This was very bad news for quite a few reasons. Firstly, it meant that the 60 or so formations (plus or minus the people (such as necromancers) commanding them) were completely blocked off from reaching their allies. Second, they were massively outnumbered, as even the ranks of the undead paled in comparison to the sheer volume of fanatical zealots that had responded to the new Sultan’s roll of the dice. Lastly, they were expecting this Sultanate force to try and stomp them out with everything they could muster.

You know how some especially dangerous religious fanatics can be; always wanting crusades and jihads, or just the extermination and/ or enslavement of anyone who looks, thinks, or acts even remotely different from them. Well, these people that the roughly 60 formations of Darksolian soldiers were going to fight were all that and a bag of chips (crisps, for my British readers). That was why they (the Imperial Soldiers, not the Sultanate ones) were entrenching the ever-loving hell out of their position, preparing to hold their ground for as long as the coming storm forced them to.

…

“My Lord, the troops are in position.”

“Very good. Now, let us see the cowardice of these evil men.”

The encirclement of the Darksolian soldiers in their taken town had been completed with ease. Despite the Imperials being said to have supernatural powers, there was no evidence of such things. Besides, Magic was heresy, and even if they did use it, it would just be more ammunition for the extremist faction of the Solinaye Church to use against the invaders.

“There is a heavy stench of death and decay in the air that increases the closer our men get. I suspect that the rumors of them corrupting the dead to use as warriors were true after all. Look at their men, standing stock still even as the wind buffets them. No normal man would be able to endure such things. They must be unholy constructs formed of the darkest magics.”

The commander of the whole Sultanate force nodded sagely in response.

“Yes, yes. They must all be culled to the last. I order that these forces, here, here, and here, make a full attack towards the captured town. Our faith will allow us to punch straight through their pathetic corpse-men and seize the town once again for the glory of the New Sultanate.”

…

A day later, and the only thing that had changed aside from the date and time on the clock was that the Sultanate was now down a few thousand men. On the opposite side, the defenders in the captured town had lost not even a single soldier. Well, they did have to raise the undead that had fallen, but did the ‘death’ and raising of an undead really count as a loss? In this author’s opinion, no, no it didn’t, so the tally of the battle was now Darksol 7,951 to Arbiana 0, and the score against Arbiana was rising even now.

Remarkably, the Sultanate’s commanders did not seem to learn their lesson and ended up trying again at the same time as last but on a different day. The last time had been a fluke, they reasoned, but now the Sun, the light produced by Golden Solinaye himself, was shining down on them. Surely such an omen was proof that they would succeed this time, no?

…

Day 7 of the siege came and went with the Sultanate commanders now starting to lose hair and getting increasingly stressed out. By now, they had stopped sending men into the meat grinder and had settled on starving their opponents out. Was not there no need to throw men away only for there to be nothing to show for it? Why let people die in vain when they could simply wait for their opponent out and then pounce when they were weak? However, they decided to be magnanimous and offered an olive branch, or what they considered to be one, to the defenders.

This would not go as planned.

…

“We have an offer of surrender!” bellowed an Arbianan who sat atop a horse. He was just outside of arrow range, which was a safety measure to, well, keep him safe. Who knew what the barbaric Europans would do if they could get their hands on him, after all?

From the defensive line held by the Darksolians emerged a single man. He did not look to be a mage of any kind. Instead, he looked more like a man who had served in the military long enough to be considered a career soldier. This was not optimal, but it would do.

“I regret to inform you that we cannot accept your surrender as we lack the needed facilities to hold them all.” The soldier yelled back.

“… our surrender?” The Arbianan asked aloud. Surely the Darksolians were not so stupid as to think that he was surrendering his own comrades. “No, no. You see, I am demanding your surrender!”

The career soldier laughed in response.

“Yeah, that ain’t gonna happen. We have a good idea of what you’ll do to us if we yield, so we’re gonna have to give that whole offer of yours a hard pass.”

“But you will die regardless!”

“Everyone and everything eventually dies, my man. We just would rather choose where we die, and we choose to die here, standing and fighting, if we must. But, well, we know we’ve got something coming for us, so you and yours had better pack up, or else your feel the true wrath of the nation that yours managed to piss off. Now get back to your tent and tell them this. We will never give up, we will never surrender and we will hold the line until either we die or you do.”

The messenger’s face tensed up in disdain before he rode back to the main camp. After he got back and delivered his message it was decided that once tomorrow came, they would throw everything at the defenders. This, they reckoned, was to be these mongrel dogs’ last night on this world.