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      Battles are fought fast and fierce, especially by the Astalonians. They, like the Church, liked their wars dealt in a single crushing blow. No need to prolong war; it was was draining for both the individual and country. Astalonians were used to warring with the neighboring Dulkai. International warfare was their specialty. They could deal with patriotic loyalists easily. But they weren't fighting patriotic loyalist this time. They were fighting religious zealots. And those were a lot harder to kill off.
      It's dark and he can't see his enemy well. The sand rises around him in the wind like locusts, angry and buzzing and aiming straight for his eyes. When he swings his sword, he's sure he's hit something. Friend or enemy, he doesn't know. But he's hit something.
      The Astalonians knew they were coming somehow. The Crusaders weren't used to ambushes or preemptive strikes. Usually, they were the first to attack unsuspecting peoples and convert them. It was never the other way around.
      There's blood on his lips. He can't tell if it's his own or someone else's. Screams and death rattles are strangled out in the sandstorm. He can't hear the shouts of his superiors, or his allies. He's fighting on his own now. All on his own.
      Aramis swings wide at an enemy who's much more accustomed to fighting in the sand. Nimble legs dance around him, and he spins to catch the foot soldier in his view once more. The spear is too cumbersome for this sort of close-range fighting, and it's evident. So he stays with the sword for now.
      He's fighting blind and they know it. In frustration, Aramis throws down his weapons and reaches for the solid shadows with his bare hands. Much to his surprise, and perhaps his opponents, his hands land on solid flesh, and he wrenches the warrior down for a good old fashioned brawl.
      He's pummeling his enemy's face into the sand when he feels a crushing blow against his right shoulder. Directly upon the arrow wound. Aramis throws his head back and lets out a scream. The armor reacts and tightens drastically. Vessels in his eyes rupture, and the whites take on a blood-red color. Rage wraps itself around him like a vice.
      The armor makes him an invincible killing machine.
      He doesn't know how long he'd been lying in the sand. All around him, the screams have died down to moans floating in the dust. His right shoulder is on fire; sand and blood cling to his armor and face. He feels himself being lifted up; his first instinct is to fight, but a Mensh-speaking voice tells him to lay still. He's carried off with the rest of the battered and broken.
      It catches them by surprise, but the Crusaders manage to fight off the Astalonian attack. Barely.
      To his left, Henrii. Both legs severed at the knees. He'll survive. To his right, two men down, Nestor. A blanket is pulled up over his face as Aramis watches, and finally, he remembers where he saw Nestor last: he was eleven years old. Nestor had been one of the kids he'd run away with during the days of Clan Seraphim. Nestor, the kid who loved plants and skipping stones in the river. The one who had a serious crush on Kissie Voluun and made her a garland crown for her birthday. Nestor.
I'm so sorry.
      He's placed inside a makeshift infirmary. In reality, it's just another tent. His eyes close. Damn, he's tired.
 Bleeding Apocalypse · Wed Mar 07, 2007 @ 08:50pm · 0 Comments |
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