Raising a Flag over Dazin Citadel

I kept a tight grip on the flagpole. I looked up to the piece of cloth waving unfurled, proudly about half a mithrin above my head. Here I saw a gold banner, bisected horizontally by a thick red line, and the Face of Barzea – albeit an abstract geometric representation of his visage – adorning the flag, impressed over the other colors. By now, Sorynn had been replaced with a stone-faced, no-nonsense conscript, baptized by fire. In his eyes I saw the distinct signs of combat catatonia. The Zarids call it “shell shock” while the Reblans diagnose it as “battle hypnosis,” and the Yggols dub sufferers of it “psychological casualties.”
“Whispers” as we called him, on account of him speaking largely in very hushed tones unless the situation demanded otherwise, simply stared towards the Dazin Citadel, which had only very recently – last night, as a matter of fact – finally fallen after repeated assaults from several infantry brigades, along with a squad of Twilight Knights. An Imperial Commissar stepped forward in front of me and my squad, and he snuffed out the leaf from his short pipe before dumping the remnants onto the ground with a few taps from his pistol. He then placed it in a satchel. He wore a long-flowing red cape and a peaked cap, his ears tucked in tight against the edges. His uniform was immaculate, although his left cheek had several stitched gashes on it.
“Are the cameras rolling?” asked the Commissar.
“Yes, Commissar,” said one of the media personnel.
“Alright, Nurian Squad, on me!” The Commissar rushed forward, and all of us followed. Cpt. B’Scorak, Oyi, and D’Dhenn were on his right, while Gir and Whispers were to his left. I was right behind the Commissar, carrying the flag. The cameras were following behind me, although they stopped to take a good, long, wide shot of us rushing towards the Citadel, itself a fortress of significant size. Its walls towered above most other buildings in the city, such as the apartment blocks. The structure was littered with large holes, carbon scoring, and the windows, portcullises, and murder holes were scored with burn marks. We ran across the plaza, liberally sprinkled with craters of various sizes, careful to avoid stepping in either them or tripping on the corpses of Xyphonites of varying size and stature, from the hinge-mouthed ones to the masked ones to the ones with the shields.
A cameraman followed us to the steps, and another crew was set up across the street that separated the Citadel entrance from the plaza. They filmed up ascending the steps to the large gates of the fortress itself, which had been blown open by a 300mm heavy howitzer that had been brought in to hammer the structure at almost point-blank range. The artillery piece still sat in the plaza, facing the Citadel’s front, its crew looking at us attentively, smoke from their tilic sticks billowing from a few of their mouths. Several other infantry squads, a war mech, and a tank and its crew also viewed us with great curiosity.
We entered the Citadel, where the lobby was littered with Xyphonite corpses. Erdellian bodies were noticeably absent: no doubt they were hurriedly cleared and placed in rooms the cameras were not allowed in. As we ascended the floors, we took care to avoid stepping on any corpse, or in any pool of blood. The stench was quite pungent, and difficult for even I, who by now was no stranger to such an odor, to ignore. As we entered the Citadel’s courtyard, we passed by a staging of various Xyphonite prisoners being brought out and forced to kneel, the cameras making a note to record their surrender, their hands raised and victorious Erdellian guard shock infantry pointing their rifles at them.
After about three or so minutes of travel, we reached the highest fortified tower of the Citadel, its walls overlooking most of the urban landscape of Dazin, the global capital of Usora, perhaps the largest planet to fall to our forces in this grand assault on the Covenant. At the time, none of us foot soldiers knew why they suddenly and mysteriously were sapped in strength, but all we knew was that theirs was a nation in total disarray, and we dealt the death blow, or so it seemed. The circumstances in this matter, however, did not matter a single iota to us, and to me in particular. I was most concerned with not looking like a fool live in front of the whole Empire.
“Good job, comrades,” said the Commissar. “Cpl. Bryndaryn, plant the flag, signal to All Creation that this victory is ours, that this world is ours, that a center of xeno savagery has been conquered!”
“D’Dhenn, Whispers, help him, make sure he doesn’t fall down,” ordered Cpt. B’Scorak.
I climbed up on the wall, my feet on the very edge. I must have been at least two or three hundred mithrins up. I fought my fear of heights, aided by D’Dhenn and Whispers, who gripped tight onto my great coat and belt. I crouched slightly to keep balance, stuck the flag out over the edge and into the air, and waved it back and forth several times. Cheers and “ura’s” rang out in the plaza below, and there was faint whistling and applause. I planted the flagpole on the wall, where a mechanism automatically hooked into the stone and kept it affixed, firm and unmoving aside from the proud banner waving in the wind.
At this time, the flagship of the fleet orbiting Usora, the Saint Oroi, appeared from the upper atmosphere. She blocked out the sun, her horn sending out a blaring, wailing noise, signifying our triumph. Then came a war cleric, who wore a long-flowing white and gold robe over his combat uniform. He carried a large Sigil of Erd-El in his hands, in the form of a staff, and as I dismounted the wall he took my place. He raised his hands and the staff above his head, and preached a blessing. His comms were connected to a broadcasting system echoing his voice all over our personal comms as well as in loudspeakers across the city. The staff began to glow, signaling that the Promise of Erd-El has finally reached this alien world.
“Good job, Corporal,” the Commissar said to me.
“That’s about done it then, eh?” uttered B’Scorak. Oyi drank from his personal flask full of Tsosho, and he offered me a sip: I politely declined, smiling as I shook my head.
“You’re a film star now, Keleon!” said Gir. D’Dhenn laughed and patted me firmly on the shoulders.
I looked at Whispers, who only stared at the flag forlornly, silently, not even breaking eye contact to glance back at me or anyone else.
“Hey Whispers, are you okay?” I asked.
“Just tired, I guess,” he said in a very low voice, his eyes fixated on the Face of Barzea.
Category:The Weekly