Masters stared ahead. The forest was full of moving shapes and creatures. He let out a mimicked cry of an owl to alert his men to his position. All fifteen others answered him in one form or another. Satisfied, the Eagle continued advancing. He moved fairly quickly - so quickly you'd swear he could not avoid making sound, yet he did. He peered ahead again and thought he saw light. It wasn't dawn - that was still hours away - but the compound. It had to be. Masters had an arrow nocked on his bow before any conscious thought entered his head. The Russians had set up six guard towers around the old logging camp. Well, each one was conveniently marked with a blazing torch. That was a major oversight on the part of the Russians, as their guards eyes would not be adapted for the night.
Amid the swirling snow Masters waved his men into the attack. The archers spread out to knock out the towers, each one performing his task with a quiet confidence that bespoke years of training. One Russian stood on the edge of his tower, staring at a flicker of movement he was sure he saw. A moment later an opportunely placed shaft sprouted from his throat and he fell off the tower silently, landing in a heap on the snow. The other towers were similarly neutralized, all silently. One archer had even taken his knife and scaled a tree to jump into his tower and cut the throat of the guard. He then proceeded to draw his bow and await the attack from a position designed for archery. That was the mindset that the Eagles attempted to encourage - creative interpretation of the battle plan.
Masters beckoned his swords forward, unsheathing his own weapon to lead. The group crept through the forest, making little noise. The dark blue cloaks his men wore were almost perfect camouflage on this moonless night. Masters wondered briefly how Athers was doing, but banished the thought from his head - what he needed to worry about for now was securing the compound. A quick hiss from one of his men elicited his notice. A trio of Russians was sitting around a campfire, each one holding a hand of cards. A deck lay on the ground near one of them, as did a large stack of rubles. Even as Masters watched one of the men let out a disgusted snort and laid his land down. One of the other two neatly swept the pile of money over to him. The other said something sympathetic-sounding and brandished a jug - Masters guessed it was vodka. Russians.
Masters slid along the forest floor, his sword in hand. He then nodded to the other men with him and trotted out of the forest, bent nearly double, sword held at his side, eyes away from the golden-red flames that dominated the center of his vision. One of the Russians saw the faint forms coming and shouted something. If that wasn't the local equivalent of "who goes there!" Masters was a Carthaginian. Well, it didn't matter. The second lieutenant straightened up and snapped his sword forward, running the man through. The other Eagles were even now descending on the compound. Another of the card players died swiftly, but another one began yelling -
screaming - in Russian. The rest of the compound garrison came pouring out and two men took off towards the army base. Masters swore vehemently.
Then an assailant was before him, brandishing a sword. Masters parried, then slashed at the Russian's face. The other man blocked almost contemptuously and riposted, stabbing at Masters' chest. The Eagle parried and spun the attack away. The Russian jumped back, and the two began to circle each other in the midst of the Eagles and the garrison dueling. It was only then that Masters got a good look at his attacker. The Russian had brown eyes paired with black hair kept in an unruly shock. His beard was prolific, as was his mustache that almost disappeared into the man's forest of a beard. At the moment, the Russian's face was twisted into a ferocious scowl as he raised his sword once again. Masters parried a lightning slash, then an overhead strike.
The Russian drew back for just a second and Masters lunged forward. The clash of steel on steel filled the clearing as the Russian blocked swiftly and sidestepped. Masters parried again against a counter-attack. The Eagle locked swords with his assailant, then raised his right foot and spun, pointing his heel right into the Russian's stomach. Then he drove outward and his attacker folded up with an exclamation of pain and shock. Masters delivered a brutal roundhouse kick to the side of the man's head, sending him into a heap. A quick sword thrust and it was all over. The Eagle paused, noticing that civilians were appearing from inside the small gray hovels that made up the majority of the compound. The second lieutenant breathed in and out, then he moved to begin the evacuation procedure.
- NOW the **** hits the fan, gentlemen