[joint post with Imeriata]
Posted:
Fri Feb 16, 2018 5:02 pm
by Allanea
“I will admit,” - Futgarek began to explain, “that it is unlikely you’ve ever heard of us. We are members of the Free Kingdom Air Force, Special Operations Team Nightjar. We are here as the front edge of an Air Force mission to suppress the traitors’ air defense network.”
“Beer? Not that I know of, it is not a too popular drink in the federation am I sorry to say, we have strong ciders, wines, and mead if that would be a good substitute!” the bunny girl offered to the man’s earlier question before she leaned back and listened.
“No, I cannot say I have heard of you nor your men!” she admitted “could be the uniforms though, not really colours that make us ladies swoon and inspires the bards to sing of your tales!” she pointed out before nodding out of the tent where a group of soldiers from Imerian Africa and Vedian seemed to be discussing something, both dressed in the pale blue, gold, and white of the hot weather operation uniforms, the Vedians in their white kilts and sun helmets while the Africans wore simple fezes but otherwise looked like any regement from Imeriata would. “Like those lads!” she offered helpfully tilting her head a bit with a bit of a distant look on her face with a smile spreading slowly. She shook her head for only a moment and her face took a more scarlet tone and her ears laid down defensively back down her long hair.
“I mean some blue or scarlet could not hurt!” she offered quickly.
“Then let us issue the men a drink of hard cider,” -the Orc said. “We are going to have a very fascinating day ahead of us. What is known about the traitor forces?”
“I will see if I can get something out of the logistics!” she said with a nod. “Well the traitors are entrenching on the other side of the river a few quarterroads northwards!” She said pointing in the direction.
“We are currently flying in troops and preparing to move in the artillery so that we can make a full push at their lines and we have the advantage that we can concentrate our forces currently while they have to spread theirs out or risk having us land troops behind them and cut off their supplies due to our aerial and naval superiority!” she continued to explain “however these men were royal guardsmen or were trained by royal guardsmen so the fight will still be a fierce one!”
“How broad is their trench line?” - the Orc mused - “Could a small group of men go around it, or perhaps sneak through their lines?”
“I mean probably? They just started to entrench, but in all honesty i am part of logistics and not exactly aware of how the enemy is positioned exactly, not really part of my job but I can get someone who is aware of it if you wished it!” she offered with a shrug, hers was a life far away from the more worrisome part of the battles and instead knee deep in lists and schedules as she sent ammunition and provisions the right way. “I am not sure how well supplied you guys are though, I could set you up with federal weapons and food though if that is an issue, I am not sure if your equipment fit our bullets or if you have managed to get your lines up and running yet!”
“We have...” - the Orc waved his hand dismissively - “Three, four days worth of ammunition if there’s a fight, and we are going to get more airlifted in soon. Due to the nature of what we’re going to do here, we’re unlikely to need the vast supply of ammunition that our friends in the infantry require. But I thank you for your hospitality and the arrangements you are making for my men. The next issue is seeing someone who might be able to assist me more.”
“I would recommend the command tent, about 50 wolfstrides or so east!” the bunny girl said quickly, raising her eyebrow a bit with a frown over the last comment but then again he was right so she shrugged and picked up her book again. Being assigned to assist men with logistics that already had all they needed was something of a dream job it turned out.
The Orc nodded. “Thank you, ma’am, I’ll be on my way.” - and with that, he strode towards the command tent. He entered at a rapid, confident pace, and saluted.
“My name is Nurbag Futkareg. Captain Nurbag Futgarek, Organization for Armed Shenanigans, Free Kingdom Armed Forces, good sers.” - his respect for the Imerians was visibly improving for every minute he was spending in this place.
A large group of officers looked up, either wearing the distinctive kilts, fezes or turbans that showed from which realm they hailed. All of them gathered around a large detailed map over the island chain, impressively painted with everything a military commander could need to know drawn on it. No matter if this was industrial centres, railroads, roads, terrain, heraldic emblems of local nobles, one rather improbable sea monster drawn in one corner and a dragon perched on the mountains in the centre of the chain.
A large number of small miniatures depicting aeroplanes, infantry, armoured formations, and artillery was placed on it representing federal and hostile formations. While most seemed to be busy streaching out around the rivers to the north so had a sizable unit of armour, artillery and airplanes been gathered in the rear and judging from the lines paced on the map so were the federal officers apparently already planning a push despite how most of the army was still making landfall.
“Ah, herr Futgarek!” the officer that seemed to be in charge said, at least he was the one who’s arms were the most covered by intricate austrian knots. The man was an old gentleman with white hair braided into long fuzzy braids with colourful feathers braided into them. His fez was decorated with a large gem that held a large collection of feathers in it and he had a pelt of a lion, the southern kind rather than the Scanderan one, hanging over his shoulders as a cloak. His skin was dark like mahogny and worn after many a years in the field. His eyes though stood out sharply in contrast with piercing blue colour that seemed to be very similar to the sky in a mild summer day.
“I was just explaining to my men how we could gain the initiative by launching a full push straight at this shallow river crossing here!” he put a riding stick he was holding straight down on a blue line on the map that seemed to be straight north of the gathering formation of Scanderan warriors but was lacking in much of red miniatures that represented hostiles.
“Would it fall so could we push onwards with jungle fighting regiment through the dense woodland and quickly capture Bur-Kala here, a minor railway junction but one that would give us a rather sizable network to exploit and redeploy through!” he said and looked up studying the orc not dissimilar to how a school teacher may study a child.
“A fascinating plan. Is there a massacre we seek to prevent?” - the Orc asked - “But tell me about these woodlands.” - he said, as he removed a small device, about the size of a pocket notepad, from one of the many pockets on his uniform, and commenced writing on it with a small stylo.
“Would it be feasible for small teams of officers, drilled in the usual arts of ranging,” - he used here a term that, he hoped, Imerians are familiar with, “to infiltrate through these woods, and therefore end up in the enemy’s rear? Moreover, what do we know about the types and forms of air defense which the traitors possess? Divisional and theater SAMs and permanent radar installations are most important.”
“More than feasible!” the commander agreed with a quick nod, “However we had hoped that the new operational range of our troops would force the enemy to withdraw and allow us to encircle and capture positions not able to withdraw with the main army rather than start a mere harassment campaign!” he continued to point out, “made rather harder due to our own light infantry not yet having made landfall with their own equipment and supplies, so our ability to launch such an operation is sadly lacking at the moment and the more we wait the enemy might be able to entrench the position we hope to break through!”
“The woodlands are not as dense as further upland, the trees are still mostly palm trees and the under vegetation is rather sparse however that quickly changes when you move north with more proper kinds of trees taking up the majority of the forests with dense under vegetation and vines!” he explained quickly, apparently having taken the time to study the local flora and climate before the campaign begun. “The enemy is in possession of both tracklayers that has air reaching self propelled shells from our own design and tracklayers with radar capabilities, however we also know of them having radar stations spread out over the islands, due to… well it was we that built them back in the day! The stations should be here, here, here, here, and one there!” he continued pointing at several positions on the map that were spread all over, However they tended to be built around the main mountain chain at as high elevations as possible, and resulted in a coverage of the entire island chain.
“The issue with the mobile units is that we are not exactly sure where they are located, while we have spotted some here and there so are they mobile so there is no saying if they still are in the areas or not!”
“Harrassment is for amateurs.” - the Allanean said. “Guerrillas harrass. We will devastate. Now, here is what I plan to do, and you tell me where we can work together. We will have our men move ahead of the line of engagement, as a special operations team we can move deep behind enemy lines faster than you can hope to advance. From there, we can assist you wonderfully by guiding the fire of bombers and naval craft and artillery on anything of importance we find, with a priority as I said on enemy air defenses and aircraft should we find any. The notion of this is very simple - the more we damage the enemy’s air defense systems, the more we can apply firepower not only along the front line of battle, but throughout the entire depth. Is this something that meets with your approval?”
“I am not entirely in favour of it, we would be very hard pressed to offer you support would you be engaged with more than you can handle except from the air! Letting our allies get cut down would be rather rude of us” he said, making the air word sound a bit like he did not entirely suspect that mere flyboys would be able to keep it together enough to save anyone.
“However the plan is a solid one so I will leave the decision up to you, just keep your eyes open for geese would you attack enemy positions, just like us do they make use of war geese to guard their installations!”
“It is of course entirely possible we will die doing this,” - the Orc conceded, “but I will endeavor to ensure this does not happen, and if we do die I will not begrudge you in the afterlife if you do not do the impossible. “
“Very well, Hold me a seat in the eternal feast in that case herr Futgarek, I am old but I still hold the hope that I will be granted entrance to the feast that awaits all fallen warriors!” he said with a smile and a nod.
“Though, I would suggest acting as properly as you can in your raids or risk the enemy burying your bodies if you fall!”
“That is what we do. Now, I do believe that we should start out during the night. Do you have a jaeger, or a hunting volunteer, or some such soldier that knows the lay of the land?”
“Well… we used to have a whole field army that was more than well versed in the region!” the commander offered drily before he looked around at the officers around him “Though I think we have one man, friherre squire Björn, he had some estates in the region and was a rather enthusiastic hunter of big game crockbeasts!” he added as most of the officers looked a bit doubtful about offering one of their own to a foreign raiding team.
“Very well then,’ - the Orc offered. ‘ I shall leave with my men as soon as it gets dark. If it wer possible for someone ot barrage the slaver positions around nightfall, this would also be quite nice.”[/align]
Some time later
[align=justify]At nightfall, the raid teams began to filter off into the North - each by their various means, some scooting along by their motorcycles or quadbikes, in teams of two or three, others in large teams. Here it is not possible to tell of them all, but it is possible to tell of one - Captain Nurbag Futgarek’s team.
They were ten soldiers - an Orc, seven humans, a drow, a hobbit, and a dwarf. These were no common soldiers, nor was their skill and equipment ordinary. The juniormost man was still a lieutenant, the least experienced one had trained with Team Nightjar for three years. One of the humans had the marks of a battlemage - his camouflaged tent-cloak’s hood lowered, a wand-holster attached on his vest. The dwarf carried in his backpack what looked like a long-range radio set but definitely was not one - and one of the humans did indeed carry a backpack radio set.
Then there were the weapons. The drow carried a long bag of army camouflage on a pair of cloth straps. There was of course a machinegunner, and a man with an RPG launcher, and of course another man what appeared to be an enormous revolver rifle. Carbines, pistols, knives, and so forth were worn, and those who could carried also a pair of short, innocent-looking tubes strapped to their backpacks, a bit like the tubes carried sometimes by engineering students.
Finally, standing near the men was a small - clearly robotic - vehicle on eight round, thick wheels, which had boxes and kitbags strapped to it.
There had been massed movement all around them for most of the night as heavy and medium tracklayers, assault guns, tracked artillery, and support vehicles had rumbled through the jungle followed by large number of demi-tracklayers and even the starkorm infantry carriers. All following the preparations for the large push. In the distance could one even now begin to hear the thunderous rumble of artillery and counter artillery open up at one another, followed by even lower sounds of horns and march music that the guard tended to blast at high volume in battles, this however was not responded to, a good sign if any that there were not a massed enemy formation ready yet to face the federal assault.
A trio of aeroplanes speeded over the group of Allaneans, however the darkness made it impossible to say if they were federal or rebels from just a casual look as both sides used cream colour markings on their planes and the darkness made it hard to tell if the main planes were coloured orange or blue. The distant thunder however seemed to have scared up a bunch of lizard like creatures, that rushed past them, the familiar crocodile like scales were present but their legs were straight and more adapted for sprinting long stretches rather than the short and spread out ones that their more common cousins had that were better suited for short sprints and swimming. Their snouts were also odd and duck shaped filled with what looked like maulers rather than the sharp predatory teeth that one could expect in crocks.
The Allanean soldiers commenced their movement through the woods in single file, with one of the humans taking point, and the robot taking up the rear. The device’s engine seemed to be nearly silent, as the machine followed after the men, its ridged, wide wheels moving deftly over obstacles. Behind it, a rough attachment made out of cloth and sticks was dragged, brushing over the tracks left on the ground by men and machine alike. A careful observer would, of course, still notice that someone had passed here, but to count how many had passed, or how swiftly they had walked, would be difficult.
As they walked, Björn and Futgarek were kept carefully to the middle of the file, where they could not be immediately killed off by a front ambush, a mine, or perhaps a rear ambush.
Futgarek’s yellowish eyes tracked the scaled creatures with respect and awe, he found their agile, predatory movements worthy of admiration. But it was not the time now, quite sadly, to speak of the marvels of nature, red in tooth and claw as she was. The Allaneans walked on. Even in absolute peacetime, they would come off as nearly silent, their feet placed carefully with every step. Now, with the roar of battle to their side, the far off explosions of friendly and enemy shells alike served further to obscure their presence.
The march was in its own way stressful - there seemed to be something almost shameful in how they had to walk on, uninvolved in the heroic struggle which the Imerians were now already engaged. Yet all understood that this was military necessity. They had a task, and if they carried this task out properly, they could yet bring home glory equal to that of the infantrymen who were even now about to engage in pitched combat against the traitorous foe.
Among the thick wood, the party continued to push forward, their movement taking them in a sickle-like route, off to the right and past the enemy’s positions. A regiment of men could not hope to make this movement unspotted, and even a company would have a problem doing so. Futgarek’s squad, however, moved like the very shadows themselves.
Nor did they say a word to attract attention. Hand signals - a commando raising one hand or both, opening or closing their fist - were the way in which Futgarek’s warriors directed each other’s movements through the woods - until, about two hours into the journey, the Orc Captain turned to the Imerian. In the night, his eyes seemed to gleam like those of a cat. “Honorable squire,” - the Orc whispered - “How soft is the earth around these parts?”
Björn stood out a bit from the men around him, instead of camouflage did he wear a khaki tunic and trousers, knee high boots of brown leather, and a thin cream cloak that was lined with red on the inside, his head was protected by a rather common looking pith helmet, like those worn by the royal guard and it was adorned by a rather impressive feather collection both from colourful birds and large terror birds from Vinland. His weapon of choice seemed to be one of the large dragon hunting rifles that as the name implied was capable of taking down one of the large fire breathing beasts but also lightly armoured military vehicles. However he also had a more reasonable KVG-09 carbine slung over his shoulders and a wicked looking slashing blade hanging from his belt. All in all a very common Scanderan hunting getup rather than the blue officer uniform one would assume he would wear. The only hint that he was part of the military at all was that he still had his military austrian knots sewn onto his tunics arms in a rather odd mixture of the civilian and military, something the royal guard apparently were totally ok with.
“Oh nothing too bad this far south! My young fellow milad!” he squire said with a cheerful but heavily accented tone, it was however far from as thick as certain Imerian accents could be when they basically just mixed the two languages with a casual disregard for anything foreign. “A bit sandy but nothing too bad, unfortunately so are the wildlife the most disappointing thing about the area!” he continued nodding to the quickly disappearing crockbeasts.
“Those there are Herbivores and about as large as the beasts come down here, the only thing worth bagging are Og’khals as the natives call them, a bit longer and predatory, looks something like a mix between a crock and a pike but they are only about the size of one of you Jonhies dogs, will stay way clear of a human though so the challenge is tracking them rather than fighting them!” he explained as he looked over his shoulder with an almost sorrowful expression at the dog sized creatures that by now where long since gone.
“It is further up hills the big things are, you should see the crock drakes as we call them, big and fiercely territorial, look like a massed crock with a bulldog like snout and long slender legs, ambush predators and violent buggers like you would not believe fellow my lad!” He continued, showing his somewhat over enthusiasm for hunting and local fauna.
“That is indeed all going to be useful should we have time to hunt something, which I believe may come into importance in a few days if we are unable to find food.” - Futgarek said, although he smiled as he spoke it, and from the way his sharp, Orcish teeth gleamed in the moonlight it was clear he too relished the notion of a hunt. “But it is not that I am concerned we will sink into the soil. I am interested in knowing that we can dig in it, which according to you we can.”
As he spoke, the men pushed on through the woods - by now they were quite beyond the din of battle, for unlike the soldiers there they were contending with no foe, and could simply walk, and walk. For a group like this, twenty miles in a night was not at all an unusual feat.
It would be near morning that the men began to approach their goal - the very edge of the woods. Here, Futgarek located an appropriate hill - one deep enough in the woods that it was still covered in trees, but one from which he could see out. Tired, aching, the men began to ascend.
But - just before they reached the top, with the mass of the hill between them and the edge of the wood - the men stopped. After a brief inspection, an observation post on the other side of the hill, facing the outside, was chosen.
“Shovels.” - the Orc uttered briefly, and the men began to dig. Ten green shovel blades, grey metal showing along the edges where they had been sharpened, bit into the Earth. Before the Imerian’s eyes, men who had just now walked the entire night dug, cut down branches, and placed the branches over the resulting holes. By the time the sun was fully up, the men had fashioned themselves a small, rather uncomfortable dugout on the side of the hill that faced the outside of the woods, and unrolled their cloaks into small, uncomfortable tents on the ‘inner’ side of the hill, tents just small enough for a single man to sleep in.
“Now we rest.” - Futgarek said, laconically.
“Right..” Björn said eying the groups tents with a bit of suspicion before he shrugged, he himself had been busy cutting down small trees and rather than digging out a place to sleep had he made himself a raised bed by crossing the newly cut tree into a box and pinning it in place with sharpened stakes, before tying down a flat surface on top of his box that he then had put palm leafs on. “Just keep your eyes open for serpents and biters, nasty little buggers those ones! Not really a danger mind you but they can give you quite a jolt if you are not prepared for them!” he said finally as he pulled what looked like a large bowl out of his own package and was just about to fill it with water that he had gathered from a stream they passed ago before he froze and looked very annoyed at the women in the group.
Muttering something in the good old tongue he instead rose up and headed out into the jungle “Well try to get some rest at least, I have some matters to attend to!” he said over his shoulder in English finally.
By the time the men woke - about the afternoon - the dwarf, hobbit, and two of the humans had in fact been bit, sporting unpleasant welts on their faces and throats. The soldier who had been watching the camp while they slept now took his turn to sleep, and Futgarek went off to the other side of the hill, where the observation point had been dug into the hillside and camouflaged, and began taking stock of his surroundings. A few dozen meters from Futgarek’s ‘cave’, a soldier was unfolding his backpack, raising a fat antenna into the air, concealed only by a few shrubs.
The radar station was visible on top of a large hill, and surrounded by a hastily built ridge that exposed only the top and radar to allow it to do its job properly. A few dugouts could be seen on the ridge itself where armed guards most likely were positioned, yes, at one place could one see the red turban of the local armed forces. Sharpened stakes were driven into the foot of the ridge to further reinforce it and for some odd reason were a flock of geese spread out around the entrenched position, not the Scanderan giant kind, but regular ones, bering red vest with the heraldry of the realm sewn onto them. A similar arrangement had been placed around the Scanderan camps back at the coast but the vests were blue with the royal shield embroidered on them.
Of course could one also see a flag, red with a silver shark, was fluttering proudly in the wind.
Futgarek remained calm, unsheathing from his kitbag a camera. Carefully balancing it on the edge of the observation slit, he attached the lens, and carefully removed its cover. The lens did not gleam as the Orc took several photos of the camp, and then covered the lens again.
He then nodded to one of the men, and a computer made its appearance from within one of the boxes tied to the ground drone’s back. On this machine, the Orc began to type, with speed and agility that seemed unusual for such a vicious-looking creature. As he typed, Futgarek entered into his report principal details - the location of the radar, the amount of troops he could see, their movements and so forth. To this he appended details about the weather.
“So, friend Björn,” - the Orc asked, “is there anything you saw that I need to put into this brief report?”
“The geese are a bit worrying!” Björn muttered as he took out a long monocular and scanned the approach. “There probably is a point defence system we cannot see and if they are following federal doctrine should there be some heavy repeating rifles there, the guards however should not be more than a group or two!” he added thoughtfully as he looked over the place.
“They might be using mines…. But I doubt it, the sudden advance of our landing and their forced withdrawal so would I guess that they needed to put their mines down to reinforce their frontlines rather than here!”
“VEry well,” - the Orc said as he continued to type. “Okay, now we’re going to.... “ - as he spoke, he pressed a button. For about three seconds, a light lit in the corner of the computer’s screen, and was gone. “Hope nobody spotted that,” - he said cryptically.
“Spotted what?” Björn said as he gave the computer a very suspicious look. “Is the machine betraying us? Does it’s spirit need appeasement?” he quickly added with a frown and glared at the machine, falling back to the animistic approach most federal subjects had to the world around them.
“The broadcast may have been spotted.” - Futgarek explained. “Although, of course, it is unlikely. We prefer short-burst text satcom,” - he went on, in a lingo that Björn would no doubt find equally cryptic, “it keeps us on the air shorter. Now we wait. How do you fancy a meat ration?”
“Please and thank you!” Björn said not entirely sure he trusted the machine anyway nor too sure on the english terms but he suspected it had some Scanderan equivalent, probably with less abbreviation, Imerians in general seemed to dislike the practice. “May I offer you bread in return fellow my lad?” he asked in return pulling out that ever present part of any Scanderan dish. This one dark looking and long with red, black, white, and orange pieces in it that most likely were some kind of fruit, nuts, or vegetables. Scanderans were very fond of their flavoured bread after all.
“My Gods!” - the Hobbit soldier said as he looked on the conversation, “this is amazing! I was not looking forward to the ration crackers.”
The Allaneans’ ration meat consisted, on the other hand, of a mix of beef... and fat, which seemed to have been used both to preserve the meat and to season it. The Special Forces troops didn’t seem to fancy boiling a meal this close to the enemy, however, water was of course still with them, in which some pink sugary powder was dissolved, giving it a somewhat sweet taste, quite enough to wash down the meat. Finally, jam was available to put on the bread, and so was a sort of sweet condensed milk.
There were, of course, also Army crackers - but the less is said about those, the better!
The Scanderans ration were similar in design, jam was available but made from mashed apples that björn poured on his meat. A scanderan costum that had spread over the federation and with the lack of herbs and spices native to the Scanderan home continent so were the people there forced to rely on fruits and fermentation to flavour their food, something that resulted in a rather extreme diet that shifted between bland, sweet, and sour. Often a mixture of all three at the same time. Of course this was nothing that the rations survived either as Björn offered a package of sourcabbage mixed with vinegar to the rest of the people. He did however spare his candy wrappers for himself though, if one could call them candy. While Imeriata did produce candy on large scale that were traditionally sold in white cones to the delight of children so were nuts, fruits, and honey rather popular treats as well for the wee ones. The military it seemed had settled on the later approach by offering their soldiers bars of nuts, and dried fruit that held together with a glue made from melted nut fat and honey that had been allowed to harden. A snack just named candy flavoured candy, if there was any other flavours Björn had not really bothered to bring any.
This the Allaneans enjoyed greatly, and also offered Björn a sweet chocolate-like paste that could be spread on bread or crackers if he did not for some strange reason fancy the condensed milk. With the food being consumed, the Allaneans proceeded to carefully bury the wrappers and cans under a nearby bush, to reduce if so possible the smell. Then they returned to observing the enemy camp, with Futgarek inviting Björn to share the dugout with him.
“Now, dear Bjorn,” - he whispered. “What can you explain to me about these traitors and their uniforms?”
“They are still using the same cut as in the old days!” Björn said with a shrug after looking up the hill.
“In the old days men from this realm wore simple blue tunics without buttons, with white and gold patches sewn onto them!” he continued to explain “with a golden turban, all around the same colours as the rest of the guard! They also seem to favour sandals rather than boots but since we are in a warmer climate than what is proper so is that not too odd! However since they broke off from the federation they seems to have changed their colours to red with a darker turban and white patches sewn onto their uniforms, A rather odd fascination if you ask me, but that is low cultures for you!” he said munching on the nut bar for a moment before he seemed to have realised what he said.
“No offense intended of course!”
“My gods,” - the Orc whispered, leveling the camera on the edge of the small slit that served as the dugout’s ‘window’, and pressed a button on its top. There was no sound as the camera did its work, it was of course a digital setup. “How would one separate the officers from the men? I take it the ones with the fancier outfits are the officers and battlemages?”
“The naked men and women would be the mages, however our magics comes from arcane rituals and holy scripts!” he explained “Our magic sadly enough is too slow for active combat use so we prefer to just enchant our weapons, or manipulate the weather and go at it the old fashioned way!” he explained with a shrug. “The officers would be wearing capes and ornate golden inlay in their white patches, also look for feathers in their turbans and so on, also look at their sleeves, the more intricate the knots the higher the ranks!” he continued holding up his own sleeve with the austrian knots on them.
“But… keep an eye on both of them, if they have an intricate knot on one side but a simple one with white in it on the other so are they adjutants, the white knot is their own rank and the more intricate one is the officer they are serving under’s! Also keep an eye on where the white one is, if it is on the right side are they the personal adjutant of the officer and on the left are they only working for him!” he explained the imerian rank system, a complex system but one easy to learn as far as he was concerned.
“So by and large the traitor armies have not yet invented a new system that would be hard for us to understand?” - Futgarek clarified.
“I doubt it, they just have had three years to establish themselves as a monarchy, they most likely have more important matters to attend to, that said why would you fix what is not broken? The absolute royal federation maintains the finest military force that light has ever touched, to change would be to degrade such a fearsome weapon!”
THe Orc looked on at his newly-acquired comrade, but did not say a word. “This is reasonable,” - he said after contemplation. “Now we do have some time, could you explain for me perhaps what does the officer’s honor entail in Imerian tradition?”
“How do you mean? As in his privileges and duties or his etiquette? My grasp on English is not the best I must admit!”
“What are the actions that are considered dishonorable for a man to undertake in wartime?”
“The same things that are seen as dishonourable all over the place I would say if I am a betting man, I am not really sure how you johnies look at things but we generally look down on men that kill innocent bystanders, disregard banners of truces, fights in enemy uniforms, kills herds intentionally rather than capture them, to bring dishonour and harm upon temples, clerics, and maidens and similar things!” he said, the last one he said as he was giving the women in the group a suspicious look.
“I do however know that you foreigners also expect to find quarter and mercy in city fighting!” he said as a last thought
“When a city’s defences are breached so should the garrison surrender after all but modern war makes that just the beginning of the battle!” he continued shaking his head, “nasty business city fighting”
“So in combat, when it is considered dishonorable for one to surrender, and when it is considered reasonable to do so?” - Futgarek asked - “In days of old, as you know, so were knights often captured for ransom, but today this is rarely done.”
“You do not get prince money?” Björn said curiously as he looked at the other group, now with interest in his eyes. “Surrender is not dishonourable unless you are told by your officer to hold the line!” he explained their own system “An officer is supposed to pay for his own ransom but the crown generally chips in if he is unable to pay it out of his own pocket, of course that would be dishonourable, but not as dishonourable as getting your own men killed for no good reason!” he continued to explain “We then also offer prices for tracklayers, officers, ships, and aeroplanes if you are brave and smart enough to capture them!”
“Of course if you decide your position is secure enough and that you can hold the line so would the reward of the warriors heaven not be too unappealing to most people, even those that hold the fierce sun god or the two faced goddess would be tempted by the rewards offered to a soldier that fell in battle in the life after this one!”
“Most excellent,” - the Allanean said, - “Although in our culture it is considered inappropriate to demand a ransom. On the other hand, it is within our custom to treat prisoners decently unless they come from a culture which would not have done likewise had they managed to capture one of ours.”
“We do treat our prisoners well!” Björn complained, sounding a bit annoyed at the implication. “It depends for us too, sometimes the high king, blessed be his line. may give his royal highness, praise be upon his swordhand, warriors the blood banner, one of our revered warflags, and when that has been unfolded before his royal highness, may his name be revered, warriors we are not to offer mercy nor request it, all prisoners are to be struck down, by rifle and bayonet if the time is pressing or by stringing them up on the trees if we have it. Neither shall we burn the enemy’s corpses but they are to be buried in the ground to fester!” he explained, an event that rarely happened but if the federation was pushed far enough and the regulations of war was not respected they were more than willing to not only go that far but release world burning bombs, gas, and even sickness as weapons on the foe. He shuddered a it at the thought of world burning bombs and the burning tree like shape they left in their wake, not good for much except to end the wars since the land they were used on become relatively unproductive and they lost the reason to fight over it.
“But this is not this type of war, or at least not quite yet.” - Futgarek said. “Now while we wait, can you tell me more about the different noble houses of this realm?”
“Not too much I must admit, I am more well versed on the wildlife and am not high enough on the social hierarchy to be a must have guest!” he said with a shrug “they are federalized enough and keep to our traditions of heraldry, but most realms do that since even before eröfringstiden! Trade between these regions and he home continent meant that we shared a lot of ideas between one another!” he started to explain, sounding more like someone repeating something for a school test and then realised too late that they memorised it too well and had not gotten the information out of their heads too far.
“Their version of Grefe is a Uglait and instead of grafs they have Ugilkals, their call their friherrar the same as us but instead of lardins they have Ugruls!” he explained finally. “I think they claim that their nobles descends from fire spirits that rose from the volcano and that in the olden days they used to have rituals where they bedded firespirits but do not quote me on that one! You should ask that bunny eared logistic officer when we get back, I think she knows that one better than me to be honest” he said, sounding not too sure about himself.
“Oh well, I do plan to have a better source of information in my hands... come evening.” - said the Orc - “To speak of it, so you should teach me those Imerian card games that I have seen people play at the camp.”
“Oh it is simple, you have a deck of 11 cards, three lardins, three kings, and three dragons, those are divided into colours, green, gold, and silver. So you have a green lardin, king, and dragon, a gold lardin, king, and a dragon, and a silver lardin, king, and dragon, but you also have a two tricksters, gold beats green, silver beats gold and green, green beats trixters, trixters beats everything but green, lardin beats dragon, that beats king, that beats lardin, you place a card in a pile that can beat the top card and when you cannot place anything so have you lost!” he explained simply. Way too simply and quickly to be a good description of the game.
The result was, obviously, a game played in which Björn handily trounced the Allaneans. And again. And again. They played until it got dark, and it took several games for Futgarek to begin to get the hang of it...
“Get ready.” - Futgarek said suddenly, as something on the screen of his laptop blinked. Around them, the other Allanean soldiers withdrew - some into the dugout, others to thet other side of the hill. Futgarek raised his hands to his ears, and opened his mouth wide, and so did the others, inviting Björn to do the same.
Björn simply nodded and did the same as he laid down in a as gentlemanly manner as was possible, his carbine at the ready rather than the huge hunting rifle he had used for the trek here.
Somewhere over the sea, Allanean bombers began releasing their payloads - long, sleek, dart-like missiles, speeding towards the locations where teams like Futgarek’s had found enemy radar dishes. Four of the ‘darts’ - each of them a thin contraption just about four yards long, its sharp fins extending about two feet from its slender body - were speeding just to the camp which was stretched out below them. As they came close, they swerved slightly, speeding towards the radar dish itself.
Loud bluurs! started to ring out from the camp on the hill and one could hear people shouted and were running out and preparing to defend the camp. Whatever the attack would be was never to be decided as point defence system started to roar and spit white tracer lines up over the edge of the ridge around the hilltop as two missile came through. The other two had apparently been intercepted out by the defence system that the radar station was keeping up and had kept the royal aeroforce from making large headway inlands. quickly did they start to spot their target and and trace towards it, in an nail biting movement was it hard to tell who was going to win, the missile or the tracers. Then.
With a terrible thunder did one of the tracers struck true and one of the missiles vanished in a tunderous fireball in the air. The defence system started to spin around towards the remaining missile. Lines were quickly moving towards the target but it was impossible to say who would win the race. A hope quickly started to rise in Björns throat as the missile seemed to almost touchdown. Then one of the white lines connected.
It was hard to tell exactly what it had hit as a large explosion rocked the hilltop and massive flames rose up towards the sky itself followed by a massive thunder, smoke, and raining of dirt and stones. Once the rumble had cleared was there a large gap in the ridge, one could see the radar bunker on the other side had a massive hole in it, and the radar antenna was hanging at a worrying angle, only kept from the ground by a few pieces of steel reinforcement that had been built into the bunker. The antena though despite all that looked surprisingly free of holes.
“Uhm… is… is it dead?” Björn asked confused as he looked up to the place, despite the large hole and most likely dead operators was it hard to tell how wrecked up the electronics themselves were. The bluur sound continued from a speaker and one could hear shouts and cries, many fewer than there had been before, but still a few.
“OKALO! OKALO!” someone shouted loudly.
“MIGAL!” someone responded in a frantic tone.
“HOOONK! HOONK!” the geese shouted, frantically trying to get away from the destroyed ridge.
“Fucking cockmongler yezh kosmaty s pizdoy polosatoy,” - said the Orc Captain, and it would be about two minutes later that a second wave of munitions would arrive - twenty this time, fatter, shorter, and some with much broader wings. They were slower, too, gliding swiftly without any engines powering them, and the air could be heard whistling around their blade-like wings as they descended.
Once again the air defense systems came alive, and this time most of the bombs were taken down with ease. Two survived - one, slamming into the ground near the RADAR set. Even as far away as our heroes were, the explosion caused the ground to shake around them, soil streaking down on their heads from the ‘ceiling’ of their dugout.
The other bomb shattered into pieces in the night skies, and its contents spilled out onto the Izoltan camp below.
”Bomblets!” - Fulgarek hissed with delight, a second before they detonated - dozens and dozens of small explosions, rippling through the entire Izoltan camp, showering their surroundings in shrapnel and flaming zirconium, its brilliant flame hard to behold with the naked eye.
“Aye Shell-laying shells!” Björn said with a nod. “We use them both as regular shells and self propelled shells!”
“Now it is time.” - Futgarek said, as he placed his hand on his sword, and whispered a single word into his radio.
On the very crest of the hill, five of the team members fired off their disposable rocket launchers, the rockets wooshing through the air as they sped towards the enemy tent. The clatter of a machine gun was heard as the Allanean machinegunner - wary of Björn’s warning - fired upon the geese.
Among the noise and the violence, the Orc captain ran out of the bunker and ran downhill, unsheathing his sword - a dark, rough-looking blade with a nasty-looking hook on one side. Behind him, several of the commandos followed with fixed bayonets. Curiously, the drow was not among them.
“WHat the…. THE ENEMY! THE ENEMY SHOOT COVERING FIRE NOT AT THE BLOODY BIRDS!” Björn shouted, a hint of stress in his tone “THEY ARE ALREADY HONKING, NO POINT SHOOTING THEM NOW!”
He pulled his carbine and started to shoot upwards at the hill, more in the attempt to make the enemy keep their heads down, which they did as he advanced with the Orc. One of the geese hissed and started to advance on him, while they were aggressive birds and more than capable of breaking bones in a human did it get a quick kick in the face which sent it tumbling backwards. Björn speeding past it as it tried to waddle after.
All around them did the Geese honk aggressively, showing what their main use was, anyone even attempting to sneak up on the base while just ignoring geese as birds, or even worse try to attack them would get an angry reception, alerting everyone about the intruders.
They were also cheaper in cost than dogs and gave the garrison eggs at the same time, making them a beloved part of the royal guards biological warfare divisions arsenal. Even if guardsmen assigned to them ended up with broken arms from time to time.
The role of guard hounds that the geese filled however left dogs up to more specialized roles, like the warhounds of old. Björn cursed loudly as before he could even shout a warning two lumbering beasts, the size of bears and as heavily built rushed out, their faces covered with wrinkles like those of Molosser breed dogs and with dark grey fur with white warpaint one of them headed straight for him, slowing down for only a moment as it sniffed in his direction before turning sideways heading straight towards the Allaneas, while not barking so could one still see their horrific teeth and the bloodthrist in their eyes.
“He cursed to himself, they were Scanderan breeds trained by the royal guard, of course they would not go for him or the natives, it was the same reason they themselves did not deploy the dogs themselves in front line duties back over at the front.
“Nakhui s plyazha!” - the Orc roared, firing his service pistol at one of the oncoming hounds. On the crest of the hill, the machinegunner shifted fire to the enormous, furious animals - each seeming to be the size of almost a small horse - and a second later, the Drow sniper made herself known at last, taking a single, aimed shot at one of the dogs - and then, a second later, another.
But neither did the Geese quit the fight quite yet. One of the enormous birds lunged forward, hissing and screaming, at one of the commandos, and within seconds, Man and Goose, Goose and Man were locked in a struggle to the death. At this close range, the Allanean could not fully bring his carbine to bear, and instead used the stock and bayonet to fend off the fowl attacker, who in turn went at him with beak and wings. At last, after a long struggle, the man sunk the blade of the bayonet into the bird’s fat body, and it collapsed with a terrible dying cry.
One of the dog fell down as the bullets brought it down, the other, horrifyingly enough made a sudden sprint sideways as the second bullet sang out, and lunged straight at the orc, bleeding all over with only fury keeping it going by now.
Futgarek roared back at the animal, swinging his sword at the terrible beast as it jumped. Yet at this distance, not even death would have prevented the dog from smashing itself into the soldier’s body, and Futgarek fell, swearing awfully as a rib in his body cracked.
The dog bit furiously down in the orcs shoulder as it tensed up and died, it’s jaws fueled as much by death spasms as it was by bloodlust when it bite down. However as certain breeds were known to do it’s jaws locked solid, in a last attempt to take whatever it went at down into death with it.
“Suka pizdetz nakhui, krokodilova zhopa, ebanoj kobyly vysran', tarakan'im huem v bloshinoj pizde tolcheny!” - roared Futgarek as he attempted to wriggle free of the dead animal’s jaws, and added a range of curses in the Dark Speech of his people. “Battlemage! Over here!”
In the mean, the rest of the commandos moved forward, throwing grenades towards the nearest tents. This seemed almost superfluous, given the fires still burning throughout the camp and the destruction caused by the submunition strikes. Each of them looked out in a different direction, carbines at the ready, hoping to see anyone of value.
A loud DUNG DUNG DUNG revealed that the enemy had indeed turned around and one could see one of the watercooled heavy machineguns had been turned around and were chewing out the massive ammunition that made the weapon a borderline autocannon, the crew hiding as well as they could behind the shield of the weapon. An officer ran around, a sword, a short and thin thing compared to the top heavy slashing sabre that Björn was waving about. He was shouting something, in Imerian from the sound of it as he pointed it directly at Björn. What few soldiers that were left had gone to ground, hiding in holes and opening fire with their long Scanderan made battle rifles, accurate and with quite the heavy rounds behind them.
There was now nothing left for the Allaneans but to go to ground as well, trading fire with the enemy while the battlemage handed the Orc a small, reddish bottle, which he proceeded to down, the drink strong and somewhat sweet, like honey. He tossed the bottle vaguely in the enemy direction, and then dropped to the ground, as if dead.
On the hill, the other team members attempted their best to suppport their comrades - the sniper taking measured shots at the enemy machineguns themselves, hoping to disable the mechanisms, and the grenadiers firing rockets at the machine gun nests.
And then, in a single motion, Captain Nurbag Futgarek burst forward. In five seconds he was among the Izoltans, his horrifying Orc sword brushing aside the officer’s slim blade. Roaring defiance, he hefted the man onto his shoulders like a bag, even as the Izoltan struggled to break free. “I’ll be off now!” - the Orc shouted, and began to retreat, carrying the Izoltan on his shoulders as the man kicked and pounched at him with little effect.
The officer had just spun around, and attempted to punch the orcs weapon with his pistol, a pistol that he had quickly spun around into a rather effective looking club due to the old style design Imerians favoured beside their revolvers. However the attack was not to come as the officer gulped in surprise as he was lifted up, his sword flying away and he cursing loudly, both in the good old tongue and the native tongue.
There was a sudden stop of the fire from the guardsmen that now looked at one another in confusion as they saw their officer being hauled away.
An NCO looked up after them with a more than puzzled look on his face now and asked something that sounded very much like the local for “Are… are they allowed to do that?”
As the enemy fire begun to raise up again, a bit uncertain now, the allaneas were looking rather fearsome and they had just lost their officer. Finally did the fire stop but the rifles and machineguns remained aimed at the intruders as an NCO suspiciously looked up, a long stick in his hand wrapped in flowers, vines, and grass.
“Leaving now!” - said Futgarek, and attempted to wave his sword hand in farewell, however this appeared rather clumsy as he was also attempting to hold the enemy officer on his shoulders. “Have fun ! Ciao!” - with that, he and his team began their escape.