Majack died first, a bullet buzzing by Sirus’s head to shatter the former soldier’s remade features just as he jumped from the barge. He sagged into the water like a stringless marionette, his blood staining the surf red. Within seconds another volley of rifle fire came from the dark mass of trees beyond the beach. Sirus flinched as the bullets raised geysers from the surrounding water, felling three more of his company. He sent out a harsh thought-command to stem the sudden upsurge of confusion amongst his fellow Spoiled. Although their transformation made them resistant to panic, even the White’s influence couldn’t banish an instinctive fear of death. Their reaction was heightened by the shock of such unexpectedly fierce opposition. Their victories to date had often been hard-fought, but truly never in doubt, aided in no small part by the fact that so few Islanders possessed fire-arms. The tribe inhabiting this island, however, were clearly different. It was the largest and most populous island they had yet attacked. Its name translated from the local dialect as the Cradle of Fire, presumably due to the huge volcano that rose from the centre of the tree-covered land-mass. Thanks to their recent recruits, Sirus also knew it had earned another name in recent years: Kahlanah Dassan, the King’s Cradle.
Keep moving! he ordered his company, raising his rifle and loosing a shot at the trees. Fire back!
They responded immediately, falling in on either side as he continued to wade towards the beach, firing and reloading with each step. Around them more barges were beaching on the sand-bar, disgorging their troops to add further weight to the advance. The Islanders in the trees, however, seemed uncowed by the sight of such an onslaught. They kept up an accurate and deadly fire throughout the three long minutes it took for Sirus to struggle clear of the surf, by which time he had lost fully half his company and the waves had turned a pale shade of crimson.
Lie down, Morradin ordered. Harassing fire.
Sirus duly had his company lie prone on the beach and fire at the muzzle flashes in the trees. His refashioned eyes made it easier to pick out the vague shapes of the island’s defenders, counting at least a hundred directly to their front with more on either side. The fire of his company, all expert shots, took a steady toll as the rest of the assault force made a costly but inexorable progress to the beach. Some three thousand of them waded clear of the sea, leaving dozens of bodies bobbing in the swell around the barges. In accordance with Morradin’s command they lined out on either side of Sirus’s company, lying down to send a withering hail of bullets into the trees. For a few moments the air was filled with the cacophony of massed small arms, Sirus seeing numerous Islanders fall before Morradin gave another order.
Fix bayonets. Advance at the charge.
The entire line of Spoiled rose as one, steel glittering as they slotted their bayonets into place. There were no bugles or shouted exhortations to accompany their charge, just the sibilant rumble of many boots on sand and the now-intermittent crackle of the defenders’ fire. Sirus could sense Morradin’s excitement, glancing to see the large shadow of the Red drake that bore him as he swept low to witness the spectacle. Hoping for another fine old show.
They had closed to within thirty yards of the trees when the first cannon fired, the air around Sirus instantly filled with what sounded like a thousand angry hornets. He knew what it was thanks to the shared memory of a former soldier who had time to name the new threat before his torso was torn to shreds. Canister.
The five Spoiled charging on Sirus’s left were transformed into a cloud of red mist and flensed flesh, whilst those to his right fared little better. He threw himself flat, this time needing no command from Morradin. He found himself face-to-face with Katrya. Like him, she appeared to be unscathed but the spines on her forehead were bunched in angry consternation. Where did they get those?
They ducked as another salvo of cannon fire blasted out from the tree-line, cutting down those Spoiled who had resisted the instinctive urge to duck. Sirus could see that the whole line had stalled, their ranks broken by several large, red-smeared gaps. The defenders’ rifles started firing with a new intensity, finding easy targets at such shortened range. Sirus could feel his fellow Spoiled dying around him. It was a curiously painless experience; like watching a hundred candles being snuffed by the wind one after the other.
Clever bastard, Morradin enthused from above. Waited for the charge before revealing his guns. I’m liking this Shaman King more and more.
Sirus watched the Red carrying Morradin angle its wings, aligning itself parallel to the tree-line. Another dozen Reds glided out of the sky to fall in behind as the beast flew lower, mouth gaping to breathe out a stream of fire that swept the trees. The following drakes followed suit, bathing the forest in flame along the whole length of the beach. Sirus looked at the inferno raging to his front, hearing the screams of the defenders above the roar.
Left you a gap, Morradin informed him, communicating an image of an untouched avenue through the forest a hundred yards or so to the left. Renew the advance. There’s some kind of fortification a mile inland. Surround it and wait for orders.
The remnants of the assault force formed up behind Sirus as he led them into the trees. There were just over fifteen hundred left, some with wounds both minor and severe. It wasn’t unusual for the White’s Spoiled servants to keep fighting despite mortal injury. The Spoiled to his right, a petite young woman who would have probably been described as of delicate appearance in her human days, trotted along with one hand clamped over the wound in her stomach. Sirus could see a pink bulge between her fingers and a steady trickle of blood seeped from her mouth as she ran, her face betraying not the slightest twinge of pain.