NationStates Jolt Archive

“Kill for gain or shoot to maim
But we don't need a reason
The Golden Goose is on the loose
And never out of season
Some blackened pride still burns inside
This shell of bloody treason
Here's my gun for a barrel of fun
For the love of living death!”
-Iron Maiden, “2 Minutes to Midnight”

***

There were no windows in this part of the Palace, Ishamael suddenly realized. He had never paid attention before. But now, as outside the setting sun bathed Korronis in crimson light, he would have considered it fitting to be able to see the sunset at this crucial hour, marking the end of an era. On the other hand, perhaps it was just as fitting that this meeting was conducted here, now, in the depths of the Palace, away from the light of the dying sun. War is always begun in shadow.

The path was not a long one, and presently the Sacred Emperor arrived at his destination: a nondescript oak double door elaborately carved with scenes of ancient battles. The two Immortals flanking the door snapped briefly to attention before pulling open the double doors, revealing a meeting room that Ishamael had used hundreds of times before: a heavy oval table dominating, with a projector screen on the right and a carved wooden throne at the far end.

They stood as he entered, the ranks of men wielding inscrutable and awesome power, who drove the wheels of the Imperium, men who could order any commoner in the Imperium to be executed on a whim. These, the frightening products of limitless power and limitless obedience, the cardinals of the black faith of the Imperium; these all bowed to him, Sacred Emperor Ishamael, The Most Imperial Highness, His Divine Majesty, and a thousand other titles besides.

“Take a seat, gentlemen.” The voice was not his own: it was the voice of centuries of ancestors, ages of distilled power, a sound of blended arrogance, authority, and cruelty. It was the voice of the Imperium. His servants obeyed, seating themselves and arranging papers on the table while the Sacred Emperor took his own seat at the head of the table. Only a select few of those present knew what this meeting was for, but as the rest saw the look in Ishamael’s eyes, they knew that tonight would be a night that would change history.

He took a deep breath, and began.

“Since our admittance into Gholgoth, we have not been secure. Not truly. We are isolated physically from Gholgothindeed, from the rest of the world. The Succession Wars scarred the Empire deeply, and we have spent a great deal of money, time, and effort recovering from that. Korronis in particular has cost us an extraordinary amount of money to repair, as you are all well aware. We have poured trillions of dollars into rebuilding and modernizing our forces. The good news is: that task is essentially over with. The military stands as it did before the Succession, with more modern and powerful equipment. Congratulations.” There were a few knowing looks traded among those who knew the purpose of this meeting; they knew Ishamael would soon get to his point.

“You may ask me, then, why we are not secure when the Armed Forces are the strongest they have ever been. My answer to you is quite simple: Doomingsland. The Imperium Doomanum, even under attack by Lord Dreadfire, is a massive threat to Imperial interests. Obviously they are hostile to Gholgothan nationsand we are now a Gholgothan nation. With minimal effort, they could cut off Imperial shipping and cause economic chaos. Very likely they could even bombard us from within their own country at their leisure. And make no mistake, gentlemen: Doomingsland, with reference to us, is the most powerful nation in the world. They are threatening enough in and of themselves, but no other nation has the power to loom over Imperial interests like they do. And it cannot be tolerated.” Ishamael leaned forward, and his eyes gleamed, transported by his words. “There is only one solution, gentlemen: war. And not a war such as we fought against Czardas, slowly and deliberately. Not a war like they fight in Haven, with armies and fleets blundering into each other and aiming clumsy blows at each other. We shall tear into Doomingsland with the force of a god’s fist, but with the sharpness of a tiger’s claws, and we shall rip them apart. We shall break them, and the Sentinels will get to see how the Imperium fights. Lord Dreadfire himself will watch as we prove our might to the whole world.

“Some of you knew before tonight that this was my plan. Your help has been invaluable, and I thank you all. Because of you, the necessary forces have been moved to Korronis, and soon can embark on their holy voyage. Because of you, we have a plan.” Ishamael stood and walked over to the projector screen, now displaying a map of Doomingsland. “The whole area is utterly inhospitable, of course. But better to fight through the desert than the mountains. And so we have our target. We will land in Iurarium, both along the coast between Cordoba and Iurarium, and southwest of Capua. This campaign depends on speed. We will smash local resistance, killing as many civilians as necessary. This is Doomingsland: nobody will care how many innocents we kill, and besides, in Doomingsland, everything is deadly. Just don’t waste ammo.” He indicated a broad swathe of the map with a gesture. “Driving north, we will attack Doomanum Superior from two directions, razing Mediolanium utterly. And for our final triumph, we will attack Urbus Doomanus. The prize of prizes. And all the while, Maximus will be powerless to resist: every man he takes from the west is a man the Sentinels do not have to fight. Thus, their reserves must be split in two directions. We can only hope the Freeks make gains in Crematoria, and hopefully take out some of the Doomani industrial facilities there.” Ishamael straightened and drew a long breath, smiling wolfishly as he did so. “Gentlemen, the time has come. And we have made our choice.”

“It will come to war.”

There was a long silence after he uttered those words. Then at last, General Yataghan, who had not been in on the plan, wondered aloud, “They have a number of distinct technological advantages. Can we beat the Aquila? The Imperator? The DR-83? What about Pestis Dei?” Ishamael sighed. “These have all been considered. Keep in mind, General, that we possess technology at least the equal of Doomingsland’s, and have had access to many of their weapons. I have confidence in our war machines as well as the men who operate them. Not to mention, you seem to be forgetting that this attack will catch them unprepared and hit them with overwhelming force while they are still trying to figure out what is going on.”

Some of the generals were not so sure about this, but they wisely kept quiet. There was little point challenging the Sacred Emperor when he was this enthusiastic about the campaign. And so Imperator Malustar, who had been kept in the dark about one point, spoke up about something else. “My Lord, who is to command the campaign? Yourself?” Ishamael grinned again, a predator’s grin, and replied with a tone oozing satisfaction. “No, Imperator. I have found another candidateone who has already won his place in the history books. I intend to go see him after this meeting and ensure his cooperation. You see, Imperator, I intend to give the command of the invasion of Doomingsland to Lord Rahvin.”

***

‘Rahvin’ is one of the most famous names in the Empire. Lord Rahvin began his career as an intelligent princeling, a member of Lucifer’s Inner Court and avid student of strategy. His studies paid off: he personally worked with Lucifer to create the plan to invade Czardas, which essentially determined Imperial invasion doctrine. The astonishing success in the war had made him an instant celebrity back home, and the Imperium’s poster boy. His distinguished military career continued into the Succession Wars, where he remained loyal to Lucifer and won a series of stunning victories against the rebels, sustaining minimal losses. He had been an iconuntil Ishamael’s victory in the Succession Wars had landed him in house arrest in Korronis.

It was some time after dark when Ishamael arrived at Rahvin’s manor in Korronis, guarded by dozens of Immortals. It was a silent place, now, gloomy and emptyexcept for Rahvin. Ishamael found him slumped in a chair, staring blankly at the ceiling. For a moment Ishamael wondered about his sanitybut any doubts of his lucidity were dispelled when the fallen prince abruptly lowered his gaze, staring at his captor.

“Ishamael. Divine One,” he added with a mocking twist of his mouth. “The Most Imperial Highness. You’re here because you want something from me. A public appearance, maybe? I’ll tell everyone how much I support your reign?” Ishamael smiled, barely visible in the gloom, and pulled up a chair beside Rahvin. “No, actually,” he replied. “I think you’ll find what I have in mind is a lot more entertaining.” Rahvin opened his mouth to make another sarcastic remark, but Ishamael forestalled him with a wave of his gloved hand. “I’m going to be blunt with you, Rahvin. We’re going to war. We’re going to invade Doomingsland. And I want you to lead the campaign.”

Most men would have refused the offer there and then, with a laugh. But this is Kregaia, where concepts like honor and glory are not outdated, but are codes to live and die by. And this is Rahvin, already a living legend, burning like ancient Achilles with the desire to carve his name into eternity. To him, this is the epitome of an offer he can’t refuse: the chance to lead an army that will invade the fearsome Imperium Doomanumand if he can defeat them, he will be a legend forever. So the offer is not really an offer at all, merely a foregone conclusion.

“I’ll do it.”

***

It was not long before the final preparations for the great crusade were set in motion. Millions of personnel were in Korronis for the occasion, quartered in the vast barracks lining the district of Eastport, having completed desert combat training courses. The logistical genius behind the whole thing was nothing short of staggering: task force after task force reassigned for some completely innocuous reason, delayed in Korronis while new bases were found...bit by bit the invasion force grew, until Korronis’s harbors were swollen with the largest fleet it had ever housed. Merchant ships from Slivan, Secutor, Tarsus, and literally every other coastal city in the Imperium, were contracted to deliver supplies of food, ammunition, fuel, and other military necessities. The great corporate factories hummed and roared with activity, turning out war machines and equipment at record rates Millions of people were involved in the forging of the great army...and yet practically nobody knew what was truly going on.

***

“It’s an amazing sight, isn’t it?”

The voice surprised Lord Rahvin, and he turned to see someone he had never expected to see again: High Admiral Ludo Anor, his second-in-command in Czardas and the Imperium’s best admiral. He smiled warmly and embraced his old friend, muttering as he did so, “I should’ve known they’d get you to sail this collection of oversized canoes.” Anor stepped away, moving to stand beside Rahvin on the rooftop of one of Eastport’s giant warehouses, overlooking the Straits and the colossal fleet drifting in the distance.

“Yes, it definitely is an amazing sight. The Doomies are going to shit themselves.”

“I doubt they’ll be so easy to intimidate. People can boast all they want about Czardas and the others, but the only real war we’ve had for years is the Succession Wars. Now we get to fight an enemy that’s just as tenacious, just as fanatical, at least as brutal and well-armed...fun, fun, fun.” Rahvin smiled at Admiral Anor’s sarcastic tone.

“It could be worse. If Lucifer were alive, this fleet might have been headed anywhere. Probably somewhere ridiculous, like Automagfreek or Praetonia...” He sighed and spread his arms to the afternoon sun, embracing the horizon. “It’s remarkable, isn’t it? Thousands of warships, the biggest fleet ever to be here. One of the biggest fleets in human history. And millions of soldiers, and thousands of tanks and planes...this is probably one of the biggest armies the world has ever seen. And nobody really knows where it’s going. When we leave, they’ll cheer and pray like they always do, but Ishamael won’t have told them we’re going to Doomingsland. Within days, we’re going to be trying our hardest to massacre one of our staunchest allies...and back home, nobody will even know what’s going on.” He laughed humorlessly. “Maybe they’ll never know. Maybe Ishamael will keep it secret forever. The families of the dead will just get a note that’ll tell them that the Imperium’s very sorry, but their husband or whatever died of food poisoning. Or a foreign attack. And we’ll be in Iurarium, killing, and killing...do you have any idea how many civilians we’re going to have to kill, Ludo? Not a million. Not a few million. Hundreds of millions. Every able-bodied man. Possibly every child. There is going to be absolutely no restraint in this war short of our no-nukes policy...shit, Ishamael would get rid of that if he thought it would give us the win. I would. And it frightens me. I wish we were fighting already. Maybe then it would be simpler.”

Anor had listened, with a raised eyebrow, to Rahvin’s monologue. He had never been so...philosophical before. His captivity had changed him...and Anor would have to be careful until he knew whether it was for worse or for better. “Listen, Rahvin, you’re worrying about nothing. The Doomies are never gonna see this coming. We’ll cut through them quicker than you can shit. We’ll be home by fall.” He repeated the phrase as if it were a charm to keep defeat away.

“We’ll be home by fall.”

***

At one in the morning, Korronis time, the great war machine moved out. The Straits of Korronis, linking the Gold Sea to the ocean beyond, were deep and fairly wide, but beyond lay layer upon layer of sea defenses such as permanent minefields and torpedo buoys, and it takes a few hours for the fleet to leave; thousands of ships cannot simply up and go.

With the fleet went the core of Imperial manhood. Millions of soldiers, alone; when one considered the number of auxiliary personnel, the size of the Imperial expedition was absolutely staggering. The mighty Apophis itself served as the flagship, and around it sailed the carriers and supercarriers and cruisers and all the ships of the fleet. The massive hulks of troop transports and supply ships sat near the center of the fleet, packed with soldiers or supplies. This war would require greater logistical organization than any Kregaian action in history; transport planes and ships and trucks were at a premium, and in addition to the normal needs of fuel, ammo, food, and other supplies, plentiful water would be a resource worth killing for out in the Doomani desert. This was not going to be an even battle, the soldiers knew. They’d had it crammed into their heads by their squad leaders for months. The Doomani would use the terrain, they would poison or otherwise deny oases, they would maneuver and elude the Legions. The solution: harden your heart, raise the five-armed cross of the Legions high, and bring utter terror on the foe. Civilians would not escape; nobody would escape from the horror that awaited the Doomani. This was total war, war for survival, and there would be no mercy.

Onward they sailed, through dawn and through the next day, and the next. It ploughed on, curving around a nascent storm midway through the voyage, while maintaining as straight a course as possible for Doomingsland. Over two weeks passed while, crawling along at a steady pace to conserve fuel, the great armada lumbered toward its goal. The course, unfortunately for the Doomani, was ambiguous; the route led them past Iurarium, true, but it was also a fairly steady course for Gholgoth, hopefully deceiving the Doomani into believing the great fleet was destined for combat against the Questarians rather than themselves.

On the sixteenth day after the fleet left Korronis on its historic and glorious voyage of wrath, the fleet’s right picket line brushed the edge of Doomani territorial waters.

The stage is set.

***

The summer sun beats down overhead. In the distance, the obsidian pyramid of the Sanctum of the Hierarchs squats at the edge of the Great Forum, and behind him looms the ancient mass of the Imperial Palace. Two million citizens of Korronis wait breathlessly for his words, and billions more tune in via radio and television, even live Internet broadcasts. His hands shake slightly as he feels the burden of his task: today he looks every inch the tyrant, the epitome of barbaric splendor, decked out in the ebony robes of his lofty post and ensconced within the gold-trimmed armor of Typhon, complete with the spiked Iron Crown sitting on his brow. He steps forward, flinging his cloak wide as he opens his arms, receiving the adoration of his people. Fixing his subjects with a stern gaze, he thunderously begins his speech.

“Subjects, citizens, allies, friends of the Kregaian Empire, I come before you today, not with joyous and pleasant news, but with dark tidings and word of looming conflict. It brings great shame to me that, in place of the news of unprecedented growth and national rejuvenation after the shock and chaos of our Succession, I must now announce a time of uncertainty, anguish, and hostility.

“My friends, the Imperium has always been the envy of nations. We are ancient, proud, and mighty; through just and sacred war we have risen to the pinnacle of world power and influence. While nations abroad have slandered us and spread horrible lies about us, we have stood proud and with honor, head and shoulders above the rest. It is nothing more than envy that inspires the hate that infidels direct at our Empire; we are strong, and the weak envy us. I have always thought, however, that nations to whom we have displayed nothing save friendship and trust could be relied upon in turn. Events of late have, unfortunately, convinced me otherwise.”

The Sacred Emperor’s grip on the rail of the Rostra tightened and his words rolled now like distant thunder, as he moved on to his next point, each word following from that before it like the sharp blows of the hammer upon an anvil.

“I would like to turn the attention of those listening to the Imperium Doomanum. Since time immemorial, when our Roman ancestors first set foot on Kregaia, we have regarded the Doomani as being of a kind with us, descended like us from Romulus, aware like us of the importance of religious and moral purity; we have aided them and they have aided us, in war and in trade, as in all matters in which governments are involved. Our two nations, I had thought, were quite similar, and so alike in terms of national interest as to be practically indistinguishable. This, regrettably, has turned out to be a sham.

“Ever since we left the CAD and joined our noble brothers in Gholgoth, Caesar Maximus has regarded the Imperium with distrust, with hate...as I have said before, with envy. We have been slandered in Doomingsland where before there was respect; we have been harassed in Doomingsland where before there was peace. The Imperium Doomanum is rapidly developing into a hostile power!”

The crowd growls in rage, the first utterance on the path to war.

“From Doomingsland, our trade by sea and air is easily cut by submarines and fighters; we are physically isolated from our brothers in Gholgoth. Maximus looms over us, brandishing his Aquilas and his legions of slaves both to threaten us and to ward off our justified revenge! The Imperium has been betrayed! The Imperium will not suffer betrayal! Not now; not ever! And since Caesar has taken the first step on the path to treachery and conflict, we shall steal a march upon the traitor!”

The crowd roared in approval.

“I have prayed, and I have fasted! I have invoked the gods themselves and conversed with them, in their glory! I have let blood, and I have offered rich sacrifice! And at last, I have taken the auguries, and my priests have taken the auguries, and the omens-every last one-point to the will of the gods: avenge your betrayal!”

The crowd roared again.

“No longer will we suffer aggression and slander from heathens, monotheistic fools! No longer will Caesar strut about using his vaunted legionaries as a crutch to prop up his insanity! No longer will the desert-dwelling vermin of the Imperium Doomanum hinder the growth of Imperial power and wealth! I will not allow it; the gods will not allow it! And so I have issued an order which you have all seen the results of: the assembly of a great army and fleet, here in the Sacred City itself, thousands of warships and millions of men strong. Perhaps of late you wondered where this vast armament has gone; days ago it left, and the harbors of Korronis look strangely empty. Wonder no more! Our sons and fathers have gone off to fight for the Imperium; into the devil’s den, the nest of evil itself: Doomingsland! And know this: even as I speak to you know, our attacks fall on the enemy, catching him unaware!”

The crowd roared yet again.

“For safety. For security. For justice. For power. For peace. For prosperity. For truth. For revenge. The reasons for undertaking this great venture are endless, my friends, but the best of all is that the gods will it. For so long, the Doomani have roared, ‘Deus Vult!’ as the prelude to their conquests; now we return ‘Dei Volunt!’ as our own forces fall upon the foe with all the force of justice and all the power of revenge! We shall show forth the wrath of the gods, and Doomingsland will be broken forever! And so we shall pray, and we shall trust in our warriors, led by none other than Lord Rahvin, so that where all have failed, the Imperium shall again triumph!”

***

“The keys to death and hell
The ailing kingdom doomed to fail
The bonds of sin and heart will break
The pilgrims course we’ll take
Quelling the Devil’s might
And ready for eternal fight
Aching limbs and fainting soul
Holy battles take their toll”
-Iron Maiden, “The Pilgrim”

"Ok, something is most definately wrong here..." grumbled Tribune Marcus Lucianus Fidelis as he went over reports of Kregaian ship movements.

"Almost as if they're planning something...against us," he got up from his desk, taking the compiled reports with him to show to his superiors.

Smartly dressed in a meticulous gold-trimmed black uniform, Fidelis oversaw geosyncronous satellite intellegence around Iurarium. It was his duty to report anything that seemed out of place to the people responsible for taking action based on that intellegence. A massive Kregaian battlefleet slipping into the Mare Doomanus and skirting Imperial waters certainly seemed out of place, especially after Classis Doomanus Cancer had vacated the sea in order to come up the Freekish southern flank around Ephesium.

The Mare Doomanus was, in effect, left unguarded, and there was now a very large foreign fleet sitting in there. The Kregaians, were of course, close allies of the Doomani; the only reasonable explanation Fidelis could come up with for their incursion was as protection for Imperial waters, a display of friendship. But that still left one nagging question: why then were there so many transports attached to the fleet? What possible reason could there be for ground troops to acompany the fleet?

There was only one explanation for that. No pagan soldier would ever have been allowed on Doomani soil, friend or foe, especially if they were there to safeguard that soil. The very notion was insulting. And of course the High Command had mentioned nothing to him of a Kregaian fleet coming to aid in the defense of Iurarium, although that wouldn't have been the first time they'd neglected to tell him something important.

There were simply too many questions here. He had to send it up the chain.

His immediate superior was an idiot, to say the least. How his incompetance had gone unnoticed for this long- and, quite simply, how he'd managed to survive his basic officer training -was downright baffling. Tribune Quintus Herminius, two years Fidelis' senior, should have been dead ten years ago, killed during one of the brutal exercises that characterized basic officer training. Instead, he was one of those very few examples of a poor Imperial Army officer.

Herminius' office was down the hall from Fidelis; the walk was swift but a strange feeling that something was about to go horribly wrong gripped Fidelis’ gut.

Walking right in without knocking, he found Herminius lounging back at his desk watching the games on his LCD monitor. Frantically sitting up, Herminius switched off the television, acting as if he were working.

”What can I do for you Fidelis?” he asked in a visibly annoyed tone

Fidelis dropped the folder on Herminius desk and replied, ”The Kregaians have positioned a very, very large fleet outside of our waters. This is a cause for concern and should be sent up the chain immediately…”

”I’ll be the judge of that, Fidelis,” responded Herminius, thumbing through the folder. ”This is clearly a defensive deployment, Fidelis. It is no cause for concern.” he growled back.

”I must respectfully disagree, sir…”

Herminius was losing patience. ”There is no problem here, Fidelis. Get the fuck out of my office. NOW!” he roared.

Fidelis obliged, turning and exiting the office. He’d have to try to get this up the chain himself…whether or not he’d be in time was another story. One thing was for sure: if something happened, Herminius would be rotting on a cross by nightfall.

“Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.”
-Macbeth

They’d been here before, the two of them: standing on the bridge of a flagship, hands clasped behind their backs, surveying the steely gray sea, with a fleet of thousands of warships surrounding them. But this wasn’t Czardas. Rahvin mentally berated himself for even making the comparison. It was a well-known truism that generals train to re-fight the last war, but Rahvin knew well how disastrous that could be: the Doomani could not have been more different from the Czardaians, and the Imperium itself had changed greatly since then. This was a new war…very new; Lord Rahvin idly wondered how long ago Ishamael had taken it into his head that Doomingsland had to go. The aristocrat turned abruptly away from the window and the gray expanse of sea and cloud, striding across the Apophis’s cavernous bridge to the BattleNet tactical display.

The situation was excellent. Damned near perfect, in fact. The Doomani had to know they were here, and not a single Aquila or UAV had so much as twitched in their direction from any airfields on this side of the continent. That meant one thing: they were letting the Kregaian armada pass. The gamble upon which the entire campaign was based had succeeded.

That was the problem.

“It’s too easy,” he muttered to High Admiral Anor, who’d followed him from the bridge window. “They haven’t made a single move, and there’s seven thousand ships out here. This is absolutely ridiculous. There’s no way they trust us this much.”

Anor chuckled. “Nobody trusts us. They certainly won’t after this little maneuver. It can’t be that.” Rahvin frowned in response, thinking. “What else could it be? What, are they asleep at their stations? Did Ishamael pay off some officer and not tell me? Or is the commander over there just an idiot?” He gripped the edge of the display, tightening until his knuckles whitened. Glancing at the display, completely devoid of Doomani aircraft or ships, Anor responded, “Sir, it’s not really necessary now to wonder why they aren’t doing anything. They can’t be luring us into a trap; if we sprung it, every installation in Iurarium would be flattened in minutes and they’d have lost any advantage. The only other possibility is that for whatever reason, they’re unwilling to try and stop us. And you know what that means.”

Lord Rahvin glanced at his watch. 12:15 PM, Korronis time. Right now Ishamael would be ascending the Rostra and beginning his speech. He sighed. His orders were explicit: enter Doomani territory and open fire before the Doomani tuned in to the Divine One’s speech and realized what the armada was there for. He looked down again. 12:16. And then he realized it wasn’t a question of doubt. Like it or not, Ishamael ruled the Imperium and had sent him here. Further, not only duty but history weighed on his shoulders right now…and if he wanted immortality, all he needed to do was give the order.

Speaking into the microphone mounted on his headset, Rahvin coldly ordered, “All ships, select your targets.” He waited five seconds, a vast amount of time considering the calculation power of the BattleNet, and then gave the order, firmly setting himself on the path to destiny.

“All ships…open fire.”

* * *

“And the Spirit of God moved over the face of the waters.”
-Genesis 1:2

* * *

The seas abruptly turned from an empty, silent gray expanse into a hellstorm of fire and thunderous noise, the unfathomable din of 3,000 warships launching missiles and firing broadsides at once. The flames of the depths of hell leapt from launchers and gun barrels, the inferno of war, as shells and missiles streaked through the heavens.

And at sea, now that the shit had hit the fan, all pretense was dropped. Planes were scrambled from carriers, circling in flights above the fleet like vultures. The war banners were raised and flown from the Kregaian ships, the black flags upon which was emblazoned the bright red five-armed cross of war. A mocking (and to the Doomani, blasphemous) proclamation was broadcast on all channels: Dei Volunt, Latin for ‘The Gods will it.’ Submarines spread out to look for traps on the seabed and continental shelf, with orders to destroy anything they found, while helicopters swarmed over the ocean, towing magnetic anomaly detectors for revealing enemy subs. And Rahvin watched it all from the bridge of the Apophis, conscious that with each passing moment, his name was written more and more indelibly upon the pages of history.

Anor had made one grave miscalculation in his first strike: that was, of course, the nature of the Doomani air defense grid. Following the Freekish invasion, all air defense networks had been put on full alert. This meant that the Imperium's extensive stockpile of nuclear-tipped surface-to-air missiles were all deployed for usage against an enemy first strike. Lord Rahvin was about to recieve a very rude awakening regarding his newest foe.

Along the Iurari coast, the sand seemed to open up in some areas as the doors of the underground vertical launch systems slide open, revealing their deadly payloads: flames spurted from the ground as the missiles were jetisoned from the tubes, rocketing high into the air at an astounding speed, turning towards the ocean. Amidst the night sky they appeared only as the lights of their engines, which gently danced across the blackness of the heavens.

Inhabitants of the small coastal towns were startled at the sudden launch of the missiles and immediately knew what was going on: Doomanum was under attack from yet another direction. Alarms and sirens blared in the town quarters, causing the men to dash to their homes to fetch their arms, and the women to gather their children and flee to the subterranean shelters. Anti-aircraft guns on the roofs of the houses swiveled towards the coast in preparation for the coming storm; Imperial Guard cohorts based out of the various small fortresses along the coast also went on full alert.

Then it happened: night turned to day. In the distance were a series of fireballs brighter than a thousand suns; even from a hundred miles away the torrential winds that resulted from the shockwave of the detonations were enough to knock over mailboxes and phonebooths, push cars back, and force people to take cover. The Doomani had known to switch their RADARs off following that strike: the resulting EMP would overwise had knocked them offline.

Just ten minutes into the war, the Doomani had initiated nuclear war with the Kregaian Imperium, albeit on a limited scale. It would doubtlessly take the Kregaians some time to realize just why all of their missiles had suddenly disappeared from existance, hopefully just long enough to allow evacuations of civilians along the coast to proceed unhindered.

The war in the skies had just begun; the heavens themselves would not go unscathed by Doomani wrath either.

The sudden detection of missile launched had allowed ACID to piece together very quickly what was really going on, and as a result, got the jump on Kregaian orbital assets, which Rahvin had neglected to unleash at the earliest possible moment as he should have. This would no doubt be a blunder that would cost him dearly in the coming campaign.

ACID's space assets immediately went to work in implementing the plan that had been developed in the event of a backstabbing by the Kregaians (the Doomani, of course, had planned for the eventuality; the Kregaians were, after all, pagans, and could not be trusted). Orbital anti-satellite weapons began deploying in massive numbers: brilliant pebbles-style weapons spat tungsten kinetic-kill vehicles numbering in the thousands at suspected Kregaian assets, making it virtually impossible for non-Doomani satellites to operate in the immediate area and giving breathing room for Doomani orbital assets. Of course, by their nature, these weapons tended to break their targets into tiny pieces: a side effect of this could be the dreaded Kessler Syndrome, which would make the space above uninhabital to both friend and foe.

The counter-attack did not end there: the Kregaian submarine fleet attempting to penetrate Imperial waters did not go undetected. The Imperial SOSUS network was monitoring their every movement, and when the Kregaians initiated hostilies, anti-submarine munitions were immediately put into action. Torpedos deployed from land-based missiles were fired at every Kregaian submarine: four per sub. Brought towards their target area at supersonic speed, the torpedo would be slowed by a parachute and fall into the water where its SONAR would go active and its engine fire up, sending it right towards its unsuspecting target.

Meanwhile, Imperial submarines operating on the Iurari coast, some fifty in number, began making their way silently towards the Kregaian fleet. They would make sure to stay out of the detection radius of enemy ASW patrols and shadow the enemy fleet; when possible, they would attempt to slip by and head out to open sea.

A similar response was initiated against the Kregaian fleet itself: thousands of anti-shipping missiles of various sizes were fired from land-based vertical launch systems. Smaller, supersonic sea-skimming missiles would concentrate on thinning out the enemy escorts. These missiles were the most numerous, and to the more poorly protected escorts, could prove to be a death blow with a single hit. Larger vessels such as super dreadnaughts and aircraft carriers were targetted by heavier anti-shipping missiles: The dreaded Quinqereme, utilized in virtually every naval engagement fought by the Imperium Doomanum, found its niche in this role. Propelled to an altitude of 120,000 feet, the missile would cruise at hypersonic speed above the range of most enemy air defenses and far below that of enemy satellite defenses, their immense speed making them nearly impossible to engage in their cruising stage. Once near the target, they would go terminal and dive their two-thousand pounds of explosive, which was packed behind a penetrative tungsten cap, straight into the decks of the enemy vessels at speeds exceeding mach ten.

ACID, in the meantime, sent up all of its assets in the area: close air support and ground attack aircraft would loiter some twenty miles inland at low altitude, prepared to pounce on the landing effort whereever it manifested itself, while the vaunted Aquilas and the newer Artratus would make their way out from the coast at a steady pace to engage the Kregaian naval air arm as soon as they left their SAM umbrella. ACID's numbers in this sector were simply staggering: over eight-thousand combat aircraft in the province, with thousands more strategic bombers based out of Doomanum Superior and Doomanum Inferior. The majority of these aircraft were air superiority fighters, such as the Aquila and the Atratus, although there was a significant number of attack variants of the Aquila as well as the Mekugian-designed AG-6 Ballista (ACI-6 Anser in ACID service), which would doubtlessly make life extremely agonizing for the Kregaians preparing to come ashore.

The Doomani had been caught with their pants down, but if the Kregaians believed they would be able to land unopposed, they were sorely mistaken.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Somewhere in Damnatium

The table went soaring through the command center, demolishing a set of consoles in a firey explosion. Furious, Maximus thrashed about, destroying all he laid eyes upon. All had fled the room just a moment ago at his command, for he knew the rage that was coming upon him. He had been betrayed once again, this time by one of his greatest allies. His friends in the immediate area were begining to dwindle in number. It was not that which angered him; it was the act of betrayal itself that had set him off.

Doomanum had done so much for Kregaia: this betrayal was simply unthinkable. His skin had turned several shades redder; a vein burst from his temple and his sword was drawn. He let out a mighty roar as he plunged his foot into another set of consoles in a swift motion, destroying them utterly and easily. He tore his foot from the shattered console, bleeding profusely. He began to simmer down: this was probably a counter-productive action, destroying one of his most important command and control facilities in a fit of rage.

Nothing could be done now; he'd already done the damage. Sheathing his sword, he surveyed the carnage and couldn't help but smile at his handywork. An entire square kilometer of computers, projectors, and digital charts utterly devastated in the space of five minutes. As the room began to fill with smoke, the sprinkler system activated. Seeing him finally in a state of serenity, his subordinates began to file in and survey the damage done by their Imperator.

"Fix this shit. I must speak with my brother Marius. He shall lead our glorious crusade against the pagans in the west," Maximus growled to the men in the room before turning and exiting, leaving a large chamber full of officers utterly stunned.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

High Command, Iurarium

The screams of former Tribune Herminius resonated about the courtyard as he was nailed to the crossbeam. Fidelis shook his head as he watched from the window of the office as his former commander was crucified before his eyes for his incompetence. The commanding centurion spat in Herminius' face as the beam was hoisted upwards and welded into place at the top of the vertical beam, leaving Herminius suspended in midair, his arms pinned to the crossbeam by nails and razor wire. A Legionary forced his legs against the vertical beam while his comrade took the industrial nailgun to the feet.

The sound of compressed air forcing the nail into Herminius' feet was intwined with the sound of the nail penetrating flesh, bone, and finally steel. He screamed as the nail penetrated; high above in the desert skies a pair of vultures circled. They knew a feast awaited them.

Standing at the foot of the cross was Magister Militum Marius Alexius Doomanus, the younger brother of Caesar and one of his most trusted generals. He looked up in disgust at Herminius.

"Shut the fuck up you fucking traitor. You're lucky I had enough mercy not to hand you over to the Inquisition for your crimes,” he said it in a low yet harsh tone.

Marius was soft-spoken, yet when he did speak he commanded the attention of all around him. He was a tall, well-built man with a commanding presence. He was more level-headed then his brother, the emperor, and this often served as a counter-balance to the sheer violence of Maximus’ personality. In this case, however, Maximus needed his best general to take command in Iurarium. That man, of course, was Marius. His first order of business was to punish those responsible for the clusterfuck that was the Kregaian fleet showing up on Iurarium’s doorstep unnoticed, and he had done that. He’d considered executing Herminius’ peers for not keeping a better eye on him, but realized that the mere association with that infamous scum would be punishment enough.

”Consider yourself fortunate, Herminius. You won’t live to see your name published in the history books as the man that allowed the Kregaians into Doomanum.”

"We are not the sons of God
We are not his chosen people now
We have crossed the path he trod
We will feel the pain of his beginning

Shadow fingers rise above
Iron fingers stab the desert sky
Oh, behold the power of Man
On its tower, ready for the fall..."
-"Brighter Than A Thousand Suns" by Iron Maiden

* * *

The flashes seared across the sky, turning the starry infinity into an expanse blazing sun-bright. Even the polarizing glass of the Apophis's bridge couldn't filter out that much light; it burned into the retinas of anyone unfortunate enough to be looking towards the coast at the time, forcing the great Lord Rahvin to spend a second blinking awkwardly to clear the spots dancing in front of his eyes.

"What the fuck was that?" he roared. "Analysis, now!"

"Sir, the Doomani have used nuclear weapons," a tech replied, stunned. "They've taken out the entire wave, sir."

"Godrods. Now. I want those launch sites gone, right the fuck now." The techs in the strategic warfare sector began typing feverishly, squinting at their screens, still somewhat dazzled by the nuclear flash. One of them smiled. "Launch sequence begun, sir. They're on the way." No sooner were the words out of his mouth than he blanched. "My Lord, the Doomani are launching kinetic weapons against the satellites. Thousands of projectiles, sir. That entire sector of space is going to be taken out in...ten seconds, sir." Rahvin gritted his teeth, his eyes smoldering. "Evasive measures...not like it'll do any good. And somebody get on the horn to CHARIOT; get some fucking anti-sat missiles up there, and keep firing until the enemy is all gone. In the meantime, have the sats on the other side of the planet start moving over here. I will not let the Doomani control space."

* * *

Far above, in space, Rahvin's orders were carried out, but to little effect. Kregaian space weapons, unfortunately, fired their godrods two by two; this meant that the satellites were not nearly done launching when the Doomani kinetic weapons overwhelmed them, tearing them into scrap despite the futile attempt to boost out of the way. Just like that, the entire high-orbit arsenal of Kregaian satellites, from commercial to strategic, was wiped out. Of course, that left polar satellites, low-orbit satellites, sun-synchronous, and the few satellites located at the Earth-Moon LaGrange points. However, the region of space directly over the CAD was now a deathtrap, filled with too much debris for any satellite to survive there, and the point had been made: the Doomani knew how to fight in space too.

* * *

Lord Rahvin turned back to the window and slammed a gloved fist into the bulkhead in rage. "How many godrods were launched before the satellites were destroyed?" Another tech piped up in a distracted voice, calling out "Forty-two. They're on their way now-"

From across the bridge, the picket officer interrupted him, shouting "Contacts! Enemy missiles, most coming in low, bigger ones at 120k feet." High Admiral Anor, silent hitherto, responded, almost without thinking, "Activate layered defenses."

* * *

However, words issued on a bridge are simply not fast enough in the modern world. That's why we have plans and computers. As the Doomani sea-skimmers came rocketing in, RAMs went into action, launched from practically every ship in the first and second layers of the fleet, their fragmenting warheads tearing the enemy missiles apart. As they closed in, CIWS systems activated as well, taking out many more. However, those that got through were simply too big for their targets, blasting apart or inflicting disabling damage on more than sixty frigates and destroyers.

The Quinqueremes, however, were a considerable threat...and one the fleet could do little about until it got in range. They moved too fast and too high for RAMs or AAMs to intercept, and so the core of the fleet was forced to simply wait...for all of a few seconds, given the speed of the Doomani missiles. They came rocketing down, hundreds of them, while the fleet calculated trajectories and relative speeds. Rocketing up came hundreds of sizable MIMS missiles, each exploding a powerful charge backed up with clouds of shrapnel; in their wake, even before the Quinqueremes reached the RAM's ceiling, came a storm of shorter-ranged missiles, timed so that they would reach the Quinqueremes just within their operational limits. Finally, with a still-significant Quinqueremes still in the air, CIWS went into action. In the brief half-second the guns had before impact, thousands of rounds were spat into the air, taking out a few more of the enemy missiles, but harmlessly bouncing off in many cases...and then, impact. The dreadnaughts fared well, with their thick (in the case of the flagships, damned near indestructible) layers of armor on the deck; however, no fewer than five carriers were shattered by the Doomani attack, their burning wrecks slowly falling beneath the waves.

Beneath the seas, the Kregaian subs came under a similar attack. Kregaian sensors detected the missiles as soon as they were launched, and once their trajectory was calculated it was plain what they were. Torpedoes from the subs were launched to intercept, rocketing with supercavitating propellers straight towards the enemy threat. The submarines barely had time for a second wave of torpedoes when the remaining Doomani torps hurtled into them. Most of the subs survived intact; however, a good 40 attack subs were destroyed by the assault.

Time for the counterattack.

From the launch tubes of the SSBNs, thousands of Pandemonium II missiles arced up at a higher trajectory than before, programmed now to arc practically straight up before activating a scramjet and tearing back towards the surface at just over Mach 25, making it one of the fastest missiles on the planet. They would scatter bomblets at approximately eleven thousand feet, an instant before the main missile slammed into its target and detonated six and a half thousand kilograms of high explosive. Now that the Kregaians could track where the Doomani missiles had launched from, the enemy emplacements could not hide, and had it not been for the Doomani air defense, every last one would have impacted to devastating effect.

The fleet, meanwhile, continued the bombardment, with the same targets. Massive shells from the dreadnaughts and supercapitals shook the ocean with the force of their launch, and swarms of smaller missiles rocketed away from cruisers and battleships and such; however, the true threat came from the Lepanto cruise missiles launched by the flagships; although its warhead was only a quarter of the Pandemonium IIs, its tungsten cap, advanced countermeasures, and extremely low trajectory made it perfect for destroying enemy hardened targets. The Lepantos hurtled away, targeting the Doomani nuclear SAM launchers, accelerating to over Mach 8 to prepare for impact. Finally, the submarines, satisfied that there was no threat from the seabed, spread out, resuming ASW duties as they would have normally done.

"Damage report?" Marius cooly asked as he strolled into the command and control center.

"We're not picking up five of their capital ships anymore, sir. They were carriers."

Marius nodded and studied the massive series of projector screens along the wall. Stroking his neatly-trimmed beard, his facial expression remained the same as a second volley of nuclear surface-to-air missiles was sent forth from their vertical launch tubes into the enemy's second wave of missiles.

That would be one more wave of enemy missiles rendered ineffective; however, he'd learned just a few minutes ago that several VLS blocks had been neutralized by Kregaian orbital weapons. The failure of the Kregaians to deal with the remainder of the launch sites indicated that the attack on their orbital assets had been successful.

"All right. Way it looks at the moment, the pagans can't touch us with their missiles. That means they'll have to close and and use their guns. Once they get within gun range, we can expect our air defense grid along the coast to go down fairly quickly. Until then, I expect everyone to strive to inflict as many casualties as possible on the Kregaian air assets," he spoke in a calm yet commanding tone, rather than the typical harsh, almost gutteral growl that characterized most Doomani commanders.

"How go evacuation efforts?" he asked his Imperial Guard liason, Legatus Legionis Titus Livius.

"Smoothly and effeciently, sir. We expect to have the entire coast clear of citizenry well before the Kregaians are able to put boots on the ground. The last of them should be on an outbound train by this evening. As per your orders, we've instructed our coastal strongholds to fight to the death. In my estimation, they'll only be able to delay the heathens a day at the very most," Livius responded, changing the images on one of the large projector screens with a remote control to display data on the coastal Imperial Guard garrisons.

"That is one more day we'll have to dig in, Livius," Marius responded.

He didn't enjoy sending good men to their deaths, but this was Crusade: their deaths would bring them martyrdom and glory, and most importantly, they would save the lives of their families and countrymen. Further inland, an enourmous defensive line spanning the breadth of Iurarium, from Iurarium proper to Capua, was under construction: another day of construction without being molested by pagan forces would be another day of unhindered progress. They needed all the time they could get, and in the grand scheme of things, the some eighty-thousand men manning the coastal strongholds that dotted the Iurari coast were nothing in comparison to the vast host under Marius' command. And that, of course, was next on the agenda,

"Speaking of which, Sulla," he turned to a nearby LCD monitor.

Displayed on the screen was a bald, broad-shouldered round-headed man of approximately sixty years of age, wearing the uniform of a Dux of the Imperium. He was, of course, Marcus Sulla, Dux of Iurarium, who should technically have been in command of this entire campaign were it not for Marius' presence. "How many have we assembled?"

Sulla's head turned, moving off screen for a moment. Whispering could be heard in the background. Suddenly, he reappeared.

"Five million Custodes have been activated and are now moving to their assembly areas," the man responded neutrally.

Marius nodded, evidently pleased with the number,

"We're expecting this number to double within a week. Reinforcements from Doomanum Superior and Doomanum Inferior are only helping our cause. The Sanctus Micaelis Line is also well underway. With the amount of manpower we have concentrated on that, it should be ready to withstand a concentrated Kregaian offensive within a week."

The Sanctus Micaelis (Saint Michael) Line was the primary defensive line against the Kregaians; it was, in fact, the first of two. In the event the Sanctus Micaelis Line fell, there was the Sanctus Petrus Line, which was in its early stages of being formed, running from Cordoba all the way to the mountains of Doomanum Superior.

"Sir!" came a shout from an aid, who ran swiftly up to the Magister Militum and crisply saluted. "The strike is being initiated on the Kregaian air cover, as you have instructed."

Marius nodded and motioned for his men to display it on the screen. The Dux's face was immediately replaced by a dark map, the edges of the territory traced in gold. Doomani units were displayed as a variety of symbols depending on their type in the color gold, while Kregaian units were similarly displayed in red. A shrill beeping noise began to ping, and seemingly out of the symbols representing the VLS complexes came a swarm of dart-like symbols representing missiles.

For the first time, Marius smiled. He was about to severely reduce Kregaia's ability to give her legions close air support.

Simultaneously, other bases launched a deadly screen of anti-shipping weapons to further complicate things for the Kregaians. As far as they knew, the inbound SAMs could have been more anti-shipping missiles. As a result, their fighters wouldn't know to get away from them until it became terrifyingly evident that they were the target...by the time that happened, it would have been too late to escape the pending nuclear holocaust.

Far away, days away, from lands where the Word of Christ wraps iron fingers around the minds of billions, across heaving oceans vomiting storms like poison onto the lands around them...days away, following the wind over the frozen northlands of a continent of appalling savagery and lust for power, over valleys and plains soaked with ancient blood, which indeed is spattered over this land of sin and sacrifice from mountain peaks to river valleys. Following winds weary of war, southeast to the dark heart of this forsaken empire, the City of Woe, the Throne of the Gods, a thundercloud on the blue firmament of the world, a stain on its purity. Mighty Korronis.

* * *

Four minutes ago.

Deep in the core of the Palace, in the dim cavernous enormity of the War Room, Ishamael stood on one of the observation platforms, a looming shadow in the black robes and armor of office, both trimmed with gold. His eyes glowed with the reflected light of a thousand LCD screens, flashing information. The room was massive, over a hundred feet tall and as big as a football field...and this was only one pit of the War Room. Rows and rows of stations, with sectors for every task the War Room performed. A massive tactical display, the size of an IMAX screen, dominated the far wall, showing the fleet and the coast of Iurarium in real-time, with a number of other views flashing on the sides and corners. The god-king surveyed the shadowy expanse, which hummed with activity as the Doomani and the Kregaians exchanged fire.

Abruptly, the screen flashed bright white, burning into the retinas of everyone in the room, who after all had been working for hours in darkness. The volume rose as techs turned to each other frowning, wondering what had happened...until one man, quicker than the rest, accessed the radiation levels via a weather satellite and shouted in stunned realization, “Nukes!” Ishamael stood speechless for a brief instant, and then ground his teeth together in fury. How like the Doomani. If there was one rule in international warfare that you did not violate, it was ‘never use nukes first’. He should have known better than to worship child-fucking sodomite idol-worshippers. A red haze gathered inside his skull. He would show them all to their false Savior soon enough.

Imperator Anton Malustar, standing at his right hand, cleared his throat respectfully before muttering, “As you may have heard, Divine One, the Doomani are using...” The Sacred Emperor cut him off with a gesture of one black-gauntleted hand. “I know, Imperator. So,” he inquired, his tone dangerous, “what do you think we should do?” Malustar blinked, and replied crisply, “My Lord, since our missiles are completely ineffective, I would have our fleet move into effective gun range.” Ishamael turned all the way around, eyes glinting angrily.

“Really, Imperator? Is that what you would do? Let me tell you what I would do. I would respond in fucking kind, and I would shower that coast with low-yield Ragnaroks until there’s not one fucking atom left on top of another. But since you would like to move closer, we’ll compromise. Order the fleet to move in, and then give them my permission to use tac-nukes. Hold off on strategic nukes. Do it, Anton.” The Imperator nodded smoothly, and then turned to issue the necessary orders...but just as he did so, a yell came from the strategic warfare section, “Lord Rahvin has requested godrod deployment!”

And so it goes.

* * *

Now.

The escorts on the outer reaches of the Kregaian fleet, both aircraft and smaller ships, were relatively unsurprised when the Doomani absorbed the Kregaian counterstrike and responded in kind. Calmly they began responding to the enemy missiles as they always had: RAMs and VLS missiles streaked up from their launchers to intercept, picking off the Doomani missiles, both SAMs and anti-shipping missiles by the dozens...while the crews and pilots responsible continued to be blissfully unaware that quite a few of those SAMs contained nukes.

Unaware, that is, until one of them detonated.

A squadron of Balefires, assigned to the airspace above the HDMS Sanctified Reclamation, a guided missile cruiser, realized an instant too late that one of them had been targeted by a missile. It was nothing more than a twist of fate that condemned them; their ECMs failed to completely jam the missile, and their counterfire missed by millimeters. They took evasive maneuvers, their afterburners activating and propelling them far away. Or at least, that would have happened, had the missile not detonated before they could move away.

A brilliant flash lit the sky, and for a long and terrible instant there was nothing else. But then it faded, and all ships could see that the fighters (and three other squadrons who had been flying in to help them) had been vaporized and the Sanctified Reclamation was being pummeled by a powerful shockwave. And the same word slipped from the mouths of thousands across the seas of Doomanum:

Shit.

And then the fight was on again, but twice as brutal.

The trajectories of the missiles became obvious; some were headed for the clouds of fighters, and it was these that seemed to be nukes. The rest were anti-shipping missiles, and it was lucky that the AA defenses of the Imperial ships were automated, or the shock of the crews at this second use of nukes by the Doomani would have spelled disaster for dozens of vessels. VLSs swarmed in the tens of thousands from the decks of capital ships, mixing with bulky MIMS missiles and slender RAMs, blasting apart the enemy missiles as the skies exploded in a fiendish fireworks display. The Kregaian aircraft hurled AAMs at the oncoming SAMs and then fled for their lives, straining to stay outside the range of the detonation. Several of the Doomani nukes actually detonated before they could be intercepted, destroying dozens if not hundreds of aircraft with each explosion, burning like suns in the heavens.

And at last, with no less than thirty-nine Kregaian ships slowly sinking beneath the endless ocean and with just over fourteen hundred Balefires completely vaporized, there was silence. It was time for the counterpunch...and this time the Kregaians had run out of patience. A single message was broadcast to all ships: Ar-Pharazon Ultoris, or, in English, ‘Avenging Destroyer’. The name of perhaps the most feared aspect of the blood-crazed Kregaian god of war, and the signal for ferocity unbound in a vague sense...and in this more specific application, the code to replace the incendiary/high-explosive warheads of the Pandemonium II missiles with Ragnarok tactical nukes. Even as the missiles stood in their launch tubes, robotic arms performed the quick switch between warheads, and after a diagnostic, the missiles were ready to go.

On the bridges of hundreds of Valhalla-class SSBNs, at precisely the same time, green lights glowed.

On the bridges of hundreds of Valhalla-class SSBNs, at precisely the same time, fingers smoothly opened casings and pressed the button.

From the bridges of hundreds of Valhalla-class SSBNs, at precisely the same time, electricity sparked along the length of the ship in a signal familiar to the machinery that formed the nerve center of each missile. Tubes opened, engines flared deafeningly to life, and nuclear missiles hurtled into the upper atmosphere, in a trajectory that would send roughly half slamming into the ground before detonating and half, delayed a few seconds, bursting into godlike suns.

Thousands of missiles. Thousands of nukes. Well over ten thousand, in fact. At a yield set to 70 kilotons apiece, spread out over the VLS cells, anti-air defenses, and essentially any Doomani installations in the area, the Kregaians fully expected anything remaining to be nothing more than a tomb. On top of it all, another massive wave of missiles from the fleet streaked in, timed four seconds after the nuclear detonations finished, to destroy anything left standing. High in the upper atmosphere, taking every care not to be detected, twenty-four B-6 Paladin stealth bombers, cruising at around 80,000 feet, ambled casually into Doomani airspace, over the coast of Iurarium. And as if that were not enough, the fleet began to move closer, crawling along nearer and nearer to the coast, as submarines prowled through the depths beneath.

Hell had been unleashed on the infidels. And there was plenty more where that came from.

* * *

The sun had faded in Korronis, slipping through the city’s shroud of haze into the stifling tomb of the horizon, and for some hours now the city had been sheathed in the false night of the Bloody City, a night empty of stars above and glowing with light below. It was some time past midnight, and in the Great Forum, a vast expanse of pale marble, the Supreme Pontifex of the Order of the Dragon, Cyrius Vua’kre, was conducting a great human sacrifice.

Cyrius was a hard man, in his mid-sixties and an aristocrat to his core. He could trace his lineage back through centuries of Kregaian history, to the family of Romulus and beyond to the kings of Troy. His family was one of the oldest in the Empire, and he never let anyone forget it. Even now, clutching the Rostra in bony hands and proclaiming the Truth to thousands of listeners, he stood ramrod straight and bore himself with the arrogance of a king. He sounded like one, too: words crashed and rolled from his mouth like waves, washing around the crowd of listeners and soaking into them as he spoke for the gods.

“Hear me, O Kregaia! All this afternoon I have prayed, and meditated, delving into the depths of my soul to find the words that I now speak to you. As the Holy Book states, “The truth cometh like a thief in the night and shall find thee unready”! I felt a stir behind me, and before I could turn, the great gods themselves whispered to me. And what did they say?

“They told me, ‘Strike down the great idolator and his nation of heathens, and mark the Truth upon their lands in blood.’ The omen is clear to augurs and laymen alike. Who could be this great idolator, one steeped in the depths of blackest heresy and chief amongst the devils of the Nine Hells? Who else, but that monster and mockery of human flesh, the man who I do not deign to call Caesar, for his Roman blood is perverted by centuries of sick and perverse worship: who else, but Maximus? And when that is clear, it is likewise clear who is the nation of heathens: Doomanum, that empire of false worship and detestable ritual. The meaning of the message is clear, my children! The gods demand blood, not merely that of captives but that of the Doomani themselves, a nation unconquered by any! The gods shall humble their ancient pride, and slaughter them like flies in a fire.

“What, then, must be done? What must we do, what must we all do to bring victory to our soldiers, fighting far from home? First and foremost: obey the will of the gods in all things. Pray for guidance and for resolve, and the Seven True Gods shall answer. Ask regularly the will of the divine beings, and if it is earthly guidance you require, seek the counsel of an Imperial official. You should all remember that soldiers will be needed in the war to come, and if you enlist now, you shall have all the chances you need, and more, to strike down the enemy on his own corrupted soil. Remember the words of the Holy Book, which prophesied this very war: “And the kings of men shall rise to oppose the slavers, the idolators, and the tyrants; and in the sands of endless deserts verily shalt thou find victory.” Finally, my children, and this is why I bring you here tonight: offer rich sacrifice to the Destroyer and the Dragon, that they reward us with victory and glory!

“Behold, below me; children of Doomanum, arrogant and bestial in their worship of the False God, taken by force from their homes! They have dared to live amongst you; now they will pay the price. They are drugged and await the judgement of the gods; a state we should desire for all Doomani! And if there are any Doomani among you, drag them into the open, send them to a temple, and have them sacrificed forthwith. The gods thirst, and the Doomani shall slake that need with their life’s blood!

“Priests! Begin the sacrifice!”

For a second there was silence as the drugged Doomani, chained to stone sacrificial altars, could only watch the white-robed priests raise bejeweled daggers over their heads as one.

Screams echoed across the Forum as the knives rammed down, slicing into the victims’ chests and sending their blood spurting into the sky with an arterial pulse. With a second blow, the victims’ throats were slashed open as well, spraying blood into the air in a hot jet. The priests watched silently as the Doomani struggled, gurgled through mouths filled with blood, and expired painfully, their souls descending already into the Nine Hells.

* * *

The Kregaian continent has a fairly simple layout of geography: mostly flat, whether tundra or plains, divided essentially down the middle by the Sanctus Mountains and the Gold Sea. The only overland passage (of any real size) between the frozen wastes of the territory of Kun-Dra in the west and Valgoth in the east was the great chain of valleys known collectively as Shield Vale. It was named centuries ago, when the Imperium ruled only part of Kregaia and the barbarians would launch fearsome raids from the north. The Cadian Gate, a fortress built at the mouth of the Vale, by itself stemmed the flow of barbarian invasions from the northlands into the southeast plains.

Over the centuries, things have changed...but things have stayed the same. The Vale is still the path between east and west, and the Cadian Gate, in the form of a vast network of military installations, still stands at its mouth. And among the many purposes it serves-research facility, testing ground, command center, logistics node-one of the most important is its function as the largest single training facility in the Empire. And on one field of one facility, Subaltern Metellus had begun beating his recently drafted reservists into shape.

“Line up, shits!” Subaltern Metellus barked. The reservists he had just today begun re-training scurried to obey. “Command told me that you all were a bunch of fuckin’ pussies, a crowd of fags and twats who would never fuckin’ amount to anything on a goddamn field of war. Obviously they were wrong. They didn’t fuckin’ say the half of it.” He strode up and down the perfect rows of Legionary auxiliaries. “Since your heads have all been up your vaginas, no doubt you’ll need me to tell you what the fuck you’ve been called up to do. The goddamn Sacred Emperor got tired of takin’ shit from the Doomani...and we’re at motherfuckin’ war! Right now the boatfags in the Navy are busy tradin’ missiles with their defenses, I understand...but before much longer, you pussies are gonna have to get face to face with the Christ-fuckers and fuckin’ try not to get your goddamn guts blown out.

"Most of you will fail in this task. Most of you will amount to nothin’ more than a fuckin’ stain on the sand when your comrades charge through your spilled guts to actually do something. My job is to make sure a fucking optimal percentage of you are in the second category.” A cruel grin spread over the Subaltern’s face. “You all are a bunch of reservists. You’ve been here before. But then you went and fucked around in your comfortable little civilian lives and here you are again. So now my job is to beat the ever-living shit out of you so that you’re ready to fight again. And let me tell you what you’re gonna be doing before much longer: you’re gonna be running out of a fuckin’ lander, with the beach gettin’ pounded to glass by the fleet and the fuckin’ heathens, and you are gonna spray the blood of the motherfuckin’ infidels all over the sand or, and make no mistake, I’m not kidding...you will end up fucking dead. Useless. Not worth the money they’re spending on your asses right this second. So. For the next fourteen days you are all mine. I am gonna tear your little tight pussies apart and you’re gonna squeal like the fags you are, but when I’m done you’ll be able to go toe-to-toe with a fucking Doomani soldier and win. Hear me, soldiers?”

“SIR! YES SIR!”

“Just tell me, who the fuck are you?”

“WE ARE THE LEGIONS, SIR!”

“Is that a fuckin’ fact. And who do you shits work for?”

“THE GODS AND THE IRON THRONE, SIR!”

“Fuckin’ right. And what would you say if I told you it was time to fuckin’ fight right now?”

“BLOOD AND HONOR, SIR!”

“Fuck yeah. Run around the training base twice and meet me back here. Be back in fifty minutes, all of you, or you’ll wish you’d never fucking been born.” The reservists set off, forming into an even two lines, jogging in unison at a rapid pace, bellowing war hymns. Metellus crossed his arms and smiled. They’d be well-prepared for when they met the Doomani.