The scout wiped sweat from his brow, the dry air scratching his throat like a shrub. He knelt low, the foliage itching against his skin, and peered through the leaves. "Report! They look… weak," he whispered, hardly believing his eyes. The Blue Army of Kylia, their hastily erected fortifications lining the Roscof, seemed almost… quaint. Large steel tubes stuck up from the earth and the soldiers held what appeared to be crude, iron-bound pipes affixed with clumsy blades. It was almost laughable.
News of the easy pickings reached Lord Kraut. He cursed under his breath. Too easy. It smelled like a trap.
Especially with the amount of metal the Kylians had brought with them. Iron in the Hylian continent, with its classical era technology, was notoriously difficult to mine and extract in large quantities. This scarcity made iron a precious commodity. Steel, in particular, could sometimes be more expensive than gold. Yet, the Kylians casually placed such expensive metal on the battlefield. The unsettling abundance of iron and steel screamed of deception. The metal must serve some purpose beyond a mere flaunt of wealth.
But at this point retreating would result in being chased by the Kylians or worse a full blown rout.
"Advance!" he roared, his voice echoing across the field. "The Kylians are crumbling! Push them back to their city!"
The Coalition army surged forward, abandoning formation in their haste. They plunged into the Roscof, the water reaching their waists.
On the Kylian side, Colonel Odin watched the chaotic advance, his weary face fixed in a mask of grim determination. He adjusted his grip on his saber, raising it high. "Open fire!" he shouted, his voice straining against the growing roar of the advancing Coalition.
Twenty cannons, their barrels gleaming ominously in the afternoon light, roared to life. The far bank of the Roscof became a churned hellscape. Iron tore through the air, ripping into flesh and earth with equal ferocity. Dozens of Coalition soldiers were annihilated in that first volley, limbs flung skyward, bodies reduced to ragged heaps. The air filled with the acrid smell of gunpowder and the sickening scent of blood.
Still, they came on, a relentless tide fueled by desperation and the promise of victory. Those who survived the artillery barrage scrambled into the Roscof, the murky water turning crimson. But waiting for them on the Kylian side were Yuter's infantrymen. Disciplined and well-trained, they knelt in the muddy trenches. Their rifles barked in a deadly chorus, each shot aimed, each kill deliberate. Lead tore through the already decimated ranks of the enemy, dropping them like puppets with severed strings.
The river became a killing field. The Coalition soldiers, caught between the hammer of the cannons and the anvil of rifle fire, were slaughtered. Their cries of pain and fear were swallowed by the thunderous roar of the battle. The promised easy victory had dissolved into a bloody, watery grave.
Lord Kraut, now in the thick of the advance, felt the ground shudder beneath his feet. The air screamed with the whistling of projectiles. He saw a man beside him ripped apart, his body exploding in a shower of blood and bone. He knew then that his fears were justified, that he had walked into a slaughter.
He can only hope lord Starodavniy's surprise attack is successful.
…
The steam train rattled along the newly laid tracks. Inside, General Mors'kyy hummed a jaunty tune, a stark contrast to the grim faces of thirty marines crammed into the carriages. Mors'kyy, a man built like a bear and with a laugh that could shake the rafters of the grandest hall, possessed a keen tactical mind hidden beneath his jovial exterior.
"Lowlanders, they called us," he chuckled, his Ukrainian accent thick as molasses. "Well, let's show those Coalition dogs what a little mountain fighting looks like!"
His men, a hardened bunch, grinned in response, the glint of polished rifles reflecting the dim light filtering through the train windows. They were eager, restless. Years of coastal patrols and ceremonial duties had dulled their edge. This was their chance to prove themselves, to earn the respect that had been denied them by the Blue Army. The Kylian Marines, often the butt of jokes, were now about to become legends.
The train screeched to a halt just outside the Kylian Mines, the landscape abruptly transforming from rolling plains to a jagged tapestry of rock and shadow. The air thinned, carrying the scent of pine and the biting chill of altitude. Clearly, this was no place for cavalry charges or open formations.
Meanwhile, deep within the labyrinthine passages of the Kylian Mines, Starodavniy of Kokhavor felt a prickle of unease. His two hundred men, veterans of countless battles, marched cautiously, their shields held high, spears at the ready. The flickering torchlight danced across the damp walls, casting grotesque shadows that played tricks on their eyes.
The initial success of their infiltration had been intoxicating. They had bypassed the enemy's main force, slipped through the supposed "impassable" terrain, and were poised to strike a crippling blow to the Kingdom of Kylia. He envisioned the chaos, the panic, the surrender. Victory seemed within his grasp.
"Lord Starodavniy," his trusted captain, Zakryty, approached, his voice hushed. "The terrain is…difficult. Our formations are stretched thin. It will be impossible to react quickly if we are attacked."
Starodavniy frowned. He had underestimated the challenge of these mountain passages. His troops, accustomed to open battlefields and swift maneuvers, were ill-suited for this claustrophobic environment.
Suddenly, a high-pitched whistle pierced the air, followed by a thunderous explosion. Rocks rained down from the ceiling, burying several men alive. Panic erupted.
"Ambush!" someone screamed.
From the darkness above, Kylian Marines descended on ropes, rifles blazing. The mines echoed with the deafening roar of gunfire, a sound unlike anything Starodavniy's men had ever heard. Black powder smoke filled the tunnels, obscuring the already limited visibility.
These weren't the disorganized levies Starodavniy had expected. These were disciplined soldiers, masters of this treacherous terrain. They moved with the agility of mountain goats, using the shadows and narrow passages to their advantage. Each shot was precise, deadly.
Starodavniy rallied his troops, shouting orders that were drowned out by the cacophony of battle. Their spears were useless in the cramped tunnels, their shields offering little protection against the relentless barrage of bullets. Men fell left and right, their leather armor little match for the colonial rifle fire.
"Hold the line!" Starodavniy roared, his sword raised high. But the line was already broken. The Coalition troops, terrified and disoriented, were retreating in disarray.
"Oorah!" The Kylian Marines charged, their battle cry echoing against the harsh mountain terrain as they crashed into the Coalition line. Their youthful enthusiasm, however, masked a lack of seasoned experience. The ferocity of the Kylian attack inadvertently exposed weaknesses in their formation, revealing hidden tunnel entrances carved into the mountain's face. Sensing an opportunity, Lord Starodavniy seized it. He barked orders and led half his remaining men into the tunnels, disappearing into the darkness.
When the dust settled, twenty Coalition soldiers lay dead, and eighty were prisoners of the Kylian advance. But the victory was bittersweet. The Kylians mourned their first confirmed military casualty: Staff Sergeant Nevdalyy Lyudyna of 3rd Marine squad. He had fallen in a desperate close-quarters fight, a fatal knife wound to the heart, protecting his squad from a Coalition soldier's desperate lunge.
General Mors'kyy sighed, the cruel reality of war biting hard. Kylia's initial streak of luck, battles fought with zero casualties, had ended. Nevdally wouldn't be the first and he wouldn't be the last. He zipped Nevdally into the waiting body bag, a grim ritual completed. With heavy hearts, Mors'kyy and his remaining soldiers gathered the subdued Coalition prisoners. They boarded the Train, its wheels set for the long, sorrowful journey back to Kylia City.
…
Meanwhile on the western front, Lord Kraut, knee-deep in the bloody Roscof, strained to hear something, anything, above the incessant roar of the cannons and the desperate cries of his men. With no sign of Lord Malack, the Coalition forces had spent over half of their combat effectiveness, pressing on the Kylian defenses with no victory in sight. The bodies of Coalition troops, shredded by cannon fire and riddled with bullets, clogged the river, turning the water into a crimson soup.
"Fall back!" Kraut roared, his voice hoarse, seeing Lord Malak's surprise attack had somehow failed. "Fall back to the treeline! Regroup!"
Seeing the retreating Coalition forces, Colonel Odin drew out his saber. "Cease fire!" he commanded again, his voice raspier this time. "Fix bayonets! Prepare to advance!"
The Kylian infantry, a mix of conscripts and veterans, rose from their muddy trenches and methodically affixed their bayonets to their rifles.
"Advance!" Odin roared, his saber flashing in the dying sunlight. "For Kylia!"
"Oorah! Oorah! Oorah!" A wave of 800 blue Kylian Infantrymen surged forward, crashing into the Roscof. The water, still stained crimson, swirled around their boots as they waded across.
The Coalition retreat quickly turned into a rout. The Coalition soldiers, already demoralized and exhausted, panicked at the sight of the advancing Kylian bayonets. They scrambled back towards the treeline, abandoning their weapons and armor in their haste.
From atop a slight rise overlooking the carnage, Captain Kinnota, ramrod straight in his blue uniform, surveyed the scene. He adjusted his fur hat and lowered his field glasses, a grimacing smile on his lips. "The Coalition retreats faster than they charge," he murmured, his voice carrying the distinct accent of Urban Kylian. "Time to give them another reason to run faster."
He gestured sharply, snapping his fingers. A Staff Sergeant, his face splattered with mud, scrambled forward. "Captain?"
"Release the Cavalry!" Kinnota barked. "Let them taste Kylian steel on their spines. Give them a final, unforgettable lesson in humility."
The Sergeant saluted crisply and relayed the order. A moment later, the ground trembled. From behind a low ridge, two hundred Kylian cavalrymen thundered forward.
"After them! For Kylia!" Kinnota screamed, his voice filled with savage joy.
"Oorah!" The Kylian Cavalry charged, cutting down Coalition men with sabers as they fled. The already panicked Coalition soldiers scattered like frightened sheep.
Kraut, amidst the chaos, saw the approaching cavalrymen. He knew that if they didn't rally, they would be hunted down and slaughtered. He screamed, his voice hoarse and fanatical. "Form ranks! To me! Stand and fight!"
Miraculously, some responded. About three hundred men, around half of all Coalition forces still standing, turned to face the oncoming cavalry. They formed a ragged line, spears pointed, a desperate attempt to create a wall of wood.
Surprised, the first rank of cavalry slammed into the makeshift spear wall. The impact was brutal. Spears shattered, men screamed, horses reared. But the line held. Three hundred Coalition soldiers, armed with wooden spears and shields, managed to momentarily hold off the Kylian cavalry.
From atop the ridge, Captain Kinnota cursed. "Those Coalitionists! They're slowing us down!"
Seeing their opportunity, the four hundred men, the remnants of the Coalition forces continued their retreat, now a little less panicked, a little more organized. They scrambled over the treeline and disappeared into the dense forest.
In the rear of the battle, Colonel Odin watched the spectacle with satisfaction. The remaining Coalition force was broken, shattered, and utterly defeated. He raised his saber high. "For Kylia!"
The Kylian infantry, still knee-deep in the bloody Roscof, their faces grimed with sweat and powder, their bayonets dripping with blood, raised their rifles and roared in response. "Oorah! Oorah! Oorah!"
They had won the Battle of Kylia.