Breaking The Siege

DATE: IMMORTAL REIGN 1023 MONTH 5 DAY 1

Though its walls undisturbed and pillars untouched, Rokshama went quiet. Gone were the noisy bazaars and frolicking children. Healers laid out mattresses in makeshift clinics that dotted the streets. The blacksmith roared day and night, as if singing a war hymn to bless the warriors they armed. Ruxian pondered what Palemoor would say if the old man was here.

As the stench of blood and death spilled out of the field hospitals, Bamoc mobilised the citizens. While most were happy to house and care for the wounded, few were prepared to spare even a crumb of bread. Yet, no matter how Zangar pleaded, the fat general refused to open the central warehouses.

Skirmishes, a rarity in the first few days, had become a frequent affair. Now, one cavalry team often sortied thrice before noon, their battles often within earshot. Just yesterday, Zangar returned in the evening with a cut on his thigh and old blood on his gauntlet, his face a grim mask of a man twice his age. Dramien later confirmed Ruxian’s suspicion. The boy had his first kill.

Unable to sortie this morning, Zangar joined Naya and Dramien on the rampart, where they shared a breakfast of flavourless hardtacks.

“Is it just me, or did that army get larger?” asked Naya, handing Zangar back his spyglass.

Zangar did not take his eyes off the horizon. “Any units you recognise, Dramien?”

“Lord Ruxian,” said Dramien. “Could you please show me flag insignias again?”

Ruxian projected a sword behind a shield, a row of three spears, and a cross of a hammer and a sceptre. The holograms seemed like such a natural extension of his abilities it made him wonder why it took so long for him to think of this.

“That’s the 31st and 32nd infantry,” Dramien revealed, pointing a finger to each one and briefly pausing on the last. “The last one is the templars. They never leave their churches unless a royal marches to war.”

“You’ll need to be more specific,” replied Zangar. “Paerawyn had over a millennium to grow his family tree.”

Dramien ran a finger over the crenels and merlons, tracing the dusty contours of the rampart. “Most likely the southern regent, Aergot Paerawyn. His Excellency turns two hundred this year and is most likely eager to prove his worth.”

Two hundred? Ruxian mulled over this number for a bit. Oh, right…all those elixirs. Why he might as well be a baby.

“Perceptive,” Dramien praised, smiling. “But what he lacks in numbers, he’ll compensate with zeal.”

Naya unwound her garash. “How about a nighttime visit? We may never have a chance to strike down a Paerawyn again.” When no one responded to her suggestion, she dropped her shoulders. “I know, but they’re killing our kin and I’m just… “

Patience. Ruxian updated his projection to a collection of dots that formed the enemy camps. How he wished he had powers like Palemoor or Destora, to exact revenge with his own hands. Instead, he could only run reconnaissance flights. Yesterday alone, he lost half of his clones to the Targonian templars. With dozens of his partitions scattered across the open field listening for movements, he had become an overworked sonar operator. I heard something. Hang on.

The clanking of industry to the east had Ruxian quickly switching the nearest clone from passive listening to visual surveillance. Sitting just on the western boundaries of the Green Divide, groups of men in white lab coats assembled chunks of metal that the footmen helped haul off lumbering carts. The result of their labour was a row of what Ruxian recognised as giant sniper rifles, another diabolical instrument born from otherworldly sensibilities.

His body paling with dread, Ruxian amplified his magic like never before, sending out a psychic broadcast. Get off the wall! Dramien, seizing Naya and Zangar, sped down the rampart just as a sequence of deafening booms shook the earth. Having attended a few airshows before his grandfather’s passing, Ruxian remembered this sound well. They were sonic booms.

Many guards didn’t know what hit them, their bodies disintegrating instantly. The gust from the blast caught those not directly struck, splattering them into distant buildings and streets, showering Rokshama with men and debris.

Terrified, Naya and Zangar covered their heads and screamed. Even the stalwart Dramien was shaking. Never had they witnessed such devastation. Ruxian could swear he too was trembling despite the lacking the flesh to do so. Paerawyn had invented supersonic firearms.

There was a brief silence before panic washed over Rokshama. The volunteers, healers, and soldiers fled from the walls. With terrified civilians ready to flood the streets, a stampede seemed inevitable. Stay still! Ruxian roared once again, his vision shrinking from the repeated exertions. Lie down! Taking to the sky, Ruxian inspected the eastern fortifications. They cannot pierce the walls!

“Lord Ruxian,” said Dramien, still breathing heavily. “What was that?”

Ruxian tried to display an image of the device but his slowing thoughts and heavy body made this all but impossible. He settled for only rendering a silhouette without the textures.

“Magecraft,” Zangar said through gritted teeth. “Those bastards found a way to outrange our Skyflare pillars.”

DATE: IMMORTAL REIGN 1023 MONTH 5 DAY 3

The joke among the Rokshama military cadre was that one needed at least two dozen battle scars to have seen Bamoc wield a garash. If that was the case, Zangar got a considerable discount when he witnessed the whistling tornado firsthand. Dramien and Naya, exchanging hushed assessments, concluded that the fat general was every bit as nimble and deadly as a certain Mogravale gatekeeper.

“Father,” Zangar ventured during the war council. “I think you should refrain from taking to the fields, at least not until we have a way to silence the Targonian weapons.”

Bamoc fixed not just his scion, but the entire staff a cool stare. “You fear what you think is new for you know nothing of the past,” he inveighed. “The weapons Mr. Ruxian showed me are the very same ones Paerawyn shelved centuries ago. It’s time we taught Aergot Paerawyn a lesson his father omitted.”

Ruxian still remembered the Bamoc’s burning rage lighting him ablaze when he first showed him the pictures of the weapons. From the privacy of his study, the general vowed bloody massacre while giving the otherworldly wraith a speedy summary on the history of magic warfare. The spiel left Ruxian wondering if he had ever travelled to a different world.

“What’s he talking about?” whispered Naya, urgently tugging at Dramien.

“Did you not read –" answered Dramien, catching himself. “Of course you didn’t. Immortal Reign 153. Ring a bell?”

Zangar nodded grimly. “Mogravale and the Eternal Empire bombarded each other for three months. Our people migrated behind Mount Dragonspine, and the empire built no cities further south of Halfington.”

“Our historians claimed a glorious Targonian victory,” Dramien continued with a bitter chuckle. “But His Highness never conducted such a campaign again.”

History asides. Naya brightened at Ruxian’s proposal. General Fonkael, I may have a way to break the siege. Have you freed the man I asked for?

“The citizens have been complaining about his unearthly racket since I set him free,” growled Bamoc. “Hurry up and take him off my hands. The rationing already had my folks on edge.”

Destora was much more presentable on their second encounter. Hair oiled and combed, face shaved smooth, and dressed in a black robe like Zangar, he more resembled a crime boss than a fall guy. The training hall, with all its frequent visitors out on duty, had become his personal playground. Ruxian needed only one look at the twisted metal chunks to imagine the unholy noise his neighbours had to tolerate.

“Ruxian!” roared a euphoric Destora. “Was beginning to think you forgot about me.”

I wished I could. Ruxian replied. You look better.

Destora ran a hand through his hair and gave a toothy, ostentatious grin. “They finally realised my worth and gave me the treatment I deserved,” he boasted, winking at Naya. “Of course, I could use a pretty girl –”

Ruxian conjured a large finger and pointed at Zangar. This young man here fought his father to improve your treatment. Ready to repay their generosity?

“That so?” replied Destora, wiping away his playful smile. “And what will you have me do?”

Ruxian showed him the map. Break the siege.

“As in,” said the mobster, leaning forward, “kill the people who tried to turn our souls into cheap piss.”

Get revenge or go back to jail. Ruxian agreed, glowing a devilish purple. Elementary math, no?

Destora cackled. “Screw it, I’m in.” Dropping to his knees, the tattooed man bowed until his forehead hit the floor with an audible bang. “Food for an instant, debt for a lifetime. I shall slaughter those bastards till they beg you for mercy. I am Destora, and I am a man who pays his due.”