Operation:Proposed school budget 1564 (semi closed, Allanea)

[Imeriata]

Northern Izalta.

"CANISTER GRENADES!" Came the roar and Shalo took a deep breath, he knew what would come. Had they had the resources this would have been backed up by thundering war machines, air support, and the great sun knew what. Instead did they all take deep breath as their short range mortars and the light fieldguns that was the heaviest artillery they had access to started to rain down fire, premessured shells flew at positions they had marked out in their own old trenches. Hopefully not enough to damage them, other shells landed between the lines and a thick white fog started to spread out amongst no-man's land.

Shalo breathed heavily as most of them had a small amount of fernwood wine pored to them by their officers and quickly threw it down their throats. Bayonets were attached, grenades were loosened in their belts as war hounds were pulled forward as they waited while the fog grew thicker and thicker. Then came the trumpet blasts.
"SHI-SHO! SHI-SHO! SHI-SHO!" They all roared as man and hound alike rose up screaming, bayonets lowered and guns ready.

[Allanea]

The first several seconds of the charge would, no doubt, be a moment of terror for the Izaltans. The armored vehicles that the Allaneans brought with them were all heavily armed – each with an automatic cannon and with a broad-throated low-pressure gun, they saturated the field before them with explosions. Some raked everything in front of them with bursts of automatic fire, others fired the 100mm guns at the enemy trenches. Yet other gunners set the electronic fuzes for their shells to airburst, making the air around the Izaltan soldiers thick with shrapnel. Overhead, high-speed shells from dual-purpose guns of the Allanean fleet whistled towards the positions of the traitors' artillery, though this would be far too little – none of the ships of the fleet were equipped with vast batteries of guns, and at best would carry but one or two dual-purpose cannon that could be brought down to fire on the shore.

The Marines fired well-aimed shots from their rifles and bursts of machinegun fire at the approaching foe, but the distance between the trenches was not close enough for them to destroy the Izaltans as they would a lesser enemy.

The Izaltans, it became clear, were no lesser enemy.

In the second line of trenches – the Allaneans' first – the voices of the officers sounded, clear as brass.

"Men! Fix bayonets, swords unsheathe!"

Now the traitors were upon them, already crossing that last, fateful dash before the trench lip. The Marines in the trench line shouted their battle cries and tossed a grenade each at the advancing foe, and threw themselves forward, meeting the Izaltan bayonet charge with their own.

"Forward, men! For King Alexander and King Primus! For liberty and the alliance!" – an officer shouted, and the battle was joined in earnest, sword, rifle, shovel and bayonet.

At this vicious, close-quarters fight, the Allaneans' technology was unable to assist them. The battle-fleet, hovering on the horizon, with its deck fighters and cruise missiles, could have just as well been parked on the dark side of the moon. What remained was the very things that had carried wars since time immemorial – bravery, loyalty, and honor.

[Imeriata]

"SHI-SHO! SHI-SHO! SHI-SHO!" Came the continued warcry of the Izaltans joined by the barking of the warhounds that came amongst them, most using their long KVG's with the long sword bayonets that the Imerians, and by extension most of their subjects, favoured. Others came screaming with swords. All however used that most bellowed weapon of the gods of war; grenades. Shalo took a halt to throw one of the big orbs attached to sticks that the federal army preferred.
"SHA’TUUL LI KO RU!" Some warcries mixed in as soldiers threw themselves into the fray with especially suicidal favour cutting it very close to the explosions of fragmentation and flashbangs. Sscreaming the old war prayer about the sun witnessing them eternally as they faced their end in battle. Some men had even thrown off their uniforms and barrelled down nude with only ropes that held pouches of ammunition. Mixed with the furious charge were war hounds but also the bulkier long limbed crocodiles that made up most of the ecosystem on the islands, some wearing warpaint, others in the Scanderan fashion wore heraldic coats emblazoned by the symbols of their monarchs. However they had also taken causalities and the support that federal charges required as most federal attacks would require.

He took another breath as he started to pick up his speed again lowering his bayonet, one of the naked monks rushing past him, bleeding from a worrying shrapnel wound that the fanatic seemed to ignore entirely. Next to him a soldier went down screaming as a bullet pierced his chest. A black clad priestess was over him as soon as he went down looking for wounds but just kept running. And then. He was upon their old trench.
"SHI-SHO! SHI-SHO! SHI-SHO!" He roared at the top of his lungs as he threw himself down it at the first foeman he could see, his bayonet lowered and glimmering in the sun.

"SHI-SHO! SHI-SHO! SHI-SHO!" the cry came from all around them. Then they were fighting. Slashing, parry, screaming, all around him was the confused and bloody melee. A man with a yellow painted face fell down in the mud just next to him as another one, dressed in red and cleaned came in to fill his place with a quick thrust that made the foe go down with the painted man. But it hardly seemed to be something Shalo could focus on, his world seemed to have quickly shrunk to a confused mixture of thrusts, dashes, parries, kicks, and punches.

[Allanea]

The ferocity of the fight seemed to only increase as the second line gave way. The BMPs crawled backwards, spewing fire into the ranks of the enemy troops, while the Allanean Marines fought as hard as they could – it would no longer be possible for them to flee, for to turn their back now would mean to be slaughtered.

In the first line – now the last line, and also the only line, between the Izaltans and the sea, the men made their decision. Now once again the order rang. "Fix bayonets, swords unsheathe!"

Kislovsky rose from the trench, aiming his rifle at what appeared to be a nude Izaltan a few dozen meters off, and fired two shots. Next to him, a machinegunner walked, firing short bursts from the hip. They moved rapidly forward – some going over the top, others running down whatever narrow communications trenches there were. BMPs crawled forward behind them.

The fight, now, was at its most furious, most desperate. The Allaneans knew that they had no meaningful way to retreat to their ships without being slaughtered.

It was not a time for war cries now – merely for horrible oaths, for rifle shots at touch range, for hacking and stabbing with blade and bayonet. Next to him, Kislovsky saw a rifleman from his squad go down, the helmet rolling uselessly in the sand as an enemy sword had slashed through the helmet straps – and through the side of the man's neck, bright-red arterial blood spraying like a fountain onto the white.

[Imeriata]

Shalo could not tell how long he was there, locked in the brutal dance of combat, the world around him was merely screams, thrusting, barking, slashing, gurgling of the dying, and bashing. His limbs were going slow and tired before all of a sudden he was pulled out of the combat. He could hear horn blows behind him and he knew exactly what that meant. He kicked hard with the man he was fighting before he and most of his fellow fighters started to withdraw, still in good order, firing as they fled. Overhead their light guns were thundering providing covering fire as the men started to run, and again the enemy did their best to lay them low as the fire came in again. A quick look over his shoulder revealed that most men were already withdrawing, only the dead, dying, wounded and a few men that had surrendered remained, as well as a few of the priestess in the black robes that kept the dying and wounded secure.

Fleeing under the heavy fire again did he flee back to the second line of trenches, all around them were men falling as heavy fire thinned their numbers again. And then, just as before did he take a dive down into the second line of trenches and he was once again safe, only the divine could tell for how long though.

[Allanea]

Lilith Nikitina's office

"What do you mean, you don’t' have the beach head yet?" – the woman's steely voice had a hint of anger in it. "How could you possibly-"

"We've not had the correct intelligence assessments, and so we've failed to fully suppress the traitor defenses." – the voice on the other end of the line sounded raspy, as if hoarse, but it was not possible to know if this was caused by the line noise or the man was just genuinely hoarse.

"Let me say it simply: either your intelligence officers have screwed up, or the CAG had. Either way the CAG is responsible. It is his job to plan the air strikes. Now go and tell him plan more air strikes. I do not need to lecture you on this. Have the planes mix those Izaltans into the sand."

Kislovsky's 'office'

Kislovsky's trench was now a vision of an outer circle of hell. Maimed and dead soldiers lay everywhere. On the trench lip – a nude Izaltan, his spine broken and protruding horrifyingly from the split skin of his back, next to Kislovsky – an Allanean soldier, his legs shorn off at the knees, his face still contorted in agony, his legs resting in bloody mud. Somewhere, a man was moaning and cursing in pain as the medic worked on him.

Kislovsky muttered an oath as he peeked over the trench lip, rifle in hand. They were separated from the Izaltan trench by perhaps two, maybe three furlongs, but under rifle fire this would have just as well been like trying to run to the moon. Speaking of the moon, the landscape now looked like much it – white sand (Kislovsky had always imagined the lunar surface as white), torn up and covered with craters. Only the wreckage of vehicles and bodies reminded that it was still on Earth.

That and the sound. There are no sounds on the Moon, of course.

Somewhere on the horizon, a growing hum could be heard. Kislovsky knew what it meant, and he withdrew immediately to the trench bottom.

"Men! Open your mouth, cover your ears! Now, now!"

The hum grew closer.

They were airplanes, of course, taking off from the Allanean carrier. They would not bother to fly over the beach – to do so would expose them to far too much danger. Instead, they cut loose their bombs several miles from the shore, and let them glide in – some on computer-controlled winglets, others merely on inertia, the aim merely using the planes' own computers.

The bombs were small, as far as aviation bombs went – each merely a quarter-ton, this meant to reduce the risk to the Allaneans themselves. Yet 'merely' a quarter-ton was still, in some ways, a lot.

It would be as if Kislovsky's circle of hell drew an inch or two closer to the center. The ground shook, the white sand drizzling onto Kislovsky's head. His teeth seemed to rattle in his mouth as the bombs raid down on the Izaltans, guided down by drone photograph and satellite data onto where enemy vehicles, weapons positions or artillery were meant to hide.

Some, of course, malfunctioned, or missed – Kislovsky heard a bomb impact somewhere nearby, and heard the death-cries of other Marines, as they were thrown about in their trenches or hit with shrapnel. But it brought him gratification to think that his enemies were now much closer to the center of Hell than him. There, on the Izaltan trenches, the white sand went up in disgusting white clouds of fine dust, enough that even those who would not be injured would be picking sand out of their teeth for days to come. The soil seemed to churn and roar as dozens of bombs impacted near, in, and behind the enemy trench line.

Most of the bombs were mere explosives, but the others were black smoke bombs, enveloping all about them in greyish-black smoke and adding to the confusion of the bombardment.

The bombing went on and on, as some planes departed others returned. Meanwhile, from the Allanean ships, more BMPs and hovercraft began to unload.

[Imeriata]

The bombs kept falling and falling, what little AA emplacements that remained to them kept up a noble job of blasting away and from his hidden shell in the trench where he was sitting Shalo could see white tracer lines run across the heavens above, while even the odd self propelled shell made it's way from their lines to the warplanes above. However the resistance was too little too late, large parts of the trenches were blown apart as bombs fell straight into the depth of the defensive line. Men screamed as they were blown apart or buried alive by the large mounds of dirt that the blasts threw over them.

It was all that they could do sitting with their mouth wide open to avoid shattering their teeth in the heavy bombardment. Shivering in fear and worry, some however with their eyes burning with fanatism were sitting praying, openly defying the bombs and praising the god that they all knew were about to receive all those that fell in battle. But alas it was not meant to be.

"Ready, we are withdrawing from the field!" came the orders from behind. "The field is lost and we are withdrawing to line up with the rest of the mainland troops and attempt to hold them at thuul ridge!"

Shalo knew of the large ridge but he had not been there himself, some said it was there the two faced goddess had first stepped down from the mountains and had taken many a great warrior king of old as her lover to show her favour. For the faith was it holy but since the ascension of the holy sun's faithful had the more perverse rites been outlawed. Good he knew, however despite that was it still an important defensive line that would be hard to cross and without taking it would any army be forced to advance under fire by the shores or attempt an advance over the mountains.

IT was during a lull in the bombardment and with the setting of the sun that people begun to withdraw, first squad by squad as the heavier artillery they still had started to open up with all they might and the AA batteries started up again like madmen that bothered not if they had ammunition to spare or not. Something Shalo imagined they would not have for long but he also imagined it was a moot point if the guns were destroyed or abandoned. When his turn came it was with still some shame he and his brothers in arms yielded the field. However despite that it was night and the great sun did not shine upon them.

[Allanea]

On the beach

For Sergeant Kislovsky, the enemy's retreat was cause for but brief celebration. In the trenchworks, the milieu in which he was now plunged was a piece of surrealistic horror unlike anything he imagined possible.

Here lay an Allanean soldier, the front of his shirt so thick and sticky with blood that it became almost entirely black as the blood began to congeal, his head tilted back at an unnatural angle, his mouth half-open. A few meters away – an Izaltan, bare as on the day he was born, his stomach cut open, his weapon laying a foot away from his outstretched hand, looking like a discarded anatomy doll.

Even as the enemy retreated, the helicopters began to arrive. They threw the white sand up as they descended, and Kislovsky did his best not to think of the sand's origin as it flew up around him, in his nostrils, in his mouth, crunching between his teeth.

They loaded the injured men in the helicopters – Allaneans and Izaltans alike, those who had not been able to retreat with their brothers. For a brief moment Kislovsky locked eyes with a young Marine who was being loaded in one of the helicopters. The man smiled, even though his right pant leg was soaked with blood. As the machine began to ascend, the Sergeant shared in the man's relief. Though he was injured, he was of course in the helicopter now. He'd be fine. The medics would take good care of him, and by the time his wounds healed the war would certainly be over.

As the helicopter rose, it formed a near-black silhouette against the reddish sunset.

And there was a hissing sound.

Kislovsky flinched, realizing instantly what that sound meant as two trails of smoke passed overhead. The machine tilted in the air, trying to dodge the shots. Flares, anti-missile defenses kicked in, and for a moment lasting less than a second it seemed that it would make it, that the men on board would get to live. One of the two enemy missiles was shot down, plummeting into the sea with a trail of burning fuel behind it – the other one detonated perhaps a yard in front of the machine's cockpit.

"Yebana mat!" – Kislovsky swore. "Suki trakhanye v gortan!"

He knew, of course, that the Izaltans were soldiers like him, that they were doing what he would have done. Yet there seemed to be such unfairness in this – not because they'd broken some law of war – obviously whoever fired the shot could not have even known this was a medevac helicopter, nor were the Izaltans bound to respect any such thing. But it was unfair in the sense life was unfair. These men on board were safe! They'd made it! Rationally, Kislovsky understood that reality was not bound by the rules of war movies, where if the hero made it onto the helicopter he'd live a long and happy life.

Yet when he saw the helicopter, peppered with shrapnel, rotate helplessly in the skies and plummet into the sea, he was filled with the worst sort of rage, the powerless rage where all he could do was choke back tears. The fact that the Izaltan soldiers had been only doing their duty, much as he would have done his if it were reversed – that he had no right to be angry, that this was normal – that only made this rage darker and more bitter.

* * *

In the night, the Allanean aircraft struck again. Once again, they fired their missiles and dropped their glide-bombs from dozens of miles away, where they would not be even visible to the defenders on the ridge (though, of course, they would be perfectly capable of shooting down at least some of the munitions). Through the night, the Marines sheltering in the trenches listened to the crackling explosions of hundreds of submunitions, and watched sultans of flame from bombs impacting on the ridge. Smoke bombs fell between them and their enemy, obscuring the action on the beach from Izaltans. Of course, itr was not possible for the Marines to know what damage was being done – bt it was, at least, impressive-looking.

Meanwhile, more and more landing craft approached. Enormous amphibious trucks went onto the beach, their tracks clattering, and from them, combat engineers dismounted. Towed caissons, the size of houses, were brought in, and slowly attached to one another. A landing ship beached itself among the men, and soon enough several tanks were among them.

By morning, the Allanean engineers had assembled two piers. Tanks and anti-tank positions were entrenched around them to protect them. Yet disembarkation had not yet begun. Instead, tiny drones, buzzing like bumblebees, flew towards the ridge, to inspect the damage the night's bombing had done.

[Imeriata]

Hurh Murgi ridge
Shalo sat and breathed heavily, he was tired, his hands and legs hurt. He had been making a fighting retreat for what felt like ages, walk, fight, walk fight, walk fight. Through the dense woodland had they been fighting, holding of local predators and the enemies alike, and now finally where they are the Hurh Murgi ridge, named after the many carving of the two faced goddess that littered the elevated position. He and his comrades in arms had just now dug a trenchline being overlooked by a particularly large example carved into a cliff. A huge naked lady, feet like those of a bird of prey with large wings of the samme spreading from her back. Her bosom was large and she had hips to match with a well toned physiqe that had something masculine about it, more akin to the naked boys depicted both in the sun temples and those dedicated to the rose burners god of war than the classical image of a woman in art. However it was her head that gave him the shivers, or more exactly the two of them. One of them were carved into a snarl with sharp fangs and a long tongue, this side of her also held a large ax dripping with gore. Her other head on the other hand was gentle, a kind and motherly smile was on it and in that hand did she hold a large bushel of fruit bushes.

"Mother of decadence!" He muttered as he shook his head and looked up from their trenchline. The position they held gave them almost unimpeded sight over the entire region down to the ocean and both approaches to the ridge. These foreign savages were pressing them hard from the west, and a look at the other way gave a similarly hopeless view. One could not see them but the distant thunder of cannons and the distant sounds of warhorns told of the approach of the Seaschi from the east. The fight there had been hard but the countless henchmen of the high king came from that way. They had the tall men from Scandera proper, darkskinned men wearing feathers of terror birds, fellow faithful in green that had replaced the sun with the golden eagle, and peoples he had never even heard of. Thundering of warmachines and screaming attacks, both sides refusing to gave ground. It had been described to him as a brutal slog. But then again the newcomers, where they vassals or mercenaries he knew not.

"WATCH IT! AEROPLANE!" Someone roared and before he even knew what was going on had Shalo thrown himself on the ground, the tell tale explosions of self propelled shells roared all around him and when he looked up could he see a trio of biege and orange aeroplanes making their escape, hounded by shells released from the ground by the defenders. Two of them managed to release whatever devilry that it was that kept the self propelled shells away but one of the trio got struck and went down in a trail of flames, whatever the trio had planned they apparently decided that, that was enough for they did not make another pass.

Instead did they go low and continue west, flying over what by now was the newcomers lands. Making a mocking circle of the defences he and his comrades had built for now. But at least, this seemed to be the end of the road at least, no retreats, no falling back. Most of the clerics had gathered here by now and from what was told to people around them did it seem that it was death now. Death and glory, one last holy day of fighting and then the glorious sungod would take them all in. As if to answer the praise to Him that filled Shalo's chest did an artillery position open up with untold fury and the Seaschi got hammered as a large series of explosions spread out amongst the forests that they advanced in.

---

"This is Jarl squire commander Hans auf Bergenritch! Calling the commander of his royal highness Alexander auf Blaken-Kazansky, king of Allanea and Greater Prussia!" Hans said formally into the radio speaker as he looked through his spying glass savouring the heights before him, crawling with fortifications, artillery emplacements, and best of all, men that seemed willing to die for a cause that was lost. Behind him was the might of the high king himself. Massed ranks of crack Scanderans, backed up by locals now in the royal blue from the regiments that had switched sides through the conflict as their commander had fallen from grace. But there were also Sydvinlandare, Africans, Gustavslandare, and countless other people, a couple of Salywans with their bronzed faces and narrow eyes glared at the positions before them a bit away.

"Would you direct your eyes to the shoreline that seperates the ridge before us from the ocean is there a village!" he continued, a village was not the correct term but a city was a better term as it had grown up around a natural chokepoint as far as travel was concerned. "It currently is the lowest point seperating our forces, I would officially request that you join me and my lads in a full on offensive to drive the enemy from it, linking our lines up before readying to push the traitors off the heights!" A task that would be very hard he imagined, after all the heavy artillery that the rebels had pulled up on the ridge that now served as their last stronghold would have an ungodly field of fire approaching the city on both sides. The same of course was also true of the heights themselves and he could only imagine how dreadful trying to push one's way up, under heavy artillery, machinegun, and small arms fire, only to be forced to stand up to a counter charge coming from uphill. Even the idea of heavy city fighting seemed to be a cheery prospect compared to the push up that hell. There would be a lot of brave warriors joining the gods in the afterlife when the banner argent, or eagle flew proudly on the last stronghold that stood before them.

[Allanea]

Lietenant-General Hugh Toynbee sat in the rear of his army jeep as it bounced through the white sand. On the screen before him, he could see the flat roofs of Kha'korda. Some seemed to have old furniture on them, or boxes that seemed like broken-down washing machines. This made Toynbee somewhat concerned – right until the image in front him jerked suddenly, as the drone it came from was yanked by an invisible force. Then it vanished, replaced by a simple black screen and an error message.

SIGNAL LOST

"That won't be back." – said Toynbee. "Probably took it down with a falcon or something. Thrice-damned slaver bastards… may the devil screw their mother's soul through seven coffins in hell."

The trench-wizard seated next to him looked serene, his conical camouflage hat folded on his knees. Toynbee knew about the hat's utility, and yet each time he saw the trench-wizard he winced, wondering about the many risks the young man was exposing him to if he wore it – which at the moment he did not. Still, he appeared calm. "I'm going to go ahead and assume that they have more of these falcons." – said the trench-wizard – "As well as all the other stuff – surveillance kites, mortars, the works."

"That's probably true." – nodded Toynbee. The young man impressed him – he was clearly a forward-thinking, intelligent officer, unlike the many varied military specialists who could not think at all beyond the narrow scope of their task. "What do you propose, Captain Klimkin?"

"I propose that we contact the Imerians and ask for more time. We are not going to just drive into that one. That's not happening for us. We need to prepare… I believe, assault teams, and suchlike."

"That's what we'll do, Captain."

* * *

Soon enough, a message was dispatched to the Imerians the old-fashioned way – by means of a man on motorcycle carrying a sealed letter. It requested, first, a copy of whatever municipal records and plans remained in loyal hands of Kha'korda's structures, streets, and infrastructure, both aboveground and underground. Second, it requested more time.

While the Allaneans waited for the response, they already began to plan for the fight. Electronic warfare aircraft patrolled the shore, scanning for the output of enemy radar, and long-range decoys were launched to provoke air defenses into firing. Sometimes, a HARM missile would streak out, seeking out an Izaltan air defense radar.

The chief preparations, however, were silent and behind the lines. Each of the units already landed now separated out assault teams – small groups of heavily armed troops, each with its main objectives on the city edge. Those would be chosen from the best soldiers each unit had to offer. The rest would be separated into company-sized teams, and company commanders already began review of the knowledge they had – photographs of the city, aerial maps of those places where they would have to fight.

Unloaded under cover of darkness were shipping containers full of ammunition crates and cases – but not all the ammunition cases had ammunition in them. Some had spell components – small pieces of clay, feathers, tiny candles, and other assorted things that a wizard would need in his deadly trade.

Artillery ammunition was being stocked in concealed dugouts near the guns – enough for double, then triple, the standard load.

Aboard the ships, soldiers that had not yet been able to land on the narrow beach-head were still making preparations. Their time would soon also come.

[Imeriata]

Messagers were relaid back to the Allaneas using an Imerian hovercraft in the greyblue colours of the guard as an attempt to use the more secure waterways rather than the more open gauntlet between the oceanside city and the fortified ridge. The messengers were bringing maps from the military high command itself, beautiful pieces of art more than practical battlemaps as were the Imerian way. Outlining the map was symbols of angels and holy beings with their heads surrounded by holy fire. They were holding baskets of obsidian, fish, kelp, and other produces from the sea like pearls and fine textile of Scanderan ocean silk. The seas and the lands themselves was at times painted by scenes of local animals both being common Scanderan methods to bestow some information to map making as well as adding some interest, in this case telling the reader of both local production as well as wildlife even if it did not serve as a perfect map as far as military matters were concerned. It did however provide a lot of information despite that, small birds held scrolls on the map displaying topographical heights and freestanding scrolls named local placenames as well as noteworthy geological features, a cluster of painted men and women kneeling before a naked woman, her two heads ablaze and her feet those of carrion birds and her two majestic white wings spread out showed local holy sites dedicated to the two faced goddess while a young naked man with a serene expression and a bow in one hand, the head of an demon in the other spoke to a naked starving monk showed a site dedicated to the fierce unconquerable sun. One slight issue however on closer inspection was that all the text, while wonderfully outlaid either as black or with silver ink on a black background was not written in English, it was clear Imerian and the local tongue, and it was written in the Scanderan runes in the Scanderan manner. One example showed a small hill that the bird perched on it proudly told the reader was "ET ach E langder utaf ein haster utafan var Arv haller seder riker!" or "ET and E lengths of the horse above where Arv hold his realm". Those more familiar with Imerian and Imerian units of messurments could make out that it was 24.24 meters above sea level.

---

Olaf auf Haraldstrom took a deep breath as he scanned down the federal positions, the clock was ticking ever closer to the moment of launch, around him were men from all over the federation, gold skinned men of short statue from Salywa stood next to tall Vedians with their white kilts, Large Sydvinlanders with their black hair stood next to men of almost black skin from Imerian Africa with their fezes. The banners of countless regiments fluttered in the wind was reports were coming in from drones in the skies and last minute changes were made to the battle orders. Large female heavy tracklayers laid in wait next to the men with a few assault guns as well. All around him despite the countless ethnicities that made up the federation were men engaged in similar rituals. Some prayed to various gods of war for glory and good deaths, others were sacrificing to local spirits for good fortune, other still were stroking either blood or flower water unto their weapons to appease the spirits of the weapons themselves. Before them out in the fields visible from the city did representatives make sacrifices to the god of the sun and naked monks shouted out that the god truly favoured the champions of the high king. Blessings and honours the sungod had shown the line of the star crowned was repeated and their lineage from the great warlord and holy man Hi'shali was repeated over and over to ensure the defenders knew that their god was on the side of the federation.

The time drew shorter and shorter as Olaf looked worried down on his pocket watch as the seconds ticked ever closer to the time for attack. Then as suddenly as one could expect did the wood around him explode in the thunder of cannons and he watched how the ridge exploded as shell after shell after shell hammered it. Self propelled shells from the aeroplanes hammered them from above, well measured and countered artillery blasts blew large parts of the ridge out. While it looked like the artillery never stopped did he instinctively know that only part of the artillery fired at one time before they moved positions and another rotation of artillery started to fire. However from the hell on the ridge could one not think that was the case as it seemed to be one large continuous explosion.
"MEN FORWARD!" Olaf roared as all around him did horns blow signaling the attack.

The tracklayers moved first, the heavy bethemoths lumbering forward as the men took cover behind them, the assault guns hammered the city from a distance before the female tracklayers joined up, their heavy collections of heavy machineguns started to chew up whatever house that they could see, tearing large holes into them and ripping them apart with ease.
"FORWARD! HONOUR ONTO THOSE WHO FALL!" Olaf roared at the top of his lungs as his men answered with a cheer. A loud thud and an explosion made him turn around, a self propelled shell from one of the houses had hit the tracklayer in front of them and detonated. Seemingly unfazed did the heavy metal creature just turn it's guns to the building and open up. He could see her blast burst after burst as the heavy round tore out huge parts of the walls and large bits of the house simply fell off as the heavy bullets had separated them from the building itself.
"HONOUR! HONOUR ETERNAL!" Olaf roared again as he raised his sword high into the air and advanced, all around them did enemy bullets fly as they dove from cover to cover while advancing behind and beside the heavy beasts that seemingly simply demolished whatever house that caught their attention.

---

"FIRE! FOR THE SAKE OF THE FIERCE ONE FIRE!" the roar of the officer filled Shi'la's ears as the section tried to open fire from their positions, the Seashes were coming hard at them, one of the heavy tracklayers had torn the house almost entirely apart and the section that had made use of it before them was but a sickly paste on the ground. They had begun with their self propelled shells and when they had run out with little effect had they now resorted to use their machineguns, submachineguns, and rifles to hold the enemy. While they had, had some success in pinning the enemy at first had the heavy tracklayers they advanced behind shown their value and neither Shil'la nor his men were quick to poke their heads out of the window as another salvo from either the metal beasts themselves or the infantry behind them had left two men down and one more screaming.
"TRACKLAYER UPON US!" Someone roared as Shi'la took the risk to peak up at the metal machine that quickly moved towards them. It looked like a Hammar class medium tracklayer.
"What kind of tracklayer is that?" One of the men asked "It's weapon is too narrow to be a male but too long to be a female..."
"Assault gun? Tracklayer hunter?" A second man asked puzzled "no it should have been able to fire by now..."
Shi'la looked again. It was familiar somehow but it was advancing way too close under heavy infantry support as a superior section advanced in guard of it, laying down suppressive fire almost religiously in it's ferocity. His eyes widened as he realised what kind of tracklayer it was. He tried to shout out a warning but could not even rise up as the entire house vanished in a storm of flame.

---

"FORWARD MEN!" Squire Harald roared, the flamethrower tracklayer they guarded had made short work of the nest of rebels that they had been ordered to take. Having quickly looked in to the burnt remnants of the garrison and shot one wounded sod that did not have long for the world did they continue their advance. Their regiment had quickly been divided as almost the entire formation that advanced were split into smaller and smaller teams of infantry. Advancing quickly to positions under cover. It was the old familiar routine that they were used to. They reached their potions having dived for cover, advancing under covering fire and then providing fire again. Before he knew it did he phone in to command that his sections broke off into their individual sections. Continously did he have to report information back to HQ to keep them informed of their progress. But this was the beginning he knew. They broke down into smaller and smaller parts because a city was not a battlefield of armies, this was the work of warriors. He smiled a bit as they again rose up and charged over an empty street as their comrades behind them spew machinegun fire at whatever building looked even remotely suspicious. With heavy breathing did he dive for cover as they had passed the street. It was a hard day ahead of them he knew, all around the city could one hear the thunder of fire and the chattering of machineguns and even now could he see the fortified ridge above them explode over and over again as it took a heavy beating to keep the artillery and enemy down. But above all did he know that it was a day of honour and glory. A day of victory.

[Allanea]

Operation Aule's Hammer

The Allaneans were many things. Nobody who has seen the previous days of fighting would deny that they were capable of being brave, and also of being vicious. They had shed enough blood alongside their Imerian allies – both their own and that of the traitors – that their bravery could not be in doubt. Ferocious they could also be. Many an Izaltan could now bear witness to their ferocity both in the open field and in the close confines of trench warfare, where aggression and speed determined the day. Yet they were not only those things. Another word had come to define the Allanean way of war, and that word was methodical.

The rebels continued to cling to control over the dominant ridge. From that altitude, they could harass the Royal forces with sniper fire, or call down artillery attacks. Dislodging them with infantry and tanks would come at a terrible cost in blood, and, moreover, a cost in time, which would translate later down the road into more blood. Leaving them there would allow the rebels to continue killing loyal soldiers unpunished. Moreover, it might be that the rebels would use the ridge for a surprise counterassault against the beachead. This could not be countenanced either.

The aircraft took off in radio silence. They fanned out across a broad front – to create, when the time came, the illusion of number.

Upon the assigned time, one of the Allanean warships broadcast a simple, short, signal. "Four five Athena, over."

There would be no time for the rebels to try and comprehend this signal, even if they managed to decrypt it somehow. From the Allanean aircraft, decoys launched. Where the Allanean planes's own radar signature was minimal, that of the decoys was maximized, with rockets that weighed no more than a grown man appearing on radar screens as full-sized strategic bombers.

None could ignore that threat. Anti-air launchers would have to engage those 'aircraft'.

And then the hail of fire came. HARM missiles, aimed at the radar broadcasts of Izaltan air defense batteries, screamed through the skies. Glide bombs, carrying thousands of submunitions, swept serenely towards the locations of enemy artillery batteries. They detonated in mid-air, seeding the entire area of their target with bomblets beyond count. Zirconium shrapnel scythed through the air, burning hot enough to melt steel, sharp enough to slice through flesh. Those men hidden in trenches or bunkers would be safe – those exposed, or in light armor, would be in mortal danger.

As the wave of explosions seemed to pass momentarily, the Allanean artillery that was concentrated on the beach-head spoke. It would be at this point that the Allaneans would lay on the table their trump card – one that they had carried in their hand throughout.

The Izaltans might have had a chance of sorts in artillery duels with the Freemen's artillery alone. But – having just attacked the enemy's radar – the Allaneans had two advantages. One was that they had functional counter-battery radar systems and satellite eyes on the targets. The other one was that they had a weapon of which all knew, but few thought.

The main vehicle of the Allanean infantry was a stocky, lightly armored machine. Dozens, hundreds of these were positioned on the beach. Their gun barrels elevated – broad set ups, which seemed somewhat out of place on an armored vehicle so light. They were, of course, not 'true' artillery – they were a 'mere' low-pressure gun. But what mattered was that right now they were in range. In this context, every Allanean squad had a self-propelled cannon of sorts.

Dozens of artillery guns, hundreds of infantry vehicles, came alive with gunfire. The ridge became blanketed with explosions and flame, the Izaltan artillery becoming the focus of all of that fire. Over the horizon, the shells of warship guns – smaller no doubt that those an Imerian warship would throw at the foe, but vicious still – came in with the precision of a surgeon's blade.

Those who observed the battle from a safe distance could understand why this was termed operation Aule's Hammer. It truly seemed that the ridge was being hit with the hammer of an angry god.

Kha'korda

The infantry vehicle burned like a torch, fire spewing upwards from the commander's hatch. Within seconds, the armor itself began to burn, and then the turret was blown out in an ear-shattering explosion.

"Hanson! Petrov!" – Semyon screamed. Within that machine there had been two people.

"Calm down, Smirnov! We can't help them! They are dead already!" - the squad leader's voice was harsh on purpose, there to break Semyon out of his angry panic. But it was too late. Semyon rose. He raised his rifle, aiming it at the window from which the explosive had been thrown, and fired a long, ineffectual burst. Then he placed his finger on the trigger of the grenade launcher that had been fixed to the gun, and fired that as well. There was a thumping noise within the building, and fire belched out from the windows.

Before Semyon even had time to register that, his legs ceased carrying him. He fell forward, blood fountaining from his neck. He struggled to get up, and then a second bullet struck him in the head.

"What the fuck," – someone whispered.

"Sniper! That way!" – the Squad Leader took over again.

The shooter was still visible – several blocks away, on a roof. Probably he was not a sniper in a real sense. Maybe he had not gone to a sniper school, or didn't even know he was acting as a sniper. The fact remained that he had fired two precise shots, and now Semyon was dead.

A man with a revolver grenade launcher, heavy and thick, took aim at the sniper and fired six shots. The Izaltan's body, broken like a discarded Eniya doll, was flung several yards across the flat roof.

The Allaneans erupted in cheers and horrific curses alike.

*

The soldiers continued to die. They died in ways in which a man cannot die on a regular battlefield, but only in a city. They took all the right measures – splitting the city up into zones of responsibility, dividing the attack groups to move on different sides of a street and support each other with fire, maintain artillery support of the small groups… yet they continued to die.

They died in bizarre ways that were even more tragic because they were bizarre.

A man can train for months to become an infantryman, to be surrounded by his friends from basic training, to be wearing a helmet that costs as much as a small car. Then a city resident that has not ever been in a battle before takes a large brick, steps out on a rooftop, and lets go. The expensive helmet holds the blow. It does not break. The infantryman's neck, however, is not as strong. He falls to the ground, dead instantly.

A commander can go to officer school, college, senior officer school, and be riding in an advanced tank. The tank's active defense systems take down anti-tank missiles. The gun wins a duel with the launch crew. The heavy shells crack open houses like walnuts. Then the tank passes by a garbage can, and the can explodes. The explosion comes over the tank in a wave, treads peeling off, optics shattering. Then as the crew come out to try and fix the tread, the driver catches a bullet in the stomach, and then another in the head. The tank gunner wins the sniper duel that results. The commander is left pondering – what is the point of those grades from officer school, of the sleepless nights, of being smart and a leader of men, when on the other side of the scale you have the eyes of Erwin the driver, silly and kind, looking at the skies in pain and shock?

Some men find it within them to laugh as the enemy is killing them. A washing machine, pushed off from the edge of a roof, can kill a man just as dead as some hi-tech weapon – even if it looks like it came from a child's cartoon. The survivors chase the killer down, of course, and after he is dead they laugh. "Well I've never thought it would be a man who does that sort of thing! You'd expect a wolf or a coyote!"

The Allaneans struggle. They cannot read the markings on the Imerian maps. They cross-reference them, as best as they can, with the satellite photos and terrain maps in their computers. They move forwards, and they die.

The Allaneans are meticulous in their planning. Each of the advance teams is assigned a specific artillery team with which they have radio contact. Where a team is held up by resistance, it contacts "their" gun by radio, and soon enough high-explosive shells come down on the roof of whatever house or office building holds the rebels. Where that is not viable, assault sappers appear. They run – or sneak, as needed – towards the building, carrying the largest demo charges they can handle, and fit the charges to the walls. This too is a method of assault.

They push forward, block after block, street by street. The narrow city streets and solid walls make this the perfect environment for the Izaltans to defend, and the rebels, for all their flaws, are brave and competent.

Regardless, the Allaneans advance.

[Allanea]

Kha'korda

"Where, then, are we?" – Captain Shabolov folded the map on the hood of his command jeep. Next to it, he put his tablet. Separately, those two items were only partly useful – the tactical map in the tablet was partly out of date, and lacking all sorts of information, but written in Common, which Shabolov could read. The paper map was detailed, with its language being Scanderan – which he could not. Together, they were worse than useless. Shabolov's black eyebrows moved together as he tried to parse the two different maps – done in two different styles, in different languages, using different units of measure and using different markings, it was hard to know what corresponded to what. They had been issued the paper map just the day before, and there had not been time to figure this out before they entered the city.

Assault Team Misericord was a combination of different types of weapons – a tank platoon, a company of infantry, a platoon of sappers. And it seemed to be lost.

"Captain, I think we're not where we're supposed to be," – said young Lieutenant Torrings, pointing to the digital map. "It looks like there's supposed to be a temple on the intersection of these two streets, but there's clearly not a temple here."

"Yes, I can see that, Torrings." – Shabolov said, rubbing his temples. A headache began to grow in his head, like a pressure building against his right eyebrow.

"Do you think maybe we should send out a scout team?" – Torrings asked. "Help us get our bearings."

"That is a surprisingly good idea, Tor-"

He did not finish the sentence. A sniper's bullet smashed his jaw apart like a dinner plate, bright-red blood spewing onto the foreign map, and Shabolov fell backwards, gurgling as he struggled to breath.

Torrings hesitated for a second. Finding his bearings took the rest of his life. The Izaltan sniper, still unseen, took another shot, this one hitting Senior Lieutenant in the forehead.

It was pandemonium, then. Men, unseen within the second floors and attics of the buildings around them, struck at once, throwing grenades through the windows and at the Allanean soldiers below. Explosions tore through the infantry squads as they stumbled for cover. A BMP took off like a torch, hit by an anti-tank grenade.

There was no time to understand what was happening. Anti-tank missiles, fired from a house down the street, streaked out down the street's length. Some were shot down, of course, by tanks' defense systems, others were not. A tank's tread snapped, the vehicle spinning helplessly as tried to move.

Within minutes, Assault Team Misericord lost a third its number. The survivors fought as best they could, firing at any glimpse an enemy fighter. The BMPs and tanks fired at building facades, entire rooms becoming enveloped in flames. Desperate to get out of the street, some of the soldiers kicked down a door to one of the houses. The first to do so got a crossbow bolt in the eye.

Radio contact with headquarters could only be made thirty minutes into the fighting. By that point, half the assault team had been dead or injured, and the survivors huddled in several buildings they managed to hastily seized. They were surrounded by all sides, and their numbers dwindled rapidly.

* * *

The same events seemed to repeat themselves elsewhere throughout the city. The Allaneans were better armed, no doubt, but their enemies knew the ground better than they did. The maps the Imerians had given them, written as they were in foreign language, were less than helpful. And the Izaltans were as brave as they were.

Pillars of smoke were rising from the city. In one place, a cargo helicopter, shot down with twenty men on board, smoldered in the ruins of a house. In another, a tank turned into a torch after catching a grenade through the commander's hatch. In yet a third - some hapless BMP or truck caught on a mine.

There were many truths that were known to both sides in this city in theory that were being relearned now in practice.

Certain heavy machineguns can penetrate the roof of a BMP if they are fired at a steep enough angle. Load them with the right rounds and soon enough the vehicle will be in flames, and the men within will begin to emerge, screaming as their uniforms burn on them, rolling on the cobblestones to try and beat out the flames.

A garbage bin can hide enough explosives to tear through the side of a tank, leaving it like an injured dragon, burning fuel spouting from its wounds.

Armored vehicle crews need to open the hatches sometimes – time it right and you can pour out boiling oil onto their heads like in a medieval siege, and be rewarded with your enemies' screams.

Of course, it goes the other way too. A tank gun is the world's best countersniper weapon – it is precise, and even it misses by half a yard, nobody is likely to complain.

Rebel soldiers' radios can be jammed much like those of loyal soldiers.

A bomb can smash through roofs and ceilings, burying you alive under the rubble – whether brave or cowardly. Sometimes you may end up buried alive by a bomb someone on your own side dropped or be killed by shrapnel from your own shells.

Some believe that war is worse than hell. Others believe that it is a taste of hell, one of its departments that the Gods open on Earth to warn the sinners.

Perhaps that is true.

Certainly Kha'korda would be an illustration of that creed.

[Imeriata]

Kha'korda
Bullets flew around as the Section dove from cover to cover, machine guns attached to each demi section spat fire at the house that held the men pinned down behind carts and rubble, however over hours of cruel slugging and deadly fighting from street to street, from house to house, from meter to meter had the royal guardsmen almost made their way unto the house that had served as a deadly machinegun nest overlooking most of the block. Björn Haraldsson laid in the dust, hiding as well as he could behind a pile of rubble and using a periscope as was part of standard equipment to keep his eyes on the enemy stronghold that even now spat an ungodly amount of machinegun fire down upon them while their own responded in kind.

A moment flashed in the window and he rose up, his heavy rifle aimed at whatever shade moved before him. Time seemed to slow down and the world froze around him as the loud KRACK of the riflesong filled the space that enveloped him. If he hit or not was neither certain nor was it something that mattered much as he dove down again, rocks and plaster spewed all around him as the machinegun spat deadly fire around the position he did his best to crawl into. Then as suddenly as it begun the gunfire stopped, the man laid still for a moment before looking around trying to figure out what was going on and his eyes met the rest of the team that looked as confused as he did. Slowly did he peer over the rubble he hid behind and saw a man walk out, wearing the red uniform of their enemies. For a moment did the heavy weapon in his hand rise up to fire but it halted half way through as he saw the pole the man was wearing. 'twas long and wrapped around it could one see flowers and grass and plants of all kind.
"HALT! NO FIRING!" A loud voice roared out from the Corporal as everyone stood down. With a quick wave of his hand did their leader and the lance corporal stride forward.

After all, a truce pole was not something that any good warrior would dishonour. For a moment did the two NCO's argue with the man before them, gesturing widely as Björn and his squad watched with anticipation, in the end did whatever offer the rebels have be accepted and the two sides parted, it was soon obvious to everyone what was happening, a small statue of silver and a small one of a naked man was placed before the corporal and the rebel as they both fell down on their knees and prayed. Then as quickly as they begun did they both draw blades, they stood silent and watched one another for but a moment then the dance begun. With a furious smattering of blades did they dance around one another, slashes against one anothers hands were avoided, thrusts and parries, slashes, punches, kicks and jumps all were carried out, then the rebel took a step forward and the corporals sabre slashed him over his arm, and then over his head as he attempted to withdraw. Then it was over.

The rebels left their positions with their hands up, and the Imerians moved in. The honour of the duel had been satisfied and the losers surrendered as was the rules demanded by war.

---

Kha'korda, city centre
One could hear fighting in the distance, here however it was temporary still, prisoners and the dead were taken away and heavy tracklayers protected the entrances to the large square on all side, in the centre however had a large pole been erected, with thunderous glorious fanfare did slowly a large banner rise, the blue and gold stripes on the silver background emblazoned with the golden eagle was raised as the federal symbol was raised tall and proud in the name of victory, yet despite that could one still hear battle on the far side of the town, the thunder of boots hitting the paved square also echoed as federal guardsmen continued to swarm in in orderly fashion as they used the large cleared area to advance in great numbers to large areas of the city, no matter where the foemen hide they were in for the end down here at the very least.

---

Kha'korda
The squad was sitting down, fire was all around them, machine guns hammered away as the foreign invaders pushed forward. Sha'shili spent most time either looking forward or backwards, not only were the savages that the Saschi had brought with them pressing them hard from the front but one could hear the thundering of artillery strikes and the chattering of machine guns behind them. The Saschi were pressing hard on them, every time he looked did he feel a horrid worry that he would see men in the dark blue would advance upon them. However despite all that, despite their well fortified potions did the enemy press them hard and they had been giving ground all day, even the idea to withdraw back to the ridge seemed less and less likely. His eyes once more went over his shoulder for another look as the distinctive "KRAKS" of the KVG sounded closer and closer. His eyes did however not go back to the front, instead froze as he looked to the officers of the group. They were arguing quietly with one another but what truly drew his eyes to them were the fact that in their hands were a large pole. Wrapped around it was a thick coating of weeds, flowers, leaves, and strips of red cloth. The traditional way to challenge an enemy to a duel instead of continuing fighting.

With the group of officers were Isha'karatun, a large fat brute of a man but also the greatest duellist the superior squad had. His skin was of a darker shade and his arms were akin to tree trunks and only matched in size with his giant belly.
"HOLD YOUR FIRE!" an officer roared as if the group had finally taken a decision, and almost as quickly as the order had been issued did the fire of their arms grow quiet. With the plant wrapped rods did the officer hesitate for just a moment before they stopped to wave them vissible above the cover the defenders were hiding behind. For another moment did they hesitate and then finally again did they move out of cover, only their rods and the honour of barbarians as their protection.

---

Outside Kha'korda, the foot of the ridge
Olof was a man at the end of his life, he knew it as he looked up at the enemy entrenchment that stood before him, the knew it looking at the people around him, all dressed in federal uniforms but far from the fighting men that were in the trenches behind him. Behind him was stern looking men in the prime of their youth, there were artillery support, there were heavy tracklayers ready to lumber out of their protective trenches. However around him were the ill, the old, the dishonoured, those like him that had lost it all. An old man with white hair stood next to him, beside him one breathing heavily, his skin sunken in and eyes with dark circles. Next to him was a youth. Then another old man, then one that was bleeding heavily already and seemed to have trouble standing. Despite it all did they lack the stern faces of those behind them, their faces were serene, eager, hungry.

Almost like Frans had looked when he... The memory of the loving comrade that was at the feast returned the dull pain and sorrow that made life not worth continuing came back to Olof, the memories of screaming and sobbing, the empty soldier bed next to him that just days before had held his friend and... they had been close, so close but a bullet in the reclamation of this land had turned that to ash. His eyes went back to the ridge before them and a smile returned to his lips.
"Not too far now dearest!" He muttered and got a surprised look from the old man next to him before recognition and then a firm nod of approval spread over the old one's face.
"Your man... he fell in glory?" The old man asked and Olof felt a reassuring hand on his shoulder.
"Aye, he is at the feast with Him that watches over us warriors..." Olof responded simply, swallowing the sorrow.
"You will see him soon lad, we are His chosen! His blessed ones!" The man said with a smile as he returned his eyes to the ridge before them and all the trenches and fortifications that stood between them and ultimate victory.
"Aye... I hope so... I hope we are worthy!" Olof returned as he fidgeted on the white cloth wrapped around his tunic, like all the men around him did he wear the uniform of the guard, but wrapped around it was a sheet embroidered with the shimmering god of war and prayers to him. They were death seekers, the empty formations, Bel's chosen. He took a deep breath, it would not be far now, they had all around him volunteered, taken oaths, and were ready to throw their lives into the pyre, the men behind them were ready to exploit whatever push they managed when they left this world.
"We are lad, we are!" the old man reassured him.

"GATHERED! THOU WHO SEEKS RELIEF AND HIS BLESSING! YOU ARE ABOUT TO ATTACK, ARE YOU WILLING TO DIE?" A loud shrill voice interrupted them and they both looked to a man in the red robes of the chronologically had walked forward, an old man him, like so many around them.
"AYE! AYE WE ARE WILLING TO GIVE OUR LIVES! TO DIE FOR THE GODS! TO DIE FOR HIS HIGHNESS!" they all shouted. Olof repeating the words so trained into him.
"FALSE!" The cleric responded again. "YOU ARE WARRIORS! YOU ARE ABOUT TO FIGHT WITH THE FOEMAN! YOU KNOW WHY YOU WILL NOT DIE?" he continued loud and shrill.
"NO! WHY WILL WE NOT DIE?" The crowd responded. Olof clenched his rifle tightly.
"THERE IS NO DEATH IN COMBAT! YOU FALL AND RISE ETERNAL IN GLORY!" The cleric responded, the well known and well beloved formula in the holy chronicles that all praticipatians knew so well. And just like that did the horns blow, and just like that were the large formation of men moving forward, bayonets lowered, flags fluttering in the wind. But like all other advances did they advance in order. Olof roared as he moved to a position of cover, the old man dove down behind him and they both raised their weapons to provide covering fire. Then they rose again and started to run forward. The bullets came suddenly. The bullets came brutally, Yet despite that did the first wave of death seekers advance, and behind them, to the thunder of machine and artillery did the second wave slowly start to push forward. The well oiled machine of war moved as the warriors fell.

[Allanea]

The top of the ridge seemed to boil with fire and explosions. Cruise missiles streaked in from over the horizon, howling as they came. Glide bombs whistled as they cut the air. Some of the munitions were shot down, of course, plummeting into the sea like injured birds. Others impacted, making the ground quake. The Allanean fleet was dumping tons upon tons of munitions into the ridge top – it was now or never, the navy commanders felt, there was no point to hold back.

Somewhere else, in air-conditioned command rooms, no doubt maps existed with the targets for each of those bombs and missiles set out with precision, based on some manner of elaborate discussion between wise and intelligent men and women whose education was far beyond anything Kozlovsky possessed. But from where Kozlovsky sat in his trench, it seemed as if the entire ridge was being pummelled haphazardly with explosive force. When he drew breath, he could taste metal on his lips, and inhale the terrible odor of burning flesh and fuel. The roar of the explosions was such that it seemed to not merely be heard, but to echo through his entire body.

Then the sound changed suddenly, its pitch altering. The earth-shaking roar of bombs the size of a small automobile was replaced now with the thumping noises of artillery and mortars. Rocket launch vehicles blanketed the ridge with their charges.

It would not be possible, of course, to deliver some complex order in this noise, but it was not needed.

Kozlovsky saw them - brilliant-green flares, arcing overhead, clearly visible even in daylight. He knew what to do. He fitted a bayonet to his rifle. Next to him he saw a young officer unsheathe his sabre and place a foot on a firing step.

They moved forward – not elegantly like soldiers in far films, but in mad dashes of motion. One half the squad would run forward, the other firing their weapons at the Izaltan trenches, showering fire at anything that looked even slightly dangerous – a gleam of metal that might be a weapon, a flash of fire that might be a muzzle flash, an opening in a bunker. Then they changed – the men who had fired their guns now running forward, the others covering them. Behind them, their BMP advanced, its guns spitting fire.

The word “covering” of course was a lie. It implied a sense of protection, that this gunfire would keep one’s friends safe from injury and death. Nothing could have been further from the truth.

Only a few seconds after they left the safety of the trench, one of Kozlovsky’s squadmates threw his arms out in a wild gesture, bright-red arterial blood spraying from his neck, and fell on his back. By the time Kozlovsky got to him, the man’s eyes were already glass-like, frozen, the blood no longer bubbling on his wound as he lay there, his face in a look of surprise.

A few more seconds forward – and the young officer with the sword fell down. He was alive still, his right foot shattered utterly. He was still holding on to his sword as an infantryman knelt next to him, medkit in hand. The rest pushed forward.

There was a simple calculus to it and it went beyond military calculations of defeat and victory. The Imerians were advancing. The Allaneans had to advance as well. To fail meant to abandon allies to injury and death. To back down was to lose the respect of the blue-eyed warriors after shedding blood alongside them for days and days.

This was the nature of this fight. The men that were now shedding their blood were as much their comrades as any squadmate. A few yards away from Kozlovsky, he saw a woman officer, shouting at the top of her lungs, her voice carrying over the din of battle.

“I am taking over command of this platoon! Follow me! Marine Infantry! Where we are, victory! Hurrah!”

He shouted, opening his mouth so wide he felt like it would tear at its corner. They ran forward. Behind them, one of the BMPs tore itself apart from the inside, the turret coming off like a cork from a bottle. They no longer were terrified by this – for each man and woman knew others were fighting and struggling like them, in this same fear, in this same mind-shattering noise of explosions, stepping over their dead comrades, and those others were not showing weakness.

“Hurrah! Polundra!” – they shouted, pitching hand-grenades into the first line of Izaltan trenches. Marine Infantry, Mechanized Infantry, tank crews, assault engineers – all were taking part. Some leaped into the enemy trenches, taking on the enemy with grenade and bayonet. Tanks drover over the trenches or pivoted over them, burying enemy machinegunners alive.

“Polundra!!” – shouted Kozlovsky as he leaped into the trench. He landed hard, the pain seeming to rock through his ankles – but there was no time to think of that pain. He blocked a bayonet thrust, and then shoved his bayonet forward, into a naked man’s stomach. There was slight resistance at first where steel met flesh, and then the blade went easily, down to the sight. He looked the naked man right in the eyes – wide, full of pain – and shouted in his face wordlessly, no longer able to produce meaning, only a roar of rage and triumph.

[Imeriata]

The ridge
On the Allanean charge went on the top of the ridge, the men withdrew to the weird sounds made by some local variety of shellfish that they used instead of trumpets or horns. The next trench was assaulted again, and stiff resistance were put up, there the men either naked and coloured in warpaint stood waiting for them or dressed in their red tunics with the white shorts and turbans. They were furious fighters, their black long hair fluttering in the wind loosely as they counter attacked and withdrew, their yellow eyes were filled with fanatisms and hatred. So the fight continued. Charge were followed by counter charge and charge was countered by retreats to rear lines. Machinegunns fluttered constantly and mortars hammered down upon those that advanced. But the closer the Allaneans came to the top of the ridge the more brutal the fights became, smoke canisters filled it with a thick white haze that made it hard to see.

"SHI-SHO! SHI-SHO! SHI-SHO!" The defenders roared each time they threw themselves at their foes red tunics fluttering in the wind and white banners with suns emblazoned upon them flying in the heavy artificial mist. From trench to trench the advance continued, to the very top of the ridge, constantly under fire from improvised bunkers, kill zones covered by machine guns spat their deadly thunder.

Then they came upon the ridge, the defenders refused to give ground and they died where they held their rank, no retreat, no surrender, they died where they stood with sword and bayonets in hand. Then as before behind them came another wave of men out of the heavy mist, tall and screaming, Their golden, red, and brown beards were thick but cut into dashing shapes, they wore doublets of blue with dashes of gold and white on their chests and around their legs could one see kilts in white with red ornate knots at their sides, their blue, grey, and green eyes were filled with fury. Their hair was long and tied up in tails behind their heads and firmly on their heads sat black brimmed hats rounded with a gold rim and yellow and blue feathers fit in them.
"KHÖNUNG GIF US HEDER! SILFERSMIDE SE VADERAN DOD!" They roared and behind them could one hear the deep thunderous blown of horns calling for offences and pushes. Above their head flew flags of silver, blue and gold. A wolf in gold emblazoned upon them.

[Allanea]

For a moment, Allanean officers looked on in concern as the smoke began to spread, but then it became clear that it was not, in fact, a chemical weapon – the Izaltans fought on unprotected. No alarm was made, and soon enough the Allaneans approached their enemies for that final clash of arms.

Both parties threw grenades – the defenders, to try and deter the attackers, the attackers, to disorient the defenders. But this struggle would not be resolved by grenades. The iron rule taught to any Allanean soldier in basic training took hold: if you are in range to throw a grenade, you are in bayonet range.

Shouting at the top of their lungs, the two sides threw themselves at each other like waves of the sea, officers' swords and enlisted men's bayonets at the ready.

Everywhere, men and women threw themselves at each other, ferocious and determined. Each side believed its cause was right. Each was determined to do honor to their crown and their country.

Were the Izaltans traitors to their King? No doubt they were. But they were no cowards. Each of them had been trained in the ways of war, and each skilled with his weapon. Swords met with a clash like cymbals, oaths rose from men's throats. In some places, the Allaneans were repelled, the Izaltan warriors charging forward, fighting like lions. In others, it would be the Allaneans that held the upper hand, leaping into the enemy trenches, stabbing and slashing and shooting.

"Forward! Forward! Let them know who they face!" – Kislovsky heard someone shouted. Only seconds later, in the enemy trench, did he realize it was his own voice.