The Eastern Front, Imperial War Camp: The Climax of The Siege of Puvalon
The battlefield reeked of iron and ember. The smoldering remains of combatants, both friend and foe, sizzled as Orinn trudged his way through the bloodied muck. He had lost a fair amount of men during this particular battle. Strong men. Good men. A blackened glob of magma that had cooled on an opponent's face, sparked and reignited as Orinn passed by. Attaching itself and reforming a missing spike on the captain's war-flail.
I should be able to restore the rest in my own time. Orinn thought to himself, as he reached his destination.
A large war tent lay at the summit of a small hill in the middle of the southern battlefield. Within the war tent was a large oak table that had a map of the entire region displayed upon it. Standing at the helm of this table was Darin, who had been waiting for Orinn's return.
"What have the Vultures reported?" Darin wore the face of a man who hadn't slept in a while. His hair was strewn and spread across his forehead with sweat. Orinn shook his head.
"Nothing that constitutes the siege a failure yet, but not at all good I'm afraid." Orinn spat a mix of blood and mucus to the side. "Around seven hundred dead of our men, and from what we can tell maybe double that for the other side." Wiping his jaw, Orinn continued.
"The North Tower has taken significant damage, but it still stands. With a possible breach of its gate if Grace wills it. I cannot, however, say the same for the South Tower and West Tower. The East Tower has managed to breach its gate, but the siege units have taken a massive toll." Orinn's face tightened.
"Not to mention that we've lost the entirety of one of our Platinum Battalions, meaning we're now operating as a Gold-Ranked Legion." The captain blew air through his lips, mimicking a horse. "It's not the end of us, but it ain't lookin too great, brother."
Darin closed his eyes as he took a long breath. His arms were sprawled out across the table map, clawing at the rough terrain of the simulated battlefield beneath his fingertips. Gold, huh? When was the last time he was within a Gold Ranked Legion, let alone lead one. Must've been a decade at the very least. Darin shook the thought away as he opened his eyes, a bright and vibrant pale green a constant shine behind his irises.
"What are the numbers and rankings for the remaining units of the East Tower?"
"The last remaining Platinum Squadron heralded by two Bronze Battalions, a Gold Platoon is being sent to support them from the North Tower."
Darin tilted his head, "and of the units from the two fallen siege towers?"
"They are to regroup and conglomerate resources with other fallen units before splitting to provide equal support to the remaining Siege Towers," Orinn sighed before squinting an eye. "They're doing what they can with what they have, Admiral. Give the men Our King's Grace when they deserve it …"
Darin curled his lip in annoyance. He didn't enjoy what Orinn was implying. "There you go, acting as if you're a Seer. Our men get plenty of Grace from their warm hearted Captain, adding Our King's would only inflate their will to run." Darin wiped the sweat and hair from his forehead as he let Orinn digest his words.
"Furthermore," he continued as he flicked the excess from his fingers. "We are to send all the Units from the destroyed South and West Towers to the breached East Gate. Mobilize an assault squadron for the North. We're going to breach it in one final push."
Darin looked down. If we continue the push against the East Gate, they'll have to redirect troops to try and offset our incoming reinforcements. Darin's eyes flickered wildly as his gaze dashed across the map. Judging by their casualties, they won't have the resources to defend two breached gates. Darin looked back at his captain.
"Do you have capable Vultures to communicate the spread of this directive?"
Straightening himself, Orinn replied. "Three that I wouldn't question, sir. And another that may have a clipped wing."
"Send them all."
"As you command, sir."
The Eastern Front, Imperial Comms Tent
Cayden tightened the straps of his shoulder guard. The Squad lead had been barking out orders for the next phase of the siege, orders that Cayden wasn't completely confident in. Orders that said they were to carry a message that was more a death sentence than it was a directive. The young Vulture flinched as the wound along his side sent waves of web-like pain across his abdomen. Keeping me here should be considered criminal. Cayden thought. His molars had been nearing the point of cracking from the amount of grinding he had been doing.
"Did you get all of that, Vulture?" The Squad lead's voice cut through the boy's thoughts.
"Uh- ..um, yes," Caydon stuttered. "Yes, sir." The Squad lead glared at him intensely.
"Then move, soldier."
"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir."
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The Eastern Front, The West Tower
The look on the men's faces was enough for Cayden to know his feelings from earlier were universal. It hadn't even been ten minutes since his arrival before he instructed the disjointed units of their next directive. He heard someone collapse somewhere in the back row. The boy could hardly blame them. The news he brought was grim. Surviving a three-day long siege, witnessing the deaths of your comrades as the mission reached a critical failure, being grateful for the eventual retreat order. Only to be told that regardless of the wounded and casualties, that you were expected to provide support to an assaulting charge.
Cayden would cry too.
"We have our standing orders!" The West Tower Battalion Commander bellowed. "Rise up Rankmen! Buck up and MOVE!" The man had only just been appointed Commander of the newly created Junction Battalion, the remnants of the Southern and Western siege units, and had already begun forcing momentum. Cayden couldn't stand men like him. Men like that get their soldiers killed in a vain attempt to prove themselves.
The cacophony of hooves impacting the wet earth was deafening as the battalion of horses migrated east. Cayden shifted aside as a mounted rankman rode past him, the soldier's armor a muted amber against the grey sun. The young Vulture turned back to the men and women of the assault brigade. They were to assist the troops of the Assault Squadron to push past and into the North Gate.
The one thing Cayden could think about. Was just how much his ribs ached.
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The Eastern Front, The North Tower
An arrow thwipped from the grey. A soldier marching forefront stumbled, a foot of scorched-black wood protruding from his throat. He fell back. Faint gurgling leaking from the side of the wound could be heard before he had hit the ground. The ground lit up with a volley of blue sparks underneath a row of Crowlen soldiers. Immediately followed by an eruption of earth from where they once stood. The enemy was attempting to trench the breached gate of The North Tower. The roar of the opposing militia's men could be heard soaring above the smoke field set by their Acolytes. Another flurry of arrows peppered across the pushing Crowlen Battalion. Soldiers clad in armor, black as the banner they carried with the weapons to match. Not another fell.
The Rankmen advanced.
Part of the grey began to warp and spiral. Lightning, a blinding blue, crackled all across the surface of the grey, collecting itself towards the convex. A high pitch whir accompanied by a shrieking battlecry, was followed by a huge bolt of blue lightning blasting from within the grey. Only a few Crowlen men managed to evade the attack, the rest of the first line being either stunned or their innards incinerated. The Battalion pushed further, the second line becoming the first. Pushing aside the fallen, the Crowlen forces prepared their counter.
A Rankman, tall and broad shouldered, shifted himself to the front of the line nearest the grey. His helmet fully visored, having a sharp crest displayed atop it. The soldier drew his sword from its rugged sheath, clipped to his belt with an insignia that held a tattered black kilt. The black blade hummed and vibrated as it brimmed with power. The darkness cracked as it spidered with murky yellow light. The very air around it seemed to distort as the blackened metal shattered to reveal a blade of the same yellow as the light from within.
With a mighty swing, the Rankman struck the earth with a thunderous crack. Simultaneously producing a gash through the air that had split the grey in two. Tendrils of lightning and electricity crackled together as the shroud attempted to reconnect itself.
Ozone snapped in the air, sharp and acrid. The gash in the grey shroud held. Through it, the Crowlen line could see them. Men in lighter armor, faces twisted in shock, their acolytes recoiling as the Rankman's residual stain dissipated.
"FORWARD!" the visored Rankman bellowed, his voice muffled by steel. He was first through the gap. The second line surged after him, boots pounding the earth that was still sparking with blue energy.
The enemy acolyte, regaining his composure, shrieked and threw a hand forward. A wall of solid air and lightning met the Rankman. He didn't slow, his yellow blade carving through it, shattering the attack into a thousand hissing sparks.
The Crowlen soldiers were in, and the fight turned from a siege to a slaughter.
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The Eastern Front, The East Tower
It was a meat grinder. The East Tower's gate had been breached for hours, but the breach was a bottleneck, a choked point of shattered stone and splintered wood. Black-clad Crowlen soldiers pushed shoulder-to-shoulder against a wall of desperate militia shields.
The Platinum Squadron, which had led the initial charge, was gone, its remnants absorbed by the Gold Platoon that followed. Now, they too were being bled dry, gaining ground by the inch and paying for it in bodies.
A Vulture, armor cracked and his left pauldron missing entirely, skidded to a halt beside the ranking Gold Commander. He didn't salute. He barely stood. "Orders! From the Admiral!"
The Commander, his face a mask of dried blood and sweat, snatched the communiqué. He read it, his eyes darting across the few, terse words. A flicker of disbelief, then a grim resolve. He looked at the Vulture. "The North?"
"Breached, sir. The Junction Battalion is on our way."
The Commander turned back to the fray. He didn't need to shout for quiet. He just roared, his voice cutting through the din. "THE NORTH TOWER HAS BREACHED! THE ADMIRAL SAYS PUSH! FULL ASSAULT! CRACK THIS WALL!"
The words spread faster than fire. The North Tower breach and battalion reinforcements…. The stalled Crowlen line, moments from breaking, stiffened. A new, savage energy surged through them. It wasn't just a push anymore. It was a race.
The enemy militia heard it, too. Their line, which had held for hours, faltered. Panic was a contagion, and it had just infected them. They had been holding back one-half of an army, but they could not hold back a whole one.
The visored Rankman who had split the grey shroud in the North had his counterpart in the East. A young Gold-Ranked soldier stepped forward. His helmet was long fractured and dismantled, leaving his muck stained hair to blow about the evening wind. Although small in stature, a great sword was perched along his shoulder. He roared, and the black-clad line roared with him. The shield wall broke.
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The roar of the breach reached Cayden long before his eyes did. The sound was a dull, constant thunder, punctuated by the high-pitched screams of men and aura. He gripped the reins of his horse, his wounded side throbbing with every jolt.
"FASTER, YOU FILTH!" the Junction Battalion's new Commander roared, his voice cracking with a manic energy.
They rounded the last bastion of the outer wall, the East Tower looming before them. It was chaos. The main Crowlen battalion had punched through the gate, a wedge of black steel driving into the heart of the enemy.
"CHARGE! SUPPORT THE ASSAULT! FOR THE RAVEN LORD!" the Commander bellowed.
The tired, broken remnants of the West and South Towers let out a ragged cry and kicked their mounts into a gallop. They slammed into the enemy's exposed flank, waves of desperate men reinforcing a tide of disciplined killers. An arrow suddenly found its way through Cayden's eye.
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Admiral Vos stood motionless, his gaze fixed on the map of Puvalon. The sounds of the battle were distant rumble, but here, it was silent.
Commander Tallow paced near the tent flap, his armor groaning with every turn. He couldn't stand the waiting. He couldn't stand the silence. "You sent them all in, Darin," he finally said, his voice low. "The Gold Legion, the remnants... everyone. If their numbers are deeper than we scouted..."
"They aren't," Darin said, his voice flat. He pointed to downtown on a map, well past the outer walls. "They're spread too thin. They expected us to rot against those walls. They never expected us to break through them."
"That was a hell of a gamble, brother," Orinn muttered.
"It wasn't a gamble," Darin replied, turning to face him. The pale green light in his eyes was cold. "It was a directive. The only acceptable outcome."
Before Orinn could respond, the sound of a Crowlen victory horn cut through the air from the direction of the North Tower. It was answered, moments later, by another from the East.
Darin Vos snatched his cowl-shaul off the table. "The city is ours. Send word to the Vultures. Mop up any resistance. I want the regional commander's banner by nightfall."
Orinn Tallow watched his friend stride out of the tent, the grim admiral. He looked back at the map, at the pieces representing the thousands of men, his men, who had been sacrificed for this. He let out a slow breath, the scent of iron and ember already tainting the air.
"Aye, sir," he whispered to the empty tent. "As you command."