He daren't voice the thought though; not while his own life hung on a thin thread of good graces. Instead he walked on, leading Grymar'ee to the hidden underground cells where his daughter was held captive, a few miles away on the other side of the Janjur Qom district. The ugly buildings of the San 'Shyuum span all around them, almost as repulsive as their race. Ancient texts long predating even the schism between the prophets described them as a fair race, but Pel could not see how any could find them attractive, not even the San 'Shyuum themselves. "What did you do before you became the hierarchs' -blam!-, shadow-scum?" Grymar'ee interrogated, breaking the silence. "I waited tables," Pel drawled sarcastically, earning a cold laugh at least from the Imperial Admiral. They passed under a sprawling arch, etched with runes half-faded with age and disrepair. "No, truly. I have never seen your face nor even heard of you, and there are few important people I do not know." "I'm not a very important person," Pel muttered quietly. "I do what must be done, and then sink back into the shadows." "You have a house name?" Grymar'ee persisted, genuinely curious now. Pel rolled his eyes at the old man's ceaseless questions, almost wishing he'd been put down before. "Once," he said noncommittally. "So it's just Pel?" Grymar'ee asked skeptically. "For now," Pel answered curtly, distracted by the flickering of a tall shadow at the end of the arch and the glinting of sunlight from a reflective surface for a fraction of a second. "What do you mean, for--" "Quiet!" Pel hissed, not liking what he saw. "We need to turn back, now." Luckily, Grymar'ee didn't question him like the fool old man he seemed at times. The Imperial Admiral nodded, grabbed Pel roughly and threw him back in the other direction, looking back behind him and levelling a rifle at the exit even as they headed back to the entrance. A futile endeavour. Pel saw an unmarked grave being erected with his body beneath as a huge, hulking shape stepped out from behind the walls of the arch's entrance and stood in the body of the sun; the unmistakable shadow of a Jiralhanae. Then another, and then three more until their bodies almost blocked out the light completely. Pel did not need to turn around to know there were more behind them. "Begone, Jiralhanae!" Grymar'ee called out with all the voice of a true commander. "Bar our way and I will slay you all." [i]I should like to see that,[/i] Pel mused, looking for a way out of the arch they had so foolishly trapped themselves in. He knew why the Jiralhanae were here, and it wasn't to rescue him. They did not answer Grymar'ee, instead advancing towards them and growling like hungry dogs. Their stench hung before them, the rancid smell of rotten meat, unwashed hair, urine and other foul odours. "Give me a weapon," Pel urged Grymar'ee quietly, and despite being in front of the Imperial Admiral he could hear the strong jaw of the man clenching. "Who are they?" Grymar'ee demanded as the Jiralhanae converged on them like a pack of wolves, silently assessing their prey. That they hadn't charged already could only be thanks to Grymar'ee's presence - they were wary. "You know Tartarus?" "I know of him." "These are a pack of his. No doubt sent by the hierarchs to kill me." They stepped into full view now, their fierce faces shrouded by dark masks of black and grey, the only colour on their persons a dirty red atop their heads. Barbaric blades folded out from crude weaponry, whatever colour they had been when first forged painted over by dried blood of many colours. "To kill [i]you[/i]? Are you not the hierarchs' man?" Grymar'ee quizzed, wordlessly acknowledging he believed Pel when he passed into his hands a plasma rifle of deepest blue. "The prophets don't have men, only tools. I killed their last commissar, I knew another would come to try and replace me one day, yet I hoped I'd be long gone by then, and that it wouldn't be Jiralhanae who did the deed." "Let me speak here, be ready for a fight. Though I suspect it will not be much of one." "They are animals. We will put them down." [i]Jiralhanae are not to be so easily dismissed, old man. When they kill you, maybe you'll realise that.[/i] As he walked, it struck him how remarkably calm he was about his death. He'd done many terrible things, and Grymar'ee was right; A'sya [i]would[/i] be disgusted to see the man he'd become. The Jiralhanae stopped metres away, and even though Pel was not by any means a small man they towered over him. Even Grymar'ee, who at more than eight foot stood with the most tall of Sangheili barely matched their height. And they were many times broader than both; one Jiralhanae arm was almost as wide as their torsos. "Pel. I always hoped it would be me who killed you. Throw down your arms and you shall both have a clean death,"the Jiralhanae ordered. Pel knew him, he realised; a devout fanatic by the name of Kronus. Pel exchanged a look with Grymar'ee. "You present such a tempting offer, but that would never do. Sangheili honour and all that; it's terribly droll, I agree, but that's the social convention." Kronus glared at him through the eyes of the devil, before turning back to his pack and roaring a command in their ugly language of hard consonants and seeming aversion to sibilants. There was a reason why Jiralhanae poetry was reviled throughout the empire. Pel knew their language well enough to understand, though. 'Kill them.' They rushed like blind Sharquoi; Kronus tackled Grymar'ee and a mixture of plasma and iron fire broke out, but before Pel could so much as let off a single shot another slammed into him from behind and sent him flying into two of the Jiralhanae, who picked him up as if he were a child and squeezed his neck between two powerful fingers. He kicked at their kneecaps fiercely, but their bones were as steel; they did not so much as acknowledge his attack, and all the while he felt the life being choked from him for the third time that day. To his right, the plasma fire had stopped and he saw Grymar'ee being crushed beneath the heavy boot of Kronus, despite the Jiralhanae the Imperial Admiral had taken with him. It was over. [i]I'm coming, A'sya.[/i] "Leave them!" a thunderous voice suddenly boomed, and the pressure on his neck vanished as he was dropped to the ground. All the Jiralhanae in the pack; around seven or so, though it was hard to tell with his eyes swimming as they were, shuffled forward to look at the wielder of this new voice, who stood at the entrance of the arch with a hammer raised high above his head. [i]A challenge,[/i] Pel thought in daze as he struggled to his feet, propping an arm against the wall. To the right, Grymar'ee did not make a move as he lay sprawled on the ground in a small pool of blood. [i]With luck he is dead.[/i] He looked out at the speaker and saw yet another Jiralhanae, but as he came closer Pel saw he was not of Tartarus' brutes - his fur was trimmed and clean, teeth white and free of waste, and eyes kinder than any Jiralhanae he'd ever seen. Kronus pushed his way through his brutes to confront this new Jiralhanae, and stared up at the raised hammer for what seemed like an hour until he finally spoke. "Who are you? Why do you challenge me?" The new Jiralhanae lowered his hammer and threw it to one side, as was customary. He bared his canines and roared defiantly, and Kronus roared back. "They call me Orpheus. Have you so turned on the old ways that you would refuse this challenge in the sight of gods and men?" [i]If he was smart, he would,[/i] Pel thought. [/i]Kronus outnumbers him by far; they could kill him in the blink of an eye, and then us.[/i] "Never," Kronus spat, throwing away his armour even as Orpheus did the same, and letting his stalactite-sized claws extend to full length. The other Jiralhanae parted around them, forming a loose circle and chanting primeval blood-songs, beating their chests and stamping the ground. "Whoever you are, it does not matter. Soon you will be another dead man at my feet!" [i]Thank the gods Jiralhanae are stupid.[/i]