There was no time to mark the kill, either with relief or grief. There was another assailant close behind with another to follow that. And then another. Everson fought on because he had no other choice.

* * *

Shortly after the flood of troops poured from the transport, Commander Giza rumbled out of the convoy atop a massive fighting machine called a Marauder. His second-in-command, Colonel Canaan, grimly surveyed the brawl before them while Giza scanned the near distance through his field glasses. Neither was pleased with what they saw. Much to their mutual chagrin, they were outnumbered.

A thought occurred to Commander Giza and he instantly hoped that he would never be forced to share it. I made a mistake. He had prepared no other strategy than to overwhelm his enemy with superior numbers, and now he realized that he had seriously miscalculated. To add to his consternation, the Manolith forces were not behaving as expected.

“Why haven’t the TRAUMAs engaged?” Giza wondered aloud. A phalanx of TRAUMAs sat as if dormant well beyond the fray.

Colonel Canaan’s eyes flitted skyward. “And why are there no birduns?”

Suddenly, a squadron of birduns erupted upward like cinders spewing from a volcano. They had been hovering far down in the chasm, hidden by the hazy heat of distance, and now they emerged from behind the transports, the element of surprise fully realized. Commander Giza turned as the birdun warmen began throwing their HEXes, and the chaos and decibel of battle escalated.

“Javelins, now!” he barked.

Swarms of Javelin missiles jetted from the transports and dispersed to engage the birdun cavalry. With greater speed, agility and advanced firepower, the Javelins quickly turned the tide of attack. Giza allowed himself a brief smile of satisfaction. It might have lasted longer—except the world started blowing up around him again.

* * *

The Manolith leader General Bahn was seated at the controls of his TRAUMA, unmoving, unblinking, stoically waiting for the orange blossoms of bombs that would signal the attack on his enemy’s rear. Though the battle was about to commence in earnest, Bahn was calm, almost content. This was where he wanted to be. This was the reason for his very existence.

The general’s unflappable demeanor was as renowned and obvious as his towering height, but his patience had been sorely tried as of late. He was only here, at the edge of the Grand Schism and the edge of conflict, because he was following an order from the only person he couldn’t defy—his sovereign, King Xander the Firm.

The king believed in an ancient prophecy, a dire warning that put Xander in fear for his future and dictated his every decision. Only recently, King Xander had removed every soldier from the capital city of Mist Tier and dispersed them to the outlying tiers, in spite of General Bahn’s vehement protests. The pragmatic general put no faith in fairy tales and was infuriated that his king’s childish beliefs could subvert his ability to competently carry out his sworn duty, to protect the kingdom.