On the Eve of the Second Winter, on all sides of the frozen stone walls covered in jagged ice and packed snow, lit the campfires of dozens, if not hundreds, of dug hovels, as each pillar of smoke climbs the dark skies like an ultimatum being sent to the heavens. Despite their presence, however, the snow plains is seemingly unoccupied and uninhabited, with the sparse lamp lights of straggling sentries dotting the view. It would have been a night much like the others, if not for the procession of torches, of men in heavy cotton winter coats and gambeson holding high floating banners of three black crosses against pure white, all triangularly located to each other. Behind the crowds of men puffed and stuffed with winter clothes, dressed in crimson fur untarnished by the grey of snow or of ashes, and with a golden jeweled circlet adorning his head, glinting lightly against the dim torch lights, walks a figure, cloaked in elegant white and velvet red. And though he is at least a head shorter than the rest, his station is clearly miles above the rest. And as the vanguards stomp their feet dead in their tracks, signally their stop, their banner swaying in the bone chilling gust of the second winter, the figure’s flowing stance also halts. Raising his head to look at the stone wall ahead of the men, he motions from his side forward a pair of similarly colorfully and courtly dressed men, one bearing a wolf fur with a circlet of teeth, the other in plain white gambeson with a black cross on his chest and back, holding high a bannerless golden wolf standard, half-burnt to charcoal. As the men approach, the vanguards ceremoniously and uniformly parted into double columns, hoisting their blades in swift and concise motions, each movement perfected after countless hours of drills and practice. The twin figures then walk past the vanguards into no man’s land before finally stopping at a deeply dug moat before the high gates of the Fortress City of Fasa, one of the twin cities.
And as the two men silently stands in the freezing cold, from the other side of the moat approaches a figure in similar courtly dressing with his own company: a scholarly man with a tome close to his heart and his writing kit hanging on his belt; the group’s security in full plate armor from head to toe, kitted out to the nines with holy symbols and embroideries; and a cloaked figure, thin, feminine, but toned and agile, gripping at the hilt in one hand, the other a torch, blazing the way for the group, her head swaying constantly in the wind, her eyes scouting the plains.
“Here comes our final gambit.” – the courtly figure muttered
“Look sharp. This may be your last moment.”
“Understood, lord.” – the scribe answered.
“My son – the figure continues – should they be foolish enough to try anything, you know what to do.”
“Yes, father.” – the armored man answered, there was uncertainty in his voice.
Trudging through the snow, the group soon reaches the pair waiting for them on the opposite side of the moat. Then comes the usual greetings: banters, lightly worded jabs, and unreasonable requests they have practiced a dozen times over, all being exchanged almost ritualistically, just like they had the time before, and the time before that as well.
“I heard your men are still drinking the ashen snow. Just stop this ridiculous war and be done with it. I would rather we go home and be warm in our beds instead of out here trudging in the snow.”
“Our Lord, in his usual magnanimity, promises to spare the city if you surrender now and accept our terms. Personally, I suggest you take his offer before his patience run out. I, too, wish for the war to end, so let us help each other out.”
“You are asking much of us, legis. The last time your men set foot beyond our borders, many lost their lives. I have tried to convince my people, but the price your lord demands is too much, and we have gotten little to spare these days.”
‘This is going nowhere – he speaks to himself – the legis is demanding unreasonable requests again. What a farce of a ‘peace talk’ this turned out to be.’
For the past few days, at the start of the second winter, the fighting has somewhat died down and ceased. It ceased, not because of the traitorous, ‘magnanimous’, marshal lord of Almarrah, or whatever they call him these days, not because of grand strategies or of ingenious tactics, but because there is no defiance against the early blizzards, heralds of the season of ice.
In lands such as Imperisian far beyond to the North, the coming of the second winter is unanimously seen as the starting season of hardship and toil, as their rivers will freeze, and their providing lakes become death traps with crystalline icy glades. Those brave enough, or perhaps foolish enough, to traverse their once lush forests are often found buried in snow or frozen in their own blood, for any slip of their steps could spell doom, either to the stalking winter beasts, or to hidden icy daggers nesting every which way within the glades. The Inlanders have it easy.
Borderia, even in the season of the sun, can only at best be described as tundraic wastes where few could survive, and fewer could grow. At the best of times, Allahan only blesses the land with his occasional glances of holy warmth to melt away the accursed icy grip upon us. At the worst of times, such as what we now face, few can tell the difference between nights and days, with little to go on but scraps of blessed golden rays at the far horizons, or the occasional flock of birds vacating the lands when given the chance.
Not that men want to either way, for in these times, any defiance against the storm means a frozen corpse. Men best make sure he has a hovel to dwell in to pass its coming. But if he does not, then he best makes sure he has good friends, or at least a good enough hole for his final rest.
Few ever grows here during its coming, and fewer comes and goes. What we could hunt, would gladly hunt the weakest of us in retaliation, or perhaps in the shared spirit of desperation. What could grow and what we could pick off the land, are always a good place for even the strongest of us to fall to fell beasts. But man has a way of defying his mother and father, even when his hand is tied to his back, blindfolded three times over.
Looking at the pillars of smoke rising at the distance beyond the no man’s land, all tucked away in rock formations shielding them against the blizzards, Ali Alha Abin could sense his heart sinking down into his guts. The Legis has left them to rejoin their lords, awaiting his final answers after a short while of exchanging jabs, as usual. What an unreasonable sight, he argues. Decades have passed since his late lord’s final dominance over the Bellarr straights against an ancient foe long forgotten. Decades. And in that short span of relative peace, his people had built up the famous twin cities of the Bellarr Straights, Fasa and Almarrah, each one a towering sight as firm footholds of humanity, as beacons of hope. How has Almarrah, the land to which he could trace his lineage, fallen so easily and readily to the usurper? And how could they have bitten the hands that fed them?
“Traitorous dogs.” – Ali grinded the words between his teeth.
“We should head back, ser Legis Ali. The storm should flow backwards at any moment now.” – he hooded woman softly advises, her head still swaying to the winds.
“She is right, father. Why should we suffer this indignation? We should have left before they did.” – his son chimes in.
“My prince, there is no place for pride in the world of politics.” – the scribe softly speaks, busy scribing down the details of the negotiations into his tome.
“He is right, son. There is no place for pride. Need I remind you the story of the Prideful King I have told you a thousand times over?”
“But why must we wait for them to depart before we could? I see no reason standing out here in the freezing cold just to appease our enemies. Besides, father, what good could come from these talks? It is obvious they are just putting on airs.”
“Janisserr, because we could buy for more time if we let them have their ways.” – Ali answers to his son.
Staring daggers into the goldenly trimmed and flourished helmet adorning his son’s head, he could feel pride in knowing the boy’s eagerness and bravery. Youngest of the household he is, but not a complete fool, unlike his older counterparts wasting away in the comforts of his home. But the boy has much to learn, and even more, that temperament of his needs to be hemmed in.
“Time for what, father? Even as our friends to the North risk the wrath of the Holy Emperor of Imperisian to send us what aids they could, there would be no coming reinforcements. No more troops could be gained by waiting. Not after that coward’s edict of neutrality.” – he continues
“Young master, watch your tone.” – the hooded figure growled as her eyes firmly fix themselves on the boy.
“What was that, slave? You care to repeat that to me?”
“My prince, please calm down, she means no ill will-”
“You should watch what you speak, young master. Throwing careless words such as those would net you nothing but a fast and short career. Don’t make my job harder than it already is.”
“You insolent-”
“Janisserr, that’s enough. Your mentor is right. I have always told you to hem in that tongue of yours. But in any case, it is time to depart. However, Vanissa…”
“My lord?”
“You, too, must watch your tone. I understand that we are imposing upon you much already. But remember who you are speaking to. We are no mere courtiers, let me remind you!”
“Understood, lord. My deepest apologies young master.”
“Insolent courtesan.” – the boy smirked as he joins his father return to the gated high walls on the dog sleds.
Shaking his head at the boy’s poor manners, Ali nods at Vanissa in a gesture of goodwill as well as goodbye, as he joins his son on the sled heading back to Fasa’s gates.
“It looks like the dynasty ends with him, huh.” – Vanissa glances at the scribe
“Give him time to like you, Vanissa. He is much smarter than the lots of his brothers. I should know.”
“Well, looking at that, that time you speak of is highly unlikely, Carim.” Vanissa says, her eyes fixing themselves on the campsites.
“We may yet live through this if we play our cards right.”
“I doubt the old man would entertain the idea of betrayal.”
“For both our sakes, you need to be wrong.”
Remembering the conversation she was allowed to take part in, the demands truly seemed unreasonable to her as well.
“I still can’t believe it. The gall to ask that of the old man.”
“They are smug. They can’t help it. They think victory is at hand. We will prove that wrong.”
“How many days did they give us again?”
“Three. After that, they will storm the gates… No, they will try to storm the gates.”
“Three days to gather fifty thousand Dnyrrs.” – Vanissa scoffed, smirking at the ridiculousness of the demands the legis had put out.
“I can’t say if they have a lot of faith in us, or too little.”
Some time has passed, and on the battlefield, there was a crash somewhere deep beneath the ground. An explosion, many thought. And they were right, judging by the vibrations they could feel as the earth began to crack and crumbles.
“The sappers did it.” Shout one of the officers clad in heavy clothing buried beneath a coat of grey snow.
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“Clear out. Clear out!”
“Get away from the walls!”
The men shouted as they ran from the frontlines, abandoning the various Pykrete rams and trebuchets as the ground beneath them swallowed the contraptions whole one by one. Within a moment notice, the line of men disintegrated from an orderly retreat into a full rout, with men trampling on each other just to get away from the breaking earth. At their backs, screams and cries of countless more howled along with the unforgiving winds of the second winter, with dust and snow rising like smoke to kindling flame.
When the dust settled, specks of red could be gleaned from hard grey, with writhing bodies twitching and freezing in the merciless cold. Men clad in thick red gambeson froze in their steps, in awe of the mere destructive sight they beheld. The war has lasted for years, yet the men had mostly contented themselves with light skirmishes and raiding the occasionally caught smugglers sent in support of Fasa. But this, the sight of crushed and mangled bodies mixed with snow and rock, of dead and dying men writhing and moaning as frostbite slowly took their breaths, ingrained upon them an idea of what their future might be like.
Then, blood curling howls were heard deep behind the fallen walls, the cries of women, perhaps for the men they saw, or for those never seen again, jolting the freezing men to their wake, as screams from their commanders once again echoed into their ears
“Charge the wall, men! Charge the wall! Before they can plug the gap! Wake up, you curs, and charge the damn wall!”
Startled, the men realized that they had lagged behind. Their comrades, the favored Tenth Legion, esteemed men cladded in white with black crosses stitched onto their backs, had quickly capitalized upon the enemy’s confusion, and had embroiled their beleaguered foes in vicious and chaotic melee. Tracing their ranks, the men could also see, to their embarrassment, their sister legion, the Eighth, closely trailing behind the Tenth, their banner fluttering in the violent winds. While they have been frozen in fear, their comrades have fought, bled, and claimed glory for themselves and their ancestors above the darkening skies. At once, the lines of men quickly pace towards the gaping breach into the famed Walls of Fasa. And as columns of men briskly make their way, locking steps with the men next to them, they are also weathering the showers of arrows and javelins hurled at them. However, with renewed vigor, the men find themselves one with their commander wills. Furthermore, inspired by the sight of their banner bearer besides the commander, as both men led the advance at the front column, along their bravest fighters, the men of the ninth legion follow their footsteps, lower their spears and form ranks as they slow their steps and begin to engage the defenders with a wall of pikes and shields, plugging the gap between the tenth and the ninth, securing their flanks. And as their men were gradually cut down by merciless arrows hurled towards them across their lines, each death only served to hasten their pace and kindle their anger. To them, Fasa must fall for their insolence, Fasa must pay.
Just as the legions start to pour into the breached gap on the Eastern walls besides the Gorge, a winding valley of deep gorges cut into the jagged mounds South Eastern to Fasa’s plateau, an uneasy stalemate are still taking place in the opposite direction Southward. Signaled by the sudden and violent implosion of the earth, the legions there have been able to dispatch many of their engineers to finish filling in the moat with dirt, rocks, and gravel. It was no easy task, however, as the price was steep in the ways of blood and tears, as many have bled in a nigh suicidal assault in an attempt to scale the walls and buy time for their comrades to finish up the work. But now, finally, they can punish their enemies for their follies, as dozens upon dozens of rams and towers as high as the heavens croak their ways from their ranks towards the walls of Fasa.
Although still in shock from the implosion earlier, the men of Fasa, to their credit, are well prepared, as from the walled fortress city, boulders the size of a man’s head are flung indiscriminately towards the approaching men, wrapped in oily flames. And for those constructs lucky enough to survive past the indiscriminate meteor shower, they also have to further weather waves upon waves of fire arrows and sometimes even thrown jars of crude oil and flames. Almost immediately upon entering the bombardment zone, a tower is struck fatally, perhaps one hit too many, and one of its legs begin to collapse. A familiar sight to a veteran legionnaire, but even for him, it is always a grisly one no matter how one slices it, as he sees men falling to their deaths from the atop the tipping tower with the weight of their armor crushing them into mincemeat instantaneously. But the sight of blood and guts being smeared onto the hard rocky ground is not his biggest concern, nor is the sight of men set ablaze from the newly improvisational bonfire made by their foes, as the flame sears skin and flesh from bones. No. None of that matters as much as the mess the tower has created. Although they had the numbers and fortune to construct multiple entries to pierce the enemy’s defensive quadrant, it is a disaster if he had to redirect any or the towers and rams stuck on his side of the ramp to another one thanks to the burning wreck in front of him blocking most of the path. Thinking on his feet, Volumen ran towards the ram that was fallen back to avoid being crushed by the falling giant and directs the men to ram the wreck out of the way.
“But ser, there are still men trapped in the flames! We must mount a rescue operation first!” – protested one of the officers.
“We cannot let their deaths be in vain. The path must be opened so that we may yet take down the enemy’s walls and claim glory for them as well as for us and our ancestors. By Allahan’s name I order you, men of faith, to push the wreck down the moat! Rise above your stations, men, and I assure you we will weather the waves together! TO ME!”
At once, the men’s heart comes as one, as they muster their strength to push the rams onwards. And to the horrors of the screaming men still stuck inside the giant burning wreck, not yet seared off by neither the heat nor the fall, their deaths is none but sealed. And the wreck woos and wains, tumbling down the cliffing edge of the hastily put together ramp, splintering, burning, all the way downwards to the moat filled with sharp pikes. Yet, miraculously, out of the two centuriis (nearly two hundred men) that had occupied the tower, about two dozen men survived the ramming and the falling of the wreck. And stranded as they were atop the husk, surrounded by spikes and corpses impaled on said spikes, the shocked yet spirited men still somehow find the strengths and the wills to hurl insults back at the architects of their current predicament. Volumen, never a man to let a good omen go to waste, immediately beckons as loud as he can manage:
“You see, men? Allahan had saved these brave souls of the second legion from certain doom! God favors the bold and faithful! Not the cowardly and sluggish! For the glory of Allahan and our ancestors, I command you to give the fools of Fasa hell! VINCIT QUI PATITUR! HE WHO CONQUERS ENDURES!”
“Hoo-rah!” -The men roar and raise their blades and shields to Volumen’s outburst. Inside them, no finer fire burns and no fierier flames can be matched.
Noticing the much-welcomed warm reception, Volumen quickly capitalizes:
“Now rescue those men and let us have our vengeance! VINCIT QUI PATITUR!”
“VINCIT QUI PATITUR!” – the men shouted in unison
“Louder!”
“VINCIT QUI PATITUR!”
“Forward to me! Forward to me! Raise your shields and steel your body, and to me!”
With a fearsome rant, Volumen has turned the men around. And now, he maintains as high a level of command over his men as he could possibly gain. Without hesitation, the men hastily pass the choking ramps and immediately form phalanxes of shields, steadily advancing upon the walls of Fasa as the scene of carnage further reveal itself to the unfazed men.
Looking to his flanks, to his astoundment, it appears that his legion would be the spear head of the assault on this sector of the war-torn battlefield, as his colleagues struggle to maintain the standard of command as well as he did. Feeling a swell of searing heat inside his chest, and the prospect of being the first legion to breach the enemy’s walls this side of the sector, he further urged his men forward, many of whom met their grisly ends.
But the sight is far too common to be worried about. They are making good time, in contrast to their comrades. Too good, in fact. It could have been his constant paranoia speaking to him, but Volumen swears to himself up and down ever since he passed the slope that he smells a trap upon the ashen battlegrounds. For he senses that the rate at which they hurl rocks at them seemingly slowed down. And even the waves of arrows have become less frequent. It is subtle, alarmingly subtle, perhaps even imaginary, but he will have to take his chances and preserve his momentum. Carpe diem, as they say. And as the men now nears the city’s mighty walls, to their amazement, the enemy’s black steel southern gates swing wide open.
Is this a trap? He asks himself. Or is this a desperate attempt?
“If it is the latter, then they are deathly mistaken! But if it is the first, and if the defenders have a trump card hidden, ready to stab through the lines, then this could be disastrous. No matter, though, the abandonment of the walls have been the optimal move, and sallying out to meet your beleaguered foes, as tempting as that may sound, could only work if you have sufficiently softened up your enemies, and our morale is as high as it can ever be.” – he reasons with himself.
And with a steely shout, Volumen orders his men to form into phalanxes, each three men deep, to a total of sixteen phalanxes of full strengths and falling, spanning the battlefield in a formation of three layers, consisting of 7 phalanxes frontally, backed up by 5 phalanxes with the three least experienced/oldest at the back as rear guard/reserve if need be. A tally of more than 1600 men at the ready.
Additional to his forces, if need be, the men stuck manning the remaining 3 towers, a total additional 600 men or 6 centuriis, as every tower is manned by at most two centuriis, could be called down as reinforcements should he be pressed to do so. But this would mean that he must delay and perhaps threatens the success of the siege.
Last but not least, if given just enough time, his auxillary of the engineer corps can turn the now seemingly useless rams into ballista to decimate the enemy ranks, if need be of course. But doing so would mean to completely rely on the three remaining siege towers to complete the occupation of the walls and ramparts. And although not Volumen’s favored strategy, this back-up is no doubt an effective gamble that has cropped up in Volumen’s mind just in the right time, as he soon realizes that his spear head is not just facing the Southern sectorial defenders, but also their brothers, cousins and fathers as well, as he see old and immature men mixed in together with military age men, people best left upon the walls as archers or supporting reserve.
‘Madness’ – he says to himself.
‘Impressive. But complete madness.’
And now that the enemy has revealed their desperate hands, it seems Volumen’s worries have been all for naught. There is no great traps or ingenious tactics at play here, nor is there any enemy pincer maneuvers waiting to spring into action to hammer into his lines as his army pushes forwards. And so, with a rallying cry, he orders his legion to meet their enemy in combat, as the engineers starts to reassemble the rams into ballista to support the push, the towers slowly but steadily croaking their way closer and closer towards the walls.
“Let none survive! Let none retreat! For victory, for our ancestors!” – he cried.
With a roar, the men of Fasa charged at the phalanxes, as men are skewered into pike lines, pushed forward despite their fear by their friends behind them. Children kicked and gutted, their throat slit, their eyes and skull caved in as they bleed their innards out on the ground, if not trampled to death. On his side, Volumen suddenly sees an arrow flashes by him, then a streak of blood splattered onto his face, blinding him. But before he could wipe off the blood of his comrade, his head was struck on the side, a heavy blow, almost knocking him to the ground. But he has survived worse than this, and almost as fast as lightning, spun with his downward momentum, as he grabs onto the neck sleeve unluckiest son of a bitch in front of him and runs his gladius deep into the poor bastard’s throat, as warm blood pools from the wound onto his hand. Wiping the blood away from his face, the sight reassures him of the risks he has taken, for it was not one of his own that he blindly put down, but a Fasian’s young boy, no more than 15, bleeding and twitching, desperately gasping at his throat on the ground, slowly being choked out by his own blood. But before he could finish off the poor kid, the hair on his neck immediately stands on ends, as a hand quickly grabbed him by his shoulder pads, yanking him away from a downward strike of a heavy war hammer. It was the standard bearer that has just saved his life, and at the spot he decided that this man alone would be showered with gold and honors, as he quickly realizes that his helmet now lay just a few yards by the bled-out teen.
However, there is no time like the present, and Volumen quickly capitalizes on the attacker’s foolish mistake of targeting him. And after commending the man’s bravery, he quickly unstuck his gladius from the man’s ribs after a quick death dance and slit his throat as he fell to the ground motionless. He was heads and shoulders above Volumen, sure, but there was no elegance, only a brute in front of him, a dead one at that. A brute that had dealt Volumen a near fatal blow it turns out, as his knee suddenly gives out, putting him on his knees. The blow, although not enough to capacitate him, had struck hard and true. Congratulating the dead man on such a feat, Volumen struggles to put his footings back in order, just as he is yanked away, again, to safety by one of his officers into the back of the line, as his men surges up to protect their stunned and injured leader whose back was the only thing they had been allowed to see. For a moment, Volumen staggered to his feet with an unknown officer aiding him on his side. In the air, he could still see the standards of the second legion being held up high, and that his men were pushing the foolish foes backwards. And just as ballista shots decimates the gaps between his phalanxes made by the enemy’s sudden rush, splitting men limbs from limb, and nailing the unlucky few on to the ground, from high above, he could hear the battle cries of his brave soldiers, yelling at the top of their lungs “VINCIT QUI PATITUR” as they scale the enemy’s walls. And just like that, he has seemingly done what no one has managed to in the last 3 years of the conflict, to have finally be the first to scale atop the enemies’ walls. But there was something strange about the current situation. The men, even though they have achieved unmatched glory, being the first legion to have done the impossible, now all look as if they are on death’s door. And as he hears his name being shouted from the back, by one of the men covered in mud and grime, it appears that his success has been even greater than he expected. To have successfully assaulted the walls when the sappers have failed to displace them at the different sections a little more than a mile away would have made his achievements shine that much brighter. But what he heard made his heart sunk lower than if that hammer had at all hit him. The sapper running towards them was yelling at the men:
“Turn back! The enemy had planned to blow the gates up to take you down! Turn back!”
And just as the reserve men heard that sentence, looks at Volumen, then look to their back to the bearer of bad news, the smartest of them turn to flee, but it was all little too late. Almost like God himself has struck down his legion, Volumen remembers that he suddenly lost his hearing when the earth shook, flinging him up into the air and then buried him beneath sand and gravel as boulders sealed his fate in stone. Or it would have been his fate, for he now finds himself suddenly awake inside a warm tent, lightly scented with medicinal aromatic incense meant to sooth the spirit into the afterlife, and a half-horrified physician jolting onto his feet, screaming and yelling as much ruckus as he could for whatever reasons he might have had. Miraculously, He could still feel his toes and fingers, barely, but they are there, they must be. And slowly, pangs of pain acutely shot themselves almost from inch of his fiber. And the last thing Volumen remembers is the sight of the physician and his assistants holding him down as he drifted towards the Aether to Allahan’s side.