Fireteam Delta by J. Halpin (ebook reader that looks like a book txt) 📕

“Do we know what their army is like yet?” Summers looked over the ground below. The city’s guards numbered around five hundred, with eighty of those being Rhodes and his “personal guard,” Summers and the others included.

He didn’t know much about medieval fights—at least not beyond the idea that walls kept people from stabbing you—but from the sheer amount of people this army had displaced, he couldn’t imagine it would be anything small.

“Archers, infantry, and some kind of cavalry,” Nowak explained. “Horses, or something close to them. From what the refugees have said, they think the army is something around five thousand strong.”

“What the fuck? Five thousand?”

“Yeah. This is a trade city, and not a powerful one. They’re desperate, and I think Rhodes is starting to feel it. Trust me, just getting this much out of him was a hassle. He doesn’t want to put guns in our hands.”

“So, he’s not a complete moron,” Cortez noted.

“Asle’s still here.” Summers spoke in a warning tone.

“Right, but if he just so happens to get hit by one of our recruits, well, that’s just bad luck, isn’t it?”

“Maybe,” Nowak agreed. “But we’d just be shooting ourselves in the foot. It’s not like the city’s going to honor his deal for him.”

“You seriously think Rhodes will keep to his deal?”

“No,” Nowak conceded. “But we should focus on one fight at a time. And right now, he’s our best shot at getting home safely.”

“At least this gives us an excuse to get off the wall.” Summers gestured to the forest in the distance.

“Think it’ll work?” Cortez questioned.

Nowak considered the sight for a moment. “We’ll play it by ear. Stick to the plan.” Nowak took one last look at the world outside the city. “We need to get those gates open.”

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“Commander.”

Pat gave Summers a sloppy salute as he handed over his weapon for inspection. Summers had taught his recruits all but the barest essentials for maintenance and military etiquette, none of which had covered who to salute, or what rank he actually held.

Which was fine, as the refugees only seemed to know the word for “that guy in charge,” something that translated to Summers as “commander.”

And while he was almost fluent after his stay in the city—due in no small part to his forced interaction during these training sessions—he still had a long way to go before he could grasp any of the finer details.

He was sure he sounded ridiculous to a native speaker, but he could at least hold a coherent conversation.

“Good work.” Summers worked the action, then handed the weapon back to Pat. “Do me a favor and help the others, would ya?”

“Of course, Commander.”

Pat bowed deeply; it almost looked regal. Summers sensed he’d had a lot of practice doing that particular gesture.

He glanced down at two men who looked surprisingly alike; Summers had assumed they were brothers. The two were busy cleaning their rifles. One had lifted a canteen out of his pack.

“Bard, Viggo, either of you get that wet, I will fuck you up,” Summers shouted over to the man. His hand was holding the canteen, hovering over the partially disassembled gun.

Slowly, his hand retreated back to his side.

In truth, Summers had no idea which brother was which, so he’d gotten in the habit of using both their names.

Orvar stood off in the distance. The man had treated weapon maintenance like a holy ritual, finishing quickly and moving off to do . . . something by himself. Summers couldn’t quite tell what he was trying to accomplish. Orvar moved in fast, fluid motions, swinging his weapon around like a club. He could only relate it to a kata of some kind.

Summers had never really trained anyone back home. For Asle, it was different. She was a kid. He’d expected some measure of . . . naivety going in. But this was like herding cats.

He let out a breath and looked out to the rest of men arrayed in front of him.

Seeing them now, knowing what was coming . . . Summers wasn’t optimistic.

Guns are magical, deadly things. Put into the hands of an untrained soldier facing something their logical brains thought was an impossible situation . . . they would be useless, at best, a danger to everyone around them, at worst.

He could only pray they had more time.

<<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>>

Asle walked down the hall, carrying linens. Another of the castle’s servants walked beside her. Another girl, she was about Asle’s age, and had more than a touch of fear in her eyes.

They’d been sent to the far end of the quarters, past the courtyard that held . . . the thing. Asle couldn’t help but glance over, checking its shadow just one more time.

It hadn’t moved.

She’d only overheard whispers about it, and only those from the few that would even talk of it. They’d called the tar-black thing the hamr, and Asle wasn’t sure why, but even the name seemed to terrify every single one of them.

She realized that the girl beside her was muttering. She couldn’t quite make it out, but it sounded like . . . a prayer?

“What are you doing?” Asle looked at the girl curiously.

“Quiet,” the girl snapped, more than a touch of fear in her voice.

“It’s dead,” Asle persisted. She’d been up close to it. There was nothing but rope holding the thing upright. It couldn’t be alive.

The girl looked at her with eyes that were suddenly pleading.

Asle kept her mouth shut until they were well away from the courtyard. She’d finished her work diligently before the girl spoke again.

“Gods don’t die. They only sleep.”

“It’s not a god,” Asle rebuked the girl. “It’s a dead thing.”

Asle dusted off her hands and moved on to her next chore.

“Ms. Asle,”