The moons of Thrass et Yunum chased each other over the horizon, the smallest going over the horizon first, followed within the hour by the other three. As they fell, the crashing noise of the insects and everything else that lived in the evening jungle rose in pitch, until the first of the night rains began to fall, pelting and stirring the muddy, brown stream that curled around the Hill.

To the inexperienced soldier, the Hill looked no different from the dozens of other hills they had crossed so far. It rose no higher, it bore no special feature, and it was covered in the same deep foliage as all the other hills: red and black and violet trees, shooting up their leafy boughs, competing for the crimson light of the sun, or the murky brown light of the sister star.

“That’s where we’re going,” Medus said to the others, carefully stretching his neck high to get a better look. “That’s where it is.”

“Where?” Taeso said, squinting into the dusk. Were it not for the bright whites of his eyes, his dark scales would have rendered him almost invisible in the wetland underbrush.

“The one in the middle there. That’s the Hill.”

Another private stopped to look, her long whiskers scenting at the air, as if she might taste the difference between hills.

“How can you tell?”

“Because the Lieutenant’s been staring at it for the last hour. That’s how.”

The whole squad turned to look at Agraneia.

She broke a stick off a nearby tree, and began to draw in the dirt. Here was the river, threaded between hills. Here was the crest, where the village would be hidden behind. And here, just of the center, sat the fort.

Agraneia began drawing ‘X’s over the likely emplacements and carving out lines for where she thought the tunnel networks might be, the passages the locals used to stay hidden from their scouts.

Medus snaked his neck over her shoulder, until his face was almost next to hers. She gave him a look that made him pull back, and mutter an apology.

Agraneia drew a line through the river. “We cross here, where the water is shallowest. There’s an entrance under the water there, so stay on the south side. I saw their tails in the river.”

She could almost feel the shiver running through the squad. Even the scribe, who wouldn’t be there when the fighting started, looked apprehensive. As if, somehow, the thought of the locals being so close made them realize what they were headed into. Now, all of them were looking out from the forest, trying to catch a glimpse of movement in the river below.

“They’ll have cannon on the fort walls,” she said, pulling their attention back. She tapped on the fort. “Aimed here and here. Expect them to have full crews, ready and waiting.”

One of them protested, “Why would they have full crews? Command said they didn’t know we were coming. I thought that was the whole point.”

“Listen to command then. Or listen to me.” Agraneia shrugged. “Your choice.”

So they listened.

Over the next twenty minutes, she walked them through the Captain’s plan.

Half of Witch Patrol would split off and head north. That group would be circling around the hill, a mile or so north of their position, waiting for the sounds of battle before they made their second assault, rushing towards the fort’s least defended walls. Scaling over and taking out the cannons, and whatever else the locals had waiting for them.

But Jewel squad was in the other half. They were at the center of the ‘anvil.’ They were supposed to form up, sit tight, and hold the center line.

Agraneia wasn’t interested in sitting.

“We’ll crest the hill first, ahead of Witch Patrol. We’re going right through the center.”

“Where the cannons are?”

“Yes.” Agraneia said, “Ignore your training. Run fast. Don’t shoot. If you sit still, you will die. Just head into the basin, and get up against the village.”

She wanted them to do this for two reasons.

First, the cannons weren’t likely to waste shots on a single squad sprinting full-bore across the fields. Sure, they might shoot a few rounds, but they would save their hammer for the main bulk of Witch Patrol.

Second, if they were fast enough, they could get into the village before anyone in the tunnels saw them coming.

“We’ll be covered in the village. The cannons won’t shoot there. Not at first.”

Someone asked, “What about the rest of Witch Patrol? Why don’t we just stay with them?”

“Feel free,” Agraneia said. “I don’t need you.”

Then, she erased the drawing with her boot.

“Scribe. You’re with me. Say one word, make any sound between here and the village, and I will leave you out there.”

The scribe nodded silently.

Not long after that, the signal came up the line. Time to move.

***

The wetlands fought them at every step. Vines as thick as arms hung over the paths, sometimes catching around their necks if they weren’t watching. Shallow puddles of mud hid deep pools of water that wanted to swallow their boots.

On the muddy down slopes of the last hill, Taeso slip and fell and cursed as he slid into a pile of bushes with leaves as sharp as thorns. When the other dull scale private went to help him, Agraneia stopped him.

“Get a rope,” she said.

“I can reach him-”

“Get a rope,” she hissed. “It might be poison.”

They lowered it down, and helped haul him out. He was still brushing off the sticky, pointed leaves when they came to the river, and she could just see the red welts starting to form as he scratched at himself.

“Mud,” she told him. “Cools it off.”

Taeso pulled a few fistfuls from the dirt, and began to slather himself. And, to his credit, he didn’t say a word after that. Instead, there was a kind of determined anger lighting up his face. Carving intent lines of focus through his dark scales.

Agra tore her gaze away. Better not to remember his face at all, if she could help it.

Despite the delay, Jewel squad still crossed the river first. She showed them how to strap their weapons to their rucksacks, and hold the whole kit over their heads. As cyrans, they should have been at home in the water, but this wasn’t Cyre. There were things under the surface. Old things, some of which had been sleeping for a very long time. Waiting for an errant foot to step on their smooth, slimy skin.

Today, though, the swamp took no sacrifices. By the time they made it across, the rest of the cohort was finally caching up. Hundreds of cyrans carrying their gear overhead, crossing in silence. Still, the locals had to know they were coming.

But that was the plan, wasn’t it? This half of Witch Patrol was the diversion.

When they took the first steps up the slopes of the Hill, Agraneia could feel a chance. It started in her chest, in the way her heart hammered against her breast. A good feeling. Alive.

As the last of Thrass’s moons set behind the trees, and true darkness took hold, the first of the rains started, dampening the thousand voices of the swamp. The croaking and humming and shredding buzz of the insects dulled, until all that could be heard was the distant chirp of crickets, and the drizzle of rain dancing on the forest of leaves.

She moved carefully up the roots of the gnarled swamp trees, keeping a careful, slow pace for the greenfins. Even the scribe, who carried no weapon, was breathing heavy as he laddered up the roots of a nearby grove tree. At least the long-neck corporal, Medus, who could hold his lanky body closer to the ground, seemed to be gaining ground easily enough.

Just before they crested the hill, she held up a fist.

Waiting for her squad to catch up. The rest of Witch Patrol was still halfway down the hill, their cracking branches and squelching mud and grunting noisily as they climbed towards their position.

Agraneia crouched in the crook of a root, hidden from the ridge of the hill. Once more, she whispered the plan, mostly as an excuse to let Jewel squad to catch their breaths. All of them looked nervous, anxious. Especially the scribe, who had no weapon to clutch to his chest. The rain was pouring now, creating curtains that fell from the sky, and fell from their helmets.

“The moment we step over that ridge, we’re in their village. Don’t be fooled, they’re hiding everywhere. The tunnels run all through the hill.”

Her breath caught after that last word. Her heart was hammering now. Maybe it was the rain, or maybe it was all in her head, but she thought she could taste their scent. Must and mildew. Dry scales that wanted to be shed.

“How do we know where they’ll be?” Medus asked.

“Everywhere,” Agraneia said. Suppressing a shiver, as the heat rose in her blood. “They will be everywhere.”

The other squads were starting to creep up to their position. Dozens of cyrans in their blue and black uniforms, some of them not even wearing helmets, some of them carrying their guns slung over their shoulders.

It’s time.

“Bayonets ready,” Agraneia said. She stood up, and rolled her muscular shoulders. Hefted her rifle in both hands.

And then, she started sprinting.

She came to the top of the ridge, and the whole village was laid bare before her. In a single moment, she saw it all:

The treeline stopped about quarter mile from the village. Dozens of riverlets spilled out of the forest and wound their way down through the terraced fields. They gathered together into streams, and all of those streams poured into that single, deep pit in the center of the hill. Even from the height of the ridge, Agraneia could not see inside that shadowy pit. Long clay huts and wooden houses on stilts, all with thatched or clay tile roofs, made up the outer circle around the pit.

The fort sat over the village like some huge monster guarding its flock. It was made of stone and mortar, and its more advanced architecture made it look so out of place, next to all that wood and clay. High walls and thin, narrow windows were perfect for slotting firearms, supporting two flat tiers that looked out over the village. The back of the fort was curved around the edge of the pit, and part of the ground was sinking there, as if all it would take was a strong storm to knock the whole thing into that deep hole.

Agraneia didn’t stop to look to count the locals. She was already hurtling down the inner side of the hill, bursting out of the treeline by the time she heard that tell-tale, rapid clicking. They had been seen, and more clicking sounds overlapped the first, until the whole hillside seemed to be alive with the rhythmic clacks and ticks and croaks of the Lassertane tongue.

Next, came the shots that fell with the rain. Most hit far short of her, peppering the ground with splashes of mud. A few zipped high over her head. The Lassertane’s weapons were old, and none of them had been made on this world. Stolen or given by Thrass’s previous ‘conquerors.’ The same people who had built the fort, so long ago, before they gave up on this world.

The shots were coming from the treeline behind her, which meant the fort and the village were still rallying. She could see shapes running towards the fort as the last of the villagers ran for protection.

Good. That meant all she had to do was reach the village before they brought the cannons to bear.

Her legs worked hard, and she focused on staying out of the deepest pockets of mud. From experience, she knew how dangerous it was to get stuck. Her feet found a hard-packed gravel path in the middle of one of the fields, and she took it the rest of the way up to the village.

Agraneia skidded under the first stilt house she reached, without a scratch on her. She pressed her body against the thickest beam, taking this rare moment to catch her breath, waiting for her squad to reach her.

Four of them were strung out along the fields, making their way through the mess of streams and paddocks and lumps of dirt, keeping their heads low as the rain of bullets began to increase, smacking dirt and splashing the growing puddles of water. From here, she could even see the scribe running with them, one hand on his helmet to keep it from falling.

Taeso was the last to come stumbling up. He was covered in mud, and seemed to have forgotten the thorn-poison in the heat of the rush.

“Licto,” he gasped, “Where’s Licto?”

Someone pointed.

The last private was curled up in the mud, both hands on his helmet. His mouth was open in a scream, but they couldn’t hear him over the clicking and the gunfire and the rain.

“Leave him,” Agraneia said.

“What?” Taeso shouted. “We can’t-”

“They’re turning the cannons. If he can’t run, he’s already dead. Leave him.”

Taeso’s lips were a grim line. She could see the thoughts churning in his mind. He was a dull scale, and so was Private Licto.

Taeso unslung his pack, and dropped it to the ground. “Watch my stuff.”

If he wanted to trade his life to feel like a hero, let him. How many hundreds of cyrans had done the same before?

One or two had been lucky enough to make.

Taeso sprinted back across the field, holding his helmet steady while he dodged and weaved over the uneven ground. Bullets streaked past him, some of them making white lines through the falling rain. He threw himself down next to the cowering private, and hauled Licto up by the shoulder. Pulling him out of the muck, and hauling him away from the hail of bullets.

Up on the ridgeline, the rest of Witch Patrol was pouring out of the treeline now. They were shooting at everything. At the trees, at the empty fields. The anvil was coming.

A deep, rumbling boom shook the ground, so loud it seemed to stop the rain, just for a moment. The cannonball threw up a mountain of mud halfway across the swampy fields.

More booms, more muddy eruptions, each one taking out a different clump of soldiers as they plodded towards the village. Not every shot hit, but the ones that did hit hard, bouncing and killing and taking limbs as they rolled.

Taeso was screaming at Licto, half dragging him, half holding him up. A cannon shot ripped through the building that Agra and Jewel squad were using as cover, blasting through the thin, wooden walls. Showering them with splinters.

She could almost see the path of the cannonball as it bounced across the mud.

The two privates, however, did not. The round shot clapped into Licto’s shoulder, barely slowing as it crumpled the private’s body, killing him instantly. The cannon shot kept bouncing up the gentle slope of the hill. Almost taking the arm off another soldier a few dozen paces behind.

Agraneia turned away.

They were wasting time. No point in waiting now. She ducked around the splintered remains of the stilt hut, her rifle up and ready. And started shooting. They were hiding in the huts, the tips of their old muskets peeking out of the dark places. Round after round she shot, until they started to flee back towards the fort. She rarely missed.

Agraneia stopped seeing. Stopped feeling. Only acted on the thrill as it moved her, pulling her deeper into the fray. When anything moved, she shot it. When her gun was empty, she ducked into cover and reloaded, her fingers rolling the bullets automatically into place. Not waiting on Jewel squad. Not caring if they were following her. She had told them what to do. It was up to them to obey. All she cared about now was the smell of gunpowder, the crack of her own gun against her shoulder, and the feeling of dropping the enemy one by one.

Her veins were on fire. Every kill only made want more.

More.

More.

By the time she ran out of bullets, she was at the walls of the fort, taking cover in the corner of a stone pillar. Between the deafening blasts of the cannons, she could hear the locals above her, hissing and shouting at each other from those narrow windows. Now, the cannonballs began to level the village proper as the tattered remains of Witch Patrol reached the stilt houses and blasted huts.

A piercing whistle sang over the rain and the gunfire.

The other half of Witch Patrol had arrived. They had snuck up to the backside of the fort. Most likely, they were already climbing the walls, and the locals at the top of the fort were turning their snouts around, splitting their forces to go fend off this new threat.

It’s almost over. Agraneia’s heart sank. Too soon. Suddenly, she could feel the emptiness, like something had been unplugged inside her and was starting to drain away. Soon, she’d have to go back.

I’m not done.

Agraneia slung her empty rifle over her shoulder, and pulled one of her long knives out of her boot. She grabbed onto a protruding stone, slick with rain, and hauled herself up. Her fingernails dug into the pockets in the mortar, and her muscles bulged as she climbed up.

The barrel of a musket crept out of a window, aiming at one of the other cyran soldiers below. Agraneia rammed her knife into the window, catching a local right in the snout. Making him hiss in pain. She twisted and the hiss cut short.

More muskets jammed out of the window, trying to spear her with their bayonets, but she was already climbing again. Already at the next tier up. Hauling herself over the parapet, where the rain hammered the stones and a clutter of Lassertane scales and tails were scrambling to reload their cannons, or to aim their rifles over the edge.

The last thing they expected was a cyran soldier to climb over the walls from the front. It only made her work easier.

The knife did all the work, chopping through scale and flesh and bone. Razor claws swept at her, and she swept back. Severing hand from limb.

There was a simple clarity to it. Up here, she knew what to do. There was nothing to think about. Nothing to question. All she had to do was kill or be killed.

She never wanted it to end.