The Vitalis Chronicles: Steps of Krakador (43 page)

“
Scattergun, sir.” A huge soldier next to him held out a narrower weapon. “You won't hit much with that until they're closer. Try this for now.”

Phelts did try it, and though he wasn't much of a marksman, he managed to hit a few and take them down. More and more poured onto the beach, some swimming up from under the approaching boats and others washing ashore like bloody flotsam.

The monsters continued up the slope, covering it from one side to the other as they writhed their way up towards the Elandrian soldiers. It was as though a grotesque layer of muscle was growing up out of the water. More and more men lined up on the slope, dropping below the rows behind them far enough so that they could be fired over. Phelts had to fight the urge to duck as the strange sensation of a lead storm raged just above him. The moans and wails of monsters reached them now, half-dead in their tone, like lonely ghosts seeking to envelop the living into their fold. Phelts didn't intend to oblige.

Two more rows of soldiers had formed below him now, firing and reloading with such ferocity that it struck at the pride in his chest. Explosive rounds were launched, making red clouds of blood wherever they struck. They could do this, he reasoned. They could slaughter waves of monsters; they could do it indeed.

“
Sir!” The captain appeared behind him now. “Come with me, sir.”

“
I'll stay right here, Captain.” He went back to firing. “You don't need me mucking up your tactics.”

“
The Colonel is on his way, sir, and he'll want to meet you.”

“
Tell him what you've seen, and that worse is on the way.” He ejected his magazine and put his hand out to the soldier on his right for a new one. As much as he wanted to keep command, he knew it wasn't his place. “Watch our backs, Captain. If we lose this choke point they have their foothold.”

More gray boats were coming in now, these from the second wave and unmolested by the silent guns above. Their oars kept churning all the way in until they rammed the rocky beach at speed, their hulls already riddled with small arms fire from the soldiers on the slope. The ramps that made up their bows swung down with the shock of their grounding, and out came a bleaker nightmare than Phelts had ever dreamed.

Huge, black-armored soldiers leaped onto the beach, grinding away at the rocks and launching themselves onto solid ground beyond the boats in single bounds. A long, gravelly horn sounded, like the death rattle of some Titan, blasting long and loud as they made their appearance. With the square-tipped horns on their heads, each must have stood at least seven feet tall; their axes and spears only made them look twice as large. They came galloping up the slope, for that was the only way that Phelts could think to describe it, hacking their way through the remnants of the first wave of fodder with utter disregard for their comrades. They howled in such a demonic fashion that he felt his blood freeze.

He had heard of these things, read about them in Colt's account of the Magi's war across the sea. These were the van of the Relequim's army, his scouts and elite light infantry. These were the famed ones, the feared ones; these were the Granhal.

T
WENTY-
N
INE

T
HE MIGHTY
G
RANHAL FLEW TOWARDS HIS SOLDIERS
, their approach shielded by the few hundred bloody creatures that still came on from a hundred yards down. Suddenly the line of Granhal reached the bulk of the remaining fodder, bursting through them with their axes like a liquid curtain. Blood and blubber flew in every direction as the Granhal howled and tore through their line in seconds.

Dozens of the massive warriors were downed by the gunfire they encountered, many more wounded and slowed, but too many managed to advance unharmed. A number of them came whirling towards the front line, roaring as their massive axes gained momentum and split the first soldier they came in contact with in two. Fire from the next row up concentrated on each monster, knocking them back and killing them before they could do much more damage, but it didn't matter. There were thousands of them.

The main line of the Granhal galloped and bounded over the corpses of the fallen first wave of fodder, rumbling the ground with the might of their approach and drawing a sick sense of terror across the lines of their enemies. Heavier gunfire erupted from the bunkers above, machine guns now in place and unloading their fury over the heads of their comrades to hold back the black wave of death that rose far to fast. They needed that, for their morale as much as anything.

More individual monsters managed to run ahead as the bulk of their line steadily closed the gap, each ripping a few men to shreds before being thrown back down in a hail of gunfire. There were no trenches, no embankments or bulwarks against this advance. Phelts only wished he'd had a few more hours to prepare for this. Even one could have sufficed. Now there was nothing that stood between him and death save two rows of soldiers and a storm of gunfire.
Why on earth did I choose to stay here?!

The Granhal suddenly grabbed the corpses of their fallen comrades, holding them up to absorb the impact of the bullets as they advanced. Someone shouted to aim for their feet, but the message was either unheeded or ineffective, and soon the line of Granhal had closed with the Elandrians.

Pistols and short swords were drawn as men stood to fight the massive, black demons. Their masks were implacable, hollow eyes glowing the faintest red as they screamed and hurled their dead shields at their enemies. Many were shot down in that moment, but the press was too tight now, and the front rows of Granhal were spared the incoming fire as they were too close the humans.

Massive hands shot out to grab at throats as axes swung and spears stabbed. A Granhal swung up with all of his might on a mace the size of the man's chest with whom it connected. A mist of blood erupted as he flew back into the row behind; dead from the spikes on the mace or the sheer violence of the impact, Phelts would never know.

Phelts unloaded on the monster directly in front of him in the opening it had created. It took the first few bullets in the plates on its chest as if it hardly felt them, but then a round pierced clear through its neck and it dropped back in agony. Phelts could see the outlines and details of armor, bulging as if grown under the skin. Even a belt. They were bewitching. Sheer terror wrapped in leathery skin.

More were right behind the one he had shot, charging through their comrades and suddenly bounding through the lines and barreling through his men. A cheer rose from behind him, and as Phelts turned, he saw a massive press of soldiers come running through the bunkers and onto the slope.

The majority spread out into the space behind, unloading their weapons into the thick press of Granhal below over the heads of their comrades. But some didn't stop. Some went wild. They flew through their own lines, closing with the Granhal and firing into their midst with little regard for their countrymen. They pressed past Phelts, shouting and pushing and firing like madmen.

The sudden appearance of their strength caught the Granhal off guard, pushing them back momentarily as thousands of fresh troops pushed forward. The center wavered under the newly-boosted rain of gunfire. Even the rear ranks of the monsters seemed to be pulling back.

But Phelts realized they weren't retreating. They were picking up momentum. They swung around and galloped as hard as they could. A new howl went up, something unlike anything he had yet heard, and every Granhal that was engaged in the front line dropped to a knee.

The leaping monsters from down the slope came flying over them then, landing and bounding again and again into his men until their speed was spent. Now hundreds of them were in the very middle of the fresh press of soldiers that had pushed them back.

Terror broke out among the humans as swords were drawn and pistols shoved into the nearby threats and discharged. The Granhal gripped their axes and spun, clearing the ground around them as they hacked through one soldier after the next. Soldiers fired and jumped forward with their swords, but most were beaten down or hacked to death before they ever made contact.

The Elandrians were losing ground. Their front lines were being separated from them and their numbers steadily thinned out. Then one of the Granhal landed immediately in front of him.

He ducked out of fear, but the motion saved his life as the monstrous ax swung down where his shoulder had been an instant before. The Granhal kept the weapon's momentum, swinging back around to cleave a nearby soldier at the waist and take him to the ground. Phelts dove for the scatter gun he had brought down from the truck as the monster dislodged its ax from its victim and brought it whistling around again.

There were men everywhere, feet and legs churning around him as he stretched for the gun. His fingers closed around it as he felt a sharp pain strike his leg. He yelled as he rolled to his back, discovering the Granhal's ax buried in the ground with its tip in his calf. He was the fortunate one, he realized, as the strike had just split a soldier down the left side.

He pulled the gun up, aimed in a rush and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. Not a click, not a whir, not a puff of air. He looked at the gun hastily and realized he had never actually loaded another shell into the chamber after first firing it. He cursed and rolled again as the Granhal's arm shot out to its side. It grabbed a man by the throat who was attacking it with a sword and threw him towards its comrades.

Phelts cocked the gun as he spun on his knee, fire blazing up his leg in response to the pressure on his wound. He pointed the gun at the Granhal as it turned to look at him. It held its ax to the side and stuck its face forward, roaring with such a depth of hatred that Phelts' vision blurred. He pulled the trigger, striking it in the side of the face and sending it spinning in a fresh scream of pain. Black blood misted in the air as it twisted, then came back around. Before he could load another round in the chamber, its claw was on the barrel, twisting, bending and wrenching it from his hands. It hurled the broken firearm off into the distance and howled again, the space where its left eye had been now a mangled mess of torn flesh and broken bone.

It raised its ax above its head, then began to spasm as if overcome by some violent seizure. Blood and bits of bone flecked up and away as bullet after bullet struck it all over. The armor beneath the skin gave way, and before Phelts knew it the monster had dropped to its knees. The massive armored head rested momentarily on its chest, horns reaching out as if to placate its attackers, before a soldier appeared and kicked it onto its back.

“
We need to get you out of here, sir.” It was the same captain from before. “Colonel won't have you dying on him, not now that Merodach is finally gone.”

Finally gone? Does he know?
Phelts didn't put up a fight, not this time. They were right and he knew it; he had been some sort of fool to think his presence could make all of the difference. They had to half carry him out, and getting through the continual flow of soldiers made it difficult to say the least.

Then suddenly gunfire broke out on the cliffs above. Phelts looked up to see two separate groups of soldiers firing. One faced along the cliffs, firing at the wolf-like creatures that he could now see scrambling out of the bunkers to attack and flank the troops.
Parnithons.
The name finally came to him in a strange burst of memory. Another squad within that group fired into the Granhal below. High-powered rifles resonated along the stony walls as snipers began to pick off one Granhal after the next.

A new cheer went up as more soldiers pressed forward past him, killing the Granhal in their midst and pressing to solidify their ranks so as to exclude the rest. More gunfire erupted along the front lines, the battle suddenly swaying in favor of the humans as the Granhal found themselves outflanked.

And then Phelts saw the ships. They had made it into the harbor, and the first was already grinding into the beach and breaking through the gray boats in its path. The bow was half open and beginning to gape as massive, thick-shouldered monsters began to march off the ship in ranks. Their legs were dwarfed by the weight of their chests, their lizard-like heads almost swallowed by the knotted muscle and scaly skin that he knew must serve as armor.

They jumped into the shallows as the ship came to a complete halt, rank after rank shuffling over the edge and pressing up the hill. Another ship was closing on the southern side of the shore, its bow opening steadily as well. Suddenly the harbor felt far too large as four more of the ships made their way around the pillar. There would be room for all six to make land, he realized, and more if they dared bring them.

The captain and his help had Phelts up and in the back of a truck before he knew it. The field medic nodded as if impressed by Phelts' wound when he saw the gaping slash in his calf. To be fair, he did feel light headed, though he hadn't noticed it until that moment. Thankfully the truck was backed towards the bunkers, and Phelts could still see most of what was happening below. The four new ships were beginning to come aground as the last ranks of monsters came off the first two ships. Among them stood tall creatures who bellowed and cracked whips, moving the masses onward with a grim determination and cruelty that only set Phelts that much more on edge.

“
It's a good thing they got you to me when they did.” The medic had to get in his line of sight to get his attention. “Hey man, listen to me. We need to get you away from this mess, now.”