The attack would go ahead. The presence of the possible spellblasters could not deter them, not when they had such a numerical advantage and the presence of the landships as well. The troops began to march, the army troops uncomplaining at the harsh pace, the Red Guard grimly silent in their determination to match the professionals, the militia staggering on as best they could. And bringing up the rear, going at a slow, cautious pace lest they overstrain their aetheric engines, tended to by their crew as carefully as humanly possible.
The Pace of the March: 1d5 + 3 (Average training) + 4 (Average morale) + 2 (Aetherail) -1 (Landships) -1 (The dark) = 10
They made it in time. The march in the dark made things harder, but with the Aetherails serving as a guide and only one way forward, they were able to keep together. The vast bulk of the army was just a few hundred feet away from the slowly deepening trenches, hidden by the darkness. The Aetherails growled quietly behind the troops as orders were given out in hushed tones and the army reorganized.
Squads of the army found themselves attached to small groups of Red Guard and militia, the loose formations reorganized so that the less experienced troops found themselves in the middle. The single spellblaster they had fired, and men began to sprint across open ground to the enemy lines, warcasters firing as they went.
The Initial Attack: 1d5 + 3 (Average training) + 4 (Average morale) + 2 (Average training) + 2 (Surprise attack) + 1 (Landship support) +2 (Warmage support) vs. 1d5 + 3 (Training) + 3 (Equipment) +2 (Morale) + 5 (Fortified) - 3 (Outnumbered) = 19 vs. 11
The whole battlefield became coated in smoke, wardstones flaring in the trenches as they attempted to burn it away, but the warmages were professionals, and where one blot of smoke disappeared another was ready to replace it, creating a smooth rhythm where no one could see for more than a second. Bullets of lead, some blazing hot or crackling with electricity, crisscrossed the battlefield, slamming into invisible magic wards or piled up earth, but enough were flying that some got through, and cries of pain rose up.
And through all this madness, the spellblasters remained silent as the landships growled forwards.
Fedin awoke with a start, fear pulling him from his slumber as his sergeant approached. "The traitors are attacking, get up there and start firing!" the grim man snarled, adding some profanity and a threatening fist when Fedin didn't move fast enough to suit him.
He rose up and grabbed his warcaster, the trusty weapon that had seen him through one bout of madness and blood already, risking a glance above the parapet to see an enormous rush of men coming directly at him. An explosion erupted from somewhere nearby, a bullet smacked against the ward an inch above his head, but he aimed his shot, settling on the center mass of a man in a ragged black coat with a red armband and fired. The man went down, then smoke filled his vision, but he fired again and again and again and for a moment Fedin lost himself in the rhythm, but he could feel how wrong it was. There weren't enough men firing with him, and some of the rapdicasters were silent, and the smoke was only getting thicker, and the ground was trembling...he realized what it was just in time, and threw himself down. The landship passed overhead, it's tracks spanning the trench, it's rapidcasters snarling as they spewed death, the smoke emanating from it's firing slits choking and blinding him as it overwhelmed the wardstones.
Beside him, men with red armbands leapt into the trench. "I surrender!" he babbled.
"I surrender!"
One of them, heedless, his face smudged with soot and blood, nevertheless turned his warcaster on Fedin, but another slugged him in the stomach. A third ordered Fedin over the top, ordered him to kneel, and he joined a few other men who had surrendered. The sounds of battle went on behind him.
The Push Through: 1d5 + 3 (Average training) + 4 (Average morale) + 2 (Average training) + 1 (Momentum) + 1 (Landship support) +2 (Warmage support) vs. 1d5 + 3 (Training) + 3 (Equipment) +1 (Morale) + 2 (Urban defensive fighting) - 4 (Outnumbered) = 18 vs. 8
General Alexei hated the rush towards a trench, the desperate prayer that you would find cover in a shell hole or a dip before the hateful chittering of a rapidcaster came your way, the relentless roar of spellblasters as they rained death down upon you, the ghastly smells of corpses in a dozen stages of decomposition, the fear, but he found he hated commanding one worse. From a low rise, beside their spellblaster and a few men he used for staff and the Kammanist who's cause he had joined, he watched their army rush the trench line and take it, the spellblasters proving to be made of wood. The second lie didn't last much longer than the first, the hand bombs proving devastating as they were hurled over the narrow separation or tossed around cornered, bayonet and warcaster taking their toll as well.
He wanted to throw up. He had done much the same not a year ago, he remembered how terrifying and disgusting it was, the thought made his heart race and his palm sweat but he simply bit his lip and held strong. There was no need to give orders, not as the enemy troops collapsed back, firing even as some fled or surrendered, but at least a few hundred, maybe as many as a thousand, seemed determined to keep fighting.
They ducked into houses and hid behind walls, intending to make you fight and pay for every inch of ground.
"Have the landships go forward first." Alexei commanded through gritted teeth.
And Alexei obeyed, the five pushing forward into streets, bullets stitching into everywhere they saw resistance, and a dozen different types of lethal spells from the mages within them. They had no weapons to counter them, they had nothing that could penetrate the thick steel armor and intricate wards.
They died. And then it was all over.
A hasty fortification effort was established, rubble and wardstones piled up to make simple pieces of cover, while what few semi-intact buildings that were still there were garrisoned, rapidcasters put in every window.
The dead were gathered, their own to be taken back to The City and buried there, the rest simply rolled into the trenches and then covered up. But first the bodies were stripped of their weapons, and some of the men began looting the pockets of the corpses, taking jewelry and cigarettes and even the occasional gold or silver tooth. Scuffles broke out but were dealt with by sergeants.
The grim business told everyone how many they had lost, for a thousand and five hundred enemy soldiers had died, about three hundred had surrendered, and two hundred were nowhere to be found, buried under rubble or fled the battle.
Only about five hundred of the regular army had died, with a few hundred more being wounded badly enough they would need time to heal. Two hundred Red Guard had also died, and nearly a thousand militia, mostly in the actual trench fighting. A few hundred more of both had again been wounded, along with a single warcaster who had gotten burned by bad luck more than anything else.
And as the day progressed, the survivors of Devrograd pulled themselves out of their shattered homes: a few dozen in total, the owners and workers at the tavern and brothel which had been maintained for the officers. They had all been ill-treated by the arrogant Imperial officers, some of whom were still alive.
The trials for them would begin soon, and the prisoners found innocent would be given an opportunity to switch sides and then put in camps, the general refused to hear of any other prospect. But that left the question of what to do with the looted weapons and what sort of garrison to establish in this town.
[] [LOOT] Distribute it evenly between the Red Guard and the militia. A popular move, but the sheer numbers involved means there will be little improvement in the capability of either group.
[] [LOOT] Give it all to the Red Guard. This will cause some grumbling among the other sections of the military, but will lead to a significant improvement in their capabilities as they will be as well-armed as the regular army.
[] [GARRISON] Light. 1000 militia, 500 Red Guards, 2000 soldiers, no landships or warmages, the only light spellblaster you have.
[] [GARRISON] Medium. 2000 militia, 500 Red Guard, 4000 soldiers, 10 warmages and the light spellblaster
[] [GARRISON] Heavy. 1000 militia, 500 Red Guard, 5500 soldiers, 20 warmages, 3 landships, and the light spellblaster.
Luck was on your side in a big way here, this could have been a lot bloodier.
