Serial
23: Walled-off wolf
December,
18th 32 S.D. 13:38 Lake Lada, Central Plains
The soldiers of Sventa’s second division marched out into the fresh snowfield to meet their enemy. Though their souls were not without apprehension, they still imagined themselves as having the advantage. After all, they had rifles that proved lethal, accurate, and remained a relatively unknown factor to their foes. However, they had gravely underestimated how well their opponents could adapt even after a single loss. As they would soon learn too, they had overrated their own tactics.
Hundreds of Henron soldiers slowly approached, each bearing the heavy likes of an Agnan Wall. With the snow and the weight of the shields themselves, the advance units of Vitna’s forces crawled along. Though there was little haste in this push, the Core Lead saw no reason to hurry. They would encounter Sventa soon enough. When line-of-sight between the two armies was established, Vitna’s lagging pace would in fact serve a purpose. As Sventa opened fire with long-range salvos, their bullets bounced off harmlessly in front of his shields. Some of them halted, temporarily jilted by the impact, but none fell. Vitna knew, however, that Sventa’s ammunition, round-ball or not, could hardly last forever. The slower he arrived, the more rounds Sventa wasted, and so much the better he could upend them when it came time to charge their positions. For a good ten minutes, Sventa kept firing until at last they realized they were simply wasting shots. In that time, Vitna’s shields had been able to shrink their distance to Sventa’s frontline to a mere 105 meters.
Although the land here was free of any incline or slope, Vitna managed to see above the many lines of his troops using a sort of portable periscope. With this device, he observed the happenings of the battle with ease. As they closed in to some 90 meters, he saw the panic and discord that now affected Sventa. Sharpshoots, dug into the snow, popped up as they warily retreated slightly. Spears and swords rounded themselves up presumably in an attempt to stand their ground, but their numbers were slim, spread, and scattered. A cannon or two sat motionless far behind the main forces as several soldiers ran about it, pushing it from all ends; the wheels were caught in the thick snow, preventing them from coming into range. Henron had yet to attack, and already Vitna could sense the way everything would turn out. Circumstances as they were nearly handed him the enemy’s defeat. All he had to do was order a single attack, and the rest of this engagement would play in his favor.
The shields had come to the battlefield in roughly square-shaped formations, shoulder-to-shoulder, row upon row, but by his command, they began to spread out, sliding to the side past one another. Before they were highly condensed, but now they were more or less 500 soldiers wide for each of the three lines they formed. These lines separated from each other as Henron’s own swords and spears tailed closely behind. Vitna wanted to attack with three distinct contingents: two from the sides, and one from the front. Despite the deliberate rate at which they moved, they managed to flank Sventa’s second division to the left and to the right. Occasional potshots zipped across the air but ultimately harmlessly pinged against the formidable Agnan Walls.
With these pieces finally standing in place, Vitna thus saw it fit to unleash their assault. While Govan had come up with the idea to use these hulking shields, Vitna had worked out the details for an effective pincer attack. Following a swift gesture of his arm, he bellowed out to his soldiers, his sudden exclamation breaking the silence that Henron had maintained all the while. Seconds later, a horn sounded loudly, echoing across the plains, and in its wake others like it sung. All at once a massive cry arose, the collective shouts of so many thousands of combatants. Seeping around the sturdy Agnan Walls, leagues of armed soldiers rushed forward, stampeding towards Sventa with wild abandon. Pouring out one after the next, Henron’s forces streamed into battle, their weapons ready and their armor fastened.
Sventa had anticipated the maneuver, but that did not mean they could stave off the incoming blitz. Though their sharpshoots now had viable targets, they simply had too many heading upon them from every direction. They fired and felled a great number of foes, yet they could scarcely stem the masses that soon threatened to swarm them all. As his forces commenced their attack on Sventa, Vitna tossed the periscope aside and even went so far as to step in front of his shields. He had no reason to fear Sventa’s bullets, not anymore. How ironic that the sharpshoots themselves would become the easiest targets to pick off.
A thunderous clap burst beside Losha’s ear, a roar that deafened her side temporarily. She frowned deeply at the ringing pain that followed and at the burning musk of powder that filled the air. She knew, however, that such discomforts were part of the gruesome ordeal of war. Faima lifted up her rifle and issued another shot as she swore aloud.
“F**k!” she cried in Gandian as she reached down and started reloading.
“Lenol, Timal! Do not stop firing!” Tami called out, tossing another squad member an extra revolver.
“Close it up people! There, aim there!” Yega shouted to two other swords as they raced up front to defend their vulnerable sharpshoots. “Dansha, Pelme, stick with me. Close ranks and we will defend our squad until...”
Yega’s words were interrupted by a sudden series of screams, the shrill sounds of death. They all turned around to find that several of their positions to the left had been overrun. Two of their swords engaged some ten approaching Henron soldiers; their blades clashed with the clangs of metal violence. Several sharpshoots strafed about three of the enemy soldiers, but in short order Henron outnumbered the two melee fighters. They were kicked down and promptly impaled upon the ground. With no defense from enemy steel nor time to reload, the sharpshoots were left with little recourse. They turned to flee, yet their hasty opponents caught up to them in seconds. Two were slashed across the back as they fell to the ground; they were later stamped to death. The remaining sharpshoot, in utter desperation, pulled out a large combat knife. He was simultaneously stuck by no less than three swords and a spear, though he managed to smash the knife into the helmet of one of them, killing that soldier. Losha and the others, however, had just witnessed the slaughter of what had once been a squad. Furthermore, they themselves were now exposed to the enemy as reinforcements for the Henron continually appeared.
“Over there!” Bulmon yelled, pointing his revolver at some 20-odd soldiers. “There!” he shouted once more, firing off a shot and bringing down but one of many. A volley of five shots slammed into the approaching threat, but even as their squad released a concentrated counter-attack, their actions could little deter the horde ahead. Having discharged her latest bullet, Faima found herself with scant time to reload yet again.
“F**k it!” she swore, throwing the gun away as she reached behind her back and pulled out a revolver. She turned over and saw Lenol frantically wrestling with her own rifle. As she flipped and twitched the weapon in her hands, she frowned while her glasses gradually began to slide off.
“S-shrieks... It is... ugh, jammed...” she said with a tight mouth; her words sounded fragile, fit to break.
“D****t, d****t, d****t, d****t!” Faima said, rushing to the girl’s side. “Get back!” she barked, shoving Lenol further away from the Henron soldiers.
Only a measly 30 meters divided them and the enemy, and at full-tilt, the opposing infantry would close that gap in seconds. Faima took the gun in both hands as she aimed its barrel sharply at its targets. Whether she were merely gritting her teeth or bearing her fangs, she knew not. She could only feel herself being drawn into a burning intensity as she pulled the trigger. Heat, white-hot, a sudden-flash: the shots blurred into one indistinct explosion. Faima didn’t snap out of it until all six shots had been fired. She’d only dropped four enemies, and a great many times more than that dashed forward.
“F**k me...” Faima said; her words were hushed by the storm that billowed all around her. Her hands fumbled aimlessly, searching for something, anything with which to fight.
The world had little place for ideals. Having been born to such turbulent and troubled lands, perhaps I should have known that by then. I should have realized that the world wanted nothing more than to crush its individuals. Our reality as humans was that we were simply not peaceful creatures. We were too prone to faults, and indeed we even relished in our own imperfections at times. A pessimistic truth, maybe, but a fair one. From any angle I looked at things, I kept coming to the same conclusion that my hopes had been all too short-sighted.
I had dreamed of a world without all the bitter rivalries that marred the Central Plains, a Continent upon which bloodshed was banned. I would have believed that my intentions were formed as a response to the circumstances before me, that I was revolted by the constant malice and murder that filled my homeland. Yet how much of it was my own impetuous and impatient nature? How might a single girl reshape centuries of brutal culture? A more serious mind than mine would have scoffed at the very notion.
There was I, caught in the grips of warfare. How little I knew about the world I had hoped to change. I had never seen the true sights of combat, how people actually slayed one another on such massive displays. Not even my highest levels of imagination could fancy the scenes that unfolded before me. Men and women, torn apart by indiscriminate blades, lied scattered across my vision. Their bodies etched crimson streaks upon an otherwise untainted, idyllic snowscape. Panic and fear and rage swelled up into the air as words of death and distress. The enemy swooped in, their figures not unlike demons, come to exact a swift and senseless justice that was homicide by any other name or reckoning. And yet we were just as cruel, slashing and stabbing the wounded.
My breath escaped me coldly. Hands that once felt able now failed in paralysis. My legs moved but wanderingly so. All the while a great pressure fell upon me, as if my existence were being compressed. I had scarcely dreamed this was such the world we lived in. Could I alone change it? For a moment? In any regard at all? I was foolish, naive to think that it would not have at least been traumatic, overwhelming. I knew it was no easy task, but I had not prepared myself for how horrific an undertaking it would become. I was still a child.
However, though I was ill-informed about all the atrocities of life, I was not completely ignorant. I knew that I was a competent girl who understood her soul even as the madness of battle remained incomprehensible. I knew that unless I acted then and there, countless lives - Sventa, Henron, and my own - were forfeit. I knew that in me resided great power of untested lengths. Yet most importantly, I knew that things could not simply change; they had to. Though I suffered great doubts about my actions, about how divergent my aspirations were from actuality, I eventually told myself such matters could not be helped. I was merely a very principled person. My goals were lofty, and the world was lowly. Even so, I believed I had a key so many others could hardly claim: serialization.
Henron soldiers ran nigh upon their squad. Meter by meter, the enemy closed upon their ranks. They could not retreat, and even if they chose to flee, their enemies would catch them shortly. Reinforcements were unlikely to come to their aid, for the entire division was fighting the same battle, and everyone essentially remained cornered. A sick, pale feeling slipped into their minds, the realization that they were all not merely in a bad way but the worst of ways.
Lenol still wrapped her hands around and about her gun; her fingers frenzied relentlessly over the weapon. Yet, her efforts were to no avail. The gun would not fire. Tears of frustration welled up in her eyes, further blinding her as her glasses increasingly became unhinged. In her preoccupation and inability to see, Lenol failed to realize that she was in immediate danger until Faima’s desperate shouts reached her ears. The girl looked up only to find an indistinct mass towering over her. Though its image in her vision appeared ghostly and unclear, the soldier’s presence was utterly unmistakable.
He raised his arm up and reared his sword high into the air. Lenol saw the moment the blade hung above her, the very instant before it was to crash upon her flesh. Her mouth fell open as if to cry out, yet only silence fell forth. She sunk to her knees almost instantly. Though her eyes were wide open, she blacked out. She did not faint; she simply shut down. To her though, she could not distinguish this sudden absence of mind from death. Had she died? If so, it had been quicker than she’d thought it would be. Painless too, without memory. Yet on that day, Lenol’s life was not consumed by the war; rather it was saved by one who opposed the killings that had for too long plagued her home at large.
Before the Henron soldier could attack Lenol, before his stroke could come smashing down, he was all at once torn away from the spot. As if a large, unseen force had rammed him to the side, he flew some meters across before tumbling about several times. At the end of his flight, he rolled over once, battered and unconscious. Both of his arms were evidently broken. Hardly a meter beside Lenol, Losha appeared, one hand gripping her sword while the other was raised. A blue light emanated around her palm and fingers. She hadn’t meant to repel the soldier so viciously, however, it was the first time in her life that she’d ever used the art offensively. Losha still did not properly grasp the amount of seras she needed to use. Her attentions, however, could not linger long upon the first of foes she’d vanquished, for where even one fell, hundreds more stood in their place.
She turned to the coming onslaught of soldiers, some 30-odd Henron warriors. They were roughly a force of two squads to her meager one, and they were just about to leap upon Yega and the other handful of swords in the unit. Though the motions were technically unnecessary, they stimulated her concentration. She whipped her arm across the air as if swiping the enemy’s lot from a distance. Near instantly, a heavy wave of kinetic energy bashed into the charging fighters; its disruptive power could be traced by the snow it cut through and splashed before impact. Again, since she could only estimate how much seras was required for combat, Losha erred on the safe side and applied more than she actually needed.
The results were harsh upon Henron. Their armor was rent and ripped by the force, either caving in or shearing away. A great crunch of metal and bone and body sounded off as no less than 20 of them were launched backwards in an instant. Those who had hung back managed somehow to stand, but only barely. They quaked and reeled as their legs almost quit altogether. While they hadn’t been disposed by Losha’s attack, they were at least stilled. They nonetheless remained a threat to contend with, thus Losha propelled herself at them.
With her blade drawn and readied, she dashed forward past her comrades. Her squad stood almost frozen, trying to understand why the enemy had suddenly been blown away. It were as if their foes had been hit by an invisible cannonball or mowed over by a phantom wagon. Yet then there was Losha before them, performing the works of an art too arcane for them to even begin to fathom.
She ran up to a swooning soldier and pulled her sword back in both hands behind her shoulders and head. She attempted a more targeted series this time. A thin veil of kinetic energy encircled her blade, imperceptible to the eye, but ever there regardless. Upon sufficient contact with another force, the series was rigged to detonate in the direction of the sword’s point. Essentially, a blast of pure force would directly follow every strike she made. The strength of even a single blow was magnified dozens of times. The soldier in front of Losha, the one she intended to attack first, noticed her approach. Despite her wooziness, the woman looked as if she might yet take on the serialist. Losha, however, was too fast. She swept her sword across, hitting the shield of her opponent. The shield itself crushed instantly; the female soldier, along with another Henron, was mercilessly thrown back.
Losha did not slow here, however. She stood in the midst of at least ten other enemies. Though they themselves had just barely recovered, they had already set their sights on her and launched forward. Her series yet dispatched them within two swings. Her attacks didn’t even hit them; she simply struck the ground before them. Snow and earth erupted as if a bomb had blown. The concussive energy snatched them from their feet and maimed their bodies with various wounds. Though the likes of torn ligaments, battered ribs, and gaping gashes were hardly life-ending, the damage Losha inflicted was by no means small. As far as this battle was concerned, they were decidedly debilitating.
She realized that she hadn’t completely taken care of one nearby Henron soldier. Though he was on his hands and knees, he still held a menacingly long spear. He moved to attack, thrusting his weapon at her side. Losha anticipated this, fortunately, and countered accordingly. With a precise and pointed series, she exerted a great amount of kinetic energy upon the spear’s shaft, snapping it in two. The tip fell harmlessly to the ground as the soldier was left holding a useless pole. Quickly, she stepped up to the soldier and kicked him; a blue spark appeared beneath her boot as it made contact. The same series that allowed her to jump great distances also served to jettison her foe away.
As the last of them sailed across the ground, the Henron soldiers nearby had all been subdued. This gave Losha and her squad a moment of respite, though with only a fraction of the total opposition neutralized, that time would be brief. She stood there panting, her limbs trembling ever so slightly. Her hands would not stop shaking, even as she tightened their grip around the sword. Her body, flush and warm, contrasted sharply with the winter coldness enveloping the battlefield. Her heart worked as if driven by a fever. The sheer rush, the daze of adrenaline stupefied her for a passing moment before she regained herself. Losha turned to Lenol and helped her stand upright. Only then did the girl return from her catatonic state as she pushed her glasses back properly.
The other members stared at her; their bodies seized. She could not tell if they were simply amazed at the fact that they’d been spared from the enemy or the fact that Losha had saved them seemingly by supernatural means. Losha, however, frowned as she turned to them all.
“Sharpshoots, take hold of their weapons. You will need them,” Losha said, pointing the fallen Henron meters away. “Swords, guard our flanks and stay behind me. We need to move out.”
She spied another squad struggling against a superior number of Henron. They needed assistance, quickly. For a second, no one reacted, but shortly thereafter they stepped to action, ignoring the fact that she’d assumed leadership over them. As they mobilized, Losha turned back, heading up the counter-attack. Though her debut had been successful, it was but a start to a long and arduous road.
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