Chapter 8- "Reality Check"
"Contact with targets," the excited voice said through his suit's headset. Ylaran couldn't see anything, but he trusted the guy on the tower. Forest City officials had sent the residents of Vedrellion's capitol into shelters that had been built for such raids as this. Meanwhile the Daggers had mustered at—and uncovered— the static defenses they had been quietly building over the past several months. Raid drills had been conducted on a much more frequent basis, which, while it left the populace concerned and curious, allowed the mercenaries plenty of time to erect and disguise fortifications without drawing undue or interfering attention from the public.
"Water pump houses," "storage sheds" and "water tanks," had quick release roofs ripped off to allow hydraulically supported guard towers to rise into place. A produce warehouse unexpectedly disgorged a handful of tanks, a cluster of troop platoons, and a light scout 'mech, dropships had zipped around town, dropping stacks of sand bags in pre-designated locations, and the five-score Dagger Marines were busily stringing razor-wire in as many places as they could, assisted by roughly three hundred local militiamen.
Anti-air batteries were assembled in seemingly random spots around town— many perched on roofs, hidden under cheaply-built plywood coverings. Ylaran knew, however, that the randomness had a purpose— there was no reason the pirates couldn't pick a random drop-site right in the heart of town; defense coverage had been maximized, while unpredictability had been accounted for, inasmuch as practical.
Ylaran raised his field glasses, and peered into the distance, only to make out a long wall of trees. Same thing he'd seen last time he looked. Forest City had been aptly named, for it, as most every other settlement on this world, had bloomed from a clear-cut patch of the world's ancient forests. To preserve the beauty of their seat of government, the city's founders had ensured that nothing further than two kilometers from the Capitol building— laid out at the heart of the town— would be cut, curbing expansion, and making Forest City one of the smallest planetary capitols Ylaran had ever visited. He had to admit, however, that it was quite lovely, that its position on the banks of a great lake a bonus, and that the local architects had done a marvelous job veiling the high-tech buildings in a cloak of rustic charm. Rarrani would love this. I'll have to get a baby-sitter for the kids, one of these weeks, and bring her here while I'm on leave. The platoon leader's heart went out to those who lived here, saddened that such a breathtaking burg would soon become a blood-soaked battlefield.
"We got a read on 'em yet, Forthe?" The Lancer 1st class looked a third time, but there were still the trees, and the trees hid their enemies until they chose to reveal themselves. Waiting was a necessary, but often-undesirable part of most engagements. The kitaran had grown up preferring a straight fight, but his time as a mercenary had taught him that combat was anything but clean and orderly. Fortunately for the defenders, the streets in this town were cleanly laid out, and organised in an orderly, perpendicular fashion. And there weren't too many of them, either, at least not major ones leading into or out of town. Defending a single highway, or even three or four, was decidedly more simple than trying to hold dozens of inroads. This highway, and the one on the opposite side of town, covered by Chief Ward Vralla and the remainder of the Dagger's troops, were the easiest and most logical way into the town; at least as far as ground troops were concerned. Pirates weren't usually known for their creativity, so Ylaran Fyrana was fairly confident that he and his men were properly positioned.
"Yessir. Just under a six klicks out, and moving fast. I'm counting...twelve hover transports, looks like... one support tank and... by the Taenarians..." Lancer 3rd class Forthe's voice waned, the despair obvious. Ylaran did his best to keep his heart out of his throat. For the continued, voice subdued with fear.
"They have two Peerlesses, sir."
"Excuse me?" The Peerless had earned its title. An assault mech of epic proportions, next to nothing on the ground outweighed it or outgunned it. While ship-style shielding was still impractical for ground units as small as tanks and warmechs, the Peerless mounted enough armour to make a stock frigate look like a tin can. Slower than tar, the mammoth machine's awesome range, electronic countermeasures and brutal array of weaponry more than made up for its ponderous rate of movement. In short, they were war machines that were almost exclusively fielded by the largest, wealthiest national militaries— and even then, not in great numbers. "Say that again, Forthe?"
Ylaran glanced up at the tower, and watched the sensor man shake his head, eyes peeled in a mix of dismay and disbelief. "Sensors indicate two— that's one, two— Peerless class warmechs, sir. And they're making good time, too."
"Frag. Where in shioll did a bunch'a space rats get a Peerless, let alone two of 'em? Well, nothing we can do about that now. Rr'urothet?"
"Sssiir?" Ylaran's aide, a Sniv, jolted to attention beside him.
"Get Chief Ward Vralla on the horn, now. We need to talk."
It's not supposed to feel like this. Huddled behind a sandbag barricade, laser rifle in hand and resting on the top of the bags, Matthew Sarray was already fighting. His battle, however, was to keep his heart from bursting in his chest, and his fear from overrunning his mind. I could...die.
Matt wasn't exactly thrilled at the prospect that, before this day was out, he might be nothing more than a memory and a rotting carcass. He'd had a bullet put in his chest, once before, long ago, when he and his one, childhood friend had been playing around with Grandpa Lanza's pistol (Matt wondered why the old man hadn't kept it locked up). Only the fact that a medivac unit had been visiting the town, as part of a traveling display, had saved his life. He absently rubbed at the spot, just below his left pectoral, but couldn't feel it through the armour; that didn't make the memory burn any less.
But I[i/] can't die! I just barely started living! And the Daggers need me. I cannot let them down; not now, not during my first real test. But there was no denying the cold sweat on his brow, the clamminess of his hands, or the irritating, embarrassing fact that he really, really had to pee.
Stop. Relax. You've got the cover, they don't. Just point and shoot, and don't forget to swap out powerclips. He checked his gun, one last time. Power cell secure and fully charged, sights properly calibrated. He was good to go.
Gail needs me. It was a lie, but it was a comforting one, and the mental image of her face brought immediate and well-looked for relief and resolve.
The shout of "here they come" was enough to make him lose bladder control, however, leaving him very grateful for the catheter and catch bag installed in the power armour suit.
As one, the twenty-eight men in his platoon dropped their rifles, clacking, onto the sandbags, and started picking targets. Matt pulled a bead on the unbroken forest waiting for the first bandit to appear. Patience. Let them come to us.
Explosions ripped the air off to his right, and a shockwave blasted him to the left. The scream of jet engines cracked past over his head, and roared in his ears. Smoke was everywhere, and even without looking, Matt could tell that at least someone was dead. The strafing run had come without warning, leaving even the alert anti-air gunners stunned.
The AA guns swiveled hard, and commenced making their deadly popping noises, and a downed captain watched a half-dozen of them disintegrate— just in time for the pirate to unload a clip into his faceplate.
"Hold them back!" Ylaran was grateful for the shout of encouragement, though he had no idea who had said it. He, as everyone else, had been completely duped by the placidness of the lake. Granted, no one had any real reason to expect fighter drones to simply pop out of the water like that, blindsiding their position. The watchtower now tilted dangerously forward and to its right, more than half its support structures blasted away. A fire was blazing in the now-abandoned lookout's position, and Ylaran could see that Forthe hadn't handled the hurried leap to safety all that well.
Barricades sported gaping holes through which dozens of pirate infantry were pouring. The support tank was now bulling its way through the first of three defensive lines, it speed having surprised even the marine commander. The fast transports had burst from the forest as a blur, stopping just before the front line and the troops had launched out, sentient bullets from hovering guns.
All across the highway, hordes of bandits swarmed over the razor wire and sandbags, weapons barking unabated hatred. The weight of the charge drove the pirates on through the first, second, and finally third lines, breezing past a downed Ylaran and the damaged tower. All the while, the cannon of the tank played havoc, even amongst the armoured troops of the Obsidian Daggers.
To Shioll with this! We've got better troops than they do. Hurling himself to his feet, the Lancer 1st class cast a quick glance at where the reserve weapons had been stockpiled, and noticed that some of the support arms had escaped the initial hit of the strafe. Augmented strength left him needing no undue effort in hefting a rotary plasma-grenade launcher in one hand, and an anti-tank recoilless rifle in the other. Their fault for ignoring the sidelines.
The ancient kitaran battlecry got attention. Blistering blasts of plasma got alot more attention. The rear of the charge halted in confusion, only the better soldiers turning in an attempt to gun down this new annoyance. Ylaran took pleasure in noting that, while these bandits seemed divinely graced by the presence of a pair of assault 'mechs, that grace had apparently been entirely spent on the twin behemoths; mere kevlar was not enough to stop his wrist mounted lasers, and certainly not enough to shield them from raw plasma as grenade after grenade shredded the pirate ranks. Slug throwers were likewise useless against the thick, high-grade armour of the powersuit.
A growing number of the marauding brigands were coming to bear on the Lancer 1st class. Heedless the hail of automatic weapons' fire, the relatively short marine rushed headlong into the fray, firing at some, pulverizing others with well-aimed blows from the barrel of the recoilless gun. The tank's cannon barrel managed to swing into line without his notice.
The first round went short, skipping twice on the pavement before detonating only two meters behind him. He was hurled to the ground a second time, ending up sprawled across another of the Dagger's power armoured infantrymen.
"What the?" The other soldier's helmet was riddled with dents, sensor nubs were shattered, the viewport spider-webbed with cracks. The damage had not been enough, however, to penetrate, nor completely hide the grunt's face, nor the fact that he was unconscious. Recognition was not instant, but still rapid enough to merit a second-glance.
"Matt?!"
She watched sparks dance across the shields yet again. The Wildcard's defenses were having an increasingly difficult time shrugging off the sorties from even the poorly coordinated attacks of the ranger and the corvette. "Can't we at least put one of them down," Gail asked in disgust.
"Working on it, Commander," came the reply from the weapons officer. He tapped the keyboard a few times, and grinned slightly as he reported another direct hit. "We've got a hull breach on the ranger— aft quarters. Picking up a power spike in the engine section. Looks like they're really hurting."
Gail peered out at the ranger as it did its best to gingerly dance out of the way of a follow-up volley from the 'Card. The cruiser's guns tracked it too quickly though, and all but a single shot passed it the beleaguered ranger. A satisfied smirk crossed her face as the tell-tale signs of ship death began to show in the enemy ship. She knew that at least the transport wouldn't be making another run.
Her thread of time to gloat was sliced as if by a razor. "The Captain is down!" "That came from the comm," she muttered, and she whirled to face the communications station.
"Report!" The commo pressed his earpiece more firmly into his ear and requested a repeat of the message. Sure enough, the bridge's overhead speakers told the tale again. "This is Lancer First Class Ylaran. We're taking fire, and Captain Sarray is down! I need an immediate evac on my position!"
She looked around the command centre in haste. Even before she ended her quick survey, she could feel her breath catch in her throat, while her heart dropped into the pit of her gut. Matt was nowhere on the bridge. This can't be happening. Not again! Sterling, what have you done? Matt, what have you done?
Incoming fire rocked the Wildcard, and she realised that her time was preciously short.
"What's happening down there? You had better not be lying to..."
"Negative, Commander. I have confirmation that this is the Captain. I repeat, he took a pretty bad hit and he's lost consciousness."
Gail glanced at the floor and raised a hand to her temple. Heaven help us. "Get an evac team down there now. I want him out of there on the double. And someone see if we can't get some fire support to help bust up those Peerlesses. The marines are in enough trouble as is." The ricochet of a sabot round from the failing shields added a grave punctuation to her sentence.
"Rally on me! The Captain is hit!" Kneeling over his fallen friend, Ylaran waved an arm to signal his position even as he called for his men to reform the lines and drive back the invaders. His other arm continued to deal death.
Ylaran's rallying cry alone had attracted support, but when the rest of the marines learned that the Captain, himself, was there— and injured— they went berserk. Within minutes, the invaders' southern assault had been stemmed, and they were beginning to retreat toward the advancing mechs.
The tremors told everyone that it was the pirate's turn again. The harsh creaking of trees being forcibly knocked aside was the final announcement that the Peerlesses had arrived. After that, they let their firepower speak.
"Where the shioll is he?!" A trio of beam cannon vapourised even more armour from the Wildcard's now unshielded hull.
"He's a feisty one, sir. Dunno if he's just got a stealth coating or if he's just right under us. Don't worry, sir, we'll bag 'im."
"You'd better." Gail held her breath as she considered the situation. In her haste to eliminate the transport, she had chosen to ignore the corvette. She knew it was a dangerous choice, but she also knew that both ships would still have been unloading on her just the same, and splitting fire would have been far less effective than the focused attack that had brought down the ranger. She hadn't planned on the corvette managing to hide during the conflict, but somehow, the 'Card's sensors were having a difficult time tracking the more nimble ship. Since the early warning net had picked up on the corvette's presence, she was guessing that the problem was likely some high-powered ECM, and possibly even "phased" cloaking. While neither would render the enemy ship undetectable, it would certainly frustrate weapon locks and weapon officers alike. Something ain't right. We've got enough stealth coating to make us look like a hole in space, and all five t-comps are tied straight through the sensors. We should have filled this guy with holes, and gotten off without a scratch.
"I think we've got a winner," the sensor tech shouted. "Running five-hundred-three meters just above and behind us, bearing nine-seven mark three, up fifty-five. Looks like he's trying to match our speed and heading. Readings are still pretty sketchy." As if to mock the tech, another blast pounded into Wildcard, sending several showers of sparks spinning off overhead lighting.
"Damage report!"
A second technician replied."Armour holding at sixty-three percent. No breaches yet, but we're taking one heck of a pounding here. We've got the drones on it. Just hope that guys doesn't decide to pop 'em off, 'cause the IRM just won't handle armour."
"Sensors— were you able to track that shot?"
The sensor operator nodded vigourously. "Matches that shadow reading pretty close."
"Helm—ninety degrees roll to port, right fifteen. All stop. Gunnery on my mark—full volley on that sensor shadow."
"Helm ninety degrees roll to port, coming right fifteen degrees. All stop, aye." Dutifully, the helmsman repeated the order even as he was twisting the ship around its centre axis, and swinging the nose to the right. Gail could feel the retro-burn shoving her forward in her safety restraints.
"Target acquired, sir!" She paused for only a heartbeat.
"Go!" The ship shuddered as a full broadside cut loose. The flux guns triggered first, followed immediately by a quartet of fusion guns. A cluster of swarm missiles spat from their tubes, and a millisecond later, the magnetic launchers in the secondary hardpoints hurled a pair of resonance disruptor missiles into the void.
The flux cannon both found their mark, washing away shielding as a fire hose would wash dirt from pavement. Three of the fusion beams tagged the corvette mere instants before the swarms peppered their sub-munitions across the fragile energy bubble. The shield almost held. The corvette's hide felt the wicked sting of unbridled subspace energies, as one of the disruptor missiles detonated against is outer skin. Matter became immaterial, and reality itself was redefined in the area of the immediate blast.
"That got 'im!" Gail wished she could share the man's enthusiasm, but corvettes were only a size-class smaller—and sometimes not even that much—when it came to combat vessels. Pound for pound, a "corvie" could give even a standard cruiser a run for its money, and while Wildcard fell under the HC designation, a corvette was still a threat, especially as it had been working in semi-tandem with a ranger.
The back of her mind could just make out the mechanical hum of the internal repair module, labouring to regenerate shields and produce the staggering amounts of power required to run a ship this size through its combat paces. Occasionally, the shadowy form of a repair drone could be seen around the edges of the main viewer, and a silver speck rapidly receding from their position told Gail that the evac shuttle was well on its way, apparently unmolested by the corvette.
"His signature beefed up a bunch with that one. He's hurting."
"So are we, Mister Mederal, so are we. How bad is he?"
"No real way of telling, other than that he's bleeding off some extra juice from somewhere; sure is helping tracking."
"Gunnery—keep on him. Hit him as your weapons permit. Helm? Ahead one-quarter, set for geosynchronous orbit over Forest City as soon as we get this drigger of our back. We've get to play 'god' to those ground troops."
Noises of death greeted his first waking thoughts, violent dreams replaced by a chilling, violent reality. For the first few moments, the sounds were as blurred as his vision, and something seemed wrong with his neck. He reached up to feel it, only to realise that his arm was noticeably bulkier than usual. What the?
Matt shook his head, a bear shaking off the wolves of undesired sleep. Where am I? He made to sit up, but a hand put him back down without effort. The sound gunfire was unmistakable, bringing a sharp, sudden image of a dirty, grizzled man swinging an auto-rifle barrel into line with his face. He saw the fire, heard the thunder, and recalled the blackness, all in the space of the two heartbeats he skipped.
He shot up panting, sweating, terrified, but the hand shoved him down much more forcefully, this time.
"Captain, stay down! The voice was familiar enough, but sounded as if it were emanating from a tin can set next to his head. "Wait… I'm in power armour. Speakers. What? Why am I …?"
"I'm afraid you'll have to say that again, sir. Too much noise to fight through, and these headsets aren't the greatest."
He had forgotten about the voice-activated comm-link. It was then that he realised who the voice belonged to. "Ylaran? What in Shralla's name is goin' on?"
"Sir, just stay down. The evac shuttle is en route, and we're going to get you out of here as soon as we can. Just sit tight…" He paused mid-sentence to crank another round off the recoilless. Matt had no idea where it had gone, but right now, he didn't care. As he looked heavenward through the badly cracked glass, the sight of a ring of marines—all in powered suits— was arrayed above him. They're doing all this for me? Overhead, black clouds of smoke popped all over the sky, saturating the air with a deadly hail of flak. Hot, red trails blazed by, leaving after images burning on his retinas, and he could hear the havoc of what must have been some manner of missile fire.
"Oh nyag… we need to move now! Matt felt something grab the arms of his suit, and he was hauled into the air before he could make heads or tails of the action. Next he knew, he was roughly bouncing, tumbling, and jerking along, suspended from the back of Lancer Ylaran's suit. At shortish, regular intervals, those bounces would be much more pronounced, and Matt's intuition took a sudden leap in a moment of unexpected calm. They've got warmechs. Big ones, from the sound and feel of it.
His whole world flipped a hard left and he felt himself go weightless for a second or so, before coming down hard. He heard Ylaran grunt through the speakers, a cacophony of screams providing an audile backdrop of the grimmest type.
"Just stay here. I'll draw this thing off us. Hide. Somewhere. Anywhere. Go!" Matt made to protest, but his comrade was already sprinting away. Matt righted himself, only to find that he was in a small alleyway between a pair of five-storey buildings. As with most of the other structures, these buildings looked as though they had been grown rather than built, and for a few seconds, Matt actually feared that the fury of the reddening sky would be enough to ignite them.
Looking to where the Kitaran had run, Matt could see his friend race across the arterial street, evading fire from above and too his respective right. The warmech was firing on him. He watched the Kitaran marine bounce over a pile of rubble on a quick tap of the jump jets, and lost sight of the other man as he landed.
Then it came into view. The warmech towered even over the buildings, and an ex-rancher had no inclination to even begin counting the gun ports. Its shadow hung heavy on the streets and buildings around it, and the slow, rhythmic motion gave an unearthly image of breathing, leaving Matt with the feeling that this was no machine, but rather some great, armoured beast of nightmares set free solely to destroy at its own, uncontrolled will. And it was turning to find his friend.
"Hey," he yelled, not thinking that the 'mech wasn't at all likely to hear him. Bolting to his feet, he nearly went down again as a wave of dizziness ripped through his head. He managed to catch himself on a wall, with one hand, and did his best to shake the feeling off. Even before his vision had stopped spinning, he was racing toward the metal monster, trying to figure out how to trigger the multi-purpose rocket strapped to his back. Something he did worked, and his lone shot was sent to punish the mechanical abomination for daring to attack such a puny being as the power-suit represented to it.
The rocket did little more than singe some paint, but it succeeded in getting the 'mech's attention. With painful slowness, it began a turn toward him, though its left arm was already tracking him. Matt tried, unsuccessfully, to kick in the jumpjets before the first salvo came his way, but was spared a quick and vapourous death by tripping over an open manhole. Scrambling to his feet, he tried anew to figure out the jets. The warmech rocked slightly, and Matt watched as it raised its right arm to strike back at the impudent fool who had dared attack it. It was Ylaran. The Kitaran had broken cover, and was pouncing on the 'mech, a bloodsucking flee on a rabid dog.
The power-armour flew over the hastily aimed shots, touching down just behind what appeared to be the 'mech's head. Matt cheered involuntarily as his best friend latched on to the brute, and began slicing through its hardened hide with his suit's laser.
Ylaran failed to see the massive hand that reached up to pluck him off the mech. The Peerless held the augmented infantryman at arm's length for a few seconds, as if gloating. Ylaran's right arm—the one with the laser—had been pinned by his side when he had been grabbed, but the Kitaran was still blazing away with his anti-infantry machine gun. The image hung still in Matt's mind for what seemed like an eternity. There was his friend, his comrade in arms—his brother—locked in mortal combat with a titan, spending his last moments of fury in a valiant, but sadly futile effort, the two combatants connected by an arm and a trail of fire that did naught to the 'mech.
Without warning, the Peerless' mighty fist contracted once, fast as a beating heart. Matt saw Ylaran's left arm stiffen skyward, spraying shells into the blood-soaked heavens, and then fall limply across the mechanical hand of the Peerless.
"Nooooo!" His tortured shout echoed into slow motion as the warmech carelessly tossed aside the broken power-armoured trooper the same way one tosses aside a used napkin. The suit hit the ground with a sick, dead thud, and Matt felt his legs buckle beneath him, dropping him to the ground in shock.
He was almost glad when the guns turned back at him. His blatant folly was laid naked before him; his failure was now complete. His friend's attempted atonement had been in vain. No! Not in vain!
Roaring with the rage of a thousand rivers, the battered captain leapt to his feet and bolted straight at the 'mech, dodging shots as he closed the thirty-meter gap. Instincts took over, and he triggered the jets without conscious thought. He nearly missed the Peerless as recklessness compounded with inexperience, but luck was with him, and he hooked a steel hand onto some hold just to the side of the spot his friend had so recently occupied. The Peerless' hand came around again, but Matt was ready, diving out of the way, and causing the fist to come crashing down on the 'mech's own head. Matt lost his footing, however, and slipped out over the edge of the canopy that protected the warmech's crew from harm, only just grabbing on before an otherwise inevitable plunge. As he hung in space, he could see the three-man team that animated the killing machine. They looked to be every bit the pirate scum he'd imagined them, but their faces all wore looks of surprise. How about I wipe those faces clean off, you murdering...
The laser came up, and Matt jammed it against the reinforced ferro-glass, pumping kilojoules into the 'mech's face, swinging on his precarious handhold to avoid another attempt to crush him. The swat just caught him, the staggering force nearly forfeiting his grip, but a vengeance-fueled will kept him hanging on.
Grateful for the damage the Peerless' battlefist had inflicted on its own head, Matt shifted his weapon to carve the cracks larger. Without warning, he was falling forward. It wasn't until the Peerless crashed onto its back that Matt realised what was happening. Dagger infantrymen were swarming the enormous machine, clustering around the head like sharks to a bleeding man. Rolling onto his back and sitting up, Matt could see the Daggers' scout mech sprawled across the mid-section of the larger mech, while one of the Peerless' legs was pressing heavily into a local tank. By Shralla, they double-teamed him!
A new shadow fell over him, and he spun about to see a second Peerless advancing on his team. A spread of missiles belched out of its torsos, pitting streets and blasting holes in buildings and militiamen alike. The fiery caress of laser beams neatly pared through the defenders' armour, and a deadly staccato of four auto-cannon left Matt's ears ringing, as lines of death walked toward the fallen warmech—towards his own troops.
His attempted dive for safety was just enough, but some of his fellows weren't so lucky. Pirate infantry were now running up alongside the great, armoured beast, and even the support tank was managing to crank shots their way, despite having had a tread blown clean off.
The rout was on. And then, as if Shralla herself had mercifully decided to impose her will, the blood-red darkness was vanquished by a blinding light and a gargantuan boom.
Matt had no idea how long he'd been out. All he knew, when he came to, was that the already-fallen Peerless was still laying on its back, its face gone, its crew dead. The other warmech was a glowing skeleton of its old self. Molten structural supports dumped heat into the air, making it shimmer and dance. Pirate marines were splayed in a radial pattern about the charred 'mech's feet; none moved. The air was hot, and the rich smell of ozone played its way through the cracks in Matt's suit, and into his nostrils.
At first, the rain was but a drop, then a second. And then, as if Vedrellion itself was mourning the destruction, the sky opened into a downpour, cleansing the air of smoke, washing the blood of the slain into the rain gutters, cooling the heated anger of the now silent guns.
A wind kicked up, mild at first, but growing rapidly and steadily. An indistinct whine rang in his head, crescendoing with the burgeoning gale. Somewhere in his mind he could hear fast footsteps, shouts that vaguely sounded like, "where is he," and replies he could only interpret as "I don't know," or "try over there," or "please don't let him be dead."
A dark shape loomed over him, and through the mists in his eyes, he thought he could discern a human face. The raindrop that ran sideways across his face was both hot and surprising. But even as the voices faded from coherence, he realised that the raindrop was his own tear. As the silent sobs started, he suddenly wanted to embrace the darkness that was creeping over him.
Ylaran was dead.