Rough Landing (Tales of Cruxia Short Stories Book 2)

Book summary

A soldier returns to his homeland, now a battleground, to confront a rebellion driven by a sinister cult. As he fights against the slaver cultists, his ideals and understanding of war are challenged in ways he never imagined. ROUGH LANDING is a gripping war story set in the Tales of Cruxia series.

Excerpt from Rough Landing (Tales of Cruxia Short Stories Book 2)

Their lander bucked over the waves. Everywhere reeked of men and filth and fear. Armored soldiers rolled into each other on the benches. Suleman could not see past the landing ramp winched over the front ranks, but he could hear. The constant hiss of arrows. The booms of boulders flung from catapults. The heave-ho of the rowers. A white-skinned bear of a soldier next to him turned as if to say something then vomited all over his boots.

“Sorry,” he grumbled, then turned back to staring at his own feet. Seasick like half the boat and here they were about to take a city.

Suleman counted the soldiers in the craft. Thirty soldiers per lander, four hundred landers running in a ragged line up the coast for three miles. Twelve thousand coated in steel and sent to Hanrabi to deal with this revolution. He’d thought such a force invincible. Had gotten a sense of power to be a part of something so grand.

Now he felt like a caged rat that had been thrown in a lake.

Suleman closed his eyes again and thought about their destination. Berea, the greatest city in the world, gleaming crown of Hanrabi. His grandma had told him of it at night when he was young. A city stretched across the whole north shore. A city full of sultans where men rode elephants down the streets. A city so rich that the ramparts were carved from ivory.

Their lander dipped and Suleman got his first good look of Berea. Catapults and other siege craft coated the battlements, firing and firing. Black smoke rolled in waves from breached sections. Armored men killed each other or plummeted from its heights.

White, though. Through it all Suleman could see the ramparts were white. Perhaps ivory after all.

Something screamed over their boat, something like a wooden lightning bolt.

“Halladar above, what was that?” Suleman said.

The seasick soldier answered. “Ballista bolts, like a giant crossbow. Sons of bitches are just using them now, the fools.”

“What do you mean?”

The soldier put a finger to his nostril and sprayed snot to his left. “Ballista are massive; those bolts are six, seven feet long. Any engineer worth the name can sight and fire one up to a mile. ‘Could’ve been shredding us for a while but they’re just using them now. That makes them incompetent or low on ammunition. Either is good news for us. What’s your name, mate?”

“Suleman. Suleman Ali,” he said, extending a hand.

The man wiped his snotty hand then took Suleman’s in an iron grip. “Boil, Boil Broly. Good to meet ya’. You RF?”

“RF?”

“Like, recently freed.”

Suleman turned away. “I have never been a slave.”

“Alright, alright, didn’t mean to offend. Just haven’t seen you before and half this crew is RF. My mistake.”

“I thought this regiment was new recruits,” said Suleman.

“Vorcan below, no. You’re lucky Suleman, this is the 306th. Good commanders. See those three up front with the crimson patches and the feathered helmets? The bearded one is Sergeant Tooley. That’s Captain Bellows there. He’s a noble-born son of a bitch. Loves to hear his own voice, but he’s a hell of a tactician. The shifty one in the black hood is Marl, a wizard on loan from the Mage Corp.”

Suleman strained to look. “A wizard? I have never seen a wizard.”

Boil smacked him on the back. “You are fresh, huh? Hope he’s the only one you see today. Us infantry, we stay far as fuck from wizards as we can. Got that?”

“Of course. What is he doing?”

Sergeant Tooley and Captain Bellows were conferring, pointing at a sodden parchment. The wizard was sitting behind them with his eyes closed. Every few moments he’d lean in and say something to the commanders.

“Ah,” said Boil, “Marl there is in contact with every other mage across the landers through some sort of mystic shit. He’s letting the captain know when one goes down. Basic coms.”

“The captain is making a lot of notes.”

“Aye, he is. Welcome to soldiering. Give it a minute. Captain will get up front and give us a nice rousing speech, glory be and all that. My advice? Stay close to me and keep your shield up. We’ll get you through alive.”

Boil’s comment about being ‘RF’ had been a strike to Suleman’s pride, but he realized the man would have treated him with respect no matter what caste he hailed from. Could Suleman say the same? Out here they were all soldiers, nothing more. “Thank you.”

Boil shrugged. “You learn to stick together in this line of work. Hold on.” He turned and vomited again.

Suleman laughed, “A veteran and you still get seasick?”

“Vorcan’s balls, no. Hungover. It’s my ritual before any engagement, get as hoary drunk as I can. Could be my last chance.”

“Doesn’t that make it hard to fight?”

“Eh. I puke it all up before the killing starts. Leaves me empty. Others like snorting powder before the fight to get the blood hammering. Some just ride the hatred for the enemy, don’t matter who the enemy is. Not me. I find being empty is best to get through it all.”

Both of them ducked as a boulder sailed over the craft. “Great Halladar.”

“He’s nowhere to be found today. Unless he’s your Hanrabi god of war.”

Suleman laughed. “He’s the god of rice. Rice and childbirth.”

“Rice? Childbirth?”

“Precisely.”

“What the fuck kind of god is that?”

“We have many gods in Hanrabi.”

“I like you, Ali. You’re alright.”

“Yes, Boil Brody. You too are alright.”

“Sorry about the RF line, I figured you as Hanrabi from your skin. Most of the troops heading in are recently freed slaves. Looking for retribution or what have you.”

“I understand. But I come from the Jall’hui Plain where slaves are below even the dead in the castes.”

“Might be why they want retribution, eh?”

Suleman sucked on his tooth. “This. You are snubbing me, yes?”

Boil punched his shoulder. “Eyes forward, Captain’s starting his speech. Don’t forget to salute.”

“I should say the same, Boil Brody.”

Bellows stood up. He wasn’t a large man but when he spoke his voice boomed through the boat. “Praise the emperor!”

The unit saluted, a closed fist to the left shoulder.

“Praise the emperor, for he has cast the chains off of all his citizens. Slavery now ranks as a crime against the crown.”

A cheer rippled through the boat.

“But rot runs deep. Cultists devoted to Turvaal have risen up against this decree. Turvaal, the god of chains. The god of slavery. He demands his subjects violate their skin. He demands children as sacrifice. He has infested the proud city of Berea. Look what he’s done to her walls! You will see their glorious heights before the day is through. You will scale Berea’s ivory ramparts! You are the Cruxian Heavy Corps. You are the emperor’s sword! Glory be!”

“To the emperor,” the unit chanted. Here was that sense of power.

“I don’t think they heard you up on those walls! GLORY BE!”

“TO CRUXIA.”

Soldiers beat their shields on the floor of the lander.

“GLORY BE!”

“TO—”

KOOM!

Suleman was sucked down into icy water.

He could not move, tangled in his armor. Sinking. Blind. There was only debris. Things that might have been men. Panic wormed in his head.

He was going to die without ever seeing the walls.

Suleman stopped feeling around in the dark. He grabbed the buckle on his shoulder and loosened it slowly, holding his breath. The whole cuirass floated away, taking his broadsword with it. He’d long ago dropped his shield.

Suleman dragged through the water, searching for the surface. Abruptly his face met sand. Wrong way. He got his legs under him and pushed with every ounce of strength he had left.

His face broke the surface. Not even five feet of water had almost killed him. Looking around, it had killed many. He stood chest deep in a bog of corpses. Sunken landers were clogging up the path to shore.

Shore? He whirled. Less than fifty yards away was the district marina. Looming behind that were Berea’s walls and an enormous bronze portcullis, closed. Two landers had made it to the docks. In silhouette, Suleman watched Cruxians clash with Turvaali. His allies were pushing the skirmishers back to the closed gate. Sound returned to Suleman, the crash of iron, the distant thunder of siege engines.

He moved toward the fighting, his heavy boots slowing him to a plod. A voice called. “Suleman, you mealy-mouthed son of a bitch! You made it!”

Boil staggered toward him, his forehead gashed and bloody.

“Boil, come. We are taking the docks with success.”

Shorter and weighed down with his greatshield, Boil took Suleman’s shoulder.

“Fucking boulder found its mark, huh? Vorcan’s asshole.”

A boulder fired from a catapult. In his panic, Suleman had not even considered why they’d sunk.

“I lost my sword,” Suleman said.

“And your armor and your shield it would look. Don’t worry. There are plenty available.”

Suleman swept a bleak look at the dead Cruxians. “Let us get to the beach first. It will only weigh me down.”

“Right.”

They started toward shore, much slower with two. When the water was shallow, Suleman took Boil’s shoulder. They collapsed in the fetid water under the docks, their breaths coming in rasps.

Suleman was cold, his legs numb. On the dock above they heard no fighting, though there were clashes not far off.

“We cannot stay here,” said Suleman.

Boil was drifting asleep. “Aye. Though it’s a more comfortable place to die.”

“Come.”

They sloshed out from under the dock. Boil stood with an effort, set his shield, and moved up the beach. Two beats and he waved Suleman forward.

“We’ve won for now.”

Suleman limped to Boil. Besides a sodden gambeson, he wore only his heavy greaves, boots, and gauntlets. Still the wet armor slowed him.

Two squads of Cruxian heavy infantry were crowded near the portcullis, a trail of Turvaali corpses in their wake. The dead insurgents were equipped with mismatched light armor, heavy curved swords, called tulwars, and round wicker shields. Their flesh was covered in ragged tattoos, barbed piercings, and brands.

“We’re gonna get murdered in there,” said Boil, “look at that light armor. We’re trudging through these gates soaked in plate mail. They’re quick, light, and know the city better than we do. We’ll be bled all the way up those walls.”

Suleman pointed to the Cruxians. “Tell it to the commanding officer.”

“We’ll see if he listens.”

Suleman found a Turvaali corpse about his size. He looted a chainmail vest, wicker shield, and tulwar. The weapon was more familiar than the standard issue broadsword he’d lost. Armed, he closed the Turvaali corpse’s eyes and whispered a prayer.