Chapter 349 - 342 — The First Volley

The beginning of attack

The demons came out of the quarry until Halven could no longer see the ground beneath them.

They poured through the broken arch, climbed over the ruined boundary walls and spread across the slopes on either side of the road. Farther along the ridge, more banners appeared through the dust.

Lieutenant Senn lowered his spy glass.

"The scouts estimate a quarter of a million across the front. Roughly thirty-five thousand coming in the first wave."

Halven looked toward the trenches stretching beyond the tollhouse, where other officers were moving among their soldiers. Shield companies waited below the firing steps, and signal flags rose above the neighboring batteries.

"How many Warhounds?"

"Fourteen."

Beyond the advancing infantry, the first armored machine emerged from behind a quarry building. Its tracks crushed a fallen pillar as it turned toward the road.

Halven wiped his palms against his coat.

"Someone had better keep that supply trench clear."

"It is clear," Senn said. "Keep your people alive."

He left for the next position as the demon horns sounded. Their low notes carried across the valley, vibrating through the stone and echoing down the line toward the bunkers. Thousands of voices answered, and the first wave began to run.

Most of the demons carried whatever they had been given or found: short knives, chipped swords, iron maces and lengths of wood with metal driven through them. Here and there, an officer in proper armor stood above the crowd, forcing the slower creatures onward.

A broad demon near the front carried a sword with half its blade missing. Beside it ran a smaller creature clutching a butcher’s cleaver in both hands.

There were so many that Halven lost count within moments—the rising roar of their advance bleeding directly into the reinforced concrete shelter just down the trench.

Inside the nearest machine-gun shelter, Borr pulled a heavy ammunition box closer to the feed tray. Behind him, more boxes filled the bunker, with runners waiting to carry fresh loads forward.

"Twenty thousand rounds for this gun," the dwarf said. "Two waterskins for the crew."

His human helper holding the gun checked the approaching ranks through the firing slit.

"You drank one already."

"Because they salted breakfast like they were preserving a corpse. If we survive this, I want a barrel of beer and a cook who has heard of restraint."

The instructor tapped the roof beam.

"Eyes forward."

Borr lifted the belt clear of the box.

"They are."

Above them, the concussive slam of the answer rippled down the line. Behind the tollhouse, an Alliance rune-cannon fired.

WHUMM.

Blue light streaked over the trenches and struck the slope below the quarry. Earth, stone and demons erupted around the impact. A second shell landed farther left, followed by a rolling series of detonations as the batteries along the ridge joined in.

The advancing mass split around the craters. Those behind shoved the survivors forward—right into the sights of Halven’s waiting riflemen.

Halven raised his hand above the rifle line.

The men beside him settled their Mausers against the firing gaps. Tavin had a pouch of filled clips open beneath his elbow. Farther down, one of the replacements crouched beside a reserve ammunition crate, waiting for someone to call.

The rifle instructor watched the advance, then nodded.

Halven dropped his hand.

"Fire!"

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

Demons fell across the front of the approaching crowd.

Halven’s first target stumbled, took another step and collapsed beneath the feet behind it. He worked the bolt and fired again. A creature raising a mace spun sideways and dragged down the one beside it.

All along the trench, bolts rattled between shots.

At the training ground, a small error had sent a bullet past a painted target. Here, a shot that missed one demon could strike another behind it. Men who had struggled to keep their practice rounds inside a circle were watching bodies drop wherever they aimed into the packed advance.

Tavin fired at a horned creature carrying a long, hooked blade.

It folded onto its knees.

"A week ago," he said, working the bolt, "I would have had to fight that bastard."

"Dont you worry, his friends are still coming for a get together," Halven answered.

Tavin put his eye back to the sights.

More rifles cracked. Empty clips struck the planks beneath the firing steps. A replenishment soldier crawled along the trench, pushing fresh ones into waiting hands.

For a little while, Halven could follow individual figures through the smoke until the gunfire’s percussion echoed straight into the bunker sectors ahead.

At the machine-gun shelter, the instructor lowered his hand.

"Now."

BRRRRRRRRT!

Borr felt the belt tug against his gloves.

The gun hammered against its mounting. Brass streamed onto the stone floor, bouncing around his boots as the gunner drew the muzzle across the advancing ranks.

A row of demons crumpled. The creatures behind them surged into the same ground and were struck in turn. One tried to climb over the bodies, lost its footing and disappeared beneath the crowd.

The second machine gun opened from the neighboring shelter.

Its roar overlapped the first until the separate rifle reports almost vanished beneath them.

"Keep your rifles working!" Halven shouted across the din, his voice bridging the gap between the infantry line and the heavy gun bays. "Watch the ground beside the shelters!"

Tavin shifted toward the demons approaching through the broken wall on the right. Others picked off creatures crawling out of the shell holes or pushing along the edges of the machine guns’ fire.

Borr’s gun paused.

Through the sudden gap in its noise, he heard screaming from the slope and the steady cracking of Mausers.

Then his gunner fired again.

The thousand-round belt shortened rapidly inside its box. At full speed, the weapon consumed roughly nine hundred rounds a minute; even with pauses, Borr was reaching for the next belt sooner than he wanted.

"Ammo!"

The waiting carrier shoved one forward. Another man hauled the empty into the supply trench.

Within minutes, the gun floor was slippery with brass.

The cooling runes shone blue around the barrel housing. The runesmiths had promised close to ten thousand rounds before the enhanced barrel needed attention. Borr had thought that an absurd number when they told him.

Now he glanced at the spare lying ready behind his shoulder, feeling they should probably have increased it—the flashes of muzzle fire catching the high stone shelves where Ilyra kept watch above.

From the stone shelter above the road, Ilyra watched the enemy officers roaring through the AMR’s sight.

An armored commander stood on a ledge beneath the broken quarry arch, directing fresh troops toward the hollow below the road. His adjutant leaned close to deliver a message while two standard-bearers waited behind them.

"The one with the hooked sword," her observer said.

"I have him."

"You sure?"

She nodded.

"Fire."

She settled the stock against her shoulder. The sight enchantment steadied over the commander’s breastplate.

He turned to point toward the road just as she fired.

KRA-BOOM!

The heavy rifle slammed against her shoulder.

But the round passed beside the commander and struck his adjutant in the chest.

Armor burst apart. Blood and metal fragments splashed across the broken arch, and the adjutant dropped at his commander’s feet.

The demon commander recoiled, one hand rising to the blood across his face. He looked down at the body, then jerked his head toward the Alliance line.

"Missed the commander," Ilyra said.

Her assistant already had another round waiting.

Across the field, the commander thrust his palm forward. Red light spread from his gauntlet, curving into a shield between the ledge and the defenders. A second pulse thickened it until the figures behind it appeared through a crimson haze.

One of the standard-bearers scrambled beneath its protection.

The commander planted his feet and pointed his sword toward Ilyra’s shelter. A caster farther along the quarry wall turned at his signal.

"He has a shield," her observer warned.

"Dont worry, this time I won’t miss."

Ilyra chambered the next round. The bolt closed with a hard metallic click.

Through the sight, the commander’s dark outline settled behind the red barrier.

She fired.

KRA-BOOM!

The shield flashed white at the point of impact and shattered.

The round punched through his breastplate and tore the demon commander’s body apart. An armored arm spun over the edge of the ledge. His head and ruined shoulders struck the stone behind him while the rest of his body collapsed beside his adjutant.

The hooked sword clattered down the steps, still caught in a severed hand.

Both standard-bearers abandoned their banners.

"Commander down," Ilyra said.

Her observer caught her sleeve.

"Spell coming!"

Orange light flared along the quarry wall.

The instructor seized the rifle’s forward handle while Ilyra lifted the stock. Together they dragged it from the firing gap and dropped into the connecting trench. Her assistants followed with the ammunition and viewing glass.

BOOM!

The spell struck their abandoned shelter as they reached the bend. Broken stone hammered the trench wall, and a roof timber crashed down behind them.

Ilyra ducked beneath the flying dirt and kept moving toward the alternate bay—the shockwave rippling through the earth and shaking the frontline trenches where Halven still held the line.

Ten minutes after the first rifle volley, the demons were still coming.

The leading ranks had broken into smaller groups, but fresh formations continued through the quarry. Some ran straight into the fire. Others found the shallow folds in the ground and followed them toward the defensive ditch.

Dead bodies and torn earth made the approach uneven. Demons dropped into craters, crawled beneath the dust and emerged closer to the line. The riflemen struck many as they rose, yet more heads kept appearing.

A Warhound fired from the road.

The shell burst against the ridge behind the second machine-gun position. Halven ducked as dirt struck his helmet. Along the next section of trench, a ward mage raised both hands and caught another incoming spell in a blue flash.

The light failed almost immediately afterward. Two attendants dragged a charged crystal toward him while he wiped blood from his nose.

Behind the tollhouse, the rune-cannons continued firing. Their shells tore holes through the formations gathering farther back, but the nearest demons were already below the guns’ falling fire.

"Clips!" Tavin shouted.

The ammo man running around slid a fresh pouch along the firing step.

Halven could hear the machine-gun carriers arguing in the supply trench.

"Empty boxes on that side!"

"Then move your feet!"

A crate scraped stone. Someone swore. The next belt reached Borr before the previous one ended.

The nearest machine gun fell silent for a new belt. Halven and Tavin fired into the creatures rising in front of it, buying the crew a few more seconds. Borr’s voice carried through the shelter, followed by another burst that drove the survivors back into cover.

Halven’s shoulder ached. His mouth tasted of dust and powder. He had stopped noticing the kick until each new shot drove it into the same bruised patch.

"What is our rocket launcher doing?"

A runner reached him from Nesk’s position.

"The corporal is firing at demons gathering on our left. Lieutenant Senn ordered him to support that section."

"Tell him they’re gathering in front of us too. We need his launcher here."

The runner nodded and hurried back through the trench—carrying the urgent message straight toward the Lancer bays where Corporal Nesk was already tracking his own targets.

Another explosion struck beyond the neighboring defenses. Demons rose through its smoke and kept running.

At Borr’s shelter, a creature rolled out of a shallow crater and scrambled toward the firing slit. The gunner cut it down, then turned back towards the crowd behind it.

A second demon had crawled farther right, hidden by the broken wall.

It sprang onto the rubble outside the shelter, a short sword raised above its head.

"Die, human!"

The gunner saw its shadow cross the opening.

The shield warrior stationed behind him stepped forward and struck over his shoulder.

JUST THEN—SPLAT.

The demon hit the outer stonework like a paintwork and slid from sight. A warrior planted his shield beside the slit, blood running from the edge of his sword.

"Keep firing!"

The gunner dragged the weapon back onto the approach.

BRRRRRRRRT!

Borr fed the belt vibrating through with both hands. Behind him, the warrior resumed his place, leaving the crew room to work.

Farther along the trench, the rest of the shield infantry waited below the firing steps. Halven had no intention of sending them out into the guns’ fire.

By the eighteenth minute, eight empty ammunition boxes had been dragged from Borr’s shelter. Half the ninth belt was gone. The other crew had worked halfway through its eighth.

Between them, the two guns had fired sixteen thousand rounds. Around them, the riflemen had used nearly three hundred clips—another fifteen hundred shots.

There were still demons climbing out of the approach.

Borr could feel heat through his gloves. The cooling runes remained bright, but the instructor had uncovered the spare barrel and moved it within reach.

Beyond the slit, the ground dipped into a broad shell crater. Lesser demons were piling into it, crouching below the gun’s view while more pressed in behind them.

Their heads appeared along the rim. Then a dozen rose together and charged.

The gunner swept them down.

More were gathering beneath the edge.

He leaned away from the gun just long enough to shout at the passing runner.

"Tell those launcher bastards to do something or we be overrun soon!"

The runner opened his mouth.

Just then a different sound came from behind the earthwork on their left—the distinct pneumatic thud of Nesk’s rocket launcher answering the call.

THUMP.

Something struck inside the crowded crater.

BOOM!

The blast threw a sheet of dirt above its rim. Demons disappeared inside it. Those climbing out were flung backward, and fragments tore through the densely packed bodies beyond. A severed mace haft spun end over end across the approach and struck the outside of Borr’s shelter.

For a moment, the crater was hidden by smoke.

Then it thinned enough to show the broken figures inside.

The gunner gave a hoarse laugh and opened fire on the survivors scrambling away from its edge.

In the Lancer bay, Corporal Nesk watched the impact through his spy glass.

"I suppose they’re thanking me now."

The runner scrambled into the bay behind him.

"No sir, they were calling you a bastard."

Nesk laughed.

"Well that’s a new way to thank me."

He lowered the glass as a heavy engine note rose above the firing.

Two Warhounds were approaching the damaged road crossing.

Their hulls emerged through the dust one after another, crushing fallen demons beneath their tracks. A shell from the artillery burst near the leading machine and washed its front in flame, but it kept moving.

Behind them, infantry crowded toward the shelter of their armor.

Nesk’s smile disappeared.

He watched the first machine climb the broken approach. The ditch and collapsed road edge forced it to turn, slowly bringing its side into view.

"Close enough," he said. "Anti-armor rounds now. Bring me five."

His helper gathered the two marked rounds waiting beside the fragmentation supply, then opened the reserve chest and took out three more. He carried them forward in a wooden tray and crouched beside the launcher.

Nesk opened the breech. His helper took away the spent casing and passed him the first round, its luminous marking bright against his gloves.

The round slid into place.

CLACK.

Nesk settled behind the sight. The Warhound rocked over a slab of broken road, and he fired.

THUMP!

The impact flashed against the ground short of its tracks. Stone fragments struck the hull, but the machine rolled through the dust without slowing.

"Miss," his helper called.

"I saw."

Nesk opened the launcher. The casing struck the tray with a ringing clang, and his helper pushed the next round into his hands.

He shut the breech and hurried back to the sight.

THUMP!

The second round passed above the hull and burst against the rubble beyond it.

"Damn it."

Nesk had corrected too far.

The instructor put a hand against his shoulder.

"Breathe. You are rushing."

Just then the Warhound’s cannon fired.

Its shell struck an Alliance ward above the neighboring trench. Blue light buckled around the explosion, and dirt showered into the Lancer bay.

Nesk flinched beneath it. His helper crouched over the remaining rounds until the fragments stopped falling.

"Third," Nesk said.

This time, he let his helper finish placing the round before reaching to close the breech. He drew a breath and settled against the weapon.

The Warhound continued turning around the broken edge of the crossing. Through the drifting dust, Nesk could see the broad panel along its side.

THUMP!

The round struck accurately this time.

A white flash spread across the plating. Metal peeled outward, and dark smoke spilled from an opening behind it.

"Hit!" his helper shouted.

The Warhound lurched, then dragged itself forward again. Its gun was still moving.

Nesk pulled the breech open.

"Another."

His helper was already holding the fourth round. The spent casing fell away, the fresh round slid home, and the launcher closed with a solid clack.

Their hands had stopped getting in each other’s way. Nesk returned to the sight while his helper reached for the last round.

THUMP!

The fourth shot struck the damaged machine’s flank.

Fire burst through the hull behind the gun mounting. An upper hatch blew open, trailing smoke, and the Warhound rolled against the broken road edge before stopping.

Flames climbed above its turret.

The helper began to grin.

"The second one," Nesk said.

The following Warhound was already turning around the burning wreck. Its tracks ground over the narrow strip of road left beside the ditch.

Nesk opened the launcher and held out his hand.

His helper passed him the fifth round.

The luminous marking disappeared into the breech.

CLACK.

Nesk followed the machine as it climbed past the wreck.

THUMP!

The round struck low against its exposed side.

BOOM!

Track links flew across the crossing. One side of the Warhound stopped while the other dragged it sideways. The hull slewed across the approach and struck the broken stones with a grinding crash.

Its engine roared against the wrecked running gear.

"Stopped it!" the helper shouted.

Nesk kept his eye against the sight.

Above the motionless hull, the turret was turning.

The cannon swept past the rifle trench and continued toward their bay.

"Shit! Run!"

He shoved his helper toward the rear passage. The instructor caught the helper’s arm and hauled him through the doorway. Nesk followed, after throwing the launcher aside.

His boot caught the empty ammunition tray. He stumbled, struck the doorpost with his shoulder and threw himself into the trench.

Ahead, his helper and the instructor disappeared around the bend.

Nesk lunged after them.

The Warhound fired.

KABOOM!

The blast struck the firing opening and tore through the bay.

A roof beam snapped. The stonework above the launcher collapsed, and a wave of dust and broken timber blasted into the rear passage.

Nesk hit the trench floor as fragments hammered the wall behind him.

For several seconds, he heard only a ringing sound.

A hand caught his collar and pulled him farther around the bend.

"Still with us?" the instructor shouted.

Nesk coughed dirt onto his sleeve.

His helper crouched beside them, both hands clamped over his helmet.

When Nesk looked back, daylight showed where the firing bay’s roof had been. Broken stone buried the launcher, and one of the heavy beams lay across the entrance.

Then he looked back at the instructor and said, "Hell yeah."