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On the Banks of the Ajem...


Frankia
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Ajem

Such a serene landscape might offer more than graves for the Afghans and the Frankians alike, but fate, neglectful of what could be, had decided that they must slaughter each other in these lofty mountains. The crack of rifles and the roar of cannon could be heard several leagues away from the carnage. Though initially scattered and bloodied badly, Snyder's Light Company had managed to regroup near the relatively prosperous village of Ajem. Here, the artillery of the Zunnis concentrated with a dreadful fury. 

Portable pdl lasers had done what they could, but in the distance Snyder could hear a shriek to be followed by an exploding shell. Frankian blood was being spilled here as an unblemished ram's might to the eternal gods.
May their reign be eternal. He had heard such shrieks before, but never in this position where escape was an uncertain thing. Squads were holding off repeated assaults by entire companies, and word had spread that they would soon run out of munitions before the cavalry arrived. 30mm turrets could do little to blunt their damn mechs and the damn Zunnis who were inching meter by meter towards his position. 

Snyder felt a slight bit of fear and shame knowing that the Zunnis had gotten them into this position, but as a soldier of the Dread Sovereign, he had sworn to stand his ground regardless of the hostile host facing him. Duty took hold; and orders had been dispatched by runners to steady the line held by scattered infantry squads. From above, the first artillery from leagues away had begun to rain down; this time, on the enemy. Few shrieks could be heard, and in the distance Snyder could see what seemed like multiple pdl laser arrays.Word would have to be sent to the arty that their shit munitions were having shit results, but then Snyder's comms had been cut off several hours after word had been sent to HQ of his company's position. 


Bastards had set a trap..

 

That became evident when the initial wave of Killercraft escorting the relief column had been horribly mauled. Snyder's company had been strengthened from the remnants of other companies and downed fliers; barely enough men to make a full company. No more lads had been forthcoming since the first wave, though Snyder felt in his gut that some action on the ground must be being attempted at this moment. That would mark the first major incursion of the Frankians into Zunni territory, though many back home had hoped not to be drawn into a long, bitter fought conflict in this barbarous land.

As Snyder scribbled a note to be sent by runner to the force on the left commanded by Lieutenant Hex First Sergeant Drekmall entered with what looked to be several captured Zunnis. Their armor distinguished them from the typical Zunni grunts; wearing powered armor embedded with stones that they had thought somehow precious. No matter, as he eyed them now he could tell that, armor or no armor, they would fight for a thousand ages had they the longevity. Smirking, Snyder ordered that each be given a drink from the Company's spirit store. As they took the brandy with some suspicion, their faces beamed as the best brandy found for 20 leagues coursed through their bodies. 

 

You have drunk the King's brandy, will you not accept the King's Peace?

He is not our King.

Snyder looked at the one who had spoken such insolence, and then made note of his features if he should ever find him ion a field of battle again. Tall, thin, brown eyes, and possessing curly hair which flowed passed his shoulders; the Zunni looked as though his father had been of godly stock. Regardless, Snyder lifted his glass in a mock toast and had each of them paroled for the duration of the conflict. Guards, unfortunately, were too costly to be used to guard men whose flame had not burnt out. 

 

The Frankians, who were some several hundred yards from Snyder's position, were fighting a holding action until, hopefully, reinforcements in force arrived to save their skins. Zunni mechs had nearly shattered them like a hammer breaking glass, but the Light Company had made them pay for each meter of ground they conquered. Bodies of Zunnis and Frankians lay side by side; to be scorched in death, as in life, by an unforgiving sun. Trained rifle fire and autoturrets had not proved as lethal in close quarters as the chainsaw bayonet; a hark back to a less refined period in Frankian history. 

 

How many Zunnis Private Hark Samuelson had killed this day he did not know, but he had found himself pushed to the breaking point. Samuelson prayed for the souls of those who returned to Mother Atkane, before sending more to face her judgement with the sharp ping of his PML; a concentrated laser that had was as good at expanding mine shafts as it was at shedding blood.

 

A leading Zunni rose from the most forward position his folk held; a ping from Samuelson's PML gave him a brief moment to reconsider his bravado before it put him flat on his back. His lads had more sense, and paused to allow their arty to flush out the dreaded marksman. Time to relocate.

 

As Samuelson crawled swiftly from his position the shells began to fall; not all, of course, on his position. But some were so damn near close that Samuelson's life could be owed by nothing more than luck. Luck was a fragile thing, and if he had relied on it solely he would not be breathing air forever denied to lost comrades. What would be would be, and on this day there was not much that could be done but fight to the finish.

Suddenly a shot could be heard that broke the serene peace of the mist which had enveloped the battlefield.

"Who goes there?"

 

Samuelson paused, he knew the man's name and rank as soon as he had spake. Septimanians were few to be found in the army, what the devil they were doing in the FLI only the gods knew.

"Stop shooting at me, Macherr!" 

"Samuelson?"

"Aye."

"Proceed."

Samuelson crawled the rest of the way until he knelt beside the big Septimanian who had been assigned sentry duty. 

"Get any of the bastards?"

"A few."

Looking over the horizon Macherr let out a casual grunt.

"Not enough by my reckoning."

 

Samuelson trained his sights on the nearest Zunni he could make out; a young lad who appeared about 17 of Orbis' years. He pulled the trigger without hesitation; the Zunni fell to be swallowed by the earth of his forebears. As Samuelson looked for another target Macherr opened up on the lot with his DKAR; after a few minutes of firing Samuelson felt as though he had been deafened. 

"Where's the rest of your squad?!"

Macherr had no chance to register that as a Zunni marksman blew the top of his head off from a distance of at least a hundred yards. Samuelson cursed, and pawed through his belongings as fast as experience had made him; rations and ammo were not something the dead needed any longer.

 

As he was about to relocate he heard overhead the sharp whistle of inbound munitions, and then cries from the Zunni side.

Gods guide the daft pilots.

In the distance he could see his countrymen picking their way through craters and corpses towards his position. Apparently, his countrymen still had blood enough to play the bleeding game. As he looked over his shoulder he could see a Zunni mech brew up in the distance after a burst shell apparently had torn apart its reactor. The mech's crew were aflame for a brief thirty seconds before they were mowed down by an autoturret.

Air defenses or no air defenses defenses, the Killercraft above Samuelson were strafing and bombing as best as they could to support the Frankians who had wound up holed up in Ajem. Lieutenant Mark Katarr's Francisca had barely escaped whatever the Zunnis were hurling up to blunt the sortie by the 902nd Squadron. Sighting a flurry of Zunnis to his left, he dove to perform a strafing run. The roar of the 30mm quadcannon and the wisps of Phoenix missiles would be all that the Zunnis would hear before Katarr's Francisca rose as quickly as it had descended.

Suddenly, a Zunni mech rose to the heavens and made due course to intercept Katarr's Killercraft. Katarr slammed hard on his stick, and rose into the atmosphere where the mech would surely follow. The two raced until the battle low could no longer be visible.
 

Come on baby, hold together.

 

His pursuer, Martiq Qatar, had been a shepherd boy once who thought he would never see the stars. Yet, as he rose and Orbis below sank into obscurity, his childhood fancies took a backseat. The Frankian craft ahead had done its fair share of black work, and he would be damn sure to make this Frankian pay with interest. The 25cm gun thumped, and concentrated laser fire raced just ahead of the Killercraft in a bid to hit it on the run.

Suddenly, the Frankian dove and seemed to fly through multiple munitions that had before had sent countless Frankian pilots to Orbis via escape pod. Qatar cursed, and swung hard on his stick in pursuit, but as he did so his scanner picked up what seemed like a wall of munitions coming his way. Damage reports were flashing before his eyes in moments as shells and missiles burst all around him.

His mech's left leg gave way, and fell towards Orbis to land where some lucky scrappers might turn their fortunes around. Shields held, despite having been drained severely, and Qatar decided to retire from the chase after being so badly mauled. His attempt to flee, however, was made futile as the Francisca appeared from below to strafe the belly of his dying mech. Qatar cursed as he hastily ejected, and prayed to the Almighty Zun that he would not land in the cursed seas where the water tasted foul. 

Katarr watched from afar as the Zunni's pod seemed to be heading towards Iceland, and prayed that the locals there would tend to any injuries that he might sustain on the way down. Turning back towards the battle he hoped that enough of his squadron would have escaped the carnage that they would not need to fill the gaps with kids fresh out of the Royal Air Academy. A damn shame, as the number allotted never was enough; the Fleet and the Army were the branches of the Royal Defense Force everyone wanted to join, not the goddamn Fliers.

 

 

Persian-Frankian Frontier
All was quiet as Hell was breaking loose at Ajem; the only thing here that would disturb the peace would be the occasional roar of Killercraft bound for Afghanistan. Campbell hadn't had a wink of sleep since news game that the 89th was being rapidly redeployed to the Afghan border with all due haste. Lorries and shuttles were busier than usual, moving not only his division but a good deal of heavy equipment to support the forthcoming offensive.

Footage from Ajem had not given a good outlook on the chances of rescuing Snyder's lost company; resupply and reinforcement from the air had come up a cropper as the Zunnis had somehow amassed a far more comprehensive anti-airship array than Army Intelligence had initially thought incapable of possessing. No matter, what Army Intelligence officers had mucked up the Frankian soldier would sort out on the ground with the end of a bayonet.

As Campbell headed to the officer's mess for a cup of Frankian kaffee he noticed a column of Frankian Light Infantrymen pass his way in good order. Tough lads with hard expressions on their faces; he noticed that they bore the insignia of the 8th Brigade of which the trapped company in Ajem was a part of. In the corner of his eye he could see a troop of Frankian sisters run up to the approaching FLI column bearing an array of refreshments and words of encouragement to men, like Campbell, were bound for Hell itself.
 

Entering the mess, he encountered a smattering of regular and territorial officers; they were all glued to the holotable which was reporting the latest news from Ajem. Unlike certain nations, the Frankians had never been fond of censorship. If a folk could not handle the truth in a time of strife then how it could be expected to handle it in a time of peace? Exploding shells, the roar of autoturrets, and the shrieks of Zunni and Frankian alike were almost deafening. A few of the officers made the mark of Atkane across their chests, and said a prayer to the goddess for the souls of the fallen.

 






 

 

Persepolis

Ikhman Uhtar's office was unique in that it had not as of yet felt the touch of the Shah's modernization program. A fitting irony, as Uhtar had been the primary force behind the rapid economic and arms build-up since Multiversal travelers had first set foot on Orbis several cycles back. Such policies had met with as much resistance now as Shah Akhtar's campaign to fend off privations from the more technology advanced empires of the East and West some two hundred years ago.
 

Yet, such necessary improvements had come at a profound cost; the national debt had skyrocketed, the peasantry had been beaten into academic discipline, the armed forces had been purged of preservationist swine, and, despite  much lamentation across the empire,more and more land had passed under the control of foreign congolmerates. Fundamentalists of all stripes had risen time and time again, only to be crushed by a Royal Guard whose first loyalty was to the Shah.
 

Uhtar did not think of the black work done in reprisal, he thought only of the future. A future where Persia would rise to become a key player on the Orbis stage, and be able to carve out an empire of her own against the warring states. That would come as soon as her rival to the north had been humbled; Aralia.
 

Shah Ijzet had accepted the Frankian Governor's initial offer, but soon word reached him of their desire to incorporate his domain into their realm. The future of Shia Islam and the Middle East as a whole would find itself threatened by a theocratic state that somehow possessed an apparent technological lead. Ijzet had sat on his hands when the Frankians grabbed much of Central Asia, now, his unwillingness to assist his fellow Muhammadans had opened his realm to the possibility of immediate invasion.
 

The Shah needed men like Uhtar, and Uhtar, though believing that the future might lie with an elected monarchy, accepted that he would have to sacrifice his principles to save his fatherland. Uhtar, busy with a transcript, looked up to gaze at at a holophoto that had been taken a quarter of a Frankian cycle ago. It showed Uhtar then as an up and coming tycoon surrounded by his three grown sons; his wife had passed away from cancer just prior to the Frankian landing to the north. Out of the three, only Iksal still lived; the rest had been killed in combat.
 

Just then he heard a knock at his door. Sighing, he set his stylist on his desk and pressed a button which would allow the corporate envoy from beyond the stars the clear to enter his office.

Edited by Frankia

"Soldiers, exactly at three o'clock, the enemy is to be crushed by your fierce charge, destroyed by your grenadesand bayonets. The honor of Belgrade, our capital, must not be stained. Soldiers! Heroes! The supreme command has erased our regiment from its records. Our regiment has been sacrificed for the honor of Belgrade and the Fatherland. Therefore, you no longer need to worry about your lives: they no longer exist. So, forward to glory! For the King and the Fatherland! Long live the King, Long live Belgrade!"
-
Major Gavrilović

 

 

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  • 3 weeks later...

Right Bank, Ajem

Surrounded, outnumbered, and outgunned the Frankian position at Ajem was dire; only their training kept them from collapsing outright as the Zunnis came on them again and again and again. The roar of far off guns they barely registered, save when it was doing a number on the Zunnis who were attempting to ford the stream on the right bank. As mechs and men alike screamed the Frankians pounced upon them with a savage fury; hurling grenades, directing their 20mm autoturrets to unload a wall of ammunition to block their path, and firing brief bursts of scare ammunition into their midst. 

Samuelson could scarce count thirty men of Snyder's Company here, but the Zunnis below were at least five hundred strong. Shellfire and sustained fire would likely halve that number, but then they would come charging with a cry of Zun on High that would shake the very earth itself. Samuelson gave a Zunni a sharp ping before relocating to another position. The men around him were a mixture of Army white and FLI green, but now they were stained in the dark brown of Ajem's atrocious mud that they all looked alike. 

They paid no attention to Samuelson, more focused on the Zunnis who would soon be upon them to avenge their comrades. ZUN ON HIGH! ZUN ON HIGH! ZUN ON HIGH! The response to that was the fixing of bayonets, the crack of rifles, and quiet prayers to Atkane that they might not die this day.

On they came, darting through shell and shot with the banner of their bloodied battalion. Samuelson had cross a half a league before he heard the shrieks and the roar of the chainsaw bayonet. He fixed his scope on the carnage, and saw that the Frankians there were on the verge of being overwhelmed. An FLI man knocked a Zunni flat on his ass and drove the spike at the end of his rifle butt into the man's skull. As a Zunni came on him Private Zekiel Harper blew her head clean off before being knocked to the ground by a blast from a Zunni cannonade.

ZUN ON HIGH! ZUN ON HIGH! ZUN ON HIGH! 

Ping after ping after ping Samuelson could hear, though what good it would do in driving the Zunnis back he could not see. The Zunni holding the banner of his battalion fell, though it was quickly picked up by another and then another. Samuelson did not shoot at those given such a high honor, though exploding shells were less discriminate. A whole platoon o seemed to lay down by command as the Frankians took heart and fought to desperately drive them off. 

As the minutes seemed to stretch into ages the Zunnis at last gave way, though they did not route. They knew they would be back again,and that the next time they would carry the day based on the amount of the damage they had done. The remaining Frankians saw them off without firing a shot; glimpsing on the horizon at the Zunni hosts that would soon come  in greater numbers than before. In the mud Frankians and Zunnis lay intertwined; locked in the embrace of death. 

It was all over... For now. 

Lieutenant Mark Henderson's armor was stained with the blood of the Zunni lads that he had sent to their Zun, but it was better to be covered in their damn blood than the damn mud as far as he was concerned. The lot he had commanded had held, despite the FLI men showing little respect towards his army stripes. Insolent bastards, but they had made a solid impression on him. A tragedy that so few of them now remained, a disaster that they had suffered such appalling losses.

He took no note of the Zunnis that lie dead or dying around him; for each Zunni they had killed two would spring from the earth to take up their arms against the Frankians at Ajem. Funny, enemy propaganda was seldom loaded with truth. Hadn't it been the Ishii who had claimed to be the Multiversal cop on the block after leveling Panthera? The thought made him smile before Henderson was knocked down by a Zunni sniper.

Take cover!!! HERE THEY COME AGAIN!!!

Samuelson could see the Zunnis had reformed, and were coming on with fresh troops eager to shed the blood of Atkane's children. He noticed that a Frankian over than Henderson was rallying the men, but the few that remained were already going to the task of meeting the upcoming wave. Zunni shellfire came down upon them with a fury, and some were blown above the barbed wire into the craters that Frankian shells had made. Some were still alive when a Zunni stuck a bayonet into their ribs and cried ZUN ON HIGH.

Through his scope he could see some of the Zunnis were carrying rafts, and he pinged his rifle so hard that it was beginning to grow too hot for him to handle. Regardless, he trained his fire on those burdened with the rafts; if the Zunnis were to take them across the stream they would fall upon the Frankians in good order. The last wave had crossed the stream with the water up to their armpits, and had been so delayed that the Frankians had managed to sufficiently sap their strength. 

This would not be the case now, despite Samuelson's best efforts. Frankian shellfire, autoturrets, and riflefire could send as many Zunnis to their god as they like but the Zunnis were determined to go on. Argh.

Samuelson threw down his PML, and drew his pistol even though it would be inaccurate at this range. The francisca at his side he had not thought to use when he had been stranded here two days before. Now he grasped it in his left hand, and knew that it would soon be stained red with gore.

On they came, crossing the stream and shouting Zun on High. Despite the best Frankian replies to that tired shout, the first Zunni rafts hit the beach. The few Frankians that remained lobbed grenades, and came on them led by their officer whose ceremonial francisca had been drawn. As Samuelson darted across the craters and corpses he saw that the officer had already split the skull of a Zunni lad before plunging his sword into the belly of another.

A suicidal charge, but some would be taken prisoner when all was said and done. Samuelson, seemingly abandoned by Atkane, was not destined to be one of them.


---

HQ

"The Right Bank has fallen, Captain."


Snyder reacted to that with a sigh, and marked it on a board which showed a steadily shrinking Frankian island being submerged underneath a native sea. His position was now threatened; they would be here within half an hour after they had brushed aside the forces that stood between them and here. Not steady troops, fliers; nothing to really expect much of them outside of their fancy craft. He had shifted his reserves to prop up the left bank, but the main Zunni assault had come on the right . The lads he had left under his command were soon approaching the end of their tether, though surrender was the furthest thing from his mind.

We shall hold until our relief arrives at last.


Fliers made rifles
"!@#$ing Snyder, where are our reinforcements?"


Lieutenant Shorne looked at the smattering of Flier blues and yellows that had been formed as a rifle platoon as soon as they had parachuted from the skies. ZUN ON HIGH! ZUN ON HIGH! ZUN ON HIGH! 

 

"!@#$ing Zunnis," Shorne said as he hit a mortar and hurled it in a nearby crater. The horrifying shriek that followed the explosion made Shorne wince; he was not used to combat of this sort. Mech fire from half a league made him duck, though the man beside him was blown apart. ZUN ON HIGH! ZUN ON HIGH! ZUN ON HIGH! 

!@#$ this, one of the fliers shouted as the Zunni shells came raining down upon them. A couple of them bolted, only to be gunned down by a mech autoturret. !@#$!! !@#$!!! Shorne shouted as he primed another mortar and sent it hurling at a mech that was making his way towards his crater. 

It whined as though in pain, and let loose a burst of turret fire in reply. Shorne gripped his left hand, it was no longer there. He fell back into his crater and tried to bandage himself as the Frankians around him gave way. He could hear Zunni feet approaching, and he reached for his pistol. One loomed over his trench and pointed his rifle at the wound Frankian; Shorne fired as the lad squeezed the trigger. Shorne grunted as the Zunni rolled into the crater, and gripped his side which had ripped open.

MEDIC!!! MEDIC!!!

A handful of Zunnis approached him, and he pointed his pistol at them. He saw that they wore the markings that seemed to be of the Red Cross, and he lowed his piece. They took a moment to glimpse at their dead compatriot, and said a prayer for him that seemed to stretch into ages. Shorne was steadily losing consciousness as the Zunnis lifted him and told him that everything was going to be all right. 
 

 


 

"Soldiers, exactly at three o'clock, the enemy is to be crushed by your fierce charge, destroyed by your grenadesand bayonets. The honor of Belgrade, our capital, must not be stained. Soldiers! Heroes! The supreme command has erased our regiment from its records. Our regiment has been sacrificed for the honor of Belgrade and the Fatherland. Therefore, you no longer need to worry about your lives: they no longer exist. So, forward to glory! For the King and the Fatherland! Long live the King, Long live Belgrade!"
-
Major Gavrilović

 

 

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