
By Phillip Gurtler
The first weak streaks of sunlight were beginning to filter through as Milwer Nylber glanced down at his watch.
He muttered under his breath as he lifted his eyes back up and across no-quar’s land. His relief wouldn’t be here for another hour and with the death of Yawdryl Chythl a few days ago, Nylber was left in charge of the squad’s four other remaining rhyflers. Each of these young quar looked up to him and it was his job to keep them alive.
As his eyes swept the barren land scape in front of him, they stopped briefly on the pair of destroyed Crusader Tractor’s that had led the last assault on their lines. The two metal monsters were stopped mere meters from the trench and had threatened to overwhelm the entire line before being stopped by a field howitzer that had been rushed forward.
As they went up in flames, Chythl had screamed: “Follow me boys, we have them now!”
Charging out of the trench, Chythl’s doru sub-machine gun had barked like a mad dog as he encouraged his squad forward in a furious counterattack. Nylber had climbed out of the trench just in time to watch as Yawdryl Chythl was struck down by the first burst of fire from the Crusader trenches. Nine rhyflers had followed Chythl over the top that day. Only the five of them crawled back to friendly lines that evening.
This war wasn’t anything like the minor conflicts he had grown up fighting. Those were small wars of daring and élan, of quars fighting with honour. But those were stories of wars past, and this new age of industrialization had changed this Long War of 700 years into something new and terrifying.