A grenade soared over Idrian’s shoulder, clattering across the cobbles and exploding right at the feet of the Grent breacher. She was too busy turning herself to face Idrian to notice the grenade, and the resulting explosion knocked her off her feet.
Idrian blocked a bayonet thrust with his shield, felt another slice across his calf, and cut through an entire squad of Grent infantry with the razorglass blade of his sword. A bullet whizzed past his ear and, conscious of the fact that he wasn’t actually wearing his armor, he whirled toward the enemy breacher as she regained her feet.
She closed on him in moments, and he caught her opening thrust on his shield, batted it aside, and slammed the dull edge of his sword against her hammerglass armor so as not to break his razorglass. The blow staggered her but she recovered quickly. She tossed aside her own shield, caught Idrian’s riposte with the flat of her sword, and then came at him swinging with all her might.
The blunt edges of their swords slammed off each other, enormous slabs of metal and godglass crashing together with the speed of a fencer’s smallsword and the force of a miner’s pickax. Idrian felt each reverberating blow all the way to his toes, and it became quickly clear that, while he might be the more skilled of the two, the forgeglass in her armor made her just too strong and too fast. He fell back, trying to figure out a way to disengage without being cut in half, praying that the damned fools behind him had retreated to safety.
They hadn’t, of course. Even within Idrian’s singular focus he could sense the continued battle raging around him. His sword arm was growing heavy, his legs sluggish, trying to wield sword and shield without the extra forgeglass. He caught a blow at the base of his sword that numbed his fingers and rattled his knees. He grunted, shoving the breacher back, staring into her victorious smile.
A ball suddenly flew through the air, bonking the Grent breacher in the side of the helmet. She barely seemed to notice, a brief frown crossing her face. Idrian might have laughed if he didn’t recognize that ball as one of Mika’s grenades.
There was his exit strategy.
He threw himself backward, putting his shield between himself and the grenade just as the explosion threw him and his opponent in opposite directions. He felt his ears pop. A great pressure passed through his chest. He allowed himself to continue falling backward, knocked from his feet, rolling across the cobbles and then coming back up with his sword at the ready. The Grent breacher had done the same, her armor protecting her from the blast, and she turned to sprint away. Idrian blinked sweat out of his eyes, hearing the Grent bugle call that signaled a retreat. The rest of the Grent infantry fell into an organized flight, waiting until their breacher was safely among them before turning tail completely.
A loud whistle cut through the air, followed by two short bursts. Idrian felt a wave of relief wash over him. That would be Tadeas, and with him Valient’s reinforcements. Musket shots ceased, leaving an eerie silence over the smoke-filled street filled only by the tramp of boots and the cries of the wounded. Idrian was soon surrounded by Ironhorn soldiers.
“You all right, sir?” one asked.
“Where is my armorer?” Idrian asked, casting about. To his surprise he found Braileer standing just behind him. The young man’s sword was still clean but his shield was scratched, and a rivulet of blood ran down his brow from a close cut. His eyes were wide but he seemed otherwise unhurt. “Were you with me that entire time?” Idrian asked.
Braileer’s whole body trembled, but he managed a nod.
“Good lad.” Idrian slapped him on the shoulder and knew in that moment that he would not dismiss him. He let himself sag, feeling suddenly sapped of all energy, his arms almost too weak to hold his sword and shield. He set them down where he stood and removed his helmet to wipe away the sweat. He turned around just in time to see Tadeas running toward him.
“If you ever,” Tadeas shouted, “ever rush into battle without your glassdamned armor again, I will have you pissing court-martialed!”
Idrian gazed back at his friend flatly. Tadeas’s face was red, and his eyes were full of worry, searching Idrian for wounds. “Whatever you say, boss.”
“Don’t ‘boss’ me, damn it!”
“Tad!” Mika said, right on Tadeas’s heels. “If he hadn’t intervened we would have lost a whole battalion’s worth of artillery, their crews, and the engineers that were helping them!”
“Nothing compared to losing a breacher,” Tadeas spat.
Idrian held up both hands, palms out. There was no arguing with Tadeas when he was in a rage like that. He was right, of course. That was damned stupid of Idrian. “I’d do it again,” he told Tadeas, hoping that his calm voice would help bring down Tadeas’s blood. “You think I’m gonna take the time to put on my armor when people are dying? You’ve met me before, right?”
“You…” Tadeas shook his finger at Idrian. “Damn it!”
“How about you find out who let a Grent strike force slip through our sentries,” Mika said, grabbing hold of Tadeas’s arm. Tadeas shook her off, his face contorting through a dozen different expressions before settling on dismay. At a glance, Idrian estimated they’d lost several engineers and twenty or thirty soldiers from the Ironhorns, not to mention a handful of artillery crews and their commanding officer. It was a testament to just how much damage a good breacher strike force could do in minutes.
“Valient!” Tadeas called. “Find out who glassdamned let that strike force through our sentries and bring them to me so I can cut them into little pieces!”
“You got it!” was shouted back from the other end of the artillery column.
“You.” Tadeas whirled back on Idrian. “See a medic for stitches and cureglass.”
“I’m fine.” Idrian’s blood had finally cooled and he could feel the sharp pain of the cut across his calf. He bent to examine it, happy to find that it was superficial. “Did we get new orders?” he asked.
“We did, and they’re damned strange. Did you even notice she cut off your earlobe?”
Idrian touched his left ear. It stung badly, and his fingers came back covered in blood. “That was my favorite ear,” he said to Mika as Tadeas stormed off.
Mika raised both eyebrows and said in a low voice, “I appreciate it. You just saved a shitload of my people.”
“That’s my job,” Idrian said, waving off the thanks. “That grenade at the end there saved my life.”
“You looked like your arms were about to fall off, and your armorer was about to get skewered by a Grent bayonet.”
“Thanks. Another thirty seconds and she would have had me. That sword is blasted heavy with only the forgeglass in its grip and my helmet.” He nodded Mika off, letting her go check on her wounded engineers, and found a piece of cureglass to slow the bleeding until one of their medics came to check on him. By the end of the hour he had stitches up a long gash on his right arm, as well as around what was left of his earlobe. It hurt like piss, but he forwent his milkglass. The pain reminded him not to be so stupid next time.
He probably would, but a reminder couldn’t hurt.
At some point, he could hear Tadeas screaming at someone around the corner. Probably the poor bastard in charge of their sentries – some middling officer from the regular infantry. Fighting soon broke out close by as Ossan infantry struck back at the Grent lines. Idrian waited for word for him and the Ironhorns to join that fighting, but it never came.
The dead were all but cleaned up, the wounded taken care of, when Idrian saw Tadeas heading back toward him from across the street. Idrian went to intercept his friend. “What happened?”
Tadeas sighed and sat down on one of the destroyed artillery pieces, staring at the flies buzzing around the dead horse in front of it. “A good strike force,” he replied. “Damned good. Took out our sentries and killed seven squads of regular infantry without even raising an alarm. Nobody’s fault. Wish it was. Then I could have them shot.”