Chapter Two: First Blood

 Sergeant Minor’s head rolled from his body. Drussus screamed in the darkness and Francisco del Torres rammed an armored elbow into his face to silence him. Emergency red lights flickered on and Bleak ordered: “Cioran, you’re sitting on the manual controls. Open the rear door.”

            “What happened?” asked Cioran, hammering his fist onto the release of his security belt.

            Bleak struggled out of his seat before answering him. “The air brakes didn’t kick in. We slammed into the planet at full speed and the force broke a supporting beam that severed the Sergeant’s head right at the point where his neck emerged from the chest plate.”

            The other men, shaking off the effects of the crash, began to stir and free themselves from their restraints, as Cioran lifted his seat and manipulated the rear hatch’s manual controls. The Heinkel buried deeply in the rich black loam of the planet prevented his opening a side hatch. But the tail of the plane projected upward at a forty-five-degree angle from the planet’s surface; so, after several minutes of wrestling with the manual controls, he freed enough space to squeeze through and fall to the ground.

            Bleak was the last one to leave the ship. As he climbed over twisted metal, he switched off the auxiliary power and the emergency lights dimmed and disappeared.

The squad stood in darkness. Corbeau pointed at the dense cloud cover overhead and Axel Weise said, “I just felt a drop of rain.” Then, the clouds opened and rain poured down on them. The squad pulled on their camouflaged ponchos and gathered up their equipment into a pile and covered it with two shelter halves.

            As he worked, Raben felt Drussus moving away from the squad but before he could investigate, Bleak said, “Raben, go into the ship and strip the sergeant of all his equipment, then wrap him in his poncho and bury him.” He handed him a shovel with a folded metal shaft. Raben, a bit unnerved by the gruesome assignment Bleak just handed him, shrugged out of his pack and placed it and his rifle under his shelter half and climbed, with the help of Weise, into the blood-drenched transport.

The sweet smell of the Sergeant’s blood filled his nostrils, as he worked his way to the body. He could not sense the Sergeant’s aura but he did discern flecks of green light on the corpse; bacteria was already growing and ingesting the dead flesh. Suddenly he knew what troubled him about Drussus; he was carrying some sort of contagion akin to the growing flecks of living decay on the Sergeant’s body. Reminded of Drussus, he opened his mind, but he could not sense him; he was gone.

            He stripped the Sergeant’s body like Bleak ordered and hauled his equipment outside to the cache. Bleak told the men to take what they wanted.

            The rain stopped just as the sun appeared on the horizon. Raben climbed out of the shallow grave he had dug on the side of the Heinkel glider, stretched and gazed at the sun, as he waited for Doc to remove Minor’s synthetic armor and fatigues. Then he signaled he was ready and Raben helped him place the Sergeant’s body and head into the makeshift grave. The men gathered and Doc said a few words over the body, as Raben covered it with dirt.

            They had crashed onto Hawthorne’s Ridge, a slight bump that stretched 2500 kilometers to the northeast, all the way to the gates of Forlorn, General Stravitsky’s headquarters and center of the rebellion against the Kaiser’s rule on Camarones.
            Finished with the burial, Raben surveyed the scene. They had crashed on a prairie of waist-high yellow grass that undulated from the force of a northerly wind. To the east, two Camaronian dragons the size of draught horses flew languidly unaware of the downed glider. The men  seemed to be alone, undetected by the rebel forces.

            Raben joined the squad sitting in a tight circle eating iron rations. Most of them looked exhausted.  An hour on the ground and they were shell-shocked, dirty and wet.  Bleak handed Raben a black bar of chewable ration, as he dropped down between the Corporal and Cioran.            Del Torres turned to him and said, “Your buddy Drussus bugged out.”

            Raben cut his eyes sharply at the man and said, “He’s no friend of mine.” And del Torres winked, knowing his jibe hit its mark. Bleak muttered with his mouth full, “If you see him, kill him. Now eat up and let’s get going.” He stood and pulled out his data plate and made some entries before saying, “Raben, come here.”

            Raben crammed the last of the iron ration into his mouth and jumped up.

            The corporal showed him the screen. “I have worked out the route to the Attis Chapel. Memorize it. You are to take point. I want you two to three kilometers ahead of us. If you see anything, you warn me on this frequency. It is new because we have a renegade deserter out there who will probably fall into enemy hands. You got it?”

            Raben nodded.

            “Take the sergeant’s machine pistol and all the ammo you can carry. Do not turn back to us; no matter what happens, push as hard as you can to the Chapel. Once you get there let me know.”

            Raben walked to the cache of ammunition and supplies and dropped all of his personal items onto the ground to make room for more ammo.  He stuffed his large fatigue pockets with grenades, anti-personnel mines, and clips of ammo. When he had finished, he swung his sniper rifle over his shoulder and onto his back and picked up the Sergeant’s machine pistol. The Sergeant, like most of the Black Robes and their auxiliary marine units, after they had their weapons blessed by the priests, considered their weapons sacred. Raben didn’t buy it but in a symbolic act of faith and honor, he bowed down on one knee and pledged an oath to God that he would respect the Sergeant’s gun.

            Raben passed Cioran, who puffed on his cigar and gave him a thumb up, while the rest of the squad ignored him. He then double-timed it away from the squad, heading east. Marine training had hardened his body and increased his stamina and he could run at this pace all day. He needed, however, to maintain silence and stealth, so he stopped after an hour and cut several handfuls of the tall yellow grass and wove the strands into his poncho. From here on out, he would walk rather than run; he was way out ahead of the patrol and that was what he was ordered to do.  He didn’t need to run anymore. He ate another iron ration bar and drank a few swigs of water from his canteen before he renewed his march. Before setting off, he scanned the horizon. Grasses undulated with the northerly wind and a Camaronian dragon flew just above the grass, searching for prey.

            Raben stowed his canteen and folded up the iron ration package and stuffed it into a hip pocket. He stooped, leaning forward so he didn’t stand too high above the tips of the yellow grass, and started off at a slower pace than before, turning his head back and forth, keeping the dragon in sight.

            At noon he stopped in a hardwood copse and took another drink, activated the micro-cell, and called Bleak, who immediately answered.

            “The path is clear, Squad Leader, over.”

            “The auspex shows you off course by ten degrees, over. Please adjust south.”

            “Roger that, Squad Leader,”  he answered, made the adjustment and set off.

            The drop zone had consisted of rolling hills, high grass, and no trees. The terrain now flattened and turned downwards at a steady but measured decline. He suspected he would soon reach water and he remembered from the maps that a substantial stream or river ran between the drop zone and Attis Chapel.

            It rained again in the afternoon. The rain fell so fast he could not see more than a meter or two and the yellow grasses bent under the rushing onslaught. His head down, he pushed onward, slogging through the deepening black mud that encrusted and weighed down his jump boots. Near dusk he reached the steep banks of a rushing river and he realized immediately he would not be able to cross here even if it were not flooded. He opened his mind to discern a way across and received a strong impression that a ford existed to the south. He set off through the rain at a trot and after several hours, he could no longer see well enough to continue. He pressed his micro-cell to alert Bleak he was stopping for the night but for some reason he received only static. He found two large hardwoods growing close to the river. They emerged from the same root system and created a dry niche between their trunks where he inserted himself. He pulled the hood of his poncho over his eyes, placed the machine pistol in his lap, and crossed his arms. Even though his stomach rumbled, he fell asleep immediately.

            He woke at dawn. The rain had stopped sometime in the night but the river was high. Once again he opened his mind and received a strong impression that a ford was near. He climbed out of his nook, scratched the thick stubble on his face, and set off. As the sun rose, illuminating the steppes, he reached the ford. Thousands of horse tracks marked the black mud of a trail that crossed the river. He bent down, examined the tracks and fresh droppings and concluded a large mounted contingency heading west had just passed.  He surveyed the area and, not seeing anyone, waded across the muddy, turgid waters, holding his weapons high above his head. The waters reached his throat twice and he almost slipped but he finally reached the other side and then ran toward the north.

After thirty minutes, he tried Bleak again and on his third try he succeeded.

“Enemy cavalry is headed your way. I estimate regiment size, at least.”

“Do you have an ETA?”

“They passed me about an hour ago.”

“Damn, they must be near.”

“They are traveling far to the south of you. I had to follow the river south to find a ford.”

“Maybe they will bypass us, over.”

“Good luck, Squad Leader.”

At mid-day Raben crossed a ridge and confronted a pyramid-shaped hill emerging out of the steppes. A bone white chapel surrounded by a rock wall dominated the hill’s summit and he dug out his binoculars for a better look. Yellow grass covered the hill and a black dirt road began at the western base and gradually wound upwards around the circumference. On the northern side, almost level with the broad gate, was a moat and a wooden bridge spanning the crevice. The stone walls were seven or eight meters tall with a square crenellated tower, squatting on each corner. The rear of the white Chapel made up the south wall, while its entrance faced north onto a main bailey. The Chapel roof was a large copper dome, which had turned green over the ages.

There was only one way up the hill and one entrance to the Chapel. A small force, he concluded, could prevent a large force from entering the Chapel, if they blew the bridge. Of course, there would not be any escape on foot for the defenders.  Finished with his examination, he tried Bleak but failed to reach him. He scratched his chin and then stowed away the glasses. He set off across the steppes, heading toward the black road. Large grasshoppers sprang from the yellow grass and glided several meters in front of him and a cool breeze whistled through the grasses.

A road began on the west side. Before he reached it, a crimson lizard, a meter long, with a scarlet crest, flicked a forked tongue at him. He kicked toward the beast, which opened its mouth wide to show him several rows of razor-like teeth. He backed up and waited, his machine-pistol pointed at its head. He held fire and, finally, with a wave of its thick tail it moved off into the grass.

He started up the hill scanning the horizon in each direction. There was no sign of the enemy.

As he crossed the bridge, he noted that someone had recently replaced some of the thick planking. He bent down and leaned over the side to determine the best way to blow the bridge before he approached the open gates.

            Inside the fortress, he examined the barracks that lined the sides of the walls, the storage facilities and the towers. Except for some rotting furniture and worm-eaten grain in the supply bins, the place was deserted.  He ate his iron rations under the roof of the northwestern tower; and afterwards, he tried Bleak again to no avail. The sun would soon set so he decided to wait until morning to investigate the Chapel, whose heavy wooden doors were shut.

            At dusk, splendid copper rays radiated off the Chapel’s dome and four winged-reapers, birds similar to buzzards, landed on the battlements of the southeast tower. He climbed up steps that led to the firing steps on the wall adjacent to the Chapel to get a better view. As he climbed, he caught a glint of light in the west. He pulled out his binoculars, thinking it might be Bleak and his unit; instead, he saw a dust cloud with a familiar smudge of green corruption emanating from it. He knew Drussus rode with them, whoever they were.

            He could not estimate their time of arrival but he felt it would be soon; therefore, he could not rest before he prepared his defenses. He emptied his pockets onto the stone floor and counted his mines, grenades, and explosives. He then repacked his supplies into his pack and hurried away from the chapel, through the gate, across the bridge, to the road.  He buried the first anti-personnel mine fifty meters from the bridge. He spread out the rest from the first mine to the bridge’s lip.

            Later, after sunset, he stood in the center of the bridge and yawned, as a thin thread of silver moon rose. He shook himself and then continued with his work. He fastened plastic explosives at the four corners of the bridge and stretched two trip wires: one in the center and a second, three quarters across, as a safeguard if the enemy somehow missed the first.

            When he finished, he leaned against the northern wall and drank several swallows of water and ate half of an iron ration. The moon now overhead illuminated the steppes. Using the binoculars, he could see campfires maybe three kilometers west of the hill. Imagining roasting meat, his mouth watered.

            Finished with his break, he entered the compound and pushed the massive iron doors shut. He wrestled four iron cross bars into place to lock it and then wired the doors with his remaining explosives. He buried his last four anti-personnel mines around the entrance to the northwest tower as a final defense, then climbed the stone steps of the tower to the roof, where he wrapped himself in his poncho and fell into a dreamless sleep.

Waking with the sun, he peered over the side of the crenellated wall and saw gray smoke rising from the steppes about three kilometers to the northwest. He decided to eat before checking the chapel.

Later, he pried open the chapel’s great wooden doors, entered, and walked across slabs of white slate. There were no chairs, no pews, and no statuary.  A single stained glass window, situated several meters above the floor, shone with morning light. Embedded in its colorful panes was a gigantic one-eyed creature with webbed feet and hands battling hundreds of tiny marines led by a Priest in bone white armor and wielding a massive two-handed sword. A massive square stone dominated the center of a nave at the far end of the Chapel and Raben guessed it was an altar; however, as he approached it, he realized that each side was covered with marks, signs, pictographs, glyphs, and runes. He examined the figures engraved on the side facing the back wall and recognized them as ancient Lingua. His father had been a scholar and he remembered books written in the same script in their rooms before his mother’s abandonment of them, his father’s death, and his fall into the slums of La Ciudad. The other inscriptions were in languages he had never seen or heard. He mouthed some of the Lingua words he recognized: lapis philosophorum, but he did not understand their meaning or significance. Suddenly, however, he felt Drussus’ presence and he turned and rushed from the Chapel to the northeast tower, the one hat overlooked the moat and bridge. He climbed its stairs, three at a time, until he reached the flat roof, which he crawled across and peered over the edge. Enemy cavalry galloped up the black road toward the Chapel in columns of four. They rode with their power lances raised and their banners snapping in the wind. He estimated their number at two thousand. He checked his sniper rifle, opened a box of ammunition, and slipped a round into the chamber then set the gun to the side. He picked up the Sergeant’s machine pistol and inserted a long magazine, containing thirty rounds, and laid it next to the sniper rifle. Then he sat with his back against the white stone and waited. Soon, he sensed, for the first time an enemy psychic, someone with powers like his, probing the walls, seeking his location. The man’s aura was not diseased like Drussus, but Raben felt his experience and his confidence, as he led the column up the black dirt road. He picked up the sniper rife and checked the scope, released the safety, and lifted it to his right shoulder. The wind died down and a moth fluttered languidly by as he rose, stepped up onto the firing step, and aimed at the psychic that foolishly rode at the head of the column. He rested his left elbow on the cool stone of the embrasure, centering the crosshairs on the man’s shaved skull and pulled the trigger.

The psychic’s head exploded in a burst of red and pinks and Raben felt the man’s spirit whoosh past his ears like a banshee’s scream. He yanked the bolt of his rifle and ejected the shell. He reached for another round and then aimed at an officer at the head of the column, whose horse reared from the turmoil and the panic of the men and the whining cry of the dying psychic. Raben adjusted his aim for a second time and fired. The man fell backwards out of the saddle and onto the road. As he reached for a third round, he felt Drussus fleeing down the hill and he found him with his sight, the cross hairs centered on his spine. He felt the recoil of the rifle and then sensed the green corruption flame up into a searing verdant burst of energy. He had missed. Somehow, Drussus had deflected the bullet with his mind.

He wiped his brow and squatted down and rested his back against the wall of the tower. Amid the screams and shouting on the hill, he imagined a giant black pyramid rising out of the yellow steppes. He rose and fired again. Then he saw in his mind’s eye the ages passing as the pyramid’s sharp outlines faded. Anti-personnel mines exploded, wrenching him back to the present. Gutted horses spilled lifeless riders onto the hill. A squad of cavalry had charged across the bridge and tripped the wire. The bridge blew and debris and bodies filled the air and then fell into the crevice.

Raben raised the Sergeant’s pistol and sprayed the column. The bullets ripped into flesh, downing ten men and twelve horses. A bugle sounded, as he ejected the spent magazine and inserted another one. He switched the pistol for his rifle and took aim. The slug struck the bugler’s left eye and ripped away the right side of his face and the cavalry pulled back. He sat and wiped sweat from his face. He took a sip of water from his canteenand then tried the micro-cell.  There was no answer and he wondered if the enemy cavalry had caught the squad out in the open on the steppes.  He counted his ammunition and knew he could not afford to waste anymore. At thirty rounds a burst he would soon use up his ammo.

He remembered his orders. He would hold until relieved.

A Camaronian dragon circled high above the Chapel. Its nostrils widened at the smell of blood and it screeched a cry into the air, calling its kin.

As the cavalry regrouped at the bottom of the hill, he fingered his rifle and said his first prayer, not to God but to the sergeant and to his gun. Suddenly, he understood his kinship to the squad. It was the first time, since they pulled him kicking and screaming from the slums of La Ciudad’s lower levels that he felt he belonged to the marines. It was a feeling steeped in order, a feeling he could embrace.

He said out loud, “I will hold until relieved or die in the attempt, just as the chaplain preached and the major ordered.” He smiled ruefully at the sky that was now crowded with screeching dragons, circling above the carnage on the hill. They reminded him of the marines struggling against the monster in the stained glass windows of the Attis Chapel.

As he waited for the next attack, he traced his fate lines, spreading and splitting before him. In response to his vision, he pulled his serrated knife from his jump boot and placed it next to the sergeant’s machine pistol. “When the bullets are spent,” he thought, “I will need this knife.”