“Are you ready?” Fellwyre asked. Talbot nodded from his hiding spot behind a water barrel, and turned around to check with Mendoza.
“We follow Fellwyre out,” Talbot said. “His soldiers will lead the way out of the compound, and will take us for half klick back towards the tower where Shell and Scope are, and then we’ll take the alleyways. Pop the charge at half klick or if you feel trouble’s about to hit us. The walls should deflect the shock, if they were built strong enough. What’s the range on your detonator?”
“The new wireless detonator should can probably get us maybe... a half a block out of the armory and it’ll still be good,” Mendoza said, gripping the remote detonator in his hands. Jittery spasms played with his fingers as the moment drew near, eagerly anticipating the distraction laid out for Red Talon. “DARPA’s been wanting better range on our equipment so we can match the Federation’s tech, so the det’s got some long-distance functionality replicated from their tech modded into it. Time to see if it works.”
Talbot reached over and tapped Fellwyre, who was leaning against the stone wall of the entrance watching his soldiers lined up and filing out in the courtyard, on the shoulder. Fellwyre looked to him with a cold eye, and nodded; he stepped forward, laying out the path the Ghosts would follow.
Soldiers evacuated the open space, providing cover for their comrades with a staggered fallback during their exit. Rifles fired into the air to deter the imperial air forces, allowing the remainder of the soldiers within the armory courtyard to finish their languid push with carts full of arms and ammunition out of the main gates. Fellwyre followed them, trailing behind the last cart, and with him, the Ghosts.
“Shell, where’s the target?” Talbot asked.
“Red’s bearing down on you like a beast possessed right now, though he made a detour earlier and stopped a sapper team en-route to the northwest gates,” Pastor replied. “But he’s still got a lot of ground to cover. You might make it back to where you ambushed the cloakers near the armory before he reaches you, but those carts are slowing down your advance by a huge factor.”
“Fuse, opinion on popping the explosives right now?” Talbot asked him.
Mendoza shook his head, looking over his shoulder as the last of Fellwyre’s overwatch leapt off of the walls, gliding over and taking up positions on the rooftops above the street. “Too close. With that much material below, I’m pretty sure the only thing we’re going to be leaving behind here is a crater.”
“Then we keep going,” Talbot said. He and Mendoza shadowed the procession, darting from cover to cover as Fellwyre’s unit began to suffer reprisals from the growing imperial presence. The skies clouded with formations, all swooping down one after another to harass the rooftop rifle-griffons, who took to the weapons with surprising efficiency; every charge was followed by a volley of shots, striking at the fliers’ departing angles and forcing them to fall back and regroup.
“Push!” Fellwyre ordered his soldiers, firing his rifle towards a griffon banking for him. The bullet pierced over the attacker’s right eye, breaking through his faceplate and ricocheting across the side of his head before puncturing out the back where leather protected his neck. Though alive, the damage was enough, and the soldier careened into the side of a building head-first and dropped into the street, unmoving.
Fellwyre’s griffons clamored for support as the street behind them thickened with enemies marching down. The rifle-griffons, mostly preoccupied with maintaining a watch on their aerial adversaries, spared only a moment’s time to attempt several volleys downwind; the bullets bounced harmlessly off the wall of shields as the imperial soldiers grew closer.
“Keep moving!” Fellwyre shouted. “We need these supplies northeast. Move it, go, go, go!”
He retraced his steps, pushing aside his subordinates on the powder barrel wagon as he retrieved one and smashed in its knob. A small trail of the powder began to leak out, piling at his claws as he began to lace the width of the street with the substance, tossing idle debris of fallen timber and other flammables as fuel to spark a pyre that would block the enemy advance.
Talbot and Mendoza snuck past the grainy black line, taking refuge in a standing doorway as Talbot reevaluated the situation. The D-kit was pointed in their direction, drawing dozens of signatures on their crosscom and producing a visual nightmare; he killed off all extraneous targets beyond fifty meters and forced the diamond icons to minimize by ninety five percent, finally clearing his visor of informational static.
Fellwyre had support, as soldiers grabbed any extra fuel they could and piled it onto the pyre, already lit as they fell back. The barrier was strong, and burnt hot; the flames barely licked the second stories of the buildings they were built next to, but the height wasn’t the concern, merely that the street remained choked with burning objects. Heavy barricades and furniture drawn from empty lots and destroyed buildings made up the bulk that would prevent the phalanx’s crossing.
“Red’s in the skies now,” Pastor said. “He’s swinging around, coming in alone from southwest of the armory and about to make a landing in the courtyard, with the rest of the fighting still to catch up behind him. Watch yourselves.”
“Copy that, Shell.” Talbot remained on watch, but raised a thumbs-up towards Mendoza. “Light her up, Fuse.”
“Lighting her up,” Mendoza cheered in a low singsong tone. He clicked the detonator and waited tensely, pausing for a tense minute—staring out towards the crenellations of the armory only just down the hill—before giving a light chuckle as the ground began to rumble. “Merry Christmas to me, baby.”
They braced in the doorway, hugging against the wall as the tremors reached full bloom. From his position, Talbot peered out of the corner to see those in the air disoriented by the blast, formations running slack and spiraling into disorder, while the soldiers on the ground were shaken, breaking their formation as the shields bounced off each other and onto the ground. Fellwyre’s griffons held steadfast, with those on the carts bracing themselves and their transports for dear life and the rifle-griffons crouching low to avoid being thrown off and to remain ready for an immediate takeoff should their buildings collapse.
A massive plume of dust rose out of the ground in the distance as the armory imploded on itself. Talbot, via the D-kit, tracked a shape being caught in the shockwave and falling into the yawning crater below. He looked to Mendoza, who returned a gleeful thumbs-up back to him.
“Red just had himself a little tumble,” Pastor confirmed with a sneer. “Looks like his parade just caught up with him, so you better haul ass.”
“He’s within range,” Raymond said. “The street that you guys are heading up is where he’s going to run towards. I have a clear shot at the edge of the crater from here. I’m just hoping he’s still shell-shocked when I see his face.”
Fellwyre took up the slack, shouting over the din for his soldiers to double-time it up the hill; the armor column had taken casualties, but were only momentarily distracted. Even as he spoke, they made detours to circle around through smaller streets and alleyways. The rifle-griffons did not pursue, continuing to shadow the convoy rather than skirmish with the opposition.
The carts reached the apex of the hill they climbed, instantly shifting to a sprint as they continued northeast. Loyalist forces gathered at the courtyard for the final push towards the keep, with several platoons already rendezvousing, grabbing rifles to supplement their swords and spears.
When Fellwyre stepped aside, hanging low behind the parked carts and breaking the line of sight with his soldiers, Talbot stepped in. “What’s the current situation?” he asked. The courtyard was a flurry of activity, and shots were already being fired at their hastily-erected perimeter. The imperial forces drew close, thundering forward with their armaments with renewed determination.
“Bloodfury and the rest of the Imperial Guard are off dealing with Strongbeak’s forces,” Fellwyre whispered, staring off towards the distance at the dust being blown away in the distance. “Red Talon’s reinforcements will be here soon. And what soldiers we had outside the walls to support our advance will soon be here with us. They need to be, if they wish to survive.”
“And the wall of steel we just ran into down the street?”
“I have no doubt that they’re Red Talon’s regulars. Not as well-trained as Strongbeak’s elites, obviously, else this battle would have already gone south. He’s the General of the Infantry for a reason: he utilizes the soldier to great effect, combining air and ground cohorts to launch pincer attacks that leave the enemy with nowhere to run.”
“I’d say being stuck in his fortress already does that for him.” Talbot looked to his crosscom, following Pastor’s ping: marked red against yellow, the diamond sharply ascended out of the pit of death and jetted above, parallel to the advancing armor column. “Well, it looks like Red Talon is still alive.”
“Pissed off... and flying in a straight line directly at us… and me,” Raymond noted. “Bad idea.” An ear-splitting crack sounded off in the tower, roaring loudly as if from the skies themselves.
Red Talon fumbled with his flight, his growing form revealed to be clutching the left side of his shoulder; his flesh was open and torn from the shot, bleeding profusely as he raised his head and cried in anger. Bits of armor still fell off of his body, torn apart by the force of the explosion and his resulting impact, falling to the earth and onto the soldiers beneath him.
“I know that weapon! Accursed worms, you will not—” Red Talon was cut off as the loyalist forces interrupted his tirade with fire of their own. He was forced to break off, sheathing his greatsword and swinging around, riding up the left flank of his army’s advance—loudly bemoaning his wound the whole way—and regrouping behind his aerial forces’ defensive formations.
“Damn. I almost had him there.”
“Good shot,” Talbot said, chuckling under his breath as Mendoza nodded approvingly behind him. “Not exactly a kill shot, but it’s good enough. He’ll be feeling that one for a while, and hopefully it’s softened him up enough for another.”
“He won’t be so quick to jump at us now,” Pastor said. “But we might not get another shot at him for the rest of the battle. Unless Scope is up to par with sniping a strafing target moving in the air...”
“No way in hell that’s going to happen,” Raymond replied. “The last time I fired while moving and in the air was on a helicopter outside of Berlin. And that was a lucky shot on an extraction, and the guy was on the building across from our chopper, no more than twenty meters.”
“A fine shot from Scope,” Fellwyre noted. “Red Talon’s defeat may just be within our grasp.”
“Sir! We got incoming!” a soldier called from the wall above him.
“Who is it?”
“Imperial Guard, sir,” the soldier replied. He raised his faceplate, squinting hard for several moments until he looked back down. “They’re all there. And Sergeant Bloodfury is leading them.”
“Ah, excellent,” Fellwyre said. The Imperial Guard, numbering a paltry handful from Bloodfury’s group, stormed into the courtyard, immediately scattering into their assigned units and moving to reinforce the loyalists. Bloodfury himself sought out Fellwyre, eventually finding him behind the carts at the directions of Leret.
The two appeared from around the corner of the cart, gathering close to Fellwyre. “Have you seen the Ghosts?” Bloodfury asked.
“They’re here,” Fellwyre replied quietly. “Right next to us.”
“Good,” he said, panting as he took off his helmet. His head slackened and he took in great breaths, unaware of the Ghost’s position, but continued, “That was a damn fine shot there, tore right through like it was nothing, and might have taken his left shoulder out of commission. You were right, Captain: the damage dealt certainly was grievous.”
“It’s fortunate that we were even able to land a shot at all,” Talbot replied. “The armory trap worked as intended. How big a hole did we leave in the ground?”
“Massive,” Leret said. “There will need to be a lot of construction to restore the armory to its original state, and a lot of earth to move. The entire surrounding area is now entirely unrecognizable, and several companies of Red Talon’s air infantry were taken down with him, though they were not as lucky as he was.”
“Less for us to deal with,” Mendoza muttered.
“Then we must do this now,” Fellwyre said. “Do you have a plan?”
“Aside from killing him, no,” Talbot replied. He looked at Bloodfury. “Do you have a plan?”
“Yes, and it also involves killing him.” He snorted and jabbed a talon over his shoulder. “Our plan, seeing as how we are quickly running out of options here, is to fortify our position here in front of the tower. I will send soldiers with these new rifles up to man the ramparts, and the rest of us will stay down here to engage Red Talon’s soldiers.”
“One column, shield regulars,” Leret noted. “The rest must be out at the front lines. Thank the ancestors for that. Between all the Imperial Guard, we should be able to handle them easily.”
“And myself, Leret, and the rest of our core unit will direct Red Talon’s flow of battle,” Bloodfury continued. “As the most experienced of the loyalists here, he will seek to kill us first, as is his need to seek out worthy opponents. We can use this to our advantage.”
“He clearly means to kill us,” Talbot said. “Unless that’s what you had in mind the whole time...”
“Would be nice to try, but you’re far too valuable to our war effort to stop. Even though we may succeed in controlling the flow and direction of our battle with Red Talon, he will still adhere to the rules of griffon combat. If we engage in number, so does he. He will not be fighting us alone, and that is where our problems come in. Alone, we can take him. With his soldiers, we cannot.”
“I can assign two squads with rifles on the walls above the gates,” Fellwyre offered.
Bloodfury shook his head. “No, no, that won’t work. These weapons are too new, and we can’t risk having an accident in combat against Red Talon.” His eyes flicked to Talbot. “Which is where you and your friend Fuse will come in, and perhaps the other Ghosts, wherever they may be.”
“You want us to pick off his soldiers?” Talbot asked.
“That I do,” Bloodfury said with a slow nod. “You are trained with your weapons, and you have proven that they will work against any normal imperial soldier. Keep your eyes trained and keep the extra numbers off our backs.”
“We can’t risk blowing our cover here,” Mendoza warned.
“A good point, but it’s a risk I am willing to take. Scarclaw would approve: in this situation, we must utilize everything we have to win this battle, and that means putting you Ghosts to a task that fits your skills. Now, hurry. We must get into position.”
“Wait, hold on,” Talbot said. The three griffons turned to look curiously at him. “We ran into something else in the tower. Griffon soldiers, armed with rifles just like the rest of the imperial forces stationed here, but they were wearing light armor with invisibility capabilities exactly like ours.”
“What?” Fellwyre asked in quiet shock. “This is worrying news. Do you think it might—?”
“Be related to the clues we found underneath the armory?” Talbot ended. “Too early to guess at this point, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it was. It’s just too coincidental. We have to stay on the lookout for any more of them... Fuse and I will deploy some monitoring equipment, just to be safe. I’ll get Scope to watch the battlefield for any more of them.”
“Hold on,” Bloodfury interrupted. “You mean there are griffons running around that can do exactly what the Ghosts can do?”
“It’s a long story, which I’ll be happy to explain to you later, Bloodfury. See to it that you do, Captain,” Fellwyre said. He looked between Bloodfury and Talbot, retrieving a fresh rifle from the cart next to him and handing two to the two Imperial Guards before arming himself with a new one. “And may the ancestors protect us all.”
The street turned into a warzone within itself. With the shield regulars as the mainstay of the offensive, Red Talon’s forces gathered around the phalanx in support: on the roofs, in the alleys, and in the skies. The General of the Infantry knew his prey had nowhere to run, and had no intention of letting the enemy gain the satisfaction of splintering his forces and utilizing guerilla tactics. The loyalists would have to deal with the full strength of his assault head-on.
Talbot crouched behind a cracked stone wall above the tower’s gates, staring towards the line of gleaming steel approaching the loyalist barricade. Diamonds blipped into existence, one after another as if an endless tide, as units continued to consolidate on Red Talon’s position from all throughout the fortress. “Shell, do you see the target?”
“Negative. Too many in the air, all moving about. D-kit lost his position when he retreated into his soldiers.”
“Copy.” Mendoza was beside him, peering down the sights of his MR8 towards the horizon. “Fuse, how many flashbangs do you have on you?”
“Just two here. I think we all brought only two. Didn’t think we’d need more than that between all of us when we went after Maynard,” Mendoza replied, gently tapping the grenades hanging off the side of his belt. “Frags might work. Red’s not exactly a juggernaut covered in steel anymore.”
“Let Scope worry about him. We can’t risk having friendlies near the frag when it goes off.” He looked down to the center of the courtyard; Bloodfury and rest of the Imperial Guard remained at attention with their rifles in claws, their wings spread in anticipation. All of their heads pointed above, watching as imperial formations in the sky began to tighten their formations for the imminent descent.
“There!” Bloodfury pointed into the sky. “I see him!”
“Sir, I found him,” Pastor followed. The leader of the first five-griffon unit in the sky was marked red, and Talbot could make out Red Talon’s monstrous size through the icon, with a tint of white where his wound for a hasty patch-up; he was wielding his greatsword with one claw, though he seemed no worse for wear with it. “He’s leading the first charge. They’re descending now, banking hard to dodge the rifles. Watch yourself.”
Dodging the rifles was least of the general’s concerns; three more units entered the fray before he dove, leading the charge and acting as a shield; their armor suffered the damage he could not. The wedge darted above the armor column, scattering as they reached the courtyard. The rifle-griffons at the periphery posts beyond the perimeter fired their volleys, sounding off their rows before switching to swords and engaging the closing attackers on the rooftops.
The two units at the side of the wedge had broken off, leaving only two to fall upon the loyalist battlements: the first unit, which glided above the barricades only to fall headfirst into the Imperial Guard leaping towards them. A pair narrowly dodged the onslaught, only to be met with bullets. The Guard, in tandem, speedily reorganized before backing off, giving Red Talon’s approach a wide berth.
But the general’s entrance never came; his unit spread their wings for a hard brake, and broke off their dive, landing neatly on a rooftop with him looking down at the Guard and the rest of his squad hopping down to fight. Red Talon sneered at them, opening his beak to speak when another crack echoed above. The head of the soldier passing in front of him exploded with a shower of red mist, tossing the mangled remnant of his helmet aside with ease.
“Fuck,” Raymond cursed. “That makes twice now.”
Red Talon dodged aside, breaking away from the combat and jumping across the rooftops to his right; he steadily circled around, muscling his way past the loyalist rifle groups on the rooftops, tearing through them as he made for the gatehouse walls. Raymond’s next shot went wide, unable to keep steady with his erratic movements and usage of the buildings’ features to obstruct his line of sight.
“Sir, he’s getting too close. We need to—”
“I know,” Talbot replied. He bent down, cradling his MR8 on his legs as he checked his revolver, ensuring that the cylinders were all filled. Beside him, Mendoza fired controlled bursts, muted gasps that cut down the remainder of the aerial griffons as they began to pour into the courtyard.
“What’s the call?” Mendoza asked, pausing only to reload. “That diamond’s getting bigger…”
“This is taking too long,” Talbot muttered. “And he’s not staying still.” He leveraged his head against the side of the stone outlook, watching as Bloodfury directed Leret to hold the line and ordered his squad to redirect on an intercept vector to Red Talon. The sergeant sheathed his sword, breaking into a hurried sprint on all fours like a beast of speed as his subordinates tracked in behind him. His wings spread and he lifted into the air, maintaining his moment of aerial fluidity until he drew his weapon in preparation of the coming clash.
Red Talon brought his blade down to finish off a bloodied loyalist isolated from his squad as another blade entered the picture. The strike went askew as Bloodfury cried out with strained effort; a shrill groan echoed between the grinding blades as they slammed into the ground, and Red Talon remained fixated on the spectacle, flustered by the parry. Bloodfury, still off the ground with his wings spread, spared no time as he spun into his next strike; a booted shin struck the hapless general across the face.
The impact did little to break the balance of the general, however. With an indignant growl, Red Talon retaliated a clumsy fling of his left claw—hampered by his shoulder injury—with the right still gripped tightly on the handle of his sword and raising it high; Bloodfury ducked, dodging the strike and bringing his sword above his head and fully taking the weight of the falling blade. The soldier huddling next to the battle determinedly drew his knife, diving between Red Talon’s exposed legs and striking both with neat slices, before rolling off the edge of the rooftops to relative safety.
“Gah!” Red Talon shouted, looking aside to see the tips of the feathers disappear over the edge. “As expected of the crown’s lapdogs… always resorting to such trickery.” He distanced himself from Bloodfury, hopping over to the next roof: dangerously close to where Talbot and Mendoza were, and within their earshot.
“You shame our ancestors by what you have done, you and all your ilk,” Bloodfury replied. He, too, remained at length, carefully gauging the general’s posture as he was judged in kind. “You damn our empire to the pains of war and for what? Illusions of grandeur gained from spilling the blood of your kin? Of our allies? You usurp the throne of the true ruler through deceit and subterfuge, yet you have the gall to chastise us for striking from the shadows?” He chuckled. “Certainly a case of the pot calling the kettle black…”
They danced around each other; Red Talon to avoid being struck by a wayward bullet from beyond his reach, and Bloodfury to avoid letting the general gain the jump on him. Talbot watched the two circle each other while mincing words, and readied his MR8. The barrel of the MR8 hovered in his vision as he singled out the unprotected joints at the base of Red Talon’s shoulders.
“Need to draw him out further, sir, I can’t get to him from this angle,” Raymond said. “Unless you’d like me to attempt a vertical shot…”
“I think Bloodfury knows,” Talbot said. Bloodfury constantly stood poised with a sideways stare, holding his body perpendicular to Red Talon, attention directed towards his quarry but always remaining mindful of his route of escape. “He’s just entertaining the general long enough to get him hot on his heels. Hopefully.”
“D-kit’s on automatic acquisition,” Pastor said. “Target will remain in view at all times. Let’s just hope Red Talon doesn’t push into somewhere we can’t see.”
Bloodfury’s squad stood several rooftops away, crouched with their rifles trained and back-to-back with another loyalist rifle squad as they watched. Talbot ascertained the situation for the rest of the battle: a fire had been lit at the primary barricade stemming the approach of the shielded soldiers, most of the rifle-griffons stationed near the front were busy fighting, and Leret was in the midst of battle with imperial soldiers endlessly being reinforced.
Mendoza broke the silence. “I honestly thought my aim was worse than I’m doing right now, but unless we’re getting bullets supplied to us direct from planet Earth, I am burning through my mags fast.”
“CAS lighting that street up would be nice,” Pastor said.
“I wish,” Mendoza agreed. Talbot tapped him on the shoulder and swapped a full magazine for one of his emptied, giving a thankful nod.
“Shell, Scope, can you relocate to a lower balcony?” Talbot asked.
“Can do, but it’ll take time.”
“Do it.”
“On it. Scope, pack up shop, we’re moving downstairs. D-kit’s going to offline while we make the move, so the crosscom will be blind for a bit.”
“We have the sensors, no worries.” All the signatures went dark as the D-kit shut off, and Talbot activated his sensor grenade; the only signatures he could track were Bloodfury and Red Talon nearby, along with the sea of signatures on the ground. “Just the important stuff. Good enough.”
He snuck closer to the fight, leaving Mendoza behind to better observe Bloodfury’s condition. Although the beginning blow had given Bloodfury the advantage, it was only temporary: his attempts at feinting retreat had failed, and Red Talon’s greater strength and experience made it cumbersome to fight against him.
Talbot watched the general’s gestures, watching as the wings shifted with the direction he was about to move in. Griffons held a huge reliance on their wings, and it was no surprise to him that most of the mobility advantage given to them on the battlefield was only through their flight. With them, Red Talon could circle around any enemy with ease, able to shift to new flanks with only a simple action.
With Red Talon’s back to him, he locked the sights of his MR8 onto the joints on his back and fired. But the general shifted, causing the bullet to poke through his primaries, and the griffon instantly recoiled with a scream of pain, hobbling away to a nearby chimney as his head turned frantically, searching for his assailant. Bloodfury visibly relaxed, though he still held his sword before him at guard.
“Close shot,” Mendoza said.
“Seems to be a recurring habit with killing this guy,” Talbot said with no hidden annoyance.
“You will pay for that, human...” Red Talon said, hissing as knelt down and twisting his neck to gauge the damage, all the while manically staring down Bloodfury, who steadily closed in. With alacrity, Red Talon swung his blade as soon as he was within reach. Bloodfury dodged the wide swing, bringing his own blade towards Red Talon from the opposite direction; his blade glanced off of Red Talon’s, and he recoiled on instinct.
Red Talon dove forth, using the support of his sword as a springboard to launch himself at Bloodfury. He moved with blinding speed, closing the distance between them and struck Bloodfury in the face with a headbutt, striking Bloodfury hard enough that there was a dull crunch as the plate absorbed the hit and he was knocked back, if only a few inches, for that instance of a moment.
“Down five floors, moving to set up,” Pastor notified Talbot. Red Talon broke away from the rooftop, running across and vaulted across the obstructed street between the building and the walls that Talbot and Mendoza watched from. He grunted in pain as his wings spread open, breaking his glide at the first sign of safety and unceremoniously rolled into the landing.
“Aw, shit…” Mendoza said, having paused firing long enough for his camouflage to meld his form with the wall. Talbot sat still, watching as Red Talon moved in their direction, passing by with nary a clue and making his way for the tower.
“Shit indeed…” Talbot muttered. He risked a peek back out to the rooftops; Bloodfury was there, recovering from the blunt force and edging his way painfully forward to try to intercept Red Talon. He waved his squad forward, only for them to be caught in another fight as more imperial soldiers intercepted their advance from above. “Shell, you’ve got company.”
“Oh, yeah, I see him,” Pastor said. “Just our luck…”
“He’s heading inside?” Raymond pointed out. “Between us both, focus fire should bring him down easy.”
“No, he’s not headed inside…” Talbot clenched his jaw as shimmering forms appeared alongside Red Talon, and a team of cloakers revealed themselves, carrying medical aid and rifles with them. Several fanned out, rendering themselves invisible again as another pair set to work on the wound on the griffon’s back.
“Hold up, getting that D-kit set up for you as quickly as I can manage,” Pastor hurriedly said.
“Should we engage?” Mendoza whispered.
“Hold fire.” From the side of his vision, the space was barren save for the barrels and other sparse objects decorating the general’s side of the walls. On theirs, only the stony barriers themselves had served as their means of hiding, and the cloakers drew closer to them. The experience of the griffons to pick out cloaked forms was beyond concrete knowledge, and the shadow casted by the angle of the sun darkened the outline of the Ghosts from beyond the notice of the naked eye. “Shell, no pressure here…”
“It’s up.” A group of diamonds appeared, all closer to him than he had originally assumed, with their profiles completely outlined by the D-kit.
And they were all looking up at the balcony that Pastor and Raymond were at. Red Talon’s bodyguards were all staring towards the tower, and the general himself was in heated discussion with his medics as he stood, back solidly bandaged.
“Shell, your cover is blown,” Talbot said. “Get the hell out of there.”
“Damn, already?” He sighed. “Scope, move the sniper rifle off the railing, and grab your MR8. If they already know we’re here, they’re not going to just let us walk out. So how about we let them get to us, and then we hit them from two flanks?”
“All of you, get up there and root them out,” Red Talon said calmly. “But bring them to me alive. I want to deal with them myself. If you can find the others, bring them to me, too. Strongbeak will want to have them interrogated.”
The soldiers all offered their acknowledgement and reared onto their hind legs to take off, only for a report of rifle fire to break their orders. Bloodfury and his squad reappeared over the walls guns firing, arcing over Talbot and charging straight for Red Talon. They clashed: Bloodfury tumbled straight into a cloaker, not even breaking his stride in surprise as he punched the soldier’s materializing form in the face and continued for the general.
Bloodfury started off with a stabbing thrust, expecting the parry from Red Talon and twirled aside, transitioning into a reverse stab towards the bandaged torso; he missed as his sword struck air and the general had rotated his position with him. He narrowly dodged an elbow strike and struck a blow, but only just: the tip of his blade nicked the side of Red Talon’s neck, carving off tufts of feather and drawing blood.
Talbot caught sight of Red Talon’s tail coiling, the limber appendage raising itself high into the air when he caught sight of it: a dagger, pulled from a sheath stowed away in a rear boot, was about to lash out at the unaware Bloodfury’s unprotected side, raised clearly but unnoticed in the chaos around them. Talbot raised his MR8, pointing in the general direction of the two and fired, grazing the skin of the prehensile appendage as several bullets hit the base of his tail.
The dagger dropped to the ground with a clang, and Red Talon immediately glowered at Talbot as he audibly restrained his scream. He kicked Bloodfury aside, and made a path towards the Ghost with great agility, using the others in combat to break Talbot’s inconsistent sputters with his rifle, eventually barreling down straight on him.
Bullets stopped flowing from his barrel when Talbot dodged aside at the last moment, but felt a hard grip catching his left shoulder with a lance of pain. He felt himself being lifted into the air and felt his other arm slam against the stone wall as Red Talon lifted him, causing him to drop his MR8 to the ground and watch helplessly as he was pulled farther from the battle.
Mendoza’s rounds whizzed dangerously by his body. Bloodfury’s squad was victorious in combat against the enemy, but were immediately being rallied again as they followed in pursuit, only to be cut off as the enemy swarmed down upon them. His headset was exploding with the incoherent overlaps of panic and indecision from the rest of his team.
“Now, human…” Red Talon shouted into the air, his voice laced with satisfaction. His wings flapped erratically as he brought them at a low altitude over the rooftops, reaching the rim of the great crater. “Strongbeak will want to speak to you… personally.”
Talbot reached with his right hand towards the knife sheath on his armor, buried beneath the leathery skin of Red Talon’s claw embedded into his left shoulder, and pulled it free. “Tell him we’ll have to do it some other time,” he replied, and drove the blade into the tendons on the back of Red Talon’s arm. A scream sounded with a mixture of shock and pain, and the claw released its grasp on Talbot.
The lone man tumbled forth through the air, landing hard on the cobblestone street and rolled over the edge into the great emptiness below.
A mirage was the first thing that greeted Talbot’s eyes. He sharply gasped, a combination of the uncomfortable tightness of his balaclava and his dry mouth pulling his mind back to the fore of consciousness. He shifted his hand, and the mirage moved, and he sat himself upright to feel a great ache wash over his body.
“Go in—him—not enough—”
“Compromised—numbers—Talon is goin—target.”
“Talon to Anvil, does anyone copy?” Talbot said quietly. He coughed hoarsely and attempted to clear his daze with a shake of his head. “Is anyone out there?”
“Holy shit, he’s alive—sir? Where—Bloodfury at?” The voice was buried beneath static, but the voice was there. “Where—sir?”
“The crater.” He looked up, staring at a tower of rubble slanted at an incline towards the bottom of the crater, with the skies above painting the area with an unholy red glow. “If I didn’t know better, I could swear that I’m standing right at the gates of hell...”
He planted a solid arm onto the ground, moving his hand for better leverage when he felt something solid brush against his glove. Switching vision modes on his visor, he saw his knife, fully intact, with a thin sliver of blood on its blade. He returned the weapon to its sheath, instinctively reaching for an MR8 that wasn’t there, and groaned in frustration. Next to him sat his sensor grenade, buried halfway underneath a pile of rocks, unharmed but deactivated. He grabbed the device and strapped it onto his belt when a hiss of static prefaced Mendoza’s response.
“Need pickup?” The comm was clearer than it was before, and though the graininess persisted, Mendoza’s tone was easy to discern from its pitch compared to the rest of the team. The question was brief enough to avoid the recurring drops of connection breaks.
“Negative. Red Talon is still nearby,” Talbot said. He pulled out his revolver, and checked over his sensor grenades: the tumble was rough, but the equipment was all still intact. The ability of the gear to withstand rugged situations paid off in spades in this situation. The last thing he needed was to go on a scavenger hunt for his lost belongings. “Only got my knife and revolver. It doesn’t look like I can make my way back up without some help.”
“Copy. We’re trying to move to your position now. Shell has your MR8, by the way.” The voice came in strong now; Mendoza must have followed his track. Talbot dug into his field medical kit and diagnosed the damage done to his shoulder: the front was fine, and the focused shoulder armoring on the back stemmed the piercing of the talon into his body, reducing the wound to a painful cut, but not life-threatening.
He slapped on a quick-application bandage and covered the wound, and flexed his left arm. The pain bit sharply, but his reach with the limb was unharmed. “How long was I out?”
“Not sure. Maybe ten or twenty minutes?”
“Not too long. That’s good, but be—” He attempted to stand, only to be alarmed at the sound of thundering steps closing in on him. He whirled around just in time to see Red Talon’s furious eyes slam straight into face before he was laying on the ground again. A claw gripped around his neck and pinned him to the ground, fully enclosed around his shoulders and the knife sheath as his vision unblurred.
“You are more trouble than you are worth,” Red Talon said, sneering at him. “Perhaps you would be better off sent to Strongbeak as a corpse than a prisoner.” He raised his other claw, balling it into a fist as Talbot’s right hand snapped to his hip, the handle of his revolver grinding against the dirt of the ground as he pulled it from its holster.
The swing proved faster than the draw. Before Talbot pulled his revolver free of its holster, Red Talon’s fist came swinging down at him; he turned his head away in a futile gesture to avoid the pain… except the awaited strike never came. Instead, a loud crash, like glass shattering, sounded off, piercing in its tone as it seemed to tear asunder everything in his vision in a wave of blinding white.
Talbot rolled free as the burden on his body lightened, and he struggled to his feet as he aimed down his sights: first at the space before him, then into the air when he caught sight of Red Talon’s massive form spinning wildly away from him like a ragdoll. A minor vibration caught his attention, and he looked down to his chest to see that the medallions he’d received earlier were glowing. The glow disappeared as one began to chip.
“Well… I’ll be damned. It works,” he said.
“What happened down there? I heard some angry talking and thought your goose was cooked…” Mendoza said.
“The medallions, Fuse. They work. Just saved my damn life.”
“Oh… well, that’s great to know. Thought these things were just for looks, maybe good luck charms or something.”
“Yeah, well, they just stopped my head from being pulverized by a gigantic fist.” Talbot stood, brushing the dust off of himself and paused to let his cloak kick in. A flicker of red and a warning sign on his suit’s diagnostics coincided with his camouflage’s activation and subsequent failure. “And it looks like the energy that comes out of these things when the shields kick into gear knocks our camo out of commission. Great.”
“So… no camo, but you’ve got shields. Sounds like you’re going to need them.”
“I’m not too keen on relying on ancient jewelry to keep me alive. One of my medallions just got chipped. Might have something to do with deflecting that death blow, so they’re not permanent.” His exoskeleton bent to his stretching, arcing with his knees, and he rekeyed the sensor grenade to active. He hefted his revolver with two hands, stepping forward to navigate through the maze of ruin. “His wings are clipped, though… at least I have that going for me.”
“He probably knows that, too. Shit, I got these assholes all around me. Going silent. And, boss… don’t get killed.”
“Don’t remind me.”
“Only the dead fight fair, boss. Watch your back.” Mendoza went silent, and Talbot trailed through the darkness alone… and wondering why the sensor wasn’t picking up any signatures in his immediate vicinity. It seemed highly unlikely that the general had taken to retreating, and doing so without giving himself away to Talbot’s range advantage would have been implausible.
But if he was, the tall incline that he had fallen down would be the surest route to the surface, and so he made his way there to hopefully find the general already making his way up. The griffon hadn’t been around to witness the shield’s effects on his cloak… perhaps that would work in his favor.
Talbot caught the faint sound of shuffling in the distance, too loud and sharp to be the sound crumbling rock around him. It was clear, close, but the sensor grenade picked up nothing within the vicinity. He creeped through the shadows, taking care to check all his angles as he moved from cover to cover. The tables could have turned, and Red Talon might still have a trick that he’d hidden up until now.
There was the possibility that he had camouflage as well, adapted from the variant that his soldiers used, and might even be a more advanced version. One that could mask the signature of the wearer from his sensors. Maybe the Federation soldiers had brought sensor grenades to Equestria, and the griffon researchers found a way to counteract it with magic. That was an answer he needed to know: how long had they been here for?
A beep quashed his theory as a single diamond formed on his HUD, and he looked left to see Red Talon moving parallel to his path; surprisingly silent on his claws, the distant form briefly appeared between two piles of rubble. Their paths, left unaltered, would intersect at the stairway that would lead to their salvation.
He gave chase, intent on reaching the destination before his target did. The exoskeleton took the brunt of his steps, lightening the weight of his equipment and allowing him to sprint unabated. Through the whole duration, he watched Red Talon vigilantly, somewhere along the line realizing that the griffon was reciprocating in kind; he slid to a halt on his back as he narrowly avoided a rock flung in his direction the size of his head.
Talbot was shortly back on his feet, straying off his path to pursue the general on his. Realizing that combat was not an option, that there was no direct combat to be had—yet—Talbot held off on firing his revolver, saving his ammunition for when he could entrap Red Talon in an ideal spot. There wasn’t much he could do beyond avoiding the rocks thrown in the griffon’s wake.
The ground rumbled again, and Talbot looked up to see enormous chunks of the stairway falling off, large stones that crashed their way to the ground. He skidded to a halt behind another pile, bracing himself as a cloud of dust enveloped the whole area. His visor pinged and he saw the diamond appear the edge of his vision, denoting that his attacker was appearing from behind him.
He unconsciously stepped back as he saw a thin sliver, a black line tearing through the dust, swing at him from nowhere. The blade slammed into the collected rock with an ear-piercing ping, and Red Talon’s form appeared holding its handle.
“Trinkets won’t save you here,” Red Talon said. The blade was pulled free, and jabbed in his direction, and again Talbot barely dodged, falling to the floor as Red Talon closed in on him. Talbot struggled to get on his feet, giving a reaching claw a hard kick as he rolled off to the side. Another shatter and a cry of pain was heard; the medallion must have had offensive capabilities, as well, an amplification of physical force that could be used to his advantage.
Managing a clumsy half-crouch, Talbot aimed the revolver for Red Talon only for the griffon to grab its barrel and toss it out of its hands. The weapon went flying off into the darkness, though it wasn't a total loss: the sensor grenade marked the outline of the revolver as it slid away, coming to a halt to at a fair distance behind Red Talon.
Staying low, Talbot balanced himself, eyeing Red Talon to watch for his next move, but to his surprise, the griffon sheathed his sword… and then disengaged, turning around and running to where the revolver sat. Talbot gritted his teeth and sprinted after him.
It was for naught; Red Talon dived for the revolver, flubbing with it in his massive claw until he held it tight with both and turned around, talon tucked into the trigger guard, standing awkwardly on two legs. Talbot, without pausing, turned right and kept his head low as the first shot from Red Talon went wide, barely catching the coattail of his armor.
Five.
No gun. A knife. Some grenades—were those worth using? Maybe. But not yet. With the knife in hand, Talbot slowly watched the diamond close in, warily and at distance, maintaining a wide angle as he rounded the corner. Red Talon had a good view of both sides of his cover, meaning that any direction that Talbot took would put him in his sights.
He peeked his head around the pillar that obscured him. Red Talon fired off another shot.
Four.
It appeared that Red Talon was not familiar with revolvers, nor the fact that they only chambered six rounds, else he would have conserved what bullets he had. Talbot took the gamble, heading out the other way and flinched as a white flash blinded him. The sound of the crushed bullet clinging against the ground was heard, and he slinked back into cover before Red Talon could fire again.
Three.
So the shield worked against bullets, as well as physical strikes, and Red Talon—as far as Talbot was concerned—was still not aware that the shield negated his ability to cloak. Talbot hefted a rock, gripping it tight in his left hand as he stepped back and let it loose. Red Talon took the bait, immediately shifting his aim right, following the patter of the rock as the noise traveled through the dead air.
Only when the sound of steel-soled boots reached his ears did he think to turn back; he brought the revolver back left, only for Talbot to sidestep to the right. The human delivered a solid punch to his left side, knocking the breath out of him with the shield’s force as Talbot caught the griffon’s single claw—the one gripping the revolver as the other supported him as he rotated—stopping the barrel short of his head, driving his knife straight into the arm as the bullet exited into empty space.
Two.
The flesh of the griffon’s arm, despite its mass, was soft, torn through the blade with relative ease. Talbot twisted, drawing the blade parallel to Red Talon’s arm, and sliced down to his wrist. Blood dripped to the floor with the revolver as Red Talon screamed; Talbot cut the revelation of pain short with another jab to the side, distancing the two as he leaned down to grab the revolver, eyes glued on his target as he brought the revolver to his eye.
He fired.
One.
The round went straight into Red Talon’s chest, the force of the injury causing him to flinch backwards as he stumbled. Talbot gave no quarter, following up the shot with a straight blitz to deliver another shield blow to his head, jumping into the air and delivering punch straight across his cheek. The griffon was knocked to the floor, his form wheezing with strained gasps. His bloodied face looked up to Talbot as he approached.
“Finish it, human,” he coughed out.
Talbot raised his revolver as he approached, firing off a clean round into the griffon’s head and watched the liquid matter splat out across the ground.
Zero.
Talbot snorted as he collected the spent cartridges into his hand, stuffing them away into his pouch as he palmed seven: six fresh, one to double-tap the general to ensure that he stayed dead. The process was cathartic, or as much as it could be as Talbot fired off the second round into the griffon’s head and watched it flop as the bullet tore through it.
One bullet out, six new ones in. Talbot sheathed his knife, and began to holster his revolver, sighing to himself as he looked up, seeing the dust clear out. His breath caught in his throat, and he found himself stopping his hand.
A line of griffons, the late general’s soldiers, all stood in a line, gawking at him. Their rifles remained at neutral stance, pointed down at the ground as their gazes shifted between Red Talon’s body and Talbot himself. The leader of the group, a griffon wearing a gold-plated helmet, nervously swallowed and eyed Talbot’s grip on his revolver, cowboy style, ready to snap to and load him and his squad—total six, to Talbot’s amusement—full of bullets.
They stared at each other for a tense minute, called off only when the beeping in Talbot’s ear notified him that his camouflage systems had rebooted. So long as he wasn’t going to be shot at, he wouldn’t need to fight his way out. So he hoped; the other part of the decision relied upon how much common sense the squad leader had.
The griffons gave no pursuit as Talbot stepped back, letting his form become translucent, staring down the leader up until the mirage swallowed his head and eyes. He disappeared back into the dark and let the general’s soldiers watch over the corpse.
“Holy fuck, there you are,” Mendoza whispered. He grabbed Talbot’s hand and pulled him over the edge of the crater. “Jesus Christ, you look like shit.” His outline looked over his shoulder, giving a thumbs-up to Pastor and Raymond, hidden away in the ruins of a building. “It’s good, we got him.”
“Where are the others?” Talbot asked, hurrying across the empty street as griffons circled overhead. “What’s going on? Why aren’t the griffons attacking?”
“Shit, man, I thought you’d know,” Mendoza said, looking around as Pastor waved them over. “I heard shots going on down there, griffon air squads moving down there, and then everything was silent. Red Talon’s boys called off their attack, and I think half their group’s already retreated. The guys were making for the north for Tesseraka like the end of the world was coming for them.”
“Yeah… I killed Red Talon,” Talbot said. In the shadow of the building, he sat down against a half-wall, popping off his helmet’s chin collar. He pulled up his balaclava and emptied his canteen in a single long drink. “The loyalists. Where are they?”
“Hell, sir, they bugged out as soon as things were going south,” Pastor said. “We gave them some real hell at the tower, but as soon you got grabbed, we had to ditch and head east. They didn’t give much chase, though, most of the griffons were too interested in seeing what Red Talon had in his claws.”
“Me.” Talbot chuckled as he rubbed his nose. “Well, I’m sure some of them saw me when I fell.”
“Yeah, we saw you take the tumble down the crater. Thought you were dead for sure,” Mendoza said. “Then you were alive, and then shit happened. That must have been one hell of a fight, huh?”
“You’re telling me.” Talbot capped his canteen, stuffing it away and taking the reprieve to catch his breath. He looked down at the medallions on his chest, twirling them around in his hand. They were more chipped than they were before, but still intact “These things aren’t too bad.”
“What, the medallions?” Mendoza looked down at his. “Oh, shit, I almost forgot to give you guys yours.” He withdrew one and tossed it over to Pastor, while Talbot gave his spare to Raymond. “Shield medallions. I guess, uh, they work, right? Seeing as you’re here and all.”
“Yeah,” Talbot said. “It’s like a shield that knocks anything that touches it back with the force of a goddamn eighteen-wheeler. I used it to punch Red Talon.”
“Damn. That must have hurt.”
“Damn right it did,” Talbot said, pulling over his mask and clipping his helmet back together. “Speaking of which: don’t rely on these things if you can help it. They short-circuit our camouflage.”
“Yeah, we heard,” Pastor said, reaching behind him and tossing Talbot his MR8. “I believe you dropped this. How the hell did you get out of there? The griffons were sending guys in there after the commotion died down.”
“If you ask me, I think they were just spooked,” Raymond said, his sniper rifle bundled on his back. “Saw a whole bunch of them arguing up in the sky after you guys fell. Probably wondered if they should go in after you guys, especially after the whole place blew up and pulled in a shit-ton of them.”
“A group of them saw me and Red Talon fighting, I think. Killed the general, popped two into his head, and then I look up and see them all staring at me like I was some sort of ghost.” Talbot gave a short laugh. “They didn’t shoot. I didn’t shoot. My cloak kicked in right at that time, so I backed off, and they let me walk.”
“You stared them down?” Mendoza asked, amazed. “You were staring each other down, and then you go cloak and walk off?” He shook his head, laughing to himself. “That’s fucking badass, man.”
“Yeah, let’s talk about that later,” Talbot said. He looked at Pastor. “You said the loyalists retreated. I assume they went to the rally point to the east.”
“Probably,” Pastor agreed. “We shouldn’t have any problems getting out of this hellhole just by ourselves. And I’m sure Scarclaw is going to want to hear the news straight from your mouth. Best not keep him waiting.”