Stubborn Arguments

There was an argument between Spartan and the Commandant on who was to proceed first. The Commandant argued he should because he wasn’t as tactically valuable as his alien comrade. Spartan, in no uncertain terms, called him an idiot and reiterated the Commandant was the head of the Drügeldorf operations. The argument became so ingrained in their retreat to the ground floor, the two men ultimately found themselves alternating between who was taking the lead and turning around corners first.

Faint gunfire could be heard echoing through the halls. Spartan couldn’t quite make out if they were coming from the main hall or somewhere else. He also listened to bits of radio chatter as they went. When all this was done, and if he was still alive, Mathews would have to be disciplined for his bouts of insubordination. Especially since he may now cost them Crusader. Spartan tried not to think on it too much right now, focusing instead on keeping an eye out. There was no telling how far into the castle the enemy had gotten. Following the Commandant’s lead in the moment, he went to turn a corner only to be pushed back against a wall.

“Listen.”

Accented voices drifted to Spartan from down the hall. Khardi accents.

“Thought we might have been done for in the ship,” one of them said.

“As if,” came another. “Salim never loses. This whole thing has been simple.”

“A bit, yeah. I’ve heard they have one of their lead strategists here.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Mohamed in intelligence told me.”

“Might explain why Alkenia had to come running to us for help.”

Laughing. “But of course! Not just us, but to General Salim.”

“Any news on the Älgenhul business?”

“None. I reckon we won’t know anything until after this is over.”

Only the two. They were getting closer at first, then their voices began drifting away. Spartan didn’t translate what was being said to the Commandant. No useful data as far as he could tell. He reached into his boot and pulled out a serrated knife, signaling the Commandant to do the same. The Commandant nodded and pulled a knife from its sheath on his hip. Spartan peeked around the corner. The Khardis were close enough, still going on in small talk, and continuing to walk away. The Commandant took a step forward, only to give Spartan a puzzled look when he held out a hand to stop him.

“Do we really have to do this?” one of the Khardis asked. “This is more a job for the cliff crews when they get in.”

“Oh, shut it. I’m not listening to you whine about this.”

Now that’s useful. Spartan smiled, then nodded. Side-by-side, he and the Commandant crept up behind the two men. In a swift moment, hands were over their mouths as Spartan and the Commandant’s blades slid across their throats. After the Khardis fell to the ground, Spartan looked at the Commandant.

“They’re sending men out to search the castle.”

“Do you think they’re looking to start cutting us off?”

Spartan shrugged. “Not sure. All I know is that one,” he pointed his blade at the man he killed, “was not happy about it. I’m not sure what they hope to gain by doing this.” He said that, but the Commandant’s suggestion seemed to make the most sense. He was unaware of any secrets the castle could hold which would turn the tide of war in favor of their enemies. “Maybe sneaking up on people in the castle really is all they’re hoping to do.”

The Commandant pulled out the radio. “All soldiers, be advised: Khardis are roaming the castle. Be on your toes while you make your way to the hall.”

#

Spartan was caught off guard when they made their final turn into the hall. Beyond the barricade of crates and barrels and furniture the men had put up, he saw a medic leaning over Viking in a doorway, applying bandages. Keeping low to avoid being hit with crossfire, Spartan quickly went up to them.

“What happened?” he demanded.

“Grenade,” Viking answered, pointing toward the stairs down to the dungeon. “Over there.”

“Is he going to be okay?”

“For now, yes,” the medic said, wrapping the last bandage around Viking’s forehead. “He may have shrapnel in his body, but he can still move.”

“Good.”

Viking grabbed Spartan’s shirt. “Send me out.”

“What?”

“The kid, Crusader, he’s still out there.”

Spartan took a good, long look at him. His arms and torso were completely wrapped in gauze on top of the bandages on his face. “He’s in Mathews’s hands now.”

“Send me with Stevens,” Viking bargained.

“I’m not sending you out there in this state. If Mathews and the others don’t want to get here, that’s their problem.”

“The kid’s not a soldier. He’ll die.”

“This is war. People die.”

Viking sat up. “This one will die because you sent him out again. What, was it not enough the Warmonger almost erased him from the planet?”

Spartan said nothing.

“Face it, the kid’s not suited for this. He wasn’t in the Marines. He’s not a criminal. He’s just a nobody who needs to be sent somewhere safe until we can get back home.”

“That’s not true!” Spartan shouted. “It can’t be! You and I both came here when this world needed men like us. Don’t you remember Kurle?”

“Yes, I remember the damn island,” Viking growled. “But in case you forgot, I survived because I spent years hiding from the damn cops! I know how to scavenge, how to hide. That’s what won Kurle. The kid doesn’t have that, or anything else.”

“The kid has something, we just need to figure out what it is.”

“By killing him?”

Spartan took a deep breath.

“He’s a civilian, Spartan. He should have left with Albrecht and the others. Send me and Stevens out, we can find him and bring him here.”

It wasn’t that Spartan didn’t want Crusader brought back. He just didn’t want to lose someone as valuable as Viking in the process. “We can send someone else out. Sanders knows—”

“Sanders isn’t me.”

Spartan bit his lip. He hated it when Viking had these bouts of stubbornness. “Fine,” he said. “Go get the kid.”

With a nod Viking grumbled, “Yes, sir.”

“Before you go, though, I need to tell you a couple things about the Butcher.”