City of Ruin - Mark Charan Newton [178]
Brynd and Lupus halted next to the bomb.
‘What do you think it is, sir?’ The young Dragoon stepped back, clearly nervous at the presence of the commander.
The fallen object was writhing back and forth in the snow, with tiny arms flailing. About the size of a human baby, its skin was grey and blighted with scale, and its grim, gargoyle-like face was peering back up at them.
It was a living creature.
Suddenly its legs fizzed into flame and it emitted a high-pitched, manic laugh.
‘Get away!’ Brynd shouted.
The other two soldiers dived instinctively to one side, while Brynd managed to cover his mouth with his cloak. Just then there was a scream and the ground trembled under a deep explosion, and fragments of stone rattled across the plaza.
Brynd looked up to assess the damage, and felt a small shard of glass had cut his knee. He brushed aside the injury and realized Lupus was standing right next to him, looking stunned. They went back to where the creature had detonated, and saw that the Dragoon was dead. His arms and much of his upper torso had been blown away, and his face was unrecognizable – a consequence, perhaps, of possessing no augmentations.
Brynd staggered away from the corpse, brushing cold sweat from his forehead.
‘The hell was that thing?’ Lupus muttered, still dazed.
‘You held your breath, then.’ Brynd adjusted his belt and straightened his sabre. ‘I think it was . . . well, some outlandish grey reptile. A living bomb? Sounds ridiculous. I don’t understand how it could just explode.’
‘Maybe with those wings, it flew at high speed.’
‘That would certainly explain why we can’t see where it was launched from.’
‘It didn’t seem to mind killing itself,’ Lupus observed. ‘In fact, we both saw it laughing just before it detonated, so perhaps it’s not sophisticated technology, just some species we don’t yet understand. Which, to my mind, makes our military objectives seem a lot more attainable.’
Brynd nodded at this rare heartening thought.
The other Night Guard soldiers arrived, and Nelum slid off his horse to assess the scene.
Brynd related to the others what had happened.
‘Suicide bombs?’ Nelum muttered, examining the ground, the corpse, Lupus. ‘How can such beings exist?’
‘It’s not that many stages removed from dying for your own nation, is it?’ Lupus observed. ‘In fact – the motivation is the same.’
‘No, I don’t agree!’ Nelum snapped. ‘It is execrable if you ask me. There is no dignity in it, no honour.’
‘We’ll have time to assess such things later,’ Brynd interrupted, noting the expression on Nelum’s face. ‘Now, to the front line.’
*
As the Night Guard pushed on towards the front line, commandere issued along the ranks to allow the legendary regiment through. Men in Jamur uniforms were carried back, dead or dying, and Brynold himself not to look.
They stationed themselves behind the Sixth Dragoons, the best part of a hundred men blocking this main thoroughfare leading west into the Scarhouse district. Featureless walls towered on either side, sandstone structures, and here the street was about sixty paces wide.
As the noise level increased, reports were passed to him: so far, an estimated nine or ten thousand Imperial soldiers had been killed. This figure shocked Brynd, as there had never been so many casualties in living memory, especially so early into a conflict. The city had become a trauma factory.
Jamur longbow archers were stationed on rooftops, firing deep towards the harbour and into Scarhouse, while closer to the front there were men with shorter bows, sniper units to pick out individuals from amidst the throng. Many of them glanced down and saluted the Night Guard as they deployed. Brynd knew that the very presence of his warriors brought momentary hope to those around them.
A line of soldiers moved forward, their armour rattling as they shifted into line. This was a time to face