The
Foot of Mount Kalthar, Arkaelus, Nirna - Continuous
Arturo's
world is a dull, ringing hum. He can't tell if the sound in his head
is real or just the echo of the explosion. Snow drifts like ash. His
visor is cracked at the corner, and every breath fogs the inside of
his helmet. When he blinks, the HUD flickers, static lines crawling
across the glass.
Spartan
stands in front of him, a towering shadow of metal and fury, shield
still raised, the rim molten red and smoking. Her entire frame hisses
with venting heat, curls of vapor rising like breath from a forge.
She doesn't move at first.
Arturo
stares up from where he kneels at her heel, hands still cupped over
his ears. His own rifle lies forgotten in the snow. For a heartbeat,
she looks carved from iron, one knee planted, one arm braced, the
smoldering shield like a broken halo over her head.
Then,
without a word, her gauntlet drifts from his shoulder.
And
she's gone.
A
burst of snow and air swallows her silhouette, she launches forward
in a geyser of ice that knocks him flat and blinds him in a storm of
powder. His HUD flares warning red, proximity sensors screaming
before the system cuts out entirely.
"Arturo!
Move!"
Liam's
voice slams through the ringing, muffled but desperate. Arturo feels
a hand grab his shoulder and drag him up. His boots slide, then find
traction in the churned snow. He blinks hard, seeing shapes moving,
black armor, silver helms, flashes of violet light as eldiravan
weapons discharge.
"Up!
Up!" Liam barks again.
Arturo
snatches his rifle from the ground, shoulders it, and squeezes off a
shot. The burst catches an eldiravan mid-step, the slug punching
through its chest plate in a burst of purple ichor. The creature
topples forward, limbs twitching.
Spartan
tears through the rest like a hurricane made of metal and wrath. Each
movement is a blur, a swing, a spark, a body folding. She slams into
a cluster of the towering warriors, her arm-blade shrieking through
the cold air.
Arturo
lowers his rifle for just a moment, staring.
"Liam!"
he shouts, voice still distant through the ringing. "Did you see
that?"
Liam
ejects a magazine, slaps in another, and fires. "See what?"
"He,
" Arturo points with his rifle, disbelief lacing his words. "He
tanked that rocket. Full blast. Took it right to the shield!"
Liam
grins behind his cracked visor, eyes wild. "Of course he did!"
he yells over the gunfire. "He's a Vardengard!"
And
in the distance, Spartan roars. A metallic, vox-distorted snarl that
shakes the snow from the trees.
The
gunfire fades, replaced by the sound of wind and breath, the rasp of
cooling armor and the hiss of melting snow against heated plates.
The
last eldiravan twitches on Samayel's spear, voice dying in a wet
gargle as the note in its throat cuts short. Steam drifts from the
wound, yellow vapor mingling with the white of the tundra.
Then
silence.
For
a moment, no one moves. Then the cheering starts, a ragged, exhausted
eruption from the Federalists. Rifles are raised, helmets knocked
together, the sound rolling through the clearing like thunder.
They
know what victory looks like now, it looks like Vardengard.
Spartan
and Rho Voss stand side by side, weapons still slick with yellow
blood, the eldiravan dead in heaps around them. Ashurdan's claymore
rests across his shoulder, Samayel's spear still smolders faintly at
the tip.
The
Insarii Medicae rush in, their white and red armor standing stark
against the ruin. Decimus leads them, one arm gone, but the other
steady as ever, with the other two, Miraen and Havel, moving to
triage the giants in black.
Miraen
kneels at Spartan's side, scanning the breach in her armor.
"Penetration wound, lower left waist," he says through his
helmet vox. "Still embedded. Tail-blade, serrated."
The
yellow ichor drips from the twitching fragment jutting from the rent
plating. Spartan doesn't flinch as Miraen braces a gauntlet against
her hip.
"Just
pull it out," she growls.
He
does. The tail segment slides free with a wet crack and a spurt of
red blood. Spartan exhales through her vocoder, a sound like steam
venting from a forge.
Havel
moves to Ashurdan, muttering as he seals a deep slice in the big
Vardengard's waist. "You fight like a beast, and get cut like
one too," he says. Belqartis grunts, something that might be
laughter.
"Let's
get you away from the corpses," Decimus says, looking to
Spartan. "Sulfur's already seeping out of their hides. You know
what that means."
"Rot
and sickness," Ashurdan mutters, flicking gore from his blade.
"Let's move."
They
trudge up the snowbank, the earth below them stained purple and
black. The sulfur tang thickens with each passing second, a stench
that burns the throat.
By
the time they reach the APCs, the wind is carrying the smell
downhill. The Insarii get to work, Spartan and Ashurdan sitting
against the cold metal of the lead vehicle, armor panels open and
steaming. Sparks flicker as the medics patch and seal, small servos
clicking and humming as they work.
Red
Baron climbs the bank after them, rifle tucked under his arm. His
helmet is streaked with frost and soot, the crimson of his cloak
dulled with ash.
He
stops before Spartan, looking at her sitting there, even wounded, she
looks like something out of myth, a black mountain crowned in steam.
"Well,"
he says, voice half awe, half breathless relief. "That was a
sight to behold."
Spartan
doesn't look at him. She simply waves him off, motion sharp and
dismissive, visor angled down as Miraen continues his work.
"Save
your breath, Baron," she mutters through the vox, tone cold,
metallic, weary. "You'll need it when the next fight comes."
Snow
still drifts lazily through the fading smoke as the Insarii Medicae
work, their exoskeletal frames hissing and clicking with each motion.
Decimus crouches near Spartan and Ashurdan, the bluish glow of his
scanner passing over rents of blackened armor. The pungent stink of
eldiravan blood, like sulfur and burnt oil, hangs thick in the air.
Rho
Voss and Samayel stand a short distance off, their massive
silhouettes stark against the pale slope, motionless but alert as
Decimus finishes his readouts. "Vitals steady," he reports,
tone clipped, "but armor integrity's compromised on the left
flank. I'll patch the seals."
Red
Baron stands nearby, rifle tucked under one arm, still watching the
Vardengard with a kind of incredulous awe. "You know," he
says, chuckling under his breath, "the comics got it all wrong.
They made you lot look meaner. Didn't figure you'd have…
personality."
Spartan
only snorts, the filtered distortion of her helmet making it sound
like a low growl.
Red
Baron grins at the reaction, emboldened. "Think the ravens know
we're out here now?"
"Fifty-fifty,"
Spartan replies evenly, eyes on the snowfield beyond.
Ashurdan
rumbles from where he sits, having just had a jagged eldiravan blade
torn free from his armor. "Depends how far their song carried.
Up here, sound travels. Stones make fine resonators."
Spartan
tilts her helm slightly toward him. "What did you see to the
east?"
Samayel,
standing next to Ashurdan, answers in his deep, metallic tone.
"Nothing living. Just white plains and wind. Found some old
tracks heading eastward, but they're days old at least."
Spartan
hums in thought, a low, synthetic vibration, just as movement draws
her attention.
Arturo
and Liam make their way up the snowbank, the wind pushing against
them. Arturo's shoulders strain beneath the weight of the massive
blade he carries, the weapon leaving a deep groove in the snow behind
him. He stops before Spartan, breathing hard, holding the sword out
with both hands.
"You…
left this," he says, voice tight from the effort.
Spartan
rises slightly, the armored joints of her knees groaning, and takes
the sword from his grasp with surprising gentleness. The moment her
gauntlet closes around the hilt, the faint hum of its internal
systems flickers back to life.
"Good
catch," she says simply, sliding the blade to rest beside her.
Arturo
exhales, shaking the burn from his arms, and glances at Liam, who
can't help but give a small, impressed whistle.
Decimus
mutters without looking up, "You Federalists are going to give
yourselves hernias trying to act like Vardengard."
That
earns him a low chuckle from Ashurdan. Spartan only inclines her head
slightly toward Arturo, voice calm but edged with command.
"Stay
behind the line next time, soldier."
"Yes,
sir," Arturo says automatically, then hesitates, realizing what
he's just called her.
Steam
still rises from the cauterized rents in Spartan's armor as the
Insarii finish their work. Decimus clicks off his scanner, muttering
something about redundant durability protocols. Spartan rolls her
shoulder once, testing the seal, then straightens to her full height.
Ashurdan follows suit, his bulk casting a long shadow across the
snow.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
"Move
out," Spartan orders, voice flat through her helm's filter.
Red
Baron wastes no time barking to his troops. "You heard them!
Mount up!"
The
Federalists scramble into their APCs, the heavy treads growling to
life one by one. The Insarii clamber aboard as well. Ahead, the
Vardengard form their column, four towering figures moving as one,
Spartan at the lead, her sword newly sheathed against her hip.
The
ascent is brutal. The wind bites harder with each hundred meters
climbed, the snow thickening to near blindness. Where the Vardengard
can stride up sheer inclines, the APCs must weave endlessly,
zigzagging along the winding path. The convoy crawls for hours,
engines straining, before the way is finally cut off, an immense
cliff face rising before them like a frozen wall of teeth.
The
stone is jagged, raw, and scoured by the gale. Snow streams sideways
across its surface, vanishing into darkness above.
Red
Baron pulls the convoy to a halt, the sound of idling engines echoing
off the rock.
"Two
ways up," Spartan mutters over comms. "West, a long detour.
North…" She eyes the cliff. "Short, but direct."
Ashurdan
grunts. "We'll freeze half the convoy if we take the long way."
Spartan
considers, then nods once. "We camp here. The stone'll shield us
from the wind."
Within
the hour, the slope is alive with motion. Federalists unload portable
shelters, hammering them into the snow. Fires crackle between jagged
pillars of rock, orange light throwing shifting shadows against the
white. The smell of burning rations and engine oil mingles in the
thin air.
The
Vardengard gather at the base of the cliff, snow crusting their
armor.
Spartan
speaks in low Latin, the syllables hard and clipped. "Aliquis
audivit de Naburiel aut Belqartis?" [Has anyone heard from
Naburiel or Belqartis?]
Ashurdan
shakes his head. "Nulla transmissio. Silentium." [No
transmission. Silence.]
"They'll
come," Spartan says. "And when they do, we finish this. The
signal's just above this ridge."
Samayel
leans on his spear, glancing up the towering cliff. "Scaling
that will be the easy part."
Footsteps
crunch through the snow behind them, Red Baron, his coat flapping in
the wind, rifle slung casually over his shoulder. "Hope I'm not
interrupting a sermon," he says, half-grinning. "What's the
plan?"
The
Vardengard exchange brief glances before Spartan switches to English.
"We're heading up the cliff once the weather clears."
"Cliff?"
Red Baron looks up at the stone, lets out a low whistle. "Could
use an extra set of hands then. I'll come with you."
Four
helms turn toward him in near unison. The silence that follows is
thick enough to feel.
Samayel
tilts his head. "Do you have climbing equipment?"
Red
Baron grins. "No, but I used to do this for fun. Rock climbing,
I mean. Before the war."
Ashurdan
lets out a deep, rumbling exhale through his helmet vents, turning
slightly toward the others. In Latin, his tone dry as ash, he
mutters, "Federalistae, semper ad laborem vocant, et sine
instrumentis." [The Federalists, they always call for labor, and
without instruments.]
Rho
Voss makes a sound that might be a laugh. Spartan only shakes her
head once, visor gleaming in the firelight.
"Your
funeral," she says.
Red
Baron smirks, brushing snow from his sleeve. "Wouldn't be the
first time someone told me that."
The
wind howls against the cliff, as if answering him.
Cliff
Peak Overlooking Valley - Minutes Later
The
Vardengard crest the cliff first, boots crunching into the
frost-bitten stone. Red Baron clambers up last, breath heaving in the
thin mountain air. The four Olympian giants stand like statues
against the roaring wind, their black armor glinting faintly with
frost.
Ashurdan
is the first to step forward. His cloak whips behind him as he peers
out over the endless expanse below. One by one, the others join him,
Spartan, Rho Voss, Samayel, and then Red Baron, dragging himself to
his feet and standing shoulder to shoulder with the living legends.
What
lies before them silences all speech.
Far
below, carved into the bones of the valley, sprawls a city, a
fortress of titanic scale. Stone and metal intertwined, aglow with
veins of molten gold. Towering bastions and cathedral spires reach
skyward, each one crowned with rotating anti-air cannons the size of
ships, scanning the skies in perfect unison.
The
wind carries the faint hum of power, like the distant pulse of a
heartbeat.
Through
the magnified lens of their HUDs, they see them: Eldiravan. Hundreds.
Thousands. Their orange and gold armors gleam beneath their radiant
lights. Marching in perfect rhythm, their voices rise and fall in
harmonic unison, a hymn that vibrates even up here, a song that feels
more like an act of war.
Spartan's
voice breaks the long silence. "By the Forge… there are
legions."
Ashurdan
folds his arms, staring down. "This is no outpost."
Samayel
nods grimly. "A citadel. And we've come to its gates."
Red
Baron lowers his binoculars slowly, his voice almost lost in the
wind. "Holy Christ…"
The
wind howls around them as Spartan opens her HUD. A flicker, a faint
ping, and then Magnus' voice crackles through.
"Spartan,
report. Is everything all right?"
Her
tone is clipped, cold. "You need to see this, Master. Access my
vision feed."
There's
a moment of static, then his voice again, lower, careful.
"Connected."
Through
her visor, Magnus sees what she sees. The valley. The fortress. The
sea of golden and orange armor that gleams beneath the snowlight.
"By
the Forger…" he murmurs under his breath. "I'm marking
the coordinates now."
Spartan's
voice doesn't waver. "We're estimating a stronghold, possibly
their central fortress. Thousands of signatures. AA defenses all
across the ridges."
"We
won't need a full assault," Magnus answers, his tone analytical,
a commander's precision at work. "The chemical payloads crippled
them before; if we, "
"No
payload will touch that valley," Spartan cuts in. "Their
anti-air is too dense. You'd lose a fleet before you reached their
walls."
There's
a pause on the line, only the whisper of wind and static.
"Then
we'll find another way," Magnus finally says.
But
before he can continue, the light dims.
A
shadow sweeps over them, vast, fleeting, and heavy. The snow whirls
into the air as if startled. Samayel's head snaps up, visor tracking
the sky.
"Above
us!"
The
others follow his gaze. The cliff face trembles. Pebbles rattle down.
Then
the mountain shakes.
A
massive shape descends through the veil of wind and frost, wings wide
enough to blot out the sun, their edges shimmering like molten metal.
It slams into the top of the jagged spire above them, claws driving
into stone with a thunderous crack.
The
Skyforger Drake.
Its
scales burn with dull orange light beneath the frost, smoke curling
from its nostrils as its violet eyes flare open, twin suns staring
down. Steam bursts from its vents with each growling exhale, rolling
down the cliffside like a stormfront.
"By
the Forge's wrath," Ashurdan breathes, voice half awe, half
disgust.
Red
Baron curses, rifle instinctively raised though the weapon looks
absurdly small compared to the beast. "That's a bloody dragon."
Ashurdan
squints, his HUD flickering with scan data. "Skyforger Drake.
Firecrest subspecies. It's territorial, "
The
creature spreads its wings, the gust nearly knocking Red Baron from
his feet. Frost and embers scatter through the air, glowing cinders
against the stormlight.
Magnus's
voice cuts sharply through the comm.
"Spartan.
Move. Fall back and regroup, do not engage that creature."
But
Spartan's gaze stays fixed on it, unflinching. The drake's violet
eyes lock with her visor, a wordless recognition, a predator's regard
for another apex.
She
lowers her shield slightly.
"Too
late for that."
The
drake exhales, the air trembling as heat blooms across the cliff
face.
The
drake screeches, the sound splitting the air like shrapnel. Frost
avalanches from the spires around them as it claws over the stone's
edge, its talons gouging furrows deep enough to shatter rock. Its
head lowers, those glowing violet eyes fixed on the small shapes at
the edge of its domain.
Then,
it leaps.
The
wind detonates as its wings snap open. It drops like a meteor,
striking the snow with an impact that shakes the plateau. Shards of
ice and stone explode outward, pelting armor and shields. It lands
talons-first, spinning in a storm of frost and cinders, its tail
lashing out in a wide, violent sweep.
"DOWN!"
Ashurdan
snatches Red Baron by the back of his armor and hurls him aside, the
motion effortless for an Olympian frame. The tail rips through where
the man was standing a heartbeat before, tearing up snow and stone in
its wake.
The
Vardengard scatter. Spartan pivots left, shield snapping forward,
sword drawn in one fluid motion; Rho Voss plants his feet, zweihander
glinting; Samayel's spear hums with charge; Ashurdan's claymore
gleams in the stormlight.
The
drake straightens, growling, a deep, rolling thunder that vibrates in
their chests. Its nostrils flare. The snow melts under its claws.
Then,
with a horrible hiss, it exhales.
A
wall of fire erupts from its throat, liquid flame pouring across the
plateau, the heat immediate and unbearable. Spartan surges forward,
interposing herself between Red Baron and the inferno.
Her
shield locks in place. The kinetic field bursts alive in a dome of
distorted light, flame washing over it like a living wave. The blast
smashes against her with enough force to drive her a half step back.
"STAY
BEHIND ME!" she roars, her voice amplified through the armor's
vox.
Red
Baron ducks, hunkered behind her as the world becomes molten light.
The snow hisses into steam; rock glows red.
The
other Vardengard charge through the haze.
Rho
Voss swings wide, his zweihander cutting a molten arc into one of the
drake's wing joints, the strike sparking like lightning on impact.
Samayel drives his spear into the creature's shoulder, twisting and
wrenching free before it can snap him in half. Ashurdan brings his
claymore up under the drake's chin, cleaving scales the size of
shields.
Magnus's
voice snaps into Spartan's ear, sharp, commanding.
"Spartan!
Disengage. Fall back now!"
"We
can't," she grits out. "No way down. No cover. We're boxed
in!"
The
drake roars again, wings snapping out, creating a gust that hurls
Ashurdan back into the snow. Fire glows behind its fanged maw once
more, gathering.
Spartan
braces her feet.
The
drake rears back, its roar splitting the frozen sky, smoke and flame
spilling from its jaws. The clash is pure chaos, metal against scale,
fire against frost. The Vardengard move as one, their armor gleaming
through the smoke. Samayel darts in first, spear flashing in rapid
arcs, searing a trail of molten light along the drake's foreleg.
Ashurdan follows through with a two-handed strike that splits through
the creature's scales but barely slows it.
Red
Baron stays at the edge of the fray, rifle braced against his
shoulder. He fires burst after burst, the sharp crack-crack-crack of
kinetic rounds lost in the drake's thunderous bellows. Every shot
slams into its neck or chest, scales flaking away, but it isn't
enough. The creature's armor is older, harder, grown through
centuries of survival.
Then
Rho Voss steps forward.
Growling,
he swings his zweihander, a massive, brutal weapon that hums with
resonant energy, cutting upward in a strike meant to sever the
beast's neck.
But
the drake moves.
It
twists with unnatural speed, wings snapping open to pivot its body
just out of reach. The blade misses by inches, and the drake pounces.
Its
talons slam down, catching Rho Voss square in the chest. The impact
is like a thunderclap, shaking the plateau. It pins him beneath a
single massive foot, claws digging deep into his armor.
Then
it slams him.
Once.
Twice. The sound of ceramite and metal screaming under the weight
echoes across the ridge. The drake's wings unfurl, balancing its
monstrous bulk as it hammers him again, dragging him back through the
snow.
Rho
Voss struggles, his armor denting under the crushing force. His
zweihander slips from his grasp, embedding itself upright in the snow
a few feet away.
The
drake snarls, lifting him slightly, then flips backward.
The
motion is fluid, brutal. Rho Voss's frame smashes into the ground
with enough force to send cracks spidering through the ice. Before he
can move, the drake whips forward again, using the momentum to slam
him down one more time.
The
sound is horrifying, a metallic crunch, followed by a deep, guttural
growl.
It
plants its foot down firmly, holding him there, and lowers its head
to inspect its prey. The heat radiates from its nostrils, steam
curling off Rho Voss's battered armor. It's testing him, checking to
see if the shell will break, if the soft thing inside is worth
eating.
"RHO!"
Spartan's
scream cuts through the comms, raw and furious.
She
surges forward, sword blazing as she channels power into the blade.
Samayel and Ashurdan move with her, charging from either flank.
Their
armor shifts, mechanisms unfolding, heavy shoulder-mounted cannons
rise from their pauldrons, locking into position with a thudding
clack-clack. The cores within glow molten white as they charge,
targeting reticles flickering over the drake's center mass.
"Target
lock," Samayel mutters, voice flat through the static.
"Fire!"
Spartan orders.
Three
thunderclaps tear the air.
The
cannons discharge simultaneously, brilliant bursts of plasma and
kinetic fury slamming into the drake's side. The force of impact
staggers the beast, knocking its foot off Rho Voss as the blasts
detonate against its ribs and shoulder. The creature rears back,
roaring in pain, flames and blood spilling from the wounds.
Rho
Voss's armor smokes where he lies, motionless for a moment , then
his hand twitches, gauntlet dragging across the snow toward his
fallen blade.
"He's
alive!" Red Baron shouts, already sprinting toward him.
But
the drake turns its head sharply, smoke curling from its jaws.
Its
eyes lock on Red Baron.
It
inhales.
The
light in its throat begins to glow.
