Taming a Neighboring Beast

[Strat]

Raniid, Bourun, July 24th, 1953

Despite the display of honorless treachery and the attempt at a military response, almost Bouruni soldier had been killed or incapacitated within the hour. Those that didn’t earned scornful looks and had profanities shouted at them from the Stratarians as they were led away, now prisoners of war.

Raniid was Strataric yet again. However, it had come at a price.

Once a city renowned for its architecture, Raniid was now ruined. Hardly a spire stood in testament to its past greatness and power. No longer did children frolic and play in the streets, nor did vendors loudly announce their wares. The guards that had once stood vigilantly by, on the watch for thieves and criminals, no longer graced the presence of the rubble-strewn streets.

Yes, the city had been taken, but at what cost?

[hr]
“The cost was well worth it,” Army General Klyushnikov stated matter-of-factly. “This is war, after all.”

“Well, yes sir,” Polkovnik Laskutin replied, his voice relatively even. “However, Raniid is not very defensible at the moment. It may prove difficult to set up a stable base of operations here…”

“Whatever made you think that we would attempt to ‘set up a stable base of operations’ here, Polkovnik?” Klyushnikov raised an eyebrow at his incompetent subordinate. So hard to find good help these days.

“…sir?”

“We’re going to keep moving, of course. And quickly. Really drive the point home. Retake Alik, then capture Dhard… Dadr…”

“Sir, are you thinking of Dhari-?”

“Shut up.” A moment passed. “Dhariadh. That’s it. Came up with it on my own. Anyhow, speaking from my clear experience of the city, it’s one of the important Bouruni industrial centers, as well as being incredibly massive. You could lose an army in there.” He paused. “Not that I intend to, of course.”

“Of course.”

“But anyway, my point is that we’re going to drive in fast and bloody. Wage war as fast as lightning.”

“You mean,” Laskutin coughed, “like a sort of lightning war, sir?”

Klyushnikov blinked. “That is undeniably the stupidest phrase you’ve uttered today, Polkovnik.” He sighed heavily. “Dismissed.”

Laskutin nodded, turned on his heel, and left quickly. Behind him, he could hear the Army General mutter, “Lightning war. Ha! Stupid name for it.”

[Strat]

Misto Doschi, Ivlya, July 29th, 1953

The weather was perfect, that day. The sunlight glinted off the windows of the skyscrapers, making the trees and rows of grass that dotted the landscape ever more vibrant. As it was often prized by its citizens, which could be seen milling or rushing about on various errands, Misto Doschi seemed the perfect blend of business and scenery.

Royal Prince Alejandro Lautaro Durand Rios sat in the corner seat of the Bin v Zaperechennya, a family- and vulpine-owned cafe on a street corner. On the opposite side of the table was seated the Strataric Ambassador Dani Sokolov. The rest of the cafe was empty, perhaps because of the imposing presence of Ivlyan secret service agents.

“I’ll tell you exactly what I told my ex-Secretary of Foreign Affairs, ambassador,” the Royal Prince said somewhat haughtily, sipping his twice sugared and thrice creamed coffee. Giving himself a moment to enjoy it, he continued. “War is expensive business. And here in Ivlya, we tend to not take business lightly.”

Sokolov suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. While he didn’t mind Ivlya, and approved that it was populated by a majority of his fellow vulpines, they could be a little too proud of their economic system. The free market wasn’t an Ivlya invention, after all; they should give it a rest. Of course, as was his job, none of these thoughts showed in his face or tone. “I realize that, Your Highness-”

“Royal Majesty, ambassador, but do continue.”

“-however, we simply cannot seem to triumph over our hostile neighbor on our own. You are the closest ally, both in geography and foreign relations, which we have. It would be a great day for Ivlya if it were able to triumph with Stratarin against a centuries-old Gondwanan aggressor.”

“The fact that your nation cannot subdue one much smaller than it is… well, it amuses me,” the Royal Prince chuckled. “And it’s so unlike the proud Stratarin to ask for help. I wonder why you would stoop to do so.”

“Because men and women are dying.”

“Such is war, which you should have been better prepared for.”

The ambassador’s knuckles whitened beneath his fur as he clutched his cup’s handle more tightly. “They attacked us, Your Royal Majesty. The entire Bourun campaign has been in retaliation and to stop its aggression once and for all.”

“So your propaganda says.”

Sokolov sighed. “I had hoped it wouldn’t come to this. However, I have been authorized to cut several trade agreements with you should you not take the reasonable choice,” he paused for a second, “including the use of Strataric ports and access to the sea.”

Silence reigned for the next several seconds. The Royal Prince’s expression twisted between surprised, then confused, then angry. “You wouldn’t.”

“That’s the offer I’m making you, Your Royal Majesty. Come to our aid or see a decline in trade.”

“This is blackmail, ambassador. Pure, unapologetic blackmail.”

Sokolov allowed himself a smile. “No, Your Royal Majesty. It’s business. And in Stratarin, we tend not to take business lightly.”

[hr]

[Strat]

Alik, Bourun, August 6th, 1953

Army General Joakim Klyushnikov was surprised at how easily Alik had fallen. He had expected much, much stronger resistance against the Strataric military. “I still can’t believe that they just gave it up so easily,” he commented. “This gives us a much better foothold with which to attack Dharu… Duhar…”

The less surprised Polkovnik Vadim Laskutin interjected, “Dhariadh, sir.”

“Don’t interrupt,” Klyushnikov reprimanded his subordinate. “Dhariadh. I was going to say just that.”

“But of course, sir.”

The Army General’s impressive mustache twitched. “As I was saying, Polkovnik, I think it was quite foolish of them to abandon a city such as they did. Or perhaps we were just much better than they, and easily outclassed them.”

“It’s unlikely, sir,” Laskutin stated. “Alik was doomed to fall sometime or another. Knowing this, I believe Bourun left only a small contingent to defend it, and instead concentrated all their forces in Dhariadh.”

A pause. “You could be on to something. I’ll have to recommend you for promotion.”

Knowing fully well that the General would shortly cast the thought out of his mind, Laskutin nodded stoically. “Thank you, sir.” He hesitated a moment. “What are your plans for taking Dhariadh? It’s a vast and strongly defended city, which is what you’d expect from a primary industrial center.”

Klyushnikov’s infamous mustache quivered again. “Bombing runs. Definitely. Cover the sky with bombers. Bring the city down, then follow up with ground warfare and hope that our momentum keeps trench warfare and chertovskiy sniper activity to a minimum.”

Laskutin seemed slightly astonished. “That’s not a bad idea, sir.”

Klyushnikov met the junior officer’s eyes. “None of mine are, Polkovnik,” he replied. “Now, before we do the bombing run, I want a full-on ground attack on the city. We might not even need it.”

All astonishment faded from Vadim’s eyes. “Sir, what purpose would that se-”

“Obviously, making sure that aerial resources are not wasted in a job that the army could do itself.”

“And if it can’t?”

“For shame, Polkovnik. This is the Strataric army. When have they been known to fail?”

The polkovnik blinked. “All throughout this war, for one, si-”

“Thank you for your input, Polkovnik. You are dismissed.”

“Yes, sir.” After snapping a sullen salute, Laskutin left the Army General’s presence. As soon as he was out of the superior officer’s sight, he muttered angrily, “Bozhe moi, we’re being led by an idiot.”

[hr]
Personal Log: Vadim Laskutin, August 26th, 1953

The last month had been filled with reinforcing our position at Alik in preparation for the attack on Dhariadh. Troops and tanks arrived from home, men were given more rest than they were used to, and Alik was fortified with numerous artillery pieces.

The Bouruni forces were not themselves idle. StratIntel reported an impressive amount of forces being sent to Dhariadh, including several units from the Ivlyan offensive.

The attack began August 19th, initiated by our forces from Alik and aided by artillery. It was bloody and chaotic, with casualties now estimated to be several thousand. We managed to gain a foothold in the city, though this would be proven insignificant by the next day.

We were slowly driven back on the 20th. It proved even bloodier than the first, if initial reports are proven correct. Somewhat entrenched on the 21st, we more or less held our position until today, when our Army General finally called for a retreat, with tail between legs, back to Alik. While the Bouruni have lost many men, we’ve lost more. Both Alik and Dhariadh are much weaker now.

There are reports that Ivlya managed to drive further into Bourun. I hope they prove to be true.

Tomorrow, the promised bombing operation that should have preceded this useless battle begins. Far too late, for my liking. And for the liking of thousands of my dead brothers in arms.

[Strat]

Dhariadh, Bourun, August 31st, 1953

Jundiin Samir Majnun, ears stuffed with cloth, listened to what was yet again series of bombs sent down by the infidels. A few screams rose into the night with every resounding explosion. The ceiling above him leaked dust with every shaking detonation.

The Dhariadh that all Bouruni had known was effectively no more. Gone was the thriving industrial center, or the home for several million. It was no little more than a civilian-evacuated tomb for the soldiers, Bouruni and Strataric, who would die here.

And it would be many.

The foreign dogs had retreated and left their aircraft to do their dirty work, devastating anything in their wake. While anti-aircraft fire occasionally brought several down, it was still devastating. Many factories, vehicles, artillery batteries, and men had been utterly destroyed by the accursed bombers.

But Samir felt some hope.

This was a large city, after all, and it would take Stratarin a very long time to overwhelm it all. There were men in practically every nook and corner. Besides that, the best Bouruni sniper had been sent from Ifedayo. Oddly, this sniper had apparently refused to work with anyone or collaborate with the military, preferring to gather his own intelligence and carry out his own operations. This was for some reason encouraged by the Bouruni government, tolerated by the officers, and puzzled over by lesser Jundiins such as Samir.

Regardless, this sniper would certainly make an impact. As would every Bouruni soldier in this city. It was said that the Stratarians fought like tigers. That’s all very well, and Samir could even agree after seeing the alghaza in action. However, a tiger was a solitary predator, best suited for duels or sneak attacks. Each son of Bourun would instead do battle as a lion. For while one tiger could perhaps best a lion, a group of them would be ill-favored against a coordinated pride.

[Strat]

Dhariadh, Bourun, September 8th, 1953

Every second, one’s mind was constantly on the alert. Behind every corner lurked death, in every outcropping was perched danger.

Antonina Sokolova, along with a small group of four riflemen, trod softly and carefully across the cold, stony road. Their boots made a small tapping sound with each step, the only sound other than the faint clicking of their guns and rustle from their movement. A bird was startled into flight nearby, taking wing with a loud cawing.

Dhariadh had been breached. After the initial first few days of massive pitched combat, the city’s terrain was shown to be more conducive to almost guerilla warfare. The employment of snipers by both sides became more and more common. Though, as Antonina reasoned, every Strataric sniper was worth at least three of their Bouruni counterparts.

A gunshot sounded, somewhere behind them. Antonina turned swiftly, just in time to see the red splotch on one of her soldier’s helmet before he fell to the ground, as cold as the stone beneath him. Her eyes widened, and she dove for cover on one side of the street. Her men attempted to do the same, though one was not so lucky. Within feet of her, the vulpine slumped to the ground, eyes void of life. An ever-growing spot of red was clearly visible on his chest.

Antonina felt one of the Stratarians, a grizzled middle-aged man, grow restless beside her. He was clearly rankled at the sudden loss of his comrades and this unseen danger. Trembling all over, he started to yell a battle cry and stood, firing randomly in the sniper’s supposed direction.

“No, don’t!” Antonina heard herself yelling, grabbing his body to pull him down. There was the sound of a third somewhat distant gunshot. Suddenly, she was holding a corpse.

On the other side of the road, the last remaining rifleman lay perfectly still, save the somehow perfectly calm hand making the sign of the cross over his chest. His lips moved in prayer, though Antonina couldn’t hear the words.

Looking into his eyes, despite his otherwise calm demeanor, she could see a peace in them. It was an odd sort of peace, though, possessed by one who knew he was soon to die. As she watched him, the familiarity of that expression flashed into her mind. She remembered the young Bouruni man she had killed whose visage had mirrored this Stratarian’s.

Seconds before she had shot him.

A twinge of… something, reverberated through her. Not guilt, not remorse, but perhaps… a little regret.

And in that moment, she knew what she had to do.

Catching his attention, she signaled him to run. He looked up at her, confused, causing her to repeat the gesture. Seemingly hesitantly, he nodded and began to stir.

She rose from her cover and opened fire on the sniper’s rough position as the Stratarian soldier started running.

All for the glory of Strata-

The sound of another gunshot echoed throughout the surrounding area. Her vision darkened, and she knew no more.

[hr]
Strataric-Controlled Locality, Dhariadh, Bourun, September 8th, 1953

“ANOTHER sniper attack?” roared Polkovnik Ryurikov at the young Praporshchik before him, who had huddled slightly while sipping senikhost.

“Yes, sir. Senior Leytenant Sokolova was killed, as well as several of my-”

“Yes, yes. That’s not the issue here, Praporshchik… Eridov, right? Eridov.” Ryurikov replied coldly. “The issue is that one of those chertovskiy blyads is out there, costing us resources. So we don’t focus on the deaths, we focus on killing the sand n***** snipers out there.”

“Yes, si-”

“You see, Praporshchik, these attacks lately have been forming a bit of a pattern. In the former retail district of the city, where your pack of idiots was, any squads sent there tend to get picked off one by one.” Ryurikov grinned slightly. “I think we’ve stumbled upon a single sniper.”

“Is… is that a good thing, sir?”

“Of course, you chertovskiy idiot. All we need to do is deploy more snipers to that area. This… Nemesis… of ours wants a fight? We’ll give him one.” A second of silence passed, before Ryurikov looked back towards Eridov. “Are you still here, Praporshchik?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, then, get out.” After forcing the Praporshchik from his seat and sending him on his way, Ryurikov couldn’t help but smile at the thought of the sniper dead by his order.

That’s bound to be worth a medal.

[Strat]

Former Retail District, Dhariadh, Bourun, October 4th, 1953

Yegor Bondar, furry ear twitching slightly, raised the mechanical device he held towards his target. Taking a deep breath, he shot.

Light flashed as the image of the Strataric sniper hanging from a lamppost was captured onto the film. Yegor took two more, for good measure, and moved on.

The Ivlyan war correspondent for the Harkhire Parcel realized that he was in an incredibly dangerous situation. Being attached to the Strataric army in June for observational purposes on behalf of Ivlya, he had been in a fair share of danger. However, all that was overshadowed by the threat he currently braved.

Skulking somewhere in this district was the Nemezida, the feared sniper-killer of Bourun. And, if the Stratarian corpse hanging by its neck was any indication, also an excellent knot-tier.

Yegor tried not to let the imminent danger he felt rankle him. It was almost as though Nemezida lay in every shadow, every outcropping. Nowhere seemed truly safe from his presence. Every sniper that had been sent after Nemezida was found either hanging or a discarded corpse on the ground. While Stratarin had been somewhat winning in the city, the morale of the soldiers was falling with each passing sniped individual. The Strataric tacticians had even started trying to work around the Retail District, with mixed results of effectiveness.

Casting a furtive look around, Yegor quickly attempted to blend into his surroundings and report back to the Strataric Locality. While these brave snipers may be left, swinging with whatever cold winds come their way as their skin slowly rots away, Yegor would make certain that their sacrifice would not be forgotten.

[Strat]

Former Retail District, Dhariadh, Bourun, October 16th, 1953

I… am a rock. I… am a rock. I… am a rock. Panya Zotova continued repeating those words to herself, mentally, not so much as moving a muscle amid the debris and rubble that surrounded her.

The main battle of Dhariadh had long since stymied. It had rapidly become a conflict of ambush and subtlety rather than that of military arms. As Polkovnik Ryurikov had become fond of calling it, the struggle for the ruined city had been unofficially dubbed “The Snipers’ War.”

For indeed, that’s what it had become.

Zotova had been able to kill three separate Bouruni snipers, five officers, and any number of footsoldiers. And now, she had been tasked with hunting the hunter: Nemezida.

The task, if she was being honest, seemed difficult. Impossible, even. The Bouruni master sniper had slain many of Zotova’s peers, some even more skilled than her.

But hers was not to reason why. She received orders, and executed orders (and potentially Bouruni). It was as simple as that. Questions were for insubordinate incompetents, neither of which described her in the least.

So she lay quietly and motionlessly amid the mound of rubble, thinking the same thought over and over again. I… am a rock. I… am a rock. It was an oddly comforting mantra, constant and rhythmic. She reflected that it could lull a baby to sleep.

Spotting the movement of a small armed unit, she lightly tapped her rifle towards the figures. After seeing their uniforms through her sights and hearing the shouting of a shorter man in the squad, Zotova smiled as she confirmed that they were Bouruni. Waiting for several seconds, she fired. The man yelling at the others crumpled to the ground.

As she began to target the next soldier in the squad, her gaze caught a glint of a rifle barrel in a nearby building. She sighed. “Well, cher-”

The curse word died on her lips as her forehead began streaming with blood. She slumped forward, leaning over her rifle in death as she had done many times in life.

[Strat]

Coyden, Stratarin, November 5th, 1953

Matvei Ilyasov, eyes scanning the newspaper in his hands, noted the fine photography of Yegor Bondar with appreciation. That’s quite the eye he has. As he felt the train’s wheels running beneath the floorboards, he continued reading the Harkhire Parcel article. Despite being a patriotic and loyal Stratarian, Matvei had come to prefer the Parcel to the Coyden Courier… Perhaps it was the photography, or the less propaganda-like content, but the Ivlyan-based paper clearly had an edge over the Courier.

Looking up from the paper and out the window, he couldn’t help but admire the grassy pastureland - complete with the occasional herd of cows - that northern Stratarin had to offer. Despite having been born and raised in Coyden, there was a certain rustic appreciation that Matvei had long possessed.

But this train trip was for much more than sightseeing, pleasant though it may be. There was a much more dangerous, and more heroic, purpose to his journey.

He was going to kill the Nemezida.

The more superstitious of tabloids reported that Nemezida was not a man, but a wraith coming to take revenge on Stratarin for the crimes committed against the Bour people centuries ago. However, Matvei knew better. This supposed phantasm was no more than a human, though an exceptionally good one.

After StratIntel reported back to Coyden that ten officers had been killed by Nemezida so far in this week alone, the commander-in-chief seemed to have had enough. His solution was to send the best sniper currently available: Matvei himself, trained by the legendary and sadly deceased Major Zinovii Verenich. Surely, if anyone could bring in this killer, it would be he.

At least, Matvei hoped so. As was brought to his mind by the female train attendant who was bashfully trying not to be caught gazing at the Stratarian sniper, he still had a great deal of living to do.

But it wasn’t his job to decide the time of his death. There was only One Who had calculated that day and hour and minute and second, and He’d not seen fit to tell anyone. All Matvei could do was face whatever danger awaited him with honor and bravery.

And hopefully, hopefully, it would turn the tide of the Snipers’ War.

(OOC: To see the best writing I have on the Battle of Dhariadh [featuring Matvei himself] that far exceeds the caliber of narration I’ve been able to muster for this thread, please check out this post: http://forum.theeastpacific.com/single/?p=10032186&t=7008397. I’ve tried to keep them somewhat seamless, though minor discrepancies may exist between the two. The next post takes place shortly following its end, so it is recommended that readers view the post before continuing onward)

[Strat]

Central District, Dhariadh, Bourun, November 21st, 1953

Victory.

What a powerful word victory was. It could be heard uttered from every Strataric set of lips, seen in every Strataric eye, felt in every Strataric movement, known in every Strataric heart.

The flag of the Nationalist Republic of Stratarin was raised high in the Central District amid cheers from Strataric soldiers below. The Retail District no longer was haunted by the fearsome apparition of Nemezida. Every life that had been put into this wretched city seemed to be easily repaid by the triumph of today.

At least, that’s how it felt to some.

Following its coarse scraping, the flame danced upon the match as though summoned, and was raised to Oleg Rebrov’s cigar. Upon lighting it, the now-useless match was discarded and its fire was snuffed beneath Oleg’s boot. He sighed as he glanced around the temporary hospital that had been set up in Dhariadh.

Though Stratarin had finally vanquished Bourun in Dhariadh, having won a morale and tactical blow against the harried Bouruni, it was a pyrrhic victory at best. Casualty estimates for the Strataric troops were in the hundred-thousands, at least; not counting the loss of aircraft, tanks, guns, and supplies.

And of Oleg’s brother.

While he had the small satisfaction of knowing that his brother’s death was not in vain, it was still nothing in comparison to the despair knowing that Andrei Rebrov’s presence would no longer grace this earth.

Oleg had seen soldiers whose siblings and loved ones had passed in the line of duty before, and had always wondered how they carried on. Now that he had experienced the same heart-wracking pain, he had even less of an idea.

Of course, such was the risk of war. The brothers had of course been aware, distantly, that one or both of them may perish for Stratarin. However, while knowing the possibility of such an event fully well, neither had seriously expected it to happen. Or at least, not vocalized it to the other.

And yet, according to some Will of Providence not their own, it had.

Oleg rose from the makeshift hospital cot, shrugging off the nurse’s attempts for him to remain seated and walking out the door.

He couldn’t bring Andrei back. But Oleg could kill every last one of the ublyudoki to avenge his brother’s death.

[Strat]

Ulokha, December 1st, 1953

It was almost too easy, now.

At least, that’s how it seemed to the newly promoted Lieutenant General Abram Starikov. Following the mysterious death of Army General Klyushnikov, the rising star in the Strataric military had assumed command of this front of the war.

The fall of Bourun in Dhariadh had broken the nation. Its soldiers still fought, and fought like lions, but lacked morale. Thus, Starikov predicted one crushing defeat after another until Ifedayo was taken or Bourun surrendered to Stratarin’s might.

A voice cut into his thoughts. “Our next stop seems to be fairly heavily defended. Perhaps attacking a different target and continuing the advancement from there would be a wiser move.”

Mentally, the Lieutenant General sighed. Stratarin and Ivlya’s might, he begrudgingly amended. Due to Bourun rightfully assuming Stratarin to be a greater threat, it had begun drawing troops from the Ivlyan front for Dhariadh. While that had been to no avail for the Siadist heathens, it had spurred on Ivlya to finally begin racking up victories.

The allied armies had rendezvoused three days after Stratarin took hold of Dhariadh. From that point forward, the two had worked in tandem and successfully captured the city of Ulokha. Though rather than the efficient, smooth coordination that one might hope for from a war ally; the Ivlyan commanding officer, General Bohustrat Nazarchuk, had his own method of doing things.

His own inferior method.

Granted, the Ivlyan showed some aptitude for tactics. It just simply a petty understanding in comparison with Starikov’s own.

“…Lieutenant General?” the voice repeated.

Never again shall I work with Troitsans. “Your idea, General, is quite frankly foolish. This war will not be won by skirting around their defenses and leaving pockets of strong resistance behind us, but rather by confronting the Bouruni forces at their peak and crushing them in every conflict. Battering down defense after defense with our allied might until Bourun surrenders or perishes. Victory will not be grasped by cowardice; rather, it shall be seized by courage and tenacity.”

“I do not propose cowardice, Lieutenant General,” Nazarchuk bit back, somewhat offended. “I suggest tact and caution over the lives of my… our men. Surely you can understand that.”

“As an intellect understands basic arithmetic. You see, General, the issue is not my lack of understanding. It’s my lack of agreement.” Starikov waved him off. “Never matter, though. If Stratarin must charge Donhai alone while you elect to take the way of the fool, so be it.”

Nazarchuk, obviously conflicted, glared at Starikov for a full minute silently. Starikov kept his gaze. Finally, the Ivlyan glanced away. “Fine,” he spat. “But the blood of my men is not solely on my hands.” Angrily, he turned and stalked away.

Starikov watched him go before pouring himself some Tamar Bouri retrieved in Dhariadh. There was something pleasant about the fruit drink that surpassed the pleasures of Strataric senikhost or Ivlyan mechtaridyna. Although, to be fair, the two beverages are basically the same, given that nothing original was ever born in the Troitsan nation.

Stupid Ivlyans.

[Strat]

Ifedayo, Bourun, December 8th, 1953

“There is no hope, Alqayid Al’aelaa,” one of Supreme Leader Jarrah Ghanem’s many advisors declared from across the long table, addressing the Bouruni ruler with his honorific title. “Day by day, the Strataric alghaza and Ivlyan tujjar march ever closer to the capital. They have now even taken Donhai. We must surrender while we still can.” This declaration was greeted with nods and murmurs of agreement from around the table.

A stronger voice, that of General Wasim Bouazizi, spoke out. “I disagree,” he thundered, standing up angrily. “My lord clearly can see that these foreigners do not have Siada on their side. The Troitsan God and that of the Catholics, be they the same or different, cannot match he who watches over Bourun. To capitulate like cowardly dogs would be to admit that ours is the weaker god. And that we simply cannot do.”

Ghanem stroked his beard, intoning deeply, “What would you suggest, General?”

Bouazizi grinned slightly. “Have one final full-scale assault on Donhai. Throw everything we have at the problem. Take it back by strength of arms and of our god.”

“That’s suicide!” A minor official rose quickly from his seat. “Countless men and arms will be lost!”

“But Donhai will be taken,” Bouazizi countered. “The tujjar and algha would lose their momentum. They might even take the time to regroup, to recover. And that’s when we strike.”

“That’s assuming they don’t rally against us quickly!” the official replied sternly. “If they do, all may be lost. We may be able to win the initial battle due to strength of arms alone, but the cost will be too great to maintain that stronghold! And our airforce has been blown to oblivion over the course of this war.” He shook his head emphatically. “Surrender, please, Alqayid Al’aelaa.”

Ghanem’s eyes seemed to bore a hole through the speaker’s head. “Would you have me be called a coward?”

The man’s face took on an ashen complexion. “I-I would do no such thing, lord,” he replied. “However, you can see how ridiculous Bouazizi’s proposal is, surely!”

“It perhaps lacks a certain… finesse.” Ghanem replied thoughtfully. “I am, however, prepared to trust my general.” He nodded to Bouazizi. “You have my permission to launch your assault. Your failure will mean your death.”

The military officer nodded confidently. “Understood, Alqayid Al’aelaa,” he replied. “I will not fail you.”

Ghanem’s gaze held. “We shall see.”

[Strat]

Donhai, Bourun, December 10th, 1953

Brigadier Miron Zahara waited patiently outside the command tent, listening to his commanding officer and Lieutenant General Starikov debate heatedly: Nazarchuk’s voice a fiery rage, Starikov’s a smoldering anger. He couldn’t quite make out much of the conversation, though what he could filled him with dread. Something about massive army and retreat or surrender. Death came up a lot.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, General Nazarchuk stepped outside the tent, his face slightly red from shouting. Zahara snapped to attention.

“What are we doing, sir?”

“Stratarin’s…” he sighed. “Stratarin’s falling back to Ulokha. Bourun’s mustered enough men for one final massive assault, it seems, and Starikov doesn’t think we can overcome it.”

“What of Ivlya?”

“I don’t know if you’re a fellow Troitsan, Brigadier, but I’ve prayed earnestly about that. And He’s been silent.” Nazarchuk’s tone took on a slightly bitter tone. “Troitsa has abandoned us.”

“Don’t say that, sir.”

“Mind your tone, brigadier,” the general reprimanded wearily. “I have decided that Ivlya will stand and fight in Donhai.”

“Sir, that’s… that’s suicide!” All color drained from Zahara’s face. “I can’t let you do that. We’re the smaller of the two allied forces. We’ll be crushed!”

“We will not be-”

“Sir, weren’t you the one who advocated against a head-on assault at Donhai to preserve the lives of our men?”

“Don’t interrupt me again, Brigadier,” Nazarchuk responded sternly. “My decision stands. Ready your men for the defense of Donhai.”

Speechlessly, Zahara nodded, turned, and briskly walked away.

[hr]
Several minutes later, Starikov exited as well. He beckoned a young Polkovnik over. “Yes, sir?” The subordinate eagerly asked.

“Spread the word that Stratarin is falling back to Ulokha. Have the men make preparations to withdraw.” Starikov paused. “Also, summon the airforce Polkovnik Petrov to my presence.”

“Yes, sir.” the younger officer replied, his tone more severe than it had been. With a salute, he turned and dutifully went forth to carry out his orders.

Several minutes later, as requested, Nestor Petrov strode towards the lieutenant general. “General Starikov, sir?” he asked gruffly, saluting as he did.

“Petrov,” Starikov greeted briefly. “I had originally planned to destroy any supplies that we could leave behind, and thus face a hungry and tired foe in the counterattack. Ivlya’s stubbornness has ensured that this is more difficult to execute.” He paused. “I have men in place to inform me when the Bouruni inevitably breaches the city in the upcoming battle. When they do, and I give you the word, I want you to arrange for bombing runs on the city.”

Petrov nodded, almost apathetically asking, “With the Ivlyans inside?”

“Yes.”

“Copy that, sir,” Petrov saluted again. “Never much liked those damned Ivlyans anyway.”

Starikov waved a hand. “You are dismissed. Make the necessary preparations.” The Lieutenant General then turned, walked away, and began personally tending to the Strataric withdrawl from Donhai.

[Strat]

Ulokha, Bourun, December 11th, 1953

Starshy Praporshchik Pelya Grachkova lay in the military tent, breathing softly, listening to the far-off sounds of bombing in the distance and the pattering of rain on the tent’s roof. She struggled with the thought of her superiors not only abandoning the Ivlyans to their ill-reasoned fate, but actively bringing it upon them. She idly wondered if more Bouruni or Ivlyans were being killed as she pondered.

Bouruni, probably. Hopefully.

Though this thought proved little comfort for her. After all, Ivlyans were still dying by Strataric bombs. Shivering in the cold night air, she rolled over in her bag.

Pelya’s thoughts were cast out temporarily as she heard a hubbub from outside, as well as shouts in her language and clumsily-spoken replies in Ivlyan accents. Rising quickly and hastily dressing, she as well as several of her comrades emerged from the tent to see what was transpiring.

After several minutes of confusion, she figured out that a medium-sized Ivlyan brigade had been captured coming back to Ulokha, and that their leader was currently speaking to Starikov. An officer informed her that all would be revealed in the morning, and to get some rest. Still somewhat befuddled, she settled back into her bag and attempted sleep.

But sleep eluded her.

[hr]
“And what if I choose not to believe you?” Starikov asked, offering a glass of Tamar Bouri to his prisoner-guest.

The Ivlyan, whose nametape divulged the appellation “Zahara”, politely held up his hand as a sign of courteous refusal. “Then I suppose all my men are dead. And do you have any senikhost instead?”

The Stratarian raised his glass to his lips and drank before replying. “Not mechtaridyna? Hardly very Ivlyan of you.”

Zahara snorted. “Firstly, I know fully well that the ‘Ivlyan’ alcohol is little more than just rebranded Strataric senikhost. Secondly, if being Ivlyan is what Nazarchuk was doing, then I want no part of it.” He paused. Though I hold you personally accountable for the Ivlyan lives lost due to the bombing - I assume that’s your air force we’re currently hearing - and I can’t forgive you for that, I can understand it in a sort of cynical way."

Starikov nodded, pouring Zahara a glass and passing it to him. “Understandable,” he replied. “And Narazchuk’s lack of intelligence is why you wish to defect? Some might call you a coward.”

“If that’s what I get for saving the lives of my men, so be it.”

The pair eyed each other appraisingly. “I intend to attack Donhai again tomorrow. Should you retreat then, I will personally hunt down and execute your brigade.” He paused thoughtfully, taking another sip. “What is its designation?”

“We’re the 29-a Pikhotna Bryhada” Zahara replied, proudly lapsing into his native language before returning to his clumsy Strataric. “And we will not fail you.”

Starikov nodded. “Be sure that you don’t.” Their glasses clinked together in a toast.

[Strat]

Donhai, Bourun, December 12th, 1953

Private Imaad Abderrahman could sense it. The way his superiors spoke with hushed voices, the grim faces of his brothers-in-arms, even the stillness of the air and the ominous darkening of the skies.

The alghaza were coming today.

It wasn’t a bad guess tactically, either. After the heavy bombing suffered by the Bouruni, as well as the destruction of many of Donhai’s supplies due to the Stratarians, a quick strike before the Bourun army could receive better equipment was likely. Especially considering the utter ruthlessness of the Strataric commanding officer. The name “Starikov” had begun to be spoken in soft voices if at all, almost as if he would hear and be summoned by the very utterance of his name.

There was something else Imaad noted in the eyes of his fellow Bouruni, a quality which had been absent for all of the war. Doubt. There was doubt that Siada would indeed save Bourun from the alghaza. There were even rumors that several of the men had been put to death for denouncing him. It had dangerously hurt the Bouruni morale to not contend with the Strataric military at Donhai, have a great many supplies destroyed, and lose roughly double the loses incurred by the Ivlyan tujjar.

At least they’re all dead, Imaad thought grimly, trying to take some small comfort out of the Pyrrhic victory that had been the Reclaiming of Donhai. Bourun still had the numbers advantage over Stratarin, certainly. Though it lacked the same quality of equipment, had no air cover, and, as much as it pained the private to admit it, had much less skilled troops at its disposal.

The war, as Imaad saw it, was lost.

As if to confirm his thoughts, the roar of a bomber’s engines sounded in the distance. A scout rushed by him, to add insult to injury, yelling that the alghaza were near.

Imaad stood and muttered a quick prayer to Siada. Perhaps this would be the day he would meet the god. Or, under less favorable conditions, he may instead meet Troitsa.

Brushing these heretical thoughts from his mind, Imaad shouldered his rifle and prepared for battle.