by T. C. Edge
"They've spotted us," he hisses to me. "I can hear panicked voices..."
His words are cut off as, suddenly, the top of the wall erupts into a glowing film of light, a dozen - no, several dozen - guns beginning to fire and chatter, their barrels lighting up as they release their deadly discharge.
It takes a mere second for the ground around us to begin fizzing and popping, the rounds peppering our position. And as they do, we react immediately. The game is up. The secret is out. There's no space for a slow approach anymore.
As one, with Hendricks's voice roaring out the order to 'FIRE!', our force of over five hundred brave men and women return the volley with interest. Armed with the best weaponry we can muster, we lift our guns and let loose a devastating bombardment of our own. Pulse rifles rip and hiss, sending blazing lights of blue and red to the soldiers atop the wall. Brutes, carrying enormous guns and missile launchers, some attached to rigging around their bodies, stand and deliver their terrible vengeance.
Among them, I see my old friend Titus, heading his own group of oversized beasts. All armoured and armed like human tanks, they send a violent barrage towards the middle of the wall, missiles swirling through the air and hitting it with dull thuds, exploding on impact, wreathing the entire thing in flame.
The cacophony that builds is overpowering, my ears doing everything but leak blood as I cringe against the noise, firing my own pulse pistol towards the enemy. The weapon is new, using the existing technology of the pulse rifles, only miniaturised into a handheld, pistol form that can be clipped to the hip and used one handed.
The enemy, we know, have similar tech, firing back with their own energy based rifles and cannons. There are several fixed positions atop the wall, mini versions of the giant artillery guns that have been shelling our dear city for nearly a week. They fire at a tremendous pace, rattling off zipping bundles of devastating energy at our soldiers. I see a few get hit, holes the size of watermelons burned right through their chests, arms and legs lost in a moment as the fire eats through skin, flesh, and bone alike.
"Target the cannons!" I hear someone call. Amid the din, I can't tell who. "Destroy them!"
Our collective response is impressive and immediate, gathering our fire on the cannons, the Brutes sending volleys of missiles to take them out, or else destroy the top of the wall where they stand fixed. Within a few moments only, several of them are gone, only a couple remaining as we quickly begin to spread out and disperse, creating harder targets to hit.
"Move on!" comes another call. It's Hendricks this time, waving us forward, leading from the front. "Press towards the wall. Don't let them use their primary cannons!"
His words inspire us, as the other leaders begin moving forward, drawing their men along behind them. We use the dips and depressions in the earth, dropping behind whatever we can find as we go, making sure we get inside the lower range of the main artillery guns so they can't rain fire down upon us.
Though my attention remains on the wall before us, I get a sense of movement to our flanks, right at the edge of our lines. Other units, other teams, moving on to attack their lookouts. And more, still, come hurrying towards the edges of the wall, bringing the hammer on all sides.
I smile with a note of glee as I see the smoke and fire pouring into the air. As I see the wall bursting with chunks of mud and metal and wood, our ferocious and sudden attack quickly bearing fruit. And, just as quickly, it begins to have the intended effect.
Men, soldiers, drawn from their beds and nightly vigils, come hurrying out to fight back.
I sense the energy down our lines grow with a sudden satisfaction. To my side, Marcus lets out a heavy breath, a grin erupting like a volcano on his face.
"They've taken the bait!" he calls out. "Kill them! Kill them all!"
From the enemy encampment, men pour like ants from a hill. They come, not just from the front, but from the back and sides as well, the energy shields temporarily opened up at various points to allow them through. From the small hollow in which I take cover, still some distance from the wall and camp itself, I get a sense that the entire camp is being emptied out, as if their only reaction, their only impulse, is to overwhelm us with sheer numbers.
They don't seem to realise it is exactly what we want. They don't seem to know that they are playing into our hands.
I think, just for a moment, of Herald Kovas and his troop of infiltrators, standing there in the centre of Inner Haven, completely and utterly alone. Bewildered as they look around, wondering where we've all gone. Shocked as they begin to hear the sounds of war, filtering across the air, taken to them on the wind.
Oh, how foolish the man must now feel. How quickly must his emotions have turned. From the cruel anticipation of unleashing his Fire-Bloods, seeing our entire city, our entire people, obliterated in some cowardly act of war. To realising that he's been outwitted and outthought. That his entire venture, his crowning glory, has only led to the deaths of many, many of his own men.
A sheer sense of unbridled joy spreads through me at the thought. A joy that has me dashing forward, joining the fight, sending these so-called conquerors straight to the grave.
The fight is frantic, hectic, and completely and utterly wild. From my central position amid the army, with Marcus to my side, I bear witness to the sort of battle I've never seen before. Oh, I may be young, but I've seen plenty now. But even the fight with the Cure doesn't quite match this. That was a swarm, a case of sheer numbers that we simply couldn't handle.
This, well, this is different. This is a fight between equals. A battle filled with heroes. And everywhere, I see the wondrous powers of this new age in full flow. Hybrid dashers phasing through the air. Neoroman Elementals stirring up the wind. Black-wreathed Stalkers, created to kill, doing so with the sort of brutal efficiency I've come to expect from their kind.
It all flows around me, accompanied by an almost constant hum of gunfire, of swirling smoke and mist, of booming explosions as our great tank-like Brutes continue to assault the wall, target any sniper, any soldier, who tries to fire from atop it.
Amid the madness of battle, it's hard to take it all in. You get a sense, only, of the flow of it, the swings in momentum that such terrible events bring. Right now, it is very much on our side, our soldiers moving forward, displacing as they continue to go on the offence, so rarely having to retreat as the enemy fights them back.
For a short time, we seem to have it all our way. It's impossible to know, of course, but in what seems like minutes only we seem to take out hundreds of them. Many fall like flies, unable to withstand the devastating power of Ares and his Neoroman warriors, Hatcher and his Stalkers, genetically modified, perfected for this very purpose.
I see, and I sense, precisely what I've been saying. A fear, a hesitancy, engulfs the enemy men. They never expected this. Cloistered in their hidden city in the north, they are not hardened as we are. They are not conditioned to fight. Oh, they may be powerful. Fast, strong, skilled, with a variety of highly developed senses and other, more fanciful powers.
But that is only on the physical side. There is a mental challenge to war that they have never had to face.
The noise. The screaming. The fire and bloodshed. The sight of a friend losing a limb, roaring as he grips at a bloody stump. The cold eyes of the dead; staring, lifeless. The sheer terror of facing your own mortality. Of seeing a man like Ares, a true god of war, flow through the battlefield like a whirlwind.
Without their Heralds here, these men are clueless. And when the fear spreads, when the tide begins to turn, it's very difficult to turn it back.
And in my own heart, I sense...hope.
We may, I think, win this yet.
My thoughts, perhaps, come too soon. Drawn to the west, as the battle breaks up and Marcus and I venture to the edges of our flank, I see the heads of the soldiers around me begin to turn. Eyes tighten, frowns fall. Calls rush out, warning the others of just what's coming their way.
"To the w
est," bellows Marcus, quick to notice, quick to spot the danger. "Men coming! Reform the lines! Get ready!"
I turn to see what the commotion is, and am greeted, immediately, by a familiar, towering figure, charging over the top of a hill. Adorned in dark armour, the enormous figure of Atlas comes pounding towards us, holding a great gun in his hands, firing as he goes. Around him, hundreds more follow, moving into position to return fire, to close us in along our flank.
"The men from the breach!" I call out, my words hardly doing much over the noise. "Fire! Hold them back!"
These men, I know, aren't quite so stifled by fear. Led by one of their Chosen, they run at us, inspired, dodging through our fire, dropping to the earth and taking cover. I see Atlas himself bearing right down upon a group of our men nearby, an unfortunate unit of less powerful City Guards coming under his attention. They see him coming, but too late, as the giant charges forward at a tremendous pace, suggesting he's more than just a Brute, but a Dasher as well, his genetic line teased with a little of the latter.
He doesn't even use his gun, so great is his rage. With a mighty roar that breaks through the din, he swings wildly, though with an unexpected precision, sending several soldiers flying, their bodies broken before they even hit the ground. Others fall as he thrashes, snapping bone with each connection. And then, with a final flourish, he hauls a knife from his flank, so large to be considered a sword to all others, and begins slicing and hacking at the remaining men around him.
I see limbs severed in a heartbeat, bodies cut clean in two. Within what seems like seconds, he's obliterated a dozen of our men. A single man, a single beast, can do a great deal of damage here in very little time.
I narrow my eyes on him, more of his men still coming over the hill. Within moments we'll be overrun here, I know. Yet...I can't let this continue.
I can't.
I prepare to launch myself forward, but feel Marcus grabbing my arm. "We need to displace, Brie!" he calls out. "We can't hold the lines here any longer."
I turn again as Atlas continues his charge, targeting more of our unsuspecting men. Along with several of his own lieutenants, I see him entering into a more even fight with several Neoromans, the silver-clad men switching to swords and blades to fight within this close-quarter-combat. Marcus sees, and hesitates in his decision, struggling to watch his countrymen fight and not lend his own aid. And only when more men flow towards them, and the Neoromans are overrun, do we realise we have no choice.
We have to retreat.
"Back!" cries Marcus. "Back to our lines!"
I see that one of the Neoromans manages to get away, joining with several Stalkers and City Guards as they rush back through the darkness, heading to a larger concentration of our men holding a position not too far away. Marcus and I do the same, pursued by gunfire as we go.
And as we run, I shut my eyes, able to still sense the world around me. And with the adrenaline pumping, my heart thrashing, I narrow my focus, forcing my powers to flourish.
The grey, cerebral realm comes into view, blinking with a thousand lights, endless brainwaves buzzing and fizzing. It's far more active than ever. There are too many people. Far too many people...
I shake my head, and prepare to withdraw. But then...
No, comes a voice. Look here...
I sense Zander there, a shadowed figure taking form in this strange world, his presence helping to calm me, to guide me. He stands there, and seems to shine a light on those behind me, centring my focus on the soldiers in direct pursuit. Suddenly, amid the madness, they grow so clear to me, like a cluster of clouds in a clear blue sky, as the rest fade away.
My heart lurches as I target them, rushing immediately into as many of their heads as I can with Zander helping to steer me. I bellow an order into their minds as one. It filters into one, two, three, four...
More, more...
Eight, ten, a dozen fall under my command.
I feel the tension, the strain of being in that many heads at once. A great hum of confusion, of emotion, bubbles up from within them all. They try to repel the threat, the order, but I cling on.
And call out louder.
Turn, shoot, kill your own men.
The Olympians are the enemy.
Kill.
Them.
All...
I open my eyes, and glance backwards, feeling the order take effect. The dozen men in pursuit slow, stop. Others glance over, confused, rushing past to take their place in the lead. The gunfire that was chasing us down, forcing us to duck and weave and dodge, testing our armour with each glancing collision, pushing it to its limits, suddenly...stops.
Suddenly, it's gone.
And behind us, in its place, shouts of confusion and panic begin to build.
Drawing me along, Marcus glances back too. His eyes widen as he sees the carnage I've created. As he witnesses the dozen soldiers under my command suddenly turn their guns on their own soldiers, mowing down as many as they can before they themselves fall.
I don't know how many they kill before they're taken down by their own allies. Maybe twenty, maybe more. And along with their own deaths, that's several dozen more Olympians we don't have to deal with. Seven dozen more kills to add to my personal roster.
"You're something, Brie. Really something!" calls Marcus, as we speed ourselves towards our own lines.
I nod, weary from the exchange. Oh, my powers are growing, but they're not unlimited. It takes a great deal of energy to do what I just did. I can hardly imagine doing more.
But I will, I think, determined, implacable. Oh, I'll get better...
We reach the relative safety of our own lines, rushing back into cover as our men fire between us, hunting down any enemy in pursuit. Across the plains now, the battle is starting to spread wide, lit with a rainbow of colours as the dark night broods above. Yet, towards the horizon, I sense the first signs of light beginning to glow, bringing with it the dawn of a brand new day.
Whether it will end with our victory, or our destruction, I don't yet know.
I take a short breather, as Marcus quickly catches up with what's been happening elsewhere along our flanks. It's hard to properly determine the state of the battle thus far, the rampant arrival of Atlas and his hundreds of men serving to alter the momentum once again.
Yet, elsewhere, it seems, Ares and Hatcher, and a host of Neoromans and Stalkers, are cleaning up. Running through the weaker elements of the enemy like knives through warm butter. And ahead, in the distance, the wall continues to come under bombardment, hundreds of our Nameless and City Guard troops still engaged in fighting there, holding certain positions as the rest of us, the more seasoned and gifted fighters, move about with a greater freedom, going where instinct takes us.
Right now, it's brought me and Marcus back towards the rear. But, we both know, we're not going to stay here long.
Because out there, across the plains between the city and the enemy encampment, our people are fighting, and dying, to defend us all. And until that fight is won, we cannot take another break.
So we stand, and moving side by side, rush back into the storm.
28
Kira
The darkness is all consuming, the stars and moon blotted, the shape of the world around us so faint.
Out here, in these vast and open lands, you wouldn't usually require augmented vision like mine to be able to see the world fairly clearly, even in the depths of the night. The shadows of forests and clustered trees would be clear. The silhouettes of mountains and hills would line the distant horizon. Even under a blanket of cloud, you'd expect to be able to see plenty.
But, somehow, not tonight. Tonight, the celestial bodies above appear to have vanished. A gloom has set itself upon the world that mirrors the feeling in my heart.
I have a dreadful sense that we're going to be too late. Something in me, something primal, something I can't explain, throbs with a premature ache as we grow nearer to New Haven. I expect, now, to find it in ruin
s.
I expect, now, to find my people, my friends, dead.
Our convoy isn't large, and can move only so quickly. Since arriving at the coast yesterday morning, we haven't stopped but to relieve ourselves and swap drivers. Hour upon hour rumbling over these wild, untamed lands, through the daylight and the darkness, ever a target should some foolish band of raiders wish to try to stall us.
Thankfully, they haven't. And a blessing for any would-be bandits it is. Right now, no one, me in particular, is in the mood to be interfered with. Our reaction would be swift, and efficiently brutal.
We have, as yet, been unimpeded, only slowed by the natural formations of the world we need to deal with. By now, this is a well enough travelled route, and one I've taken many times myself. But still, it isn't quick, at least not as quick as I'd like.
There are circuitous paths we need to take around obstacles and through forests, over rivers and makeshift bridges. In time, perhaps, the Neoromans will harken once more to their ancient antecedents, and build fine roads to connect the city with the coast. That, if it ever happens, seems a long, long way off. The optimism of our fledgling alliance has now faded into the murk.
I have spent the overland journey over these last two days in the front vehicle, trying to relax but finding it hard to. With the cars moving non-stop, it hasn't been easy for anyone to rest. We have discussed it already, and the decision was taken to not stop for camp, to make do with what we have, and hope that we can rest when we arrive.
Now, I sit in the back of the jeep alongside Dom, knowing that our arrival outside of the city is imminent. I feel a bubbling of nerves in my blood, similar to how I felt during the storm. Then, of course, I'd feared for my own mortality, the storm and the boat and the dreadful wrath of the sea rendering me and my powers entirely inconsequential.