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  A hellship was the mass of a large moon and held the power of a star going nova. In space, their structure was a seeming chaos of metal beams jutting from the burning decks beneath them. An aura of crimson flames acted as both hull and shielding. Ethereal energies powered the blue, star-like maindrive clutched by a claw of flaming beams at the stern. The same energies powered weapons able to pierce the best shields, hulls, and hopes opposing forces could muster. There had been few evenly matched battles against Generals seated on their bridge thrones.

  All three peering from the ridge had witnessed hellships shatter allied fleets and vaporize fleeing armies. General Sutuhr had blown apart planets and sailed through stars within the aegis of his red inferno. Now the three refugee warriors stared at his ship’s broken corpse.

  The red fires had died. Some of the vast beams lay broken free of the dead hulk. Other sections had collapsed. Instead of a once powerful warship, the immense structure appeared as a dull lattice of narrow but huge crystals. The scale was greater than most alien cities. The single beams were greater in size than most skyscrapers on Earth countless ages ago. The sight struck cold shock even into the hearts of the two Khans who battled alien species, but also befriended many on exotic worlds across the galaxy. Aekos felt surprise, but growing glee.

  “I—all of us—would have thought it impossible days ago. To see the wreckage of a hellship?” Aekos was now obviously smiling. Then a thought came to him that made him shrink back. “Or is it a ruse to draw us out?”

  “It is no ruse.” Bahl’s voice rumbled. “I have seen one hellship, the original, wounded and careening into the vastness beyond the galactic edge. That took nearly every Khan warship and allied vessel that was near our peer, plus anyone that could throw a stone from a comet.”

  “But, that day, we were victorious.” Inaht sighed.

  “That day,” Bahl said, almost as a whisper.

  “And since those fine hours, so very long ago, something has bettered the odds of such victory.” Aekos grasped the ridge with his front talons. “If so, then perhaps Hell can be beaten, and our freedom restored.”

  Bahl looked beyond the massive wreck. Points of light from brighter stars shone through the crimson hue of Hell’s daylight. Sudden, streaks of fire cut the sky. Other wreckage from the battle was now raining down. He followed the fireballs to the surface.

  “Perhaps,” Bahl said. “Or we can at least fight as an army, again, with a chance of victory, on an open battlefield well away from the shadows.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Red. The color was not the slick of opponent’s blood Uruk blinked from his serpent eyes. It was the omnipresent color of the aegis flames from the hellship’s aft drive claw that he crawled along, and the radiance of the star it plunged toward. Uruk spat more blood from his own, wounded jaw. The blood ran as streaks down his wings of black skin now folded across the back of his thorny hide. The streaks then pooled as drops and flew back over him as the weird forces of the Iron Work warped physics and perception of reality. Add to that the spin of the damaged ship as it arced beneath a band of the vast star-cage. It all combined to make direction more of a nightmare than Uruk’s appearance.

  Uruk still gripped his sword in his right hand. He pressed it tight against the wide beam as he crawled along its length. He felt the vibrations but could not hear the scraping metals. His powerful arms and legs held fast when spin or visual confusion made him feel he as if he was being thrown from the ship. He peered down a battle-damaged snout lined with shark teeth as he focused on the main hull. His scaly ears curled back against his thick skull where a brain typically devoted to conquest and killing now worked to find a means to survive and perhaps, even now, succeed at his mission.

  He came to Xuxuhr’s ship after the luminous Zaria killed that most hideous General. His Lord, General Anguhr, sent him to secure this hellship as machinations of the Dark Urge appeared to be marshalling against him. Uruk’s mission was unique, but seemed simple. Land. Take command. Return with the ship to Lord Anguhr. However, for Uruk things worse than Hell breaking loose occurred. His small force of demons found themselves opposed by Xuxuhr’s entire horde. A race of aliens, the Ignitaurs, practiced in metallurgy, magic—and to the shock of all—warfare, broke from their captivity inside the hidden bilge and attacked.

  These were not Uruk’s biggest laments. Nor was killing Voltris, the Ship Master, or Trait, the acting Field Master, and many other demons and Ignitaurs. Slaying opponents was his typical job. But this special mission was to secure the ship, not destroy it. Unfortunately, the resourceful Ignitaurs corrupted the ship’s helm. Worse yet, their leadership was suicidal. While fighting for control, Uruk found himself plunging beyond the Iron Work and into the red star held by the gigantic machine.

  As the ship and existence seemed lost, Uruk hoped to die fighting. It would ease his dread, not at death, but in failing to secure this ship for Lord Anguhr. However, Anguhr’s first Field Master and the one creature the General might call friend was a very skilled fighter. It was Uruk’s opponents that died. Uruk thought that if he survived long enough to meet the face of the star, he could stab it before incineration.

  Uruk blinked. The omnipresent color appeared to change. Something was odd. He thought he was likely dying. He knew even demons could withstand only so much heat and radiation. He knew—the spinning ship’s course suddenly reversed. The bodies of Xuxuhr’s demons he last slew had tumbled away from the ship and into the radiance of the star. They appeared to fall when caught in some eddy of force emitted by the Iron Work. Now he passed those bodies as the aft of the ship halted its spin. Far below him, the blue, star-like maindrive pushed the ravaged ship away from doom.

  The ship seemed to save itself, or obey some other will to live. Uruk continued to hold and crawl to the main hull. He might make it inside and gain control before something else altered the hellship’s course, again. It would be a long journey beyond the Iron Work, through the corona, and back into space.

  What then? Uruk wondered.

  Others might survive, too. Perhaps he could organize them into a new horde whose next battle was not among each other, but against the damage across the ship. It might prove a successful tactic, and help achieve his mission. Nevertheless, he and the ship were not beyond death’s grasp, just yet. In time, he would heal. But enraged demons or Ignitaurs might attack him, still. Uruk crawled closer to the main hull, and held onto his sword.

  Over Tectus many voices, languages, and codes coursed through space between the ships of the allied marauders. Even when invading a defenseless world, the integration of alien forces made command and control a contest between chaos and communication.

  “Admiral.” The tone of voice carried respect, but was also a verbal prod that only partially masked a question in the speaker’s mind. Commander Roelar wanted to ensure his leader was aware of their warship’s status, even with data and images projected across the wide bridge spread before the commander’s chair. Roelar had noted the apparent drift of awareness from fleet operations by its leader, Admiral Buran.

  Buran heard the mixed tone of his subordinate. His mind found the spoken rank of admiral odd. He expected to hear another rank. Yet he had never—

  “Admiral?”

  Buran finally looked at the concerned face covered in fine, gray fur. Roelar’s eyelids narrowed across all four eyes, most evident on his top, dominant set colored by the fiery pigment of all Nemorosan irises.

  “Commander Roelar, you are to tell me the allies have completed phase one of landing forces.”

  “Indeed, sir.” Roelar bowed his head as he adjusted his stance next to the admiral’s chair.

  The deep bend of Roelar’s neck revealed the flexible spine of Nemorosans. Their vertebrae were still remarkably strong to absorb shock and support their six limbs. Artificial selection had affected their form, but their lemur-like ancestors still imparted a strong, physical influence. A fine fur suggested an evolution similar to mammals, but with overtones o
f praying mantis through the lower torso and backward sweep of their second shoulders.

  Nemorosans stood taller than the average height of long lost Homo sapiens with similar legs as adept at walking. However, theirs were far better at gripping the many boughs throughout expansive tree canopies where their bodies and culture evolved. On their warship, the Sword Wing, their second set of gripping arms typically hung at rest below their upper set with highly dexterous hands. Their second set of eyes moved in concert with the larger pair above them. Adaptation had rendered their lower eyes vestigial, and likely to vanish in time. Yet, the advent of genetic engineering made their restoration a biological fashion accessory in past generations. The altered trait spread through the larger population by the eager and egalitarian aspects of sex.

  Military hierarchy ruled the Sword Wing. The arcs of the bridge crew radiated along the same plane but spread out as widening branches of a rain forest tree with Buran’s command chair as the central trunk. Their uniforms were woven from light fabric and worn mostly for the purpose of denoting rank and function within the crew. The various widths of hems all ended hems as triangular tips to represent stylized ends to tree branches and the theme of moving forward and upward.

  Attaining a post on the Sword Wing was the height of service to Nemorosan civilization. The ship was the apex of their technology. Buran designed the advanced warship with his own innovations, and elements of learned and stolen alien advances. The Sword Wing was built for supremacy in space. Thus far, it was unsurpassed in battle.

  “I am aware of all deployments,” Buran continued. “Our allies are at least efficient, if greedy. But they serve our cause. For today, as with all other days, we act on behalf of our people and their legacy.”

  “Indeed, sir.” Roelar’s tone now held surprise.

  “We are our world’s champions, Commander. It is always so. No matter how strange the mission, how distant our campaign. I imagine that is something beyond question.”

  Buran angled his head with all eyes on Roelar who bowed again.

  “I expect ground forces to secure the prime target I have marked.” Buran looked at a three-dimensional map that appeared to slide from its screen into real space. Circles of barren landscape rose as cylinders to mark surface targets.

  “Our agents within the surface ranks ensure it as an assault priority,” Roelar informed. “Although back chatter confirms anticipated confusion of securing a seeming empty patch.”

  “Seeming. Yes.” Buran said. Then his attention appeared to drift again. The irises of his two main eyes dilated. The lids of his smaller eyes beneath them relaxed.

  “Another region has become of tactical interest, sir.”

  All Buran’s eyes focused back on Roelar.

  “An anomaly has appeared. Our forces that entered the region have not reported since.

  “What of orbital scans?” Buran demanded.

  “They are unable to penetrate a, well, a nullifying field.” Roelar was uncomfortable relating a lack of information and his own ignorance. He accepted not knowing some details of the Sword Wing’s ultimate mission to protect it with secrecy. Only Buran knew all of the details. Yet Roelar grew more concerned about the cause of his leader’s mental drifts.

  “Is it of native origin?” Buran asked as he scanned for information rolling across multiple projections over the heads of technicians and tactical officers at their in arcing stations in front of him.

  “Unknown, sir. Our scout ships did not detect it. But its effect is degrading our forces in the region.”

  “Then, it is hostile regardless of origin. Is the anomaly threatening the mission to secure my primary target?”

  “Negative, sir.” Roelar cocked his head as he sensed incoming communication. He turned to one image across from Buran where an allied captain appeared. Roelar recognized the retracting of scales from the ring of six, heat-sensing pits and the rippling of the central membrane as anger. “Sir, the captains’ council wants us—the Sword Wing—to investigate.”

  “Order Captain Texonte to land and deploy his otherwise useless atmospheric fighter craft for that mission. We shall hold our position to protect the fleet during landing operations.”

  “Sir, I anticipate—even as our invasion is underway, the consensus of the captains—”

  “Is meaningless.” Buran said firmly and looked back at the map displays. “So long as the Sword Wing has greater firepower than the fleet combined, they will follow my commands. Their rewards of an empire will come, later. They may have it. Our mission is for our world, our galaxy. What they believe they serve is only important for solidarity. For now.”

  Roelar paused. The commander still believed in Buran’s leadership. The admiral was the master intellect behind the Sword Wing. The huge warship possessed immense power. The allied marauders came to conquer their homeworld, but were stunned to meet a ship of such destructive force not built in Hell.

  The shape of the giant warship was two hawk wings rendered as simple and massive triangular shapes joined with no seams. The angle of the wings suggested a sweep from constant, high speed. Energy cannons more numerous than ships in many fleets lay ready in conceal ports across the identical dorsal and ventral hulls. Networks of external lights lined both sides for display and emphasis of the ship’s size. At the ship’s center and aft, smaller, swept-wing superstructures rose on the hull’s top and bottom and swept along starboard and port quarters. A wide slot followed that sweep from each side of the wing cleft at the Sword Wing’s stern where rows of maindrive cones emerged but were obscured by the radiant exhaust. The ship’s power made it an unchallenged force in the vacuum left by Hell.

  Buran stunned his crew when they did not destroy the marauders, at least not completely. Instead, Buran ended the salvos and offered the Sword Wing’s power to further their goal of empire. Not shockingly, the fleet agreed. Buran took overall command. There was little else the other captains could do but agree. Other systems agreed to join, or fell to the fleet’s increased power. Conquest solidified Buran’s control.

  However, since that day, Buran became more odd. He was less the focused genius who became a war fighter. He was more the admiral of a diverse fleet whose mind seemed to drift out among the many ships. The current target came after such a drift. The dark world was an odd choice for conquest. It held few resources and, so it would seem, no technology of value. At times, it appeared something else was urging him on. Something other than the secret, grand plan.

  “Then send the command. Now.” Buran turned to focus on Roelar.

  “At once, admiral!” Roelar snapped from his own brief reverie and recited his people’s military oath. “We serve. I serve. Justice.”

  “Indeed,” Buran added.

  In the distance, a large piece of debris fell through the red sky and struck the desolate surface. The explosion and shower of huge cinders for great distances and back into space would be historic on other worlds. On this day on Hell, it was a distraction. Bahl, Inaht, and Aekos walked inside the crater made by the hellship when it struck with greater force. They walked along the rippled ground that crested as molten waves over the ship’s jagged bow and now cooled. Although the ship was dead, they were ready to fight any survivors or unknown scavengers. Such attackers were likely impossible. But so was their own presence on Hell.

  “A ship, its General, his horde, all defeated. Dead.” Aekos said as his leaned his torso back to look up at the chaos of beams forming the ship’s structure. “Is it possible then that the Dark Urge herself lies beaten, even perished?”

  “Doubtful,” Bahl answered. “Though I suspect the great mother of all, and of universal destruction, lies injured. At least her spirit is wounded. If she were dead, then her vast heart, the Forge and its machines, may finally tear this cursed world apart.”

  “She sleeps, then. To heal?” Aekos said. His four legs sprinted to catch up to the two Khans rounding the bow.

  “We can hope she sleeps forever.” Inaht said.
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br />   “Sleep, even as her fires rage. Her power threatened our doom, yet enabled us to escape her wrath. Though now its energies are almost spent, the portal linked the neutron world we used as a shield with Hell, just as dimensional wells link stars. If the Dark Urge slept then, as now—”

  “Then all these seeming eons of being parasites on the rind of a cinder would never have occurred.” Bahl said sharply as he now looked up at the fractured hulk as if in envy of its former power.

  “And we may be dead.” Aekos countered. “Sutuhr and his kind were relentless. Our power—”

  “Our power was enough to survive.” Inaht now cut off Aekos. “We still survive.”

  “But the lord of this ship—?” Aekos stopped.

  All stopped moving. What seemed like another wave of crust was never rock. However, now its surface was grey and still just as a massive idol carved from a mountain and toppled by time. A moment of fear spiked the hearts of all three warriors. They now faced Sutuhr. All three were glad he was dead.

  His length only slightly surpassed Bahl and his two allies. Although intelligent forms varied in shape, and the idea of beauty was alien to some species, the Khans were created to inspire as well as overpower. Later, the Dark Urge stitched her Generals together in ways to invoke terror and project aggression. Sutuhr was a giant merged with a lion, and finally infused with a spider.

  His arachnid traits were most obvious on his skull. His feline eyes looked pushed into sharp angles to the sides of the spider’s carapace that capped his lion head. Two rows of arachnid eyes ran down it to the root of his snout. The venom that rolled down from his fangs was now dry. The callused scar on his left came from wiping the corrosive toxin and then pawing the irritated skin. Each General possessed a personal weapon. Sutuhr’s great mace was in his right hand.