6th Lance with cold precision, while permitting no discrepancy or disorder.

His background in the military was also very different. The other Majors had served in the regular legions - but Fark had apparently been part of some specialist intelligence-gathering or relic-hunting outfit. Reportedly, that unit had been attached to the Ministry of Fervent Intercession, one of the most powerful and secretive organisations in the military.

There were other rumours that flew around - that he had been a feared interrogator with the Ministry of Preservation, that he had helped command scouting operations that uncovered key reliquary sites, or that his unit been charged with recovering human databanks in the earlier years of the war, carrying out dangerous long-range forays into their space.

Whatever the truth, he had certainly been involved in some very sensitive operations - and thus was no ordinary soldier. He certainly had the air of an intelligence officer - I often noticed Nix looking somewhat uncomfortable around him, though there was undisputed respect there.

We recruits all knew Fark's background too - in some ways that made him more intimidating than Krel could ever be. When Fark took the podium and spoke, we all listened - and I already had the feeling what his purpose here was.

"Today you shall start to know your enemy," he began, keeping his voice cool and calculated as ever, though getting straight to the point. "The greatest enemy our Covenant today faces. The humans."

I straightened my back, fixing my eyes on the podium. I felt that same sinking feeling of dread, swelling in the pit of my stomach; the same that had struck me when Nix had told us about humanity's elite Imp-Helljumpers.

Fark knew he had our full attention.

"Whatever you might have already heard about the humans: in broadcasts from our esteemed matriarchs," he emphasised that word with a small smirk and just a slight hint of sarcasm, "or from the Sangheili, or even from the Prophets - forget it all now. Here, you shall hear about our enemy from those who have actually fought them. From those who have no interest in sending you to war with illusions."

He called up the holographic display behind him. I felt my blood freeze.

A three-dimensional image of...a creature which had to be a human...flashed into being, floating above the podium in a shining, flawless projection. The information on the screen behind indicated the image was life-size, perfect to scale of their average size. Humans are only somewhat shorter than us, though I knew a Sangheili would easily dwarf them.

Still, the mere image of one of these hostile aliens caused every recruit in the briefing theatre to recoil in horror and shock. This was the first time I had seen an image of one, as it was for many of my comrades. Before, I had known of them only in stories, descriptions, words.

Such a flat face, as if it had been super-compressed or cut back by some great force. Features that looked like they had been painted and chiselled onto their faces. Such bizarre, exposed ears. Eyes sunken into that crushed visage. Slender, flexible limbs, with small, dainty five-fingered hands and five-toed feet. They had hair, but their skin seemed so smooth, unblemished and perfect. Humans looked as though a fine artist had sculpted them - they looked so unnaturally slender and elegant.

They were not imposing beings, they did not look dangerous or menacing or threatening - but they possessed a bizarre, alien beauty that I found...unsettling.

The image we were shown was of a male human - naked for demonstration. In a spilt-second it was joined by the image of a female; they seemed to be even more elegant than the males, almost like figurines of precious china. There certainly was an air of fragility about these aliens, along with an alluring, attractive appearance that just didn't seem right or natural to our eyes.

I'd heard so many stories from the front that described humans as physically frail and easily killed. Judging from what I was seeing now, that at least had to be true. Their skeletons weren't as frail as that of a Ruuhtian, but a Sangheili could easily break them with one blow.

A T'Vaoan shouldn't have too much trouble with them either - the statistics that popped up, based on data gathered from dissections of recovered human corpses, showed their maximum running speed to be less than ours, with slower reflexes - even if their physical strength was closely tied with ours.

And yet, we were being told that they were dangerous enemies of the Covenant. How?

Fark could sense our confusion.

"Do not be fooled by appearances," Fark told us all, gesturing at the holographic humans that shone above him like sinister ghosts. "They are fragile creatures, that much is true. Their speed and strength is exceeded by most of the peoples of our Covenant. Their soldiers and ships lack protective energy shields, and this has cost them dear. They are at a major technological disadvantage. They have not been able to stop our advance, or prevent the cleansing of their worlds. In short, they are outmatched. But..."

He emphasised that last word, before pausing. He scanned his silent audience, meeting the eyes each and every one of us, before finally resumed.

"Always remember that we have been fighting them for eight years now - and we have so far failed to crush them utterly. They are still fighting us at every step we take into their space - with even greater ferocity, not less. We have killed so many of them - and yet more still stand to oppose us.

"They occupy many more worlds than we previously - and foolishly - assumed, and we continue to find more of their colonies with each passing cycle. The Hierarchs and the Ministry of Resolution have since concluded that we are still only advancing through the outer fringes of their space.

"We still do not know their full numbers, or the location of their homeworld - but the total human population is estimated to be in the tens of billions. The Human Empire is thought to include many hundreds of inhabited worlds. What we do know is that they almost always seem to have replacement troops available. "

If that was true, then humanity far exceeded the Kig-Yar in terms of total population. It was bad enough that we were already outnumbered by the Unggoy; these aliens obviously breaded just as much. Still, the Covenant Empire as a whole had a population of hundreds of billions - we still had the advantage in numbers. What advantage did the humans have?

"They are not showing any signs of giving in," Fark continued. "Furthermore, their resistance is costing our Covenant dear. We have been forced into a long war which we did not plan for. That is why we need more men like you on the front. Make no mistake - they are determined fighters. Their soldiers are highly trained and disciplined, with high combat experience - not just from fighting us, but also from fighting each other, long before we encountered them. We know this from the human databanks we've been able to recover - from the files they did not purge before capture."

I knew about that from my father - he told me that was the main reason why we had not already found their homeworld, why our progress against them was so slow. The humans were very thorough when it came to hiding information from us. Recon probes and vessels that entered their space were also frequently intercepted and shot down.

"Above all, they are a cunning and resourceful opponent - we have seen human battle tactics and military strategies to be meticulous, advanced and highly unpredictable. False retreats, deception, disinformation, traps, ambushes, defence-in-depth, sneak attacks, guerilla tactics - they have outwitted even the Sangheili on many an occasion. They may well be primitive in the eyes of our Covenant - but they are the most advanced civilisation our union has encountered since the War of Beginnings."

At that moment, each of our dataslates activated, lighting up before our eyes. The title flashed on the screen said it all.

Compiled Intelligence: Human.

At Fark's instruction, we opened the files with a touch of a talon - the title screen gave way to a menu, showing files for their weapons, vehicles, aircraft, ships, equipment, biology, military organisation, battlefield tactics and doctrine, artificial intelligences, political structure and so on. I also saw a file with a list of their elite warriors - the dreaded imps and demons.

It was no doubt very good intelligence - we had been fighting them for many cycles by this time, and knew more than we did when we first encountered their species. We had certainly no idea what we had been dealing with back then - I wondered if, even now, there was still more to the humans that we hadn't seen yet.

We were privileged in receiving this much intelligence on them - most Covenant citizens were told very little about the enemy beyond the fact that they were heretics to be burned away. Had we been Unggoy or even Ruuhtian soldiers, we would probably have just been shown what they looked like along with basic descriptions of their weapons, before being sent off to the front.

As T'Vaoan warriors, we were higher-ranked. Thus we were entitled to know more.

"We shall start with their weapons," Fark resumed, banishing the holograms of the male and female humans, before calling up a projection which showed the blueprints of their most prominent weaponry. Assault rifles, shotguns, pistols and sniper rifles hovered above his head. When we accessed the weapons file on our dataslates, there was an equally detailed list.

"The Sangheili would have you believe that human weapons are nothing more than toys. They are not. Their guns are primitive, but high-powered. The projectiles they fire are solid metal, shot out at supersonic speeds - at far greater velocity than any known plasma weapon. They have a variety of ammunition, from basic rounds to incendiary bullets, to high-velocity armour piercing sniper rounds that can go clean through a Sangheili commander's helm."

Some among us exchanged sceptical looks, which Fark noticed.

"If you do not believe me," he said with a smug smirk, "take a look at this."

Another holographic screen suddenly appeared in the midst of the shining human weapons was - it began to play its footage with a hiss of static, before the chosen scene appeared.

What was being played to us was obviously footage from a T'Vaoan helmet camera. The scene was that of a bombed-out human city - the area was strewn with rubble, and nearly all the buildings still standing were nothing but shambled ruins. In the midst of this, a Murmillo lance - to which this soldier obviously belonged - lay crouched in a defensive positions. The hall echoed to the sounds of war on the video - rattles of human weapons-fire, the far-off thunder of their artillery, together with our own. I could also make out a distinct haze in the atmosphere in that ruined city - no doubt an after-effect of excessive plasma fire.

The murmillones were protecting what looked to be a temporary landing zone or staging area - I could see the crates, comms gear and a couple of parked Phantoms. They weren't alone, either - the audio recorded communication with at least two files of Ruuhtian snipers and sharpshooters stationed among the ruined buildings. Unggoy clustered about, some manning Shade turrets, others waddling here and there with assigned tasks - and others of course, sat on their arses snoozing.

I tensed up as I saw the tall, hulking armoured forms of Sangheili officers - marching about in their fine-crafted, clicking armour, checking on their assigned troops with their keen predatory eyes, bellowing and coercing any Unggoy that looked to be slacking off into obedience. It would not be long before I would have to deal with them in the flesh.

The owner of the helmet-cam had his attention drawn to a third Phantom, which had descended after cautiously circling the area under Banshee escort, and was now touching down in the midst of the staging area. I could hear the wails of the Type 26 GSAs as they patrolled the area, scanning for any potential threat. The arriving dropship obviously carried an important passenger.

Sure enough, the Phantom's troop bay doors opened - and out stepped a Sangheili Field Master, clad in shining gold armour. I knew that their armour designs varied between their clans and the Fleets, Legions and Ministries they served - but the high-ranking four-jaw Field Masters always wore golden armour of some description. If not, their place would be filled by the silver-clad Ultras.

This one carried a swagger that was to be expected of his high rank - and species. Sangheili commanders loved to advertise their presence on the field - as if they had something to prove by showing off in all that gold plating, by being seen as much as possible by friend and foe. Our Champions did the same, but this was under the four-jaw insistence.

It was a good way to get seen by the wrong eyes, if you ask me.

This Field Master was accompanied by an escort of their Spec Ops warriors - black-armoured Sangheili with enclosed helmets. My father knew their kind well - as a commando he had not only fought alongside them, he'd been trained by them. They were the deadliest warriors of our Covenant - together with the loyal Ultra at his side, surely this Field Master should be safe?

It did seem that way - until the Phantom took off, leaving the Field Master, the Ultra and their escort in the open landing area. They looked dangerously exposed - yet the Field Master insisted on conducting his inspection of this staging area, confident in his safety and survival.

He paid the price.

There was a ten-minute interlude after the Phantom departed, as the Field Master set about questioning the local commanding officers, including the local T'Vaoan commander - before the shot rang out.

A single, sharp crack of a far-off rifle, from somewhere among the ruined towers in the near-distance. Within that split-second, the Field Master's head was engulfed in an explosion of purple blood, bone and golden armour shards. The victim of a perfect shot - with what was obviously a specialised high-velocity, armour-piercing bullet - the Sangheili commander dropped to his knees with half his head blown away, before toppling forward to the ground, lifeless.

The Ultra, now left in command, howled out for all troops to take cover, before more shots rang out. There had to be more than one human sniper out there.

Two of the Spec Ops Sangheili also fell to the lethal AP rounds, along with one of the local red-armoured field officers, their heavy bodies topping to the ground. Their size was no advantage when it came to taking cover, especially not in an urban environment.

The human snipers, by contrast, could stay virtually invisible. Small yet lethal hunters, their effect was clearly devastating in a bombed-out city. They could be in any of the buildings that the murmillo was glancing at, in any of the windows, in any cranny anywhere.

The last shot we heard found the owner of the helmet cam. I felt sick as I saw Kig-Yar blood splatter across the screen, before the poor soul fell with his helmet clacking onto the concrete. I saw a beam rifle clatter out of his hands - he had been unlucky to be seen carrying it. The enemy sniper must have identified this murmillo as a long-range threat, and neutralised him accordingly.

The last we heard was the Sangheili Ultra demanding the Banshees seek out the snipers and destroy them from the air, and that the Ruuhtian snipers assist with counter-fire - before the recording ended and the screen dissolved away in the air.

Fark addressed us once more, our blood frozen.

"Human snipers are highly-trained and skilled, as you have just seen. They have proven just as formidable and more than any of our irs-van - do not doubt that for a moment. And they have more than just high-powered sniper rifles - we have seen human weapons of mass destruction which can level whole bases and scourge whole continents with radiation. They have war machines that have proven just as lethal as any of our own."

He called up another video clip, dating from early in the war - this one was even more chilling. Another military staging area on a human world, the video feed playing from one of the bases surveillance cameras. Alarms were blaring out, while the speakers broadcast a warning that the human infiltrators had disabled their overhead energy shield - and that a human ship had slipped in close and launched a missile at the base.

Within seconds, the whole area was engulfed in a blinding nuclear flash. We saw this flash, the mushroom cloud and then the blast front - Kig-Yar, Unggoy, Huragok and Sangheili were all reduced to ash. Then the image dissolved into static.

"Thankfully, the incident you just saw is very rare. Our naval cover that day was light and outnumbered - the humans were able to overwhelm it. After the blast, naval reinforcements arrived and all local human warships were eliminated. We have taken steps to prevent such incidents. On all other occasions their navy is no match for ours - human nuclear weapons are typically intercepted.

"But heed my words, initiates. Many have underestimated the humans - Sangheili, Jiralhanae, Kig-Yar and Unggoy alike. But I have not known many to underestimate the humans and live. Never - ever - fail to respect their desire to fight to their last, while killing as many of you as they can.

"They are losing this war - we will find their homeworld. But if some day they find it within their power and ability, they would wipe us all out - just as we are wiping them out now. They destroy and steal all Forerunner reliquaries we attempt to acquire - they started this war when they did so at the first of their colonies we discovered. They attacked the emissaries of the Ministry of Tranquility without provocation. There was never any hope of offering them a place in our Covenant.

"They will not negotiate. They will not bargain. They will not surrender. They are determined to undermine and destroy our Covenant however they can. To end this war and restore peace, one side must be eradicated utterly. That side must be the humans - not us. Never forget that."

At that chilling note, the session neared its end. We were instructed to revise the intelligence on our dataslates as much as possible in our free time and in future sessions - we were expected to recognise all human weaponry and military equipment from the manual as second-nature, just as much as we studied the digital manual our own weaponry. The latter was on a separate dataslate which, we were told, was waiting for each of us in our dormitories.

I had a brief scan through the human infantry weapons list again. One gun, displayed in the detailed blueprints, caught my attention in particular - an elegant, scoped weapon which its creators referred to as the 'Designated Marksman Rifle'.

I felt a cold anger seize me. I remembered that weapon well. I had heard its name from the warrior who had returned my dead father's helmet. It had been that weapon which had killed him, with a single shot to the head. A shot fired by a human sharpshooter.

The humans - those strange, elegant, fragile yet dangerous creatures - were truly a threat to all the peoples of the Covenant. My duty was to fight them.

My thoughts were interrupted as I saw Champion Xen take the stand, allowing Fark to step aside. I gave him my undivided attention.

"What you have heard today is a milestone, recruits. You known begin to know what it is we fight, and why we fight. You also know what all of our brothers at the frontlines are facing, and risking their lives every day to defeat. While they do so, we still struggle to complete our training, to get you ready as we can make you to face the humans."

I heard a number of unsettled murmurs. Nix perked up in his podium seat, clearly ready for the worst I did not like the tone Xen was taking.

"Henceforth, it is only natural that the Sangheili would want us to the frontlines as quickly as possible. The Vara Training Grounds, along with all others, have received a new general order from their Council of Masters - our training times are to be cut.

"You will not be staying here another three months, as originally planned. The Sangheili Legions expect this season of recruits to join them within another three weeks. Their High Council has just passed a motion cutting our training times to the lowest that our representatives at the Ministry of Concert were able to accept. They want more of us to reach the front as soon as possible."

We all gasped. This was unprecedented - worse, it was criminal! Now the four-jaws were cutting training that was vital to our survival? Several of the older recruits blustered in protest, and even Nix and Krel looked like they wanted to scream in defiance.

It was only Xen's words and gaze, along with a gesture of a talon, that calmed us all - and kept us listening.

"You will still receive the training that is necessary - but it will be within a much shorter time. You will still be expected to revise the information you have been given this day. That is all I can say for now. These coming three weeks will be hard on all of you - what follows harder still. Know that the pressure is now on you - all of you - to deliver as we are expected. Do not disappoint. There are many who depend on us. The Sangheili most of all. Let us show them all what the warriors of Vara can do."

We all acknowledged the Champion's words - but I can still remember Nix's look of fury to this day, as he lay seething in his seat just near the podium, his talons digging into the arm rests. He knew the unnecessary danger that the Sangheili were putting us all in. It was almost as if they wanted untrained Kig-Yar to be sent to a bloody massacre.

Still, none of us would dare direct or anger at Champion Xen - we all held him in the highest respect as our leader. We all looked up to him - and in this situation, he was merely the messenger.

"The Four-Jaws..." Par hissed to me as we all moved to leave the theatre, keeping his voice out of everyone else's earshot. "The fucking Four-Jaws...Bastards...all of them...Fuck them all!"

I couldn't agree more - but there was nothing I could do. This situation was out of our control. I knew it, everyone else knew it. I could feel the group morale sinking, like a crushing dead weight. Nothing else crushes your spirit more than something like that - especially when it is felt by everyone.

We were indeed under new pressure - especially now that we knew just what we were fighting against. These coming three weeks would have to count.

Three weeks - and then we would face the fire.