The guttural Vorlag command hung in the frigid air, a trap sprung. Time seemed to slow, each heartbeat a thunderous drum in Leo's ears. He could feel them now, not just as vibrations, but as distinct points of hostile pressure in the earth—eight, maybe ten soldiers, forming a crescent behind them, cutting off their retreat to the trench.
Sergeant Voss's voice was a razor-sharp whisper in their earpieces, cutting through the panic. "Vance, confirm numbers and positions. Now."
Leo didn't need to close his eyes. He pressed his will into the ground, the frozen mud becoming an extension of his senses. "Ten... twelve," he breathed into his mic. "They're spread in a half-circle. Two are closer, on the left flank, using a crater for cover. The rest are spread out behind the broken tree line."
Rourke, his massive frame coiled, growled low in his throat. "We rush the two in the crater. Break their line."
"And run right into the fire of the other ten?" Finn hissed, his knuckles white on his rifle. "That's suicide."
"Then we stand here and die!" Rourke shot back.
"Enough!" Voss's voice was absolute. "Vance, can you get us a path?"
Leo's mind raced, his Terra-Sense painting a grim picture. They were pinned. The only cover was a shattered, burned-out husk of a supply truck about twenty yards to their right, but it was exposed. The Vorlag had the angles.
Then he felt it. A subtle shift. A deep, rhythmic thumping that was different from the sporadic artillery. It was heavier, more mechanical. It was coming from the Vorlag side, growing closer.
"Jotun," Leo whispered, the word dripping with dread. "A walker. Coming this way. Maybe three minutes out."
That changed everything. The walker's heavy cannons would turn their position to paste.
"We don't have a choice," Lysander said, his voice trembling but resolute. He hefted his grenade launcher. "I'll provide a diversion. I can put a smoke screen between us and the main group. You rush the crater."
"No one's playing hero, Croft," Voss snarled.
"It's not heroism, Sergeant," Lysander said, and in the faint light of a distant flare, Leo saw the boy's face was set, his idealism hardened into grim duty. "It's the only tactical option. I'm the Boomer. This is what I do."
Before anyone could argue, Lysander took a deep breath, stood, and fired. WHOOMF. The grenade soared and detonated perfectly, billowing thick, grey smoke between them and the bulk of the Vorlag squad.
"GO! GO! GO!" Voss roared.
It was the signal for hell to break loose.
The two Vorlag soldiers in the crater, startled by the smoke, opened fire. Muzzle flashes lit up the night. The sound was deafening, a sharp, terrifying crack-crack-crack that ripped through the air.
"COVERING FIRE!" Voss yelled, and from the Aethelgard trench, the sharp, precise reports of Tomas's sniper rifle rang out. CRACK. One of the Vorlag soldiers in the crater jerked and went silent. Headshot had entered the fight.
Rourke didn't need to be told twice. With a roar that was pure, unadulterated fury, he charged. He was a force of nature, a human battering ram. He didn't fire his rifle; he used it as a club, smashing the second Vorlag soldier in the crater with the stock before the man could bring his weapon to bear. Colm was right behind him, his sheer size and power overwhelming another Vorlag who tried to flank them. Together, they were Berserk, a whirlwind of close-quarters violence that carved a bloody path through the enemy's weak point.
Leo and Finn moved with them, firing controlled bursts into the smoke, trusting Rourke and Colm to handle the immediate threat. Leo's world narrowed to the feel of the ground, the position of his friends, and the enemy flashes in the fog. He wasn't a farmer anymore. He was a conductor, and the battlefield was his orchestra.
"Left, Finn! Two of them, using the fallen log!" Leo yelled, and Finn pivoted, his shots forcing the enemy to keep their heads down.
They broke through the encirclement, the smoke and chaos their ally. But the victory was short-lived. The mechanical thumping was now a deafening roar. The Jotun walker emerged from the fog like a metal demon, its two piston-like legs stomping craters into the mud. Its central cockpit, a slitted dome of reinforced glass, swiveled, and its twin rotary cannons began to spin up with a high-pitched whine.
"SCATTER!" Voss bellowed.
They dove for cover. The world exploded around them. The Jotun's cannons chewed the landscape to pieces, tearing apart trees and sending geysers of mud and shrapnel into the air. The sound was unimaginable, a continuous, ear-splitting roar that felt like it was shredding their very souls.
"We can't outrun it!" Finn screamed, pressing himself into a shallow ditch.
"Lysander! The legs! The joints!" Leo shouted, his voice raw.
Lysander, crouched behind the burned-out truck, fumbled with a different type of round—a high-explosive, armor-piercing shell. His hands were shaking. This wasn't a simulation. The walker was turning its monstrous gaze towards their position.
"I... I can't get a clear shot!" he yelled, as cannon fire ripped the truck's carcass apart.
"Vance, do something!" Rourke roared, firing his rifle uselessly at the walker's armored hull.
Leo closed his eyes, blocking out the hellish noise. He reached down, deep into the earth. He felt the water table, the layers of rock and clay. He felt the immense, crushing weight of the Jotun as it stomped. And he felt a weakness. A recent artillery crater had destabilized the ground just to the walker's left. The earth there was fragile, saturated.
"Lysander! Aim for its left foot! The ground is weak there! Now!" Leo screamed.
Trusting Leo without question, Lysander stood, ignoring the shrapnel whipping past his head. He aimed, fired. WHOOMF.
The shell struck the Jotun's left ankle joint. There was a flash of light and a sharp CRACK. The walker lurched, a shower of sparks erupting from its leg. It tried to step forward, but its damaged foot sank deep into the softened earth of the crater, tilting the entire machine at a precarious angle. The rotary cannons whined upwards, firing harmlessly into the sky.
It was the opening they needed.
"ALL UNITS, CONCENTRATE FIRE ON THE COCKPIT!" Voss's voice was a lifeline.
From the trench, Tomas's rifle cracked, and the cockpit glass spider-webbed. Every Aethelgard soldier along the line opened up. A torrent of fire slammed into the disabled walker. With a final, shuddering groan, it stalled, its lights dying, becoming a silent, metal tomb.
In the sudden, ringing silence, the remaining Vorlag soldiers, their morale broken, began to fall back.
"Back to the trench! Now! While we have cover!" Voss ordered.
They scrambled up, exhausted, adrenaline still coursing through their veins. They had done it. They had survived. They started running, stumbling through the mud towards the friendly trench, now only fifty yards away. The fear began to recede, replaced by a wild, giddy surge of relief.
They were almost there. Forty yards. Thirty.
Leo risked a glance back at his squad. Rourke had a gash on his forehead but was grinning like a madman. Colm was helping a limping Finn. Lysander looked stunned, clutching his grenade launcher like a holy relic.
They were twenty yards from the trench wall. Safety was within reach.
It was then that a single, final shot rang out.
It wasn't the roar of a cannon or the crack of a rifle. It was the flat, spiteful thwip of a suppressed sniper rifle, the sound a Vorlag marksman made when he didn't want to give away his position.
The shot came from a forgotten, shell-blasted farmhouse on the far right flank, a spot everyone had assumed was clear.
Leo saw the impact before he processed the sound.
Kael, their medic, had been standing at the trench parapet, his hand outstretched, ready to pull them to safety. A look of profound relief was on his young face. The round took him square in the chest. The dull green fabric of his uniform instantly darkened, a blossoming stain of shocking crimson.
The relief on his face melted into a look of pure, confused surprise. His outstretched hand wavered. He took a single, stumbling step backward.
"No...!" Leo whispered, the word torn from him.
Kael's legs buckled. He collapsed into the mud at the very edge of the trench, his medical kit spilling its contents into the filth. His eyes, wide and uncomprehending, found Leo's for a single, eternal second before the light in them flickered and went out.
The world went silent. The distant artillery, the shouts of the soldiers, the roaring in Leo's own ears—it all faded into a dull, muffled hum. There was only the image of Kael's body, lying broken in the mud, so close to safety.
Their first real victory had just claimed their first real loss. The cost of survival was etched in blood at their feet.