Chapter 807: Reapers (III)
The Sages hovering high above the battlefield could not help but widen their eyes in collective astonishment. They had prepared themselves to witness ferocity, but nothing in their centuries-long storehouse of knowledge had hinted at creatures capable of this level of speed, coordination, and raw destructive power.
The creatures—elongated, triple-jointed horrors clad in interlocking plates of obsidian-black bio armor—were not merely stationary threats hanging in the air like menacing statues. Each one possessed a propulsion system so preternaturally swift that they could streak across the sky from one horizon to the other in the span of a single heartbeat, leaving only a sonic boom and a brief vacuum-white contrail in their wake.
"Damn it all!" Commander Varian roared, the veins on his neck standing out like knotted rope. He had just watched three Sage-Mages be cleaved in half by a creature’s scimitar-shaped forelimb. There was no time to be paralyzed by grief or rage.
Even as the bodies fell, Varian sprang forward, swinging his broadsword in a gleaming arc. Sparks cascaded when rune-steel met alien claw; the impact sent a shudder up his arms, but the blow accomplished its purpose. The monster faltered, stumbled, and was rewarded with an armored kick that hurled it backward in a whirl of broken air.
They were powerful, yes; they were terrifying, yes—but they were not invincible. Varian was no frail Mage who relied solely on distance and spellcraft. He was a Warrior, tempered in a hundred sieges, able to endure the full brutality of physical confrontation thanks to his Force.
His heart thumped with grim resolve as he advanced, only to stop when the monster he had repelled convulsed, plates rearranging with the grinding growl of tectonic plates. Its body re-formed into a nearly perfect sphere of stone-hard bio-armor, the same defensive configuration it had used only moments earlier to shrug off a barrage of destructive spells.
This time, however, the creature did not merely defend. It tucked its limbs, ignited its thrusters, and rocketed downward like a meteor. The impact in the middle of the Exilon infantry line sounded like a mountain collapsing.
Earth geysered skyward, shields flew, and dozens of soldiers died instantly. Much worse, the warriors’ once-unbreakable shield wall now displayed a jagged hole wide enough for the rest of the pack to pour through. The flaw spread like a tear in fabric; disciplined ranks dissolved into islands of men and women trying to stem a tide of claws.
"Gods damn it!" Varian bellowed again. He tasted iron from gritted teeth and felt the sick churn of frustration twist his gut. Everything was unraveling. There was no time left for pride. "Full retreat! Fall back to the eastern ridge—now!"
Those two words—full retreat—were words no Exilon soldier had ever heard issued on a battlefield. The legions had been raised on the credo that honor lay in standing one’s ground until victory or death. Partial withdrawals they knew; coordinated repositioning under fire they could execute blindly. But a wholesale abandonment of the field was tantamount to admitting the enemy was an ocean in flood and they were a bonfire in the rain.