Dressing myself hurriedly in white sackcloth, then daubing my face with ruberian, or rubric, crocus paste, I subsequently re-invigorated a death-bound and sputtering grass lamp, doing so with poison-water; before depending a peacock feather from my neck on a juvenile-hair band, made from my own locks when I had been but twelve seasons old. I, outpouringly, let out this incantation following these actions: "Aztakruu wi'daakni imiikaruu tezaankti!" A dirge for our downed fyrd-men.

I, soon after, footed to the town square, there meeting lamenters, all genuinely mournful. Our gallant combatants' mothers wailed and scraped the earth, partially occluding themselves in clouds of dust, some would cling to their departed sons, as if to vivify them, until the actuality of their departure would once again scathe their souls and they'd cry out; the other lamenters shed tears and crawled on the ground, others dashed their own heads upon the granite of the nearby road, a few embraced the mothers in shared misery. Every person was appropriately clad in sackcloth, their hair unadorned and begrimed, nobody had dared bathe.

We proceeded to wrap the fallen feordmen's hylic constituencies in thin, black woollen robes, starting on the left with one fold and finishing on the right with another, until four such wrappings had been concluded; eight robes for each one to facilitate their psychic journeys, at the conclusion of which the Sky Lord would receive them into the Wisdom Realm.

Their minds would be joined with the gods'. The High Priest themselves, a being of rare extraction and vessel through which we conversed with the divines, administered the next ritual, They filled the warriors' noses with whelp's blood, until overflown, then drove sharpened arborescent-grass stakes through their eyes, gouging them and placing the contents in a ceramic-cast and gold-lined sanctified bowl to be fed to the Gods' Tiger later in the day. They preceded us to the holy spring of Ge'eyaki, and we followed thither. This holy site is situated above the plains, on a low hill, and is some distance away from the city. Upon our arrival, They pushed Their left thumb between Their right fore and middle fingers; at this juncture, speaking is forbidden, one observes and communes with the Earth Mother. On the right was a specially dug hole, two horses high and ten across, sanctified for interment with employ of sacred herbs and purity prayers, we lowered ourselves into this, positioning the bodies so that they faced each other, as though seated and animate; we were hoisted out upon the Funerary Cord of white linen by Them, this concluded, They afterwards said: "Ge'eyaki waizduuki bezraasharattuuknii wookpuuktaaki itulaakraantakzaarakuu." Thrice-reciting, they lifted a smoothened birch screen from the black mud, allowing untarnished spring-water into the black wool-overlaid guerriers' earthly abode.

A clear-glass phial of toxic groundwater-not to be confused with fermented aqua vitæ, which can be drunk-was raised up for all to see, and kissed; a thin layer was spread over the surface. Iridescences swam in this layer, wherewith dwelt the Celestial Pāvōnēs. Another prayer was recited: "Ge'eyaki tasraaknuuti woozrooni damghatn'a ekzakri." Whereupon a cneht, or errand-boy, held up a lit lamp; Their Most High clapped four times over it. With it was the poison-water ignited. Effluxing thencefrom on a cobblestone route, that cut between sacred quince trees, we came afore a limestone outcrop and there stood. As we contemplated existence, in keeping with the mōrēs, we observed the hopeful aureate dawn, and spoke; at which time it's considered appropriate and lawful.

Division Invisible slithered, as loud as the slow wind, amongst the tall grasses, a lemon and nectar sillage hung in the air; violets, sagebrush, lemon trees, golden-hued olives, brunions, and pears, all grew abundantly on all sides. The Division advanced in close formation, moving on practiced heels, weapons thumbed and held ready to fire; soon, the palace came into full view, a redoubtable granite construction, forty or so metres high and at least a kilometre in width.

Eight windows opened on the lower levels, that could be counted, the rooms behind them seemed to be unguarded; Strausser made signals in the direction of the lowest window, to the left, the men went there as told, he asked for a volunteer.

Chuzbris Shecham, an adroit corporal, decided to enter, but only managed to reach halfway when he was stuck at the waist, he began thrashing his legs about in apparent distress, and we tugged at them to liberate our comrade. This was to no avail, he just wouldn't or couldn't budge; we re-made the attempt, when he ceased moving. He fell out, only he was bloody and missing a head.

"Qarkaadan aankza!" Shouted a savage-eyed, dusky, olid, nude man; his voice thick with ire. He brandished a thin-edged bronze sword, glistening with the corporal's blood.

We opened fire, and tore his gut open with a rapid stream of bullets, he fell on the pottery that had been littering the room; his alarm brought over two veritable megaliths, chiseled for combat, these men of prodigious stature wore leather and iron armour, wolf-hides draped over their shoulders, down to their thighs, they had the lazy looks of men accustomed to gratuitous bloodshed and did not rush more than was required in answering our Division's charge.

With thewy arms, they drew forth great silvery sabres, and swung them in an arc, hacking off Cheyam's own arms, quite literally disarming him; pointing my pistol and taking an unsteady stance, I pressed on the trigger with plumb-heavy fingers, the report was deafening and one of the fleshy statues collapsed, a crater having formed in its pate, brown curls now redder than rust.

Grabbing his sword, I cut into the other's face; blood rushed through his cloven nostrils as he heaved forward onto the grass, bellowing out, I turned on my heel and sank it in the base of his neck, delivering the final blow. As a Hythnian, I handle a sword better than I do guns.

"Leave no survivors." Spat Lieutenant Strausser in a husky, breathless voice.

"What of the king?" I reminded.

"He's fated for death anyways. We'll present his 'head' to the locals instead." He grimaced and we continued to the palace's entrance.

It was iron-reinforced and duo-ported; unfortunately for the king, these doors had been left open by the supercilious warders, when they'd answered the gunfire; continuing unbarred, we passed down a granite hallway, strangely narrow, given the generally grand dimensions of the palace; two abreast, we reached a flimsy pole-grass door, which we easily kicked open, advancing bravely into the enemy's lair. No sooner had we done so than that the autochthones unleashed a rain of sharp-tipped arrows, firing with abandon, showing neither quarter nor mercy; we responded similarly, with symphonies of bullets, touching their hearts, and breaking their knees and necks, hardly a bullet missed in our desperation's cold aim. Rounding a corridor to the north-west, speedy Strausser fell back, headless, by the aquiline King's own blade.

Upon sighting him, we opened fire, but the ancient man was gone, before we could blink. Clutching our weapons, we approached the headless corpse at a right angle-Cheyam shrieked and coughed bloodily-we turned in time, gunning down another nude, elderly native; Cheyam had fallen with his hand to his throat. Back-to-back and in close formation, we scanned the bemazing hallways, an arrow struck a wooden torch on the west, we fired frenziedly, chipping away the stone and clay; the next one struck Menuchadim in his left eye, breaking formation. Anuzedyahava was struck in the chest, as was Monuzelim; both collapsed with torturous exhales.

Mochlim and Shechuvot broke the briefly regained formation, they leapt into the courtyard-inundating the indigenes-gunpowder ablaze; splintering bones and puncturing flesh, leaving archers in heaps of slumped over, blood-soaked corpses, none escaping their demise. A fresh group rushed to meet us, issuing guttural cries; they encircled our noble warriors in a primal fury, crushing them with an unerring volley of silver-tipped arrows. Whipping out my pistol, I shot an archer in the chest, sending him flying backwards, thus fleeing. It weighed what seemed to be twenty tonnes in my clammy hand. I glided over the grass, ripped my flesh against thorns, and trampled upon some delicate roses; three natives stood ahead, each one armoured and fierce-eyed, motionless and unarmed.

"How foolish." I thought, reloading my shoulder-slung machine carbine.

Metal slashed across my cheek, as I was thinking on this; I crawled towards my now out-of-grasp gun, a sack-hooded dwarf, the same one who'd knocked me down, kicked my head to the side-sinking his curved iron sword into my gut-I groaned in pain, as he brought it back down; he strained his back visibly in doing so, exploiting his weakened position, I wrapped my legs around his ankle, twisting it, rolled sideways, and disarmed him of his sword; crushing the base of his neck, I separated it from the spine, the leather grip did not sit firmly in hand; notwithstanding, I had, somehow, mustered the force to deal a death blow. The others charged at me then; I picked up my pistol, calmly, for they were at least two-hundred metres away, and aimed. Filling them with lead, I arrested their speedy charge; the first held his side and stared at it in horror, as his heart bled out; and the second howled in pain, blood gushing out of his groin, and onto his knees.

I ran, clearing every reserve of energy within me-opened the driver's door, and stabbed at the ignition pad, a touch-sensitive fixture, it was unresponsive- "Midala, are you there?", I addressed its electronic engine- "Activated.", came the response- "Drive!", I screamed. It whizzed and whirred, coming to life, the lights, too, blinked on, the car spun backwards and zoomed off, I was tossed up and down, as it screeched across the rough terrain, arriving, soon thereafter, at the clearing. "Stop!", I yelled, General Waylish was writhing about, in a pool of bile, an arrow protruding from his liver.

I exited the vehicle and, quickly, looked around; no one. "General, you're injured. Can you walk?"

"It's fine, I stopp-d th-m, w-th this. Y-es I can."He showed me his sub-machine gun; holding, but not pulling, the trigger.

"Let's get you inside, it's too dangerous. Midala, board aircraft!"

"Boarding"

Blood fell onto my clothes as it rushed out of my gut, it spurted out, with greater force, when the wound was torn open; I pressed on, nonetheless.

I drew his left arm over my shoulder and led him to the infirmary. It was no more than three metres wide and about four long, he dropped his gun onto the floor and Dr. Rollgridge began examining his wound; his fear, or maybe sorrow, was poorly concealed by his glasses-his beard seemed to pull away from his chin.

Fierce battle-cries erupted outside, prompting me to rush to the cockpit, in the greatest agony, "Fly!", I screamed, at the trifling pilots. They shifted and twisted various levers and cranks, stabbing at the "fuel" symbol, displayed visibly in bright colours, on the touch-sensitive screen, doing so thrice, before the engines oscillated and the rotors turned. The plane lifted up, off of the ground, within some seconds, whilst being pelted with rocks and arrows; easily endured by our reinforced exterior.

Here concludes Sergeant Echuvëm Lachshud's account of the New Costolinian Battle.

© Elvis Luis Sifuentes