Two days later…
"-Tragathal, report your status!"
Arthoc's impatient words were barely audible beneath the drumbeat of suppressive plasma and gunfire. Tragathal crouched motionless behind a boulder that now steamed constantly from countless hits, the Jiralhanae Scoutmaster twitching slightly with each distorted word from his temporary commander. He could hear another of his troops, a Jiralhanae culled from merciless training exercises perfected over years of effort, falling dead without so much as a scream from a lucky shot. Other warriors calmly reported the loss over comms as they'd been relentlessly trained to do no matter the severity of the situation. This time it was Nelthus, a veteran of the Covenant's invasion of Earth and one of the Yyilikoi Farguard's founding warriors. Tragathal let his rage pass by and concentrated on the rhythm of enemy fire. Delivering swift vengeance was all he and other Jiralhanae scouts could do at this moment.
The rain of plasma lightened for only a second, barely noticeable beneath the cacophony of gunfire, the warnings of the wounded, and the scent of burnt rock filling his nostrils. Only an experienced warrior like Tragathal could discern the change in tempo quickly enough to act on it, and so the scoutmaster did. Rising to a crouch behind the wide boulder he'd chosen as cover, Tragathal leveled his brute shot at the target, an advantageous pillar of rock on a spacious ledge that he'd spotted seconds before enemy fire tore into his warhost. He fired two grenades in a practiced arc and ducked with a swiftness unimagined by non-Jiralhanae. Before he was safely behind cover the grenades had already completed their arc and struck the target with two fast thuds. The scoutmaster waited for a pained scream to echo down the mountain, or perhaps an extended wail followed by a sudden crash upon merciless rock.
Unfortunately, nothing new and exciting rose above the flurry of return fire striking his cover. Tragathal slammed a fresh rack of grenades into his brute shot so violently that a Jiralhanae adjacent to him slid away to the dangerous edge of their rocky cover. He'd struck far narrower targets before, and from greater distances. Where exactly the enemy could throw himself without falling on that increasingly narrow vantage point, he couldn't discern. All he knew was he'd exhausted all potential distractions not soaked with risk. Crouching low on his feet, Tragathal turned his focus towards the nagging of his current superior.
"Tragathal, what is your situation?" Athoc growled once again.
Tragathal simply activated his comms, letting the chorus of battle rise and fall uninterrupted for five seconds.
"Does that answer your question?" the Scoutmaster coldly answered.
"Another human raider host." Arthoc groaned in reply. Tragathal resisted the urge to deliver some snide congratulations to the Chieftain for recognizing that his scouts hadn't stumbled upon the human force responsible for raiding Hectarius' outpost. Dismissive rumors had been his only source of knowledge regarding the Brothers of Unending Ire, which made him question why Escharum would include them in his warfleet. Combined with how quickly his scouts had been sent charging into the hills after a brief discussion held over the battlenet, Tragathal wasn't willing to revise his dim expectations so quickly.
"There are a few dozen of them," Tragathal repeated the estimates relayed by his warriors' targeting data and collated in his helmet's HUD. "They rain plasma grenades down on us from the ledges-" He paused for effect as the telltale whine of a plasma grenade rose and ended in a vicious blast nearby, "-and every 5th man has a sniper rifle. I do not know how much earlier they saw us, but it can't have been for too long." Peeking embarrassingly around his singed cover, Tragathal examined the terrain once again. A rocky plain carved with fissures and studded with boulders provided ample protection for his troops. A steep incline rose to his left, extending behind him to where they'd come. Ahead and to the right stretched a more shallow slope, easily scaled by a Jiralhanae but for who arrayed the series of ledges on a cliff face at the top. There on the ledges, muzzle flashes and plasma flares hinted at where the humans had taken cover. Tragathal knew them only by their preferred hiding spots, but they occasionally showed themselves to line up careful shots at his troops. Disheveled armor and face coverings were a universal feature, though some had discarded body armor altogether.
"Plasma grenades. Then they've been hunting Vol's troops for a long time." Again, Tragathal ignored the desire to congratulate Arthoc for his powers of discernment. Better that he could grasp the nature of a battlefield from far away, the scoutmaster reminded himself. The humans had proven themselves well-versed with their war prizes. Already, Tragathal had lost several warriors hiding behind inadequate cover to coordinated human fire-one weakened their shields with a plasma rifle, the others took kill shots with slow-firing guns. In return, several kills had been reported with great satisfaction, but Tragathal couldn't verify any of them from where he stood.
Worst of all was that judging by where the sun lay, they were ones fighting in the shade.
"They have us pinned only as long as we allow it." It was bluff, too many of his scouts were dead or dying out of reach for his liking. Even so, Tragathal knew he could know weakness to his current commander. Arthoc had overall command of the warhost, but Tragathal and the other subordinates would be judged accordingly if they failed to perform their duties. "Your orders?" He asked with unvarnished bitterness.
There was a brief stretch of silence, wherein another of his scouts was hit. Then Arthoc finally answered.
"Escharum wants dead humans, and these humans sound troublesome indeed. What other teams of yours may be available nearby?"
The Yyilikoi Farguard was an all-Jiralhanae formation created by Tragathal himself. Rather than pledging allegiance to any particular pack, Tragathal sought out Jiralhanae from all across the Banished, not the most vicious, but the most patient, the most cunning. The kind of Jiralhanae who knew the importance of choosing the battlefield where he would fight his enemy. Many more Jiralhanae could be found who fit that description than outsiders might imagine, but only a few passed through the Farguard's training regimen successfully, or alive.
After barely getting their blades bloody against Merg Vol's forces, the scouts had been disappointed when Tremonious himself had contacted Tragathal to inform them of their new mission. Almost all of them were to be placed under the control of Arthoc's new warhost with the goal of tracking down any remaining human forces in the western badlands. By Tragathal's assessment, it was excessive even given the lack of intelligence about where the humans were. Concerns aside, he'd dispersed scores of his scouts over the badlands in a rough "net" pattern. Where one group met the enemy, at least two would be available to provide aid. Tragathal's own group was among the largest, of course, and positioned at the very forefront of the advance.
Nestled behind his boulder, Tragathal activated a datapad on his right wrist. The red-tinted screen displayed a rough topographical map of the surrounding area.
"I have just the pack with me on-" Tragathal's explanation halted mid sentence. Normally, the map would overlay the positions of all nearby scout groups, including his own. Almost every team was indeed reflected on screen, all except for the one he needed most. Gjilios, a versatile Jiralhanae who might one day lead the scouts if he was ambitious enough, was nowhere to be found on his right flank to the Northwest. The Scoutmaster grew uneasy at the sight. Gjilios' lance was well-equipped and numerous as befitting a team on the leader's flank. They simply weren't supposed to vanish without a word.
"Tragathal…?" Arthoc started.
"Merely plotting the route, Chieftain," Tragathal replied with practiced ease. This wasn't the first time he'd been faced with disturbing news mid-discussion while under fire. Proceeding as normal, the Scoutmaster attempted to contact Gjilios via the battlenet and passed their non-presence off as interference from the terrain.
"Gjilios, the humans have ambushed us and are in no hurry to withdraw. Send your men sprinting through those hills and you can cut ahead of them and lay an ambush!" No reply. Another plasma grenade went off, followed by a Jiralhanae wailing for his lost arm.
"Gjilios, do you read me? I will not risk more brothers engaging the humans without your acknowledgement. The glory can be yours-"
What came though the comms wasn't Gjilios.
At first there was only a static screech that bored through Tragathal's ears, causing him to draw his grenade launcher on instinct. This was no trick of the terrain, and it was too loud, too aggressive, to be human electronic warfare interference. The screech went on for several seconds, forcing Tragathal to manually decrease the volume on his comms. Just when the scream had been reduced to a hiss, the static sputtered, followed by a morass of noises. At first Tragathal thought his hearing had been damaged in some way and the battle around him was echoing abnormally. Only too late did he realize that another battle was reaching for his attention.
Before he could adjust the volume accordingly, he clearly heard a more familiar electronically-charged scream rising closer than before. Tragathal had just a second to huddle lower behind cover before the humans' plasma grenade went off. Now his ears rang well and truly despite the rudimentary audio dampeners in his helmet. Ignoring the agitated howls of his warriors, Tragathal maximized the volume on his comms, concentrating on the distant sounds contained within. Only a few brief spikes of noise made themselves clear to his experienced ear: a brute shot firing with reckless haste, bone snapping beneath cracking metal alloy, a muffled mauler shot, a strange wordless cry-
Finally, silence.
Tragathal needed several more moments before he understood what had seemed abnormal about that last voice. He almost didn't recognize the source beneath the static distortion.
Because it was simply impossible that a Jiralhanae veteran of countless battles like the ones under his command could ever let out a cry of pure, primal fear like what he'd just heard.
Arthoc's frustrated breaths lingered ominously in the cramped interior of his command Shadow transport with each second his transmission went unanswered. He held no regret for accepting this mission, even if he wasn't going to embrace any illusions about the continued series of disappointments that had tripped him up. First he was denied air support. The human air defense was simply too good, Tremonious had said. Banshees kept falling one by one, two by two, even three by three. Heavier craft? All held in reserve for the coming attack on Vol's lines. Orbital bombardment of the offending area? Too risky. Merg Vol's fleet would pounce immediately, and the humans simply weren't that important.
Then it became apparent that he couldn't even satisfy himself with full access to the Banished ground arsenal either. No Mgalekgolo, no wraith artillery, no walkers, and only a few Revenants. So be it, he had said, the terrain would hamper the heavier vehicles anyway. Mentally, he had taken note of how narrow Tremonious' promised "all manner of support" really was. The Warlord's mocking comparison of the humans to Unggoy hadn't faded so easily. He knew how low the Brothers of Unending Ire ranked in the eyes of Escharum's fleet. This mission was a test of some kind, and he wouldn't fail it, or his brothers.
Limitations notwithstanding, he still had many new toys at his disposal. This modified Shadow, for instance, which possessed an enclosed egg-shaped CIC where its troop bay had been, was one of many transports his troops now rode in. Choppers and Spectres scouted ahead of his main force, joined for now by the Revenants. When the humans were spotted, the precious light artillery vehicles would remain well out of direct contact and provide much-needed fire support. His warhost was also more than twice its starting size, augmented by Kig-yar snipers, Unggoy gunners, and other specialized troops. Most were concentrated among three primary formations: Gethmald's jump troopers, Gorians Bloodstars, and Tragathal's scouts.
Not anymore, perhaps, Arthoc thought, exhaling with particular loudness as Tragathal's failure to respond dragged on. The Scoutmaster had last assured Tragathal that he was responding to a human ambush with no unfortunate interruptions mid-sentence. His hope was that the other commander had his wits about him as a scout should, but he was getting used to disappointment two days into this mission.
At last, Tragathal's crestfallen voice filled the CIC.
"There will be no outflanking of the humans. Gjilios' lance is no longer available."
"What!? Another of your teams was ambushed?"
"Not just ambushed. Massacred. We'll attempt to decipher what little was transmitted later." His voice grew hesitant, almost too quiet with the din of battle still raging around him. "Chieftain, it was incomprehensible…my warriors experienced the strongest terror, fear no Jiralhanae should know, I'm certain of it. The humans deal not in such fear."
"Demons, then?"
"It is as reasonable an explanation as any for what I heard, something foul put fear into their souls-"
"No, you fool, I meant Spartans. The human supersoldiers!" Arthoc had no patience for Tragathal's dramatic rhetoric. He simply considered the most likely explanation for what had eliminated Tragathal's squad and worked from there. The "Demons" had fortunately remained but a myth for his pack during his Covenant service. Most in ex-covenant space agreed that they had all died off following the disappearance of the Legendary "117", but a few warriors for hire insisted that the humans still had a few very dangerous tricks up their sleeve that continued to accomplish the impossible…
"No," Tragathal stretched the word out past the limit of Arthoc's patience. "No, no, the Spartans wouldn't be found on an outpost like this!" Arthoc waited for Tragathal to fume some more until it seemed he was at a loss for words.
"Parg Vol's infiltrators, then."
"I would rather they be responsible! But not even the most barbaric Sangheili could wring a fraction of the fear from any Jiralhanae in the manner that whatever killed my warriors did. Now it may be my lance that is under threat of being flanked. We are retreating!" The last 3 words were roared over the comms, followed thereafter by rapid orders arranging a fighting withdrawal. Gunfire picked up in several brief snaps, one by one both near and far from Tragathal himself. More orders were still being given further off when the Scoutmaster returned his focus to the battlenet.
"Chieftain, I trust my brothers with my life, but we know not the true strength of what we face. A few scout vehicles to cover the open areas, transports to evacuate the wounded, some of your reserves to replace our losses, give me these and we will return to the hunt swiftly. You will still have my lances to the South at your disposal."
Arthoc considered the request. Tragathal's scouts were arrayed on every natural pathway too narrow for a vehicle to traverse while his warhost followed the human raiders down the most open part of the badlands. One one hand, he wanted all of his troops available for the confrontation. On the other hand, he didn't know what danger Tragathal was truly in. Losing the scoutmaster and his retinue would harm morale. Worse, it would scar his reputation with Tremonious. Then there was the question of these mysterious additional enemies that had eliminated one of the scout detachments. The specifics didn't concern him as much as the general risk did. If they slipped past his lines and into the Banished rear areas, there was no telling what damage might be done, and the blame for all of it would be on his head no matter the true intricacies.
In the end, caution won out. He couldn't have an unknown threat gallivanting behind him. Arthoc quickly sent out new orders over the battlenet before returning to Tragathal.
"I've sent 6 lances with extra fuel rod guns and 6 Choppers to rendezvous with you. They are arriving in shadows that will evacuate your wounded. You can handle teaching the warriors the Farguard way, yes?"
"If they can keep up," Tragathal answered with a hollow satisfaction in his voice.
That was when Arthoc noticed more than a few shadow transports breaking off from the main column on the CIC's meager holotable. A single shadow marked with various glyphs took the lead in speeding off ahead of him, and from that he had his answer. Tragathal opened a two-way channel to the offending commander and let his anger flow freely for the first time.
"Gorian, what is the meaning of this?" Every shadow now pulling ahead of his convoy was marked as containing a Bloodstars lance. Worse, several transports crewed by Gethmald's jump troopers were starting to join them.
"What is there to explain? The humans know we're tracking them now. I'll hit them before they can adjust their plans. Fear not, We'll leave enough of the best meat for you Unggoy-fodder. If you're quick enough." Laughter echoed over the comms from the Bloodstar warriors accompanying their Captain.
Arthoc silenced the transmission and fought the urge to pound the holotable. He could smell the Special Forces leader's insolence through his unctuous demeanor when they'd first met, and now the full extent of his disregard for Arthoc's authority was on full display. Gethmald's disobedience was the surprising factor. Had he planned it in advance, or was he impulsively trying to be of assistance in a risky mission that his jump troopers were well-suited for. The Loft-Captain was far more bluntly agreeable than Gorian, leaving no trace of prior dissidence.
Arthoc eyed the display, then scanned the rest of the CIC. The warriors in his command retinue watched carefully, apprehension filling the room. Arthoc knew he had a choice. Gorian's insubordination had been confined to a private channel. The sluggish shadow transports were still fairly close to each other. He could either try to rein him in and expose the low regard in which he was held by the prestigious warriors, or he could belatedly attempt to take ownership of their actions.
At that moment, the choice was clear.
Arthoc opened a warhost-wide channel on the battlenet. "Warriors, I've sent the Bloodstars ahead to mount a probing attack on the humans. May they take what they deserve from our despicable targets." He didn't wait to hear any acknowledgements, turning off the comm and looking over his subordinates. Nobody moved. Every Jiralhanae there knew that if they revealed the true tension between the Chieftain and the outsiders under his command, their heads would be on the line.
It was Targalian who spoke first. "Let the Bloodstars burn out on the human lines. Gorian knows he will win, so too will he die knowing it. Truly the successors to the Covenant there!"
"And we follow up to claim the glory," added Sipolius, a brown-furred Jiralhanae serving as quartermaster for the warhost.
"Exactly," Arthoc growled.
The ride in the Warthog had passed by in complete silence so far, and Matei was perfectly fine with that. Afternoon sunlight poured down mercilessly on his armored form, the price he had to pay for sitting in the open-topped warthog instead of sticking to the shade while walking. Nothing a few sips of water from his canteen couldn't ward off.
Matei looked up to see that the once-omnipresent peaks and cliffs looming over either side of him had temporarily receded, confirming that D Company was currently marching through a more open section of the badlands. It was Private Dylan Ramon's turn in the driver's seat today, a glance to the right revealing his tight grip on the steering wheel, tilting ever-so-slightly with each careful turn he took. Matei didn't know why Ramon had chosen not to trust the Warthog's suspension and avoid every natural obstacle on the spacious natural pathway in front of them. Perhaps the First Sergeant himself was the cause, and the Private was simply trying to drive serenely on his behalf. Whatever the reason, Matei approved. He'd taken the lead for two days straight and was content to relax.
That was until his ears were filled with a gentle static hiss courtesy of the personal comm system in his helmet.
"First Sergeant, we've got confirmed reports of enemy pursuit. Are you somewhere relatively secure?" It was Captain Sone, voice already wobbling through the radio despite no immediate threat. Without notifying Private Ramon, Matei swung his legs over the frame of the Warthog and hopped out of the slow-moving vehicle. There was a wordless gasp behind him and the Warthog's engine quieted momentarily before it resumed trudging forward out of sight. Spread out as the marines were, he already found himself in an open area of the path.
"What's the situation, sir?"
"Staff Sergeant Riley-Kwami's group just bumped into a platoon-sized Brute unit. The kongs ran off a few minutes into the engagement."
That was interesting. The Staff Sergeants raider group hadn't elaborated on any of their successes since they'd first split off on their merry way from the rest of the marines. He could see why this warranted an exception.
"Some kind of scout force." Brutes in a tough spot always ran towards the threat if they couldn't maintain their position, never away. The enemies in this case clearly represented a more rational exception.
"Exactly."
"And the Staff Sergeant's marines?"
"No word on casualties, or current intentions. He just wants us to know that we're being hunted." Once again the Riley-Kwami's almost territorial OPSEC rules made themselves apparent. Not that either group could come to the other's aid if they needed it. Between the terrain and their diametrically opposed routes, they were fully on their own. Matei wondered if both Riley-Kwami and the Brute Captain were going to hook around and come charging into each other again. It was an amusing scenario.
Captain Sone continued at his brisk pace. "I'm assuming the worst about any possible pursuers. Those Brute scouts were on foot, but that's only because of the terrain in that part of the badlands. We need to prepare for an imminent enemy attack."
"Sir, who else knows about this?"
"Aside from you, only my staff and a few other trustworthy NCOs. We'll inform the Company after we have a proper plan, keep everyone with their nose to the grindstone instead of worrying about what we'll do next."
"Of course, and that plan is…?"
"That's what I was hoping you could tip the scales on."
Matei nodded, feeling particularly uncomfortable standing out in the open. As expected, he was once again called upon to hold the Captain's hand.
"There's only two options being debated right now. Either we leave behind a blocking detachment in good terrain and keep everyone else moving, or we confront them with our entire strength."
"Put me in the blocking detachment." Matei replied a little too quickly.
"First Sergeant, are you certain you want to take that risk?"
"We don't need to sit everyone down and waste time waiting for them. When we hit that base, we made those Brutes mad. Brutes get mad, they get stupid, they start throwing the first thing in reach at the problem. I'm sure they don't know how many of us there are, they've got bigger problems to worry about. All we need is one good pass and we can send them running without showing our true strength. We already know they're not sending aircraft into these hills for some reason. This can work. It has worked."
The line went silent for a while. Matei was taking a long swig of his canteen when Sone's reply nearly made him choke.
"I'll take command of the delaying force."
"-what? Captain, you can let Lieutenant Maldini handle this. Or just let ME handle it, there's no-"
"I can't walk away from the marines I'll be leaving in the line of fire. I need to show them I understand the risk. You and the other NCOs can plan the ambush however you like, I won't interfere. But I won't abandon you either."
"Sir, with all due respect, discretion is the better part of valor."
"Yeah well, a coward dies a thousand deaths. Get your squad ready."
"...Yes sir."
The line went dead.
Matei slouched heavily back towards his receding squad. Already, other Sergeants were in the process of reassembling their troops and whipping them into shape.
He didn't like this new boldness at all. Had the Captain been spending too much time with the wounded? Casualty reports had been far too premature when they'd met in the Banished Commander center; 35 casualties was now 35 KIA and another 41 wounded. The medics had done their best, but the bed of an H9 Truck made for a poor field hospital. Their somber updates had been the only thing passing for news in the previous two days until Riley-Kwami's transmission. Each new death stung Matei, but the Captain was surely being crushed by the updates. It was he who'd ordered the raid, riding triumphantly in on a Warthog after enemy resistance had dissolved. It was a stunning success for his first true offensive action after various skirmishes against Vol's troops. Matei could imagine the process now: a brief rush of satisfaction, followed by the confusion of learning their enemy's true identity, the drudgery of withdrawal, and the pain of now deaths from inadequate healthcare.
Yes, Captain Sone was becoming acquainted with the truth about war, but was learning the right things from it? Matei wasn't so sure.
As he ordered his squad to assemble and about-face, Matei recalled his peculiar dream from two nights prior. It would be a cruel twist of fate to die led by a CO pulled down the same flawed path as his first.
A/N: I'm currently trying to write more than one chapter ahead. Based on this effort I can confidently say that there will be just one more chapter until the "good" part.
Onto reviews:
Just-a-random-guy117 re: Abyssals: Let's just say the marine squad dropping out of contact, the Banished banshees being shot down, and the Brute scouts getting jammed in this chapter all have one thing in common...