Chapter 18 : Preacher

Ker-kalna - Tuchanka - 2112 AD

The dusty flats of Ker-kalna had born significance to many krogan tribes since time immemorial. When the first fires burned on Tuchanka, the flats had been one of the few areas of relative calm, not enough grew there to be worth fighting for, and the wildlife did not grow so vicious as elsewhere in Tuchanka's jungles. As civilisations grew and flowered and wilted under time, the flats remained untouched, a haven for hermits and lore singers seeking inspiration, for the occasional band of refugees to spend a few nights in safety, and for the hardy plains flowers which bloomed in the summer. Then the Wars of Blood ended old Tuchanka in an instant. The jungles burned, the wildlife which could not escape perished, the flourishing krogan civilisations died almost to a one, leaving only savages and primitives to pick over the ruins.

But Ker-kalna had escaped that fate, the mountains which surrounded the plain protected what lay beyond from the worst of the firestorms, the snows provided small streams with unpolluted water, even the flowers bloomed after a few years without sunlight. Naturally, once it became known that such an oasis existed, millions of starving krogan descended upon the safe haven seeking to feed upon whatever they could.

Tens of thousands of krogan died upon the flats of Ker-kalna over the following centuries, and like many other remnants of how Tuchanka was it became a site of ritual and mysticism. The old traditions of warfare were enacted time and time again on the sun-cracked plain. Two lines of krogan, one line facing the sun, the other the open sky, would do battle for whatever foolish purpose they deemed worthy of death.

The thought caused the Shaman of Urdnot, his name since before he could remember otherwise, to snort in disgust as he gazed from the hatch of his tomkah across the plain. To think that the fools of generations past had used one of the only fertile areas for a hundred leagues as a glorified arena. But as Shaman he was the guardian of tradition, and even traditions which should have been long buried had to be observed on occasion.

Around him from a thousand other tomkah's, an army emerged. The krogan who strode first from the tomkahs were the new bloods, youngsters and fools who'd been lucky enough to make it to adulthood. Their expressions were wide bloodthirsty grins and their enthusiasm made up for their lack of skill. Few of them had any armour of substance, a handful had armour suits or personal shields which their sires had gifted them, but most wore nought but cloth and painted symbols, thresher maws and snarling varren.

After the new bloods came the warriors, from almost six dozen clans Urdnot Shaman had defeated these warriors were the best that could be offered. Every one of them had a suit of armour and more than a few had battle suits and shields. Their weapons were better as well, shotguns well worn with age and exotic pieces like cains, executors and the occasional salvaged lance cannon. The warriors were eager, it could be seen in the way they moved, tense at what would come, and excited at another chance for glory.

Then, only a few dozen in number, came the leaders. Battlemasters and Warlords all, where once they had born many names, now most answered to Urdnot. The warlords bore great shotguns and ancient battlesuits, the battlemasters writhed with biotic power they'd been storing for weeks. Yet none of them looked eager, or excited. Once ones nose was drowned in enough blood a bit more didn't make a difference.

The host of Urdnot emerged from its transport, and began to line up on the side of the Ker-kalna flats facing away from the sun. The Shaman strode in front of them, them armour of Urdnot Wreav's bones somehow enhancing his limping forms presence, the other battlemasters and warlords giving him acknowledgement as they made their way to their own parts of the line. Normally the Shaman would give some speech, a great exhortation of the glory they would win and the invincibility they possessed as true krogan. But aside from the eager growls of the young bloods, the army of Urdnot was silent. This was a battle of hate after all, not some clash for females or food.

As the Shaman looked on, the clouds of dust obscuring the other end of the plain parted, and his foe came into view.

Clan Tarq were the last of Urdnots neighbours yet to fall, and despite everything they remained as strong as ever. The army marching across the flats towards him may not have been quite as large as his own, but they were most certainly better equiped. Instead of graals and strikers, they Tarq warriors bore upgraded phaestons and a dozen other alien made weapons. The only thing keeping the Shaman from abandoning the showdown altogether was that they'd abandoned their vehicles as was custom. At least they possessed a sliver of honour.

From his waist the Shaman grabbed a long horn, raising it to his cracked lips he blew the old signal to begin the advance, a low 'thrum' that echoed through the mountains, and began to ever so slowly, walk forwards. As one his army followed, the 10,000 strong mass of krogan quickly getting ahead of their leader even at a walking pace. Growls of hunger, of bloodlust and rage began to echo throughout the advancing warriors as they prepared for what was to come.

The first shots began to sound off once both armies were almost a kilometre away. Mostly inexperienced young bloods on both sides firing off their weapons but a handful of snipers as well. The shots caused nothing serious, aside from one unlucky krogan to the Shaman's left who took a round through the eye, the spasming corpse collapsing on the ground even as the mass of warriors marched on.

Ever so slowly, the armies began to jog. More krogan were aiming and firing off their shots by this point, sporadic bursts of gunfire sounding off across the lines and impacting both sides alongside warpfire that the battlemasters and warlords threw in great explosions of eery biotic light. More krogan began to fall, mostly the youngbloods but a few warriors roared in pain as shots struck their limbs or armour plates. Most regenerated, but some did not.

The jog turned into a running pace when each side was only 500m from the other, and the Shaman could swear that the floodgates of the abyss itself opened as every krogan who could shoot something let off with their weapons. The front ranks fell back as they regenerated from wounds or lifelessly struck the plain, mostly older warriors who knew what happened at this point in battle, and ahead of them the youngbloods surged like a tide, sprinting outright for their opponents lines even as explosives and biotic powers turned many into gibbets.

Only a hundred metres away and the carnage turned into a hailstorm of mass effect powered projectiles, the youngblood front ranks evaporating as they took a heavy toll. Biotic powers struck entire sections of the lines, dozens of krogan screaming in rage as the purple fires scorched them of their flesh. Strikers and graals truly began to reap their own crop as the grenades and spikes shredded krogan after krogan, often not killing them but leaving them deprived of limbs and chest plates. Most would survive.

The mad charge continued, the warlords now at the forefront, brandishing hammers and shotguns while yelling curses and roaring to the heavens. The very plain turned into a dusty storm as krogan feet churned up the earth in their fury. Then, in an instant, the lines clashed.

Krogan fighting krogan was a nasty business. The masses of muscle and scale hit each other like freight trains, pulverising bony plates and flesh alike. The warlords quickly cleared the areas around them, biotic infused warhammers staving in skulls and sending overeager young bloods flying, many of whom got back up and came back for more in their bloodrage.

The warriors themselves let loose a barrage of horrific weapons on each other, flamethrowers and biotic abilities turned many a krogan into piles of gibbering flesh. Shotguns were at their most effective, the smarter warriors often downing two or three foes as they charged, before using omni-bayonets and hardened butt ends of weapons to finish the job. On the left side of the battlefield a Tarq warlord was felled as a youngblood ripped off his headplate and used it to puncture several of the old warriors hearts, much to the fury of the warlords sons nearby, who went after the Urdnot warrior in a bloodrage. Which was quickly cut off by a grenade exploding in the lead sons face.

The Shaman himself stayed just behind the main line, it was not his time to fight yet. Instead he glanced from right to left, taking in the carnage being being wrought. His nephews pup might well have been better suited to a battle such of this, but Wrex was long dead, and the Shaman had not gotten as old as he was by allowing his strength to sap. Lightly fingering the trigger on his graal, he tried to see where the warlords were. The telltale sight of krogan, or pieces of such becoming airborne and landing some distance away giving the Shaman an idea as to their positions.

If he squinted the Shaman could make out Warlord Yrog, one of only two Urdnot had possessed when he'd taken over from Wreav. Yrog was fighting a Tarq battlemaster with a claw hammer, dodging the weapons swings as he tried to get a burst of flames or shotgun blast through the titanic barrier his opponent was fielding. A few hundred krogan down the line several Tarq warriors were attempting to bring down one of the Shaman's older allies, the battlemaster Nagmyr Guld. If the distinctive sound of a large biotic explosion and screaming krogan were anything to go by, then they hadn't succeeded.

For that the Tarq forces were certainly determined, the youngbloods and warriors alike not faltering when pitted against warlords and battlemasters who were their match a thousand times over, they were most certainly not prepared for the viciousness the battle , the line buckled, the Tarq youngbloods in the centre expended or writhing on the ground as the line split. For several moments the Urdnot krogan roared in triumph, before the next part of the battle began.

As if a switch had been flipped, the two armies began to pull back. Neither side butchered the innumerable krogan littering the ground, instead dragging those least likely to bleed out to safety regardless of affiliation as the ritual part of krogan warfare started.

Urdnot Shaman strode towards where the centre of the battle had been, warriors moving aside as he did so. Opposite him, Tarq warriors did the same as their own leader walked across the field of dead and dying krogan.

Tarq Varlt was an old krogan, not old enough to have been around before the Rachni War, but to his credit the fool had survived both Krogan Rebellions, something few others could claim. As the battlemaster of clan Tarq stopped only a shuttles length from the Shaman, he issued the challenge in a sneering dismissive tone of voice.

"The failing slime of Urdnot dare face clan Tarq? I will gnaw on your bones before I leave you for the varren!"

The Shaman only allowed a grin to cross his face, before uttering the few words guaranteed to enrage the dumber members of his species in an even, almost jovial sounding retort.

"I cannot say the same Tarq! Perhaps you are not worth killing at all?!"

An audible gasp ran through the Tarq lines, and not even stopping to let out a roar of rage, Varlt sprinted towards the Shaman, shotgun up and firing.

The Shaman took the first shot on his armour, the graal spikes shattering parts of Wreav's skeleton as they impacted, the second he blocked with his shoulder, wincing as the spike tore through the flesh as if it were mud. Varlt continued his charge but just as Varlt reached him, the Shaman threw down his surprise.

A grenade is not typically a problem for a krogan. It might cause some nasty damage to the eyes, maybe give a few scars if unlucky, but rarely did anything beyond that unless it was particularly exotic. The grenade the Shaman used was supposed to take down a thresher maw from the inside. Suffice to say the explosion was big enough to cause a problem.

Varlt was thrown almost twenty metres away, his armour in tatters and his wounds healing across his body as he slowly stood up, thawing his broken shotgun to the ground. The Shaman gave a small sigh before doing the same with his own Graal, it wouldn't do for other krogan to think he was acting dishonourably on a matter so important.

Once again Varlt charged, but this time the Shaman met him, the two of them grappled and bit and tore at each other. Fists impacting on bony plates and claws scrabbling to get ahold of each others headplates. The Shaman had to admit, Varlt was strong. The blows to his ribs and organs were pulverising the flesh beneath, great gashes cleaved by claws into his sides, and his own blows not doing anywhere near as much damage in return.

For almost an hour the battle continued like that, for every blow the Shaman gave he received two in return. But Varlt was tiring. The blows were becoming slower, less coordinated, and his cuts were starting to bleed more freely. Had Varlt known that Urdnot Shaman had once survived having his leg ripped off and being kicked into a varren den, then perhaps he would have measured his blows, attempts to win though endurance rather than pure strength. But as Urdnot Shaman struck back once more, he wasn't getting much chance to think of anything.

Finally, the Shaman seized an opportunity and shoved his claws into a gap he'd worked into Varlt's headplate. What followed was messy, horrifying and brutally effective.

Catching his breath as his opponents corpse cooled, he turned to the solemn members of the former clan Tarq. Breathing a few times, he uttered the old words in tired formal korogorish.

"Become part of my clan or become apart of the dirt."


The remnants of the army bowed their heads, staring at the dust as they knelt. It wasn't going to be that easy of course, assassins would appear in the following weeks, and no doubt there would be four or five formal challenges within the year. But the hard work was done.

Looking to the sky, Clan Urdnot let out a roar of victory.

-

Exploratory ship "Bobs Uncle" - Above the moon Charon


Mining eezo was hard work. Not because there was any great danger to the miners themselves, but rather that you had to be a special sort of person to actually spend weeks sifting through hundreds of tonnes of dirt for the smallest scrap of the most valuable mineral in the universe.

Charles Miller was not that sort of person, he was however more than willing to let exactly that sort of desperate hopeful know where to find the stuff. For a price of course. As he sat relaxed in his chair, he had to admit that sitting around for a few weeks was a bit boring. Communications took a while to reach the edge of the Sol system and he couldn't exactly download anything without lighting a giant sign as to where he was to the Navy. So when he ran out of entertainment, like he'd done three days prior, there truly wasn't that much to do.

Oh he'd scanned every asteroid he could find in reach, none had any eezo besides the one his gullible get rich quick tickets down below were mining. Hells the only other thing in range was Charon, and everyone knew eezo didn't occur on ice planets, those who'd thought otherwise had extremely expensive customers who weren't happy on their returns.

But what the hell it couldn't hurt to try.

Thirty minutes later, as Charles was sleeping in his chair, he'd awake to the screams of his miners as the moon below them exploded.

-

Deep in the centre of the galaxy, an old and malevolent being noted that another relay had been activated in the cycle.

AUTHORS NOTE

Before I get into the actual thing i'd like to thank Logical Premise for the advice on the krogan portion of this chapter, he went into great detail and it was much appreciated.

Essentially honourable krogan warfare is very traditionalised. Two groups of krogan with a disagreement settle the location by a trial of champions, then they run towards each other until one side has breached the others line, then the leaders fight to determine the victor, though only rarely is it to the death.

More importantly though, I was wondering what everyone thought of the battle scene? I've never been good at writing them and i'd like to know if there are ways I can improve.