THE SALVO AT DRUSCO

[Pureimp10 5179]

THE SALVO AT DRUSCO

 

Spoiler

 

 

---

 

Patriarch Josef closed his eyes.

 

With his vision dark, his mind receded into a void where his other senses were muted. In that void, far from the chaos of war, there was calm. He was only vaguely aware of the vibrations of the earth beneath him as his thoughts rang out across the emptiness of that void, concise and clear. He inhaled through his nose, oblivious to the acrid stench of smoke and sulfur. Instead, that breath was like a cool wind. 

 

Just a moment. 

 

He only needed a moment of that void to settle his mind, and steel his resolve. Slowly, the darkness paled as he began to open his eyes, and reality flooded back into being around him like being plunged into ice water.

 

“CANNON FOUR IS HIT!” 

 

“ADJUST TWO DEGREES FOR THE TOWER!”

 

“DIRECT STRIKE ON THE ENEMY EASTERNMOST CANNON!” 

 

Josef could only make out the loudest shouts in the ceaseless tide of noise. All around him, men and women yelled with hoarse voices during the momentary lapses when the cannons did not sing and fire their projectiles in smoky plumes. Bowstrings creaked and fletchling whistled as archers fired and the mages of Hokhmat launched their arcane spells from the Covenant encampment, which faced across a valley towards the clifftop keep of Drusco. 

 

“INCOMI -” 

 

That roar was cut short as a Veletzian cannonball slammed into the hillside, spraying smoke, dirt, shrapnel, and the blood of the fallen Covenant cannoneers. Josef felt something wet - mud, he naively hoped - splash onto his voice as the plugs in his ears quivered from the vibration, but he forced himself not to look at the struck cannon crew. 

 

He could not afford to.

 

As panicked cries briefly swept the Covenant bunker at the sight of their fellow siege engineers' grizzly fate, Josef raised a mailed hand. “ALL EYES FORWARD.” His own gaze was firmly narrowed on the smokestacks rising from Drusco, across the valley. “UNTIL DRUSCO HAS FALLEN, THIS SALVO DOES NOT END.” 

 

“ALL EYES FORWARD!” echoed the shout of Deia from his own cannon crew some dozen feet away from Josef. Wiping soot from his face, he rammed his ladle into the barrel to set the gunpowder charge. With clenched jaws and steely eyes, the rest of his crew followed suit, and so did the rest of the bunker. 

 

And the salvo resumed. 

 

Josef was not sure how long it went on like that as he stood observing the enemy cannons, ordering readjustments of the bombardment when necessary, and watching holes pock the Drusco cliffside, and the keep itself peeling apart.

 

Soon. The time will be soon. 

 

The hours passed like minutes, and the minutes like hours. Two more of his cannon crews perished; one from another direct shot, and the other from a landslide caused by a Veletzian shot lower down the hill. Wylein Alpyne had worked with the dwarves of Urguan and the mages of Hokhmat to construct their cannon bunkers into the mountain itself, but even mountains have their limits, and their bunkers had taken a beating in the ongoing artillery duel. Despite that, Josef’s resolve was stronger than the splintering stones of Drusco. He had been raised in the clergy as a teacher and scholar of the Scrolls, but now here he stood as commander of the Covenant’s artillery banner -- Northern Thunder, which had been the lynchpin in the Covenant’s victories at Breakwater, Brasca, and Stassion.

 

He had read and preached all of his life of God’s infinite power, but never had that power been more apparent to him in that moment as blow after blow of cannonfire gradually reduced another stronghold of the Anathema to rubble. 

 

And then, finally, the time came.

 

“Patriarch,” called out Viktor var Ruthern at Josef’s side, with binoculars pressed to his eyes. “The last round has opened up a breach into the main keep, right behind the curtain wall!” 

 

Josef raised his own binoculars, and saw as much for himself. Though the air was hazed with smoke and loose dirt, he could see the gaping hole in the castle’s curtain wall, and a breach some twenty-feet wide in the keep beyond. It’s time. One last time, he closed his eyes, and drew strength from that void of calm. 

 

There would not be another opportunity after this.

 

His eyes snapped open, and he raised his hand. “SIR GAREN! SIGNAL KING ALEKSANDR AND THE MITHRIL BANNER! THE TIME IS NOW!” 

 

“YES, PATRIARCH!” Garen Baruch hollered back as, from atop the hill, there came a heavy flap of canvas as he brandished a flag of pure yellow cloth. 

 

“NORTHERN THUNDER, CEASE FIRE!” 

 

As the cannons halted, the silence that followed was almost unsettling. It did not, however, last long; for while the salvo subsided, it was replaced by a deep rumble that rose up from lower down the hill. It was not the rumble of artillery, nor crumbling stone; instead, it was a rumbling of soldiers. 

 

Josef watched as - on the road below the artillery - banners appeared above a charging cavalcade. Columns of horsemen galloped astride a knot of infantry, their cloaks and tabards and shields sporting the colours of all the nations of the Covenant. Under the grey-orange of Urguan, Grand King Sigrun led the riders through the shallow of the river and up the hill beneath the ruined bridge as the Covenant’s infantry - the Mithril Banner - charged in the horse’s dust-trails, with King Aleksandr of Haense at their helm. 

 

Through smoke streaked faces, the cannoneers before Josef watched their comrades charge beneath them in awe, though no doubt their broad grins came from the relief that they had once again bested their foes in a duel of artillery. 

 

Josef, though, afforded them no time to rest. “NORTHERN THUNDER! WE TRADE OUR CANNONS FOR OUR SPEARS, AND WE FOLLOW SUIT!” The leather of his gloves creaked as he raised his own polearm skywards. “WE HAVE CARVED OUR SCULPTURE; NOW, LET US PAINT IT RED!” 

 

From the cannon bunkers, the Northern Thunder banner advanced in the wake of the main army, their own standards thrust stirring proudly in the smoke-choked wind. Beneath the destroyed bridge they waded, and up the trodden hills they trekked, and they crossed the corpses that the Mithril Banner had left strewn on the main road. By the time they reached the top of the adjacent cliff, where a ceaseless din of voices and clanging steel marked the fighting, Josef was well out of breath, but far from out of spirit. 

 

The standards of the Northern Thunder joined the tide of Covenant attackers as their formations bit and bit again into the outnumbered Veletzian defenders among the rubble of Drusco, just as the cannons of Northern Thunder had bit and bit again at the keep to create that rubble. Josef lost himself in a different type of void in that melee -- in a timeless blur of instinct and chaos, he fought. He was barely aware of which foes his spear skewered - be they Orc or Veletzian - except for a Dark Elf officer who wore Ferryman colours. 

 

When it was all finally done - when Drusco was reduced to the same pile of smoke-charred stones as Breakwater, Brasca, and Stassion - Josef half-collapsed onto a fallen roofbeam with heaving breaths. The cry of victory still echoed in the air as bands of roving Covenant soldiers scoured the conquered fort, searching for surviving enemies or plunder, but the exhausted Patriarch paid no further heed to any of it.

 

His job was done.

 

Closing his eyes, he sought that void of calm again, and numbened his senses to soothe his thrumming heart and scratching lungs. He found solace in the idea that he would find peace by bringing peace to the Heartlands through war, and that his cannons could achieve what his croziers could not. 

 

As the chants of triumph continued to resonate throughout Drusco’s shattered hall, the Patriarch smiled softly.

 

They had, after all, promised to bring their peace. 

---

 

Spoiler

Big thanks to Conor for his writing, big thanks to my arty squad for their excellent work today. GF everyone!

 

Edited January 21 by Pureimp10

[ToodIes 1188]

“Do they think we’ll tire of victory before they tire of defeat?” wonders Faeryel, as she inventories the takings from Drusco. “Will we tire of armor plundered, of revenge exacted, of repeated triumph on the battlefield, before they give up? What’s their strategy, here?”

[erictafoya 2309]

The Poet Marshal looked back on the events of the day, reclining on his office chair lazily for the first time in what seemed to be months. It was no secret that he was a very tired man, though his energies were spent on the front line cavalry alongside his King ( @Mio). Despite the clear and seamlessly easy victory, there was a lingering, almost itching thought.

"How much more can they take?"

[zuziee 3222]

Ludvika Ludovar cheered “Yippee!” 

[Andustar 2118]

It had been an arduous fight up the cliff-face, but swiftly the Coalition clamped upon Drusco like an iron vice. Prince Marcus of the Petra recalled charging through the breach, and the subsequent collapse of the League's forces. "Gaspard's folly has spelled the death of many. He thought he could strong-arm the kingdoms of men to satiate his ambitions for power. Now he reaps what he has sown..." The young man strode over the field of corpses. Sickened by the overwhelming presence of death, yet his resolve withstood. "Onwards now, for Veletz will fall."

[ColdestPepsi 1034]

Aimo thought about the wonderful music which the trading of artillery made as he went about after the battle, tallying up the count of his men. "The man knows how to make them sing. Of course it is my favorite song which they play, on a grand scale none the less. Oh how I love the song of war." Spotting the last one he confirmed what he had suspected, all accounted for, none of his own dead. He thought back to the song now as he began to scavenge what equipment he could, it wasn't too long since it stopped, the shock assault only taking around six minutes to clear them out.

[Milenkhov 4522]

Spoiler

milenko horen dies to patrick jimmy gmro (a terrible death at that) the score is 1-0 as milenko is beheaded by his former ally the koeng of haense before gus and mio, 'arghhh' he says as gmro runs him down with a berzerker axe 

@GMRO

[Azukazi Khuzai 138]

The Mech-Acolyte tirelessly worked with the good Father Mechpriest Adeotus to bless the guns and cannons of the battles that have come. With fine word of their ceaseless fire, he was sure his prayers to the Exalted Owynssiah have brought them the blessed wards against malfunctions, and FIRE which pierced the walls. As he operated the cannon, and witnessed the explosion of one of the guns, did he weep for the spirit of that blessed howitzer. 

 

FAITH and STEEL must be STRONGER. 

[GrenadierGaming 55]

The dwed dusted the gunpowder soot from his tabard. It had been many hours of hauling cannonballs and rolling powder barrels. But, in the end, it had been worth it. One more battle fought, one more day closer to peace...

[Balthasar 2070]

Johannes von Alstreim wiped his ancestral sword clean, it had fed on many Veletzian men this day. As he sat on a small boulder fired from the trebuchets, he saw in the distance many broken spears. It reminded him of how a foolish Veletzer or Stassie, they all looked the same, had attempted to ambush him and his squad from behind, an action the enemy would regret. Johannes braced his own spear into the horse and felled it, the cavalryman falling and being cut down by the men around the Prince.

 

A glorious day, he thought. The Coalition had hardly taken any losses and the enemy had taken massive losses and was routed within a few hours, it only felt like a few minutes

[ContestedSnow 778]

Viktor 'Daemonsteel' rested, in the lingering smoke and fires of the ruined and conquered keep. The battle was won, and that Savoyard sun rended and torn, stomped under foot. He had organised a small retinue of men to collect and gather all of the loot that he and they had secured, and new Veletzian horses to pull the wagons once more, in the close of victory. With a frown, he noted that he had not spied any of the team he had lead in their special assignment since the close of the operation. Hm...

 

He recalled the din of cannons firing, the shaking of the very earth beneath their feet and above their heads. The stern expressions of those he had shelled a path for the great Covenant host to take alongside. Familiar faces, and those he had only interacted with in correspondance both. A pious King, an honourable Knight-commander, a leal Amiratus, and the faces of those he was proud to call peers and Haeseni comrades both. All had operated in unison, and all had done their jobs as perfectly as the now-veteran siege engineer and officer could have hoped. Even when he had stormed off to locate the Patriarch in charge of the banner, he had trusted that his team would handle the job.

 

"Patriarch, the last round has opened up a breach into the main keep, right behind the curtain wall!"

The Duke had proclaimed such at the Patriarch's side, after surveying a final strike clearing away through his dirt and smoke-streaked binoculars. Operation Underminer was a success, and the path was clear. All that remained was to push, and to finish the fight.

 

 

He had thanked the comrades whom had undertaken such a mission in his head, and elected to spare the words until Northern Thunder had finally settled atop Drusco. He did not see them immediately following the battle, though he could have sworn the King of Aaun had been slaughtering foes at his side in the thick of the melee.

 

Spoiler

@Mady@Ramon @Shmeepicus @SethWolf @CyyanTea GOOD WORK CANNON TEAM 31. OPERATION UNDERMINER WAS A SUCCESS.

 

[Wavey 1446]

"War." Cesar II muttered, his narrowed gaze falling upon the wounded orc before him. "It is a necessity for survival." With a harrowing thrust, the Hyspian Rey pushed his longsword down upon the orcish warrior's chest. "I will do anything to see our people thrive. If Gaspard and Grommash wish to see us fall, if they wish to threaten us to kneel before them. They may do so in their unfulfilled dreams." 

He held the longsword now with his mechanical hand, a reminder of the struggles his people now face against the Orcish threat. He used his other gauntleted arm to clean the blood of the orc he had slaughtered before making his way back to his Viscount's side. @Nymstra

The Viceroy was now in his middle aged years. He had longed for a peaceful reign, a peaceful era for his people. But he knew what had to be done. The Hyspian state will survive, only once their threats were all abolished. This was their peace. 

[MrMojoMordor 523]

Gob Ztabba-Zniffa the terror of Knights and Thrower of Chickens - had fought in this war for a long time, since he was 13 in fact. Perhaps it was tiredness, perhaps he had finally grown up, perhaps he just did not feel like climbing up the hill with his little stubby feet - Gob focused on carving a hole into the enemy's keep with his cannon crew.

As the call for cease fire was given - he climbed up the makeshift wall.
Out in the distance, where the bridge was broken - he saw a lone, tall and hairy warrior in Petran uniform wielding a bow.
He gasped - IT WAS KROGNAG!

Gob watched as a Veletzian cavarly man rode towards him, his lance ready.
Gob felt anxious, grabbing his 'totally-not-stolen-jester-hat' and pulled it over his ears in fear. Is he going to see his new friend and fellow bruddah fall in their first battle!?

Yet Krognag stood tall and calm, putting an arrow onto the string - pulling it and aiming his mighty war-bow at the horseman.
As the cavarly man forced his horse to jump over the gap, a single THWANG of the war-bow was heard over the battlefield followed by the screams of the horse, struck in mid air and it's rider as they fell into the chasm bellow.
Gob jumped up - cheering for his fellow service man, as rest of the army began to move down and over the bridge on their assault on the keep.

(@VoidDimensions)

Edited January 21 by MrMojoMordor

[H 746]

Ayche stands amongst the ruins of Drusco. His cuirass is stained with blood and black powder residue. The Covenant forces are picking over the battlefield now, sorting the dying defenders from the dead - and sending the former to the latter. His longsword vanishes into a voidal pocket as he stops to catch his breath. 

His gaze is drawn back across the valley. The magical city of Hohkmat is clearly visible from here. The siege camp he'd spent the first hours of the battle in is just meters away from the newest district of the city.

 

It's a good reminder of why he fights. It's a good reminder of home. 

In the distance, he spots one of his Chamber's members, engaged in a sudden duel with a surviving defender. He watches as she teleports out of the way of an orcish spear.

The air around him crackles with static. Sparks fly as a new weapon falls into his hands, summoned from thin air - a warhammer, this time. He charges to aid her.

 

There's still work to be done. For Hohkmat, for Petra, for the Covenant.

For home.

 

Spoiler

 

[Frostdrop1 874]

Ser Audo Weiss ran a cloth over his poleaxe, Wustenlowe, which had stood as a companion to him for many years. Another battle with the enemy, and more avenged for their lives taken all too soon. He turned his gaze to his copy of Song of the Black, briefly grazing his hand over the cover as as the after-math meloncholy settled in his chest. He huffed in a breath, at least finding some contentment in fighting by the sides of his friends, and family for the peace that had long been desired.

Each battle was one he spent in another place, and every before-battle was pent looking out for the preparation of others. Each battle left him with fewer equipment to his name and, yet, his kingdom the richer - for everyone was in this together.

But there was no rest, not yet. The war was not yet won for those lost in the Order, and those lost to himself.