Wrath of the Greimere (Hell Cliffs Book 2)

by Case C. Capehart

  It didn’t take long to find the scout.

  “Fates! Is that…?” Private Janus exclaimed, turning green with disgust.

  “Perimeter!” Sergeant Pledius yelled, dropping next to the maimed corporal and yanking the amputated cock out of his mouth. “Eyes outward! Bayle, help me check him.”

  “He’s in bad shape, Sergeant,” the corpsman said, looking the scout over and then giving a hard glare at Pledius. “Surgery… we don’t have anyone with us who can do it. Even if we got him back to the barracks…”

  “Understood, Private,” Pledius said, brushing him aside.

  The grizzled sergeant unsheathed his sword and held it before the dying soldier. “Then did that darkest of Fates stride forth and pull back her enveloping hood, and upon her face I saw no flesh and in her sockets I saw no eyes and in place of lips I saw only grinning teeth. But there was no fear in me, for I knew her well and her embrace, for me, was warm.”

  Sergeant Pledius finished his poignant quote which Nero recognized from Death’s chapter in the Holy Book of Fates and then stood over the wounded soldier. With a quick strike, he drove his blade between the scout’s shoulders, cleanly severing the spinal cord at the nape of the neck and ending the poor boy’s suffering.

  He took a deep, steadying breath and then turned back to the rest of the squad. “No quarter for this enemy, men. Etticus was meant as an example… to scare the fight out of us. But we are infantry and we do not scamper before atrocity. We burn it as fuel.”

  “Let’s kill these bitches!” Private Janus said, clanging his sword against the side of his shield.

  “Form up and move forward!” Sergeant Pledius ordered, marching off into the woods.

  It took longer than Nero expected to find any sign of their target. The image of Etticus, mangled and lingering at the edge of death kept distracting him. This was not the idea of war he fantasized about; none of his training sergeants ever mentioned anything like this before.

  But just as Sergeant Pledius said, a fire slowly grew with intensity inside him. Revenge itched in the back of his mind and the visions in his head did not frighten it away. Nero wanted to be the one who drove his sword into the Rathgar. He wanted to see them run through with Saban steel and bleeding out on the forest floor. The more he focused on that primal urge, the less his terror distracted him.

  He heard a whistling sound followed by a wet smack. Warm liquid sprayed the side of his face. He turned his head as his squad-mate to his right reached out and gripped his shoulder. A black arrow protruded from the man’s eye and his other eye looked around fervently. When he fell, he almost dragged Nero with him. As he reeled and struggled to keep his feet under him, a second arrow zipped by his head.

  “On your right! Shields!” Sergeant Pledius yelled.

  The bushes to their right erupted as an armored Rathgar female broke from cover. Her right hand gripped a wooden javelin as thick as a post. With a grunt, she threw it at the line. Without a metal tip, it wouldn’t penetrate the second slot soldier’s shield, but the weight and force were enough to pull him off his feet and create a hole in the line.

  Before the others could shore it up, another black arrow found its target in a soldier’s side.

  “Bayle!” Sergeant Pledius yelled.

  Private Bayle did not speak much about the reason why he had been forbidden from becoming a Hunter, like most combat-oriented Twileens. His lack of “Hunter” status did not make him any less valuable to Delta Company. The nimble Twileen showed a natural affinity for mending troops in the field and his bowmanship could be counted on the same as any Hunter.

  On command, the corpsman loosed an arrow over Nero’s shoulder. His arrow sunk deep into the Rathgar’s breast and she went down. More forms appeared just behind her though.

  Enemies surrounded the squad. Strange, dark-skinned women in leather armor emerged from hiding, dancing into battle with steel-tipped spears. Nero had never seen beings like this in any of the war histories. They looked like tall Twileens, with dark blue and purple skin and longer ears.

  The two sides collided fiercely. Nero kept his shield in front of him just as he was trained. He dug in as spear tips jammed into it and skidded off to the side of him. He tried not to yelp when one of them grazed the unarmored portion of his arm and drew blood. All around him he could hear his comrades holding back the assault.

  Bayle and the other three hunters fired rapidly over the shoulders of the soldiers, picking off targets from the safety their Saban protectors provided. It was the tried and true strategy of the Rellizbix fighting force: The Sabans defended as the Twileens and Faeir dealt the bulk of the damage. Nero held one of the squad leader positions and should have been issuing commands according to the changing assault. All he managed to do was keep his shield up and think about what the spears would feel like when they gutted him.

  Nero did not know how long he held out against the barrage. It felt like half a lifetime, but could have easily been a few minutes or even seconds. As Bayle dropped a handful of attackers right in front of him, Nero allowed himself to imagine victory against the overwhelming force of the ambush. He even gathered the courage to yell out a simple, “keep holding” to his men.

  Then he saw her.

  The woman stood taller than the others. Where the others had black or purple or even white hair, hers was vibrant teal and pulled into a pair of braids that hung down along each side of her neck. She had a tall, lean body with corded muscle under cobalt skin covered in a patchwork of pale scars. As if she were the main actor entering a stage, she strolled into battle and twirled her large, broad-headed spear over her head.

  “Who the hell does this bitch think she is?” Bayle yelled, adjusting his aim for her.

  He loosed his arrow and an instant later her spear swiped downward, slapping the quickly-aimed arrow right out of the air. The strange woman then looked right at Nero and Bayle and smiled defiantly.

  “No fucking way…” Bayle mumbled in shock.

  Nero saw movement to his right behind the line of attackers as something quick and dark darted at him. The arrow missed his head by a few inches, sailing right over his shoulder. It was another close call, but this time he hardly moved.

  “Bayle?” Nero asked.

  He turned around but the corpsman was no longer there. Nero glanced down and caught sight of the Hunter’s upright boot twitching on the ground.

  “Close ranks now, dammit!” Sergeant Pledius roared. “Push these motherfuckers!”

  Nero responded out of habit more than understanding. The man on his right lie dead, as did Bayle. He alone now made up the right wing of the formation and he tucked in tight, trying to close the gap with his shield.

  As a squad, they pushed forward, taking the attackers off guard with the advance.

  “Engage!” Sergeant Pledius yelled.

  Nero opened his shield and just as he expected, there stood an enemy combatant before him. His shield effectively knocked her spear aside and she stood wide open for retaliation.

  But then, a strange thing happened. Just before Nero could deliver his first killing blow, he noticed the girl’s neck. It was slender and vulnerable and led down to a small indention, just above her supple, half-exposed breast. Her blue eyes, wide and fearful, locked on his. With different skin and hair, she could have been a girl from the Storm Line.

  Nero swung his blade catching a brief, split-second bit of resistance. The girl stumbled back, her tunic ripped and a harsh, red line across her left breast. He had pulled his strike at the last moment without even thinking. He cut too shallow.

  “Dammit, Nero, get out of here!” Sergeant Pledius yelled.

  Nero felt a hand close around the back of his chest armor and he was yanked backward.

  “Alert Delta!” the Sergeant yelled.

  Nero took a step backward, but a black arrow hit him and pinged off his shoulder armor. He was luckily unharmed by the archer’s attack, but the impact and what it meant were enough to lock him up.
He could not move from the position he was in. Taking a step, lifting his weapon, doing anything but remaining perfectly still… it all meant sudden death. Despite the fear, anger and panic warring in his head, he could not make his body respond.

  The rest of the squad quickly fell after the push. There were not enough of them to keep up a formation. The hidden archer was too accurate and ruthless to defend against. Sergeant Pledius held out, taking one of them down as five female warriors converged on him, running him through with their spears.

  Then everything went quiet as they came for him. The teal-haired one who had impaled Private Janus and tossed him aside with ease walked toward him and motioned for the others to halt.

  Standing before Nero, the woman looked him over and grinned.

  Nero lifted his shield just before her spear could run him through. The spearhead grinded against the steel and pushed him back. The woman’s strength shocked him. With a chuckle, she thrust at him again and again he blocked. This time, she followed up by spinning and whipping the spear over his head, taking a few hairs with it.

  Nero cried out and pushed forward, terrified of the death that bore down on him like a horseman. The woman avoided his charge, dropping low and catching his legs with a sweep. Nero tumbled onto the ground, almost losing his shield. Before he could get up, she stepped on his shield, pinning him in place. The spear hovered over her head and Nero released the straps, desperate to get his arm free of the trap before she gutted him.

  He rolled out of the way as the spear hit the ground. The woman and her warriors cackled with laughter. Nero kept his sword in front of him. Why did they not all attack him? Why was this taking so long? Was he outmaneuvering her?

  The woman shucked her spear point-first into the ground and rolled her shoulders. She stalked toward him, still grinning.

  She was toying with him.

  Nero charged her, swinging for her head and preparing for the counterattack. The woman did not dodge or reposition; she moved into his attack like a maniac. It caused Nero to readjust his swing and in that brief moment of hesitation, her open palm struck his chest plate.

  Her hand might have been a wall for how quickly the blow stopped him. It stole the air from his lungs and he stumbled backward, coughing. In the next moment, the woman’s hand covered his face. There was enough pressure that for a moment he thought she might rip his head right off his neck. Then as the straps on his armor broke, she ripped his chest protector from him, shoving him back into the dirt.

  He still had his sword in his hand. He had not even thought to stick her; the attack confused him so.

  The woman threw her arms out to the side and the others cheered. Nero took that opportunity to avenge himself. If he was going to die today, he would draw blood from this bitch first.

  He swung quickly and controlled, careful not to overreach. Without a weapon to defend herself, she retreated a step. For a moment, he managed to rid the smile from her face as his blade came close to striking.

  She moved too fast though. She slipped a swing, one he was sure would connect, and caught his arm at the elbow, preventing the back-swing. He caught an overhand to the jaw and light exploded across his vision. He heard the snap in his arm before he felt it. Pain arched through him like a lightning bolt as he back-pedaled.

  The woman stayed on him, a monster that feasted on his terror. An elbow to the side of the neck dropped him to the ground. He started to look up when she stopped him with a punch to the side of his head that threatened to knock his eyeballs out of their sockets. A kick to the ribs took the air from him and filled his recovering breath with fire.

  He put his good hand out and yelled the only thing that came to mind.

  “Stop!”

  She cranked that hand in the wrong direction and his nerves screamed as loudly as he did. A kick to the face silenced him and knocked him to his back. From there, he lay still and waited for the spear to pierce his heart or lop off his head.

  Nothing happened.

  A hand grabbed Nero and hauled him to his feet. He coughed, feeling the broken ribs on his left with each spasm. His left eye would not respond, leaving him with only the right to see.

  With no sword and his chest battling for every breath, Nero barely kept his feet under him as the women dragged him through the forest. During the trek, he thought of escape and he thought of his imminent death, but mostly he thought about his failure. Had he died, the embarrassment would have been over. Now every second that he lived reminded him of all the men he let down; the men he was incapable of avenging.

  At the edge of the forest, the women dropped him beside a tree. Pain flared through his broken arms as the group bent them around the tree behind him and lashed his wrists. Another leather thong strapped his head to the tree, forcing him to look toward the town. The teal-haired warrior blew a horn and strolled out into the open field before her. A single warrior stayed behind to guard him while the others moved forward, joining a dozen other groups emerging from the forest to assault the town.

  Nero watched in horror as the warriors teased the southern defenses while someone on the north side of town began lighting fires to the buildings. The remaining 8th Regiment forces struggled to defend against the unorthodox strategy of the Greimere raiders. With forces jabbing them at all sides, the defense fell within the hour.

  Nero raged and thrashed against his bonds as Duransk burned.

  The warrior beside him knelt down and put a blade to his face. The orbs of her eyes were black instead of white. Pale blue irises stared back at him in fear. The girl breathed heavily as she pressed the blade against his neck as if trying to gather the nerve to cut him. She looked so young with her white eyebrows squeezing together and upward.

  Nero heard a familiar “thwip” and an arrow rocked the girl’s head to the side. The strange warrior flopped to the ground in front of him and clawed at the grass, attempting to get back up before lurching onto her face and growing still.

  Nero felt the lashes on his hands and head cut and then hands grabbed him. He screamed and thrashed until Chev’El’s face pushed into his.

  “Nero! Thank the Spirits. Stop struggling. Are there more nearby?” Chev’El clamped a hand over his mouth and cast about. She looked back at Nero to catch the shake of his head and then her gaze shifted to the girl in front of him. “A girl? Is she… Twileen?”

  “Greimere,” Nero gasped as she let go of his mouth. “They’re attacking Duransk. Have to help… help 8th…”

  Chev’El looked toward the town and then back to Nero. “Duransk is lost. Come on, we have to get away.”

  Nero pushed up against the tree, getting to his feet. Chev’El helped him move forward, but after a few steps, his legs gave out and he hit the ground. Daylight faded from his eyes and he could make out Chev’El yelling and tugging at him, but his mind drifted far from his body.

  …

  Nero and Chev’El made their way toward the hill through the wreckage of Duransk. The Greimere did not stay to keep what they conquered, but instead left after daybreak. Fires still blazed on crumbling buildings and bodies littered the streets. The raiders spared no one. Lieutenant Stratton lay in the middle of a fallen formation, a black arrow protruding from his forehead. His clothes had been stripped from him but his corpse had not been desecrated. The soldiers all lay rotting without their weapons or armor; the Greimere had picked them clean of any useful gear.

  Bury me in armor. The motto of the Infantry trudged through his mind, weak and half-hearted.

  The pair left the town behind and climbed the hill. Chev’El took hope when she saw her house had not been wrecked or burned. Nero found her silence unnerving when they entered the house and saw her father.

  Sevictus had been cut multiple times and nearly gashed open through the gut. The hole in his chest appeared to be the killing blow. Oddly, his body rested on the larger bed and his hands rested against his chest gripping his axe. The items inside the house had not been plundered, though the livestock outsid
e were gone.

  “What is this?” Nero asked, moving to the bed. “They posed him? Is this some sort of insult?”

  “He died fighting,” Chev’El said. She went to the cupboard and sighed with relief when the items within were untouched. “I need to clean you up first, then I can move Sevictus. The bedding will need to be burned. You can use my bed.”

  “Chev’El.” Nero wanted to say more, but she shook her head.

  “You don’t need to say anything, Nero. He’s dead and we are not.” She grabbed a few things from the rack. When she turned back, red ringed her eyes. “Winter is fast approaching and if we don’t move north, we will be stranded here for months. You need at least a week’s rest before you can travel. I’ll use that time to get everything ready.”

  Chapter 8

  Kimura watched from her perch upon the wall as Grass-Hair walked through the courtyard of the prison at Galverronne. The bodies of dead Sabans, stripped clean of their armor, lie scattered through the prison. Some hung from the railings of the three-story prison while others adorned spikes in the ground. Inside the cells, hundreds of men awaited their fate at the hands of the new warden.

  The prison had been easy enough to take once she and her Naga infiltrated it. In the earliest invasions, before the Treaty crippled the Greimere fighting force, the Naga were assassins made up of elite Lokai warriors. When Grass-Hair took command of the Greimere army, he brought the Naga out of hiding and established them as a valuable division. The cobalt-clad Lokai wore the gutted heads of Grabbers as they climbed the prison walls in the early morning darkness when the guards were at their weariest. The low-light enhancing effects of the Grabber’s eye bulbs made the Naga at home in the shadows of night as they took out the tower guards.

  Kimura and Goji attacked at the east wall, climbing over the top. The four men were used to looking for escapees, not invaders. Goji reached over the wall from the shadow and grabbed the closest man, slitting his throat before he could yelp. The other three froze looking at their dying comrade in shock.