Going Feet First Ch. 04

For a few moments, she remained silent in her mate's embrace. Twice her fingers curled up and her brow furrowed, but they soon relaxed. The feline ears atop her head twitched when she tightened up her grip around his chest and whispered, "Thank you, and gaklan."

"What does gaklan mean? And 'cye rinta?'"

Mila released his chest and took his hand as she wiped her eyes. After pausing another second to think, she began to lead her mate into the crowd toward the healer's part of the village.

"Gaklan is a word we have..." she explained, pausing in order to think about her words. "When one does something thought beyond their skill, or is very honorable or gracious, or something... amazing and is given praise or a word meaning 'well done'. That praising word is gaklan. I know the human word for gaklan, I just can't remember..."

"Congratulations?" Michael probed as they shuffled with the crowd toward one of the streets leaving the village center.

"Yes, that word. It's the closest human word for it, but 'gaklan' sounds better to my ears."

"Of course. But what about 'cye rinta?'"

"Rinta doesn't translate well to human... I guess... best I could say is 'tribe family member,' so what was said was, 'Congratulations, Michael, our tribe family member.' Is that understandable?"

"Yeah, it means I'm fully one of you now. A Willher."

"Yes, Hopper, you are."

She stopped in her tracks and started coming in for the kiss when a loud horn blew over the village, causing the whole crowd to stop and turn toward the direction of the village gate. Mila was instantly petrified, clinging to Michael's side with her claws threatening to erupt from her fingers.

Before the Sergeant could ask what was wrong, someone screeched, "Ra'zorlichs!"

"Ra'zorlichs?!" Michael snapped. "What the fuck are they doing out here? Aren't they supposed to stay in their territory?"

"They- they never left their home! Why- maybe- just- I don't know!" Mila's tone was frantic, her heart pounding hard enough that Michael could almost feel it in his chest.

Panic quickly flooded through the streets of the village, but not to the point of complete chaos. The tribals rushed to form ranks, parted ways for those moving the opposite direction, all while maintaining a brisk pace back for their homes.

All the hunters and warriors began forcing their way through the crowd as the people rushed to clear the streets. Michael pulled on Mila's hand and began plowing his way through the crowd while forcing down the pain he felt in his left cheek. The sweat that was dripping down into the gouges on his face was only making worse, yet he kept his mind focused on his immediate course of action.

"We have to get to your tent, my scratches can wait."

"But those cuts can get sickly... I mean infected, and you're a warrior now, Sayn will call you to the defense."

"I know, but remember my weapons. If they have armor and numbers, we'll need more than sticks and rocks to keep the village safe."

................

Michael, with the M60 machinegun in his hands and Mila following behind him carrying his rifle, ran toward the village entrance. The sun had disappeared from the sky, but the world was still in twilight. At this time the last of the villagers had made it home, leaving the streets barren so the couple could make short time in getting to the three dozen Willher hunters and warriors gathered just outside the village to prepare a defense.

Most of the warriors were equipped with leather armor and iron or steel weapons, the hunters carrying bows or knives. Only a select few had metal armor: pieces of ripped mail or poorly fitting breastplates that appeared to have been scavenged from fallen foes. All of this added to Michael's realization of how ill-equipped they were against their technologically superior neighbors.

Sayn, who was speaking to both Huntmaster Hail and a lone scout, immediately took notice of the approaching Michael and the piece of steel in his hands. At once the Warrior leader shot his newest recruit a curious look and directed a question to him through Mila, who in turn spoke to her mate.

"Sayn is curious about what you carry."

Staring right at his new commander, Michael gave his weapon a pat and in a proud voice explained, "What I have here is known as an M60 general purpose light machine gun. It's fully-automatic, firing a 7.62 millimetre NATO round at over five hundred rounds a minute. This weapon will cut anyone in half at five hundred yards without a problem."

The warriors and hunters simply stared at him dumbfounded.

"A thunder weapon that will slaughter the Ra'zorlichs," Mila explained.

"I hope so, human," the scout beside Sayn responded. "I saw what I thought to be fifty Ra'zorlichs coming from their territory in full battle gear. They will be here in less than five Zetras."

"Fifty?" Michael repeated, glancing down at the ammo belt plugged into his weapon. "Well then I will just have to be a bit conservative. Which way are they coming from?"

The scout pointed to a section of forest opposite the main gate, and Michael nodded in response. "Come on, Mila."

"You stay to defend village!" Sayn ordered.

"I am, Sir," Michael responded as he only went a few yards over to a tree stump that was as a little higher than knee-height. "I'm just getting ready."

As soon as Michael set the weapon up on the stump, ensuring the bipod was dug in to the crudely cut wood, something moving in the forest caught his eye. He shouldered his M60, training his sights on the woods just as he spotted more movement. A lot more movement.

A figure draped in a brown cloak came bolting through the trees, a sword in his hand and satchel flopping at his side. Three more figures in black armor were hot on his trail with a sizable force following not more than a hundred yards behind.

The pursuers were roaring and cursing as they tried to keep up with the cloaked man, constantly slashing him with their blades whenever he came within range. Just as Michael flicked the safety off and readied to open up, the runner stopped and spun around, bringing his sword up into a defensive position.

One Ra'zorlich rushed in too fast, his wild swing of the sword easily parried before a claw latched onto his throat and tore it out from his neck. The second and third red-claw warrior moved together to strike at the same time, only to miss as their target leapt back. Before either could recover, the cloaked Neko charged back in, ramming his shoulder into one and stabbing his sword perfectly into the small armor gap under the armpit of the other. The tip of the blade emerged out the side of the Ra'zorlich's neck, blood pouring out his mouth before the blade was ripped back out from his body.

The final Ra'zorlich warrior glanced behind him to see the approaching army less than thirty paces away. This momentary distraction cost him everything as the cloaked Neko swung his blade at his knee, taking out the joint and forcing him to kneel.

Just as the Ra'zorlich warrior began to wail in pain, he blindly swung his sword only for a flash of steel to cut his hand off at the wrist. The cloaked Neko then grabbed him by the collar of his breastplate, jerking him forward and plunging his blade down his throat into his belly.

...

Michael watched as the cloaked warrior gave his blade a twist to ensure he destroyed the Ra'zorlich's every organ before pulling his sword out and booting the body over. He turned toward the Willher clearing, sheathed his weapon and bolted for the village at full speed.

After witnessing his display of steel against the warriors of the hostile tribe, Michael pulled his aim away from the cloaked figure crossing the clearing. The soldier motioned for him to move toward the warriors behind him, who had by now formed a defensive line at his flanks and around the entrance of the village.

Oddly enough, the stranger side-stepped Michael's field of fire on his approach, as though he was aware of the business end of the soldier's machinegun. The Sergeant noted this, but then ultimately pushed aside as he set his sights on the platoon of warriors emerging from the depths of Atzla.

First guesstimate had Michael arriving at a number of about fifty or sixty Ra'zorlich warriors before him, spread evenly apart in dozen groups varying in numbers from three and six. Each one of them was ready for a fight, fully dressed in scaled, plate armor, sporting short swords, long swords, rapiers, claymores, a few even had bucklers or kite-shields.

In the center of this force was a team of five powerful looking warriors in a fuller set of plate armor, forming a protective guard around one important-looking Neko. This specific feline had a body covered in blood-red fur and black plate armor accented with gold and red trim. His bushy black hair was combed back and held in place by an iron crown which sported a single sapphire above his dark-brown eyes.

At once the kingly Neko began to yell, making Michael glance over to Mila expectantly. She paused as the man finished, her jaw gaping and her eyes wide.

"What did he say?" Michael inquired as he trained his sights on that shiny gem embedded in the crown.

"He said... he said he's Hector, king of the Ra'zorlichs. That he will wipeout our village if we don't turn over their traitor."

The Sergeant cocked an eyebrow as a smug grin crossed his face, "Is that all?"

A sudden yell from the Ra'zorlich lines brought his attention back to their king. Michael immediately noticed how several of the red claw warriors were pointing at him, screaming something he couldn't understand. "Hector" then pointed at the Sergeant, yelling something that made Mila begin to tremble.

"What did that bastard say?"

Mila swallowed a lump in her throat, "He says he wants the humans too, your weapons, and the female that pulled the wounded one from their territory."

"Oh, fuck him!" Michael snapped before turning to Sayn, who had motioned a few men forth to apprehend the cloaked stranger. "Warrior Leader!"

"Yes?" Sayn responded.

"Tell them they can't have their traitor, that I'll kill every last one of them if they try to do a fucking thing about it."

"Your strength is enough?" Sayn questioned with no mask over his doubt.

"More than enough, Sir."

"Warrior Leader," one of the other warriors cut in. "His weapons slay trolls, I believe these Ra'zorlichs will be nothing."

A hard look came over Sayn as he stared off at the armored Nekos beginning to encircle the village, gearing up to attack. The cloaked stranger offered no resistance as his warriors seized him by the arms, but under his hood, in those bright orange eyes, was a pleading look enough to sway the Warrior Leader. Something in those eyes brought up the experiences Sayn had with the Ra'zorlichs, the gruesome and terrible things he had seen them do.

"Believe me, Sir," Michael stated with a distinguished confidence in his tone. "They don't stand a snowball's chance in Hell."

Sayn growled deep in his throat, squaring his shoulders as he rested a hand upon his blade. With a frightening tone to his voice, he roared out to Hector, "One step to our village shall be your end, Racknar!"

Upon hearing the Nekonian insult, Michael chuckled and rested his cheek against the butt-stock of his weapon. He fought back the pain in his right hand, wiping some of the blood from his palm onto his jacket before peering down the gun sights. Letting out his breath to calm his heart rate, he made sure he was completely ready as the Neko with the blood-red fur roared and motioned his men forward.

Five groups of Ra'zorlichs, amounting to approximately twenty warriors, charged at once. Eyes narrowing, grin wider than the breadth of the forest, Michael drew the first group into his sights, allowing Mila a second to plug her ears before he squeezed the trigger.

Sayn jumped as his newest warrior's weapon erupted with jets of fire and thunder, a Ra'zorlich warrior pack not twenty paces away instantly torn apart by an unseen force. Both their flesh and armor were punctured as though they were soft felt stabbed by an invisible blade. Blood erupted from their bodies while both limbs and appendages were severed from their torsos.

As the last of the warriors of the first wave were slaughtered under the might of Michael's weapon, he began to turn it upon the Ra'zorlichs still waiting within the treeline. Many hit the ground for cover, though several were not so swift to react. As a half dozen more warriors of the red claw were cut down, the sights of the M60 began homing in on their king, aiming to turn more than his fur blood-red.

...

Hector's fury had flared like the fanned flames of the forge when the Willher war had roared both a challenge and an insult at him. The initial idea he had entertained, of perhaps sparing the village if they surrendered, had fled, replaced by the desire to wipe it away completely. None could insult the Ra'zorlich king's honor and live, and none should ever dare to deface him in front of his warriors.

Thoughts of the old tales of glorious war leaders sending their men to battle had crossed Hector's mind, a simple grin growing on his face as he had foreseen himself standing atop the ruins of the Willher home, bearing a Ra'zorlich banner in his hands as his men slaughtered the last of their resistance. It had been a beautiful image.

Then the crack of thunder had snapped him from his trance, the proximity of the repeating blasts causing fear to tear down his spine like a cold crack of lightning. Details that had been relayed unto him by both Farok and some nameless pack leader about a powerful, god-like weapon then returned to him as the first wave was torn apart like corpses to the grinder.

A thousand fears then bolted through Hector's mind then as he tried to decide what to do. Retreat would mean dishonor and shame to his name. That could not happen. He would not let that happen. The handful of magical Nekos that had been born into his tribe had been barely able to produce even weak spells, and even then not for a prolonged amount of time. The human had to run dry eventually.

If it meant he had to sacrifice lives to drain him, then Hector would sacrifice them. Retreat was not an option as he now thirsted for blood and hungered for this human's heart. Most of all, he wanted the human's weapon. With his voice betraying him, cracking with the pitch of his terror, the king had ordered the next attack.

The men he had kept in reserve were suddenly panicking, many dropping to the dirt while those who stayed upright were ripped open by an invisible force. From nowhere, his honor guard began screeching in pain as they too were thrown to the dirt with blood erupting from their shattered breastplates.

What in Necela's name?! Their armor-?!

Something tore through Hector's leg, sending him howling to the ground with a piece of flesh the size of one's fist missing from his thigh. One of his warriors came rushing to his aid, only for his head to explode as the human's weapon came upon him.

...

When the red Neko hit the ground with a bullet in his leg, Michael put another burst into the group that had started to help their leader. After that, he didn't waste a moment.

"I'm going after him! Mila, watch my back!" he yelled while coming to his feet and lifting his M60 up to his shoulder in a shooting position. With controlled, sporadic bursts of precise fire, the Sergeant kept the Ra'zorlichs suppressed as he pressed forward toward their line. Mila, not completely sure of what her mate meant, kept his rifle close to her side and stayed right behind him while watching for any who might try and come up behind him.

Any time a Neko stood up from behind a bush, Michael stopped to fire at their legs to take them back down to the ground. He didn't want any surprises when he finally reached the treeline to capture his objective. Suddenly four Ra'zorlichs darted from the bush thirty yards to his left, swords raised and voices screaming as they charged toward him. Michael reacted in a second.

He snapped his machine gun in their direction, but the Nekos split up, two breaking left while the other two went right. Just before Michael turned to fire at the leftmost pair, they fell into line with the village walls. His finger came off the trigger and he pulled his weapon away; he couldn't risk a stray bullet punching through the defensive walls and striking someone from his tribe.

Thinking fast, he swiftly turned the gun on the Ra'zorlichs to his right, unleashing a five-shot burst into them that successfully tore the leg off one and punched a hole through the chest of the other. Pulling his M60 to his hip and supporting it with one hand, he tore a grenade off his webbing, hooking the pin with his teeth and tossing it at the Ra'zorlichs now twenty yards off on his left.

"CATCH!"

This caught the bipedal felines by surprise as the small, metal rock struck one in the face and landed in his hands. Cursing in his own tongue, he drew his arm back to throw the rock back before it exploded, severing his arm and riddling him and his partner with a lethal wave of shrapnel.

"MICHAEL!" Mila shrieked.

As the initial four Ra'zorlichs had leapt out from the bush, another five had come in from behind him, and now they were no more than ten yards away when the Sergeant had begun to turn. Mila was leaping out of the way as the M60 came around, Michael's finger readying to squeeze the trigger. From nowhere, though, a volley of arrows rained in on the Ra'zorlichs, striking their unprotected heads or necks and taking them to the ground.

In a split second, Michael glanced back to Sayn, Hail, and the rest of the Willher defenders fighting off a less prominent force of Ra'zorlichs that had come in from the flanks to attack the gate. Despite being more poorly equipped and trained, they managed to hold back the numerically inferior red-claw warriors. It was the archers who, in the middle of their defense, had taken the split second out to shoot down the squad that had nearly claimed the Sergeant before refocusing on their fight.

Thankful for their overwatch, Michael spotted the cloaked warrior with his back against the wall of the village, fighting off three Ra'zorlichs at once. He narrowly dodged their rapid strikes, their swords grazing his body and piercing his cloak more than once.

"Mila, rifle!" Michael snapped, desperate to act.

She didn't hesitate to pass him his M14 as he handed her the M60. In a second he had drawn his sights on one of the warriors about to swing at the cloaked Neko and pulled the trigger.

Both the Ra'zorlichs turned in shock as their comrade's chest burst open with a spray of gore, but they were even more surprised as the cloaked Neko they had been fighting immediately swung his blade to part their heads from their shoulders.

Wiping the blood from his face, the cloaked fighter immediately turned to assist a pair of warriors struggling to fend off a single Ra'zorlich, not once glancing in Michael's direction as his attention shifted elsewhere.

The Sergeant himself turned toward the spot where the Ra'zorlich king lay. He knew he had hit the blood-red bastard, and he was not going to pass up the opportunity to gain leverage over his annoyance of a tribe.

Fixing his bayonet to the end of his rifle he darted for the treeline with Mila close behind, running awkwardly with the LMG in her hands. He crashed through a small thicket to find five heavily armored, muscular Nekos lying on the ground. Four were dead; one was moaning and writhing in pain, clawing at the bullet holes in his breastplate. Their King was crying out on the ground, his face strewn with tears as he tried to drag himself away with one hand clasped over the hole in his thigh.