Chapter 15. The Battle for Tormeus. Part 2.
The Kingdom of Topa. The fortress city of Tormeus.
On the western half of the city, the defenders darted back and forth like frantic ants. They hauled fresh quivers of arrows and dragged heavy stones to the trebuchets, working without a moment's rest. The air was filled with the roars of trolls, the shrieks of goblins, the whistle of arrows, and the clanging of machinery—all blending into a deafening cacophony. For nearly two weeks, the defenders had held the demonic legions at bay across a small river, but with each passing day, their numbers dwindled, and their strength waned. The riverbank was littered with corpses—mostly goblins, but occasionally the fallen forms of anthropomorphic boars who had perished in battle. None of the demons dared cross the bridge, which was well within range of the royal troops' relentless barrage. The ranger squads had received armor-piercing arrowheads, reminiscent of bodkins, striking terror even into the hearts of towering orcs who had once seemed impervious to the defenders' arrows. These ranger units conducted raids deep into enemy territory like phantoms—rescuing captives who were once Tormeus's residents, spoiling and destroying supplies, wiping out nearby demon camps—before slipping back westward.
From Tormeus, a squad departed under the command of Moah and his partner Guy, heading to meet a vanguard company at the southern gates, sent to aid the kingdom.
— Moah, are you serious? Are these 'Russians' really that impressive? Guy asked, his voice tinged with skepticism.
—Beats me, Moah replied, his eyes fixed on the horizon, straining to catch any sign of the approaching Russians.
— I heard they scattered a ten-thousand-strong army like it was nothing. I don't know about you, but that's a pretty solid case in my book—stronger than anything we've got.
— Bull, Guy shot back, waving a dismissive hand. He didn't buy the rumors swirling around the world—they sounded too far-fetched to be true.
— Sure, they won, I'll give 'em that. But Moah, listen, no matter how polished your formations or tactics are, the front line always takes hits—always.
Maybe these Russians are just putting on a big show? I bet they'll roll up on dazzling white horses, clad in gleaming golden armor. Ugh, makes me sick just thinking about it,"Guy added with a grimace. As he finished, his face twisted as if he'd bitten into something sour, showing just how much he despised such flashy displays.
— Just don't mouth off to our guests. Keep your opinions to yourself, Moah warned, casting a sidelong glance at his companion.
— Fine, Guy replied curtly, signaling he'd hold his tongue—but that was as far as he'd go.
— Mr. Moah, the Russian forces will arrive soon! a messenger announced, dashing up to the half-elf and bowing low, his face alight with excitement.
—Excellent! Prepare a welcoming ceremony! Moah ordered, turning his gaze back to the horizon. From it emerged real, gray-green monstrosities—sights both terrifying and awe-inspiring. Alongside them rode the squad tasked with escorting them to Tormeus.
—What the hell is that?! Guy blurted out, bewildered, his brows furrowing and his mouth dropping open in shock as he glanced around. "Why's the ground shaking like this?"
A combat column approached Tormeus's southern gates. The earth itself rumbled under the weight of these iron beasts, as if an earthquake were rolling in. The procession halted before Moah and Guy, who couldn't hide their astonishment.
— Mr. Moah, we've brought reinforcements from the Russian Federation, one of the escorting knights declared, struggling to mask his exhaustion and amazement.
Snapping Moah out of his daze, they exchanged a few words. From the lead Tiger emerged a man clad in a strange, spherical helmet devoid of adornment and odd white-and-blue armor. Yet, as Moah studied him, he saw none of the elegance typical of knights. Before him stood a rugged, no-nonsense mercenary—stern and resolute. The man approached Moah and declared loudly:
— Commander of the vanguard company, Neverov, reporting in, he stated crisply, in a military tone.
— Knight-Guardian of the Doors of the World,' Moah. We'll escort you to our commandant, and afterward, we'll serve as observers for your mission. It's an honor to welcome you, Moah replied, doing his best to conceal his excitement and surprise.
—Understood! Neverov responded tersely, a stark contrast to his earlier pronouncement.
The column rolled through the southern gates. On the quiet streets of Western Tormeus, onlookers poured out, eager to catch a glimpse of the marvels. A crowd gathered to gawk at the massive iron monsters. The rumors had proven true—these machines were a sight to behold. Only the commander's Tiger made it to Tormeus's castle; the rest remained outside the city walls. Four figures disembarked, including the company commander, and followed Moah—their guide—through a maze of corners until they stood before a heavy, imposing door. Its wood was intricately carved, as if inscribed with ancient script. Moah knocked. A muffled "Please, come in" sounded from within, the voice weary yet carrying an unshakable strength. The Russian soldiers and Moah stepped into a spacious hall. Across from a round table stood a man of middle age, lean and fit.
His short hair was streaked with gray, and a white beard framed his face—a feature he toyed with when lost in thought. He wore silver armor emblazoned with the city's crest and a red cloak that flowed to the floor.
—My apologies, Lord Aziz, for interrupting you, Moah said. I've brought guests from the Russian Federation here to assist us.
— Dear guests from Russia, I am the commandant of the fortress — Tormeus. It's a pleasure to welcome you, Azize said with a bow, his gaze stern yet brimming with hope.
—Major Neverov, commander of the vanguard company. Greetings, Neverov replied, extending a firm handshake to the commandant.
The commandant and the major exchanged a strong grip, pleasantries, and took seats at the round table, its surface smooth and warm, almost alive. Neverov sought clarification, learning that Tormeus's eastern district—Minias—was under demonic control. Reinforcements from Berngen had recently pushed the demonic forces back to the river, but it hadn't stopped their relentless assaults. Topa's warriors had held the line for two weeks, yet neither side gained ground—an eerie stalemate gripped the battlefield. Nosgorath had holed up in a noble's mansion, turning it into an impregnable stronghold. Ranger squads sent deep into enemy territory couldn't pinpoint his location, returning with sparse, horror-filled reports. Of the thousand civilians trapped in Minias, unable to flee the eastern district, only two hundred remained. They were being dragged off—either to Nosgorath or other demons—like livestock to the slaughter, defenseless and without hope.
The demonic army had lost four and a half thousand goblins, two thousand wild orcs, five hundred high orcs, and fifty trolls, but these losses barely seemed to dent their overwhelming numbers. The Topan forces, however, had suffered heavily—four thousand soldiers killed outright, or "two-hundreds," and six hundred wounded, or "three-hundreds," with injuries ranging in severity. That amounted to a third of their strength gone. At times, a Red or Blue ogre would appear on the city square, and the Topans couldn't retrieve their captured soldiers immediately. Taking heavy casualties, they'd retreat beyond the river, leaving behind only wounds and fear. These ogres were four times stronger than any human, endowed with boundless endurance and regeneration—they seemed utterly inhuman, defying all logic. As long as they could feast on human flesh, they could fight indefinitely, unstoppable. Neither sword, nor arrow, nor crossbow bolt could pierce their hides; they were invulnerable. A ballista shot might have brought one down, but they were too fast—making it a futile waste of time and ammunition. Major Neverov knew that waiting for the main forces could spell greater suffering for the kingdom if the demons broke through the defenses. It was decided to conduct a probing attack while simultaneously preparing for a decisive counteroffensive.
— I'd like to borrow a map of Minias from you, — the major said, his voice firm and steady.
— Of course. Ar, fetch the maps from that chest over there, — Aziz gestured toward a shelf where a trunk sat, clad in thick leather and fastened with golden lock.
— Yes, my lor— At that moment, a strange, bluish-black object soared through the shattered mica window into the hall, radiating an unbearable chill.
— Take cover, damn it! — Neverov shouted, diving with his men behind a stone wall they'd already checked for cracks.
The others watched in horror as a swarm of bats erupted from the object, mutating into an anthropomorphic monstrosity. Black, webbed wings unfurled from this thing, and it was draped in a white robe that billowed ghostly in the air.
— That's Nosgorat'hs right hand! It's Malastras! — Moah yelled, unsheathing his sword, his eyes wide with terror.
— Ha-ha-ha, well done, elf! You'll die last, — Malastras snarled, baring sharp, jagged teeth in a wicked grin.
— Humans evolve so quickly—only fifty centuries have passed, — he drawled mockingly, his voice raspy and piercing. The demon's muzzle turned toward the commandant of Tormeus, and his words rumbled forth, laced with hisses and eerie laughter:
— And you! You'll die first, you insect! The demon's hand began to blaze with black flames, the heat in the room intensifying as if they stood at the heart of a roaring volcano.
— Not so fast, you abomination! Die! — the captain's aide roared, stepping in front of Aziz and thrusting his sword at Malastras with fierce, desperate strikes.
— Get lost, pest. Hellfire, — Malastras muttered, flicking his hand. The aide screamed in agony, his cries slicing through the air like a razor. Within seconds, all that remained of him was a melted breastplate, a charred husk of what once was a man.
— Lieutenant! — Aziz cried out, his legs trembling. Like everyone else, he was reeling from the shock. "The Russians backed off at the sight of magic—guess the rumors about them were exaggerated," Moah thought, eyeing Malastras and trying to assess the situation.
— What's this, elf? Not pissing yourself yet? — the demon glared at Moah. — Didn't even flinch, — he added, almost impressed, as he began channeling mana into another spell, his gaze sharp as an arrow. Suddenly, the clicks of fire selectors on AK-107M rifles echoed — aimed at the demon— like harbingers of doom.
— Everyone, hit the deck! — the major bellowed, his voice like thunder shattering the silence.
— Sokolov, Volkov, Medvedev—take down that flying freak! Gai tackled Moah to the ground, and a barrage of long bursts erupted, as if the end of the world had begun. Steel-core bullets slammed into Malastras's torso, his body jerking with each impact. Dark crimson blood, like venom eating him from within, oozed from his maw with every hit. The gunfire's roar deafened everyone in the room—except the vanguard company soldiers, whose ears were trained for such chaos. Blood trickled from the ears of one Topan officer, but he barely noticed, as if it were just another day. No big deal—mages will patch me up. For now, we've got to survive, he thought.
— Cover me, reloading! — Volkov shouted, swapping out his magazine, chambering a round, and taking aim at the demon's limp, oozing corpse sliding down the wall.
— Finishing shot! — Sokolov called out, firing into Malastras's head. It burst like a watermelon, splattering gore across the room. The demon didn't even have time for a death rattle—everything happened so fast he couldn't comprehend his end. The soldiers caught their breath and helped the stunned, half-deafened Topan officers to their feet, like adults aiding kids off a slide.
— You… you… you saved us all from that demonic beast, — Moah stammered, glancing at Malastras's corpse, still struggling to process what had happened. — I don't know how to thank you. If you hadn't been here, we'd have been dead in an instant.
…That thing had been tormenting our soldiers relentlessly—it'd swoop in and hurl fire spells like some devilish wyvern. That monster probably carried the souls of the slain on its back. Thank you… After the incident, a sobered-up commandant and the major held a meeting, reaching an agreement. In two days, the Topan forces would launch a counteroffensive, spearheaded by Russian armored vehicles—machines that seemed capable of crushing any foe.
Two days later. The Kingdom of Topa. Eastern District of Tormeuss—Minias.
At that moment, in the demon-occupied Tormeuss, terror and despair reigned supreme. The surviving civilians had been herded into grand halls and other spacious rooms. Goblins and orcs stood guard over them, offering not a sliver of hope for escape—any attempt to flee was met with brutal execution, carried out in full view of the others, sinking fear even deeper into their hearts. Each day, the demons selected a few people to devour, and their screams—laden with pain and horror—echoed long after in the souls of those left alive. They clung to every shred of hope, but their despair outweighed it all.
The operation commenced. A column of Topan infantry and cavalry approached the northern gates of Minias, their armor glinting under the winter sun, their faces etched with determination, though fear flickered in their eyes. Across the river rolled a second column, while two elite combat teams, made up of the finest fighters, advanced through an underground passage linked to the sewers. Their mission: lure the Red and Blue ogres toward the waiting tanks and armored personnel carriers, poised for action.
— CP (Command Post), this is Yamal-2. We're in position, — a voice hissed over the radio, keeping as quiet as possible.
— Copy that, Yamal-2, — Neverov replied, double-checking the comms settings.
— CP, this is Yamal-1. We've crossed the river and are heading to the designated point. Do you copy? — another voice crackled through.
— This is CP. Copy that, — Neverov responded tersely, his eyes on the map.
— CP, this is Mole-1. We've exited the sewers, crossed the alley, and are observing 'Alpha' fifty meters away on the city square. Do you copy? — the voice trembled with nerves but remained clear.
— This is CP. Mole-1, wait for Yamal-1, then provoke 'Alpha' into attacking. Do you copy?
— Copy that. Over and out.
— CP, this is Mole-2. We've located hostages. I'm observing sixteen contacts. Do you copy?
— Copy that. Begin your operation.
Mole-2's team started taking out the goblins with lethal silence, their movements fluid and precise, like shadows in the night. The faint pops echoing across the square near the town hall weren't gunshots but the sound of their stilettos at work. The goblins didn't even realize what killed them—they dropped like puppets, silent in death. Within fifteen minutes, the sector was cleared. The team swiftly bound the survivors and led them to safety, from where a cavalry banner would escort them west, far from the horrors of war.
— CP, this is Mole-2. Mission accomplished. Moving to link up with Mole-1. Do you copy?
— This is CP. Copy that.
— CP, this is Yamal-1. We're in position. Ready for the show, — a cheerful voice chirped over the radio.
— This is CP. Mole-1, Yamal-1 is in position. Begin your operation. Do you copy?
— This is Mole-1. Copy that. Engaging now. Over and out.
Mole-1's combat team fanned out, taking up strategic positions. A muffled thud rang out as an underbarrel grenade launcher fired, and a VOG-25 landed at the Red Ogre's feet, scattering shrapnel in all directions. The grenade's fragments shredded and riddled the nearby high orcs, their bodies scorched and riddled with holes. The ogre itself lost a leg, roaring like a wounded beast.
— That's it! Time to haul ass before he grows that leg back. Move it! — the team leader barked, and they sprinted toward the rendezvous point with Yamal-1, resisting the urge to look back.
The Red Ogre gave chase on its three remaining limbs, followed by a pack of high orcs, their faces twisted with rage.
— Yamal-1, this is Mole-1. We've pissed off 'Alpha.' Target's actively heading your way. Do you copy? — the Mole-1 commander panted into the radio.
— Mole-1, copy that. Ready to greet him, — the tank commander replied, his voice laced with anticipation.
The taunting fighters reached the safety of the tank, ducking behind it to catch their breath, hearts pounding. The ogre slowed, turning its head to size up the tank, its eyes blazing with fury yet tinged with wariness.
— No way, — it growled, its voice deep and menacing. — Messengers of the Supreme God? Then it began to turn, clearly intent on retreating, sensing the danger.
— Fire on 'Alpha!' — the tank commander roared, his movements sharp and practiced. The T-72B3's 125mm cannon boomed, splitting the air. The ogre's head and half its torso vanished in a flash of fire and explosion. A misty cloud of blood rained down on the high orcs trailing behind, who turned as one, instincts screaming of the threat. The NSVT and PKTM machine guns opened up in unison, their bullets tearing from the barrels like a gale. The 12.7mm rounds ripped the demons to shreds, their bodies bursting like rags, while the 7.62mm rounds mowed them down like a scythe through grass. Within minutes, the alley was carpeted with corpses in black and gray armor—just a pile of twisted metal and flesh, reeking of blood.
— CP, this is Yamal-1. We've eliminated 'Alpha.' Do you copy? — an exhilarated voice hissed over the radio, brimming with pride.
— Yamal-1, this is CP. Well done, soldiers! Keep it up! — Neverov replied, his tone calm and measured, yet tinged with pride for his men.
— CP! This is Yamal-2. Topan infantry regiments have pushed hard toward the northern gates! But as they drove the enemy into the forest, they fled in retreat, — a voice reported, striving for calm. — I'm observing three hundred wild orcs, one hundred twenty high orcs, and 'Beta' a hundred meters out. Do you copy?
— Yamal-2, this is CP. Copy that. Prepare for a possible assault. Small arms won't take down 'Beta'—use high-explosive fragmentation rounds. Do you copy?
— Copy that, CP.
Over and out. From the forest emerged hordes of demonic forces, their numbers seemingly endless. They pursued the Topan soldiers, tearing them apart with savage brutality—hacking, slashing, and rending flesh. Even from a hundred meters away, their screams of pain and despair pierced the air.
— Alright, get ready, — the tank commander ordered, his actions deliberate and steady. — Load high-explosive frag, — he said calmly, though resolve underscored every word.
— Comrade Commander, ready to fire, — the loader replied, his voice steady and confident.
Behind the Russian armor, Topan soldiers fled like a flock of terrified sheep, their faces pale with panic as they shouted, desperate to escape. No, it wasn't the orcs—whom they'd faced before—that drove them to this. It was the Blue Ogre. They'd abandoned their allies to fate, forsaking oaths and honor. The tank's barrel swung toward the ogre. Distance: seventy, sixty, fifty-five, fifty meters. The cannon thundered. The Blue Ogre's remains sprayed in all directions. Yet the boar-like orcs didn't falter, charging the tank with boundless fury. The twin BTR-87M's 30mm cannons roared to life, their salvos scything through the orc ranks like the reaper's blade, each burst claiming three or four, leaving behind smoking corpses and blood soon swallowed by fresh snow.
Then, from the forest, trolls emerged as if rising from the earth itself. Their massive forms, clad in black armor, seemed unbreakable. They bellowed like enraged beasts, smashing everything in their path. But the Russian fighters were ready for this, too. The T-72B3 pivoted its mighty cannon toward the monsters and unleashed a volley of high-explosive rounds. The first salvo tore one troll apart, while another lost a limb—yet even wounded, they pressed on. The BTR-87Ms focused their 30mm fire on the giants, joined by infantry unloading rifles and machine guns, aiming for weak spots. The shells ripped through flesh, and bullets pierced armor with ease, hurling the trolls back several meters. Though formidable, the trolls couldn't withstand such a relentless barrage. Like bowling pins, they toppled one by one, their lives snuffed out by the gunfire. The battle for Minias had ended, the demonic horde shattered like a dark army broken at last.
The Russian soldiers returned as true heroes, stepping into a time when their descendants will weave legends about them, their names echoing in every corner of this world. An excerpt from Moa's personal journal:
"I don't know how to put this into words. Perhaps I'm living in a moment when my name, too, will be etched into history. Truly, the mighty army of the Demon King, which two thousand years ago conquered nearly every continent, was defeated in the battle for Minias. We held Tormeuss for two weeks against the relentless advance of the demonic invasion. The losses, to be honest, drove me to the edge of madness—I can't fathom how, two thousand years ago, heroes managed to push back the demonic legions and drive them to Grameus. Yes, Malastras was right: we've evolved, we've grown stronger than we were fifty centuries ago. If it weren't for the Blue and Red Ogres, we might have hurled the demonic hordes back beyond the horizon. But then something happened that defies all reason—an event for the history books. The Russian forces dispatched the ogres with ease, as if they weren't Nosgorath's mightiest demonic beasts but something pitiful instead. Their weapons are incredibly powerful, capable of crushing any foe. Yet, the war isn't over. We must see this through to the end and destroy Nosgorath once and for all, and I believe that with such allies by our side, we'll succeed."