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Mac's the name and I write for fun. Got that? FUN. I write whenever then muse strikes me and whatever catches my fancy.
Feedback is more than welcome but try to keep it topical and whatnots. If I wanted a lecture on spelling I'd marry a dictionary instead of a model.
Riders of Death
'Orders Ridemaster?'
Ridemaster (sergeant) Asche lowered her binoculars and pondered for a moment, weighing the options at hand. Her squadron of Death Riders had run into an enemy position in the hinterlands of the wastes of Kinda, a rare find on its own. Though this also had something to do with the fact that she had ridden her men long and hard, forcing them and their steeds to their utmost limits. Small enemy outposts, half dug into the soil were a common enough sight. They were mostly mundane observation posts staffed by some expendable observers. Yet the banner that flew from the aerial of the small armoured car parked next to the fortified hole said otherwise. Standing orders were to notify command of any such high ranking enemy assets, but by the time a proper response could be sent the enemy would be long gone most likely. Plus the enemy seemed to block communications over long ranges, making the vox caster carried by one of her Riders useless nine out of ten times. Squads on patrol had been issued flare guns, a last ditch effort to keep long-ranged patrols from working blindly in front of the main forces. Though popping flares was a stupid idea. Especially when dealing with extremely long distances. Orders were generally to spot the enemy and report it to command any way possible, then wait for command to reply. Attempting to do something yourself was frowned upon. But popping flares also meant that the enemy would notice.
But did it really matter when you were at their throat?
'Lock and load.' The Ridemaster pulled out her pistol and flicked the safety off. The rest of them followed suit, loading their pistols and removing safeties from their lances. She looked left and right at her squadron, some of them returning her look while others simply looked dead ahead, eyes poised on the distant enemy position.
'Before you say anything, we are with you all the way Ridemaster,' one of them said. Several others nodded and grunted in agreement. 'Are we going to charge them then?'
'Of course we're going to charge them, standing orders be damned. Pop a flare, let them know we got something. Maybe they'll see it, most likely they won't. Maybe we'll live to tell the tale. Maybe our bones will bleach in the sun as a warning for the next patrol.' One of the Death Riders pulled a heavy calibre pistol from his saddlebags, clicking it open and dropping a large snub-nosed shell into the breach.
'That banner there indicates that this could be big, or this could be nothing. Are you willing to risk that?' Again the squadron gave their mutual agreement. They wanted to do it, they were born for this, that blaze of glory that set them apart from their brothers in the trenches, inside the hulls of tanks or behind the lines manning the guns that never knew silence.
'Ridemaster, glory be damned, the enemy is in our sights. Give us the order and let us charge them. That is all we ask for, to skewer some traitors on our lances.'
'Very well, into the maws of death we charge then.' She pulled a magnetic shaped melta charge free from her own saddlebags and held it tightly. 'I'll take care of that vehicle, you take out the rabble in that pit.'
She looked at her men one last time, gave a nod to the Rider with the flare gun and dug her heels into the flanks of her steed.
'Charge!'
The others screamed and shouted at the top of their lungs at the command, digging their heels into the flanks of their steeds, lances poised and pennants fluttering. The ragged line of Riders burst into action, charging towards the lone dugout.
+ + +
'Sir, the enemy!'
The officer looked up from the map at the distant charging figures. One of the observers consulted his auspex, pleased with the scans. 'Just that group there sir, they must've moved in slowly and used the recent storms as cover to avoid our scans for this long, they seem to be alone.'
One of the observers pulled a oilcloth from a heavy bolter and yanked the receiver back, loading it. Then someone else helped the operator crank the weapon into the right position. Others went for their own weapons, flicking safeties off.
'Sir, it might be best for you to withdraw while you still can.'
'Nonsense, this looks like a firing exercise for the men here, not much of a threat they seem. Nothing but a bunch of auxiliaries on horses.' He gave a nod to the man manning the heavy bolter. 'Open fire.'
+ + +
In hindsight, charging a dug in enemy with steeds, no matter how tempting, was always bad idea. But bad ideas were unheard of in the Death Korps, they knew only to attack and never to quit. The heavy bolter barked into life, tracers whipping into their direction instantly. One of the Riders was punched from his saddle, the heavy round first slamming through the head of his steed before digging through his armour and into him. It exploded inside his torso, the force blowing an arm off along with a shower of gore through the entry hole.
'Charge damn you!'
More tracers whipped past, though they did little. Either the gunner was nervous or a really poor shot, unable to hit them properly. The final stretch between them and the dugout was quickly negated as her men charged straight into the shallow position, their lances lowered and vox-enhanced barbaric screams coming from their mouths as they closed the final distance.
Asche wheeled her steed around the dugout, fighting to keep the animal under control, its own aggressive tendencies wanting it to charge into the fray like the rest of the troop. She managed to get the beast to run towards the armoured vehicle, passing it. With a heavy -clunk- the charge attached itself to the hull of the vehicle, the pin pulled and the charge primed. Digging her heels hard into the flanks of her steed she urged it to run like hell. A dull explosion blanked out the screaming and shooting for a moment. Black smoke poured from the wreck into the sky, if anything, that would make for a better signal than those pathetic flares they were supposed to launch. Wheeling round she charged back into the fray, noting that things were a chaotic mess of stabbing and shooting men.
Her men were not faring well, almost all of them were unhorsed and fighting from the ground. Though unhorsed, they were far from defenseless as they desperately fought the enemy with pistol and sword. Asche noticed a man in a longcoat hacking into one of her own, he had to be the officer in charge. Remembering the old saying of going for the head she forced her steed to jump into the dugout, towards the officer. The man turned at the sound of Asche's approach, only having enough time to register her attack as her lance slammed home, the powered tip slicing through any armour and flesh with ease before becoming lodged inside the man. She let go and went for her sword and pistol, ignoring the speared man instantly. The explosive charge of her lance would detonate and killing him instantly. She shot at three men crowded around one of her men, clubbing him to a pulp with the butts of their rifles. With precise shots she dropped two of them, the third running towards her with a manic cry. If he was trying to scare her steed it wasn't working, the genetic breeding had seen to that. With a deft hack she slammed her sword into the neck of the man, dropping him like a dead weight.
Carefully she wheeled her steed round, checking for any survivors. Anybody? A wounded horse lay twitching, the bulky breathing mask torn off during the fight most likely. It was breathing with increasingly difficulcy as blood mixed with the froth on its lips. With a sigh she shot it through the head, sparing the loyal beast any more suffering.
Wheeling round she noticed the officer she speared had stumbled to his feet. The lance had exploded, a ragged hole where it struck. Only he didn't die. How the hell did he survive that? Digging her heels into the flanks of her steed she urged it to run, holding her sword outstretched in a classic charging stance. She'd spear him with her sword and finish the job for sure. Only he was prepared this time round.
As she closed in the officer slammed his whirring sword into the legs of her steed with all his might, making the beast fall forward with both its limbs mangled and broken. As it fell Asche was launched from the saddle, flying through the dugout, the earthwork wall rushed towards her and a jarring impact made everything turn black for a moment. The screaming of her wounded horse vanished for a moment.
Consciousness returned like a nightmare as vice-like fingers locked around her neck and hose, trying to squeeze the life out of her. She felt her air hose being squeezed shut, fluids from it forced into her mouthpiece as the air supply was cut off along with her feeding pipe. She kicked and beat the undying officer, trying her best to get him off her. She noticed the exposed inner organs through the ragged hole of his coat, a rotten heart half-dangling from it as it beat slowly. With all her might she stabbed her sword into the rotten organ, finally killing the man. The viselike grip relented and with a gasp she managed to undo her mask, sucking in great mouthfuls of air. She also ditched her helmet after a moment, feeling a whole lot better all of the sudden. Pain slowly came to her as the adrenalin subsided. Asche was hit several times, a rather unpleasant hole gaping at the shoulder of her cuirass from which blood slowly seeped. She could also feel the dull aches of the bruises that were to come. It was one of the more unpleasant, but somehow good reminders that she was still alive for now. Looking round she saw that no one else remained alive.
'Fugging hell.' Much to her surprise one of her Riders staggered to his feet, his helmet missing and his cuirass and coat torn and blooded. He laboriously pulled off his own mask, revealing dull grey eyes paired with the shaggy beginnings of a beard and dirty blond hair. It was Waldner. She sighed and smiled at his recovery. 'I guess we won then.'
'We won.' Asche wanted to say more but felt the strength in her legs fail, dropping her to her knees. She felt tired and worn.
'Permission to lie down for a moment, I don't feel too well.' Before Asche could reply Waldner slumped over, sprawled over the dead. She went to his side on all fours and checked his pulse.
None.
With a sigh she tried to clamber onto the edge of the trench, unable to do so as strength had failed her. Resigned she sat down heavily, jamming a wad of cotton from her first-aid kit into the hole at her shoulder.
+ + +
Several Centaurs rumbled in later that day, the heavily armoured Grenadiers carried within them tasked with securing the area. 'Lucky,' one of them remarked as they swept through the dugout, finding Ridemaster Asche the only living soul remaining. 'There'll be promotions for this.'
'Yes, promotions.' She said numbly, one of the Grenadiers giving her first-aid, tightly binding the bloody hole on her shoulder with a liberal amount of bandages. He mumbled something about everything being alright now. It rung hollow and false but Asche was too tired to take note.
'Good one, this was a general. Top brass that died here today. Bad one at it. See them organs, bad sign.' The Grenadier Watchmaster revved his chain sword and brought it down, hacking the general’s head off in a messy spray of rancid blood. 'Just making sure he stays down, people with those mutations have the tendency to get up again, a real pain to kill properly if you catch my drift.' He motioned for one of his men to get a flamer ready. 'Might as well burn them, give them a proper see-off. Got anything you need from your bags Ridemaster?'
Asche shook her head, slowly crouching down to gather her cuirass and helmet. One of the Grenadiers helpfully took them from her, pulling her out of the dugout and guiding her towards the waiting Centaurs. The man and his steed who died while charging the dugout were dragged and unceremoniously tossed into the hole with the rest of the dead, a team with a heavy flamer standing by to torch everything.
The costly but successful charge was to be Asche's lucky break, much to her chagrin.
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