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Chapter 20: In Dulce Decorum.

A blinding afterimage just about seared Brian's retinas, competing with the flames still rising from the burning platform the mercs had been standing on a split second ago. The Marine's mind was still trying to process what, exactly, had just happened. A blazing golden bolt of energy had shot past him and slammed into the group of Lylatians, simply erasing them from existence as if God himself had decided they were an affront to the universe. He lowered the stolen Dragunov slightly, preparing to take a quick glance back to figure out what the Hell just happened.

Something stung the side of his neck, his peripheral vision catching the sparking of rifle rounds slamming into the rock pillar above his position. Stone chips dislodged by the burst fired by the one in the bulky Fallout-inspired power armor, most likely. But, what took them out? Was that... Krystal? As he turned to the look the other way his heart stopped, the simple inquiry he was about to ask sticking in his throat as he heard the vixen's staff clatter to the ground.

Krystal was slumped against the pillar, pale aqua eyes glancing down in shock at her chest and the twin red blossoms rapidly growing upon it as if they couldn't possibly be real. She struggled to lift her head and say something but failed; blood trickled from her lips as she lost her footing and collapsed to the wooden planking below.

"Jesus..." Brian gasped, training spurring him into action. He had sworn to protect her, and he had failed. Even though the practical side of his mind was screaming the simple fact she was dead, he had to do something. Already overloaded with gear, he slung the rifle over his shoulder, stuck her staff in her belt and scooped the mortally wounded Cerinian into his arms, disregarding the stickiness of her blood as it soaked into his fatigues.

The WP grenade that detonated on the other platform was consuming the wood structure, but it was the only direct way down to the main floor. If it collapsed, they were stuck... and her chances of survival diminished every second. There had to be another way...

The Marine's eyes caught the platform the Sharpclaws' cannon was mounted on, noticing the set of rails that ran parallel between it and the ground. It was mobile. Ignoring the raging fire behind him he rushed towards the silent artillery piece, watched over only by the corpse of the reptilian belligerent he had shot only a few minutes before. An inner voice screamed at him. 'Such a wonderful time for things to go completely to Hell.' "C'mon, hang in there... I'm getting you out..."Brian uttered a quick prayer, hoping beyond hope for some sort of miracle.

Deep inside, however, somehow he understood it was already too late. The mercs, in death, got what they wanted; whatever scum-sucking client had hired them didn't even need to remit payment. If he got out of here alive he would track the bastard down and put a bullet in their heart. A sickening feeling washed over him as the stricken vixen convulsed in his arms, a choking, rattling gasp coming from her lips as she tried to draw breath from lungs too damaged to work. She wasn't the first one to lay dying in his arms; that particular thought drawing a well of rage inside the young soldier.

Evan Mills. Only nineteen years old, fresh out of boot. New to the squad, before Brian was an NCO. Shot by a Taliban sniper. His last moments were spent shedding his blood onto some God-forsaken rock on Afghanistan while the rest of the squad tried to pin the sorry son of a bitch that shot him. He hadn't deserved it. Neither did Krystal. Just one more friend he had failed to protect; someone who depended on him for their life and was let down. The only difference was that he would carry her out of Hell.

He ignored the burning in his arm and the tickling sensation as blood trickled down his side as he kicked the wooden lever that he thought would engage the elevator mechanism. He only noticed the tears streaming down his cheeks when they met their end upon Krystal's still form; was it because of the stinging volcanic gasses or something else? He wasn't sure anymore.

The wooden rail a couple of feet to his left exploded in a shower of splinters, a muted crack echoing in his ears as the Marine's eyes tracked the handful of Sharpclaw on the ground that were still able to fight. With a heavy heart he settled his dying friend onto the deck, blood-slickened hands retrieving his M16 once more. He wouldn't break his promise this time.

The sun cascaded down upon her cerulean fur, the air heavy with humidity and laced with the sweet, inviting scent of the Tilai flowers which were starting to bloom along the banks of the lake on her family's property. Krystal was perched upon a chair she had borrowed from the pavilion outside their home, an ancient estate originally built for her family during the Uahan Era. Several generations of Haleths lived their lives here; they were but the latest in a rich history of service to the people they were entrusted with guiding.

Emerald eyes gazed at the pages of the old tome she had been reading; the assignment due to the High Guardian running their training class once instruction resumed in a few days. She gave a sigh of frustration at the subject matter, trying to unravel cryptic mysteries hidden within the pages; obscured by the copious metaphors and arcane language the priesthood was so fond of using.

"The Prime World is the counterbalance to the existence of Cerinia. As Cerinia balances the Night Star, the Prime balances Cerinia. During the Great Guidance of Elder Kerchek, the Rift allowed Cerinians to visit the Prime. Their wisdom and the Art made them greatly received, yet the Rift broke and the Prime remains lost to us all." The young vixen mused over this, offering a heavy sigh to the air. "This is just an old myth. There aren't even any records other than this that even mention this 'Prime World' or a 'Rift.' Why waste our time on learning these things?"

"Because a Guardian must be aware of our history, star blossom." Her mother's voice almost startled her, turning around to see her parent standing a few meters away. "However, if High Guardian Genan is this lax with training in the Art, then there might be reason to bring this up to him. As a Guardian Potential, you should have been able to sense me approach, Krystal."

The younger Cerinian sighed, turning away from her mother to look out over the lake. "I must strive to develop my talents. You know what becoming a Guardian means to me, mother. The chance to get out into the other prefectures, helping others, serving my people..."

"...and an escape." Yitana finished, her tone slightly heavy with disappointment. "You guard your thoughts well, but you don't guard your distaste about Koleth as well. You must learn how to trust your betrothed, Krystal. He will be by your side once you take the Council seat, and your time spent as a Guardian will come to an end eventually."

"You don't know him as well as I do, mother." Krystal huffed, carefully marking her place in the ancient religious text and setting it on the soft grass next to her. "Couldn't I be trusted to choose my own betrothed? One whose thoughts aren't centered on cementing our mateship?" Her mother's muzzle twitched at this. What she had to say was somewhat crass and perhaps rude, yet her frustration at her assignment and her lack of progress with her Aspect of the Art fueled her retort.

"It isn't that simple, Krystal." Yitana shook her head, placing a hand on her daughter's shoulder. "The people will only accept Council members who have the right to lead, such as yourself... or those expected to lead well. The heir of a trading house such as Koleth is a natural choice for the people. Unfortunately those are the sacrifices we must make to choose the right leaders to guide us. Especially with the increasing Lylatian influence on our society."

"And don't you see why I want to be away from it all, at least for a while? If I am to be given away to a male such as him, I don't wish to do it now. I wish to experience Cerinia while I can. Help our people and serve more directly."

"I understand, star blossom. Yet, there comes a time where you must learn what it means to be a Council member, and not just a Guardian. Your father and I will not be around forever to guide you, and once you take the Seat you will have to rely on your judgment, as well as Koleth's..."

Her mother's voice faded and became ever distant as waves of pain assailed her body. She didn't seem to notice as Krystal doubled over in agony and fell off her chair, a cacophony of voices screaming in her ears as she struggled to draw breath. The conflicting voices became more resonant, a single message driven into her mind as oblivion threatened to drive her over the edge with a cascade of suffocating discomfort. "You are the link to the Prime! You have the Beacon! Die here, vixen, and hope dies with you! Their sacrifices will be in vain! Go ahead, be weak and let the Void take you! Destroy the hopes and dreams of your entire race!"

Despite the voices urging her to fight, she just... couldn't. She gasped, but was rewarded with nothing. It felt as if she was drowning. A stab of pain pierced her heart as a dark veil settled over her senses. Her entire body felt cold. Numb. Distant. Somehow she knew this was the end of her life. Even as confusion as to what happened to her set in, she could feel her tenuous grasp on the mortal world slipping away.

"Come get some, you son of a bitch..." Brian muttered to the Sharpclaw that dove out of the way of his line of fire as the elevator hit the ground. His throat burned and his eyes stung with the volcanic gasses that assailed his senses, but he couldn't stop now. To stop was to die along with Krystal. To die was to break his unspoken promise. He wouldn't have that. The lizardman peeked out from behind the boulder he was using as cover; he promptly took the shot. As the M16 pulsed in his blood-slick grip the Sharpclaw pitched backwards. The bolt on the rifle locked back, empty.

Instinctively he reached for the pistol at his side, the old .45 pointed at the next pair of Saurians to close in on his position. The one with the musket fell first, two rounds punched into his chest. His friend joined him a quarter second later, before the pistol's booming report finished echoing off the rocks. Finally, he was clear.

Brian returned to her, a gnawing feeling eating at him as he surveyed her crumpled, bloodied body lying on the elevator platform. With another silent prayer he pressed a hand to the side of her throat, hoping to feel something. Anything. Seconds passed as the sickening sensation returned, threatening to overwhelm him. Her pulse was faint, slow, and erratic; drawing upon snippets of conversation with his mother only brought him to the conclusion that without a fully staffed ER with some pretty talented doctors she likely wouldn't make it.

As if he were cradling the child he never had he gingerly retrieved her limp form, once again ignoring the burning sensation coursing through his body as his arm, chest, and side protested their treatment. He had to get out of here, but he wasn't going to leave her behind. He owed it to her.

He made it only a few yards before hearing something that chilled his blood. The angry, primitive roar rising from a mass which he thought was a distant part of the cave floor. The gargantuan beast started to rise from the ground, steam rising from its blistered, charred scales. Before it had looked like some kid's attempt at making a monster capable of fighting Godzilla. Now it looked like it had risen from the bowels of Hell itself.

He didn't have much time left down here. Another headache swarmed at the edges of his senses, hungrily attacking his mental acuity. The blood loss and pain didn't help that much, either. As he set his friend's body down on the cave floor, Brian was all too aware of the limited time he had to escape the volcanic gasses and lethal CO2 levels before he would remain here permanently. Instead of reaching for his M16 the Marine extracted his recently appropriated laser pistol. Perhaps it had a better chance at hurting the building-sized monster that was skittering forward, hungry for blood.

Eight. Only eight out of an original workforce of forty. Only eight of her fellow Snowhorns were alive and strong enough to help change the tide of the battle raging in the mines beyond. Belina Te resisted the urge to trumpet her displeasure to the rock walls which surrounded them. The furless creature and the young Cerinian were the only ones who were fighting for their freedom and Sauria's fate depended on them. Standing back and hoping for the best outcome didn't suit the Gatekeeper's daughter.

"Firesticks or no, we must help them." Belina's voice boomed inside the chamber, drawing upon the same tone of authority her father used. "The Cerinian was injured and the furless one was quite fatigued when he was carrying her. They're fighting for our freedom and our lives. It is the only option we have."

"What about the Sharpclaw?" One of them uttered a retort. "If they kill both of them, they will surely kill any of us that helped them. I supported your original decision to appease these beasts; do we really wish to anger them further?"

"I made a mistake." Belina admitted, turning around to face the entrance of the mines. "It is time for me to atone for it. They enslaved us. If we survive Scales' rush for power, do you believe he will simply let us go? Or will he starve us to death as we work down here?"

"I agree with her." A few voices joined that one, murmurs of approval echoing through the chamber. "If we act in concert with these strangers, we might have a chance. However, we need to act immediately. I stand by our Gatekeeper's daughter. Who among of us will also do the same?"

Grumbles of agreement broke the relative silence, followed by a trumpeting Snowhorn battle call. While mild-mannered and peaceful, a group of angry mammoths defending their home was a fearsome sight for anyone who stood to oppose them.

There was no recoil. Only a slight vibration and a simple snapping _pop_that accompanied a blazing scarlet beam as Brian pulled the laser pistol's trigger. The beam flew straight and true with no deviations, its tracer effect allowing the Marine to see where it impacted. A small portion of the creature's scaled belly flared an angry shade of ruby, a pained screech escaping its maw as beady, black eyes the size of truck tires glared at him.

The laser was capable of hurting it. Good. He had no idea how long the weapon's battery would last, but it was safe to assume that it used far more juice than your average Walkman. He had other weapons if it fizzled out on him. Until that happened, however, he would use it. Several more bolts lanced out of the weapon as he rushed forward, praying he would find a weak spot before he passed out.

The lasers seemed to have an effect on the beast; it recoiled backwards before bellowing out a challenge. A dissonant image flashed in front of his mind's eye; he was a young kid playing that old video game Doom. He had virtually battled the denizens of Hell and was really getting into the game... until he ran face to face with a house-sized, rocket-launching badass. It had scared the crap out of him. That cold grip of terror threatened to climb out of his stomach once again; only the realization that it would spell his death as well as Krystal's kept it from taking over. As it was he sought out cover, launching himself behind one of the large support pillars.

The wounded creature shrieked in frustration, arching back and vomiting forth a vending machine-sized glob of putrid green bile. The organic missile sailed past Brian's position, carrying with it a stench that made him wish he had enough time to put his gas mask back on. The experience of doing jumping jacks in a room full of tear gas was like a fresh summer breeze in comparison. His eyes instantly watered and stung even worse than what the volcanic gasses could dish out. The disgusting mass impacted the ground, washing over a boulder standing thirty yards away. The rock started sizzling and smoking, its mass starting to dissolve like it was a sugar cube placed in boiling water.

There had to be a way to stop it. Brian's headache was getting to the point where it demanded his attention, a sign that he needed to get to higher ground as soon as he could. But how? If he tried to grab Krystal and make a run for it, they would be easy pickings for the beast. But if he stayed and slugged it out, she would bleed to death and he would suffocate not long afterwards.

The Marine coughed, throat starting to burn from the corrosive gasses in the air. An idea sprung to mind, his eyes calculating the distance between the platforms above and the rampaging monster on ground level. If he could just get it to go over to the right a bit further, he might have a chance. Brian darted out into the open, firing several laser bolts at the creature. Upon spotting him it gave a triumphant howl, skittering over to launch another glob of highly corrosive vomit. He grit his teeth, aim shifting upwards to the burning platform the mercs had been on. The wooden planking was noticeably sagging, and if he could just land a good hit...

He pulled the laser pistol's trigger, a series of angry bolts slamming into the supports overhead. Already charred and weakened from the flames, a couple of random hits were all it needed. The groaning structure gave with a _snap_that was louder than a gunshot, the entire works tumbling through the air.

The monster glanced upward but didn't have time to get out of the way before several tons of wood slammed down upon its head and back. As weakened as it was, it was knocked to the ground in an impact that almost caused Brian to lose his footing. The beast struggled to get up, roaring its rage to anyone left alive to hear it, yet the burning platform was enough to effectively pin it to the ground.

The profile of a jewel about the size of his torso glinted on a chain around the creature's throat. There was no mistaking their objective, the Spellstone Krystal told him about. There would be time to go back down and retrieve it later; the Marine had more pressing concerns. Without a second glance back he sprinted toward the spot he left Krystal, uttering another silent prayer he wasn't too late. There wasn't any time to check her vitals, and the headache was starting to introduce its good friend dizziness into the mix.

Brian was faced with a decision to make. Carting around four rifles and combat gear for three wasn't going to be an option much longer. Not if he wanted to get out of the damned cave. He shed almost everything he had acquired, keeping the handguns, laser pistol, and Krystal's M4. He could get everything later. It took him three tries to pick her up off the ground; his body starting to rebel with the abuse it had been through the past few days. Everything was screaming at him, his arms, legs, chest... he was reaching his limit. Grasping his mortally wounded friend close, his world was reduced to only one action: One foot in front of the other.

Belina Te marched forward, the other Snowhorn behind her back. The Sharpclaw proved to be cowardly in their nature; while they reveled in beating weak, isolated members of her tribe, they dropped their weapons and ran at the sight of a group of them offering plenty of resistance. The few who attempted to follow their standing orders after experiencing many different flavors of outsider weaponry were gored by the horns and stomped by the feet of those they had oppressed. They weren't a violent race, yet the atrocities visited upon them had to be answered in the only language the Sharpclaw understood: force.

"There can't be many left. Not after what happened here." One of the others mused, casting a glance at a pair of Sharpclaw bodies outside the line of storage rooms they had used for a makeshift prison. That wasn't their doing; the deceptively small wounds of the aliens' firesticks made that perfectly obvious.

"We still need to remain cautious." Another one spoke up. "We do not know if the others are going to..."

"Wait." Belina cut him off, glancing toward the ramp that led down to the main chamber to the mine. The sounds of battle were strangely absent; considering the presence of the armored aliens who seemed to be tracking down the Cerinian and her companion. Instead, the soft sound of footsteps from a small creature seemed to echo off the rock walls. The group of Snowhorn stood their ground, spreading out as much as they could. Whether the newcomers were Sharpclaw or the armor-clad aliens they would be as prepared as they could be; their only chance at victory would be to quickly rush in to stop them from firing their deadly firesticks.

Their caution was warranted but not necessary. A barked order from Belina kept them from rushing in. The figure that approached was that of the furless, scaleless alien that rescued her from her prison cell. The mottled clothing which he wore was completely ruined, mostly soaked through with the reddish-brown shade of dried blood. The cause for all the blood was immediately apparent. The Cerinian's limp form was held in his arms, drying crimson rivulets cascading down the form-fitting coverings she also wore.

She couldn't understand the words he spoke, but the fear, urgency, and exhaustion behind the alien's voice was far more important than what he was trying to say. They needed help, help which they were honorbound to give.

The mercs' ship was the closest place he could think of that might hold some sort of medical supplies. He hoped to God he was right, as Krystal's vitals were fading fast. He had no baseline for how her species handled massive blood loss and severe trauma, but the talks with his mom as well as the training courses he went through as a squad leader gave Brian a basic idea of how she was faring.

The answer was not good. The bleeding from her gunshot wounds had slowed drastically, although accompanied by an extremely weak, slow pulse. Frankly, it was miraculous that she was even alive. She was breathing but only barely. While the first shot had punched clean through her body the second hadn't; there was no telling what damage it had done. The vixen's breathing was erratic and shallow, likely the result of a punctured lung. He had no way to be sure.

The mammoths that followed him here seemed to know what they were doing. They took guard positions around the sleek, obsidian craft, waiting to ward off the Sharpclaw. He couldn't tell them the mercs had been dealt with, or at least as far as he knew.

"Almost there. Hang on, Krys. Just please hang on..." His voice choked at that. Without adequate facilities there was no saving her. There was only the fervent hope that Lylatian medical technology was advanced enough to deal with something like this. The Marine gently set her down on the frozen ground near the ship's entrance ramp, his hands readying the M4 for potential action.

He had fished a key card from the corpse of who he assumed to be the pilot he shot earlier, laid out next to one of the armored figures he had dropped a grenade on earlier. It should be sufficient enough for entry. The door controls gave a chime and slid open, revealing a well lit cargo area about the size of a large walk-in closet. Training took over as Brian took a step inside, carbine leading the way.

Small crates were stacked almost to the ceiling, presumably supplies of some nature. Another door led to the main body of the craft; Brian slid into the ship, primed and ready for resistance. There wasn't any. The interior was quite spartan, reminding him of a cross between a small RV and the typical barracks housing he had been assigned in boot camp. A small kitchen, recreation, and washroom area lay beyond the cargo hold, with a door leading to what was likely a toilet and small shower. Beyond that, twin rows of three bunks indicated a common sleeping area, and past that what looked to be a couple of computer terminals and an arms locker. Beyond that, an open door revealed what was obviously the bridge. The place was completely devoid of life.

Brian exited the craft without a word, retrieving his fallen friend and waking back in. After cleaning off the nearest bunk he gently laid her down, taking a quick moment to check her vitals. It had been around two hours since she was shot in the shoulder. Hazarding a guess, perhaps only twenty minutes had elapsed since she was shot again. At this point, unless he could find something to save her she was well past that golden hour mark his mom drilled into his head.

They had to have a first aid kit or something like that around somewhere. Brian glanced to where the mercs stored their equipment. The arms locker was mostly empty; a couple of the AK74 clones were secured in a gun rack along with a laser carbine of some sort, accompanied by what looked like a few power cells for the laser weapons and a few scattered AK magazines. The equipment lockers mostly carried clothing, sets of civilian gear, military uniforms he didn't recognize, and a few padded bodysuits similar to the one Krystal was wearing. It wasn't until he got to one of the last lockers that he found it.

The sturdily-constructed case was emblazoned with a symbol the Marine didn't recognize; a wreath of sorts with a crossed sword and spear in the center. The legend CDF Field Casualty Kit, however, seemed to explain its purpose. He wrestled the case over to the bunk, cursing under his breath. It must have weighed well over a hundred pounds. Upon opening the latches and examining the contents he understood why.

The case was essentially a mobile field hospital, probably a larger variation of the more complete trauma kit kept inside vehicles. Most of the equipment he didn't recognize, although oxygen bottles, syringes, and IV solutions were pretty self-explanatory. The most curious inclusion was what looked like a ruggedized laptop computer with 'Nanite Diagnosis/Repair Terminal- Activate FIRST' emblazoned upon the lid. Setting his curiosity aside and glancing at his dying companion he opened it.

The boot time was nearly instantaneous. Instead of a standard LCD screen a holographic projection appeared in front of him, the same crest blinking off and on. A prompt with two selections replaced it, much like a computer's dialog box. " Serious Illness or Combat Casualty?" Brian pressed the latter.

"Is Operator A Trained Medical Practitioner?" Brian selected the 'no' option.

"Please pick up the highlighted diagnosis nanite syringe. Inject 10cc of nanite solution into a designated location. Allow one minute for injury assessment and preliminary stabilization." A rather detailed diagram of where to find main arteries on what looked to be several different species was brought up. The 'Canid/Vulpine' diagram looked pretty close to Krystal, and from what he could tell was at least passably close to human anatomy.

Taking a deep breath he felt for her pulse, fingers tracing her carotid artery. It was slowing down, although it meant she was at least still alive. "God, please make this work." His plea was accentuated by placing the syringe's needle against the cephalic vein in her arm. A moment of brushing her fur aside revealed where he needed to inject; soon afterwards the requested amount of viscous gray fluid was in her system. As he pulled the needle out he grasped her hand, hoping to provide some measure of comfort while he glanced back at the holographic screen.

"Warning, genetic patterns not a complete match in database. Closest match: Female Vulpine, 94.3 percent probability. Approximate age: 16-20. Blood Pressure: 50/45, pulse 28bpm. WARNING: Vital signs Critical! Beginning stabilization attempt and remote diagnosis.

"Massive hemorrhaging detected. Probable cause: multiple shrapnel injuries. Blood loss estimated at 45 percent. Please remove clothing around wound areas and apply indicated sealing gel."

Brian's face was a mask of urgent professionalism as he slowly lifted her off the bunk. Within moments he unzipped her bodysuit, tugging it off down to her waist. He couldn't think of modesty at a time like this; if she wanted to argue about his actions later, she could do it when she wasn't in danger of bleeding to death. He went to work, grabbing a large tube and slathering its thick gel into her wounds; the stuff was warm to the touch and stopped the constant trickling of blood. He laid her back down, wiping the excess gel onto his pants and glancing back towards the holographic display.

"Primary diagnosis complete. Injuries include three wound channels consistent with high-velocity shrapnel approximately 5.5mm in diameter. Signs of multiple lacerations to abdominal tract detected, mostly healed. Left lung is collapsed. Subject CO2 levels highly elevated. Beginning stabilization process. Please ready blood substitute canisters and oxygen delivery system at this time." Two white canisters were highlighted as well as one of the oxygen bottles; Brian wrestled the latter out of the case. Within moments of following a flurry of on-screen instructions she was prepared; another oxygen mask placed on her muzzle and the blood substitute IVs had been started. As he did so a few diagnostic displays appeared on the screen, basic blood pressure, pulse, respiration, and what he assumed was an EKG readout. He wasn't an expert, but whatever was happening seemed to be helping.

"Subject vital signs stabilized. Estimated chance of recovery 57.5 percent. Foreign object detected. Object analysis: Tungsten projectile, approximately 18mm in length, 6mm in diameter. Location: Embedded in upper chest cavity. Please inject 25cc of nanite solution into secondary blood substitute canister. Estimated time of object decomposition: 28 hours." Brian quickly did what he was told, his actions reduced to parroting what the miracle machine said. After injecting the solution into the canister he sat back, simply content to stay on the floor. Somehow he had managed to beat the odds. Perhaps it would allow her to do so as well. His hand wound around hers; about the only comfort he could give her at that point. All he could do at that point was to wait. Despite the cold, unyielding floor and his own untended wounds Brian rapidly found exhaustion overtaking him. They would be safe now, for a while at least.