Your support makes Blue Moon possible (Patreon)The sun blazed down on the Konar River Valley, which ran through the heart of the Nuristan Province of Afghanistan. No matter that the summer rains passed through on a regular basis, the place still blazed like the fiery pits of hell. The river and it's tributaries, mixed with the passing storms, made the place almost painfully humid. The rugged terrain was sparsely vegitated, the mountain sides errupting with rocky out croppings of rust colored stone.
Dorian Grimm reached up, one of his dust covered hands running across his brow, smearing the reddish colored earth across his face as he glanced up at the sun, eyes narrowing slightly as a soft sigh parted chapped lips. Dorian was a tall man, standing over six feet tall with a willowy frame that could have been cast from the stone around him. His flesh was tanned with long exposure to the wicked sun in this part of the world, weathered from his life out doors and the rigors of the violence in his past. Blue eyes shone like twin saphires as he looked up at the light blue of the sky above.
He was a handsome enough man, though his face had the rugged lines of a man not unfamiliar with conflict, for it had been what he'd succored throughout his life. His familiarity of this land was not from texts or field trips to study it's archeological wonders, no it was far more base and brutal. He'd spent years here, wading through the blood of the Taliban's religious fanatics, and now he'd returned, to learn what was held beneath this blood soaked soil.
Pushing thirty five he was still youthful and vigorous, with the same carriage and strength he'd had when he was a decade younger and on his first campaign here in the middle east. His eyes finally lowered from the sunny sky towards those that stood about him, watching in silence as they dug through the rocky out croppings that were in fact the ruins of an ancient fortress, long since abandoned and forgotten. Younger than him, all of them save one, the lead of this dig, one Dr. Walter Riddley, a wisened old man who'd spent his life afield, but digging through tombs and not making bodies to fill them.
Riddley now looked at an anicent sliver of pottery that one of the younger assistants had pulled from the ground, eyes sharp grey as they looked over the ancient bit of molded clay. Dorian watched him, his right hand touching the warm plastic hand grip of his M4 carbine. The weapon was more than a formality, in this part of the world it was a way of life, and he'd refused to come without the party being armed. There had been exclamations of dismay when he'd passed out other weapons to the peaceful lot of scientists, demanding they learn to be proficient with them. Revealing the scarred gunshot wound on his left shoulder had silenced their resentful out cries as he'd explained how he'd earned the wound in that same province.
So now they were here, standing under the blazing sun as Dorian's gaze swept the small group and then worked it's way up the cliff faces and rugged mountain sides. His eyes paused on something and he brought up his rifle, staring through the 3x ACOG scope at what appeared to be a shadow in the hillside. His eyes narrowed a bit as he looked through the sight, the tritium chevron inside glowing red as he found himself staring into the mouth of a cave. He'd not noticed it before, which was suprising, since his sharp eyes tended to catch such minor details, eyes trained to find the hiding places of the enemy and route them.
"Walter." Dorian said, his voice deep and calm, drawing the other man's attention. Dorian pointed with the weapon towards the cave, a scant kilometer away. "There's a cave up there that I'm going to check out. You lot keep a sharp eye and make sure you have the radio on, I won't be long." Walter's eyes cast towards the cavern and he arched an eyebrow.
"You sure it's safe to go that far alone Mr. Grimm?" Asked the elderly professor. Dorian responded with a simple nod before dropping the weapon to hang back across his chest. Out of habit he checked the security of the knife that was attached to his belt, ensuring the long, wicked bladed karambit was securely in it's place. He was as comfortable with the knife as his rifle, and in close quarters like the cavern it would be of more use to him than the rifle ever would, but that's only if trouble lay within.
He began his short trek up the rugged hillside, some times walking and some times climbing, pulling his powerful frame over jagged rocks, the callouses on his hands the only thing that saved him from painful bleeding lacerations. Within a matter of a few minutes he found himself standing at the entrance of the cave and brought up his rifle, thumb brushing the pressure switch that turned on the Surefire weapon light attached under the barrel. He shone the light into the cavern as he stepped in, sweeping the light around himself, searching for obvious signs of danger and human habitation.
After a few moments he was comfortable that the place did not hold dangers made by man, no pressure switches or trip wires that would cause the detonation of an IED (Improvised Explosive Device). Such would be a tragic event in a place like this, where the blast would reflect and amplify, ensuring a rapid death that he was not quite yet ready to face. He stepped slowly into the place, his soft soled boots silent on the long untouched floor.
As he entered a feeling of cold crept down his spine, as if icy nails raked down his back. It was as if something were trying to deter him from entering this place. Not one to give into simple superstition, he still wasn't one to overlook danger. He spun about, weapon at the ready and checked the entrance to the cave, to ensure that he wasn't being watched. The feeling subsided slightly, but did not leave. There was something wrong about this place, but what it was exactly he could not determine.
He continued his solitary trek into the depths of the cavern, finding that it narrowed to a tunnel, a tunnel in which he had to duck slightly to fit inside of. He kept his pace slow and his senses alert for danger. Each slow, soft step took him deeper inside the cavern, down that tunnel, which narrowed slightly more, giving him a moment's panic, and a wonder if it would become too tight for him to progress without becoming stuck.
His fears were soon abated, for the cavern opened only a few meters past where his light had shown. The cavern he now entered was far larger than the first. He shone the light around the cavern slowly, eyes sharp as he took another few steps inside. A flash of metal against the back wall caught his eye when his light shone over it, causing him to draw closer still. There, on the back wall was some kind of statue, cast in gold and bronze. His eyes narrowed as he looked upon it, warily approaching it.
The cavern was as silent as a tomb, his soft footsteps seeming to echo unnaturally loud in this place. His eyes affixed the statue at the back, the statue of a woman of some kind.. But no, it wasn't a woman. While it had attractive feminine features there was something utterly diabolical about this thing cast of gold and bronze, this thing with it's hands out stretched, as if proffering something. Long, wicked fingers, the tips claw like, led up well formed arms to a supple feminine form. Upper body, neck, face and upper legs were all human, but there were subtle differences that made the statue unnerving. Horns sprouted from the 'woman's' forehead, wings rose from her back and her lower legs were hooved, like some strange beast. He swore it also appeared she had a tail wrapped around one leg.
His sharp eyes looked over the statue and then back to her hands, to the object within that was proffered. It was a circular stone tablet, cast in onyx, seeming to absorb the light that his flash light cast upon it. He paused, eyes sweeping suspiciously around himself, as if searching for eyes that were not there, eyes that looked down disprovingly at his presence there. He pushed his idiotic fears aside and reached his hand out, finger tips brushing the black stone that was offered. It was unnaturally cold to the touch, which made him hesitate a moment, eyes locking on it as he forced himself to take a breath.
His calloused left hand wrapped around the fist sized piece of stone, lifting it from the fingers that cradled it. It was not as heavy as he expected, but that strange cold that eminated from it seemed to soak into his very bones, as if weakening him. He shook himself and kept ahold of it, even though some part of his mind screamed for him to cast this strange, unnatural, thing aside. Ignoring his mind, pushing the fear aside he turned, with one last cautious glance at the statue, which now seemed to be smiling ruefully at him. He shook himself free of the statue's gaze and turned, making haste from the cavern and back to the dig site.
As he descended the hillside he noted that the other people he'd come with were moving about frantically, as if searching for cover. He snatched up his radio and keyed it. "Main camp.. come in. It's Grimm." There was static for a moment and then a frantic voice came back over the radio.
"Grimm! It's Walter! We just caught radio traffic, it sounds like we've got trouble. The 'terp said that he heard Taliban talking about attacking us!" Even over the radio there was fear in the man's voice, enough to make the hair on Dorian's neck stand up. He keyed the radio again. "Walter. You and the others get to cover, you stay out of sight, I'll be there soon. Try and use the Harris radio to raise the military, you've got the frequency plugged into preset one, make sure you hook it up to the SATCOM system, understand?"
"Yes Dorian, but please hurry, we're scientists, not soldiers!" Walter implored him, even as Dorian practically sprinted down the hill, tucking the strange stone into his pocket, which in the light, was now revealed to be a rune of some kind, it's strange etched symbols seeming to crawl in the light. He buttoned his pocket and promised himself, that if they lived through this, he'd show it to Walter.
He made better time down the hill than up, leaping down small ledges he'd had to climb and running/sliding down the shale and sand that covered the hill. His weapon was now held in both hands as he made his daring dash towards the rest of his digging crew. He slid behind cover as he heard the first of the gunfire start. The tell tale -crack- of the Kalishnakof rifle filled the air as a 7.62mm round hissed, passing far too near for Dorian's liking. He remained under cover, fingers curling around the stock of his weapon. He thumbed the safety free and laid his head back against the warm stone for a moment, taking a deep breath to steady himself.
He heard someone talking frantically on the radio, trying to communicate with the military, who were not accustomed to civilians using the radio. "Damnit!" Dorian swore, stepping out from behind cover and bringing his weapon to bare. He spotted movement, his keen eye immediately determining it not to be wild life, but human and depressed the trigger twice. The weapon was on semi-automatic and two rounds spat from the end of the barrel, the high pitched crack of the 5.56mm rounds leaving the barrel painful to the ear.
He moved quickly, weapon still up, as he darted between cover to the foolish young dig assistant who was trying to talk to the confused radio operator on the other end. He snatched the hand set from the young woman's hand and held it to his ear, waiting a moment before depressing the transmit button. "Marauder Main.. Marauder Main.. This is Reaper Dig Team. Enemy contact, south 300 meters from our location." He said calmly into the radio, lowering the handset a moment to spin out and return fire, three well placed rounds causing one of their assailants to duck behind cover.
He snatched up the reciever again and transmitted the coordinates to their location. "Requesting Sierra Wiskey Tango. Hot Copy, Over." The radio operator responded quickly, now that he was on the radio with someone who knew how to request help. "Roger Reaper Actual, SWT inbound, ETA 5 Mikes."
"Roger 5 Mikes!" Dorian said.. "Reaper Actual out." He dropped the hand set into the lap of the young woman. "Monitor that and tell me when Black Knight comes on station." The young woman looked at him flabbergasted. "The HELICOPTERS!" He roared at her before stepping out and firing again. This time one of the rounds found it's mark, slamming into the torso of one of their assailants, dropping the man to the ground. Unlike the military Dorian had loaded hollow tip nossler rounds into his magazine. Upon impact the bullet expanded, tearing flesh and doing greater damage than the 5.56mmm ball that was issued to the military. The scream was not something that bothered Dorian, he'd heard too many before.
His companions were now shooting, though it was ineffective at best, not even accurate enough to keep the Taliban fighters from closing on their position. By the looks of it there were at least 20 remaining, and at least five of them were close enough that it would come to hand to hand fighting before the helicopters ever arrived. "Damn my luck." Said Dorian as he swung out, firing off a burst of rounds that slammed into the chest of one of the nearest Taliban fighters, dropping the man, blood spilling allong with spittle from his lips. The other militants didn't pay the man any heed as they advanced. Dorian ducked behind cover, dropping his magazine, which was running low, and replacing it with a fresh 30 round magazine.
Stepping to fire again he found himself far to close to one of the enemy fighters, who let out a hellish war cry and charged him, a knife in hand and bloodlust in his eyes. Dorian stepped back and dropped as the man reached him, thrusting with his knife. He loosed his weapon, letting it fall by the wayside, but not away from him, for the sling kept it close to his body. Powerful hands siezed the filthy wrist of the man who attacked him, diverting the knife that was aimed for Dorian's throat.
Dorian drove his booted feet up into the man's stomach and rolled, loosing his grip on the wrist with his right hand, grasping for his own knife. He drew it from it's sheath as he rolled and came up atop the man, who was now on his back and gasping for air from the powerfully violent strike that had been driven into his abdomen. His quest for breath was short lived and ended in a gurgling sound and the spurting of crimson blood as Dorian drove his razor sharp karambit through arteries in the man's throat. Blood soaked Dorian's chest and pants, soaking through to touch even the strange rune that was in his pocket.
So lost in the thrum of battle he didn't feel the stone grow warm and pulse as the blood touched it. It now thrummed, like some strange beacon, but Dorian was lost in the sang of battle and did not hear or feel it's strange call. He rolled from the dead man's body and brought his weapon up, thumbing the safety back off and depressing the trigger from the prone position, sending rounds down range with lethal efficiency, dropping three more men before the blessed scream of a 2.75in rocket filled the air and the sound of a detonation in the midst of the enemy made him breath a sigh of relief.
Two OH-58 Kiowa helicopters passed overhead, no more than 200 meters off the ground, their engines thrumming as they unleashed death from above. The scream of the rockets and the sounds of their automatic cannons filled the air. Dorian rose to his feet and cheered as he brought his weapon to bare again and depressed the trigger, the small rounds that were launched from the barrel minimal in effectiveness compared to the high explosive and flechette rockets that the helicopters fired. Those that didn't die scattered and ran, fleeing back into the craggy hills, their thirst for American blood diminished by the presence of the blessed dark angels. The helicopters swung back around and Dorian held up a fist in salute. The pilot of one of the choppers retured it with a wave before keying the mic on the helicopter's on board radio.
"Reaper Actual this is Black Knight 6-3.. Come in Reaper Actual." Dorian snatched up the hand mic and returned the call. "Black Knight 6-3 this is Reaper Actual. God Bless you brother!"
The pilot's voice was cheery as he responded in kind. "Any time Reaper Actual, we've got UH-60s inbound to your location for pick up, ETA 2 Mikes."
"Good to hear Black Knight, we appreciate the help, when you get back to the world, look me up, I owe you boys a beer!" Dorian replied.
"I'll do that Reaper Actual. We're on station until the Black Hawks pick you up." Replied the pilot.
"PACK UP! We're pulling out! 2 minutes!" Dorian roared at his comrades before he dropped the hand mic and went to collect his things, even as the familiar sound of the incoming UH-60s drew closer. The rest of the dig team scurried to pack what they could, not complaining about their hasty rescue. This place wasn't worth dying over, and neither were the contents beneath the blood soaked soil.
----
Eight hours later Dorian was laying on the old green army cot in the foam sprayed tent that served as their sleeping quarters, his own area blocked off by blankets that were hung on 550 cord, giving him some privacy. He'd stripped out of his blood stained clothes and then dropped them off to wash. It was as he'd gone through his clothes that he'd found the strange rune. He held it now, staring at it silently as he rolled it before his face. He shrugged slightly and then opened his ruck sack, tucking it safely inside.
He'd tell Walter about it tomorrow, the poor man was still in shock from what had happened earlier and it would do him no good to think too much at the moment. Dorian closed his eyes as he laced his fingers behind his head and closed his eyes, his chest rising and falling slowly as he sought out the tender embrace of sleep.
Sleep did come, and rather swiftly, allowing him to descend into the dark, usually dreamless realm of slumber.
Dorian Grimm reached up, one of his dust covered hands running across his brow, smearing the reddish colored earth across his face as he glanced up at the sun, eyes narrowing slightly as a soft sigh parted chapped lips. Dorian was a tall man, standing over six feet tall with a willowy frame that could have been cast from the stone around him. His flesh was tanned with long exposure to the wicked sun in this part of the world, weathered from his life out doors and the rigors of the violence in his past. Blue eyes shone like twin saphires as he looked up at the light blue of the sky above.
He was a handsome enough man, though his face had the rugged lines of a man not unfamiliar with conflict, for it had been what he'd succored throughout his life. His familiarity of this land was not from texts or field trips to study it's archeological wonders, no it was far more base and brutal. He'd spent years here, wading through the blood of the Taliban's religious fanatics, and now he'd returned, to learn what was held beneath this blood soaked soil.
Pushing thirty five he was still youthful and vigorous, with the same carriage and strength he'd had when he was a decade younger and on his first campaign here in the middle east. His eyes finally lowered from the sunny sky towards those that stood about him, watching in silence as they dug through the rocky out croppings that were in fact the ruins of an ancient fortress, long since abandoned and forgotten. Younger than him, all of them save one, the lead of this dig, one Dr. Walter Riddley, a wisened old man who'd spent his life afield, but digging through tombs and not making bodies to fill them.
Riddley now looked at an anicent sliver of pottery that one of the younger assistants had pulled from the ground, eyes sharp grey as they looked over the ancient bit of molded clay. Dorian watched him, his right hand touching the warm plastic hand grip of his M4 carbine. The weapon was more than a formality, in this part of the world it was a way of life, and he'd refused to come without the party being armed. There had been exclamations of dismay when he'd passed out other weapons to the peaceful lot of scientists, demanding they learn to be proficient with them. Revealing the scarred gunshot wound on his left shoulder had silenced their resentful out cries as he'd explained how he'd earned the wound in that same province.
So now they were here, standing under the blazing sun as Dorian's gaze swept the small group and then worked it's way up the cliff faces and rugged mountain sides. His eyes paused on something and he brought up his rifle, staring through the 3x ACOG scope at what appeared to be a shadow in the hillside. His eyes narrowed a bit as he looked through the sight, the tritium chevron inside glowing red as he found himself staring into the mouth of a cave. He'd not noticed it before, which was suprising, since his sharp eyes tended to catch such minor details, eyes trained to find the hiding places of the enemy and route them.
"Walter." Dorian said, his voice deep and calm, drawing the other man's attention. Dorian pointed with the weapon towards the cave, a scant kilometer away. "There's a cave up there that I'm going to check out. You lot keep a sharp eye and make sure you have the radio on, I won't be long." Walter's eyes cast towards the cavern and he arched an eyebrow.
"You sure it's safe to go that far alone Mr. Grimm?" Asked the elderly professor. Dorian responded with a simple nod before dropping the weapon to hang back across his chest. Out of habit he checked the security of the knife that was attached to his belt, ensuring the long, wicked bladed karambit was securely in it's place. He was as comfortable with the knife as his rifle, and in close quarters like the cavern it would be of more use to him than the rifle ever would, but that's only if trouble lay within.
He began his short trek up the rugged hillside, some times walking and some times climbing, pulling his powerful frame over jagged rocks, the callouses on his hands the only thing that saved him from painful bleeding lacerations. Within a matter of a few minutes he found himself standing at the entrance of the cave and brought up his rifle, thumb brushing the pressure switch that turned on the Surefire weapon light attached under the barrel. He shone the light into the cavern as he stepped in, sweeping the light around himself, searching for obvious signs of danger and human habitation.
After a few moments he was comfortable that the place did not hold dangers made by man, no pressure switches or trip wires that would cause the detonation of an IED (Improvised Explosive Device). Such would be a tragic event in a place like this, where the blast would reflect and amplify, ensuring a rapid death that he was not quite yet ready to face. He stepped slowly into the place, his soft soled boots silent on the long untouched floor.
As he entered a feeling of cold crept down his spine, as if icy nails raked down his back. It was as if something were trying to deter him from entering this place. Not one to give into simple superstition, he still wasn't one to overlook danger. He spun about, weapon at the ready and checked the entrance to the cave, to ensure that he wasn't being watched. The feeling subsided slightly, but did not leave. There was something wrong about this place, but what it was exactly he could not determine.
He continued his solitary trek into the depths of the cavern, finding that it narrowed to a tunnel, a tunnel in which he had to duck slightly to fit inside of. He kept his pace slow and his senses alert for danger. Each slow, soft step took him deeper inside the cavern, down that tunnel, which narrowed slightly more, giving him a moment's panic, and a wonder if it would become too tight for him to progress without becoming stuck.
His fears were soon abated, for the cavern opened only a few meters past where his light had shown. The cavern he now entered was far larger than the first. He shone the light around the cavern slowly, eyes sharp as he took another few steps inside. A flash of metal against the back wall caught his eye when his light shone over it, causing him to draw closer still. There, on the back wall was some kind of statue, cast in gold and bronze. His eyes narrowed as he looked upon it, warily approaching it.
The cavern was as silent as a tomb, his soft footsteps seeming to echo unnaturally loud in this place. His eyes affixed the statue at the back, the statue of a woman of some kind.. But no, it wasn't a woman. While it had attractive feminine features there was something utterly diabolical about this thing cast of gold and bronze, this thing with it's hands out stretched, as if proffering something. Long, wicked fingers, the tips claw like, led up well formed arms to a supple feminine form. Upper body, neck, face and upper legs were all human, but there were subtle differences that made the statue unnerving. Horns sprouted from the 'woman's' forehead, wings rose from her back and her lower legs were hooved, like some strange beast. He swore it also appeared she had a tail wrapped around one leg.
His sharp eyes looked over the statue and then back to her hands, to the object within that was proffered. It was a circular stone tablet, cast in onyx, seeming to absorb the light that his flash light cast upon it. He paused, eyes sweeping suspiciously around himself, as if searching for eyes that were not there, eyes that looked down disprovingly at his presence there. He pushed his idiotic fears aside and reached his hand out, finger tips brushing the black stone that was offered. It was unnaturally cold to the touch, which made him hesitate a moment, eyes locking on it as he forced himself to take a breath.
His calloused left hand wrapped around the fist sized piece of stone, lifting it from the fingers that cradled it. It was not as heavy as he expected, but that strange cold that eminated from it seemed to soak into his very bones, as if weakening him. He shook himself and kept ahold of it, even though some part of his mind screamed for him to cast this strange, unnatural, thing aside. Ignoring his mind, pushing the fear aside he turned, with one last cautious glance at the statue, which now seemed to be smiling ruefully at him. He shook himself free of the statue's gaze and turned, making haste from the cavern and back to the dig site.
As he descended the hillside he noted that the other people he'd come with were moving about frantically, as if searching for cover. He snatched up his radio and keyed it. "Main camp.. come in. It's Grimm." There was static for a moment and then a frantic voice came back over the radio.
"Grimm! It's Walter! We just caught radio traffic, it sounds like we've got trouble. The 'terp said that he heard Taliban talking about attacking us!" Even over the radio there was fear in the man's voice, enough to make the hair on Dorian's neck stand up. He keyed the radio again. "Walter. You and the others get to cover, you stay out of sight, I'll be there soon. Try and use the Harris radio to raise the military, you've got the frequency plugged into preset one, make sure you hook it up to the SATCOM system, understand?"
"Yes Dorian, but please hurry, we're scientists, not soldiers!" Walter implored him, even as Dorian practically sprinted down the hill, tucking the strange stone into his pocket, which in the light, was now revealed to be a rune of some kind, it's strange etched symbols seeming to crawl in the light. He buttoned his pocket and promised himself, that if they lived through this, he'd show it to Walter.
He made better time down the hill than up, leaping down small ledges he'd had to climb and running/sliding down the shale and sand that covered the hill. His weapon was now held in both hands as he made his daring dash towards the rest of his digging crew. He slid behind cover as he heard the first of the gunfire start. The tell tale -crack- of the Kalishnakof rifle filled the air as a 7.62mm round hissed, passing far too near for Dorian's liking. He remained under cover, fingers curling around the stock of his weapon. He thumbed the safety free and laid his head back against the warm stone for a moment, taking a deep breath to steady himself.
He heard someone talking frantically on the radio, trying to communicate with the military, who were not accustomed to civilians using the radio. "Damnit!" Dorian swore, stepping out from behind cover and bringing his weapon to bare. He spotted movement, his keen eye immediately determining it not to be wild life, but human and depressed the trigger twice. The weapon was on semi-automatic and two rounds spat from the end of the barrel, the high pitched crack of the 5.56mm rounds leaving the barrel painful to the ear.
He moved quickly, weapon still up, as he darted between cover to the foolish young dig assistant who was trying to talk to the confused radio operator on the other end. He snatched the hand set from the young woman's hand and held it to his ear, waiting a moment before depressing the transmit button. "Marauder Main.. Marauder Main.. This is Reaper Dig Team. Enemy contact, south 300 meters from our location." He said calmly into the radio, lowering the handset a moment to spin out and return fire, three well placed rounds causing one of their assailants to duck behind cover.
He snatched up the reciever again and transmitted the coordinates to their location. "Requesting Sierra Wiskey Tango. Hot Copy, Over." The radio operator responded quickly, now that he was on the radio with someone who knew how to request help. "Roger Reaper Actual, SWT inbound, ETA 5 Mikes."
"Roger 5 Mikes!" Dorian said.. "Reaper Actual out." He dropped the hand set into the lap of the young woman. "Monitor that and tell me when Black Knight comes on station." The young woman looked at him flabbergasted. "The HELICOPTERS!" He roared at her before stepping out and firing again. This time one of the rounds found it's mark, slamming into the torso of one of their assailants, dropping the man to the ground. Unlike the military Dorian had loaded hollow tip nossler rounds into his magazine. Upon impact the bullet expanded, tearing flesh and doing greater damage than the 5.56mmm ball that was issued to the military. The scream was not something that bothered Dorian, he'd heard too many before.
His companions were now shooting, though it was ineffective at best, not even accurate enough to keep the Taliban fighters from closing on their position. By the looks of it there were at least 20 remaining, and at least five of them were close enough that it would come to hand to hand fighting before the helicopters ever arrived. "Damn my luck." Said Dorian as he swung out, firing off a burst of rounds that slammed into the chest of one of the nearest Taliban fighters, dropping the man, blood spilling allong with spittle from his lips. The other militants didn't pay the man any heed as they advanced. Dorian ducked behind cover, dropping his magazine, which was running low, and replacing it with a fresh 30 round magazine.
Stepping to fire again he found himself far to close to one of the enemy fighters, who let out a hellish war cry and charged him, a knife in hand and bloodlust in his eyes. Dorian stepped back and dropped as the man reached him, thrusting with his knife. He loosed his weapon, letting it fall by the wayside, but not away from him, for the sling kept it close to his body. Powerful hands siezed the filthy wrist of the man who attacked him, diverting the knife that was aimed for Dorian's throat.
Dorian drove his booted feet up into the man's stomach and rolled, loosing his grip on the wrist with his right hand, grasping for his own knife. He drew it from it's sheath as he rolled and came up atop the man, who was now on his back and gasping for air from the powerfully violent strike that had been driven into his abdomen. His quest for breath was short lived and ended in a gurgling sound and the spurting of crimson blood as Dorian drove his razor sharp karambit through arteries in the man's throat. Blood soaked Dorian's chest and pants, soaking through to touch even the strange rune that was in his pocket.
So lost in the thrum of battle he didn't feel the stone grow warm and pulse as the blood touched it. It now thrummed, like some strange beacon, but Dorian was lost in the sang of battle and did not hear or feel it's strange call. He rolled from the dead man's body and brought his weapon up, thumbing the safety back off and depressing the trigger from the prone position, sending rounds down range with lethal efficiency, dropping three more men before the blessed scream of a 2.75in rocket filled the air and the sound of a detonation in the midst of the enemy made him breath a sigh of relief.
Two OH-58 Kiowa helicopters passed overhead, no more than 200 meters off the ground, their engines thrumming as they unleashed death from above. The scream of the rockets and the sounds of their automatic cannons filled the air. Dorian rose to his feet and cheered as he brought his weapon to bare again and depressed the trigger, the small rounds that were launched from the barrel minimal in effectiveness compared to the high explosive and flechette rockets that the helicopters fired. Those that didn't die scattered and ran, fleeing back into the craggy hills, their thirst for American blood diminished by the presence of the blessed dark angels. The helicopters swung back around and Dorian held up a fist in salute. The pilot of one of the choppers retured it with a wave before keying the mic on the helicopter's on board radio.
"Reaper Actual this is Black Knight 6-3.. Come in Reaper Actual." Dorian snatched up the hand mic and returned the call. "Black Knight 6-3 this is Reaper Actual. God Bless you brother!"
The pilot's voice was cheery as he responded in kind. "Any time Reaper Actual, we've got UH-60s inbound to your location for pick up, ETA 2 Mikes."
"Good to hear Black Knight, we appreciate the help, when you get back to the world, look me up, I owe you boys a beer!" Dorian replied.
"I'll do that Reaper Actual. We're on station until the Black Hawks pick you up." Replied the pilot.
"PACK UP! We're pulling out! 2 minutes!" Dorian roared at his comrades before he dropped the hand mic and went to collect his things, even as the familiar sound of the incoming UH-60s drew closer. The rest of the dig team scurried to pack what they could, not complaining about their hasty rescue. This place wasn't worth dying over, and neither were the contents beneath the blood soaked soil.
----
Eight hours later Dorian was laying on the old green army cot in the foam sprayed tent that served as their sleeping quarters, his own area blocked off by blankets that were hung on 550 cord, giving him some privacy. He'd stripped out of his blood stained clothes and then dropped them off to wash. It was as he'd gone through his clothes that he'd found the strange rune. He held it now, staring at it silently as he rolled it before his face. He shrugged slightly and then opened his ruck sack, tucking it safely inside.
He'd tell Walter about it tomorrow, the poor man was still in shock from what had happened earlier and it would do him no good to think too much at the moment. Dorian closed his eyes as he laced his fingers behind his head and closed his eyes, his chest rising and falling slowly as he sought out the tender embrace of sleep.
Sleep did come, and rather swiftly, allowing him to descend into the dark, usually dreamless realm of slumber.
