Otherworld Squad

‘Monotonous’ is a word often spoken but rarely ever known by those inclined to use it to refer to their day to day lives. Its syllables carry a certain cavernous dread, echoes reflecting the emptiness of consciousness. Deep down, Alter knew he was only scratching the surface of the greyest concept. But after three days cooped up in a small, uncomfortable, juddering wooden box, he was becoming all too familiar with its endless lack of charm. As the hours ticked glacially by, he found himself casting his mind adrift on a sea of his own thoughts. Daydreams that could last for short eternities, only to be shattered by the sudden jolts of the carriage hitting a rut or a stone in the road. There were glorious moments when Alter could completely forget this insane situation he was in. Closely followed by the intense sourness of realisation that this was in fact no strange fantasy. Bittersweet boredom to the rhythmic drumming of hooves, rattling wheels and the creaking protests of wood.

The carriages Vaulter had whistled up were not too bad, comfort-wise. The seats were old but the padding had not yet turned to the fabric equivalent of slatestone. More importantly, the suspension had actually worked to a degree. Oliver had spoken enthusiastically about his territories during the remainder of the first day, however his desire for conversation had gradually petered out through the next morning. By afternoon he had turned to quiet contemplation, chin resting on a hand and eyes watching the world drift by. Their progress north through the lands of Auserre had proven uneventful as they passed through villages and fields, separated by rolling hills of sun-bathed green. Unfortunately, nothing good nor bearable lasts forever. A small walled fortification, little more than a watch tower with aspirations and an attached village marked the border with Cereloss. Sadly, this was as far as the Marshal’s men would go, the squad having to transfer their gear into a fresh pair of local carriages for the second leg of their journey. Offers of accommodation were given but Oliver refused, later telling Alter and his team that eyes loyal to his uncle would have immediately reported their arrival. Their new transportation was best described as ‘minimalist’, ‘spartan’ and ‘how is this thing still in one piece?’. Alter would not go so far as to accuse these arrangements as wilful negligence, but it was clear Oliver’s status was not a priority in these parts. Nevertheless the coachmen were respectful enough, minded their manners and gave off a sense of relaxed competence. Their horses were a little ragged and wild-eyed but they took to their jobs with enthusiasm and speed. A fact which really emphasised the spine-blending lack of suspension. As such the regular breaks they took to allow the horses a moment's rest became equally important to the passengers as well.

That evening their caravan of two pulled into a well established camping area where a quartet of trading wagons, built in the classic old western style, had already set themselves up. The trader and his hires proved pleasant company, but it was ill news of the path ahead they carried. The road was approaching an area of woodlands with a confirmed bandit presence, deserted soldiers from the trader’s description. This band had stalked their convoy for a couple of hours but had not made any offensive moves. A blessing he put down to the number of men he’d hired and the mundane nature of the goods he was carrying. However, a pair of carriages with no armed outriders would present a most tempting target. Under these circumstances, it was advised that they should return to the border outpost and await additional travellers to form a group with. However, the squad’s hostility pulse would provide plentiful warning, combined with Oliver’s reluctance to turn around meant they would be pressing on.

Having discussed strategy with the squad and clambering into the carriage, Alter had been left nursing a grumbling sense of inevitability. A feeling which was only compounded as they arrived at and entered the forewarned woodland. Not too long after the first trees had disappeared behind them, the promised red borders in his vision flashed and the carriages were ordered to halt. From the way the pulse had rippled through the squad members it was clear the hostile contact was ahead as the crow flies. But that still left a one-eighty-degree field of possibility with no immediate way of narrowing it down. Alter also figured that if these were the bandits then this contact was more than likely a scout, leaving them no clue as to the proximity of the main force. It was already decided that firing their weapons around the carriages was too risky. The horses would be undoubtedly spooked by the sudden and violent noise of gunfire, the possibility of one or both carriages crashing or lurching forwards into an ambush was to be completely avoided. For now the squad dismounted, forming a double column on either side of the road and ordering the carriage to follow behind them. Once Alter had counted a hundred paces he gave the signal to swap formations, as one the two halves of the squad slipped into the opposite treelines.

Once again, the strategy was simple enough. The two fireteams would move in parallel ahead of the carriages, sweeping the forest as they moved. Both sides had three men in a battle line with a rough five metre spread, their eyes forward with the man furthest out watching the flank. Finally, the fourth man would bring up the rear to ensure the line hadn’t inadvertently crossed a hostile’s position, preventing any unfortunate backstabs. The woodland itself wasn’t so thick as to hinder their progress. But the thick trunks, combined with dense shrubs and stands of chest-high ferns provided ample places to lie in wait. Alter had positioned himself as the centre man in their line, with Whim near the road, Vangroover deeper in and Boozehound shadowing their movements. His nerves rattled as he counted one-fifty paces, eyes flicking from tree to bush, ears desperately searching for some clue, even his nose scoured the air for any lingering scent out of place. Were this the Badlands then they would’ve made contact by now, with a near insurmountable advantage. But this was a mess of poor sightlines, making the playing field excruciatingly equal. He was also painfully aware of their lack of camouflage, their uniforms were coloured for dry stones, sand and grit, and had not magically transformed into woodland patterns. While they did not stand out like sore thumbs, there would be no option to hide in plain sight.

The pace slowed to a crawl as they continued, slaloming between trees and other plants. More than once a pair of blips over the radio, the signal for possible contact, caused them to stop and wait for minutes at a time before the single blip of ‘clear’ was given. Those moments of silent stillness felt like years, the gentle rustle of wind in the leaves akin to the hushed, expectant whispers of a theatre audience. Finally, tensely, they hit the two hundred metre mark. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Whim freeze and reach for his radio. Three blips, confirmed contact. He came to a halt and dropped to one knee in response, eyes widening as he scanned the forest ahead, finding nothing.

“Fifteen metres, front, fern stand. Unnatural movement of the foliage, and I think I see a leg.” Whim reported with a whisper.

Alter could make out the edges of the ferns he was looking at but a cluster of young trees hid the majority from his sight. Once again his mind raced, questions and doubts battling for his attention.

“Am I starting the party?” Whim asked, rifle sighted and ready.

With a slow exhale and closed eyelids, Alter offered a small prayer. A prayer to God, to his family, to Sirrithae, Nerothyll, Kalaton, even Mullisvar. To anyone that might be listening that he wasn’t about to get either himself or his friends killed. Then he opened his eyes and decided.

“Affirmative. Once the shot goes out, squad will advance twenty paces fast, secure the ground and engage any arriving contacts. Seven, on your go.” He ordered, readying himself for the movement and the noise.

The click of the safety being removed felt twice as loud as normal. The pair of shots that followed were closer to three. As one the frontline surged forward, Alter kept his muzzle trained on the ferns but his eyes focussed further beyond down the narrow alleyways of vision. Five paces. Ten. A face popped out of the ferns, confused and blood spattered. Alter gave him no time to shout as he squeezed the trigger, the man having unfortunately appeared in the centre of his sights. Fifteen paces, no more immediate contact. Twenty, Alter found himself without tree cover but a waist-high fallen log was enough to crouch behind. He rested his barrel on the wood and took a moment to reset himself. It was like paintballing. Only much more aggressive.

“Squad hold position.” He barked. “Seven, report?”

“Two contacts down in the ferns. Male, adult. Leather armour with dull metal chest plates. Sword, board and bow on both. Injuries final, moving up.” Whim crashed out of the ferns and took up his own position behind a withered ash.

“Right side has contact.” Pavejack called from the other side of the road, his report punctuated by a heavy burst from his LMG.

Bandits on both sides of the road, this complicated matters but it was something they had prepared for. Alter could see no hostels moving on their side, and from their lack of action nor had his Seven or Eight.

“Heavy contact, ten plus.” Riptide followed up as the sound of gunfire intensified to Alter’s side, diverting his attention to the road.

Perhaps the two they had taken out were indeed scouts, with the main force waiting on the other side. It made sense that the bandits would pick a single angle of attack, there was no threat of crossfire leading to friendly casualties.

“Keep me updated, Two.” He growled as he tore his focus back to the frustratingly placid woods in front of him.

“Holding firm. Contacts going to ground.” Riptide answered.

Alter nodded to himself, his team would wait another thirty or so seconds. Should no further contacts appear ahead of them then they would advance and turn their guns across the road to complete an L-shaped engagement, denying the enemy their newly taken cover. It was an anxious wait, knowing the life or death situation his friends were in. Eventually he could sit still no longer, and he made to vault over his cover and move up. In immediate response, a strange whistling sound from close by made him instinctively duck back behind the log, then another and another. The whipping sound of branches being suddenly bent and a dull thud emanating from a tree behind him told all he needed to know. For the first time since arriving in this world. For the first time in his life. He was under fire.