City of Ruin - Mark Charan Newton [180]
A pause to try to assess the scene: whereupon he called out for various tactical routines. In response, his soldiers filed in around him on horseback, pushing forwards, and sweeping past. They continued the slaughter, feeding his body the adrenalin he needed. His relic-doctored sword sliced so easily through armour. A blade in, blood out, then rip the creature’s spine. Something turned, a weapon narrowly missed his head. He ripped into it, wrenched sideways, spilling offal on to his arm.
By now he could feel his face covered with sweat and blood.
Don’t look at the dead.
A street packed with bodies, grunts, metal clanging on stone. Exhaustion.
The constant blur of motion removed any coherency from the scene, but very quickly he saw that he was at the rear of the skirmish. Most importantly, up ahead the Night Guard was forcing the enemy line back efficiently and quickly. They were decimating the columns of the foe.
Air support arrived suddenly, and began attacking the invading forces further back with Brenna relics. Intense fireballs rolled towards him from the explosions ignited between the distant buildings, flames billowing and licking their way upwards. And nearest the drop zone he could see the churning silhouettes of enemy soldiers.
Snipers based on rooftops continued their onslaught relentlessly till hundreds of red-skinned rumel and Okun lay dead on the ground, and any still showing signs of life were picked off one by one.
Combat edged away. The density of enemy bodies decreased. The Night Guard finally halted and moved aside. Barricades were instantly hauled into place, ordinary soldiers sprinting forward into position.
A calm settled over the scene. This storm had passed, and Brynd collapsed breathless to his knees on the freezing street. Feeling totally disconnected from the reality of what had just occurred, he flipped up the visor of his helmet.
After a moment’s respite he was able to assess the damage to his unit – amounting to just a single casualty. The dead man was Brox, only thirty years old; his neck was savagely gashed and his body had been trampled.
The street looked as if it had been spliced straight out of hell and into Villiren. Body segments and discarded armour littered the place. Walls in the distance were charred with flame damage. One of the Dragoons had descended into shock, and was huddling shivering against a wall; blood was splashed against pale stonework behind him.
There were several injuries to his soldiers, but the rest of his team had survived. The lighter wounds were already beginning to heal before his eyes and the medics could soon see to the others. Every one of them should be ready to fight again soon. He eyed sadly the remains of four of the black horses, then gave the orders for them to be added to the nearest funeral pyre.
In the uncanny silence, a battle line had been redrawn. The mission considered a success, the Night Guard withdrew back into the city.
*
Evening arrived, and the battle front had held firm exactly where hilite troop had left. Brynd’s eyes reflected the flames of a funeral pyrs he watched it carry the soul of Brox to the heavens. One of hiegiment had just informed him that the mood of the city had beeifted, that people were now feeling optimistic.
Brynd wasn’t so confident himself, but now decided the enemy were not totally alien; he had raised hopes of perhaps negotiating with them. Prisoners would need to be taken from their ranks, and somehow used as bait for opening channels of communication.
Still, neither side seemed to engage in activity during the night, which was fine with Brynd because they certainly wouldn’t be able to defend the city efficiently in darkness.
After retreating