by Frank Morin
“You are many strong leader. Even our enemies wish to obey you,” Anika said approvingly.
“Shall we go lend our new recruits a hand?” he asked with a grin.
Anika raised her hammer high and shouted, “To the bash fight!”
“Charge!” Rory shouted, his voice booming with satisfying power.
As one, five thousand Boulders broke into a run, eager to finally start the bash fight of their lives.
It was definitely turning out to be a great day.
Captain Ilse stood with Anton and a company of eighty of their most experienced Sentries and Sappers. Ten Spitters were mixed among them to ensure they all reached the ground without getting intercepted by the enemy. She doubted any army besides the one they faced had ever fielded so many tertiary Petralists.
The numbers might be bigger, but fundamental challenges remained unchanged. Whichever side best deployed their tertiaries would win the day. Everything else faded to secondary importance.
Well, that flying swarm might turn the tide, and no armies had ever fielded mechanicals to rival the Battalions, Thunder Towers, and flying battle mechanicals. Those were items beyond her realm of expertise. She trusted her friends to win the day in their spheres of conflict. She planned to win the contest of earth.
All around them, soldiers rushed, shouted, or activated mechanicals. Led by Hamish, flights of personal fast-attack flyers shot into the still air, their thrusters howling. Defensive mechanicals placed all around the Battalion started firing toward the onrushing swarm of flying monsters, the whooshing of their launch tubes like a constant fierce wind. The huge Thunder Towers trundled toward the outer edges of the Battalion decks to begin their descent, but Ilse wasn’t about to wait.
Anton shouted above the din, “An avalanche may begin with a single rolling stone, and even the tiny stream swells to a raging torrent during the spring thaw.”
She cheered with her team, proud to fight beside the legendary Anton. With his stirring words motivating them all, he led the way toward the edge of the deck at a run. Ilse ran beside him, with their company following close behind. Together she and Anton leaped over the edge and began the three-thousand-foot plunge toward the ground below.
Air whistled in Ilse’s ears, a pleasant sound she always enjoyed when high deploying. She loved the sense of calm that enveloped her as she fell from great heights. Despite being separated from the earth, jumping didn’t bother her like swimming did.
She scanned the battlefield with an experienced eye. Rory’s Boulders were just engaging, and by the chaos sweeping the enemy ranks, the freedom call had proven as effective as he’d promised. General Wolfram’s forces were fully engaged on the northern end of the valley. Regulars on both sides fought perhaps the greatest pitched battle of all time. Some few Petralists on both sides were involved in small pockets, but most of the fighting was between ungifted men and women with swords and axes, polearms and scimitars, bows and slings.
A group of Varvakin knights held the center and was pressing forward into enemy ranks. Few non-Petralist weapons could harm them in their full plate, and they’d drawn the ire of a couple Sentries and a platoon of Boulders. The Petralists under Wolfram’s command were engaging, and the Varvakins had unleashed their strum spears with deadly effect. Not even Boulders could withstand the debilitating shock of strum.
Shona and her Striders appeared to have driven off the enemy Striders who had attacked the siege placements, and some of her forces were in pursuit, engaged in a complex running battle across the high plain. The siege weapons were again raining explosive rounds and deadly chemicals across the enemy reinforcements, causing lots of disruption, and distracting the enemy Sentries.
All of the Battalions were still raining destruction down from hundreds of rapid-fire mechanicals, although the marvelous water shield that General Rosslyn and her Spitters had raised was doing a remarkable job deflecting many of them. Still, the effort kept them distracted for precious extra moments.
Ilse adjusted her protective goggles and tapped granite as she plummeted toward the enemy water shield. Behind her, the first of the Thunder Towers rolled off the Battalion and began their dive, while enemy flying monsters swarmed above, engaged in close combat with the defender flights. Everywhere she looked she saw battle and conflict.
Time to add another layer.
She and Anton slammed into the water shield with brutal impacts. She tensed more from the feeling of helpless fear that swept through her with the contact than of any worry of injury. Immersing herself in water placed her at a terrible disadvantage, and it rankled to think she was completely at the mercy of an enemy. Too many lives were at stake, too many of her own people risking everything. She could not bear the thought of dying early in the fight. She needed to help them, to protect as many as possible.
She carried a few personal defensive mechanicals, but did not activate them as she plunged into the water shield. As hoped, the Spitters embedded within their company shielded them as they sank through. Her speed bled away fast, but the barrier was too thin to stop her descent completely. Before the enemy Spitters could stop her, she fell through the underside.
The ground rushed up to meet her and she max-tapped granite, while also calling upon slate. Anton had slowed more in the water, so Ilse landed first, flipping herself in the air to strike feet first. She flexed her granite-strengthened legs and softened the earth at the point of impact. Connecting with earth prior to touching down was tricky, but she’d practiced drop deployments with the Crushers many times, and timed her landing perfectly.
She struck the ground hard, but the earth cushioned her impact, so it barely strained her legs. She sank ten feet before reversing back to the surface. She rose on a slender earthen tower, already scanning the ground for nearby enemies. Battalion One had drifted south of town, so she’d landed about a quarter mile from where the enemy command towers stood. She was pleased with the position.
Anton struck the ground beside her like a meteor. He chose to land on his back, and earth exploded outward in a fantastic cloud. It was all for show, though, because Ilse felt his will like a bonfire in the earth beside her, and he rose a moment later on his own tower, complete with crenellations.
The rest of their party rained down around them. A few of the Sentries less experienced at drop deployments activated descent mechanicals at the last moment, while the Spitters landed on cushions of water.
Even as the team was still falling, Ilse identified the nearest Sentry. He was a burly fellow, who had seen their descent. His tower rotated to face her, and she read his confident expression from fifty feet away. He cast his will toward her tower and struck a heavy blow at its base, clearly intending to sever her contact with earth. His second strike would probably crush her.
It was a powerful attack, but simple and overconfident. Ilse poured her will into the ground beneath her tower, orienting it like a dense wedge that the onrushing attack glanced off of. Too few Sentries developed their earth senses into more than a wide blanket. She was the master of targeted control, and although she might not be able to wield as much brute strength as many other Sentries, she had rarely faced anyone more skilled at battlefield application of their powers.
Before the enemy Sentry could strike again, Ilse flicked out a single burst of her will. It shot across the distance like a lance, and as expected, the enemy Sentry sensed it coming. He fortified his defenses, but Ilse didn’t care. His tower was not her target.
She flicked her will upward and seized the earth. A lance of earth erupted from the ground twenty feet in front of the man’s tower and shot into the air.
He actually managed to deflect it. Not bad. Ilse could respect an opponent with good reflexes.
She had already launched her second attack, striking with more lances from left and right, then another from behind her opponent. That one she shielded heavily. As expected, the first two lances drew his attention, and the Sentry twisted and actually caught them both. He was defini
tely competent, and he looked very pleased with himself.
He never did sense the final lance. It caught him completely by surprise and pierced his neck, severing the spine and nearly decapitating him in a single blow. The Sentry clutched at his throat as his tower collapsed and he fell into the pile of loose dirt.
The entire exchange took only a few seconds. Anton said, “The tiniest twig might deflect the arrow and save the prey.”
“But only if you deploy the twig in time,” she replied, grimly.
Three other enemy Sentries struck at them, all moving on intercept paths from the south. Anton’s will erupted out like a tidal wave, smashing aside their assault and shredding their towers. As they fell, shouting in surprise, Ilse aimed three more precision strikes, clobbering all of them with hammer blows to the temples. She hoped she hadn’t killed them, but needed to ensure they were knocked out of the fight long enough to be shackled by the Crushers when they arrived. She preferred not dealing death blows when possible, but more and more enemy Sentries were orienting on their position. They might not give her the option to demonstrate such restraint.
Their arrival had drawn the attention of General Aonghus, as they had predicted. He walked the earth like a distant bonfire, and Ilse felt as much as saw his great command tower begin shifting across the distant town square to intercept.
She lifted her mini-hub, linked to Jean in Battalion One and said, “The game is afoot. Sentries are engaging. Tell Ivor to get out of the bath.”
39
A Great Entrance Makes All the Difference
Ivor erupted out of the Macantact River about a quarter mile north of Lossit town with eighty Spitters right behind him.
He embraced the thrill of excitement that swept through him as soon as he emerged and caught sight of the intense battle raging across the valley. The Battalions seemed impossibly huge, hanging three thousand feet above him, while the incredible interlocking water shield a hundred feet above the battlefield glittered like liquid silver in the bright sunlight. He clearly sensed the wills of over a hundred enemy Spitters engaged in that shield effort.
The dozen Spitters spaced along the nearby riverbank in pairs were distracted by the fighting and barely registered the arrival of Ivor and his strike force before they were crushed by an avalanche of water and ice.
Ivor preferred taking prisoners, but they couldn’t afford to hesitate, and they needed to make a powerful entrance to draw General Rosslyn and her command team’s attention. He led the way across the surface of the river, taking long, skating slides, trying to imitate Kilian. He moved well, but he doubted anyone could quite match Kilian’s grace on the water.
Behind him, his strike force stayed in formation, split into five-man squads. They’d trained extensively over the past week. Most Spitters fought as individuals, so that would give his close-knit teams an advantage.
They would need it.
Emmeleyn slid across the water to catch up, her legs not even moving, propelled entirely by the water. It was an elegant move that fit her personality perfectly. The petite Water Moccasin was his second in command. She might be small, but her soapstone affinity was powerful enough that she could probably ascend, even though she wasn’t Dawnus. Ivor had only known her a short time, but he already trusted her to hold her side of the line.
She gestured toward the huge water shield. “Impressive, but they’ve committed too many of their Spitters.”
“I can sense a lot remaining,” Ivor told her. “Look sharp and stay focused, or we’ll get swamped.”
She saluted and slid to the right where her teams were rushing the shore.
Ivor cast his water senses out farther and gained a better sense of the battle. A lot of water was getting flung around by those Spitters defending from the Battalion bombardments, and that helped. He sensed three large parties of Spitters already orienting on his teams, and farther to the south he clearly sensed General Rosslyn’s presence like a shining crystal beacon.
Ascended. He’d trained with Connor and Kilian enough to understand exactly how overmatched he and his team were, but he’d also picked up some devious tricks from them.
He was going to need them all.
Rosslyn’s huge, watery tower began sliding north across the town square. She and her senior Spitters were about to engage.
Ivor raised his mini-hub and connected to Jean. “We’re engaged, and I sense Rosslyn moving to intercept.”
“Be careful,” Jean responded immediately. Her obvious concern made him smile. She was so sweet. What she saw in Hamish, Ivor would never understand. She added, “We’re tasking three Battalions to concentrate fire around your position, and another three around Ilse.”
“Perfect. I’m releasing the Crushers,” he responded.
Her response was lost by a fresh wave of rolling thunder from explosive rounds fired down from the Battalions that shook the water shield. He needed to target that shield soon, but first he had to get Erich into the fight.
Ivor raised a hand, fingers spread wide, the signal for two of his teams to launch the Crushers. They were ready for the signal, and almost immediately, the river just north of their position exploded as Erich and three hundred Crushers burst forth. Far to the south, near the already embattled Sentries, an equal company of Crushers erupted from the river and plunged into the fray.
Just then, the first group of twenty enemy Spitters launched a blizzard of razor-sharp ice shards, all aimed directly at him.
“That’s not entirely fair,” Ivor muttered, barely sweeping the assault aside. He started whistling a battle tune he’d picked up from Erich as his companies engaged.
Student Eighteen rose silently up through the hard-packed surface of the Lossit town square. Ennlin smoothly pulled the earth away from her path, while also pushing the fifty Mhortair of their strike force up through similar narrow conduits from their concealed hiding places.
Nuzha had ringed every ascent tube with a thin sheath of water to block their movement from the senses of the nearby Sentries, while Hemma focused on infusing that water with her best shields to keep the enemy Spitters from sensing their approach.
Their entire team remained perfectly silent as they rose up into the midst of the enemy command position, and no one noticed them for several critical seconds. On the south side of the square, General Aonghus, easily recognizable by his flaming-red hair, stood atop his oversized Sentry tower with a score of senior Petralists, all facing south toward where Ilse and Anton and their forces were wreaking general havoc. On the opposite side, General Rosslyn and another score of her senior staff stood together on their tower of water, facing north, already sliding toward where Ivor’s team had just landed.
No one expected danger to lurk right in their midst.
Student Eighteen embraced the deadly calm she’d mastered during her years of grueling training at the kill academy and raised the odd mechanical Hamish had designed for the deployment. Every one of the Mhortair in her party carried an identical weapon.
It was little more than a wide tube of Sehrazad steel glass, a full twelve inches in diameter and four feet long, attached to a sphere made of the same material, two feet in diameter. A flexible tube made of Tabnit rubber snaked back down the hole she’d risen through.
Student Eighteen activated the quartzite pumping mechanism. The mechanical shuddered in her hands and grew suddenly heavier as liquid was pumped up from below. She aimed the nozzle at Rosslyn’s back, just as one of her staff turned and spotted them. The woman’s eyes opened wide in shock, but she hesitated a fraction of a second, disbelieving her eyes before shouting a warning.
Student Eighteen opened the release valve.
A pressurized stream of acid sprayed out, hard enough it could have easily cleared the northern end of town. It crossed the thirty paces to the water tower in a heartbeat and struck Rosslyn in the back, knocking her stumbling.
Half a heartbeat later, every one of the Mhortair opened fire too. Twenty-five streams of acid hiss
ed through the air at each of the command towers, instantly dousing everyone on both platforms.
The effects were instantaneous. Hair seemed to evaporate, and skin instantly burned, with disgusting welts rising within seconds. Some of those split, oozing yellow puss. Mighty Petralists screamed and fell, clutching at faces and exposed skin, and for three glorious seconds, she dared hope they would destroy the entire leadership corps in one strike.
But both generals reacted with well-honed reflexes. Rosslyn’s entire group simply dropped into the protective middle of her water tower. Acid sprayed across it, but couldn’t penetrate. General Aonghus raised the walls of his tower to shield his people from the acid. A few of the Mhortair angled their spray higher, hoping to arc more acid down upon the injured Petralists, but Student Eighteen didn’t bother.
She dropped her acid weapon, raised her fist high, and shouted, “For Jagdish!”
Mistress Four echoed her cry and charged Rosslyn’s tower, followed by half the strike team. Student Eighteen went for the earth tower with the rest of the Mhortair. They needed to close fast and destroy them before they recovered from the shock of that acid strike. She expected every one of their targets to be senior Petralists, and at least some would be Dawnus. Destroying them was vital to win the day.
Even as she accelerated into a fracked sprint, controlled by Rith, the ground in front of her erupted into a wall of deadly spikes.
“I’ve got it!” Aifric shouted, and Rith never slowed. Protected by Aifric’s activated pumice, they slipped right through the stabbing spikes.
Most of their strike team made it through just as easily. Every one of the Mhortair was an experienced assassin, and most possessed affinities with pumice, blind coal, or both. Barely slowed, they rushed the tower.
It exploded outward, earth extending into hundreds of grasping tentacles to rip them all apart.