Index:
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8
This story is part of my first anthology book, A mandate of sword and railgun, and I intend to post all chapters on my Substack. If you like the story and want to support me, you can find the book here.
Chapter 6
With the villagers’ aid, Einar, Holden and the Lothorian soldiers, successfully built if not all, most of the planned entrenchments. Reinforced with stoneworks, the thick wooden rampart did not look imposing, yet everybody knew it would save many a life. They constructed small stone walls, and not many, but that was on purpose.
In the small Terran’s luggage, Holden discovered a couple of canisters filled with industrial grade vacfoam. Though not a plentiful material, the vacfom could be used to strengthen those small, thick walls and many times over. All the big boulders carried by Einar were strategically placed one atop the other, then covered with earth collected from their dugouts and trenches. Then soldiers would fit smaller rocks in the holes and spray vacfoam, solidifying everything better than any local mortar would.
Every place that Lothorians were unable to enclose with lumber or wall, they dug trenches and placed fortification baskets there. These large, woven from nekhtu stems baskets were normally used to carry harvest or luggage. In this case, they were reinforced and stuffed to their brim with sand and smaller rocks, creating a form of easy to make, but effective cover.
Learning from his teachers on Sirius, Holden knew well how to create a layered defense. One fortification ended and then another began; the village of Belazem was now transformed into a small fort. Comprised by the outer wall, made from thick lumber, earth and stone was the first line of defense.
The second layer was made of dugouts and trenches; those were reinforced with small, concealed strongboxes and positioned on higher ground, machine gun positions. It was designed to be manned and used together with the outer one, even if parts of it were overwhelmed.
At Belazem’s center stood one big redoubt, which was nothing more than an assortment of leftover lumber, earth, rocks and fortification baskets. If things became desperate, and their enemy somehow overcame their defenses, the survivors would make their last stand there.
Even though everyone was tasked to their limit, people still found time to dig traps and fill them with sharp stakes. One grenade from each soldier’s kit was sacrificed and, by use of thin, megasteel wire, booby traps were crafted. Newly-formed Lothorian infantry units oftentimes lacked specialist gear, nor could they use most of it since none of them were trained engineers.
Holden deliberated if he should ask for emergency reinforcements, but knew those were far and in between. A much better option would be to make a call and request a supply drop, which he immediately did. Since most spaceships in the vicinity were busy hauling personnel or vital supplies elsewhere, one passing Terran vessel was tasked with launching said supplies from orbit.
The ship, one Martian built transport by the name of IMS White Star, offered to deploy nearly all escape pods, and guide them to their positions. Of course, only after her crew had stuffed them full of spare power packs, medisprays, rations, and grenades. Though these supplies would not arrive immediately, eventually this would be of great help to the soldiers since the spares for all Terran small arms were utilitarian in design.
To do this, IMS White Star had to change her course but only slightly and graze Lothoria’s atmo. Einar hoped that the starship could deliver more than just escape pods full of supplies. From this range, even one concentrated barrage from her point defense battery could favorably tip the balance of power in their favor.
Unfortunately, just as most other vessels, the White Star could not remain here for long. She was loaded with hundreds of terminally sick Lothorians and heavily wounded soldiers, all of whom were being evacuated for treatment back on Sirius Prime.
After calling their HQ, Einar was assured that castle Mizuyama could also deliver a single artillery strike. By recalibrating their tertiary, 50mm railgun cannon emplacements for long-range fire, the castle’s gunners could hit distant targets. Only if the situation here was dire the arty hit would be ordered since this dangerous action required the guns to be heavily overcharged.
Einar and Holden organized everybody and made sure the Lothorian villagers, those who cannot aid the fight, are all holed up at the redoubt’s innermost building. Coincidentally, this was the very same barn they used as a gathering place two days ago. Now the place was also reinforced by wooden beams, piles of earth and stone, though if the enemy possessed heavy artillery that barn’s roof would collapse.
All food reserves in the village had long since been hidden in many, small underground vaults. Which were dug under Belazem itself and concealed in such a way, that unless one possessed powerful scanners or divining ability, they could spend many months looking for. However, if the enemy priest (or mage), could break the mind of even one Lothorian villager, they’d secure these vital provisions.
The real danger most probably would come from Coalition troops, Einar thought. Narcos originally had poorly trained and motivated “soldiers,” who were nevertheless outfitted with ample quantities of modern firearms. Rapid firing particle-beam guns, grenade launchers, and shoulder held, anti-tank rocket or beam weapons. It wouldn’t be a stretch of their imaginations to assume that this Coalition unit could also be fielding lightly armored vehicles or even power armors.
Since he was the only Asgardian here, Einar’s weaponry could effectively counter and kill heavies. Be it from medium range with his M5 and in melee, if not many or heavily armed, he believed that him taking on a few PA and emerging victorious was quite possible.
While he braced and readied himself for a combat most vicious, Holden and the riflemen had their eyes glued to the unnatural fog. Their job would be to eliminate as many Narco troopers as possible, from range. The less beam weapons fired at Lothorians from medium or close range, the better.
Then every rifle would aim and shoot at the Temple leht. Before these degenerates could close the distance and put their “blessed” zhatarn to use, their numbers had to be culled too. This the Lothorian riflemen decided to accomplish by lobbing grenades at the compact lehta formations. Melee infantry was most efficient when charging in good formation; theoretically, hiding behind their broad shields, even these now obsolete warriors could stand a chance.
Moreover, if the leht’s gear was upgraded; their shields reinforced with space age alloy and zhatarn outfitted with vibro cells, they could overwhelm the handful of riflemen. Then slaughter will follow and even if many Temple leht would eventually fall, victory could be theirs in the end. To prevent an eventuality like this one, Holden promised to crush the leht’s morale.
All Lothorian soldiers now knew that power of the Terran Word could be wielded to an effect most devastating. By use of chosen passages taken from his Morale Officer Handbook, Holden could make these vile cowards quake in their boots and soil their armored pants. Whoever was the enemy leader, everyone believed and without an ounce of hesitation, that the Terran morale officer would succeed.
Two full days had passed in feverish preparation and organization. Just like many, incalculable number of battles, now warriors and their helpers alike could do little else, but wait. Wait they did, in a fashion most calm and reserved. The emboldened Lothorians did so, because they had not one, but two Terrans beside them.
One was from a race of giant warriors; able to hurl balls of lighting and slay his enemies from afar with borrowed Terran firepower. The second one’s very words were weapons and, even though he also possessed peerless ability to shoot his enemy from afar, the morale officer preferred the former.
It was a sticky wall of grayish fog, out of which their debased enemies emerged. In their traditional lehta formations, hundreds of Temple leht marched forward, squads of armed with beam weapons Narcos covering their flanks.
Towering mecha moved behind them, a squad strong of Cartel power armors, yet few of them were armed with assault rifles. Only their leader carried one of these devastating particle-beam guns – the rest, all four of them held swords and axes in their mechanical arms.
At the small army’s center, there stood a platform shrouded with shimmering shield. Atop it, on a golden throne and clad in the vestiges of Rot’s priesthood, sat one charismatic Lothorian. Power, it seems, swirled around and above the throne and high in the sky, where everyone could now see a stormy cloud forming.
“Bow before the glory of your God’s Prophet, you miserable peons!” – His voice, enhanced by a device or his own magics, boomed across the demolished farm fields.
Yet, there were no thunderous shouts coming from the now fully erect wooden palisade. Neither wails of despair nor begs for mercy rose in the air, and the advancing leht exchanged confused looks.
Their weapons and shields were indeed blessed, improved and not only by the power of their Most Holy Prophet. Their Coalition allies, they gladly shared their arms with them and promised the leht that this time, no Terran armament could slaughter them with impunity.
Unanswered lingered the words which came from the golden throne. The Prophet of Rot aimed the scepter he held in his hand up, then once more, he avowed:
“Filthy heretics, witness the true might of Rot and despair! Bow down and bend your knee before ME or you and your kin shall suffer, then die!”
As the hundreds of leht marched forward, shields now raised and formations immaculate, a torrent of hail poured down from the cloud. Shards of ice as big as a cannon ball showered the palisade and outer entrenchments, yet the advancing Temple warriors heard no cries or wallows of pain.
“Thoust shalt shiver, freeze, and then die, ungrateful peons. Thine destiny is to perish in obscurity, just like all other betrayers of Rot’s Glorious, Most Just Order.”
Frost winds blasted the wall, uplifted small rocks, sand and debris ravaged the area. So close were the leht, that they would’ve seen the wounded and the dead with their own eyes. Their alien brethren looked through devices, canted their heads and then a self-righteous, malevolent laughter spread through the ranks.
It would seem that the heretics, their little hearts gripped by terror, fearful for their pitiful lives, had fled!
“By Rot’s Holy Blessing, we are victorious without even firing one shot!” – The Temple General happily screamed, one fist in the air.
“Our devices did not detect enemies in the vicinity. Let us take the wall, my brothers!” – Jubilantly shouted the Cartel commander, signaling at his leht counterpart.
A wave of two hundred leht and their Coalition allies charged up the slope. No one fired at them and safely, they reached the rampart, their portable ladders soon allowed them to speedily climb it. Half their number had already taken positions atop the wall, while the rest manned the comfortable, metallic ladders and enthusiastically climbed up.
Their jubilant cries turned into horror-filled screams in one single, terrifying instance. Not the combined choir of machine gun fire and the roar of railgun projectiles could silence the dying leht. The barrage was deathly accurate; ordered immediately after the golden throne emerged from the fog and prudently executed. Bodies blown to bits, limbs severed by heavy projectiles, at least a hundred leht and their Coalition allies fell dead or wounded.
Yelling, the Lothorian platoon came charging to finish the few survivors still atop their wall. Bayonets glistening in the sun, these men swiftly slew their enemies, who barely offered any resistance at all. Indeed, the only ones who managed to survive were those still climbing their ladders.
Unharmed they would remain for just a tad bit longer since after bayoneting whomever was still twitching, the Lothorian soldiers positioned their machine gun atop the wall. From left to right, the young corporal ordered his gunners to fire, aim mid ladders and shoot on full auto.
Shredded bodies and mangled ladders littered the ground!
Those near the top of their ladders fell to their deaths or now moaned in great pain, limbs broken and bleeding. Others, those who were just starting to climb, they panically ran away from the wall. They did not go far since the Lothorians had taken positions on the wall and killed about fifty of them with their rifles.
It has taken a few star-minutes for one platoon of heretics to slaughter thrice their own number!
Enraged, the two commanders – one swinging his long zhatarn in the air, the other firing beam after beam at the thick wall, ordered another assault. The second wave of leht and Narcos, although hesitant, advanced forth in good order. Particle-beam armed Coalition soldiers aimed and fired at every Lothorian head they could see atop the wall while their leht allies moved forwards, shields raised.
Soon they were forced to trample their own; the dead and the dying now presented an obstacle and they had to bend their formations. Another barrage of machine gun fire, aimed at the most crooked shield wall, mowed down a dozen leht. Then... then grenades flew at them and, instead of exploding on the ground, these detonated right above their heads. Gory bits, limbs encased in metal, hot blood bathed their comrades, further increasing the terror which was now eating at their hearts.
More and more of them were dying, either shot by the Terran machine gun, accurate rifle fire or blown up by grenades. The fact that each following wave of leht had to walk over the dismembered, bloodied corpses of their brethren did not help alleviate their morale situation. Their Coalition allies, despite all devices, beam weapons and space age armor, they too were felled.
These aliens swore their technology will protect them!
The reality was the leht’s blessings were incapable of shielding them from Terran weapons and their enemy’s peerless aim... One could not expect a fighting force such as theirs to keep dying, unable to reach their enemy and not break. Just as their third wave was speedily ordered to charge and reinforce the attack, a Terran voice speaking in perfect Lothorian shook their resolve:
“Miserable leht and vile narcos, witness how pitiful, nay, useless are the ‘blessings’ of your fake god! Nothing can save you from the wrath of the Liberated, for you have come here to die! There is no other outcome for you and your degenerate ‘Prophet,’ but to perish. Either by blade, shot or at our hands, will what is left of your ‘just order’ be crushed. Come, try to enslave us once more you cowards, we are waiting!”
Half the leht halted, shaken by this proclamation while their opponents shot only those who still advanced towards the wall. Screams of indignation and rage echoed across the blood-soaked, corpse ridden battlefield. Lines collapsed or were twisted by chaos, with most leht running away, scared and demoralized.
But victory against a force as large as this one could not be so easily achieved. Ordering the tall mechanical warriors into the fray supported by their heavy beam weapons, the Coalition commander skillfully conspired with the Temple General. Both led their most trusted warriors and, after the mechs stomped through the killing fields, these forces charged forward to exploit a possible breach. Such they assumed would be soon forged either by their machines, the heavy beam guns or both.
One of the mechs flew up, its engines charged and the pilot hoping to mow down those Lothorian heretics who fired with such accuracy from their position atop the wall. A hand the size of his own machine’s emerged from between the ramparts. The large Terran pistol held by said hand then emptied its entire power pack and from point blank range, the 9mm pellets blasted mangled holes straight through the torso. With an earsplitting explosion, the vanquished machine fell, its burning hulk crushing a number of Coalition soldiers dead.
Then this warrior, this Asgardian, he brazenly climbed atop the wall, shield and sword in hand. Another machine, this time armed with a long axe, aimed to reach and kill him, yet that was not to be.
He pointed his shimmering, blue blade at it; from its tip a forked lightning arched and then with furious force hit the attacking mech. Such was the power imbued in this Oden Force attack that the machine’s torso splintered, sending its mangled limbs flying across the battlefield.
“With all my force I smite thee, betrayers of Life Eternal!”
The warrior’s faceplate slid open, and everyone could see his glowing, lightning charged eyes. His blade still shimmering, arcing with lightning, the man pointed it at the golden throne and spat before shouting:
“With all my contempt I spit at thou and curse thou’st inglorious, most unjust order!”
He then banged the sword upon his shield a number of times; each hit creating a thundering clang, evoking cheer from the soldiers around him. Joined by his Human ally, the Asgardian once more spoke, a mere moment before newly-arrived leht reinforcements joined the battle.
“Free, armed and willing to die for their progeny people grovel before no one.”
His companion gracefully leapt away from one aimed at him particle-beam barrage and after a vicious answer form his railgun, which left the beam gun’s operators dead, stated:
“Pitiful degenerates, you dream of making us Terrans bend the knee, yet I see not your tanks, your tactical mechs and definitely, not your starships.”
The young man then again jumped in the air, and out of sight, yet not before his cheerful laughter joined that of his Asgardian friend. A loud sonic boom echoed in the air; while the giant warrior reloaded and then fired with his pistol at another mech, the Prophet screamed, enraged beyond measure. The black cloud above his throne increased in size and then moved towards Belazem.
“YOU WILL PAY FOR THIS SACRILEGE, VILE HERETICS!”
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Right out of a Marvel comic book.
Keep up the great work!