Chapter 8. Defense of the Ejey Fortress.
City of Gim. Headquarters of the Lourian Command.
The heavy, stale air in the war room pressed on the lungs, mingling with the scent of expensive wine and an inescapable tension. Outside, beyond the thick, condensation-covered windows, shadows crept across the sleeping city—a city where no one truly rested anymore. Even the faint creak of old wooden panels sounded ominous in the oppressive silence. The news of the naval battle at Rodenius had shattered the carefully cultivated illusion of invincibility. Though the high command had gone to great lengths to suppress the catastrophe from the Eastern Ground Army of Enslavement, some horrifying details had seeped into headquarters, like toxic smoke escaping a sealed flask.
A complete naval rout. It wasn't just a defeat; it was a nightmare. And the destruction of the reconnaissance unit? That news hit the gathered officers with the force of an earthquake.
The report of the 15th Cavalry Regiment's annihilation—one hundred knights led by Jupiter Jove—was like a death sentence. The finest riders, the elite of Louria, sent to scout 25 kilometers east of Gim, had been wiped out. Completely. Not a single survivor. A mage officer, pale as a corpse, confirmed it: there were no signs of magic, no evidence of an attack by magical creatures, not even wyverns. Just piles of charred corpses and the regiment's heraldic banner planted in the ground—a silent, grim testament to a massacre.
"This can't be…" someone whispered, their voice lost in the murmur of confusion and fear.
"With so many warriors, at least one should've survived," one officer said, trying to inject a note of confidence into his voice but failing. "Maybe they were ambushed by a large Qua-Toynean force?"
That theory was quickly dismissed. The mobility of the cavalry, combined with the speed and training of the 15th Regiment's riders, made such an ambush nearly impossible.
Duke Junfila, a massive man with a face deeply lined by years of warfare, cast his gaze over his subordinates. His usually stoic expression was clouded with worry. He raised a bronze goblet of red wine and took a slow sip.
"Doesn't all of this seem strange to you?" he asked, his voice hoarse with strain. "We prepared for war against pig herders and farmers of Qua-Toyne, but now we face… something extraordinary. First, our forward unit in Gim… wiped out by unknown 'wyverns.' Then our infantry… torn apart by some unspeakable horror… And now this! Washuna, what's your take on this?"
The commander of the mage unit, Washuna—a slender man with sharp eyes and graying temples—touched his goblet, his expression a mix of anxiety and deep bewilderment.
"There were no magical influences or traces of magbeasts detected," he replied, slowly turning the goblet in his hands. "However… I have received… shall we say, extremely peculiar reports. Our fleet sent to capture Maihark… was completely destroyed. Annihilated. Three hundred and fifty wyvern riders… gone. Taken out by an unknown ship… one wielding immense magical power."
A heavy silence fell over the room. The officers' faces were pale, their eyes reflecting profound shock. They'd heard of defeats before, but they couldn't fathom a disaster of this magnitude. Such a total, devastating rout.
Duke Junfila slammed his goblet down on the table. His normally measured tone cut through the quiet, laced with alarm:
"This can't be… it can't… The fleet and the wyvern squadron… They were supposed to conquer all of Qua-Toyne! They could've stormed even a provincial city of the Parpaldian Empire! That was our largest armada! And you're telling me… they've been obliterated? By peasants from the backwoods?!"
He rose from his chair, pacing back and forth, as if trying to shake off the weight of disbelief and fear.
Washuna cleared his throat, attempting to mask his unease. His next words fell like a hammer:
"The report from the manacom operators during the enemy ship's attack… mentioned… the Russian Federation. I believe… they are responsible for our defeats… for all of this… horror."
Another silence, even heavier than before, descended on the room. Glances were exchanged, desperate for a glimmer of hope that simply didn't exist.
Duke Junfila's trembling hands slowly lowered him back into his seat. His voice, faint and echoing, carried through the room:
"Be that as it may… the order from Lieutenant General Adem… is to advance toward Ejey. Capture the fortress at all costs."
He coughed, wiping sweat from his brow. His face was ashen, his eyes filled with despair.
"They won't even allow us to conduct reconnaissance! Refusing the order… means death. Death for our families. Damn that Adem!" he hissed through gritted teeth.
When the duke finished reading the command to the assembled vassals of the eastern territories and the officers of the forward Enslavement Army, he was gripped by a sharp pain in his stomach. His hands were cold and clammy with sweat. A terrible, inescapable sense of impending doom haunted him. But he stifled his trembling, suppressing the overwhelming dread.
The unknown, the complete lack of information, only worsened the situation. If whoever had annihilated the 15th Cavalry Regiment was near Ejey… then another nightmare awaited them. The loss of the finest horses—those renowned "furry pegasi"—was inevitable. The loss of their best warriors, their best mounts… and everything else.
Thus, when reinforcements arrived from Louria—twenty thousand grim and terrified soldiers—they marched eastward. Into inevitable slaughter.
The Fortress of Ejey
During the night, the vanguard of the eastern division of the Lourian army reached the fortress of Ejey unopposed. They set up camp five kilometers from the fortress walls. The army stretched across the horizon like a massive black serpent, poised to strike its prey. Thousands of torches illuminated the night landscape, casting an eerie glow that made the terrain as bright as day. The light was unsettling, highlighting not just the land but also the terror gripping the hearts of those inside the fortress.
Ejey's commander, General Nou, gazed at this ominous light. His eyes widened in horror, his hands trembling. If the Lourian forces began their assault now, the fortress garrison would be overwhelmed long before the main army could arrive. Nou clenched his fists. Whether the attack came now or later, the tension inside the fortress had reached its breaking point. The defenders' nerves were stretched taut, like strings on an ancient harp, ready to break into the haunting symphony of death.
General Nou, a sturdy man with a face deeply etched by the passage of time and countless battles, stood within the keep, staring into the dark expanse of the night. The wind carried a chill that slipped through the cracks of the old stone walls, a reminder of the impending danger. He briefly considered launching a surprise nighttime raid with his wyvern squadron to disrupt the enemy camp. But the thought was quickly dismissed. Wyverns were nearly blind in the darkness, and such an attack would only squander precious resources. Moreover, even the smallest act of resistance could give the enemy the pretext they needed to launch a full-scale assault.
"O siege…" Nou murmured, running a hand over his tired, sleep-deprived face. "If we give them any excuse, they'll crush us like locusts. Their numbers… they're overwhelming."
By the second day, Nou's eyes were fixed on his garrison from the heights of the keep. His gaze pierced through the night fog, reaching the enemy camp sprawled across the horizon like a sinister kraken. Once again, provocations began. Crude, mocking shouts from Lourian infantry echoed from a nearby hill, carried to the fortress walls.
"Hey, you pointy-eared freaks! Come out already!" they jeered, banging swords against shields to create an obnoxious, nerve-grating clamor. "We'll mount your heads on pikes and string up your leader at the gates! Ha-ha-ha!"
These taunts and the mocking laughter that followed them gnawed at the garrison's morale. But Nou had forbidden any response. He understood that even the slightest reaction could incite the enemy to attack.
"Damn Lourians," one guard muttered, leaning against the cold stone of the fortress wall. "They're getting under our skin. Can't even throw an insult back at them."
"Yeah," his companion sighed. "They've been at it day and night… And we can't even stick an arrow between their eyes. General's orders."
"Let's head back to the watchtower," the first guard said, spitting in the direction of the provocateurs before standing up with a resigned grunt. "They're getting on my nerves…"
Nou observed the scene, his face serious and tense. He knew the constant provocations were slowly eroding the garrison's resolve. Fatigue, sleeplessness, and unrelenting pressure were taking their toll.
"This is bad…" he whispered, his voice barely audible. "The men's morale is slipping."
"Perhaps we should launch the wyverns at first light?" his closest aide suggested, wringing his hands anxiously.
Nou shook his head. "Too risky," he said, rubbing his tired eyes. "That's exactly what they're waiting for. If we attack, it'll provoke them into storming the fortress. And that… that would spell the end for all of us."
He silently surveyed the Lourian encampment, envisioning the endless ranks of soldiers, ready to descend upon the fortress like a tidal wave crashing against the shore. And he knew, deep down, that time was working against them.
Several days stretched on, each moment dragging like an unending chain of torment. The silence was heavy, oppressive, hanging in the air like a storm cloud about to break. The Lourian attackers waited patiently for their reinforcements to arrive, much like a predator stalking its prey. Meanwhile, the defenders of Ejey remained vigilant, bracing for the worst while refusing to provoke the enemy into launching a premature assault. Each passing minute brought the inevitable clash closer, and every whisper of wind against the fortress walls felt like an ominous harbinger of the battle to come.
In his quarters, lit only by the dim glow of an oil lamp, General Nou sat at a massive oak desk. His face, typically a mask of unwavering determination, was now etched with deep lines—testament to sleepless nights and relentless tension. He sifted slowly through old letters, as if searching for answers to the questions that had been plaguing him without respite. A sudden knock on the door jarred him from his thoughts.
"Come in!" he barked, swiveling toward the entrance.
The door opened, and his closest aide stepped in—a young but battle-hardened officer with a serious expression.
"General," the aide reported, standing at attention, "a dispatch has arrived… from the Russian forces' command."
Nou flinched, as if struck by an electric current. He rose from his chair, and a spark of curiosity—perhaps even hope—flickered in his eyes.
"Read it!" he ordered, his voice sharp but tinged with an unusual energy. "Strange… I'm glad to hear from the Russians," he murmured under his breath.
The aide unfolded the parchment, his movements deliberate, and began reading in a slow, clear tone:
"They are requesting… permission to conduct… artillery strikes… on enemy forces positioned five kilometers from our fortress."
Nou's expression darkened as he pondered the message. His face, marked with fatigue and worry, grew even more serious. He recalled previous attempts to coordinate with the Russians, only to be met with their staunch refusal to intervene. This dispatch was unusual, almost out of character.
"I told them to stay put at their base!" Nou grumbled, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "Fine… let them have their way. Honestly, I'm a little curious—how does the Russian army fight? Let them carry out their 'artillery prep.' I'd like to see how they handle this."
"Yes, sir!" The aide bowed sharply, clutching the parchment before hurrying off to relay the order to the mana-com operators. His face betrayed a mix of surprise and cautious optimism. At long last, something was finally happening.
The next day.
The sky above the industrial military town of Sloboda hung low and gray, as if foretelling an impending storm. Not far from the town, on a specially prepared platform, stood a row of war machines—Tornado-S multiple launch rocket systems (MLRS) and self-propelled 152mm Msta-S howitzers. They loomed like steel predators poised to strike. The air buzzed with tension, vibrating with the hum of engines and the hurried chatter of mechanics. The scene was alive with purpose, like a beehive where every worker knew their role. Soldiers, their uniforms smudged with grease, darted between the machines, checking communications, loading rockets, and securing shells. The dull light of the gray day reflected off the polished steel of the weapons, casting an eerie and mesmerizing glow of readiness for destruction.
The sharp tang of smoke and gunpowder mixed with the acrid scent of oil and grease. The soldiers were no longer just men—they had become part of the machines, fearless cogs in the gears of a war engine. Every glance, every movement, was focused on a single goal: the metallic roar of death and the annihilation of the enemy.
At last, the weapons were loaded. The steel giants stood frozen, awaiting their command. The silence was so tense it seemed to stretch the air itself, broken only by the faint hum of engines and the whisper of the wind. Even the rhythmic beating of a heart felt deafening in the oppressive stillness.
"Fire in salvos! Let's give them hell!" bellowed the commander, his voice sharp and raw as if forged from steel itself. His words cut through the air like a blade. "Three hundred! Thirty! Three!" He glanced at his watch, counting down the seconds to destruction.
The gunners, their faces smudged with soot, shouted their acknowledgments in uneven bursts, echoing the command. The sound of their voices faded into the unbearable anticipation. They covered their ears and opened their mouths instinctively, bracing for the concussive roar of the coming explosions.
And then, the long, heavy minutes of waiting ended. The commander gave the signal. Hell was unleashed.
Dozens of Tornado-S rockets roared to life, howling like beasts as they launched from their barrels, trailing thick streams of smoke. They streaked toward their targets with a menacing hum, like swarms of metallic wasps racing toward a fatal embrace. Each rocket carried cluster munitions loaded with hundreds of miniature mines, designed to scatter over a wide area and mow down enemy soldiers like a scythe through wheat. The Msta-S howitzers joined the cacophony, their thunderous blasts sending shells tearing through earth and air, raining shrapnel in every direction. Together, they created a fiery symphony of destruction, an unrelenting storm of death that turned the battlefield into a hellscape.
At the same time, in the camps of the Lourian army, Duke Junfila unexpectedly had one of the best sleeps he'd had in weeks. That morning, he proudly inspected his troops, their ranks gleaming under the morning sun. The polished armor of his soldiers sparkled like freshly minted coins, and the infantry's formation stood as straight and unyielding as a wall of perfectly laid bricks. Duke Junfila felt a surge of pride as he admired his mighty army. It was truly a magnificent sight.
But that moment of triumph shattered like fragile glass. A familiar unease, a chilling sense of impending doom, crept over him. It was the same dreadful feeling he had experienced before the disastrous battle at Gim. He instinctively tilted his head upward, scanning the clear sky, though he wasn't quite sure what he was searching for.
And then, it happened.
A deafening roar ripped through the air. The ground trembled violently beneath his feet. The atmosphere itself seemed to cry out like a wounded beast.
"KABOOM! BOOM! KA-BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!"
The explosions came in relentless succession, like hammer blows from a colossal titan. The entire landscape was consumed in a fiery inferno. The earth convulsed as if it were alive, trying to escape the punishment. The Lourian army, which just moments ago had stood proudly under the sun, was swallowed by a storm of shrapnel and flames. Soldiers fell, torn apart in an instant. Screams, groans, and piercing cries fused into one horrifying cacophony. It was no longer a battle—it was a slaughter, a grim offering to an unmerciful god. This wasn't war. This was genocide.
Watching the carnage unfold through his spyglass, General Nou's voice cracked as he shouted, panic overtaking his usually composed demeanor.
"This… this is impossible!" he exclaimed. "Are the Russians attacking… from their position?! That range!... My gods… So this is what they meant by 'artillery preparation.'"
The acrid stench of burning flesh and blood wafted up to the fortress walls, turning stomachs and spreading dread among the defenders.
Duke Junfila stood frozen, paralyzed by the sheer horror before him. His once-proud army, the symbol of Louria's might and power, was now nothing more than ashes and agony. The shockwaves from the explosions sent the remaining soldiers sprawling to the ground, and the relentless shards of shrapnel finished what the fire had started.
This wasn't a fight against men. It was as though they had provoked primordial dragons. But even dragons, fierce and ancient, couldn't have unleashed such destruction so effortlessly.
Junfila forced himself to move, staggering to a wounded soldier whose face had been mangled by shrapnel. The man was still alive but writhing in unbearable pain. Kneeling beside him, Junfila cradled the soldier, his hands slick with blood and brain matter. Tears streamed down his face, mingling with the lifeless body of a comrade-in-arms.
"My soldiers…" he whispered, his voice trembling. "My comrades… the ones who stood by me through it all…"
His gaze fixed on the flames that devoured his army. He no longer flinched at the sound of the blasts, no longer recoiled at the sight of broken bodies. His eyes lingered on the twisted faces of his men, who fought for every breath until the very end. But the fire showed no mercy. It consumed the very air, suffocating even those who had survived the deadly hail of shrapnel.
Standing on the fortress walls, Washuna, one of the defenders, watched the catastrophic scene unfold with growing dread. He muttered in disbelief:
"This isn't magic… I don't feel any magical presence! This is a power… beyond even the archmages!"
Junfila and Washuna were both thrown to the ground by the force of the final salvo. For Junfila, the impact felt strangely detached, almost gentle. For a fleeting moment, he felt a warm glow, as if kissed by the sun, followed by a bone-chilling coldness. Death, in its grim mercy, spared him the agony that had consumed his soldiers.
And so ended the story of Duke Junfila, the ruler of Louria's eastern province.
Back on the fortress walls of Ejey, the garrison and other onlookers stood frozen in stunned silence. When the final volley ceased and the dust settled, the horrific truth was laid bare before them: a once-mighty army of twenty thousand soldiers had been completely obliterated. Not a single survivor remained.
General Nou, still gripping his spyglass, was overwhelmed by what he had just witnessed. The Russians had annihilated Louria's formidable forces without ever stepping foot beyond their own territory. Ejey's garrison hadn't suffered a single casualty.
Conflicting emotions surged within Nou—a twisted blend of relief at the destruction of the enemy and sheer terror at the unstoppable might of the Russian military. Their power defied comprehension.
"So this is Russi's army…" Nou murmured, lowering the spyglass with trembling hands. "Mighty and merciless…"
