The air, thick and humid, hung heavy with the cloying scent of damp earth and strange, phosphorescent fungi, a pervasive, alien perfume.
Suddenly, a sharp, almost metallic
PEW—
cut through the oppressive quiet, making the distant calls of jungle creatures momentarily cease.
"This made the third group," Helsin rasped, his voice raw and gravelly from days of exertion, as the last of the hulking beastmen shuddered and fell.
Around them, their crude, brutish bodies lay sprawled—some flung high into the gnarled, vine-choked branches of alien trees, limbs twisted at impossible angles, others half-submerged in a shallow, muddy pond, their coarse, matted fur clotted with slime and dark blood.
The immediate scene reeked of ozone from Helsin's laspistol and a pungent, musky odor from the fallen creatures.
Helsin, wiping a trickle of sweat from his brow, glanced around the verdant, suffocating prison of the jungle. Sunlight, fractured into emerald shards, struggled to pierce the dense canopy overhead.
"How long have we been wandering around?" he asked, the question laced with a weariness that went bone-deep.
Mira's gauntleted hands moved swiftly, cutting the air with precise, economic gestures. Her movements were fluid, almost unnaturally silent.
"Two weeks, give or take." Her eyes, unblinking as polished obsidian, scanned the dense foliage, utterly devoid of the usual human anxieties, focusing only on the immediate, tangible reality of their surroundings.
"Proposal, Talk to Xenos," Mira continued, her silent words carrying a cold, pragmatic logic that belied the desperation of their situation.
Helsin's gaze flickered across the mangled beastmen, then up towards the enemy ships that perpetually veiled Thrysa's sky. A grim, almost predatory light entered his eyes.
"Alright. Let's hope the next group won't die so easily."
Hours bled into a timeless blur of desperate trudging through the steaming undergrowth. The jungle's canopy, a kaleidoscope of alien greens, deep purples, and bioluminescent flickers, occasionally parted to reveal a sliver of the bruised sky.
The ground beneath their boots was a treacherous mix of slick mud, tangled roots, and unseen crawling things.
Then, the rhythmic thud-thud-thud of heavy, cloven feet, a sound they had come to dread, vibrated through the soil, growing louder.
A new group of beastmen, their guttural growls echoing through the humid air like distant thunder, burst from the treeline, axes raised, clubs swinging wide, and crude spears held low.
They immediately charged, a wave of raw muscle and savage intent, attacking the two survivors, their forms a blur of motion and crude armament.
Mira locked eyes with Helsin, her silent question demanding confirmation amidst the sudden clamor of snapping branches and bestial roars.
"Just one is enough," Helsin responded, his voice calm, betraying no hint of the frantic energy building around them.
As a massive, axe-wielding beastman charged, roaring a challenge that vibrated through the air, Mira swiftly kicked one of the makeshift spears up from the muddy ground.
It spun once, its bone-tip glinting dully in the filtered light, before she launched it with terrifying force.
The spear flew true, striking the beastman's shoulder with a wet thwack, its force sending the creature reeling back.
It crashed into a glowing, fungal-covered tree with a splintering impact, impaled and pinned, a raw, guttural scream of pain and rage tearing from its throat, echoing like a dying animal's last cry across the jungle.
Even as the pinned beastman shrieked, Mira's focus remained razor-sharp, snapping to the remaining seven attackers.
Their hulking forms filled her vision, mostly crude melee weapons brandished, but she noted the glint of two bows, their users cleverly concealed within the deeper shadows of the tree lines.
She moved with a blur of motion, her arm a piston of silicate-mesh and muscle. Another spear, snatched seamlessly from the ground, was hurled with impossible velocity.
It struck a charging beastman squarely in the face, the bone-tip piercing through its leathery hide with a sickening crunch.
The sheer force carried it through the first, impacting another beastman directly behind it, sending both sprawling into the thick undergrowth. Now, only five of the guttural creatures remained.
While Mira became a whirlwind of brutal efficiency, her battered armor seemingly impervious, Helsin, surprisingly, merely sat down amidst the chaos.
His fingers, stained with weeks of grime, moved with practiced ease across the grimy surface of his dataslates, his eyes fixed on the flickering readouts.
The remaining beastmen, enraged by their fallen comrades, immediately rushed Mira, hoping to overwhelm her.
A crude axe arced downwards from above, its stone head whistling, a heavy, blunted club swung from her side with a sickening whoosh, and a jagged spear lunged from the front, a coordinated, desperate assault.
"The map is scrambled," Helsin muttered, the words clipped and frustrated, barely audible above the grunts of the beastmen and the heavy impact of blows.
Mira's response was raw, brutal power. She seized the axeman's neck, her gauntleted grip tightening with impossible force until a wet snap echoed through the clearing, and the beastman went limp.
She then hurled its lifeless body, sending it crashing into the spearman, knocking it sprawling to the muddy ground. Without missing a beat, she swung her forearm, encased in battered golden silicate-mesh, directly into the path of the incoming club. The crude weapon splintered with a sharp crack, breaking in half.
She latched onto the beastman's hand that still clutched the broken club, twisting, and brutally shoved its own weapon into its face, ending its struggle with a another sickening wet thud.
The downed spearman was frantically trying to get up, its limbs flailing in desperation, its eyes wide with terror. Mira, her boots heavy with Thrysan mud and beastman blood, stalked over to its side.
With a single, decisive movement, she brought her boot up and crushed its skull with ease, ending the fight with a final, chilling crunch.
Suddenly,
Pewww— Peww—
sounds of arrows punctuated the relative silence,
Tink Tink!
impacting Mira's armored torso.
They glanced off, reflected harmlessly, a testament to her inherent resilience, the impact barely registering against the recent cacophony.
Pew—Pew.
Helsin, without looking up from his dataslate, fired two precise shots from his laspistol in the direction the arrows had come from, the air smelling briefly of ozone.
A second later, two heavy thuds resonated from the treeline as the last two beastmen fell from their perches and hit the ground, their crude bows scattering beside them.
A relative silence descended, broken only by the pinned beastman's pained groans and the heavy, ragged breathing of Mira, her armor steaming slightly in the humid air.
"From the slate, I can roughly tell that we are somewhere north," Helsin said, finally looking up from his device, his expression tired but relieved, a thin layer of sweat glistening on his face.
—
Mira quickly signed, her gestures precise and economical,
"What next, still main target?" Her dark eyes flickered between the impaled beastman, still groaning weakly, and the broader, unforgiving expanse of the jungle.
—
"Screw the main target, this was all a setup, the gene-seed probably was never here." Helsin muttered, his voice laced with sudden understanding, then he looked towards the vast, inky sky, filled with the distant, glittering array of Xarcarion's ships, a chilling reminder of the larger conflict.
He let out a long, satisfying sigh, a rare moment of genuine relief in their brutal existence.
"The Animositas should be where it is supposed to be, now."
His gaze sharpened, falling back to Mira. "Can you sense the others?"
He asked, his voice low, specifically mentioning Kochav and Bergelmir.
—
"No, the metarium, stabilized since the crash." She signed, her movements clear and deliberate despite her exhaustion.
"Conclusion, they are too far."
—
Helsin took a second to think, his brow furrowed, processing the new variables. The jungle sounds seemed to press in on them. Then, he responded,
"We will find a way to locate them later."
"But first,"
he stood up, his silhouette casting a long shadow in the dim, humid air.
He walked slowly, deliberately, toward the groaning beastman still pinned to the tree, its guttural cries now more desperate, its eyes wide with fear and hatred, fixed on the approaching human.
Helsin stopped just inches from its snarling face.
"Take us to your leader."
—
They walked until the sun had bled from the Thrysan sky, plunging the jungle into a humid, suffocating darkness broken only by the chirps and clicks of unseen fauna.
In the deepest hours of the night, a faint, flickering glow heralded their arrival before a massive wooden palisade.
Its towering walls, crude but formidable, were crowned with jagged spikes and lit by dozens of sputtering torches, casting dancing shadows that made the jungle beyond seem to writhe and pulse.
Beastmen perched atop the ramparts, their bulky silhouettes ominous against the fiery glow, looked down with predatory, unblinking eyes.
A guttural rumble passed between them, a low, rumbling acknowledgment, and with heavy groans of timber and the creak of ancient ropes, the colossal gate slowly, grudgingly, creaked open, revealing a deeper, musky darkness within.
—
Inside,
the space unfurled into a vast, open clearing, packed shoulder-to-shoulder with hundreds of the hulking, bestial humanoids. They were a motley collection of various sizes, their crude armor glinting dully in the torchlight, a forest of sharpened spears, axes, and clubs held loosely in their brawny hands.
A palpable tension hung in the air, a mixture of raw aggression and wary curiosity. Every single pair of savage, horizontal-pupiled eyes was fixed, unblinking, on the two bedraggled humans who dared to step into their midst.
The air, already thick with the scent of woodsmoke and damp earth, now carried the heavy, pungent odor of unwashed hides and simmering violence.
At the far end of the clearing, positioned on a roughly hewn, lifted platform, stood a crude throne carved from a single, massive tree stump.
On it, sat a beastman of colossal proportions—the undeniable leader of this tribe.
—
The surrounding beastmen let out a chorus of low, guttural roars, a primal surge of sound that vibrated through the ground, rattling the very bones.
The figure on the throne slowly, deliberately, rose to its feet and began to walk forward.
Its sheer bulk was terrifying, a mass of reddish-brown hide rippling with thick muscles, easily as large as an Ogryn. White streaks, like ancient scars, crisscrossed its immense back.
Its face was a brutal, flattened snout like a wild boar, from which two gleaming white tusks protruded grotesquely from its lower jaw, glistening wetly in the torchlight.
Its form was muscular, almost unnaturally so. In its right hand, it held a spear, a spine of unknown creature, with sharpened edge,it was long as a human was tall.
Its eyes, stark white with horizontal black pupils, were cold, ancient, and utterly fixed on Mira and Helsin, promising swift, violent judgment.
With a booming thud, the massive spear was driven into the packed earth before it, a commanding gesture that echoed like a clap of thunder through the silent multitude.
Instantly,
all the beastmen fell silent, their roars abruptly choked, leaving only the crackle of the torches and the strained breathing of the two humans.
"You, the invaders from the sky," the beastman leader rumbled, its voice a deep, gravelly growl that resonated in their chests, vibrating the very air,
"are in the presence of Kryatar Truebone, the cheiftain of Red Tusks."
"This is where the strongest rules," Kryatar stated, his massive arms spreading wide, encompassing the silent, armed horde around him.
The gesture was a direct challenge, an assertion of absolute dominion over all who stood before him.
—
Helsin's eyes, narrowed to slits, pierced through the torchlight, unwavering as he met the beastman's gaze. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk touched the corner of his lips.
"Come again. What did you just say?" His voice, though low, carried an icy edge, a defiance that seemed almost suicidal in this den of killers.
—
Kryatar began, his voice dropping into a deeper, more menacing growl, clearly about to reiterate his declaration with lethal intent.
"This is where the strongest rul—"
Shick! Thum!
Before he could finish,
a blur of motion, too fast for the eye to track, erupted beside Mira. A spear, not her own crude weapon but one of the beastmen's, launched through the humid air with a deadly, whispering whistle.
It struck Kryatar's massive chest with a wet impact, punching through hide and muscle, and pinned him with sickening force to the rough wood of his throne.
He gasped, a single, rattling breath that seemed to tear from his enormous throat, his body stiffening for a second, muscles twitching in a final, futile spasm.
Then, a sudden, terrible silence fell upon the chieftain, as his vast bulk slumped, his eyes glazing over, the white orbs staring blankly at the ceiling. He was, presumably, dead.
For a moment,
the entire tribe stood frozen, a collective, stunned hush. The only sounds were the distant jungle calls and the crackle of torches.
Then,
the whispers began, a low, chaotic murmur spreading through the ranks, quickly escalating into a cacophony of confused snarls and enraged roars. All eyes shifted, not to the fallen leader, but to the attacker.
It was Mira. She stood there, calm amidst the sudden pandemonium, her form still as a statue despite the surrounding chaos.
Casually, she removed a hand that had been gripping her forearm, its fingers still twitching with dying reflexes, and dropped it to the blood-slicked ground with a soft splat.
Beside it, the beastman who had been their original escort, now lay dead in a widening pool of its own dark, viscous blood, its throat torn.
The spear that had found Kryatar's chest was unmistakably his.
"The strongest rules, that is your tribe's motto, yes?"
Helsin's voice cut through the burgeoning chaos, clear and cold, as he walked forward, stepping over the fallen limb, his gaze sweeping the stunned, enraged faces of the tribe.
He echoed their fallen leader's very last words as a grim, undeniable truth.
The beastmen surged. Not in disciplined formation, but in a chaotic, desperate rush, a tide of raw anger and frenzied opportunism.
Each beastman saw not only the two human invaders, but also the vacant throne, a bloody prize for the taking. Axes, clubs, and spears rose and fell in a blur of savage intent, a desperate, bloody melee erupting.
A quick minutes later,
the vast open space of the palisade was transformed into a charnel house. It was filled with blood, sticky and gleaming in the torchlight, painting the rough wooden walls a grotesque crimson.
Body parts—limbs, torsos, shattered heads—littered the trampled ground, adding to the grim tapestry. The injured beastmen, those who were not outright dead, lay groaning, exhausted, and utterly broken amidst the carnage, their cries echoing in the new silence.
Mira casually walked over to the throne, her boots squelching softly in the pooling blood.
With a single, fluid motion, she pulled the spear free from Kryatar's chest, the sound a wet tear of flesh. She then kicked his massive, lifeless body off the platform with a crunch as it hit the ground below.
She sat down on the throne, the crude spear now held firmly in her hand,
THUD!
she slammed its butt against the platform, it resonated through the weary beastmen. She was the new ruler.
Beside her, his form silhouetted against the flickering torchlight, stood Helsin, the silent mastermind, his gaze already assessing the battered, cowed tribe before them, planning their next move.
"Bow to your new queen,"
Helsin commanded, his voice sharp and clear, cutting through the remaining groans and whimpers.
The beastmen, filled with a primal mix of fear and awe at the display of overwhelming strength, obeyed.
With a synchronized motion, a ripple of movement like disturbed water, they dropped to their knees, bowing their horned heads to Mira,
The Silent Queen.
—
Back to Present.
The fortress was now much more crowded. The vast open space, once a bloody battlefield, was now filled not just with the remnants of the Red Tusks, but with beastmen from various tribes, distinctively different from one another in hide color, horn shape, and crude tribal markings, all intermingled.
A low, constant hum of guttural chatter and the clatter of weapons replaced the previous eerie silence, now a living, breathing sound of a unified horde.
"Master, we have conquered four more tribes, as her lady commanded."
One of the beastmen, a hulking brute with a scarred snout and a chipped horn, spoke to Helsin, who stood beside the throne, overseeing the assembly with an air of weary authority.
—
"How many do we have?" Helsin asked, his gaze sweeping across the teeming crowd, assessing the diverse horde now under their sway, a formidable but unpredictable force.
—
"Around six hundreds, master." The beastman bowed slightly, his gaze then flickering nervously towards the elevated throne.
"Is this really what the queen ordered?" he questioned Helsin, a hint of bewilderment and perhaps fear in his tone.
—
"Yes, unlike you, I can read her mind. So rest assured, and go tell the troops to be ready."
Helsin answered, his voice firm, leaving no room for doubt, dismissing the beastman's concerns with a practiced ease.
He looked to the throne, and the sight had him momentarily speechless.
Mira was casually sleeping, her legs propped up high in the air, the crude spear of Kryatar Truebone resting idly beside her, an oddly domestic scene amidst the brutal reality of their conquest.
Helsin touched his temple, a weary gesture of exasperation, then walked down to meet the assembled troops, the rough ground crunching under his boots.
"Order!"
Helsin shouted, his voice cutting through the rising murmur of the throng, instantly demanding attention.
The crowd fell silent, their bestial faces turning as one, waiting for the Queen's messenger to speak.
"Our Queen is pleased with your conquest, we have unified over ten tribes!" Helsin's voice boomed across the assembly, echoing off the palisade walls.
"This is the peak of Beastmen, with this we can chase the invaders back to the stars!"
The assembly roared in unison, a wave of guttural, triumphant sound that shook the very foundations of the palisade, a raw, primal surge of hatred and ambition.
Their determination and excitement, a palpable force, broke through the cacophony and woke Mira from her slumber on the throne.
"The Queen is awake!"
One beastman muttered from the crowd, a ripple of excitement spreading like wildfire.
"Hail the Silent Queen!" Another shouted, his voice hoarse with awe and reverence. Soon after, the entire throng echoed the phrase, a thunderous, repeated chant that filled the fortress:
"Hail the Silent Queen! Hail the Silent Queen!"
Mira awkwardly stood up, still half-asleep, her armor creaking slightly, and gave a small, hesitant wave to the roaring crowd, a stark contrast to their savage enthusiasm.
Her eyes met Helsin's, who just gave her a deeply disappointed shake of his head, a clear sign of his exasperation at her casual demeanor.
"Now, it's time for us to kill the Queen in Red!" One of the newly arrived beastmen shouted, his voice raw with ancestral hatred, and the others shouted in agreement, a primal chorus of bloodlust rising.
Helsin just nodded, following the mood of the frenzied crowd, his mind already calculating the implications of this new target.
A short pause,
marked by the shifting weight of hundreds of bestial bodies. Helsin's brow furrowed in confusion, the mood of the crowd suddenly at odds with his own knowledge. He then asked,
"Who is this Red Queen, you're speaking of?"
—
"My lord may not have heard, since Red Tusks is quite far away."
One of them spoke, bowing slightly before continuing,
"She is an invader, fallen from the sky centuries ago. Our ancestors called her Queen in Red because of the armor she wears."
—
"Invader? Then does she look like us?"
Helsin asked, his mind already racing, piecing together this new, unexpected threat, sensing a crucial distinction.
—
"Quite so, but not so. I heard that her ears were pointy and longer than others invaders,"
the beastman stated, his gaze fixed on Helsin, relaying the ancient, unsettling detail.
—
"Where is this Red Queen, you are speaking of?"
Helsin asked, his curiosity now piqued, recognizing the subtle but significant detail about her ears—a possible clue to her lineage.
—
"Somewhere in the east, beyond the jagged mountains, we do not know her exact location,"
he paused, his voice now laced with genuine concern, a rare display from a beastman.
"Every scout we sent before never came back from the woods. Some called her, the queen of the underwoods."
—
"Then we should go east," Helsin muttered, almost to himself, a grim determination settling on his features.
He then turned sharply to the unified beastman crowd, his voice rising to a shout.
"Eastward we move! To the Queen in Red!"
he bellowed, his voice cutting through the thrumming anticipation like a sharpened blade.
The crowd answered with an explosive roar of excitement, a wave of savage approval that made the very ground tremble.
Mira just gave him a questioning sign, a subtle tilt of her head, her dark eyes unreadable, which Helsin merely dismissed with a dismissive flick of his wrist, already focused on the monumental task ahead.
—
Somewhere,
in the deep, shadowed woods, not too far from the now-booming beastman fortress, a figure could be seen, crouched low, almost invisible amongst the alien flora, holding a crackling vox-bead close to his mouth.
"We found them, Commissar,"
he whispered, his voice hushed, barely more than a breath, before silently getting down from the tree. He moved quickly, a phantom in the shadowed night, weaving through the dense alien foliage. The air here was cooler, less stagnant.
A few hundred meters later,
before him, stood the hulking, camouflaged form of a Hydra flak tank, its barrels aimed at the sky, but currently still, a silent predator waiting in ambush.
"I have reported to the Commissar as instructed, Captain."
He reported to a man before him.