The
Foot of Mount Kalthar, Arkaelus, Nirna - 2 Days Later
The
wind howls down from the mountains, cold and dry, biting through
armor seams and cloth. The snow here is deeper, thicker, untouched.
Every step crunches with a dull weight that seems to echo back off
the frozen cliffs above.
Spartan
raises a hand, signaling a halt.
The
convoy grinds to a slow, hissing stop, engines idling low.
Rho
stands beside her, still and silent, one massive hand resting on the
hilt of his zweihander, the other pressed to the side of his helm.
His head tilts slightly, the faintest sign that he hears it too.
The
hymn.
It
drifts down the slopes, faint at first, like a whisper carried by the
storm. Then stronger, fuller, harmonizing against the stone and snow.
It's not human. It's too resonant, too pure. Each note hums through
the chest, through the bones, vibrating like distant thunder.
Spartan's
jaw tightens beneath her helm. The sound is unmistakable.
Eldiravan.
She
gestures for Rho to crouch beside her at the rise overlooking the
white basin below. Together, they scan the horizon. The mountains
stretch in jagged tiers of ice and rock, sharp as the Forger's anvil,
and at their feet the world opens wide, a pale expanse where faint
shapes move within the stormlight.
"They're
singing," she mutters through the voice filter, the tone deep
and rasping. "Close…"
Rho
nods, slow and deliberate. He kneels, drawing a small notepad from
his belt. A gloved finger scrawls across the frozen page.
[How
many do you think?]
Spartan's
visor narrows. "Hard to say. Sounds like a full choir, maybe a
battalion. Maybe more."
Behind
them, Red Baron steps down from his APC, his boots sinking into the
snow. His rifle hangs at his side, his breath steaming in the cold.
"Something wrong?" he asks, voice muffled through the scarf
around his mouth.
Spartan
turns slightly, motioning with two fingers to cut the engines. "Off.
Now."
The
order ripples through the column. One by one, the APCs fall silent.
The lights dim, leaving only the faint blue glow of the cryolume moss
in the trees and the distant shimmer of ice.
The
Federalists dismount quickly, forming up on the right flank.
Forty-nine men, rifles drawn, hearts hammering in the eerie quiet.
Their boots crunch in the snow as they take position behind the
armored hulls, scanning the white horizon.
"Do
you hear that?" one whispers.
Red
Baron shakes his head. "Hear what?"
Spartan's
eyes never leave the slopes, she never answers.
The
hymn swells again, a low, sweeping chorus that makes the air vibrate.
It's beautiful in a way that makes the skin crawl, an ancient, sacred
tone of something vast and knowing.
Rho
straightens slowly beside her, his posture tense. He looks toward
her, his silence speaking volumes.
Spartan
exhales, a plume of white vapor escaping the vents of her helm.
"They're coming," she says quietly. "And they're not
far."
Red
Baron tightens his grip on his rifle. "How far?"
She
glances toward him, then back to the horizon. "Close enough to
start praying."
The
wind shifts, and the song changes. The pitch deepens, echoing through
the valley like a rising storm.
The
snowfield goes deathly still.
The
hymn drifts down from the mountain face, not a song of joy, but a
dirge, something old and haunting. Its echoes ripple over the valley
floor, over Spartan and Rho where they crouch low on the snowbank,
their armored frames half-buried in drifting powder.
Spartan's
voice cuts through the comms, low and deliberate.
"Rho.
We can intercept them here. Hit them before they spot the convoy."
Rho
gives a curt nod, the faintest metallic scrape from his helm as he
shifts his head. His breath comes in slow, measured bursts.
"The
others should be returning soon," she murmurs. "We just
need to keep their attention until then."
The
two remain perfectly still as the figures emerge through the fog,
tall, luminous shapes gliding between ice and shadow. The eldiravan
move with purpose, their burnt orange and obsidian armor whispering
with every motion. Their long spears hum faintly, harmonic resonances
pulsing down the hafts in rhythm to their chants.
Spartan's
eyes narrow behind her visor.
"Thirteen…
fourteen… maybe fifteen," she whispers. "Patrol
formation. Heavy guards."
Rho
flexes his gauntlet, knuckles cracking against the hilt of his sword.
"Two
directions," she says, barely a breath. "You take right."
He
nods once and moves.
They
split, black silhouettes gliding across the white expanse like
wraiths. The eldiravan continue unaware, their voices rising,
harmonizing in tones that make the air tremble.
Then
one of them stops. His head tilts toward the ridgeline. His visor
flashes faint gold.
He's
seen Rho.
The
two warriors freeze in mutual recognition. The eldiravan opens his
mouth to shout, and a howl tears through the air.
It
comes from the opposite ridge, low and resonant, a sound that rolls
through the basin like thunder. Spartan's howl, guttural, ancient,
Vardengard. It echoes off the cliffs and the trees and carries for
miles, shattering the hymn.
The
eldiravan turn as one toward her.
That's
when Rho moves.
He's
on them in a blur, a black streak against white, armor cutting
through snow with seismic force. His zweihander comes up, already
mid-swing before the eldiravan nearest can even raise his spear. The
blade cleaves through two of them at once, a flash of black light and
yellow blood against the snow.
Spartan
leaps from her ridge, landing hard enough to send up a spray of
powder, her sword and shield already drawn. The ground thunders as
the two Vardengard crash into the eldiravan line like wolves tearing
into a herd of caribou.
The
song dies instantly, replaced by the clash of metal, the shouts of
war, the hiss of harmonic weapons colliding with Olympian alloy.
From
the convoy line far behind, Red Baron stands on the snowbank with
Arturo and Liam at his sides. They stare at the chaos in disbelief,
two armored giants carving into an army of luminous warriors beneath
the rising suns.
"Jesus
Christ," Arturo mutters, awestruck. "They didn't even wait
for us to set up a firing line."
Red
Baron lowers his scope slightly, watching Spartan's silhouette crash
through the eldiravan ranks like a thunderbolt.
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"They
don't need one," he says quietly. "That is their firing
line."
Liam
exhales, snow billowing from his scarf. "What in God's name are
we fighting alongside…"
Red
Baron doesn't answer. He just watches, eyes narrowed behind his
visor, as the Vardengard make war.
Snow
churns beneath their boots as Spartan and Rho Voss cut down the first
ranks. But there are more, far more than expected.
Dozens.
Nearly
fifty eldiravan warriors emerge through the fog, their forms glinting
bronze and gold beneath the pale light. Each bears a spear or halberd
that hums with harmonic energy, their chants rising again in furious
unison. The valley trembles with their resonance.
Spartan
hears it and knows instantly, they're not outnumbered. They're
out-resonanced.
"Rho,"
she hisses through the comms, blade dripping steam. "We've got a
whole choir."
Rho's
laugh is low, distorted through his helm.
They
converge again, two shadows darting in and out of the eldiravan
formation, blades sweeping in arcs that paint the snow red. Spears
crash against their armor, harmonic energy screeching across Olympian
alloy, sparks cascading like falling stars.
Then,
another howl.
It
echoes across the valley, deep and resonant, rolling through the
snow-laden trees like a living thing. A response.
Ashurdan.
And
with him, Samayel.
The
sound sends a thrill through Spartan's chest. She grins beneath her
helm.
The
eldiravan falter for half a breath, their formation shifting uneasily
as the answering howl fades.
That's
all the opening Red Baron needs.
He
raises his arm from the snowbank near the convoy and sweeps it
forward. "Line up! Fire, fire!"
Three
dozen rifles rise in unison. The air fills with the crack of
railfire, slugs screaming through the fog in streaks of violet light.
Some
soldiers rush forward past the APCs, taking knee behind outcroppings
and snowdrifts for a clearer shot. Others hunker along the vehicles,
their rifles humming from overuse, barrels glowing faintly red.
The
first volley slams into the eldiravan line, piercing armor, tearing
through resonant shields. A few of the giants stagger, their songs
turning to hissing static before they fall.
But
the return comes quick.
Eldiravan
railrifles, elegant and deadly, arc with golden energy. The first
counter-volley sears through the air, hammering into the snowbanks
where the Federalists take cover. Men shout and scatter, two soldiers
crumpling beside Red Baron, armor plates sizzling from the impact.
"Keep
firing!" he roars. "Suppress them! Don't let them regroup!"
Yet
the eldiravan's attention remains divided. The Federalists are
distant targets, manageable. But the two figures within their midst,
the black-armored titans carving through their formation, those are
something else entirely.
Spartan
takes a blast full-on, the round sparking off her breastplate with a
flash of molten metal. She barely flinches, grabbing the nearest
eldiravan by the neck and driving him into the snow, snapping his
spear as she plunges her blade through his chest.
Rho
Voss, further down the slope, slams into another trio, his zweihander
spinning in a wide, brutal arc that cleaves through armor and bone
alike. His movements are economical, predatory. The snow beneath him
is a churned, steaming mire.
Their
armor can take what the railrifles cannot, those weapons were never
meant to kill gods.
Spartan
glances toward the horizon, just long enough to see two distant
shapes bounding across the snow, their armor burning like black suns
against the storm.
Reinforcements.
The
eldiravan realize it, too. Their chant shifts, desperation seeping
into the harmony.
Spartan
plants her sword into the snow, lifts her head, and lets out another
howl, louder than before, daring them to come closer.
All
around her, the battlefield vibrates with sound, flesh, steel, and
song colliding at the foot of the mountain.
Red
Baron holds his ground behind the main line, shouting orders over the
din. His voice is steel and thunder. "Advance! Keep the line
tight! Push them back to the ridge!"
Liam
and Arturo are the first to move.
They
sprint ahead of the others, diving into the snow between the APCs and
the growing chaos ahead. Rail slugs zip past their helmets, tearing
up white plumes at their feet. They skid to cover behind a rise and
start laying down disciplined bursts into the eldiravan ranks, every
shot aimed, every shot meant to count.
"Left
flank's thinning!" Liam calls.
Arturo
reloads, smoke rising from his rifle. "Then let's help thin it
faster."
Behind
them, Red Baron's main firing line roars alive again, forty guns in
rhythm, the Federation's measured precision hammering against the
eldiravan's thunderous hymn.
The
Insarii Medicae stand not far from the line, each armored in white
and red, symbols of the Forger gleaming beneath the frost. Decimus,
missing his left arm, braces his rifle against his remaining forearm,
firing one-handed, stance unwavering. They don't move to the front,
they hold the middle, eyes scanning for any Invictan or Federalist
who falls.
But
none do, not yet.
The
Vardengard see to that.
Spartan
and Rho Voss are pure motion, black storms among giants. They strike
and fade, reappear and tear, carving the eldiravan formation apart at
its heart. Every swing leaves ruin; every step carries heat that
steams the snow.
Then,
another thunder in the distance.
A
sound that is not gunfire, but impact.
The
ground shivers.
Through
the trees to the east, two shapes explode from the gloom, Ashurdan
and Samayel.
They
hit the eldiravan flank like meteor strikes, armor wreathed in frost
and bloodlight, momentum alone snapping bones. Ashurdan's claymore
cleaves three in a single sweep, their harmonic song cut short in a
discordant scream. Samayel follows close behind, spear tearing
through orange-plate armor like parchment, his laughter a mechanical
growl through his vox.
Rho
Voss bellows, turning to intercept a new cluster of eldiravan who try
to reform the line.
The
choir of the enemy fractures. Their unified hum splinters into
panicked shouts and scattered bursts of resonance as they lose
rhythm, their harmony dies in their throats.
Spartan
lunges forward, driving her blade through a commander's torso,
lifting him from the snow before throwing him aside. "Keep
pressure!" she snarls. "Don't let them regroup!"
The
Federalists respond in kind, advancing step by step, Liam and Arturo
pushing closer still. Liam dives behind a dead eldiravan, firing over
its corpse. Arturo, beside him, ducks low and tosses a thermal charge
into a knot of the enemy. The explosion turns the snow to vapor and
sends armor spinning into the air.
Through
it all, Red Baron's voice cuts through the static: "Maintain the
line! Eyes on the Vardengard! Cover their advance!"
The
Insarii echo his command with a sharp bark, "For the Forger!"
and fire again. Decimus, unflinching, drops another eldiravan with a
precise shot through the helm.
The
battle becomes rhythm, flesh and metal, fire and harmony.
The
air is thick with steam and smoke, the hiss of cooling blood against
snow. Spartan stands at the front, her armor black against the white
world, sword flashing red in reflected firelight as she holds the
line alone.
Behind
her, Red Baron's formation fires in measured bursts, Decimus shouting
over the chaos, "Keep your fire tight!" His voice rasping
through vox distortion. Beside him, Cassian and Lira, the other two
Medicae, move like a pair of wraiths in white and crimson, dragging
downed soldiers from the line and returning with weapons in hand when
no more bodies need saving.
"On
her flank!" Cassian yells, raising his rifle and squeezing off a
burst to drop an eldiravan rushing Spartan's side.
But
there are too many.
Spartan
catches one by the tail, claws of black flashing, and rips the
creature from its feet, hurling it bodily into two others charging
from the opposite side. The sound of cracking armor echoes through
the snow.
Another
rushes in low, striking her shield with a resonant clang that shakes
her frame. This one holds against her, muscles taut and tail braced
in the ground. Spartan grits her teeth and slides back through the
snow, boots carving deep lines until her heel nearly clips the
shoulder of a soldier crouched behind her, Arturo.
She
snarls through vox static and shoves, power floods her limbs, pistons
venting steam, sending the eldiravan stumbling back. But two more
crash into her right side. Then a third.
"Spartan!"
someone shouts, maybe Red Baron, maybe no one at all.
The
fourth comes from behind, tail whipping low, and finds a seam.
The
serrated tip of the tail punches through her lower armor with a
crunch of composite plating. She jerks with the impact, growling deep
in her throat as the blade sticks, trapped in the reinforced alloy.
The eldiravan hisses, tugging, but can't pull free.
Rage
takes her.
Spartan
grabs the nearest attacker by the helm and smashes it down into the
snow, the force enough to dent the skull beneath. The body crumples.
The momentum sends her stumbling back into the Federation line, right
at Arturo's feet.
Without
thinking, Arturo moves.
He
sees the size of her blade, half-buried in the snow beside her. He
knows he can't lift it properly, not the way she can. But he doesn't
need to.
"Get
down!" he yells.
He
grabs the sword with both hands, the weight dragging his shoulders
low, and swings. It's an awkward, heavy arc, but the edge finds its
mark. The blade crashes through the air and shears clean through the
eldiravan's tail where it pierces Spartan's armor.
A
spray of yellow ichor mists the snow.
The
eldiravan howls, staggering back. Spartan, freed, rips herself
upright, one hand gripping the wounded section of her side as she
kicks another eldiravan to the ground, denting its breastplate
inward.
She
turns, helm snapping toward Arturo, but before she can say anything,
a howl tears across the field.
Ashurdan.
Spartan's
head whips around toward the sound, he's raising his claymore to the
treeline, signaling danger.
Downrange,
two eldiravan stand side-by-side, one bracing an RPG launcher against
his shoulder. Samayel is already leaping, sprinting across the snow
toward them, but even his speed is not enough.
The
RPG fires.
A
bloom of exhaust and smoke streaks across the field.
Spartan
doesn't think.
She
slams her right hand down over Arturo's back, forcing him low, and
throws her left arm up. The kinetic shield deploys in an instant, a
shimmering hex of energy snapping into being, and the world goes
white as the warhead hits.
BOOM.
The
explosion eats the sound from the air. Snow and dust rise in a
geyser.
The
kinetic barrier flares bright red, fracturing under the impact, every
panel sparking like a dying sun. Spartan braces, legs locked, armor
screaming under the pressure.
Then
silence.
The
shield collapses in a crackle of fading energy. Smoke drifts.
Spartan
still stands, shield blackened and scolded, the snow melted to glass
around her. Arturo kneels beneath her, alive, ears ringing.
Across
the field, Samayel lands on the two eldiravan rocketeers, and their
screams end quickly.
