Thunder rolled overhead as Ragnar looked around the carnage, several of the soldiers watched him warily, though his conversation with Orion stopped them from shooting him. The dead lay in heaps and the moans of the wounded could be heard from inside bullet riddled buildings and the reek of flesh blood, shattered entrails and the noxious byproducts of gunpowder and lasers filled the air.

"This is what happens when you leave a woman in command," Ragnar opined, ignoring the hard look Orion shot him. 

"If they are not destroyed, my people will seek some other victory," Ragnar went on, "they will not want to return to our worlds empty handed."

There was a sudden clattering of boots off in the distance, the staccato beat indicating marching men. A blood spattered Sergeant Burnside emerged from higher up the paved street as a run, an improvised bandage, already soaked in blood wrapping his forehead. He pushed his way through the dazed survivors to Orion and stiffened to attenion.

"Sir, the Ducal Guard is on the way, of my boys called to tell me they have orders to arrest you," Burnside spat out, the outrage evident in his voice. The idea that fifty or a hundred armed and armored men had waited till the fighting was over before marching out to arrest the commander galled him. Ragnar barked a laugh of genuine amusement that startled all the survivors.

"Lets see if we can't find out what happened to my confessor before we worry about that," Orion half snapped. As he spoke the clouds opened and it began to rain.

_____

The left Seargent Burnside in charge of the defenders, thanking that soldier for his promise to stall the Ducal Guard and set off to the north. As far as plans went it was ruidmentary but finding a score of armored vehicles did not prove to be much of a task. The population was keeping inside and the park was deserted save for the rumble of armored vehicles, drawn up in place as though they were on parade. The rain slashed down in sheets soaking Orion and Ragnar and steaming of hot engines and exhaust ports. The smell of burned flesh was potent even over the diesel fumes of the idling vehicles. 

"Witchcraft," Ragnar snarled, running his thumb along the blade of his axe and drawing blood which he shook to the four winds in a warding gesture.

"Annika?" Orion called but there was no response from the priest or from anyone. Ragnar walked to the nearest vehicle and hopped up onto its track like a toad and peered inside. The Vuldrok swore a sulfurous oath in his own tongue. Reaching down into the vehicle he lifted a trooper out by the scruff of the neck. The man's face was blackened and blistered and his empty eye sockets had been burned black. Ragnar unceremoniously dropped the corpse back into the tank and then hopped over to a half track with a heavy recoiless rifle. He hauled up a second corpse with the same wounds.

"Witchcraft," he repeated.