Amongst the Rangers, there was one Golta whose name, if it was known by any of them, was never used.
Most Rangers had a colourful nickname, but not this man.
He had only a number; a number that always increased.
Currently it was 103.
This man did not have friends, and none could claim to know him well, but he was also accompanied by the Ranger nicknamed Lock.
Lock carried three rifles–two on his back and one in hand at all times.
Lock had not fired a weapon in anger since The Nameless War.
103  looked out from under his hood as he took aim with his rifle at a Nymus soldier coming down the rubble to meet the attackers. His expression was calm, his hands steady.
He fired, his shot deadly accurate, hitting the Nymus squarely in the chest and sending him tumbling forward lifeless.

“104” said the Ranger, with a small smile. His title had just increased.
Without looking, 104 offered his empty rifle back to Lock, who took it and handed him another loaded weapon.
Lock immediately began to reload this weapon.
While Lock did not fire any weapons, he was expert at loading them rapidly, and his only task was to ensure his companion always had a loaded rifle ready.
Another shot cut down another Nymus.
”105” said 105.
The weapons were traded once more.
Another shot.
”106” said 106.
Such was this marksman’s skill and lethality that it was worth having another man not firing to make sure he always had a weapon in his hand.
A Nymus raised his head above the rubble, but even that brief moment was too much, and he was immediately shot through the temple.
”107”

”103!” shouted Spot “Move up with me!”
”107” corrected 107.
Spot gave a nod of approval.
When it came to his tally, 107 was as meticulous as he was honest.
From over the rubble, came a sudden rush of Nymus, some on foot and others swooping through the air.
It was a desperate bid to push back the attackers, but was entirely doomed.
Such a dense attack in the confines of the breach was met with hails of arrows and gunfire from the attackers.
107 fired his rifle and cast it away, to be immediately handed another, firing this one and then being handed another and so on until all of Lock’s weapons had been expended, seizing the opportunity to fire as quickly as possible.
”111” he said, with a smile.
Paint, a Ranger who had the appearance of a Nymus due to his foreign father, raised a short, wide-barrelled gun. His nickname came from his black and white war paint that made him resemble his comrades more closely, but his enemies came to know him for his distinctive firearm.
His grenade launcher sent a bomb sailing amongst the charging Nymus.
A few moments later it exploded, throwing attackers off their feet.
Nymus that were not slain carried out there charge, casting Zadakine attackers back down the rubble. The swooping Nymus slashed with their clawed feet and thrust with their spears, but it was not enough to blunt the attackers’ advance, and the Nymus were forced to flee back up the rubble as the enemy gave chase.