The Empire of Reimia (3)

Initially, Moriner assumed he would be assigned to wait peacefully for the results of the operation to break through the encirclement and destroy the Darkiir artillery, but, as it turned out, the command decided that he could be useful directly on the battlefield. There was no hope for a special assignment – the enemy still didn't differentiate between military and civilians. But retreating in the face of danger, citing his position, would be a low and unworthy act in the difficult circumstances. No, he had to be with his unit, just as he was during combat training exercises, working together to overcome obstacles and move forward, no matter what. The only difference was that the price for a mistake was now much higher. The young journalist clearly understood the orders given to him. Bullets whistled overhead and shells exploded, the snow, blackened by dirt and blood, crunched coldly under his wet feet, and the roar of cannon and tank fire merged into a single, heart-wrenching cacophony of horror and death. Under the cover of a tank, sinking to his shins in the snowdrifts, not really understanding what was happening, he hurried forward, following Azarina. Suddenly, the combat vehicle in front shuddered from a terrible blow, slowed down for a moment, as if trying to overcome its own pain, and then, with effort, moved forward again. Another explosion, a flash of bright light, momentarily illuminating their frightened faces, a rain of metal fragments and chunks of snow mixed with earth. In the next second, bullets whistled from all sides. Some of them hit Azarina, but she continued to run confidently forward, as if nothing had happened. Moriner's soul froze in horror, but his body automatically decided to move forward. The first volleys of shots hit the magic shield directly – with a kind of ringing echo, the distorted bullets fell on the snow under his feet. But then the sound of shattering glass was heard – the spell had exhausted its power and dissipated into the air, leaving the journalist without any protection. Time seemed to slow down for him, giving him a chance to fully enjoy the feeling of his own helplessness. He knew he wouldn't make it, but he couldn't do anything about it. "Maybe I can distract them, even if only for a short time?" The targeted fire from Darkiir snipers hit its mark this time. Moriner heard the familiar whistle again, and then felt the bullets, easily piercing the light armor, pierce his flesh. Making an involuntary, moaning sound, the journalist collapsed onto the dirty snow. His consciousness quickly faded. He came to his senses a little later, when the outcome of the battle was already practically decided. Someone dragged him away from the deadly dangerous spot. Imir, who was nearby, was casting healing spells on other wounded soldiers. For the umpteenth time in the last year, the journalist tried to get up and examine his own wounds. The fresh northern wind cleared his head a little. In the distance, bright lights were visible, and pillars of black smoke rose into the sky. Were those Illit, enemy artillery, what was the fate of the civilians and the wounded – all these questions brought him back to life. Yes, fate had undoubtedly given him a little more time to suffer in this terrible world. For a moment, Moriner even regretted that he hadn't died. Soon, they were again ordered to retreat, and through pain and fatigue, he followed the remnants of the battalion. In vain, looking at the faces of the soldiers, he hoped to see a glimmer of hope – their faces, like his own, were darker than night and expressed nothing good. Their escape seemed to last for an eternity, and the enemy did not give up, intending to mercilessly destroy all the survivors. The news that they had finally broken out of the encirclement was received by Moriner with exceptional delight. But soon, completely different news, relayed in the hastily constructed camp, again darkened the general mood. No matter how much he prepared for the harsh realities of war, in reality they still exceeded all possible expectations. The journalist was not familiar with the other members of the first-year class, but he still felt as if, with their death, he himself had lost something close and familiar. Nothing would ever be the same again. And another unpleasant thought continued to torment him more than the pain from his wounds – he would have to write about all this, not only reliving all the horrors of that January night, but also presenting them in a positive light. The very thought of this chilled the young man's soul, but he firmly decided not to deviate from the chosen path. At least in memory of those who fell in Illit.