Going Feet First Ch. 06

"Remember: boot-fuck that goddamn door open and go in with full, fucking speed and aggression. Be loud, call out everything you see, and don't fucking stop until you own the fucking room. Fucking hesitate, you fucking die. Now count to three and go."

The Sergeant turned to his door and counted, one, two, three.

He roared as he threw his boot up and brought his full body weight behind his kick. The doors nearly flew off the hinges and he busted through into the room. He swept his weapon left and right as he rushed in, checking every corner of the room for anything that resembled a person. Galen's rifle went off in a rapid burst, but he pushed the sound of automatic fire out of his mind and kept focused on his room.

There was no one on the couches in the middle of the room and nobody on the mattresses on the far side by the window. The room stunk of sweat, wine, and perfume, no doubt related to the various bottles scattered about. Before he looked too keenly at the garbage, however, the Sergeant focused on a new door in the corner.

Two more gunshots went off in Galen's room, but Flak ignored that as he pointed to this new door in the corner and ordered, "Petra, on me. Sun-Kissed; do an extra sweep and watch the windows."

"That's Fretheim's study. This room is where he reaped his pleasures from his slaves," Petra explained as she closed the gap between her and the Marine.

"Don't care, all that matters is making sure no fucker is waiting around here to get us in the ass."

"Interesting tactics," Ssz'Vasbryn noted, motioning the other Drow with her to move as ordered.

"Do this long enough and you learn a few things," Flak replied as Petra moved into position behind him.

With the door to the study looking far sturdier than those he had just gone through, the Sergeant ordered, "Petra, grab the handle and be ready to open it on my mark. When the door's open, make space so I can go in then follow in behind. Understood?"

She nodded. "Understood."

The Neko moved to the door and grabbed the handle while looking to Flak. The Sergeant pulled his forward hand off the pump of his shotgun and counted down with his fingers.

Three. Two. One.

Petra turned the handle and pushed the door, through something caught on it and it only managed to partially open before she stepped back to clear the way. Flak was about to charge forward when he noticed a rope fall from the top of the door. It was hooked to something metal above the frame.

"Trap!"

In a split second the veteran flipped that rope over the door, grabbed the handle and pulled the door shut. Something shattered on the other side, and he could hear the flames erupting into an inferno. Blinking, he stepped back and breathed out.

"Room clear. The study just got torched."

...

When Galen came through the door he found himself in a long hall gutted of nearly everything that had been in it save for the long table, pushed against the wall to the right, and the ten men waiting with their swords at the ready. They stood in a semi-circle formation around the door with every second man holding an iron-backed, kite shield painted up in Redding's colors.

Hesitate, you die.

Every one of the armored goons rushed forward with their swords pointed forward. Galen could feel his heart press into his throat as he flipped his fire-selector to auto. Just six feet separated him and the rushing men when he had his rifle braced against his side and unleashed his thunder. Sweeping his weapon left to right, he sent a spray of bullets across the room and in a wave the five of the six knights in front of the Private collapsed or pirouetted to the ground.

The sixth knight came too close on Galen's right, able to use his shield to slap the rifle muzzle away as he dashed in with his sword. Without thinking the Paratrooper jumped forward to close the gap and body slam his foe. Both the men fell to the ground, grappling and striking each other where they could before Galen grabbed hold of his bayonet and pulled it from its scabbard.

In the struggle he finally came in with his elbow to strike the Knight's head and send it back into the floor, his skull cracking against the steel of his full-helm. The moment's pause allowed the Private to bring his bayonet up, the magic-enhanced, black blade coming down into that guard's helmet. The tip missed the eyeslit he was aiming for, yet still pierced the helmet itself and sunk into the head beneath to bring the short struggle to an end.

When Galen looked back upon Dreek and Keetle, he saw the Commandant finishing off two men that had engaged her while the other Sun-Kissed put her sword into a third. Keetle however still clashed swords with her attacker, the knight easily blocking her every attempt to strike with his shield. In a flash the Private picked his rifle up off the floor beside him and aimed, double tapping two rounds into the chest of that knight and sending him crashing to the floor.

After taking a quick moment to catch his breath, Galen used his rifle as a brace to stand up and take a quick scan of the room. There was another passage way in the back corner of the room, and with the rest of the dining hall clear he started toward it while giving the Drow the hand-sign to follow. He then pulled the magazine out of his rifle to see it a little less than half of it remained.

Enough for now, he thought, rocking it back into the magazine well.

With Dreek and the other two Sun-Kissed behind him, he moved straight into the next room, finding himself in a kitchen stripped of every tool and utensil that had been within. Several cupboards were still hanging open even, their contents scavenged with nothing but crumbs remaining. On the other end of the room from the entryway was an open hatch in the floor, one that want down into a compact wine cellar barely long enough for three to stand abreast from the stairs down to the back wall.

"We're clear here," Galen announced.

"Pretayus' medallion is interfering with my senses..." Dreek grumbled. "I can't sense what lays in wait for us... it truly is a powerful piece."

The Soldier nodded as the quartet went back into the dining hall and toward the hallway. "Good that my rifle ain't powered by magic."

Both teams regrouped back in the hallway, Flak stepping up beside Haru at the base of the staircase and then turning to face their raid party. Upon seeing the Paratrooper, however, the Sergeant immediately asked, "Was that fucking full-auto I heard, Martin?"

His brow raising with confusion, Galen responded, "Yes... Sergeant? My rifle goes auto..."

The Marine scowled. "Your armorer didn't pull the auto-sear?"

Galen shook his head in the negative. "No. Me and a few others got to keep the switch in our rifles. I had to prove to my First Sergeant that I could control it, though."

Flak rolled his eyes. "May as well give a monkey a fucking hand grenade... Fuck it- second floor is next, Galen, you're on my ass going up. Stick to fucking semi. Dreek and Haru, go behind him. Everyone else can sort themselves the fuck out on who goes first. Farok, stay on the door. Nobody in or out unless they're friendly. Everyone understand?"

There was more or less a unified reply, though Dreek still had a scowling look to her whenever the Marine took charge. Soon enough everyone formed up into the line, Haru even accepting the order and shuffling to take her place in the stack. When she had her place, a trail of black fog poured down from above to pool at her feet. It quickly reformed into a fist-sized bird and flew up to perch on the Witch's shoulder.

"Twenty-three men await us," she announced. "We'll come up the stairs, there will be one door immediately right, room is empty as it was for servants. There is, however, a hallway to the left, five men wait there. They guard one door two paces from the stairs, and a second at the end of that hall. First room has twelve men, second has six."

"Slaves? Servants?" Galen asked.

Haru shook her head. "Xerivan only checked the next floor. They must be on the third."

"I'm not running on guesses," Flak said. "We have a mission and we will not fail it. Galen, you have twenty rounds in the M-14, you take the first room. I'll take the far room. Same teams, Haru is on the stairs. Move on my mark."

There was a pause as everyone readied themselves, Flak slinging his shotgun and drawing his pistol.

"Go."

Quickly and quietly, the group filed up the winding, stone enclosed staircase to the second floor. At the landing to the next floor, the Sergeant spotted a man waiting for him as he rounded the bend. When he went to raise his sword, the Marine's colt flashed to snap his head back and send him falling backward.

Party's restarted, fucking move!

Still going off that first kill, Flak took the steps three at a time and bounded into the hallway. Sure enough there were four more knights still reeling from the shock of seeing their comrade getting his skull emptied. With Galen hot on his heels Flak charged forward and let out his war cry as he fired, his vision narrowing down on each individual target. His mind drifting off as his body ran on muscle memory.

The next time he blinked, he stood over the four bodies of the men who were guarding the hallway. Without thinking he hit the slide catch to close his empty pistol and return it to its holster. Unslinging his shotgun and holding it at the high-ready, he lined himself up on the door to the next room he was to clear. The full weight of the Marine came behind his boot as it hit the sweet spot on the frame to shatter it to splinters. The six men in leather armor beyond the portal had dropped their bows and drawn swords to fight. Only Flak came in with his weapon up and his mind slipping back into that place where his instinct took over his movements.

Holding the trigger down and racking the action had the weapon slam firing in the Sergeant's hand. Each time he pushed the fore-end forward to shut the breech had the bolt locking in place and the hammer falling on the chambered shell immediately after. The Ithaca sounded near full-automatic as it was swept over Fretheim's men.

The last spent shell was ejected from the shotgun as the last of Flak's targets fell to the ground before him. Only one remained, his armor rattling as Flak slung his weapon and drew his KA-BAR. A bestial roar erupted from the Marine as he rushed forward to take on his frozen foe who tried to raise his sword and stab forward, an attack easily sidestepped as that fighting knife came around and plunged into his side.

Flak stared into the archer's eyes as he ripped his knife out of the side of his ribs and wiped blood from his blade off onto the bowman's cheek. Lungs flooding with crimson, he couldn't find the strength to fight back as the Marine then took him by the head and smashed it into the window pane behind him to crack the glass. With another, final battle cry from his enemy he was thrown through the window down to the cold ground below.

Hand still calm and steady, he sheathed his knife and took his shotgun off his shoulder and started to fish shells out of his satchel to reload it. One shell at a time clicked into the weapon's tube magazine as he stared out the window to the body below. His heavy breathing settled quickly as this small peaceful pause allowed him the chance to surface from the pure instinct he took to in battle.

When Flak blinked back into consciousness a moment later and turned to look back on the room behind him; Petra was in the doorway staring in awe at the aftermath, and gun shots were going off in the next room.

The Sergeant let out his lungs and gave his head a shake. Loading his shotgun as quickly as he could, he went for the door.

"Flak?" Petra asked.

"Room clear. Let's finish this."

...

Galen's rifle clattered to the floor as the Private drew his sword to engage one of the few knights left in the room. Of the dozen archers that had been up here, only five remained as the other seven were gunned down before Galen's rifle jammed. With the Sun-Kissed pouring into the room behind him and a knight charging too quickly for him to clear the malfunction, his sword was the only option.

Little did he know how closely both Ssz'Vasbryn and Dreek watched him as he parried his first foe's initial thrust, and with a smooth flick of the wrist, disarmed him as well. Under the silent, content gaze of his Drow instructors, the Paratrooper stepped forward and stabbed the warrior right through the chain mail covering his stomach.

A second man, one of the archers, ran forward to attack with a short blade. Galen barely had the time to pull his sword out of the knight to block that first, frantic swing. But as quick as one strike was blocked, the bowman withdrew his blade and struck again. The Private found himself taking potentially deadly steps in retreat merely trying to parry all these mad strikes.

Fuck this, Celia is waiting for me!

Galen swung his blade cross-ways to force the archer to change his footing to block the blow. Using the opening, he brought his boot up right between his legs. The leather-clad fighter howled as he dropped to his knees, and Galen drew his Colt, put it to the archer's forehead and pulled the trigger.

The room clear of his enemies, Galen sheathed his sword and holstered his sidearm. He was panting as he went over to where his rifle lay, barely able to catch his breath as he picked the weapon up and pulled on the charging handle to clear the stove-piped round. With that out of the way, he then fished his finger into the receiver to push a misfed cartridge back down into the magazine before releasing the bolt and letting it go home.

"That was rude, Private."

Galen turned to see Flak in the doorway of the room, hosting a cruel grin on his face. He noticed then that the Sun-Kissed were smirking as well, though he didn't know what they were on about.

Chuckling, Flak continued, "But you won the fight. Fuck the details. One more floor, let's go."

...........

He was staring at the wine bottle in his hand as he heard the methodical sounds of the invaders storming this top floor of the mansion. A boot would hit a door-handle, the frame would give out and the door would smash open. Someone would yell "clear" and they would all carry on to the next room to do it again. All like some fucking game.

Pretayus sighed and took another drink from the thirty year-old port in his grasp. Looking up he saw his reflection in the window. The wrinkles on his face, his lengthy mess of black hair, the crook in his nose from when it was shattered long ago. The bandage pasted on over his missing ear.

I'm getting old, was all he could think.

"Nobody is here! Where is he? Celia!? Qu'essan?!"

He recognized Galen's voice there. He had a hard time forgetting it from that first night they encountered one another. When the Demon unleashed a god-like thunder from the metal beast unto his camp.

The group came to the door of this room. Fretheim's personal bedroom. With an oversized bed fit for five in one corner on the Slaver's right, and a mirror to match on the wall opposite of it. Not to mention the elaborate and decorative dressers and wardrobes lining the wall beside the bed with a velvet couch by the door. All this luxurious seating and the Slavemaster sat on the window sill.

The door was booted open with such force that the massive mirror dislodged from its hooks and fell over to shatter across the floor. That demon was standing in the doorway when Pretayus looked up. A Drow was standing at his back. As was that Neko of his with several others. A whole war party to raid this house this moonless eve. He felt flattered.

"He's mine."

By his lonesome, Galen stepped forward. His weapon in hand and a look of rage that sent a chill right down the Slaver's back.

"Where is she?"

Pretayus took a sip from his bottle and set it on the floor before hunching over to rest his elbows on his knees. "With Fretheim. And the Princess. And all the others. Probably halfway to the mountains by now. To get lost in the valleys and switch backs and endless sea of trees. Taking routes few would dare to take to reach a place you would never find. If you want a consolation prize, that jacket of yours is on the bed. Stitched up and cleaned like it's brand-fucking-new."

He could see the blood boil under that man's skin. His hands tighten around his weapon.

"You know where they're goin'. You wouldn't stick around without a plan," he growled.

"That's where you're wrong, demon," Pretayus said indifferently. "I knew you would be here tonight. Fretheim left with my Val, that girl having the ability and know-how to break both Celia and the Princess exactly as I would, all while I stayed here to buy as much time as possible."

The slaver took in a sweet breath of air as that look of sheer defeat rolled over Galen. That crushed-hope expression where his shoulders drop and tears well up in his eyes. It was enough for the Slaver to get one last grin of satisfaction in before what came next.

It started with Galen nodding, his gaze falling down to his weapon as he turned it over in his hands. His left hand was trembling. Pretayus cocked an eyebrow at this. It was shaking rather violently.

"I'm going to kill you now," Galen growled, that murderous gaze lifting up to lock onto him. "I am goin' to tear your goddamn heart out."

Pretayus stood up and drew his sword. "Try. Your magic may have worked down below, but you're within paces of my medallion now. No magic-"

Galen raised his rifle and fired, the thirty-caliber round slamming into Pretayus' chest. The Slaver was nearly knocked off his feet, but somehow managed to gain footing and hunch over to try and suck air back into his emptied lungs. Something clattered on the floor beneath him and upon looking down, he saw a mangled piece of copper beside his foot and an impressive dent in his breast plate.

He was still trying to comprehend Galen's magic actually working when boot steps started approaching him. The Demon was sauntering forth, staring him right in the eyes before slamming the butt-end of his weapon across his face to knock him to the ground.

Pretayus spat blood before Galen used his boot to roll him over onto his back. Now standing over the focus of his hate, the Private's face was placid as he brought the muzzle of his rifle to the Slaver's forehead. But before he could squeeze the trigger, Pretayus reached with his left hand to grab an ankle and pull.

A shot rang off from Galen's rifle as he was yanked off his feet. He hit the floor on his back, his cuirass offering no cushion as it met the hardwood with a solid thunk. Wasting no time the Slavemaster pounced on top of him and wrapped his hands around the soldier's throat.

Fuck that, Galen thought.

Running off his training, he slammed his fists down into the crooks of Pretayus' elbows, breaking his grasp before grabbing the slaver by the collar of his armor and slamming his head forward helmet first. That solid thunk and crack of skull meeting steel chimed sweetly in Galen's ears. Sucking in a full lung and hacking it back out, he then threw his mithril-plated foe to the side and rolled on top of him.

He grabbed hold of the Slaver's neck and drew his fist back.

"This is for the women you fuckin' enslaved."

He brought his hand down with a furious blow that smashed Pretayus' nose in a spray of blood.

"For stealing Celia away."

Another punch smashed Pretayus' eye socket and slammed his head back into the floor.

"For Necela."

The third swing came in sideways to knock at least two teeth free.