The East PacificBoard

The bastion is within sight, and the field of battle is ready. Both sides have dug earthworks and hasty fortifications over the last few days, but here is where the preparation ends. The Grand Ataman's army, commanded by a joint effort of the highest ranking Atamans in the absence of a definite leader, has advanced up to just out of range from the heretic positions. The heretic troops file out of the bastion and man their own earthworks, the red of their uniforms visible even from the advance camp of the Grand Ataman's army. Before the battle begins, the loyalist soldiers attend a sermon by one of the Steppe-Lord's priests, as the joint commanders put the final touches on their plans. The gathering is coming close to its end, and the priest resolves to put the troops in a fierce set of mind. "And remember ye the words of Ãdàmrìtsk when He came upon the primal abominations! I see the foe, and they are before Me; they are very great, and My people are yet small, but I shall pass into their warriors and give them the victory! Go, men, with the power of the Vûlakis Õmnàtskì within you!"

The host gives a shout and recoalesces back into its constituent units. The commanders, hearing the great cheer, finish up their planning and step out of the command tent. Each takes a section of the infantry to be under his direct command, and the Atamans tasked with the flanks each take half of the nomad horsemen alongside them. Bugles ring and drums roll as the host moves out, fanning out among the hills. Riflemen take up their positions in the earthworks, engineers shore up the defenses where they had been neglected, and officers look through their binoculars at the heretic positions. Each commander briefs his subordinates, and the waiting begins.

The bastion is well within sight of the field, and the heretic leader looks out onto his forces from atop its walls, comparing them to what he can see of the Grand Ataman's. Another unit here, a skirmish line there... Pōbret the bloodlord lowers his field glasses, then turns to a messenger at his side. "Tell the 8th to move back some, and up that hill." He points at the mound in question, and the messenger follows his gaze. "I will order them to move out myself when I find it necessary, but until then, I do not want them to move short of utter need. Is that understood?" The courier nods, repeats the message to make sure he got it right, and dashes down into the bastion to exit out the front gate. Pōbret returns to surveying the field and counting the odds.

A handful of loyalist soldiers trickle out of their earthworks and advance in the direction of the heretics, moving in loose order to avoid taking too many casualties. Witnessing the scene with his field glasses, Ataman Iáltós Dràvósk of the Grand Ataman's army turns to one of his bodyguards. "I am told that the patrols in our northeast have heard that the foreigners who live there have perfected a sort of giant rifle, that can shoot a round over a mile from where it stands. Upon landing near the target, this round explodes like a barrel of gunpowder, only much stronger. A 'field gun,' I believe they call it. What I would not give for one such gun now! Then we would not need to send forward skirmishers to draw out the heretics." The bodyguard nods his agreement, and Iáltós returns to watching the skirmish line. He sees the men raise their rifles, taking careful aim at the heretics. He sees the enemy soldiers, some ducking down behind their earthworks and others remaining standing.

CRACK! Rifle fire ripples across the field, and many of the heretics who had declined to duck fall over dead. Those who were missed quickly drop behind cover. Every now and then, another gunshot rings out, fired over the heads of the enemy in order to keep them unable to mount an effective counterattack. Suddenly, the line falls silent once again and moves up somewhat closer. At this point, heretic lines pop up from behind their works. Skirmishers scramble to reopen fire, but before they can, the heretics take aim and fire in a resounding volley, killing many loyalists before ducking back behind cover. A few skirmishers break and run, but when they pass the loyalist earthworks, most take heart and rejoin their units as they fall back in a more orderly manner. Those who keep running find themselves headed off by Iáltós, revolver cocked and pointed at their head. A handful fewer cowards later, the armies are back where they began, staring at each other from across the field.

As the first phase of battle winds down, Captain Vórgetsk and his warriors are creeping through the bastion, hunting for the most dangerous prey.

"We must move with speed. The bloodlord will have guards, and we must kill them before he is warned." Captain Vórgetsk beckons his small party of warriors forwards through the gloom. No fires are lit, so they must navigate by what light comes in from the door behind them and by feel. Vórgetsk holds his bayonet-turned-sword before him, using his left hand to make sure he is still in contact with the cavern wall, until the light of a torch appears some distance before him. He whispers to the warriors behind him, his voice coming out as a thin hiss. "Down! I see fire!"

The torchlight remains static, and after a moment of hesitation Vórgetsk creeps forward once more, weapon ready and steps light. When he reaches the circle of light, he is surprised to find no guards. The illumination comes from a sconce on the wall, the first section of quarried stone since the party entered the caverns. Vórgetsk waves for his comrades to join him before continuing onwards.

Now aided by light from the torches placed at regular intervals, the party moves at a brisk pace, stopping at every door and checking within them. Nothing. Not even so much as an engineer performing maintenance, not a single disciplinee scrubbing latrines or making beds. Far off, the sound of gunfire makes everyone start, and they duck into an empty chamber while Vórgetsk peeks out from the door. Still nothing, but after some thought, he realizes why the bastion might be so empty. "Look! There is no equipment here, no steel and no powder. I should wager that the bloodlord's soldiers have gone off to war, and in his hubris he has not left behind any guards!" The warriors whisper among themselves, but that noise is soon joined by the tramp of marching boots. As Vórgetsk watches from behind the door, a score of red-coated heretics marches in a clean column down the hall perpendicular to his own, seemingly in somewhat of a hurry. Two officers walk behind the line, talking in loud and clear voices.

"I wish we had been told sooner. It is hardly my fault that my platoon was sent out to gather wood an hour before battle lines were drawn!" "Nonetheless, the Arch-Priest demands speed. If you have not been told by the messenger, something to the order of four-thousand of the usurper's soldiers have formed up before us. To speak clearly, I am somewhat impressed by their zeal; it has been scarcely a day since their Grand Ataman was killed, and they fight on! We will have to meet them with the initiative firmly in our hands, unless we want to be forsaken by the Spirits." The discussion rambles on for a while longer, but as the heretics pass, Vórgetsk finds himself too flushed with rage to listen. The Grand Ataman dead?! If his desire for revenge had been weak before, it is positively intoxicating now. He dashes out of the room his party took cover in, followed after a moment of surprise by his warriors.

As he rounds the corner in pursuit of the heretics, he finds that they have nearly reached the gate of the bastion. Howling with anger, he charges the heretics as they turn around in terror. Before they can tell what's happening, he has skewered both the officers and a third man, well on his way to a fourth and looking like a demon. The heretics begin to flee, but Vórgetsk is faster, as are his warriors. Not a one makes it through the great gate at the end of the hallway.

As the bodies lay around his feet, Vórgetsk begins to calm down, aided by a hand placed on his shoulder by one of his comrades. He looks around at the floor, dotted here and there by bloodstains, and upwards through the ceiling to the unseen heavens. A quiet exultation escapes his lips, swiftly followed by a prayer for the soul of the Grand Ataman. He has wreaked part of his vengeance; now is the time to complete it. Before he can find the stairs and challenge the bloodlord up on the wall, however, his men need a short rest. Looking around at them, Vórgetsk is surprised to hear, almost silent even compared to the faint gunfire from the battle outside, light sobbing from one of them. He puts a hand on the man's shoulder. "What causes you to shed tears in such a manner? I can hear them below your helmet. Are you wounded?" The warrior shakes his head and retreats a step, then gestures broadly at all the bodies.

"Never killed man, only beast. It is different." Vórgetsk tilts his head, confused, until he remembers two things. For one, these people aren't his own; they're from deep in the woods, where no Pakatska contact has reached for hundreds of years. They probably do not understand war in the same way he does. Secondly, they don't understand quite why he's fighting. From what little he could glean of their beliefs, fighting isn't nearly so highly regarded as in the worship of Ãdàmrìtsk, mostly being restricted to hunting animals. Still, if they're going to join the wider world, they're going to have to learn to adapt. "I understand, but now is no time for reflection. Let us move onward!"

He moves onward, pressing ahead of the warriors as they tend to their coping companion. He races up the stairs, bayonet firmly in hand, and comes up into the light of day. A loud bang and pain in his left arm force Vórgetsk to hang back for a second, but when the smoke clears, he finds himself face to face with a shining bronze mask, cloaked in a dark red. "How kind of you to visit once more, captain." The bloodlord raises his sword to strike, but Vórgetsk pushes him with enough force to propel himself backwards, avoiding the blow. "I suppose you did not guess that I would survive." He swings his own weapon, but Pōbret parries it expertly. "No, I must admit, I thought the wood-folk would find and kill you." Another swing, another parry, another ring of steel on steel. Down below the bastion, the battle is in full swing, the crack of gunfire fully audible out in the open air. "They are dreadfully stupid, perhaps a consequence of their isolation. They think the spirits of the wood prey on them! No such spirits, only me!" Pōbret brings down his sabre on Vórgetsk's shoulder, just grazing it as he dodges.

The back and forth, both of words and swings, continues, driving both combatants closer and closer to the edge of the wall. On the battlefield, men march and fight, doing their own part in avenging their lord...