"Bozhe moy," Orelov whispered to himself from atop his white stallion. Trees lay tipped over and charred for miles. It was a horror beyond his wildest imagination, like something out of a bad opium dream.
He knew he was about six miles from the First Civilization site they had gone to attack. Was this how the Templars struck back? Was this the true scope of the dangers of First Civilization technology? The noise had woke him up even back at the cabin, sent his horse whinnying like crazy, shattered the glass on his windows and made the cabin shake like an earthquake. All the Assassins he had sent out were surely not even skeletons after an explosion like this. What had triggered this? Had the Templars done it, in a viscous act of spite, unable to hold their facility, or had something been hit in the fighting, like a stray bullet igniting a crate of TNT, except a million times stronger?
What final moments had Feodor, Viktor, Akim, Radko, Ivan, Alik, and Katya been like? What was the last sight they saw?
He thought back to the wound on his right leg: given to him by a Templar agent months ago, it had ironically saved his life. Else, he would have led the charge himself. Instead, he stayed back. It was a decision he had only made by a hair.