Eivaley wasted no time in putting Rokoyu’s forces to work. She immediately had him and any of his platoon commanders brought onto their secure communications network, letting her truly take charge of the empire in their eyes.
In a barrage of orders, Eivaley issued them tasking and ensured that there was no doubt what they were doing and why. Her primary goal for the veteran forces was to have them go throughout the palace, securing sections of it, rally with the isolated pockets of the royal guard, and, above all else, keep the civilians safe.
The veterans under the self-imposed banner of Eivaley's guard took to their orders with unbridled enthusiasm. Their officers rallied troops, communicated decisive orders as they split the palace amidst one another, and pinpointed the royal guard based on Eivaley's instructions.
Before Conor realized it, all the troops had flowed like water throughout the grounds, leaving only Cur’sh, Vitul, Rokoyu, and Peekal in her mech in the palace's main foyer.
Rokoyu remained because he was not needed by the platoons spreading around the grounds; their leaders could handle anything that came their way. So, he volunteered himself as an additional gun for the Conors team. Something Conor had no issues with; the man was trained and would be helpful to have around.
Peekala, on the other hand, had nowhere else to go after her sister's mech was destroyed. Typically, scouting mechs like hers worked in pairs, each supporting the other with fire and maneuvering.
She could have tagged along with any of the other soldiers spreading about the palace, but she flat-out told Conor to fuck off when he suggested she should go with them.
The flat-out denial gave Conor a bit of pause. Not because he had drank the Kool-Aid and believed himself to be better. No, it just was that there was nothing quite like having a four-meter-tall mech covered in blood with a steaming chain gun tell you to shove your idea where the sun does not shine.
Peekala did at least have the courtesy of opening the mech's cockpit and looking him in the eyes when she told him to pound sand. Conor was not sure what he was expecting, but it certainly was not a woman who walked straight off a swimsuit modeling show.
Peekala’s scales were as yellow as sunlight; they glittered in the flickering light of the consols before her. Her taught tomboy build festooned in nothing but a sports bra and panties in no way matched the deadly look in Peekala’s eyes.
She was a true blue dealer of death. If Conor had not watched her fight like an unchained monster just a few minutes earlier, that look of fire in her eyes would have communicated it. She practically radiated a confident control of violence.
She was a dime piece; any man would have fought for the right to have her take you on a date because you certainly were not going to take her out on the town.
Conor could see ninety percent of the royal guard crawling through fifty kilometers of desert just to lick the sweat from her abs. By Urla, if Conor did not love Eivaley until his dying breath, Peekala would be a solid number two contender for the best-looking woman he had ever known.
Once the matter of her going along with them was settled, they set out with a very clear destination. They were going to work their way through the palace and head straight to the throne room because they, at long last, had a pinpoint on Therilay.
Conor had already assumed that Therilay would be holed up in the throne room; now, it was confirmed. The maid who arrived at the bunker told Eivaley this intel and also informed her of several others who were there: the empress, Vuraley, and shockingly enough, Lord Herella of all people.
Hearing that uptight fucks name pissed Conor off, reminding him well and good about the rotten attitude that was pervasive in the nobility. Thank Urla, he was here. Conor would kill Herella, enemy or not. People die by mistake all the time in warzones; Conor might just have to organize such a tragedy into happening----or just shoot him in the face and lie to everyone. No one would make a fuss about the pompous ass no longer being on the mortal coil if Conor did kill him.
With quick, decisive action, Conor organized their small unit, which was now operating as essentially dismounted infantry. Conor would be paired with Vitul, while Cur'sh and Rokoyu would be paired together. Leaving Peekala as a lone element able to direct them and ensure they were given the base of fire they needed.
Considering they now had a mech working with them, they would center their tactics around the fire support it offered. The only downside to having Peekala come along was that they would be significantly slower. Her mech could only move through about half of the halls in the palace, so they would reach the throne in a roundabout way.
Their movement to the throne went as well as it possibly could have. Conor and the rest of the dismounted troops had to dust a few shooters that Peekala could not engage due to the close confines of the hallways. In return, she dominated reinforced positions with her chaingun, rockets, and smoke canisters, letting the infantry mop up once they were close to the target.
It was going too well. There was no way the enemy was truly this disorganized. They had only encountered small pockets of resistance, with only a dozen troops at each location. That was until they reached one of the final passages leading to the throne room.
There, Therilay had removed all the stops and reinforced them as if she were protecting all the diamonds in the universe.
Gun positions were between each column, and energy shields protected each soldier's position. From the brief glance, Conor got before having to retreat from hellish gunfire, he saw at least five machine guns set up and nearly fifty troopers on the ground. Additionally, he spotted at least a dozen troops on the rooftops.Conor easily saw them because his target tracker keyed him in on the movement, and a new dawn would soon rise. That made seeing the shifting shadows against the oranging sky easy.
“Well, this is going to be fun,” Conor said over the team's net. He did this because Peekala’s external microphone was damaged in an earlier ambush, meaning she could not hear them without the radio.
She could still speak without the radio and tended to still use the booming speakers of the mech to communicate. That she could make thunderous declarations still was her joy; how would these wastes of life know their end was near if she did not tell them? It wasn't like she was in a ten-ton mech and had a chain gun that blasted hate at 500 RPM. She was just a demure lady in her mind, after all.
Before the others could respond, a rocket roared past Peekala, slamming into the wall behind her mech. Debris showered over them as a wave of force brought all but Conor and Peekala to their knees.
Conor looked over at the others, assessing their situation. Thank Urla, none of them had died. Cur’sh took a grazing bit of frag through the arm, but it was not bad enough to stop them. That cut seemed to be the group's worst injury; Vitul and Rokoyu were already back on their feet.
“You all alright?” Conor barked, trying to speak over his once again ringing ears.
“I will be fine,” Cur’sh assured, fishing a skin patch from a medical kit on his belt.
As Cur'sh was treating his wound, the others began to strategize about how to proceed, but Peekala had already started to move, ever the battle junkie.
She burst forward into the opening, grabbed hold of one of the pillars, and knocked it clean over. The world shook from hundreds of tons crashing to the deck, momentarily causing multiple soldiers on the other side to slacken their fire.
“Shoot the assholes up high,” Peekala roared over the loudspeakers.
She mounted her chaingun atop the collapsed pillar, using it similarly to how the other soldiers were sandbags. She held the trigger down, a slow melodic boom erupting from each fireball pouring from the cannon. The massive arrowhead brake on the muzzle of the weapon kicked up dust meters away from the weapon. From where the squad was, they could feel each shot in their bones, the massive overpressure vibrating every molecule of their bodies.
As soon as the chain gun roared to life and lanced across the soldiers on the ground, eviscerating a solid half of them, the groups on the upper decks made their refusal to give up this position loud and clear.
Heavy machine guns blasted out at Peekala rounds, sparking off the mechs' sleek side, but some were still embedding and blasting straight through the shielding.
Now, her mech was tough, but it was not tough enough to stand a beating like that for long. It was a scout mech, after all, not a true heavy unit. A heavy unit could tank those shots all day and keep dishing out hate in job lots. In her case, though, heavy weapons like that could knock out tanks, something her scout mech certainly was not. She would have been cut to ribbons without the pillar absorbing most of the impact.
Seeing her being lit up put Conor and the rest of the team into high gear. They split into two teams to attack the problem from both sides of the peristyle. Doing this ensured they had assistance to bind and keep Peekala from being flanked by shooters moving through the pillars.
It was good that this was their decided course of action; Cur’sh and Rokoyu immediately found a group of soldiers sneaking along the wall with a rocket, readying to knock their battle babe out of the fight for good.
They had something to say about that.
Their rifles cracked like whips as methodically controlled shots tore the missile wielder to shreds, both having thought of knocking him down first.
“Suppressing!” Rokoyu shouted, shifting targets and flicking the giggle switch on his rifle to ride the lightning setting and unloading while bracing against the wall.
At the same time, Cur’sh dove to the grit-covered ground and kept up his precise fire. He would settle his crosshair between the eyes of each target, let the world fall away, and pull the trigger. Each round found its mark, sending another enemy soldier to the endless deserts.
Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.
Cur'sh was a machine; he was the only soldier who could meet Conor's standards of precision rifle fire. At this point, he could ash a cigar at 300 meters like it was nothing. Shots like this? A moving target that was shooting back at you and only 25 meters out? He could make these shots in the dark, on no sleep, and one-handed.
At the same time, on the other side of the courtyard, Conor and Vitul were dealing with something entirely different. They were pinned down. The venomous snap of bullets arched past and chipped away at the columns he and Vitul were taking cover behind.
They tried to peak out and return fire, but after that cost Conor his rifle and a few pieces of spawling cutting over his right eye, they decided that it was best they get some assistance.
“Peekala, drop us some smoke over here,” Vitul radioed as Conor drew his magnum and ditched his plate carrier.
Conor no longer needed the heavy carrier; with his weapon destroyed, all it would do now was slow him down. And if he needed a rifle, there would be plenty lying around he could creatively liberate for his personal use.
“You got it,” Peekala replied.
Four tubes opened from the mech's shoulder, launching just as many grenades in their direction. After a dull pop, heavy black smoke began to flow out and cover the area.
Conor looked over to Vitul and nodded, communicating how he could deal with those up top. Vitul nodded, waited for the smoke to billow, and then Conor got to work.
He peaked out after activating his thermal vision to see perfectly clearly through the smoke. The other soldiers fired wildly through the concealment. Conor was not worried about being hit; his AI tracked all their weapons and informed him none would hit him.
He lined up the magnum sights, squeezed the trigger, and watched as their head exploded in blood and viscera. Conor worked meticulously from one target to the other. None of the soldiers he was dusting had any idea where he was. Some managed to fire close to him, but they were spraying wildly through the billowing smokescreen.
As Conor laid the hate, Vitul bounded past him, patting him on the shoulder. “Moving!”
“Covering!” Conor replied, shiting his sights onto another heavy machine gunner's head and blowing his brains out.
By the time Conor had either killed all the targets on the roof, or they finally grew some brains and realized he could easily see them, Vitul was at the end of the turn and launching grenade after grenade down the way. Each thrashing explosion ripped soldiers to shreds, uncaring of them or anyone in the way of their righteous path.
“Keep Pushing!” Conor ordered over the radio so everyone, even Peekala, would hear the order.
Fighting forward was their only choice. They could not afford to stay here and get stuck in. They were ambushed; all they could do was bring more fire down on the enemy, take the initiative, and out violence of action them.
Without missing a beat, everyone confirmed the order and tightened the noose around the soldiers.
Peekala vaulted over the pillar and kept shooting the entire way. Each thunderous crack of the chaingun brought down the energy shields over the machinegun positions, opening them for everyone else to cut down the now-exposed enemy.
The next forty seconds were truly a master class in escaping an ambush and a roaring lesson in why you don't fuck with the Lord of War.
Their weapons not only talked to one another, but they sang declarations of victory. Everyone shouted their reloads and kept pushing forward, not wasting any time to close the gap and bring the fight to their now-on-the-backfoot enemies.
By the time they reached the sandbags, the enemy had been nearly massacred. Only a few remained, and those were heavily wounded. Heavily wounded did not mean they were out of the fight. They had no choice but to fight to the death. If any of the rebels did surrender, they would be executed for being traitors anyway. Either way, they would die, so they made the only choice that left any of their fate in their hands.
Conor vaulted over the sandbags as Peekala lifted her fire. She was no real help in this scenario. The overpressure of her shooting her cannon would hurt her team, and with everyone joining in a mad scramble, using the coaxial machine gun was off the table; they were too close, and she likely would shoot her allies and the enemy alike.
Conor landed right next to one of the enemy soldiers and jammed the magnum into his mouth, blowing the back of his head off. Before he had a chance to turn and pick another target, one of the enemies slammed into him full force, knocking the Human to the ground.
Conor twisted on the deck, pulling the knife from his side, one he had not even realized had been stabbed and was bleeding like mad. Sure, his nanites activated, and his HUD made efforts to inform him of the wound, but he had other issues to deal with; reading that notification was far down his list of problems. Namely, the crazed soldier who kept up their attack.
Conor kicked at them, trying to keep them off, but that did not matter. They were well-trained, experienced, and capable. He tried to nut-check them, but they flowed around his legs and tried to drive their bloody blade into his neck.
The two entered a violent deadlock when Conor caught the man's wrist, the blade viscously licking at his neck; both put their full force into their will. The soldier desperately attempted to sink the blade into Conor's neck; at the same time, he pressed against their writhing scales, pressing them away.
Conor might have been stronger than any non-augment in the universe under typical circumstances, but all bets were off when adrenaline and a life-and-death scenario were tossed in. A non-augmented person could meet him with nearly the same force as when they were desperate.
By Urla, all sapientes backed into a corner would fight tooth and nail to live for even a second. Conor had lived that desperation enough times to not miss that possibility.
Conor twisted on the ground, driving a foot into the attacker's chest, kicking him back nearly a meter, the sounds of cracking ribs joining the frantic, unguided racket of a proper brawl to the end.
Most of the Kurlatra were masters of hand-to-hand; that was just what they were good at; it was something they had trained since early life. But before his violent dance partner could ever recover and bring that blade back into him, Conor drew the magnum and stitched off three quick shots into his chest.
The man collapsed to the ground not only from Conor's rounds, but Vitul had dumped a round into his head, blowing it to hell.
All was going as well as possible until Peekala shouted a warning out, “Help Cur’sh!”
Conor levered to his feat and joined Vitul to keep up the pressure, moving toward where Peekala directed them. They burst around the pillar Peekala indicated and found a horrific sight. Cur’sh was pinned down by one soldier, the man's fangs digging deep into his collar, pouring venom deep into the spasming man.
At the same time, Rokoyu was driving his rifle butt into a man's head while straddling his hips. The man screamed like a beast of hell, venom dripping from his flaring fangs. "Fucking die already!"
Conor exploded forward like a bullet without hesitation, aiming straight for the man envenoming Cur'sh. The Human coiled around the enemy's body like a viper. His arm snaked tightly around his neck and began to squeeze. At the same time, he wrenched the man off his friend, pulling him a meter away, both tumbling in the dirt before settling against a collapsing sandbag wall.
The soldier struggled and thrashed. He did all he could to try to break free from Conor's headlock. But it was no use. No matter how much he clawed, kicked, used his tail, or bucked, he stayed firmly in the Human's overpowering control.
After what only felt like a few seconds, the last sounds of their brawl echoed; a dull crunch filled Conor's chest with jubilation, knowing the feeling of vertebrae turning to dust by heart. The man's body went slack, him having joined all his ancestors in the endless desert, ready to be judged by the brood mother's kin.
By the time Conor had tossed the man away and turned his attention to Cur’sh, the man was already dead. He lay limp as Vitul held their friend and spoke softly to the corpse.
A dozen antivenom injections were in Cur'sh's chest, a meager attempt to save him. But those fangs injected venom into his heart; they were just wasted supplies.
“It’s alright, buddy. We will get you out of here,” Vitul assured, nearly sobbing.
Conor's heart clenched as he felt for the man in every way. He understood the emotions spiraling in Vitul right now more than anyone here. Sure, Rokoyu somewhat understood, as did Peekala, but it was not the same.
Vitul and Cur’sh had been friends since childhood. They lived and played side by side through their youth, adolescence, service in the army, and even the royal guard. They had never been apart. Losing Cur’sh would be like having a piece of his very soul ripped out.
As Conor approached Vitul, he roared in anger, not at the Human, but at his friend's corpse. He roared about how he could not die, how Cur’sh had a wife and kids to return to, how he was supposed to never go like this.
In a way, Conor found the display odd, not in a cruel way, but in a slight observation of what Vitul started to shout about next. He clutched Cur’sh and shouted about plans they had for the future.
It was something Conor had done with Brakul's body what felt like a lifetime ago. At the time, Conor yelled about how his brother was going to live a life of luxury away from war, families, or anything other than cheap scags and booze.Vitul on the other hand, demanded his friend wake up so they could go out hunting on some far-off reserve Conor had heard them speak of in the past.
It seemed that some things transcended all external appearances. No matter the sapient species, when the reaper came knocking, you did not want to accept the reality before you. You denied it, fought like a cornered animal, and kept your heart and soul anchored in what you knew.
Conor crouched next to Vitul and rested a hand on his shoulder. That slight touch ripped his friend from the little bubble he had encapsulated himself in, horrifically bringing him back to the reality before them. It was as if Conor had not even been next to him until the contact grounded him in the bitter truth of what happens in war.
Conor sighed, knowing there was nothing beneficial he could say right now. But as their commander, he could not fret about the dead, not while there was still a fight to finish.
He would rather have Vitul with him to the end, but if he refused, Conor understood. He and the others could finish this, but he was nearly certain he could keep Vitul in this fight.
“Deep breaths, brother, we are not out of the woods yet,” Conor said.
“He shouldn’t have—” Vitul started.
“I know,” Conor replied, gently moving Vituls's hands from Cur’sh’s corpse and slowly letting it be lowered to the deck. “But we can’t stay here.”
Conor gestured behind Vitul toward the massive doors leading to the throne room. “We have to get in there and finish this. If we don’t, his death means nothing.”
Vitul looked back at the door, then at the corpse yet again. He opened his mouth like he wanted to say something but did not. He just could not comprehend the reality before him.
“Vitul, come on,” Conor said, standing and turning toward the door. “If you can’t, get out of our way. If you can, pick up your rifle and come with me.”
Was it a blunt request? Yeah, it was, but when in battle, simple was better. It was best to not overcomplicate anything, especially emotions. You just had to crush them, dominate your own psyche, and keep it in until you were safe. Right now, Vitul’s emotional state was as volatile as any poison, so Conor was the leader he needed to pull him through this hell.
Vitul stared at his rifle. It felt like eons passed as he thought of the simple question: Could he do this? Conor had depended on him and Cur’sh for months; it was all they had to do with their lives; now, without his friend, could he still fight?
Nothing had changed about him? He was still strong and uninjured and had all the training to prepare for this. Of course, he could still fight. He glanced back at Cur’sh and thought of his friend's last words, something only he was privy to hear.
“Take care of them,” Cur’sh had muttered through blood, barely able to get the words out as the venom caused his body to shut down.
The them in that sentence was obvious to Vitul. He and Cur'sh were godfathers to the other kids and had agreed to care for the other's wife if they kicked the bucket.
He would fight for his family, Cur’sh’s family, Conor’s, and every other family that was being broken by this hellish night. He did not know if he would limp out of this ordeal, but he would do his damnedest to make sure his friend, no, brother's family would live well, even with the loss they would have hanging over them for the rest of their days.
Vitul fished his rifle out of the pool of his friend's blood, stood straight up, and turned to Conor. A fire burned in his eyes. It was a fire of hate—hate of Therulay and all that her actions had done—but it was also one of love—love for everyone he was fighting for.
“I am ready,” Vitul said, whipping away a tear with his tail.
“Good,” Conor smirked before walking away from the doors, seeking cover. “Peekala, use a rocket and blow that door to hell.”
“With Pleasure,” Peekala laughed over the microphone.