The Deian War: Conquest (13 page)

   Still holding his gun close, almost affectionately so, he hesitantly opened the door he had crept up to. He had to carry on and find a place, anywhere, where he could conceal himself and call for reinforcements. Hell, he wanted to call the whole regiment in; that is, if his comms-net was still working properly and there was actually anyone else out there but him.

Albirreo realised paranoia was already eating at his sanity. His shaking arms lifted his rifle to scan the room. It was clear. He walked inside, closed the door for a reason he couldn't understand why, because the thing hunting him could tunnel through earth and roads alike, and then investigated the room. There was barely anything in there, just an empty apartment vacated by evacuation protocols long ago when the Phantoms first came to Erebos.

   After a few moments of
frantic searching, he found what he was looking for; an electrical port to charge his comms device. Somehow it had run out of power, despite the fact they were supposed to last for months in the event they were separated from allied units for long periods of time.

He suspected the presence of
the Phantom behemoth had something to do with it. As he went to plug his comms device in, his hand automatically froze with instinctual fear. He didn't know how he hadn't noticed it sooner. The sheer, distinctive quiet that he was getting all too used to had returned with a vengeance. When he entered the flat, he could hear the faint creaks and electric sparks of the surrounding damage the building had suffered, but now inexplicably he couldn’t make it out.

   No sooner had he turned his head to look at the wall
behind him that it vanished into dust and debris in a deafening crump, throwing up a hazy cloud of dirt and powder. When the smoke cleared, Albirreo wept in horror as he saw the creature that had annihilated his platoon rise up to meet him like a thing out of a child’s nightmare.

Forged from stone that shifted
like a conveyor belt of interlocking scales along its grey, meaty flanks the snake-like brute swallowed him in its shadow. It was enormous, a leviathan. He felt like dropping his rifle, for little use it would be. Closing his eyes, he shamelessly accepted his fate and prayed to the gods that he would have a swift death.

As the enemy predator reared up to bring its massive arms to bear on him, his pray
ers went unanswered, but not for the reasons he expected.

   A roar the sound of an exploding volcano erupted
at to the back of him. He was so terrified already that it was miraculous he managed to turn and face this new threat, but when he did, his heart leapt with joy as he realised it wasn't what he thought; instead, it was salvation.

   If he thought the Phantom was massive, he was wrong. It was tiny in comparison to the three headed hound from hell. With another deafening battle-cry, Cerberus bellowed again, warning the enemy to prepare for death.

   Jumping over Albirreo, the Apostle of the Hellhounds legion charged into the Phantom, knocking it to the ground without difficulty. The two of them wrestled, grabbing at each other, trying to be in the position of power. Truly, though, the Phantom never had a chance. Cerberus pinned it down, his four thick legs rippled with corded muscle so strong it made the Phantom’s struggle look childish. Then, with a growl as loud as the challenge before it, the three heads of the Apostle fell upon his enemy and ripped it to pieces with teeth sharp enough to cut through the creature’s stony skin.

   Albirreo, witnessing his violent deliverance, knelt and gasped for air in utter disbelief.

   Suddenly, like a twisted dream, a serene voice interrupted his stupor. "Beautiful, isn't he?" He didn’t understand what was said, his confusion and calming fear distorting the words. The speaker was female, that much was certain, but he instantly knew it didn’t belong to anyone of his race. No human could see what he had seen and react like it was normal, like it was art in motion.

   He looked up, not surprised he hadn't heard her properly given what he just saw. "Uh...
what?
H-how...what?" he stuttered, trying to understand that for the first time in his life, he actually beheld the sight of a Black Guardian Legionnaire, let alone an Apostle. To him, both deserved equal amounts of awe and wonder.

   As if taking pity on his inner thoughts, the woman smiled
down reassuringly at him, held out her arm and helped him up. "Who…who are you?" he managed to ask.

It had taken him until now to overcome the shock and appreciate her own beauty. Her hair was a dark red, almost looking bleached but his gut told him it was natural even if humans couldn’t grow that colour naturally, stopped at the nape of her neck and it flowed like it had never intended to grow longer, framing her head perfectly so her rich blue eyes were plain to see. She was the same height as him, though he felt shorter somehow. There were the faintest of freckles on both of her cheeks, though it didn’t take anything away from the hints of lethality that the rest of her image imposed. Inadvertently looking her over, he saw a helmet was attached to her waist and when he realised how grateful he was for that, because he had seen her entrancing face, he felt himself blush.

   She laughed, more gracefully than a soldier had a right to. "My name is Vulpus, Vice-Commander of the 73rd Hellhounds Legion. And you are...?"

   "Trooper Albirreo, of- " he began.

   "-Your name is enough, you needn't tell me what regiment you belonged to" Vulpus interrupted.

   His brows furrowed in misunderstanding. "Don't you mean which regiment I still belong to?" he queried.

   Vulpus looked out into the distance, seeing her Apostle stand defiant over the Phantom’s ruined carcass. "No. For whatever reason, yours was the first life he saved on this world. You're one of the 73rd now".

   Albirreo was completely lost. “B-but…but I’m human…” he stammered.

   Vulpus nodded at him and looked towards the Apostle, an expression on her features that revealed both her admiration and loyalty to him. “Well, to Cerberus, that doesn’t matter much at all”.

“SHOULDN’T WE BE doing…
more?
”

   “What more
can
we do? The Lion told us to remain where we are. He knows the importance of the worlds we protect. We should honour his decision”.

   “Perhaps, but still…the others go to war and we go to…well, what could you call what we do?”

   “Our duty”.

   “Can we, brother? Can we really call it that when
our purpose is to defeat the enemy, not to wait idly for them to come to our doorstep?”

   “For an Apostle whose influence has already begun to spre
ad into the Empire without the humans’ notice, I’m amazed you deflate your contribution so much. Why do you feel so dishonoured?”

   “Why must you ask me that, brother? You know the answer already”.

   “Ah, because the Lion does not know what you do behind the scenes. There is no shame in acting independently, not when you are one of the Twelve. You have authority as well, remember that. If we all depended on the First to grant our every move, the Empire would already have fallen”.

   “For your sake and mine, I hope that you are right”.

HYDRA WONDERED WHY his brother couldn’t see things the way he did. They were Apostles and they had a duty, both to the Lion and to themselves. How could they go against what was expected of them? It was a question he asked himself a hundred times and yet, he knew his brother’s attitude was probably right.

   Seraphim had always gone against the grain from the start. Maybe it was because of his own role and status that made him so willing to forego the Lion’s commands and seek his own way to protect the Empire, or perhaps the Auranair had given him instructions that only he was privy to. Whatever the case was, Hydra had always felt at odds with being so close to him.

   The pair of them were inextricably linked, like two sides of
the same coin. One protected the gateway to the most holy of worlds, one that the Black Guardians could even come close to calling home, whilst the other actually lived there and formed the final line of defence. Did the fact get to either of them more than the other? Did Seraphim feel honoured like Hydra, or did it make him arrogant and irreproachable?

   After their most recent conversation, where a brooding silence had fallen between them, Hydra found himself staring at maps of the human Empire. He wondered where he would send units of his legion next; the Pantheon, Tempest and Or
pheus Sectors were all hopeful targets for his plan, but he knew that he would only have one chance to achieve his objective. Whichever sector he chose, he would not be able to replicate his project in another.

   Seraphim, on
the other hand, stood pensively, arms clasped together behind his wings and deep in his own thoughts. His red armour was caught by the artificial light of the fortress’ Primary Tactical Hall and it made him gleam. He wore no helmet for now, but even so it was hard to read his expressionless face. Hydra wondered if his brother was going to make any suggestions, to give any advice for what he himself considered treacherous and abhorrent.

   After a few
more minutes of quiet deliberation, Seraphim spoke. “I must return to my abode. The secrets of Apollia call to me once more, I think” he smiled thinly.

   Hydra couldn’t tell if his brother meant that literally or if it was just a turn of phrase, but a nagging part of him said Seraphim really could sense the mysteries of his world unravelling even when he wasn’t there. “I trust you will share whatever you discover with me sooner than last time?”

   Only now did Seraphim’s blank expression break into a full smile, but it was one with a meaning Hydra could not define. “If it’s prudent, then of course”.

   Being used to his brother’s word games, Hydra put aside the urge to
try and get something that wasn’t from him. Instead, he stood up to his full height, the equal of Seraphim’s and held out his arm. The brothers clasped each other in familiar farewell.

“When you finally discern the mysteries of those caves of yours, at least tell the Lion. He may forgive my secrecy, but after what you hid from him about Pheia, he won’t be so quick to sh
ow you the same...understanding” Hydra warned him.

   His brother regarded him with cool, level eyes before retrieving his helm from the table. With it underarm, he looked
unusually ready for a fight. Whether that was with the enemy or his allies, Hydra was no longer sure.

   “Even
I
know my limits” Seraphim replied, a soft laugh cushioning the admonishment for Hydra’s warning. With that, he turned and made his leave.

   Watching his brother go, Hydra returned his thoughts to his own activities. Yet again, he pored over the maps and documents that his Recon Master had acquired for him. Though his world was a fortress to protect the most precious gift of the legions, the mainstay of
Guardian strength was out fighting with the other Apostles in the Empire’s outward star sectors. He had a considerable force of his own, the majority of which were permanently stationed with him at the bastion, but the vastness of the continental castle could only be employed to its fullest when there were a full hundred legions present.

   Hydra
only had thirty, less than a third of what he required should Hydron ever be besieged, which made his plan to send parts of his forces elsewhere all the more dangerous. Whilst it was true that there had been no evident sign that the Phantoms were making any progress or intention towards Hydron, there was never any guarantee. Any enemy in war could be unpredictable and the dark god that drove the monsters threatening the survival of an entire race was insane, which made the war all the more chaotic and random.

   He was battling the ethics of his plans with himself when a voice interrupted his inner-dialogue. “My Lord, have you reached a decision?”

   As if broken from a day dream, Hydra looked up in mild surprise that anyone else could exist in his conscious world. “Tiberius?” he asked, checking that the commander of his sworn legion had actually said something and it wasn’t his overactive imagination playing tricks on him.

   Tiberius, uncompromising as ever, gave no indication of what he felt about his Apostle’s tone of voice and reaction to his presence. Instead, he made his way down the wooden staircase to the floor of the Primary Tactical Hall. Here, he was on the same level as Hydra, if only on a physical case.

  
A long time ago, Hydra forbade any legionnaire access to the strategy room, considering it a hallowed and special place only for the Apostles to plan their war moves. After all, they were supposed to have three decades of planning. The revelations of Pheia had changed all hopes of that. Now, only his legion and Seraphim surrounded him. There was little point in making it a place fit for only two instead of twelve, even if the solitary pair were still demi-gods.

   The honour of being allowed to share even the same space as an Apostle was felt by every legionnaire in the 375th, but what Tiberius felt was something indescribable. It was something that only the commanders of the legions could experience, because only they were the ones that could advise the Chosen as
confidantes, maybe even as friends.