RBM Solutions

They moved along a natural trench eroded by a stream that had once been a larger creek, hunched low with their weapons clutched close. Orthox and his men had left a trail that a child could follow; not by choice, though. Moving undetected with more than a dozen hostages would be difficult for anyone short of an archmage. Thrana lead the way, peeking up her head above the trench every now and then to ensure that both trails ran parallel. If luck held out, they would, and they’d have ample cover on their approach.

Kialthos had chain-smoked a pack while he waited in the graveyard for the rest of the team to arrive. It had been a few hours; hours he’d spent trying to use the tobacco to drown out the scent of fresh corpses. But the cigarettes did little to alleviate his nervousness.

Soon enough, the sound of rotors announced the arrival of the rest of Alpha, and Muriel had saluted as they shoved off from the narrow benches and seats bolted on to the back of the gyro. They’d come with their basic kit only; Thrana looked fresh from Ashran, Cuthben was stoned to hell, and Waverider’s fur had the telltale matting of sea salt.

He had sat up immediately, and squared his shoulders. Without an available expression, his rigid posture was the best “serious” face he had.

“I’m about to ask you guys to do something for me, real personal. Shit, even I think this is over the line, but I need you now. And I’ll owe you big. Can’t force you to do nothin’ and you’re not obligated,” he started.

Waverider tossed his head and  issued a guttural grunt, then picked a handful of javelins off a case in the gyro’s cabin. Thrana, likewise, stood wordless. Cuthben just grinned. “Hey, big blue. We got your back. Who do we gotta fuck up?”

He had felt a swell of pride, checked only by his guilt. But there wasn’t any time for that. There was only the job. Like so many times before, he slipped on his mask.

And so they went.

They had been following the trail a few hours when they heard a very loud, very close hoot. He’d sent Christine, Casimir, and Gurt ahead as a recon force while he caught up with the rest of Alpha. The ashen dwarf had climbed up into a tree, where he was perched in the crook of two heavy branches. He made his way down as Kialthos and the rest of the team climbed out of the trench and made their way to him.

“Fucking idiot,” Casimir cursed. “Have you seen owl in this place? Do you know if owl exist here? Do you even know how owl sound? That was not even owl, more like sound your mother makes while she shits.”

“Ahno wuhrt’m tolkin’bert, y’wolkun pieeyashet.”

“Focus,” Kialthos reminded, trying not to sound too irritable. “What are we walking into?”

The human and dwarf could not stop squabbling, so Christine raised her voice just enough to be heard over them. “They’re holed up in a safehouse, or whatever, about one klick from here. The stream flows into a pond, and the building’s right next to it. Dense trees. Lookouts and lights.” She scratched her head. “I don’t really know how to describe the shape of the building, it’s kinda lumpy.”

She put her pale, manicured hands to the ground and ripped up the grasses, manipulating the dirt beneath until she had ground out a rudimentary map. “The hostages are all held indoors. Sentries all over-- ten outside, plus the Vigilants. There’s tree cover, and not a lot of lights.”

“Did you get a look inside?” Kialthos hunched over the map.

“No. Couldn’t. The leader-- he’s a powerful mage. It’s warded from eyes, I can’t scry.”

She sniffed, then looked up to him, staring right through his helmet, and goggles, reaching out with her extrasensory intuition.

It wasn’t the toughest battlespace, but it wasn’t the easiest, either. On their side, they had light, initiative, visibility, utility, and speed. Orthox had preparation, numbers, home turf, a defensible position, and heavy shock troops. Initiative could decide battles alone. But so could a good killbox.

The pieces were arranging themselves in Kialthos’ mind. “Right,” he whispered. “Gurt, you’ll take the west. Cas, you’ve got the east. Thrana, Wave, you’ve got the north. Cuthben, Christine and I will go up the south. Gurt, Cas, you’ll be holding position and engaging from range. Cut off anyone trying to run. North and south teams will be on the advance. We initiate at the same time, textbook. Christine, you’re on artillery duty. I need you focused on the Vigilants. Everyone groove with that?”

There was a round of nods.

“Right. On the mark, we blitz hard. Let’s get to work.”

The lack of a true night chafed now more than ever. Every movement that took him closer to the tree he was going  to set up was agonizingly slow, and he was getting anxious about suddenly being caught. The high visibility his NVGs gave him also warned his instincts that he was dangerously exposed. Beside him crept Christine alone; Cuthben had just put a finger to his lips and faded, warping the starlight around him until there was no sign of his presence save for the faintest sound of soft footsteps on the grass.

They knelt beside the trunk of a fallen, knotted tree, profiles low. They were maybe a hundred yards away from the structure. It was built in the old colonial style: pale polymer walls, tinted, bulky windows, and cross shaped, each wing pointed to each cardinal direction. The door on the south side looked thick, and closed inward like an airlock. Bright, glittering crystals embedded into the walls were the only light source other than the sky. Beside it was one of the towering Vigilants, still bloodstained from the melee at the graveyard, and a pair of sentries gambling over a crate.

There were others, too, out in the greater darkness. A few men were squatting by the trees, weapons held close. Not unexpected, but he would have been more comfortable if they weren’t ready for a fight. It remained to be seen whether or not they would be ready for this fight.

“Ahm set.”

“Set up.”

“Set.”

Cuthben crouched down to his left, any semblance of a smile disappearing, while Christine knelt to his right. She mouthed something he couldn’t make out. An incantation. Or maybe a prayer.

Kialthos slowly slid his rifle forward until he had it balanced across the width of the tree. He pulled his lower body up close, and stabilized his sitting position by curling his tail, making it into a cushion. He clenched his shoulder, motivating the neurodes in his prosthetic to balance the weapon just right, while his flesh fingers curled around the grip, one settling across the filed trigger. The light filtered through his telescopic sight, then his night vision optics, and finally his well-honed eye.

He took in a breath, and entered into a state that he had come to more times than he could count. All his muscles relaxed, and for what seemed like infinity, he saw only one thing: his target. Not a man, not a person, not an enemy. Just a place where he was going to put his bullet.

He held his breath, and pulled the trigger. The man spun as the kinetic energy ripped him off of his hooves.

As he re-bolted, he heard two other shots echo across the woods, followed by shouts of alarm from the sentries. To their credit, many of them stayed in their positions, huddled behind the trees.

The three launched over their cover. Christine kept pace with him, staying close. A shadow fell over Cuthben, and in a matter of moments he had disappeared from view entirely.

Kialthos’ heart hammered as they crossed the open ground to the next clump of trees. Bullets and quarrels soared over their heads, but they stopped for nothing. Stopping in the open was death. He hit the dirt, climbed between two massive roots, then glanced around the edge of his cover. Draenei silhouettes scrambled in all directions, panicked by sniper fire. Three seconds to catch their breath; then they got up and ran again. As they closed on the building, the Vigilant rumbled in a deep bass note and stepped forward to take them on, fists clenched.

Christine’s arms twitched and twisted, and Kialthos could feel the hairs on his body stand on end as spellfire split the darkness. A host of unearthly lights impacted the Vigilant, slowing it to a crawl;  then a ring of violet lights formed around it like a halo,  gradually spinning faster and faster. She flourished, and the revolutions tore at its chassis, grinding up metal and crystal until it lay, eviscerated from shoulder to hip.

They bounded over the smoking carcass of the machine, pressing their advantage. Every few steps he fired, ran, then fired again. A shape lunged at him out of his peripheral vision, then jerked as its throat opened up spontaneously, Cuthben materializing beside the fallen man only a heartbeat later. The boy flicked blood off his knives before fading into the shadows once more.

Kialthos dropped his rifle and drew his revolver as they hit the side of the building. His head swivelled left, then right. Bodies decorated the direction they had come from. A single survivor dropped from the tree he had been hiding in, and let out a scream as he was felled by a distant gunshot.

“Sitrep,” Kialthos muttered between grit teeth. He took a moment to stow away his goggles.

“Busy,” Waverunner’s electronic voice snarled from the comm. Kialthos could hear the sounds of battle on the opposite side of the building. “Cuthben, get in there and help them.”

Going in with only Christine was not the best of ideas, but they were pressed for time. If they waited to establish their control over the perimeter, Orthox could come up with a plan of escape and regain his balance, or start killing hostages to lighten his load. He had to be stalled. Or finished.

Kialthos thumbed the hammer on his revolver and stepped in front of the closed door. Christine moved beside him, her well-manicured fingertips shining with pinpricks of blue light. He didn’t have to ask her if she was ready.

The old door squealed as he pulled it apart. An angry swarm of crystalline flechettes peppered the threshold; Christine stepped in, and threw up a shield as they moved. He was going on pure adrenaline, his higher awareness dulled by the bright light of muzzle flashes and shimmering spells. All he could see was a mess of silhouettes, some curled up on the ground, some standing.

They had upturned the furniture, wisely creating cover for themselves within. Not that it saved them. He fanned his revolver, blasting six shots, then pulled the sawn-off shotgun out from under his left armpit and blew a hole through someone’s torso.

When the shield faded, he dropped his weapon. Someone came at him, snarling, knife poised; he grabbed it with his steel hand, threw a knee, swung his head. Warm blood spattered across his visor.

“IMPUDENCE!”

Orthox.

Kialthos spun, and withdrew his kukri. The dark room was lit up by a staccato of fireworks, magic missiles and fire and ice and prismatic beams. Orthox unleashed the full arsenal of his talent on Christine, incinerating furniture and anyone unfortunate enough to fall into the path of his wrath. A woman crawling-- civilian-- had her scream cut off as she was flash-fried.

There was no time for a curse. Kialthos lunged for Orthox. The spellsword spat an incantation, then ripped him from the air and sent him through a wall. His teeth snapped down on his tongue, and for an instant he tasted blood before the pain caught up with him. The world spun around his head. Christine threw up a shield as Orthox assaulted her, and was forced back into a corner.

A hulking, lupine figure crashed through the masonry, scattering concrete dust. Thrana, bow raised, followed in after him.

“Bring him down!” Waverider snarled. He hefted a javelin in his hand and threw. Thrana loosed a duo of arrows.

The missiles bounced off Orthox’s wards. He turned, distracted, one arm held out to cast in their direction.

A pair of blades manifested, then plunged into the draenei’s sides. As Orthox howled in pain and fury, the rest of Cuthben followed. The boy dug the knives deeper and twisted. “Fuck you!”

Feathered shafts erupted from the spellsword’s chest, and Waverider charged. His thrust skewered the draenei from sternum to nape. Orthox gave one final gurgle before he went down.

Kialthos crawled out of a pile of planks, and shakily pulled his warhammer from his belt. The building was filled with holes now, beams of starlight providing ample illumination.

It was a mess. Those who weren’t outright dead were in the process of dying. Whimpers, groans, and weeping filled the space. Corpses were scattered all over. The floor was stained by pooling blood. Those who could definitively be identified as  hostages were for the most part intact, save for some of the outliers who had been caught in the carnage.  Many were still  trussed up in the center of the room. Oak was slumped over in a corner, beaten half to hell.

“Gods. I can’t tell who’s who.” Christine ran a hand through her mussed-up hair. Her nose had started to bleed.

A ragged survivor crawled to a fallen crystal rifle, and struggled to load it, oblivious to his plight. Thrana knelt down and slashed out his throat.

Kialthos raised a hand to his radio. “Sound off. Anyone hit?”

“Cas here, good.”

“M’ged.”

Thrana, Waverider, and Christine looked no worse for wear. Kialthos turned his attention to the mass of huddled civilians. His gaze lingered on the bloodied Oak for a few seconds, but the scent of cordite, seared flesh, and body fluids brought him back. He fought the urge to puke.

“Cut them loose. Then-- we’re gone. We did our job. The temple guard can handle the rest from here. We’re not about to get tangled up in that.” He collected his weapons., then keyed in on his radio. “Gurt, Cas, it’s clear. Muriel, we’re pulling out, we’ll mark an LZ.”

The hostages murmured thanks, praise, or averted their eyes as they were freed. None made any demands for aid. Most were still suffering from shock, or simply terrified. They’d get their bearings after a few minutes. One, a healer, immediately started plying his trade, tending to those who’d been hit in the crossfire.

Kialthos stepped outside and popped a green flare, then waved in Muriel, who expertly parked the gyro feet from the building. The team stowed their gear and loaded up as the civilians began to stumble out the door. Casimir handed out cigarettes with a smile on his face. He and Gurt were quiet as they took their seats.

Christine plugged some wads of cloth into her nostrils and belted in. She released a long-held breath as her head thudded back against the hull. “I can’t help but feel like we’re missing something, here.” She was barely audible as the rotors spun to life.

“I’m missing something. You guys aren’t. Trust me, I’ll give you the short version later, after I die.” He stared out across the treetops when they cleared the canopy, Oak’s unconscious form still fresh in his thoughts.

“Oh, wow. Look, I am big mysterious alien, with big asshole,” Casimir snorted, as he cupped a match to his tobacco. “I am big killer who kills people for mysterious reason, most like because I enjoy dick in my asshole.”

That earned a laugh from the rest of the team.

“I’m still figuring it out, myself, is all.” He tugged on his cuirass, to let his skin breathe. He could feel his heart rate beginning to slow.