There's room inside the hauler for Bruen and another twenty casteless soldiers, crammed inside like cargo. Deep enough inside to protect them from the oppressive heat.
Despite the crowding inside, and the bouncing as they travel, Bruen finds himself drifting in and out of consiousness. The wet scent of his own kind blankets him comfortingly.
Dreams of battle drift through his mind. Scenes from his own experience, as well as imagined fights between dreamlike figures. His tendrils twitch as if in reflexive response to imagined attacks.
The hauler moves slowly under the enormous weight of its thick protective shell, rocking slowly forward and back. The rough craggy terrain of these hostile mountains has never been tamed by roads.
Unable to use tunnels occupied by tribal forces or filled with the wreckage of battle and still teeming with unsprung traps laid by both sides, the haulers are a recent addition to the arsenal of his people. Mos Denn had never mentioned them to his servant in all their time together.
Crafted along similar lines as battle-shells, but much larger and focusing entirely upon defense, they are capable of little more than plodding forward on their many heavy legs. A single driver is all that's required to keep the mindless automaton on track.
Upon arrival Bruen is awoke by both the lack of motion as well as the sudden space as the soldiers begin marching out. He quickly grabs his things and follows, attempting to maintain the dignity expected of his station.
They exit the massive construct under a stone outcropping on another mountain farther north. An experienced female recognizes Bruen and waves him over, where she stands by a makeshift table. A map is spread before her with slender bone needles inserted into the thick leather, marking troops and installations.
The red light from outside is enough to provide illumination to the camp spread before the opening to a deep shaft. Ladders carved into the steep stone walls limit the number who can descend at once. The crimson glow reflects off her composite armor, red glints defining various ragged scars.
"Good to see you, youngster," says the large armor-plated general. "I've already heard you're following your father's example and heroicly creating victories where defeat was all but certain." She waves several tendrils in amusement at teasing the younger warrior.
"Not at all. Without my superiors placing themselves in peril, there would be nothing for me to do," he jokes back. "Who are we here to save, anyway?" Looking at the map, he realizes how grim the situation they're in is.
The tunnel they have to get down is guarded by checkpoints every few thousand ubits. Each checkpoint is placed at the intersection of at least two tunnels. Enemy troop movements are unknown, but each guard post is estimated to contain at least ten tribals.
Checkpoint nine is reported to lead to a permanent portal leading to a breeding colony.
"We've made several stabs at this one before, but the warrens have been too heavily infested and too well supplied for us to make any real progress," explains Mos Gol, his aquiantance from the bar. "You and Riyl cut off their supplies from the south. Tobli's managed to get their attention farther north."
Bruen nods, understanding that the situation isn't as bad as the maps make it look. That's still a long way to go, though. The distraction provided by Tobli and their forces won't last the entire length of time. "Please tell me there's more good news," he half jokingly begs.
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"We expect more reinforcements in the next couple of days, after the thaumatists have had a chance to recover enough energy for a portal," Gol explains as she looks around. "Not as many of my soldiers survived the last counter-assualt as I'd hoped, but we can still send a few experienced warriors to serve as your personal guard."
Knowing they won't be attacked from behind is some relief, but the days long trek broken up only by bouts of intense combat every few days is still intimidating. This rare chance to cripple their hated enemy can't be passed up, however.
"When do we start?"
"You'll lead your twenty, plus another five down in," she checks her timepiece as she answers him. "Three arcs. The second team will proceed thirty arcs later to secure the route for the final team. I'll lead those slackers down as soon as they get here."
---
By the fifth checkpoint Bruen has lost count of the number of different varieties of alien he's killed. Tribals of several species stand guard together at each post, but the composition of each band varies.
Clawed tripods, legless creatures with twin blades, hairy brutes and scaled. Tall creatures and short, his opponents have come in several colors and sizes. The only common feature is the aggression they show to any outside their group.
He plunges his spear into the exposed neck of an olive hued being, ducking the stone axe it swings in both its muscular scaled arms. Dropping low Bruen pulls the stone knife from his belt, weaving around the kick the monster sends towards him. He leaps while the brute is still off balance and stabs deeply, severing something important and ending the fight.
He looks around at the now calm cavern, filled with the quickly cooling corpses of foes and former friends. Everyone quickly joins in and strips the bodies before piling them together in the entrance to the side passage.
Of the twenty-five he started with only sixteen soldiers remain. Two were sent back upwards, unable to continue fighting without medical attention. The bodies of the others cool rapidly in the chilly winding tunnels.
"We'll make camp in six arcs. Everyone grab your gear," orders the weary Bruen. "Uta, I want you to head back, let the second team know where we'll be."
Heading deeper into the complex system of tunnels, he and the rest of the team eat on the way. Dried fruits and preserved meat, edible if bland. The one and only time Bruen had tried eating food captured from the checkpoints the vomitting had taken him out of action for long enough that the second team scout managed to catch up.
Camp consists of bedrolls thrown along the curving stone walls in a long line with a guard at either end. Bruen elects to take second watch, staying awake to practice knife fighting moves for half of the short break.
As the rest of the soldiers stir, a pair of figures come down the tunnel, tentacles a blur as they race into camp.
They spot Bruen and hurry to him, and the smaller of the pair steps forward, worry evident on her gleaming face. "Mos Bruen, sir? Mos Gol requires back up. An unexpected force of tribals ambushed them right before the fourth guard station. They're trying to make it to this position, but it's been a running battle, sir."
"Uta! Take half the team," orders the young general. The returned soldier doesn't seem too eager to turn around and run some more, but makes no complaint. "The rest of you, we've still got a job to do."
The sounds of a mixed mob of enemies can already be heard from deeper in the tunnel, shouts and slapping feet and heaves of breath in different rythms identifying this as a very large group, perhaps twenty.
"Bunch together! Let's plug this hole," Bruen commands his warriors, as they all plant their spears and ready themselves against the charging tribals.
It isn't long after they finish their formation before the first scaled head comes around the bend. The next moment they meet and the weight of flesh crashes into the spears, body after body, impaling themselves but robbing their hated foes of their weapons.
"Push!"
Bruen's soldiers heave the weight of mulitple corpses, forming a crude wall to keep more attackers at bay.
"Grab anything you got! Drop and step back in three! Two! Drop!"
With all resistance removed the tribals in the back shoot forward, climbing unsteadily past the bodies of their fallen comrades.
In a well practiced move the soldiers turn as one and impale the lightly armored tribals with knives, daggers and small picks. They stoop to finish off any foe who survived the first crush, and quiet returns to the underground halls.
Signaling his blood drenched troop forward, Bruen leads the way deeper into the darkness.