The Ambush

Well... Maybe the Chechens weren't as unprepared as all that...
More Valkyrien...
Intellectual Property and Copyright of Myself, Jared G. Juckiewicz,
And warnings of Blood, Violence, Death, Bad Language (I believe), and one or two vaguely sexual references towards the end...

And so, without further ado, let the fun begin...

The village was set in one of the many valleys, a choke point. It was obviously a staging point, but the garrison had seemed weak, and so we had decided to assault it. Everyone had been gathered. Our whole squad. Custer and his Walkers, Tyrone and his Sidhe. The Buteo, the Gryfalcons, the Gryffons, and Hugin Ravenwing. Even the three mortar teams, all had taken their positions. We had never suspected, never dreamed, that it could have been a trap.
Pits had been dug and hidden, filled with wood, doused with oil, dusted with gunpowder. Other things had been added, chemicals and the like. Now, they burned, filling the air with thick, noxious smoke. We were almost blind, our eyes stinging. The air stank such that our heightened senses of smell were no help, and indeed a hindrance, making us recoil at random as the smoke eddied and whirled. Noisemakers had been strewn throughout the village, and incendiaries, going off at random, drawing the attention. The smoke rounds our mortar's had dropped to cover our advance weren't helping. The mortars were quiet now, I don't know why. Could have been to avoid friendly fire, could be they had been ambushed. I'm not sure. Could certainly have been ambush. Every vehicle in the village, more than there should be, is running. The rumble of so many engines throws off our hearing even more, and the exhausts just adds to the miasma tainting the air.
But such considerations simply distract from what is needed. A shadow moves in smoke. I know not if it is foe, or friend, or civilian. I doubt it is friendly, for Vixen and I lead the assault, and she is a pace behind me, and to the left, moving in a low crouch. I can smell her scent, even through the smoke. It soothes my stinging nose, that familiar scent. Well, if it is non-combatant, it should have stayed hidden. My rifle, silenced as it is utters a set of quiet pops. Target down. I continue forward, crouched low. As I reach the body, I nudge it with my foot. My mistake. Stupid woman, running about in a combat zone, especially one as chaotic as this. Ah well. Can't be helped. I'd rather not kill those who mean me no harm, but such mistakes happen. Always have done. Always will. She died of wounds sustained in battle, so Hel will not have her. If I get out of this, I will gift to Freya for the keeping of her soul. For the present, there is simply the hunt. The time passes so slowly, and it seems the trickle of foemen is never ending. A part of my mind whispers that there is more than the garrison we had seen facing us. That just enough are being sent after us to hold us here.
The wind gusts, clearing the smoke for a second before it drifts back to smother us again. And in that moment of clear, clean air, I catch a scent. It has a familiar essence to it, though the details are new. I have known that underlying scent for every day of my life. 'Ulfsbluut' I whisper, and freeze. Letting my mind examine the scent. First, it is a bitch, a female. Born bearing the wolf within. And young. Very young. The Wolf has not yet presented itself. And lastly, there is the acrid tang of fear, but that was to be expected. I restrain the urge to send a reassuring howl. I'm an elder, and decidedly dominant. Were it not for my unwillingness to do so, I would be a pack Alpha. As such, it is almost a compulsion for me to defend those Wolves weaker than me. Movement. I spin around, and then relax, returning to face forward. It's just Illus and Elf. As soon as he is fully visible, he begins making hand gestures.
Foe. Reinforcements. Surrounded. Wait. Rally. Elf is busy sending this message to the others. To Tyrone and his men, it is easy, for they and Elf are Fae, and thus can communicate mind-to-mind. For the Walkers, marginally different. More signals. A point at me. Call. Allies. Form on Me. I nod, and then make a number of high-pitched yips. To those who can assume a canine form, they will have meaning. And to anyone else, it'll just seem like another dog, barking. Slowly, they begin to trickle in, as the net draws ever tighter. Can't hear the silenced pops of their gunfire, but the odd scream is audible, even through the cacaphony surrounding us. So is enemy gunfire, and the sound of our mortars has picked up again. They seem to be dropping smoke rounds. All around our position. The tramp of booted feet begins to sound closer, as the wind gusts again. They are coming now, more than we thought they had to hand. Lots more. Survival begins to look less and less likely. As the wind shifts, the scent of that wolf returns again. Now it is thick with fear, and with pain, and humiliation. Enough that even in the smoke, I can pinpoint it, and the stink is driving me into a rage. My rifle is cast aside, and clothes begin to tear as I shift. The rising fury gives me strength, and mass. As the change continues, torn clothes dropping off my frame, I throw my head back, and roar my rage to the sky. The pain of joints popping and shifting, the red taste as fangs rip their way out of my gums, all simply increases the elemental resolve that has taken me.
They will not put my Kin under the knife. Not whilst I still draw breath. At last the change finishes, and I loose a long, drawn out howl as I leap forward. There is death in that cry, death, and blood, and slaughter. But there is also reassurance, and promise, and hope. My senses sharpen further, cutting through everything meant to break them. I can hear, and smell, and feel those coming behind me, at my back. From above , the harsh caw of the Ravenwing, followed by the screeching crys of broadwing and falcon-formed. As I draw near the approaching mob, red spurts blossom amongst the front lines, as my allies use their weapons. The rapid tattoo of Gryffon-borne miniguns, the crack of the .50 caliber rifle, even the whoosh of the rockets they bear, all music to my ears. I reach the line of those facing me, my fur already dotted with red. Claws rend and tear, my great paws throwing my foes far, to land slumped against whatever they hit. My neck twists and turns, fanged maw snapping here, there, and everywhere.
The smell is stronger now, and I can smell more details. Shed blood. Metal and Canvas. Gunmetal and oil and cordite. She is in the back of a truck. Even as one paw rips a head off it's neck, and the other punches through a rib cage, to draw forth a still-beating heart, I glance about, seeking my quarry. Bullets thud into my flesh, but I am to far gone to feel it. A warrior runs at me screaming, bayonet levelled. I lob the heart into the air, catch it in my mouth, teeth closing with a 'CLOP!'. My fist lashes out, snapping his neck back, even as his blade scores red fire along my chest. There. That's where they are. Another howl, and I lower my head, bracing my neck and begin to run. More fire spreads along my side, and down my back. I care naught for it, throwing and ramming soldiers out of my path. More scents become clear, and my rage redoubles. Pain fades. Fatigue, what little I suffer from, fades. The driver of the truck sees me coming, and begins to accelerate, trying to drive away. A flying leap lands me inside the tailgate, and I drag the first of her tormentors off her. I cast him off the back of the truck, and am rewarded with the sight of the Ravenwing catching him before he hits the ground, spinning in mid-air to cast him aside. Blood streaming from where Hugin's talons gripped, he twirls through the air to crash through the side of a burning building. I turn back. The girl's wolf snarls at me, too far lost to pain to recognise aid.
My fist goes through a neck, and on the backswing knocks a second off the truck. Two bursts of bullets strike me, red-hot spikes stabbing me in the stomach and gut. Before the recoil stitches me up, I've lept for the first, savaging his front with my claws. I leave him moaning and shrieking in pain and turn to the last. He is pointing his gun low, aiming at her face. Seems her jaws, human though they are, are clamped round his heel. Not on my watch. I tear his gun from his grasp, taking his trigger finger with it. Blood spurts to land on her face, and the Wolf in her eagerly turns to drink it. My head lashes forward, and the heavy bone of my skull slams into his. He drops like a rock. I have one last task to do. My hands dip, tearing chains from manacles that loop round wrists and ankles. As the last comes free, the truck lurches. The lass, dragging herself to her feet, staggers. And then the truck jerks sideways. She slams hard against me, and my head slams against the iron bar that held the canvas cover, and then all is blackness.