As the tidal wave of cannibalistic Crimson Hands washed over the NIO drop troopers, brutally tearing into anyone they could reach, the first phase of the Battle of Csaus could at last be truly said to have begun. The tribe was doing exactly what The Mongrel had hoped: forming a wall of savage, unrelenting fury between the newly-landed advance force and the main Mawite defensive line. Charging into dug-in repeaters, flamers, and repulsors would no doubt result in
horrific casualties, but the fierce young tribe could sustain such losses.
Let that bulge draw away the mortar fire.
As corpses piled up around the ruined building that the Sixteens had made their refuge, the battlefield became increasingly lopsided. The drop attack, and now the NIO's efforts to rescue their downed pilots, had all taken place along the western approach, clogging that side of the valley with warriors, tanks, wreckage, and the twisted bodies of the dead. The East was a stark contrast, with no units yet engaged in anything except lobbing long-range weapons at each other. Even as their comrades battled up close, the soldiers on that flank
waited.
Well, so be it. If the NIO did not intend to push the main Mawite defensive line, content to fight over the ruins just short of it, the Brotherhood would seize the advantage they
always desired: momentum. The Maw was strongest on the charge. Where the NIO was like stone, holding firm in an unbreakable defense or grinding forward in an inexorable attack, the Brotherhood was like the ocean. They came in waves, gathering power as they swept in again and again, nimble and mobile, flowing around obstacles to wear away their foes.
When they crested, they came down with great fury.
From the undisturbed eastern flank, the Mawite vehicles The Mongrel had been holding in reserve began to deploy. First came seven of the clanking, smoking
Raider Walkers, the Brotherhood's dark parody of the famous Imperial AT-STs. But where the walkers of the Galactic Empire and its successors were clean, angular, uniform machines, the Raider Walkers embodied the brutal chaos of the Maw. They were festooned with spikes, razorwire, bolted-on armor... and
living prisoners chained to their cockpits, screaming and thrashing.
The enemy would be forced to shoot
through them.
These fast attack craft were highly modular, capable of being kitted out for a variety of different roles. These particular ones were a motley mix. Four were kitted for infantry support, with chin-mounted chainguns and grenade launchers; any infantry push caught in the open tundra would surely be shredded by such weapons, and they could keep down the heads of troopers in cover. Two were anti-vehicle pattern, with a heavier laser cannon and dual concussion missile launchers ready to obliterate that cover - or enemy armor.
The last was a War Priest's Rally Walker, and in place of additional weapons to supplement its heavy laser cannons it carried titanic
speakers. Through those massive audio projection devices boomed the voice of the Heathen Priest within, so loud that nearby ice cracked and the dusting of snow atop the ruins shook with each reverberation. Let the NIO's war cries be drowned out!
"THE ROAD TO PARADISE IS PAVED WITH THE CORPSES OF UNBELIEVERS!" the priest thundered.
"BLOOD IS THE CURRENCY OF HEAVEN!"
He kept up a steady sermon as the walkers charged.
The squadron of seven moved in at a diagonal from the northeast, headed straight for the NIO forces moving up along the western side of the valley. Their goal was to strike the relief force - moving in to rescue the downed pilots and support the surrounded drop troopers - in the flank, stealing the momentum of the infantry before they could crash into the embattled Crimson Hands. But with further NIO divisions still lurking in the southeast, their own flank would be exposed. So that was where the second vehicle deployment came in.
Four
Mawite War Skiffs skimmed over the eastern earthenworks, headed due south. These swift vehicles were just as utterly ramshackle and nonstandard as the walkers, but far less varied when it came to weaponry and role. Each of them was built around a hulking Chiss
MetaCannon, normally a self-propelled artillery piece, now cut down for use as a colossal deck gun. Loaded with powerful armor-piercing shells, the MetaCannons had been chosen specifically to punch through the armor of the Galidraani tanks, long the Maw's bane.
They had E-WEB deck guns to keep infantry back, too.
For now, the War Skiffs moved in a simple harassment pattern, swooping southward and firing at long to medium range, daring the NIO armor to chase them. If the enemy tanks
did, they could fall back to the Mawite defenses, hopefully drawing the NIO into position for a counter-charge... and gaining free hits if the enemy wouldn't advance that far. If they didn't, choosing to counter the Raider Walkers instead, then the skiffs could harry them at their flank. The goal was simple: make a lopsided battle into a confusing morass instead.
After all, the Maw
thrived on chaos and disorder.
------------------------------------
For his part, The Mongrel was only partly paying attention to the orders and contingencies he'd set up being carried out. Most of his focus was directed toward the foe before him, this "Wardog" of the NIO. He largely ignored her jibes; he had allowed himself to be baited by that pink Jedi,
Yula Perl
, back on Jedha, and it had nearly gotten him killed. As much as he sought death these days, it needed to be a
worthy death, one in which he gave his all. Throwing his life away needlessly would earn him the
scorn of the Dark Three, not their favor.
Yet there was one combination of remarks he could not let pass, for it came too close to his own dark thoughts these days.
"Yes," he said, as she spoke of the lacking contents of his body and the lacking
pieces of hers.
"It's the fate of all warriors who live long enough, isn't it? To see all our pieces whittled away, battle by battle. Survive long enough, and perhaps you'll become as hollow as me." He leveled his blade in her direction, a threat... or a promise of release from suffering.
"Come closer, and I'll spare you that fate."
She came at him through a haze of blood, carving apart Mawite warriors in her zeal to reach him. Her wrist rocket, of course, was faster. Had The Mongrel inhabited his old body, he might simply have hunkered down and tanked the hit, letting his hulking, armored mass withstand the explosive force. But that strategy hadn't worked out too well against Sephi and her armor-piercing gun, and there was no telling what kind of payload this rocket bore. Speed was his advantage now, not endurance. And so the warlord changed tactics.
Faster than the eye could follow, The Mongrel's metal body shifted into a backward lean so steep that no organic could possibly have held it without falling right on his ass. But synthmuscles strained and servos whined, balancing him, keeping him from toppling over. The rocket roared just above his torso, missing by centimeters, and flew past to detonate somewhere in the tundra beyond. Like a rubber band - or perhaps an inflatable punching bag springing back after a hit - the warlord snapped upright in its wake, ready for the coming clash.
His gaze - not his eyes, for those were long gone now - lingered on the blade Shai held... the blade
Barran had given her. It was a sign of his confidence in her, surely, a sign that she was worthy to carry his banner in his absence. Such a gift was not bestowed lightly, not by the likes of the old general. The Mongrel knew that he would have to tread carefully in this fight. Yet he also felt a hunger in his soul, a desire to prove Barran wrong, to show that his champion was
not worthy of facing him. He wanted
Barran to be here, to perhaps end this.
Was Shai up to following Aron Gowrie's near-kill?
Time to test that. The Mongrel snapped forward, bursting into motion again, weaving his warblade in an upward S-curve strike; the broad-bladed sword dove for her midsection, an attempted disembowelment, before swinging back in a smooth continuation of the first blow aimed to take her head from her shoulders. He doubted that either strike would be a killing blow, of course; her armor looked strong. Besides, if she could not evade, block, or withstand such a hit, she was unworthy of being Barran's champion.
How she responded...
... now
that would tell him something.
Even as he struck, Mercy's voice crackled in his... well, his
figurative ear. She spoke of losing control of her body, slipping back into the role of a loyal NIO operative, and a mixture of rage and concern flooded his disembodied brain. He could not afford to lose his most trusted agent.
"See that you do report to the Taskmaster, and as soon as possible," he transmitted back. Mercy had been
instrumental in many of his most hotly contested battles and secret ops. If the NIO regained control of her, the things she might be able to tell them...
DECEASED Erskine Barran
| Jon Kovacs | Delilah Jones | Enzo Demici |
Bex Tarring
|
Julian Qar
The Mongrel
|
SCAR
| Chimera |
Lurtz Null
