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      Bits of granulated sand obscure his view, insects in his venus fly trap eyelashes. He was far away from Gaia now, and when he turned to look over his shoulder, all he could see were waves of darkness marching behind him, broken up into legions of 100 soldiers each. Perfect squares of warriors, armor glittering in the sun like the wings of the Scarab beetle in the desert. No jagged outline of his hometown could be seen, and even if it could, the wavering distortion of the rising heat would just blot it out like smeared ink on parchment.
      Aramis turned back around. He could feel the heat whipping against his face, hot lashes crossing his cheek this way and that. He tried concentrating on the physical, not the emotional, not the intellectual. The armor seemed to react to that. Every time he thought of his children at home, the armor seemed to constrict, forcing the blood from his extremities into his torso. It would prepare him for battle at the very thought of something worth fighting for. It also force-fed adrenaline into his veins.
      Casting his eyes sideways, Aramis saw the other soldiers riding alongside him. Their thoughts were attached elsewhere, and it was evident in their trembling. The adrenaline was pumping through them hard and fast. Don't be like them.
      In another hour they'll reach the first city meant for conquest. Aramis tightened the grip of his reins and kept his eyes forward, on his Legion's leader.
      Smoke curled over the horizon. It was the first visual contact with Darlis Kesh, the industrial capital of Astalon. It wasn't the official capital by any means, but if you destroy the country's livelihood, well, that did more than damage morale. Legions X through XIII were to raze the fields while he and XIV charged into Darlis Kesh head on. The Astalonians could fight, sure, but let's see how long they could fight with empty stomachs and little to no replacement armor.
      A hand raises. Company halt. They'll camp here for the night and head out before dawn. As soon as the first rays of light pierced the morning sky, they'll be riding into Darlis Kesh at full speed. Never give the enemy time to react. Never give the enemy time to prepare. And most of all, never, ever, give the enemy a chance to run.
      The Church demands no one be spared the sword. Men, women, children. All those who choose to fight against invasion and conversion will die. No exceptions. Either place your alliances with Deus or sign your own death certificates.
      The Commander gives the order to dismount. He does, and so do the other soldiers in a cacophony of clinks and scrapes and thuds. Pieces of armor fall heavily onto the floor as they're shed like corn husks, and a collective sigh of relief whittles through the wind. Night will be cold. It always is in Astalon. Time to set up camp.
 Bleeding Apocalypse · Wed Mar 07, 2007 @ 08:41pm · 0 Comments |
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