The air in the inner courtyard was becoming unbreathable.
The nearby breath attacks from the Hydra-Drake—intermittent lances of emerald rotting fire and high-pressure bio-acid—had melted three heavy concrete pillboxes on the eastern firing terrace into glowing, bubbling melted rock waste. The stench of charred bone, boiled away copper, and scorched sulfur rolled over the barricades in choking waves.
Along the backup stone retaining walls, the commoner marksmen were down to their final magazines.
“Coolant failure on Turret Four!” a backup sergeant screamed, ducking as a spray of acid-burning shrapnel peppered his sandbag stronghold. “The magnetic barrels are warping! We can’t maintain nonstop fire!”
Arthur Vance knelt behind an overturned supply hauler, ejecting a steaming brass sabot casing from the breech of his ARC-7 Mag-Carbine. His left arm, strapped across his chest, ached with a sharp, throbbing burn where the physical strain of combat had pulled at his stitches. Blood had seeped through the white bandages, staining the dark wool of his coat in a damp crimson patch.
Beside him, Grimm lay panting heavily on the gravel. The dire-hound’s black glass osteoderms were chipped in four places. A shallow shrapnel jagged cut along his left shoulder cried dark, sluggish blood. Yet the hound’s jaws remained tightly clenched. His amber eyes were locked onto the breach, his muscular body trembling with coiled, relentless fury.
