Chapter 10: Choose Your Enemy, Part 2
The camp behind the front lines fell into an eerie silence once the main force departed—an understandable calm after the storm.
To level the playing field, Lady Freeblade left behind generous supplies and equipment for Taylor—though sized for his smaller number of soldiers.
Taylor thought it a clever gesture.
He spent hours planning distribution of food, weapons, and ammunition, ensuring supplies would last a full standard Terra month.
Yet many questioned his motives—claiming Taylor's bet with Freeblade was a ploy to curry favor, a romantic knight's game of loyalty.
They overestimated him.
Taylor simply wanted to survive until honorable discharge. Nothing more.
But once whispers spread, they became a story independent of him—twisted, analyzed, and bent to others' logic.
It didn't matter—heroes and dignitaries were abundant, but their fates were all death.
The best ascended to the Golden Throne; others became pets of the Four Gods; the worst shattered to pieces.
Taylor didn't need their fate.
He sought only what he felt was right, even if many called his ideas heretical.
Did he belong in this fractured world?
At that moment, he peered through his command telescope—not at enemies, but the birds in the forest.
Unlike Earth's small birds, these were plump, colorful creatures, chirping sweetly—almost delicious.
Their fatness likely owed to lighter gravity, making flight easier; hence, all were oversized.
"How should we cook those delicacies?" Taylor asked the Lightling girl.
She grinned. "That beggar's chicken you mentioned last time was pretty good."
Taylor smiled. "Can we hunt it? We'll send scouts with dogs to track, and enjoy a feast tonight."
The girl brandished her sniper carbine with a smile.
It wasn't a common Imperial Guard weapon but an ejector firearm—old-fashioned, with projectile propulsion replacing bullets.
Essentially WWII era tech, it was simple, easy to maintain, and accurate—favored by many Imperial snipers.
Taylor lit a cigar he'd found in a private house, smoke curling as he gazed into the distance.
He sighed—this was comfortable military life. No gunpowder smoke, no overwhelming foes.
He pictured himself savoring beggar's chicken, sipping fine Amsett wine, resting till dawn, then playing cards and games with soldiers.
Competitions to train body and spirit, far from muddy trenches and terror.
His dream faded as the Lightling girl fired.
The expected flight of birds was replaced by a haunting human scream.
Taylor recognized it—the gruff, rough orc voice.
He reassured himself, "Impossible—this isn't the frontline. Are orcs mad enough to come here?"
A chilling thought struck—the orcs might be forcing infantry on a forced march to bypass the main force.
Unthinkable on greenskins, known for chaos, stench, and destruction.
Then came the iconic orc roar—
"Waaagh!"
Taylor dove instinctively into a bunker, a habit that had saved him countless times.
He wondered why cultists, then orcs, so often hunted him—this world was rife with fanatical warmongers.
Inside the bunker, he calmly commanded defenders.
Most were battle-hardened veterans.
Militiamen wore chain mail but carried Mechanicus arms with decent firepower.
The orcs surged from the forest, green humanoids with bared fangs—more brutal and furious than World of Warcraft's Horde.
Their crude weapons crafted from scrap and debris shredded front line sandbags.
Taylor dared not imagine a wound from such weapons.
With a roar, greenskins charged, intent clear: no surrender.
Numbers great, they stalked silently to avoid alerting the frontline Freeblade.
Taylor saw opportunity.
A siege lacking heavy firepower or vehicles would be a slaughterhouse.
Surprise infantry raids might wreak havoc, but faced with a well-armed camp—even held by makeshift defenses—the orcs were doomed.
Heavy machine guns and Roland's bombs tore into orks relentlessly.
Bullets rained like hail.
The arrogant enemies scattered like straw, falling lifeless.
Orcs might rely on human waves, but against Imperial Guards and elite feudal troops, such tactics were useless.
Even without artillery or air support, orcs' poor aim spared many guards.
Broad plains gave excellent shooting range.
At war's end, noon gave way to night.
Greenskins retreated, leaving bodies piled west of camp—blood and mushroom decay stinking the air.
Taylor grasped the scene without full understanding—but allies revered him.
Hundreds of orcs slain, minimal losses.
Strategically, the camp became a shield, trapping orc attackers.
All thanks to Taylor and Freeblade's precise commands.
Yet Taylor knew the fight was far from over.
More orcs would come to remove their thorn.
His pale face marked dread, though soldiers saw prayerful resolve.
Fully steeling himself, Taylor settled at command.
Suddenly, militiamen hoisted him high, tossing him into the sky repeatedly, chanting,
"Tyler! Kyle Anchor! Hero of the Empire!"
Taylor struggled, terrified—his cries mistaken for cheers, his resistance for jubilation.
No one yet knew their leader was a true anti-war activities...