Arrayed in the muster field, in front of the HQ, stood an ad-hoc formation of Brotherhood soldiers. One paladin squad of six paladins, two knight squads of eight knights each, and a loose team of three scribes composed Michael’s Second Platoon. Like Abel’s First Platoon, which had been formed around Abel’s veterans in Curly Squad, the Second Platoon was formed around the squad of paladins given over to Michael.

Official designation, Lance 27. The paladin squad had been reorganized at Michael’s discretion, with its greener paladins divided to reinforce other squads. This made Lance 27 smaller than other squads, but easier for an inexperienced field officer to manage with two other squads in mind.

The squad was also divided into two teams, led by Michael and Oliver. Again, they were among the only two paladins who had the privilege of donning Midwestern ATA’s. In this instance, the only two. The rest wore the ever common T-45 power armor, which was still better than nothing.

The two knight squads, Sword 15 and Sword 16, were led by Knight Sergeants Hoyte and Anis, who stood in front of their respective squads. The knights stood in stark contrast to their paladin counterparts in power armor. Their long coats and other standard issue apparel would protect them from the cold weather, but not much else. Only the armor they’ve managed to acquire through their years of service would do that. Helmets, usually acquired first, followed by breastplates. Judging by their full panoply, the knights assigned to the mission were senior to most others.

The team of scribes were divided amongst the three squads as radio operators, one per squad. Torland had devised a way to address the Brotherhood’s faulty radio communications and chose to deploy his new radios with the task force. Michael’s own radio operator carried a powerful variant that could maintain contact with their HQ in White Sprawls, but that was yet to be seen in action.

Besides these radios, the heavy weapons assigned to the mission were of greater importance. The Wardens might have brought their own machine guns to challenge the Brotherhood, but Lance 27’s miniguns provided a louder argument. If not the gatling laser gun that had been assigned to Michael. Six paladins was a small number compared to the standard twelve, the typical size of a Brotherhood squad, but their heavy weapons covered the difference.

“Attention!” Michael barked in the manner he’d seen other sergeants do, whether they were sergeants of knights or of paladins, and his platoon snapped to attention. Constantine, Blair, and Mortis were standing off to the side for Michael’s first mission debrief. To keep things right, he kept things simple. “This is a search and rescue. We’re going north to find Abel and his platoon. There are going to be a few raiders in the way, but they’re just savages. Let’s kill them all and rescue our paladins. Understood?”

The platoon voiced a hearty “Hurrah!” that echoed through the camp.

“Alright, let’s move out.” Michael said and a second platoon of Brotherhood soldiers marched north.

—

Raiders flooded into the house like a pack of feral ghouls, jumping through windows or crawling underneath paladins to get inside. While some pulled at limbs with chem-fueled strength, nearly overwhelming servo-motors, others bludgeoned the helmets of paladins. Despite their armor, their training and discipline, the raiders were too numerous and determined to defend against. A few raiders managed to aim their rifles into the vulnerable points of power armor and paladins came crashing down.

Abel thundered forward in his power armor, splattering a raider against the wall and crushing another beneath his boot. Caleb was swarmed by raiders, whom Abel sprayed with his laser rifle. Caleb was protected underneath his armor, so the raiders fell away like dirt underneath running water. The rest of the raiders in the other sections of the house were finished off by the rest of Curly Squad, but there were more waiting to assault their position.

The floor was coated with human remains in various states, but never intact. More tragic were the paladins laying dead among the carnage. Abel’s soldiers fought bravely and without reservation, proving themselves true paladins of the Brotherhood. The raiders were dying in droves, each wave of flesh determined to kill his paladins. But why? Hundreds of raiders from different groups had come together and organized their lines to encircle their position.

Abel was certain that the Wardens were the most prominent group among them, but their efforts to expel the Brotherhood from Seattle were unprecedented. Brotherhood intelligence had revealed that the Wardens ruled over Seattle, with various sub-groups acting as middlemen in the territories that surrounded their settlement on Capitol Hill, but raiders were giving their lives for a cause as if they were soldiers. But Abel knew better. The Wardens had leverage on the savages, somehow. If that leverage could be broken, so would the Warden’s hold over their city.

Bullets peppered the walls of the house. Some broke through and shards of wood exploded into the house. A paladin had taken off his helmet to catch his breath and had his cheek cut. “Keep your helmets on.” Abel ordered. “There’ll be no resting until the raiders are bled dry. Now get these corpses out of here. I want them stacked in front of entrances.”

Paladins hastily dumped raider corpses around the entrances, whatever pieces they could collect, and dumped the new ones on top of the old. It was a gruesome sight that should have deterred any rational mind, but another wave of raiders approached the house. They expended bullets from old refurbished guns or firearms fashioned from pipes and other crude material. Despite their clear ingenuity when it came to making weapons with whatever they could scrounge, the raiders could do nothing but throw themselves at Abel’s paladins.

Their power armor and laser weapons should have protected them better, but the battle had turned against them hours ago. With the loss of several paladins, the raiders were able to force their way into the house with greater ease. Yet, they were being matched against raiders older and more ill-equipped than the ones that came before. It was a sure sign the raiders were running out of manpower. They just needed to hold out a little longer.

“Anyone got ammo?” A paladin called out, as they searched the packs of fallen paladins for any that were missed. Caleb handed the paladin a single cartridge of E-Cell ammunition and told him to use it sparingly.

Another paladin scrounged for ammunition and salvageable guns from the raiders, but took great care with how they handled them. Their gauntlets, made to strengthen their grips and protect their hands, risked crushing their new firearm. A rusty submachine gun made from salvage. Good enough for raiders, but not modified for use with power armor in mind.

Caleb called out to Abel, his stern tone shocking him to attention. “Abel, we’ve got grenade rifles inbound from the North!”

Wardens advanced from their lines in the North. Dressed uniformly in all white, they were slow to move, but more organized than other raiders. Half a dozen wardens grouped together with their grenade rifles. Paladins focused fire on them, but raiders were forcing themselves into the house. Abel picked up a machete, removing a hand from its hilt, and slashed at the raiders. Explosions cracked the wall near the kitchen window, shaking the house.

A raider ran to the paladin stationed at the window and slipped on blood. They slid uselessly on the floor until Abel crushed the raider beneath his boot. He had been doing that a lot recently, which almost bothered him. So many lives wasted to fight against progress, but the raiders had chosen their fate and an opportunity for a quick and easy kill presented itself.

More explosions hit the wall near the kitchen and it crumbled away to reveal the wardens beyond. They might not have been like most raiders, but they were certainly more dangerous. Machine gun fire poured through the hole, opening it wider as bullets poured through. Abel avoided getting hit, unwilling to risk his armor. Unlike Michael’s ATA, notorious among the knights in the engineering bay for its difficult maintenance, Abel’s own was primarily modified for long-range missions.

Abel thought that range was about to be cut short when raiders charged into the house and ran into a burst of machine gun fire from the wardens. The raiders were getting so close to his paladins that they were suffering from friendly fire. The one saving grace of being surrounded as they were, was that their enemies were beginning to kill themselves to get to his paladins.

“We could really use some heavy weapons of our own.” Caleb said, catching his breath on one knee. “Why don’t we?”

“Maintenance.” Abel said and watched Caleb limp away as he muttered about maintenance.

With their concentration of power armor, victory should have been assured, but the reports said nothing about the army of raiders that would stand in their way. Abel doubted that Jackson and her squad would have missed them, there were too damn many. With the sudden maintenance of their heavy weapons, there were too many coincidences. Not impossible, but not probable.

—

The Wardens were beginning their attack in the North, judging by the explosions echoing from the houses. It was about damn time. Waves of raiders had been sent to assault the enemy, to soften their defenses for a final push, only for their bits and pieces to be stacked unceremoniously in front of doorways. It took a lot of convincing to send every proceeding wave of flesh to attack.

They were new recruits, random wanderers the gang pulled off the streets, so their fear was understandable. It’s why he traded a few of them to the Mercers for a supply of rage-inducing psycho, which he used on the rest of his conscripts. In the end, their performance satisfied the warden who was sent to watch over Landon and his Hounds. The sound of laser fire echoed towards the Hound camp in the South, but diminished with every wave. If any of the Brotherhood’s so-called paladins were slain in battle, the killers were undoubtedly from the other clans.

The Skulltakers would try to carve out a pound of flesh for the Wardens, from the steel carapaces of their enemy, and they were stupid enough to use their own lives to do it. The Mariners and the Castellans, with their pretensions of civilization, would stand by the compact until its finer details were obscured with their blood. Only the Mercers had the sense to preserve their strength. They’ve already spilled enough.

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It was ironic, because the Mercers were the most drug-addled savages in all of Seattle. It must’ve been the mentats. Cripsen had insisted on the consciousness-expanding abilities of his chems, but especially his mentats. Something about their popularity among pre-war scientists, or whatever. Maybe he was right, but Landon was always more concerned with their addictive nature.

As the next group of raiders assaulted the Brotherhood positions, their gunfire resounding until it died down with the raiders themselves, Landon considered the benefits of mentants. Then he considered how the Mercers entrapped their victims, using their addiction against them, and thought better of it. He’d spent enough time slaving to know he’d rather be the perpetrator than the victim.

“Send the next wave.” A nasally, sniffling voice said.

Arn wiped his nose on a sleeve and Landon couldn’t help but be offended. He wished the warden that Julius sent to threaten him was fearsome like Kenneth. Even Sylvia would’ve been fine, she was more respectable. The overboss of the Hounds warranted someone more impressive than some Warden pup. Landon waved a hand and another sorry group of ‘raiders’ were sent to their deaths, but he was beginning to run out of fodder.

A runner approached Landon’s position on the roof of a house, where he observed the battle from afar. “Landon, Landon!” The man called out. “There’s Brotherhood pricks marching up from the South. Dozens of them, and they brought out some big fucking guns.”

“How big are we talking?” Landon called back.

“Miniguns, the ones with all those barrels. About half a dozen.”

“Your dogs are going to have a rough time fighting those off.” Arn said unhelpfully, taking a seat against a chimney.

“There’s more. They’ve sent that guy with the big armor, the Enforcer, the one who killed all those Mercers and Castellans.”

The hairs on Landon’s neck stood on end. He’d heard how the Brotherhood’s big metal bastard shrugged off multiple volleys of grenade rifle fire and tore apart Castellan power armor. The rumors didn’t seem possible, with all the dead paladins lining the Brotherhood’s path of retreat from the church to the cul-de-sac, but Landon didn’t care to find out. He had to look out for his Hounds.

The coalition, with all its promises, was nothing more than a source of warm bodies for the Wardens to sacrifice. Even now, the Wardens had waited to assault the Brotherhood until after their so-called allies had bloodied themselves against their defenses. If Landon allowed his Hounds to fight in earnest, they would be bloodied, like the Skulltakers had been, for a victory that belonged to the Wardens and to the Wardens alone.

“Hey, Arn?” Landon said and walked over to him. The young warden looked up and Landon put a bullet between his eyes with a handgun. “Goodbye.” Arn fell limp and slid off the roof, falling to the ground with a thud.

Some distance away, Mercer men pointed and shouted at Landon. They’d seen him murder the warden that Julius had sent to ensure his loyalty. The warden counterpart sent to the Mercers ran towards the commotion, shouting something furiously as they pointed at Landon. They intended something for him, probably punishment, but they chose the wrong people to carry it out. The raiders pulled bladed weapons from their sheathes and hacked the warden to pieces, before fleeing the scene.

Landon hopped from the roof and directed his runner to warn the Castellan leader of the recent event, so they might have the same chance to deal with their warden problem. One of his underbosses ran to his side, having been posted close by and no doubt witnessing Arn’s tragic demise.

“Hey, boss.” Milo said, a nervous look in his eyes as he stared at Arn’s limp corpse. “That’s one nasty headache. Is he gonna make it?”

“What am I, a doctor? Tell everyone to pack their shit. We’re going home.”

—

The platoon exited the highway and marched up a road leading into suburbs, an old avenue with much of its name weathered away. Knight scouts had reported Abel’s last known location to be somewhere in the area, which began the search portion of their search and rescue mission. Enemy patrols fled the path of Michael’s platoon and he knew the raiders were nearby, now alerted to their advance. They’d be ready for a fight.

Lance 27 could charge in and overwhelm the enemy, but they lacked numbers. All it took was an ambushing party of raiders with grenade rifles to nullify their advantage in firepower. Not an easy task, but not an impossible one, and Michael preferred that his first mission wasn’t stained by friendly casualties. His knights too were vulnerable compared to his paladins.

Cover was nice to have for someone in power armor, but it was a requirement for the knights to stay alive. So Michael divided the squads with their safety in mind. His paladin squad led from the center while his knight squads flanked the avenue, which allowed the knights to advance from house to house.

Allowing even a moment of vulnerability could see his knights injured or killed. It’s why Michael slowed the advance, allowing his knights enough time to clear each house on the way to the raider encirclement. Communications between the three squads maintained through the scribes and their radios, who reported contact with scavengers. Michael saw them flee their advance, scattering like wild animals when their habitats are disturbed.

Michael caught sight of a large group of raiders in the distance, walking down the sidewalk like pedestrians. One of them waved and Michael opened fire on the group, followed by the rest of his paladins and knights. Instead of fighting with the ferocity they showed him in the previous day’s fighting, they ran into nearby houses or ducked behind cars and fled as best they could under fire.

“They’re letting us through,” Michael realized. “Press the advance, we’re moving straight to Abel’s position!”

The squad’s advance quickened and, entirely without resistance, they marched up the street leading into the cul-de-sac where Abel’s platoon was trapped. There, he found two houses where paladins within fired their laser rifles at raiders to the North. A few were forced to use ballistic weapons collected from their slain enemies, which had been plentiful judging by the bodies stacked in front of entrances.

Hoyte and Anis took their squads into the two houses that flanked the entrance to the cul-de-sac, as preparation for Abel’s retreat. Oliver took his team to the northern side of the houses and scattered the attacking wardens with their miniguns while Michael’s team arrayed themselves on the Southern side of the houses. Michael met with Abel in one of the houses and his scribe followed behind.

“Sentinel Abel, I’ve come to break you out.” Michael said, foregoing a salute as they were in the field.

“Paladin Michael, is it? I see you’ve been promoted.” Abel gestured to the insignia newly painted on Michael’s chestplate. A solid shield with a hollow lance in its center, a paladin’s shield, and a sergeant’s three inverted chevrons. “Where is Paladin Andrews?”

“Safe at camp, resting in the hospital. But before I answer any other questions, I have a message from HQ. Scribe?” At Michael’s direction, his scribe placed his pack on the ground and worked his radio.

With the radio handset between his shoulder and head, the scribe spoke to someone on the other line. “Come in, White Sprawls, Come in. This is Gear One. Radio check. Affirmative, read you loud and clear.” The scribe offered the handset to Abel. “For you, Sentinel.”

Abel removed his helmet and took a knee beside the pack to receive the handset. “Yes, this is Sentinel Abel. Head Paladin Blair? What is the meaning of- Yes, Elder Constantine. I read you loud and clear.” Abel’s eyebrows furrowed at whatever was said to him, which could be anything. Knowing the rumors of his relationship with the Elder, Abel could simply be reacting to the sound of Constantine’s voice. He returned the handset to the scribe and returned his attention to Michael.

“What do you think of our situation?” Abel asked. “If we continued to the airport, do you think we could take it?”

Michael had been instructed to personally bring the scribe to Abel, after breaking the encirclement around his platoon, for reasons he could imagine. Blair wanted the two platoons to link up and continue north, fulfilling Abel’s plan to take the airport.

However, Abel’s Curly Squad had taken several casualties, visible by the dead paladins littered around the house. Michael had yet to see Windy and Seltzer Squad's condition, but they’ve likely taken casualties of their own. Michael wasn’t sure if his platoon’s heavy weapons would be enough to make up the difference in another one of Abel’s advances.

“Pardon, sir?” Michael said, feigning ignorance. “I was ordered to break the encirclement and connect you to HQ. If we are to continue north, I will go where you lead.”

“Of course, of course.” Abel said and sighed.

In that instance, Abel seemed lonely then. Burdened by leadership, he had a decision to make. To abandon his advance meant the lives of his paladins were spent in vain. To continue his advance risked more lives against the army of raiders arrayed against them.

“If I may offer a suggestion.” Michael said, waiting for Abel’s confirmation.

“Go ahead, paladin.”

“The raiders to the south were in retreat by the time we arrived. We caught sight of a group of stragglers, but there was no meaningful resistance. Either they’re retreating or reforming their lines to stop our advance.”

“Is that so? Follow me.” Abel said and walked to a hole in the side of the house, facing north. The raiders fled back to their lines and avoided exposing themselves to Oliver’s team of paladins or risk being fired upon by their miniguns. “It’s quiet out there.”

“We could attack and disorganize their lines with our superior firepower.” Michael tapped his gatling laser, which he’d barely had a chance to use. “We’d be safer during a retreat. Or increase our chances for a successful breakthrough.”

Abel eyed the weapon. “Impressive. It’s rare that the Elder would entrust one of his gatling lasers. Did he place you in charge of the paladins? What of those knights back there?” Abel pointed to where Hoyte and Anis had positioned themselves.

“High Command charged me with leading the task force to break the encirclement.”

“A full platoon, impressive. And now it’s up to me to decide if we continue to the airport or not.” Abel returned his helmet to his head and his posture seemed to straighten in his armor. “Very well, I shall bring my paladins home. The rear guard will be your responsibility. How you proceed will be entirely at your discretion.”

“Sir, yes, sir.” Michael said.

Abel called for Curly Squad to regroup on the street and sent a runner to summon Windy and Seltzer. Once Abel’s platoon gathered, Michael could see the extent of their casualties. Nearly three dozen paladins were cut down to a third of their number. Michael could feel the melancholy among Abel and his platoon, who were forced to leave behind many of their friends.

Once they departed for White Sprawls, Michael was left alone as the Brotherhood’s highest authority in the field. He stood on the sidewalk with his paladins like loiterers, in silence. His scribe sniffled her nose, waiting for orders like the rest. Oliver called out to Michael, “The enemy is in retreat! What should we do now?” Michael wasn’t entirely sure, if he was honest with himself.

Suddenly given freedom of action wasn’t as freeing as it ought to have been. Instead, it was disorienting. After years of obeying the orders of others, with their plans and schemes, he decided not to begrudge Abel or Andrews for their recent failures in the field. Andrews, for getting a paladin killed. Abel, for the deaths of many more.

Michael was filled with doubt, but he was a paladin at heart. Wasn’t he? And what did paladins do when in doubt? “We attack!”