The
Vardengard’s Position – Continuous
Red
Baron skids into the snow beside Samayel, armor hissing as it vents
excess heat into the cold. Liam is right behind him, boots digging
deep as he crouches and hooks an arm under Samayel’s shoulders,
hauling him upright with Martian raw strength.
Samayel
groans, a low, pained rumble, more anger than agony, but his gauntlet
still presses instinctively against the caved-in dent in his
chestplate. The blow cracked metal… and likely bone.
Red
Baron’s visor sweeps over the damage. “Damn… you all right?”
he asks, trying, and failing, to hide the fear in his voice.
Samayel
doesn’t answer. His breath is sharp, ragged, but his eyes are fixed
ahead, burning.
Arturo
arrives then, rifle already raised, frost clinging to the barrel.
“LOOK UP!” he shouts.
They
do.
And
the world changes.
Black
shapes emerge through the snowfall, shifting, tightening, encircling.
Veloxsteeds snort plumes of steam as their hooves crunch across the
ice. A lieutenant rides at the forefront, helm crested with braided
ribbons, flanked by venator soldiers in immaculate white-and-crimson
armor, long rifles and halberds ready.
They’re
not approaching to parley. They’re closing in to capture. A prison
squad.
Liam’s
grip tightens on Samayel. “Shit…”
Samayel
forces himself to stand, broken ribs be damned, pushing off Liam’s
arm. Snow rolls off his armor in sheets. He is weaponless, spear
stolen, chestplate cracked. But he is Vardengard. He is the
weapon.
He
rolls his shoulders, a grim, animal crack of bone shifting back into
place. His stance lowers. His breathing steadies into something cold.
Red
Baron, Liam, and Arturo shift, forming a line behind him, rifles up,
safeties off, scopes flickering to life.
No
one speaks. The snow falls. The Venators advance.
Samayel
moves first. One breath, one snarl, and he’s off like a
launched missile, boots exploding the snow beneath him. He doesn’t
go for the foot soldiers. He goes for the veloxsteeds, the real
killers.
The
first rider barely has time to flinch. Samayel slams into the beast’s
flank with enough force to crack the armor on its ribs. The
creature screams, topples sideways, and both mount and rider crash
into the ice. Samayel’s gauntlet comes down in a blur, one
flick of his fingers, and the rider’s jaw detonates,
snapping their neck clean.
The
battle erupts.
Samayel
is everywhere at once, shimmering black, streaks of snow burst behind
him like contrails. A spear is thrust at him; he catches the haft,
yanks the Venator from his saddle, and uses their body as a
bludgeon against another rider. Bones snap on impact. Armor
dents inward like wet paper.
Another
Venator swings a halberd, Samayel sidesteps, claws into the horse’s
barding, and tears the entire front plate off, sending the
beast screaming and the rider tumbling. In the same motion, he rips
the halberd free and hurls it, it takes another soldier clean
through the shoulder and pins them to the ice.
The
Federalists stand frozen.
Red
Baron’s breath catches. “Oh… God.”
Liam
can’t move. He’s staring, wide-eyed, watching Samayel rip an
entire arm off one of the armored zealots and use it, still in
its gauntlet, to backhand another Venator hard enough to collapse
their helm inward.
Arturo
feels sick. Humans, people, dying that brutally. Bones like twigs.
Armor like foil. Blood hissing in the snow.
But
the Venators aren’t watching in horror. They rush the Federalists.
And hesitation becomes impossible.
The
first zealot reaches them. Red Baron reacts instantly, rifle raised,
firing point-blank. It takes three rounds before the armor
cracks, the fourth finally punching into the heart beneath. The
Venator staggers, falls.
Liam
fires next, controlled bursts, Martian breathing steady, punching
holes where the seams meet. Two Venators drop.
Arturo
hesitates.
He
lowers his rifle for a split second, just long enough for a Venator
to aim at him.
They
fire.
A
round ricochets off the snow near his boot.
Arturo
swallows the bile rising in his throat. He centers his sights. He
pulls the trigger.
The
shot cracks, the Venator drops, and Arturo’s hands are shaking, but
he keeps firing anyway.
Because
whatever Samayel is… Whatever he’s become… The Venators are
coming to kill them all. And hesitation is a death sentence.
Samayel
is a blur of murder. He rips a veloxsteed’s bridle free, twists the
entire creature’s head until the spine pops, then hurls
its collapsing bulk into two charging Venators. They crash beneath
the weight, legs snapping like rotted branches. Samayel is already on
them before they can scream, one stomp caves in a helm, the next
crushes a ribcage.
Another
rider lunges in with a pike. Samayel catches the shaft, pulls,
and the rider comes off the saddle like a fish on a hook. Samayel
grabs the horse by its armored neck and splits the vertebrae
with a jerk of his wrist. The beast folds. The rider tries to crawl
away…. Samayel grabs them by the ankle and beats another Venator to
death with their armored body.
Red
Baron and Liam fire nonstop behind him, muzzle flashes strobing the
snowfall. The sharp cracks of Federation rifles punctuate the wet
crunches of bone and the metallic shredding of armor. Arturo forces
himself to keep pace, teeth clenched, breaths ragged, as he drops
another zealot closing in on them with a mace.
They
do not approach the melee. The swarm of dead horses and
mutilated zealots around Samayel makes it clear: that is not a place
for them. Their rifles are their lifelines. Anything else is suicide.
Samayel
tears a rider clean off their mount, flings them aside, just in time
for something small and metallic to roll past his boot.
He
ignores it. Blood roars too loud in his ears. Rage blinds him. The
next Venator is raising a sword; Samayel lunges.
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“GRENADE!”
Red Baron’s voice cracks from behind, already scrambling backward.
“MOVE! MOVE!”
Liam
is gone in an instant, dragging Arturo with him.
But
Samayel doesn’t turn. Doesn’t even look.
The
sphere detonates. A plume of red
smoke bursts outward, thick, heavy, hungry. It clings to
whatever it touches, coating armor in a crawling, sparking sheen.
Red
Baron bursts out of the smoke coughing. Liam tumbles after him.
Arturo dives clear just as the smoke pulses.
Samayel
stands in the center. The red haze crawls over him like living paint,
until it begins to snap with electric arcs. Light flares
across his armor, dancing like veins of crimson lightning.
The
Olympian plates hold...for half a second. Then the charge finds the
battery ports. They ignite.
A
surge slams through Samayel’s suit. The armor convulses, joints
locking, servos shrieking. His spine arches violently as electricity
floods every nerve.
He
tries to move. Fails. The suit overloads. A sharp bang
echoes from inside his chestplate as one of the auxiliary capacitors
blows. Smoke pours from the vents.
Samayel
drops to one knee...then to both, hands clawing the ice, body jerking
uncontrollably as red lightning crawls across him, sinking into every
crease of his armor.
The
Venators close in. The trap is sprung.
Samayel
is down.
Spartan
and Rho Voss’ Position – Continuous
Spartan
and Rho Voss hit Thaneus like an avalanche, one from the left, one
from the right, but the Priest meets them as though he had been
waiting for the rhythm of their blades his entire life.
Thaneus’
titansteed pivots with terrifying precision, hooves gouging trenches
into the snow. The beast snaps its head toward Spartan, steel fangs
in its barding clashing like a bear trap. Spartan jerks back, its
teeth scraping down her vambrace in a shower of sparks.
Rho
Voss comes in hard from the opposite side, zweihander cleaving
downward in a mighty arc aimed for the titansteed’s spine.
Thaneus
meets it by reversing Samayel’s spear in his grip, the
blade catching the flat of the zweihander with a ringing crack that
vibrates through the frozen air.
“Too
slow, beast!” Thaneus laughs, voice bright with zeal.
He
pushes off the saddle, weight shifting with fluid mastery. The
titansteed lunges in perfect synchronicity, shoulder-checking Rho
Voss before his boots fully reset. The massive Vardengard stumbles,
snow exploding around him.
Spartan
darts in through that momentary gap, blade flashing for the exposed
underside of Thaneus’ arm.
He
blocks with the butt of his staff, spinning the weapon in a blur, and
kicks downward with
the titansteed at the same time. Spartan twists, barely avoiding the
iron-shod hoof that would’ve shattered her spine.
The
beast lashes sideways, jaws closing around Spartan’s pauldron. It
lifts her.
Spartan’s
boots leave the ground as the titansteed thrashes violently, swinging
her like a ragdoll. Her sword slips from her grasp, skidding across
the snow.
She
brings her gauntleted fist down on the creature’s muzzle, once,
twice, three times, each strike cracking the armored plating but not
enough to force it to release her.
Rho
Voss roars and charges back in, zweihander raised. Thaneus sees him
coming. He rotates Samayel’s spear behind his back, catches the
haft beneath his arm with effortless grace, and stabs
the butt end down into Rho Voss’ shin.
Armor
dents inward. Bone cracks.
Rho
Voss buckles.
That
single strike, perfectly timed, perfectly placed, lines him up.
Thaneus
brings his golden cross-topped staff down like a judge’s gavel. It
slams into Rho Voss’ helm with a metallic, bell-like clang
that echoes across the battlefield.
Rho
Voss is driven onto his knees, head ringing, blood misting from the
vents of his visor.
Spartan
finally wrenches free from the titansteed’s bite, just in time for
Thaneus to whirl and nearly impale her with Samayel’s spear.
She
dodges by inches. Snow whips around them. Breath fogs in the frigid
air. The titansteed stamps, turns, pivots, always herding them,
always pushing them into perfect angles of vulnerability.
This
is not a priest on a horse. This is a two-bodied weapon system
wielded by a master. And Spartan and Rho Voss are losing.
Thaneus
levels Samayel’s spear at Spartan, its tip glinting like an
accusing star. “I see it now,” he says, voice warm with
revelation. “Why Absjorn aches for you. Why the General Supreme
keeps you two so very close. You exceed the boasts. You exceed the
warnings.” A beat, his smile widening. “You’re far more
valuable than I imagined.”
Spartan’s
snarl rips out of her, low and feral. “Save your scripture. Neither
of us will ever kneel to you.”
Thaneus
laughs, genuinely delighted. “All dogs can be retrained, Spartan…
given the right master. And enough time.”
She
lunges. Her sword is gone, but it hardly matters, the armblade shoots
free with a metallic hiss, a four-foot edge flashing in the pale
light. Spartan becomes a whirlwind of steel: she strikes, sheathes
mid-swing, tears the blade free again in the same motion. Each attack
shifts angle unpredictably. Each feint becomes a real cut. Each real
cut becomes a different threat.
Thaneus
blocks the first blow with the staff’s cross, parries the second
with Samayel’s spear, dodges the third by leaning so close she can
smell incense on his breath.
Rho
Voss barrels back into the fray, helm still ringing from the earlier
blow. His zweihander whistles through the air as he brings it down
toward Thaneus’ ribs.
For
a fleeting heartbeat, Spartan and Rho Voss fall into perfect sync
again, two predators flanking a single prey, blades hemming Thaneus
in from both sides.
The
titansteed saves him.
It
pivots sharply, snow spraying in an icy halo, and the massive
war-beast rears. Both rear hooves slam forward and crash
square into Spartan’s chest.
The
impact is catastrophic.
Her
chestplate caves inward with a deep, shuddering crunch. Spartan is
lifted off her feet, body snapping backward as if struck by a freight
truck.
She
flies. She hurtles straight through the Venator line, smashing
through two soldiers, plowing into a third, sending them sprawling.
Snow erupts in a violent plume around her as bodies hit the ground
and armor skids across ice.
Venators
shout in surprise. Some stumble over her trajectory. One loses his
shield. Another is thrown aside like a loose rag.
And
Spartan doesn’t move. Not for a breath. Not for two.
Rho
Voss roars her name, raw, guttural, shaking with fury, and turns back
toward Thaneus, zweihander rising again as if he intends to break the
priest in half.
But
Thaneus only smiles.
As
if this, Spartan broken and sprawled in the snow, his enemies tossed
like toys, is exactly how he expected this dance to go.
Rho
Voss loses sight of her. The world narrows into the frantic clash
with Thaneus, into the titansteed’s snapping jaws and the priest’s
mocking grin, but the moment Spartan vanishes beneath the swarm of
Venators, something in Rho Voss breaks.
He
pivots hard, abandoning the duel entirely, and sprints toward the
knot of armored bodies piling atop her.
He
barely gets three strides. Thaneus pulls the reins; the titansteed
surges sideways, massive and impenetrable, cutting Rho Voss off with
a wall of living iron. Its barding glints coldly as it slams
shoulder-first into him. The impact rattles every plate of his armor.
Then
Thaneus swings.
Samayel’s
stolen spear comes screaming down, forcing Rho Voss to bring his
zweihander up in a desperate parry. Sparks flash. Steel screeches.
Rho’s boots skid trenches into the snow as he’s driven back.
“Your
pack is scattered,” Thaneus calls down, voice maddeningly calm.
“You will join them soon.”
Rho
Voss roars wordlessly, trying again to break free. But Thaneus
presses him, blow after blow raining like judgment, each one designed
not to kill, but to keep him from her.
Spartan,
dazed but rising, manages only a breath before the Venators dogpile.
Gauntleted
fists crash into her armor. Shackles hiss as they try to clamp onto
her gauntlets. Someone jams a hooked pole into the vents of her
chestplate. Their voices overlap in frenzy, orders, warnings,
prayers.
Then
Spartan moves.
A
Venator goes flying, ribs cracking under a single armored punch.
Another is hurled bodily into a third. Her shield, still mounted to
her forearm, becomes a lethal hammer, smashing into helmets, breaking
jawbones, caving thoracic plates. She grabs a soldier by the throat
and rips. Blood spatters across the snow.
Venators
scream. Some retreat. Some surge in again. Even buried under weight,
even dazed, she is a monster in motion.
Thaneus
watches her tearing through his soldiers, and smiles thinly.
He
pivots the spear, sweeps Rho’s legs, and sends the Vardengard
sprawling into the snow with a vicious kick from the titansteed.
The
moment Rho hits the ground, Thaneus barks a single word, sharp and
commanding: “Fire.”
A
nearby lieutenant echoes it immediately.
“FIRE!”
The
Venator beside him is already prepared, RPG braced on his shoulder,
fuse lit, round primed.
He
fires.
The
rocket streaks through the falling snow, impacting dead center into
the melee around Spartan.
The
explosion rips through the cluster of Venators. Armor shatters.
Bodies are launched. Red mist blooms in the air. And Spartan is
thrown like a meteor.
She
slams into a cryolume tree with enough force to shatter bone and
metal alike.
The
tree snaps clean at the trunk. It collapses over her as she falls,
the canopy shedding an avalanche of glittering frost.
Snow
and crystalline branches bury her completely, swallowing her beneath
the ruined tree.
The
forest goes briefly still. Only the cold wind moves. And Spartan does
not.
