Dalek was insane.
Sitting with his legs splayed, leaning against the earthen wall, Pierre watched the surging tide of men pour through the breach he and his men had blasted open. Utterly exhausted, he said nothing.
A soldier ran past Pierre with his head lowered, carrying his long gun over his shoulder like a hoe. A second later, his legs went rigid, and he pitched straight forward, hitting the ground with a thud.
Pierre looked at the unlucky fellow. He lay motionless, with no obvious wounds, but Pierre was certain he had heard a soft thump just before the man fell.
Clearly, this fellow infantryman had been shot.
Who had fired?
Probably a stray round from the enemy-held hill a thousand paces ahead and to the left.
Several young men following the dead soldier hurriedly dropped what they were carrying and ran over. They grabbed him and shook him, trying to get him back on his feet.
Pierre wanted to tell them not to waste their effort, to hurry onward. The Discipline Squad Lieutenant General Dalek had sent was right behind them. If those men came up and saw them like this, they would lose their heads.
Pierre thought all this, but his lips moved twice, and he still said nothing.
He could not be bothered. He was too tired, for one thing. For another, these Auxiliary Troops were plainly all from the same place. They were fellow townsmen, and getting them to abandon a companion with just a few words would not be easy.
Pierre knew this so well only because it had already happened twice in front of him. This was the third time.
Just as that thought crossed Pierre's mind, the mounted Discipline Squad came charging up.
Clad in black armor, they immediately lashed the Auxiliary Troops