The Rivington Advance - A thrilling sci-fi war story, infusing magic & technology
A short story from the unreleased series "The Spirit of War"
Good Monday everyone! Hope you are doing well this October. Thanks to Ian Cattanch’s writing school, I’ve been able to pump out a lot more content than I thought I was ever going to do! Every Monday, I will be showcasing a short story for your pleasure and entertainment.
Without further ado, enjoy.
"The Rivington Advance"
The frost-draped grass crunched by the footsteps of the advancing Rhondrillian forces. The forestry scattered their formation, yet they remained expertly organized by platoon commander, Brun Jal’Gar. The hulks and the hulk-bred linemen ensured the safety of the soldiers marching behind them thanks to their titan swords, and thanks to the trees providing cover from the stray bursts of munition fire. Hot steel rang against the face of their wide swords and the bark of the mighty oaks, a short-lived bout from the united guilds of the Federation. It was a test, to find chinks in their defenses, but proven futile thanks to the commander’s seasoned formation making the most of their landscape. Even while scattered, the linemen proved essential to protecting their forces.
However, that did not stop the screeching cries of the shells that rained down! “Incoming!” Captain Y’jar shouted. Rhondralli’s was prepared.
“Platoon, halt!” ordered Jal’Gar. The army froze stiff. The blood and the hearts of the brave men and women pumped with an abundance of adrenaline as the screams of the bombs grew louder and louder. Before the shells even reached the ground, the commander shouted in a valiant defiance, and with astute timing “Counter!” At his command, the cryo-shock samurai crackled the air with their long, whip-like swords. The blades shifted in lightning speed, and the edges smote down the artillery. Their blades left trails of frost and mist in their wake, rendering the enemy payloads useless as they were each cleaved in two. Dozens of these warriors blessed by talents and cybernetics were evenly positioned throughout their forces, tasked with the vital job to keep everyone alive. Once the barrage ended, the commander shouted, “Forward, march!”.
Thus, they marched, with great trust in their leaders to guide them to victory. They barely managed several paces before the screeching returned in a second barrage. “Platoon, halt!” It was essential they stop before the shell's land, to allow the samurais to properly conduct the dances of their blades. “Counter!” The whipping blades cracked and sliced the air in multitude once more.
Out of the dozens of bombs, one got through. The failure of that samurai allowed hot shrapnel to pepper its dozen victims, himself included. “Medic!” The ones conscious screamed for aid, clinging onto their blood and their lives.
“Forward March!” The commander yelled. They must press on to meet the Federation, even if some medics, war priests, and injured fall behind. There was no time to dawdle. No time for respite. They either make it passed the tree line, or they become meat for the ravenous artillery.
A few yards in and they were already ordered again to stop, “Platoon, halt!” The scream of the bombs returned again. This act was starting to feel familiar by now. “Don't you want to see your god-damned kids again?! Counter!” Jal’Gar rallied, the samurai flung their edges with frustrated grace, emboldened by their leader. The instinctual fear of death may never be fully snuffed out in even the most seasoned soldiers, despite the breakthroughs in magic and science to bring back the fallen. This did not trivialize war, no. In fact, it became all more crucial who the winners were, who gets to rule, and who gets ruled over. Who gets to be indebted, who gets to be free.
It requires talent, and an extreme level of focus to time the motions of your arms as a cryo-shock samurai. Even with the cybernetics, the guidance system of their helms, and the hydraulics of their armors, it still was not enough. Luck still had a factor. Two more missed their targets, resulting in another explosions of fatalities. “Forward, march!” The army moved. More medics fell behind, hastily making use of the nano serums to patch the wounded. Even the dead were given this treatment, the marvels of science able to restore all the vital functions of all the various races that played in this war. The priests required time to pray the spirits back into their respective bodies. All this precious time was borrowed by the frontline forces. Meanwhile, guns, blades, bombs, spell books, wands… all were aching to confront the Federation, aching for payback of the injured, thirsting for conquest of the crucial port town, Rivington. They made progress through the vast tree line, and finally could see the edge of it. Yet, thanks to the constant bombardments, this march felt like miles.
“This is the final barrage!” The weary soldiers finally heard the words to raise their spirits. “Get ready to sprint your legs off! Platoon, halt!” the samurai gripped their blade handles as the whistling drew close once more.
“Counter!” Jal’Gar ordered the cryo-shock samurai once more, conducting his army like an orchestra, this time with perfect success.
“Magi, get in position!” Captain Y’jar added. The spell weavers ran up to the samurais, the blades men, the linemen, and the blade guards as ordered. “Enchant!” The wizards and sorcerers raised their hands at their melee combatants. A supernatural energy emanated various glowing hues as the spells blessed these soldiers with magical strength, endurance, shielding, but most importantly, speed.
“Get ready!” The moment was inches away. The jets of the sabatons and their packs glowed and hummed as their legs braced. Every blade held a shimmer of the early winter sun, not a single one remained sheathed. After the final spell weavers concluded their conjuring, and the last shell was disarmed, Jal’Gar finally released the long-awaited command, “Platoon… charge!”
A loaded spring popped. Their bodies vanished at the blink of an eye. The cryo-shock samurais lead the charge as they closed the distance. Nearly a thousand yards, covered in seconds. Ahead of them was their goal, the enemy army, sheltered thanks to their own lineman. The choreography would be masterful, if one had the eyes to see them dance. Their hyper reflexes and agility, granted by the magics and their own tech-suits, allowed them to weave around every whizzing bullet, plasma bolt, and elemental spell sent their way.
The federation hulks and their tower swords were forced to brace, but were no match for the unity of Xin and Rhondrillian might. The once sturdy barriers, even their plasma protection, cracked at the strikes of the samurais’ freezing blades.
Science and magic, working in perfect harmony.
“Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.”