Zero hour was approaching.
The sounds of artillery constantly firing made waiting difficult. Throughout the night, the crews worked tirelessly to ensure a constant rhythm to repeatedly break down the walls. Yet, the wall-mounted cannons would return fire in hopes of interrupting the imperial gunnery from focusing on a single point. They continued in despite the enemy's opinion on the matter but that would be stifled when old T-72s were brought forward and hull down behind dug-in holes laid behind the front of the frozen trench line, lobbing high explosive shells in response.
Soon the mood changed when enough beatings by shots caused the targeted section to collapse under its own structural weakness. A breach in the defense had been revealed, a pile of rubble containing brick and mortar. The command tent was filled with heated debates on how to handle matters from the moment forward. Some of the infantry officers argued to continue firing to widen the weakness so the storming could be easier. Their counterparts, officers who spent their entire time awake and exhausted, voiced their concerns about letting their barrels rest lest they risk weapon malfunctions or ruin them into a write-off. In the end, the latter won out for another possibility became a reality.
Colonel Mel'nikov proposed a night raid, much to the dismay of the imperials. The forlorn hope would be the first to storm the breach in the line but the cover of darkness would mask their approach until they were close enough to be noticed by sentries to begin their charge. However, it would be supported by the post-apocalypse forces thanks to their access to night vision equipment. The only problem was the distance and the terrain the forlorn hope would face - four hundred metres for a formation of three thousand men to cover until the shooting began and the forefront of the assault would take the brunt of the casualties. Someone had to volunteer but it didn't take long until the officer of the Preobrazhensky regiment willingly asked to be the initial sacrifice. Soon after, the leaders within the tent had dispersed and made their way to their positions for the fighting to come.
When the guns fell silent, the crews were allowed to rest as the first few columns of infantry carefully processed themselves into the frontline trench with bayonets mounted on muskets and wooden ladders. Hushed voices ordered men to minimize noise as Artyom sat atop Alastor's saddle and watched the regiment mask their force concentration in the dark. The reason for this was to make the defending soldiers near the breach relax and deceive them into believing the artillery was resting for the night so everyone could enjoy the rest of the night off. This would change in due time but surprise was a factor that the infantry had for a brief moment.
The Russian royal saw platoons of post-apocalypse soldiers climb over the top of the trenches and form an advancing skirmish line, dispersing themselves in the field. Through the green lens of his night vision goggles, they scoured the open fields in the middle of the moonless atmosphere. He went for the watch attached to his left wrist, stealing a glimpse of a ticking timer past four o'clock. A minute passed before the first hundreds clamber above the trench's breastwork, the volunteering officer being the first to step a few dozen metres ahead, standing tall and his sword drawn. Grenadiers and fusiliers formed behind him as the men carrying the regimental banner and musical instruments stood beside him.
A gallop of a horse joined him. "So the assault begins." It was Uhlman's voice assuring the young man of the friendlier company he had. "Not much of a coffee guy but I'm glad they were serving it tonight. I hope our snipers and marksmen can pick off the bastards along the battlements. Storming the breach may work against muskets but not against the Baron's men."
"Where is the colonel?" Artyom was curious about the whereabouts of his comrades; yet, his mind lingered on the man who was their commander.
"He assembled with the air assault teams," The senior Polis Ranger answered, "They haven't spun the blades since they're worried it might be heard by the enemy."
The last of the stragglers were out of the frontline trench as the commanding officer raised his sabre high. A solid wall of men would be the shield against the array of guns in their way but those carrying the wooden ladders remained relatively safe behind the first company. For all of their efforts in softening their footsteps, it was beginning to become difficult to hide thousands of men marching in unison. Soon the entirety of the Preobrazhensky regiment was making their crossing.
His hand tightened the grip on the steed's reins when the initial wave of troops was halfway across the open ground. Just less than two hundred metres to go but then a crackle of guns erupted on the other side. Plums of white smoke erupted from among the battlements with an enfilade of muskets and cannon fire. The first company was hit with an intense barrage of shell and grapeshot rippling through the ranks of men, the regimental banner held high in spite of the initial hundreds falling to their doom. Their flanks were accompanied by the night vision infantry with modern arms, who were quick to return fire on the defenders. They were not alone as the Soviet armor behind the trench lines fired with snow being kicked up from the ground, pounding what few defenses remained active.
Soon the next wave of troops began to fill in the frontline trenches. The Russian troops in reserve cheered and howled while the regiment steadily advanced. Yet, their slow marching transformed into a quickened job before running the last fifty metres with great haste. Fusilier companies halted as their officers ordered their men to fire upon the walls as grenadiers and tirailleurs rushed into the breach. There, they were awaited by enemy musketeers and greatswords infantry of the Southern Isles. One volley was unleashed before they retreated behind the heavily armored foot infantry. A great brawl of the melee was let out with zweihanders and bayonets swung and stabbed with chests cut open or stabbed victims sinking to the rubble, leaving behind a pile of bodies in their wake.
The goggles before Artyom's eyes flickered into a bright light when a massive explosion erupted in the midst of the breach and took the lives of those caught in the blast. Dust and smoke rose to the sky. As the debris began to clear up, the quarter of the Preobrazhensky became casualties of war but the destruction seemed to cause men to run and flee from the walled city. It was shocking to see the lengths of such a ruse until a mistake was realized upon initial glance. The morale of the regiment seemed to falter in despite of a bigger gap in the defenses. Then he was filled with disbelief when the forlorn hope didn't realize the opportunity they had. "What are they doing? They can't turn back."
Soon the organization from the beginning had begun to disintegrate as the companies fell back. Meanwhile, two more columns of imperial infantry were assembled in front of the frontline trenches as their officers formed another chance to take advantage. The guard regiment at the front had to hold.
"Uhlman, I'm going to do something stupid." Stated the Russian prince as he stole a glance from his comrade, "If you want to give me back up, now is the time." It was barely a minute before he spurred Alastor into action when both of his legs kicked up against the saddle and galloped forward.
His friend swore and expressed his reaction. "Damn it to hell!" Then an electronic beep from his radio was made. "ALCON, ALCON, ALCON - Artyom is making his way to the forlorn hope. Requesting QRF to secure VIP."
Artyom rode past the artillery batteries placed behind earthworks and then jumped over the frontline trench. His head turned and stole a quick glimpse of the occupants, who looked at him with dismay before the horse's hooves returned to land. As he made his way past the assembling regiment, the infantry and their officers cheered and hollered blessings in his way, inadvertently raising the morale by his presence. It was tempting to raise his night vision goggles and armored visor to turn on his flashlight; yet, it ran the ran the risk of alerting his presence to the defenders.
One of the fleeing soldiers from the Preobrazhensky had been encountered. Half of the man's face was bloodied and terrified as he stood still before the mounted Polis Ranger. He shook his head in disbelief. "Go ahead if you want to get yourself killed!"
"We have to get back there. Reinforcements are coming." The young man explained as he pointed at the wall. "The enemy made their hole bigger." He hoped it would be enough to convince him.
"They killed our colonel. The whole regiment is going to run." The infantryman said in an exhausted voice.
All he could do was shake his head. "Not with me they won't. We have to give it one more try. If it doesn't work, then you can fall back."
The foot soldier looked back to the walls as he huffed his breath. "Fine. I'll get the others."
He didn't say another word and immediately rode to the forefront of the fighting. Volleys of fire were exchanged in-between the defenders upon the battlements and the remaining infantry companies, who slowly backpedaled away from the breach covered in smoke. Artyom raised his night vision goggles from his eyes and immediately dismounted behind the foremost unit. His hand slapped the rear of the animal as it ran off and away from the fighting.
When he turned to see the men around him, they all paused and looked at him. They had every right to be for the heir of the imperial throne was among their ranks. He had their absolute attention.
"They made the breach bigger, we need to get in there!" They were stunned but then their attention was ripped from them when a cannon shot was aimed at him but the cannonball ricocheted off the snow and bounced off into the air.
Another volley of muskets was let off in response before one of the men shouted at the top of their lungs. "They tried to kill the prince, after them!"
An immense battle cry roared in the night as the Polis Ranger drew his sword and ran to the front of the ranks. Drums rattled and fifers whistled with the point of his sword aimed at the breach. He looked over his shoulders to see no hesitation from the men, who followed his example. Then he looked forward as the royal found himself to be climbing over the rubble with a blade in hand. A sound of shuffling footsteps came for him until three musketeers stood atop with their barrels aimed at him. The beating of his heart stopped as time began to slow.
Would this be his end?
Fate answered when the trio was torn apart by a burst of autocannon rounds from above. Artyom looked around to find the origins of the shooter until he looked back to find one of the armored helicopters hovering over the regiment flooding past him. He had been so caught up in the thick of combat that he failed to hear the sounds of helicopter blades. As he thought about it, the helicopter assault was beginning as planned when floating spotlights flickered to life. A squadron of six had revealed itself from above the siege camp in an arrowhead formation. They rushed past the marching reinforcing troops and flew overhead into the city. Their searchlights had their way in the city streets while he climbed up the rubble to the top of the battlements to find the palace their destination.
"Artyom! Artyom!" Pavel's voice echoed from the radio.
His hand reached over to acknowledge. "I'm standing on the wall beside the breach. We broke through."
"Part of me wants to wring your neck for that stupid shit but I'll do that after. The other regiments are coming but I need you to get someone to open the front gates. We're sending some armor support your way. Roman and I are going to meet you over there."
"Okay." The finger holding down the speaker had slipped off as he peered below to find the green uniformed grenadiers and fusiliers shouting to the top of their lungs, their numbers flooding the streets. "Hey! We need to open the gates. Follow me!"
. . .
Sleep was difficult to obtain during the bombardment and when the guns fell silent, he believed his troubled mind would be relieved by some extra hours of shut-eye. That immediately changed when the Baron was awoken from his slumber in the early morning and told of the developments along the eastern wall. A breach had been made and it merely left him stricken with fear.
He and a dozen of his heavily armored bodyguards walked through the front of the palace entrance. When they walked past the gates, the streets were empty and the alleyways were stuffed with carts and carriages. Hundreds of musketeers and horse guards cavalry arrived at the very intersection where he was located, only to turn and shift around the corner to march towards the sounds of fighting and the flickering of gunfire and explosions in the distance. Although the ramparts and the parapets were receiving the full brunt of the engagement, it would only be a matter of time before the fighting would be choked into avenues of death.
One of his men tapped him on the shoulder as the old man turned his head and found the bodyguard pointing to his left. "The harbor's this way, boss. We better get moving. If we follow this waterway, we'll be there in no time."
No argument from him. The party shifted to the north of the city with great haste but despite all of his efforts, the weariness of his physical shape felt stressed with each step. Oh how he wished they could take hold of a carriage and ride off for he had grown lazy on the throne by the Caspian Sea. Years of smoking and drinking taking its toll at this very moment but he couldn't afford to rest. Great treasures were waiting for him in the ships and along with the last vestiges of his power.
Each street they passed was the same old story and act by the locals who were preparing for the worst. Store owners, who were fortunate to have any valuables worth a damn, were scrambling to lock the doors of their shops and hiding them behind blinds. Residences containing families or a multitude of people were reaching out for their neighbors found in the streets. Even the beggars and the downtrodden were welcomed into such households for the violence that would shift to their front doors.
Thirteen streets later, their progress was halted when another regiment of cavalry made an oncoming approach. The Baron and his men stepped aside while the riders casually strolled past them. Yet, the atmosphere soon changed when his ears heard the sounds of helicopter blades tearing through the air. Then the entire group was blinded by a spotlight from above while he leaned against his cane. The light had been trained on the massive group of cavalry soldiers, who were quick to fire upon the dark silhouette with flintlocks. The war machine shrugged off their pathetic attempts at resistance before a burst of autocannon ammo roared onto the mixed group of soldiers and bandits alike.
He threw himself to the side while blood filtered through the ground while man and beast were churned alive. The spotlight shifted elsewhere as the helicopter flew away from his current position. Only four of his men remained. At the very least, he had more treasure to himself. Now he was stricken with fear upon seeing six more spotlights appear in the night sky, all of whom in an arrowhead formation before descending into the courtyards of the palace itself. Had he dithered any longer, he wouldn't have escaped their wrath while he pulled himself off the ground and scrambled himself to the harbor.
. . .
Hind troop transports broke into formation and began to find landing zones for the Polis Rangers of the Spartan Order. One vehicle went to the uppermost section of the palace, where a garden overlooked the rest of the city. There, the pilots hovered over the bushes and hedges as Colonel Mel'nikov watched one of his men stand near the door, only to kick out the rope. When the length was fully made, the eight-man squad began rappeling from the helicopter with the Order's commander being the last one to follow.
Night vision had no purpose here when he switched on his torch and activated his red laser. The others followed suit with an exception for a single armored Ranger covered in plates of metal and his heavy rotary machine gun. All that was left was a single command to get them started as the colonel reached for his radio. "Secure the palace. We have to make sure the bastards have nowhere to retreat to and find Prince Hans."
When his finger released his grip, they were quick to storm inside and past the glass windows. They slowly moved through the hallways, catching servants and maids by complete surprise. On occasion, they would leave half of the squad out while the rest breached through the doors one room at a time. It was slow and methodical work to clear out sections of the building; yet, the lack of resistance was made all too clear that the entirety of the situation was against their enemy entirely.
The passing civilians were eager to guide them around before huddling in corners and hoping for the fighting to end. If such was the case then it would only be a matter of time before the war would end this day and the old officer hoped this troublesome experience would come to a close. On occasion, they would be met by an armed guard who tried to make a stand but a single pull of the trigger would silence him from alerting anyone else in the midst of the attack.
Once their floor was clear, they carefully descended below hoping to meet with their comrades from OSKOM. They had been stuck on their side of the barricades for all too long and it was time to alleviate the enemy keeping them from pushing forward. Their help would be necessary in the search for the Southern Isle prince but also halt enemy reinforcements from being ferried to the front door.
Colonel Mel'nikov's group found themselves stacked onto the wall beside a double door with a crack of light in the middle. He turned off his flashlight before creeping towards it, hearing the echoing cries of men firing muskets before receiving automatic fire in return. As he got closer to the light, the man could see overturned furniture in the candle-lit atmosphere placed against an entrance to the right side of the room. A dozen men went over to the makeshift barricade and fired a single volley before stepping aside and letting another dozen take their place. Despite their organized efforts of sustained fire, Kalashnikov bullets flew from the doorway and took three men in the process.
His head turned to the men waiting for him by his right before whispering the tools that were expected of the Spetsnaz. "Breaching charges and flash grenades." The commander stepped aside, letting the breacher of the squad place small stacks of charges against the door, shaped in a way so the wooden remains wouldn't interfere. Several men pulled out their special ordnance while the breacher stood behind the commander with the clapper in hand.
"Sir, are you ready?" He asked.
"Very much so. Comrades, visors down." Each man reached for their armored visors and lowered them over their eyes. Their faces were hidden and protected by material far stronger than steel. "On your go."
Three clicks echoed from the clapper before the door was blown off its hinges and the blast threw it inside. What followed was an array of flash grenades being thrown in the entrance with metal clinking against the marble floor. Then a series of explosions erupted inside as the Southern Isle musketeers were taken surprise by the attack. A moment later, the Polis Rangers charged in with assault rifles, sub-machine guns, and shotguns in hand. The colonel ran inside, raising his assault rifle while shifting to the right side of the room.
The enemy stumbled and tried to get their bearings but it was to no avail. The squad opened fire upon them with speed and precision, not only to save ammo but to avoid a long drawn-out firefight. Even the heavy trooper with the rotary heavy machine gun fired in quick bursts as the musketeers barely had the time to react. Then the guns fell silent, corpses laid against the ground with blood seeping out and staining the pure white color.
Mel'nikov nodded his head in approval of this fine work before looking towards the entrance on the right side of the room. He walked over to the edge and raised the armored visor from his gaze. "OSKOM, don't shoot!" His shouts echoed into the dimly lit hallway.
Out from the abyss was another Russian accent. It was relieving to hear one of their men. "Colonel Mel'nikov? Is the assault commencing?"
"Yes. Come up, we've dealt with the survivors. This palace needs to be secured!"
"Ladna. Comrades, get in there!" The tone of the soldier shifted to the men on his end. "For Mother Russia, not one step back!"
. . .
Prince Hans of the Southern Isles, thirteenth in line to the throne, found himself trapped in the royal dungeon with only a cot to his name. It was a nice gilded cage for someone like him but it was a cage nonetheless. When he was first imprisoned, all he could do was weep as the chance of a lifetime was gone and the only future left was the consequences of his actions. As time passed, the prince quietly laid his back against the sheets hoping this nightmare would be over and he would be led out of his cell. He had overheard from the guards that the Baron was going to leave everything not nailed down.
Father would kill him for letting that happen. Just the mere thought of his family in Paris returning and learning the truth of the events would lead to harsh punishment by the man he was supposed to look up to. No love was lost in this relationship and the shame of losing the family treasury was too much to bear. Part of him thought about what was left for him and perhaps his only peace would be to abdicate his rights and walk away with some meager coin to drink away his sorrows or be as far away from the island as much as possible.
Everything changed when the sounds of artillery fire echoed in the distance. A jail window was another special commodity he appreciated as he rose from his cot and watched the fighting occur on the eastern wall and transition into the streets below. Then came the airborne war machines that tore apart his fleet and hampered the invasion of Arendelle. Soon their steel hides descended into his home and gunfire echoed throughout the palace. Their purpose remained unknown, only that it was only a matter of time before they would encounter him.
The sound of footsteps echoed across the stone floor, causing the royal to turn away and approach the bars between his imprisonment and freedom. Soon the shuffling of boots could be heard from his left before a man called out to him. "Prince Hans! Prince Hans! Where are you?"
"I'm in here!" He shouted back in return but was curious about the stranger seeking him out. "What's going on?"
He was taken aback when a palace servant in his black suit had appeared in front of him, holding a ring of keys in hand. "The Russians are inside! Right now, they're looking for you." The mustache man fiddled for the right one to unlock his cell while he waited.
"What of the Baron's troops?" An opportunity like this wouldn't happen if the raiders were still around. They wouldn't just stop guarding him, would they?
"They're heading for the harbor as we speak." The stranger answered before his fingers found the right key and slipped it into the hole before turning it and opening the gate. "Your family's treasure is on the ships. I figured now was a good time to let you out while everything's happening."
All that he could do to acknowledge his gratitude was nod with approval before reaching out to shake the man's hands. "Thank you. You gave me a great kindness."
"Your highness, make your way to the armory if you wish for protection and head over to the stables and for an escape. This is where we part ways."
Both men ran out of the dungeon and left each other's company upon arriving in the hallways. He couldn't blame a man for looking out for himself since a time of chaos did little to provide comfort; especially, in the throes of war. All seemed normal while stalking around in the dark, hoping to make his way out of the palace. Fortune gave him a slight benefit, knowing full well of the layouts and the secret entrances used for servants.
Prince Hans approached an intersection in front of him while the distant gunfire and explosions flickered enough to illuminate the floor, revealing bulletholes and bleeding-out corpses choking his path. His shoes carefully tiptoed around, hoping they wouldn't make him fall. Then the thumping of boots echoed and his chance of evasion caused him to stand behind a stand holding up a suit of armor. The sounds got closer until five men brushed passed him with white lights scanning their surroundings before pressing onward. Had they been careful to stop and check, he would have been spotted.
If groups such as these would be patrolling, his only option was to seek out an alternative route, one that hadn't been found. So he headed off to the library and dodged patrols and fights in between. The who resisted were cut down, others were taken prisoner. Servants and maids were ignored but isolated from the rest of the palace. It was difficult to maneuver through this mess of a siege until he recognized the entrance to the room he needed to be in.
He entered through and quickly closed the door on his way in. The young man looked around to find that this part of his home remained untouched but that time was slowly ticking down as he searched around the great archives for a single book. It would have been a waste of time for most people but he had no intention to stay and be at the mercy of the Russians. As he looked for the mechanism, the sounds of fighting erupted outside with stray bullets penetrating through the wooden walls and nearly taking him by complete accident. That all changed when he saw a single book stand atop a fireplace across the room. His fingers reached out and pulled before the sounds of mechanical gears ached and the fireplace moved in front of him, opening wide like a door until there was nothing except for an empty torch stand on the side.
The royal grabbed the wooden handle and immediately reached over the flames of the fireplace, igniting the rag. Soon he pressed into the darkness and ran for his life.
. . .
What remaining defenses began to crumble under the force of arms brought to the capital of the Southern Isles. More troops flooded into the city while the enemy was being evicted district by district. Yet, four men rallied a small group of Red Line infantry backed by a T-72, pushing towards the palace entrance with haste. The armor led the way while they stood behind, letting musket balls bounce and ricochet off its hide.
Artyom peered his head to the right to find an array of overturned carts lined up against the advancing troops on the far side of the street. The defenders fired volley after volley but their resistance was futile. For every shot, they were returned in kind in the form of a pintle-mounted machine gun being manned by one of the tank crewmembers. Bursts of heavy caliber rounds flew ahead and rippled into the defenses. His companions and his men were less than fifty meters away until the hundred and twenty-five smoothbore cannon on the turret roared, blasting away at the obstacle sitting in front of the palace entrance.
"The shields, comrades, the shields!" Pavel shouted to the top of his lungs, rallying soldiers bringing man-sized protection that could only be carried by two hands. The strength of a dozen men rushed to the front of the Soviet tank and formed a wall of their own, enduring the full brunt of firepower in their way. Soon the communist officer gestured for the others to come forward. A mass of men huddled behind the shield wall until he issued another order. "Advance!"
They slowly pushed forward Artyom looked to his left to find Roman standing tall and firing his crossbow over the heads of the shield bearers before ducking to reload. He chuckled while slipping another steel bolt into his weapon. "The Pioneers are not going to believe the shit I'm seeing."
"You can tell them after we live through this. Right now, focus on not getting your head blown off." Uhlman warned. The years of experience backing his words. He brought out a rotary grenade launcher made from the finest weapon crafters of the Moscow Metro before he aimed it high. "Fix bayonets, we're going to rip them a new one." Soon after he launched three grenades into the air before letting go of the weapon and reached for his assault rifle slung around his waist. Three explosions shook the ground, signaling the destruction of the enemy's barricade.
"Rip out their guts!" Pavel shouted as he reached behind his back and brandished a sharpened hand shovel in one hand while his sub-machine gun was in the other.
It was not long until the shield formation broke off as a battle cry dominated this very street with several dozen Russians rushing forward with bloodlust within their hearts. Those with automatics fired from the hip in full auto, suppressing or killing those in the midst of the carnage. The zealous charge transitioned into a relentless onslaught as the Southern Isle soldiers were taken aback by their fury. Artyom caught himself spraying rounds from one man to the next, his hands switching out empty magazines for fresh ones with every reload. Uhlman was seen with his bullpup assault rifle, dueling a musketeer. Pavel fought against a greatswordsman, dodging the two-handed blade before closing in the distance and smashing the shovel's head against the munition plate. Roman dragged down a lifeguard cavalryman onto the ground, overpowering his victim by pressing his weight against him while his hand was free to stab into the small chinks in the armor.
The charge seemed to have an impact on the remaining troops as those who were not locked in a melee brawl were fleeing the scene, either by an alleyway or towards the palace ahead. Once the initial assault had dispatched the disintegrating resistance, the fighting troops demanded a surrender, laying down their arms where they stayed while more reinforcements arrived from behind. Splatters of blood and wooden splinters were all that remained, nothing to stand in the way. They continued to push with crimson flares shining above the sky while dawn slowly arrived, showcasing the bloodshed throughout the city on full display. Yet, the young man's ears seemed to sense that the intensity of gunfire was dying down as if hinting at the end in sight. Artyom was all too eager to see it through.
Another flare shot up from a street several blocks away from his left. Red flickers illuminated the path as a storm of men finally reached the entrance to the extravagant heart of the Southern Isles. The main gates were open, but no one was present to stop the first few dozen men from choking the palace with their numbers. Should the Spartan Commander succeed in seizing the location from within, the rest of the city would become a clean-up operation.
The world began to slow down until Artyom saw a shadow of a man on horseback leave the palace. The horse and its rider stopped at the gates before another flare lit up the scene. This time, the Polis Ranger recognized a disheveled Prince Hans in the saddle, eyes filled with fear and terror in his heart. The man had every right to showcase those feelings for his home had become the epicenter of the war he created. Nonetheless, his blood boiled at the sight of the man who was once seen as a noble prince. All that was left in his voice was retribution. "Stop that man!"
A Fourth Reich soldier tried to stand in front of the man's horse in an attempt to grab the beast's head by the reins; however, the royal's hands were quicker as he pulled the creature's head back and ripped the head straps away from the grips of Russian soldiers. It was then that the foreign royal kicked his steed forward and caused men to make way for the fast creature, evading their clutches. He was heading to a street to the left, south of the city, and away from the stream of post-apocalypse and Imperial soldiers storming the palace.
This would not happen on his watch. Artyom brushed past the others and ran after him. Despite all of his effort, the feet of one man were no match for the hooves of a horse. There is one factor that had not been accounted for, his aim. When he had a clear line of sight of the prince riding towards the main gate, untouched by the fighting, his hand reached for the Hellsbreath that hung on his back and knelt to the ground. Then he squeezed the charging handle, energizing the shot between him and the fleeing individual. One eye was closed while the other looked through the scope and stabilized his chances.
He let out one single breath and squeezed the trigger.
The electricity within his weapon bellowed a loud static shock with a single ball bearing flew through the air in a searing hot red ball. Patience was all that he had left lest his expectations get the better of him but his heart was truly gratified upon witnessing the white steed get struck down before Hans was thrown off his horse, landing into cobblestone ground. With the sight of that, all that was left was to track him down and arrest him. He broke off from the others by rushing after the corpse of the horse while his railgun's static length lit the way in a blue hue.
It would not be long until the distance would be closed; however, he saw the prince stand up and steal a glance over his shoulder before fleeing him. Artyom was tempted to shoot him in the leg but that would be cruel to some degree before the pursued man turned around the corner into an alleyway to the right. Despite being ahead, the Polis Ranger was relentless in chasing him to the end of the earth.
Once he turned around the corner, Hans passed by a nearby scaffolding and tugged the foundation over. The rest of the platforms began to collapse and were about to block the soldier's path but he fell to the ground and skid across the ground as they crashed behind him. When the Russian was out of danger, the hunt continued but the prey stopped running and took refuge in a nearby building. Yet, the stalker looked up and saw the symbol of the blacksmith's anvil tower over the front door. As he reached the entrance, the door had been locked shut from the inside and it was only a matter of time before the target escaped. The young man took a few steps back, aiming the Hellbreathe at the keyhole, and fired another searing-hot ball-bearing burn through the wood and metal. Then he stepped forward and gave it a massive kick, the hinges squeaking as it swung inside.
Artyom made his first steps inside while switching his flashlight on. While his weapon shined his immediate surroundings, the torch on his helmet was what allowed him to light up the darkness of possible hiding spots. This being a blacksmith's shop, it would be difficult to find shelter here but it was no excuse not to be thorough in his search. His left was a stone grinder beside a cabinet of hand tools whereas the right side of the room contained the anvil and the furnace for steelmaking.
The soldier took his first steps forward while his helmet constantly searched around for Prince Hans. He would search the rooms further ahead; however, a strange feeling in his gut told him that the setting was wrong. Then the sound of a metal piece landing behind him was enough to alert him. The Polis Ranger turned around and brought his weapon to bear, finding the very man he sought after standing before him, a black powder pistol drawn against him. The flintlock mechanism spurred and smashed into place before the weapon fired.
It should have ended his life right then and there but rather than hitting the Russian, the bullet merely hit the makeshift railgun making it a non-functional weapon. As he realized this, his foe expressed his anger. "No!" Soon the royal threw his weapon at him but Artyom merely blocked it with his weapon before he too tossed it aside. Yet, the enemy drew a straight sabre blade and lunged for a strike. "Get out of my way, damn you."
His feet were quick to jump back and away from his foe before he too grabbed the handle of his cavalry sabre and let the steel gleam into the light. There was some semblance of satisfaction to be had that it was just him and the royal who would have one final fight. "We meet again."
"Artyom?" The man of the Southern Isle looked with horror before acknowledging him. "We left you to die. You have no right to be here!"
"We trusted you. Everyone in Arendelle and my people trusted you. All for what? To be rewarded with betrayal." The Russian shook his head, ashamed about the fate of the person he could have called friend.
Prince Hans rushed forward attempting to stab him with the tip of his sword; however, he replied with an upward slash that parried the attack and slid direction elsewhere from his torso. Then he pressed forward and reached for his opponent's collar, taking the moment to throw him away from the doorway. The royal landed against a support beam before turning around and growling his anger. "You don't understand; especially, for a peasant. Power is the only thing that defines my family and you had no right to interfere."
What anger he once had at Northuldra, when he deployed the poison gas against him, did not rise again. Rather, his heart held only pity but it would not be enough to keep his hand from stopping the prince from going down the path of war. The friends he made along the way and the young woman he fell in love with were almost victims of the recent bloodshed. "I love Elsa and Anna is my friend. They saved my people and I intend to return the favor." He should have him killed right here and now but the back of his mind whispered against it. His rage against the traitor who raised arms against the Kingdom of Arendelle was being tempered and perhaps those fateful eight days into saving his home station had changed him. "Surrender. All of this is over."
"I would be wearing a crown on my head with a victory to my name but you took that future from me. Do you have any idea how much I've wanted to be free from my father's disapproving gaze? There is nothing left except for perfect hatred."
"No, you truly don't know what it's like to have nothing," He replied with venom beneath his tone. The life of a post-apocalypse survivor only had scraps of a civilization they once knew. What right did this prince have to claim his life was worse than that? It screamed of entitlement and it further angered him more than his deployment of poison gas and alliance with the slavers, "That is something that cannot be claimed by the likes of you."
Hans raised his sabre above and made an overhead strike but the experience of facing the claws of the nosalises took over as the Polis Ranger side-stepped it. Then he pricked the grip holding the handle before he yelped in agony, the fingertips losing control as he knelt to the ground holding his bloodied hand while the blade clattered onto the ground. His head was lowered while trying to stifle the bleeding. "Kill me, spare me the shame of going back to my father."
"Everything you did must be answered." The Russian stated, certainly to let him live to face judgment.
Additional footsteps echoed from behind, causing him to look over his shoulder to see Pavel, Uhlman, and Roman enter the smithy with their flashlights shined on them. Yet, it soon became his mistake when a pair of arms were wrapped around his neck alongside the edge of a knife pressed against his throat. "You should have killed me when you had the chance." Their weapons were trained on the captor, who tightened his hold on him. "Drop your weapons and let me go or he will die." He stated, but despite his demands, Artyom's companions did not comply. Instead, Uhlman stood in the center while Pavel and Roman slowly flanked the lone prince.
He thought about trying to grab the knife and muscle his way out; however, the risk of having a slit throat was too much. The man merely needed to jab him in the throat and all would end and so he placated himself by biding his time. His captor needed him alive lest he fall at the mercy of his comrades but any time he remained stuck, the more time would be spent at securing the city for everyone else.
"Stay back!"
"If you kill him, you'll be on everyone's shitlist." Spoke Uhlman while the dried blood on his bayonet was reflected by the light. "It won't matter if you're a damn prince, a lot of people will want your head."
"So we are at an impasse." Hans acknowledged while dragging Artyom further from the entrance. His mind sensed a strange power lurking in the shadows, one he was too familiar with. "I will not be taken alive."
A former enemy came. It had been a long time since he encountered their kind and his soul felt at ease as if he was meeting an old friend. In another place and another time, he would have trembled and wept at being within their presence but these creatures always expressed their intentions upfront. They spoke to him, telling him to remain calm as they intended to do something that he had only seen in the aftermath of their attempts to reach out to the surviving humans at Exhibition station. What they truly wanted him to do was tell his friends to get out as soon as possible. He would be the only act of warning lest they suffer a fate only the young man understood in his life. " The Dark Ones are here, everyone get out."
"Shut up. You've troubled me enough." He said before smacking him in the back of the head. It was insulting but it wouldn't be for long.
Uhlman's eyes lit up like white plates before he turned to the other two. "Comrades, get out, now!"
"What the fuck is going on?!" Roman turned to the senior soldier in the room, his eyes exchanging glances with the others. "What's a Dark One?"
"Get out! Get out!" Pavel ushered as he ran across the room and grabbed Roman by his shirt before heading to the open door with him. Uhlman slowly backed away and left the two royals behind.
His ear heard Prince Hans hyperventilate while his arm struggled and shook. Shadows on the wall moved and he let out his fear. "This is witchcraft." The blade was becoming less steady with each passing minute the situation was no longer in his control.
It was only a matter of time until Artyom turned the situation back on him. "If you even value any bit of your life, I ask you to surrender. There is no coming back from this. I am the only obstacle between turning you into a shell of a man or you living in shame."
"Not if I can change that."
A moment of clarity was all that remained when the soldier took his chance to free himself. His head shook back knocking against the royal's face with a smack of metal slapping against skin. It disoriented him enough to loosen his arms while the knife began to slip away from the Russian's throat. His gloved hand reached out and latched onto the blade, quietly holding back his urge to yell out as he twisted the man's arm. Once he was free, he turned around and kicked him hard enough to make him land on the ground. Hans was out of reach and Artyom looked down upon the foe that caused him and close relations so much trouble. "I'm sorry it has come to this."
The once noble prince rose from the ground and threw himself towards the Polis Ranger with a loud battle cry in an attempt to strike him down. Despite the fury residing within the heart, the Dark One watching him was faster as it slipped in between and stood firm against the attack. The red-haired fellow could not hold back the expressions of horror as his jaw dropped and the eldritch horror appeared before him. Its menacing stare froze him in place and in the blink of an eye, its hand reached out, the fingertips aimed at his head and pulling. Sheer power emanated from this single act alone but he knew the results.
Hans dropped the dagger and his hands reached for his head before collapsing to the ground with his body writhing. Cries for mercy turned into screams of agony while wailing tears from the eyes. It would be hard to watch but that was the punishment for his persistence to continue resisting. One detail was clear and a fact, the man whose mind was being flayed, would never be the same.
The Dark One lowered its hand and then it turned around. It was finished with the Southern Isle prince with heavy regret that this moment had been realized. The creature sought out a peaceful resolution; yet, it also knew that if his death occurred right now the man that acted as the messenger of their species would leave them voiceless until another child could be chosen to fill his place.
Artyom grabbed his curved cavalry sabre off the ground as he reached for the radio on his person. "I have intercepted Prince Hans. I'm bringing him in."
It was done. This war was finally over.
. . .
The Baron ran for his life once the morning light had risen. What few holdouts and strongholds remained were being overrun and stealth ceased to matter in the flight from the palace to the harbor in the northern side of the city. Helicopters dominated the skies and it was only a matter of time until they noticed him and intercepted his chance of leaving the city. Fortunately, they seemed more interested in taking the palace while he sought his escape.
When he reached the harbor, the ships were anchored in the port. The old man saw the last boxes of treasure being hoarded below deck while a contingent of his men stood at the base of the ramps, keeping the fleeing civilians and local soldiery from boarding. Some tried to push forward, only to receive the full brunt of a buttstock. None of this mattered to him as he made his way to the front while the remaining group of bodyguards shoved aside those in his way. Now secured by the defensive circle surrounding the ramp, his men slowly joined him across as he boarded a galleon.
Soon the weight of time was lifted off his shoulders while the last man jumped aboard and the ramp thrown into the waters below. People cried out for rescue but the Baron had no intention of entertaining their hopes by looking at the captain at the navigation wheel and nodding his head. Without a word, the head of the ship shouted to his sailors to raise the sails before a cold breeze flew against the fabrics hanging from the masts and pushed the wooden vessel away from the edge of the harbor. Escape was finally in reach and he wouldn't have to worry about being captured and imprisoned by government forces.
His mind entered a state of pleasure by thinking of the things he could do with his ill-gotten gains. Perhaps he can own his own estate and provide other nations samples of their weapons in exchange for asylum. Then there was the potential for beautiful women flocking to his side just to be on the side of wealth. These were thoughts that few could barely imagine while his ship joined a dozen ships leaving the harbor. He could spend the rest of his days away from the damn failure of a prince or tell the exploits of being a foreigner who settled for greener pastures.
All looked well for him.
Everything changed when automatic gunfire filled the air and everyone on deck immediately sought for cover. The Baron fell to the side while looking up to see a passing helicopter make a pass, shooting at his ship. Anger rose from inside, causing him to stand up and wave his cane at the armored transport helicopter flying past him. Despite the surprise, he looked around and saw those on board remained untouched. It made no sense to him.
The captain yelled out, exacerbated by the grim situation. "They shot the mast, we can't move!"
He looked up and saw the fabrics riddled with holes but the slow groan of the weakened wood concerned him. The other ships were being harassed in the same manner, helicopters arriving to make their gun runs, disabling their vessels' only ability to be mobile while causing them to stay trapped outside of the city's harbor.
"Look out!"
Wood snapped and splinters rained upon those below. The Baron looked to see the mast once more but the large and long piece of wood descended upon him. He yelled out for his life before his body would find itself smashed against the deck.
. . .
Tsar Mikhail Romanov rode into the city from the eastern gate. He was accompanied by his closest advisors and generals alongside a contingent of hussars as his bodyguard. The old man trotted his horse towards the palace while being a witness to the victorious day that spanned over five hours. His eyes gazed over the mess that was the bloodied streets and the corpses that continued to remain, leaving behind soulless eyes looking up at the sky. He was outright glad that the fighting didn't occur in the summer as he wouldn't have the heart to stomach the smell.
The rest of the city was not much better. He had been told that the bandits who attacked Arendelle were also responsible for ransacking the inhabitants. That was before those flying machines made their way and intercepted the bandits from their ill-gotten gains. It was tempting to take the loot but he supposed the citizens of the Southern Isles were dealt with enough problems as it was. None of them deserved to deal with the consequences of a prince's ambitions. So he was willing to take half of the kingdom's treasury while the other half would go into their hands. A good price to be had in the name of victory.
By the time he had reached the inner courtyard of the palace, the Preobrazhensky lined up in their respective companies to welcome his arrival. Their uniforms were dirtied and bloodied by the morning fighting as they were the first to storm the walls; yet, stood with their chins high while the officers drew their swords in his honor. He smiled and nodded in their direction for they had fought alongside his grandson, who had rallied them at a critical moment to take the walls. It was unheard of for a man of such a rank to be in a brutal engagement but he survived alongside the forlorn hope and inspired everyone else to storm the walls.
Soon the emperor found himself brought before the entrance of the palace itself. The architects of the invasion plan and its participants stood before him with their weapons slinging from their necks. Colonel Mel'nikov and his Polis Rangers stood in front of the entrance, Artyom among the front ranks with his armored visor raised like a knight of old with a sword at his side, unlike the others. He guided his steed to a halt before dismounting from the saddle as he approached the Russian commander with a great smile on his face. "I take that it is all over. Is Prince Hans in our… care?"Mikhail carefully put his words, willing to make a euphemism instead of being direct about the matter.
The old Soviet soldier nodded his head as he raised his armored visor and looked over the shoulder, glancing at Artyom. "You thank your grandson for that. He personally tracked him down and captured him. The bastard was a hair's breadth away."
"I am here to say that I'm proud of him."
"So am I." Replied the Spartan Commander. "We're making another sweep of the city to clear up any remaining resistance but I think our job is done."
This war was over and now was the time to seek out a peace, one to prevent it from occurring again given the relations with Queen Elsa. "Then I would need to seek out Hans' father and write up a draft for a treaty to end this whole debacle." King Friedrich would need to be notified as soon as possible while the current forces in the Southern Isles would have to be pulled out to make any discussion possible. After all, they weren't here to annex their country.
"Someone has to notify her majesty then."
He knew what that implied. Someone had to inform the monarch of Arendelle of the latest developments on this island and the tsar felt it would be poetic. The soldier prince who fought on his love's behalf, returning to speak of victory on his shoulders. "Indeed. I suppose you cannot spare your man."
A chuckle escaped the officer with a grin on his expression. "I can't think of no better man."
. . .
The ruler of Arendelle and the representative of the Fifth Spirit of Northuldra sat on her throne handling the day-to-day affairs of her kingdom from the treatment of prisoners to the concerns of the common folk. Yesterday felt slow but now her heartfelt content gave hope to those who suffered in the throes of war. As life found some degree of normality, the people of Northuldra sought an audience to deal with the legacy of her grandfather. The rest of the family and the former honor guard of Runeard joined Elsa, standing beside her while the people of the north entered the throne room.
Yelana entered the room accompanied by an entourage of her people with Honeymaren among them. The elder woman walked forward and nodded her head towards the queen in respect before raising her head. "Your grandfather left many problems after he slain our previous elder and the dam he constructed an insult to our people and beliefs. Yet, you came in and destroyed the sins that plagued your family and haunted us. We have come here today to reconcile with the past and reestablish the friendship between our lands. After all, we are grateful for the help that your friends made to defend it from foreign invaders."
What would be said here would stand for generations and the queen rose from her chair and stepped forward. Then stopped when she was no more than a few metres away from the Northuldran. The dam represented the ambitions of her grandfather and she had no intention of angering the spirits for either glory or machinations. Here, she would be genuine with her heart and seek out a place where Arendelle would be defined by her friendships. "King Runeard built the dam in your lands with the hope of using it against you as a means of control but I have no intentions of doing the same." There was an idea that occurred to her before this meeting came to be. Northuldra was a wild place that made it difficult to reinforce but she also wanted a way for its people to connect with hers. "So I propose a road built so that both of us can clear the trees of doubt and seek out the truth for the love of our people."
"It sounds perfect. I couldn't have said it any better." The approval from the woman was enough to ease the tension of making the same mistake as the previous ruler who dealt with the Northuldrans. "So long as the spirits are fine with its construction, it is welcomed."
There was a sudden commotion outside that seemed to distract everyone in the room. She didn't know what it was except that people were cheering from beyond their castle. "What is going on?" Doors swung loudly in the outside hallway as loud and heavy footsteps made their way toward them.
Soon the delegation stepped aside until the uniform of a Polis Ranger stepped in the doorway. He was accompanied by three others as they took off their helmets and hats, revealing their identities. Anna rushed across as Pavel did the same, the two embracing each other in a great bear hug, laughing and crying. It was sweet to find them finally getting together as the Russian prince longingly looked at her, dark spots under his eyes as a brief smile was all he could summon. "It's done." He exhaustively said while tucking his helmet underneath his arm. "Prince Hans has been captured… and we won."
Those words caused the room full of servants and guards to break out into celebration while Elsa could not believe what she heard. Was this really true? Would the machinations of this one man leave her alone? The queen expected the day to happen; yet, it was a different experience to finally come here. She trembled past the Northuldran delegation while her heels tapped against the blue rug throwing her arms around his head and kissing him on the cheek. There was a mix of sweat and dirt but the royal cared little about the cleanliness of her lover.
The war was over.
Author's Note: I don't think I did too well in terms of conveying the scenes. It's probably because I've been reading Sharpe's Tiger and its influence has been showing up. On one hand - the dialogue is much better than before, has fewer patterns, and gives me a lot more legroom to describe scenes off-hand. Yet, some of the action sequences feel undercooked in some regards. Then again, I straight-up abandoned the rest of my outline at a certain point in the chapter. Two more chapters and then this fic will finally be one of the first fics I've finished in a long time.