Zusak stared out the window across the Forqona skyline. He could see sunlight glinting off the wet streets far below. The many hues of the sky were only marred by the odd scrap of white cloud, drifting. The sun melted the sky orange as it rose oh so gently into the sky. Great skyscrapers reflected the light, scattering orange panes across the city which were then bounced again and again. The whole sprawling mess of it positively glowed and out of its neck grew the grand spire of iron and wire. Zusak grunted, a bad omen. Today was going to be a very bad day.
The sun rose early this time of year, taking its time to climb to any reasonable height in the sky. It did nothing to heat the land however, frost lurked in the shadow and breath escaped in clouds. At least it did in the north, where the elevation was a few miles higher than the average as the land sloped to reach the Central Rusinan Plateau. Some of those damn comfy stations in the south probably didn’t even need a blanket at night. Yet here she was, staring at nothing in the cold. Again. Rostanlina shifted uncomfortably, adjusting the grip on her mug to both warm and cool her hands down at the same time. The chill mornings reminded her of places much further north. Mornings like this left her sorely wishing she’d never have to end up back there.
Much further south, with the sun's golden rays splashing over a calm ocean, a ship sailed. Ship is an understatement, this ship is over a kilometer long and weighs more than a small town. Something on this scale doesn’t simply just sail. This ship, the M.M.V Arcoyev, didn’t so much as sail across the ocean as much as the ocean parted ways for it. It wasn’t alone, it sailed through one of the biggest shipping highways in the world. The Straits of Iryllia.
Diplomatic relations between Iryllia and the world were never exactly stellar. A lot of baseless accusations get thrown around a lot as well as a few diplomats here and there but by the by they’re tolerated. As are their toll prices. It’s cheaper to go through and pay the toll than it is to go around in most cases, so why should it be a problem.
However.
With the end of the Red Snow conflict eight years prior, there was a treaty. The Treaty of Agrell, in which one of its points stipulated vastly decreased tolling costs for Myraxian shipping. As way of… Pennance. This obviously didn’t sit well with a lot of Iryllians, especially those who stood to lose a lot from a vast increase of Myraxian traffic through a very profitable shipping lane. But that was eight years ago, a lot happens in eight years.
A small little principality called Pirinikov was made a Myraxian protectorate after a short and brutal affair involving the death of the ruler. Lichi Bando ceased to exist, plagued by internal conflict during Red Snow it was “Liberated” by Myraxian forces shortly after the signing of the Treaty of Agrell, a treaty they were mysteriously absent from. The Empire of Northern Ohio’s territory was split up between Valyrien and Myraxia, Iryllia began expanding upon its holdings in the south. The Kingdom of Nouvel Acadie imploded. The Foreign Minister of Asgareth “stepped down.” shortly after a Myraxian military intervention crushed a few small sepratist movements.
A lot can change in eight years.
“Acroyev, hailing MMV Acroyev, this is Iryllian port authorities. We’re going to need you to change course and dock in Port Feydor. We’re seeing an inconsistency of toll payments in our server banks compared to the data logs on your ship. We’re going to need you to dock in port and compare the data before we can let you pass. Do you read this message MMV Acroyev.”
The Captain, blearly eyed and grumpy, listened. Tapped a couple things into his laptop before reaching over to the radio. “Control?”
“Reading you MMV Acroyev, did you copy our last?”
“Fuck off.”
“Copy that MMV Acroyev, the Frigate Gateway to another Gate. Will escort you to Port Feydor.”
The Captain grumbled more, swearing even, as a much more unbecoming voice filtered through the speakers and the unmistakable shape of an Iryllian Warship detached itself from the flow of ships, making a beeline for his.
Tras, grey hairs streaking his temples, stood at the head of a table, around this table were seated nearly two dozen field marshals, the Admiral of the Fleet, Chief Air Marshal and a handful of other personnel. Including, curiously to some, two colonels. Behind tras, mounted on a wall bigger than most houses, was a great digital relief of the Charter. The seemingly deliberate lack of light made the man silhouetted against the map as he began to speak. “Ladies and gentlemen and other personage. This is by no means an emergency meeting, however. We have a mild situation.”
Tras leaned forwards and pressed something on the table. The center lit up, previously unseen projector dais’s in the floor and ceiling lit up, providing a hologram facing flat whichever way the viewer faced towards it. The projection was of a Myraxian Super Container ship.
“This ship, the MMV Acroyev was detained earlier today, apparently having paid the incorrect toll for the Iryllian strait. Ship’s logs say they’ve paid the Agrell compliant amount, our authorities in Port Feydor dispute this. The captain of the vessel has… Complained and we’ve been ordered to release the ship and refund the payment. Immediately.”
He paused, tapping the console again. This time showing the Iryllian-Asgareth Border.
“That was three hours ago. As we see here, ever since the Military Crackdown in Asgareth a year ago, Myraxian forces have steadily been growing on the border. Numbers estimates puts at least a two to one disparity in personnel in some places, particularly here in the West and Northern sector. This is not counting Asgari personnel, which likely factor in several more million men across the front. We’re looking at a build up of over six million men and much more material which has only stepped up in the past month. Officers have been rotated around. Entire corps have gone missing from the Myraxian interior and have showed up here. As well as attendant officers and other individuals of note outlaid in your dossiers.”
“The ship will be released by the evening. If they want to come then fucking let them. They don’t have the damn balls to do it anyway.”
Meanwhile, in a room deep beneath the Myraxian base at Arynos, a similar scene was playing out, a group of figures sat around a conference table, with several more telepresencing in. Once again, the display showed the hulking form of the MMV Acroyev, the image taken by satellite showing it languishing in the Iryllian Port Feydor. Marshal Kerenol - Myraxian Commander for External Security - took a deep swig from his mug before continuing. “Iryllian authorities are insisting that the Acroyev has failed to pay the full toll amount - which, I might add, it has in full, to the letter of the Agrell treaty.”
“What’s it carrying?” This from Ronyr, Marshal for Logistics.
“Nothing particularly exciting, it’s coming from a loop around eastern Archon. Acadie, Frezko, Point D’Est, that area. It’s mostly carrying foodstuffs.”
“Options?” High Marshal Nykona spoke up for the first time.
“Well, we have the logs to prove we’re right. And, when it comes down to it, they are in violation of Agrell, not us. That said… we’ve been waiting for them to slip up. This could be it.”
The High Marshal of Myraxia raised an eyebrow at Kerenol. “You’re suggesting we go to war over a lost toll fee?”
“Face it, sir, it’s the best we’re likely to get in the near future. We know they’ve been building non-treaty carriers as well, and they’re technically too close to the border as well. We may not be liked for it, but we technically have justification. And it’s not like we haven’t been preparing for exactly this.”
A pause filled the room.
“How quickly can we set this in motion?”
The Fleet Admiral, Kelly Tras-Domivov, was becoming increasingly agitated. She paced around the boardroom of the admirals, the only two others in the room simply watched impassively. “We’re missing the location of every god damn super carrier the fucking Myxies own.” She growled at the pair, who now looked at her with significant worry and apprehension. “We’ve lost contact with half a dozen of our nuclear subs, Sonus has nothing on them and we’re seeing a hell of a lot more nuclear traffic heading south.”
“Checks aren’t for another four hours though, we could pick them up then and it’s not like we’ve not lost track of our own boats before.” One of the pair said, a Rear-Admiral by the name of Rochard.
“No,” She conceded, sighing heavily. “It’s still not so much our boats I’m worried about it’s where the Myraxian ones are. Because how the fuck do you lose six ships of that size huh? How?”
Marshal Rostlova had an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of her stomach. Not the usual feeling she came out of those meetings like a sheep leaving the wolves den. No, this was something else. A few questions remained unanswered in her head. Why weren’t they building their own forces up? As far as she could tell not even a smidgen of reserves had been mobilized yet it seemed all to clear the likely course of action. Dresden had felt the same way somewhat, he said he’d go visit his old mentor, Vilhelm, disturbing the old man out of retirement in a cushy villa in the outskirts of Forqona before returning to his post. But, if Tras didn’t seem to worry then well. It wouldn’t be all right but it was certainly better than nothing.
“What do we know about where the Iryllian fleet is, right now?”
“Well, there’s a group of Fleet Carriers down at Feydor, along with their escorts. Closer to home there’s a fair fraction at port in Tranianburg and Callenostock between them. Only Light Carriers, but a few Battlecruisers and the like.”
“Okay, Captain. In your safe there’s a packet of sealed orders labelled “Gravitas”. Go get that for me.”
“Admiral?”
“Just do it, Captain.”
…
“We’re doing what?”
The Myraxian fleet couldn’t stay hidden forever, but it did a damn fine job of it. Moving under a blanket of electronic warfare, two reinforced Carrier Strike Groups moved into range of the Iryllian naval bases at Tranianburg and Callenostock, screened by both their own escorts and a number of heavier squadrons, before disgorging their aircraft; some 350 craft from each group.
“Warlord, this is Lightning Lead. Comms check, over.”
The harried voice of the AWACS operator came back over the radio into the cockpit of Group Captain Tomyn Rynoi’s KLf-71 aircraft. “Lightning Lead, this is Warlord. Comms green. Over. “
Rynoi did not envy the man in the slightest - he’d seen the number of aircraft on the decks around him. With a thumbs up from the deck chief, he pushed his throttle open and the sudden g-force of take off pushed him deep into his seat, and his plane into the sky.
Tranianburg was quiet, as much as a port can be. Perhaps it was the clear sky, Misha mused. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen a sky without the barest scrap of cloud in it. It made for perfect radar conditions, at least theoretically. However, there seemed to be the largest flock of birds? Or something to that effect. This huge green cloud swarmed over her screen as the base commander stood over her shoulder with a pensive expression on his face. No one had seen anything like this before.
The Admiral reached for the phone, thinking to get into contact with the Iryllian weather institute to check for anomalies. It had to be a weather formation, or an error in the radar net. The phone was silent. The admiral paled and turned towards the window.
The Myraxian aircraft hit both bases simultaneously, coming in waves. The first wave carried a loadout of mostly anti-radiation missiles, designed to lock onto the radar signatures of enemy air defence and destroy it. The twin explosions as the missiles hit their targets and the Myraxian jets broke the sound barrier heralded the start of the attack. The second wave came in low, anti-ship missiles slung beneath their wings. These went after the ships at harbour, focusing on the larger capital ships docked there - the Iryllian Battlecruisers and Light Carriers. The third and final wave came in higher with bombs; their target, the port facilities themselves, aiming to render them unusable. Both Myraxian air attacks were devastating to the Iryllian Naval Bases - the majority of the ships either rendered inoperable or severely damaged, and the facilities needed to repair them in tatters.
Elsewhere, Myraxian submarines made missile strikes on Iryllian facilities in the South and West, but these were not nearly as effective, with many being intercepted and shot down before reaching their targets.
Tranianburg burned. Vast columns of smoke spewed out of orange conflagrations erupting from ruptured silo’s. Warbling sirens drowned out by the fierce sound of the burning port. The Battle Cruiser, Brink of Midnight, gutted by internal fires, its super structure crumbling in the heat. The Hull glowed red from internal fires as the keel settled at the bottom of the dock.
Huge oil slicks created a firestorm that raised a wall of flame across the entirety of the port. It would take weeks before the last of the fires were brought under control.
Callenostock didn’t fair much better. A full third of the dockyard was flattened by an ammunition dump exploding. The carrier [i]Working on it[/i] lay on it’s side on top of a pier. It burned as much as Tranianburg. The Myraxian ships prowled the nearby waters, sinking anything that stumbled out of the devastated port.
Asgareth-Iryllian Border
“Alright, folks, gather round and listen up! Those of you who were around 8 years ago may remember a certain speech our High Marshal made. She told you, and the world, that this peace we have with Iryllia? It wouldn’t last. Everyone knew it. Well, today it ends. I’ll keep this brief, but I will say this. They burned a third of our country. We’ll burn all of theirs.
Now go to your squads, your platoons. Your officers have their orders, we’re moving out in forty minutes.” The officer speaking slammed his fist to his chest. “Myraxia Sonda’ryr!”
