A Baneful Bequest, Part 3 of 6
Previous installments: Part 1, Part 2
The burst from the Thompson Orion's host held shattered the silence in the cavern, and Orion saw the sword-wielding cultist fall back, sword flying through the crowd around the altar. A second later the Mills bomb his partner had flung into the ranks of the robed cultists exploded with a sharp crack. Half a dozen of the cultists fell to the blast.
"Keep shooting!" the other man hissed as he sank into the shadows beneath the candle sconces along the wall and scurried away down the ramp.
Orion's host obliged, firing short bursts into the cultists, working his fire around the room. The cultists had produced weapons from under their cloaks, mostly awkward-looking stubby submachine guns, and were firing back up at him.
Rock splinters showered the ledge as bullets struck the limestone above him, but the small cut in the rock where the ramp met the ledge acted as a murder hole, giving Orion's host excellent cover. The occasional bullet did whine through the gap, though, and as the cultists zeroed in on his muzzle flash he had to take more and more time between bursts of fire.
But every time the return fire was too intense for him to continue firing, the crack of a grenade amongst the cultists caused it to slacken, allowing Orion's host to edge his weapon back over the edge of the rock ledge and keep firing.
Three grenade cracks later, the cultists were no longer firing. When he peeked over the edge, he saw that none of them were left standing, though many of them writhed in silence.
Orion's host jogged down the ramp to join his partner. By the time he made it down, all of the cultists lay still, and his partner had thrown the weapons into a pile, away from the corpses.
"Good work," the man greeted him. "They never spotted me." The fat integrally-suppressed barrel of his weapon---in the light, Orion recognized it was a suppressed 45 caliber M3---was smoking as oil evaporated from the hot metal.
"The leader?" Orion felt himself ask. The smell of blood was overpowering and the torn bodies an ugly sight, but oddly, he felt no nausea at the sights or smells.
"I'm not sure," the other man said, gesturing at the bodies around them. They all looked the same in their robes. "The woman's still alive, but we were too late for the rest. How much ammunition do you have left? I'm down to half a magazine."
"I'm okay. Three mags." Orion felt his left hand run over the slung magazine pouches, counting them by feel to ensure they really were still there.
Orion's host stepped up to the altar and surveyed the woman, gently covering her exposed body with the robes. She was a rare beauty, with milky skin and long, auburn hair.
The last of the Nylund Expedition, the voice in Orion's head said, sadly. The woman murmured dreamily, taking no notice of his presence.
Orion felt his jaw clench as images of the running skirmish they'd fought on their way to the cave flashed through his mind. "I hope she's worth it."
Thanks for reading. Part 4 will be up tomorrow evening.