Northern
Cryolume
Forest - Minutes Later
The
cryolume forest stretches out before them, a cathedral of frozen
light and bone-white trunks. The air itself shimmers faintly,
refracting the pale luminescence of the snow, and every breath cuts
like glass in their throats.
Spartan
and Rho Voss tear through the undergrowth, their boots crashing
through ice-crusted roots and frozen brush. Each impact leaves a
trail of black and red, blood freezing almost instantly upon contact
with the air.
They
do not speak. There is no breath to spare. Only the sound of
mechanical lungs straining, armor servos whining, and the rhythmic
thud, thud, thud of pursuit echoing in the distance behind them.
The
Venator Vardengard are not far.
Even
through the storm's hush, Spartan can hear them, the chanting of the
faithful, the thunder of armored hooves breaking the snowpack, the
low hum of sanctified weapons. Absjorn's war cry rises like a
stormfront, Cassiel's voice braided within, scripture and wrath woven
into one terrible sound.
They
are coming.
Spartan
knows they cannot go back to their pack, not now, not with the
Venators driving them south. If they do, they'll doom them all.
Karthane
is their only hope. Their Master, the General Supreme, will know what
to do. He must.
Her
legs are shaking now, pain radiating through her ribs where Absjorn's
axe struck. Blood slicks her flank beneath the armor, each breath
tighter than the last. Rho limps beside her, one arm useless, clamped
over the ruin of his shoulder. Yet he runs, because she runs.
Their
strength is fading. The scent of blood and ozone trails them like a
beacon.
Spartan
slows, just for a moment. She throws her head back, intent on sending
one last cry, a warning, a call to the pack to scatter, to flee. Her
throat vibrates, the growl building into the first note of a howl,
but she never finishes it.
A
shadow drops from the treeline, massive, armored in Venator white and
crimson. The impact cracks the ground, snow exploding outward.
Spartan is slammed flat, the air ripped from her lungs as she crashes
into the ice.
Her
vision blanks for a second. When it clears, she sees teeth, white
steel, and the sigil of the Absolute burning on the Vardengard's
helm.
The
Venator snarls through the vox, voice distorted, almost liturgical.
"Found you."
Rho
shouts her name, a hoarse, raw sound, and turns to charge back, his
zweihander dragging a line of sparks across the frozen earth. But
even as he moves, more shapes emerge through the snow-fog. The rest
of the Venator Vardengard, surrounding them, blades drawn, forming a
tightening ring of faith and fury.
Red
Baron's Company - The Cryolume Forest - Continuous
The
cryolume forest stretches endless, the white and silver canopy
reflecting the pale sunlight that filters through the frost-crusted
branches. Snow crunches underfoot as Red Baron leads the way, the two
APCs rumbling like muted thunder behind him. The scent of metal,
ozone, and cold fills the air.
Arturo
Phillips, now a sergeant, trudges alongside Liam Marshall, both
trailing just behind Red Baron. Their breaths steam in the air,
visible in the frozen haze, forming quick, fleeting clouds that
vanish into the cold.
"I
swear," Liam mutters, glancing at the quiet forest, "if
there's no action soon, I might start talking to the trees just to
pass the time."
Arturo
snorts, slapping Liam lightly on the shoulder. "Talk to the
trees, sure. But honestly? Anything's better than the mines on Mars.
I'd take frostbite and endless snow over sand and molten rock any
day."
Liam
rolls his shoulders, grinning despite the chill. "I guess… but
at least down there, you can see something other than white for
once."
The
forest around them is deceptively quiet. For days now, Red Baron's
Company has patrolled with little more than the crunch of their boots
and the hum of the APCs disturbing the frost. The stillness is almost
unnerving, but it is good for scouting, good for the war effort.
Arturo
adjusts his pack, leaning slightly on his rifle as he walks. "I'll
take boredom over getting torn apart by Eldiravan any day, though."
Liam
laughs softly, the sound muffled by the collar of his coat. "Yeah,
yeah. But still… you know, a little excitement wouldn't hurt. Makes
the blood pump a little more, keeps the mind sharp."
Red
Baron, walking ahead, does not respond. His eyes scan constantly,
trained for the slightest movement in the snow, the tiniest shift in
the treeline. Even with the conversation trailing behind him, his
mind remains on the hunt.
The
forest remains silent, too silent. The APCs grind along behind them,
but even their weight seems swallowed by the frozen trees. For now,
this quiet is almost welcome. But Red Baron knows that peace in the
cryolume forest is temporary. The war waits for no one.
Red
Baron freezes mid-step, the snow crunching faintly under his boots.
His breath hisses out in quick bursts as his eyes scan the
frost-laden forest. That howl, cut off so suddenly, sets every nerve
on edge. They've grown used to the eerie cries of the Vardengard on
the hunt, but this… this is wrong.
Liam
stiffens beside him, glancing toward the treeline. "It's close,"
he says, voice low, almost a whisper. His hand instinctively brushes
against the hilt of his sidearm. "Too close."
Arturo
swallows hard, gripping his rifle tighter. "And stopped
mid-note… that's not normal. Something's wrong, Captain."
Red
Baron's jaw tightens. He lets the silence stretch for a heartbeat,
listening for any other sounds, the crunch of snow, the snap of a
branch, a movement in the pale undergrowth. There is nothing. Nothing
but the cold wind brushing the treetops.
Finally,
he gives the order, voice sharp and steady: "Check it out. Make
sure everything's okay. Move out, stay alert, and keep your eyes
open."
Without
hesitation, he steps forward, leading the way, boots sinking slightly
into the snow. Liam and Arturo fall in line behind him, rifles
raised, scanning every shadowed corner. The rest of the Company fans
out on either side of the APCs, their formations tight, disciplined,
ready for whatever has silenced the forest.
Even
in the cold, even in the quiet, there is a tension that seeps into
their bones. The howl, abruptly cut off, has left a mark. Red Baron
feels it deep in his gut, a warning. Something is coming, and
whatever it is, it's near.
Their
breath clouds the air, boots crunch the snow, and for a moment, the
only sound is the wind in the frost-bitten branches. And then, the
forest shifts. Something moves just beyond the trees. Something
large. Something waiting.
Red
Baron stops dead in the snow, mouth tightening. His eyes track the
brutal, frenzied movements of Spartan and Rho Voss as they trade
blows with the four white-and-red Vardengard. Every swing, every
strike, is executed with the lethal precision of those who have
trained for years to kill, or die.
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Liam's
hands tighten around his rifle, the metal biting into his palms.
"What… what the hell are those things?" he whispers,
voice barely audible over the clash of steel.
Arturo
squints through the snow, his jaw dropping as he catches the glint of
the unfamiliar crosses etched across the other Vardengard's armor.
"Crosses… yeah, I don't recognize those," he mutters,
voice tinged with unease. "Are they… like Absolutionists?"
Red
Baron's mind races. He's never seen Spartan or Rho Voss fight like
this, bloodied, wounded, yet still relentless, still holding the line
against an enemy that seems almost as fast, as strong, and as
ruthless as themselves. And yet, despite their injuries, they aren't
yielding.
The
snow beneath their boots is slick with blood, a crimson sheen
reflecting the dim light through the cryolume forest. Every swing of
Spartan's blade, every heave of Rho Voss' massive zweihander sends
spray across the field, mixing with the snow in a grim, violent
dance.
Red
Baron signals a halt, his voice low but firm: "Hold! Don't
engage yet. Wait and see who we're dealing with."
Even
from a distance, the desperation is clear. Spartan staggers,
clutching her side where blood seeps freely through the armor. Rho
Voss wrenches his torso, balancing on one arm, as he strikes out with
his zweihander.
Red
Baron feels the chill in his gut. This is no random fight. This is
hunting. And the hunters, Spartan and Rho Voss, are cornered. If they
step in, if they try to help… it could end in catastrophe for all
of them.
Arturo
swallows hard. "They're… they're being held in place," he
says quietly, realization dawning. "Someone's… someone's
keeping them pinned."
Liam
frowns, scanning the treeline. "Then we need to know who's
holding them, fast."
Red
Baron takes a deep breath, hand hovering over the hilt of his
sidearm. His mind works through the options, all dangerous, all with
risks too high. But one thing is certain, the two Vardengard, even
wounded, are still more lethal than any soldier he's ever commanded.
Whoever is holding them in place… they aren't playing fair.
And
from somewhere behind the snarling white-and-red Vardengard, the
faint thump of hooves echoes through the forest. Red Baron's stomach
tightens. He knows, even before seeing them, that the hunters of the
hunters are about to arrive.
"Marshall,
get your launcher. Fire at the enemy." Red Baron orders.
Liam's
hands shake, but he breathes, breathes again, and finds the
steadiness in the weight of the launcher. Red Baron's voice is a flat
iron: "Fire when you see the opening. Don't miss."
Liam
ducks behind the tube, shoulder braced, fingers finding the trigger.
The forest holds its breath with him. Up close, the four
white-and-red Vardengard whirl like knives, two have Spartan down,
shield up, blade flashing uselessly beneath her; the other two press
the attack on Rho, hammering at the one-armed giant with feral
precision.
There's
the sliver of space Liam needs: Akriel steps to finish the fallen
Spartan, chest turning a hair toward Liam's sight line, just enough.
Liam squeezes.
The
launcher roars. The grenade blooms out of the muzzle, a short,
screaming comet that punches a clean, ugly hole straight into
Akriel's pauldron. The impact detonates in a shock of heat and orange
light; metal screams, armor ruptures, and the Vardengard explodes
backward like a felled puppet. He flips end-over-end through the air,
landing with a cratered oath of snow and spent chrome.
Everything
goes loud. Smoke blossoms across the clearing, sucking sound into it
for a breathless second. The two Venators nearest Spartan are blown
backward off-balance; sparks rain from shredded plating. Akriel lies
twisted, one leg folded wrong, his armour buckled and smoking. The
smell of burnt oil and ozone cuts through the winter air.
Spartan's
shield slams down across her ribs as the blast belches past. For a
dizzy, ragged heartbeat she tastes metal and ash and her own blood.
Then she rolls, leverages the shield, and is up, razor focus snapping
back into place, blade finding the throat of the Vardengard that had
pressed in. Her movements are brutal and fast; pain sharpens them
into something colder.
Rho
roars and drives the haft of his zweihander through the snow, using
the shove to pivot. He slams the blade into the side of the
Vardengard that had been hammering him, the strike carrying more
kinetic force than the hunter expected; the Venator stumbles, dazed.
Rho's one remaining hand works like a vice, there is blood on his
gauntlet, and the arm-socket where the other limb used to be is
ragged and smoking, but his body moves with the will of iron.
Red
Baron doesn't hesitate. "Push, now!" he barks, and his men
erupt from behind the APCs. Automatic fire threads into the
Vardengard, tracer light spills like red lightning across the snow.
The
sudden, violent swing in momentum snaps the ring of attackers apart.
Two Venators stagger free, clutching burned plates and ringing heads;
one scrabbles at a ruined helmet, fury in his eyes. The other
stumbles away into the trees, melting into white trunks and shadow.
Spartan
stands, blade dripping snow and blood. She sees Liam, the young
Martian, launcher still smoking. For a beat her eyes narrow behind
the visor. There's something like steel and gratitude there; the
smallest raise of a hand in his direction, a hard, wounded nod.
Rho
find his zweihander again, plants his feet, and roars, an animal
sound that shakes the branches overhead. Even with one arm, he is
monstrous in motion, and the remaining Venators think twice.
Around
them, the clearing is a tangle of shredded armor, blackened snow, and
the ragged breathing of men and giants who have lived through another
near-death. Red Baron surveys it fast, counting, sparing a sharp look
for casualties, and then directs his men to sweep the perimeter.
Spartan
hauls Rho Voss to his feet, blood slick and armor scorched, urging
him forward. Her voice is harsh, barking like a predator leading her
pack. "Move! Now!"
The
smoke grenades fill the forest with chaotic, swirling clouds of gray,
green, and violet. Shapes twist and distort in the haze, Venator
Vardengard shadows snapping, snarling, teeth glinting through the
fog. One lunges through the haze toward the APC line, but Liam's
launcher roars again, a silvered streak punching through a tree just
before it collapses atop the Vardengard, crushing him beneath bark
and splintered branches.
Spartan
drags Rho Voss with her, forcing him to stumble over fallen snow and
debris. He resists for a moment, eyes wild with exhaustion, pain, and
the metallic taste of blood, but the insistence in Spartan's grip is
unrelenting. She barks over her shoulder, "No time! Move!"
They
reach Red Baron, standing at the rear of the line with Arturo and a
handful of soldiers, rifles raised to cover them. The Federalists
part instinctively, making space for the two Olympians, who despite
their bulk and injuries move with a terrifying efficiency. Spartan
spins, gesturing at the APCs. "Get them loaded! We're moving!
Karthane! NOW!"
Red
Baron hesitates, his training telling him to assess, question, plan,
but the fury and urgency in Spartan's voice drives the thought from
him. He catches Arturo's nod, then shouts the orders to the men:
"Mount up! Now! We move!"
The
engines roar to life as the APCs heave forward, treads grinding snow
and ice into mist. Spartan and Rho Voss cannot ride, the weight of
their Olympian armor is prohibitive, but they sprint behind the
vehicles, feet pounding frozen earth, shielding the Federalists from
any stray Venator attacks.
Spartan's
side burns with every step, crimson streaked across white and black
armor. She ignores it, mind fixed on the goal: Karthane, the General
Supreme, and the warning that must reach him. Rho Voss's remaining
arm drives him forward, a brutal rhythm of steel and determination,
and together, they run as shadows flanking the APCs, the last line of
defense against the hunting Venator Vardengard still lurking in the
fogged forest.
The
smoke swirls and the forest echoes with the snarls and curses of the
remaining enemies. But Spartan and Rho Voss, limping, bloodied, and
unstoppable, push forward, the only certainty in a frozen, chaotic
world: they will get the message to Karthane. Nothing else matters.
The
cryolume forest is quiet now, the smoke curling through the frozen
trees like phantom fingers. Akriel struggles to his feet, the scorch
mark from Liam's grenade blackening his crimson-and-white plate.
Tzurinn steadies him, hands firm on his shoulders, murmuring
something under his breath. The four Vardengard form a tight cluster,
scanning, snarling, aware that they have been beaten back, if only
temporarily.
Then,
through the mist of smoke and swirling snow, the thunder of hooves
reaches them, Absjorn and Cassiel, riding like wrath incarnate. The
scarred warsteeds crash into the clearing, hooves smashing snow and
ice into flying spray. Absjorn's eyes burn with fury. Cassiel's
golden cross atop the staff catches what little light filters through
the cryolume canopy, glinting like a herald of judgment.
Absjorn
surveys the scene: the flattened trees, the shattered snowbanks, the
lingering smoke, and the damage to his Vardengard. His jaw tightens,
rage coiling like a spring. How could they allow Spartan and Rho Voss
to escape? Perfection is demanded. The Absolute demands perfection.
A
snarl tears from him as he lashes out, striking Malchiel with the
haft of his electrified axe. The blow sends the Venator stumbling,
barely catching himself. Absjorn does not wait for excuses. None will
satisfy him. He glares at the group, then spies the fresh streak of
crimson that cuts across the white forest floor. Blood.
"Follow
it!" he bellows, voice tearing through the smoke like a
lightning strike. "Now! Do not let it go cold!"
Akriel
grits his teeth, pain radiating from his armor, but he nods. Tzurinn
mirrors him. Malchiel and Vaedran fall in line behind them, blooded
and bruised, yet focused. They move with a terrifying precision,
following the trail into the maze of frost-coated trunks, determined
to catch the Vardengard before their prey disappears entirely.
Absjorn
swings his axe once, the crackling current illuminating his fury, and
presses the chase. Nothing, not the snow, not the smoke, not the
gnawing exhaustion of his Vardengard, will stop him. The hunt has
begun anew.
