Bullets howled through the air, the sound of shattering wood accompanied by the booming noise of yet more firing rifles. Sasha sharply sucked in air, pressing his back against the hard wooden planks of his shelter as he reloaded his own weapon. Next to him, his direct superior Sergeant Langow peeked through the newly created holes in the wall of the wagon while signaling two other officers to take positions behind the dead horses’ carcasses.
The bullet was chambered and Sascha rose, carefully keeping his head low and following the other two soldiers towards the other end of the wagon.
“Saravaz?”, he heard one of them ask the other. The middle-aged man sporting a massive, salted mustache shook his head grimly.
“This far into our territory? It's the socialists, maybe the nationalists.”, the other man grimaced. “Things are going to shit. Three months of fighting the fucking nomads for their grassy shitholes only to be ambushed by some traitorous lowlifes!”
Sascha snorted at that. When had things ever not been shit in their glorious empire? More shots impacted the wood close to his head, prompting him to raise his rifle and glimpse over the carcass of the horse. Tall grass, trampled grass and a scattering of trees, the attackers were hidden somewhere along the trail. Up and down the trail even more wagons were overturned, soldiers in matching uniforms sheltering behind them and attempting to return fire on the invisible enemy.
A ray of light hit his eye. He turned his head and saw something reflective in the tall grasses. A weapon, maybe a watch? No matter, he took aim and shot at the spot where he suspected the enemy to be. Next to him the other two were taking shots themselves, though Sascha could not tell what they were shooting at. Sergeant Langow had taken position at the other end of the wagon and took shot after shot, reloading behind the wagon.
Despite all that, the attacking fire did not decrease. Their own ammunition supply on the other hand did. Return fire slowed and he saw that at least one of his comrades had switched to his sidearm a cavalry saber.
“What should we do?”, Sascha had changed his position and was now cowering next to Sergeant Langow. The older man grimaced, his sharp grey eyes peering out into the steppe. “Not much we can do. They blew up the wagons at the front and back, and trying to get off the trail will only make it easier for them. Try and kill as many of them bastards as we can, I’d suggest.”
Sascha wheezed, his hands involuntarily shaking. He had kept his calm until now, a veteran of 3 months of fighting on the freezing steppes of the damned east could take a firefight, but facing certain death was different.
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“No hope?”
“Not unless there is a miracle.”, The shaking increased. Then it stopped. He grimaced and inhaled deeply.
“Let’s make it count then.”, another rifle round impacted behind the wagon, followed by more shots and a suppressed cry. Sascha turned his head, only to see one of the two officers at the right side of the wagon curled up on the ground. The left shoulder was shattered and blood-drenched the dusty trail.
“DEATH TO THE IMPERIALS!”, an accented voice shouted in the distance, followed by dozens of cries. Their attackers had decided to finish them off.
“Rusin…”, the elder sergeant muttered to himself. “Nationalists then.”
Sascha sprung to his feet, raised his rifle and took aim. Dozens of men ran towards their position, sabers and pistols in hand, their disparate clothing a sharp contrast to his own sweaty uniform. He shot, and a man fell. A pistol went off and the round whistled past on the left. Sascha drew his own saber and ducked behind cover.
The old sergeant was right. These were Rusin Nationalists which were about to overrun them. Disgruntled, poor peasants from small villages, with glorious dreams of honor and overthrowing the Kanis yolk, establishing their own nation. Sascha wasn’t sure, but he thought he remembered his grandmother mentioning once, that he had some Rusin ancestry.
Another shot went off, and the sergeant took another assailant down. Then, the middle-aged man threw his rifle toward the approaching mob, drew his saber, and attacked. He took two steps before a pistol slug shattered his chest. Sascha stayed close to the wagon, pressing himself against the wooden planks. His legs were tense, ready to jump up and skewer the first man who turned to corner.
Sweat dripped down his dirty forehead and down into his eyes, but he ignored it, staring right ahead, waiting for death. Then he heard shouts.
Followed by shots. Followed by death.
Blood-curdling cries rang out, soon accompanied by a strange, wet noise and yet more cries. Shots were fired and accompanied by desperate shouts for help. Then another wet sound echoed across the plane and the shouts ceased.
Sascha blinked disbelieving and inched towards the edge of the wagon. Only a couple meters further ahead he could see his dead superior, saber still in hand. He turned his head stiffly, then he saw blood. A lot of blood. Even more corpses, their bodies splayed in unnatural ways and lacking some body parts.
Further up ahead. He saw it. A devil.
She danced, no, floated over the crimson-stained grass, brilliantly shining tattoos of the same color snaking all across her body. As she moved forward rifle shots rang out, their bullets harmlessly falling in front of her dance. A flick of her wrist and another of the nationalists fell, a step on the ground and she shot forward like an arrow, appearing in front of another one.
Her clothing, once white, now stained with brilliant blood fluttered around her like the wings of an angel.
The poor nationalist sods could not even scream before dying.
Sascha simply stared ahead, captivated by the destruction and bloodshed. He was saved. The miracle had arrived. And it had come in the form of a beautiful devil; the most powerful weapons of the Kanis empire.