Liron had always wondered what happened to a heretic's soul.
After death, Harras called his faithful to them, allowing them to take their place next to their Heavenly Father. Each Warpriest who had visited Eisenrahm had repeated the same threats of what awaited the ones without belief. Without a place next to Harras, Drom would take them. The Dreadraven would devour them and let them suffer in his guts for all eternity.
But what did this mean? What does suffering for such a long period of time do to your mind? Could it even comprehend it? And what did Drom's guts look like? No Warpriest or anyone he had ever asked could answer Liron's question.
As the thundering roars climbed the dunes, he knew he would receive his answer.
Liron pressed his knife to his chest, watching the dunes from his hideout. The Qileshs' screaming made his skin crawl. The air itself cringed at it, high-pitched and void of any restraint. They resembled nothing a human lung could produce. Animals starved for days, celebrating at the chance to fill their empty stomachs.
The weight of the roars engulfed Al Pakris. They wanted them to hear it. Minutes passed without any motion, the chores losing none of their depraved passion. Liron massaged his dry throat, fearing he might soil himself despite having relieved himself already.
And then, it appeared. Ever so slowly, it rose from behind the dunes. Four arms spread wide, the Qa'an, the general of this army, floated in the air, standing on a flying platform. Liron could not decipher much of the Qa'an's appearance, but it stood in harsh contrast to Zonis.
The Whisperer, once an alien creature to him, had altered his form to a similar extent as Angin. He walked upright, often fusing his four arms into two, and softened his features. Zonis never denounced his Qilesh nature, but he fused human aspects into his appearance to strike a balance between the two.
The Qa'an had no interest in balance. It wanted only to devour, embracing its alien essence. It had a slender yet muscular shape, its limbs as massive as if carved from stone. The membrane on its back had separated itself into two, fused with the veils of some greater unknown beast.
They floated around him, living clothes that adorned the strange creature as something majestic. They split into two each yet again, one attached to one of Qa'an's hands. Its head had no features, only covered in black lines that mimicked the parts of a face. It had reassembled its eyes and mouth onto its chest. The Qa'an's maw was an endless abyss of crooked and broken teeth. The eyes all stared into different directions, not once blinking.
Eight long spider legs grew out of its back, weaving a web. They spread out, the web attached to each leg, forming a pair of flightless wings. They would do little more than float, but they served a different purpose. A single leg was four times the size of Liron. The wings they formed made the Qa'an appear taller than he was. A crest it carried on its back, proof of its divine blessing.
Without saying a word, it had brought forward its final warning.
It raised its hands towards Al Pakris, signaling the Soulsmiths to step forward. Four at each side of the Qa'an, the Qilesh dragged a heavy anvil with them, crafted from living flesh. The humans needed to birth it were still conscious, limbs protruding from the anvil. If they were close, Liron might have heard their pained moans.
Zonis had explained to him how a Qyoral army fought. Unlike the Empire or any human troop, Qilesh didn't craft battle plans. They relied on their ability to gather information and their greatest talent. To change, adapt, and grow.
As the Qa'an brought its hands together, its army fell silent. Before each battle, the Qyoral would pray to the Silver Moon, dedicating the following slaughter to it. They all worshipped as one, and the Qilesh found peace for a moment. But no peace lasted forever.
The mouth on the Qa'an's chest opened, its body stretching its arms out again, becoming a living statue radiating with an alien sublimity. The words that arose from the maw sounded like nothing but gurgles and rasps. Too sharp and brutal to be considered language. Zonis understood him perfectly, tensing up.
"What did it say?" Liron asked.
"It said it will eradicate me," Zonis translated. "It does not know why we called out for it, but it will free us from our sin. It says we should not resist our salvation. It calls us lucky for receiving such mercy."
At the last part, Zonis remained silent. The army behind the dune erupted with roars, celebrating the Qa'an's speech.
"What?" Liron asked. "What is it?"
Zonis turned his fingers into sharp talons, hardening his expression into one destined to bathe in blood. "It said that in union we all become one."
The Qa'an brought its hand together in another prayer, a permanent one, giving the Soulsmiths their signal. They all raised their hammers, formed from the same unfortunate souls, and brought them down onto their anvils. Cries echoed from them, a wave of sounds rippling out from them, carrying an order. The Soulsmiths hammered their anvils again, forming the choir of screams arising from their foul instruments.
It had a rhythm to it, music birthed from the suffering of the ones trapped in the living steel. The air vibrated with it, engulfing Liron like a thick fog. He heard little else, the sounds drowning out everything. Al Pakris itself shook underneath the Soulsmiths' grasp, the sand jumping up and down.
Their constant pace came to an end with three hammer blows. The Qa'an spoke to its troops, its voice calm and still in the midst of its prayer. It used the Qyoral's language, asking its army a simple answer, and they answered in perfect unison, roaring their reply as one. It asked two more things, earning similar replies.
Without giving a signal, the Soulsmith hammered their anvils again, three consecutive blows. Addressing its soldiers again, the Qa'an spoke, but Liron's skin crawled as he realized it asked them in Lors. The same three questions, and the Qilesh responded in Lors as well, their pronunciation as perfect as if they had been born and raised in Lorsos.
Another three hammer blows, and the Qa'an asked again. This time in Lanin. One by one, they went through every human language, making sure no matter who they were fighting against, they would understand their battlecry.
Finally, they arrived at Nord.
"What are we?"
"One!"
"What will we show our enemies?"
"Mercy!"
"What will we devour next?"
"The stars!"
The Soulsmiths struck their anvils, increasing the pace behind the three blows. Switching back to the Qyoral's language, the Qa'an spoke to them with simple remarks. His troops barked in response, shouting their lust for battle. After each answer, the Soulsmith made their anvils cry, faster than last time.
A momentum built up, controlled and steered by the Qa'an. A fever spread through the Qilesh, similar to the Bliss Liron had tasted so many times and had missed dearly. The pace increased further, the three blows descending faster and faster, giving barely enough time for the questions to be asked and the answers to follow.
The mania and the euphoria in its army left the Qa'an unmoved. Never abandoning its prayer, it remained as still as a statue. The Qyoral and the Empire were mirrors to one another. The highborns and the Xiars, the nobility of the Qilesh, shared the notion of complete stillness. To be higher than the rest meant to be a statue. To embody the virtues that elevated and gave them the right to rule, they had to prove it through their sublimity. No wasted motion or mistake. They were the ones chosen by their respected god, and they had to serve as their deity's representative.
Only absolute perfection, thus, could be accepted.
The Soulsmith hammered their anvils a final time, the trapped soul's voice hoarse from their screams. The Qa'an opened its hands from its prayer. It reached out with its two right hands for Al Pakris. As if it could simply grasp the ruins and crush them in its grip. Fitting for a higher being.
The Qyoral didn't use normal battle plans. They had no need for strategies. All they needed were their Qa'an and their Soulsmiths. Throughout the fights, the Qa'an would watch their proceedings, and should they lose ground, he would direct the Soulsmiths. Their anvils served a simple purpose. Spreading a signal to all troops. To change.
A Qa'an would not give orders for strategies but let its troops continue in their mindless rage. It would let them attack without thought or reason. But it would give them the order to change their shape. To lead in the Qyoral meant to direct the current state of one's shape. They dictated how the Qileshs had to dance their flesh into a new shape to adapt to the current state of battle. The reach of the Soulsmiths was precise enough to target certain troops and give them all different orders to evolve.
Each battle against the Qyoral was different. Their armies never remained the same. Their troops could change at a moment's notice, making planning against them near impossible. But each fight started the same. With the same signal.
The one the Qa'an gave without a single word.
Attack. Devour. Conquer.