Aratech's FINISHING THE FIGHT (now uninterrupted)

[Trivia Freak]

The sound of singing, laughing, and the clanking of tankards could be heard throughout the depths and tunnels of Mithril Hall. Strangers would perhaps think the place under siege by enemy forces, and the racket the sound of battle being joined. It was often the case. Dwarves in battle and Dwarves in celebration tended to have similar noises.

However, the forces of the Drow were still gathering. Their army would take many days, weeks, perhaps, to cross the distance between Menzoberranzan and the Dwarven stronghold. Most of the defensive preparations were finished, save for those that would be reserved for the last minute. For now, the members of the alliance celebrated their ties and their hard work.

Neeshka looked down on it all with strange serenity. She was no stranger to alliances of oddity and necessity. During her travels with Kale, she had seen the Harborman bring together the forces of Neverwinter, the Dwarves of Clan Ironfist, the Lizardfolk of the swamps, and many others. His charisma and wisdom had helped to heal old and festering wounds, cool tempers, and break down walls of prejudice. While she may have had her disagreements with the Deity, or whatever he really was, Helm had chosen well when he had picked him as a champion.

Even so, that alliance had been one born partially of desperation and necessity, as the many individuals of the coalition had come to realize that the King of Shadows and his minions intended to kill them all and shackle all of Faerun into eternal service to his cause. This one, this one was similar, but there was something different, the Tiefling thought. As her tail lashed back and forth, she looked out among the gathered individuals. Plainsmen quaffed ale next to Dwarves, challenging each other to see whom could imbibe the most before slipping into unconsciousness or engaging in arm wrestling contests. The Tiefling giggled slightly, as she realized that Commander Keyes was going to be very unpopular tomorrow among some of the Humans.

She had made it quite clear that hangovers would not be viable excuses, and regardless of how they were feeling, they would be on the training field the next day.

She looked down again, and her eyes focused on Sergeant Johnson. Even from this distance, she could see his eyes twinkle, and he was laughing louder than she had ever heard before. The Tiefling suspected that the reason behind this was mainly due to the fact that he had received a gift from Lord Nasher for his services to Neverwinter and Clan Battlehammer: an elegantly carved mahogany pipe and several bags of the plant that he and the other UNSC troops termed Tobacco.

Neeshka had seen the stuff used before, as Grobnar and a few of the Ironfist dwarves had been quite fond of the stuff. She was never certain why. She was also curious about what Commander Keyes had said about Johnson trying to burn out his third set of lungs.

She suddenly became aware of another presence, and turned to see the Master Chief standing there. He was completely covered by his armor, as usual, and he moved up to stand against the railing. Neeshka shook her head. How could someone who was so large and heavy move so swiftly and silently? She looked into the gold plated visor of his helmet, trying to envision his pale face.

He slowly looked over towards her, and nodded his head.

Inside of his helmet, the Spartan was looking at the young girl, and the frown that suddenly came over her face. He cocked his head to one side quizzically, and wondered what could be wrong. There were a number of things it could be, really, or some combination of them. Best to find out now, he realized. There might be something that he could do about it.

“Are you okay?” he asked. He was tempted to lean against the railing, but decided not to. It might inadvertently damage it.

“Little worried I suppose,” Neeshka said with a shrug. “What happens if the Drow manage to find a way around your defenses…” her tail lashed back and forth violently. “What if everything goes wrong? I’ve just… I’ve just got this feeling, in the pit of my stomach, that something bad is going to happen.”

The Spartan nodded. He was all too aware of that feeling. He got it in his stomach every time he went into battle. Over the long decades of combat, he had learned how to suppress the fear to where it didn’t bother him, but at the same time, he still had to listen to it. It was a warning system hardwired into his body, nature’s way of letting him know when all was not well.

“We have a saying in the UNSC, something my instructor taught me,” he placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “No plan survives contact with the enemy. The Drow will try and find a way around what we plan, around what we do. We just have to be able to out-counter their counter plans. That’s where we have the edge. They’re not going to be used to fighting the kind of war that we’re going to introduce them to. We, on the other hand, are familiar with their tactics.”

“I think I understand,” she whispered. She leaned against the rail, and then looked back up at the enormous soldier. “How many people do you think will survive the battle?”

“I can’t say for sure. There are too many variables,” the cyborg responded.

Neeshka frowned again, and cradled her chin on her fold arms. The last time that she had been in a battle like this, it had been in the fight for Crossroad Keep. She remembered the betrayal that had happened there, and the hundreds that had died because of it. The Dark Elves and their army of slaves would make Black Garius’ forces look paltry and insignificant by comparison.

Down below, Sergeant Johnson excused himself and headed off into the tunnels.

Neeshka let her tail start to swing again, though it seemed to quickly develop a mind of its own, twisting and curling into a number of strange spirals as she continued to look down upon the assembled group.

Lord Nasher suddenly rose from his seat next to Bruenor and the other members of the Lord’s alliance. Wearing his ceremonial armor and draped in a deep blue robe, he stood out among the throng. The Lord of Neverwinter raised his mug high, and called for a brief moment of silence.

“I want to thank our host for the wonderful gathering that we have had tonight,” he nodded towards Bruenor, who chuckled and stood up to take a theatrical bow. “But, as we partake of this food, ale, and good company, let us not forget the purpose that binds us all here together. Be we Dwarf,” he nodded towards the Ironfist and Battlehammer Dwarves, “men and women of the Lords Alliance,” he let his free hand sweep over towards his fellow nobles and their present troops, “the Riders of Neseme,” he gestured to the small group of them that were present, “the Plainsmen of the northern plains and the soldiers of Ten Towns,” a hearty cheer met his remark, as Wulfgar and his fellows hefted their fists and let out a mighty warcry, “to the valiant knights of Silverymoon,” he nodded to Dove and a small retinue of warriors accompanying her, and to Drizzt as well, sitting by her side, “to our newfound allies of the UNSC and the Neo-Covenant,” Miranda Keyes nodded her head while the Elites and Grunts that were present saluted. “No matter our shape of body nor the color of our blood, we are united against a foe that would bind us in shackles, pillage and destroy our homes, and destroy everything that we have worked so hard to accomplish over the centuries.” He paused, and lowered his ale sighing softly.

Slowly, he raised his head, and began to speak once more.

“I do not know how many of you will survive the coming battle, or if I myself will,” Neeshka watched as he looked around the assembled group in the enormous hall. “Remember, though, that as we go into battle, what we fight for. Remember your children, and what shall be told to them of this time, when darkness gathered ‘round like the shroud of Death, that for a single, glorious moment, the free peoples of Faerun forgot their differences and united together for a single purpose and goal.” He clenched a hand into a fist and raised it up. “Let them know, and let them remember when bards sing of this coming day, when Plainsman fought with Neseme Rider, where Elves, Dwarves, Men, Sangheili, Unggoy, and Lek’golo saw each other as brothers shed their blood for the good of all goodly folk.”

A hearty cheer erupted from all present. Neeshka wondered if deep down in their underground cities, if the Drow would hear that racket. Let them, she thought, her crimson eyes narrowing to a glare, let them know that there was no fear here. Let them know that there was no fear to be found within the hearts of Mithril Hall’s defenders.

The Tiefling took a moment to turn her gaze inward. What would she do when confronted by the Dark Elves and their demonic minions? Keyes had told them of Erttu and his demonic soldiers, and she knew that there were a number of them that would be gunning for her. A tingle of apprehension trickled into her mind, but she swiftly squashed it. She needed only remember the King of Shadows, and the unspeakable horrors that he had employed when he had attempted defend his long dead country and suddenly the black skinned Elves, despite their huge numbers, seemed limited in what they could do to her.

Over to her side, the Master Chief could see the battle of serenity and apprehension within the Tiefling, and a smile came to his face as he saw the calm and peace slowly win out. Then a frown came to his face, and he thought about all that had happened in the many weeks that they had been stranded on this world. Neeshka had been with them from the beginning, showing them around, helping them with the locals, assisting them with weapons and fighting alongside them.

True, he had saved her life, but a soldier did not keep a count of such things. He had saved the lives of his brothers and sisters countless times, and they had saved his. A sense of gratitude also went only so far. Neeshka had willingly charged headlong into the depths of the Trollmoores to save soldiers that she knew nothing of and owed no loyalty to. She had gone into places and faced creatures that would have terrified any sane person in order to help their cause. She—

A sudden realization came over the cyborg then. Neeshka’s attitude and to a lesser degree, her physical appearance, had reminded him much of his sister Kelly. Now that he thought about it, he wondered how much of it was a subconscious projection of his mind longing for the company of his family, and the genuine actions on the part of the Tiefling to help him and his fellows. She had in a way, become like an extension of his family, like Johnson was. Then came a second sobering realization. She had seen his face once, maybe twice, and still, she did not know more than the scantest of details about himself. She had trusted him with her life and well being on many occasions since they had first met on the frozen plains of Icewind Dale.

It was time to truly return that trust.

“A strange alliance,” the Tiefling suddenly mused aloud. The Spartan snapped his gaze back to her, and watched as she pushed back up away from the railing. “So, Chief, when do you think they’ll get here?”

“It depends on when they leave. It will take time to move an army as large as the one that they’ll be massing. They’ll need supply lines, places to rest that are large enough to house such a force, as well as scouts and overseers to make certain that none of the slaves use this as an ideal opportunity to make an escape attempt or a mass revolt…” he closed his eyes, and took a deep breath, “and it’s John.”

Neeshka gave him a look. “What?”

There was a hiss of air as he broke the seal on his helmet, and slowly lifted it off of his head. His hair was a tad longer as he hadn’t taken the time to get it cut in the excitement of prepping the Hall for the assault. His skin was as pale as ever, making him look almost like a walking corpse.

Neeshka blinked as she stared into his green eyes. “My name is John.”

The Tiefling’s mind tumbled as if she had fallen over a cliff. He was giving her his name. All this time, he had acted as if he hadn’t had one. Hells, when they’d first introduced themselves on the Dawn, the day after the battle, he’d denied even having one. What could cause a man wrapped in so much secrecy that even his comrades never addressed him by a name, merely as a title or a number or a code word, to tell her the name that he had been given at birth?

She caught a smile, a strange, crooked half grin, with the left side of the Spartan’s mouth twitched up, while the right side remained tight lipped and neutral. Neeshka could see, though, that the smile reached up into his eyes. They sparkled and glowed softly, not with the inner light that they always seemed to possess, but rather, with warmth and camaraderie.

The Spartan placed the helmet back over his head, and sealed himself inside of his protective shell. Then he nodded towards her, and walked away. Neeshka was left speechless, lost in her own thoughts, but not for long.

“I hope you realize what that means.”

She snapped her gaze up. Sergeant Johnson was standing at one of the entryways to the balcony level that she was on. He slowly walked towards her, smoke wafting out of the pipe he had clenched between his teeth. The Tiefling cocked her head to the side once again and crossed her arms over her chest.

“He’s obviously very… secretive about that sort of thing,” she began, chewing on her lip.

“Secretive nothing. There are fewer people that know his name than have seen his face,” Johnson chuckled softly. “Outside of the chain of command that has the need to know for that kind of data, I reckon maybe five, six people at most, know who he really is.” He sighed, and leaned back against the wall. “It’s a sign of trust for a Spartan to tell you their name, Neeshka,” he said, puffing slightly on the pipe, and then digging out some more tobacco. “It means they see you as a member of their family. You’re one of them as far as they’re concerned. It means that they’ll trust you with their lives, and just as importantly, that if it comes down to it, they’ll trust you to get the mission done if something happens to them and they can’t.”

“And you’re one of those people?” she asked.

“I consider it one of the greatest honors of my life,” Johnson said with a nod of his head. He sucked in a breath, and let a ring of smoke fly out of his mouth. “All I ask is that you honor that trust and that secret.”

The young rogue nodded her head and her eyes narrowed. In an instant, she went from pondering to deadly serious. Within the realms of magic, names were power. Knowledge of her name and her heritage is what had enabled Black Garius to capture her and try to turn her against Kale and the others. Names were what had enabled Ammon Jerro to bind so many demons and devils to his control and take the battle to the King of Shadows. To know someone’s name to was to know them. And for a man who obviously trusted her enough to give her his greatest secret, a man who had seen her for who she was and looked past her heritage and her physical appearance, she could do nothing less. She nodded her head softly, and assumed a UNSC salute.

Johnson broke out into laughter, slapping his thigh and nearly choking upon his pipe. He walked over and ruffled her hair. “You’re okay, kid. Going to be a little interesting having a new little sister in the gang.”

Neeshka couldn’t help it, she smirked. “So what does that make you?”

“Me?” Johnson said and chuckled again. “Why, I’m that favorite uncle that brings all the best presents at the holidays, but you know, deep down, is absolutely out of his mind insane.”

This time, the Tiefling joined him in his mirthful laughter.

--

Helm let out a roar and brought his bastard sword down in a mighty chop too fast for an ordinary man to follow. In the blink of an eye, the haft of a warhammer stopped it. The two weapons were connected for only an instant, and what followed was a flurry of blows that seemed to split the air itself as he and his foe swung back and forth at one another, each one seeking to outdo the other.

At last, though, the contest came to an end. Helm took a step back from his far shorter opponent, and he and Moradin shared a bow of respect towards one another.

“How much longer, do you think?” Moradin grunted, leaning down upon his warhammer.

“I cannot say,” the other god said, turning his back on his friend and walking over towards the wall. Then he gazed upon the many weapons and shields that hung from it. “Lolth pushes her army hard. The Time of Troubles made her impatient.” A careless mistake, he thought. Still, one for the better. Mithril Hall’s defenses were almost finished, and would be ready even if Lolth ordered her forces to run all day and night towards the Hall.

Exhausted troops were all the easier to slaughter.

“How bad do you think it will be?” Moradin asked.

“The future is somewhat clouded about this…” Helm said, turning back to face the Dwarven god. “There are many branches, many paths… more than I can count. I have tried to plan for as many as I can, and studied the others, so as not to be caught off guard.” He paused, and his eyes glowed a little dimmer. “All will end in bloodshed, death and sorrow. Some will simply have more than others.”

“Something the matter?” Moradin asked.

“Just… old memories, my friend,” Helm whispered. “Mistakes of the past, incorrect assumptions that have lead to more death than can be imagined. Blood upon my hands. The feeling that there is more that I could have done. More that I should have done.”

“What?” The Dwarf cocked his head to the side.

Helm nearly chuckled and his mind drifted. He saw his past flash before him once again. He stood upon snow capped mountains, lush jungles, fertile plains. Always before him were cities of stone, wood, and metal, and always above him a different star burned and gave life giving light and warmth to the world. He stood before people as they looked up at him, awe and amazement in their eyes as he fashioned a bow with his hands. A spear, a hammer. Other times it was a spell. One to shape the earth or to heal the sick.

Words like Sanctuary, Gaia, and others echoed trough his mind as his visions changed, and eternity flowed by him in an instant as he watched and guided the civilizations from the cradle of their infancy until they spanned whole continents and their might was unequaled.

But always, as he had watched, they had grown to a point, and then, right around the age of the renaissance… it stopped. Magic would advance, certainly, but technology would stagnate. It only made sense, he had come to realize. Magic was quick, it was easy, in many ways. Why figure out how to build a damn large enough to block a major river, why try to develop materials and metals strong enough to hold such a gargantuan structure up, when you could simply pay a wizard to alter its course?

As the eons had passed, he had finally understood that if the Human race was ever to attain what it had lost, to become what it had once been, and then to grow ever further, that one of his civilizations would have to be kept pure, clean of all but the barest hints of the arcane.

Once they had reached a certain point where their technology had made them self sufficient, they could be left to their own devices, until they were at last ready to meet their brethren from across the stars. And so he had weaned one such civilization, born on the planet where Diana had died.

And as they had matured and needed him less and less, so he had withdrawn.

The last time he had visited was nearly a half century ago, when they had begun to expand further and further out, towards inevitable contact with other races that remembered well the legacy of his people.

Helm turned angrily away from Moradin, and fought the urge to punch the wall of his sparring room. He had spent too much time away from those he had once helped save, had not seen how they had changed, how their leaders had twisted their original paths and made them a mockery of their former selves. It was a fool’s error, something that only an idiot would have made.

And yet, as before he had slipped up, miscalculated, and as before an entire civilization of his people had nearly been wiped out. The eyes behind the armet narrowed and began to glow. There would be no third mistake.

“I’m sorry, Moradin,” Helm said, turning back around to face the Dwarf. “I just feel overwhelmed at times, like the universe is trying to tear itself to pieces around me.”

“Your job is not an easy one, Guardian,” Moradin walked up to his comrade and clapped a hand upon his upper arm. “There are no gods, I think, that envy your position, to have to protect so much, for so little thanks in return.” The Dwarf smiled in sympathy. “You do what no one else can, or will, in your efforts to keep Torril safe. For that, and so much more, you have my thanks, and know that I will always stand by your side.”

Helm nodded. “Thank you, old friend.

“Wouldn’t be much of a Dwarf if I wasn’t a good friend, or a good pep talker,” Moradin said with a chuckle, and thumped his elbow into Helm’s gut.

The Human god laughed softly and shook his head. “True. I’ll see you when the time comes.”

“Indeed. I’m going to look forward to watching that spider bitch get her face smashed in…” he thumped his fist into his palm hard enough that the air around them rippled.

With that, the Dwarven deity disappeared. Helm sighed again, and looked up. Where were the others, he wondered? Where were Beowulf, Heracles, Cocles and the others? Where were Diana and his children? Did they watch him from some other plane of existence? Did they understand how hard he was trying to make things right again? To make whole the wounds he had slashed open with his selfishness? His thoughts drifted to his wife, of all the memories that they had shared in the millennia that they had shared together. He slumped down to his knees, his armor suddenly feeling as if it had the weight of a whole planet behind it.

Helm managed to catch himself, his arms shaking as rage and grief welled up inside of him. It boiled over and he could contain it no longer. He reached back and slammed his fist into the stone. It shattered as if hit by a bomb, pinging off of the metal of his armor and the shaped rock of the wall.

He would make it right. He swore. Humanity would rise again. The alliance of the Hall would be the first of many, and before it was over, there would be an Empire that would span the stars of the galaxies. No matter what obstacle lay in their path, the Abyss, the Hells, or all the gods of the Dark Pantheons of the universe. They would become what they once were.

He felt a touch on his shoulder, a touch he recognized instantly. He turned and looked back. A pale hand, partially covered in a black, open fingered glove contrasted against his armor. He followed the hand backwards until it disappeared into a uniformed sleeve, splotched varying shades of gray and black. Behind the man were dozens more, hundreds more, that had all filtered into the room as silently as wraiths. They stood with their hands clasped behind their backs and their eyes straight forward. Slowly, Helm rose and turned to face them. An unseen smile formed on his face and he felt his resolve renewed as he stared out at the group.

“Ready for another practice round, I see.”

“As always, Sir,” the soldier said. “Semper Vigilantus et Semper Accingere.”

--

Lolth paced back and forth within the darkness of her fortress. She was in her Elven form, but her unearthly beauty was marred by the twisted snarl that seemed forever set in her face these days. Within the goddess’ mind plots and schemes boiled and frothed, twisting and turning back and forth as she fathomed how she might proceed next with her campaign. It had started off so well, and the Dwarves of clan Battlehammer routed with hardly a drop of Drow blood being spilled. The defenders, meanwhile, had bathed the blades of her servants dark with their life essence. She had watched from her fortress and grown nearly drunk upon the carnage and the slaughter, and more still, the slow, torturous demises of the hairy little runts as they had been interrogated.

The many centuries of inter house warfare had made it to where her servants and priestesses were extremely good at the job that they did. She had laughed and cried out like a young child as she watched them flay flesh to the bone, or slowly saw off a finger, a hand, a leg; watched as they would create a thousand tiny cuts in a victim or take off the ears, nose, or put out the eyes.

The Dwarves had been hearty folk, putting up with the abuse for days. But at last, one by one, they had begun to spill the secrets of the Hall. Defenses, traps, resource locations and how quickly it would take for the clan to begin to respond.

With the deals with Luskan complete, and the underground alliances, she had her staging point to begin launching the conquest of the surface. Once the northern areas of Faerun had been secured, she would turn her eyes southward, making alliances with the other dark gods in so much as they would cooperate with her. One by one, the petty, divided nations of men, Dwarves, and surface Elves would fall before her people, and they would become the ruler of all.

Then the Troubles had begun. With one foolish move, Bane had ruined everything. Normally a being that reveled in chaos, the dark goddess had raged for days as she had been reduced to that of a powerful, but still vulnerable mortal. Forced to rely on her priestesses for aid, and feeling fear for the first time in her immortal life. The fear of a heartbeat, knowing that it could stop at any potential moment. The fear of aches and weariness of the body. The fear of hunger and thirst… and the fear that her plans would be dashed to ruins because one single deity got too big for himself far too soon. Ao’s rage had been tremendous, and had spared only one.

Lolth felt a vile taste well up in her mouth. Helm. She knew that she had not been the only deity to cast a hateful glance towards the armored God of Guardians as she and the others had been dumped unceremoniously at his feet and Ao’s voice raged above them all as he told them of the crime of Bane, and how they were all going to be punished for it.

Almost as bad had been Moradin. The Dwarf had stared at her with such smoldering fury in his eyes that Lolth had half expected him to be audacious enough to take advantage of the Troubles and assault Menzoberranzan with the purpose of killing her. While no harm had befallen her, and her servants and slaves seen to her every need and whim during the time of weakness, once her tablets had been retrieved and she had approached the Staircase with the intent of getting her divinity back, she learned of Bhaal, of Bane, of Mrykell and all the other gods that had fallen to the hands of mortals. More unnerving still had been Helm’s fiery gaze and the corpse of Myria at his feet as he stood to judge her.

Both he and Moradin would have to be punished, she thought, as she abruptly turned in her pacing, breaking her stride. But how best to do that, she wondered, bringing a hand up to her chin. The Dwarf would be easy enough to strike a blow at. Retaking the Hall would suffice, and then… and then Bruenor, yes, yes, that would work well. Him and that Human daughter of his. She would have both of their hearts torn from their chests to adorn the walls of her throne. That would do nicely.

Helm was somewhat trickier, but wrecking a few of his temples would infuriate him to no end, she suspected. Of course, there was one other way to strike a blow straight at the god’s heart, and she knew just what to do to pull that off.

Even as she thought about it, the smell of sulfur and rot reached her nose. She turned and saw a portal opening. Through it stepped a creature, fifteen feet tall, sporting bat like wings and a bestial canine-esque face, the creature radiated power. Powerful though Erttu was, Lolth knew that he was no match for her, so his massive height and his entrance did nothing to intimidate her as it might a lesser being. The dark goddess’ face broke out into a wicked smile as she looked at the object that the mighty Balor held between his hands. It was a glowing sphere, set into a pedestal.

“Excellent,” she whispered. “It works then?”

“Perfectly,” Erttu rumbled. He spread his wings out and bowed low before her, placing it upon the floor. As he did, it began to shine brightly. When the flash cleared, Lolth could see perfectly into the depths of the sphere. Before her, bound by seal and sigil, was Demogorgon. The Demon Prince’s four eyes settled upon her, power equaling her own washing over her. Both of his mouth’s opened, and both heads spoke in eerie coordination with one another.

“We have thought of your offer, Lolth, thought long and well, and we will accept. Deliver our freedom to us, and ally ourselves in your cause we shall.”

“Words cannot express my thanks to you, Prince of the Abyss,” she purred smiling and bowing slightly towards the mighty creature. “But my deeds may yet prove my gratitude. Your forces shall have half of all the arcane artifacts that are gathered, and gain power, slaves, and territory to use in the Blood War. The Devils will not be able to fight you near so well with such a disadvantage to them.

The Demon Prince licked his twin lips. The thoughts of such carnage and chaos, such bloodshed and suffering, would be like a sweet wine to the trapped soul within Watcher’s Keep.

“When shall we be freed?” Demogorgon asked.

“As soon as the key to your locks and chains is found and the proper rituals conducted. Worry not, powerful one,” Lolth said, walking up closer to the sphere, “we know where the key is already. Retrieving it will be a simple matter.

The Demon Prince roared in triumph and glee. Already he had been trapped for too long. Soon, soon he would unleash all his wrath and fury upon the arrogant god that had dared to imprison him here. He would launch all of his forces at Helm’s celestial fortress, and now power would withstand him, no other god dare to come to the aid of the ‘Vigilant One.’ He would devour the wretched god’s soul as Helm begged and pleaded for mercy, consume Helm’s power and then mount an assault upon the Hells.

His loud, grating laughter joined Lolth’s as the thoughts of victory rushed through his mind like the sweetest of dreams.

--

Within the depths of Mithril Hall, the crowds had long since dispersed and gone their separate ways. As he walked along the smooth floor, Drizzt Do’Urden let his hand reach out and brush against the hewn stone of the wall. How carefully had the Dwarves of times past carved out these tunnels? How did it feel to know that they had tamed it, worked it into a thing of beauty and pragmatism?

He looked over to his side. Dove walked a half pace behind him, with Gueynivar pacing alongside her, occasionally brushing up against the girl’s leg. There was much going through her mind as well, he realized, and he wondered what it could be. Dove chewed upon her lip, and her eyes were upon the floor, but beyond that, Drizzt could not read her. She had always been good at hiding her thoughts and feelings when she had wanted to. He had learned that well in the two decades he had known her. She had been the one that had led the ranger party that had tried to track him down when they still believed him a threat to the surface world. And, as he had come to learn, the one that had realized he was a friend rather than a foe.

She looked up for a brief moment, and smiled at him, before dropping her gaze back down and retreating further into her cloak. A breeze of fresh air hit Drizzt’s face as he drew nearer and nearer to the surface of the Hall.

There was still a flurry of activity going on around the entranceway. Commander Keyes had insisted upon having a secondary defensive line inside the main doors in case the exterior lines fell. It was a tactic that he heartily agreed with, but he was still somewhat unnerved by her idea of hardening. A pair of heavy machine guns and a single, thirty millimeter cannon lay surrounded by armored barricades and bags filled with sand. Next to them were a few racks of UNSC weaponry and ammunition for them. The Ranger walked over towards the nearest one, filled with assault rifles, and felt a pang of bitterness rise up inside of him.

He had come to understand the necessity of these weapons. Without the firepower of Keyes and her allies, there would be no way to hold back the massive tide that his people would bring to bear. But at the same time, the sheer bloodshed they were capable of made him wary of them. What would happen after this battle? What would become of the weapons? Suppose, even if defeated, that some of his people managed to capture a handful of them, and learn how to make them?

The Dark Elf shuddered at the thought. His people would become unstoppable.

“Are you okay?”

He turned to see Dove standing there, a look of concern upon her face. Drizzt simply nodded and smiled towards her, before turning and heading out towards the open air. The cool night breeze, a whispered promise that spring would be upon the region soon, made him want to stretch out his arms and bask in it, as he had basked in the sun in those first few days on the surface to try and adjust to the light and heat.


As he looked out to the hills and valleys, he wondered how long it would be before they were bathed with the blood of his people. His hands drifted down to his twin scimitars, and he felt the Hunter try and rise within himself. Drizzt quickly squashed the urge. He would use his weapons to defend, not slaughter for the sake of it.

He kept repeating that thought over and over again in his head, the message and mantra that he had so desperately clung to in his efforts to remain distant from the curse that had claimed his people.

He felt Dove’s hand fall on his arm, and he looked over to her. She smiled up at him yet again, and for a moment, he forgot his troubles.

“So,” she asked, looking out over the pits, trenches, barricades, and other defenses, “when this is all over, you still up for that tour of the city that I offered you.”

The Dark Elf chuckled softly. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

--

Wulfgar was out as well, surveying the anvil upon which the Drow surface forces would have to be beaten. The enormous Barbarian was not alone as he stared at the battlefield. Revajik was by his side, and Lord Nasher as well.

“So few, to hold back so many,” the Lord of Neverwinter said with a sigh. “May the gods smile on high and grant us strength in this hour.”

“I suspect they will,” Wulfgar said. “They have smiled upon us much in the past weeks. Our mysterious friends from the stars have made many things possible.” He rubbed his hand over the hilt of Aegis-Fang. “With them, if nothing else, we will make the Drow pay for every inch of ground they wish to claim.”

“No doubt,” Nasher said, looking over to the young warrior, “but your people have more to lose than any other. Your women and your children will be depending upon the few warriors and hunters that you have left.” He sighed. “You should not have so many of your own people here.”

Revajik chuckled, and the white haired Plainsman walked over to Nasher. Lord and Chieftain looked upon each other as equals. “We are brothers in the same cause, Lord Nasher,” he said. “Our women are hardy, our children made strong by the wilds of Icewind Dale. Regardless of what happens to us, they will survive. And what would our children think, I ask you?” a deep laugh that came from the Chieftain’s belly echoed through the night. “When the bards and minstrels sing of the defense of Mithril Hall, we would have ourselves be a verse, not merely a passing line!”

Wulfgar smiled and nodded his head in agreement with his friend. Too much pride could destroy a man. Drizzt had hammered that into his brain in a very literal fashion during the first few days of his training. It led to hubris, arrogance, the refusal to see any path but one’s own. But there was a time where a line had to be drawn in the ground. A time where one would retreat no further. For the Tribe of the Elk, this is where that line was.

His people would sooner die than be slaves to such cruel task masters at any rate, and while he tried to keep his confidence up, there was a small part of Wulfgar that knew that if they failed here, and the Drow swept over the land, that the dead would be the lucky ones. He could not even begin to imagine the horrors that would await the ones sent to the Underdark to be worked to death, or worse, become some sort of object for torture or experimentation for a Dark Elf wizard.

The Plainsman’s blue eyes became as icy as the Tundra that he hailed from. Though death’s chill fingers might take his soul in the coming days, he resolved to take as many Goblinoids, Orcs, and Drow with him as he could. A bit of pride swelled within his chest as he thought that if he were to die, he would make himself a legend in the eyes of the enemy. They would whisper horror stories to their children of the crazed giant that had stormed amongst them, crushing any who dared draw near. Yes. Yes, what better way to die, than to become a living symbol of fear for those who sought to enslave your people?

--

Within the depths of Mithril Hall, Cortana was at work. There was nothing new about that. Being a computer, she had no need for sleep, for food, or for drink. Her mind performed countless actions as she multitasked, reading through and studying all the tomes of magic that she had scanned. Joy was leaping in her mind as she realized all the things she could do with this, all the applications that happened when one mixed technology with this new arcane science. Such as one spell that she was trying now. He had attempted it before, but never on something this large, never with this purpose.

The construct applied her will, focusing her mental abilities as she drew the words from the spells to mind. She monitored the EM frequencies, and there was a spike that lasted for the appropriate period of time. She activated a pair of robotic arms, and began moving them around the room that she was practicing in. The first one grabbed the target of the spell, a UNSC standard issue rucksack, and opened it up. The second one grabbed a thirty millimeter cannon and brought it over to the table that she’d been working on. Ever so carefully, she placed the back end of the cannon into the open mouth of the rucksack, and lowered it.

One foot of the cannon disappeared, then two feet, three, and on until it was completely enveloped. As she had hoped, there was not a single sign of bulging, stretching, or straining on the material of the sack.

“Yes!” she cheered to herself. But quickly remembered that the experiment was not over yet.

She let go of the cannon, and it just seemed to disappear without a trace. Next, she grabbed a sensor probe, and inserted it. As the signals began to feed back to her, Cotana knew that she had succeeded in most of her objectives. The cannon was in sight, resting comfortably in the dimensional sub-pocket that she had created inside of the bag. Inside was an area the size of one of the armories on the Dawn, waiting to accept more contents.

A third arm was lowered in, and the A.I. thought about the cannon, willing it to come towards her. It almost flew up into the grip of the manipulator. Another success. Just two more things to test. Well, one more actually. The readings that she was getting on the bag indicated no increase in weight or mass since she had inserted the thirty.

A fourth arm grabbed a Helljumper toothpick, and quickly lashed out with it. A number of strikes, slashes, and stabs were applied to the rucksack, but damage was minimal.

If she’d had hands at the moment, Cortana would have rubbed them together in glee. Her experiment had worked. The Bag of Holding was ready, and improved over the traditional one that she had read about in the tomes. More tear resistant than the standard Faerunian one thanks to its construction material, and able to hold many times as much, all with no increase to weight.

Equipped with something like this, a single trooper could carry and field an amount of firepower usually issued to an entire battalion of soldiers.

John and Sergeant Johnson were going to love her for this. But there was no time to celebrate, there was so much left that she had to do, so much still to be done. Her eyes fell to other weapons that were present, and her consciousness literally boiled with different ideas, applications, and the like.

Her eyes also drifted to a large pile of scrap metal in one corner, material salvaged from the interior of the Dawn and the Covenant scouting craft.

The manipulators exploded into action as Cortana began to gather up more rucksacks and she spun off a number of subroutines to try and think of new applications while she still had the time.

--

The Master Chief looked at the equipment before him, various pieces to a BR-55 taken apart and spread on a soft cloth. He examined every part, oiled the parts that needed them, configured the sights and scope, adjusted the mounting rails, and checked to make certain that all electronic systems were still operating perfectly. Once he was finished, he quickly reassembled the rifle and slapped a mag of shredder rounds into the weapon. He chambered a round, flicked the safety on, and then attached a GDS to it.

Similar maintenance to his ASG-60 followed, before a scope, range finder backup, tactical grip and a few other pieces of kit. Once he was finished with both weapons, he placed them onto the back plate of his armor, and strapped a pistol to his hip. It was soon to be his turn at patrolling, and he wanted to be prepared, just in case the Drow found some way to magick themselves past the array of sensors that protected the Hall. He wasn’t certain how likely it was, but the idea of small groups acting as suicide squads was not out of the realm of possibility.

“Heading out,” he announced to Cortana over the comlink. “Will report in in five minute intervals.”

“Roger that, I’ll be monitoring your progress in the meanwhile.” The construct’s voice was full of something that the Chief couldn’t quite place, somewhere between elation, agitation, and analytical critiquing. She had to be working on something. He briefly wondered what.

The Spartan drew his ASG, and he headed out of the armory and down towards the bowels of the Hall. If nothing else, this would help him to become still better equated with the layout of the Dwarven fortress. When the attack came, he was to be busy helping out the defenders in the underground areas. He wouldn’t have time to keep looking around on a map trying to locate the fastest way to reach his opponents. Besides, he could also personally identify points of cover, places of ambush, and things of that nature.

As he moved through the compound, calling in at the appropriate times, the tunnels and well carved corridors gradually began to give way to roughly hewn rock that bore the scars of mining. There were a handful of Dwarves still out here, trying to harvest some last minute supplies of mithril for forging into armor or weapons, or, if they were defeated in driven out, to ensure that there was that much less available for the Drow and their allies to make use of.

It was hard to tell the difference between the Battlehammer and the Iron-Fists, and the two clans mixed freely with one another. They told jokes, laughed to one another, sang songs of their ancestry and past kings. They were like different sides of a family together for one giant reunion, the Spartan thought to himself. Some took notice of him as he passed, saluting in Dwarven fashion, nodding their heads, or simply cheering.

They saw him as a hero, John mused to himself. He frowned softly behind his helmet as he continued his patrol. It wasn’t the first time that he or his brothers and sisters had been given that title. The dress uniform of each of the Spartans reflected this, as did their Combat Service Vitae’s. He never much cared for the metals, pins, ribbons, and other accolades of honor that were bequeathed to him and his unit.

He was no hero. He was soldier, a trained killer who simply happened to be exceedingly good at his job.

“Shore that buttress up, and make certain that the runes are properly placed!” he heard a voice bark. It was a voice that he recognized. As he rounded the corner in the tunnel, he came upon the sight of Bruenor.

The Dwarf wore his golden armor, and was holding a map in one hand. A number of Dwarven engineers were around him, applying carefully crafted runes to the support buttress of a large junction in the mine. In the event the defenses were overrun in this sector, a command word would be shouted, and the runes would detonate, bringing the tunnel down and blocking access further up the mines.

Looking up, Bruenor saw the Master Chief approaching. John shifted his assault weapon, and brought his hand up in salute as he approached the king. The Dwarf returned it, and then smiled. At least, the Spartan thought he did. The beard made it somewhat difficult to read Bruenor’s face at times.

The Master Chief briefly wondered how much time was left before the Drow arrived. Every moment they delayed was another advantage for him and his allies, true, but there was a primal part of his mind that longed for the familiarity of a battlefield.

“Out on patrol?” Bruenor asked.

“Yes, your majesty,” the cyborg said. “I’m heading down to the lower levels to scope things out. After that, there are some more chapters in the books Helm gave us that I need to convert to memory.”

“Olthick, think you can handle this?” Bruenor asked, looking over to his bodyguard.

“Aye, Milord,” the other Dwarf nodded.

Bruenor handed things off, and then fell in beside the Spartan. The cyborg looked over and down at the small humanoid next to him. It was almost comical, in some strange way to see the two of them walking alongside, one so small and the other so large.

“I want to thank you again, for everything you’ve done for us,” the Dwarf said suddenly, looking up at the Spartan.

John mulled over a response for a few moments. He was used to receiving gratitude from grateful civilians or fellow military personnel that he saved, even if that gratitude was all too often tempered with grief over the loss of their homes, friends, and family. There was something different about this though. Something that the Spartan couldn’t quite put his finger on.

“Thanks aren’t necessary. I know what’s its like to be forced back by an enemy again and again,” he let the sentence drop there. John suddenly felt as if he were moving further and further away from the tunnels of the Hall, back to the UNSC and the space it controlled. Again and again they were driven back by the invincible Covenant juggernaut. Every victory made meaningless by a glassing operation. Where did one draw the lines? Where did one say “This, far, no further.” Where did you cast aside retreat as a viable option and simply hold until either you died or your enemy gave up?

Something occurred to him then, and the cyborg realized that he didn’t know where Bruenor was going to be during the battle.

“Where are you going to be stationed, my lord?” he asked, looking over and down at the Dwarf.

Bruenor stared up at him, and raised a bushy eyebrow. “What do you mean, asking a question like that?” he snorted. “I plan to be down there with the rest of me kin, slugging it out and fighting for my home.”

The Spartan frowned behind his helmet. He had been afraid of that. He knew that in the medieval way of combat, that the lords and kings had usually been among the most skilled warriors on the battlefield, due to their near constant training, and that made decapitating the command structure of an army somewhat difficult. But it still worried him. One mage in the right place, one arrow at the wrong time, and Bruenor would be out of the fight permanently.

The Spartan wished he could be there to protect him. Unfortunately, the battle plan called for him to operate with Pwent, Johnson, and a few of the Harpell magi to function as an elite hunter-killer unit searching for commanders and captains within the Drow army.

Still, Bruenor would have Orna with him, and the Spartan supposed that the Sangheili could do a good enough job of defending the King from anyone who would wish to harm him. He realized that Bruenor was still looking at him, and he cocked his head slightly.

“My apologies, my Lord, I was simply concerned,” he said.

Bruenor smiled, reached up, and thumped the cyborg in his arm. “Don’t worry about it, Son, ye meant no harm by it.” Then the Dwarf sighed. “I know why you’re concerned about it. But this is one fight where the Dwarves of my clan need to know that I’m in there with them. Slugging it out in the thick of it. Me Father’s father gave his life to defend these halls, and I would dishonor his memory by not being willing to put myself in the same position.”

“The Drow will try to kill you specifically, they will single you out. I’m worried about what it might do to your comrades.”

Bruenor began to laugh so hard that he nearly doubled over from it. He placed a gauntleted hand out against the walls of the cave, while the Spartan raised an eyebrow behind his helmet. Wheezing softly, Bruenor looked back up at him, his eyes glistening slightly from how hard he’d been laughing.

“Master Chief,” he said, laughing slightly again, “pray that we are so fortunate. Nothing gets the blood boiling in a Dwarf like standing amongst the bodies of his slain kin and knowing that the murderer is within reach of an axe. And a Dwarven King? The Drow’ll think the Gods themselves had descended to strike them down if they should slay me.” Then his face grew serious, and the laughter died in his eyes. “I fear capture more than death. The Drow have means of extracting formation that make the Luskans look pleasant. Poisons, magic, and more demonic curses that I can shake me axe at. Once they get their hands on you… it’s a matter of when you break, not if. That, Spartan, is the one prospect of this battle that terrifies me. Getting dragged back down to their foul cities to spend the rest of my life in those dungeons of theirs.” The Master Chief watched as a shudder actually wracked the body of the Dwarf. “They’d force me to give up everything I know about the Hall. Every secret, every artifact. Then they’d use it against everyone, every last man woman an’ child on the surface.”

The Master Chief looked down and cocked his head to one side. He understood Bruenor’s fear quite well. It was one of his own, one that his Spartans had faced. He and Captain Keyes had spoken briefly on the first Halo ring they’d found, right after he’d freed him from the Truth and Reconciliation. Covenant interrogation tactics were ruthlessly efficient, and the Spartan had long feared the consequences of him or one of his brothers and sisters falling into enemy hands. He had always had a solution for that, he wasn’t certain how well Bruenor would react to it, but it might ease the King’s spirits a bit.

He reached up and plucked a frag grenade off of his bandolier, before handing it over to the Dwarf.

“Here,” he said, as the Dwarf took it and stared at it curiously. “Hopefully you won’t need it, but keep it, just in case.”

“What for?”

“Often times, in the wars of my people, when capture and torture seemed imminent, soldiers would arm their grenades and charge the enemy lines. It’s called a kamikaze rush, you effectively silence yourself, and with luck, you take a few of the enemy with you.”

Bruenor looked down at the grenade, and seemed to be wrestling with himself over whether to accept it or not. At last, the Dwarven King nodded and stuffed the grenade into one of his pouches.

“Thank you,” he said. “I don’t plan on dying if I can help it, but its nice to know that even if they get their hands on me, they’ll be in for a nasty farewell present.”

The Master Chief merely nodded, and the two continued along the patrol route. Bruenor spoke of the glories of his people in their past, while occasionally pausing to ask the inquisitive question about what life in the UNSC was like, and what some of the wonders of the Milky Way were.

All throughout the Hall, stories were swapped, jokes told, promises made. For all there new that battle would soon be joined.

[Trivia Freak]

Jarlaxle frowned as he marched at the front of his group. They were not far from the Hall, he knew that. He remembered this route well, both from when they had first assaulted the Dwarven stronghold, and from when they’d been chased from it. There was a feeling that was gnawing away at his gut, like he was walking towards his death, and the death of the men and women that were under his command. Ordinarily, the Drow mercenary captain would have had no part of this endeavor. He had faced the forces of these strange offworlders once before, and that one time had been more than sufficient. He had gotten lucky the first time, he knew that.

Another second’s worth of hesitation on his part, and the strange weapon of the green armored beast would have blown him to pieces.

However, he wasn’t exactly being given a choice in the matter. If Matron Baenre had thought for one moment that he would be defiant and refuse to go, she’d have had him and every member of his troupe rounded up and put to death in the most unpleasant fashion she could think of. Being more than two thousand years old, the old woman had become very creative in that regard.

Even with that knowledge, Jarlaxle could not stop thinking about what he had witnessed during the massacre. Worse, now that thing and its allies had been given the chance to dig in and prepare for a counter assault. Jarlaxle fought the urge to shudder. His frown alone might have been too much of a sign of what was going on in his head, and it might alert a cleric to his dissident thoughts.

A moment later he berated himself for his cowardly skulking. A voice within his mind mocked him. Where was the Jarlaxle that just a few weeks ago would have walked with swagger and a straight back? Where was the man who was so confident and cunning, the man with resources and power that even the Matrons dared not to cross him?

Of course, it didn’t help in the slightest that that insufferable whelp, Berg’yiron, was a scant dozen paces away. The smile on the young Baenre’s face was sickening, and the mercenary knew why it was there. Berg’yiron had trained together with Drizzt during the renegade’s time at Melee Magarth, the school of fighters for the noble Drow. Only the renegade Dark Elf had ever been able to match and surpass the young Baenre’s prowess, and in doing so, Drizzt stole from the prince the title that he rightfully viewed as his.

Berg’yiron was obviously looking forward to paying back years of humiliation at the hands of the renegade. Given that he was to lead House Baerne’s elite group of lizard riders into the very heart of the Dwarven fortress, it seemed likely to occur. Jarlaxle briefly wondered what sort of tricks might be up the sleeve of the young captain. Berg’yiron was known for fighting dirty, even by Dark Elven standards.

Unknown to the Drow mercenary, was that he had just passed over a small spot of normally unassuming rock. It was flat, smooth like the rest of the cavern floor he was in, but unbeknownst to him, was that about six feet down, surrounded by the stone, was a UNSC remote sensor. The small device picked up his movements, and those of the ranks behind him, then the slaves of the massive army. It began to transmit the data back to its primary receiver, many miles distant.

Others soon began to do the same, and within minutes, combat forces were being awoken, stim packs administered and weapons issued. Machine guns were armed and autocannons brought fully online. The defenders of Mithril Hall would not be caught unawares.

Jarlaxle did not yet know it, but he was soon to be in for the fight of his life.

--

“Mobilize! Mobilize!” Commander Tarkimee shouted to his troops as they rushed about in a state of organized chaos. Long range sensors had detected the approaching army of the Dark Elves and their slaves. Though they had many hours yet to prepare, the sooner his troops got into their positions, the sooner the welcoming mat could be made ready.

The Sangheili officer had spent the past several days reviewing various files that the UNSC A.I. had prepared for him and his soldiers in an attempt to understand his enemy. Force projections for the Drow encompassed not only huge numbers, but a wide variety of species that were likely to make appearances as well. Everything from the mundane troops such as Orcs, Gray Dwarves, Kobolds, Goblins and Gnolls, to the more exotic troops such as the insidious Mind Flayers-tentacle faced beings that were powerful psionics with a taste for the brains of living creatures-to huge flying beasts known as Dragons.

Tarkimee doubted that the latter would be much of a problem for his group, as the confines of the tunnels would make such a large creature an easy target for the advanced weaponry his troops carried, but any of the ones that attacked outside would be slightly more problematic to deal with. He wasn’t sure how their magic infused scales would stand up to UNSC heavy machine guns, but the wings were supposed to be a weak point. Aim for the membranes, shred them, force the creature down onto the ground and from there, dispatch it.

Mind Flayers might be slightly more problematic, but his troops had been issued sealed helmets and NBC grade undersuits. If those tentacled freaks wanted to make a meal out of the brains of his soldiers, they were going to have to work for it.

The Elite watched as the last of his soldiers kitted themselves up, and they stood at the ready before him. The Commander paused for a moment, and belted one of Cortana’s ‘bags of holding’ to his hip. He reached into it, and pulled out a long armed plasma rifle. Then he let his gaze roam over his troops. From the Sangheili, to the Unggoy, to the mighty Lek’golos.

“Night comes, my brothers,” he said to them, moving his head from side to side. “And with it, comes battle. This will be a battle long remembered, and whether we live or die tonight matters not. For all of us will have our deeds remembered as they are woven into the battle poems of our families. This will be the day where we stood up in acknowledgement of our sullied honor, where we refused to wallow in self pity and despair. This will be the night where we renewed our pledges to the Forerunners, and to their children.” He paused, picking up his helmet and sliding it down over his head, hiding his face behind an implacable mask. “This will be the day where we vindicated ourselves, and made whole the oaths that we have taken!”

The cavern shook with the roars of his united forces. Fists were pumped, weapons pointed towards the room, and the sounds of song and battle poems mixed in a cacophonous, haunting melody.

The scarred commander spread his mandibles wide behind his helmet. These were his troops. They had served with him for most of their careers. They feared neither death nor pain, only failure. The Dark Elves would know terror as they faced these soldiers, know the fear that the Neo-Covenant military could bring. The Elite vowed that once this battle was through, that it would be decades, centuries, perhaps, before the black skinned dogs would dare venture to the surface again.

Of in the distance, Tarkimee saw the Master Chief and Sergeant Major Johnson looking over a map as they prepped their weaponry and secured their own bags. He suddenly thought back to the day that he had received his scars. If the Spartan fought this night as he had on that day, then the Drow would learn a whole new meaning to the word terror. Tales would be told to their children of the green giant, the relentless killer that never stopped, never tired, and slaughtered without hesitation.

The Sangheili had seen first hand how rumors of the prowess of Spartans could perpetuate through the ranks, and their mere presence cause a major break down in discipline. For once, that physiological edge would be on his side.

The Commander reached into his rucksack, and pulled out a plasma SMG with an extended powercell, attached it to his thigh and then followed his dispersing troops towards his combat station.

--

Neeshka let out a sigh as she sheathed her blades and threw the strap to a carbine over her shoulder. Over the past weeks, she had learned to be very good at shooting the small weapon, and had personally requested to be able to carry one of them into battle. Keyes had granted her request, and given her several magazines of ammunition. Most of them were shredder or incendiary rounds, but she had two mags of armor piercing, just in case she ran into something particularly nasty.

The Tiefling then made her way over towards the group that she would be running with. Well, running wasn’t quite the proper term. She was to help hold a key defensive position within the myriad of tunnels, an ingress point into the lower forges. She was fairly certain that it wouldn’t be easy, but then again, holding Crossroad Keep hadn’t been easy either.

Neeshka’s eyes narrowed to a glare. The images of the destroyed village ran through her mind. She remembered the men, women, children, and elders that had been remorselessly cut down before the onslaught of the Drow raiders. Rage filled her, and she drew on that rage and the power that came with it. The Tiefling had seen much bloodshed within her short lifetime, but she had never taken pleasure in it. This evening, no matter how distanced she tried to make herself, the Tiefling knew in her heart that every time she twisted her blades into the heart of a Dark Elf, or shattered their skulls with a bullet, that she would take a grim pleasure in one less of them being upon this world. It would be one fewer Drow to torture, kill, or murder an innocent. She would just have to be careful not lose herself in a berserker like rage.

“You ready to have at it, Goat-Girl?”

She turned to see Khelgar there. The Dwarven monk was dressed in his battle armor, recently outfitted with spikes and razors to complement his hand-to-hand combat knowledge. At the same time, Khelgar had an urgosh strapped across his back, and it was clear that he was eager for battle once again. Neeshka looked into his eyes, and remembered how much he had changed over the time that she had known him. No longer did the Dwarf lust to fight simply for the sake of fighting. He had returned to his Dwarven roots, and sought to protect others with his abilities.

His hands went up to the double sided pendant that was around his neck. The symbol of Tyr on one side, Moradin on the other. A moment of somberness passed over his face, before he tried to hide it behind his beard once again.

Neeshka nodded her head. “As always, barrel head. I plan on teaching the Drow a few things about sneaking around where you’re not wanted.”

Khelgar broke out laughing as the two of them made their way towards their station.

--

The hours passed, and the final defenses made ready. One by one, the defenders of Mithril Hall made themselves ready. Prayers were said, oaths whispered under the breath, weapons readied and last minute gestures of friendship exchanged.

Then there was silence. The calm before the storm as those with access to sensor readouts watched the Drow forces draw closer and closer to the Hall.

From within the central computer mainframes, Cortana watched as the horde came nearer and nearer to the first line of defenses. Through sensors mounted in the caverns, she got her first good look at the enemy army. It was as expected. A few Drow scouts were out in front, followed by the unending tide of slaves that would compose the bulk of the army. They began to split up, one group heading for the surface, the other towards the tunnels.

Closer. Closer. The minutes ticked by, eternity and lifetimes for a computer such as herself. They were almost upon the first line of defense, and soon it would be time to unleash hell.

The army entered a large cavern some minutes later. It was approximately half a kilometer in diameter, and could fit a significant amount of the Drow forces into it. Cortana slowly began lining up one of the fifty-millimeter guns, moving it so quietly that its noise would not betray its position and startle the scouts or the slaves.

Very soon the room was filled with the optimum level of enemy troops to warrant counter action. The A.I. construct smiled viciously to herself.

“Commander, requesting permission to engage enemy forces,” she announced over the command channel.

“Permission granted, fire at will, Cortana.”

The Construct had already begun when she’d heard “granted,” and sent the signals that would begin the battle.

The first round fired, leaving a bright blue trail as it streaked out from the gun that had fired. From the multitude of sensor feedbacks, Cortana watched as the initial line of scouts, followed by the troops behind them, all the way back to the tunnel entrance, simply ceased to exist. Before the round had even reached the back of the cavern, round two had been fired along a different trajectory, followed swiftly by rounds three and four

Almost simultaneously, in the other caverns along which the Dark Elven army was advancing, the other defensive turrets began to fire. The hypersonic rounds shredded everything in their path, and began to sow chaos among the slaves and their Drow overseers, who had no idea what was going on. Those in the front tried to push forward to get a handle on the situation and find out what was going on, while those in the rear, nearly deafened by the roar of the massive autocannons, tried to return to the apparent safety of the tunnels.

The end result was one giant, chaotic mess that only made the constructs job all the easier. She slowed down the firing rate of the weapons, pausing several of them entirely as ammunition efficient targets disappeared.

--

Further down within the depths of the tunnels, Jarlaxle heard a faint rumble and instinctively looked up towards the source of the noise. He frowned as he pondered what could be the source of the racket. It did not sound like the army at march, or any sound of battle that he was familiar with. He only hoped that whatever was causing it didn’t decide that venturing down to check on him and his comrades was a good idea.

He looked over to the walls, where Umber Hulks were hard at work. The insectiod creatures were burrowing like mad through the walls of the cave complex. With luck, they would pop up past whatever was causing the racket.

Unknown to him, though, was that the creatures’ efforts were setting off additional remote sensors.

--

Cortana detected the movement on her scanners, and processed the information in mere nanoseconds. She recognized the creatures but was somewhat surprised to see them. She didn’t think that the Drow had access to a source of the brutes. Umber Hulks were apparently notoriously unstable creatures. Perhaps they were being controlled by magic? Yes, certainly a possibility.

She spun off a subroutine that began to calculate likely entry points for the tunnels that were being dug based off rock densities, current paths, and other factors. Most of them showed up behind the autocannons, and while the guns could be turned around, it was unlikely that she’d be able to get a line of sight orientation upon the intruders and trying to collapse the caverns by hitting the area around them with barrage fire too inefficient. Still, there was only so wide the tunnels could get, and the Dark Elves could never get the bulk of their subterranean forces up through those holes. This was clearly a hammer and anvil tactic. They’d expected a line of initial Dwarven defenders somewhere, and planned to cut them off.

They had been counting on the superiority of Dark Elf troops to win that battle for them. Narrow as those entrances were going to be, they would favor the superior combatant.

Unfortunately for them, that went both ways. She opened up a comm. channel to the teams on standby.

“Hunter Killers, defensive breach in progress at the following locations,” she broadcast the coordinates to their HUDs and let them be memorized. “Everyone to your sectors and prepare for enemy contact.”

The Master Chief heard what had been said, and readied the drum magazine for his ASG-60. Then he took point for his group, moving forward like an armored wraith. His movement was contrasted by that of the Gutbusters behind him, and the nervous mage that had been assigned to the group, one Bidderdo Harpell. The man was tall and lanky, with disheveled hair that if the Spartan understood correctly, was due to the fact that an errantly cast spell had caused him to spend the past several years filling in the role of the Harpell family dog.

Earlier, Bidderdo had confided in him that he wasn’t much of a combat mage, and the cyborg sincerely hoped that he wouldn’t lose it at a bad time. That sort of thing resulted in wasted lives and unnecessary casualties.

This was somewhat offset by the fact that Pwent was among the Gutbusters making up the squad. The Spartan was, however, concerned about the Dwarven berserker’s incredible battle lust, and twitchy personality. He’d have to be extremely careful issuing orders to him. Perhaps that’s why Bruenor and Commander Keyes had entrusted him with this particular group.

The trip to the area where penetration was most likely took about ten minutes, by which time Cortana reported that the Drow were almost halfway through with the tunnels. They would be sloped at roughly thirty degree angles, and the bottoms likely crowded with massed troops ready to try and pinch off a traditional defensive line. The Spartan nodded as he waited. That was a perfect angle to roll a few grenades down.

He could fee the vibrations under his feet from the digging. It was subtle, different from the distant rumble of the firing autocannons, but he could feel it coming from beneath him, rather than through the entire cavern.

As they drew closer to the surface, Cortana continued to update the projected path. The Spartan crouched down behind a rocky protrusion while behind him, the Gutbusters prepared themselves and Bidderdo began to cast a few preparation spells. He could hear the quaver in the mage’s voice, and frowned. He hoped he wouldn’t have to baby sit the man. Things were going to be dicey.

The rock seven meters in front of him erupted outwards, and up came the Umber Hulk. It was a monstrous creature, reminding him of some freakish cross between a primate and an insect. Its bulbous, multifaceted eyes looked around as hopped up out of the tunnel and the slave behind it began to rush upwards. Then it began trying to widen the entrance.

The Spartan’s response was swift and devastating. He aimed the ASG at the creature head and squeezed the trigger. The supersonic uranium raked the exoskeleton of the beast, puncturing and shredding its brains and eyes, while blasting a massive exit wound in it. He began to fire in short bursts at the now confused slave-soldiers. The Mjlonir armor kept him cool, masking his thermal signature. The only thing their heat sensitive eyes could see was the barrel of the assault weapon. By that time, though it was too late.

Body parts soon decorated the cavern floors and walls, and he began to shuffle forward as the troops were quickly pushed back into the tunnel. In the blink of an eye, the Spartan reached up and yanked two fragmentation grenades free from the bandolier that he wore. He lobbed them down the hole, watching as they rolled towards the Orcs, Goblins, and Kobolds that made up the first wave of troops. They seemed confused for a moment, and with a loud bang and a mighty flash, their confusion was their end.

The Spartan hunched down and began to push forward into the tunnel firing as he did. There were twists and turns throughout it, though. The Umber Hulks had been trying to get through the least dense rock, and this had the added side effect of limiting John’s field of fire and how far away he could shoot the target from. He rounded one of those corners, and saw a Dreugar before him. The Gray Dwarf sensed its peril, even it if couldn’t fully see him, and hurled a spear at the Spartan. It bounced off of his shields which flickered for a moment, lighting the tunnel up in the normal spectrum of light.

For a single, awful second, the Druegar and its allies behind it could see the creature that was to be their doom. For one single second, the armored juggernaut could be seen clearly. The assault shotgun was raised, and the trigger squeezed. The high powered pellets tore through the Dwarf’s steel armor like it wasn’t even there, tearing him in half and killing him instantly.

The Spartan’s built in night vision let him see effects of his rampage clearly, while his radio crackled with the status reports of the other hunter killer teams. Everything was going as planned, and once the tunnels had been cleared, the groups would converge on the cavern that the enemy troops had come from. From there, the Gutbusters would hit the Dwarven Lines while those armed with ranged weaponry and the mages would pepper them from the rear.

He was down to about twenty shots for the ASG-60, it would soon be time for a reload. The comfortable weight of rucksack attached his hip reminded the Chief that his usual problem when facing overwhelming odds, ammunition, would not be a problem this time around.

“HK-One, moving forward. Enemy resistance faltering.” he said.

“Roger that,” Commander Keyes said, “Gutbuster status?”

“Enthusiastic,” he responded as he fired on a group of Kobolds. They screeched and tried to flee back down the tunnel. They didn’t get far, and the Spartan thought that he could hear the sound of whips cracking. He must have been getting closer to the Drow forces. The question was, which did the slaves fear more, him, or their taskmasters? He’d find out soon enough, he supposed.

He reached into the bag and summoning a reload for his assault shotgun, before quickly reloading the weapon and chambering it. During this time, an Orc managed to summon up enough courage to try and rush him, with the result that the humanoid got its chest caved in by a well placed kick.

At last, though, he could hear the rumble of the army beneath him, and he caught a glimpse of the opening. The other teams were making similar progress, according to the radio chatter, and the Master Chief decided that was a good thing. The cave that was opening up in front of him positively swarmed with enemy troops. The horde that had held Mithril Hall seemed almost paltry by comparison.

Time to soften them up.

The Spartan reached up, and pulled a flash-bang from his bandolier, primed it, and hurled it with all of his strength. Arcing end over end, the little device sailed out into the center of the cave. Others flew end as Sangheili began to pour out of the tunnels, their plasma rifles filling the air with blobs of blue hot energy. The Master Chief swapped out his ASG-60 for his battle rifle, and primed the GDS attached underneath it. It beeped, ready to send a fifty millimeter phosphoric payload into the heart of the enemy ranks.

He did some quick mathematics in his head, accounting for air resistance, speed, the timer on the grenade, minimum arming distance and the like, and flicked the dial on the GDS. Now prepared to unleash hell, he fired the weapon as the flash bangs were landing.

“Bangers out, prep grenade launchers!” he heard Sergeant Johnson announce.

His speakers filtered out the roar of the flash-bangs, while his polarizing visor took care of the flash. The gun in his hand kicked as the grenade left it and joined dozens of others inbound towards the hapless Underdark forces. He opened the chamber, and reached down into his rucksack to pull out a new one.

“Their blinded!” he heard one of the Gutbusters shout, “charge!”

There was a swarm out of the tunnels, rushing past the Spartan as he fired another grenade.

In both cases his aim was true, and the grenades moved up over the mulling ranks of the slave troops and into the Dark Elven forces themselves. No sense wasting explosives on the fodder. Besides, the slaves were not exactly thrilled about facing what had just stormed down the tunnels that they themselves were supposed to be using to assault the Hall. Only the fear of Drow retribution kept them from retreating further back. Remove the taskmasters from the equation, or show that the Drow were no match for what they faced, and the slaves were likely to try and take their chances with whatever horrors lurked in the wilds of the Underdark.

Both grenades detonated, sending flames of white hot hell fire throughout the ranks of the blinded and helpless Dark Elves. The Master Chief nodded as he heard the screams and cries of male and female soldiers alike, and prepared a fragmentation grenade as Bidderdo walked up next to him. There was a quaver in the mages voice as he began to recite his spell. Still, he completed it, and it settled over the Master Chief and the Gutbuster forces.

It was a haste spell, one that sped the body and the mind up and allowed for the body to move at super human speeds. John had experienced it a few times before, but it was still a novel sensation. Spartan Time combined with the spell, and the world around him almost seemed to stop. The Goblins and Kobolds that had escaped the wrath of the flash bangs stood before the approaching Dwarven and Neo-Covenant forces, looks of absolute horror etched upon their faces. Off to his left, he could see Sergeant Johnson coming out of a tunnel, and watched as bullets slowly spun through the air as they inched their way towards the troops at the front.

“Moving to flank,” the Spartan announced.

“Roger that,” Cortana responded. “Alerting other teams to your location to avoid blue on blue.”

The Spartan said nothing, but slapped his battle rifle onto his back, next to his ASG. He reached down into the rucksack, and withdrew a Covenant medium plasma cannon. It bore a superficial resemblance to a pre-fusion Human weapon known as the SAW, or Squad Automatic Weapon, and its purpose was virtually the same. At the moment, it had two things that the Master Chief knew would be necessary to inflict the maximum amount of damage to the enemy forces in both manpower and morale: stopping power, and an enormous ammo supply. The power connection cable ran down into the rucksack, where the sub-dimensional pocket kept it from slowing him down or getting in the way. He had about ten thousand rounds at his disposal, if he remembered correctly.

Rushing as quickly as he could—he had about a minute and a half of time from his perspective before Bidderdo’s spell expired—the Master Chief bolted towards the side of the cavern. There he found a gap in the enemy lines, giving him a clear view of the true threat. The Dark Elves stood like statues, helpless. It almost bothered the Spartan to cut them down like this.

Almost.

He squeezed the trigger, and sent a burst of super sonic plasma rushing towards the Dark Elves. The Spartan briefly noticed how strange the spell’s interaction with those not sped up. The kinetic impact and flash burn from the rounds impacting occurred almost instantaneously, real time from his perspective. What horror would it induce among their troops?

He began to fire again, the blue white blobs of energy streaking in and ripping into the enemy troops. One bolt took a female upside her head. It melted through her helmet in an instant, and violently blew her cranium apart in an explosion of bones and steam. Others had their chests blasted out by center mass shots, while others that the Spartan could not get as good of an angle on due to his position had arms and legs forcefully vaporized.

John knew they likely weren’t dead just yet, though he had effectively mission killed them. The plasma would cauterize their wounds. They’d have to be put out of their misery once the still combat effective troops had been taken care of.

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as the other hasted troops went into action. Sergeant Johnson lobbed another fragmentation grenade into the midst of a group of Gray Dwarves. The grenade, enchanted by the same spell as its carrier, exploded before they could even react. Body parts rained down as the Sergeant Major unleashed his own ASG into the newly opened hole in the enemy lines. This was followed by another grenade volley from the GDS equipped weaponry, showering the hostile lines with sprays of deadly shrapnel or bathing them in hellish firestorms.

The Gutbusters were eager for action as well, and led by Pwent, were ripping through the enemy troops like thermite through rock. The leader of the Dwarven shocktroopers lowered his head as he ran, the massive spike upon his helmet sticking out like a spear tip. Sped up like he was, the Dwarf’s first victim, a goblin, was first impaled, and then disappeared under the onslaught. It literally ceased to exist as Pwent lashed out with the barbed and hooked parts of his armor, ripping it asunder.

His momentum didn’t even start to slow down as he rammed another, and another, before finally pulling out a one handed axe and entering a combat routine that was one part axe play, one part martial arts, and one part barroom brawling. As they continued to press forward, the slave lines began to falter, or seemed to be in the process of it at least. The mages also remained in the battle, summoning up protective spells around themselves, and then sending a volley of fireballs and lightning bolts into the enemy forces. The Spartan knew, however, that they were holding back and letting him and the Covenant forces do most of the work. They were supposed to primarily support the front line troops with augmentive spells, and leave the fireworks to him and the others.

All the while, he kept up the fire, slicing into the Drow ranks like a scythe among wheat.

Among the enemy forces was Jarlaxle, who stood agape in horror as he watched the slaves get pushed back out of the tunnels. He was not so much concerned about the Dwarves and what appeared to be Human and Surface Elf magi that accompanied them, but rather, the small warm objects that seemed to almost be free-floating in the air, whose carriers could only be seen when he squinted, and even then, as shadows against the darkness.

The Mercenary captain instinctively closed his eye and plugged his ears. The roar still nearly deafened him, and threw him off balance, while the bright flash of the objects turned his world red. He could see his comrades as they cried out in agony through his eyelids and he grimaced in pain. Zaknafien had used similar objects when he’d still been alive, he remembered, and he knew how devastatingly effective those objects could be to races that were used to perpetual darkness. The loud roar though was not something he was certain he could get used to. His ears were still ringing, despite him plugging them.

He dared to open his eyes again as the flashes faded into nothingness, and he was left aghast at what he saw. Whole squadrons of soldiers were rolling around on the cavern floor in agony while Spider Clerics desperately tried to make whole their seared eyes and shattered eardrums. He faintly heard the impact of other objects, and hurled himself to the floor, covering himself in his cloak. More roars and explosions rumbled throughout the cavern in a hellish symphony. It was swiftly followed by the sound of wet splattering and more screams. Jarlaxle peaked out form underneath his protective cloak, and swore softly to himself. White hot flames burned among the Dark Elf lines. It burned through flesh and metal armor, ate weapons as if they were wood.

There could be no doubt, he concluded, that the Dwarves had brought their demons, or whatever those things really were, with them to the battle.

Another flash caught his eye, and he turned to see a stream of blue white fire coming from a central source. The Dark elves in its path died where they stood, before they could even begin to contemplate what was killing them. A soft chanting brought the Drow’s attention to Zetarin. His comrade finished his spell quickly, and the world around him slowed down. At last, Jarlaxle could see his people’s killer. He called upon his innate powers, and stuck out his hand. Purple fairie fire leapt up around the thing, illuminating its outline and letting the others see it clearly.

He recognized the thing from earlier, during the battle in the Hall. Once more, it descended upon his people like an angry demi-god, and sought to wipe them out. More blasts of fire came from its weapon as Zetarin began to cast another spell. As he finished, a bolt of lightning came from his hands and lashed out at the creature. It dove to one side, evading the bolt entirely, before countering its own weapon. Jarlaxle dove away as he saw the weapon, the white hot mote of light against the darkness, line up.

He was fortunate, as the dive put a number of thick stalagmites and stone columns between him and the armored being, and the burst of bolts missed him. But then, he hadn’t been the target of the attack.

The creature was the better part of three or four hundred feet distant, but its aim was perfect. Zetarin’s arcane defenses held for a fraction of a second, before the energy bolts ripped them apart.

The Drow had a reputation for being ruthless, a reputation that Jarlaxle had done much to help perpetuate, but it was one thing to watch someone you didn’t know or care about die in front of you. To watch one of your own men, who had stayed loyal to you in a world where loyalty barely existed at all… that was something else.

It seemed to happen in slow motion, and Jarlaxle knew he would carry the sight with him to the grave. The first round impacted on Zetarin’s chest, igniting his robes and spell components as it blew a hole the size of an Ogre’s head in it. There was a look of shock on the face of the mage for a brief moment before another bolt struck him in the face and blew it off. A third bolt impacted in the hole of the first one, and ripped the Drow’s body to pieces.

Jarlaxle’s nostrils were filled now with the smell of cooking meat and death. He heard the roar of Dwarven battle cries and the sound of more of those strange blast globes hitting the ground. He looked around for a brief second, and between collapsing slave front and his own people dying left and right, he knew that the battle for this area of the caverns was over. There was a possibility that the wands used by these strange beings might run out of charges, but Jarlaxle had witnessed them in action before, and knew that such an outcome was unlikely. These things, whatever they were, were not that stupid.

He peeked out from around his cover, taking stock of the battle. It was not going well. While the slave troops had been meant to serve as fodder, they had been meant to wear down the Dwarves and their allies and make them too exhausted and worn thin to put up a proper defense against the real soldiers. They appeared to be little more than an inconvenience to whatever things these were. Already the defenders had mulched their way through many of the ranks, and held over a quarter of the large cave. Neither the demons nor the seemingly insane Dwarf shocktroopers showed any sign of slowing down.

He looked about, trying to spot his own forces. The members of Bregan D’Aerth had been spaced throughout the cavern as elite fighters used to shore up the troops. Not all of his band was here, something that the captain was secretly grateful for, but he could spot every member of his troop by the way they moved and fought.

They were dying.

He reached up for the whistle that he had around his neck, ready to sound the retreat for his troops and have them fall back in the confusion, when he noticed that a number of Spider Clerics, surrounded by living shields in the form of Drow Warriors and slaves, were using a number of censors and braziers and summoning up fire. Demons would soon be on the battlefield. Perhaps the tide might yet turn. Lolth would not abandon her people in the hour of their greatest attack on the surface, right?

Portals erupted and with flashes of light and flames, dozens and then scores of demons appeared. Great hulking monsters and agile ones no bigger than a man. They were backed up by a group of a half dozen Glabrezu and a Balor, with two monstrous, arachnidan Bebilith that immediately skittered into the darkness. At the same time, the wizards were regrouping and casting their magic upon their strange opponents. Orbs of impenetrable darkness went out and formed over the Dwarves, while fireballs and lightning bolt shot into the mix. He also saw a group of elite Baenre troops activate the powers of their special spider weave cloaks. Given from Lolth herself, the arcane cloth enabled the wearer to, with a mere thought, run along walls and ceilings like the arachnids the goddess was so fond of.

They took off along the wall, and he could already guess the target. There was on particular member of the assault force, slightly smaller than the rest of the strange creatures, that was shouting out taunts and insults in particularly well spoken Dark Elven while it popped up to shoot from behind various outcroppings and stalagmites. A series of cross bow bolts flew towards the thing as it was lit up with faerie fire. However, they merely bounced off whatever armored shell the creature was clad in.

“You call that shooting?” he heard it shout, its voice echoing over the sound of the battle, as if amplified by arcane means. “I got a dead grandmother that can aim better than that! A real terror of the Underdark, you guys,” he shouted again as a group of Gray Dwarves tried to storm towards him, only to be blown to pieces before they could even get into a proper battle formation. “What kind of a sick, demented individual sent you out here? I was told we would be fighting men, not children!”

The Balor, meanwhile, had spotted what it viewed as the greatest threat: the armored giant that had inflicted so much destruction upon them. While the colorful fire had faded from its outline, the heated bolts of its weapon were readily visible, and the demon did have better eyesight than its Elven allies. It extended a sword that was the size of a man, lightning crackling over its length, and roared. Its underlings charged at the juggernaut, several of them summoning a host of Dretches to rush it. The small, hunchbacked creatures clambered towards it, nearly two score strong. The armored being was a blur as it retaliated, leveling its weapon and firing as it retreated back towards its comrades in arms. The bolts impacted upon the small demons and they burst into fire as if struck down by the wrath of a Celestial. Two of the Glabrezu roared as they bent down and ran towards the target as if they were feral wolves. Their smaller arms extended and stunning spells exploded against the being.

If it was bothered at all by them, it didn’t show. Instead it reached up and calmly hurled a brightly burning object at one of them. Its speed was amazing, Jarlaxle realized, as he did his best to stay hunkered back and out of sight, while trying to pulling his whistle up to his lips. A retreat was out of the question at the moment, but he could order his men and women to slink backwards and let the other Drow take a beating until the battle was more favorable.

It was then that he realized that the object had attached to the head of one of the Glabrezu, and the creature was currently attempting to remove it. It exploded with such force that a number of Dretches were either killed outright by the proximity or sent hurtling through the air. Most of the Glabrezu’s upper body was gone, while the fur of its compatriot was on fire. Driven into a rage, it charged straight at its foe, and was cut down utterly without mercy by the juggernaut’s weapon.

Fear pulsed through the mind of the Drow Mercenary. There were few things that could challenge Glabrezu like that, let alone kill them so easily. They hadn’t even managed to get within striking distance before they’d died. It was sobering and Jarlaxle felt a cold sweat make his clothes and armor slick.

The Dretches died almost as swiftly as another object landed in their midst, and hellfire consumed them.

“Lolth’s bloated ass, can’t you do any better than that?” he heard the other thing shout, but at the same time noticed that the enchanted Gutbusters were coming perilously close to destroying the last fledgling resistance of the slave troops, particularly one psychotic one with a large spike on its helmet, probably a group leader of some sort.

Nearly half of the cavern belonged to the Dwarves and their allies, and even as he watched, a slave captain tried to challenge the Dwarven leader. She was bucked into the air as if hit by a charging bull roth. The spikes and hooks on the Dwarf’s armor caught and tore at her as she sailed up, and Jarlaxle could see the warmth of her blood flying away from her body. She crashed back to the stone, and the Dwarves set upon her like Hook Horrors. It was over in moments.

“Special delivery for the Matrons!”

Jarlaxle watched two objects slightly warmer than the rest of the air came sailing in and land about fifty and a hundred feet away from where he stood. He swore softly and pulled himself as far behind the cover of the stone as he could. The objects exploded, and even from this distance, the leader of Bregan D’Aerth felt his skin blister from the heat. The suddenly blast of fire disoriented him, and turned the whole cavern into one large heat blob. He couldn’t see his immediate surroundings very well at all, but he could hear the screaming as flames consumed his people.

He watched in horror and shock as the fire spread like a ravenous beast, consuming everything that it touched, from flesh to cloth to metal. What magic was this?

As he dared to look back at the warrior that kept taunting them, Jarlaxle noticed that the Baenre troops had moved into position above the soldier, and the Drow thought he could see one of the Bebilith with them. A sphere of darkness formed around the trooper, something that not even Jarlaxle’s sight could penetrate. Then the female soldiers raced down various stalactites towards the man. As they closed in on the sphere, though, a number of them suddenly exploded and more roars reached the Dark Elf’s ears. He gaped in surprise, but chalked it up to luck.

Until two more died as they tried to close in. Rapid fire staccato booming echoed throughout the cavern, and Jarlaxle realized that somehow, in some strange way, that the warrior could see the Baenre troops closing in on him.

The last few were killed as they were dropping down into the sphere, and it was then that the Bebilith made its move. The large spider like monster dropped away from the ceiling, flipping around and spreading its legs out in anticipation of feasting.

More roars came from within the black orb, tearing into the creature’s magical carapace and tearing off several of its limbs. Its screech was audible above the battlefield’s din, and it landed, hissing in a rage inside of the sphere. Two more bangs, and all fell silent.

A few seconds passed and the sphere dissipated. The armored warrior seemed to be attaching something to its weapon. Gore covered his armor, bits of hot and cold blood and small chunks of flesh.

“Anyone else in a hurry to meet my boomstick?” he called out as he leveled the weapon and resumed firing it.

--

Within her mainframe, Cortana monitored the progress of her hunter killer teams, calling out tactical advice to them when necessary and alerting them to danger when it presented itself. The A.I. was pleased with the way things were going. Sergeant Johnson’s taunts were doing an excellent job of luring the enemy out of combat formation and making them easier to deal with, which when combined with the plasma cannons that the Chief and the Sangheili were using, meant that enemy causalities were racking up quickly. Already, she counted the better part of two thousand dead based upon the feedback packages that she was receiving.

She had also kept an eye on the main areas. The Drow were holding back for the moment, afraid of whatever magical monstrosity she controlled, and so the fifty millimeters remained silent for the moment. She concluded it was likely that they would either try to magically carve their own tunnels, using Umber Hulks for such a purpose, or perhaps try teleportation. She had surprises for any Underdark warrior suicidal enough to try that tactic.

The surface army was also making good progress, and she radioed it in to the teams on waiting for them there. She ran a number of calculations based upon how much her sensors were being set off and from that when it would be a good time to try and seal them out in the open and unleash another form of hell on them.

--

The Master Chief glanced around as he continued to fire his plasma cannon into the ranks of the enemy. The Demons were focusing on him for the moment, a good thing. Though the haste spell had long since faded, he could still handle them, while Pwent and the others might get bogged down. It was imperative that they shove this army backwards, and the close quarters assault by the Gutbusters was critical for that.

A Glabrezu roared and fired several balls of darkness at him. The Spartan dove behind the cover of a boulder, and fired from behind it. The rounds were aimed as suppression fire, but as closely packed together as the Drow forces were, some of them invariably made contact.

“Grenades on my mark!” he heard a Sangheili subcommander shout. This was followed a few seconds later by explosions and screams as phosphorus and plasma grenades detonated. The Spartan shifted out from behind his cover, exposing his upper body. The Glabrezu were charging towards him with great speed. He saw a fireball form on the claws of one, and opened fire on it. A five round burst tore its chest open and cooked its insides. It collapsed and rolled, crushing several Dretches. Another burst took the head off of the closest one. That was the last of them. It left only the medium sized ones, and the great big Balor.

He also remembered that there had been a second Bebilith around somewhere.

The thought had no sooner crossed his mind then a great blob showed up on his motion sensor. The Spartan again leapt to the side as the thing crash to the ground, and turned hissing and spitting at him. Its eight eyes glowed red with malevolence, and at the end of its hooked abdomen was what appeared to be a stinger. He fired a burst, and with surprising speed, given its bulk, it leapt onto a nearby wall. A few of the bolts hit, however, and the end joints of its rear left legs were vaporized by the impacts. It hissed and howled, shaking the limbs.

Helm hadn’t been kidding when he said that the blessings he’d bestowed upon the weaponry would make them wildly unpopular among the demons.

The Bebilith attempted to spit a type of webbing at him, but the Spartan easily evaded and returned fire. The creature didn’t manage to pull off its dodge this time, and took several rounds to its exoskeleton. A screech fit to wake the dead echoed throughout the cave and the thing lost its grip upon the wall of the cave. It again lunge forward and tried to spit its webbing at the Spartan. Again, the cyborg dodged it easily, weaving to the side while pumping a burst of rounds into it. One connected with its head, and blew half of what passed for its face off. Still it clung to life on the material plane, and managed to close the distance between itself and the Spartan.

It attempted to bite him with the shattered mess that was its fangs and jaws. The Master Chief reached out and grabbed the thing around one of its mandibles. Chemically enhanced, iron dense muscles, motorized servos, and the crystalline strength amplification layer of the Mjolnir armor kicked in, and he ripped the demonic spider off of the ground and slammed it onto its back. Almost simultaneously, he brought his armored boot down on top of it while firing into the exposed underbelly. Its screams were cut off with a loud crunch.

Whatever sense of triumph the Spartan had was cut off by another blob appearing on his motion sensor. He dropped to the ground and rolled as a fiery whip sailed out over his head and the whoosh of a sword reached his ears. This was followed by a harsh, grating word and a flash of light. A pain jammed through the Spartan’s skull, like something was inside trying to claw out his mind. He fought it off and flipped back up to his feet, orienting his plasma cannon.

It was the Balor. The thing had been watching him, seeing how he reacted, no doubt, and now had moved in to finish him off personally. Most likely, it had concluded that because he favored long range combat, his melee skills might not be as good. The Spartan responded by firing a barrage of plasma bolts into center mass. The awful demon howled as Its chest became pockmarked by fist sized holes. Any normal creature would have been killed instantly by the attack, but this wasn’t a normal creature. It snarled and unleashed a blast of fire from the hand holding the sword. The Spartan couldn’t move in time, and was enveloped by the firestorm.

A warning alarm trigger in the helmet, warbling in John’s ear that the external temperature of the environment had just spiked up towards six thousand degrees. He rushed out of the flames, his shields crackling around him as they dropped rapidly. Thankfully, the sensor suite onboard the armor allowed him to locate the Balor despite the steam and jets of vaporized rock around him. He continued to fire the weapon, and it howled in agony yet again.

The Spartan aimed for its massive head, and fired again as its whip lashed out and tried to ensnare him. Hells, the thing was fast, and durable. He dodged to the side, and continued to fire. While he had succeeded in injuring it, it was very apparent that the demon was far from finished.

John was anything but disheartened, though. Enemies that didn’t know how to die were the rule in the Spartan’s line of duty, rather than the exception. He fired another burst as his foe blurred forward, screaming for his blood in its unholy tongue.

[Trivia Freak]

The Master Chief grunted as he rolled out of the way of the Balor’s whip, firing off a number of plasma bolts into its face and torso. Around him, the vaporized rock filled the air with a scalding steam that would have cooked the flesh from any ordinary individual. But at the same time, it offered a blessing to him. The Drow would never spot him inside of this thermal spot, and the ambient temperatures caused by the Balor’s firestorm would likely render them nearly blind if they were to look this direction.

Another burst of plasma fire connected with the torso of the mighty demon, and the Spartan noted that it was having a minimal effect upon it, and the tiny holes that were being blown in its flesh only seemed to anger it. Logically, he had expected the Balor to be more resistant to the elements than its Glabrezu underlings; he had not anticipated resistance to this degree. It was time to change weaponry.

The Balor suddenly disappeared, and the Spartan tensed. He heard a faint pop of air behind him and lunged forward, curling up into a roll as he did so. He could hear the creature snarl, and felt a faint catch on his shielding as it crackling to life. Getting up to his feet, the Spartan flipped around, pulling his ASG-60 off of his back and aimed it at the target as he moved his cannon towards his back. A fully automatic fusillade of depleted uranium pellets streaked towards the target. Then they penetrated, seven rounds in less than a second, ripping huge, bloody holes in the chest of the creature. It roared in agony as the fire from the weapon forced it backwards.

The cyborg attached the plasma cannon to his back, and took hold of the foregrip of the shotgun. Able to grip it properly, he targeted the creature’s kneecap as it extended its hand to call on another firestorm. At the same time it spoke another arcane word, and another stab of pain went through the Spartan’s skull. It felt like someone had stuck a knife in his head and was twisting it around, and John nearly gasped in pain. Still, he fought through the haze of agony, and pulled the trigger again, dashing sideways as he fired at the mighty demon.

As his temperature gauge spiked to hellish levels once again, he unloaded on the beast. Through his polarized visor, he watched as a three shot burst from the shotgun ripped into the right leg at the kneecap. The demon howled and collapsed. His lowering shield bar forced him out of the fireball, but he kept track of where the demon had been. His motion tracker picked up movement, and he fired into the mass of steam and heat. A loud growl told him that he had hit his target, and he caught the blob of motion streaking to one side, far faster than a creature with a crippled leg should have been able to.

It had taken to the air. This fact was confirmed a few moments later when the demon emerged from the steam. Its eyes were motes of red fury and raw hatred, promising a thousand painful deaths for daring to wound it as he had. The Spartan ignored the glare, and instead moved to flank the creature. Lightning crackled off of the Balor’s dark sword, while its voice called up a series of words in quick succession. The cyborg evaded the bolt of lightning and opened fire again. He tore more gashes in the monster’s torso and one round blasted a large hunk of flesh from its upper left am. It managed to maintain its concentration, and completed its spell. A dozen glowing bolts leapt form its fingers and rushed towards John. Again, the Spartan attempted to evade, but these bolts tracked his movement and followed him unerringly. He recognized the spell: Issac’s Greater Missile Storm, a more potent and powerful variation of the Magic Missile combat spell.

All at once, the bolts slammed home. The explosive fury of their power drained his shields and blew him through the air, spinning him around like a child’s toy. He skidded backwards before flipping up to his feet, and he realized that there was something on the ground in front of him: the forward half to the plasma cannon he’d been carrying. The Spartan initiated a diagnostic on his suit to assess any damage as his shields recharged and he leveled his weapon.

A three shot burst echoed through the cavern. Again it howled in pain, and the Spartan grinned behind his enigmatic helmet as the pellets, moving at nearly three times the speed of sound, mulched the demon’s left wing. The creature tumbled to the ground, and landed on its wounded leg. The roar of pain that resounded from it grated at the Spartan’s mind and seemed to make his bones shudder, but he ignored it. It was time to finish the job. He sighted up the wounded leg, and fired another three rounds from the drum magazine. Already heavily damaged, the remaining blasts tore the limb in two, and the creature barely managed to catch itself.

“Status, Sierra?” He heard Cortana ask him.

“Engaged, assistance not necessary at the moment,” he growled, firing a double tap with the last of his ammunition that reduced the Balor’s sword hand to a bloody stump. It howled and dropped the blade. “Keep the others on the Drow, I’ve got this situation under control.”

“Roger,” the A.I. replied, as the Spartan began to move in towards his crippled foe.

The Balor was clearly becoming desperate, and it fired off a massive barrage of lightning. Some of the bolts connected and splashed against his shields. For a brief moment, the Spartan was grateful for his new armor and it’s rapidly recharging shields. The shields of his old suit probably wouldn’t have weathered the abuse so well. The Master Chief reached into his rucksack for a new ammo drum, ejecting the old one and letting it fall to the ground. As he began to pull a fresh drum magazine from within the enchanted sack, though, he noticed that the Balor was chanting again in its inhuman, grating voice. With no time to prime the weapon, the Master Chief blurred forward. He crossed the twenty meter distance between himself and the demon in less than a second, catching it off guard, before slamming his foot into its lower jaw. The force was enough to pick the two-ton monster up off the ground and send it flying nearly seven meters through the air. The Spartan jumped after the demon, and was surprised to find it trying to get back up again. That blow should have broken its neck.

No matter, he thought, as he brought his weight down on its chest, crushing the wind out of it as his left foot landed on its sternum, his right upon its neck. The Balor gasped in pain, its bloodied jaws open just wide enough for the Spartan to shove the barrel of his ASG-60 down its throat. A single squeeze of the trigger sent three rounds into the back of its head and the roof of its mouth. These were flechette rounds, and the deplete uranium razors fragmented, ripping apart the Balor’s brain and blowing the back of its skull out.

As dark blood and brains oozed out of the myriad of wounds that covered the corpse, the Spartan began to run. He had studied enough of Balors to know what happened when one of them was killed. Already, his sensors could detect the energy build up as the magicks holding the body together began to become violently unstable.

Four seconds later, it detonated with a titanic explosion that shook the tunnel to its bedrock. Supports collapsed, and a hundred tons of rock fell at ground zero, burying what ashes were left of the corpse. John knew that he had not killed the demon, not in the true sense. But what he had done was render it banished to its home plane in the Abyss for the next century or two. One way or another, it was effectively out of the fighting, and the Spartan reached down into his rucksack. Cortana had seen fit to issue him a few spares for his weapons, just in case they happened to be destroyed. He yanked out another plasma cannon, and returned to the battle.

From where he stood in the cover of the deep recesses of the cavern, Jarlaxle fought the urge to simultaneously whistle and gulp in terror. A Balor. The Dwarves’ pet creature had taken on not merely Glabrezu and Bebiliths, but a fully-grown, millennial old Balor in single combat, and defeated it utterly. Most of the Matron Mothers did not have that manner of power at their disposal.

What pact had the followers of Bruenor Battlehammer made to unleash such a creature?

He brought his whistle to his lips once more, and began to play the notes that would tell his followers to let the other Drow move to the forefront. A line had been crossed within the mind of the leader of Bregan D’Aerth. A creature that could fell a Balor was beyond him, beyond any of his soldiers. He would not send them to their deaths in a battle that could not be won.

More clanking reached the Dark Elf’s ears, and he covered himself in his cloak again. The flashes and the roars ripped throughout the cavern, followed by the sound of more of those strange blast globes detonating. When his ears stopped ringing and the spots in the back of his eyes had cleared, the mercenary looked up again. What he saw horrified him. The lines of the slave soldiers were collapsing before the might of the Dwarven forces and their allies. He caught sight of the creature, or what he believed to be it anyway. He could not see its body, but the weapon it used, and the trail of destruction that it unleashed was easy enough to follow. It was moving back towards the magi that were in league with the Dwarves.

Jarlaxle knew what was going to happen next, and made a decision then. Lolth could try and flay his hide a thousand times when she came for him in the Abyss, or wherever he was destined to go when he died, but he would be damned if he stayed huddled against the rock like a child shivering before Hook Horrors for one more second while he simply waited for that armored behemoth to come up and finish him off.

This should have been foreseen. A creature of that extraordinary level of might and power should not have gone unnoticed by the High Priestesses of Lolth and the Matrons of the Dark Elves. Matron Baenre, or one of the other leaders of the Ruling Houses should have spotted this thing in their visions.

Another blast of white-hot bolts ripped through the last remnants of the slave lines, followed by another volley of blast globes. Jarlaxle felt his back blister under the heat of the assault as he did his best to flee back into the darkness. The screams of the Dwarven Berserkers reached his ears moments later, and the cries of their falling foes changed from the brutish grunts of Orcs and goblinoids to the higher pitched screams of Drow warriors, male and female alike, being ripped to pieces. He looked back over his shoulder. Some of the Dwarves had fallen, maybe a quarter of their force, but he had studied enough about these Dwarves to know that was not a good thing at all.

Even as he watched, a Gutbuster took a saber across his throat. Bright blood spilled down the front of the little Humanoid’s armor and stained its beard a hot red in the infrared spectrum. The Dwarf went down to his knees, only to drive his axe up into the groin of his attacker as he stubbornly got back up to his feet. The male warrior screamed in agony as he fell, silenced swiftly by another blow that took his head off. Blood still spewing from the gaping wound, the Dwarf took his axe in both hands, and with all of his dying might, brought it down on the Drow that came up to replace the fallen soldier. The female, one of house Horrath’s finest, going by the pattern on her cloak, raised both of her swords to block the blow. It was a mistake. Against a normal foe, it would have rendered the attack impotent, but the strength of the beserker drove the axe onward, and it smashed through the defense, snapping both of the slender blades with its power.

Jarlaxle could imagine the girl’s face twisting into a mask of horror as the axe descended and buried itself into her chest.

Only then did the Dwarf stagger again, only then did it fall. Worse, upon seeing their comrade slip into Death’s embrace, roars went up from ever one of the shocktroopers. The scream echoed throughout the cave, picked up by other units as they realized that another of their brothers had fallen.

Jarlaxle remembered once, centuries ago, when Zacknafein had once joked that there were few things on Torril that were more dangerous than a Dwarf standing amongst dead kin. The Do’Urden weapon master had obviously never seen these particular Dwarves in action, or he might have had to rephrase that statement slightly. As the battle cry built to a crescendo, the Dwarven troopers set upon their foes with such a wrath and fury that the Dark Elven front seemed to disintegrate into a mass of flying blood and hacked body parts. Axes cleaved, hammers crushed, and the punches, kicks, body checks and head butts, mixed with the bladed armor that the Dwarves wore, shredded any unfortunate enough to encounter them.

Jarlaxle suspected that there might have already been as many as three or four thousand dead in the chamber if he included the slaves. There were more to the rear, and he could already hear the priestesses calling for more fodder troops to be sent up to try and bury the defenders with sheer numbers. Jarlaxle doubted their effectiveness, though. More blast globes hit as he fell back, letting other Drow troops skitter around him. More between him and the murderous opposition, he thought, as he turned and covered himself with his cloak. The concussions of the detonations rattled his bones, and the heat scorched his skin even through the cloak.

They were getting far too close for his liking. He needed to find a way to effectively disengage the opposition before they got too close to him. He frowned, and tried to fathom what to do as another wave of his people were cut down and slave troops began to replace them. He knew that the morale of the slave troops was nearly nonexistent, and only the priestesses at the rear kept them in line. As the first waves of goblins and kobolds began to falter and die before the hellish onslaught of the Dwarven troops and their strange allies, he knew this battle was lost. It was only a question of how long before the clerics of Lolth allowed themselves to realize that.

A wizard chanted some fifty paces to his left, only to be cut off in mid syllable as a burst of light connected with his defenses, ripped through them, and blasted his body to ash and vapor. Terror clutched at the mercenary’s heart for a brief moment before he could regain control of himself. He knew what was responsible. He could see it, the glowing weapon, far back against the cavern. The armored behemoth had flanked them again, and was tearing through their lines from one side while the Dwarves pressed up the center.

“Say hello to my little friend!”

A series of cacophonous bangs met his ears, and twisting, Jarlaxle could see that the loud mouthed trooper and a number of other demonic soldiers had flanked from the opposite end. The defenders now had a horseshoe shaped formation going, ensuring that they could inflict maximum damage in a short period of time. Both flanks were turned. If the Dark Elf had any doubt that this battle was at its end, they were now quashed.

Still the slaves fought on, still the blast globes fell and the beams of white-blue heat ripped his people and their conscripted soldiers to pieces. Death filled his nostrils, and he steeled himself against the nauseous stench of cooking flesh and hair.

Motion caught his eye as he heard one of the high priestesses step up and begin screaming to her underlings. It was a device that seemed to be a blast globe, but unlike the others, did not fall to the ground, but moved through the air as if kept aloft by magic. Unerringly, it streaked towards the priestess, glowing warmly in the darkness of the cave. She saw it coming, and attempted to dodge, but the object moved with her, and a half dozen spider like appendages burst from the part facing her. They dug into her face, and he heard her screech in pain as they punctured her flesh.

Jarlaxle swore, and dove behind another stalagmite. Though his contact with these other worldly warriors was brief, he knew enough about them to deduce that there was a high probability that this situation was going to end with a bang.

He had no idea how right he was.

The Master Chief watched from behind cover as the device sought out its target. The Haste spell he’d had Bidderdo recast allowed him to watch it in extraordinary detail. Cortana had taken the device and created it a few days ago. There were only a handful of them, but the ‘Antioch Grenade’ as it had been dubbed, promised to bring about a new age in decapitation attacks. Enchanted by magic to float and seek out the target that the thrower could see, it would head there and latch on.

He saw the hands of the Priestess drop her shield and her mace and reach up to try and pry the Antioch Grenade from her face. A beeping noise, barely audible, signaled that the grenade had armed itself. There was a flash, and in an instant, the flesh melted from her bones as she took a disintegration spell straight to the face. Screams of horror echoed through the lines and ranks, and there was a visible ripple as the troops struggled to move away from the collapsing skeleton, for fear that there might be more.

Those nearest to the priestess’ body did not live long enough to appreciate what happened when the second stage of the grenade kicked in half a second later, what occured when thermite based thermobaric explosives were mixed with holy magicks and blessings of Helm and Moradin. The Antioch Grenade beeped one final time, and the cavern shook as if a half ton bomb had detonated inside of it.

The blast range was more than forty meters in every direction. Orcs, Goblins, Kobolds, Gray Dwarves and Drow were incinerated in a white hot fireball. Those beyond its range were cooked by ambient heat, or crushed and broken before the power of the shockwave. Some unfortunates who managed to survive that were still alive to experience the powerful vacuum effects that came with the air being used to fuel the explosive punch and then rapidly attempting to return to the place it had occupied and reestablish its equilibrium. They had the unique experience of their last visions being their own lungs ripped out of their chests and flopping out against their mouths.

The morale of the Drow forces shattered like glass and they broke in all directions, fighting amongst themselves in their flurry to escape whatever hell the Dwarves had unleashed upon them.

As he ducked back into the tunnel with his surviving forces, Jarlaxle knew that victory might yet be possible, but it would depend upon the forces on the surface being victorious and flanking around the Dwarves and their allies.

--

High Captain Serinanna of House Detrianth lead her lizard riders up the sloping cavern floor. Her mount hissed softly as it felt the cool wind blow down upon its face, and it shook itself softly. The female growled and kicked the beast in the side. It hissed again, softer this time, and stopped its errant behavior. The cold weather might have been getting to the beast, being from a world where the temperature was almost a year round constant, but she would not allow its instincts to ruin her moment of glory.

A smile came to her face as the lizard came upon a rocky patch of ground, and maneuvered itself onto the wall of the cave, while behind the captain her sisters followed suit. She would lead the charge into the enemy lines, and seek out the blood of the Dwarven forces. Though it meant serving alongside slave troops, and there was a good chance that she would be killed, she knew that if she could break the enemy, that there would be an honored place for her at the side of Lolth when the battle was over with. Dreams of eternal glory caused her smile to spread wider, and before she knew it, the stars looked down on her from on high. It was a strange sight to see, she knew, marveling upwards at the greatest cavern in the world. She had studied the texts about the surface, though, and knew that within a few hours, those gentle, sparkling motes of light would fade away to a hellish burning sun.

They needed this done as quickly as possible. She had no intentions of being caught out under that thing. She paused and reached down to her belt, pulling a telescope up to her eye. They were still many miles off, but she could see the defenders down below, milling about in trenches. The High Captain snorted in amusement. They thought their feeble little dugouts would save them?

“Sibilus, can you sense anything?” she spoke in a voice that was just above a whisper.

“Not from this distance, milady. It is important to remember, though, that few human mages have the power to cast traps that would be detectable at this range, and the Dwarves tend to shun such practices.” the mage said, shaking his head softly under his cloaked visage. Underneath him, his lizard mount snorted. The mage was new to this sort of thing, and there hadn’t been time for his mount to get used to his scent.

“Then alert me when you do pick them up,” she hissed, drawing her blade. “Charge!” she shouted.

From behind, there was the crack of whips, and suddenly the slaves became quite eager to charge towards the lines of the enemy. Or at least, as much of a charge as things would get for the moment. No fool, with two or more miles between herself and the enemy, would openly charge now, the troops would be half dead from exhaustion by the time they got to the enemy lines.

The troops poured out tromped into the valley below. As the minutes passed, they formed up. The idea was to let the enemy see their numbers, and then let them tremble in despair as they realized that they could not possibly hope to defeat such a host. A smirk came to the High Captain’s face, and she became almost giddy with the thought of the pending bloodshed.

Other eyes watched her and her troops, though. Lord Nasher, surrounded by his Nine, gripped the hilt of his sword and stared down from the highest hilltop in the valley. Next to him was Lady Aulistriel, in her arcane chariot, ready to take to the skies and rain fire and fury down on the enemy. Down below, amongst the line of defenders was King Revajik. The old Barbarian had insisted among the defenders and fighting beside them. Others in that list included Captain Besnellof the Silvery Knights, the Neseme Riders, soldiers of Bryn Shander, Khulmar Ironfist and his fellows alongside the host of Battle Hammer Dwarves. Elven rangers stood side by side with Unggoy troops, Dwarves shoulder to shoulder with Neverwinter’s finest, and Ten Towns soldiers with the Plainsmen they had so long been at odds with. Towering above them all were the twenty odd Sangheili troops that had been committed to this fight.

Lord Nasher heard a rumbling to his right, and he turned to face Lotar. The mighty Hunter stood at its full height, more than twice the size of a man. The cannon on its right arm glowed an eerie green in the moonless night. There seemed to be a pattern to its sounds, and the Lord of Neverwinter realized that it almost sounded like some kind of singing. The creature, no, creatures, he reminded himself, were apparently prone to chanting battle poems of its kind during battle. He wondered what kind of effect that might have upon the Dark Elves, to see such a thing marching amongst them like an unstoppable force of nature, so calm, so serene.

He refocused his attention on the battle lines that the Drow were drawing up. Even now, he knew that the mortar teams were drawing up coordinates, and the Avenger, so many miles off, was preparing its deadly cargo for the optimum firing time. Warthogs and Specters lay at the ready, preparing to unleash hellish attacks on their foes while Pelican gunships and the Longsword fighter prepared for gun runs. The two Scorpions and the Rhino also stood ready. And, somewhere out upon those mountains, two more surprises awaited any Drow who sought shelter within the peaks and crags.

This would be a battle unlike any Faerun had ever seen, and it was something that Nasher knew, deep down, would change the face of his world forever. These Humans, brothers from beyond the stars, would forever alter history.

“May the gods of light and goodness be with us,” he whispered.

“And may we hold through the night.” Lady Alustriel whispered to his side.

Moment by moment, the enemy poured out of the cave. The host of the Underdark held everything that Nasher could have imagined as he brought a pair of ‘binoculars’ to his eyes. He zoomed the device in, and could make out the details of Orcs, Kobolds, Goblins, Gnolls, Minotaurs, Dreugar, Mind Flayers, Dark Elves, and a number of pet beasts they had brought with them. The host numbered in the hundreds of thousands, and seemed to fill the entire valley. Even as he watched, a number of shapes took the air, before transforming into their true shapes. Lord Nasher saw dragons, white and black, that had allied themselves with the cause of the Dark Elves. Demons began to appear as well, Bebiliths, Glabrezu, Dretches, six armed Marliths slithered amongst their ranks, while great, toad like Hezrous formed up on their outer flanks.

The host was numerous. The host was powerful. The host had no idea what was about to hit it.

They began to charge forward. Demons and Dark Elven cavalry lead the attack, lances poised down and at the ready. They made seemingly random leaps and turns as they closed, no doubt a mage among their ranks calling out magically concealed pits and traps. Just as planned.

“Enemy troop numbers at optimum levels,” Cortana spoke over the comlink that Nasher had inside of his right ear. “Avenger, fire at will.”

“Commencing firing.” The voice of the Sangheili on the other end of the line was disturbingly calm.

The Atoll missile typically carried a warhead that weighed the better part of a ‘metric’ ton, and could move at speeds approaching one mile a second, Nasher had learned. It would take them less than thirty seconds to cross the distance between their MLRS platform and their targets.

“Missiles away, commence reload, move, move!” the Sangheili shouted to his subordinates.

The front lines of the enemy were within one quarter of a mile of the first trenches. As he watched, one cavalry trooper or the occasional Demon here or there would find a pit that had been concealed by more mundane means, and Nasher smiled grimly at the thought of the wood and metal spikes impaling the individual. Images of the slaughtered village appeared in his mind, and he remembered how the Drow had butchered them without mercy, hesitation, or discrimination.

Vengeance was a subject that Tyr tread lightly upon. One was supposed to deliver justice and retribution, but not take personal pleasure in it. Rarely had the Lord of Neverwinter found that tenant harder to follow than at this moment.

A volley of arrow fire went up, sailing down amongst the enemy troops. A few hits were scored, but nothing major. Good. Let them think the resistance here paltry, the result of a last minute realization that the Underdark forces might attack from two fronts.

“Missile impact in six seconds,” Cortana spoke.

Everyone tensed, and Lotar rumbled softly. Nasher knew the creature lacked a face, but its body language as it hunched down to battle position seemed to indicate that it was smiling.

He never heard them, it was impossible at the speed they were moving, but he saw them for a few brief moments. The glow of their engines gave them away as they emerged from over the top of one of the mountains. Then, in what seemed nothing more than the blink of an eye, they were over the ranks of the enemy. The forty nine Atoll missiles streaked overhead, and then they went about their deadly work. The panels on the scatter missiles blew out, and each one rained dozens of deadly explosive rockets down upon the hapless Underdark army, thermobarics streaked down towards apparent command and control groups, standard high explosives sought out massive gatherings of Drow troops behind the lines of their slave soldiers, and a quartet of bunker busters streaked through the tunnel openings. All detonated within seconds of one another.

In one moment, it seemed as if a gateway to the deepest level of Hell had been belched forth onto the Material Plane. Midnight became day as the shockwaves from the missiles’ passing caught up with them and shook the valley as if the Gods themselves spoke condemnation upon the forces of the underworld that had dared to tread upon the surface.

Chaos manifested itself in the following few seconds as thousands of fragments of hypersonic metal turned men, women, and monster alike into so much warm meat and fireballs larger than any ever seen by mortal eyes came to life. Demons died in agony as fire consumed them and pressure waves smashed their bones to powder. Dark Elves left the mortal coil screaming in agony as the brightness burned their eyes from their sockets microseconds before shrapnel filleted them alive.

In one of the bloodiest moments in the history of all of Faerun, more than sixty thousand lives were instantly snuffed out.

“Initiate phase one defenses.” Cortana ordered.

“Initiating Divide and Conquer,” Commanders shouted back in return.

Heavy machine guns opened up, spewing barrages of depleted uranium at the first wave of now very confused Underdark forces. They fired in four second bursts, each of the tribarreled weapons sending sixty rounds tearing through the enemy ranks. Caught between the massive explosions to the rear and the sudden unexpected onslaught form the front, the Drow lost control of their mounts. Some bolted forward, and ran into the traps set by the defenders, falling in amongst punji sticks and coiled razor wire to die screaming agony as their own pain induced spasms shredded their bodies. Others turned and ran, to face similar fates as they fell into the magically concealed pits.

High Captain Serinanna attempted to regain control of the situation. She shouted out orders, threatened the curse of Lolth upon those who did not heed her words. Then she felt an impact and the next thing she knew, she was upon the ground. The right side of her body seemed strangely numb, and she tried to move her arm to get it to help her up. She found that she could not, and, puzzled, looked to see what the problem was. To her surprise, she discovered that she no longer had a right arm. The limb ended about two inches below her shoulder, and was nothing more than a mass of shredded flesh spilling blood out onto the ground. Strange that there was no pain, she thought, and tried to rise. It was only after that that she looked down and realized that she didn’t have a right leg either.

She felt cold suddenly, and very confused. Where was the pain, where was the agony?

The world seemed to slow around her, to where she could see everything crystal clear. Another of her comrades tried to take command, but just seemed to vanish into a cloud of blood. Up above, a light as bright as the hellish fireball that lit the surface world seared her eyes, forcing her to protect them with her remaining hand. She heard the scream of a dragon, and watched as a great white, sixty feet long, dove towards the enemy lines. Streaks of blue filled the air, and it seemed to… to just come apart.

The High Captain’s last realization in life was that the dragon’s large head seemed to be on a collision course with the area of the ground that she now occupied.

[Trivia Freak]

Lord Nasher nodded as he watched the great white dragon fly apart under the fury of the Dawn’s point defense weaponry. The skies would become death traps for the creatures now, and with any luck, would keep them from raining death down on the troops from above.

He raised his binoculars to his eyes and stared at the cave from which the Dark Elves and their vile allies had emerged. The night vision elements of the device adjusted as mortar systems sent burning phosphoric flares up into the air. The cave was buried now, hidden from sight by hundreds of tons of rock and stone. He smiled ferally. They were caught now. Nowhere to run.

But the battle was not yet over. The Drow seemed to realize that they had been caught with their pants down, and that their method of escape was cut off. Drow mentality was when chaos reigned and no orders were given, to run and hide, but if that was not possible, to fight. If luck was on your side, your ferocity might intimidate your opponent, cause him to make a mistake, or in extreme cases, destroy his moral as he faced what he thought was a suicidal berserker.

In this, though, he knew that the Drow would err. The people down below were not helpless farmers and sheep herders in a lightly defended village. They were men and women forged in the fires of battle and the carnage of war. They were united by the common knowledge that if they fell here, if they failed to hold the line against the tides of darkness, then their families would suffer for it, and evil would sweep over the land.

When the hordes of demon kind, Orcs, Goblinoids, Dark Elves, Mind Flayers, and other Underworld horrors rushed at them, they stood their ground and did not falter. They sent more bullets towards the rushing army, more arrows, and more spellfire. They shouted and they screamed with such a fury that the Lord of Neverwinter could hear them even above the din of the battle and the screams of the dying.

As one, the united forces of Men, Dwarves, Elves, and aliens shouted for their foe to come to the slaughter, on how they were spider spawned wretches, of how the defenders would send them to the tortures of the Abyss. By contrast, the Drow themselves were silent save for the roars of their allies and their screams of agony.

The Dark Elves and their allies surged forward, employing slave troops in the front to try and buffer themselves and the more powerful demons against the rain of high powered bullets and spells until the last possible second. At first, it seemed to work, and while the front lines of their slaves seemed to disintegrate into a bloody mess and the Drow themselves ran or rode over a sea of blood and body parts, they pushed themselves closer.

As they managed to move within two hundred yards of the initial line of defenders, though, two things occurred. The first was an unearthly screech, followed almost simultaneously by a boom that echoed through the canyon. Nasher winced at the noise, before looking up and searching for its source. He found it readily enough. The two Pelicans were hovering above the battle, more than a mile off of the ground. Then chinned their noses down, bringing to bear their mighty seventy millimeter gun and their missile pods. Valykrie missiles shot out a moment later, while a smattering of depleted uranium rounds impacted against the ground, targeting larger demons and what appeared to be command groups. The hypersonic rounds slammed into the earth, causing it to buckle and heave, while concussion waves and sonic overpressure crushed bodies and sent them flying through the air.

A Malrath and the Glabrezu under its command died instantly as one of the rounds, aimed by Cortana, rushed down from on high and penetrated through the top of its skull. Nasher was tempted to smirk as the second element entered the battle.

The clumping together of the enemy troops had made area of effect attacks ideal. Now well within range, turret mounted grenade launchers went into action. Four shot bursts sent fifty-millimeter projectiles screaming downrange, where they detonated with savage fury. Armor designed to withstand sword blows and arrow strikes offered no protection against supersonic UNSC metal. Men, women, and monster alike died and pieces of their shredded bodies went flying through the air, soaking their comrades with blood and gore.

The Covenant plasma mortars began to rain down their deadly armaments as lightning crackled through the sky. The plasma mortars glowed a deep royal blue against the night sky, almost beautiful in a haunting sort of way, like masterfully cut sapphires that had been hung in the air by the hands of the gods. The unearthly shriek that they gave off as they screamed towards the ground, however, would foreshadow their purpose. The first four exploded just as another bolt of lightning lit up the rumbling thunderheads above.

Everything within twenty meters of the impact zone was instantly vaporized, and the air shook as if lightning had struck at the feet of the Dark Elves.

“Initial bombardment successful, adjusting fields of fire and trajectory arcs.” A Sangheili Commander announced.

“Roger that,” Cortana said. “Accounting for adjustment. Lord Nasher. Requesting permission to bring the Scorpions and the Rhino tank into the battle.”

“Permission granted,” Nasher replied as he continued to survey the carnage before him. “Send them to the Abyss!”

Cortana’s reply was to fire the ninety and one hundred and twenty millimeter rail cannons on the three tanks. The UNSC had a large number of round types available for its heavy armor to use in battle, and while the Dawn’s armory had leaned heavily towards kinetic kill SABOT rounds and HEAT variants, there were a few rounds that were more optimized towards dealing with large numbers of infantry soldiers: Canister Rounds. Nicknamed ‘shredders’ by the tankers that used them, it was essentially a tank sized shotgun shell that sent bursts of grapeshot-like slugs downrange and make a hell of a mess out of anything smaller than a Hunter. These were programmed before firing by the targeting computer to explode at an optimum distance, allowing them to tear through lightly armored ranks of soldiers before detonating, thereby maximizing the lethality and efficiency of the round.

The first volley ravaged the front lines, tearing through a few ranks of slave soldiers before exploding in the Drow ranks. Dozens and scores of Underdark dwellers were killed as the slugs exploded into marble sized bits of metal and sent pieces of bodies raining down from the sky like some king of macabre rain.

For the third time in as many minutes, lightning crackled above and thunder rumbled.

“I wonder if the gods look down upon this battle,” Nasher said, his voice barely above that of a whisper.

“Yeah, all we need is a torrential downpour and the trope is complete,” Cortana said.

The A.I. construct had no sooner spoken than the clouds split open and water began to pour from the sky. Lord Nasher nodded approvingly. A torrential downpour would turn the ground to mud, and that would hamper the Drow’s forward movement.

There was a flash down amongst the ranks of the defenders, and the Lord of Neverwinter immediately cast his gaze down towards it. The Dark Elves were not foolish, and were quickly trying to adapt to the tactics of their enemies. A group of soldiers had hooked up with a wizard and a Cleric of Lolth, and had teleported themselves into the midst of the defenders, behind the murderous killing field in front of the machine guns and the automatic grenade launchers.

They appeared amongst the bowmen first, and the first few defenders were cut down before they had a chance to drop their longbows and draw their shortswords.

“Teleporters!” someone shouted over the taccomm.

“Roger that, directing support,” A Sangheili responded.

“Acknowledged!” the Barbarian said.

A group commander drew an assault rifle, and began firing bursts into the ranks of the teleporting enemies. Dark Elves dropped to the ground as fist sized chunks of flesh were torn from their bodies, while the wizard and the cleric hastily erected a shield over themselves. Nasher watched through his binoculars as the Plainsman kept firing the weapon into the shield, trying to keep the two spellcasters on the defensive and prevent them from getting off anything else that could kill his comrades. Meanwhile, streaks of light zipped in and finished off the melee fighters. The Unggoy then turned their attention to the casters, and a barrage of well placed shots from their modified carbines and plasma SMGs quickly ripped through the magical shielding and slaughtered the two Dark Elves.

But the secret was out. And handful of others had spotted the tactic, and now sought to employ it on their own. A group of demons came next.

“Glabrezu!” someone shouted.

“This is Sergeant Tanic of Fireteam Zulu, moving forward towards enemy incursion and requesting fire support from Foxtrot Company!” A black armored Unggoy called out, bracing a carbine against his shoulder and firing it in quick double taps at the large wolf-like demons.

The Humans that composed the requested company quickly complied with the request from their otherworldly allies, and began to fire bursts of depleted uranium at their unholy adversaries. The demons responded with arcane barrages, sending fireballs and bolts of lightning towards the second rank of defenders. Wards flashed to life, shielding the troops from the attacks, but Lord Nasher didn’t know how much longer they would hold. The men and women in the trenches, though, were quick to respond. One of the large demons howled in triumph as it scooped up a pair of longbow men from the first trench in its large, crab-like claws and quickly dispatched them, only to howl in agony as a fifteen round burst caused its chest to explode outward, leaving a hole large enough for two grown men to crawl through. Another one had its head taken off as a mark twenty-one grenade slammed into it and exploded.

Sergeant Tanic and the rest of his troops took out a third and a fourth in rapid succession as they adjusted the power feed on their plasma weapons to fire more powerful shots. But there were still three left, and they were inflicting horrific casualties Lord Nasher’s sole consolation was that the turreted weapons that were still firing into the main ranks of the armies were returning the favor several score fold.

“We need to discourage them from doing that,” Nasher snarled. “Cortana, is there anything you can do?”

“I’ve identified the larger demons would be capable of teleporting large groups of troops, and I’m going to take them out from the air. UAV feedback’s also reporting that there are a number of Dark Elf and Illithid wizards that are moving up along the slopes of the mountains. I suspect that they’re going to try and circumvent the defenders and try to force open the gates of the Hall.”

“I understand,” Lord Nasher stated. “What can you do about it?”

“Specialists Usze and N’tho have been dispatched to the area, and they’ll take care of the problem.” Cortana said over the roar of a volley of tank rounds. In the distance, another dragon screamed as it got too close to a Pelican, and the gunship turned its mighty cannon upon the creature.

“They are teleporting again,” Lady Alustriel said, and she flicked the reigns of her arcane chariot. “I shall go and assist the defenders.”

She was off in a flash, streaking like a comet towards the dark tides that sought entrance to Mithril Hall. Lord Nasher was somewhat nervous about her departure, but understood the necessity. While he and the Nine were now more vulnerable, for the greater good, it was necessary that she head over to the front and begin to erect warding against teleportation attacks.

He focused back on the battle with the Glabrezu, and nodded as he watched the Unggoy fireteam slaughter the last one. It went down with a roar, before its body faded into nothingness. So far, the line was holding, but this battle was far from over.

--

“Targets spotted, moving to position,” Uzse growled into his commlink. His HUD on his visor zoomed in on the targets, highlighting them for him.

The group was about one score strong, clad in robes and ghosting along the rocky mountainside, hovering over the gaps and crags that would have otherwise blocked their way. Uzse clacked his upper mandibles together in a frown as he watched them move. His jetpack could more than match what the Dark Elf and Illithid wizards were currently doing, but doing so would light him up like a torch before their heat seeing eyes. This mission would require stealth and proper timing.

He could not tell which of them was the most experienced, and therefore, the greater threat, but it seemed to him that according to the Drow’s combat philosophy the most likely individual would be the one that was in the middle of the group, surrounded by his subordinates which could be directed as he wanted, or, if need be, as living shields.

“Follow me, brother,” he whispered to N’tho. With their external speakers turned off, the two would appear like silent wraiths, communicating with each other on a level beyond the natural.

The two Rangers made their way up the side of the mountains, seeking an ideal alpha strike position.

“Targets at fifteen hundred meters and closing,” N’tho stated.

“Roger, monitoring your progress with the UAVs,” Cortana said to them.

“If this doesn’t work, have the tanks redirect their fire onto their positions.” Usze said. Cortana affirmed his call a second later.

The tanks had their hands full on crowd control, but the subsequent numbers of troops that would pour through the kill zone still had numerous lines of defense to push through. These casters were another story.

The two elites went prone as the targets moved inside of fourteen hundred and fifty meters, bracing themselves against a large boulder. The cooling systems of their armor were working perfectly, and they would appear to be nothing more than oblong protrusions on the rock from the distance at which the Drow were at.

“Sync fire on the leader, sustain until target drops,” Uzse said.

“Roger.”

“Sync in three, two, one,” the senior Ranger ticked off.

As one, the two squeezed the triggers on their particle rifles. A blue-white beam of ionized energy zipped out of the barrel, crossing the kilometer and a half distance between themselves and the target in a fraction of a second. The two beams hit six centimeters above one another, but failed to harm the wizard. A glowing ball of energy leapt outwards around him. Two more rounds impacted, but still the shield held. A sphere of darkness enveloped him, obscuring the vision of the two Sangheili snipers. They fired a third and a fourth time in rapid succession, the improved cooling systems of the mark two rifles keeping the weapon from overheating. A fifth volley entered the battle of darkness as the Illithids and the rest of the Dark Elves scattered, levitating, or in some cases, shifting to the Ethereal plane as they attempted to evade the fire from their adversaries.

The ball dissipated, and only then did the two soldiers see the cooling hunks of meat that had once been a Drow Wizard.

“Target one down, moving to new position to evade counter attack!” Uzse barked as he and N’tho got up and began to run along the rocks.

“Targets have shifted to Ethereal, prepping countermeasures!” N’tho stated, slinging his particle rifle over his back and drawing his plasma rifle. The longarmed energy weapon had had a GDS system bolted onto it, and the Elite was currently loading a grenade into it. The object looked different from a standard round, with the warhead part of the grenade almost looking as if it had been carved out of some kind of blue crystal.

It was another of Cortana’s creations, one of approximately two-dozen that she had been able to craft over the past couple of days. Within the crystal were powerful arcane elements that would create a temporary anti-magic zone upon the destruction of the crystal. The construct wasn’t entirely satisfied with the result, however, as the crystals were heavier than the standard grenade rounds that the GDSs had been designed for, resulting in a shorter optimum range.

A trio of lightning bolts impact the area that the two Rangers had just occupied, followed by a series of fireballs and glacial ice raining from the sky. Smoke and steam hissed in the rain as the spells destroyed the immediate area around the boulder, turning the rock itself into a half slagged pile of molten lava. Usze fired his particle rifle as he moved, picking off the wizards that were still on the Material Plane and had weaker defenses.

N’tho, meanwhile, judged the distance between himself and the targets on his HUD, factoring in wind speed, atmospheric conditions, and the approximate travel time of the grenade. In just a matter of seconds his foes would be in range of his grenade, and then it would be time to resume the slaughter. The younger Ranger growled softly, his four mandibles twitching behind his helmet. He focused his attention on the squid faced Illithids. The mind flayers would be the most dangerous target, now that the lead wizard was down. Their psionics would allow them mental communication on a level that rivaled that of the Neo Covenant forces and the UNSC, giving them the ability to adapt to a situation that their Dark Elven allies simply couldn’t match.

He raised his rifle, and fired as they crossed into maximum range.

“AM grenade is airborne,” he announced as he switched back over to his particle beam rifle.

“Roger, I see it,” Cortana responded. “UAV is tracking. Impact in two.”

As the crystalline device sailed in and impacted, the magic contained within came to life. Anti-magic spells flared and rendered any enchantment within a twenty-meter are ceased to be. Robes that were enspelled to be as powerful and protective as the most potent of dragonscale became ordinary silk. Blades that could cleave through rock and pendants that could channel the fury of the Weave became nothing more than trinkets and ordinary weapons. And those who traveled the ethereal planes suddenly found themselves yanked back onto the Prime.

“Targets viable, fire for effect!” Usze said as he sighted up the first target, a Mind Flayer that seemed somewhat larger than its comrades.

The beam crossed the distance between shooter and target almost instantly. The Illithid barely had time enough to realize that it was no longer safe from its hidden foes before the beam tore into its chest. Its heart, lungs, bones, and flesh were flash-vaporized and there was suddenly a hole in its torso large enough to fit a basketball through. The four tentacles around its mouth flailed widely and its eyes bulged as it slumped to the ground. Its last vision was of more of its comrades joining it in death as blue white streaks raked through the group.

“Illithids down, switching to Drow,” N’tho stated calmly as he ran up the steep slope, seeking a better firing position as he tried to site up which of the targets would be the best ones to strike at.

Back at the command group, Lord Nasher continued to survey the battlefield through his binoculars. A frown marred his face as he observed the melee down below. The majority of the Drow army and their unholy allies were being stalled by the fortified defenses, but there were still issues that kept cropping up. While initially there had been only a few scattered incursions by the enemy, some of them seemed to be catching on. Groups of wizards and Demons were popping in among the lines with increasing frequency, and lady Alustriel could not keep her wards up, or cover enough of the battlefield to keep them all contained.

There was a sudden crack, and the next thing that the Lord of Neverwinter was aware of was of a great weight slamming into him. The binoculars went flying from his hands as he was smashed into the ground and something whistled overhead.

“Incursion, incursion among the command group!” He heard a voice shout through a tactical comm. system. Sounded as if it was Sir Neville.

Lord Nasher looked up, reaching for his sword as he saw a group of Dark Elves and Illithids in front of him. They appeared to be elite troops, judging by the adamantine plate armor that they were wearing, and that they were all females. They bore the mantel of House Baenre, and their red eyes spoke promises of death and worse. His guards rushed forward to protect him, while to his left, a great, resounding roar shook the area, rattling his bones. Lotar was on the move. The massive Lek’golo broke into a run, bending down and bringing its massive shield down in front of it. Around it, Drow soldiers attempted to dive out of the way and move to flank, but there were some that underestimated the speed at which the mighty Hunter could move. One such Dark Elf, an officer by the look of her equipment, looked as if she were going to attempt to vault into the air, possibly in an attempt to land on the creature’s shoulders.

Lotar lashed out with his shield, smashing the female dead on. The one thousand kilogram device shattered every bone in her body and sent her catapulting through the air as if she’d been hurled by a Fire Giant. Another such Drow made a dive, slipping underneath the massive shield, only to find herself crushed beneath the Lek’golo as it raised its armored leg and smashed it into the ground. This was followed by a high pitched whine as Lotar’s fuel rod cannon charged up. The green white beam screamed through the air a moment later, striking the Drow that were on the outer edges of the combat group. They were vaporized before they even had a chance to scream.

The rest of the guard fared less well as Lord Nasher was helped to his feet. Crossbow bolts, magically enchanted to have their heads sharpened beyond the craft of ordinary smiths, were launched from tiny handheld crossbows and punched through the mithril armor of the first ranks. Neville took one in the gut, standing in front of his lord and leader, but found the strength to fight through the pain and let out a defiant scream, daring the Dark Elves to come to their deaths and be slaughtered. Another one, Chelsie, took a bolt through the throat and slumped to the ground as she attempted to cross swords with one of the Underdark soldiers.
There was a second crack, and he saw another group teleporting in. This one was even larger, and had a number of Grey Dwarves and larger Minotaurs in it. The Lord of Neverwinter shouted a curse, and quickly informed Cortana of the situation.

“Roger that, I see them,” the A. I. Responded. “I’ll see what I can do. Redirecting HPMG fire to the outer fringes, and vectoring a Specter onto your location.”

“Make it fast!” Lord Nasher said.

He remembered the sidearm that he carried, and reached down for the large pistol. He aimed it at a Drow cleric who seemed to be in the midst of casting a spell and pulled the trigger twice. An arcane shield flared to life around her as the high caliber round smashed against it and detonated. Growling to himself, the Lord of Neverwinter kept firing, remembering that the pistol carried twelve rounds in its clip. At round four, the shield seemed to falter. When the sixth round hit, the faint bubble vanished, and he smiled in triumph as the cleric finished waving her hands and pain shot through him. He screamed in agony as every nerve in his body seemed to light up as if it were aflame. As he did so, his fingers twitched and squeezed the trigger twice more.

As Lord Nasher slumped to his knees, he saw the cleric suddenly fly to pieces as if struck by the wrath of Tyr himself, while a cacophonous bang accompanied the flying body parts. The remnants of his Nine formed a circle around him as the Drow pressed forward. Two of the Nine drew submachine guns and fired bursts of high powered rounds into their ranks. It pierced their armor and tore hunks of flesh from their bodies, shredding their internal organs, while HPMG fire racketed through the group and ripped a trio of Minotaurs to pieces.

Lotar roared again and leveled its massive cannon. An entire squad of troops were slain in an instant, followed swiftly by the wizards launching fireballs and lightning bolts against the Hunter. Lotar’s armor, though, was designed to withstand firepower that could destroy a UNSC tank, and it easily shrugged off the arcane attacks, firing another shot into the enemy ranks, removing those that it could. Then they were too mixed in with the surface natives that it was supposed to be protecting. It would need to resort to melee combat.

Fortunately, Hunters were excellent close combat fighters as well. Lotar rushed forward, shrugging off psionic attacks from the Illithids that were present and slamming into their lines like a rampaging Tarasque. The ranks of the enemy soldiers scattered like bowling pins in a desperate attempt to put distance between themselves and whatever this armored hell knight was. Some were more successful than others, and a few brave souls sought to flank the beast, thinking to strike it from behind.

They could not understand that what they were dealing with was a creature so alien to them, so unlike anything that they had dealt with, that flanking was of no use. The thousands of symbiotic lifeforms that made up Lotar’s collective being sensed their footsteps, and the creature would have smiled if it had had a face. As the Dark Elves charged in, the eight spines of Lotar’s armor suddenly sprung up and out, twisting around before they dove in. The lead Drow was impaled through her throat, while her closes companion’s last sight was that of a massive spike descending towards her head. The third Dark Elf stopped short of the range of the spines and lashed out with two swords, slamming them against the armored spikes with all of her strength. They gave a resounding chink, and bounced off without so much as a scratch. Seeing that her attack had been ineffective, the Dark Elf leapt backwards, attempting to put distance between herself and the beast that she fought.

Her decision was wise, but she was not fast enough to evade the counter attack. Lotar blurred around, his shield perfectly level with her body. She was struck hard, and her broken body sailed through the air, crashing to earth a hundred feet away. The Hunter clamped its spines down, sending more of them into the bodies on its back, before violently separating the appendages. The corpses were torn to pieces, and gore dripped down off of the back of the massive beast, mixing with the rain to make it look as if a river of blood flowed from its back.

Lotar let out another roar and spread his spines wide, before jumping back into the melee. Few people unfamiliar with the capabilities of a Lek’golo would have ever guessed that such a being was even capable of jumping, let alone the distances that it could. Two foes, a Dark Elf and a Gray Dwarf, were crushed beneath the Hunter as it slammed into the earth, its large bulk causing the ground itself to shake. All around it, people staggered and struggled to recover their balance. The Hunter took full advantage of this, striking with its shield and using its fuel rod cannon as a club.

Lord Nasher prepared himself for the fight of his life as he stared around, and prepared himself for death. Bullets and plasma weapons still raked into the enemy forces, but more were coming. In front of him, Sir Neville was still on his feet, and forced both of the blades of his adversary away from him before slamming a mithril plated fist into her face. Bones could be heard crunching and the Dark Elf went down. Only to have another fighter immediately step up and fill her place. Nasher saw an opening, and ducked down, firing his pistol underneath Neville’s upraised arms. It slammed into the Dark Elf’s gut, and penetrated her armor like it was parchment. The depleted uranium round exploded a split second later, ripping her body in half and showering everyone with gore.

Another being teleported in, resembling a male Drow, but Nasher felt there was something different about this Dark Elf. His thoughts were interrupted as the being smiled and extended his arms. Four of the Nine were suddenly catapulted into the air flying off, screaming as gravity reclaimed its hold upon them and they descended towards the surface of Faerun. Lord Nasher took a step back, as did sir Neville and the other two of his bodyguards that were still left.

The being smirked again, and laughed, before letting out a roar that could not possibly have been from the mouth of a mortal. Bones cracked, and in the blink of an eye, the form of the man shifted. Where once there had been an elf, now there stood a sixty foot long black dragon. Its eyes burned white with rage and hate, and acid dripped from fangs as long as a man’s arm. Neville stood his ground, ready to die to protect his lord, his face twisted into a mask of pain as blood oozed out of the crossbow wound in his stomach.

The dragon’s head lunged forward like a striking snake and the valiant knight never even had time to scream before he was torn apart like a hunk of meat. Nasher said a silent prayer as he raised his pistol and fired the remainder of the magazine at the beast. The obsidian wyrm had not anticipated that a weapon wielded by a mere Human could give it such a sting, and recoiled as fist sized chunks of flesh were blasted out of its body. Snarling, it began to inhale, and Nasher knew that it was preparing to launch a stream of acid that would eat through his armor and turn his body into a puddle of unidentifiable liquids on the ground. He ejected the clip from his pistol, and loaded another one. If this thing was going to kill him, he at least intended to leave it with a few scars to remember him by.

He leveled the M6D and lined the pistol up with the dragon’s large eye. There might be a chance that the high explosive round could tear through the eye and the explosive payload onboard could rip into the brain. At the very least, rendering it temporarily half blind would be a crippling blow to the creature.

It opened its mouth, and Nasher saw the stream, darker even than the dragon that was spitting it, start to move towards him. He fired one round, and resigned himself to a painful, if swift, death.

Another object moved, massive and hulking, shifting itself in front of him. It was Lotar. The Hunter took the stream of acid head on, shielding the Lord of Neverwinter with its armored body.

“Specter-Zero-One, they need you there yesterday!” he heard Cortana scream over the mike.
“Moving as fast as we can ma’am, getting support calls everywhere!” was the response.

Nasher understood the problem. The teleporting Demons and Dark Elves would require that the high-speed units like the Specters and the Warthogs would be needed everywhere. He, ultimately, was not necessary to the survival of the free peoples of the surface. Keeping as many guns on the advancing army as possible was.

The stream of acid ended, and Lord Nasher looked up, ready to do what he could to avenge Lotar.

Only to find that there was little avenging that would be necessary. The Hunter roared, and leveled its fuel rod gun with the dragon’s head. There was a green flash, and an unearthly boom. When the light cleared, Nasher looked around the massive armored form and saw that the Dragon’s head had been blown off, and most of its neck vaporized by raw power of Lotar’s weapon.

“This position is no longer secure. Recommend evacuation of Lord Nasher and surviving members of the Nine,” Lotar rumbled.

“Agreed. Diverting Pelican number two to that position. Hold for ten,” Cortana said.

“What about Lotar?” Nasher asked. He wasn’t sure if the Hunter could fit inside the Pelican. As he spoke, the beast turned and fired its arm cannon one more time. The ranks of the enemy were now scattering, as it seemed that the dragon’s death was having a rather negative effect upon their morale. The creature turned, and then the Lord of Neverwinter saw that the attack had not been totally shrugged off. Its shield was pockmarked and full of deep pits, while the front of Lotar’s armor plating was discolored, faded to a pale gray. Steam from the dissolved metal floated off of the enormous creature and Nasher was unsure if it would survive another such barrage, to say nothing of what would happen if the Hunter was ever to be caught unawares and get splashed by such an acid before it could withdraw completely into its armored shell.

“We will make our own way,” the Lek’golo rumbled.

Nasher nodded as he threw himself into one of the Pelican’s seats and strapped himself in. The door closed behind him, and the last thing that he saw through the porthole before the gunship blasted into the air was the Lek’golo turning and firing off another barrage before it began to rush towards the defensive trenches.

--

“What is the news from our fronts?”

The voice belonged to Matron Baenre herself. The withered Drow matron tapped her fingers together as she sat on her hovering throne deep underneath the tunnels of Mithril Hall. Her crimson gaze was narrowed at Methil, her Illithid companion who acted as the emissary between the two races. His tentacles twisted back and forth in agitation, as if he was irritated with something. Then his voice entered her mind, cool and liquid like.

“Matron Hesken-P'aj Symryvvin is reporting trouble in the tunnels, and Gromph is reporting heavy casualties and little progress on the surface. The Surface dwellers are putting up a surprising amount of resistance, and they are employing weapons that spit fire and summon thunder.” The Mind Flayer said.

The head of House Baenre narrowed her eyes until they were nothing more than red slits. Her wrinkled face became a mask of displeasure and barely controlled anger. The will of Lolth demanded that the surface be conquered in her name, and conquered it would be. She knew, though, that there would be blood shed for these delays. Her lips pressed together, and at last she opened her mouth.

“Connect me to those two,” she said.

Methil nodded his head, and in a moment, the old woman’s mind was connected to her son and the other Matron. Matron Hesken stood surrounded by a number of high priestesses, pouring over a map drawn in special heat reflective ink. She was issuing orders to her subordinates, who were in turn attempting to relay them telepathically to the troops fighting in the tunnels. Matron Baerne felt a rise of irritation in her mind, as though the anger and frustration of the other Matron was filtering over into her mind.

Hesken stiffened suddenly, and realized that she was not alone in her mind, that the leader of all Menzoberranzan was within her head.

“My Lady,” she said with a small voice. Baenre could feel the fear in her. She was failing.

“Matron Hesken, you are a veteran of a dozen House conflicts, could you please explain to me why you have not smashed the Dwarven defenses?”

“Matron Baenre, the enemy is more numerous than we anticipated, and they fight—“

“You outnumber the Dwarves and their wretched allies more than a hundred to one!” the Dark Elf roared within her mind. “You have at your disposal the best of all the Underdark. You have my own troops at your disposal. By all that Lolth deems holy, you should have swept the Dwarves aside like they were insects!”

“I know, Matron Baenre. I know. But at every turn we are assaulted by strange soldiers armed with stranger weapons. The fight us with devices that can slay dozens before they can even get close to the target, move like wraiths, and at least one of them has stood toe to toe with a Balor and its host and crushed it!” .

“So send more than one Balor,” The head of House Baerne was tempted to roll her eyes. How could someone that foolish claw her way to the top of a House, let alone one of the Eight? She shook her head and continued. “Find a way to move forward and crush the opposition. If this one foe is too much for your… abilities to handle, then flank around it and attack a weaker position. Once we take the Undercity, we can turn the Dwarves own defenses against them. I want our wizards teleporting reinforcements inside of that place within two hours.”

She let the rest of the message go unsaid. Matron Hesken knew enough of the ways of Lolth to understand that never before had she failed the Spider Queen, she would nevertheless only be allowed to fail once. Perhaps the thought of an eternity of torture in the Abyss at Lolth’s hands would be enough motivation for the Matron to get things moving.

Now, she had to deal with her son. Typical male, always bungling things.

The mind of her son opened up to her and before her stretched the hills and valleys that lay outside of the massive gates of the Hall. Gromph was closer to the action that Matron Hesken had been, though he was still some miles off, surveying the battle before him by means of a scrying spell. From her position within his mind, the ancient Drow had a front row seat to the carnage that raged unchecked across the surface. Within the sky hung glowing stars shooting up from the mountain, illuminating her forces to the night blind Humans. Then, before her eyes, there was a flash of fire and she saw troops engulfed in flame and ones beyond that shredded into piles of flesh.

The Matron of House Baenre raised her eyebrows slightly as she looked on at the sight. Her eyes peered through the torrential downpour that now coated the landscape in a deepening field of mud. More flashes sprang up near other troops, and before her eyes, entire companies were ripped apart by whatever weapon the defenders had unleashed. She was unaware of any Human magi that would have that kind of power, and briefly wondered what could be the cause of the damage.

Gromph was apparently aware of her prying into his mind, because he began to sweep his scrying along to other areas of the battle. She saw lines of slave troops pressed against the group, crawling through rivers of blood and over and around piles of bodies. Mere inches above their heads, white hot bolts flew past, moving so swiftly that the Drow Matron could scarcely believe such a velocity was possible, let alone that it could be generated at the speeds these strange weapons were creating them.

An Orc stood up and began to charge towards the lines, and almost before Gromph’s scrying bowl could focus in on him, he was struck by some invisible force. Hot lifeblood blasted out of the corpse as the body was ripped in twain, the Orc’s life snuffed out as if by the wrath of some deity. Up above, a young white dragon used its magic to teleport above the lines and began to dive, cold frost collecting around its jaws as it prepared to unleash its killing breath upon the defenders. Streaks of heat came from somewhere out near the horizon, and in the blink of an eye, the Dragon was rent asunder, its body shattered and reduced to giblets. Something flew by then, black against the night, like a living shadow. It was a blur to the Matron, visible only because of the heat that it was producing out of its back end. She caught a brief glimpse of its true form, like that of a widened arrowhead, before the object sailed towards the heavens, and was out of sight in the blink of an eye. A series of loud, booming shockwaves was all that was left in its wake.

Still Gromph remained silent, as if waiting for the shouting that he knew was coming, for the subtle threat against his life.

“Gromph, have your wizards begin to summon elementals, try and use them to block the force of the weaponry the Dwarves and their allies are using. Instruct the Dragons to remain hidden among the normal troops and act as teleporters for our shock troops. The demons that can do so are to assist in this as well.”

“As you command it, my Matron. Are there any other tasks that you require for me and my subordinates to perform?”

“What of your wizard strike teams?”

“Slaughtered almost to the last neophyte. A single survivor spoke of some hunter that could somehow evade our sight and render spells useless in the blink of an eye. It, or they, wiped them out, the Illithids as well.”

“Prepare the next wave. Have them summon Umber Hulks. See if the brutes can burrow their way into the main entrance hall. Perhaps if we can evade these outer defenses we can open up yet a third front for the defenders to have to spread themselves over.”

“As Lolth wills it.”

With the mental equivalent of a bow, Gromph began to carry out his orders. Still, for one of the few times in her millennia long life, Matron Baenre was ill at ease. She tapped her fingers in front of her nose and sat back against the marble backing of her hovering throne. Five of her twenty daughters milled around her, while a full company of her elite troops and a number of demons defended her person. Still, she was uneasy about the way that things were going. Her troops should have stormed over the Dwarves and their allies like a great flood. Yet they were stonewalled by arcane weaponry more powerful than anything she had seen before short of a god’s wrath.

Was that it, then? Did some deity protect them? Had Moradin himself opened his armory and handed out weapons and artifacts? Or was this something else entirely?

Her thoughts drifted to what Brianna had shown her during the early stages of their plans, of the green armored fiend that had slaughtered the Orcs at will, and shortly thereafter, presumably the High Priestess herself. There was something new here, something that she, in all her centuries of life, had never before borne witness to. She didn’t like it. Still, she would not despair, she would adapt. She would find a hole in their defenses and crush them.

“Methil, send word to Gromph that the cavalry and the slave troops are to spread out and attempt to flank the primary defensive lines of the surface forces. Have wizards and clerics begin to summon other monsters, and use them as distractions and shields for the rest of our forces.” She said, casting a glance at the Mind Flayer.

Methil nodded, and his tendrils twitched slightly round his fang filled mouth.

The Matron of the mightiest house in all the Underdark relaxed a little then. She had underestimated the defenses that the Dwarves would mount. Nothing more than that. They would be crushed, and soon, the surface world would be theirs. From there, all of Faerun, and then all of Torril itself, would slowly be shackled and broken before them. All would acknowledge that the Drow were supreme and destined to rule this world. As the mortals were broken and bent to Lolth’s will, her power would grow, and that of the other gods and goddesses would wane until they were naught but faint memories, powerless fools who would either submit themselves before the Spider Queen, or be destroyed and their spirits cast out into the Astral Sea.

Yes, yes, a minor setback, that was all this was. All grand plans had them. Once inside the hall, her superior forces would overwhelm the Dwarves, and that would be that.

[Trivia Freak]

Wulfgar stared out at the battleground that the land in front of him had become. The stench of death and fire was thick and heavy in the air, and the Plainsman narrowed his eyes. He stood waist deep in a trench, behind a maze of coiled razor wire and a deep pit that hugged the outer flanks of the defenses. Aegis Fang hung at his side, while in his hands he carried a scoped MA5B. The cold rain pelted his body and soaked him to the bone, but adrenaline kept him from feeling the biting chill and kept his mind focused on the Drow and their fiendish allies.

“They’re moving around us.”

He looked over to see Revajik there, leaning heavily on his spear. The aging Barbarian king had insisted on being down in the thick of the battle with his people, in order to give the ‘southerners’ a proper idea of how a king lead his forces. Wulfgar worried for his mentor’s safety, but knew in his heart that nothing could have deterred the elderly man for taking a stand like this.

This kind of epic battle was the stuff of legends. Any member of the Tribe of the Elk would be willing, some even eager, to die in a battle of this nature. In the back of his mind, Wulfgar was aware that things could still go wrong, that they might all wind up dead. So far the defenses had held and beaten the Dark Elves and their slaves back, but all that could change. One slip up, one careless miscalculation, and it would all be over. He had watched Drizzt in action to know that with most Drow, your first mistake was your last.

Even so, there was comfort to be taken, grim though it might be, over the casualties that had been inflicted. The young man suspected that the battlefield was littered with tens, if not hundreds of thousands of corpses. Even if they won, the Drow would not soon forget how costly this battle was.

“Cortana, what is the status of the underground battle?” Revajik asked, speaking into a tactical communicator that was looped over his ear.

“Going well so far. Drow assaults towards the Undercity are being pushed back, and they’ve taken heavy causalities trying to brute force their way past the fifties. I’ve calculated approximately forty three thousand, two hundred and fifty six kills among their forces. Of those, about one quarter are actually Drow soldiers. The rest are slaves or demons.”

“I see,” Revajik said, before rubbing a hand across his chin. “I’d hoped for more.”

“It takes the Drow decades to replace a soldier lost in battle. We’ve probably killed more tonight than inter-house warfare has in the past half millennium,” Wulfgar spoke up.

“Correct,” Cortana stated. “By the way, I’d get ready. The Drow look like they’re about to start attempting flanking maneuvers.”

Wulfgar nodded his head, and brought his rifle up to his shoulder.

“Make yourself ready, my soldiers,” Revajik said, raising his spear into the air. “The enemy draws nigh. Let us send them scurrying back into their dark holes!”

A hearty cheer went up among the Barbarian troops, and they prepared themselves for war. Wulfgar looked twenty paces to his right, where one of their younger warriors stood behind a heavy machine gun, tracking the enemy through his optical sighting on his helmet. Wulfgar nodded in approval. The young man was alert. Wise. Very wise.

In the distance, Wulfgar heard a faint roar, and looked over to see, about two miles distant, the hilltop upon which Lord Nasher stood. A moment of fear filled him as he watched a massive black dragon unleash a torrent of acid.

“No!” he hissed, tightening his grip upon his weapon.
A bright lance of green cut through the stormy night, and he realized that the Hunter that had been protecting Lord Nasher had unleashed the terrible fury of its fuel rod cannon upon its adversary. One shot was all it took, and the dragon fell dead.

“Remind me never to anger one of those things,” Revajik muttered, “and try to find out how they make those… cannons,” he stumbled over the foreign word for a moment.

Wulfgar nodded, noting that a Pelican came in and picked up the Lord of Neverwinter and his remaining guards. Then he noticed that there were other troops, moving against the background. Drow cavalry. He brought his scope up to his eye, looking through the telescopic device. A laser based rangefinder on the left side of his rifle pinged the enemy troops at being approximately fourteen hundred ‘meters’ distant from where he was. It was outside of the effective range of his rifle, but not the machine guns, and both the one next to him, and another further down the line, tracked their movements.

They held their fire though. Like the front trenches, the flanking ones were surrounded with large numbers of traps, and those would be most effective if the Dark Elves hit them as a single unit. Only then would the machine guns try chewing them to pieces. Just as well, he supposed. He remembered the tales that Drizzt told of his people. The cavalry was the elite force of the Underdark, the Drow’s most feared and vicious fighters.

“All defensive units remain alert. Enemy troops are beginning to teleport in with increasing frequency. Priority targets remain Balors, Malariths, and Glabrezu, in that order,” he heard Cortana speak into his tactical comm.

The huge muscles of Wulfgar’s arms tightened into knots, and more adrenaline began to flow as he felt the battle draw close. He peered down the scope of his rifle yet again, noting the cavalry turning towards them. He remembered the details of the defenses of this region. At the rate they were traveling, they’d hit the traps in a matter of seconds.

Nine hundred meters out, the first traps went off. Well disguised pits opened up into yawning chasms, swallowing whole sections of troops. Their screams were lost to the noise of battle, but Wulfgar knew that the sharpened spikes down below would be the death of many. Some of them, Dark Elven nobles, he supposed, reacted fast enough to levitate themselves up, slicing through their harnesses on their lizards as they did so. Others attempted it, but were not fast enough. The straps of leather that were meant to keep them on their cave lizard when the creature was crawling along walls or up on roofs betrayed them, sentencing them to a horrid death.

Still they pressed on, trying to obey the orders that they had been given and spread themselves out. As they evaded or moved past the pits, they ran into the next stage of the defenses. Ground pressure and vibrations set off hidden mines. Some of them exploded on the ground, ripping apart the mounts of the cavalry, while others sprang up into the air and exploded at chest height.

The noise of the explosions drove some of the mounts into a blind panic, and their riders struggled to control them in the chaos. Cavalrymen and women smashed into one another, mounts collided got tangled up into a hissing ball of fangs and claws. Still others who by luck or skill avoided the minefields found themselves subject to the Harpell Clan’s ingenious, if eccentric, arcane traps. Wulfgar watched as a bolt shot up through the ground, impaling the foot of a lizard. The creature reared back to hiss, only to freeze as the spells of a petrifaction spell took hold, and turn the creature into a statue. The Rider gave a cry of alarm, and hurriedly worked to free himself.

Another group, led by a Dark Elven officer, rushed headlong into an area defended by a time delayed fireball spell. A ten meter wide fireball engulfed them. Those as the center were vaporized or blown to pieces by the flames or the concussion of the blast, while those on the outer reaches of the spell flailed about horridly as fire ate at their flesh and hair. Others stumbled into pits of acid that had been hidden along the ground.

Those who managed to get past those and get to within seven hundred meters faced a final challenge. As they entered that range, they crossed another hidden barrier, and found themselves in yet another minefield, this one filled with incendiaries. Phosphoric and thermite based flames filled the air as they detonated. Now it was the Drow who learned the horror of these weapons. The water that fell from the sky did nothing but spread the fire and fill the air with steam that cooked flesh off of the bones of the attackers.

“Support, can we get a little bit of light over here?” Revajik asked.

“Copy that, flares inbound. Hold ten,” Cortana replied.

Just as the construct said, within a few seconds, the battlefield was as brightly lit as it would have been under a noonday sun. Screams of agony came from the Drow as their sensitive eyes were assaulted, and many thrashed about, clutching at their eyes. Some dropped spheres of darkness over themselves, trying to block out the hateful light, but they found themselves trapped within the sphere, unable to move forward out of fear of scorching fury of multiple flares.

A few of them broke ranks, trying to make their way all the way around the edge of the trenches and completely flank the defenders. There was only one attempt at this, as Cortana, ever watchful, blasted the group with a burst of canister rounds from the tanks. A trio of plasma mortars fell after that, enveloping anything that had survived the tanks’ fury.

Wulfgar wondered when there would be another missile volley. He knew that the Avenger had to be reloaded by this time. What was Cortana waiting on?

In truth, the answer was simple. The A.I. construct watched the battlefield. She observed the patterns that the attackers were using when they gathered together before initiating a teleport. Lady Alustriel had done a good job in erecting her wards and spreading the message to other magi that were present to begin doing the same. Cortana estimated that approximately sixty percent of the battlefield was now immune to teleportation action, while most of the remaining areas were directly in front of the ‘meat grinders.’ The area of overlapping fields of fire that the HPMGs and automatic grenade launchers covered. This left about ten percent of the battlefield that the defenders occupied that was vulnerable, most of it scattered in random pockets. However, the Drow seemed to be aware of this, and as a result, they were grouping themselves together in ever larger formations in an attempt to make the incursion successful and destroy the defenses from behind.

The solution, she theorized, was to wait for the groups to begin approaching a hypothetical maximum, ensuring maximum casualties among the attackers, particularly among their wizards and demons. Once most of those were dealt with, all that would be left would be melee based troops, who could be dealt with with almost complete immunity.
That hypothetical maximum was almost upon them. The A.I. watched with every eye she could spare on the enemy forces. For someone of her speed and processing capacity, each second was as long as a lifetime, and she began to predict the possible confrontations that would await the troops down below, and the odds of them occurring. As the ranks were depleted, the Drow would likely grow more and more desperate, and began launching more audacious assaults…

Something caught her attention on one of the UAV’s. Beings of earth began to rise up out of the ground, and she did the computer equivalent of nodding her head. Elementals. Embodiment of the four traditional elements of old ‘science’ they were capable of taking enormous amounts of punishment. They were, not, however, invincible. At the same time, she noticed more wizards and Illithids teleporting themselves elsewhere, and scanned around to find out where they would pop up, so she could direct support onto them. They did not, however, teleport themselves into the lines of defenders, but rather, to a spot just outside of the wards. They came in on the rocks and cliffs that overlooked the great doors leading into the heart of Mithril Hall. And they had brought a little something extra with them: Umber Hulks.

“They’re going to tunnel through the rock,” she ‘muttered’ to herself. “Clever bastards.”

Once the Illithids got a look inside the Hall’s main entrance, they could relay the image to the other clerics and mages that were present, and from there, strike teams and shock troops could be moved directly into the Hall itself, bypassing the outer defenses. Of course, there was a hell of a reception committee on the inside of the door, but Cortana would rather than be a nasty surprise that the Drow not know about until it was too late.
She remotely controlled the Rhino tank, redirecting its powerful cannon and taking aim at the largest cluster of the creatures, while at the same time pulling up and reviewing the geoscopic analysis of the rock around the Hall’s entrance, seeing what route would likely be taken so that she could alert interior defense teams of likely incursion points.
The first round erased half of the Umber Hulks, and their Drow handlers, from the face of Faerun. The Drow, as she was learning, were quick to try and adapt. Shields were erected to cover the burrowing creatures, and Cortana did some quick mental calculations. Firing too many tank shells wouldn’t be a viable solution. The power behind the Rhino’s cannon might collapse the entrance, and the Scorpions, Pelicans, and the Longsword ran into the same problem. The Valykrie missiles would be better spared annihilating ground troops, and the Avenger’s larger missiles had the same issues as were associated with the rail cannons.

What to do? What to do? She found herself longing for even one tube of TH-138 that she knew was in the Dawn’s restricted armories. Still, couldn’t use that. Usze and N’tho were out of range. The construct frowned again, before eventually deciding that a few mortar strikes would perhaps be necessary. She radioed in the coordinates, and the UNSC mortars launched first, followed by three plasma mortars.

The first two devices ripped into the shields, but the arcane defenses held. Then came the plasma mortars. The blue white blobs of energy smashed into the ground, and the temperatures spiked to over eight thousand degrees. Shields that were weakened by the shrapnel and concussion of the first strike held for mere microseconds before they failed. When the fire cleared, there was nothing left but ash and a few patches of glass and molten rock. Score another one for the good guys.

It wouldn’t be the last incursion attempt, though. The Drow would try again, and they would think of something new that she would have to try and counter. It was imperative that she cripple their numbers as quickly as possible. As the mortars began to once more fall among the ranks of the surprised and huddled slave troops, she reopened her channel to the Avenger’s crew.

“Send in the second wave to these coordinates,” she said, relaying the targeting data to the vehicles computer.

“Coordinates received, launching second wave,” the Sangheili commander responded.

Back on the field of battle, Wulfgar felt his blood begin to roar in his ear. The Drow cavalry forces were finally making their way through all the traps, and were within six hundred meters. He resisted the instinctive urge to just hold down the trigger and unleash all the destructive fury of the assault rifle that he held. That would result in wasting precious ammo, and make his accuracy somewhat akin to a Goblin arrow volley at this range. Single shots or shot controlled bursts, nothing more than that.

His rangefinder pinged his first target at roughly five hundred and fifty meters, and adjusted his sights for bullet drop and wind speed. He exhaled, and squeezed the trigger. A half second later, the Drow was knocked out of her saddle, the leather straps snapping as the power of the round tore through her armor and ripped her off her mount. Wulfgar marveled for a single moment at the tremendous killing power of such a small weapon, and then sighted up his next target.

Far away, Gromph Baenre frowned as he looked down into his scrying bowl and tapped a finger to his chin. Flanking maneuvers were not working, as while the trenches of the defenders did not extend all the way around the entrance to Mithril Hall, they seemed to have the area trapped and those strange ballistae on the mountain killed any who tried to approach. The Elementals were lasting a little longer, but the surface Magi and the defenders strange weapons were still killing them, and his surface strike team had been killed. At least, he assumed they were, there was still an enormous amount of ambient heat coming off of where they had been trying to burrow into the Hall, and he couldn’t see anything, not that the miniature suns that the defenders kept sending up were helping in that matter. He had lost mental contact though.

So much for plans B, C, and D. Fortunately, a sardonic side of his mind reminded him, there were still twenty one other letters in the alphabet that he could work his way through. He tried to scry over the battlefield yet again, and see if he could find holes in the anti-teleportation wards that didn’t drop the troops right in front of a murderous crossfire.
Something caught his eye, and he looked up from where he was standing. There were more streaks of heat on the horizon, and he narrowed his crimson eyes, wondering what they could have been. Those same eyes widened a fraction of a second later as he remembered what had happened when the battle had first commenced.

“Lolth’s fangs!” he swore, and hastily enacted a spell. He vanished in an instant, leaving his companions dumbfounded.

They learned why their leader had been so hasty in beating a retreat half a second later, when an Atoll missile crashed right down amongst them. Their sole consolation was that such a death was quite quick. In fact, they did not even feel it.

Cortana smirked as she watched. She was aware that the apparent leader of the wizard group had gotten away, but his lieutenants were dead and gone. That, and she had sent a very clear message with that strike: nowhere was safe.

As he reappeared at the other end of the dale, Gromph realized that he was just in time to watch the other strange weapons fall amongst his troops. Massive fireballs erupted, blinding him momentarily, and he swore silently as he realized that he was rapidly losing his mental connection with the higher ranking demons of his army. Those strikes were targeting them specifically. At the same time, he knew that thousands, if not many tens of thousands of his remaining troops had just been wiped out by a strike and he still had no idea what was causing that to happen, where it was, or, more importantly, how many spells or charges—if it was an artifact of sorts—the thing or person had left.

Status report. Who’s still alive? he asked.

Most of his Balors were still alive, though some had been ripped apart by the concussions of the blasts, and others killed by what survivors had described as flying metal fragments. Gromph arched an eyebrow at this. Were those strange things blast globes of a sort? Granted, he thought, as he looked out over the battlefield and his eyes settled on one newly formed crater that was more than six hundred feet wide, he was a blast globe of a caliber he’d never even thought possible. If that was the case, then it might be possible for his people to start making their own, provided he could get his hands on one an analyze it.

He needed to find out where they were coming from. At the same time, he also needed to salvage the situation here, or everything was going to go straight to Baator. He surveyed the carnage before him, and suspect already that as many of two thirds of his army, if not more than that, was dead or wounded beyond their ability to continue fighting. An idea came to him, two, actually, about how to solve the problems that were before him. The first was to check the far side of the mountain. It was possible that the defenders hadn’t covered that one as well as the one around here. There would be more rock that his umber hulks would have to burrow their way through, but with the proper enchantments that would be dealt with. The major concern is that was not what his mother had wanted his troops to do.

While he feared her wrath should he disobey, he was more afraid of what she might do if he were to fail. Gromph intended to go down fighting if nothing else, and even though it might not be at the entrance of the mighty Hall, it would still open up another front and force the defenders to divide themselves yet again. Powerful though their weapons were, the Dwarves and their allies were only so many in number, and could not be everywhere at once.

The second plan was something that he remembered from his studies of the Humans and the other surface races. They tended to rally behind strong leaders, and devote an inordinate amount of time and effort to protecting these individuals should they come under assault. He had identified at least two thus far: the one buzzing around on the flying chariot above the battlefield, and the older Human that had been on top of that hill. He suspected that the latter was out of reach now, as when the attack had been repulsed by that massive thing that had been guarding him, he had loaded up into one of the spelljammers that the defenders had, and was now nowhere to be seen. He could still kill the one that was flying around in the air, but the trick would be actually remaining close enough to her that the defenders didn’t use their magical weaponry to blast him to smithereens.

There might also be others among the troops that were down on the ground, and Gromph resolved then to find them as quickly as possible. Even if this assault failed, he might still be able to sufficiently demoralize them that another such battle would cause them to break, especially if reinforcements could be brought up to the surface or flooded into the Hall fast enough.

He set about his work, moving over to a nearby grove of trees that he hoped would shield him from the eyes of the enemy. They were small, scraggly things, but they didn’t have to work for long, just long enough. Once there, he conjured up another scrying bowl and began observing. First priority went to searching the far side of the mountain, after that, he could begin seeking out leaders among the enemy forces.

It was as he’d hoped. The other side of the rocky slopes was not defended, and he could use the mountain itself as both a colossal shield and a blinder. He made contact with his remaining wizards and Illithids, and relayed the information to them. They were swift to comply with his orders, both out of fear of upsetting their commander, and in the knowledge that they were going to be getting a combat duty that was not quite as dangerous as what they would otherwise be doing.

That accomplished, he began to hastily scan the battlefield. If there was one flaw among the surface Elves, Humans, Dwarves, and the like, it was that their officers usually insisted on wearing fancier equipment than their subordinates. To Gromph’s understanding, among less magically inclined races, this was supposed to help with identification in the chaos of a battle, but it also made them stand out like sore thumbs. Combined with another notion, the urge to get down and scrap it out with the rest of the troops, and you had a recipe for a nearly picture perfect decapitation attack.

The Dark Elf knew that they were out there, he simply had to track them down and then direct his forces onto their unsuspecting heads.

Cortana, meanwhile, was feeling quite satisfied with the level of carnage that had been unleashed. The Avenger had enough Atoll missiles left in reserve for one more volley, but she wanted to save that for a critical moment. It had served its primary purpose, though, and the among of devastation that she had unleashed upon the Underdark forces was nearly cataclysmic. She had to admit, though, that they were a very stubborn lot, and kept on fighting despite their losses. Was it courage though, or fear that kept them pressing up against the very jaws of death?

She noticed some activity on the ground. A number of wizards had teleported away from the battlefield, but had not reappeared amongst the holes in the wards. She ran probability calculations in the blink of an eye, and surmised that given known Drow operation parameters and social norms, there was approximately a one-point-five percent chance that they were fleeing the battle. That meant that a tactical flanking maneuver was in order. But where?

She frowned, and sent one of her UAVs over to survey the far side of the mountain. Sure enough, there was a group of them there, and yet more Umber Hulks that were burrowing into the rock. The Drow were casting some type of enlargement charm upon them as well, as these ones were the size of a bull elephant. She cross referenced schematics of the mountain again, and deduced that at their current rate and their projected paths through the softer rock, that it would take them half an hour to burrow through to the first set of tunnels. There, they would again try to teleport forces into the Hall.
There were almost no defenses up at those regions of the tunnels. She hadn’t expected them to adapt this quickly. She had to make a decision, quickly, about what do to. The mountain blocked any line of sight attacks, and the location, some twelve kilometers away from the location of the mortar teams, ruled out an indirect strike. Troop transport was possible, but they would be needed to keep the still several tens of thousands strong main army suppressed and in the killing zone for the automatic weapons.

She could, however, vector assault teams and hunter killer units up to that region if she deployed them immediately. She thought about it for a few nanoseconds, running hundreds of scenarios and projected outcomes through her mind. She concluded that infantry to infantry battles would be the best for now, as while they would be able to penetrate with relative ease when they got a look inside of the tunnels, it was still an underground beachhead, and properly deployed, could keep them bottled up and contained.

“HK thirty five through HK forty seven, begin heading for the upper forges at the coordinates I’m sending, you’ll be receiving company soon.”

“Message received, ma’am, will comply,” the voice of Drizzt Do’Urden came over the channel.

The Ranger had more hands on experience with his people than the rest of them put together. He would know what tactics were likely under what situation, and they defenders would be better able to compensate for unexpected enemy actions as a result. The whole time she had been observing the actions on the far side of the mountain, she had also been keeping a proverbial eye on what was going on below it and in front of the main gate. The majority of the Drow’s heavy hitters on the surface were dead, and most of what was left of the army that had been nearly a million strong had been reduced to slave troops who huddled against the ground, fearful of raising their heads more than a centimeter off of the ground, lest a bullet take it off.

The Dark Elves, though, had kept on rallying to one another, and trying to salvage the situation they were in. Cortana had to admit that they were, if nothing else, very resilient. She noticed a cluster of them gathering together, probably to try for another flanking maneuver, as she didn’t see any demons or anything that resembled a wizard among their numbers. She sent a coded burst command, and one of the Pelicans fired a missile. The Valykrie shrieked through the air before arcing down towards the group. A fraction of a second before it would have impacted the ground, its five hundred kilogram warhead detonated. Fire and shrapnel was blasted over the area, and she kept an electronic eye on the location, looking to see if there was anything hidden amongst the group that might have survived the blast.

Nothing.

At the other end of the field, Gromph finally believed that he had located a viable target of opportunity. He looked down and noticed an aging Barbarian warrior, clutching a large spear. He seemed to be shouting orders of encouragement to his fellows ad they blasted away at the ranks of the Dark Elves. Gromph knew with the people of the northern plains that the older warriors were, if not leaders, deeply respected in a spiritual sense for their wisdom and knowledge of combat. Best of all, there didn’t seem to be a ward around this fellow. He had his first target, and relayed the information to his surviving shock troops.

--

Wulfgar growled as he took the head off yet another Drow soldier. He had practiced with these weapons before, but using them against a living target on the field of battle gave him a newfound respect, and a newfound fear of them. It was becoming all to easy to understand why Drizzt held the fear of these that he did, as well as his distaste for the other weapons that the offworlders had in their arsenal. How many hundreds of thousands now lay dead before the wrath of the Atoll missile barrages, the tanks, and the mortars?

And, he was forced to remind himself, this was but one small, underpowered force that had lost most of its fighting assets before it had even arrived to their world. What would have happened if it had been the whole crew of the Dawn? Thousands strong, with dozens of their techo-jammer craft and tanks…

One thing was sure, he thought to himself as he took the head off of another cavalry woman, things would never be the same. Warfare as Faerun knew it was going to be changed forever.

“Incoming teleporters!” Cortana’s voice was loud in his ear.

Immediately, the young Plainsman turned around to see behind him. The demons and Drow were smart. They would come in from behind, rather than willingly stick themselves in front of the massive machine guns and grenade launchers of the UNSC military.

His foes did not disappoint. They appeared with a flash, a single Drow wizard and a host of Gray Dwarves. The foot soldiers were armed with axes and hammers, shields formed of mithril and spiked plate armor. They gave a shout and rushed towards the line. Wulfgar saw their eyes focus on Revajik, and he swore silently as he realized what had happened. The Dark Elves must have realized who and what his king was. His blue eyes narrowed and his lips spread in a manner similar to a wolf. He raised his rifle, noting that he had twenty shots left, and began to fire rapidly. He squeezed the trigger as quickly as he could, sending the NATO rounds deep into the Dwarven ranks. The bullets punch through their plate armor and out the other side. More gunfire joined, and within moment, the Dwarves were nothing more than corpses.

Then a fireball roared in.

“Down!” Wulfgar screamed at the top of his lungs, throwing himself on top of his king, shielding Revajik with his body. He felt the heat of the blast cause blisters to rise up on his back, and steam from vaporized rain water choked the battlefield. Rising up, he reached down and drew Aegis Fang from its place on his belt and drew sight on the wizard.

“Don’t let up, keep firing!” He heard his king shout as he cocked his left arm back and hurled the mighty warhammer through the air.

The wizard, intent on casting his next spell, didn’t see the missile coming at him until it was too late. Enchanted with some of the mightiest arcane spells on the face of the world, Aegis Fang ripped through the defenses the mage had raised, and crushed his chest in. The hammer started to fall, but then vanished, reappearing in the hand of its master. Wulfgar let it fall to the ground for the moment, and hastily reloaded the rifle. He suspected it would be only seconds before the next strike came in, and this time, there would be more of the enemy, and less of his people.

He caught he sight of burnt and charred corpses of a dozen Plainsmen on the ground, and prayed for their souls to make the journey to the halls of their forefathers. Some of the dead had been manning heavy weapons emplacements, and survivors rushed to reclaim the weapons and get fire back on the cavalry, who had noticed the assault and the lull in the fire, and were now regrouping.

“Cortana, we are in need of aid,” Revajik said, as he reached down behind his cloak and pulled out the weapon given to him, an ASG-60.

“I see that. Second wave of teleporters in-bound. I’ll have the mortars give you some cover from the cavalry,” the computer’s voice was calm.

Above in the sky, Wulfgar watched as yet another White Dragon was shredded by the Forward unto Dawn’s point defense cannons. He spoke silent thanks that those weapons were present. Bloody as they made this battle, the Dragons could have inflicted hellacious casualties if they were not deterred from taking to the skies.

Then the mortars began to fall. The Covenant plasma mortars glowed ominously as they streaked towards the ground, while the UNSC ones simply hit the ground and exploded, silent killers that gave no warning of their approach. The effects among the cavalry was catastrophic. Whole lines and formations disappeared into sprays of blood and flesh. Wulfgar barely noticed. He had heeded Cortana’s warning of a second wave of teleporters, and stood ready to defend his Lord, his rifle in his hands, and Aegis Fang at his feet, ready to appear at a moment’s notice and carry out his bidding.

This time it was three wizards, and in addition to Gray Dwarves, there were Orcs, Goblinoids, and a handful of minotaurs. He sighted up the nearest wizard, remembering all too well the fireball the last one had sent at them. His weapon roared as he sent a four round burst at the Dark Elf. The shields flickered and died, and another such burst blew him apart. He must have been a lesser wizard, Wulfgar mused to himself.

To his side, Revajik raised his own weapon and squeezed the trigger. Two Orcs that had been rushing towards him were blasted backwards by the round, dead before they hit the ground. Another Barbarian hurled a grenade that went off in the center of a charging group of Goblins. The ones in the center died instantly, the ones further out were sent careening through the air, their high pitched voices screaming at the top of their lungs. One of them bounced and slid along the ground, falling into the trench next to Wulfgar. The thing moaned and squealed pitifully, and as the Barbarian was firing away at the other wizard, he raised his foot and brought it down on where he believed the head of the creature was. There was a crunch, and he felt something far warmer than the mud start to ooze around his boot.

The distraction taken care of, he resumed firing. These wizards, he noticed, were smarter than the other one had been. In addition to their arcane shields, they had raised a stoneskin spell over themselves, and now looked like walking granite effigies. Revajik was forced to duck as a lightning bolt leapt from the fingers of one man, impacting just behind him and showering the area with superheated mud and earth.

“Concentrate your fire on the wizards!” the King of the Tribe of the Elk shouted.

In response, a barrage of SMG, rifle, and shotgun fire went towards the two spell weavers. Their shields were stronger as well, and held for a few seconds before fading. Now they had to knock out the stone skin spell before the mages could raise their defenses again. Wulfgar remembered how the spell worked, it only protected against a certain number of hits, and it didn’t much matter what kind of hits those were.

The wizards were less than fifty yards from where he was, and he flicked the knob on the fire control mechanism down to fully automatic, before hosing the nearest one. In less than a second, fifteen depleted uranium slugs impacted against the wizard’s defenses. His spell was gone in an instant, and he had just enough time to look on in horror before being shredded.

The other one suffered a similar fate when Revajik unleashed the power of his automatic shotgun. The king wore a grim smile as he turned his attention back to the horde, which was now confused and terrified at the loss of their leaders. They hesitated for only a second, but it was a second too long. The vicious spray of bullets hit the ones in the front and mowed them down like wheat before a farmer’s scythe. The ones in the rear died soon after.

From where he stood hidden, Gromph watched the slaughter, and grumbled to himself. If you wanted something done right, you needed to do it yourself. He began to chant softly, and in a few seconds, an exactly duplicate of himself stood before him. The doppelganger wasn’t quite as powerful as the Archmage himself was, but it would do, and would leave him free to deal with the woman in the sky.

Nodding to himself, both of them vanished in an instant.

As Wulfgar swapped out another magazine in his rifle, he felt a tingle run up the back of his spine, and he looked up as the mag slid into the weapon. Another wizard had entered the fray, this one by himself. Weapons were raised in an instant, but the man faded, becoming ethereal and wispy like a ghost.

“We need an AM grenade!” someone shouted.

One such device was hurled as a barrage of flaming arrows leapt from the hands of the wizard. The fiery missiles tore through the Plainsmen, and Wulfgar regretted for a moment that most of the UNSC suits of armor had been relegated to the Hunter Killer teams in the tunnels. It had been believed that the nature of the underground battle would necessitate better protection, as combat would be far closer and more intimate there than out here on the plains.

It was no use, though, mourning what he did not have. The grenade went off, and the wizard was back on the Prime in a flash. The Dark Elf reacted quickly, though, instantly casting another spell. He grew in size and stature, and glowing armor formed around his body. Another snap of the wizard’s fingers brought the wrath of elemental lightning down on their heads. Wulfgar heard a scream, and turned to see that Revajik had been struck by such a bolt. The aging king lay motionless upon the mud, his body smoking with a large, open hole in his gut.

Gates to the Abyss opened up, yawning holes in reality that spewed forth fire and sulfur as a host of darkness spawned fiends rushed forward. Wulfgar had no time to morn for King or kin, and knew he was now in for the fight of his life. He dropped his rifle to the ground and dove for Revajik’s ASG, before leveling it at the fiendish tide before him and unleashing the weapon’s fury.

“Lady Alustriel, I need you to move so I can get a clear shot at this guy,” Cortana’s voice echoed in his ear. The calm was gone. This time, it was urgent. A bit of worry tugged at the edge of his mind, but Wulfgar knew that he could not spare it a second thought. The demons were almost upon him. More grenades flew up and he unleashed the fury of his assault rifle while calling for support on the command channel.

“Cortana, we’re being overrun, need assistance. Revajik is dead,” he said as his shotgun sawed the legs off of a Glabrezu. The creature fell with a howl, and behind it came a small host of bebiliths. Wulfgar summon his hammer, and sent Aegis Fang spinning end over end towards them, trying frantically to get a clear shot at the wizard that was in behind all of them.

The hammer impacted against their bodies, sending a number of them flying through the air like ragdolls. Rage and elation rose within the heart of the Plainsman, as he realized now that he had a shot. He leveled the shotgun, and squeezed the trigger. The gun kicked against his shoulder as it began spitting out rounds, sending burst after burst of supersonic uranium into the wizard. It ripped into his arcane defenses, ripping holes in the glowing armor that was around his body, and then into the flesh.

There was no screaming, though. Instead, the mage only kept summoning. More demons, fiends, whatever it could bring to this plane. Wulfgar was amazed at how quickly the Dark Elf was summoning these monsters. Surely, this must have been some manner of Archmage, a pinnacle of his art. He fired again, aiming for the helmet that covered the wizard’s face. It was ripped to pieces in short order and another shot took the head off. To Wulfgar’s amazement, the body vanished into thin air, as if it had never been there in the first place.

A simulacrum… that being had been nothing more than an arcane copy of the original. This begged the question, he thought as he turned his weapon upon the demons while summoning his hammer back to him: where was that original?

A dread chill tore at his belly as he looked up for just a brief second, and saw Lady Alustriel engaged in an arcane duel with something. Then his attention was forced back onto the battlefield. Someone was able to scrounge up a few more AM grenades, which were quickly lobbed into the area where the demons were. Many of the lesser fiends found their arcane connection to the Prime Material plane forcibly severed, and were sucked, screaming, back into the depths of the Abyss. The more powerful ones seemed to be able to resist it, crying out in agony and resisting the strange power that tried to force them from this reality.

They were distracted however, and failed to watch their defenses. A hail of gun and plasma fire ripped them apart, sending them back to join their comrades in the Abyss.

With the immediate threat eliminated, Wulfgar turned once more to face the body of his fallen king. Revajik, who had raised him when his own father had died, and who had lead the Tribe of the Elk through the times of its greatest trials, lay stretched out in the mud, the stink of his burnt flesh registering again in the Plainsman’s nostrils. Other warriors seemed to be becoming aware of it as well. Their lord and commander, struck dead by Drow magic. His people had always been a people somewhat grounded in the older ways of the world. To die by magic was seen as somehow being worse than death by a blade or an arrow, there was something unnatural about it.

And as he realized it, in many ways the weapon he now held was similar. It delivered death instantly, across a range far greater than that of any bow, and with power almost unmatched, against which no defense could seemingly be mounted. A wicked smile formed on his face, and he slung the ASG over his shoulder before he reached down and grabbed his dropped assault rifle, wiping the mud off of it and reloading it. As the steam from water vaporized by plasma rounds rose from behind him, he once again took aim. As his king had been taken from him, so too would he visit death upon the enemy. As the rounds began to fly, young barbarian opened his mouth, and let out a scream to Tempos, the god of battle. Rage, grief, and a lust for vengeance mixed with the battle cry, so much that it was audible even over the roar of the UNSC and Neo Covenant weapons.

Others heard it, and their own cries mixed with his, the Plainsmen rallying to Wulfgar, determined to see their foe stretched dead upon the field of battle.

--

Up in the skies above the battlefield, Gromph Baenre floated as he fought a battle of wills and power against his foe. He made it a point to stay as close to her as possible, knowing that to drift would be to die. This woman had to be important, it was the only reason that one of those Spelljammers hadn’t taken a shot at him yet. If he allowed himself to be separated from her, he would have to flee, or they would pounce on him in an instant. Fortunately, she seemed more concerned about protecting the troops on the ground than on trying to escape from him, and he was able to match her paces and turns exactly, staying close and harrying her chariot. He spoke a single word, harsh, grating, alien, and she gave a cry and lurched to one side.

Amazingly enough, she remained standing, though Gromph could sense arcane wards had been broken and shattered like so much glass before the power of his spell. He knew that there were some people of sufficient fortitudes or in possession of enough arcane defenses to resist a Power Word, but in his thousand year long life, he had never met one.

His foe turned abruptly, fully coming about to challenge him. Lightning crackled along one of her hands, fire blazed in the other. Both were thrown at him, the electricity arcing its way around the flames to create a single concentrated attack. His shields easily absorbed the strike, but the heat had not even begun to dissipate when his eyes were burned the glare of scores of silvery missiles streaking out from the woman’s hands. They homed in on him, moving rapidly and matching every duck and weave he made. Realizing that to evade was futile, Gromph changed tactics, allowing the bolts to impact on his wards and shields, grunting softly as he felt another layer of his protection stripped away. He glared at the woman, and launched an attack upon the depths of her mind.

Like a psionic battering ram, his mental assault tore at Lady Alustriel’s mind, and it felt as if someone was taking a white hot knife to her brain. She fought through the pain, though, and retaliated with an attack of her own, trying to ignore the blood that was flowing out of her nose and ears.

Gromph lurched under the assault, but he suspected that he still held the edge. The woman had to have been the one erecting the teleportation wards. That would have weakened her. In the back of his mind, he did some mental calculations of risk and possible outcome, before coming to the conclusion that his next move would be bold, and if he focused it properly, he might be able to finish her off now.

His mind summoned up the power and he forced the magic to bend and flex to his will. Before his opponent, a series of portals opened, and from within them came balls of rock and fire, meteors summoned from another plane. A half dozen of them screamed in and blasted her, ravaging her magical shields and forcing the woman back on the defensive. Summoning up all of his power, Gromph began to hurl attack after attack. Some were fire, some ice, and others simply raw, unadulterated arcane power.

His gambit worked. Her shields shattered, leaving her exposed and vulnerable. Gromph saw the dread start to form on her face, before he summoned a lance of energy and hurled it with all of his might. It impaled the woman straight through her chest, tearing through her robes and blasting her out of her chariot.

Gromph was wise though. He knew he’d struck a killing blow, but did not pause to watch the woman fall. He used one of his last remaining teleport spells, and got clear of the area. Milliseconds after he had departed, a one hundred and twenty millimeter slug from the Longsword’s cannons streaked through where he had been, the sonic shockwaves shredded and smashing the golden chariot that the woman had been flying.

Clad in white, Lady Alustriel stood out for all to see as her body plummeted towards the ground.

[Trivia Freak]

The Master Chief fired his ASG-60 into the heart of the retreating enemy forces. In these tunnels, at this range, there was no way he could miss. A Drow warrior was cut down, her death scream little more than a choking gurgle as her body was ripped apart by the shotgun.

He fired again at another one that was attempting to flee around a bend in the tunnel, taking the trooper’s arm off before he could get clear of the Spartan’s line of sight. Methodically, the cyborg worked his way forward and upon rounding the corner, finished what he had started.

The underground battle went well for the moment. The Underdark forces in the lower tunnels were being routed with savage fury. The Spartan had lost track of how many he had killed, but knew that the tally had to be in the hundreds at the least. Behind him roaring and banging like some elemental force of nature, were the Gutbusters. Given how they fought, the Master Chief felt that perhaps it was best for the Drow that he was up on point. He killed quickly, the Gutbusters were not much slower, but they made certain to tear into their foes for a few seconds before finishing them.

“Sierra-117 here, Sitrep for Hunter-Killer teams.”

“HK-Twelve here, pressing forward along corridor seven. Enemy resistance is faltering and about to break. Causalities are minor, and the wounded can still fight.”

“HK-Fifteen, in pursuit of Dark Elven High Priestess and her entourage along corridor nine. Closing fast and preparing flash-bangs.”

“HK-Twenty One, holding in cavern B-Two-Seven for rearming and regrouping. Will set off again once the wounded have been tended to by the cleric.”

And so it went. He had to give the Drow some credit, however, as they were attempting an organized retreat, and had so far managed to avoid the chaos of a full fledged rout. If he wanted to seal their victory completely, though, he would have to initiate that. They needed to do more than defeat the Dark Elves and their allies. They needed to crush them, break their spirits and their will to continue such a campaign. One way to do that was by eliminating high value targets of opportunity, such as what HK-Fifteen was in pursuit of. From what Drizzt had told them, Dark Elven priestesses were the leaders and authority figures of Drow society, and they were relatively few in number, maybe one out of every thousand Dark Elves. Even better, his mind concluded with cold, calculating logic, was that to become a priestess of Lolth required that one wait until the age of forty to begin the training, while the training itself took fifty years at the very least.

It would take their enemy a century, at the absolute minimum, to replace the damage done by such a strike. Dark Elves also didn’t have many children during their lives, perhaps one every half century or so, Drizzt had told them.

As he turned the corner and met a group of Dark Elves, Illithids, and slave soldiers, he was reminded of the doctrine of an old Earth general, William Sherman, and his strategy of total warfare. While it might not necessarily come to that, the Spartan did intend to do his best to make the cost of this battle so grievous, so catastrophic, that it would be the better part of a thousand years before the Drow would even think of daring to mount such a campaign again.

He knew that the glowing hot end of the ASG’s barrel would alert the enemy to him, and as he raised the weapon, a number of his foes did cry out. Crossbow bolts zipped through the air towards him, but the cyborg dodged them easily, and the two that did connect rebounded harmlessly off his Mjolnir armor. He unleashed the fury of the automatic weapon in the next instant, raking the opposing ranks with supersonic Uranium. From behind him, surging forward and screaming like men who were possessed, came Pwent and his crew, while Bidderdo hastily fumbled for an attack spell, firing off a lightning bolt a moment later.

The Spartan’s polarized visor compensated for the sudden noonday brightness that filled the small cavern, and the Gutbusters had the good sense to shield their eyes when they heard the mage chanting. The Drow, though, were not so fortunate. They and their slaves were blinded by the flash, an effect arguably more devastating than the three Dark Elves that were cut down by the strike.

As Pwent and his fellow Dwarves surged forward, the Master Chief slung his shotgun up over his back, and drew his plasma repeater. This would enable him to avoid friendly fire more easily. He crouched, and began to move forward, targeting what appeared to be some sort of Drow officer attempting to rally his men. A double tap removed the man from the equation, leaving his companions showered in bits of steam and cooked flesh.

Then the Spartan saw something flash on his motion sensor, behind him. It was red, not keyed to his FoF system, and he twisted to confront it. As he did so, he saw that his opponent was an Illithid. It screamed, spreading its tentacles wide and revealing the beak like mouth that was hidden behind them. There was a pulsing ‘thwoop’ noise, and he felt something pass over him. The world tried to spin for a moment, and his inner ears seemed disturbed by the attack. John felt for a moment as if someone had tried to spin him like a top.

He fought his way through the dizziness, and retaliated with a three shot burst that blew open the Illithid’s chest and took its head off.

“Sierra-117, this is Oracle One,” Commander Keyes’ voice echoed over his commlink.

“Sierra here, I read you, ma’am.”

“Dwarven clerics have divined a location of what they think is the sub-commander in charge of the underground assault forces. Cortana’s patching the coordinates through to you now, and we’ll be redirecting additional forces to back you up. HK-Two and HK-Six.”

HK-Two was Bruenor and Orna. HK-Six was Johnson’s group. Just like old times. A waypoint marker appeared on his HUD, down below him and approximately fifteen hundred meters in front of him. He almost smiled behind his helmet. Here was a chance to strike a decisive blow beyond just slaughtering everything they came across. He was concerned that Bruenor was going to come into the firing line, but he knew that the Dwarves would rally around their king and fight all the fiercer for his presence.

“Everyone else get that?” he asked as he cut down a pair of Orcs.

“Loud and clear,” Pwent replied as he buried his axe into a Drow Female’s gut, while at the same time jumping up and smashing a spiked gauntlet into her head for good measure. Through the infrared vision mode, John watched as hot blood and bits of brain matter coated the Dwarf’s gauntlet, prompting Pwent to let out a massive battle roar that would have sent most sane opponents running from him as fast as they could.

A number of the Underdark forces, mostly slaves, seemed to suddenly think that was quite the prudent idea and tried to disengage. One of the Gutbusters hurled a grenade down the tunnel to try and stop them, where it bounced and rolled into the midst of the fleeing troops. The roar of the detonation shook the Master Chief’s bones, and scores were killed by the shrapnel and concussion wave. Things were getting so bad for the Dark Elves by this point that they had resorted to the use of vocal communication en-mass, as opposed to their silent code hand signals.

“We must fall back!” one screamed as the Spartan busied himself with eliminating anything he could find.

“Regroup in the lower sections of the tunnels!” Another shouted, a phrase that was to be her last. Moments after she spoke, one of Bidderdo’s spells caught her dead on. The arcane projectiles ripped into her body and stretched her corpse out along the tunnel.

Pwent launched himself at a large group of the dark skinned elves, roaring at the top of his lungs and lowering the spike on his head. Several of the dark elves recoiled, though whether it was from Pwent’s charge, his animalistic roar, or the stench of his body, the Spartan knew not. It might have even been all three. Regardless of its origins, one female was too slow in clearing the path, and was impaled upon the massive spike. Pwent laughed like a madman and ripped the spike upwards and out of her body, before turning to face the Drow’s compatriots. A curving scimitar descended upon the Dwarven berserker, but its curved edge, ill-suited for armor penetration, merely bounced off the enchanted suit.

Pwent retaliated with a spiked gauntlet, smashing the Elf at about eye level. The Master Chief almost winced as he realized both where the Gutbuster had struck his foe, and that his opponent happened to be a male. The Dark Elven warrior screamed in agony as blood went everywhere. Fortunately for him, Pwent’s other fist smashed into his head moments later.

More of the Gutbusters piled into the fray, screaming like feral beasts or shouting cries of vengeance in remembrance of those who had fallen when the Hall had first been overrun. The Spartan felt at home on the chaos of the battlefield, watching everything with a careful eye. Spartan Time had long since closed in around him, and whenever an opportunity presented itself, he blasted away with his plasma repeater.

At the same time, he had to make certain that his allies didn’t get too far ahead of him and run into an ambush that a rear guard might be setting up. That, more than anything, was the most difficult part of the tunnel fight. The Gutbusters were fiends for revenge, apparently even by Dwarven standards, and would throw themselves into a fray with an almost suicidal disregard for their own safety.

He watched that in action moments later as he saw a Drow soldier turn at a charging dwarf, whip out a handheld crossbow, and fire. In slow motion, the Spartan watched as the bolt smashed into the Dwarf’s face, but the little soldier didn’t slow. The Gutbuster raised his axe above his head and leapt forward. The surprised Dark Elf tried to ready his swords, but wasn’t fast enough. John had a perfect glimpse at a look of absolute terror manifest itself of the face of the dark skinned Elf before the axe cleaved his skull in two.

As the corpse fell to the ground, he heard the Dwarf shout in glee.

“Twenty four!” He pumped his fist into the air, looking over his shoulder at his comrades, prominently displaying the crossbow bolt that was poking out of his face, just to the right side of his nose.

“Ye’er slipping,” another one shouted. “I’m on forty seven!”

The wounded Dwarf snorted, and rushed to find another foe. The Spartan understood their glee to a point, though. Dwarven justice in regards to killing tended to treat each death of the enemy as akin to avenging a fallen brother. The Dwarves were using this opportunity to payback thousands of years worth of atrocities that the Drow had committed.

“They are positively mad!” Bidderdo exclaimed as he cast a magic missile spell into the ranks of a few Orcs too stupid to try and run.

The Master Chief said nothing, merely raised his repeater as he heard the telltale crack of someone teleporting, shoving air out of the way. He twisted around and saw that two Illithids had appeared there. They again tried that strange stunning attack, and the Spartan dove to the side to avoid it, rolling up into a ball. He popped up on his knee a split second later, and sent a barrage at the two. Arcane shielding flared to life, and held for a millisecond or two before the plasma rounds overcame them.

For being highly intelligent creatures that supposedly shared a linked ‘hive mind’ type consciousness of sorts, the Mind Flayers certainly did keep on trying the same tactic over and over again, as if they were expecting a different result the next time they tried it. Still, if they were willing to throw their lives away in such foolish flanking attacks, the Spartan saw no reason not to oblige. Less work for him than having to chase them all through these tunnels.

Most of this tunnel was clear, and it was time for them to begin moving forward again. The Spartan narrowed his eyes behind his helmet, and moved up to his point man position. The area before them opened up into a large cave nearly three football fields in size, and was full off columns and large stalactites. It was the perfect place for an ambush.

He swapped his repeater with his shotgun once again and moved forward at a crouch, ready for anything.

--

“I fear nothing, for I am fear made flesh!” Orna Fulsamee screamed, firing both of his plasma rifles into the ranks of the Underdark troops.

The blue hot bolts tore through them and they fled before the might of the Light of Sangheilios. Orna gave no quarter and advanced through the cavern, noting that the slaves were no longer even trying to fight him. He paused just long enough to slap a fresh power cell into the rifle in his left hand, while at the same time tapping his lower mandibles together. The fools were simply running. You never did that. All it did was give your opponent a free shot at your back.

Off to his left, Bruenor Battlehammer, clad in his resplendent armor, charged forward, the mighty axe Ragnarok gripped tightly in his hand, and his clan shield in the other. A pair of Dark Elven soldiers, females, Orna noted, turned and tried to face the king. They were looking for something to salvage in this disaster. However, while Orna saw that the king’s bodyguard was right behind him, they would ultimately be unnecessary.

The two females set upon the king, their blades whirling around together almost like a meat grinder. The Dwarven King parried two of the four with his magical axe, while using his shield to deflect the other two. Then he dropped to one knee and slammed his shield down onto the right foot of one of his foes. The girl howled in agony as the sharp point of the heater shield punched through her leather boot. Orna saw hot blood gush up out of the wound and the female fell backwards. The Dwarven King fell to the ground, casually rolling underneath a strike that would have taken his head off. He swung again as he uncurled, Ragnarok slamming into the woman’s guts, hacking through her mail armor and swiftly disemboweling her.

The Dwarven King leapt back up onto his feet, and swiftly finished the job by decapitating both of the Dark Elves.

“I’ll teach you dogs to desecrate my home!” he shouted, raising the gore covered axe high, before tucking his shield in and moving deeper into the cavern.

Orna looked at the waypoint marker and line map on his HUD. They were headed the right way, and had less than a kilometer to advance before they came across the matron.

“Cortana, what is the status on HK-Six and HK-One the Sangheili asked.

“At the moment, they’re advancing at pace with you. Expect convergence on objective in four.”

“Objective is stationary?” He saw a Gray Dwarf attempting to flee into a tunnel that branched off the left side of the cavern, and his hand blurred as he raised his rifle and fired. The round tore a hole larger than his fist all the way through the Dwarf, killing it instantly.

“Eyes on target, and it’s not moving,” the computer replied. “Be wary, this might be a trap. I’m not sure how good the Drow are at acting out ‘panic.’”

“Will keep that under advisement. Status on the surface battles?” He asked as he advanced up to the King’s side. He felt much more at ease when he was next to Bruenor, lest something ill befall the King on his watch.

“It’s a meat grinder up there. The Drow forces have been pretty much wiped out, slaves and all. A few managed to get to the far side of the mountain, but they’re being dealt with.” There was a pause. “It hasn’t all been going in our favor, though, one of their wizards was smarter than the rest, and managed to skitter around and take out Revajik and Alustriel.”

Orna winced. He had known the two Humans but for a little while, but he knew that they were well respected leaders, and powerful allies. In the unity that would come after this battle, they would be missed. All wars had casualties, though, and both of them knew the risks of fighting on the frontlines alongside their people. Even knowing those risks, they had acted for the greater good.

The Ascetic growled, noticing another Dark Elf out of the corner of his eye, one that was trying to slip away into another tunnel. A split second later, it fell, shorter by a head after the plasma round hit him.

The defenders here would not have died in vain, this bloodshed would not be for nothing. On his honor, Orna swore that to himself.

“Keep pressing forward!” he shouted to his fellows. The Dwarven members of his group needed no encouragement, eager to follow the massive alien and their King further into battle.

In the next cavern, the Drow and their slaves were attempting to reorganize and mount a rear holding action of sorts, with a cleric of Lolth shouting at the top of her lungs at her subordinates. Orna wasn’t certain if the translation software in his helmet was working properly, as it had something to do with siccing something called a yochol upon Underdark forces. He growled, trying to think of what that might be. He knew that Cortana had briefed them on what type of demons they could expect to be thrown at them, and he doubted a construct as careful and meticulous as her would miss something of this nature.

The Ascetic growled, and fired a number of bursts into the Drow lines. He cut a swath through them, driving the dark skinned elves back deeper into the cavern. He could hear the cleric beginning to chant, but she had most wisely ducked down amidst the ranks of the slave soldiers and her own forces, using them as living shields. Snarling at the cowardly move, Orna flicked both of his rifles to full auto, and began to hose the ranks as the Drow tried desperately to dress them and form some kind of defense. A number of crossbow bolts zipped in towards the Elite, but his shields crackled to life, filling the air with blue and yellow arcs of energy as they bounced harmlessly off his forcefields. There was to be no stopping the monster, some of them realized, and tried to fall back.

Curses were shouted as Orna tried to find the Cleric, suddenly aware of the Dwarven lines rush up with him and smashing into the Underdark ranks. Already confused and with their moral hanging by a thread, the assault of the half crazed Dwarven soldiers broke the backs of their enemies. Orna was reminded of the oceans of his homeworld, watching them break against cliffs and then trying to flow back into the deeper waters.

It was, however, too late. The Cleric’s chanting reached a crescendo, and a hellish light filled the cavern.

“Fall back!” Orna shouted, looking for Bruenor in the confusion.

“Pull back and reform!” Bruenor shouted, raising his bloodied war axe up above the ranks of the others, calling his soldiers too him.

They obeyed as the light grew in intensity, and a number of shapes filtered through the cavern. The Underdark forces fell back as well, deeper down the cavern. Orna understood, nodding his head as the Dwarves that were carrying shields formed up in front of their king, interlocking the metal and wood to create a massive, seemingly impenetrable wall. The Drow were not trying to regroup here, apparently, at least not anymore. They were going to do it further down, perhaps where the Matron was. The Yochols, or whatever had just been summoned, were merely here to buy time for that regrouping.

Orna clacked his mandibles together, his eyes narrowing as the fleeing ranks parted around the demons. He still couldn’t see them vary well, and held his fire. He was unsure how much plasma fire he would have to dump into these fiends to kill them, and it wouldn’t do to be out of ammo at a bad time. True, he had his blades, and the rucksack at his waist, but the fractions of a second could mean the difference between life and death for him, or one of his allies.

The last of the slaves raced passed the summoned creatures, and at last Orna got a good look at them. They were bizarre to say the least, but as he stared at them, he remembered what they were. Handmaidens of Lolth, the messengers and enforcers of the foul goddess. The Elite let a feral growl permeate the air as he stared at them. They were just a little shorter than he was, and reddish black in color. Most evident, though, was the physical form of the creatures. They resembled dripping blobs of candle wax, with a single malevolently glowing eye. A vast, tooth filled mouth opened in the middle of their bodies, and they let out an unearthly wail as a number of tentacle like appendages erupted from their bodies and streaked towards the Dwarven lines.

From behind them as well, a number of Bebilliths shifted into reality. Orna leveled his rifles at the two blobs, and let fly. The blessed bolts of his plasma guns ripped into the Yochols as they shifted forward, smashing two Dwarves out of the shield wall with their tendrils. Both of the Handmaidens howled in agony, and shifted over to where they were looking at Orna. One of them broke away from the other, slithering over towards the Elite.

Orna dodged too and fro, evading the tendrils as they reached out to try and grasp at him. One of the Bebilliths gave a screech, and jumped towards him as well. He back-flipped out of the way of the massive arachnid, landing on his feet and hammering it with plasma fire. Fist sized chunks of its armored exoskeleton were vaporized, and the beast howled as leapt at him again. To the surprise of both the spider-like demon and its unholy commander, the Ascetic did not evade or flee this time, but set his legs against the ground and shoulder-checked the beast. The massive, powerful muscles of the Sangheili warrior were more than a match for the Bebillith, knocking the demon out of the air and sending it tumbling helplessly in a hissing, spitting ball of legs and fangs.

The Yochol screamed, and tried to get out of the way, but was not fast enough. The two ton arachnid smashed into the Handmaiden, splattering it all over the walls. While the Bebillith finally came to a halt, and tried to get up to its feet, Orna watched the small waxy blobs of the Handmaiden slowly start to move back together.

He looked over to the Dwarves, and noted that Bruenor’s troops were hurling themselves at the other three Bebiillith’s that had been summoned up. They were doing well against the demonic spiders, but less so against he Yochol. Every time that an axe would hack a tendril off, the fiend would simply grow a new one while the severed limb slithered back to the main body. Kinetic based weaponry would be of limited use against such a foe.

“Holy water!” Bruenor shouted at the top of his lungs.

A glass ball was hurled in the direction of the Handmaiden, shattering on the rocky ground just a few feet in front of her. The sacred water went everywhere, and the demon howled as it splattered upon her, burning her skin and filling the cavern with steam.

Orna shifted his aim, firing one of his rifles at the reforming Yochol, and his other at its companion. Both of them shrieked, and Orna winced. The sound was similar to claws upon a chalkboard, and made his skull rattle. Still, he did not relent, noting his dwindling charges and making preparations to reload his weapons.

At the same time, he did some mental calculations, factoring in the effectiveness of his weapons and the distance that the Dwarves were at in relation to both the Yochols and himself. As the charge in his off hand rifle was exhausted, he hooked the weapon onto his hip, before reaching up and grabbing a plasma grenade off of his bandolier. He depressed the arming switch, and a soft, blue light filled the cavern.

“Stand clear!” he shouted, his message relayed over the external speakers of his suit.

King Bruenor and the others complied with his orders, and moved back into their lined formation as the grenade sailed through the air. The Ascetic’s aim was true, and he was able to get the grenade to land precisely as he needed it to. It attached itself to the waxy skin of the Handmaiden and sat there for a second, pulsing softly. The demon didn’t seem to understand what the device was, and it turned its baleful eye towards the strange warrior that the Dwarves had with them, which was fiddling with the strange wands that it carried.

It opened its mouth to scream, and got that far before the grenade detonated. The battle-cry never materialized as the white and blue flames swept over the creature, vaporizing it and destroying the material shell its soul occupied. As the flash faded, Orna, his weapons now reloaded, gazed at the spot where the Handmaiden had once been. His mandible twitched in satisfaction as he saw that there was nothing but a white hot smear of super heated rock where the Yochol had stood.

There was a jab of pain inside of his mind, and he growled as he turned his guns upon the other fiend once more. It seemed upset at the death of its companion, and was trying to strike out at his mind, since it could not harm his body. The Elite responded with his own battle cry, unloading both of his plasma rifles into her as another of the Bebbiliths tried come at him. He jumped over the demonic arachnid’s attack, though, and came down on top of the thing. Both of the demons screamed as the Yochol found itself being vaporized by the sheer volume of plasma fire that was being poured into her, while the Bebbilith had its head smashed open by the Sangheili’s boot.

Orna gave a roar of triumph as he finished off the Handmaiden, and then began to press on further down into the tunnel.

They had an appointment with that Matron, after all, and it wouldn't be proper or honorable to keep nobility waiting.

The Master Chief nodded his head as he began to move forward. He switched out his repeater, putting it down into the bag of holding that he had on his waist. He let his thoughts wander to the weapon that he wanted, and it jumped up into his hand. Smiling behind his helmet in satisfaction, the Spartan pulled out his flamethrower. Gripping it in his hands, he peered down the tunnel. He could see the first few Drow and Slave soldiers, and zooming in, what appeared to be the Matron. She was surrounded by a number of demons, including what appeared to be a couple of Balors. He remembered how ineffective his plasma weapons had been against the demons, and made double certain that his ASG was secure. They’d need to hit hard and fast, the cavern that the Matron had chosen for her command center was a large one, nearly double the size of a football stadium. They would need to inflict proper disorientation and terror if they wanted to stop themselves from getting swarmed.

“Mark plus ten to initiation,” he whispered over the radio. "Magi stand by to block teleportation vectors."

“We roger,” came the various whispers back.

The Master Chief reached down and pulled out one of his flash bangs. He slowly crept closer. Five more seconds. Four. Three. Two. One.

He armed the grenade and lobbed it out into the ranks of the Drow. Those who learned faster than others realized what the telltale clanking noise meant, and tried to shield their eyes or their ears. Others were not fast enough, and were rendered helpless before the burst of light and noise. At the same time, his scanners indicated that the blocking spells had been put into action. They would only hold for a few minutes, but that would hopefully be long enough.

Protected by his polarizing visor, the Spartan leveled his flamethrower, and unleashed Hell. White hot streams of deity blessed flame roared through the tunnel, devouring everything that it touched. Flesh and hair turned to ash and water vapor before its fury, adamantine turned white hot while lesser metals boiled away or melted into puddles along the floor, and terrifying, agonizing screams were cut short either by the flames’ embrace, or by the lack of oxygen that suddenly began to fill the chamber.

The Spartan moved the flamethrower back and forth like it was a hose, and anything that was within eighty meters of him died. Lesser demons burned and howled as the holy fire touched them, while Wizards and Clerics tried to cast spells for the few moments that their arcane defenses held against the onslaught.

The Spartan looked at the HUD marker on the Matron and noticed that she was attempting to retreat, taking a bodyguard and the Balors with her. The Spartan was curious as to why, as the demons seemed to be more resistant to the fire. Did she fear for her life, or was it something more than that? Was it a trap, designed to lure them in and force them to fight on terms more favorable to the Underdark Forces?

The Spartan frowned, and decided that he had no intentions of finding out. He lowered the flamethrower for a moment, and his hand dove into his rucksack. He summoned up an Antioch grenade, one of two that he had left, and threw the device as hard as he could.

One of the bodyguards must have seen the device coming, as she leaped in front of her charge and took the hit for the Matron. Moments later, as the spiked legs from the grenade tore into the face of the female Dark Elf, her body disintegrated down to the skeleton. Then a blast of power filled the cavern, shaking it to the very roots of the cave system. Rocks fell from down on high, smashing a few of the survivors, but the Spartan looked at the marker, and noticed that the target was still alive. He was impressed. The Matrons were certainly not slackers in the arcane department.

He contemplated using his remaining grenade, or ordering Johnson or one of the others to do the same, but decided against it. There were more valuable targets that they were going to have to hunt down alter. Best to save those for them.

Amidst the gunfire from the other troops that were pouring into the caverns, Sergeant Johnson’s voice boomed, loud and spoken in excellent Dark Elven, challenging the Drow to come to their deaths.

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall know no fear, for I am the baddest mother-fucker in the valley!” Even as he spoke, the ODST’s flamethrower went into action, filling the his area of the cavern with hellish flames. His foes died in agony as four thousand degree flames washed over them.

The Sergeant Major did not relent, and the flames ripped through a group of Minotaurs, Orcs, and Grey Dwarves. They were burned away to ash in milliseconds, and the Sergeant advanced, members of his Hunter Killer team to his back, far enough away that the thermite based fire wouldn’t harm them. Those armed with guns unleashed them, filling the cavern with hypersonic uranium.

“Focus fire on the Matron’s group, I want those Balors dead!” The Master Chief called out to the other HK teams.

“We confirm. Grenade volley!” Orna’s group cried out. Moments later, a half dozen frag grenades were launched into the air. They landed in amongst the Matron’s group, and detonated a second later. The Master Chief nodded in satisfaction as most of the melee troops that had managed to somehow survive the Antioch grenade were killed instantly by the blast and ensuing storm of metal fragments. Both of the Balors growled, and fiery blood oozed out of their wounds. Both of them turned and glared at the intruding groups, and the Spartan knew what was coming next.

“Stay alert, they’re about to teleport!” he shouted.

Sure enough, moments later, they vanished. He kept his eye on his motion tracker, and his earns alert, filtering out the noise of the battle, waiting for that telltale pop that would alert him.

The noise came, air rushing away, and he dove as a red blob appeared three meters away to his right. His EM scanners spiked as a bolt of lightning lashed out over his head. This was followed by the unearthly clang of a heavy piece of metal connecting with the granite of the cavern walls. The Spartan twisted around and flipped back up onto his feet, swapping out his flamethrower for his automatic shotgun. His demonic adversary was busy trying to pull its claymore sized sword out of the stone. The Master Chief blurred into action, remembering the lessons he had learned when he had battled the other Balor some hours earlier. He leveled the weapon with the creature’s left leg, right where the kneecap was.

A squeeze of the trigger sent a half dozen shells worth of pellets and heavy flechettes screaming at the target. An arcane shield leapt up, though, stopping them inches from the Balor. So, it seemed as though this one had the sense not to rely simply on its hide and offensive magic for protection. The Spartan strafed to one side, tucking himself down into a roll as the powerful demon tried to take another swing at him. It seemed to be faster than the last one that he encountered, and more aggressive. His scanners warned him once again that the Demon was going to try casting a spell and the Spartan reacted by weaving his way behind a stone column. A fireball crackled past him an instant later, exploding some distance away, but still close enough that his temperature gauge spiked.

“Pwent, you and the rest of the team move forward and assist the others. I’ll keep this thing off your back. Bidderdo!” he called out.

The mage knew exactly what the Spartan wanted and quietly whispered a spell while the armored super soldier leaned out and squeezed off two more bursts at the Balor to keep it distracted.

“Ascetic, HK-Two, I am engaging an enemy Balor,” Orna shouted over the commlink. The Master Chief stole a glance out of the corner of his eye and saw that the Elite was tangling with the other Balor, pumping fire into it from an SMG while blocking and parrying its strikes with a plasma sword. The other members of his group, and Johnson’s as well, provided fire support to keep other hostiles off his back while the Sangheili went to work. The covering fire was proving nightmarishly effective, it seemed, judging by the bodies that were piling up on the cavern floor.

“Come on, we can take this guy!” Pwent shouted as Biddero reached the final stages of his spell casting.

“Our target is the Matron, the Balors are distractions now,” the Master Chief responded. “Flank around and engage her mundane body guard, cut her escape route off!”

There was a grunt, but the Gutbusters reluctantly complied with the Spartan’s orders. At the same time, Bidderdo finished his spell, and the haste effects took hold of the cyborg. The actions of those around him slowed to that of a surreal dream, and he leveled his weapon at the Balor, unleashing its destructive power upon the evil creature. It turned away from the Dwarves, crouching suddenly and then leaping at the Spartan, its blade cocked back as it snarled.

The Spartan’s mind began to calculate the exact timing needed to evade. Too soon, the Balor would compensate, and too late, he wouldn’t be able to get out of the way. He wanted his shields to be at full strength for when the thing started chucking around those firestorm powers it had. Closer and closer it came as he continued to fire at it. Giving the illusion of someone who was trying for a last stand. Its eyes narrowed and a blast of pain knifed through the Master Chief’s body and mind. John growled, but remained focused. He let two more shots leave the barrel, bringing his ammo down to twenty seven shots, and then he jumped up into the air, flipping over the massive demon as it passed under him, firing down at it. Still it’s arcane shields held, and the Spartan growled in frustration as he saw his EM scanners pick up again.

He cocked an eyebrow, and then realized what was going on. Somehow, it was recasting its defensive spells as soon as they failed. A cunning maneuver on the part of his foe. He nodded his head, and tried to figure out where such an artifact would be, as he couldn’t see one upon the Balor’s person. There was something going on here, and he grew ever more suspicious that this was not an ordinary Balor that he was facing.

He glanced over at Orna, who seemed to be holding his own for the moment, and then focused back on the demon before him. It cast another spell, and it too began to speed up. They were back on even footing. It’s glowing eyes narrowed, but the Spartan stood steadfast, unintimidated by the beast. He reached down and withdrew a Brute spiker grenade from his rucksack, holding it like one would a club, giving the Balor the mistaken belief that he had drawn a melee weapon. It laughed at him in a voice that promised the pain of a thousand deaths, and then extended its arm and hurled three lighting bolts in rapid succession at him. The Spartan twisted and evaded each one, before hurling the grenade. The Balor reached out and caught the weapon in midair.

“Foolish mortal, you think that you can conquer me?” It snarled. “I am—”

Whatever it was about to say was cut off when the grenade detonated. Dense, razors sharp spikes flew everywhere, glowing white hot as they ripped through the Balor’s arcane defenses and into its flesh. It creature screamed in agony, rearing up to its full height and spreading its wings wide. What caught the Master Chief’s attention however, was that over the explosion he had heard a distinctive ‘clang’ when the spikes had torn their way through the Demon. His eyes narrowed behind the visor, and he realized that the Demon had to wearing armor, transparent and invisible over its flesh. He stared closely at the wounds on its chest, and confirmed this theory when he noted hot blood spatters whose spread patterns matched liquid behind confined between two solid objects.

Oh, this one was clever.

That also meant that there was a high probability that whatever artifact that it was using to protect itself was hidden as well. Even if he couldn’t see it, though, the Master Chief knew now that his foe was not invincible. There was a threshold that the shields could take, and when they were down, even if it was just for a moment, the creature was vulnerable. Further, he had studied enough of those tomes that Helm had given them to know that such a shielding artifact would have a limited number of charges. There was only so much abuse it could shield its wearer from. In this, he had the advantage. He could outlast the Balor if it came down to a war of attrition.

The comm chatter that had been raging over their network indicated that the Matron was attempting to pull back towards the rear of the cavern, using her slaves as a sacrificial meat shield to stop all the bullets and grenades from reaching her. No doubt the woman was unnerved by how badly the battle had been going. Never in their worst nightmares had it likely crossed the mind of the Drow that they would fail in their attempt to take Mithril Hall back, not with an army as large as the one that they had mustered. To not only be driven off, but have the enemy taking the fight back towards them had probably not been planned for.

Even if she was panicking, though, she was by no means harmless. As he fired another seven rounds into the Balor, he remembered CPO Mendez’s training. When it is cornered and fighting for its life, nothing was harmless, no matter how weak or pathetic it seemed. A cornered fox was more dangerous than a jackal.

The Balor summoned up one of its firestorms, and white hot destructive heat filled the area of the cavern that they were fighting in. The Spartan weathered the assault, keeping and eye on his shields, while drawing another flashbang. As the flames cleared, he hurled the device towards the Balor, where it went off a moment later with a thunderous boom. The Balor clamped its left hand over its eyes and howled in raw fury as the Spartan emptied the mag from his ASG-60 into it. The shields that it protected itself with were weakening, the Spartan noticed, as three of his shots got through, again giving off distinctive sounds associated with penetrating metal.

The Master Chief used the scanners onboard his suit to attempt a material scan of the Balor while he was reloading. He wasn’t certain how thorough it was, but he was able to pick up elements of the admantine metal covering most of the Balor’s torso, head, legs, and lower arms. The upper arms appeared to be bare though.

He primed his weapon, loading a flechette round into the firing chamber, and opened fire again. The Balor seemed to still be blinded and disoriented by the flash bang, and fired off spell after spell in a blind attempt to crush the cyborg that was opposing it. Storms of razor sharp ice tore through the cavern, ripping through stone and bouncing off the Spartan’s shields as he ducked between stone columns and returned fire, focusing on the upper arms of the Balor.

“You miserable little nothing!” it screamed, teleporting in the general direction of the Spartan. The Spartan tapped into his super human running speeds, and combined with the Haste spell that had been cast on him, covered one hundred meters in the blink of an eye. A pair of Orc slaves were in front of him, no doubt thinking that this area of the cavern might be more safe then the open center, where Johnson’s flamethrower was killing anything that exposed itself for more than a split second, while the half crazy Gutbusters mopped up whatever he missed.

They barely had time to register his presence before he used the butt of his shotgun to cave in their skulls.

“I will tear you from your armor, rip out your guts and feast upon them, devour you alive, tear out your eyes and rend your limbs!” the Balor snarled. “I am Wendonai the Corruptor, and I will not be denied by some pathetic mortal!”

This one did love to run its mouth. The Spartan did not return the challenge. He had no time to waste with boasting, nor any pride that demanded that he promise to do anyone of a half dozen equally horrendous things to the Balor in return. He looked at the creature, and tried to see if there was some way he could determine how strong its shields were.

“She’s trying to pull back,” He heard Johnson bark over the comm channel. “Grenade volley on three. Let’s show miss high maintenance how we do things were I come from!”

The Spartan spared a glance, and saw a number of grenades land around the fleeing Matron. Most of her body guard was mulched by the ensuing destruction, but the Matron’s arcane defenses held against the onslaught, and she continued to summon up Glabrezu’s and the like to aid her escape. He saw Pwent and the other Gutbusters of his Hunter Killer team working their way through the ranks of the Drow towards the woman, but there were too many soldiers, too many bodies in the way. She was going to escape at this rate.

The Spartan saw a chance to kill two birds with one stone. Lure the Balor into the ranks of friendlies, and cut it down there. The Underdark forces would suffer hellish casualties when the thing’s corpse exploded, and watching this apparently abnormally powerful Balor cut down in front of their eyes would do wonders for their already breaking moral.

At the same time, it would force the Matron to deal with him before she could escape. The Spartan merely had to get her attention, and he did know a very, very good way to do that. He fired two rounds at the Balor, getting Wendonai’s attention and causing the still blinded demon to hurl magic at him. The Spartan backpedaled, slapping his shotgun onto his back and reaching down into his rucksack. His thoughts drifted to the weapon he wanted. A moment later, he pulled out a jackhammer rocket launcher.

The smart link integrated with his suit, and the Spartan took aim, focusing on the Matron. He couldn’t get a clear shot, with all the Demons and Dark Elves around her, but he didn’t need to. He depressed the firing stud.

Matron Hesken, trying to put as many bodies and as much distance between these murderous surface dwellers and herself as possible, heard something scream like a Banshee, and cried out as her sensitive ears were assaulted. She turned towards the source of the noise, and had enough time to spot a mote of white heat before the one hundred and five millimeter missile impacted just a few feet away from her.

She felt a strange sense of floating, disorientation and the world flying around her in a myriad of colors and blurred shapes. This was followed by a very painful return to reality as she slammed against a stone column. The Matron bit her lip so hard that it bled as pain wracked her body, and she realized that her defenses had been breached. They were gone, and she was for the moment, helpless. If the way her chest was screaming at the moment was any indication, she’d also fractured several ribs. The Matron, though, had not survived in Drow society for five hundred years by panicking the moment she was exposed and vulnerable. She hastily erected a powerful stone skin spell from a ring on her left hand, before healing herself.

Then she looked around, trying to find her Glabrezu escort and the rest of her bodyguard. It took her a moment to realize that they were all around her… pieces of them at any rate.

The Spartan nodded as he saw the Matron rise. Then he shifted his attention back towards the Balor, and he suspected its sight must have been returning, as it was starting to move towards him. He waited, Spartan Time in full effect as he ran through the calculations in his head, factoring in the Balor’s movement speed, the acceleration of the Jackhammer’s missile, time for the two to meet, and the Balor’s apparent reaction times.

Once it closed to within thirty meters the Spartan depressed the firing stud once again. The rocket leapt out of its tube, shrieking, hungry for prey. The Balor snarled, and raised a hand to try and defend itself. The Master Chief nodded his head as he shoved the empty rocket launcher back into his rucksack. Just as planned, the rocket impacted against the Balor and detonated. The shockwave washed over the cyborg, and when the flash had cleared, Wendonai stood screaming in agony. The Demon’s left arm was completely gone, vaporized by the Jackhammer.

“You…” it growled, holding its remaining arm against the stump, fiery blood oozing past the fist and the hilt of the sword it carried. The Master Chief knew that he had properly enraged the beast, now for the master stroke: luring it in.

He unslung his ASG-60, and rushed down towards the disoriented Matron. He could see the stone skin spell that covered her, and watched as she shouted for the remaining forces to come to her aid. She was no doubt going to try and summon otherworldly reinforcements. It was time to put a stop to that.

The Master Chief could hear his target’s voice building, and knew that she was reaching the end of her spell. He had to silence her. Now. He rushed in, lowering his shoulder as the Matron’s voice rose in timbre. Moments later, Matron Hesken was given a crash course in two very important lessons. The first was that Spartan-II super soldiers could run at speeds normally associated with dragons in mid flight. The second one was an objective introduction to Newton’s First Law of Motion. That is, an object in motion tends to stay in motion, an object at rest will stay at rest unless acted upon by an outside force. More importantly, she learned what happened when her forty kilogram body came into contact with an object more than a dozen times more massive that was traveling at high speed.

Matron Hesken let out a cry as she was hurled more than twenty meters through the air, slamming into another stone column with enough force to send cracks spider-webbing through the rock. Small chunks fell from the ceiling, bouncing off of her arcane protection as she tried to rise to her feet and get a good look at what had just hit her. The Mjolnir Mark VI’s thermal cloaking systems kept her from seeing more than a faint outline of the terror that walked amongst her forces.

The Matron was wise, though, and even with only that silhouette to go with, she realized what it was. This was the terror that had slaughtered so many of her troops, the golem-like warrior that could butcher her people at will. This was the thing that Brianna had shown to her and the other Matrons all those months ago, and what had probably killed her. She felt her heart start to beat faster and faster, and terror rise up in her stomach. She quashed it, though, as best she could and began to renew her spell casting as her bodyguards swarmed around the thing. Behind them and the fiend that sought her life she could see Wendonai. The mighty Balor was wounded, she could see, but not finished. He would come to her aide, she knew. No mortal being or construct could possibly stand against the might of the Demon and so many of his underlings.

The silhouette blurred in as she started to chant. She watched as her remaining bodyguards and the rank and file soldiers rushed towards them. One of her elite troops leapt at the nearly invisible soldier. There was a bang, a spray of heat, followed by hot blood spraying everywhere. The corpse of the bodyguard fell to the ground, twitched once, and then went still.

There was some hope, however. Two of her captains, Charbyle and Talra rushed to her aid, charging out ahead of the rest of her bodyguards. The Matron could see the haste spells that they had cast upon themselves, and knew that both of the elite soldiers carried a large array of arcane equipment. If any of her soldiers could cut down this surface soldier, it was them.

The Master Chief saw the two blitz in, with two more Minotaurs not far behind them. Their speed was not natural, he realized, and knew that they were the greatest threat to him at the moment aside from the Matron herself. He leveled his shotgun at one of them, and fired a round. As with the Balor, a shield flared to life. They would be upon him in milliseconds, he realized, and he fired twice more as he analyzed their attack pattern.

The one on the left carried a large glaive, the other carried twin swords as seemed to be the tradition among the Drow forces, with fire and lightning coursing their way over the swords. The one with the polearm was the greater threat. She would have great reach, and the two handed grip of the weapon meant that she would be able to put more force behind each blow. He had enough time for two more shots, and then she was within striking range.

The Dark Elven female brought the glaive up high, slashing downward and intending to have the weapon bite into his neck. The Spartan twisted out of the way and fired another round as the second officer leapt in, her blades cutting a geometric pattern in the air. The Spartan allowed the blows to fall upon his shields, noticing an extra drop in the shields due to the elemental properties of the swords. He ducked underneath her next attack, and stuck his leg out, sweeping the captain’s feet out from under her. The woman landed heavily, but was quick to return to her feet.

The other captain brought her glaive in, and again the Spartan let her score a hit. He emptied five rounds into her shields, and he noticed a weakening of them. The defenses would have made them almost unstoppable under normal conditions, but he was not normal.

He heard chanting behind him, and knew that the Matron was taking advantage of this situation to try and cast a spell once again. The rest of the bodyguards were also closing in on him fast. The Spartan jumped backwards, coming down six meters away, and lining up with the Matron. Loud, powerful booms rocked the cavern as the ASG-60 spat out its deadly payload. He also reached into his rucksack, and drew a flash bang grenade. He hurled it through the air, followed swiftly by a fragmentary. The captains seemed wise enough to cover their eyes and were shielded from the blinding light of the explosion. The slower moving, un-hasted troops behind them were not so fortunate. Robbed of their senses, they could not prepare themselves for the powerful HP-9’s detonation, and the Master Chief nodded in satisfaction as he watched a dozen troops fall. One of the Minotaurs seemed to try and collect itself, though, despite all the wounds it had, and the fact that it probably couldn’t see or hear anything.

The Spartan ignored it for the moment, Refocusing on the Matron. The flash bang seemed to have distracted her, but that blasted stone skin spell was still in full effect. Her captains also weren’t going to give him the luxury of a turkey shoot. Despite the blood he could see streaming out of their ears, they rushed at him again, determined to put themselves between their commander and harms way.

The Spartan actually found himself grudgingly admiring their dedication to their duty, even if they were becoming thorns in his side. He had about twenty rounds left in his shotgun, and he leveled the weapon again. It was time to focus on one of them and remove them from the equation. Better one dead foe than two who were merely injured. He flicked the firing mode to full auto as the Drow blurred up into his face, and unleashed the gun’s destructive fury. He shields faded as she closed to withinrange and thrust her spear forward.

The Master Chief grabbed the blade, his shields flaring as the razor sharp, arcane metal tried to cut through his shields. Though she might have been on almost equal terms with him now as far as speed was concerned, strength was still a mismatch. The Spartan yanked backwards on the polearm, and tore it from the captain’s grasp. He blurred forward as her companion tried to come to her assistance, and rammed his fist into her stomach.

Captain Charbyle felt an explosion of pain in her stomach as the sound of rending metal filled the air. She couldn’t breath and felt something alien and cold within her stomach. Moments later she realized that the reason for this was that her opponent’s hand was wrapped around her stomach. There was a wet, sickening tear as her foe pulled its hand out of her, and she was aware that most of her bowels had left with him.

The Spartan knew that he had mortally wounded the woman, but she wasn’t dead yet. Her hand went down to a dagger at her side, even as she vomited up blood and her body began to grow cool. Unsure of what enchantments might be on the dagger, the Spartan reached a bloodied hand around her neck, and twisted. Her spinal cord snapped and she went limp.

Much to his surprise, the other captain gave a scream of rage and came at him in a berserker like rage. He blocked one blade with his forearm, but he was forced to drop his ASG as the other blade headed for it. He did not hesitate, though, and before the weapon had hit the ground, shifted to let the sword bypass him. He lashed out with a punch, which was stopped by the arcane shield that the captain had around her armor, but did have the force to send her stumbling backwards. The cyborg’s hands blurred down to his sides. In his right hand, he grasped the M6D that he had on his hip, while his left drew the Helljumper Toothpick that he’d strapped to the back of his waist. Both were drawn in an instant, and he got off two shots of high explosive ammo before the woman charged back in.

The Master Chief leapt up over a strike aimed at his legs, and fired again. On the way back down, he swung his knife. The foot long blade clanged harshly against the adamantine sword, and he shoved the parry aside, powering through and slamming it against the barrier. At the same time, he slammed his head against the woman and drove a knee into her gut. Again, the barrier held, but he could feel it weakening. His motion sensor was detecting massive amounts of activity swarming towards him, and he knew he had to hurry up. The Balor was limping along, but it wasn’t going to take it much longer to get into range.

He riposted another blow before slamming the butt of his M6D against the captain’s head. The shield’s shattered, but had still managed to absorb most of the impact. The Chief, though, knew that he now had the advantage, and seized on it. To her credit, the Dark Elf attempted to back away and disengage from him, realizing that she had just lost her greatest defense against this armored monster that she faced. She wasn’t fast enough, though. The knife dove, and the pistol fired. The 12.7 millimeter depleted uranium round tore through her leg and exploded, while the knife’s monomolecular blade sundered the besagew covering the woman’s shoulder, and a split second later, hacked her arm off at the shoulder.

Now missing two limbs, the captain toppled to the ground. The Master Chief let her fall. She was mission killed, and would probably bleed out. He had more important things to worry about.

He cursed as he saw a shimmering field surrounding the Matron. While dead or dying, her elite bodyguards had bought their leader time to try and restore her defenses. The Spartan rushed over to his ASG-60 and picked it up as he returned his pistol and knife to their holsters. Then he drew an incendiary grenade, and hurled it into the waves of her approaching rank and file defenders.

There was a boom and a flash, and the Matron covered her eyes, shielding them from the blast as she felt the heat wash over her, and her newly cast shield spell weakened. How many charges remained within the ring if her shield failed again? Would it be enough to protect her long enough for Wendonai to close the distance and re-engage this monster that sought to kill her? She blinked and looked out again, horror filling her soul again as she realized that the second wave of her bodyguards were gone, screaming as the flames consumed them.

She dropped an orb of darkness over herself, hoping that by blocking her foe’s vision, she might buy herself enough time to firm up her defenses, and engage it in battle.

The Master Chief, however, was not fooled or even slowed. While the strange, arcane orb might have blocked his sight, it did nothing to prevent his motion sensor from tracking the Matron’s movement within the orb, or the HUD waypoint marker that was right over her head. He fired into the darkness as he rushed forward, realizing that he could use the orb to his advantage and keep the Matron’s remaining bodyguard off balance until the Balor was in position. He had to take down that stone skin spell and the recast shield anyway, or there was a possibility, however remote, that the Matron would survive and this would all be for nothing.

His target was right in front of him, and he reached down, grabbing the Matron about where he estimated her throat would be based on her height. His calculations were accurate, and he felt his hand clamp down upon the stone and shield covered flesh. He yanked the woman off her feet as if she weighed no more than a feather, and holding his ASG-60 in one hand, fired it at point blank range into her torso. He squeezed the trigger once, sending five rounds screaming out of the barrel of the automatic shotgun. The flechettes bounced off the shield barrier, but he felt it fade after the last round hit. He was surprised, having expected something stronger. Perhaps she the fight had weakened her? Or maybe she did not have anything but her lesser spells to defend herself with at this point? Whatever the reason, he knew that he still had to chew through the stone skin spell. But the cyborg remembered well the lessons that Neeshka had taught him in his first week here on this world, and the nature of this spell.

The defense revolved around blocking a certain number of hits. Each flechette, therefore, would drain the spell a little bit, and when tallied together, they added up alarmingly quickly.

The Spartan’s motion sensors were alive with hostile movement, and he cocked his left arm back, slamming the Matron into the stone pillar once more time as he turned to face the new threats. The blobs on his sensors were too small to be demons or large mortal creatures like Minotaurs, so that meant humanoids, probably another wave of Drow bodyguards, judging by the rate at which they were closing. The Spartan dropped his quarry long enough to draw another frag grenade, and hurled it out of the sphere. He felt the concussion from its detonation, and a great red ring appeared on his motion tracker, before fading away to stillness.

The dark orb began to fade, and he attempted to get visual confirmations on his motion sensor’s readings. While many of the Dark Elves were dead and much of their corpses spread all over the stone floor of the cavern, they still attempted to rush towards him. Their resolve was almost beyond belief. The cyborg had ten shots left in his ASG-60, and he knew that he still had eight rounds left in his pistol. He took note of Wendonai at the same time. Forty meters and closing fast. The Spartan suspected that he had maybe five seconds before it was in melee range again. He focused on the approaching remnants of the bodyguard at the moment, and fired three rounds into their ranks.

Behind him, Matron Hesken groaned and tried to rise to her feet. The Spartan kicked backwards, planting his heel into her chin as the Dark Elven soldiers still came at him, desperate to save their commander… Or was it really that kind of loyalty? Were they perhaps just running to escape the murderous hail of gunfire closer to the entrance of the cavern? Regardless of the cause, they were coming for him.

At their current speed, they would reach him before the Balor. The Spartan ejected the drum mag from his shotgun, hastily stuffing it down into his rucksack while summoning up another one. He locked it into position and chambered a round as the first bodyguard leapt at him. The Drow let out a battlecry, confirming it to be a female, and cocked a pair of curving swords back, ready to strike as she got in range. The Master Chief let the blades hit, and his shields crackled as the adamantine tips glanced off the force fields. He cocked a fist back and lashed out. The Drow’s head was covered by a barbute styled helmet, but against the sheer kinetic power of the Spartan’s fist, it might as well have been papier-mâché. The cheek protectors and faceguard caved in and the woman’s skull shattered as the armored gauntlet tore through and into her brainpan. She was dead before her body hit the floor.

The Spartan fired a round from his shotgun, targeting what appeared to be another officer or perhaps a sergeant, judging by the heavier armor that she wore. The flechettes ripped through her armor, her body, and into the soldier behind her. Both fell to the ground, dead. Another soldier attempted to flank, lashing out with an arming sword and a short dirk. The Spartan moved in a blur, leaning back out of the way of the strike. Cobra quick, John’s iron hard grip was upon the woman’s wrist and he twisted. Her bones snapped like kindling, and he flowed into an akido move, flipping the girl over and slamming her down onto the stone floor of the cavern.

John pulled out one of his psychological warfare tricks, and yanked backwards on the arm that he still held, while at the same time smashing his boot down onto the woman’s chest. Her ribs shattered beneath the blow, and he knew he’d crippled and mortally wounded her. At the same time, he had pinned her, preventing her from moving when he’d yanked backwards on her arm. There was a sickening tear and popping noise, and the Spartan hurled the rended limb at the nearest Drow bodyguard. To the woman’s credit, it didn’t seem to affect her in the slightest.

His EM scanners spiked, warning him that Wendonai was about to launch more spells. The Spartan ducked and twisted to face the Balor, which roared and hurled a lightning bolt at him. The Spartan dodged to one side as the bolt ripped past, tearing a huge chuck of rock loose from the stone column behind him while Matron Hesken rolled behind the shaft of rock. The cyborg came up out of his role and shifted his position to get a clear angle on his primary target, leveling his ASG-60 at Matron Hesken, and firing off five more rounds at her. He nodded with satisfaction as the last round impacted and he saw her defensive spell finally fade.

Then he had to divert most of his attention to the Balor. It was time for the masterstroke of the plan. The mighty Demon let loose a battle cry that promised a thousand agonies, but the Spartan ignored it, focusing on the Demon. Like Matron Hesken, the Balor’s defenses were down. All it had to protect it was its unnaturally tough hide and the armor that covered it.

It thrust its sword forward, but the Master Chief twisted to one side, slapping the blade away from himself and rolling forward, inside of the Demon’s attack range. He aimed his ASG-60, and opened up. A quartet of flechette rounds tore through the adamantine boot on the Balor’s left foot and shredded the extremity almost down to a stump. Wendonai howled, and breathed a gout of white hot hellfire that washed over the Spartan’s shields and drained them by a quarter. The Spartan dodged out of the flame and kicked the Balor as hard as he could in the back of the knee. Bones cracked and the mighty Tanar’ri stumbled.

Another quartet of shotgun rounds, these to the kneecap, finished the job, blasting out the Demon’s leg and forcing it to its knees. Wendonai was no fool, and it knew that to remain still against a foe like the Spartan would guarantee defeat. It spread its wings, meaning to take to the air, but the Spartan was faster. A half dozen rounds shredded the leathery membranes and sent rivers of agonizing pain through the demon. In desperation, it lashed out with its massive sword once again.

The Spartan easily evaded the clumsy strike, wrapping his hand around the Balor’s wrist while slamming the stock of the ASG-60 into the Demon’s elbow. Alien though its face may have been, it was not difficult for the Master Chief to see the look of horror on the Balor’s face as it realized the position that it was in. There was a cracking of bone, so powerful and violent that the bones actually tore through the muscles and hide of the Balor’s arm, sending streams of fiery blood everywhere.

The Balor’s hand went limp, and its sword began to drop. The Master Chief reached out and grabbed it before it could hit the ground, snapping it around and impaling one of the Matron’s charging bodyguard’s through the chest with it. He yanked it out just as quickly, as he saw his target starting to weave her hands around. He knew she was preparing a spell. Offensive or defensive in nature, he didn’t know, nor did he care. He hurled the blade like a spear, catching the Matron through the stomach. She let out a scream as it went through her and pinned her to the stone. However, even that kind of wound would not necessarily be mortal to such a powerful Cleric, the cyborg knew. He had to finish the job.

He looked into Wendonai’s hate filled eyes, and leveled his shotgun as the Drow bodyguards tried to swarm around the Demon’s body and get to him, while others rushed to try and pull the sword out of their commander. He pulled the trigger, and sent a three shot burst through the Demon’s head at point blank range. It flew apart like an overripe melon, and the body began to fall.

The Spartan wasted no time, turning for the side area of the cavern that he’d made his way along to get here, and charging towards it. The two bodyguards that had managed to flank him were knocked aside like bowling pins as he slammed past them.

His motion sensor indicated that some were pursuing him, but that most were trying to save their leader. He looked back over his shoulder and saw one of them feeding the woman a healing potion while two more ripped the Balor’s massive sword from her gut. John never slowed down, running full tilt back towards the entrance of the cavern, looking for an ideal spot to get out in the open, away from all the potentially head crushing rocks that were likely to fall over in this area when the Balor’s corpse went nuclear.

Distracted either by the pain of an ordinarily mortal injury, or concern for their leader, it was too late when the Dark Elves noticed that their infernal ally was indeed dead. Some tried to flee, Matron Hesken attempted to cast a spell to shield herself. None were fast enough. The Balor’s corpse detonated like a two hundred kilogram bomb.

As the Spartan dodged and weaved his way towards the entrance amidst the cries of terror from the Underdark forces, he opened up a line with Cortana.

“Control, Sierra, mission objective accomplished. Repeat, mission objective accomplished.”

[Trivia Freak]

Orna Fullsamee leapt backwards out of the way of his foe’s swing. The fiery axe that the Balor carried was a nasty looking weapon, and while the Ascetic had confidence that his shields would protect him from the worst that could be thrown at him, he didn’t want to give the thing free hits when it was possible to avoid them.

Instead he let loose with the weapon he held in his left hand: A type thirty four guided munitions launcher. Redesigned from the old type thirty three, the new needler was more ergonomically friendly now, with the ammo block loaded from the side. A squeeze of the trigger sent a burst of four pinkish-purple crystals from the gun, which screamed towards the Balor. The large spikes punctured its flesh and it howled in pain. Orna tried to fire another burst, but the creature teleported out of the line of fire. The Sangheili warrior understood what was coming. The short range teleports had not been blocked by the wards the magi had raised around the area, and that meant…

The Ascetic ducked and rolled forward. Moments later an axe passed over his head. As he leapt back up, a lightning bolt struck his shields, draining them by a third. Orna gave a roar and fired again, the spikes homing in on the target. Another four connected, eight altogether. More than enough.

The crystalline rounds of ammunition began to hum and resonate as their energy signatures linked up and amplified off of one another. A half second later, they detonated. The Balor screamed in agony and hunks of flesh smacked wetly as they landed amongst the rock, while fiery blood poured out of the wound. Orna knew, however, that the Balor could survive such an assault, and responded by sending out more crystals. His foe, despite having a hole in its chest large enough to have been instantly fatal to anything else, teleported again.

This time it appeared right above the Ascetic, forcing Orna on the defensive. Axe and clawed hand descended, forcing the Sangheili to quickly holster his weapon and draw his swords. He crossed them together and blurred into action. The blade in his left hand blocked the axe, while his other one lashed out and cut three fingers off of the Balor’s other hand. It screamed in rage and wounded pride, and summoned up a fireball. The Elite dodged to the side, before rushing in and slicing to and fro with his twin blades.

As he stabbed with one, sliced with the other, Orna caught sight of the Master Chief over at the far end of the cavern, fighting against the Matron’s bodyguards. He longed to go assist the Spartan, but knew that he had to keep this Demon away from Bruenor. He had failed to safeguard enough things for one lifetime as it was.

The Balor was quick, and was able to block one strike with its axe, while the blade in Orna’s right hand plunged home, tearing a great gash in the Demon’s abdomen. It howled for a third time, and staggered backwards, but it was still on its feet. The Elite cursed the fiend’s unnatural tolerance for high temperatures. It made slicing through the hide and flesh difficult, and Orna suspected that if he were any weaker, he would be hard pressed to keep up an offensive.

Still, he kept fighting. This thing had to be brought down, and he would not fail again. He thrust one of his blades forward yet again, while bringing the other one around to slash at the unguarded arm of his foe. The Balor, its mind sharpened by thousands of years of infernal combat, was able to react quickly enough to summon up a shield to cover its arm, and Orna’s plasma blade bit deep into the enchanted metal. His other attack was slightly more successful, the twin tips of the energy sword drawing blood as it parted hide and flesh. The Balor screamed some manner of infernal curse and countered with a sweep of its axe.

In a blinding motion, Orna got his left arm up and parried the strike, but found himself still having to leap backwards to escape the shield, as the Balor began to use it as a bludgeoning instrument. He wasn’t completely successful, and was knocked backwards, his shields crackling to life and dropping by a quarter as the Balor’s ‘punch’ picked him up off the ground and sent him flying through the air. The Elite skidded and rolled across the floor, the impact knocking the needler loose from its holster. Instincts arose within the Ascetic, and he knew he had to get back up. He shifted his center of gravity and flipped back up to his feet some twelve meters away from his adversary. Undeterred by the Balor’s renewed offensive, Orna sheathed one of his blades and drew a UNSC MA5K carbine from his rucksack. The scaled down weapon felt as light as a pistol in his hands, and though he did not hold the foregrip, Orna knew that at the range he was at, it would be impossible to miss.

He fired a burst of five rounds at his foe as he strafed around it, seeking an optimum combat angle, but remaining aware of where his allies were within the cavern. It would not due to be the cause of a friendly fire incident. The Balor, for its part, turtled down behind the massive tower shield that it had summoned, seeking to keep the arcane metal between itself and this strange opponent. The mach four depleted uranium kept hammering the shield in bursts, pushing the Balor slightly off balance and denting up its shield.

"I will crush your body and devour your soul!" it shouted at him in Faerunian Common, its voice grating at the Sangheili's mind.

Orna shot off another five round burst, his HUD indicating that he had twelve rounds left in the magazine. He was keeping his foe pinned down, unable to move or cast spells at the moment, but the Sangheili Ascetic knew that he needed to do more than that. He needed to kill this fiend. Adrenaline boiled through his blood, and his golden eyes narrowed. The Elite stuck the weapon to the back of his armor, and reached back down into his rucksack. He withdrew a plasma grenade and his mandibles clacked together in the Sangheili variant of a smirk. The Balor might have had a super natural tolerance for heat, but that shield didn’t. He threw the burning orb with all of his strength, and just as he’d hoped, the weapon stuck.

The Balor didn’t seem to notice what he’d done, but it felt it moments later, when the grenade detonated. The shield was utterly destroyed, and the Balor screamed in pain from the heat, which was intense enough to hurt even it, but also from the white hot fragments of metal that were sent flying through its body as the grenade turned its own shield against it.

When the heat flash cleared, Orna nodded with satisfaction. The Balor’s arm was little more than strips of shredded meat, while a dozen wounds on its chest and abdomen sent fiery blood pouring down over its skin. Its breath was becoming ragged, and Orna knew that he had hurt it, hurt it badly. It was time to finish this thing.

His foe, though, while gravely wounded, was not yet ready to concede the battle. The mighty Demon gestured with its remaining arm, and bolts of fire and lightning twisted together, swirling as they rushed towards the Sangheili. Orna was able to evade most of the attack’s fury, but it was still able to rip away nearly half of his shields. The Ascetic growled, and decided upon a course of action that was so inherently reckless that no sane creature would think to do it: he charged headlong at his Demonic foe.

Even wounded, Balors were more than a match for nearly any mortal upon the face of Faerun, the powerful creature’s were virtually armies unto themselves, and only the staunchest or most suicidal would have ever willingly closed the distance and come to blows. However, Orna had confidence in his skills. He had trained all his life in art of swordsmanship, could trace his lineage back through more than two score of the finest blade masters of his people. He had stood his ground and gone toe to toe with a Spartan, and with the mightiest of the Jirahliae chieftains and survived. He did not fear the Balor, but the Ascetic swore that before this was over with, he would make the fiend fear him.

The Balor had been attempting to cast another spell, but the Elite’s powerful legs propelled him forward at nightmarish speed. He closed the distance between the himself and his foe in less than two seconds, not enough time for the Demon to finish casting. It had a choice, either to try and finish the incantation it was chanting and leave itself vulnerable, or to let the spell fizzle out and try to hold off the strange creature it faced in melee combat.

It opted for the latter, and brought it axe down, before swinging it back and forth, creating a dizzying defensive matrix in front of it. Orna had speed and strength over his foe. The Balor had reach and impossible durability. Even in its battered state, Orna knew that his unholy adversary was a threat.

Plasma sword met infernal axe, and what followed was a blur as the Elite and the Demonic general fought back and forth. Orna stabbed his right blade forward again, bringing the left about in a mighty swing aimed straight at the shoulder of the Demon. The Balor shifted, rolling with the blow, but it could not avoid it entirely, and the Ascetic's plasma blade sliced a hunk off of its arm. The Demon's blood hissed as it dripped against the stone floor, and it backed away. The Balor glared at him as it tried to circle, and Orna noticed its malice filled eyes were darting around, as if it were searching frantically for some means of leveling the battle. its eyes widened, and Orna heard it hiss out a few words in its infernal tongue. He lunged in, striking swiftly with both of his swords.

The Balor was able to parry one strike, but the second one got through, cleaving most of what was left of its shield arm from its body. Amazingly, the Balor was able to finished its chant, and moments later, a hovering, glowing sword appeared at its side, floating freely. The weapon swung in cutting into Orna's shields, but failing to penetrate.

The Sangheili retreated momentarily, analyzing the sudden change in the battle. he recognized the floating blade as a Modenkainen's sword, a semi-self-aware weapon that was mentally controlled by its summoner. The lack of an attached arm eliminated both a potential vulnerability for him to exploit as well as the traditional limitations imposed by wrist movements. However, the sword itself was still vulnerable, and while it was a potent arcane spell, he had faith that his weapons were the better.

The information had crossed through his mind and he had processed his new plan of attack in barely two blinks of an eye, his mental thoughts honed by decades on the battlefield. Then he charged back in. He struck high and low, his right sword slashing downwards, his left stabbing at the Balor's right leg. The demon moved both axe and summoned blade to protect itself, but it did not perceive the feint that the stab really was. He changed the thrust halfway through, putting all of his might into a horizontal slash that connected with the demon's impromptu secondary weapon just above the crossguard. Enchanted metal met super-heated plasma, and Orna's sword scored a deep gouge in the blade, causing it to shudder as it flew back to the Demon's side.

A beeping noise in his left ear let Orna know that his suit's shields were recharging. The visor hid the fiendish, predatory grin that came to his mandibles as his other main advantage in this battle manifested itself.

His defenses could recharge. His foe's could not.

The Balor tried to suddenly steal back the offensive, oblivious to the renewed defenses it now faced. It brought its axe down in a mighty chop, trying to split Orna in half, while its Modenkainen's Sword stabbed forward. The Ascetic was a blur as he shifted to the right, parrying both strikes, while hammering down on the summoned sword one more time, scoring another deep cut into it. He could see fear and uncertainty manifesting on the face of his foe, and all it did was increase the cold blooded aggression that Orna felt coursing through his body. His opponent was afraid of him, it was intimidated by him. Now it was time to drive that victory home and make his foe know despair before he banished him back to the nightmarish pit that it had been spawned from.

The fear and terror that the Balor felt was becoming more manifest, and its would-be counterattacks and attempts to steal back the offensive were becoming more frantic and sloppier. The Sangheili warrior parried and riposted in a series of blurs that struck home a half-score glancing wounds in less than three seconds. Blood streamed from all the injuries that the Balor had suffered, further affecting its movements. It was slowing down, its breath coming in ragged gasps and the burning realization in its eyes was clear: it was dying, and it knew it. Even if it were to somehow win the battle, its banishment from this plane was not long in coming.

The Demonic general brought its summoned sword down in a mighty chop, once again trying to cleave Orna in two, while its axe came in from below, trying to slice in at the Elite's ribs and cut upwards until it came out at the right shoulder. Orna saw his opening, and he took it. One plasma sword leapt to intercept the summoned blade, smashing into it and cutting through the enchanted metal, destroying the weapon utterly. His other caught the infernal axe underneath the head, and the Ascetic ripped his plasma sword backwards. The Balor, weakened by pain and its multitude of injuries, could do nothing to stop the axe from being ripped out of its grip. As the weapon clanged harshly against the cavern floor, Orna ducked down and stuck out one of his legs. He swept the Balor off its feet, and the Demon landed hard against the stone.

Without pause, the Sangheili leapt up into the air, coming down on the Balor's ribs. The Elite heard the bones underneath crack and shatter beneath his cloven hooves. One blade dove in for the Balor's throat, the other down the right side of its body. The Demonic general was able to twist its head to one side, avoiding the worst of the strike aimed at its throat, but it could do nothing to stop Orna from amputating not only its remaining arm, but also the right wing.

A howl of pain shook the cavern as the Balor shook itself like a dog, splattering blood everywhere and forcing Orna off of it. Still, the Elite wore his smile. He had almost won. The Balor was defenseless, trying awkwardly to rise up without any arms. It was looking over at him, and Orna could see a look in its eyes. His EM scanners started to spike, and he realized it was going for broke and trying to summon up another Hellstorm spell. The Elite leaped at his foe like a panther pouncing on its prey. He spread both of his arms wide, and when he was in range, struck. Both plasma swords found their mark, cutting home and decapitating the Balor.

He turned to run, knowing that he had but seconds to escape from his foe, pausing only to scoop his needler back up. Still, there was sufficient distance between his allies and the blast, and that was all that mattered right now, aside from killing the matron.

Moments later, his opponent's body became its own funeral pyre. The cavern shook, and Orna was tempted to start chanting a traditional Sangheili victory poem. A small measure of pride filled the Ascetic as he rushed back over towards the rest of the Hunter Killer Teams, and he knew in his heart that this would be a day he would tell his children of, and his children's children, until the time came when he left this coil.

As he rejoined his squadron, Orna's radio crackled to life.

"To all HK Teams, this is Oracle One, we have a field update for you."


--
Drizzt Do’Urden felt the familiar grips of his scimitars in his hands as he lead his group of Hunter-Killers towards the coordinates that Cortana had given him. He had seen little combat so far, having been stationed more towards the upper tunnels in case his dark hearted brethren had tried something unexpected, but he had heard all the radio chatter. There were hundreds of thousands dead, slave and Dark Elf alike.

The forces of his people, which had taken thousands of years to reach this point, had been all but wiped out in the span of a few hours. The Ranger was at a loss to come to terms with it, and it almost made him feel numb. How hard it was to create things like life and civilization. How much easier it was to tear them down.

The Dark Elf glanced down at his hip, where a sub machinegun bounced lightly against a plate of UNSC ballistic armor. Commander Keyes had insisted that he carry both, stating that it would be better to not need them and have them available, than need them and not have them. He was uncomfortable with the weapon and frowned as he rushed down the tunnels of Mithril Hall. He understood, now, why the people of the UNSC warred the way they did, and how these weapons were necessary to their very survival, but something about them still made him feel wrong. The armor, on the other hand, was amazing, he thought to himself. It was lightweight, comfortable, and did not impede his movement or natural agility. Yet, despite all this, it was as strong as dragonscale and would offer wonderful protection from the razor sharp and enchanted blades of his people.

It was also the first time that he actually felt comfortable wearing a helmet, having found anything heavier than skullcap too heavy and restricting for his tastes. The eyepiece that was over his left eye was useful too, pointing out the waypoints that Cortana had set up for his group, while at the same time telling him about how deep the Umber Hulks that were burrowing down were, and about how long it would be until they arrived.

His thoughts were pushed back into reality as he reached the waypoint marker and signaled the halt to those behind him. Dove moved up next to him, her blade out and at the ready. Two Silverymoon troops moved up along their flanks, each carefully bracing a double barreled rocket launcher on their shoulders. At the moment, Cortana had predicted a high probability that the Drow would attempt to use the enchanted Umber Hulks not only to dig the tunnels, but also to act as a kind of heavy duty shock trooper to clear any opposition from within the areas surrounding their holes. Their massive size would also enable them to shield their much smaller masters as they teleported in.

The Dark Elf readied himself as he saw the numbers telling him the distance between himself and the attackers diminish as the minutes passed. Over the radio, he heard the Master Chief announce that he was preparing to link up with Bruenor and his group, and go hunting one of the heads of the Hydra that was this fiendish army.

“All Hunter Killers brace. Enemy contact imminent.” Commander Keyes relayed to them.

“I see them coming,” Drizzt replied, readying himself.

He steadied his breathing as the rocky roof in front of them began to crack and split, and knew that this was it. He was about to half to shed the blood of his people once again. His violet eyes narrowed as the stones began to fall, and then the roof was split asunder. First in one place, and then another, and then a third, until everything was tumbling down.

True to Cortana’s prediction, the elephant sized monsters dropped down first. They saw the defenders, and opened their insect-like jaws to roar at them.

“Fire!” an officer shouted.

The trooper to the Dark Elf’s left fired his rocket at the closest monster, perhaps some seventy feet away. It gave a shriek as it tore through the air, and the temperature of the cavern rose noticeably. While the Faerunian soldiers were not yet crack shots with the launchers, at this range, it would have been impossible to miss. The one hundred and five millimeter, shaped charge warhead was nearly going supersonic when it connected with the chest of the Umber Hulk. The five kilogram warhead packed a punch that could open anything short of a Scorpion or a Rhino tank open like an orange. With only its organic shell and its flesh, the Umber Hulk never stood a chance.

Its roar became a death rattle as the blast vaporized a man sized hole in its chest, while almost hypersonic metal tore through its innards and out of its back. It slumped to the ground, blood flowing everywhere.

The soldier to his left fired next, killing the second beast, and then the one on the left fired his other barrel, slaying the third. While they could not be employed as shock troopers now, there brutes had still more than served their purpose. Within seconds, the flashes of teleportation spells lit up the large cave they were in, announcing the arrival of more slaves and Dark Elven forces. No doubt, Drizzt surmised, they were eager to get down here, out of the slaughter house that the battlefield outside the mountain had turned into.

The Ranger, for a single, split second, pitied them in their ignorance. Silverymoon troops brought forth portable cover, a few plated bits of metal from the Dawn’s heavy weapons armories to shield the heavy machineguns, while others deployed portable Covenant energy shields. The sudden appearance of these shimmering energy fields threw the attackers off guard, and left them vulnerable to what happened next: a barrage of flash bangs.
He watched as Orcs, Gray Dwarves, Kobolds, and Dark Elves were rendered helpless and blind before the mighty weapons, and then mercilessly cut down by the hail of gunfire that followed. The rounds from the heavy guns were far more powerful than the infantry weapons, and he watched as a Dark Elf, a young one, probably not much older than he was when he first went to the academy, take a round to the gut. The force of the Depleted Uranium round punched through his adamantine chain armor, and ripped him in half. The gore went everywhere, but for a few moments, the young elf continued to live, crawling around on the ground, his shrieks of pain inaudible over the screams of his fellows.

Drizzt forced himself to remain stoic. Why? He wondered. Why didn’t his people withdraw? Why did they continue like this? They should have broken long ago. They should be trying to flee back down to the lower tunnels, not reengage the enemy now that they had escaped the killing fields. Even the slaves should have been trying to revolt under these circumstances.

In his heart he knew the answer, but he had never thought that it would be taken this far, to these sorts of extremes. His people feared Lolth, more than death itself. Dark Elves who died in failure were doomed to spend an entirety in the Abyss being tortured by her foul servants as a penance for their crimes. By rushing forward like this, there was a chance, however slim, that they might be able to mitigate or avoid that type of damnation. The slaves were similar. Death was preferable to life under his people. This was simply a foe-assisted suicide.

This would continue until Matron Baerne called for the troops to withdraw and return to Menzoberranzan. How long that would take, he did not know. She might not have even been aware of just how lopsided things were up here.

Something tugged at Drizzt’s heartstrings as he saw another group of Dark Elves, freshly arrived via teleport, get mulched by machinegun fire before they had even taken a few steps. He knew in his heart that the odds of his people ever managing to recover from this was becoming increasingly slim and the outlook for the survivors ever more bleak. Provided of course, that there were in fact survivors to begin with.

The Underdark was a harsh place, and if the other races and entities that lived down there sensed weakness, they would pounce. He was uncertain how some of the more distant cities would fare, but he was now certain that his home city would be doomed when this was all over with.

There was a crack from behind, and he whirled around, Icingdeath and Twinkle raised and ready to cut into the flesh of his evil kin. Sure enough, one of the wizards had teleported in behind them. Bullets lit up the darkness with their heat as the spellcaster was targeted and swiftly cut down before he could get any more spells off.

“Do not waste your ammunition on the fodder!” Drizzt screamed as he dove into the midst of the enemy, Dove at his side once more. Surprised by his sudden arrival, the pair of Kobolds that he had targeted never had time to raise a defense, and he took their heads off without even slowing down. A Grey Dwarf died next as the Ranger parried his urgosh with Icingdeath and then stabbed Twinkle through his throat.

He ducked underneath the swing of an Orc that would have severed his head, both of his blades blurring forward as he stabbed them into its belly and ripped them out from the sides. The Orc gasped and slumped to its knees as its guts pooled out over the floor.

To his right, Dove was hard at work as well, weaving her blade around in a myriad of beautiful, if extremely deadly, patterns. The sword cut geometrical shapes in the air as she parried and blocked strikes from an Orc and a Drow soldier, working in a smooth rhythm with the occasional abrupt jab or slice to keep her two foes off balance. Drizzt found himself grateful for the narrow state of the tunnels. It mitigated the numeric advantage that their foes would normally enjoy, forcing battles to rely more on individual skill than overwhelming numbers.

That, or someone carrying a firearm with enough ammunition, he thought to himself. The Dark elf cut down another Orc, and maneuvered his way over towards his fellow Ranger.

Dove's hand and a half sword parried the strike from an Orc axe, and she followed through with the move, catching the rear part of the axe head with the crossguard of her blade, pivoting the pommel around and smashing the brute's face in. The Orc staggered backwards, spitting blood and teeth out of its mouth as Dove reversed the stroke and tore a second smile in its throat. It stumbled to the ground gasping and choking in its death throes. The others approached her more warily, realizing that this female was a dangerous, deadly adversary.

Reinforcements materialized behind them, another wizard and his troops.

"Down!" Drizzt cried, and he and Dove both dropped to their knees as flash bang grenades soared over their heads and landed in the midst of the troops. They went off with a roar, making the Dark Elf's sensitive ears ring despite the protection afforded by his helmet. Through his closed eyes he saw the world turn a bright red and the sound of gunfire whizzing over his head punctuated the screams of the wizard as his defenses failed before the onslaught. Twenty five years of training, and probably the better part of a century's worth of arcane talent was wiped out in seconds by the murderous fire of the defensive teams.

The Drow Ranger watched the wizard fall, great gaping holes ripped through his body and felt something start to tear inside of him as more troops surged forward and he found himself locked up in melee once again, fighting a pair of Gray Dwarves. One of them sneered as he used his tower shield to block a strike from Twinkle, but the Dark Elf, an artist of his craft, used the scimitar's curved shape to his advantaged, twisting his wrist around and pivoting the blade to where it reached over the metal lip of the shield and punctured the mail of the Dwarf's gauntlets. Stumbling backwards Druegar howled in agony.

As Drizzt parried a strike from the other one, he plunged Twinkle home. The glowing blue scimitar darted around the clumsy swipe that the wounded Gray Dwarf made, and found a temporary sheath in the Underdark soldier's heart. Drizzt twisted the blade and ripped it out, turning his full attention to the other Druegar for the split second he was able, before another would arise to fill the spot that the first left absent with his death.

The Gray Dwarf, seeing the fate of his comrade, roared in anger, and lunged towards the Drow Ranger. Drizzt was ready, though, and parried the war mace that the Dwarf carried, stabbing Icingdeath through a hole in his foe's defenses. He disemboweled the Dwarf a moment later, kicking the dying body backwards onto the ground and letting it tumble backwards. Its guts would make the stone slippery, and might trip those trying to move up and engage him next.

A Dark Elf pair lunged forward next, each carrying an arming sword and a dirk. All four blades came forward in a blinding array of thrusts and slashes. But Drizzt was prepared. This was little different from the fight that he had had with a Marilith during one of his days back at Melee Mathgar when he was still being trained. There were many blades to counter, but the dual attack by the other Dark Elves limited the number of strike options that they had. Drizzt was able to anticipate what attack moves they were setting up, and was ready to meet their blades with his own.

He turned aside a thrust as it began to move forward, countering it in a manner so as to put his opponent off balance. Then Icingdeath was put in the path of an overhand chop, Twinkle actually darting in to land a glancing cut against the Drow's lightly protected arm. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Dove slice down a trio of Orc in rapid succession, and he noticed that it was more fodder that stepped forward to face her, rather than the Dark Elves themselves.

Why? he wondered for a moment. Then the answer hit him, as he parried two slashes and a thrust from the pair in front of him. He was Drizzt Do'Urden, the Dark Elf that had dared to turn his back on his house. The one who had dared to blaspheme against Lolth and destroyed one of her greatest 'gifts', a Zin Carla. Never had there been a traitor to Menzoberranzan such as he. Any who slew him would not only receive great material wealth, and prestige, but a place of honor at Lolth's side when their end came. Religious fanaticism pushed them to this.

He saw his opponent's faces, noted how young they were, probably not even past their seventh decade, if he were to hazard a guess. So young.

Rage filled him. A burning hate for the dark goddess that pushed her people to the brink of annihilation for her own mad desires. Who turned brother against brother, mother against child in a sick, twisted game of power. A fire awoke in his soul and his eyes gleamed with a cold light. The Hunter arose, and this time he did not deny it. He embraced the beast, and let it swarm over him. Strength filled his muscles, and cold logic ruled over all.

The two Dark Elves that were facing him halted in their offensive, for in a split second, they realized that something had changed about their foe, almost as if he were a different man. Too late, they realized that the renegade who had once sworn to never shed the blood of his people was gone. In his place was a cold, logical, unfeeling killer.

The Hunter blurred forward, Twinkle and Icingdeath promising a release from the tyranny of physical reality. The Dark Elven pair were good, the Hunter realized, but their hesitation cost them. They almost managed to recover before it was upon them. That split second delay was all that it needed. It came in low, striking at waist level against the one on its right. Arming sword and dirk tried to intercept, but were too slow. Twinkle punched through the mail, through the padding underneath, and down until it emerged from the Elf's groin. A horrible scream split the air, but the Dark Elf's companion never heard him. At the same time Twinkle was rushing home, Icingdeath was stabbed upward, blasting through the hole in the Dark Elf's defenses left by the delay, and finding the soft, vulnerable flesh of the underside of the jaw. Blood froze and muscle stiffened as the scimitar's tip went up and pierced the brainpan. The Dark Elf died before he even understood that he'd been hit.

The Hunter advanced, cutting down the next pair, and then another after that. Then came the slaves. They fell like wheat before the scythe.

Dove watched with a mixture of awe and horror at this strange creature that moved forward. Gray Dwarf, Kobold, Orc, Dark Elf, it did not matter. This stranger who wore Drizzt's skin cut them down, stabbed them, decapitated them, or sliced out their bowels. They broke and fled before him, some of them actually raising arms against their Drow masters rather than face this strange Dark Elf that fought for the enemy.

The Hunter advanced still, but then it suddenly stopped as it noticed the infighting and remembered the weight that bounced against its hip. The Hunter was as ferocious as it was logical. It cared nothing for honor, for nobility, pride, or any other emotion. It existed to strike down the enemy. In a blur, twinkle had been sheathed, and out came the UNSC issued SMG. Those who still sought to face the Hunter, rather than their masters, looked on for a moment in confusion as to why their assailant was stopping.

Their answer came when a three round burst of five millimeter caseless rounds tore through a Druegar. The Gray Dwarf squealed like a stuck pig, as it realized that the thunderbolts, or whatever had just been unleashed from the strange wand, had ripped it open and spilled most of its guts out. The Dwarf moved to try and catch them, and then tumbled forward.

Three more bursts filled the air in rapid succession, and as many slaves fell. Whatever desire might have been left in some to face this butcher fled, and they turned, forcing their Drow masters in the rear to turn all their attention to dealing with the small scale revolt. That distraction left them vulnerable, and the Hunter was eager to take advantage of that. It raised the SMG, sighted up a target -a Dark Elf officer-and let fly. A double tap caught the Elf in the head, which exploded inside of its helmet and dropped like a rock.

Again it fired. Again, a Drow trooper fell. When the gun clicked empty, there was no hesitation. Icingdeath was sheathed, and the magazine ejected. The Hunter grabbed another one before the empty one had hit the ground, slid the new one in, and primed it, before ripping the enchanted scimitar back out in its left hand.

The SMG barked again and again, and soon, everything was dead save for a few wounded. The Hunter realize that the mighty thundering of the large guns up front had quit, and Cortana was confirming all hostiles dead or down, when it moved forward to finish off the wounded. A number of wounded slaves trembled and cried out as it approached, some trying to crawl away, while two of the Kobolds grabbed each other and tried to hobble away. It raised the SMG preparing to fire, when it felt something grab its wrist. Out of the corner of its eye, the Hunter saw Dove.

"No." she gripped the Dark Elf's hand tighter. "Don't kill them. Let them surrender."

There was a pleading in those eyes. Something foreign, something alien to the Hunter. Was it fear? Fear of it? Of seeing the darker side of the renegade Drow? The Hunter started to slip away, back into the dark recesses of Drizzt's mind, as the Ranger reemerged.

Drizzt blinked and stared around in confusion. He saw the gun that he held, and looked down. He saw the spent magazine, hot against the cavern floor. And he saw his armor, bright against the darkness, covered with slowly cooling blood. He looked around and saw the bodies that he'd hacked apart, and the ones he'd gunned down. His hand shook, and the SMG fell, clattering against the ground. The wounded slaves looked at the strange woman who had just saved their lives, and cautiously raised their arms in surrender.

"HK-35, I need a sit-rep. Drizzt, Dove, talk to me." It was Keyes.

"HK-35 here," Dove responded. "The area's clear. We have prisoners, and will return to nearest strongpoint with them. You can begin interrogations then."

"Roger that, Oracle One out."

Drizzt shuddered as the group began to pack up, and looked down at the gun he had dropped. His hand shaking, he picked it back up, and tucked it away. The Commander wouldn't like him leaving the weapon out here when it could be returned, at any rate. Still, it was hard to fight down the nausea that rushed through him as he realized the full extent of what had been done here. What he had done here.

--

“Advance forward, keep suppression fire upon the enemy ranks as they withdraw, then hit them with grenades when they try and dig in.”

The words left Gazap’s mouth as he stared around at the strange mix of the team that he was attached to. The Unggoy sub-commander had ten of his fellows under his control at the moment, and the remaining twenty members of HK-28, as the group had been designated, were composed of a combination of Iron Fist and Battlehammer clan Dwarves. As he raised a customized Neo-Covenant plasma carbine, Gazap found himself in awe of the bearded Humanoids. Far from being the manual laborers and sub-primal workers, these beings were full of pride in themselves and their abilities. They fought with a ferocity that could only come from defending ones home from a hostile intruder.

The Unggoy shuddered at the thought of what would happen when these Dwarves started making widespread use of firearms and plasma weaponry. Only the most suicidal of enemies would dare to attack them then.

Their mastery of close combat, their courage and steadfastness, their loyalty to one another. In the Dwarves of Ironfist and Battle-Hammer, Gazap saw everything he wanted his people to become, everything they should be in the new society that was being forged from the wreckage of the Covenant. As he leveled his specially designed carbine and fired at a Kobold, he watched another one fire a small crossbow at one of the Ironfist Dwarves. The Kobold was a good shot, and the bolt neatly found a home between the Dwarf's shoulder plates and his chest armor.

The small soldier, however, merely gave a growl and charged on regardless. He reached a mass of the diminutive, scaled troops in front of the crossbowman, and smashed into them, joined moments later by the rest of his battle line. The Dwarves went to work with their axes, swords, and hammers, and within seconds, body parts were flying to and fro as they demonstrated their mastery of the art of war.

"Leave the fodder to our allies!" Gazap called to his men. "Focus on the ones to the rear, the Drow especially," he pressed himself up against a large stalagmite and leaned around it to fire at the forms he could see skulking at the rear of the cavern. "Slay their masters, and the dogs will fold!"

Unggoy knew that fact better than anyone. Thrice had he faced Spartans, and thrice had he watched the death of a Sangheili commander sent his fellow Grunts nearly mad with panic and fear, to be slaughtered at will. He suspected those who faced the Demon under the command of the Brutes suffered a similar fate. Such were the errors of slave-troops.

A bolt of blue plasma streaked from his gun, taking a Dark Elf clean in the face and vaporizing his head. More fire from his comrades joined in, forcing the Dark Elven commanders back behind what cover they could find.

"Flush them out!" Gazap ordered.

"Priming grenades," the voice of three of his soldiers crackled over the radio, and the bright little balls began to hiss and burn. They streaked through the air moments later, small suns in the darkness, bringing with them promises of a fiery death. They landed behind the stalagmites and ridges that the Dark Elves were using for cover, and one of them jumped up suddenly. Gazap could see that the Underdark Elf had one of the grenades stuck to his arm, and was frantically trying to rip the device off. The Unggoy sub-commander grinned behind his rebreather as the weapon detonated. The three explosions shook the cavern and filled the air with molten rock and vaporized bits of stone and Dark Elf.

Some of the Kobolds looked back to see the fate of their overseers, and just as expected, the courage instilled in them by the fear of the whip evaporated. Their battle line crumbled as the Unggoy soldiers began to fire into their rear ranks, striking them down. Those in the rear were cut down by plasma fire, those in the front by enraged Dwarven soldiers, and those in the middle were torn between what to do. The result was a large muddled mess that the Hunter Killer team easily mopped up.

It took less than a minute for the last Underdark soldier to fall. Gazap nodded as he surveyed the carnage. "Regroup," he said, opening a line up to Cortana and Commander Keyes. "HK-28 here, sector two-four-nine clear. Regrouping and preparing to advance to sector two-six-eight. Have a few wounded, no KIA's yet. Team at approximately ninety five percent combat potential."

"HK-28 status acknowledged. Be advised the Dark Elves are moving forces into that area. Expect large numbers of enemy troops." Commander Keyes said.

"Roger, Oracle One," Gazap said.

He turned his attention back to the men under his command. "Pack it up, move, move!" he barked, accentuating his orders with harsh cutting gestures of his hands.

He hardly needed to. The Dwaves were back in formation almost instantly, palming their weapons, eager for more fighting. His own troops fell into line behind them, and the group was on its way again.

Less than two minutes later, they again made contact with the enemy. The beginnings of sector two-six-eight was a large cavern, roughly oval in shape and about eighty meters long. Thousands of years worth of dripping water had created an unusual series of 'ridges' that rose up from the floor of the cavern, and no sooner had the two forces spotted each other, than the Underdark column of troops scattered and took shelter behind these. Or rather, the wise ones did. A couple of Dark Elves ordered their slaves head on towards the defender of Mithril Hall.

"Open fire!" Gazap shouted, leveling his plasma carbine at the Drow Overseer and squeezing off a shot. The plasma bolt struck home, and burned through the Dark Elf's mail armor and into his chest. The man crumpled like a sack of bricks as the other Unggoy soldiers opened fire with everything from pistols to a needler. The plasma rounds ripped into the ranks of the Dark Elves, while the soldier firing the needler targeted the center of the slave troop formation. The homing munitions zipped in, spread throughout three targets. However, the slaves-goblins in this case-were close enough together that the resonance energies were able to go off. a high pitched whine filled the cavern, followed by a pinkish-purple explosion. Shrapnel from the exploding crystals shredded everyone in proximity to the explosion, and body parts rained down from above.

Gazap turned around to his Dwarven soldiers. "Flank around to the right, find the ones hiding behind those ridges, and flush them out!" Without question, the Dwarves did as he asked, and then he twisted to look back to Salenth and Rolga, his two heavy weapons operators.

"Get the plasma cannon set up!"

The two Unggoy holstered their small arms and did as ordered. The area of the cavern where they were standing didn't have much in the way of cover, but it did have a slight high ground advantage over the area where the Drow and their troops were trying to hide. Normally, Gazap would prefer to have portable cover shields to use before he did such a thing, but that was out of the question here. Hopefully, though, the Underdark forces would be limited to their crossbows as a means of retaliation, so his troops wouldn't have to worry too much about counter fire.

Salenth and Rolga were fast, having done this manuever thousands of times. The former set up the tripod and the cannon, while the latter took power cell and hooked it up to the big gun. The weapon hummed to life, and Salenth took his spot on the firing controls. Gazap couldn't see the other Unggoy's face behind the NBC mask he wore, but he knew that there was a tight lipped grin on his face. This was Salenth's job as a soldier, and he took pride in what he could.

At the same time, the Dwarves found their first prey. Gazap heard the squeal of goblins and a Dwarven battle chant start up. It was in their native language, so the Sub-Commander didn't fully understand the words, but he caught snippets of things like 'kettle', 'firewood', 'chopping' and a few others. These Dwarves certainly were some of the loudest, least sneakiest troops that he had ever encountered in his three and a half decade long career.

Of course, he thought, as he watched a pair of Goblin heads fly up over the first ridge, sans the rest of their bodies, being loud and boisterous had an advantage all its own. To the stealthy Drow, this must have sounded more like an entire army had just stormed down on top of them, rather than a small task force.

The Goblin forces suddenly gave a great shout, and they stumbled out into the middle of the cavern. The Dwarves held back, knowing what was going to happen next.

Gazap didn't need to give the command, his troops knew what to do. A hail of blue plasma bolts filled the air and thunder shook the cavern as the plasma cannon roared into action. Steam and ash followed as metal, flesh, and leather were all vaporized, filling the cavern with the stench of burned meat. Cheering and shouting promises of death to those who had dared to invade their homes, the Dwarves charged out to the right, up against the far side of the cavern, and ducked behind the next ridge. Gazap decided to do what he could about the ones who had taken shelter on the left side of the cavern. He reached down into his supply belt, and drew out a plasma grenade. He primed it and threw it at the nearest ridge. It bounced along the stone, once, twice, and then dropped down into one of the gaps between the ridges, some twenty five meters away. High pitched squeals filled the air, and goblins scrambled out, instinctively terrified by the flaming little ball.

Some went out into the center, others to the far side of the cavern. The more desperate tried to scramble up the ridges. The grenade went off, enveloping several and vaporizing them, while ambient heat caught the leather armor that most wore on fire. Those ones leapt around hooting and hollering as the flames ate away at their bodies.

"Conserve your ammo, only shoot the ones who got away, let those ones burn," Gazap ordered.

The heavy weapons operators did as ordered, and those who had managed to survive the grenade did so only to face the wrath of the cannon. They died quickly, cut down where they stood.

And so it went, for three minutes the Dwarves rushed about down in the center of the cavern, killing the slaves and Drow and driving them from their cover, out into the open where the Unggoy forces swiftly finished them off. However, it was taking longer than Gazap would have liked. There were other areas of this sector that he and the rest of the Hunter Killer team needed to clear. More pressing, though, was that there were more Dark Elves hiding in the rear of the cavern. Thus far, they hadn't emerged, but he knew from the times he'd watched Drizzt practice and battled his people in the retaking of the hall that the Drow could be murderous close quarter combatants. It was possible they might try to swarm the Dwarves.

Then his radio crackled to life.

"HK-28, Oracle One here, We need you to move forward quickly and reinforce teams Twenty Four and Twenty Seven," Cortana's voice echoed in his ear. "We're detecting a massing of Underdark Forces in their sectors, and we believe the Dark Elves are going to try and make another push for the Undercity."

"HK-28 understands, will comply," Gazap said. He wondered for a moment why the Dark Elves were trying yet another attack, thinking of how many troops they had to have lost in these suicidal frontal assaults. Then he shook his head. He could worry about that when he got to the other teams. For now, he needed to hurry up and finish this group off.

He quickly weighed his options, and decided that it was worth the ammo expenditure.

The Sub-Commander holstered the carbine he carried, and reached up to his back for the massive fuel rod cannon.

"Fire in the hole!" he shouted, with a loud series of battle cries from the Dwarves indicating their understanding.

Gazap stared down the holographic targeting reticule and sighted up the ridges at the back of the cavern, a sight that to the ignorant, might have looked almost comical, given that the weapon was larger than he was. Then he squeezed the trigger. The barrel of the massive cannon leapt backwards as a bolt of green death screamed out of it, heading unerringly towards its target.

The bolt impacted, the concussive force of the impact shattering rock and stone, before the plasma super-heated and vaporized it, and then those foolish enough to think that the stone would provide protection. The Drow who were targeted never even had time to scream were they were utterly obliterated. The Unggoy Commander fired again and again, until he had expended the magazine of the fuel rod cannon. When he had finished, the cavern was filled with steam, ash, molten and vaporized rock. The Dwarven soldiers had had enchantments placed upon their armor that would shield them from the ambient heat of his assault, fortunately, and they would be able to press though quickly.

"Break down the plasma cannon and everyone else get ready to move," Gazap said, once he was certain that nothing had survived. It paid to be extra cautious, one never knew if the Drow might have had some unholy artifact or the like.

The Commander and his men were soon on their way to joining their two fellow Hunter Killers. The scenario continued to bother Gazap, though. Why would the enemy attempt to make a push now? Why at that specific area? He pulled up his map of Mithril Hall again, and frowned behind his rebreather. There was no real weakness in the area's defenses, at least when compared with the rest of the Undercity's possible entrances. True, it lacked an autocannon, but there were still plenty of mines and fougases that defended the tunnel leading up to it. The Grunt wondered if his foes might have simply had faulty intelligence, but something told him that this was a different problem. There was something at work here, and it was something that Gazap did not find to his liking.

"Stay alert, be wary in case of ambush," he whispered to the others. "Our enemy may yet have a trump card that they can play."

[Trivia Freak]

Within the ranks of HK-24, Neeshka took a deep breath, and prepared herself for the fight of her life. The Drow were coming again, going to try and assault the Undercity of Mithril Hall one more time, forcing her team to relocate to try and head off their massing assault. The Tiefling found herself astounded at the sheer tenacity of the foe that they were facing. The sheer number of casualties that the Underdark Army had been able to stomach and tromp through was astounding. At the rate that things were going, the casualties of this battle would literally be measured in the millions. Such a destructive conflict had never before scarred the face of her world, and the Tiefling was at a loss to imagine the impact of such devastation.

Her mind drifted to the holo images she had seen of the battle of New Bismarck. That's what it would look like. She shuddered, and then brought herself back to the present. She could muse on the implications of such death when the battle was over and she was still alive.

"For Ironfist." she heard a voice whisper.

She looked over to her side, and her eyes fell upon Khelgar. Her old friend wore the tabard of a monk of Tyr over his battle armor, and he palmed the haft of his urgosh in his hands. The helmet that he wore hid most of his face, but she could see the stillness in his eyes, the twitching of his hands. Even with his training as a Monk, the Ironfist Dwarf had never quite lost love for Dwarven weaponry and armor. She was reminded of the time, when they had first met, when he had been a wild fighter, always on the lookout for a battle or a brawl. There was something similar about his stance now that vaguely reminded her of what he was like back then.

This was not, however, a fight for the sake of a fight. Ironfist and Battle-Hammer went back a long ways, allies almost since the dawn of time. To attack one was to attack the other. To drive one from their home and desecrate the dead… well, something told Neeshka that there would be new tales forged soon in the Underdark, tales of the horror and devastation visited upon the Dark Elves and their allies by the vicious surface Dwarves.

"Motion sensor pings detected. They're going to be on your position in less than a minute." Cortana's voice was calm, and Neeshka steeled herself. "Be advised, as soon as they are able, Gazap and additional teams will be on your position."

Neeshka felt a little bit of relief at that statement. Groups Twenty Four and Twenty Seven did not have heavy weapons or Covenant troops present within them. There simply hadn't been enough to go around. What they did have, though, was a number of UNSC small arms, grenades, a few battleragers and some homemade Dwarven styled surprises for the enemy. They were currently at a chokepoint in the tunnels, fortified with a few fougasses that had been set into the rock in front of them. There were also fortifications set up to channel the Drow and their fodder troops into several narrow areas before they reached the main body of the defenders. In addition to that, there were a pair of sideways mounted catapults on the wall, ready to throw small globs of flaming pitch at them when they arrived.

Between her excellent night vision and the light amplification visor on the UNSC helmet that she was wearing, Neeshka soon saw the first of the enemy ranks. Goblins were in the front, with Orcs further back and Minotaur shock troops spread throughout the ranks. The Drow would be behind them. The Goblin leaders gave cries as they urged their fellows onward. Neeshka drew a MA5K carbine and took aim at those further in the back, remembering what the Master Chief had told her about destroying the chain of command. Those minotaurs needed to die as well.

"Target the heavy troops and the commanders," she muttered over the short range radio. Her comrades voiced their affirmatives, and bursts of timed fire were quickly flying from the defender's position and into the ranks of the Underdark soldiers.

They kept coming, though, pressing forward like a rising tide.

--

Matron Baerne was ill at ease as she sat on her hovering throne. She knew that the assault was not going well. Gromph reported to her not minutes ago that as many as eighty percent or more of the forces dedicated to the surface attack were dead or dying. The only bit of good news that he had been able to deliver was the deaths of one of the Plainsmen kings and of Lady Alustriel. That alone had spared his life, for the old crone knew enough about the surface world to know how often that woman had been a bane to the allies of Lolth.

Worse, though, was the loss of contact that she had had with Matron Hesken. The last communication that she'd had with the other High Priestess had indicated that several teams of assassins had descended upon her position and were overwhelming her bodyguard. Mention had been made of the strange, armored behemoth that had been a thorn in her side ever since she had started trying to get her surface allies together. Matron Baerne clenched her fists tight around the arm rests of the black marble of her throne. She knew the golem-like creature was a threat, something that had to be dealt with. The question was how, but uncertainty gripped her heart. For more than two thousand years, she had ruled over Menzoberranzan. Never before had she encountered a being such as this.

Part of her wanted to believe that it was already dealt with, that the Balors of Matron Heskens bodyguard had taken the creature and broken it into so many useless pieces. Wedonnai the Corruptor was among the troops defending her. There were few Balor in existence mightier than that fiend. Only Errtu and a handful of others could claim to be stronger.

The pragmatic part of her brain told her to dismiss such notions. The creature had thus far shown itself to be greater than anything thrown at it, and had already claimed at least one Balor in this battle, while it seemed capable of wading through Glabrezu as if they were nothing. She had to assume the worse, especially since Matron Hesken knew how perilous her stance was. Any good news she would have been alive to report would have been delivered by now. If the battle for her life still raged, it meant only that neither side was apparently trying to kill each other.

The Matron looked down to the large map that was laid out on a stone block before her. Around her, her four eldest daughters gathered, along with a small army of Demons and Illithids. Still, she was worried. At every turn her forces were defeated, slaughtered, routed, and bested. How could it be? They were the Drow! There were none on the surface of Torril that were deadlier, more skilled with weaponry, or more trained in the arcane arts. They had the blessing of Lolth, an alliance of all the Underdark, while the host of the Abyss poured out to aid them! How, then, did they continue to fall?

A pain lanced through her skull, and she gasped. Her daughters gathered close, while Triel, her eldest, put a hand over her mother's arm. She looked up to her mother with a look of genuine concern and affection.

"It is Lolth," the old Matron whispered.

Indeed it is! The Spider Queen's voice raged in the minds of all moments later, driving many to their knees. You have failed me, old woman! You promised to deliver the Halls to me, for the furtherance of my glory, but you have been beaten like newly castrated roth!

Forgive me, my Queen, Matron Baerne whispered within her mind, for the first time, feeling just how old her body was. She felt her mind tear in agony before she got any further.

I do not forgive! I do not forget! You know this, Matron Baenre! The old woman and everyone else clutched at their skulls. Even Demons began to fall to their knees, clutching at their temples while hellish blood flowed from their eyes and ears. Lolth's wrath was terrible, legendary even among the denizens of the Abyss.

What must I do? the Matron gasped within her mind. She felt as though she was caught in a maelstrom, a storm that would be her undoing unless Lolth spared her. In all her two and a half millennia of life, she had never before felt so helpless, so weak. Her hands shook, her teeth chattered as if she was caught in a fearsome cold. Her heart thundered in her chest, threatening to explode or tear its way free of her ribcage.

Do? You dare to ask of me what you should do? Matron Baenre felt the presence of Lolth crushing down upon her. I should smite you where you stand for your insolence. But I am merciful. You have served me long, old woman, and few have served me better-

Our secondary objective can still be achieved! Our alliance with Demogorgon still secured! Triel spoke up, coming to her mother's aid.

Lolth's fury turned upon the younger Drow, but the High Priestess stood her ground. Slowly, the storm seemed to lessen.

Initiative. I like that. Do it, then. Secure the key. Once that is done, prepare yourself. A test is coming. Prove yourself worthy of survival, and you will pass.

With that, the presence of the Dark Goddess abated. Matron Baenre felt her strength recovering quickly, and she began to bark out orders and make the necessary mental connections to send commands to the reserve units. She dared not think of what would happen if she were to fail.

--

Unknown to Neeshka, Baenre, or to any who were engaged in the increasingly bloody battle for the ancient home of Clan Battle-Hammer, was that their vicious struggle was starting to draw a crowd of sorts. Lolth's rage had been such that its fury had echoed across the planes, washing over the others like a kind of psionic shockwave. Such events were not uncommon these days, as one god or another raged over their current predicament or the trouble encountered trying to get their house back in order following the Time of Troubles. However, there was something different about this one, something that, despite their best efforts, they couldn't turn their minds away from.

The first to make note of it was Kelemvor, the newly-appointed God of the Dead. His paladins and heralds that inhabited the Fugue Plane, where the City of Judgment lay, were rushing about, and word got back to him on how the entrance to the city was piling up with dead souls awaiting their judgment. First it had been thousands of souls of all kinds; Orcs, Gray Dwarves, Dark Elves, Goblins, Kobolds, even a few Dragons. From there, though, the numbers had skyrocketed up until the swarm seemed to be in the millions. His face hidden behind his emotionless mask, the God of the Dead had quickly teleported into his scrying chamber, and sought to find the source of this sudden influx that was causing his followers such distress.

His scrying brought him to the hills and dales just outside of Mithril Hall. What befell his eyes was something that he had never seen before, a slaughter of the likes never before beheld by his eyes either when he had been but a mortal paladin or now as he reigned over all things deceased. He gazed down upon the battle, his mind having trouble comprehending the weapons that spat fire and thunder and cut down everything before them. Even as he watched, he saw a great Dragon, its scales of the purest obsidian, suddenly die, its life snuffed out by a strange flying contraption that roared by seconds later.

"What is this?" he muttered to himself.

It was Torm, Tyr, and Lathander who discovered it next. They felt the rage of Lolth emanating across reality, and sensed the bit of panic and despair mixed in as well. The trinity of Light moved to their own scrying rooms, curious to see what was causing a longtime adversary such distress. They too, saw the battle for the Hall, above and below ground. The three stared on in silence, and as one, appeared before each other. The three looked to each other, unable to believe what they were seeing. How could something like this happen? The thought was on each of their minds as they watched a barrage of tank cannon fire rip one of the few remaining Dark Elf formations apart.

"How can this be?" Torm asked, looking to his two companions. He had spent most of the Troubles with his soul floating through the ethers of the Astral plane, his body destroyed as he tried to make amends for his inability to stop Bane from stealing Ao's tablets by fighting the foul deity.

The battle had ended with both of them dead, and only through Ao's mercy was he brought back. Perhaps his companions had seen something he had not.

"It is unknown to me," Tyr whispered, as he saw without sight, his eyes cut out for his failure in the events that culminated in their downfall. Both looked to Lathander, the only one unscarred by the events of recent times.

"I have no idea. But truly, should we not rejoice at the destruction of the agents of darkness?" he tapped a finger to his chin as he glanced back down at the vision before them. The pool shifted until it revealed a cavern. Standing amongst a small mountain of dead bodies and bits of what probably were once bodies was a towering monster of metal.

"What have we here?" Torm muttered, staring down at the armor clad behemoth, before glancing back up at Lythander. "I have no objections to Lolth's vile children being obliterated, but I question the source, and how it has remained hidden from us. How could we not have seen something of this nature? These weapons… these soldiers… they should be upsetting the very balance of all the planes. How is that we were blind to all of this?" There was an ominous silence, as they tried to think of any and all who could have hidden such things from them, and who would profit by doing so.

"Worse," Tyr muttered to himself. "What if Lolth's minions are vanquished, only to be replaced by something even worse?"

None had an answer.

Grummsh was the next. He felt the death of all the Orcs slain in battle. It struck at him as if he had been stabbed through the chest, and he remembered all too clearly that Ao had warned that in order to humble the Gods for their crime against him, they had been forever linked to their followers. As the faith in their deity diminished, so too would that deity's power. Such a massive loss, so quickly, the Orc God fell to his knees as he felt the strength ebbing from his body. He gasped and clutched at his chest, his one eye blinking and trying to focus. Something was wrong, terribly wrong, he knew it. When he was at last able to see what was happening on the Prime, the devastation that was wrought amongst his people, for one of the few times in his eons long life, the God of the Orcs knew terror.

He watched as his people were cut down, blown apart by magic so utterly foreign to him that he did not even understand what it was. None could touch the strange wizards who defended Mithril Hall from his people and the Drow.

"No… No!" he whispered. He tried to search and find a Shaman to power, a warrior to instill faith into and rise to rally his fellows. But no matter where he searched, he saw naught but death and destruction, and his people throwing themselves fruitlessly at the defenders and their arcane weaponry, choosing death over continued enslavement.

"This cannot be happening!" he roared aloud.

Other gods and goddesses came to view it soon enough. Tempos felt the roar of battle echoing to his kingdom. A smile twitched behind his fearsome helmet as the Lord of Battle felt cries to him for strength and courage. He watched as a battle of a caliber not seen since Faerun's formation was carried out before him. He palmed the haft of his mighty battleaxe as he looked down, grinning impishly as he watched blood be spilled. Curiosity tugged at the God as he watched the strange weaponry, witnessing firsthand what the rifle and the cannon, the mortar and the missile had brought to his domain.

"Yessss…" he hissed softly, his mood like that of a child who had gotten precisely what he had wanted for Christmas. Eagerly, he looked down, focusing on the Barbarians fighting down in the trenches. They had always been a people he had favored. Strong, proud, never afraid to fight. To see them now… oh, they were magnificent.

Then the other gods of darkness came to notice. Talos, lord of Storms, felt thunder that was not of his own, and came to watch. Fear filled the evil god in that moment. Everything he knew of war indicated that the paltry force defending Mithril Hall should never have lasted past the first hour of battle, let alone well into the early morning. But here they were, not only holding the line, but from the looks of things, they were actually winning, driving back the massive host of the Underdark. Dragons, Demons, Dark Elves, even the dreaded Illithids, feared by most other beings of evil, fell to their might and their strange, thunder-spewing weapons.

He felt a presence join him, and looked over to see Shar arriving. The evil twin of Sune, she too seemed unnerved by the events that were unfolding down on the Prime. Her haunting features were marred by a frown, but there was a light in her eyes that Talos recognized, one she got whenever she was scheming, though that in itself was not uncommon.

"Powerful… these strange newcomers have much to offer Faerun," she whispered. "Perhaps, indeed, much to offer us, if only their loyalties could be turned to our direction."

Talos nodded as he understood what she was thinking. Mortals could be so easy to seduce, after all. A few promises of power, the quick and easy way, and they turned to clay in your hand. He smiled and nodded.

"A wise decision. We will have to be careful, though, subtle. Such things are delicate." He frowned at that statement. Subtle was not how he preferred to operate. He preferred the direct method.

Another shock of rage washed over them, and they grinned as they looked at Lolth's predicament. The Spider Goddess was apparently not able to save her people from disaster. As they fell, so too would her power, and her ability to assist her people in their dark schemes. A bloody downward spiral, each sending the other further down the path to death and darkness.

How many might turn to other gods, try their luck with different deities in the hope of someone actually helping them? While they would regret the loss of Lolth from their dark pantheon, there was no dark god that felt they could not make better use of the power that their fellows wielded.

"She always was a crazy bitch," Talos muttered to himself. "Oh well…"

As for Lolth herself, she ranted and raged within the massive, mobile fortress that served as her base within the Abyss. Countless centuries had been spent planning for this takeover of the surface, for her people to take their place as the true masters of the world. They had just barely avoided disaster when the Time of Troubles had hit, and now this was happening. How could it all be going wrong? How, how, how?

In her ever darkening mood, the dark queen of the Drow felt her thoughts turn to the future. She became painfully aware of how this battle would weaken her. Securing the alliance with Demogorgon was not only a matter of making invasion of the surface easier, now. It was now a matter of survival. Her paranoid mind whirled to and fro as she thought of all her enemies. How many of them might show up to try and take advantage of this. There were none who could challenge her on her own domain, this she knew. But what would stop Moradin from gathering the Dwarves of the world and throwing them at her cities? What of the Deep Gnomes? The Other inhabitants of the Underdark?

What of Helm? Long had the Vigilant One opposed her, and all the rest of the gods of the Dark Pantheon and the denizens of the Abyss. For thousands of years the Watcher had battled it out against her, against Demogorgon, and countless others. He would make a move, or one of his allies, and they would respond accordingly, playing out wars and conflicts across time in a gigantic game of chess. Lolth could not forget the looks she had gotten from the armored God of Guardians as he had cast her and the others down from their high places and forced them to walk as mortals. Like a Shadow Mastiff, he would smell blood, and she knew that he would do something, especially if he learned of her plans. What precisely, she knew not, but she could not shake the image of his Archons and Arch-Angels swooping amongst Menzoberranzan like so many angels of death. She would have to take steps now to secure her bastion of power. Begin marshalling troops and slaves to the city, to where none could hope to successfully assault it, even with a heavenly host.

She opened her mind up to the clerics in the other cities, letting them know what the Will of Lolth was.

Meanwhile, the object of her thoughts stood in his fortress, and with Moradin at his side, gazed down upon the battle that raged within and around Mithril Hall.

Helm and Moradin looked down from the fortress of the former. The Dwarven God gripped his warhammer so tightly that his knuckles turned white. This was a victory that would be sung about throughout the ages, of the day when the hordes of the Underdark were beaten back, routed utterly and completely. Those who had died defending Mithril Hall, died for their brothers and their sisters, were being avenged a hundred times over. He almost wished he could see the look on Lolth's face as he faintly felt her rage permeate even this mighty fortress.

Helm smiled behind his helmet. He had not chosen wrong when he had brought the crew of the Dawn and their Neo-Covenant allies here. This blow would ring throughout the ages, and shatter forever the myth of Drow invincibility. Just as importantly, the first blocks had been laid. Soon, the time of rebuilding would come. He would yet succeed. He would yet make amends.

He stared up suddenly, wondering if they watched looked down on him. He had searched the planes after his Ascension, searched everywhere for the souls of Dianna, of his children, of his former squadmates. He had never found them, but there was always hope. Might they have found him, perhaps? Could they see what he was doing? The sins he strove to absolve his soul of? He found himself praying that they could, and reflected on the irony for just a moment, of a God pleading to the unknown for a bit of mercy, that powers beyond even a deity's comprehension might smile upon him.

Then he focused back on the battle.

--

Neeshka growled softly as she expended the last shot in the magazine of her pistol. She reached down for another magazine, and hurriedly loaded it into the weapon. She cocked the action back, and chambered one of the fifty caliber rounds, just in time to sight up a Drow soldier who had impaled a Dwarf upon her blades. The smile on the Drow's face disintegrated along with most of her head as the explosive bullet impacted and detonated.

"Command, we are being overrun here, the damned freaks are running us out of ammo, we're almost dry," she shouted into her built in boom-mike. "Where are those reinforcements?"

"Gazap's running into resistance. Sensors indicate that additional Underdark forces have broken off to tie him up. I'm attempting to redirect other hunter and defensive teams to your positions, but it's going to take time." Cortana's voice was as calm as ever, and Neeshka growled as she took the head off of another soldier.

"That's time we don't have." she kept the message short and simple as her pistol barked twice more in rapid succession, each shot snuffing out the life of a Dark Elf.

Neeshka felt an instinctive fear rise in her, and she quashed it. She had been closer to death than this before. She and the others would stand and hold, or they would fall. She just determined she would take as many troops with her as she could. The Underdark soldiers had been relentless, charging into the gunfire willingly, even after their slaves had been reduced to shredded bits by grenades or rifle fire, and had utterly ignored how many of their comrades had been blasted apart by fougasses.

She finished off the last magazine for her pistol, and holstered it, drawing her arming and short swords. Khelgar was just in front of her, smashing his fist into an Elf's groin, and then head-butting him as he instinctively hunched over. The Ironfist's helm proved to be the superior one, denting in the Drow's, and Neeshka could hear bones shatter as the dark skinned Elf dropped to the cavern floor.

But there seemed to be hundreds more behind him, ready to take his place. The two teams were already down to half strength, and it was just a matter of time before the Dark Elves forced themselves through the weakening lines and overran them.

The Tiefling steeled herself as one of them rushed at her. The Dark Elf carried a pair of axes, an unusual fighting style among his kind, she noted. She watched her foe as it rushed in. Someone behind her hurled a flash bang, trying to buy time. Scores of Drow were blinded. Those who were not pressed forward as Neeshka opened up with an attack routine. She brought her arming sword up to stab, aiming just below the breast bone of her foe, while striking out with her shorter blade in a attack aimed at her opponent's right arm, just behind the wrist. Her adversary was fast enough to block the arming sword, but not the second strike, and her blade sliced through the roth-hide bracer and bit deep into the Dark Elf's wrist. Tendons and nerves were severed, and the axe clattered to the ground as the suddenly unresponsive fingers refused to clutch it any longer.

Before she could act upon her advantage, Neeshka was forced to turn and deal with a second Drow rushing past the Dwarves to come at her. This one carried a large, two handed blade, and she cursed as she ducked out of the range of the attack. Her new opponent had a reach edge over her. She needed to get rid of him first, before he used that pig-sticker to try and gut her. She parried an overhand chop aimed at her shoulder, and dodged to the side to evade the axe wielding Dark Elf, before she ducked down and lashed out with her tail. The prehensile appendage wrapped itself around the wounded Elf's foot and yanked him off his feet. There was a loud crack as his head hit the rock, and Neeshka ripped him towards her. Before the stunned Drow could recover, she plunged her shorter blade into him.

He let out a horrible scream as the enchanted steel tore into his heart and the Tiefling twisted the blade, rending muscle and severing vital blood vessels. Neeshka had little time to celebrate her victory, though. She still had to kill the one with the longsword, and do it before he was able to be joined by any of his compatriots. The Dark Elven soldier roared as he brought his large blade down, again aiming for her shoulder. Neeshka crossed her blades together and caught the descending strike, shoving her weight to the side and forcing the weapon away. There was a split second opening, and she took it. Darting in before the Dark Elf could recover to swing again, she struck out with both of her weapons. Her arming sword stabbed through the Drow's chest, while she buried her shorter blade into his side, punching through the chainmail that he wore and deep into his bowels. She tore both weapons out, disemboweling her adversary and slicing his heart and lungs in half.

The Dark Elf tried to bring his weapon back for a final swing, but his body refused to obey his commands, and he fell backwards, his weapon sliding from his hands as he lay dying against the cold rock.

Even as his body lay twitching against the ground, Neeshka watched two more Dwarves go down, covered in dozens of wounds. To her right, Khelgar let out a terrifying roar that would have sent any sane person fleeing from him in terror. The sight of dead kin was driving him into a blood rage, and his Urgosh, already painted red with the blood of his enemies, got another coating as he chopped downward and shattered the helm of an Underdark soldier.

"Die, you miserable, cowardly dogs!" he screamed, hurling himself against the tide. The Drow broke upon him like water upon rock. He impaled one of them upon the spike at the end of his weapon, before tearing it out and bringing the metal capped butt of the weapon up into another Drow's face.

Neeshka was forced to turn her attention back to her own problems as another group of Dark Elves rushed towards her, four in all. She exploded into a flurry of parries and ripostes, feinting and dodging about to avoid their blows. As fast and as skilled as she was, though, she could not block the sheer number of strikes that were coming at her. Her armor, however, was up to the task, and while she was staggered by the blows, she was mostly unharmed.

The Tiefling dropped down to her knees and used her tail to trip another one of the Dark Elves, before she did the unthinkable: she went on the offensive. She would never break through or have a hope of winning if she continued to fight defensively, part of her mind had realized. She would have to hope her armor would continue to hold and she could take the fight to her enemies. Growling to herself, she charged forward. Blows rained in, bouncing off of the pauldrons and chestplate of the ballistic armor. Neeshka let out a battle cry as she swiped her blades back and forth. Her opponents were caught off guard by both the sudden and apparently suicidal charge and the fact that their weapons continued to do nothing, and were open to her attacks. Her arming sword severed the head of one of them while she buried her short sword up to the hilt in the face of another.

The Tiefling leapt backwards out of range of the fourth one, while landing on the first, who was still struggling to his feet after being tripped. Neeshka finished him off, burying her blades into his gut and tearing them upwards, splitting the Dark Elf open from his groin to his throat.

The last of the Dark Elves hesitated, as if she hoped for more of her comrades to come to her aid. Neeshka knew that it would be only seconds before more did join the battle and overwhelmed her, and so she charged once again, spinning her blades around and trying to keep her opponent guessing as to where she was going to strike from. She got lucky, and the Drow female guess wrong, thinking that she was going high when she came in low from both sides. Her swords cut into the Dark Elf's kneecaps, cutting through flesh and bone and causing the dark skinned elf to scream in agony as she toppled backwards while the rest of her legs fell forwards.

She never had time to complete the scream before Neeshka moved forward and finished her off. The Tiefling took a deep breath and turned to throw herself back into the fight, determined to sell her life as dearly as possible. Something unnerved her though. The Drow had mostly been going for her shoulders or her legs. It was like they were trying to inflict damage that wouldn't necessarily be lethal. The thought of capture unnerved her, but she had to make her stand. If she retreated, the Dark Elves could spread themselves all throughout the Undercity, and it would make them more difficult to dig out.

She pushed herself forward as she noticed something coming up from the rear: Dark Elf Cavalry. Their lizard mounts were leaping up onto the walls and ceiling, coming at the overwhelmed defenders from multiple vectors. The riders opened up with a hail of crossbow bolts. Many of the projectiles punched through the mithril armor of the Dwarven defenders. Some fell, others staggered and held their ground, hurling axes, daggers, or small hammers at the invaders.

Neeshka noticed one, a high ranking commander, judging by the House Baenre regalia he wore over his armor, take aim at her. She tried to dodge, and was almost successful. The bolt tore a tiny gash in the area around her elbow. She felt a tingling at the wound, and realized that it was a poison on the tip of the bolt. Her infernal heritage offered some protection, but she didn't know how long it would hold up. Drow were master alchemists and apothecaries, and their toxins didn't usually take very long to grip someone. She plunged forward, taking one of the infantry soldiers by surprise, and plunging both blades home. She felt the dying Drow land a blow across her helmet, but she shrugged it off, kicking the dying Elf off of her swords.

She felt more crossbow bolts pinging off of her armor, almost like a rain. Some found spots between the gaps in the UNSC composite plating, and she started to stumble. She picked herself up, and gave a shout of defiance, lunging one more time. She couldn't keep a tight enough grip on her blades, and they fell from her grasp. Frantically, she grasped at the throat of another Dark Elf, willing her fingers to clutch around his throat. Her weight bore her foe to the ground, and she forced her stiffening muscles to pull the Dark Elf's head up, before she slammed it against the stone again, and again. She heard the skull crack, felt blood oozing over the gloves she wore. She did not relent, even as the blackness closed in around her and she heard Khelgar crying out into his com unit that they had been overrun.

Her last feeling was collapsing on the cooling corpse of the dead Dark Elf. Her thoughts drifted to John. She hoped he would be proud that she had tried, and that she had gone down fighting.

--

"HK-One here, go ahead Oracle," the Master Chief said into his comm.

"Diviners have managed to penetrate through the Drow counter-spells. We've located the command group for the Drow. Matron Baenre and several other high priestesses who appear to be her daughters. Several other matrons appear to be present as well." Cortana's voice had an eagerness to it. The Chief knew why. This was an opportunity here to completely decapitate the entire Dark Elven chain of command, and the majority of Menzoberranzan's ruling council in one go.

Such an event could potentially destabilize what was left of the Dark Elven population, and leave a power vacuum where the survivors would be too busy fighting over the scraps to bother anyone else. Such a powerful gathering, though, would likely be well protected. If what Drizzt had told them about the old crone was correct, she was nearly three thousand years old and had ruled the city for much of that time. In a society that was as prone to betrayal and assassination as the Dark Elves were, she would not have reached that age without being cunning and powerful.

"Orders?" The Spartan asked.

"Link up with HK-35, HK-21, and HK-15 at the following coordinates. Once there, you are to branch out and flank the command group. Strike hard and fast. We need to cut the head off of this viper."

"Understood." The Master Chief said. He looked back over to where Wedonnai's corpse had exploded, and to his surprise, he noticed that the Demon's sword was still present upon the material realm, and relatively undamaged by the massive explosion. As the rest of the teams were regrouping and preparing to head out, he walked over towards it, and hesitantly picked it up. He could feel the magic coursing through the blade, but it didn't seem inherently evil. He frowned, that seemed rather odd. He opened up the rucksack and placed it within it. Cortana and the rest of the group could examine it later. Perhaps by looking at the weapon in detail, they could learn more about what properties the Demons usually endowed their weapons with, and how best to counter them.

He turned and jogged back over to the group, double checking that all of his drawn weapons were fully stocked on ammo. Once that was done, the group formed up and oriented themselves towards the marker on their HUDs. The Master Chief turned and looked back towards Bruenor as they departed from the cavern. He was taking the leader of Clan Battle-hammer into the mouth of the dragon, as they said. His every instinct screamed that this was wrong, that a person of that kind of rank should be taken away from the battle, not towards the heart. He knew, however, that there was no way he could discourage the Dwarven King. Bruenor was out for blood, as was every Battle-Hammer and Ironfist in the whole mountain right now.

At least he could put Ragnerok to good use, the Spartan thought to himself. Cortana mentioned over the radio of a secondary meeting point for the teams that were further away from the primary rendezvous, and that Cloak-Tower magi would be inbound to teleport them the rest of the way. Good, the cyborg thought to himself. The arcane firepower could help keep Baenre and her daughters occupied while he and the others ripped through the demonic support troops.

"Designated HK-Teams, heads up, sending visual data now, observe, analyze, and plan your attack. Be wary though, this may be a trap." Keyes said over the radio.

"Roger, awaiting feed," John remarked. Of course there was a chance it was a trap. There always was one. But, the Spartan thought, there was no better trap, no better ambush, than one turned against its maker. He'd look for the signs, and see if there wasn't some way that he could shift the situation to favor him and his teams.

The feed came through a few moments later, and he watched the Dark Elves as they gathered around a large, stone table. He saw the map of the Hall, and understood that they were perhaps still trying to salvage something from the attack as they moved tiny figurines about on it, some of them clearly indicating units that hadn't been wiped out of existence yet.
He noticed, in addition to what seemed to be a few score elite troops, a couple of Mind Flayers skulking about in the darkness, along with several Glabrezu and Bebilliths. No Balors, though. This puzzled the Spartan greatly. For if the lesser matron and several other figures had been able to call the beasts to their side or merit their protection, why did the head of the entire assault force not have a few protecting her? Was the Matron so arrogant that she believed herself above the need for such protection? Was she under the belief that she was far enough away from the battle to not need such a defense, or was it a trap? Could there be Balors hiding from the scrying? Or might there be something else, just as nasty, or perhaps more so, that he couldn't see?

The Spartan opted for the last approach. Nothing was ever gained by believing that an opponent was stupid or arrogant. Better to err on overkill, presuming such a concept existed.
His commline crackled to life a moment later. It was Orna.

"She seems too exposed. I do not like this. What if she's luring us in?"

"My thoughts precisely," the Master Chief returned as a map appeared on his HUD, showing him the layout of the cavern in which Baenre was at, along with the approaches. He opened up the external speakers of his suit again. "I want eyes scanning at all times. You hear anything odd, see anything, even smell something that feels out of place, I want to know." He turned his attention back to command then. "Oracle, is there any way to tell if the target has an early warning system? Scryers of their own, something like that?"

"Scouting pickets, but there don't appear to be scryers. It's possible that Baenre is using direct mental communications for updates, rather than her own observations." Cortana returned.

"Then she'll know we've decapitated one half of her command chain already. She'll be ready for us." He placed a hand down against his rucksack out of instinct. He still had those two AM grenades in there. Something told him that they were going to get used before this fight was over with. He was concerned though, as they'd never tested the grenades against something as powerful as the ruling Matron of Menzoberranzan.

Was it possible her raw arcane power would be able to overcome the grenade? Or might she have some item on her person to negate such effects? It would be best to be safe, he presumed, and go in hard and fast with the heaviest weapons the teams could bring to bear. He relayed that order to the rest of the troops as they descended ever deeper into the caves and tunnels.

--

Jarlaxle panted as he moved through the depths of the tunnels. One by one, small groups of his people were mentally checking in with him, telling him who was and who wasn't alive anymore. The causalities were mounting, and silent frustration was building within the mercenary captain. At the moment, it looked as though fully half of his troops might have been cut down in this ill advised assault. He wondered how many had spilt their blood needlessly in this offensive, and bitterness arose within his soul. For a moment, he didn't care if a Cleric or Wizard somehow managed to find him and read his mind, though they all seemed to be dead anyway so it probably was unlikely.

The mercenary captain shook with rising anger as he plunged deeper into the tunnels, trying to get away from the battle and link up with his troops. He had been with Berg'inyon, and the rest of the survivors from his initial group when the order had arrived to form up with some of the reserves and march on a specific area of the Undercity. Jarlaxle had made a decision then. At any other time, he would have questioned his judgment, thought himself insane, but not this time. He would not see his troops who were so loyal to him, such a rare, precious thing in his world, die in vain for the glory of Lolth anymore.

He had slipped away unnoticed by the rest of the weary Dark Elves, and brought his whistle to his lips. He played a tune, calling for a full retreat. The magic instrument would carry to the ears of all loyal to him, and they would meet up elsewhere. They were bugging out of this mess.

Let the others die for the glory of the Spider Queen, he thought. This was a battle that could not be won.

--

The Master Chief and his comrades were halfway to the staging area of their assault when the message reached them.

"We've been overrun!" he heard Khelgar's voice shout over the command channel.

He didn't stop moving forward. The other two teams were more than two and a half klicks away from where they were, and there was no chance for them to possibly arrive in time to make a difference. He'd have to hope Gazap and his squad would be able to pull Neeshka, Khelgar, and the others out of the fire. The mission had to go on, or else more would meet that fate. If not this day, then another when the Drow regrouped and came after the Hall again. Neeshka understood that. She saw the big picture. Knew what was at stake here, and how it was bigger than any one person or individual.

Images floated through his mind as he moved further down the tunnel. He saw Sam, James, Grace, and all the rest of his brothers and sisters who had given their lives for the sake of the Human race. For every one of them that had died, thousands, maybe millions, had been saved. He had to believe that the sacrifice of another member of his family in this battle would make just as big of a difference in the long run. That cold reasoning though, did not lessen his desire to go to her aid.

--

"Faster, our allies die while we lag!" Gazap's voice was scathing as he pushed his team further and further up the tunnels, heading to where the defenders were being swamped. He had heard the message of them being overrun as well. It was not yet too late, though. they could still arrive in time to save some of them.

The Unggoy sub-commander had his plasma carbine out in front of him, the weapon braced against his shoulder as he charged forward, a fresh pack slapped into it after he had expended most of the last charge mowing down another company of Underdark forces.

"Be advised, hostiles ahead." Cortana's voice was laced with an edge, and Gazap felt that there was both concern and a quiet rage to the voice. Still, he focused on the task at hand, and prepared his troops.

"Acknowledged," Gazap returned. Adrenaline began to spike in the Unggoy's body, but he kept himself calm and controlled regardless. A rookie would have wanted to rush in, guns blazing and drive the Drow off. Veterans were wise enough to know that there were old soldiers and bold soldiers, but no old, bold soldiers. They needed to be swift, but not reckless.

To his surprise, though, the Drow and a small number of fodder troops actually charged them.

"Cover!" he barked as he heard them swarming up the tunnel. The tunnel they were in was smooth for the most part, but there were a few rocks that they could use. His troops immediately set themselves up behind it, the Unggoy closer to the sides of the cave, the Dwarves more to the middle, where they could leap out and act as melee blockers if the need arose.

As the first Orcs rounded the bend in the cave, Gazap and his fellows opened fire. Bursts of plasma fire made the air stink of ozone, while the light created an almost strobe-light effect to any who would have seen the battle in the normal light spectrum. The first few waves died almost instantly, mowed down like wheat. Some were dead before they hit the ground, others lived long enough to flail about as the plasma's proximity heat ignited the leather straps and wood of their shields and equipment, while the ordinary steel of their mail twisted and melted before the fury of the Grunt's assault.

Gazap had lost track of how many he killed in the past few hours, but as he sighted up an Orc commander and blew his head off, he wondered for a split-second if this was what it felt like to be a Spartan. To be an Angel of Death. Ferocious. Feared. Absolutely lethal.

"Banging!" one of his troops shouted as the Drow themselves came into range. A plasma grenade, and then a second one, were hurled into the ranks of the Dark Elves.

There were shouts and screams at the harshness of the light, and then the cavern shook with the power of the twin detonations. Raw heat filled the tunnel, and the temperature rose like an oven for a few moments. Gazap felt himself start to sweat, despite the coolant of his gear and the near-liquid temperature of the methane that he was inhaling. Still, the grenades had done their lethal work. Fully half of the Dark Elves were dead or dying.

"Do not relent! Let them know that to stand against us is to die!" He ordered his troops as he fired a three shot burst at a Dark Elven officer. The shots ripped through her adamantine armor and blew her chest open, cremating her heart and lungs.

However, as he went to sight up another target, he heard a pop behind him. Knowing this meant a teleporter, he turned and got a firsthand glimpse at a Mind Flayer. It hit him with a psychic attack moments later as a full six of the betentacled monsters popped in behind it. The Unggoy sub commander stumbled, dropping his carbine as one strike became many, four of the psionic blows washing over him simultaneously. It was like being hit point blank by a stun grenade, the Grunt thought to himself.

He distantly heard shouting and screaming, and dazed, looked over to see his Dwarven soldiers. Heedless of the danger of closing into melee combat against Illithids, they threw themselves at the creatures, brandishing their weapons. Not all of his soldiers had been hit, but he knew that they'd have been overrun if so many of the attackers weren't already dead.

The first one to appear closed in on him, spreading its tentacles wide and baring its mouth. Gazap knew what it planned to do, and that he had to stop it. He willed himself to reach for his sidearm as the thing bent down over him. He felt his armored hand claps around the cool, familiar metal, and snarled as he drew it. Thinking only to keep that beak away from his head, the Unggoy Sub-Commander thrust his pistol into it. The Illithid gave a squawk of surprise right before Gazap pulled the trigger, and blasted the Mind Flayer's oversized brain out of the back of its head.

The Grunt staggered up to his feet, holstering the pistol and reaching for his fallen carbine. He growled softly behind his rebreather, seeing another one of the tentacled freaks moving for Rolga, who was firing his carbine on full auto in order to suppress the enemy Dark Elves. One of the Dwarves, Pestle, if he remembered his name right, beat the sub-commander to the punch. The Battle-Hammer Dwarf rushed in, shouting at the top of his lungs while swinging a large two handed axe. The weapon caught the Illithid dead on, cleaving through the robes the creature wore, and both of its legs. The creature howled and fell backwards, black ichor spewing everywhere.

Pestle was quick to move in and finish the fiend off, separating its head from its shoulders and letting out a howl at his victory.

Wasting no time, Gazap was swift to set himself up with a second target, and spotted another Illithid that had downed the Dwarf attacking it, and was now looking to make a meal out of its brain. The Grunt was swift to give it a permanent lesson on why trying to snack in the middle of a firefight was a bad idea. A double tap blew out most of its chest and guts, leaving it to topple backwards with its torso smoking.

The Dwarves had utterly destroyed all the remaining Mind Flayers, swarming them and hacking them apart with their weapons.

"Focus fire back on the Drow!"

His troops did as commanded, and there was soon a plethora of plasma fire being flung at the ever weakening Dark Elf forces. Still, as fast as they were dropping, Gazap still felt that this was taking far too long for his liking. He reached down to his supply webbing and pulled out a flash-bang. He primed the device, and hurled it at the ranks of the Underdark forces.

"Down!" he shouted. His Dwarven allies dropped down, shutting their eyes and plugging their ears as best they could. The infrared visor that Gazap was wearing adjusted as necessary for the device, but to the Drow, it was like a small sun had just been dropped into their world. They fell back, howling and clutching at their eyes and ears.

Those not rendered blind and deaf took a look around them at their depleted numbers, and their morale shattered. They tried to flee, but all they did was expose their backs. The Grunts cut them down without mercy.

"Move, move!" Gazap ordered. He wanted to congratulate his troops on their fine performance, but that could wait until HK-24 and 27 had been seen to.

"Twenty Eight, Oracle, enemy forces are withdrawing from the area. Full scale retreat across the board." Cortana's voice informed them.

"Roger," Gazap said.

With their path unimpeded, it took them just a couple more minutes to close to where the other two teams were. It was a mess. Dwarven bodies lay everywhere, intermixed with the corpses of goblinoids, Orcs, Minotaur, and at least a hundred Drow.

"Survivor!" someone shouted.

The rest of the team took up defensive position, Rolga and Salenth hurriedly setting up the plasma cannon for good measure. Good initiative, Gazap thought, as he hurried over towards where the survivor was.

"Damned black skinned rats," the Dwarf coughed, spitting up some blood. Gazap cocked his head, and then realized that he was staring at Khelgar.

The Dwarven monk was a mess, and were it not for the voice, Gazap was certain he would have never recognized him. The Ironfist soldier was missing an arm, and his left leg was attached by only the slimmest bits of muscle and tendons. He sported a half dozen other wounds, and countless dents and nicks to his armor.

"Medpack!" Gazap shouted. One was handed to him, and he started to apply biofoam to all the wounds. "Oracle, HK-28 here. We have a survivor. Khelgar of Clan Ironfist. His wounds are grave. We need a medivac now!"

"Roger that," Cortana responded. "All Mages are currently engaged. As soon as one opens up, we'll get him out of there. In the meantime, I need you to stabilize him as best you can, and hold that position."

"Will comply," the Grunt leader said as he covered the stump of Khelgar's right arm with biofoam. "Enemy status?"

"Still in full retreat. No sign of them turning around."

Gazap frowned behind his rebreather. Why would the Drow launch such a massive assault, and then just universally turn and, as the Humans said 'haul ass.' Especially since they had successfully overwhelmed the defenders here?

"I don't like this." He muttered. "Something is up."

But as he waited, no surprise teleports, rushes, or other type of sneak attacks came. They were left alone as they tended to Khelgar, and were left to wonder what in the world their enemy had been up to. He kept staring around, his instincts telling him that something was missing, something that should be here. Then it hit him: Neeshka. She had been part of this group as well. So why were there only Dwarven corpses here?

[Trivia Freak]

Matron Baenre was ill at ease. Lolth's message still echoed direly within her head. The Spider Queen was not one to readily accept failure, and especially not one of this magnitude. Gromph had reported that all attempts to breach Mithril Hall from the surface had ended with his troops being slaughtered. Worse still, the surface dwellers strange opening counter-assault had sealed up the caves from which his forces had emerged, and there was no way back into the Underdark. She had finally sent orders for the Drow troops to disengage and attempt to flee, while using the slaves to cover their retreat. The old Matron only hoped that they would be able to find some other cave to slip back into. Dawn could not be more than a couple of hours off. The leader of Menzoberranzan knew that when that hellish, flaming ball rose up in the sky, that it would scorch her people like a blight. It would burn their eyes and blind them, it's heat assault their skin and leave them helpless to any counter action, while its light would steal the magic from their weapons and their armor.

The ancient Dark Elf closed her eyes and bowed her head. She would have to assume them lost unless things changed. The assault on the cavern complex had been just as disastrous. Virtually no primary, secondary, or even tertiary objectives had been achieved, and all they had succeeded in doing was boosting the morale of the surface dwellers by utterly shattering the long cultivated belief that her people had no equals in combat. Still, at least one of their objectives had successfully been accomplished, and she took comfort in that. They might yet secure the forces they would need to take this location again. She smiled wickedly at the thought of an army of demons marching at the Dwarves and their strange allies. The thought that they could stand against the full might of Demogorgon was laughable. The Prince of Demons had power that mortals could not hope to comprehend.

She felt the presence of Lolth touch her mind again. Her Goddess seemed to have calmed since the last encounter, though Matron Baenre still detected a hint of frustration an anxiety within the Spider Queen.

It is done. The Matron thought.

This I know. You have earned a minor reprieve from my wrath. Deliver the key safely back to Menzoberranzan, and prepare to marshal my forces. With the Demons allied with us as never before, we will take what is ours. Lolth said.

The Matron bowed her head as she sat within her throne. She was uncertain as to what the test Lolth had referred to earlier was. Perhaps this was it? She wasn't certain what, but she vowed that she would pass it. She had not fought her way to the top of the pile in her home and ruled it for two thousand years to die like some whelp fresh out of the academy.

"Prepare to move," she whispered to Triel. "We have done all we can hope to accomplish here."

--

The Dark Elf stared around as she looked up the tunnel. There were two more of House Baenre's elite soldiers standing next to her, ready to fight any attackers who managed to get this far, and hold them off long enough for their leaders to receive warning and prepare themselves accordingly.

The Drow saw a quick flash of heat twenty yards ahead, right where there was a bend in the tunnel, and heard a muffled coughing sound. One of her comrades crumpled to the ground. Unsure what had caused it, but knowing that they were under attack by something, the woman turned to her other comrade, and watched as her head disintegrated into a mess of blood and bone. She barely had time for the gasp of surprise to leave her lungs before she felt a massive pain in her temple. Then all went dark.

The Master Chief signaled the fall of the sentries to those behind him. Those with vision enhancements had switched to light amplification rather than thermal at the moment, due to the thermal cloaking capabilities of his armor, and they acknowledged his actions with sharp gestures of their own.

The waypoint system on his HUD indicated that they were less than four hundred meters from the target. The Spartan kept his silenced SMG out with one hand, while the other one reached down into his rucksack, and withdrew the Spartan laser that he had put in it. The device had a full cell primed and ready. He had also withdraw the AM grenades and hung them in the bandolier that he was wearing. With luck, the result would be a significant one-two punch that would render Matron Baenre little more than ash and super-heated water before anyone could so much as figure out what was going on.

The Spartan exhaled as they drew closer and closer. There were no other sentries in this tunnel, and the other teams were reporting in that they'd managed to eliminate the posts they'd encountered without incident. The cavern that they would be entering was a larger one, about the size of a sports arena. Matron Baenre, her daughters, and the other Matrons were all gathered in the central area, flanked and surrounded by their supporters and bodyguards from four of the major Houses. Baenre's troops were there, along with large elements of House Del'Armgo, Xorlarrin, and Faen Tlabbar.

The plan called for him to initiate hard contact, lob the grenade, fire his shot, and then get a haste spell cast on him by Bidderdo. The enhanced speed would let him move in with other heavy weapons and quickly eliminate the demons and other Drow while they were still reeling from the effects of the grenades and the death of their leader. The other teams would move in as well, laying down fire from heavy machineguns carried by Elites, and medium plasma weaponry. But no plan survived contact with the enemy. If that didn't work, the idea was to concentrate all available fire on the priestesses before they could summon reinforcements, enhance the other troops, or make a getaway.

The Master Chief soon arrived at the final bend that would open out into the cavern, and he holstered the SMG, fishing out a tiny fiber optic. Linking it up with his suit, he got a good look at the enemy, before he switched back over to infrared viewing. He winked his HUD light, letting the rest of the teams know that they would be engaging the enemy within seconds, and to wait for him. He counted down.

Three. He reached up and primed the anti-magic grenade, holding it close as he quickly reviewed where everyone was.

Two. He started charging the laser.

One. The cyborg leaned around the corner and hurled the grenade, while bringing the nearly primed heavy weapon down onto his shoulder, and leveling it straight at the Matron. As soon as he did, her head snapped up and her eyes widened. She never spoke, never gestured. She was gone.

"Shit!" he hissed.

Spartan Time in full effect, the Master Chief frantically searched around for the target, trying to reacquire her. He was unsuccessful, and he knew that he needed to fire the laser. He opted for secondary targets as the AM grenade bounced and rolled along the floor of the cavern. One of Baerne's daughters was standing just outside of the grenade's range. Next to her was another Matron, and behind them was a large cluster of melee troops and Glabrezu.

The grenade detonated, and a series of flashes washed over everyone caught in range. The Spartan could see their facial expressions slowly changing from confusion to horror as they realized they were defenseless. Then the Spartan laser gave a high pitched whine and kicked backwards as it fired a crimson lance of death unerringly towards the Master Chief's targets. the beam struck Baenre's daughter, while the raw heat of a energy pulse hot enough to slice through four meters of Covenant tank armor washed over the other Matron. Their arcane defenses held for but microseconds. They never had a chance, and in the blink of an eye, both Quenthel Baenre and Vadalma Tlabbar of the Third House were utterly obliterated.

The energy blast continued onwards, cutting down four Glabrezu and searing a number of Baenre and House Del'Armgo troops as it connected with the wall on the far side of the cavern. The Master Chief wasted no time. He reacted, taking the massive laser cannon down from his shoulder and stuffing it into his rucksack. It took too long to charge to be of any further use in a battle like this. He unslung his ASG-60 and primed a flash-bang, hurling it at a concentration of troops at the eastern end of the cavern.

At the same time, hails of fifty caliber DU rounds and plasma fire emerged from the other tunnels, creating a horrific crossfire that reduced several Clerics to shreds. The Master Chief took aim at another one of the Matrons caught in the blast of the AM grenade. He was uncertain how long it would last against targets like them, and he needed to make it count.

"All teams, focus on the vulnerable targets!" he shouted as he opened fire. Matron Xorlarrin of the Seventh house and her eldest daughter died in the next instant, as uranium flechettes perforated their bodies.

He watched in slow motion as nearly a half score Matrons and High Priestesses were cut down where they stood. The three remaining Baenre daughters, however, were more fortunate. They vanished in the blink of an eye, reappearing at different areas of the cavern. They were swift to seek cover behind their demonic allies as the elite shock troops rushed forward to do battle. He heard Bidderdo Harpell chanting behind him as a number of Baenre and Del'Armgo troops threw small spheres onto the floor of the cavern. They exploded moments later in flashes of light, and he heard several of the Dwarves cry out in pain. Flash grenades of some sort.

Well, he'd raise them one better.

"Flash-Bangs!" he commanded the troops. Several went through the air, and the Dark Elven troops and Demons all dove behind whatever rocks they could. The Spartan nodded to himself as he moved forward. Matron Baenre must have become aware of the flash-bangs, or at least understood that the Dwarves and their allies had the ability to render troops blind and deaf.

There was still no sign of the Matron herself though, and that had the Master Chief worried. If the woman had gotten away, there was a chance that she could rally the forces of the Underdark and march again.

Haste Spells were falling on the troops on both sides, as Surface magi and surviving House Wizards attempted to bolster their troops. The Master chief fought the urge to order the handful of AM grenades that were left among the teams to remove those enhancements from their foes. Matron Baenre. She was the key to this, they needed to be saved for her.

Behind him, Thibbledorf Pwent let out a mighty battle cry, and the gutbusters rushed right for the largest concentration of troops that could be seen. The Spartan saw the bodies of Dark Elven troops reforming into battle lines, putting themselves between their leaders and themselves. However, he noticed that the lines were distinctly separate. House Baenre formed one line of defense, House Del'Armgo a second, and the other houses into theirs. He counted close to four hundred troops. He had maybe an eighth of that number. The poor bastards didn't have a chance.

"Focus on Baenre!" he shouted as he saw purplish flames leaping up over several of the troops, himself included. Faerie Fire, a minor arcane trick, something all Drow could do.

The substance was harmless, though it often had a devastating shock-effect on the unprepared, who would hurl themselves to the ground and try to put out the flames. The primary effect of the magic, however, was to illuminate him and make him a target for archer fire, according to Drizzt. It would also effectively negate his thermal camouflage. He heard the sounds of heavy crossbow fire, and turned to see a ridge about fifty meters off. A grouping of archers were lying prone there, firing down from the high ground. He saw one of the bolts hit a charging Gutbuster. The bolt exploded a moment after impact, with the fury of a small grenade, tearing the Battle-Hammer warrior open and killing him instantly.

"Johnson!" the Spartan barked as he saw several of the bolts moving towards him. Hyper-enhanced muscle and the Mjolnir armor worked together to propel the cyborg out of the path, but he could see more arrows coming at him. They had identified him. They knew what he was. They wanted him dead.

"On it," the ODST growled back. John saw him produce a flamethrower, and he and two of the Elites within his team sent arcs of pressurized thermite streaking towards the archers.

The roar of the flames did nothing to drown out their screams as the flamethrowers cremated the archers and turned the rocks they were hiding on into pools of molten lava.

With those distractions removed, the Spartan concerned himself with first locating Matron Baenre, killing her and the other High Priestesses, and then destroying the rest of the army group here. He would have to be weary though. He hadn't missed that Baenre's daughters had apparently been able to overpower the effects of the AM grenades. Doubtless, Baenre herself would be able to take it as well, though it would weaken her.

He saw movement in the upper tier of the cavern, up by the stalactites. He leveled his weapon and opened fire. Arcane shields flared to life as the Matron teleported again, but not before hurling a blast of fire and lightning from her hands.

"Eyes open, target extremely mobile!" he shouted over the command channel, and hurled a fragmentation grenade at a cluster of Del'Armgo troops. Behind him, the spells that Matron Baenre had unleashed impacted and detonated. The fury of the blasts buffeted him, and he noticed the heat in the cavern rise considerably. His grenade went off as he sought to reacquire the target, joining hundreds of other sounds of battle. Spells, bullets, plasma fire, battle cries and roars of pain from the wounded and the dying, all filled the Master Chief's audio receptors.

A sudden pain seized his body, and he knew it was Matron Baenre, followed by what felt like a battering ram slamming into his mind. Pain was an old friend, though, and he shrugged it, off, spotting her again, nearly a hundred meters away, once again floating near the ceiling of the cavern.

"Target, mark-two-six-five high!" he unloaded a barrage of fire from his ASG, which was joined by fifty caliber and plasma rifle fire moments later. Arcane shields were shattered and destroyed, but there always seemed to be more.

Baenre vanished again, while his EM sensors spiked. Something was being summoned. Moments later a half dozen Yochols filled the cavern, along with more Demons. The other Clerics and Baenre's daughters also reentered the battle. Spells washed over the Dark Elves and their allies. Glistening protective fields covered their bodies, and he noticed that several of them grew in size and stature. Others chose a more direct approach. A column of fire leapt up around Johnson's group, and there was a host of Sangheili and Human curses as the troops emerged from the flames and returned fire.

Two more of Pwent's Gutbusters dropped dead. One of them impaled by a monster of a Dark Elf that stood taller than most Humans and was armed with a wicked looking trident , another one struck down by dark magic. Three casualties so far, the Master Chief counted. The cyborg growled and resumed his hunt for Baenre, skittering from point of cover to point of cover under his haste spell, relieved when the Faerie Fire finally died down and left him free to hunt in shadow once more.

Something battered at his mind again, and he knew that it was Matron Baenre. The old woman wanted to get inside his head, but seemed to be having trouble. the Master Chief growled as he spotted her once more and unloaded the rest of his ASG-60 at the woman. More of her defenses broke, and he was beginning to reach the conclusion that she had artifacts similar to the ones that Wedonnai had had. It would also ex plain the elemental magic. That tended to be the domain of Wizards more than Clerics, from what he understood.

The initial plan was dead, it seemed. Now it was a matter of seeing who was better at adaptation to changing battle tactics. The Hunter Killers were already taking the initiative. Johnson and his squad of flame-troops were acting like shock troopers, running around and blinding the Dark Elves with their weaponry, while at the same time wreaking psychological havoc. The Dark Elves feared fire more than most, especially fire that could turn their enchanted armor against them.

The Clerics and Wizards attempted to compensate for this, and he saw them raising elemental wards. Most, however, were unsuccessful. Either they never finished the spells and were incinerated when Johnson and his team-mates arced the fire of their weapons and sent them crashing down on the spell-casters, where the four thousand degree flames quickly cremated them, or the erected wards lasted only moments against flames far more intense than they were ever designed to protect against.

Another Dwarf was devoured alive by a Yochol, before a barrage of plasma fire turned the Handmaidens into steaming wrecks. Not to be deterred, more were summoned, and the Glabrezu joined the battle.

"Bruenor, pull your men back!" the Master Chief snarled as he evaded more elemental magic from Baenre, before another psychic blast tore at his body. He fought of the pain that screamed through him, and took aim, his automatic shotgun now loaded with explosive ammunition. "Heavy weapons, alternate targets. Ballistics take out the Dark Elves and Demons, plasma fire on the Yochols!"

There was a sound like cracking glass as he fired a six round burst at Baenre. The woman fell to the ground, but despite the heavy fall, seemed to be fine. Her defenses still held. She locked eyes on the cyborg once again, and with a scream waved her right arm. The Master Chief felt an unseen force grip him, and the next thing he knew he was airborne. He sailed through the air, smashed through a stone pillar in the middle of the cavern, and landed amongst the Dark Elven forces. Two of the Drow were crushed when his half ton body landed on them, but the Spartan took no comfort in that fact. He was down, surrounded by the enemy. His shields were still solid, but this was about the last place he wanted to be, considering he was surrounded by an army of Drow, Demons, and spell casters who were all out for his blood.

Thankful that the haste spell was still in full effect, the Spartan rolled up into a crouch, quickly primed two grenades as troops of Del'Armgo and Baenre closed in upon him. The two grenades sailed in opposite directions as he called out a status update to the other teams, letting them know of his location and for all those not immediately engaged to keep the pressure up on Matron Baenre. She appeared to have teleported away again. Could it be that her defenses were like his? That they recharged when not under assault, and that was why she kept moving around so much?

The back of his head throbbed, and he grit his teeth, nearly staggering at another pulse of raw pain. That was really getting on his nerves. His two grenades detonated, and tore massive holes in the melee troops lines. Still, they were pressing in around him, and if he didn't do something quickly, they were going to swarm him. He needed massive volumes of fire to clear a path out of this mess and into the hunt again.

"Johnson, Orna, I need a grenade volley on my position!" he growled as he reached down and grabbed the SMG off of his left hip, holding a weapon with each hand. What he was about to do went against most logic and traditional rules of engagement, but at this range, the sacrifice of accuracy was irrelevant. The enemy was in close. He couldn't have missed if he tried.

His two comrades in arms were swift to answer his call for assistance, and did not question his order in the slightest. Trust, a concept so alien to their foes that the Drow had no true word for it, caused them to believe that their friend knew what he was doing. On command a rain of nearly a dozen phosphorus grenades impacted around the Spartan and the Drow throngs pressing in upon him. White hot flames leapt up everywhere, burning through everyone and everything caught in the blast radius. The Master Chief emerged from the firestorm like a Devil arising from the Hells, flames streaming off of his shields. He leveled both of his weapons out at his sides, unleashing an onslaught of fire, while looking around for priority targets. He spotted one, a wizard, and focused his SMG on the Dark Elf, quickly overwhelming his defenses and destroying the man utterly.

"Another volley!" he called out as he expended the last of his SMG's ammunition, and hurled the weapon at a Dark Elven Cleric, throwing the girl off her spellcasting as it connected with her face.

--

The number of Gods and Goddesses watching the unfolding battle continued to grow, even as the battle itself was dying off, more and more were becoming aware of it, notifying others, and so on, until entire pantheons had begun to watch the strange struggle.

Mielikki and Chauntea watched it together. The Goddesses of nature and agriculture watched the world beneath them become soaked in blood, the soil and rock turning red, green, and black as the life's blood of so many countless thousands soaked down into it. Mielikki felt the agony of one soul in particular and focused things down onto Drizzt. The rogue Dark Elf had often held a special place in her heart. There was a kind soul, so different from his dark kin, tucked away under that armor that he wore over both flesh and soul. She felt his pain as she saw him rush towards a group of his evil brothers and sisters.

But the pain went deeper than this apparent situation where he was once more forced to kill his kindred. There was something else here, something more. Then she saw the weapon on his hip. She recognized it, she had seen several of the surface combatants using such devices, and she knew what it was capable of. She had long known of her follower's bane and abhorrence of such technological killing devices. Had something happened that had forced him to use the weapon? She could scarcely imagine what that might do to him. A quiet raged filled her then, and her eyes narrowed, a fire lighting up inside of them. In an instant, she was gone from Chauntea's side, going to the one person that she simply knew had to be behind this. There was only one being that could possibly have given the surface worlders such devices.

She appeared in his fortress moments later. He was hunched over a scrying bowl many times larger than his diminutive body. Gond, Lord of All Smiths, God of creation and invention. He was in his gnomish form, and seemed to be hastily scribbling away on a massive notepad, constantly fiddling with a set of what appeared at first glance to be jewel-cutter's lenses set atop his head.

"Gond!" she called to him.

The Crafter of Knowledge gave a slight shriek, jumped a full twelve feet into the air, and landed without turning around and seemingly without missing a beat in his scribbling.

"Yes? You bellowed, Mielikki? What is it? What is it? I'm busy here!" he shouted back to her, scrambling around the sides of his scrying bowl, flicking different lenses down over his eyes so quickly that the nature Goddess could scarcely keep up with him.

"You know why," she narrowed her gaze again, storming up towards him as he continued to half-listen to her, constantly muttering under his breath about different aspects of the bloody combat taking place before him. "There are none on the Celestial Planes who are not now aware of your meddling, and I suspect only their enthrallment at the battle keeps them from storming your home." her voice was quiet, dangerous.

Gond didn't even bother to look up, though he actually paused for about half a second, before hastily scribbling notes down again. "Milady Mielikki, am I given to understand that you think that I am responsible for the events unfolding here?"

"Your domain is that of invention, including that of war, and your followers have often created projectile weapons that shoot smoke and fire." she clenched a fist as she thought of such past instances, and how badly they had nearly upset the order of things.

"Those… things… were but crude implements compared to these magnificent devices!" he exclaimed as he quickly flicked through a different series of viewing lenses once again. "I only wish I had thought of such things before! Look at them, Milady, look at how they change the outcome, from massacre to victory. Ohhh, and that armor, those siege engines! I cannot believe that we have been graced to view such magnificent things!"

Mielikki was tempted to slap a hand to her forehead. The Lord of All Smiths was acting just as he always had. It appeared that his time spent as a mortal had been wasted on him. Always creating, always envisioning without ever thinking of the consequences. But, much as she wanted to wring the Gnome's little neck right now, she was left with another question. If Gond was not the one who was responsible for crafting these devices, then who was? Who had unleashed these troops? These weapons?

There was one who might know. One who watched and saw what others didn't.

She left in an instant, while Gond continued to mutter and take notes. Moments later, she appeared at another fortress. Archons whirled as she teleported in, while the souls of Paladins and warriors long dead drew weapons. However, they stopped upon realizing who she was. They sheathed their weapons and retreated back to their guard posts. Mielikki arched an eyebrow as she pondered their actions, and realized that her coming must have been foreseen.

She made her way towards where she knew the scrying chambers were. Once many Gods of the Good and Neutral pantheons had come to this place, to see and ask of the deity blessed with the power of foresight. None had come here since the Troubles ended. Everyone knew how Helm had cut Mystra down, everyone had seen her corpse, unmoved from where it had fallen at the base of the Celestial Staircase.

Deities slaying each other was nothing new, but that didn't make it any less unnerving, to know that she was entering the company of someone who had killed one of their own.

She came to the door, and pushed against it. It opened, and she gasped as she entered the room. Helm was not alone. There was another that had dared to come here. Moradin looked up from the scrying chamber and blinked at her in surprise. Helm kept his back to her, his arms spread over the lips of the massive scrying bowl. The Watcher, and the Dwarven God, watching the battle together? The two had long been friends, this she knew, but she would have expected Torm, Tyr, Lathander, one of Helm's other allies, rather than Moradin. Things were beginning to fall into place. Pieces to a puzzle seemed to be coming together.

"Ask your questions, Mielikki. For I have much work to do," Helm said. His voice was neutral, devoid of emotion, and he did not move from where he was.

"Helm… what have you done?" she whispered.

"What makes you think that I've done anything?" A hand came up, and she heard the telltale clanking of a gauntlet tapping against a visor.

"Mithril Hall comes under assault, attacked by what seems to be the whole host of the Underdark," she paused, gauging his reaction. Nothing. "But rather than being completely overrun and destroyed, the Dwarves are holding their own. They're driving back their would-be enslavers. And they're doing it with weapons that not even Gond apparently had the forethought to forge."

"Yes, a most curious turn of events," Helm said. Still, his back remained to her. Mielikki took a few steps forward, her hair fluttering out behind her.

"And here I find Moradin, consulting with you and watching over the triumph of his people, you with the gift of Foresight."

"Many Gods have such gifts," Helm shrugged.

"But none so great as yours!" Mielikki countered. There was anger in her voice. "And what's more. You were the one with the time to plan this, to have these strange extra-planar soldiers rush around while everyone else was trying to survive during the Troubles." She was close enough now that she could have reached out and touched the plate armor that covered the man.

"Well, sound's like you've got everything sorted out, except the why of it," Helm said. "What would possess me to reach out across the planes and pluck soldiers from another realm of existence and bring them here?" He finally turned around, and all that the nature goddess could see behind his armet was his burning eyes.

"I… I don't know." she looked uncertain for the first time since she had stormed in. "What made you do it?"

"Because someone had to. Because the surface world had to be saved, but none had the power or the numbers to do it," he turned back to watch the battle as it continued to unfold. "Allied with the forces of the Abyss, Lolth would have caused unspeakable devastation to the surface and everyone living on it."

"And how do you know that you can control these forces that you've brought in? What if they're like the Githyanki, or worse?" Mielikki asked, cocking her head to the side.

"To compare them to the Gith would not be an apt comparison, Milady, for they are of the Prime." Helm paused. He had always wondered how he would have to explain this. It was only a matter of time before others eventually figured out what he was up to. He slowly turned around once more to face the goddess of the woods. "They come from where I came. They are the descendents of my people, survivors of a war that ravaged and destroyed more than even you can fathom."

"What?" she gasped.

"Ye never told me that," Moradin whispered, speaking for the first time.

"It is not an easy thing to talk about. I had to leave them, slowly pull myself back in order for them to grow strong. I am their father, they my children. But children must learn how to stand on their own, no matter how many times they may fall." He crossed his arms over the besagews of his armor. "They were strong, and they grew. They delved more into technology than any race on Faerun or the other worlds under our domain, because they knew nothing of magic. And now I have brought them here, so that they may save this world, and others."

Mielikki opened her mouth, but for once, she could not find the proper words. The God of Guardians turned once more to face the battle, and she contemplated the impossibility of what he just told her. That there was an entire race of people, of many peoples, far beyond this world, far beyond magic. To imagine such a civilization boggled her mind. And to learn that they were Helm's 'children' no less? So much was happening so fast, and she knew that there would be no going back. Faerun, and the rest of Torril, were about to be changed, and changed in ways she could only begin to imagine.

When Gond had first created his smoke-powder weaponry, there had been outcries from the established power bases all over the world. Leaders, Kings, Empresses and more, who feared what the advent of such a weapon would bring, the social upheaval as any disgruntled person found himself in possession of a weapon almost equal to a wizard's spell. What she had seen was the same, only the weapons were many times more dangerous. she felt a bit of fear then, and though her body did not require it, she felt her breath quicken, as she thought of all that could go horribly wrong when this was over.

And something told her that Helm hadn't told her everything. There was more to this, more he was still hiding.

"If you have no other questions?" he spoke up. "There are still many fights left."

There was something in his tone, something that sounded on edge, almost wounded, that caused her to comply. She withdrew immediately, back to Chauntea's side. Helm's explanation had created almost as many questions as it had answered. The knowledge of the origins of these strange offworlders was in a way comforting, knowing who they were likely to remain true to, but at the same time, it made her wary of the God of Guardians.

How many plots had he constructed, how many plans had he executed behind the backs of her and everyone else?

--

Bruenor let out a ferocious battle cry as he buried Ragnarok into a Yochol. The foul Handmaiden let out a shriek that rang through his ears as the arcane weapon cleaved through its waxy flesh and its holy magic burned it from the inside out. To his sides, his Dwarven soldiers were forming up around him, but everyone was sporting wounds. A loud yowling filled the cavern, and the King of Clan Battle-Hammer saw a dark flash out of the corner of his eye. Guenhwyvar roared as she tore into the ranks of the Dark Elves, mauling two of them before they could even react.

He ducked underneath the strike of another Drow, butting his shield into his foe and causing the woman to stumble. To his left, Mortar noticed the opening and lunged forward, quickly cutting off a leg. The female warrior fell backwards with a howl, while Bruenor extended his shield to cover his comrade.

That was one of the reasons he and his men were lasting as long as they did. The Drow were excellent fighters, but were not used to fighting as an army, in massive group formations. Their inability to coordinate was hamstringing them severely.

"Fire support!" Bruenor called in the small microphone he wore.

Two of the Sangheili turned their heavy weapons into the rear ranks of the Dark Elves, cutting a bloody swath through them and slaying dozens, before they returned to firing at Matron Baenre, who was still trying to flitter about the cavern like a Sprite.

Bruenor snarled as a Dark Elf tried to cleave his helmet open, only for the slender swords he carried to rebound harmlessly off of the ancestral headgear. Bruenor returned the favor by taking the horned helmet and smashing his foe in the gut with it. The Drow toppled backwards from the force of the blow, leaving him open for the kill. Off to his left, a pair of fragmentary grenades detonated, while the searing heat of a UNSC incendiary grenade detonated on the other side of the cavern.

The Dark Elves were nearing the breaking point, he knew that. Bruenor was worried though, because the Demons were starting to come forward. Gunfire continued to echo throughout the cavern, filling it with a cacophonous racket that made it hard to think.

"Brace yerselves!" Bruenor shouted as he watched a line of Glabrezu approach his forces, some of the wolf-demons knocking Dark Elves aside like bowling pins in their desire to reach the battle. Plasma fire and bullets ripped through them, but while a number of them died, some of them had had the foresight to erect arcane protection over themselves. The withering hail of fire was absorbed long enough for them to close to melee, where the chaos of the battle made it risky for the Sangheili to exchange fire, and left them seeking out other targets to destroy.

One of them closed on the Dwarven King, and he was forced to roll forward in order to evade a downward swipe of the large, crab-like claws that made up the Glabrezu's primary arms. The rightful ruler of Mithril Hall wasted no time, coming up out of his roll and lashing out with Ragnarok. The enchanted axe blade cut through the fur and hide of the Demon, and fiendish blood splattered everywhere as Bruenor scored a deep gash along the inside of the creature's left hip. With the severed muscles and tendons unable to hold it up, the Glabrezu crashed down to its knees, putting its head right in the perfect spot for a follow up attack. Bruenor brought the weapon down, trying to split the canine skull down the middle. The Glabrezu brought up its arms to block, but Ragnarok tore through the two claws.

While they were unable to thwart the blows of the King, they did lessen the impact upon its head, preventing the blow from being instantly fatal. Despite the fact that its skull was fractured and Bruenor could get a good look at its brain, the Glabrezu had the strength to lash out at him with its remaining to arms. The talons on the end of its hand raked deep grooves in the plate armor and shield that the King had, nearly damaging the foaming ale mug that was Battle-Hammer's standard.

Bruenor countered with a furious underhand chop, brining the axe in from below and nearly splitting the Glabrezu's face in half. It shuddered and twitched, before falling over to the side and vanishing.

Other Dwarves, however, were not so fortunate. A full dozen were ripped apart by the fury of the demons, while others were wounded. Even the mighty Thibbledorf Pwent let out a howl of fury as one of the Demons was able to tear through a vambrace of his armor, laying the Dwarf's upper arm open to the bone.

"Pull your forces back, your majesty, let us cleanse their filth from this world," Orna Fullsamee's voice echoed in his ear. In the months since they'd arrived, Bruenor had learned to trust the Ascetic implicitly. He complied, knowing it probably meant that there was heavy firepower being set up somewhere behind them.

"Pull out!" Bruenor shouted, taking just enough time to deflect a blow from one of the Drow that were still mixed up in the ranks of the Demons.

His troops complied quickly, pulling back to nurse their wounds while giving a better opening for the off-worlders to unleash their weaponry upon the Demons and their Underdark allies. Bruenor was growing angry and frustrated, though. Every gun focused on the main bodies of their enemies was one fewer gun pointed at the remaining Matrons and the other high priestesses, and one fewer set of eyes searching for Matron Baenre.

He caught a glimpse of the Master Chief behind the lines of the enemy, still trapped there from where Matron Baenre had thrown him. He seemed fine for now, and his commands and requests over the comm channels were still as calm as ever, but Bruenor knew that even as powerful a soldier as the Spartan was, he would eventually be overwhelmed if he couldn't fight his way out of there. Already he was busy dodging lightning bolts and fireballs, while other arcane attacks impacted against his shields.

As for the Spartan himself, things could have been going better. Most of the wizards who had tried to attack him were dead, but he had not yet managed to corner Matron Baenre or one of her daughters. The throbbing in the back of his head was growing steadily worse, feeling like someone had buried a battle-axe into his brain. His biorythms were still holding solid but the pain was bringing back memories of how much getting his augmentations had hurt.

"Target, One-Seven-Five low!" he heard, and whirled to see Baenre, hovering some four meters off of the ground, nearly thirty meters away.

The Master Chief leveled his ASG-60, and fired off the last ten rounds he had in the drum mag, before lobbing a plasma grenade at her. The little blue orb moved fast, and actually managed to cling to her. The Matron, absorbed in her spellcasting, didn't notice the tiny explosive until it was too late. It detonated, but not before she had flung off another spell. Pain exploded through the Master Chief's body, and he stumbled, grunting softly as he felt a trickle of blood as he hit his knees.

The grenade detonated a moment later, throwing the old crone against the stone walls of the cavern, now red hot and glowing with the proximity heat of the grenade's power. The Master Chief fought through the pain, and he quickly reloaded and leveled his weapon, taking aim at Baenre.

There was a pop, and something appeared right in front of him, not three meters away. It was one of Matron Baenre's daughters. He heard another pop as the old woman vanished from his motion sensor, and the Master Chief grimaced in frustration.

"Target mobile again. Her defenses are weakened, find her and eliminate her!" he shouted into his mike, while firing a four round burst at the other Cleric in front of him. From the information that he'd been given, he believed that this was Sos'Umpta, Baenre's third born child, and a powerful cleric of Lolth.

The explosive shotgun rounds tore into her defenses though, and she quickly cast a spell, enveloping the Master Chief in a hellish firestorm. He emerged once again, grateful that his shields had been given a chance to recharge. He shoulder checked the woman, knocking her to the ground. She tried to cast another spell, and the Spartan's EM scanners spiked. Knowing that her mother was still lurking around, and every second he wasn't looking for her was one more moment for the Matron's defenses to either recharge or for her to plot a new angle of attack against him, or worse yet, retreat from battle. The constant screaming behind him told him that the various Drow, Mind Flayer, and other such troops were quickly being killed, even if they'd managed to inflict heavy casualties on the teams' melee fighters, and it was doubtless soon reaching the point where the Matron would opt to chose another day to fight. They had to kill her and quickly.

Sos'Umpta, in an impressive display of acrobatics, managed to leap back up to her feet in all of her heavy plate. She then lashed out with both a mace and a whip of five snake heads that suddenly animated, hissing and biting at the cyborg. There was an explosive impact with the mace, and a burst of heat which drained the Master Chief's shields, a fire burst weapon he recognized, while the whip proved to be nearly useless, unable to find a grip through the force fields that protected him.

The vestiges of the haste spell had faded from him some time ago, but the Spartan still had the physical edge in this battle. He pulled the trigger twice more, and saw Sos'Umpta's shields further weaken under the assault. She lashed out again. The Spartan let the mace blow fall, accepting it in order to further prepare himself for the next attack, the whip. True to form, she swung it again. The Master Chief switched his shotgun to his left hand, and reached out with his right, snatching several of the snake heads and yanking hard. He wasn't trying to pull the device out of the Cleric's hand, but he was trying to force her off balance and get her to stumble. It worked, and she lurched towards him.

He saw fear form in her crimson eyes as he now tore the whip from her hand and threw it across the cavern. Before she could react, he reached out and struck, shattering her defenses and reaching in as she tried frantically to leap away from him. He grabbed the girl around the head, and unceremoniously smashed Sos'Umpta's face into the ground. He felt her skull fracture, shatter, and squash beneath the powerful force of his arm, and he kicked her corpse for good measure, making certain that she was dead.

He turned, looking around for Baenre, only to hear a scream of what could only be rage and suddenly felt the pain in his head surge back. The Spartan fell to his knees, spots flashing in front of his eyes and blood dripping against the visor of his helmet. His shields had not managed to begin recharging when a hellstorm leapt up around him, turning the rocks beneath his feet into molten lava. Then he was struck again, and his shields shattered.

Alarms warbled in his helmet and his ear, screaming about the danger he was in. He lurched to his feet, willing himself out of the firestorm towards a spot on his motion sensor that hadn't been there a fraction of a second earlier. Matron Baenre was there, some seventy meters away from him. The old woman's face was flushed hot with rage, and he could feel the arcane energies swirling around her, and he leveled his assault shotgun. High explosive rounds detonated against the Matron's shields as more reinforcements teleported in around her, more Clerics coming to aid their leader.

The Master Chief hurled a flash-bang, blinding the lesser clerics, but the old Matron herself seemed unaffected by the blast. His shields had only just begun to recharge when she hurled what seemed to be a thunderstorm of lightning at him. Stone and rock shattered before the fury of the Matron's magic, picking the half ton cyborg up off his feet and hurling him through the air again. The spell seemed animated, like it was an extension of Matron's will, and it smashed him into the ground, crushing the rock underneath him, while the heat of it burned the rock until it was but blackened glass.

The Master Chief knew it was time to try a different avenue of approach, and rolled behind a rock column that had managed to survive the onslaught of the Matron. He slung the ASG-60 up over his back, and reached down into his rucksack again. He chose his weapon carefully. The cavern was too cramped, the Matron too agile with her teleportation abilities, for a thirty millimeter to be an ideal weapon choice. There were, however, smaller weapons which fit the same bill. He pulled out a fifty caliber LAAG, priming the weapon and cycling a high explosive round into it. Then he wheeled around, took aim, and fired.

As much as he wanted to focus on Matron Baenre herself, he needed to eliminate her minions first, and reduce the number of spells that were flying at him. He watched the hot streaks the bullets made through the air as they pierced adamantine armor and detonated. The bullets acted much like the ones for his pistol, only they packed a much larger punch, and the Clerics never had a chance. Their magical defenses failed, and they were torn apart with such fury that their armor was turned into impromptu fragmentary devices, scything through the air and cutting into their sisters.

But once again, Matron Baenre's defenses proved more formidable. As the most ancient and powerful being the Underdark had ever seen, and protected by magics most Demons and Infernals only wished they could call upon, the old Drow was a different caliber of foe entirely. The Spartan decided to retreat, the comm. chatter that he'd been picking up indicating that most of the melee troops had been butchered. Matron Baenre was more than willing to use other troops against him, and it was time for him to return the favor.

He kept firing at her, shields shattering before the barrage of high explosive rounds while running backwards at full speed as Baenre prepared another spell. Before she was able to cast it, though, he was able to successfully duck back around the large ridge that dominated the center of the cavern. The Matron was unwilling to follow, and the master Chief knew why. Her troops were nearly finished, there was nothing to distract his allies from taking aim at her. The barrage of several platoons worth of automatic weapons would be more than even she could handle.

A red blob was beginning to emerge on the Master Chief's motion sensors, and he whirled around to find the Dark Elven troops in disarray. Most of the demons and spell casters were dead, now it was mop up time. That was a double edged sword for him, though, as it meant that Matron Baenre might just decide to up and leave. They could not afford to lose this opportunity.

"Spartan!" he heard a voice over his radio, and seconds later, popping noises filled the air as a teleport spell went off. He nearly let off a burst, but he realized that the newcomers were friendlies.

Bidderdo Harpell had teleported over, and he had brought reinforcements. Bruenor Battle-Hammer stood before him, with Drizzt and Guenhwyvar off to the side, as well as Sergeant Johnson.

"You looked like you could use a hand," the Dwarven king said, gripping his axe fiercely, "and I for one, aim to teach the old hag a lesson about invading Dwarf territory."

Once again, the desire to escort Bruenor away from the battle rose within the Spartan, especially in light of what they were facing. There was nothing in all the battlefield that Mithril Hall had turned into more dangerous than what was on the far side of the cavern. But at the same time, he could use the Dwarf, and the others. A plan quickly formulated in the Spartan's mind.

"Her defenses are strong, and they recharge. We have to hit hard and fast, and wear them out before she can recover or teleport away and decide to retreat back into the Underdark," he reached down into his rucksack, and pulled out his last anti-magic grenade. "Sergeant, you still have one?" he asked. Johnson's response was to holster his flamethrower and pull one out. "Good. Baenre's got target fixation, she's focusing on me and nothing else. I'll go out and distract her. Bidderdo," he turned to the mage. "I want you to teleport the others in as close as you can, and come in from the southeast, while I hit from one hundred and twenty degrees out. That'll keep her focused on me and let Drizzt and Bruenor close the distance. Johnson, give them cover fire once Baenre becomes aware of you. Lob the grenades at her, and if you think you need to hurl a frag or a plasma grenade at her. Don't use a flash-bang, they aren't bothering her. That should leave her defenses down and let you close in for the killing blow." He paused, and looked back and forth at the small group. Their faces ranged from eagerness in Bruenor's case, to calmness for Drizzt, to Bidderdo looking quite terrified, but managing to nod his head, and begin softly chanting.

The Master Chief handed over his AM grenade to Bruenor, while Johnson handed his to Drizzt. Then the cyborg rushed out, his fifty caliber leveled. Matron Baenre was waiting for him, and unleashed a torrent of elemental magic as soon as he exposed himself. Superhuman speed and reflexes enabled the Spartan to weave in and out of most of the attacks, while his shields absorbed the few that he couldn't dodge. He kept firing, flinging dozens of high explosive and armor piercing slugs at the old Matron.

Her defenses held as well, and she flicked her hand, unleashing dozens of silvery missiles from her palm. They streaked in, thudding against the Master Chief's shields and against the LAAG. The impacts drained his shields down to half rapidly, and reduced the heavy machinegun to a shredded mess. John dropped the now useless weapon and quickly redrew his ASG. The weapon only had a few rounds left in it, so he fired wildly while reaching for another drum. He didn't necessarily have to land every shot right now. He was a distraction.

As he reloaded and resumed firing, Bidderdo and the rest of the of the group teleported in. As he had thought, the Matron didn't even notice them, and the cyborg kept up the pressure. Even as he continued to fire on the old Dark Elf, Drizzt, his panther, and Bruenor were rushing in, while Johnson had drawn a battle rifle and was dashing off up the side of a small rise in order to gain the high ground and open up a third angle of attack on the Matron. They were sixty meters and closing, just a few more seconds. Bidderdo began casting another spell, while Drizzt and Bruenor cocked their arms back and readied their grenades for throwing.

Just a few more seconds, that was all it was going to take. Time seemed to move even slower than normal for the Spartan, as he watched it all. The slow curling of his weapon's shells as they were kicked out of the firing chamber, the pellets moving with their explosive cargo as they screamed in towards Matron Baenre, her eyes boring into his, so full of hate and fury.

The grenades went airborne as the Dark Elf rose into the air and unleashed another hellstorm at the Master Chief, draining his shields and sending more temperature alarms blaring through his helmet. He felt the ground melt under his feet as he rushed out of the column of white-hot fire. Then the grenades landed, and detonated.

Matron Baenre tumbled unceremoniously to the ground. To her credit, she reacted instantly, and realized her peril. She leapt back up to her feet and managed to twist out of the way of a pair of plasma grenades that came sailing in, moving out of the blast range before jumping to her right to get out of the way of Drizzt's scimitars as he leapt in.

A single crack resounded throughout the cavern as Sergeant Johnson took aim and fired. The man once again proved why he was considered one of the best snipers in the ODST organization. The bullet slipped between the Ranger's raised arms and impacted with Matron Baerne's left shoulder. She gave a scream of pain as her arm was forcibly amputated by the shot, but she retaliated with a terrible fury.

The anti-magic grenades seemed to be revealing a limitation, the Master Chief thought, as he too drew a battle rifle and took aim. His shot, aimed at Matron Baenre's right leg, thudded off of her shields again. She stuck her remaining hand out, and Drizzt was blown away from her, skidding back over the rock. She raised her hand to call upon a curse, but something happened: a barrage of arcane missiles, similar to the ones she had used against the Master Chief, but fewer in number.

The old Drow's shields seemed to still be suffering some residual effects of the AM grenades, and they shattered under the first half of the strikes. The Master Chief noticed Bidderdo out of the corner of his eye, focusing, willing the rest of the strike forward. It focused on the Matron's chest, tearing into the armored robes that the old woman wore. However, there was something else that he seemed to be targeting. Through the ragged holes that had been ripped in the material, sliding over an adamatine breastplate, was a spider shaped medallion.

The Spartan suspected that perhaps this item was what was powering most of Baenre's defenses. They were weakened, though, and now was the time.

"Johnson!" he barked as he sighted up and took aim, firing a double tap at the medallion.

"I see it," the sergeant was cool and calm, and two of his bullets joined the Master Chief's. Even then, the magics that held the medallion of Lolth together were mighty indeed, and while damaged, it wasn't destroyed.

The impacts caused it to swing wildly, though, and caused Baenre to stagger. Even so, she was able to give a scream of rage and unleashed a swirling mix of fire and lightning from her remaining arm.

Bidderdo was the target. He never had a chance to react, and the spells tore into him. His defenses were no match for the Matron's raw, arcane fury, and they nearly ripped him in half, blasting his shattered body across the cavern. The Master Chief remained focused. Losing his concentration would not help avenge the Harpell mage in any way. He saw the amulet as it swung wildly around, and the neurons in his brain went into overdrive, calculating speed, angular moment and deceleration, and other calculations that would be required.

He aimed, and fired.

Three nine and a half millimeter rounds shrieked as they tore across the distance, before impacting on the medallion. It could take no more, and the focus object shattered like glass.

He took aim again, focusing on Baenre this time, firing again and again. Johnson joined in, both aiming for center mass. Amazingly, the breastplate held up, though it was dented and the old crone sent flying through the air under the impacts. She landed hard, and the Spartan knew that she had to have broken ribs after that, he started to sight her up again as she started to cast another spell, but noticed a tiny object bouncing in towards her.

A frag grenade.

"Get ye gone from me home!" Bruenor roared, rushing forward as the grenade detonated. A few arcane wards and defenses that survived on the rest of the Matron's equipment shielded her from most of the deadly shrapnel, but the Master Chief watched as most of her robe was destroyed and much of her face ripped open. Still she lived, still Matron Baenre refused to surrender, and she still managed to get that spell off.

It summoned two Glabrezu, who howled, and charged. One rushed straight for him, the other for where Bruenor was. The Master Chief silently cursed, and took aim.

But though Matron Baenre had managed to cast the spell successfully, within her mind, the old Drow knew that she was doomed. The last of her defenses were gone, and there was no chance for them to recharge. Any second, one of the two soldiers would finish with the Demons that she had summoned and fire again upon her, ending her life. She had no more forces to call upon. Triel had retreated from the field, and all the other clerics, including several of her daughters, were dead. As she felt her left lung start to collapse and the other fill with blood, she felt rage, hate, and denial as she had never before experienced them welling up inside of her body and her soul. This was supposed to be Lolth's hour of glory, when she decimated the Dwarves that had dared to resist her and began the subjugation of the surface world. Instead, it had become an hour of wailing and gnashing of teeth. Worse still, was the fate she suspected awaited her in the afterlife. If this was indeed Lolth's test for her, then she had failed it. She knew what happened to failures. Her old heart began to beat faster, hammering inside of her chest.

All that hate, all that desire to destroy something, anything, found a target. She focused on the Dwarf rushing towards her, and she recognized Bruenor Battle-Hammer. The second Glabrezu lunged for him, but the wily Dwarf ducked and rolled, sliding past the Demon, which then had to contend with the rifle fire of the strange, black armored soldier, and the whirling scimitars of Drizzt the Outcast. An idea came to the Matron then, that perhaps if she were to take Bruenor to the next world with her, Lolth might yet be merciful. She focused all her remaining power, and pointed her hand at him. Flames leapt out, streaking towards him and enveloping him.

The Master Chief saw it happen as he fired on the Demon that was closing in on him. Anger surged as he realized his fears about Bruenor were coming true, but there was nothing he could do. There was no way he could safely evade the Glabrezu in time to stop what was happening.

Pain unlike anything Bruenor had ever known surged through his body as the flame crawled over him, greater than the Golem that had smashed his ribs, worse than the sting of Shimmergloom's fangs as the Shadow Dragon had tried to devour him alive, worse than the hellish pain he had endured during their attempt to rescue Regis from Pasha Pook, where he'd been trapped in the Abyss and forced to fight a horde of Demons off. His grandfather's ancient armor shielded him somewhat, but even it began to melt and burn before the flames. Ash enveloped him, and he was aware of the fact that it was what used to be his beard and eyebrows. His body screamed in agony, and he fought the urge not to scream, knowing the flames would cook his lungs to cinders if he were to open his mouth.

But the Dwarven King focused his hate and anger as well. His hate for this wicked old crone that had killed so many of his people, that had caused so much suffering. He summoned the image of the Neverwinter village, its inhabitants slaughtered to the last child, of the Plainsmen tribes as they had been pinned in like cattle, and the faces of all his clansmen and women who he knew had died at Drow hands. It became a battle of wills. The rage of a Dwarven King against a Drow Matron.

The flames ate away at the leather straps that were holding his armor together. His vambraces and besagews fell off, clattering to the ground. His shield fell apart, scorched beyond use, and the leather of his boots cracked, popped, and disintegrated. Still he pressed on. He could see Matron Baenre, ten feet in front of him. Summoning his strength, ignoring the agony that ripped through his body, he lunged at her, taking Ragnarok and pulling it back over his head. He could see the disbelief forming in the Matron's eyes. Fear and terror replacing her rage. Her flame gout sputtered and died as she raised her arm up over her head, trying to shield her face from the blow she knew was coming.

The King of Mithril Hall descended upon her, his armor aflame and fire licking at his body, and with all his rage-fueled might, swung the axe. The holy weapon cut through the armored bracer, through flesh, through bone, and severed the Matron's remaining arm. His wound's taking their toll, he could no longer see the old woman's lips starting to form a scream of denial, when he finished his strike. He buried the axe into her skull, killing her instantly. The blow continued, rending flesh and nerve and bone, not stopping until Bruenor had sheathed the axe halfway into Baenre's chest and cut open her breastplate.

Only then did he allow himself to fall.

He felt the vibrations through the stone as two people approached. He heard Drizzt screaming his name, followed by the Drow placing something against his body. A cooling sensation rushed over the wounded Dwarf, and he realized it was Icingdeath. The enchanted scimitar w