Ballistic Warfare

DATE: IMMORTAL REIGN 1023 MONTH 5 DAY 5

Rokshama woke to a rainy morning. The booming Targonian guns shook their walls again. But it wasn’t the fear that got them out of bed. Rumour had it a pair of Otherworlders were staging a retaliation from the city square.

“Bit on the light side,” complained Destora as he juggled a javelin. “Tell the blacksmith I want something heavier next time.”

You talked a big game. Ruxian tried to sound annoyed. Now it’s show time.

With a spirited cry, Destora flung the short spear. The projectile left his hand with such force it stirred a gust that had women holding down their skirts. Ruxian woke one of his many clones in time to see the wavering missile overfly the Targonian battery, bouncing off a tree. Lacking in accuracy and power, it tossed about timber splinters before dropping harmlessly to the ground. Nonetheless, the stunt had attackers scrambling to scatter their guns. 

“As I was saying,” Destora complained loudly after hearing the outcome. “I can only do a few long distance throws a day. If you want results, you do as I say.” Folding his arms, he fell back into a chair. “Actually, get me something equally heavy.”

Moments later, a gleeful Destora launched an anvil. Ruxian tracked the hurtling hunk of iron. An alert templar, wielding his iconic glowing hammer, sprinted forth and batted aside the projectile with a crisp clang. Better. Ruxian reported. Not enough force, and you were way off.

“Damn it,” spat Destora, kicking the earth. “I can’t see the targets.”

Cursing, the tattooed man slumped into a chair that creaked under his weight, and swiped his face clear of rain and hair, revealing an irate scowl. Zangar, who brought breakfast, stumbled upon this brief tantrum and shot Ruxian a dubious look.

Where’s Naya? Ruxian expanded his visual cone but could not find the twin-horned girl. I thought she’d want to see this.

Zangar handed Destora a bag of salted hardtacks. “We’re not always together, if that’s what you mean.” After a defensive answer, the Fonkael scion changed the subject. “What’s wrong with him?”

Ruxian’s explanation quickly escalated into an animated discussion between two men who understood each other despite not speaking a common language. Thankfully, his recently discovered image projection reduced the frequency of verbal exchanges. The ad hoc conference ended with Destora cackling like a child towering over an ant colony with a kettle of hot water while Zangar nodded with gravity.

“Right,” declared Destora after wolfing down his rations. “Let’s get to it.”

Another deafening salvo hammered the Rokshama walls. This time, however, the wall shuddered like a punch-drunk boxer flinching at every feint. Ruxian immediately took off, finding Naya and Dramien racing towards the scene.

“What changed?” asked Dramien, frowning. “They weren’t hitting this hard yesterday.”

Naya, closing her eyes, pressed her horns against the rampart. “Focus fire,” she clarified. “Six shots, all landing on this section, arriving roughly at the same time.”

Ruxian’s smog dimmed and weighed him down. He should’ve expected this. An enemy with the industrial might to produce such advanced weaponry would naturally have the sophistication to formulate and refine their operations. This revelation started a ticking clock to what he previously thought was a static, turn-based game.

When Ruxian returned to the city square, he found Destora drenched from head to toe. From afar, the mobster was a tiger waiting for his gazelle. With his spectral vision, the ghost could see Destora coated in a film of magic.

Zangar, alongside a dozen porters, came rumbling down the otherwise silent streets pushing a large cart. The scrawny Dracon immediately joined his brethren, offloading the cargo with two resounding clanks. It was two giant spears with fins, or as Destora would say, missiles.

“Ready when you are, Ruxian,” growled Destora. “Where’s old Palemoor when you need him?”

The roaring winds reported yet another Targonian attack. This time, it was nearly impossible to make out the number of shots fired. Shrinking his field of view to expedite his thoughts, Ruxian cycled through his duplicates in hiding until he found one staring at a battery of six rifles. Starting with a snail crawl through the tall grass, Ruxian surged his copy forward before shooting it skyward in a burst of brilliant gold. Do it!

Picking up the oversized lance with surprising ease, Destora took a step back before exploding into a sprint. Bellowing like an Olympic shot putter, he flung the projectile so hard that he fell on his face.

The steel chunk ploughed into the earth like a hundred thunderbolts, heaving up a wall of dirt, rocks, and grass. Though far from a direct hit, the devastation was clear. Bodies and scrap metal littered the fields. Those unharmed fled into the woods, abandoning their comrade and equipment.

Hit! Ruxian broadcasted the message, sending the square into euphoric celebration. Zangar and his men raced to Destora, helping him to his feet. Exhausted but smiling, the human catapult waved a limp arm at the cheering crowd.

“Nope,” said Destora between mouthfuls of pork during lunch. “Got no more left. Try again tomorrow.”

What did you do back home? Ruxian had an inkling, but his curiosity demanded certainty.

“Life coach,” replied Destora. “I use unconventional techniques to transform deadbeats into upstanding citizens who repaid their debts.”

You collected debt for the mobs. Ruxian corrected him. And pray do tell, what unconventional techniques did you employ?

“Trade secrets,” hissed Destora, who continued after a brief pause. “I…may have tied people up and…hit golf balls at them. 7 Iron, good times.”

That made too much sense. Ruxian concluded, emoting a cheeky smile. The general wanted me to pass on a message. He plans to coordinate his troops with your next strike to decisively break the siege.

DATE: IMMORTAL REIGN 1023 MONTH 5 DAY 6

Ever since Destora’s devastating strike, the attackers had spread their guns and stationed them further back. While this bought Rokshama some respite, Ruxian could still hear the ticking clock. Just this morning alone, the enemy templars swept away several eyes and ears he had planted in the fields, chipping away at his surveillance network. The gradual loss of awareness was a dire reminder: victory remains elusive.

Bamoc, during a brief but tense meeting, ejected Zangar from the hall for daring to suggest patience. Ruxian agreed with the general. They lacked the firepower to meaningfully thin the enemy ranks. Should the Targonians realise this, they may opt to sacrifice men and material to collapse the walls. Again, the clock gears grinded on.

Downtrodden and soaked, Zangar sought the solitude of the training hall. Instead, he found Ruxian creating phantom targets for Naya’s whirling garash. While she had not his father’s power and fluidity, she was agile and creative, turning misses into delayed hits unorthodox extensions. Seeing a performance from someone his age, Zangar felt shame heating his cheeks. Why did he choose the easy spear instead of the chained fangs?

“Naya,” he called her after reaching for a pair of training garash. “May I...” He stopped short of offering a spar, something well beyond his skills. “Can you teach me the forms?”

“Shouldn’t you ask your father first?” asked Naya as she twisted her hips, slashing a ring around her. “He may not belong to the Blackmoon school, but he’s a full-fledged master, unlike me.”

“Father insisted I learn a weapon,” confessed the young man. “I disappointed him by choosing the spear, thinking it was easier.”

“Then talk to Dramien,” replied Naya, winding up her garash. “Uncle Thogar said he’s a killer with the spear.”

Zangar stared at the ground. “But he’s a Targonian.”

“So was papa,” countered Naya, laughing at Zangar’s shock. “The toughest butcher on the continent.”

No horn, no honour. Ruxian injected. Seems rather rude to your father.

Naya shrugged. “Papa said Dracons fought with pageantry and honour, and that’s why Targonians always won.”

“It's more of a numbers advantage,” opined Dramien as he jogged into the hall. “Lord Ruxian, Fighting starts in moments. The general wants you ready.”

You kids have fun. With that, Ruxian shot out into the rain. His presence, previously a source of horror, now attracted waving and cheering. According to Bamoc, a fair portion of Rokshama believed him a herald of the Goddess who would deliver them from catastrophe. Ruxian tried not to think about it. Losing his body did not spare him the gravity of responsibility.

Swooping down on the central square, he found Destora warming his throwing arm. Wait for my signal. The debt collector lifted a fist in acknowledgement without lifting his head. Taking to the rampart which the Dracons had totally abandoned, Ruxian swept the fields with his spectral vision.

He marshalled his clones which he had withdrawn to the walls. With concealment no longer necessary, he charged them into the Targonian flanks, setting off bursts of golden sparks. Memories of the previous missile strike still fresh, the attackers made a mad flight for safety. Like the conductors of the new year fireworks, Ruxian herded the enemies with carefully placed and timed explosions. With Aergot’s men sufficiently bunched up, Ruxian launched a black spark.

Baring his bloodthirst, Ruxian turned crimson as he witnessed the thunderous strike that ploughed a ravine. Bodies and debris, tossed about like leaves sucked into a tornado, came crashing down. Nothing escaped the crater this time. All that remained were the dead and the dying. 

Before the thinned Targonian formations could regroup, the Rokshama cavalry spilled into the fields, crashing into the disorientated foes with a feral cry. Leading from the front, a wrathful Bamoc cut through the fleeing soldiers to run down their officer. Hacking off his legs, the general ensnared the victim’s throat in his chains, and dragged him across the field.

Overrun, the Targonian infantry surrendered in mass. The templars, however, continued to swing their hammers and fire spells with fanatical zeal. Hails of whistling arrows ended their brief resistance.

A baleful silence greeted the Targonian captives as they came through the gates. The crowd broke into ecstatic cheers as the horsemen followed. Finally, Bamoc, the triumphant commander, returned to his city

The fat Dracon thrust a blade at the sky. “Rokshama stands!”

Rokshama exploded into a roaring applause that Ruxian thought would never end. At last, the clock came to a stop, its hands fixed firmly on the hour of victory.