Castle Desna, The Grand Duchy of Intresha, Abathon
The Southern Wall
June 10th, 1949, 5:00 AM
Standing aside the ramparts, Kiel could hear the chanting of an Orthodox priest in the courtyard below. He swung his censor alone, though, for the yard was empty. Half of the defenders found themselves in the trenches preceding the Castle, the other half posted along the walls. He would not discount the man’s prayers. After all, only an act of God would spare Desna now. His heart cried for the village at the bottom of the hill.
They had gotten their first report of casualties around 4:30 that morning, when Toriddian armor had began their barrage on the Castle’s southern wall. Anti-tank guns behind the ramparts had responded in kind, picking off a respectable number of MBTs before themselves being disabled by enemy fire.
The Castle itself was holding up surprisingly well. Though practically all of the watchtowers and spires were destroyed in the initial air raids, the structural integrity of the walls seemed as resolute as their defenders. Thickened in 1878 and again in 1939, thirty-five feet of layered stone stood between the Guardians and the interior of the fortress. Not to say that the walls would hold forever — it was clear that the siege was only beginning, and Toriddian tanks seemed to multiply like rabbits as the hours passed.
Meanwhile, Kiel did his part. Laying himself down behind a crenelation, he shoved a clip into his Gewehr 98. Glaring down the scope, he scanned the horizon. They didn’t prove difficult to find. The land was a blooming orchard of the lousy cunts. Radio operators. Exposed tank commanders. Artillery loaders. Twenty Toriddian scalps since the start of the morning, and counting still. His brother’s Great War rifle served him dutifully.
Taking a break from his midmorning headhunt, Josiah broke a lighter and a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. Near the bottom lining he could still feel the phony passport and supporting documentation. If he got out of this alive, he swore he’d save a bullet for Lavrov himself.
Taking a drag, he watched as soldiers passed his secluded little corner of the wall. They eyed him suspiciously, but also with an evident amount of respect. They never looked at him for long, though. There was work to be done, and a lot of it. Boobytrapping. The distribution of ammunition and medical supplies. The care of the dead and dying. In what indubitably felt like her final hours, Castle Desna felt more alive than ever.
Kiel snuffed out his cig and tucked it behind his ear. The sun crawled over the horizon, silhouetting enemy figures as it did so. Now was as good as time as any.
Exchanging his clip and chambering another round, the old Panzergrenadier took aim, breathed in, and pulled his trigger. Warped static, then silence. He smiled a toothy grin. Desna went awash in silence as the aforementioned megaphone sparked and began to smoke.
In these days, it was the small victories.
