New Day (Part 3)

What was... life? What was it, but a slight flicker of light in the vast darkness of the universe? What separated that which lived from that which was inanimate, and what made man and beast draw breath? Those were great questions asked by great men. Grek was not one of them.
Seeing what separated the living and the dead in the village he had just attacked was easy, Grek thought. It was the energy blade he pulled out from the bloodied corpse of a man who had assaulted him with a wooden pitchfork. It was the rock an unfortunate villager had hit with his head as he tripped while running away from the black-armoured warriors, and it was the precise aim of a fellow warrior, striking another foolish villager who’d armed himself with a bow and a quiver of arrows. Understanding life was hard, Grek reflected, understanding death was easy. The end of all things. Oblivion. Darkness. In many ways, nothing made so much more sense than something. But then again, Grek was no sage.
He dropped the dead body to the ground as he lifted his sight to survey the conquered village. Warriors clad in obsidian steel with a blue shimmer to them walked all across it, subduing terrified survivors with voiceless commands. Men, women and children cowered pathetically in the mud as they begged intensely for mercy. Grek had not come to bring mercy. He had come to bring the light of day. The light of New Day.
Where life was a spark in cold, deep water, the light of New Day was an everlasting, imperishable flame. It would burn away the mists and cobwebs of the long night, it would fill the void of the universe, for so had the Many promised him. Grek was certain in his mission and in his cause.
“Orlam-Nebet,” a voice rang in the mindweb. Grek could sense its direction and turned to face one of the warriors that had participated in the assault. Their two metallic masks met with, and blue fire emanated from their eyes.
“Yes, Oppandas Seimu?” he responded to the soldier, who he knew best as Olmek.
“The village has been pacified, sir. All villagers have been accounted for, all resistance have been put down,” Olmek said. His mental voice yielded no sign of exhaustion. The battle had been short, and minor. Regular humans had little to stand up with against the might of the Chosen Warriors of the Many.
“Good, Oppandas. You may commence with the next step. I will be meditating,” Grek said as he turned towards a suitable hill overlooking the conglomeration of houses below.
“Yes sir. Honour to you, Orlam-Nebet,” said the younger Warrior before began issuing order over other chords of the mindweb. Grek could sense them, being the leader, but he chose not to hear them.
The setting sun bathed everything in a fiery hue. The memory of a orb of flame descending upon his home and the following escape snuck its way into his mind, memories of a time he could not say how long since. He remembered his uncle, his brother, the people trying to flee away from the destruction behind them, and of course the intense fear of dying.
Death; it was the end of all things. Nothing more. Darkness, oblivion. He remembered once being tantalized by this thought, but not anymore. The Many had promised him a life eternal. When he finally would exhale his last breath, and the darkness would overtake him, the Many would seize his spirit and pull him back from oblivion. They would bathe him in their minds, and he would become a part of them, directing the light of the New Day to all corners of the multiverse.
His musings were abruptly stopped by the incoming shape of what more than anything else symbolized the next step in bringing people the light. At first, it would appear like a rectangular, black shape in the sky, but as it came closer, Grek’s enhanced vision could make out a slightly pointed front, and triangular shapes surrounding the entirety of the back rectangle making up the bulk of the flying vessel. The shapes had their longest side attached to the vessel, standing vertically like giant arrowheads, their tips pointing upwards around the edge, and one of the edges extending from the vessel. As it moved closer, Grek saw the pilot sitting upon a pedestal almost at the very front, only superseded by a hook-like prow. Within the bow of the hook, a large blue crystal spun with great velocity, feeding the craft with its arcane power. His eyes automatically zoomed in on the craft, estimating its velocity and instinctively calculating its course. It hovered over the conquered village for a while, like a giant vulture skeptically observing its prey in search of life signs.
Grek stood up and began walking downwards to the village center.
“All perimeters safe? Answer men of Seimu,” he questioned over the mindweb.
“Odoaker Seimu, north side safe,” the first answer came.
“Ayubar Seimu, south side safe,” a second sounded.
“Lyndro Saimu here, the east side remains uneventful.” Good, now Grek waited for the last voice to ring in.
“Orlam-Nebet, I have yet to account for Arpratan Seimu, Oppandas Seimu over,” said the last voice in the mindweb.
“Where was his last reported position?” Grek messaged.
“In the western swamps. He was reportedly on his way to participate in the attack. I presumed he had been delayed by the terrain,” Oppandas responded.
Arpratan, that would be Galevo in personal name, Grek mused. Galevo would not let a mere swamp delay him, that much he knew. And if he had, then he would certainly not remain silent about it, someone would have had received a mess-
“Orlam-Nebet, I have a mindweb transmit!” he heard the young and eager voice of Ligaste, known outside his armour as Yuobe.
“I have a positive position, Orlam-Nebet,” sent the mindvoice again. “He appears to be wounded.”
“Oppandas, take with you Ligaste and retrieve our brother warrior. Make it quick,” Grek ordered. “I want mindweb contact in within standard intervals.”
“Affirmative, Orlam-Nebet. With outmost haste!” With that, he saw the monochrome, dark shapes of young Ligaste and Grek’s second-in-command Oppandas run towards the brown mists of the eastern swamps.
The Orlam-Nebet himelf, leader and father-figure of the Seimu fraternity of warriors, looked to the sky, at the still hovering craft. It was as dark as the armour of the warriors on the ground, and it even radiated the same obsidian like shine. The same blue lines of power traversed its surface, and the same mysterious crystal powered it. Like the armour he wore and was, it too was a relic of the Many, crafted for the warriors so that they might easier bring the light to the far corners of the multiverse, and fear no foe that inhabited it.
“This is Orlam-Nebet of Seimu, the area is secured. You are cleared for descent,” he sent across the mindweb to the pilot.