by Aeryn Leigh
Griffin carved a path with Betty in the only way he knew how.
"Jesus fucking Christ," said Mick, dangling from the edge of a stone building between the second and third ring walls, his parachute caught on the lead guttering above.
Fucking parachutes. He dropped the empty magazine and took a fresh clip from his breast pocket webbing, and slammed it home. He used his legs to once more push off and swing around the building's corner spraying the advancing platoon of marines trying to rush the thin corridor of what Mick presumed was the research buildings. His MP 40 chattered and a stream of spent brass cartridges cascaded to the ground twenty feet below.
So many bodies littered the narrow walkway the enemy could use it as cover. Bits of masonry flakes stung the exposed areas of his face as return fire grew ever closer to their mark.
The pendulum of his swing reached its apex and he swung back to behind the stone wall.
Another empty clip.
Fuck.
He did the mental arithmetic. Three remaining.
Jesus, but those buggers needed to get down here soon.
He breathed out and wiped the snot off his nose with the back of his sleeve, and was blessed with the sound of angel's ascending to heaven.
The beautiful, unmistakable sound of a Browning .50 opening up. Betty.
You little ripper. He inserted a fresh mag and tensed the muscles in his legs.
Eat shit and die you Inka bastards.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Anthill
The tiny figures below looked like scurrying ants, as to Ella's left the fortress came alive, or as she thought, a mass of white ants that just had their anthill knocked over, swarming up the side of the mountain through alternate left and right ring wall gates, following the wide winding road.
The assault teams needed to secure that courtyard then the area immediately below it and close the gate before the tide flowing uphill overran them.
The factories in the middle section of the stronghold belched white and black smoke from myriad chimneys, not even including the oil refinery in the third section up from the main wall, spewing spouts of flame from multiple stacks as petrochemical waste burnt off.
Ella could make out the half dozen offshore oil platforms hundreds of yards out into the bay, and the black oil pipes through the shallow water running back all the way up to the jetties in front of the main wall then disappearing, presumably running underground all the way to the oil refinery.
And in between the first two ring walls, comprising the largest amount of land area sat the main barracks, from which the flood of marines poured out.
Three massive jetties extended out into the bay, a good couple of dozen warships moored and . . . what do we have here? Ella observed with interest a row of Supermarine seaplanes moored on the far side of the wall on a fourth, smaller jetty. Six of them, all white, all identical, with tiny figures running from a small building at the jetties base from what she presumed was the aircrew's barracks.
Ella eased her Catalina into a wide banking turn once out over the bay, bringing the aircraft down to mast height and around until the row of seaplanes lined up directly in front of her. Small arms fire issued from the warships she passed, none of it hitting their mark as they all failed the learned art of deflection shooting, all firing at where the aircraft was, not where it would be.
Given how quickly the Inquisition adapted, it wouldn't take them long.
Her gloved fingers felt and found the rudimentary firing mechanism, her index finger curling around the cold metal stub.
Ella looked down the hard iron sights protruding from the nose and the line of seaplanes entering firing range and tugged her finger. The Catalina shuddered with the recoil as the 20mm cannon unleashed explosive carnage, the stream of fat rounds chopping through the mid-line of all six aircraft and she released the trigger momentarily, pulsating the left and right rudder rhythmically and depressed it again as she shot through mushrooming fireballs.
She roared over the towering meters-thick main wall with the Catalina swaying side to side on its horizontal axis and the cannon shrieking with a joyous thud, thud, thud, hosing the open ground next to the main barracks jammed full of troops waiting to pass through the gridlocked ring wall gate uphill. 20mm High Explosive rounds blew apart humanity in a gory pink mist of blood, cartilage, and shrapnel.
For good measure, she put a couple of seconds into the refinery as she flew uphill, and decided to come around for one final last strafing run. Fuel would be starting to get low, and the cannon didn't have more than a few handfuls of short bursts left.
Machine-gun fire struck the main fuselage and past the cockpit. The Cat twitched with each hit. She slammed the throttles forward and shoved the control stick hard toward her right thigh as the white Supermarine seaplane shot by.
Scheisse. Missed one. Must have been out on patrol. Ella came around and narrowly missed a second heading straight for her, its forward gunner spitting orange fire.
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Indeed
Merrion secured the guard tower and gate control with a final twitch of his blade, and peered over the battlement, the roofs of the research quarters almost the same height. In the cramped corridors between buildings and the road leading down from the gate, he could just see the outline of Mick hanging from a roof corner next to the main road.
The man at his feet moaned. Merrion paid him no mind as he dashed back to the other side, picking over the multiple still-warm corpses and evaluated the landing zone.
What remained of the battalion was mowed down by Griffin and the others, in a veritable wall of lead and steel. Laurie gave a great yell, and led the charge with Beowulf by his side to the gate leading to the research area, passing through the stone arch under Merrion's feet as Griffin led the rear, reloading his machine gun with a fresh coil from the supply crates slowly and methodically.
Merrion turned around and walked to the lone survivor. Unlike the others whose throats he'd sliced open, this one had his gut tore open, entrails bulging out, right across the lower abdomen. On purpose, Merrion inflicted the wound, knowing full well the torturous pain it would cause.
He knelt, and considered the soldier. Not even out of his teens, baby fat still lined his face. More importantly, not yet a marine. "We can do this the hard way, or the even harder way. Tell me what I need to know, and you have my word your death will be quick. Do not, and I'll put you in those iron gibbets I see hanging around here and there, those cages you Inquisition fellows are so fond of. Understand?"
The teenager nodded, his face a rictus of pain. "What pray tell, is behind those mountain gates?" said Merrion. He leaned closer to hear the almost inaudible reply, paused for a moment, and swore. "Thank you." The boy’s throat bloomed red.
Andrew made his way to the supply crates, staggered the final few feet, and collapsed against the nearest pile. Seconds later, he threw up. Moss and three Vikings came up to the supply crates, and started breaking them apart, sorting weapons and ammo into various piles.
"You did well, Andrew," said Moss, unpacking a Browning .50, and lugging it over to face the mountain entrance, forty feet or so in front of it.
Andrew tried to reply, but couldn't. He'd fought at the Bay of Harmony, but at the distant end of guns. Hand-to-hand combat? That was on a brand-new level of violence all again. On Hilda's glider, feeling as if every bone broke on that hard landing, and they hadn't, only to stagger outside and engage the enemy feet away — as long as he would live he'd never forget those first minutes. Marines so close you could smell them, their spittle flying from their mouths as he pushed two feet of shining steel into midsections feeling the resistance of bone and muscle and guts give way. Or the mechanical shudder of bullets barely leaving the end of his submachine gun before tearing into flesh and burning skin from the muzzle flash.
Then, it ended.
Moss came over, and put a hand on his shoulder. "You'll have plenty of time later to think about it my friend
. Later. Now help me with the ammo."
Andrew straightened up, and focused. "Indeed."
Laurie and Beowulf halted by the first corner past the stone archway. The research area resembled a labyrinth of buildings and passageways, some under cover, some not.
"It will take a while to clear the buildings one by one," said Beowulf.
"Especially with that lot," said Laurie, sticking his head around the corner and being rewarded with short bursts of automatic fire before pulling it back quickly.
One building over, they could hear Mick alternate between swearing to himself and telling them to hurry the fuck up.
Down the valley below, Ella opened up with the 20mm, the booms echoing uphill.
Laurie chewed his upper lip for a few seconds, and looked up at the guard tower Merrion occupied as explosions downhill made the ground shake. "We don't have the time for this. We need to take the next gate down and do it yesterday. Hmm." He looked around and above. With a big enough leap, one could jump from the guard tower to the roof of the closest building, and from there, travel from rooftop to rooftop all the way down to the next ring wall guard tower.
Ella roared overhead, followed by another speeding shadow.
"Damn. Anyway, we go by rooftop. C'mon, to the guard tower. And let's get Mick down before the bugger goes hoarse."
Chapter Sixty
Tiled Roofs
With a furious round of blows from short axes, the left wing of Hilda's glider came free, already half-separated from the crash. Thorfinn and Etna carried the wing on their backs, running as fast as they could to the base of the guard tower, where the wing was transferred from person to person up the stairs to where an impatient Laurie paced to and fro. The gap between the parapet and the closest roof wasn't in fact jumping distance, not unless you were an Olympic record holder.
The ten-foot-long wing in a very short while was turned into a bridge, one end on the stone wall, the other shoved into the stone tiles of the roof.
Merrion eased himself over the fifteen-foot drop, the wood creaking, but not excessively so. He gave the thumbs up, and the rest of the team followed as clouds of black smoke washed over them from the oil refinery three ring walls down. What sounded like a dogfight was also happening high overhead.
With two men and the .50cal guarding the mountain doors, and another two at the guard tower relieving Merrion, the pair of Vikings dropped the metal portcullis with a clang, and started setting up the second Browning, with one more back at the crates
Merrion bounded up and down the tiled roofs, jumping from one roof to the next with ease. As did all the Vikings, Beowulf lugging another short-barrel .50cal, and Griffin, even carrying Betty. All except for Laurie, whose knees hurt like hell after jumping from the first building to the second, molten tendrils of fire shooting down his legs.
Dammit. "Go on," said Laurie. "I'll get Mick. Go." He hobbled over the brown tiles to rescue his mate, thanking whoever built these roofs that the pitch wasn't too severe. Laurie reached the corner, to where Mick's parachute caught upon a metal chimney before trailing over the edge.
"You're a talkative bastard for a short arse," said Laurie, peering over.
The end of the parachute lines swayed freely in the wind. Mick was gone.
Chapter Sixty-One
To The Gate
Halfway there. Just under ninety-yards away, Inquisition soldiers manning the guard tower peppered their position with rifle fire. Hunkered down behind a brick-walled roof garden, Beowulf and Griffin considered their options. Beowulf grunted, and laid the Browning down.
"Griffin, use Betty to suppress that position. Hilda, do the same. We'll separate into two and come at them from either side. Merrion . . . Merrion?" They all looked around. "And he'll do what he wants to do." Beowulf laughed.
"Hilda," said Griffin, "when I say, give us covering fire and enough time to set her up. He handed her his spare MP 40, so that Hilda had one in each hand. Griffin picked up the heavy machine gun. "Now."
Merrion's little inner voice whispered to him as they all took shelter on the rooftop. That black building off to the left — something about it doesn't match the others. It screamed danger. Evil. Without so much as a word he went to investigate, before whatever was in there finished putting its affairs in order.
Laurie looked down at the cobblestones far below and saw nothing but a pool of spent brass cartridges. Where the hell was he? At the end of the passageway between the two buildings laid a pile of dead Inquisition soldiers. A half-open window lay directly opposite. Did the bugger swing in there? Shit. They didn't have time for this. They needed to secure the next gate down in a hurry.
In the short distance, the unmistakable deafening sound of a Browning reverberated through the canyon maze of buildings. Laurie peered down over the edge once more.
Then he remembered. The leaves. He patted his multiple pockets until he found the wad of leaves stuffed tight into a ball, and pulled out a handful, shoving them into his mouth and chewed like no tomorrow.
Within seconds, the pain in his knees eased. Ella, I could kiss you. Right Old Man, to the gate.
There was something about that building which set off every right royal bastard nerve in Merrion's body. Merrion spent a lot of time scheming and thinking about the myriad ways to kill, poison, and corrupt a man. It was the job. You couldn't be an effective chief of security without sometimes thinking like a utter prick.
The matte-black building, in one word, smelt of evil. One of only a handful of three-storey buildings in the research quarter. Several roof leapfrogs later, Merrion hung from the lead gutter pipe and pulled himself up over the gutter’s edge. Merrion started work on removing a small section of black-grey clay tiles, enough for him to slip through.
The roof space, full of dust and cobwebs, at least was reassuring given the fanatical devotion the Inquisition gave to cleanliness. He placed each foot carefully from roof beam to roof beam. In the dim light, he could make out the storage area beneath, hundreds of assorted boxes all stamped with the Emperor's seal. Making his way over to the highest pile of boxes, he sat on the rafter and removed his boots, tying the laces together so they hung around his neck.
Merrion eased his feet down onto the highest pile of wooden boxes, and soon reached the ground. He padded across the room. The quiet unnerved him. Almost nothing could be heard of the machine-gun fire outside except for what came through the hole in the roof above.
Merrion slung the MP 40 over his back, and pulled out his treasured black crossbow, two-thirds the size of a regular hardwood crossbow but just as whisper-quiet and deadly.
Amor Fati in gold, engraved lettering glinted in the low light off the matte-black steel stock. He opened the attic storage door.
Chapter Sixty-Two
That’s My Girl
Griffin fired Betty in short microbursts, only holding down the trigger for the merest fraction of seconds. More than enough.
The group of ten or so Inka soldiers standing steadfast on the guard tower were resisting small arms suppression fire, standing resolute, hammering back hundreds of rounds of automatic fire. Once Griffin pulled the trigger, only seconds later the survivors hunkered down behind the cover of the waist-height stone wall. Griffin smiled and patted the gun. That's my girl.
Immediately the two assault squads broke cover, and started their own pincer movement, moving to flank the Inquisition position. Beowulf ran down each rooftop, leaping over each gap and with a mighty roar leapt from the last building over the chasm below and landed on the battlement section of the ring wall, twelve feet away from the tower.
The first one there. The sluggish wolf rarely gets prey, he thought. With an MP 40 in his left hand and his short battle-axe in the other, Beowulf sprinted along the top of the wall and jumped straight over, right into the midst of the tower.
Beowulf skidded for a few feet in a pool of blood and guts. Amidst the dead and grievously wounded, a battle-scarred Inquisition captain rose and accepted the challe
nge. Beowulf didn't break his momentum as he charged straight at the man, who lifted one arm holding a great silver handgun. The gun arm came up as Beowulf's axe flashed. With a low guttural scream, the Inquisition marine went for his dagger with his remaining arm, as the severed arm spun in the air, fingers still tight around the trigger.
In the same motion, a short burst of 9mm Parabellums killed the man as the others arrived. In a matter of moments, the guard tower was theirs. Beowulf rushed over to the gate lever, and pulled down the long cast iron handle, chains moving inside the stoneworks. The portcullis lowered with a satisfying thud into the ground.
Below, a tide of Inquisition soldiers made their way through the garden fields running toward the gate.
They'd made it just in time.
Beowulf turned around and waved back to Griffin, waving him over. They'll need both of God's Hammers to stop that.
Griffin and Hilda saw Beowulf give the signal, just as Laurie rejoined them.
"What's the situation?" said Laurie, panting slightly, his mouth full. He turned aside and spat out the wad of leaves.
"The gate is secure, Captain," said Griffin. Griffin moved his head either side of Laurie. "Where's Mick?"
The look on Laurie's face told it all. "I don't know."
"Shit," said Griffin.
Laurie straightened himself up. "Right, let's get these guns over there on the double. Hilda, bring that ammo."
Chapter Sixty-Three
The Evil Within