The
Federation Barracks, Karthane - Dawn
The
light is pale and fractured, two suns struggling to push through the
heavy veil of Nirna's endless snow. The wind cuts low and slow across
the open gates of Karthane, carrying the metallic scent of frost and
fuel. The world beyond the walls is nothing but white wasteland and
shadowed ridges.
The
Vardengard stand in formation at the mouth of the gate, Olympian
armor gleaming faintly under the floodlights, steam ghosting from the
seams as the internal systems hum awake. Their presence feels
ancient, iron statues poised to move. Behind them, the Insarii
Medicae check their packs, tightening seals, adjusting instruments,
voices quiet under the wind.
Further
back, the Federation soldiers of Red Baron's company wait inside a
line of Invictan APCs, angular beasts of steel and reinforced glass,
each humming low with idling engines. Red Baron himself stands near
the lead vehicle, snow crusting the brim of his helmet, eyes sharp
despite the early hour.
Spartan's
voice cuts through the cold like a blade.
"Kaedor,"
she says, visor turning toward the Vardengard with the pale-red trim
along his pauldron. "You and your pack; east. Sweep the valleys.
Anything that moves, anything that sings, report it."
Kaedor
nods, silent and firm.
"Apathor,"
she continues, turning to the other pack leader, his armor scarred
and dulled by years of battle. "West ridge. Same orders. Cover
as much ground as you can."
Apathor
taps his chestplate once in acknowledgment.
Then,
without needing further command, the twelve Vardengard close ranks
into a circle, armor clanking, breaths steaming in the cold. Their
helmets tilt forward, the single horns atop each colliding in a low,
resonant clang that echoes off the walls of Karthane. A collective
howl follows; low, guttural, more wolf than human.
"Blood
and steel," Spartan growls.
"Blood
and steel!" the circle roars back.
With
that, Kaedor and Apathor lead their packs and accompanying Insarii
through the gate, disappearing into the white.
Spartan's
own pack remains; Rho Voss, Naburiel, Samayel, Ashurdan, Belqartis,
and the four remaining Insarii Medicae. The snow around them swirls
in lazy spirals, carried on the biting wind.
Red
Baron trudges forward, his boots crunching the frost, stopping a few
meters from the armored giants. He looks them over, then lets out a
low whistle.
"Well,"
he says, tone dry and amused, "that was... somethin' to see.
Don't suppose you people ever just shake hands?"
Naburiel
lets out a low, distorted chuckle through his helmet's vocoder.
Samayel mutters something that might be a joke, but the wind swallows
it.
Spartan
turns her head slightly toward Red Baron, the black glass of her
visor catching the pale sunrise.
"We
prefer what lasts," she replies evenly.
Red
Baron smirks, tugging his gloves tighter. "Fair enough. My boys
are loaded and ready. Engines hot. We can move on your word."
Spartan's
visor dips once in acknowledgment. She steps forward, the weight of
her armor crunching into the snow beside him.
"Then
we move," she says, voice low. "Keep formation tight.
Northbound to the mountains."
Behind
her, Rho adjusts the rifle slung over his shoulder, his silent gaze
fixed on the horizon. The wind screams against the gates as they
begin to open again, spilling the first light of day across the snow
and steel.
The
gates of Karthane groan closed behind them with a thunderous
finality, metal locking against metal, shutting out the last warmth
of civilization. Ahead, only the Cryolume Forest waits: an expanse of
glass-frozen trees and pale light that bends through frost like a
fractured dream.
The
convoy rolls forward. The first APC leads with Red Baron in the
passenger seat, his breath fogging the reinforced window. The world
outside is a canvas of endless white and jagged black trunks. The
other APCs follow in staggered lines, treads grinding softly against
the snow.
At
the front of it all, Spartan's pack moves, six towering Vardengard,
armor faintly aglow with red tracer runes that pulse beneath the
pearlescent black plating. Their pace is relentless but measured,
steps synchronized, the crunch of their boots forming the heartbeat
of the march. The Insarii Medicae follow close behind, luminous
wing-plates catching stray reflections from the APC headlights as
they move with measured, deliberate strides.
Slowly,
the light of Karthane fades behind them. The walls vanish first, then
the guard towers, until only the faint orange haze of the city's
lamps glows on the horizon like a dying ember. The further they press
into the forest, the deeper the shadows grow, until only the APC
lights and the strange, bioluminescent shimmer of the Cryolume trees
remain.
Each
tree is crystalline, their bark embedded with veins of glowing
blue-white resin. The light drips through icicles that hang like
glass fangs, spilling across the snow in shifting ripples. The air
hums faintly, alive, almost singing with static energy.
Over
the convoy's comms, a driver mutters, "Looks like the damn woods
are glowing."
Another
voice answers, quieter, uneasy. "Whole planet's cursed. Wouldn't
surprise me if the trees start whispering next."
Spartan
hears none of it. Her helm's internal filters narrow to the faint hum
of her armor, the sound of the snow crunching under her boots, and
the rhythmic thrum of her own pulse. She leads at the point of the
formation, scanning the forest's edges, thermal sensors painting
ghostly outlines across her visor.
Nothing
yet. No movement. Just the vast stillness of Nirna's winter breath.
Behind
her, Rho Voss marches silently, his steps perfectly in time with
hers. Ashurdan mutters something under his breath about the silence
being "unnatural." Belqartis snorts, replying that maybe
the planet finally ran out of things trying to kill them.
Their
voices fade quickly into the snow.
The
Insarii Medicae keep pace, one occasionally pausing to adjust a
sensor module or sweep the area with a scanning pulse. The readings
come back the same each time, nothing but subzero wind and the faint
electromagnetic hum of the forest.
The
forest grows denser. The glow brighter. Frosted branches stretch low,
brushing against Spartan's shoulders as she moves beneath them. The
light from the APCs merges with the eerie natural glow until the snow
itself seems to breathe.
For
a moment, there is peace. A rare, uneasy calm.
Her
visor sweeps the treeline. Something flickers in her HUD, a faint
static pulse, gone as quickly as it appeared.
"We're
not alone out here," she murmurs through the vox, her accent
sharp against the hum of the cold.
The
march continues, deeper into the forest's light and silence.
The
column pushes deeper into the forest, the path winding through the
towering glow of the Cryolume trees. Their trunks shimmer faintly
with veins of cold-blue light, reflecting in the polished armor of
the Vardengard as they move ahead of the convoy. The sound of the
APCs hums low, steady, engines softened by the snowpack beneath their
treads. The forest swallows the city's glow behind them, until even
the memory of Karthane's lights feels far away.
Hours
drag by. The world narrows to breath, frost, and the rhythmic crunch
of armored boots.
Then,
laughter.
It's
faint at first, fleeting, distorted by the still air.
Ashurdan
freezes mid-step, head snapping to the right. "The hell was
that?" he mutters.
Samayel
turns toward him, helm glinting as his visor flickers to Ashurdan's.
"What was what?"
"That
laugh. You?"
Samayel
tilts his head, confused. "No. Maybe one of the Feds?"
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Ashurdan's
lip curls beneath his helmet. "Didn't sound human."
Then
it comes again, closer. Laughter, warped and wild, rippling like
broken glass through the trees. High-pitched. Mocking.
Samayel
jerks his head toward the sound. "There! You heard that too."
Ashurdan
swears under his breath, hand instinctively moving to his claymore's
hilt.
"Keep
moving," Spartan orders, voice even, distorted through her
helmet's vox-filter into the deep rasp of command. "Eyes
forward. Weapons cold."
The
Vardengard obey.
But
the laughter doesn't stop. It multiplies.
Two
voices now. Then three. They dart through the trees, circling,
echoing from different angles, sometimes behind, sometimes ahead.
It's as if something unseen is pacing them, weaving in and out of the
convoy's flanks.
Naburiel's
helmet turns sharply to one side. "They're moving fast," he
growls, scanning the treeline.
Samayel
toggles his thermal view. Nothing. The world remains a cold wash of
black and blue. Whatever's out there, it's not giving off heat.
Inside
the lead APC, Red Baron notices it first, the shift in posture, the
way the Vardengard tighten their formation. Through the viewport, he
can see their heads turning, their weapons subtly drawn. He can't
hear the laughter; all he hears is the deep purr of the engine and
the mechanical hum of the treads.
He
flicks on his comms, voice tight. "Spartan, this is Red Baron.
Everything all right out there?"
For
a moment, only static answers. Then her voice filters through, calm,
metallic, shaped into that low, masculine rasp.
"Everything's
fine, Baron. Stay in the trucks."
The
line clicks dead.
Outside,
the laughter dies down, as if it's listening.
Then,
from somewhere ahead, just beyond the sweep of the headlights, comes
a single, answering chuckle, low and guttural.
Something
moves in the snow.
The
laughter swells.
It
rises like a tide, layered, overlapping, a dozen different pitches
and cadences all around them. Ashurdan's helm jerks left as something
shifts in the snow. A crunch too close, too heavy to be wind or
settling frost.
He
freezes, visor flicking to thermal. Nothing. Just cold.
Then
another sound, behind him. A quick shuffle, then gone.
"Movement,"
he mutters. "Close."
Naburiel
turns his head slowly, eyes scanning the treeline. "I see
nothing."
The
laughter grows again, four voices, then six. Then too many to count.
It circles the convoy like a ghost storm, darting through the snow,
ahead, behind, above on the ridges. The sound bounces from every
angle, impossible to pin down.
Inside
the APCs, the soldiers can only see shadows moving, the armored
figures of the Vardengard tense and ready. The laughter doesn't reach
them; the insulated hull drowns it out, leaving only confusion on
their faces.
"Thermals!"
one of the Insarii Medicae calls out suddenly. "Contact, right
bank, forty meters!"
At
once, the Vardengard's helmet HUDs flicker, the black void of the
forest fills with faint, pulsing orange. Dozens of heat signatures.
Naburiel
grits his teeth. "Twenty to the right. Maybe more. They're
circling."
"Bonejackals,"
another Insarii announces grimly. "No fear in them. They will
charge."
As
if summoned by the word, the forest explodes.
The
snow erupts on all sides as the Bonejackals leap from the ridges,
massive shadows crashing down with thunderous snarls. Their laughter
becomes a full, howling chorus, a maddened orchestra of teeth and
muscle.
"Contact!"
Spartan roars.
Her
voice is thunder over the comms. The Vardengard surge forward in a
synchronized motion, shields locking, weapons raised.
A
Bonejackal, huge and pale-gray, slams into Spartan's shield, claws
raking across the reinforced plating. The impact drives her back a
full step, snow kicking up around her boots. She twists her arm,
catching its snapping jaws with the rim of the shield, then drives
her sword up beneath its chin, the blade crunching through bone and
silencing the creature's laughter mid-snarl.
"Baron!"
she barks over the radio, her tone a distorted growl. "Keep your
men inside the trucks!"
Another
Bonejackal crashes into Naburiel. He meets it with his mace, the blow
sending a crack of bone and a yelp into the frozen air. Belqartis
spins into a pair of attackers, her twin axes flashing through the
snow, splitting one open along its ribs as another lunges at her
legs.
The
Insarii open fire, blue tracers stitching the dark. The ballistic
wings flare open as one of them jets upward, but too late. A massive
Bonejackal leaps from the drift and clamps its jaws around the
medic's arm mid-ascent.
The
crunch echoes through the clearing.
The
creature's neck jerks once, savagely. Armor and flesh tear with a wet
rip, the Insarii's arm torn clean away at the shoulder, blood
spraying across the snow. The medic screams, spiraling backward in
the air before crashing into a drift.
Ashurdan
bellows and charges in, his claymore arcing in a broad swing that
cleaves into the hyena's flank. The beast's laugh gurgles into a
snarl before it collapses.
"Hold
the line!" Spartan shouts, slamming her shield against another
snapping maw.
The
Vardengard shift, forming a loose wall between the Insarii and the
oncoming pack. The Bonejackals come from every direction, amber eyes
glowing, laughter overlapping into a maddened, echoing chorus.
Even
with their superior armor, the Vardengard are forced to brace. The
beasts are relentless, pounding against their shields, clawing for a
weak point, teeth scraping against Olympian plating hard enough to
spark.
And
still, through the chaos, the laughter continues. High, mocking,
almost joyous.
The
Cryolume forest becomes a blur of blue light, red snow, and monstrous
sound.
The
blizzard of motion and blood doesn't stop.
Every
time a Bonejackal falls, three more take its place, vaulting over
carcasses, over their own kind, over each other, claws flashing,
laughter breaking through the static-filled air like broken glass.
Samayel
drives his spear through one's chest, pinning it to the snow, but
before he can wrench it free, another slams into him from the side,
jaws clamping around his helm. His head jerks violently, HUD
crackling from the impact. Two more leap onto him, one snapping its
teeth into his gauntlet, another into his waist. He crashes backward
beneath the weight, shouting curses that distort into static as their
claws rake and bite, sparks flying from his armor.
"Get
off him!" Belqartis bellows, burying an axe into the spine of
one Bonejackal and ripping it free with a roar. A second beast lunges
at him; he ducks under its jaws and rams his shoulder into it,
driving it backward. They crash together into the side of the lead
APC, the impact booming like thunder.
Inside,
Red Baron and his soldiers are thrown sideways. "What the hell
was that?" one shouts, gripping his rifle as the walls of the
vehicle vibrate.
Outside,
Rho Voss swings his colossal zweihander in a gleaming arc. The blade
cuts through two Bonejackals mid-leap, sending their halves crashing
to the snow. He spins, the momentum carrying him through another
swing that cleaves a third beast clean out of the air.
Their
blood steams on contact with the cold, turning the white snow black.
Naburiel
snarls, voice breaking through the squad channel, "There's no
end to them!"
He
braces his shield over one of the Insarii Medicae, who kneels beside
the screaming, one-armed comrade. The medic's gauntlets are slick
with blood as he seals the stump with a cauterizer. But before the
process finishes, two Bonejackals leap onto Naburiel's back. Their
claws rake against the seams of his armor, jaws gnashing at the vents
and joints. He grunts, slamming one against the ground, but the other
stays latched, dragging him down to his knees.
A
third Bonejackal bursts through the snowdrift behind them, eyes
glowing with hunger. It slams into the distracted Insarii Medicae,
knocking him flat. Its jaws close around his throat, armor plates
buckle and snap, and the sound that follows is wet and final. The
medic spasms once, then goes still.
Spartan
sees it, and she moves.
She
plows through the melee like a battering ram, shield up, sword
flashing. She slams the beast aside with her shield, pins it down
with her knee, and drives her sword into its skull until the laughter
stops.
Then
silence, for a heartbeat. Just the rasp of her breath.
She
grips the corpse and wrenches it off the fallen Insarii. The medic's
visor is shattered; the inside of his helm is slick with blood. The
torn remains of his throat spill through the rent in the armor.
Spartan's jaw clenches behind her mask.
"Damn
it…" she mutters, low and sharp.
More
laughter rises in the dark, distant but closing in again, higher,
more frenzied, echoing from every direction.
The
wind begins to die, leaving only the stench of blood and the thin,
brittle crackle of cooling armor.
Then,
thoom!
A
railshot splits the air. Its hypersonic crack rolls through the trees
like thunder. Another shot, then another. Bonejackals at the edge of
the melee seize mid-stride, torn apart by invisible force. A headless
one tumbles backward, snow erupting around it.
Red
Baron stands half-out of the lead APC, boot wedged against the door
frame, rifle perched atop it. He fires again, controlled bursts, each
one punching through a target cleanly.
The
rest of the pack falters. Their laughter wavers, becomes confused,
broken. Then, silence. The beasts slink back into the treeline, their
shadows melting into the blue glow of the Cryolume Forest. Within
moments, the only sound is the wind and the hiss of cooling armor.
Thirty
Bonejackals lie dead, the snow around them trampled and stained
black. Torn bodies, steaming innards, shattered bone and broken
blades.
The
Vardengard stand among them, catching their breath. Three Insarii
Medicae remain, one cradling the stump where his arm once was, the
others blood-spattered and silent.
Spartan
stands still in the midst of the carnage, her helm turned toward the
fallen medic. The glow of her visor flickers with each breath. Anger
radiates from her posture, sharp and heavy as heat.
Up
on the APC, Red Baron lowers his rifle. He doesn't speak, just
watches, the wind tugging at his coat.
Spartan's
voice cuts through the still air, distorted and cold through her
vocoder: "Get in the APCs."
The
remaining Insarii hesitate. One looks at her, then back to the corpse
on the ground.
"I
don't care which one," Spartan snaps, voice cracking with
restrained fury. "Inside. On the roof. I don't care. You're
under armor."
That
tone leaves no room for argument. The three Medicae obey, limping and
climbing toward the convoy, metal boots clanging on the hulls.
Rho
Voss steps toward her. His massive hand reaches out, palm resting on
her pauldron in quiet comfort, wordless, as always.
She
flinches away, snarling under her breath, dragging an armored hand
across the fanged vent of her helm. "Don't," she mutters.
Rho
freezes, his hand falling to his side. He doesn't move, only watches
her from behind the black of his visor.
Spartan
exhales, a hiss, like steam escaping the Forge. Then she kneels
beside the dead Insarii. Gently, she slides her arms beneath the body
and lifts him as though he weighed nothing.
She
carries him toward a snowbank beneath one of the towering cryolume
pines, its bioluminescent sap faintly blue against the white bark.
Kneeling again, she lays the body down carefully, arranging the
limbs, brushing snow from the cracked visor.
Her
gauntlet reaches under the chestplate, finding the small pendant, an
emergency beacon, worn close to the heart. She activates it; the soft
blink of red begins to pulse against the white snow. A signal for
retrieval.
Behind
her, Naburiel's voice rumbles low to Belqartis.
"We'll
take a few of the carcasses," he says. "Strap them to the
roof. No sense wasting meat."
Belqartis
nods, wiping blood from his visor with the back of his gauntlet.
"Ita. Might even make the engineers sick when we roll back in."
"Good."
Naburiel's tone is grim, but there's a dark edge of humor beneath it.
"Let them know what hunts out here."
As
they drag the massive Bonejackal corpses toward the APCs, Spartan
stands once more. Snow falls lightly across her armor, melting
against the warmth of the plates.
The
cold world around them feels emptier than before.
