talisman.”
I signaled to Saavedra, and we swung our line toward the mound. I’ll give this much for Adelweid, the bastard knew his craft. No sooner had we reached the top than he pulled a pack of arcane materials out of his bag and began drawing intricate symbols into the dirt with a short branch of black oak. His movements were sharp and natural, and I knew enough of the Art to appreciate that it wasn’t such an easy thing to draw a pentacle in the pitch-black, not when a mistake meant opening yourself up to forces that would fry your brain. In the midst of his work he turned to me. “Continue the mission, Lieutenant. I’ll take care of my end.”
“Private Carolinus—you’re on guard. If we aren’t back in three quarters of an hour, take the sorcerer and return to base.” Carolinus drew his trench blade and saluted. Saavedra went back to point, and the four of us who remained pushed onward into Dren territory.
Two hundred yards and we crested a small incline, its geometry too sharp to be anything but the result of an artillery shell. In the distance I could see the first line of the enemy trenches and the lights of their campfires beyond. Signaling to the men to form on me, I pulled the talisman from a pouch on my armor and dropped it in the dirt, feeling a bit foolish as I did so.
“That’s it?” whispered Milligan. “Just stand on a hill and leave a pebble in the middle of it?”
“Private, shut your mouth and keep your eyes open.” Milligan’s nerves were understandable—this was the part of the mission I had liked least, and I hadn’t been particularly crazy about any of it. On top of this ridge we were easy targets for any Dren patrol that wandered by, and they were a lot closer to reinforcements than we were.
In the dark, in those circumstances, every shadow hides a sniper and every glint of light reflects off steel, so I wasn’t certain I saw anything until Milligan signaled down the line. We grabbed dust, hunkering beneath what little cover we could find. Twenty yards out from the base of our hill one of them noticed us and let out a cry of warning and I knew we were fucked.
Milligan sent off a bolt at the front man, but it went spinning off into the night, and then they were sprinting up the dune and we preparing to meet their charge. Saavedra took the first one and I took the second, and after that it was hard to concentrate on the general arc of the battle, my attention occupied by the particulars.
Mine was young, barely old enough to pleasure a woman, and I winced at his lack of skill. Five years of killing anyone in a gray uniform had overridden any natural aversion toward murdering a virtual child, and my only thought was to finish him quickly. A feint to hisside and a counter of his awkward defense and he was down, blood spurting from a killing strike through his abdomen.
It was a good thing I dropped him because it wasn’t going all our way. Cilliers was showing one of the enemy the reason he had never abandoned his ancestral weapon, and Saavedra was his usual self, holding down a pair of Dren with a display of coldly efficient sword work. But Milligan was on his last legs, a squat Dren with a trench blade in one hand and a hatchet in the other steadily pushing him back toward the slope of the hill. I unstrapped a throwing knife and sent it sailing into the back of Milligan’s attacker, hoping it would be enough to even the odds. I didn’t have time to do more, as one of the men facing Saavedra disengaged and came toward me. I hefted my trench blade and drew the battle club that was swinging from my belt.
This one was better, good in fact, and I didn’t need to see the scar that separated his nose into two uneven masses of flesh to place him as a veteran of our conflict. He understood how to kill with a short blade, wary circling interrupted by the rapid exchange of blows, off hand poised to settle the business firmly. But this wasn’t my first tumble either, and my own
I signaled to Saavedra, and we swung our line toward the mound. I’ll give this much for Adelweid, the bastard knew his craft. No sooner had we reached the top than he pulled a pack of arcane materials out of his bag and began drawing intricate symbols into the dirt with a short branch of black oak. His movements were sharp and natural, and I knew enough of the Art to appreciate that it wasn’t such an easy thing to draw a pentacle in the pitch-black, not when a mistake meant opening yourself up to forces that would fry your brain. In the midst of his work he turned to me. “Continue the mission, Lieutenant. I’ll take care of my end.”
“Private Carolinus—you’re on guard. If we aren’t back in three quarters of an hour, take the sorcerer and return to base.” Carolinus drew his trench blade and saluted. Saavedra went back to point, and the four of us who remained pushed onward into Dren territory.
Two hundred yards and we crested a small incline, its geometry too sharp to be anything but the result of an artillery shell. In the distance I could see the first line of the enemy trenches and the lights of their campfires beyond. Signaling to the men to form on me, I pulled the talisman from a pouch on my armor and dropped it in the dirt, feeling a bit foolish as I did so.
“That’s it?” whispered Milligan. “Just stand on a hill and leave a pebble in the middle of it?”
“Private, shut your mouth and keep your eyes open.” Milligan’s nerves were understandable—this was the part of the mission I had liked least, and I hadn’t been particularly crazy about any of it. On top of this ridge we were easy targets for any Dren patrol that wandered by, and they were a lot closer to reinforcements than we were.
In the dark, in those circumstances, every shadow hides a sniper and every glint of light reflects off steel, so I wasn’t certain I saw anything until Milligan signaled down the line. We grabbed dust, hunkering beneath what little cover we could find. Twenty yards out from the base of our hill one of them noticed us and let out a cry of warning and I knew we were fucked.
Milligan sent off a bolt at the front man, but it went spinning off into the night, and then they were sprinting up the dune and we preparing to meet their charge. Saavedra took the first one and I took the second, and after that it was hard to concentrate on the general arc of the battle, my attention occupied by the particulars.
Mine was young, barely old enough to pleasure a woman, and I winced at his lack of skill. Five years of killing anyone in a gray uniform had overridden any natural aversion toward murdering a virtual child, and my only thought was to finish him quickly. A feint to hisside and a counter of his awkward defense and he was down, blood spurting from a killing strike through his abdomen.
It was a good thing I dropped him because it wasn’t going all our way. Cilliers was showing one of the enemy the reason he had never abandoned his ancestral weapon, and Saavedra was his usual self, holding down a pair of Dren with a display of coldly efficient sword work. But Milligan was on his last legs, a squat Dren with a trench blade in one hand and a hatchet in the other steadily pushing him back toward the slope of the hill. I unstrapped a throwing knife and sent it sailing into the back of Milligan’s attacker, hoping it would be enough to even the odds. I didn’t have time to do more, as one of the men facing Saavedra disengaged and came toward me. I hefted my trench blade and drew the battle club that was swinging from my belt.
This one was better, good in fact, and I didn’t need to see the scar that separated his nose into two uneven masses of flesh to place him as a veteran of our conflict. He understood how to kill with a short blade, wary circling interrupted by the rapid exchange of blows, off hand poised to settle the business firmly. But this wasn’t my first tumble either, and my own
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