The Withered Land, THE EMPIRE FALLS: HELL'S AVATAR

HELL'S AVATAR -- PART TWENTY

"But non-humans... That's an additional level of complexity we do not need," Devere Axlan said.

"True," Geslan agreed.

"I don't like it. Maybe we should spend some more time doing a detailed recon...," Axlan suggested.

Geslan shook his head in disagreement. "No, that would take too long. It would be well past dawn before we completed a detailed recon. We would lose the element of surprise."

"So what do we do?" Chenna Hool asked as he ratcheted the ammunition loader-slide on his semi-automatic lightsear-gun. He took a moment to chamber another pair of light-packet pulse shells into the weapon.

Geslan Tu'um rolled over onto his back and sat up, sand falling in a cascade from off his chest and shoulders.

"We do our jobs. We go in hard and fast," he said. "We let the Brood know they've crossed the line one too many times."

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The Ket'Horreau were all dead. The few of their Leeshiwunnem steeds still alive after their final disastrous charge lumbered around in that dull, stunned silence born of trauma. The animals would occasionally still huff and puff, breathing heavily as they stomped around in a daze following the chaos of battle.

They had ridden courageously into the haunted territory of an eternal foe, driven by the force of their belief, spurred on during the brief battle to greater and greater acts of bravery by their convictions, and they fought with skill and determination -- to no avail. They hadn't realized the fight was already lost, their fates already sealed, that all along they had been born on the wrong side of Destiny.

The broken and bleeding bodies of the Unredeemed were scattered over the sunbaked, debris-strewn courtyard like broken dolls thrown into a trash heap by a petulant giant child. Their pounding hearts were stilled, their eyes unseeing, their flesh was cooling. The cavalry of Meatmen from Bur'heddam, so filled with fire and conviction until the Dying had started, had not lasted terribly long in their doomed confrontation with the Wenkrang.

They had ridden through the Bleak Territory into fallen Shi'draih-Hakaba like an avenging wave only to break upon the harsh and unyielding rock of the Faithful, those who had been, as slaves, the first builders of the Duskhelm. They had thought to drive the last army of True Believers out from their home, away from the heart of the necropolis, so that they, mere Meatmen, fools and heretics, could sully the paved stones of the Priory under their booted feet. That did not happen.

Their carefully-crafted battle tactics had meant nothing before the unleashed fury of Xemyazzus and his warriors. Their weapons had not helped them target and bring down enemies who could move two times faster than the steeds they rode. Their armor had not protected them from corded muscle capable of crushing concrete and inch long, scythe-like talons that could spear through wrought iron plate. Their will and determination had not helped them survive the onslaught of single-minded, ruthless beings who could spend a patient lifetime waiting to strike from the inky gloom.

The Unredeemed of Bur'heddam had all died shrieking in horror and drowning in their own blood.

All Glory to the Avatar.

Under the greenish-silver light of a rising moon, the Speaker for the Wenkrang stood atop a rocky mound of crumbled masonry. Next to him, in the deeper shadows haunting the Priory, was a shoulder-high tripod made from broken battle lances and a giant rust-speckled broadsword. Scattered around the makeshift tripod was a dusting of broken bone and oily black ash from old fires and a sudden gust from a dusty, muggy breeze stirred the tattered edges of the rough-hewn leather and burlap tunic he wore over his link-chainmail body-sheath. The Speaker, named Xemyazzus, watched the comings and goings of Ashen Brood monks and soldiers through a long and jagged rent in the sagging fortress wall nearest him.

Xemyazzus, who was singular even amongst the many dissimilar mutated members of the Xsieh'Potheth horde, listened to the silence behind the usual collection of night sounds in the necropolis. It took him a long and difficult moment, but he at last found it, still strong, still powerfully insistent.

The Pulse. It was a sound pregnant with promise, the sound of history marching onward from the Past to the Present. It was the sound of Justice long-delayed.

It was the thunder of an ancient and angry alien heart.

It, that sound, was proof that the day was not yet done, regardless how low the sun rode on the horizon or how lengthy the shadows became as evening fell. It was proof that there was yet much more to come. Prophecies would come to pass. Legends from epic mythological sagas would be made flesh. And more than merely endure, the Wenkrang would stand triumphant.

The lordly Xherim'efarr would protect their Faithful.

The Speaker for the Wenkrang was suddenly overcome by an ominous prescience. The discordant and dissonant tolling of a bell, a sound that sounded as if it were generated from across a great distance, rang loudly through the air as a smoky, cinereal mist formed immediately above the ground. Within the heart of the shifting mist, a darker image formed, swiftly growing to achieve a human-like shape and then deepening and solidifying as it became more three-dimensional.

Atu'ihma emerged from the sudden rip in empty space. The Celestial Empyrean, his eyes closed, drew in a deep breath and stretched, cat-like, extending his long arms towards the sky and flexing his shoulders. When his eyes snapped open, they glowed with an unhealthy, manic light as they fixed on Xemyazzus.

The creature spoke slowly, his thin lips forming the words with an effort and with an undercurrent of distaste. The Rimworld alien did not mask the discomfort he felt interacting with denizens of the Withered Land.

"So I see you have begun. It is as I promised, yes? The betrayers and despoilers who denigrate and hound your people have become vulnerable, their ignorance of what is to occur making them impotent and weak."

"It is as you say," Xemyazzus agreed.

"Then the time has come for you to grant me the boon I requested," the alien said. He reached within the folds of his clothing and removed a long, tubular wand, a handheld telescoping framework that bisected a glassy, ruby-colored sphere. "This will help you achieve the goal I have in mind."

He handed the device to Xemyazzus.

"What is this?" the Wenkrang Speaker inquired warily.

"It unfolds to form an open cube, the sphere sitting suspended in the center of the frame," Atu'ihma explained. "You may see a vibratory rift scarring the air or emerging from the shadows, it will be a large anomaly, but do not be intimidated by it. Place this device upon the ground as near the rift as you can and then quickly move far away. Keep your people away from it, as well."

"This is a trap, yes? This object is a weapon you want to use against your own enemy, isn't it? This is the key to your triumph against the monster you once spoke of as being from Outside, beyond our envelope of Creation, the one you have called a 'Pilgrim'..."

"It is," Atu'ihma admitted. "But there is already one such being, another Pilgrim, already here. This is not for him. He is merely a weaker, pale imitation of the being I oppose. This is for a more powerful version of him, for The One who will materialize from beyond the limits of the Reality we know."

"What can I expect to happen when I do this?"

Atu'ihma smiled frostily, his dead doll's eyes dancing. "Something terrible."

And without another word, the image of the Celestial Empyrean wavered and defocused and gradually thinned, appearing like an out-of-focus two-dimensional image, until he disappeared completely.

Xemyazzus allowed himself a wide smile that revealed his curved and gleaming cannibal's fangs.

The Wenkrang would raise one of the HyperLords. The Unredeemed would be punished.

He threw his head back and unleashed a blood-chilling howl. It was a signal for his army to once again gather.

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