Strategic Retreat
Daschel's breath was harsh in his own ears, his chest was on fire, and he could taste the metal tang of his own blood in his own mouth. The suit had been compromised in two places, and the bullet from the first shot had been lodged in his lung--he could feel it with each rasping breath. The second bullet he barely dodged in time, and his left eye refused to clear up each time he blinked, and his eyelid felt numb and burning at different intervals.
Of the six Storm Dragon suits, only one managed to escape fully, the second one its pilot bled to death from knife wounds. Damn Mist-crazed Viera. The remaining pilot struggled with her suit, one of the knee joints fused from the fire spells. He heard her muttered death threats as she limped along, looking pale.
The local Emberstrand sky pirates had played hell on their pick up, attacking the skiff at regular intervals as it came in to the pick up sight. He had no idea if the pilots remaining lived or died, but it was his greatest hope they died when he activated the 'Bouncing Beatrix'. He heard the explosions at a periphery, but he had been focused on the pick up site.
His progression slowed. He knew it had as his body ached in protest, his lungs burned, and the chill air of the night numbed his lips. Blood loss. It was a simple explanation. The Gria next to him continued to pilot her damaged suit, cursing under her breath with each. She looked to her General, eyes concerned.
"Sir? We need to stop," she started, bracing herself for an infamous verbal lashing from the General.
'She's right,' he thought. Daschel nodded in acquiesence, the suit shuddering to a stop. It sagged as he did, his breath no longer rasping--it was wheezing. His throat was dry, or was it clogging with blood? He rested his head against the back against the remains of his helm, letting his eyes drift shut.
"Keep your eyes open!" the Gria snapped at him. He groggily opened his eyes, noting the embarassment painted on her cheeks as she belatedly added, "Sir."
He heard the popping of the seals on the storm Dragon suit, the Mist whooshing out and adding a sweet tang to the air. He watched as the delicate woman--Gria were all women, right?--extract herself from the suit, her officer's uniform soaked in sweat. It occurred to Daschel he didn't know her name.
"N-name, soldier?" Daschel rasped, suddenly glad for the suit to keep him upright. The General watched, noting the cling of her sweat-soaked uniform to delicate curves, how her hair was plastered against her head, and how those horns shone with a pearlescent sheen in the moonlight. 'Focus,' he mentally snarled.
"Lieutenant Beatrix," she said absently, letting her wings stretch in the cool air. "Raptor," she added absently as an afterthought. She gazed at the skies briefly and then back to her General. "I need to get you out of the suit so I can heal you, sir."
The corners of Daschel's lips rose, twitching in a very tired smile. "The catch mechanism is fused shut. I tried."
The Gria frowned darkly, wings fluttering and taking her aloft to peer into her Storm Dragon suit. She withdrew from the inside a broadsword and fluttered easily back to the ground. Its edge gleamed with purpose. "Hold still, sir."
"It's not like I'm going anywh--" his rasping voice was cut off as the Gria raised the broadsword. She darted in, sword glowing with arcane runes and struck the suit. She landed, stepping back and sheathing it.
The suit shuddered with the resonance of the attack. Small pinging noises could be heard as the breastplate loosened and fell to the ground in a loud clatter. "There," the Gria said, moving to extract her General from the suit.
"How did you--?" Daschel asked as weakly as he tried to pull his arms from the controls.
"Resonance-style Geomancy. It comes from studying adamantoise in the Bervenia highlands," Beatrix said quietly, her strong hands pulling the wounded General from the suit. The scent of blood was strong, certain to bring every predator within three miles running for their meal. "It's not something Humes pay attention to."
'Obviously,' Daschel thought as he had been manhandled by the delicate seeming Gria. His head lolled against her shoulder as she carried him, bridal style, away from the suits. The ground trembled, slowly swallowing the suits. "The suits--"
"Liquid earth-style Geomancy," Beatrix interrupted, eyes purposely not looking at her General. "Studying ant-lions in the Western Estersands. They will be safe from prying eyes until we can return." Her wings flapped, the strain of holding a full-grown Hume felt even in the Gria's shoulders. "Base camp is another ten miles. Don't you dare fall asleep on me, General," she snapped again, cheeks flushing, looking away from the left side of her General's face.
Daschel's thoughts turned to his failed attack, the tactician's mind working as always. It as never as good as his brother's, but Agrin had long since parted company with him to live in that Faram-forsaken city. They had snipers, blue mages, offensive mages, thieves, and even knights. Strategies would need to be devised, the suits were too easily compromised by magic.
Hadn't she said she needed to remove him from the suit to heal him? The Gria's breath came in labored gulps as she flew. The chest wound must have been worse than expected if she was no longer willing to heal it.
His gaze looked to the concentrating Gria as they moved, her feet lightly touching down on treetops as they flew, and he had the strange sensation they were being pushed back by the trees, given extra momentum.
He would devise a new strategy with his new aide...
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