Whistles whine; voices shout. Orders crack. Boots trample.

  Yellow flares hover overhead, turning the trench lines into day. The air tastes like gunpowder and rot.

  This is the fifth retreat. The previous four were clean.

  Soldiers thunder past, bent under machine guns and ammo crates. They storm over plank bridges thrown across the trenches; the last pair in each file yanks the boards up and hurls them down behind, more practiced than before. The horde of flesh bags, fleshlings, rancid flesh blobs, whatever you want to call them, surges full tilt, no longer slowed by our rain of bullets.

  My job is simple: hold the buffer between them and my machine until they reach the rear line. Then I follow. Hopefully this one goes smooth, like the last four.

  Alfrick and a knot of his right-hand men are the last through the center. He drops the final plank into the trench, lifts his whistle, and gives the all-clear. Everyone’s across.

  Air leaks out of me. I’m tired.

  Night helps. The giants—the irregulars—don’t like to show after dark. I don’t know why and I’m not complaining. But we aren’t lucky, not really. These five days—one day per line—the numbers are wrong. Giants and freaks more than usual. Even the ‘mundane’ fleshlings mass heavier than the records say they should. Alfrick says so. The staff says so. Even my gut says so.

  Just another case of my rancid luck—thick as the sewage spilling out of these vile creatures.

  Another sigh slips out as the horde barrels down. Each second brings them closer. The earth shudders under their stampede; the rotten stench blooms sharper; the wet thud of flesh hitting flesh and mud pounds a disgusting rhythm.

  I stir the mana. Static climbs my skin, an electric shine bleeding off me. My blade hums; my stance drops. ‘Another day, another mess, another horde.’ As long as I don’t fail my machine, it’s worth it.

  I launch forward to meet them. No signal yet, so cleanup is a go. I cleave overhead; arcs of lightning spill outward. Wide swaths crisp; farther out, bodies jerk and stumble. As my boots hit, I burst again—lightning running down me. Blade retracts; I swing, they die. I swing, they charge. I keep carving, but numbers press me back. Not dangerous—just relentless. In minutes we hit the line we held half an hour ago.

  With each steady beat of my heart, I swing. Arcs scorch; bodies crumple. Then—there. Faint. Mana. Not the rancid kind these things carry. Human, close.

  Between beats I scan, clearing a swath to see. There—a soldier. One of mine.

  He’s in the trench just before the line we held. Rifle up. He drops a lunging fleshling with a shot. Another—leaner, stronger, an irregular—launches from behind its dead kin. He aims. A hollow click. Forgot to reload.

  Lightning-quick, I move. I only noticed him after he fired. I drive through the pack between us, scorching earth and fleshlings alike. I’m going to make—no. I’m too slow. I kill the charge, throw myself between them. The irregular’s teeth punch into my shoulder, shattering my ward. ‘If only I’d had time to recuperate.’ Nights are supposed to be the safe hours—no irregulars.

  Lightning flares through the bite. Its jaw spasms; it slumps. My blade flashes and halves it.

  I haul the soldier out of the trench and launch us back with a burst. We land, and I let go of him, he falls on his ass. Space bought. It won’t last.

  He stares—afraid of the beasts, or me. I realize I’m grinning again—stupid habit. I wipe it off.

  “Soldier, what the fuck are you doing here!”

  At my bark, he snaps back together. “—my pendant, my pendant.” He mumbles it under his breath, eyes flicking toward the stampede—no, the line we held.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  I grab his collar. “Your pendant?! You’re going to get yourself killed over jewelry—shit! I can’t take you back until the signal’s sent. Why the hell would you do this?”

  “—but it’s all I have. Of… of them.”

  “O for fuck’s sake—a keepsake? You’re going to endanger yourself for a keepsake?”

  At that, the soldier’s face contorts with anger.

  “Sir, I have nothing else to remember them by.”

  I yank him upright.

  “What? And getting yourself killed will keep them remembered?” I sigh. “Look, I’m protecting you until the signal. There are too many of them and one of me, so you have to keep yourself ready, alright?” I dust his shoulders.

  “Remember them by living. Now reload your gun and get ready.”

  He nods reluctantly. I turn back toward the horde.

  “Anyway, while I have you, mind telling me your name?” I ask.

  “Retief.”

  “Retief, that’s a good name for a dumbass.”

  I chuckle.

  “Retief, in a minute they’ll be upon us again. We can’t retreat much further. I have to keep them entertained here for a while, and if, for whatever reason, some of them slip past me, please use that courage you had to come find a keepsake to fight and defend yourself, okay?”

  A moment of silence.

  “I’ll try,” he replies.

  “Alright. You better try harder than you ever have. Get ready.”

  I drop into stance. He swaps the clip for a fresh one.

  “Stay alive, won’t you?”

  I launch into the horde, now fighting twice as hard to ensure this idiot doesn’t become a snack.

  Fifteen minutes at most—that’s the window. Easy. I sweep through the horde; lightning splits itself, them, and the ground. I form small javelins for the strays trying to bypass me. Some slip through—only to be shot. Retief’s quite the marksman—if only he had a brain.

  Thirteen minutes. A pair of irregulars press me, similar to the one before—leaner, stronger, meaner. ‘Rude bastards.’ I can’t let them get close. My blade glows hotter, brighter. I cleave down, vaporizing one. I leap as the other snaps; I throw a gust and drive myself back down like a hammer on a nail. My legs smash it into the ground. Bones crack. It twitches—dead. Good.

  Their push opens lanes for the beasts. ‘Shit.’ Retief handles most of it, but an irregular is mixed between shrugging off shallow wounds—the rounds barely got through its defense. I snap a lightning spear into motion; it lances forward and skewers the thing right before it reaches Retief. Without a breath, he keeps firing. ‘Impressive.’

  “Argh!” I grunt. An irregular uses the opening to introduce itself by biting into my leg like a damned animal. “Uncivilized swine!” I swing, cleaving its head off.

  No rest for the wicked. I keep swinging. No chance to check my wound but its shallow like the other.

  Nine minutes left. Five irregulars press me now; I guess I have to pick up the pace. My blade siphons the ambient mana; it condenses, it refines. I cut downward, releasing a wave of lightning that ripples through the horde, shoving a large swath of them back and dealing with the immediate problem.

  I drop to one knee, using my sword to keep upright. My chest heaves. Cold sweat dries. ‘This was supposed to be my breather.’

  “Sir—are you alright?” Retief rushes toward me.

  I force myself up. Retief tries to help; I shrug him off. “Yes—I’m fine. Just tired, for fuck’s sake.”

  The horde closes in again. My brief respite evaporates like they do—cruelly replaced by more of them. Woe is me.

  I steady my breathing. I tighten my grip and square my stance. Almost there. Almost.

  “Retief, stand back, will you?”

  “Of course.” He backs up.

  “Only seven minutes, okay? Try to stay alive. You’re doing perfect.”

  “Yes and Thank you for saving me, sir.”

  “Thank me later? We’re still not out of it.”

  ‘Holy cliche’

  “Idiot.” I snap.

  I blow air outward. Alright—only seven minutes. That isn’t long at all.

  I siphon every scrap of ambient mana I can muster, bolstering myself. My focus thins. Exhaustion claws closer. ‘Night used to be nice. Now the world’s gone to shit. A man can’t even take a break after dark. What’s next—breathing gets you killed? Wait. Don’t jinx it.’

  Retief is already firing, pelting the closest. He never misses.

  ‘Good shit,’ I think to myself—then catch myself thinking about thinking that.

  They are upon me again.

  “Alright!” I shout, swinging across, cutting a group of these vile things down.

  Six minutes—we keep fighting.

  Five minutes—irregulars show. They die. I tire.

  Four minutes—one breaks through, barreling toward Retief. I’m tangled with a couple myself. I throw caution aside, cutting them down but taking more shallow hits for my haste. An irregular is on him. Retief fires—nothing. It lunges. He braces with his rifle, teeth clamping on steel, forcing him to the ground. I bolt. The rifle cracks, ready to snap. I drive my blade through the thing, blood splatters painting Retief rancid. The rifle bought enough time.

  I yank it free, toss it back to him. He’s already firing again.

  Two minutes—I’m fighting tooth and nail to keep them from eating Retief like a midnight snack.

  One minute—a dozen irregulars sprout like fairy dust made flesh to ruin me. I throw one back, smash another’s skull, cleave a third. One slips past—my blade cuts it down. Another bites into my side. I jolt it with lightning, then pulp its head under my heel. I cleave another. One more slips. I hurl a spear of lightning—miss. Exhaustion drowns me. I lunge. Two more latch onto my back, teeth sinking. My ward’s useless without energy—I can’t risk it.

  I ignore them. I cleave the last before it reaches Retief. Just as its blood sprays, the air glows green—a flare, not the yellow meant for lighting, but green. The signal. Lightning surges as the realization hits; the ones clinging get shocked loose and fall.

  I grab Retief and hurl us up and away from the horde. I land and bolt for the defensive line with an idiot slung across my shoulders. Legs numb. Head fogged. Body riddled with shallow wounds.

  ***

  We reach the line. I drop the idiot and collapse onto my back.

  My chest heaves. Body spent. Mana almost gone.

  Alfrick rushes over after someone tells him where I am. “Sir?” he asks, looming over me, confused at my exhaustion. Normally this would’ve been a breeze.

  “Alfrick—irregulars are night guests now. Their mundane brethren probably let them know. And give this man a promotion—and a lesson in thinking.”

  Alfrick glances at Retief, blood sprayed over him much like me, and comes to the right conclusion.

  “Yes— I’ll do that.” he says with a tinge of confusion.

  “O, and Alfrick?”

  “Yes, sir?” he asks with a curious face.

  “Help me up.”