Northern
Cryolume Forest - Three Weeks Later
The
wind howls like a living thing over the ridge. Snow swirls in sheets
of silver and white, the air sharp enough to cut the lungs. Beneath
the storm, an army breathes, rows upon rows of Invictan soldiers
arrayed in perfect formation, their armor black and crimson under the
dim sun. Banners of House Tiberius whip in the gale, their crimson
sigils stark against the pale world.
Magnus
Tiberius sits astride his steed, Ferrum Rex, a towering mechanical
warhorse of obsidian alloy and crimson-plated joints. The machine's
breath vents in steaming bursts, its eyes two burning red apertures
scanning the horizon. Every twitch and stomp feels alive, yet its
heartbeat is an engine's thrum, steady, precise, and purposeful.
Beside
him rides Aulus Balbus, his own steed, Sablemane, shimmering with
etched sigils of the Forger. The two machines stamp at the frozen
ridge, the snow hissing under their weight.
Below,
tens of thousands of Invictan troops stand at parade rest; Colossus
Rexes, Gladiator MK-IIs, Ares' Fists, and Vulcan's Thunders, and
their armored divisions. The valley beyond crawls with motion as
soldiers and the heavy machinery move into place.
"Reports
from the eastern corridor came in this morning," Aulus says,
visor flickering with scrolling data. "Eldiravan detachments hit
the Twelfth and the Forty-Second. Entire companies lost. Three
hundred and twelve souls gone in the span of a single hour."
Magnus'
gaze doesn't waver from the horizon. His helm is off, the wind
catching in his dark hair, streaked faintly with grey. His voice
comes low, measured. "And yet they bought us time. Every
Eldiravan dead in the east is one less to harry the flanks. Let them
bleed each other dry."
Ferrum
Rex shifts its weight with a hydraulic groan, head dipping as if in
agreement.
Aulus
glances at him. "So you still think it wise, to leave the
Eldiravan unchallenged, to let them tear through the Venators first?"
"The
enemy of our enemy is a weapon," Magnus answers. "The
Venators are dug in. Fanatics with faith thick enough to choke on. If
the xenos wish to cut them down, let them."
Aulus
smirks faintly, though it doesn't reach his eyes. "You sound
almost like Faustus."
Magnus'
mouth curves in a ghost of a grin. "Faustus would say the Forger
himself cast the Eldiravan to test our steel."
"He
would
drink to that, too," Aulus replies dryly.
They
both fall silent for a moment, watching the snowstorm sweep over the
far mountains. The skeletal curve of the serpentine bones looms
faintly in the mist, half buried, half alive, glowing with a dim
inner light.
"Samayel's
last report?" Magnus asks finally.
"He's
still watching Absjorn's encampment. Says the Venators have fortified
deeper into the valley, triple walls, trench lines, sanctified
pylons. Their priests work day and night, singing into the storm."
Magnus'
expression hardens. "Then Absjorn is hurting. He's praying
because he's afraid."
Aulus's
visor tilts toward the east. "He will
need those prayers. The Eldiravan push harder each night. If our
scouts are right, there are three Eldiravan detachments carving
through his outer defenses. The Venators' dead are feeding the snow."
Magnus
hums softly. "Then perhaps the Forger's anvil is hotter than I
thought."
Aulus
scrolls through his wrist console, frowning. "Still… our own
are not untouched. The wildlife up here grows bolder. Skyforge drakes
took out a column of Colossus Rexes yesterday. Tore through armor
plating like paper. The beasts do not
seem to fear machines anymore."
"They
adapt," Magnus says. "Everything does, given enough blood
and time."
"Even
us?"
Magnus
looks down at the army below, his army, his House, the might of
Invicta made flesh and machine. "Especially us."
The
wind picks up again, carrying the faint sound of distant thunder, or
perhaps artillery fire echoing across the mountains. Aulus turns
slightly in his saddle, scanning the white horizon.
"What's
next?" he asks.
Magnus'
eyes narrow, the glow of Ferrum Rex's optics reflecting faintly
against his armor.
"Next,
we remind Absjorn who forges war on Nirna."
He
taps a control on his gauntlet, and the warhorse releases a resonant
metallic bellow, a sound like thunder striking iron. Across the
ridge, the legions stir. Engines roar. Artillery mounts pivot toward
the east.
"Keep
the Legion on standby," Magnus commands. "We move as soon
as we have Spartan's word."
The
command ridge sits in stillness, the wind slicing through banners of
black and crimson. Below, the legions wait in formation, steel ranks
gleaming beneath a cold, pale sun. The Vulcan’s Thunders loom
behind them, their rail cannons trained downrange, cross hairs fixed
on the distant valley. Each engine hums at idle, restrained thunder
waiting for the word.
“Still
nothing,” Aulus says. “No visual, no transmission. Spartan’s
signal should have come through by now.”
Magnus’
jaw tightens beneath his helm. “She will come through,” he says,
though his voice is more an act of faith than certainty. “She
always does.”
The
comms unit on his gauntlet chimes, a low, private tone. A single
encrypted channel opening.
He glances down at the identifier.
Naburiel.
He
accepts the transmission. “What is it?”
The
reply is immediate, tense. “You need to see this, Master.”
Naburiel’s voice crackles through static, layered with faint
background wind and distortion. “Sending live feed now.”
Magnus
opens the link. The holographic projection flickers to life before
him, a direct view from Naburiel’s helm.
Snow
fills the image, whirling past the lens in thick, angry gusts.
Ashurdan walks a few meters ahead, his armor smeared with frost and
soot, the faint blue glow of his optics cutting through the storm.
Around them, the landscape is ruin.
Magnus
leans forward slightly in his saddle. “Report.”
“Eastern
front,” Naburiel says. “Sector Seventeen. We lost contact with a
battalion stationed here three hours ago. Eight hundred strong. We
found them.”
The
snow crunches under Naburiel's boots as the feed jitters slightly,
static crawling along the edges of the image. Ashurdan's armor gleams
dully beneath the gray sky, its plating flecked with soot and the
bloodless frost of battle aftermath. The wind howls across the open
gulley, carrying the metallic scent of ozone and charred metal.
"Single
entity," Naburiel mutters through the feed. His voice is flat,
the tone of a man forced to accept something he doesn't yet
understand. "Not a platoon. Not even a squad. One."
Magnus
sits silent atop his mechanical steed, eyes fixed on the holographic
projection hovering before him. The image reflects in his visor like
a ghost. Around him, the command staff are hushed, Aulus, the
adjutants, the mech pilots. Only the wind and the distant pulse of
the Colossus Rex engines dare to move.
"Confirm
signature," Magnus orders. His voice is low, deliberate.
Ashurdan's
gauntlet flares blue as he scans the print. "Composition matches
Eldiravan physiology. Trace residue suggests harmonic discharge.
Frequencies off the chart."
Naburiel
angles his helm toward the shattered stone bridge. "He didn't
just cross here," he says. "He made it."
The
feed pans up, showing the unnatural formation arcing across the
gulley. A smooth, continuous bridge of black basalt, still steaming,
veins of molten light glowing faintly through the cracks. Like a scar
the earth hasn't finished healing.
Magnus
leans forward in his saddle, watching as Ashurdan lifts the corpse of
a Praevecti
Sergeant,
his
armor warped inward, chestplate folded like paper. "Internal
collapse," Ashurdan reports. "Auditory or vibrational
weaponry. No scorch, no penetration. They were crushed from the
inside."
The
feed distorts again, briefly, a sharp harmonic tremor passing through
the signal. Magnus narrows his eyes. "You are
close to a residual field," he says. "Back off twenty
meters."
The
two Vardengard
obey, retreating through the ruins. The feed clears. Naburiel tilts
his helm slightly, scanning the distance. "There's something
else," he says. "The air... it's still singing."
Magnus
hears it too, faint even through the filtered channel, like the ghost
of a choir caught in the static, a low, resonant hum beneath the
wind.
"Which
one?" Magnus asks quietly. "Which of their soldiers
did this?"
Ashurdan
doesn't answer at first. He kneels again, brushing snow from a
crushed insignia. The mark of the House Tiberius, a
forward facing wolf’s head,
twisted and shattered. "This isn't one of the lower choirs,"
he says finally. "This… this is a high resonance."
Aulus
exhales beside Magnus, the sound sharp over comms. "Then they
are
moving west. Toward the Venators."
Magnus
nods once. "Let them."
He
dismisses the feed, the projection collapsing into a thin line of
light before fading completely. For a long moment, the only sound is
the metallic breath of his warhorse, the faint clatter of armor
plates shifting in the wind.
Then,
quietly, he speaks, more to himself than to anyone else.
"Let
the beasts devour each other."
He
turns his gaze east, where the artillery stands in perfect, cold
silence, Vulcan's Thunders arrayed like titans at rest, their barrels
glowing faintly from recent calibration. "When the ash settles,"
he continues, "we forge anew. Iron upon iron. Until only Invicta
remains."
Aulus
nods, solemn. "And Spartan?"
Magnus
looks toward the horizon, where the clouds roll like smoke over the
mountains.
"She
will
signal soon," he says. "And when she does," He raises
a hand. Across the ridge, a dozen Garm units stir from their crouched
positions, eyes burning cold white as they link to their masters. The
air hums with synchronized readiness. "We
strike as one."
Spartan
and Rho Voss’ Position – Continuous
Snow
explodes beneath their boots. The mountains roar with the echo of
pursuit, engines, shouting, the war-cries of the faithful.
Spartan
runs first, Rho Voss a shadow beside her, both moving with predatory
speed. Their Olympian armor thrums with kinetic fury, jetpacks
flaring in short, controlled bursts to leap across fractured ledges
and sheer drops. Behind them, Red Baron and his Federalists fight to
keep up, Arturo, Liam, and Dace staggering, slipping, gasping in the
thin air.
The
air burns white with cold. The wind carries the sound of metal
striking metal, hoofbeats.
Spartan
risks a glance back. A hundred Venators surge through the snow below,
a flood of black and crimson banners snapping in the gale. At the
head of the pack run four Hounds, steel muzzles torn open to reveal
gnashing jaws. Behind them, the armored giants, Tzurinn, Akriel,
Malchiel, and Vaedran, their blades lit by the reflection of their
own pursuit.
And
towering over them all: two mounted figures.
Absjorn
and Cassiel.
Their
titansteeds are living fortresses of flesh and plate, each stride
breaking the crusted snow beneath iron hooves.
Tracer
fire spits across the ravine walls as rail bolts scream past
Spartan’s shoulder. She ducks, curses, slides down a slope of ice
and stone, grabs Red Baron by the arm, and throws him the
last few meters to a ledge below.
“Decem
diaboli!” she snarls, teeth bared behind her visor. “We
should be killing them, not running like prey!”
Rho
Voss lands beside her, silent, the snow steaming where his boots hit.
He doesn’t answer. He just turns, firing a pulse from his
shoulder-mounted cannon into the slope behind them, the blast
collapses a ledge, slowing the Venators by a heartbeat.
It
isn’t enough.
The
Federalists are panting hard now. Dace trips, slides into a drift,
and Liam hauls him up with a grunt, cursing. Their armor is good,
Federation-grade, but it was never built for this kind of terrain,
never built for Invictan pace.
Arturo
shouts, “They’re closing! They’re right behind---”
A
rail-round hisses past, slicing clean through his shoulder plating.
He spins, half-falls, blood splattering the snow. Spartan grabs him
by the collar and throws him forward, hard.
“Move!”
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
Her
visor flares. Terrain map flickers in her HUD, they’re less than
two hundred meters from the ravine. If they can reach it, she can
signal Magnus and the Vulcan’s Thunders will do the rest.
“Rho!”
she barks. “Ravine ahead. Get the Feds across. I’ll cover.”
He
gives a single nod, vaults forward, grabs Dace by the harness, and
drags him like a child through the snow.
Behind
them, the thunder of pursuit grows. The Hounds are leaping now,
bounding over ridges, howling metallic shrieks that echo across the
mountains. The Vardengard follow close, and behind them, the mounted
Venators fan out, Velox Steeds weaving between ridges to flank.
They
run hard. The snow whips past like shards of glass in the wind, the
storm roaring down the ravine walls. Ahead, a jagged monolith juts
from the ground, black stone glazed with ice, ancient and sharp as a
broken blade.
Spartan
skids to a halt beneath it, boots carving furrows through the frost.
She grabs Arturo by the back of his armor and throws him
upward, hurling him over the incline toward the next ridge. He hits
the snow with a grunt but keeps moving. Rho Voss blurs past her with
the remaining three, his new arm thrumming, servos whining.
She
turns, reaching for Red Baron, and a shadow drops.
Not
a leap. A descent. A shape of iron and scripture crashes
down on her with the force of an artillery shell. The impact sends
her sprawling back into the monolith, metal shrieking against stone.
Red Baron is flung aside, vanishing into a cloud of white powder.
The
Inquisitor lands astride her, blade already drawn. His armor gleams
like burnished bone, lean, ceremonial, engraved with a thousand
verses that glow faintly beneath the frost. His mask is carved into a
faceless visage of judgment, a single vertical slit blazing with gold
light.
He
wastes no breath on words. The Sigil Blade drives down. Crack! It
punches through the plating at her back, into one of the powercells.
Sparks erupt in a geyser of blue-white fire, the hiss of venting fuel
shrieking between them. The smell of burning ozone floods the air.
Spartan
roars and thrashes, one arm shooting up to grab his forearm. The
Inquisitor moves with a mechanical precision, bracing his boot on her
chestplate to stay atop her. He forces her down, gauntlet gripping
her helmet, pressing her head into the snow and stone.
The
Sigil Blade hums, its inscriptions ignite, the heat radiating enough
to melt a halo in the snow around them.
Then
Rho Voss appears, silent, furious motion, slamming into the
Inquisitor from the flank.
The
blow sends the three of them sliding through the snow, metal
shrieking on metal. Spartan tears herself free, coughing from the
smoke venting through her damaged cell. The Inquisitor twists with
unnatural balance, landing in a crouch. His blade snaps up, not to
strike, but to the side of Spartan’s neck.
A
single, white-hot line hovers there, so close the heat chars the
paint from her helm. The hum of it fills the silence between
heartbeats.
Rho
Voss freezes, servos whining low.
The
Inquisitor straightens slowly, still holding Spartan by the helm, the
blade poised at her throat. His armor, ceremonial and cruelly
efficient, reflects the white light from the leaking powercell.
The
air crackles. The snow between them steams.
It’s
a stalemate, one forged in holy steel.
He
doesn’t speak, but his intent is written in the fire of his weapon:
Yield, or burn.
The
Vardengard have seen many enemies, Eldiravan, Venators, aberrants,
but only Inquisitors can hold their own gods at bay.
And
this one means to hold them long enough for the rest of the Venators
to arrive.
Rho
Voss moves before thought, a blur of black iron and rage. His
zweihander ignites, blade singing as it carves through the blizzard.
He brings it down in a full arc, a strike meant to cleave tanks, not
men.
The
Inquisitor twists aside at the last instant, the blade missing him by
inches, the shockwave alone hurling snow into the air like a
detonation. He slides backward, boots digging into the ice, his Sigil
Blade crackling as scripture burns along its length.
Spartan
rolls to her feet in the same motion, molten fuel still venting from
the punctured cell at her side. The snow hisses where it lands.
The
Inquisitor pivots, poised between them, a serpent of light and
discipline, and then the storm breaks open.
Figures
crash through the whiteout in a blur of motion and metal. Malchiel.
Vaedran. Akriel. Tzurinn.
Four
titans of the Venator order, clad in their sanctified warplate.
They
slam into the fight like meteors.
Tzurinn
hits first, his hammer roaring with sanctified energy as he drives it
straight at Rho Voss. The impact ripples through the ice, snow
erupting in a geyser. Rho meets it with a parry, the zweihander
catching the hammer’s haft mid-swing, sparks scattering like embers
in the storm.
Spartan
throws herself at Malchiel, meeting blade for blade. Their strikes
are thunderclaps, each impact sending concentric waves through the
ground. Akriel flanks, his twin blades cutting arcs of blinding
white; Spartan pivots, shoulder-checking him, kicking him down the
slope before Vaedran blindsides her from behind.
She
stumbles forward, takes the hit on her vambrace, then headbutts him
hard enough to dent his mask.
For
a moment, the battlefield dissolves into chaos, five Venators versus
two Invictans. Iron against faith. Flesh against fire.
Every
blow lands like artillery, sending shockwaves that tear through the
snowpack and roll down the mountain.
Nearby,
Red Baron groans, pulling himself upright with Dace’s help. The air
is alive with sound, metal screaming, thunder rolling, voxlines
crackling with distorted inhuman
growls and snarls.
Red
Baron staggers forward, half-blinded by the snow. “Holy hells…”
Dace
grips his arm, eyes wide as the giants clash before them. “We
can’t, ”
“We
can,” Red Baron snarls, scanning the wreckage. He spots Spartan’s
rifle half-buried in the snow where it was thrown clear in the chaos.
“Get me that rifle.”
Dace
hesitates. “Sir, that thing’ll melt us alive if, ”
“Get
it!” Red Baron snaps.
Above
them, Spartan and Rho fight like two wolves against a pride of lions.
Spartan seizes Akriel by the neck and throws him through a
broken column of ice; Rho blocks another hammer swing, takes it to
the shoulder, and keeps fighting through the impact.
The
Inquisitor watches for an opening, calculating, patient.
He
moves like lightning. A feint, a step, and his Sigil Blade carves a
burning line across Spartan’s pauldron, through the exposed joint
at her neck. Sparks and blood hiss out together.
Spartan
staggers, Rho roars, and Red Baron, crouched behind a shattered
ridge, charges the rail rifle.
The
weapon howls to life, blue light washing over the snow.
He
grips it tight, waiting for his moment.
He
can’t win this fight, but he can damn well buy them time.
Spartan
rips Malchiel off Rho’s back, armor screeching against armor, and
hurls him through the air. He smashes into the snow just meters from
Red Baron and Dace, ice exploding outward like shrapnel.
Rho
reels, blood trailing from a deep gash in his side. Spartan barely
turns before she raises her shield to meet Akriel’s twin blades,
the impact throwing sparks in a blinding arc. The Inquisitor seizes
the opening, his Sigil Blade burns white as it bites through Rho’s
thigh plating, nearly taking the leg. Rho drops to one knee with a
guttural roar, slamming his sword into the snow to stay upright.
Spartan
pivots, fury burning through the pain. She catches a downward strike
meant for her throat, but the edge still skims past, slicing deep
across her shoulder. The smell of scorched blood and melting steel
floods the air.
Malchiel
staggers back to his feet near Red Baron and Dace. His visor is
cracked, breath ragged, steam pouring from his armor vents. Red Baron
doesn’t think, he just raises the rifle and fires.
The
rail rifle screams. A sonic boom cracks through the air as the
projectile hits Malchiel square in the chest, tearing through armor
and throwing him backward.
But
he doesn’t fall.
He
turns.
The
impact only enrages him. The armor on his chest glows red-hot where
it was struck, the sigils etched across it pulsing like veins of
molten gold. He steps forward, impossibly fast for his size.
Red
Baron fires again, a miss. Dace charges, shouting, too close, too
fast. Malchiel grabs him by the back of the head, lifting him
effortlessly off the ground. Dace thrashes, boots kicking, hands
clawing at the giant’s wrist.
“Let
him go!” Red Baron roars, firing again, the shot hits Malchiel’s
pauldron, blasting off a chunk of it, but it’s not enough.
Spartan
turns, sees it happen through the storm, Dace hanging there,
helpless.
She
starts forward...
And
Malchiel squeezes.
The
sound is wet and final. A sharp red mist explodes outward. Dace’s
body goes limp, dropping to the snow like a discarded doll.
Red
Baron screams.
Spartan
stops moving for just a second, just enough for everything to
collapse inward. The world narrows to a tunnel of white and blood.
Then
she charges.
She
hits Malchiel like a meteor, slamming into him hard enough to shatter
the ice beneath them. They tumble through the snow, rolling, tearing,
snarling, armor grinding, fists hammering. Spartan’s helmet cracks
against his, once, twice, she grabs the edge of his breastplate and
rips, tearing loose a venting cable.
Malchiel
headbutts her back, driving her into the ground, snow erupting around
them. He swings, misses, she catches his arm, twists, and brings her
knee up into his chest. The impact caves the metal inward.
Rho,
still standing despite his wounds, turns to cover her flank, cleaving
Akriel’s arm from his body before the Inquisitor slashes across his
back again.
The
battlefield is pure chaos now, fire, snow, blood, and blinding light.
Spartan
pins Malchiel beneath her, pressing her shield against his throat as
he claws for her helmet. “You,” she snarls through the vocoder,
voice fractured with static, “you dare harm mine?”
Malchiel
only laughs, a harsh, metallic rasp through his broken vox. “The
Forger’s hound learns to feel?”
She
drives her blade through his throat before he can speak again.
The
snow turns red.
The
sound of hooves reaches her first. Deep. Rhythmic. Hundreds of them.
The cavalry. Their time is gone. If they’re caught here, everything
fails, the convoy, the escape, the mission. She exhales, visor
fogging from inside, and listens to the wind. It carries the scent of
oiled leather, burning incense, horse sweat. The Venators are close
enough to taste.
Spartan
grabs two grenades from her belt, smooth, heavy spheres that hum
faintly with charge, one black, one white. The cold bites at the gaps
in her armor, air sharp enough to cut, but she barely feels it over
the rush of battle still roaring in her blood.
“Rho!”
she barks, voice cutting through the snow like a whipcrack.
He
glances back, half crouched, sword raised, his vantablack armor
trembling with exhaust heat. Spartan doesn’t need to speak. He
knows the signal.
She
arms the grenades, two quick presses, mechanical chirps, then throws
them underhand toward him. They hit the snow with twin metallic
thuds, rolling to his boots.
“Down!”
she growls, already turning away.
The
smoke swallows the clearing in a living, choking wave; light
collapses into a single, bright, ringing point that snaps the eyes
shut and makes the teeth ache. For a heartbeat there is nothing but
sound, a high, glassy keening, and then the flash dies and the smoke
remains, thick and buzzing at the edges like a hive of angry insects.
Spartan
moves in that blind, hot second. She yanks Red Baron up by the scruff
of his armor, feeling his weight, feeling him go slack and then
steady in her grip. She throws, a clean, practiced toss, and Liam
catches him without missing a beat, hands like clamps. Liam hauls Red
Baron the rest of the way, dragging him toward the distant ravine
where the natural stone walls promise cover.
Rho
stumbles, boots slipping in the churned snow, one of his knees
buckling. Spartan clamps an arm under his and locks him to her
shoulder like a harness. The armor hisses, servos whining as she
takes his weight and they stagger forward through the smoke. The
world smells of ozone, hot metal, and the copper-sweet tang of blood.
They
hit the jetpacks in the same instant. The thrust is a violent,
stomach-dropping yank, snow blowing upward in a screaming spray as
they launch. Spartan’s gauntlet digs into Rho’s side to keep him
pinned as they surge up the bank. The wind tries to steal their
breath, but the armor’s seals hold.
They
clear the ridge and sprint, jetpacks tucked to bleed speed and not
altitude. The ravine is a dark mouth ahead, jagged stone and a ribbon
of black between the snow. Spartan slams a boot into the lip and
skids, shoulders pivoting, dragging Rho with her. He coughs, spitting
froth, but his hand clamps down on her forearm and refuses to let go.
Behind
them the cavalry hits the smoke and the sound changes, horses
screaming, harsher, metallic cries as Venator trumpets bite through
the fog. A line of white-and-red armor flares like blood through the
mist, the Inquisitor’s silhouette visible a second, impossibly
tall, then gone again as smoke swirls.
Spartan
doesn’t look back. She plants her feet at the ravine’s edge,
drops her shoulder, and pushes Rho forward. They slide, ice rasping
against armor, then they drop together into the ragged cavern mouth.
For one breathless second they are falling in a tunnel of stone and
frozen air, then their jetpacks catch and steady them, muffled
throttle notes like distant thunder.
They
land on the far lip in a spray of snow. Spartan helps Rho upright.
His vantablack plates are streaked with blood; his one remaining hand
curls into a fist that shakes. He looks to her, no words, only that
old, raw look that means: still alive.
Above,
the Venators reach the ridge. A dozen helmets break the horizon,
riders pounding the snow, swords raised. The Inquisitor doesn’t
hesitate; he slams his sigil blade downward once, twice, a flashing
promise. But the gap is closed. Spartan turns, breath fogging, then
tucks her chin and bolts into the ravine’s shadow with Rho at her
shoulder. Behind them the snow roars as the pursuit begins, the enemy
falling into motion like blood into the teeth of a machine.
They
run. The ravine swallows their prints.
Rho
Voss limps but never falters, the servos in his leg whining with
every step. The damage is bad, the armor’s stabilizer brace crushed
inward from the Inquisitor’s strike, yet he still moves, each
stride hammering into the snow like a drumbeat.
Spartan
stays beside him, her arm locked around his waist to keep them both
upright. Every motion sends a hiss of strain through her Olympian
armor. Without both powercells, the plates drag heavier with every
heartbeat. The system compensates, reroutes, burns through what
little energy remains, but it’s not enough.
Her
breath rasps in her helmet. “Keep moving,” she mutters.
Rho
grunts, dry, mechanical from his mask.
Ahead
of them, the remaining Federalists, Red Baron, Liam, and Arturo, push
through the snow, running in a half-stumble, half-sprint. They keep
glancing back over their shoulders, watching for the two giants
behind them, refusing to break formation despite their exhaustion.
Spartan
and Rho move as one shape, two shadows merged by necessity. They
don’t let go of each other, because alone, they’d collapse.
Together, they’re still fast enough.
The
land begins to dip, the white plain cracking open into a narrow
ravine. Its mouth yawns before them, rimmed by jagged cliffs like
broken teeth.
“Here,”
Spartan rasps.
They
break into the valley and the wind dies all at once, silence
swallowing the world. The snow drifts down in lazy spirals, muffling
their footsteps. The air feels too still, too heavy.
To
the Federalists, it’s nothing but ice and rock and shadow. But to
Spartan and Rho, still poisoned by the wyrmglass, the world bends and
writhes.
The
cliffs are not stone. They are bodies. Colossal human
shapes, hollow and frozen, reaching upward in eternal agony. Eye
sockets empty. Mouths open in silent screams. Snow mingles with ash
that clings to their feet, to their armor, like the residue of a
thousand burned souls.
Behind
them, the ground trembles. The sound rolls down the mountains, a
hundred hooves striking stone, accompanied by the metallic chorus of
Venator hymns.
The
cavalry is close. The Venator Vardengard closer still.
Rho
looks to Spartan. She meets his gaze through their visors. No words
needed. They both know: this is where they make their stand.
The
Venators - Continuous
The
Venator cavalry comes to a halt in a thundering of hooves and a
settling of snow. Their breaths plume in great clouds, horses
stamping and snorting steam. The mouth of the ravine looms before
the, dark, narrow, silent. The sound of the wind fades into nothing,
as though the world itself holds its breath.
At
the head of the column, Absjorn reins in Balthamar, his
titansteed pawing restlessly at the frozen ground. The beast’s
great chest is latticed with burn scars, the left eye sealed shut by
melted flesh and time. Its remaining eye gleams dully in the dark.
Beside
him rides Cassiel,
armor white and red under the dusting snow, his own steed stamping
nervously. They stare into the ravine’s black mouth, a throat
waiting to swallow them.
“This
reeks of ambush,” Cassiel murmurs. His voice is steady, but his
hand rests tight on his spear. “The Vardengard flee into such a
place only when there’s death waiting within.”
Absjorn’s
helm tilts slightly, the crimson glass reflecting nothing. “Or when
there’s nowhere else left to run.”
The
Inquisitor approaches on his velox,
smaller, sleeker than the titansteeds, its gait low and
predator-smooth. His robes whisper in the wind, the sigil etched
across his chestplate pulsing faintly with inner light.
“They
are weakened,” the Inquisitor reports, voice calm, deliberate. “Rho
Voss limps from a shattered leg actuator. Spartan’s armor runs on
half its cells. Her power will not last the hour.”
A
grin flickers across Absjorn’s face beneath the helm. “Then the
wolves bleed.”
“Cornered
wolves bite hardest,” Cassiel says softly.
Before
more can be said, Vaedran steps forward, towering even among the
Vardengard, frost hissing off his armor’s vents. His voice booms
across the silence.
“She
killed Malchiel.” His gauntlet clenches around the haft of his
war-axe. “I will bring her back to you, Master.
Alive or not, her blood will answer his.”
Akriel
and Tzurinn nod beside him, eager, restless, the scent of vengeance
thick on them. Their armor hums with rising power, the snow at their
feet vaporizing from the heat.
Absjorn’s
eyes flick toward them, then toward the ravine. He does not hesitate.
“Go, then. Bring her back. I want her kneeling before the
Absolute’s banner before dawn.”
The
three Vardengard bow in unison, then move, titans in motion, charging
into the ravine’s shadow, the snow exploding under their feet.
Absjorn
raises a gauntleted hand, signaling to the ranks behind. “First
Cavalry, advance. Support them. Footmen, follow.”
The
order ripples down the line. Horns blare once, deep and mournful. The
cavalry surge forward, the sound of their charge echoing like thunder
between the cliffs.
Cassiel
watches them vanish into the dark, his breath slow, his eyes hard.
“We should not have sent them blind,” he mutters, lowering his
staff in reverence.
He
bows his head, whispering into the frozen air. “Absolute, guide
them through the valley of shadow. Let Your angels walk beside them.
Let Your flame purge the unworthy and deliver Your faithful unto
victory.”
His
prayer carries on the wind, following the hooves into the waiting
dark, where Spartan and Rho Voss prepare their stand.
