"We must move with speed. The bloodlord will have guards, and we must kill them before he is warned." Captain Vórgetsk beckons his small party of warriors forwards through the gloom. No fires are lit, so they must navigate by what light comes in from the door behind them and by feel. Vórgetsk holds his bayonet-turned-sword before him, using his left hand to make sure he is still in contact with the cavern wall, until the light of a torch appears some distance before him. He whispers to the warriors behind him, his voice coming out as a thin hiss. "Down! I see fire!"

The torchlight remains static, and after a moment of hesitation Vórgetsk creeps forward once more, weapon ready and steps light. When he reaches the circle of light, he is surprised to find no guards. The illumination comes from a sconce on the wall, the first section of quarried stone since the party entered the caverns. Vórgetsk waves for his comrades to join him before continuing onwards.

Now aided by light from the torches placed at regular intervals, the party moves at a brisk pace, stopping at every door and checking within them. Nothing. Not even so much as an engineer performing maintenance, not a single disciplinee scrubbing latrines or making beds. Far off, the sound of gunfire makes everyone start, and they duck into an empty chamber while Vórgetsk peeks out from the door. Still nothing, but after some thought, he realizes why the bastion might be so empty. "Look! There is no equipment here, no steel and no powder. I should wager that the bloodlord's soldiers have gone off to war, and in his hubris he has not left behind any guards!" The warriors whisper among themselves, but that noise is soon joined by the tramp of marching boots. As Vórgetsk watches from behind the door, a score of red-coated heretics marches in a clean column down the hall perpendicular to his own, seemingly in somewhat of a hurry. Two officers walk behind the line, talking in loud and clear voices.

"I wish we had been told sooner. It is hardly my fault that my platoon was sent out to gather wood an hour before battle lines were drawn!" "Nonetheless, the Arch-Priest demands speed. If you have not been told by the messenger, something to the order of four-thousand of the usurper's soldiers have formed up before us. To speak clearly, I am somewhat impressed by their zeal; it has been scarcely a day since their Grand Ataman was killed, and they fight on! We will have to meet them with the initiative firmly in our hands, unless we want to be forsaken by the Spirits." The discussion rambles on for a while longer, but as the heretics pass, Vórgetsk finds himself too flushed with rage to listen. The Grand Ataman dead?! If his desire for revenge had been weak before, it is positively intoxicating now. He dashes out of the room his party took cover in, followed after a moment of surprise by his warriors.

As he rounds the corner in pursuit of the heretics, he finds that they have nearly reached the gate of the bastion. Howling with anger, he charges the heretics as they turn around in terror. Before they can tell what's happening, he has skewered both the officers and a third man, well on his way to a fourth and looking like a demon. The heretics begin to flee, but Vórgetsk is faster, as are his warriors. Not a one makes it through the great gate at the end of the hallway.

As the bodies lay around his feet, Vórgetsk begins to calm down, aided by a hand placed on his shoulder by one of his comrades. He looks around at the floor, dotted here and there by bloodstains, and upwards through the ceiling to the unseen heavens. A quiet exultation escapes his lips, swiftly followed by a prayer for the soul of the Grand Ataman. He has wreaked part of his vengeance; now is the time to complete it. Before he can find the stairs and challenge the bloodlord up on the wall, however, his men need a short rest. Looking around at them, Vórgetsk is surprised to hear, almost silent even compared to the faint gunfire from the battle outside, light sobbing from one of them. He puts a hand on the man's shoulder. "What causes you to shed tears in such a manner? I can hear them below your helmet. Are you wounded?" The warrior shakes his head and retreats a step, then gestures broadly at all the bodies.

"Never killed man, only beast. It is different." Vórgetsk tilts his head, confused, until he remembers two things. For one, these people aren't his own; they're from deep in the woods, where no Pakatska contact has reached for hundreds of years. They probably do not understand war in the same way he does. Secondly, they don't understand quite why he's fighting. From what little he could glean of their beliefs, fighting isn't nearly so highly regarded as in the worship of Ãdàmrìtsk, mostly being restricted to hunting animals. Still, if they're going to join the wider world, they're going to have to learn to adapt. "I understand, but now is no time for reflection. Let us move onward!"

He moves onward, pressing ahead of the warriors as they tend to their coping companion. He races up the stairs, bayonet firmly in hand, and comes up into the light of day. A loud bang and pain in his left arm force Vórgetsk to hang back for a second, but when the smoke clears, he finds himself face to face with a shining bronze mask, cloaked in a dark red. "How kind of you to visit once more, captain." The bloodlord raises his sword to strike, but Vórgetsk pushes him with enough force to propel himself backwards, avoiding the blow. "I suppose you did not guess that I would survive." He swings his own weapon, but Pōbret parries it expertly. "No, I must admit, I thought the wood-folk would find and kill you." Another swing, another parry, another ring of steel on steel. Down below the bastion, the battle is in full swing, the crack of gunfire fully audible out in the open air. "They are dreadfully stupid, perhaps a consequence of their isolation. They think the spirits of the wood prey on them! No such spirits, only me!" Pōbret brings down his sabre on Vórgetsk's shoulder, just grazing it as he dodges.

The back and forth, both of words and swings, continues, driving both combatants closer and closer to the edge of the wall. On the battlefield, men march and fight, doing their own part in avenging their lord...

Brethren

As Vórgetsk and Pōbret duke it out on the wall of the bastion, the final battle between the Great Union and the Grand Ataman's army erupts down below. For hours, the same sequence of events play out: a loyalist unit charges an earthwork, forcing the heretical defenders to fall back. As they regroup to move onward, they are shot to pieces by the next enemy strongpoint, forcing their own retreat. Over and over again, the cycle of charge and retreat takes a toll on both sides, but very slowly the heretics appear to gain the upper hand. In a few spots, they launch their own offensive strokes to relieve pressure on exhausted positions, forcing loyalist troops to dash back to the works further down the slopes.

One heretic company, in a relatively secure part of the field where the loyalists have been driven back furthest, decides to take advantage of the comparative quiet. Its soldiers file out of their position and march forward in quick time, bayonets fixed, flag waving, and bugle playing as if in a parade. As the officers of the loyalist units in the area watch, confused, through their binoculars, the heretic line stops. The heretics take aim, not at their foe but at the sky. The rifles fire all at once, a sarcastic salute to the poor fortune of their enemy. It is an insult.

Incensed, loyalist officers across that area of the battlefield give the order. "Fix bayonets!" The sound of steel against scabbard rings throughout the loyalist positions. "Advance!" Slowly at first, then with more speed, well-drilled lines of the Grand Ataman's soldiers form up in front of their earthworks, then march forward, bayonets charged and ready for blood. The unit of heretics that had hurled the insult with such ceremony begins to march back to its own position, chased by the crack of rifle fire. The loyalist assault has reached the heretics' forward positions.

One volley. A few loyalists drop, but the unit continues to march forward. A second. More are hit than last time, but still the line advances. A third. Screams of pain and the gushing of blood are drowned out by a great roar from the surviving soldiers. Men break ranks and charge full-tilt over the rudimentary earthworks, denying the heretics the chance at a fourth deadly volley. The ring of revolver fire comes over the scene as officers unload their sidearms into the fray, then draw their sabres and join in. A few heretics are able to disengage and flee back in the direction of stronger positions, but most of them are dropped as the loyalist unit reorganizes and the men open fire. The same scene plays out all across this part of the battlefield, as loyalist companies and regiments strive to avenge the insult.

Looking on at the carnage from his command position is Iáltós Dràvósk. "Look at how our men throw themselves into combat! I would think that the Grand Ataman himself were still alive and inspiring them!" Turning his gaze reluctantly away in the direction of the heretic positions further up from the close combat, he sees that they are focused almost exclusively on the show before them, taking their own turn at sending volleys down at the largely unprotected loyalists. He remounts his horse and calls his company of bodyguards forwards. Fierce combat still rears its head on his right, but the units in that direction are moving forwards well with comparatively little opposition; they need no help. Instead, he draws his company parallel to the position now being assaulted by his soldiers on the left and draws his sword.

"Now shall we render aid onto our comrades! Ãdàmrìtsk will grant us victory on this day, if only we will take it! I FEAR NO EVIL, I FEAR NO DEATH, I FEAR NOT THE HERETIC NOR THE MONSTER, FOR ÃDÀMRÌTSK IS WITH ME! He goads his steed onward and his bodyguard follows, sabres drawn and at the ready. They smash into the first heretic position, cutting down men taken by surprise as they flee. When the earthwork is cleared, they move on, cutting across the battlefield to reach the next position, which has been engaged in close combat by the infantry. The riders give a great yell, and as the heretics turn in fear, loyalist infantry echo the cry. Not one traitor makes it back to the next position.

The commander of the battlefield section overlooking the charge takes note of its wild success, and dispatches messengers to the flanks of the army with orders to advance with haste. Everywhere, the heretics are pushed back, earthwork after earthwork falling to the Grand Ataman's soldiers until the bastion itself is within reach. As smoke from the combat begins to drift up from the field onto the bastion's wall, Vórgetsk and Pōbret continue their deadly duel...

Not quite how I wanted it to sound, but hey, I'm happy with it.

Brethren

Azachland

3 years 227 days ago

Now, the Church of Tsul has been established!

With loyalty to me comes with coveted powers!

Euricanis and Restoration of Eastern Kaiserreich

The Biohazardous Detective of Euricanis

3 years 227 days ago

don't i just love torturing myself with user-unfriendly software

Azachland wrote:

Now, the Church of Tsul has been established!