There could be no retreat. House Io was at their backs, and Alliance forces were slipping around them as well, moving to strike at the grounded Star Destroyer that had brought them here. The enemy had already reached
their deployment zone, but Kaleth was still far away, and unless the temple ruins fell they would never be able to reach that ancient city where the first Force Wars had been waged. Surrounded, outnumbered, and outgunned, all the Brotherhood forces could do was take the strongest forces they had left and
charge.
Fortunately, that was what Scar Hounds did best.
The Moon Children accomplished their purpose, and then they died. They soaked up the fire of the mortar teams and then forced them back, their frenzied advance giving the Alliance weapon operators only two choices: retreat within the ruined walls, or die
messily at their clawed hands and jagged teeth. That was all the impact the mad clones were destined to have, though. The second row of defenses, the mounted heavy repeaters,
shredded them. With enough bodies, they might have pushed through, as the did at Csilla.
But not here. Here they were fewer. Here they died.
Behind the disintegrating horde of lunatics, stepping over their sprawled bodies and blown-off limbs, came the eager Marauder Aspirants. They charged with vibroblades and blaster pistols and slugthrowers and stranger things still, a motley collection of weapons for an equally varied band of slave-soldiers. Those that wore armor at all had only light blast vests, and these were no more proof against the power of heavy repeater bolts than bare skin would be. But they weren't meant to overwhelm the Alliance defenses
alone.
The coming maneuver required the shields to fall, of course. The plan had been to achieve this with a bombardment from the war skiffs, but then a single Jedi -
Madison Starr - had ripped out the heart of the Mawite artillery all on her lonesome, killing dozens of warriors and obliterating multiple armored vehicles. Truly the power that Ashla had bestowed upon her little demigods was
immense. But the Scar Hounds had faith that
their gods would not abandon them in their time of need... and lo, their prayers were answered.
Fragments of the moon that bore the goddess's name slammed into the shields over the ruins. The energy of a falling meteorite, a great chunk of rock moving with all the incredible force gravity can muster, is
staggering, and nothing could hold up against them for long. A great cheer went up from among the ranks of the marauders: "HAIL THE INEVITABLE!" And then the second phase of the plan truly began. As the eager and expendable aspirants charged into the firing lines of the repeaters, the Tarar got themselves into position.
While the young fought and died, the veterans
watched. They back-traced the streams of fire coming in from the heavy repeaters and antivehicle cannons, then tagged their exact positions on a shared tactical readout. Slipping in among the charging horde, the
Tarar Warbands moved swiftly toward the defensive positions they'd identified, using their own comrades as cover. Then they went to work. With plasma guns, lightning cannons, and frag grenades they laid down pinpoint strikes on the emplacements, slagging their cover.
And hopefully slagging the guns and gunners, too.
The tactical data was also shared with the
other element charging down the hill: the
Raider Walkers. Most were kitted out for anti-infantry support, with chain guns and grenade launchers that enabled them to chew through Alliance marines and lob explosives into defensive emplacements. Some had the anti-vehicle loadout, using heavier laser cannons and concussion missile launchers to blow through heavier defenses - and to hunt the anti-vehicle cannons that were simultaneously hunting them, trying to outpace their fire.
On the hill above the temple valley, the Scav Kings watched the battle unfold. They were walking a dangerous line. If they spent too many forces here, they would never have enough warriors to mount a meaningful assault on Kaleth... but if they didn't commit
enough troops to actually
take the temple ruins, they would never
reach Kaleth, and it would be a moot point. As
Osarla Ridor
skirted them to the east, heading for the flooded plains, they did not move to intercept her. They did not have the strength to fight on two fronts.
And her departure might weaken their target.
It was a race now, a race to see who collapsed first: the temple valley, or the embattled Brotherhood rearguard around the star destroyer. Whatever happened, the casualties would be
immense. Warriors were already dying in
droves, and now they were marauders rather than Moon Children. Flashes of white light
fwooshed up from each Scar Hound who fell, the bloody runes flaring as the warrior's soul flew from his body and rushed to empower Solipsis. Plans within plans within plans... it was the only hope against so many enemies.
"WAR! DEATH! REBIRTH!" They pushed the ruins
hard.
Do or die. Or, more likely,
both.
They did not even know of the
Scylla AI
and its machinations, which were unfolding beneath their feet. The cracking of the ground, the great gouts of lava erupting from fissures and flowing down from mountains, blended into the madness as the sky crashed down around them. It seemed to urge them on, both bolstering and threatening them. If they fell back, if they failed here, the geological chaos would surely consume them, becoming a manifestation of the Dark Voice's wrath. It they kept their faith, it would consume their foes instead.
Or so they chose to believe...
... for their gods were an easier explanation than a mad AI.
Only the apocalypse could save them now.
Fortunately for them, it seemed to have arrived.
The flooded plains turned to steam as water and lava met, scalding clouds drifting across the battlefield. The once-peaceful marsh, a shelter for all manner of Tython's creatures, was rapidly becoming a
wasteland. Meteor craters and erupting geysers pockmarked the ground, and boggy lakes suddenly drained into wide fissures in the earth. Ancient trees burned in the fires from above and below, adding thick, black smoke to the white trails of flesh-blistering water vapor. They swirled together, a mingled cloud, light and dark.
Through the chaos, the Scar Hound rear guard made their desperate charge. They would not allow House Io to defile the Prophet's holy mountain. Even against droid legions and mega-tanks and
so many nukes, they would stand and fight to the bitter end. No matter how invincible their foes seemed, with ships and nuetralizers that
just wouldn't go down, they would never give up. "HAIL THE INEVITABLE!" they cried, and the words meant many things: their own deaths, for one, but also the ravaging of this enemy world.
And also the final victory of the gods.
Inevitable.
The Avatars
persisted, though all the ages.
Their followers would
persist also.
It was foolish of the House Io troops, if understandable given their trauma, to take extra time to try to make the deaths of Mawite warriors painful. These Scar Hounds were slave-soldiers, and the pain (both physical and emotional) that they had suffered while being transformed by the Taskmaster and his Overseers inured them to the short-lived torments that were possible on the battlefield. Burning? Dismemberment? Disembowelment? Exsanguination? They'd been put through worse
over and over in their minds when they'd been broken.
A good torturer knows that it's not
pain that breaks a prisoner; it's
hopelessness. Almost anyone can hold out against even
horrific torture for hours, even a day or so. What makes them break is the
next day, or the
day after that, when they realize that the pain will go on and on, and no one is coming to save them. Time and
consistency of torture can break almost anyone eventually, but any Io soldier who took more than a few
seconds to inflict pain on an already-downed foe was just
asking for a blaster bolt to the back. Distracted warriors died.
And so, in the scant
seconds they had for painful torture...
... the Scar Hound warriors laughed in their faces.
They died all the same, of course. Lugubraa, humans, near-humans, all of the members of the dozens of species that had fallen into the hands of the sinister Brotherhood, none of them were nigh-invincible killing machines. They were just people, and when they were cut, they bled. But their paradise beckoned them, they believed, the gates of the Galaxy To Come opening wide in a flash of white along the runes that adorned their faces. The flesh was weak, but the spirit was willing, and it flew eagerly to the hand of Darth Solipsis.
The storm of souls joined the
physical storms raging across the plain - hardly a flooded plain any longer, but a
shattered plain, resembling nothing so much as a mad artist's depiction of one of the Corellian hells. Onas swept her gaze across it, mouth hanging open in a mixture of awe and horror. Energy torpedoes streaked from the Io cruiser, which was somehow fighting the Mawite star destroyer
and bombarding the mountain
and intercepting many falling meteors all at once. What hope was there against such a foe?
Hail the inevitable, she told herself.
And in her desperate heart, she began to
believe.
As if in response, the great Force Storm arising from her dying troops - falling in droves, bleeding out their last upon earth that was suddenly cracked and desiccated - formed into a wall of shadows. Onas was certain she could see faces in that dark, writhing mist, faces screaming in mingled pain and ecstasy. As the turbolasers of the House Io cruiser - the ones it could spare while doing
two other things - opened up on the mountain,
the wall began to drink in the energy bolts, shuddering as it absorbed their power across itself.
It could not hold forever, not against all the fighters attacking from above and the half-landed cruiser from below... especially once the ship's full attention was focused on it. Already the cruiser was targeting the Star Destroyer's weapon systems, energy torpedoes smashing through shields and steadily melting hardpoints. A
stream of turbolasers and concussion missiles still flowed in response; after all, the star destroyer was
not splitting its efforts three ways like its opponent was, and could focus fully on the cruiser.
But the foe
would not die, and the Mawite ship...
... well, no Mawite was
invincible.
"We need fighter support to preserve Thor Yo!" Onas transmitted, her voice reaching out far beyond her own small command, toward the warfleet above. She did not know how little House Io could spare the fighters for a massive ground assault while also massively engaging the
Fatalis, for the Maw had no such luxury. Deep in enemy territory, they could not pull resources out of a hat; support had to come
from somewhere, and at the expense of someone else. She did not know if Taskmaster Tu'teggacha would respond.
But that was out of her control. Although she had not been a believer in much beyond credits until this moment, she'd heard enough Mawite sermons to know that the gods never asked their followers to do the impossible. She would be judged only on the choices
she made, not the choices of others. So what would her choice be? As the world crumbled around her, as the sky wept flaming tears and Tython bled its burning blood, what would her last act be? It'd better be a worthy one, an act that would earn her a place in paradise.
It was time to find a way to die well.
Kyrel Ren
|
Valery Noble
