Kovar opened his eyes and glanced over at Jensen, who raised four fingers and pointed at his chrono. Four minutes until the event, Kovar thought, and shifted his weight to ease the fatigue in his thighs. Kovar rechecked his weapon, flicking forward the trigger cover and locking it in place. Glancing back at Jensen, Kovar nodded and Jensen turned to signal the team to get ready to move. Time slowed to a crawl, seconds felt eternal and Kovar slowly exhaled deeply, his mind calming. The bats in Kovar’s stomach calmed to butterflies and he began his mental countdown.
As the countdown hit single digits, Kovar keyed his comms, “Tip of the spear.”
Every member of Charlie Team finished the motto in whispered unison, “Always sharp!”
There was a crackle of static and the world went dark. Kovar was already moving out of the alcove and to the chamber entrance, Jensen a step behind him. Kovar turned his back to the door, covering Jensen as he set a door charge. Jensen set the charge and tapped Kovar’s knee. The two moved back to the cover of the alcove and Jensen began to nod his head as he mentally ticked off the seconds. Jensen stopped, slipped his forefinger into the ring on the detonator, and yanked. A bright spark raced down the detonation cord and the door charge went off, shattering the stillness. Charlie team, Kovar in the lead, charged for the now twisted and blackened opening. Kovar ran through the rent in the entrance into a large foyer that led to a reception area. Both were empty, and the hair on Kovar’s neck prickled. Where is the guard? Kovar thought as he made his way across the reception area to the door to the inner chamber. As he reached the door, Kovar heard a high-pitched whine and a projectile slammed into the door inches from his head, ricocheting loudly. Kovar dove to his left, rolling up into a crouch. A squad of Orlesian Elite Guard rushed through the torn chamber entrance, their black uniforms creating shadows in the twilight.
Kovar looked to his right and saw Sarah, pinned down behind an overturned table, calmly giving orders for her squad to flank right. Sarah’s face was impassive. No anxiety, no fear, just emotionless determination. Third squad, following Sarah’s orders immediately and without question, broke off in pairs and moved right, tipping tables and desks as they went. Moving from cover to cover, third squad reached the wall and turned to advance on the Elite Guard’s flank. Staff Sergeant Nathan Berger, first platoon’s platoon sergeant, reached the wall first and flipped a heavy desk over in front of him. Berger looked back at Sarah, motioning her to get lower and move forward. Sarah went prone and began crawling forward, as Berger fired a long burst to cover her.
Kovar shifted his attention as two rounds clanged off the desk he was crouching behind, his mind racing as the world around him slowed to a crawl. He looked toward the entrance the guard had burst through; Twelve, a full squad, Kovar thought, Where the hell did they come from? Kovar had expected Elites, but not this soon. He wondered briefly if the Council had been moved, if they had known Charlie was coming, and dismissed it. If they had surprised the guard, there would be a lot more than just a single squad. Kovar squeezed the trigger on his carbine and the top of a guardsman’s head disappeared in a pink cloud, his body dropping limp and useless in the doorway. A grunt to his left made Kovar turn and he saw Jensen, his face a mask of anger and pain, clench his jaw against the agony of the round that ripped through his shoulder. Jensen fired the last four rounds in his magazine and slumped behind the table in front of him, a low moan escaping his lips.
“Jensen, where are you hit?” Kovar asked, diving toward him.
“Shoulder, hip, forearm, and I think I have shrapnel in my scalp,” Jensen grunted, pulling a silver cartridge from his sleeve pocket, “Nothing critical, I’m pretty sure, I’m more worried about how these assholes found us.” Jensen pressed one end of the cartridge against the hole in his shoulder and twisted. A white foam shot into the wound and Jensen gritted his teeth, then visibly relaxed. Jensen repeated the action, injecting the other two wounds. Jensen sighed, and squeezed his eyes shut.
“Third squad is flanked right, we need to push forward and draw some fire,” Kovar said.
“I think I’ve already managed that last,” Jensen said, a grunting laugh bursting out of him. Turning, Jensen raised his hand, “Second squad, space yourselves into a firing line, six paces apart, and prepare to advance. First squad, offset left three paces and advance three paces behind second. Watch your lanes, and conserve ammunition. These aren’t bolt rifles, you have a limited number of shots, so make them count.”
First and second squads moved into position and began to advance on the Elite Guard; raining fire into their cover, causing them to refocus their attack. Immediately, third squad advanced and Berger dove over an overturned desk. A moment later he stood, gore dripping from his hands and arms. He smiled and slid a long knife into a sheath strapped to his leg armor.
“How many times do I have to tell you that damn thing is against regs?” Kovar said, a smile playing at his lips.
“Shit,” Berger said, a thick North American drawl stretching the word, “At least one more time, I guess, sir. I just keep forgetting.”
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” Kovar said, “Haskins, SITREP.”
Haskins turned, “We have three wounded, none seriously, but Jensen is going to hate life for a while. First and second squads are green on ammo, third is running low.”
“Redistribute ammo as necessary and get Jensen on his feet. How long do we have before the power is back on?”
Haskins glanced at her chrono, “The effects of the pulse should end in four hours, depending on atmospheric ionization and if they were ready, they should have the power on immediately. We need to move, the inner chamber in through that hallway.”
Kovar nodded and turned to check on Jensen, who was climbing to his feet, wincing. Jensen looked at Kovar and nodded that he was all right. An explosion rocked the building and Kovar spun toward the hallway leading to the inner chamber.
“I don’t think that was Griffon’s team, get through that door,” Kovar said, pointing down the hall, “If the Council is in there, so is the Elite Guard. Pick your shots, we have to conserve ammo where we can, so single shots and controlled pairs only. Time to work.” Kovar turned and headed down the short, dim hall to the inner chamber doors.
Jensen and Haskins pulled up beside Kovar as he checked the door, then nodded at Jensen. Jensen placed a breaching charge on the center of the door and stepped back, pressing himself against the wall. Kovar and Haskins did the same and Jensen held up three fingers, lowering them one at a time as he mouthed the countdown. As his forefinger dropped, the charge detonated, sending the twisted wreckage of the door into the chamber. Kovar shouldered his rifle and spun away from the wall, flanked by Haskins. Moving slowly, half-crouched, Kovar crept into the inner chamber.
Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
The chamber was in chaos, gunfire erupted from two clear fighting positions as the Elite Guard worked to keep Griffon’s team pinned down in the entryway. In the opposite wall, Kovar saw Griffon laying on the floor, his torn face a mask of agony and gore. Kovar had time to see a hand reach out, grab Griffon’s collar, and yank him behind cover before an explosion rocked him back on his heels and he threw himself out of the doorway. A squad of Elite Guard broke from the main element and began firing on the door, sending the team scrambling for cover. Corporal Lewis Starrett, a team leader in third squad, turned to dive behind Kovar and a round slammed into his cheek, killing him before his body hit the floor. Starrett’s body slid, his momentum carrying him through the dive, and he came to rest at Kovar’s feet. Shaking off the urge to mourn, Kovar closed his eyes, gritted his teeth, and began checking Starrett for ammo and med kits.
Kovar reached one hand up and closed Starrett’s eyes, “Damn it, Starrett. Goddamnit,” he felt tears burn in his eyes and he pushed the grief down but let the anger wash over him; feeling it, using it to steel himself, “Always sharp.”
Kovar pulled a grenade from Starrett’s vest and pushed his heels against the stone floor, sliding into the dark edges of the inner chamber. Pulling his feet under him, Kovar crouched behind an ornate table, and slid the pin from the archaic mechanical grenade. Kovar kept the grenade’s spoon pressed tightly to its side and peeked around the side of the table. Across the chamber to his left, Kovar saw the Elite Guard pouring fire into the doorway Griffon’s team was pinned down in. Another squad fired on the entrance Kovar had come through, pinning his team down. Kovar closed his eyes and took a deep breath, releasing the spoon on the grenade. He opened his eyes and jumped to his feet, arm already in motion, regretting the throw as soon as it slid from his fingertips. Short, Goddamnit it’s short! Kovar thought, dropping behind his cover.
The grenade clanked off the stone floor and into the air, spinning. As it neared the Elite Guard’s fortification, the grenade hit the floor again and rolled, coming to rest against the lower edge of a heavy metal table. The concussive force of the grenade shoved one end of the table toward the wall, spinning it away from the squad of Elite Guard crouching behind it. Kovar got to one knee and swung around the edge of his table just as the spinning table slammed into a Guardsman, the table edge careening into his upper body and crushing him against the wall. Kovar fired six rounds in pairs and three of the defenders dropped.
Private Thomas Khoury watched as his commander began firing into the cluster of Guard with a cold, emotionless precision. The only member of Griffon’s team inside the doorway, Khoury saw an opening and reacted without thought. Khoury exploded forward, already in full sprint by his third step. Trusting his speed, the young soldier raced toward the Guard’s position while the Guardsmen shifted their focus to Kovar. As he approached the Guard’s cover, a thick slab of metal torn from the wall, a Guardsman saw him and swung his rifle just as the first of two rounds from Khoury’s rifle slammed into the bridge of his nose and disintegrated his skull. Khoury slid to the slab and pressed his back against it, dropping his rifle and pulling two grenades from his vest. Khoury clenched his teeth and released the spoons, counting to four in his head before turning and rising to his feet. As the grenades flew into the tight circle of Guardsmen, Khoury threw himself backward into a roll. A round ripped through Khoury’s chest as he reached the wall and he lay there, unmoving.
The grenades went off nearly simultaneously, the twin concussions melding into a single, devastating explosion. The blast ripped through the heart of the Elite Guard’s position, decimating the Guardsmen in the inner cluster and flinging shrapnel through the bodies of those on the perimeter of the defenses. Kovar watched as the shrapnel shredded the Guardsmen, scattering the few lucky enough to have escaped the blast and shrapnel, and charged forward. Haskins flew by him at a full sprint, her face emotionless except for a small smirk that curled her lip slightly. Haskins fired round after accurate round at the Guardsmen, sending the survivors scrambling for whatever cover they could find. Kovar sprinted behind her, angling left to cut off the Guardsmen’s desperate retreat.
Even in the face of absolute destruction the Elite Guard held to their oaths, choosing death over the shame of surrender. “Not that one,” Kovar yelled, “Cease fire! Do not kill that Guardsman.”
A tense silence fell in the chamber. Kovar walked toward the last living Guardsman, the thin gold filigree on his ebony uniform marking his officer status. The Guardsman, wounded in the chest, shoulder, and arm, stared hatred at Kovar and fingered the trigger guard on the empty pistol in his right hand. Kovar held his rifle on the Orlesian as he approached, knowing better than to get within arm’s reach of the lethal fighter.
“You have already failed, half-breed,” the Guardsman said in Orlesian.
Kovar growled at the insult, and responded in the same language, “Where is the Council? Where is Ecthelion?”
The Guardsman laughed a deep, barking laugh that turned into a thick cough. Blood dribbled down the Guardsman’s lip and onto his chin, “You humans really do think you’re smarter than everyone else, don’t you? Even with such a great woman for a mother, you can’t escape your father’s human arrogance. Ecthelion? You expected him to, what, exactly? Hide here waiting to be attacked? Actually allow you to destroy the Elite Guard?” The Guardsman reached his right hand up to his helmet and tugged it off.
As soon as Kovar saw the pale golden hue of the Orlesian’s hair, a sign of age, Kovar’s control nearly broke and panic tried to steal his breath. His mind raced to find an explanation, then Kovar recognized the old Orlesian, “Councilman Vestenor,” Kovar nodded respectfully, “You need medical attention, let me help you.”
“Councilman Vestenor, is it? So formal, Kovar,” Vestenor laughed, blood spraying from his lips, “I knew they’d send you, you know. I was so sure, I told Morvex that you were the only one they could send, the only one that had any hope of pulling it off. You certainly didn’t disappoint, nephew.”
Kovar flinched, and heard a sharp intake of breath behind him, “Is she still alive? Naverin, tell me, what did you do to her?”
Vestenor’s face became serious, “You think I’d ever let anyone, even Morvex, hurt my sister? She has no idea I knew she’d agreed to help you, and you will keep it that way. She didn’t betray you, and she is safe. I saw the letter by accident and, well, your mother and I have never really seen eye to eye politically,” Vestenor coughed blood onto his armor.
Haskins stepped to Kovar’s side, “Kovar, all of the officers are councilmembers, and there is no sign of Ecthelion.”
“Yes, there is, Sarah. Everywhere you look is a sign of Ecthelion, because he was ten steps ahead of us the whole goddamn time,” Kovar said, stepping toward Vestenor and kneeling at his side, “Where is he, Uncle Naverin. Where is Morvex, and why did he leave the council here to die?”
Vestenor coughed, wincing, then smiled, “Earth, nephew. Morvex is on Earth, and soon it won’t matter what happened here today. The war is over, Kovar, we just don’t know it yet.” Vestenor coughed again, his skin beginning to glow as he lost control of his bioluminous skin.
Kovar looked down at Vestenor’s body, propped against a wall, and saw the jagged edge of the shard of metal buried in the Councilman’s side, “Where, uncle, please. There has been enough senseless death at his hands.”
“None of it has been senseless if he succeeds, nephew. None of it will ever happen. He can fix it, Kovar, he can take it back.”
“Take what back? What the hell are you talking about?” Kovar put his hands on Vestenor’s shoulders, “Naverin, please, tell me where he went.”
Vestenor smiled at Kovar, sighed, and looked up to the domed ceiling, “I am Naverin Vestenor, son of Yelnar, member of the Great Council, and martyr for freedom,” Vestenor began the words of the Admission, an ancient Orlesian tradition in which a dying Orlesian would speak to his accomplishments in life before speaking their final words, “I have pledged my life to the cause of my people and I can die now, proudly. In witness I say this to you, Kovar, son of my sister, my last words,” he turned and locked eyes with Kovar, “It’s finished, Morvex will deliver our people and end this hell.” Vestenor’s breath rattled in his chest, caught, and he slumped against the wall.