Story - Last flight

Orchaldor sat in the copilot seat. Stretching his neck, he looked over his HUD and past the pilot's head in the lower front cockpit.
"We should see the hangar right about now. Do not forget we are still leaking, Ecthelion."

From the rear gunner's seat, Peleth's voice came over the intercom.
"Yeah. It doesn't look good from back here."

Orchaldor turned, glancing through the narrow crawlway that linked the cockpits. Peleth's helmet was nearly pressed against the side glass of the rear turret.

Ahead, the hangar came into view. The base itself was buried in the mountain, hidden beneath snow and stone, but the hangar and its main gates were exposed. Orchaldor was surprised to see it so clearly. To see the sun here was almost a once-in-a-lifetime event.

The nuclear winter had done its work. Clouds and endless snowstorms covered Narnos, and what passed for "good" weather here were days when the blizzards eased enough to allow visibility. Even with their advanced technology, the ARC had to skirt the worst of the storms to reach this place.

The fighter slowed to a hover before the vast hangar doors. The metal groaned as it fought against frost and ice, grinding open at a painful pace.

Ecthelion guided the ARC forward. He was an excellent pilot, and it was no surprise when he spun the craft smoothly and set it down in one swift, practiced motion.

The doors closed behind them, sealing with heavy clangs. A moment later, the hangar vox crackled to life. A Naru attendant's accented voice echoed through the chamber:

"Stánd by for decontaminátion. Decontaminátion in pró-cess."

Sprinklers hissed, spraying chemicals across the ARC, washing radioactive frost and snow from its hull, along with whatever the winds had carried in.

"Decontaminátion compléte, báse áccess restoréd."

The cockpits hissed open, releasing a breath of cold, recycled air, and the crew climbed out. Ecthelion slid down across the hull, landing with practiced ease, while Orchaldor and Peleth stepped onto the wing near the engine before sliding down, the metal-on-metal scraping with a harsh sound.

As flight crew, their armor was stripped of much of the heavy plating worn by standard legionaries. What remained was a lighter frame, more akin to proto–power armor than full war panoply. Their helmets too were different: lacking the outer visor, with a wider T-shaped inner slit.

Ecthelion and Peleth, unsealing their helmets, revealed blue eyes and short, dirty-blond hair. If not for Ecthelion's sharp nose, they could have been mistaken for siblings. Orchaldor brushed aside his dark, slightly longer hair and gave a wry smile.

"Nice landing. When those Wyrocs swarmed us the second time, I thought we were going down."

Peleth chuckled as she joined in.
"Right? They were everywhere. I barely even had to aim."

Ecthelion faintly smiled, his gaze lingering on the ARC's battered frame. The hull was scarred, scratched, scorched, and chewed by chemicals.
"You had better thank the Iron Lady here. She held together like her life depended on it… which, quite literally, it did."

The ARC was a heavy starfighter, its silhouette closer to a compact gunship than a nimble interceptor. The fuselage was long and solid, its nose curving into a sharp, beak-like downward slope that housed powerful sensors and rotary blaster cannon, giving the craft a predatory, hawkish profile.

The elongated double canopy sat high near the front, slightly raised, segmented by angular armored framing. Visibility was narrower than in sleeker fighters — less a panorama, more a fortified shelter.

Stretching from the fuselage, the wings were broad and lightly forward-swept. Each began with a heavy engine nacelle, glowing with orange exhaust. Along their inner edges, armored S-foils extended across three-quarters of the wings. In attack position, these split open to form a menacing crossed X-shape, venting additional thrust and nearly doubling the craft's power output. At each wingtip sat two heavy missiles, four in total.

Behind the main canopy, atop the tail spine, was the rear cockpit — a bubble turret with its own armored framing. From here, the third crew member manned twin retrofitted light bolter cannons, their barrels jutting like fangs.

The overall impression was of a hawk with feathers bristling and a head turned sharply backward, always watching. Heavy plating and exposed panel lines marked it as a craft of endurance — rugged, durable, and built for long deployments. It lacked the elegance of Denebolian interceptors, but what it traded away in grace it returned twofold in sheer power and survivability.

Small hangar doors yawned open, connecting the bay to the base, and a cluster of Morwen stepped out. With the ever-present threat of barbarian attacks from below, even engineers and maintenance crews came armed and armoured. The Morwen wore long linen gambesons, hel-rifles slung across their backs, power falchions and handaxes at their hips.

The crew chief — an older Morwen caked in grime — walked forward. He pressed his hand to his chest and offered a half bow, unconcerned by ceremony. The Arnorians inclined their heads in return. A warm smile split the chief's face. "Good ta see ye back, ye rascals, sure an' all." he said, his green eyes flicking to the ARC. "What've ye gone an' done ta her?!"

Ecthelion grinned. "Glad to see you, Caelric." Peleth brushed past him and clapped the chief on the shoulder as she passed. "We had an acrobatics contest with almost a thousand Wynrocs. The usual."

Caelric shook his head and rubbed his forehead. "Ah, grand joke, Miss Rûthyar — very funny. Now then, lads, get on with it so these would-be suicide fools can break 'er again."

Orchaldor had never been fond of the Morwen. The unspoken truth no one liked to say was that they were a harsher, more savage mirror of the Arnorians. Still, he had to admit one thing: they learned fast.

They had only just entered the first corridor when a Naru officer approached at pace, saluting crisply.

"Legátus Gwaithyár requests your pré-sence immediátely. There are úrgent developménts."

Ecthelion gave a short nod. "We will report to him now."

The trio pressed on through the bunker's narrow halls. The place was little more than a labyrinth of reinforced concrete and steel. Most of the time they had to keep their heads lowered; often they flattened themselves against the walls to let oncoming soldiers pass, and more than once they were forced to backtrack entirely.

Orchaldor observed the Morwen around them. Their presence was no surprise—over the course of integration, Morwen had come to outnumber Arnorians in the armed forces more than two to one. True, most served in supporting roles, but the sheer numbers spoke for themselves.

At last, they reached the central hall. The chamber was vast, almost a hangar in its own right. From the railings above, the three looked down as a battered convoy of Juggernauts rumbled in, unloading wounded soldiers and crates of munitions. Most of the vehicles were troop transports with light turrets, but among them rolled a container unit and, battered yet functional, an assault variant bristling with a heavy main gun and side gunneries.

Peleth counted them aloud. "This must be the convoy from Oikos Trirous. But… two transports are missing."

Ecthelion exhaled slowly. "Yes. Oíkos Triírous. These are theirs. But I did not count them."

Orchaldor turned to a nearby wall panel, accessing the logs. "She is right. The rearguard convoy to Oíkos Trie... Triar... whatever,  was listed as one JG-AS, five JG-TRs, and a single JG-CT. Only five Juggernauts made it back."

He returned to the railing with the others. Below, the survivors disembarked—mostly Morwen. These were no engineers in gambesons, but front-line fighters. They wore fully enclosed armor: bark-green chestplates and greaves layered with padding, bark helmets with breathing units and yellow visor-slits, finished with black boots and gloves. Even so, exhaustion radiated off them. A few dropped to their knees and vomited onto the concrete floor.

Peleth gripped the railing tightly, fury in her voice. "We should have gone to cover them."

Ecthelion's gaze slid to her. "No. We should have retreated while we still had the equipment to do so safely. If we had gone to cover them, Súlimë Company would have been left exposed."

He looked down again at the convoy, jaw tight. "We cannot be everywhere."

With that, the three turned from the railing and crossed the great hall toward the command center.

The command center resembled the bridge of a ship, its wide windows overlooking the great hall below. Two Morwen, fully armored and ready for battle, stood at attention as the trio entered.

Orchaldor's eyes swept across the array of panels and shimmering holograms. The live-feed maps painted a grim picture—Barbarian swarms closing in from every direction. What had been a steady, orderly retreat only weeks ago now looked like a rout without command or coherence.

Opposite the entrance, the doors to the commander's office hissed open. A Denebolian officer stepped out—tall, perhaps even a little taller than the Arnorians.

Orchaldor muttered under his breath, barely restraining himself. "These endless inspections must be some kind of provocation. They've been here a hundred times already. This terrorist–slavery nonsense makes my blood boil."

Ecthelion placed a calm hand on his shoulder. "Let them come and go. They get their inspection, we get materials for the Forge. The A.R.S.N. would not exist without them."

Peleth, half-distracted, tilted her head in thought. "Hmm. They're all getting the treatment for height again."

Orchaldor frowned. "Yeah, I don't remember the last time I saw one of them normal-sized. Another show of superiority, I'd wager."

Ecthelion gave him a light pat before stepping past. "Not everything revolves around us, Orchaldor."

Peleth ignored their banter, her mind still wandering. "Do you think they expanded the doorways beforehand, or did they have to duck like us for a while?"

The Denebolian passed them, giving a perfunctory nod as he exited.

Ecthelion motioned for the others to follow him toward the Legatus's office. "They expanded first."

Peleth nodded in agreement. "Yeah, I bet. Would've been stupid otherwise."

Orchaldor just shook his head, muttering something indistinct as the doors closed behind them.

As they entered the disarray of the office—dignified, yet still a mess—their eyes fell on Legatus Gwaithyar. The three of them pounded their chests in salute, and the Legatus, still seated, returned the gesture. His face betrayed exhaustion; dark circles framed eyes that had clearly seen too little sleep.

He rubbed at them and looked toward the hall. "Poor bastards had to take Tharenos's pass. Such radiation will ruin a day. The whole crew of the breached Juggernaut is basically gone. And, of all times, that city soft-hander chooses to visit for inspection."

The Legatus went quiet, as if lost in thought. Ecthelion cleared his throat. "Are you all right, sir?"

Legatus shook off the weariness. "Yes, yes… just haven't slept in a while, and I'm barely at the safe threshold with athelas. There is… so much to do."

He trailed off again, then refocused. "Right. A.R.S.N. Command sanctioned you for another mission that needs dealing with immediately. I know it's the third in a row, but Katafýgio Pígasos is gone, and with it, Mnēmeíon Aspídos is facing both deep and surface assaults. The damned clever beasts are smart. I have a column retreating from Pígasos—they're the only ones in the area able to reach Aspídos and extract survivors, if there will be any. Now, you come into play to cover them. You are the only battle-ready ARC crew in the southern hemisphere. I know I ask much… there are swarms all over the place. But I am afraid none of them get home without some extra push."

The three of them pounded their chests again, and Ecthelion spoke with firm resolve, "You can count on us."

The Legatus repeated the gesture, a faint, weary smile breaking through, and the three left the office.

On their way out of the command center, Ecthelion immediately began issuing tasks.

"Orchaldor, get us some meals and a bit of athelas for the journey. We'll eat once we're in the air. Peleth, go help Caelric — he won't be happy, but we need to leave sooner rather than later, and you know he likes to take his time on repairs."

Both nodded. "Got it," Peleth said.

"I'll try to pry some ammunition out of Logistics," Ecthelion added. "With convoys going left and right, I only hope there's something spare."

He ended the sentence abruptly. The three of them felt it at the same time as they stepped out of the command center — that mix of faint hope and dread hanging over the base like frost in the air.

Outside, they found themselves face to face with two Sisters of Blood.

They stood several heads taller, one bearing a spear, the other fitted with massive rune-etched gauntlets. Their black armour, lined in silver, was heavy with ornaments and ceremonial markings. A large ruby droplet, crimson and perfect, was embedded from chest to short of abdomen. Arnorian armour distinguished between male and female forms, but only subtly. The Sisters' armour made no attempt at subtlety — they were the Daughters of Yárcarniel, and everything about them showed it.

Ecthelion pounded his chest. Peleth followed suit, adding a deep bow of her head. Orchaldor dropped to one knee as he struck his chest. He often wondered how his comrades could stand upright in the presence of Yárcarniel's chosen.

The Sisters nodded in return and Orchaldor rose from his knee.

The vox of the spear-bearer crackled. "Good to see you, big brother."

"You too, little sister," Ecthelion replied, warmth breaking through the fatigue in his voice.

The Sisters exchanged a brief look. To any onlooker it was nothing—yet within that heartbeat the younger Sister asked permission, and the elder granted it.

Then the helmets of the Sisters hissed — splitting open at the line of the mouth. The lower half folded down to the chin, the upper half lifting like an ornate sallet to rest above their brows. Unlike all other Arnorian armour, the Sisters' helmets alone could open, and seeing it always felt like witnessing a ritual.

The faces revealed were beauty beyond imagining: flawless, impossibly young, with red eyes, raven-black hair, and skin pale as if untouched by blood or sun. The two looked the same age at first sight, but the gaze of the gauntleted Sister held decades of experience.

Ecthelion's sister stepped forward and embraced him, lifting him slightly off the ground with ease. They exchanged a few precious moments — all they could afford. The Sisters were the peak of Arnorian might, and every heartbeat not spent on their missions meant another soldier left undefended.

As they finally parted, she looked over her shoulder at the trio.

"Keep them safe, big brother."

The three of them dispersed, each to their task. Time passed quickly, as it always did before departure. When Ecthelion and Orchaldor met again on their way back to the hangar.

Orchaldor handed Ecthelion a small phial of crystal-clear liquid.
Ecthelion uncorked it, inhaled its sharp, herbal scent, and drank it in one motion.

"Thank you. No luck for you either, I presume, if they are issuing only civilian dilution?"

Orchaldor grunted. "I had to argue just to get even this. There is nothing left that is not in short supply."

Ecthelion nodded slowly. "Indeed. They sent only the bare minimum when we landed. No additional ammunition."

They reached the hangar to find Peleth pacing beside the ARC, fingers running through her hair in open frustration.

"Gods curse it," she snapped. "This is patchwork worthy of a scrapyard."

She turned to them sharply. "Once we get off this frozen rock, the Iron Lady is going in for a full overhaul. We are hardly assault ready, and with a few more missions we can scratch combatant too."

Ecthelion studied the fighter, its scorched plating, hastily sealed seams.
"In other words," he said calmly, "repairs are complete." 

Caelric stepped forward, wiping his hands on a grime-stained cloth. "As much as they can be, so it is. She'll fly."

Peleth clenched her jaw, but she knew the truth of it. There was nothing more to be coaxed from exhausted tools and empty stores.

Orchaldor handed out the ration packs and the remaining phial to Peleth.

The crew prepared for flight and began the pre-flight check.

Ecthelion began, switching on systems.
"Gravitic Inertia-Bias Engines starting now."

Orchaldor responded without looking up from his panel.
"Gravitic I-B stable."

Ecthelion followed, "Thermal Dissipation Drive."

"TD Drive nominal."

"Subdimensional Impulse Nodes?"

Peleth joined in immediately, not even bothering to check her display.
"Don't bother. If we are lucky, we may get parts for that in two weeks."

Orchaldor shook his head.
"SI nodes confirming negative."

The weapon systems followed.

"Beak Blaster?"
"Forty-two percent capacity and ready."

"Payload?"
"Four precisions connected."

"Rear bolter?"
"Locked and loaded. Fifty-six percent capacity," Peleth announced.

Sensors, communication, and combatant integrity followed in quick succession, green and amber indicators flickering across the panels.

The Morwen cleared the hangar, and the doors opened, letting cold, snow, and radiation spill inside.

Ecthelion eased the ARC forward. Air rippled around the craft as the engines spooled up, exhausts glowing from orange to amber, heat making the air shimmer and bend around the hull as Iron Lady lifted clear of the deck.

Ecthelion climbed steadily and carefully increased speed to match the estimated arrival of the evacuation column at Mnēmeíon Aspídos.

"This is as fast as we need," he said. "How are we standing, Orchaldor?"

Orchaldor moved through the data streams, eyes flicking across the HUD. "Shield is holding. Energy and fuel consumption are within acceptable limits. If the weather worsens, we may need to burn more, but for now we are good."

Ecthelion gave a slow nod, eyes moving over the final readouts, then engaged the autopilot. The ARC steadied, its course locking in.

"Speed set," he said. "Five point three klicks per second. That keeps us on the column's clock."

Orchaldor glanced at the trajectory and arrival marker flickering on the tactical display. Mnēmeíon Aspídos pulsed faintly at the edge of the map, the convoy's estimated path converging with theirs almost perfectly.

"Forty-five minutes," he confirmed. "If they keep moving."

"They will," Ecthelion replied. "They do not have a choice."

He leaned back slightly in the seat. "Same drill as always. Peleth, first watch and eat well. Orchaldor, you take over in fifteen. I will take last."

"Roger that," Peleth said at once.

"Copy," Orchaldor added.

Athelas didn't force them to be awake, but made it possible. With minimal rest and the herb in their systems, Arnorians could function for days—never indefinitely, but long enough to matter. Orchaldor settled back as far as the cockpit allowed, the steady amber glow of the thermal dissipators washing over the hull outside. Snow and radioactive frost shattered against the surface shield, wind peeling away just millimeters before contact.

Orchaldor awoke to the crackle of comms and Ecthelion's voice.

"Acknowledged. Incoming in two minutes."

The channel cut. Ecthelion switched to helmet vox only and snapped the rest of the crew awake.
"Time's up. We are speeding up. The convoy is about to break through the assault. The facility holds only a few upper levels—they are being overrun from below, and communications are degrading."

Peleth and Orchaldor shook the last of the sleep from themselves.

"The storm worsened," Orchaldor reported immediately, fingers moving through the data. "Still flyable. Fuel reserves are close to expected levels. Sensors show light aerial contact. Main assault is ground-based."

Ecthelion flipped a switch. The wing-mounted thermal dissipators fully unfolded, shedding excess heat in glowing sheets.
"Target the Behemoth on the convoy's left," he said calmly. "We pave them a path."

The battlefield came into view—hangar mouths and battlement trenches carved into the steep hillside, typical of bunker complexes. Streams of tracer fire from velocity guns stitched the air, interwoven with red and violet helgun beams. Below, swarms of Barbarians surged across the snow and rock. Occasional plasma bursts and splashes of vile corrosive matter tore into the defenders' lines.

The convoy made contact with the rear of the swarm. Juggernauts opened fire, their turrets hammering into the mass as they pushed forward.

Ecthelion rolled the ARC into a leftward diving turn and leveled out above the convoy's advance.

"Target acquired," Orchaldor said, locking onto the Behemoth—an abomination of rhino, stag beetle, and mite, its massive bulk forcing its way through the snow.

"Firing," Ecthelion confirmed.

Two missiles streaked out in quick succession. The first punched a breach through the chitinous armor. The second followed directly into the opening and detonated deep within. The Behemoth reared, nearly decapitated, before collapsing and burrowing lifelessly into the ice.

Ecthelion pushed the ARC forward to the head of the column.
"Commencing CAS run."

The forward rotary blaster spun up, its whine rising before releasing a storm of blue energy rounds. The ground ahead of the convoy vanished beneath sustained fire. Ecthelion compensated with thrust, countering the recoil as the ARC carved a scorched corridor through the swarm—clear from convoy to facility—before pulling up along the slope.

Ecthelion fired a few quick, short bursts as they cleared of the hillside, cutting down a handful of Wyrocs foolish enough to block their path. Peleth let out a brief laugh as she spun up the rear bolter turret, explosive bolts spitting outward and ripping apart the Wyrocs that had given chase.

These beasts were called Wynrocs collectively, but they were a collection of various crossbreeds—some resembling imps, others bats or bloated mosquitoes. Despite their appearance, they were durable and unnervingly fast for their size.

The convoy reached the facility entrance, and Ecthelion shifted to a more conservative approach, saving ammunition and committing only to occasional runs where the situation demanded it. Even so, their reserves were thinning.

Barbarian forces continued to grow in number, and soon the Wyrocs were swarming everywhere. The situation worsened as ground guns fell silent, their crews abandoning positions and retreating into vehicles. Ecthelion flew like a madman, weaving through one swarm cloud after another, pushing the ARC to its limits.

These were not mindless animals. This was a coordinated force.

At last, the convoy appeared and formed into a column. Ecthelion lined up another path while Orchaldor locked onto two Gasts—the Barbarian artillery beasts.

As before, the ARC carved a path of annihilation, the missiles finding their marks. The Gasts' namesake gasters detonated, spraying wide swaths of their own allies with corrosive fluids and plasma. Ecthelion climbed hard, but with the skies choking with swarms, they had to brute-force their way through.

Peleth was fully focused now. There was nothing left to enjoy.

Ecthelion relied solely on Orchaldor's feed, and the news was grim.

"The convoy is getting overwhelmed," Orchaldor said, voice tight. "The path is closing… they are not going to make it."

Ecthelion spared the briefest glance at the blinking counter—seven percent left in the beak blaster.

"We can make one last run," he said evenly. "But we may not get out. I need your consent."

Orchaldor did not hesitate. "You know our answer."

Peleth joined in, teeth clenched as she kept firing. "A chance to stay and kill them all? What are we waiting for?"

Ecthelion nodded to himself and, without warning, threw the ARC into a violent maneuver—hard right, sharp left, straight climb, then down—lining them up for another run.

Cries for help and fragmented reports flooded the comms as the convoy tried to hold together.

"We lost the rearguard AC," Orchaldor reported. "Several transports are being ripped open."

The ARC aligned with the corridor just as the swarms parted for a heartbeat. Through the gap, Ecthelion glimpsed Barbarians crawling over Juggernauts, small-arms fire flashing through torn armor.

An idea struck.

"Peleth," Ecthelion snapped. "When we go—fire at the convoy."

"What?!" came from the rear seat.

"Clean the Juggs."

Peleth's eyes widened—and then the smile returned. "Hell yeah!"

Orchaldor wiped imagined sweat from brow of his helmet. "By the Goddess—do not hit anyone."

The beak blaster screamed, stitching blue fire ahead of the convoy, ripping swarms apart. The rear bolter followed, Peleth wheeling the turret with manic precision, careful to skirt Juggernaut bulks and leave only scratches.

The crews below must have been ecstatic to be shot at from above, Orchaldor thought—before reality snapped back.

The beak blaster clicked empty.

Heavy thuds followed.

Wynrocs latched onto the ARC, claws screeching across the hull. Ecthelion flew blind, snapping into rolls and violent turns, but nothing shook them loose.

Warnings cascaded across Orchaldor's display—comms failing, sensors flickering, left engine stuttering. Shields must have collapsed on first impact.

A sudden impact slammed above his head.

A mouth full of serrated teeth bit into the canopy. Cracks spiderwebbed outward.

Without hesitation, Orchaldor drew his bolter pistol and fired upward. The Wynroc convulsed and with half exploded head fell away.

"We are done," Orchaldor said. "Systems are failing."

Ecthelion did not argue. He overloaded engines.

The thermal dissipators vented in a blinding flash, releasing a heat shockwave that scoured the hull clear—but the displays died with it. Controls went dark. Power vanished.

Ecthelion fought the stick anyway.

Nothing responded.

"Hold on," he said. "We are going down."

The ARC was a craft designed for outer space and retained only mostly symbolic aerodynamics. Without propulsion and surface shields, it fell sharply.

"Brace!" Ecthelion shouted before impact.

The crew locked themselves into their seats and signed a basic protection. A weak yellow light enveloped them—and when the impact came, it shattered and dissipated like glass dust in the wind.

Orchaldor's vision returned slowly, the blur receding. The canopy of Ecthelion's cockpit was buried deep in snow, as was the entire beak of the ARC. He assessed himself quickly. No severe injuries.

Ecthelion's vox came through his helmet, warped but steady. "Everyone alright?"

"Yes," Orchaldor answered.

Silence followed.

"Peleth?" Ecthelion pressed. "Peleth?!"

Orchaldor swung around and half-crawled into the corridor connecting the pilot canopy to the rear gunner seat.

"Bloody hell," Peleth groaned. "This is going to ruin the rest of the day." She exhaled sharply, fighting the pain.

Ecthelion and Orchaldor exited the pilot canopy and moved toward the rear of the half-buried ARC. The weather had worsened significantly—a white, freezing storm raging around them. Orchaldor hated it, but at least it hid them from the swarms.

They pried open the rear gunner canopy.

A large piece of twisted metal was embedded deep in Peleth's abdomen. Below it, her left leg was a bloody mess, crushed and pinned to the seat.

Ecthelion rushed for the med pack while Orchaldor knelt beside Peleth, bracing himself against the open gunnery frame.

"The left loader must have detonated," Orchaldor said. "We need to be careful. There may still be live ammunition."

"There… certainly is," Peleth breathed.

Ecthelion returned and immediately began working to control the bleeding.

"You always wanted prosthetics, right?" he said.

Peleth knew he was distracting her—and let him. "Sure. The envy of others having them was becoming unbearable."

Ecthelion forced a thin smile. "And you had to join them. Not the best timing."

She hissed as pain flared. "They practically made a model just for me. You will despair over how good it looks against my skin once you earn your own ugly prosthetic."

Orchaldor shook his head and focused elsewhere.

"We need shelter," he said. "The closest safe point might be an abandoned lookout station. It will be days of travel. Maybe weeks." He paused. "The system's last fix put us here. Then you turned—speed must have dropped to seven hundred?"

"Closer to six-fifty," Ecthelion replied, eyes never leaving Peleth's wounds.

Orchaldor began carving numbers into the turret housing. "Right… and then you went like this…" he muttered. "That would place us…"

Ecthelion finally looked up and took Peleth's hand. "Painkillers will not cover all of this."

She nodded, jaw set.

"Orchaldor," Ecthelion said quietly. "I need a clean cut. Right here." He indicated above Peleth's knee.

Orchaldor nodded, powering his sword and whispering a short prayer. The blade hummed, gaining a faint blue tint as the runes along it glowed.

He measured the strike carefully—

—and froze.

An unnatural howl echoed through the storm.

"They found us."

Ecthelion drew his longsword and extended his retractable arm shield. Orchaldor drew his bolt pistol into his left hand.

Peleth groaned as she forced herself upright, gripping the turret controls. She had to lean her full weight into them, but the turret turned.

The right barrel aligned.

Ready to spit death.

The Barbarians descended on them.

Hound-like creatures and short, hunched figures circled in the cover of white darkness before going in for the kill. Peleth's turret mowed the bastards down left and right while Ecthelion and Orchaldor covered her blind spots.

One hound after another fell as Orchaldor chose which to shoot and which to let close enough to meet his blade. His shots were not precise, but every one of them incapacitated its target to some degree. Some of the hunched figures spat thin streams of vile corrosive before leaping in, wielding curved, jagged chitin blades.

Orchaldor had to parry carefully. The Barbarians were suicidal in their attacks—cuts that broke their blades did nothing to stop them.

At one point, Orchaldor was forced aside. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Ecthelion drop to one knee as corrosive dripped from his shield arm. There was no time for words. Orchaldor knew the it must have found its way between the plates, onto flesh.

Then a Barbarian champion emerged from the storm.

A hulking mass of muscle encased in broad chitin armor.

Orchaldor wavered before forcing himself steady. These beasts, wielding massive macuahuitls fashioned from bone, chitin, and razor-edged fangs, were line-breakers—capable of going toe to toe with Arnorian Praetorians. To face one was nearly a death sentence.

He could not believe their luck. For one of these to be part of a hunting party…

Peleth saw it.

With a painful shove, she swung the turret and unleashed hell. The champion roared and charged, bolts punching deep into his chitin, detonating in clusters of violent micro-explosions across his armor. He kept coming.

As he closed on the cratered impact zone, Peleth pushed the turret past its limits.

Orchaldor waited.

Then charged.

Adrenaline drowned everything else. He did not register the last burst—only the violent thump that shook the wreck, followed by abrupt silence.

He fired his pistol. Nothing.

He squeezed again.

Clicking.

Empty.

He dove under the champion's sweeping strike and slashed at the ankle, opening a gap in the armor. The fight became a careful dance, snow slowing both of them.

Despite his earlier fear, the bolts had done their work. The champion was weakening. Slowing.

At last, Orchaldor circled behind him and leapt. Climbing the massive frame, he drove his blade deep into the creature's neck.

The champion collapsed.

The remaining creatures wailed—and scattered into the storm.

Ecstasy surged through Orchaldor as he stood there, breath ragged, blade still buried in the beast's neck.

He turned.

What he saw tore the triumph out of him.

Peleth's upper body was still half inside the turret housing, what remained of her pinned there by twisted metal. Her lower half was gone—ripped apart by a chain of internal detonations that had blown outward through the loader and seat. Blood and torn tissue streaked the hull beneath her, frozen into dark, uneven smears.

Several hounds were still clawing at her, snapping and tearing, dragging at what was left.

Ecthelion was among them.

Wounded, armor eaten through by corrosive, he fought with one arm, hacking the beasts down as they lunged and recoiled, slipping in the snow, refusing to fall.

One of the hounds wrenched itself higher, jaws clamping onto Peleth's remains—

Ecthelion split its skull in a single blow.

The corpse fell back, weight and momentum tearing free what little still held.

Peleth's body was ripped from the turret.

It struck the snow hard, thrown clear of the hull, skidding to a stop at the base of the wreck. She came to rest folded in on herself, as if seated, her back against the scorched plating.

Blood spread beneath her, staining the white in a widening halo.

Ecthelion collapsed beside her. He drove his longsword into the snow to hold himself upright, reaching for her with his remaining strength.

Orchaldor rushed to them, dropping to his knees.

Ecthelion was too out of breath to speak. Only will had carried him this far.

Orchaldor caught his hand before it went limp.

"No," he whispered.

He bowed his head, touching their helmeted brows together.

"May She welcome you into her hall."

The storm began to subside.

Orchaldor looked up—and for a brief, impossible moment, the sun broke through the clouds.

Then the howls returned.

Orchaldor rose, gripping his sword and Ecthelion's. He turned to face the encircling foes, planted both blades into the snow, and knelt.

He breathed.

Any rescue—if one came at all—was at least seven days away.

He would not be hunted like an animal.

He triggered the injector.

LAST STAND flashed across his HUD.

Orchaldor removed his helmet and let it fall. The frozen air burned his lungs. The taste of iron touched his lips.

"By the blood, we are bound.
By the might, we are found.
By the honor, we are judged."

The words faded as the serum took hold.

His body tensed unnaturally. Pain, grief, exhaustion—all dulled, replaced by a singular hunger.

The Barbarians closed in again.

And the slaughter began.