Opening Moves (The Lion Knight Book 1)

by Aurelius L. Zero

  A further twenty of his men were now out of commission but all five were destroyed.

  “Sir!”

  “Report.”

  “We have finished tallying the numbers, we stand at a total loss of one hundred and eighty-five men. Of those, seventy-two will be able to make a recovery if they are given medical attention soon. The rest… are beyond saving.”

  “Shit. We have no medical aid to give… haaah, give them mercy and make it swift.”

  Pausing to do the math in his head, Denzel didn’t like what the numbers alluded to.

  “And that leaves us with two hundred and thirty-three left to clear the remaining levels… shit.”

  “What do we do sir?”

  “Haaah, we do our jobs son, it’s all we can do now. If we retreat Allant will have us all killed, he has enough men to pull it off too. Have the men form up, it’s time we head on up. The longer we delay here, the more exhausted the men become, time is against us now.”

  “Yes sir!”

  Watching the mercenary run off to carry out his orders, he bit back a bitter sigh.

  A good deal of the friends he had made over the years in the Iron Wolves lay among the fallen. Their lights snuffed out so easily by something that wasn’t even human.

  Their lives really were cheap.

  Pure fury at the unfairness of the situation threatened to overcome him.

  Taking several deep breaths, he managed to force down his anger and channel it into something more productive, namely his drive to succeed.

  One way or another, Allant will pay for this once this is all over.

  Denzel exhaled before steeling himself, marching forward with his men as he saw the first wave rush through the wall of shadows.

  He allowed himself a small smirk as he saw a visibly trembling Ackerman lead the charge, leaving wet foot prints behind. A casual inspection revealed that the bastard’s pants were surprisingly wet and leaking onto the floor.

  Gripping his gun close, Denzel took one last look at his men before pushing through the veil himself.

  And his world was coloured in shades of scarlet.

  Upon passing through the veil, he was immediately showered with the blood of the man before him.

  Throwing himself to the side, he watched as the unfortunate soul collapse to the ground unceremoniously, a smoking hole burned clean through his chest.

  Rolling on the ground, he sprang up into a crouch, snapped his rifle up and fired at the first Raynax came into view.

  The sharp reports of his gun echoed through the room and Denzel was in motion, not even bothering to look at the result of his shots.

  No explosion, so the damn shields are still up eh?

  He zigzagged his way across the room, bobbing and weaving as he went.

  Multiple laser blasts cooked the air above him, the smell of ozone stung his nose. Wrinkling it in distaste, he fired off another burst at a Raynax hovering in front of him.

  Seeing his bullets eaten by the shield, he cursed and threw himself to the left and a series of beams burned the spot he was in.

  As he looked up, he spotted a single Raynax hovering over him, its sole green eye boring a hold into him.

  Still on the ground, he brought his weapon to bear and unloaded everything he had.

  As he fired, the world seemed to slow down as Denzel’s attention was drawn to the eye of the Raynax.

  It was now a brilliant gold now and burning with greater intensity every passing moment.

  The energy projector was near ready to discharge, and with Denzel as he was there was no possible way to dodge.

  In the instant the beam burst forth, time itself seemed to freeze. The muzzle flash from his Styx rifle lit up the side of his face and his arm up had been jerked up by the recoil.

  A burst of crimson engulfed his world.

  “AHRGH!”

  Denzel clutched his right arm and howled in pain while rolling on the ground.

  Blinding agony had obliterated all rational thought. His sole desire was to escape it as he screamed to the heavens.

  Dimly he was aware that there was an explosion nearby figures were flitting about at the edge of his vision.

  Through the pain he felt someone grab him by his epaulets and drag him off.

  Moments later, his impromptu journey came to an abrupt end as a beam of light struck his unknown rescuer in the face, showering him in a crimson rain.

  The anguish he was in and his continued existence sent a surge of primal fear through him, giving him the strength to make a break for it.

  Denzel half crawled half dragged himself away from the fight as the melee grew more chaotic.

  Against all odds, he managed to reach the edge of the room without being trampled or blasted.

  Propping himself against the wall, he sucked in a deep breath and waited for the burning pain to subside.

  Unable to do much but lie there and fight to stay conscious, he was relegated to just watching the confusion.

  Blue flux blasts clashing against the blood red beams, it was truly a beautiful maddening sight.

  After an eternity of mind numbing pain, the burning in his side began to subside.

  His ability to think rationally slowly returned to him as the pain faded. Gritting his teeth, he tried to stand up, only to rapidly give up that endeavour as a new surge of pain shot through him.

  He fell back into sitting position gasping as the wave of agony stole away his breath.

  O-okay urgh… bad… idea… argh….

  Giving up the struggle to stand for the moment, he opted to take stock of the situation instead. Craning his head to look down, his breath hitched as he inspected the damage.

  The sleeve on his right arm had completely burned away where it hadn’t melted into his skin.

  His arm itself was a bloody mess, a long red gash ran parallel to it. Blood was flowing sluggishly from it and the area around it was raw and charred black in places.

  Breath coming in short sharp bursts, Denzel exerted every ounce of willpower he had to clench his fist through the pain. His fingers twitched violently before slowly, shakily closing into a fist.

  Relief flooded through his being at that sight. Giving a sharp exhale, he allowed his fingers to open up again.

  Closing his eyes to deal with the pain he rested against the wall as the burning faded to a more manageable level.

  I can still move my fingers… good. My nerves are still intact then, if I can just get a med kit I should be able to patch myself up.

  Haaah, it’s just a flesh wound, thank the lord for his small mercies.

  Still… how am I alive?

  Cracking open his eyelids, he noticed that the melee was starting to die down, two of those infernal machines were still up but they were on the other side of the room.

  Ignoring them for the time being, he looked at the trail of blood left when he was dragging himself and followed it.

  Losing it a few times in the mess, he eventually found it again and a deep sigh left him as he saw the fallen form of his rescuer.

  The man who had given him the report on the remaining strength of the Iron Wolves lay in rapidly expanding pool of his own blood.

  He gave his life for me and I don’t even know his name… damn, just damn.

  He tore his eyes away from the sight with a heavy heart and continued following the trail of blood.

  There.

  Near the centre of the room lay a half melted piece of scrap of metal.

  It was nearly unrecognizable and if it wasn’t for a small burnt bandana tied to it, Denzel would never have been able to identify it as the remains of his rifle.

  Despite himself, hollow laughter left his mouth.

  “I’m either the luckiest shot in the world or the unluckiest. Maybe once the pain is gone I’ll be able to decide then. Hehehheahahaha….”

  Wincing as his laughter set off another round of agony, his opinion was leaning towards being the unluckiest.

  Right now, I’m
wishing the damn blast had killed me. At least that way I don’t have to deal with the pain.

  “Saved by recoil, who’d have guessed it?”

  When he had squeezed the trigger one last time, the recoil had forced his arm up and his body down. The end result was that his torso was no longer within the firing arc of the Raynax.

  Instead of punching a nice symmetrical hole in the centre of his chest, the beam had burned straight through the rifle and scoured a line down his arm due to the proximity.

  Turning back to the battle, it heartened him to see that only one enemy remained.

  Smoking badly, its shields were gone and had already sustained several hits.

  A club wielding mercenary made a mighty leap to close the distance between them and brought his weapon down on the machine.

  Without any shields left to protect against the blow, the machine was punted to the ground where it sparked for a few seconds before going up in a ball of fire.

  A large wave of cheers resounded as the last of them finally went down, each mercenary still on their feet relishing in the fact that they were still in one piece.

  They were no strangers to casualties on the battlefield but being mowed down by an impersonal, unfeeling machine was a harrowing experience.

  On the outside they seemed fine but the strain in their eyes was all too visible to Denzel. The set of their mouth, the way their jaw seemed locked in place and the muscles that failed to relax.

  The word stressed didn’t even come close to describing their condition. They were already at their breaking points.

  Giving his men a few moments to celebrate their continued existence and deal with the fallout, Denzel decided he had rested enough and shakily rose to his feet once more.

  Calling out to them, he began directing efforts to regroup.

  “Alright, alright, that’s enough, we’re still in hostile territory, save the celebrations for later. Give me a headcount of everyone still standing, move the fallen to the side. Those without guns, relieve the fallen of theirs, the rest check your equipment…. And someone get me a damned med kit!”

  As the surviving mercenaries rushed to carry out his bidding, Denzel moved to retrieve the burnt remains of his bandana. Swaying with every step, his injury proving to be far more debilitating than he first imagined.

  A soft squelch reached his ears as he stepped in something.

  Looking down, he frowned as he realised he had unwittingly trod on one of the fallen.

  In his pain addled mind, he was temporarily at a loss for why the bloody form looked so familiar to him. Removing his boot from the blood soaked armour, he gingerly flipped the man onto his back.

  Pain drunk as he was, the urge to giggle uncontrollably shook him. As it was several deranged laughs did escape his efforts to suppress it.

  “Pity. He almost made it to the door too.”

  Ackerman’s face, frozen in an expression of pain stared up at him.

  Sometime during the chaos, the dwarf had clearly made a break for the door, abandoning his post and weapon. He received a shot in the back for his futile efforts, but… that wasn’t the blow that did him in.

  The first shot inflicted nothing more than a flesh wound.

  The second one however, struck him in the fork between his legs. The blast had gone straight through, cauterizing part of the wound and slowing the rate of blood loss.

  It wasn’t enough however and the wound was fatal. Instead of a quick journey to whatever personal hell he’d earned for himself, he received a slow, and if the expression on his face was anything to go by, agonizing demise.

  “I did tell you, you know, that it would be slow and you would feel every moment of it. Shame you didn’t listen to me. Alas, so ends the tale of the cowardly midget who finished less a man than he began as. Not much of a eulogy but more than you deserve. Hahahahaha!”

  “SIR! I brought your med kit- is that Ackerman?”

  “About damn time son! And yes, that is Ackerman, coward tried to run and got what he deserved. Seems almost fitting somehow…. Hehehehe!”

  Denzel commented as he grabbed the proffered box and started work on bandaging his wounds.

  After much difficulty, he successfully finished treating the wound and putting his arm in a sling. Popping two pain killers, the vice-commander of the Iron Wolves exhaled in relief as the fast acting drug washed away most of his suffering, bringing back a sense of clarity with it.

  Handing the med kit to another mercenary who needed it, Denzel moved to secure a new weapon. With one arm in a sling, rifles were beyond his ability to use effectively now. He needed a pistol.

  Eventually locating one, Denzel uttered a short prayer before reaching down to pry the gun loose from the already cooling fingers.

  More than a little ashamed of having to resort to scavenging in order to survive, he rapidly looked away, lest his stomach give out on him.

  A frown came over his face as he took in the remaining Iron Wolves.

  Why… are there so few standing? There’s no way we sustained so much damage from so few?

  “Report! What’s our current status?”

  He called out to the rest, hoping that by focusing on the matters at hand he wouldn’t be so badly affected by the toll inflicted on them.

  “Sir! We’re down to a hundred and twenty. All of us are now equipped with firearms and good to go.”

  For a brief instant, Denzel doubted his ears.

  He must still be pain drunk, maybe the painkillers had affected his hearing too. There was no way he heard the numbers right. One hundred and twenty men left? Preposterous!

  Just to be on the safe side, he decided to clarify it again.

  Maybe… maybe it was just a joke.

  Yeah. That had to be right, it was just a joke being played on him by the men… that must be it….

  “Heh, I’m sorry son, but I didn’t quite catch that last part. For a moment there I thought you said we are down to a hundred and twenty men….”

  “Umm… sir, you didn’t mishear. That is all we have left.”

  “WHAT? How did we lose so many? How many of those things were there anyway?”

  “We counted six sir. These ones didn’t stay overhead all the time, they were keeping low to the ground sir. Concentrating fire on that thing was impossible. Some tried to shoot through others to get to them but it didn’t work.”

  “Shooting though- who- WHAT! We don’t have enough men as it is and some idiot decided that shooting through our own was a good idea? Who’s responsible for this? I WANT ANSWERS!”

  Denzel roared at the men.

  Shuffling on their feet nervously, none of the men dared to answer, all quailed before their commander’s rage.

  Denzel angered easily but rarely blew his top.

  Whenever he did though, plenty of screaming followed shortly. Soft murmurs reached his ears but he was unable to make out anything concrete.

  That coupled with everything else he’d been through in the past few days pushed his anger over the edge.

  “WELL? I’M WAITING!”

  “I-it was Octar s-sir.”

  “AND WHERE IS THE BASTARD NOW?”

  “One of those… things got him after he started shooting through others sir.”

  “So…” he continued in a deathly quiet tone, “who else?”

  “Oh calm down you oversensitive buffoon, you’re just making a fool of yourself. They were necessary sacrifices. Beside we won. What are you so upset for.”

  Of course. Allant’s goons, why am I not surprised.

  Releasing a long suffering sigh, Denzel shook his head, unwilling to deal with any further insubordination from them.

  Cold anger smouldering in his orbs, he made his extreme displeasure known.

  With one swift motion, he lifted his pistol and fired. A smoking hole appeared right between the man’s eyes as they glazed over and he collapsed in a heap.

  “Anyone else share his point of view?”

  Silence g
reeted his quiet question as no one dared to even look him in the eye lest they bite the dust as well.

  “No? Good! I catch anyone else stabbing comrades in the back and you’d best pray that those flying tin cans get you. I assure you all, what they’ll do to you will be merciful compared to what I’ll do once I get my hands on you. AM I CLEAR!”

  “““““SIR, YES SIR!”””””

  A unanimous acknowledgement went up from the men, a healthy dose of fear clearly audible.

  “Good! Ready up, we are moving on now.”

  As the surviving men readied themselves for the next level, Denzel was going out of his mind with worry even if he didn’t let it show on his face.

  Next up level seven. If we take another beating like this it’s all over. I’ve lost almost three quarters of the Iron Wolves now. If they have another flight waiting ahead….

  Giving his head a vigorous shake to chase away all the pessimistic thoughts, Denzel pushed on with his men.

  Regardless of what he believed or wanted, they had already crossed the point of no return.

  To retreat was to perish, to push on meant walking into the unknown.

  “Victory or death huh?” He muttered to himself under his breath.

  Turning to his men, he was saddened to see that most of his friends were no longer marching with him.

  This is all my fault isn’t it?

  Can’t protect my men, and now they’re all afraid of me.

  The lord damn it all! Wilhelm what do I do now?

  Seeking the guidance of his long lost friend, Denzel was ashamed at his failure to live up to his promise.

  Being someone who could lead men to hell and back was far harder than he believed possible. Right now, he had led them all into hell and chances were, none of them were leaving ever again.

  “Hold. Ready your weapons. Johann, you’re the fastest here, take a peep through that wall of darkness and immediately report back your findings. We’ve lost too many to just continue pushing in blindly. If you do not return we will assume hostile forces present and deal with it accordingly.”

  “Yes sir.”

  With a simple salute, the designated scout ran up the stairs to fulfil his duty. As he disappeared into the shadows, Denzel cursed the designers of the place.