Halo: Salvation

"Soon the Great Journey shall begin, but when it does, the weight of your heresy shall stay your feet, and you shall be left behind."

It was something of an archaic mystery, a cross between old magic and older roots of power and rule, that the booming voices of the Royals in the halls of Canterlot commanded the silence of those who heard. Yet here, Luna, perched high atop a spire in the lavender court of the Covenant, found herself struck silent as well by calm words of damnation, and the vaulted roofs sheltering fathoms reverberated with the same silence of a crypt.

This was Thel's trial, his dream, his memory. And far beneath her, Luna watched with folded ethereal wings as the dreamscape bent around her. She was a stranger here, and so she stuck to the shadows as she followed the golden-armored Elite as he was flanked by guards, and with neither protest nor acrimony, was led out of the Council Chamber.

The Hierarch's words echoed in the darkness again and again, the cadence to his damning decree fading until the rhythm, like that of a distant drumbeat, hummed through the long, cold corridors. With each stomping footfall of the Elite and his carnal escorts the distant drums of the deep changed; they grew voices.

In the distance, out of the metal's night, a blinding light, and the condemnation of a congregation of hundreds of thousands, beckoned him.

He answered their call.

He stepped into the light, led and flanked by creatures far less noble than he, to the rapturous castigation of those who had hailed him as a hero not a week before.

In one voice, they all denounced him.

"Heretic! Heretic!" they chanted, snapping at his heels and throwing what they could to no avail.

Luna, appalled in so many ways, never saw the Elite's eyes stray from forward, his glare soften, or his maw flex in dissent. Callously, his guards put his wrists in electronic binds, the flashy technology of magnetism no replacement for the barbarism of common chains, and stepping back, they too cheered his demise.

Luna, all but a specter, alighted on yet another spire, so common in this city's architecture, and observed, knowing all of this was a recollection within a dormant mind. Still, to watch someone she knew made into such a sacrilegious spectacle... It wasn't quite pity she felt welling up inside her, but it wasn't quite anger either.

Perhaps the most important lesson she had learned about the Covenant was evident in the scale of the masses eagerly awaiting the Sangheilli's shame. He had drawn quite a crowd.

From far below, she heard Thel's unmistakable voice drift upwards.

"If they came to hear me beg, they will be disappointed."

The smile of the guard before him challenged that assertion, delighting in his pain, and as Luna watched, the restraints sparked, and arcs of lightning began to dance across the Elite's body. He jolted and shuddered, yet he held onto his determined glare, his one expression left of defiance and pride, but even that too began to fade. Slowly, as the pain and the realization of what was to come set in, his glare left him, and his eyes grew wide. From deep within him, he suppressed the cry that so desperately wanted to leap from his throat; it began instead as a growl, then a groan, and it built into a wail, and that shrill note carried over the jeering crowds as their victory.

They electrocuted him for far longer than was necessary. They fried him until he went limp, until his armor began to sully from the heat and warp to his body, and until his skin burned over the length of him.

What began as a proud, unyielding Elite with strength in his gait and a determined glare on his brow was now a smoking heap held up only by his wrists. They ripped his armor from his skin, tearing his flesh with it, yet he did not have the strength to call out in pain. The crowd, in his silence, roared.

His Praetorian stepped forward, his hair matted and his fangs yellow and chipped, and above the crowd his voice boomed.

"There can be no greater heresy! Let him be an example to all who would break our Covenant!"

The same figure produced a giant brand, its steel scalding red and its shape, like the head of a terrible snake coiled around his arm. Mercilessly, he jammed the orange metal into the Elite's breast, lifting him off the ground. He pressed up and back until Thel's arms locked out in their restraints, and his feet hardly had the strength to kick. He did not roar, but he wasn't quiet either. He threw his head back, his amber eyes wide, and hoarsely, he moaned as if fading away.

And the crowd went crazy.

Only once the Brute pulled the brand from Thel's chest, did they finally release him from his restraints. He crumpled to the floor as if lifeless, and Luna looked down at him.

Here was her comrade, her friend, stripped of his heritage, rank and life, reduced to smoldering naked flesh without any dignity or pride, tortured for sport and branded a traitor without even a name, and all around him, yesterday's brothers-in-arms were laughing. Pity was not strong enough of a word, nor shame, nor sorrow. If she didn't know any better, she would have thought that Thel had died right in front of her.

In a way, he did.

But Luna could only watch.

Then his guards picked him up under each arm and dragged him away, leaving a horde of the acclaiming faithful and a smoldering shell of gilded armor behind.

The Arbiter sat up violently and with a snarl, but that fearsome expression soon became a wince. He clutched at his ribs.

"Be careful!" came a familiar voice, and Twilight was once again at his side.

He was lying on the wooden floor, heartwood and bookshelves reaching to the ceiling all around him. But hovering just in front of his nose was the unicorn, a dozen things moving in tandem around her as her horn glowed hot. She wrapped him in towels and linens, mopped at the floor with more of the same, levitated a pitcher of water to his mouth, all in an effort to both provide care and clean up after the Arbiter's bleeding spell.

The Arbiter's bewildered expression was enough.

"You passed out," she said matter-of-factly with a small shake of her head, "A couple of your stitches opened up and you started bleeding pretty bad."

The Arbiter groaned, and examined the blood all around him. Every white towel the mare had owned was now a deep lavender from cleaning it up, and the floor was not quite yet clean. His head hit the floor. He felt numb, as if his arms, legs, and all of his fingers were asleep, and very cold.

"How long was I unconscious?"

"Maybe fifteen minutes."

He sighed again, and went to stand up, but Twilight stopped him.

"Take it easy. There's no need to rush."

With that, she turned the bulk of her attention to the wound under his breast, and her horn began to glow yellow. He felt the wound grow hot.

"No," he protested, pushing her away and causing many of the towels and the water to drop from her aura, "I've already been shamed once by your medicine's stemming my blood's flow. I shall not be again!"

Now it was Twilight's turn to look bewildered.

"What?"

"Sit me up," he growled, in pain and embarrassed, "and let me breathe."

She did just that, helping his silver-clad bulk to a chair, and once she covered it in linens and towels, she helped him into it. It bowed and groaned beneath his weight, and it was far too small for him, but he sighed in relief, sipping in the arboreal air of the library like it was a cold drink. Twilight perched on the chair's armrest, now eye to eye, her concern level with his anguish.

"We have to get you out of your armor," she said.

She knew his protest was coming before he regarded her with a defensive glare, his amber eyes piercing her from behind his nose-guard.

"It's heavy. The edges catch on your stitching and rip them open. It isn't protecting you," she explained, maternal and patient, "It's hurting you."

The Arbiter, somber, nodded. He was her guest here, and so in the interest of courtesy, he made to oblige her. He went to stand to disarm himself, but his legs went wobbly, and he collapsed back into the chair heavily. Twilight tried to catch him, and the chair all but broke beneath him. He breathed heavily, and Twilight set to work, carefully and gingerly taking off his weapons first, then his helmet, then his pauldrons, setting them all aside near the window for the light to shine on.

"Look at me," he lamented as Twilight slowly undid the straps around a reopened wound on his bicep, "I'm useless. I can't even stand."

Prudently, she peeled the armor off of his arm, the blood sticking in protest.

"Is that all I ever was? A hollow suit of armor?" the Arbiter went on, his head finding the back of the chair, "Strip it away, and I am a walking corpse."

Twilight, half berating him back to health and half soothing his doubts, allayed.

"You're bent, not broken. You just need time."

His amber glare snapped to her.

"Time is not something we have," he all but snarled, "We are on Vol's schedule now."

Twilight remained patient, setting to work on his breastplate now.

"You're going to get better."

His next look was doubtful, irritated, but she could tell he wasn't irritated with her.

"I have lost brothers to less severe wounds than these."

Twilight gave up on the particularly stuck strap she had been trying to get undone, and set her jaw, turning her head to the side ever so slightly.

"Then you must still be alive for a reason."

They stared into one another's eyes for a few moments before she went back to work on the irksome breast plate.

"I never got a chance to tell you," she said slowly, a newfound calm in her voice as she kept on at disarming him, liberating him of that armor; despite his initial protest, he sighed in relief for each piece she removed, "What we found in the Canterlot library before it was raided."

He turned his head to her, and his mandibles clicked.

"There are these things called manna pools. Places where magic users are stronger."

Ever so slightly, he leaned in closer, and his head cocked.

"We think the Covenant is honing in on them," she explained, "They've already attacked God's Doorstep in Griffonstone."

"Yes, you have told me this. But where does this manna stem from?" he asked.

"Well..." she paused to glance up at him, "there are theories that the largest manna pools are in Everfree, just outside town."

"We need to go there," he said determinedly, and shifted his weight under his feet.

"Put that out of your mind," she snapped, placing a hoof on his breastplate again to keep him in his seat, "You just started bleeding out from a stroll. You're not ready to be leading expeditions into the heart of the frontier."

Dejectedly he leaned back, and he shook his head.

"Didn't your doctors already fix this? Why prolong my degradation with ineffective treatments. I already endured that shame once here."

Twilight chewed on her lip as she thought of an answer.

"Healing magic is... complicated. Even the princesses could only do so much to you," her eyes found a wound, the bleeding all but stopped, "I can try but I'm not sure how much good it will do."

The Arbiter cocked an eye at her.

"I can start here, and we can send you to Fluttershy next. She's more of a veterinarian than a doctor, but I'm afraid any doctors here have already done what they can."

If hesitant skepticism was an expression, it lived in the Arbiter's eyes.

"She'll probably use essential oils and herbs, but it can't hurt right?"

He still shook his head. A moment of silence passed between them, and the sound of Twilight fidgeting with the breastplate, still resisting her, began to carry ever so softly along the heartwood of the oak. The Arbiter looked up, taking the structure in. Stairs hewn out of the wood, closets and doorways carved as if coaxed out of the tree, and it was still alive. The walls groaned as the branches above blew in the breeze. This was not conquering nature for resources, it was living alongside it. It was natural, symbiotic... pure.

"This is your home?" he asked, practically marveling.

"Golden Oaks Library," Twilight answered, following the Arbiter's mystified gaze to the ceiling, "Nothing like the Canterlot Library I'm afraid."

Once again, the Arbiter's mandibles clicked.

"The Covenant may not care," he pondered slowly, "You and I both know they've been targeting libraries as well as these manna pools."

Twilight let her sarcasm get the better of her, and she chuckled a bit as her hoof found a stitched up gash on the Arbiter's shoulder, and she gently traced it with her toe.

"Well if they come, I've got you to protect me."

The Arbiter chuckled at her joke, but she sighed, her voice finding something more serious as she looked out the window at a trio of colts playing ball along the edge of a sprawling, gilded wheat field.

"It wouldn't be much of a home if we were boarding up windows in fear. Ponyville is quiet. Even the weather passes us over."

The Arbiter found the sight outside the window as well, and he hummed softly to himself in rhythm with the birds nesting far above them in the library's sylvan roof. His shoulders became lighter by the minute, and the pervasive wholesomeness of the village and the comforts of his friend's home began to put him truly at ease.

"Tell me about your home," Twilight suddenly asked, her eyes gently looking up at him, beseeching her curiosity to be sated.

Out of the corner of his eye, the Arbiter saw a journal and pen levitate to life amid a subtle lavender glow, and he knew Twilight was getting ready to covertly transcribe everything he was about to tell her. He smiled lazily, and took a steady breath in.

"I haven't seen Vadam in years," he murmured nostalgically, "I'm unsure what has become of it, if I would recognize it. If it would recognize me."

"You can at least tell me what life used to be like," Twilight implored, unsatisfied, "What you wore, what you ate. Family."

He let his breath out far harsher than he had let it in, and he turned a harder brow to her.

"We ate those that asked prying questions, and wore their hides as loincloths."

She stopped fiddling with the same strap that had defied her for so long, and she was taken aback as if threatened. But the Arbiter's glare only held for a moment before he traded it for a mischievous grin.

"A joke... Your kind seems fond of them, yes?"

Twilight sighed in relief, and her chuckle was more of an alleviated sigh.

"First rule of Equestrian social etiquette: threats do not make for polite conversation."

The Arbiter hummed quietly as he reclined again, his thoughts drifting across the galaxy and time.

"We ate meat, roasted, until the flesh peeled from the bone. All creatures of the earth, sea and sky were our prey. Aboard interstellar vessels no such sustenance was available, and we quickly broke ourselves of such luxuries."

The Arbiter pretended not to notice that Twilight had forsaken his armor's removal in favor of writing some notes, the scratching of her quill against parchment betraying her attempt at a clandestine interview.

"Most wore simple tunics when not in armor. More elaborate apparel was always reserved for the nobility, status won through great exploits and tremendous honor."

His voice changed a bit, became more proud, more distinguished.

"I once had a cloak, fashioned from Doarmir fur and stained purple reminiscent of the blood of our fathers. It was a garment reserved for the greatest of military commanders. It was presented to me by my crew, as a token of their respect and gratitude, on campaign."

Twilight looked up at him with sad eyes, and he met hers the same.

"That cloak was my crown, and that crew was my family. I was proud to wear it, proud to be their leader, but all that was stripped from me, like so many other things."

As he finished, the clasp she had been working on finally gave, and his breastplate came away from his chest. As it did, Twilight was confronted with a horrendous scar over his left pectoral.

"What is that?" she asked.

It was unlike the other scars covering his body; it was clearly not the round puncture wounds or long, thin slashes that had since healed. It was a character of some kind, like a cattle brand. The glyph was circular, but ragged, unclean and unsymmetrical. It looked horrid, callous and malevolent. She shuddered to imagine what would have inflicted such a thing.

"A death sentence," came the Arbiter's grim reply, "I received that mark the day I became the Arbiter, a title and a scar both mine to carry until they kill me."

It was obvious Twilight was confused, how someone of such a rank and prestige as the Arbiter would be disparaged by something so heartless, and the Arbiter realized he needed to confess to her.

"The mantle of Arbiter is not a title given to those of honor, but to the honor-less, that they might die with some dignity in service, as restitution."

He saw the pieces click into place behind her wondering eyes, and he knew she finally understood. There was no point in concealing anything any longer.

"I suppose there is not a Sangheilli alive as shameful as I in the old ways."

He avoided her eyes to dodge her judgement. He knew it was coming; it always did. That sterling armor was gallant, but it could not hide that mark forever. He expected her venomous words of condemnation to bite any second, to damn him as the others had and dismiss him as some traitor or impostor. But they never came. He looked back to her, and he found her smiling at him gently.

"If that's the case, some medicine might not hurt the rankings."

His eyes widened as he regarded her, practically in disbelief at her grace. This, his greatest sins revealed, was not enough to sway her kindness, and as she went back to work on his armor plate, he felt as though the weight of a thousand suits of steel had been lifted from his soul.

Meanwhile...

Over the verdant glens of Minoa, the mournful lament of war trumpets, carried aloft on silver wisps of fog, called Princess Luna back.

She blinked away the dreamscape, trading the deep purples and grays and blinding light of High Charity for the misty green hills all around her. In the breeze, the tent walls flapped, and another wailing trumpet blast rolled in from outside. They beckoned her, her sword and her armor, heralding her and countless champions the world over.

She answered the call.

A blast of crisp air played in her mane just as an ocean breeze frolics in a sail. Her wings twitched, wanting so much all on their own to spread wide, and see if the air up there was just as lively. Her eyes adjusted to the light, and she looked down from the crimson wall-tent perched on this summit.

The rolling hills, beleaguered with ranks upon ranks of Minotaurs, their armor gleaming, clamored. Swords, axes and war-hammers clashed against heavy plate and oak shields. Across the knoll, to a belching fire, the lighter tone of hammers against anvils announced the smiths' work as they modified and enchanted the helmets and weapons to accommodate Equestrian advancements. The steel all rang together like so many bells, and the meadows sounded of a distant symphony.

Equestria's carillons hadn't rang since the declaration of war, and here the mists were haunted by the ghost of their song.

Luna did not realize she missed them until now, and the weight in her heart suddenly made her forget the weight of her armor.

A street, bracketed by a city of tents, led her to the war tent, a large yurt. She entered, Midas and Celestia already in council with countless lesser war-chiefs and banner bearers gathered around the central map table. Celestia looked up, smiling.

"How did you sleep?" she asked, winking as she saw her sister got the joke.

Luna smiled back.

"I had strange dreams."

She joined the two others at the table, a map of the world adorned with the emblems and sigils of each nations' forces where they were garrisoned in real time spread across the tabletop. Midas took it upon himself to fill Luna in on what he and her sister had been discussing as she took her seat.

"Each day our forces grow stronger. We learn. We adapt. And we have you both to thank for this," his voice changed as he brought up the poignant focus of his concern, "But our training is for naught if we cannot locate the Covenant."

Celestia serenely responded.

"Rest assured, we have established an effective network of communication between all nations of the Army of Hope. As soon as one nation establishes contact, all nations will know. We'll be able to mobilize as soon as the word is spread."

"You mistake my concern for blood lust, Your Highness," Midas answered tactfully, "Consider the astronomers in Zebrica and the Crystal Empire. The wandering stars that give their ships away have not been seen for days."

Now it was Luna's turn to play diplomat.

"Their capital ships have not proven their primary vessels for operations. The Covenant has proven to prefer surgical strikes rather than risk their cruiser or corvettes."

Midas' concern persisted.

"Princess," he said, practically imploring her to see the situation from his eyes, "If we cannot see those battle-ships above us, then from where are those surgical strikes being launched? And how could they hide a ship so mighty as to bore a hole thousands of feet deep at Griffonstone on a whim?"

The two sisters understood, but they understood something their counterpart could not.

"We've done everything we can to find them," Celestia said, still as calm, "And we shall continue to do so. Until one of us makes contact, we can only diligently train, so when we do meet them, we win."

Midas sighed, sitting back in his chair as he rubbed his brow. It was clear he and his kind were not used to waiting around. The Minoan road to war was a short one, and their campaigns were typically brutal. They were all trying to adapt to this new way of fighting, but their traditions were in conflict, and it was obvious both by the commanders' unrest and the warriors' learning curve.

"My legs ache," the War-Chief admitted, his tone leading them on in a not so subtle way, "Surely, we, as leaders, are not exempt from the burden of training, or the expectation of martial prowess."

Celestia and Luna shared a glance. They knew what was coming.

"Your Highness," he began, looking to Luna with a glint in his brown eyes, "Care to spar?"

Luna smiled first at her sister, then at Midas.

"I would."

She followed him as he rose eagerly, his banner bearers all confidently smiling, and left the tent. The War-Chief, bathed in sunlight, stretched his weary body, Luna doing the same as she regarded the valley below her.

The army of Minotaurs training on the gentle slopes did not notice them at first, and continued soaking in all the lessons the Equestrian advisers could give, training on those combined arms and individual techniques in dueling rings and in formations. Minoan archers, skewered oak logs, cut and dressed in salvaged Covenant armor, while berserkers practiced moving under the covering fire of the arrows. Heavy infantry closed on magic-casters, enchanted shields impervious to the Equestrian battle magic, and by extension plasma, being fired in trial.

Only once Midas took his horn from his belt, and its deep, echoing bass note overpowered the trumpets all around, did the others notice, and no sooner had its echo faded than the army had gathered, a dueling ring with walls of muscle, armor and red war paint encircling the War Chief of the Minotaurs and the Princess of the Night.

Luna drew her sword, and raising her chin, looked into the eyes of Minoa's champion. With a red palm, he adorned his face with paint the likes of a bovine skull, highlighting the dense bones on his face. She looked back to the war-tent; Celestia was sitting on her oaken chair outside the crimson walls, watching intently and expectantly. Ever so slightly, Luna could see her smiling. Suddenly Midas roared, and the crowd's, thousands of raging bulls and a few dozen Equestrians, voices climbed into a clamor to shake birds from the glens.

Working himself into a berserk, his eyes all but red, the great Minotaur heaved his massive claymore from between his shoulders, and giving a bellow, it fell towards her like a crashing wave. She bent and weaved to the side, and she parried, feeling more like she'd struck a tree than another sword. The bull brought his blade back up in a fluid motion, its inertia only reigned in by his rippling muscles, and came to a pause in a high guard.

Luna regarded her adversary the way she might look up at a tower. He may as well have been as tall, but his armor had little of the shine of polished marble. His was the color of tested metal, darker even than his skin, and weathered from use. His blade, his armor plate, and his horns were all chipped and worn. Luna wasn't looking at his armor for the sake of admiration, but to find a weak point. There weren't many.

Midas roared, and with a snort, he came at her again far faster than she thought someone of his size could move. He swung at her legs, and with a flex of her wings she was above the blade, above him, and the few Equestrians in the crowd's cheers were drowned out by the jests and jeers of those behind the War-Chief. Painted faces roared behind chained horns, and before she could hover, Midas swung at her again.

He reached her, and she dove back to the ground, dashing for the Minotaur's stomach. She led with a stab, but her sword's tip slid off of his convex breast plate with a high pitched squeal. Her speed carried her past his fist as he swung at her, but she wheeled on canted wings, and was within his reach once again. She lunged for his throat, but an armored fist glanced it a few inches off course. With one hand he hit her sword down and the other dropped the claymore, going for a dagger on his belt to reclaim an advantage in close quarters.

Luna followed her sword as it fell from her adversary's vulnerable neck to the ground, but she held her grasp. Midas' hand found his dagger, and Luna came back up with all of her nimble grace. Midas' steel had yet to clear leather when her sword tip stopped between his legs, the blade resting ever so gingerly against his groin between the tiniest gap in his thigh armor.

The crowd went silent in an instant, that is until Luna smiled and Midas laughed. His wide eyes relaxed, and gladly, he released the tension in his legs as Luna withdrew her blade, claiming victory in the dueling ring with an exhausted sigh.

"Well fought," he laughed, and his reach turned from hostile to the embrace of a warm uncle in an instant, a burly, steel clad arm wrapping around her shoulders to clap her, by comparison tiny, pauldron.

The few Equestrian advisers gathered around whistled, and the Minotaurs stood in quiet disbelief.

"It appears we all can afford to learn more of what our friends already have!" Midas yelled to his banner bearers.

With Luna still under his arm, practically lifting her hooves from the ground in his embrace, he turned to head back up the hill, the ring parting for them like a river around a stone. It took a moment, and the Minotaurs, still dumbfounded, did not move from their spectators' crowd. Midas, noticing this, wheeled.

"Get back to training!" he yelled, all that goodnatured affection traded for angry command in an instant, "We're not fighting yesterday's war! Our violent future awaits us in those clouds!"

He pointed to the sky, and while he berated his legions back into formation, Luna smiled, and kept on up the hill towards her sister.

"Well done little sister," "You've always been an excellent fencer, but each day your skill..."

She was interrupted suddenly, and the sisters' pride left for concern in an instant as a spark lit in the air above Celestia's horn, and a scroll flitted down to the dew covered grass between them. Celestia snatched the scroll, her eyes growing wider as she read.

"It's Shining Armor," the alabaster alicorn uttered, practically a surprised whisper.

For an instant, Luna relaxed.

"What news from Griffonstone?" she asked.

Celestia did not share her sister's abatement.

"He's not in Griffonstone."

She turned the scroll to Luna, letting her read. The scroll only had a few words on it and the seal of the Crystal Empire's Royalty was stained with the unmistakable tarnish of blood drops.

Covenant contact established.

Caldera needs reinforcements.

Earlier...

Shining Armor held his breath. Below him, a Covenant squad patrolled. One of the Unggoy's eyes scanned up and passed over him, but he did not see him. Shining's fur was as stained as dark as the ashen earth all around him, the soot rubbed deep into his skin, and his helmet, behind him, couldn't betray his silhouette.

He looked to his left. a dozen yards away, among the rocks of the cliffs, Steelhide cloaked himself behind stones and furled wings. Shining could see him, but the Covenant couldn't see him among the boulders he was perched behind, watching the same patrol with slow glances out from cover.

Behind Shining, Rtas 'Vadum lay prone, his inquisitive glare asking Shining for coordination.

"Six of them, two Elites," Shining whispered, conveying what he saw; he pointed with the cleft of a hoof down one direction of the gully below to tell the Shipmaster their enemies' direction of movement.

The white Elite nodded, and with a low hum, he disappeared. Shining watched as the dust along the edge of the slope moved up ever so slightly as the Shipmaster went over and down the slope into the gully, moving under the cover of his camouflage module, the volcanic haze and the belching earth.

Shining crept back to the edge, his position a perfect vantage point. He could see the patrol; they had flanked their axis of movement perfectly, and they weren't expecting them. He could see Steelhide slowly prowling up to the lip of his rocky cover on all fours, his shoulders flexing like those of a jaguar about to pounce.

It happened quickly. No sooner had Rtas 'Vadum's sword leapt out from behind the rocks than Steelhide had darted forward from his perch. Before the Covenant knew what was going on, Rtas' plasma rifle sparked, putting two of the Unggoy down as his blade carved a hot gash through the middle of the Elite walking point. Shining's horn grew hot as he fired a stream of magic down into the formation, connecting with an Unggoy in the middle of the patrol, rupturing his respiration tank to send the Grunt careening down the canyon like a missile.

The Elite and Grunt at the rear of the formation turned to him immediately and sent a volley of plasma into his position. Shining ducked down, his mane sizzling from a close call, and he curled up as tightly as he could as searing hot plasma pocked the rocks and super heated the air all around him. Rtas closed on the rear of the formation, a long burst from his plasma rifle stopping the Grunt's fire towards Shining .

As the final Elite leveled his Carbine on the Shipmaster, his active camouflage just beginning to fade out, Steelhide dove on him like a hawk with a tremendous impact. He dug his claws into the Elite's throat, and the crunch of his spine rolled off the stones as roars of pain went silent in an instant.

Their ambush over, Shining tobogganed down the slope to join the other two. He trotted up on them as the Shipmaster calmly slit one of the dying Unggoy's throats, retracting his sword with a slow breath in, and all movement along the dried up magma flow ceased.

"There you have it," Steelhide began, throwing his bloodied hands down at the corpses all around them in disgust, "They're here, as my scouts already confirmed." He stalked towards Rtas as he pointed to the horizon on the north, the massive volcano in the distance looming, "Now call the Army of Hope, and let us strike them in force!"

"Right," Shining reached back into his saddlebag to get some paper and make good on Steelhide's request.

When he reached the canvas bag on his hip, and found a hole burned through it. He paused.

"Shit."

Sifting through the mangled bag, he produced the cindered remains of his paper supply. Their ashes joined the soot on the ground all around them, and Shining looked to Rtas as both their hearts sank. All that was salvageable was one scrap of a scroll, no more than enough to write a few sparse sentences.

"I've only got enough for one message," Shining groaned.

"Good," Steelhide began," "Then send it."

Rtas' mandibles flexed, and he walked to Steelhide, their eyes meeting level.

"If we tell Celestia and the others the Covenant is here, and we mobilize in force, we open ourselves up everywhere else on the planet," the Shipmaster explained slowly, "We must consider that a Covenant presence here could be a feint to concentrate our forces only to strike elsewhere."

Steelhide looked bewildered, his crocodile's maw agape. It was obvious he hadn't considered Rtas' possibility.

"We must confirm their presence and the size of their force," 'Vadum went on, "An effective reconnaissance must be done before an equally effective report can be sent."

"Look at your feet," Steelhide protested, "They're here. We have confirmed their presence."

"You said your scouts saw one ship, a scouting party, and now we have confirmed a small infantry presence," Rtas argued back, "The Covenant has an entire battle-group here."

the Tarragon shook his head, and his spines quivered while his wings flared out.

"Fine," he said through bared teeth, "You can continue, but I am going to return and mobilize my people. I pray you are right about this feint, that there is nothing to threaten the nesting grounds among these crags, but if you are wrong, the dragons will not be caught defenseless."

"The Shipmaster and I will continue," Shining Armor offered, "You'll be the first to know if we find anything else."

The unicorn hadn't quite finished speaking when Steelhide pushed his wings down, taking to the dark skies with all of the frustration and irritation that had been present in his gravelly voice. As they watched his bat-like wings become a shadow in the haze, Shining turned to Rtas.

"Where do you want to go?" he asked.

Rtas' mandibles snapped together rapidly in thought, and he regarded the canyon they occupied, looking down the slowly rolling bottom one way, then back up the other.

"Why would the Covenant patrol along such a perilous route?" the Shipmaster asked, pointing down the gully, then up both sides, "High ground on both flanks, limited cover and visibility."

Shining took a breath in as he thought.

"Maybe they weren't expecting any fighting?" he suggested, "Or they were just in transit, trying to avoid detection."

'Vadum nodded, obviously not having made up his own mind yet.

"Or..." he began suddenly, the idea formulating as he spoke, "This canyon is a potential infiltration route they meant to deny use by any probes."

Shining digested the implication as the Shipmaster kicked one of the Unggoy over onto its belly, and knelt to check its methane tank.

"Their gas levels are low. They only had about an hour of breathing time left," he said, getting excited as he tapped the red lights on the sides of the gas tank with the claws of his middle two fingers, "They were headed back to whatever base was theirs."

The Shipmaster pointed along the patrol's vector before they'd been slain, and took off in a trot.

"This way. We'll cling to the walls, lest we encounter any more of them."

Shining cantered after him, up into the rocks of the slope, boulder hopping to keep up with his partner's long legs. They pushed on down the canyon for what felt like hours, but the sun, all but a bleak dot hardly moving behind the curtain of smoke and ash above them, did not betray such notions.

For some time, Shining's focus stayed on simply keeping up with the Shipmaster's easy lope, a pace most Equestrians would have difficulty matching, but the Captain managed to match him in agility and speed. It was only when he heard something far deeper than the clap of hooves and boots against the obsidian and loose shale that he slowed, and once he stopped, the tone became all the more obvious.

"Do you hear that?" he called after the Shipmaster, and the Elite stopped mid-stride to listen as well.

The sound grew to a distant hum, and the Shipmaster recognized it.

"Hide!" he yelled, and no sooner had the words left his mouth than Shining dove into the boulders, and a massive formation of Phantoms and Banshees streaked over the rim of the canyon, hardly any air between the ships and the earth. The very stones shook with the thunder of the Phantom's engines while the high pitched, ghastly wail of the Banshees pierced Shining's ears with a poignant pain.

There were too many ships to count, but when all that was left above them was the vapor trails of the ships streaking towards the volcano in the distance, and their engines' shriek faded, Rtas shed his camouflage, and together, he and Shining scrambled to the top of the canyon wall.

They crawled over the edge on their bellies, and regarded the sprawling volcanic plain below them. Shining reached the top first, and as such was the first to see the incandescent glow of energy spires, idling aircraft engines and stockpiled plasma coils sprawling before them up to the base of the volcano on the horizon.

"Jackpot."

Over the lakes of lava, capital ships hovered, and as the two watched, through the clouds of lazily drifting ash, the purple glow of an interstellar vessel loomed until the bow of a Battle Cruiser pierced the volcanic vapors.

"Yes," Rtas growled, a hint of reverence in his voice as he watched the might of the Cruiser settle over the lava pools, the bass of its engines shaking even the stones they lay on, "May the gods have mercy on us."