Outskirts of Orisun

Under the cover of artillery and the formidable wall of Hounds and Shafers, Gra Valkan soldiers inched toward the forest line. As they pressed forward, the foliage and snow seemed to grow thicker, as if the very earth sought to resist their invasion.

Kessler’s eyes scanned the terrain meticulously. The shelling had already softened the Muans’ frontline, but he knew they had been guided by the Americans in the art of guerilla warfare. Nothing came up on the madar yet, but there could still be more anti-personnel mines and ambushers lying in wait. His fingers tightened around the grip of his rifle, sweeping his aim back and forth along all the possible pieces of cover the enemy could use.

A sharp whistle sliced through the air. “Incoming!” shouted one of his soldiers. Almost instinctively, the men hit the ground as mortars exploded around them, spattering dirt and leaves in a chaotic dance. The air grew thick with the acrid smell of explosives and soil. A soldier near Kessler let out a choked scream, clutching at a shrapnel wound that oozed dark blood, stark against the muddy ground.

Another step to his right, and that would’ve been him, thought Kessler. His own forces promptly returned fire, the sound of artillery booming in response to the first strike. A series of distant explosions signaled a direct hit. “Advance! Watch the flanks!”

His order propelled the men into action. Through foliage and over tangled roots, the Gra Valkan soldiers navigated the forest. Suddenly, gunfire erupted from more concealed positions, a hail of bullets that seemed almost organic in its unpredictability. Kessler’s men took cover behind trees, firing back. Kessler focused his aim on a shadowy figure darting between the trees and squeezed the trigger. The figure crumpled to the ground.

The figure’s collapse was accompanied by a gurgling sound, a last exhalation that seemed to echo unnaturally loud in Kessler’s ears. As he moved forward, his boots stepped over a Muan soldier who was missing half his face – a sight that caused him to grimace in nausea. Nearby, another Gra Valkan trooper administered first aid to a comrade, hastily wrapping a bandage around a thigh soaked in blood.

“Hilde, take your men and outflank them on the left!” Kessler commanded, bringing his attention back to the battle.

Sweat mingled with dirt on Kessler’s forehead as he took aim again, dropping another Muan who had risked exposure. Bullets pounded the earth beside him and cracked against the rock that he was using as cover, each one carrying the potential of delivering him to the afterlife. Finally, a rapid spray of machine gun fire pierced the air from the left flank, followed by a succession of screams and disoriented return fire.

“Push! Push!” Kessler seized the moment, rallying his men. They surged forward, chasing after the enemy. Kessler could see the Muans retreating, a few laggards being picked off by his marksmen. They were broken, not shattered, but splintered enough to hammer the wedge in and snap them apart.

As the last stragglers fled to the edge of the forest, the field radio squawked to life. “Ulfar, the road to Orisun is –,” the voice of Captain Njord was cut off by static before coming back, “... nearly clear. Do we pursue?”

Kessler’s hand shot to the radio, his fingers tightly gripping its cold, metallic frame as he brought it close. He glanced sharply at his men, their eyes locking onto him. His focus returned past the treeline, to the distant smoke veiling Orisun. He clenched and unclenched his hand around the rifle grip, as if the simple act could help him sift through the myriad calculations and probabilities flashing through his mind.

Kessler finally relaxed his grip. “Prep the mortars, Gungnir. And get our recon ahead. I want eyes on what’s waiting for us in that town.”

“Understood, Ulfar.”

While the mortars were set into position, Kessler caught sight of his men: shoulders beginning to slump, heads lowered, eyes distant. The corrosiveness of fatigue had finally reared its ugly head. The Muan ambushes had taken a clear physical and psychological toll, but the battle was not yet over.

With a series of concussive blasts, the mortars tore through the air, followed by the heavier booms of Einherjar and Jotun artillery. Trees shattered into splinters and the ground erupted in clouds of dirt and debris. Kessler lifted his binoculars, peering through them to gauge the effectiveness of their barrage. Recon cautiously moved forward, exchanging fluid hand signals with one another.

“We’ve got movement – looks like stragglers,” someone from the recon team reported through the field radio.

“Mop Up. No survivors. They need to fear digging in against us again,” Kessler replied, his tone bereft of ambiguity.

What Muans still remained within the confines of the forest were left with little option but to surrender. Those who attempted to foolishly resist were terminated with brutal efficacy. Those who ran toward the town of Orisun had little cover along the open fields and were subsequently mowed down. Those who surrendered were quickly restrained.

“Area secure, no Muan activity within a half-mile radius,” came the final report.

Kessler nodded, allowing his rifle to hang casually from its strap. “Consolidate and regroup. We’ll rest for a bit and assess the situation while artillery softens up the enemy. Orisun is next. And gods help anyone who tries to stop us.”

––

The smell of freshly churned earth and burnt gunpowder still lingered in the air as Kessler’s unit cautiously emerged from the forest, stepping onto the outskirts of Orisun. Through the drifting smoke, skeletal remnants of wooden fences and shattered glass marked the boundary between wilderness and what used to be a peaceful town. Kessler eyed the scout car at the head of their formation, machine gun poised atop.

Fields pocked with craters soon gave way to a shoddy wooden wall – sufficient in keeping out local fauna, but woefully insufficient in halting the Gra Valkan war machine. Kessler’s forces moved past the shattered wall, boots crunching on gravel, shards, and glass. Soldiers maintained a disciplined advance, leapfrogging from one piece of makeshift cover to another – abandoned cars, rubble, the odd half-collapsed garden wall.

“Varg, you’re on point. Ulv, situation on enemies, now,” Kessler’s voice was low, directed to the recon and support squads.

The scout car crawled forward, its wheels negotiating debris and potholes, guiding them along the scarred main road of Orisun. Kessler’s gaze lingered on outlines of debris further ahead – potentially lethal chokepoints set up near a crossing and covered by surrounding buildings. “Prepare for hard engagement,” he muttered. “They’ll make a stand at the Plaza, if they’ve regrouped.”

Kessler’s eyes briefly met the ruin of what used to be a second-story bedroom, a toy among the debris. He hoped he wouldn’t have to make heavy choices. “Be vigilant, men,” he whispered, his words cutting through the silence. “Eyes wide. They’re here.”

The finality in Kessler’s words seeped into the air, already thick with tension and the acidic bite of residual smoke. Every soldier in Ulfar Company kept their weapons trained at one window or another, nerves tightening like coiled springs waiting for the sign to unspool.

It didn’t take long. A volley of rounds erupted from hidden recesses in ruined storefronts and shattered windows. Bullets pinged off their tanks’ armor and chipped away at the rubble and defunct vehicles that Ulfar had taken as makeshift cover, some piercing through and clipping the men behind.

“Contact! East-northeast! Take cover! Ulv, deploy smoke!” Kessler shouted, his voice now keen with authority as he dropped into a crouch behind the remains of a front porch.

The sharp, chemical scent of smoke grenades filled the air, their wispy tendrils quickly thickening into an obscuring fog. Soldiers hit the ground, taking positions behind whatever cover they could find, laying fire into the windows that their weapons were previously aimed at. Heavy blasts soon followed – Shafers and Hounds obliterating homes and stores.

“Gungnir, this is Ulfar. Under fire, requesting support on our flanks,” Kessler communicated through the radio, clutching it as if it were a lifeline.

“Understood, Ulfar. We’re en route. Hold them off.”

The tanks managed to noticeably reduce the volume of fire coming from the enemy, but a few deadly shots still remained. One of his soldiers taking cover behind a thin wooden fence took the brunt of the team’s misfortune, a high caliber round obliterating his torso and splattering his guts on the floor.

A runner from Varg rushed over to Kessler, skidding to a halt. “Sir, we think we’ve pinpointed the shooters. Two buildings down, office building, upper floor. Possibly snipers.”

Kessler took a moment to digest the information, catching a glint of sunlight off metal. It was critical to differentiate between hasty decisions and swift, informed ones. “Ulv, circle around. Take out those snipers.”

“Yes, sir.” The men of Ulv peeled off immediately, disappearing into an alley out of the line of sight of the snipers ahead.

Kessler waited, right hand tightened around his rifle. It wasn’t long before he heard the resounding burst of a submachine gun, followed by two others. Then silence. “Snipers eliminated,” the radio buzzed.

Kessler nodded, almost imperceptibly. “Move up,” he ordered.

Ulfar advanced toward an intersection ahead, keeping to the sides of the street or taking cover behind tanks. In the distance, the town’s central plaza stretched out – empty aside from earthen walls and makeshift barricades. “Hold,” Kessler raised his fist. He grabbed the radio, “Gungnir, this is Ulfar. We’re at an intersection south of the plaza. It looks fortified.”

“Gungnir copies. Our unit is two blocks east. No immediate contact but don’t get comfortable.”

Decision time. Kessler weighed the choices quickly but carefully. A fortified plaza meant a direct assault would be costly; there was no telling how many Shafers and Hounds could go down to hidden anti-armor positions. Madar also suggested an indecipherable cloud of magic – magic gems spread all around to obscure their readings. Clearly, there were mages somewhere here, but he didn’t know where. The winding streets and alleys to the sides could enable a full surround, but they held their own dangers – ambushes, mines, or worse.

“Ulv, take two men, scout the alleys. I want a report in three minutes. Varg, set up a machine gun facing the plaza.”

His commands were met with swift nods. Two men moved out cautiously, rifles sweeping shadowed corners. Varg’s men positioned the machine gun behind a car’s engine block, its muzzle pointing toward the deserted square.

Minutes passed like molasses. Then, the radio flared to life. “Alleys are clear, but we spotted some barricades further down. Looks like they’re preparing fallback positions.”

Kessler clenched his jaw. Of course they were. “Understood. Regroup, we’ll soften them up with a touch of heaven’s wrath.” He switched channels on his radio. “Einherjar, Jotun, requesting artillery on coordinates Asgard Two Four. We’ve got barricades that need breaking.”

“Einherjar copies all. Rain is coming.”

The sky roared – a chorus of thunder as shells hurtled down, shaking the earth and turning makeshift Muan barricades into splinters and smog. Coughing through the cloud of dust and debris, Kessler signaled forward. “Engage!”

As they moved, Kessler spotted a Muan soldier emerging from scattered sandbags, hastily trying to aim something tube-shaped. The object was bulkier than a rifle, but the intent was clear.

“Scatter! Anti-armor!” he bellowed.

His men dispersed just in time as the weapon fired, the projectile obliterating a Hound that they were using for cover. “Keep an eye for more of those damn bazookas,” Kessler warned, his voice drowning out amidst the ramping gunfire.

Another Hound surged forward, sending a shell into a region of rubble where the rocket came from, tearing apart the Muan soldier. Kessler winced as shrapnel zinged past his helmet, embedding itself into a nearby wall. “Keep moving! Use the rubble as cover!” He signaled for a pair of Shafers to advance, their turrets and machine guns blasting away at any sign of enemy activity.

A sudden tremor rumbled through the ground and Kessler watched in disbelief as the earth ahead swallowed a Shafer whole, the entire vehicle falling through a sinkhole. “What in Odin’s name –”

“Magic, sir!” Lieutenant Einar yelled, swiveling around, “Can’t see where it’s coming from!”

Kessler glanced at the madar unit on his forearm. The screen displayed a haze of magical signatures – useless. “All units, be advised: we’ve got active mages in the area. Watch your madars for spikes of magical activity.” Just then, a brighter signature appeared to the left, somewhere behind a wall.

An ocean of mud began to form around the Shafers in the front of their formation, ensnaring them. While the momentary trap managed to slow down the advance, it was quickly shut down by a shot from a Wilder, which utterly decimated the wall and anything behind it.

As they neared the center of the plaza, a sudden burst of light blinded several men. Kessler’s vision swam in and out of focus; spots of light danced before his eyes. “Look away!” He ordered, even as some of his men staggered and fell, temporarily disoriented.

A few unlucky souls found themselves wandering in the open just to be picked off or in front of tanks, their bones crushing beneath the treads of their comrades. Despite the various magical traps and attacks, Kessler knew that they were winning the war of attrition. Gungnir Company was already laying fire down on the eastern part of the plaza and though the loss of dozens of men and a handful of Shafers was painful, the enemy’s losses were far more severe. Each heavy gun or mage taken out meant one less threat to the Gra Valkan forces.

The madar then glowed, numerous signatures shining brighter. A flurry of fireballs streaked from the windows of the town hall and from the rubble in front of it, arcing toward the Gra Valkan formation. Gunfire and cannon fire joined in while stone spikes shot out from the ground, trapping some of his men in a makeshift cage. “Incoming!” Kessler shouted, diving behind a heap of debris as explosions filled the air. He could feel the heat licking at his back, the smell of burning earth and flesh filling his nostrils.

The tanks ahead were rendered inoperational. Some lay wrecked, torn asunder by advanced weapons meant for heavier armor than even that of a Wilder, while others lay empty, their crews forced to evacuate. Bodies were strewn about the plaza – Muan, Mirishial, and Gra Valkan alike. Wilders in the rear added to that count, their shells detonating against the windows that the defenders fired from.

With enemy mage and anti-armor positions-now severely compromised, Kessler saw his chance. “Advance!”

His troops surged forward, their boots pounding the cobblestones as they dashed toward the town hall. The defenders launched a final volley of spells and projectiles, but it was clear they were running low on everything – ammo, magic, and, most crucially, time. A series of targeted shots from a Hound’s main gun shattered the entrance to the town hall. Gra Valkan soldiers poured in, their bayonets fixed, ready to engage in the brutal close quarters that awaited them.

They cleared room after room, their progress dogged but unstoppable. By the time they reached the central chamber, it was clear: the building was theirs. Kessler took a deep breath as he stepped into the room, a mix of exhaustion and relief settling into his bones.

“Town hall is secured. Orisun is under our control,” he reported into his radio, voice heavy with the knowledge that the cost of victory had been far from trivial.