"Gods, look how tall they are! The scouts weren't exaggerating when they said the towers touched the very sky itself!"

Those were General Pertus Zu Kobalt's first words upon crossing the Gate, marveling at the towers that stretched as far as the eye could see. Towers of glass that reached into the sky like fingers grasping towards the heavens. Though the awe he felt was somewhat undercut by the irritating sunlight reflecting into his eyes. Oh well, he supposed that he'd get a better look later. Preferably when the sun was a tad lower.

And look at how much metal was around him! Metal poles, metal carriages, metal birds flying high above, even the barbarians taken prisoner so far had bits of metal on their persons. True, a good deal more around him was made of smooth stone, and there were buildings of glass as far as the eye could see, but it was strangely the metal that stood out to him the most.

Still, the reports understated the sheer immensity of this city. His wyvern riders reported they could see no end to the city's sprawl from atop their mounts. He could hardly imagine what the walls for a city so grand would be like. He had been riding for twenty minutes at full gallop and he had yet to hit a wall or divide of any kind.

This was no city. It was a megalopolis as the scholars and philosophers would describe them.

Dismounting his horse amongst the controlled chaos of a hastily established forward camp, his men raced back and forth laying the groundwork for a command post. A process made infinitely slower by the presence of so many metal carriages along the roads that the workers had to work around for the moment. Dead and dying barbarians were dragged out of the way to clear up space. Some camp followers were already striping the dead of all they had before tossing them into makeshift piles.

Pertus frowned at the act. He knew he had been quite clear to all those coming through the Gate.

Any man found looting the dead or taking the wares left behind by fleeing merchants before the immediate area could be secured were to be flogged. While not legionaries themselves, their actions could encourage the less reputable among the auxiliaries or the weak-willed among the legions that orders were merely suggestions to follow.

Waving over a nearby centurion he directed him to have that collection of camp followers flogged as an example to the others.

Pertus refused to have his advance falter because some weak-willed men saw something shiny or took a liking to a barbarian woman and needed to take his time with her before returning to the front. There would be time enough for such indulgences, but they will not happen in the middle of battle.

As the camp followers were dragged away, pleading their innocence at the top of their lungs, his gaze shifted to the wounded taken to healers who were just now arriving in large numbers.

The general frowned as he looked at the collection of legionaries limping their way to them. One held his arm while his shield had visible holes in it, no bigger than pebbles. Another walked behind him, supported by his comrades, a hand against his stomach as if his belly were about to fall out.

He'd heard about those sorts of things. In the opening moments of the invasion his vanguard encountered a handful of barbarian wizards who used small, metal wands with handles on the end to kill several of his men before being cut down themselves. They still laid beside the mages, his men too scared to move the wands from where they fell out of an overabundance of caution in case a curse befell them for touching a barbarian wizard's tools.

Once the situation was more static, or at least the battle lines were, he'd have Godasen and his cabal of mages look them over.

But beyond that his forces have encountered no real pushback in the couple of hours they have been here. He was already hearing the mummering of troops questioning if the city was even defended at all. They cut down dozens of barbarians, hundreds maybe, if in the opening moments, yet no one (bar the wizards who were already here) met their advance and the dead started to pile up. And the ones they captured so far were so meek and submissive, one good wrap on the back of the head was enough to cow them. This is expected in women and children, but grown men?

It had gotten to the point where he even heard one of his centurions wonder aloud if these barbarians were even smart enough to fight.

Fools. Pertus knew better.

When he first arrived in the colonies for his first command they said the Lizardfolk of the jungles were mere beasts. Simply plan your actions if you were facing a horde of wolves, he remembered a legate telling him.

That same legate was, a short time later, ripped to shreds when his forces got surrounded by a war party of the lizardfolk while on a punitive expedition and cut down to a man, their corpses hammered into the trees along the jungle's edge as a warning to others.

There was no such thing as 'too stupid' to fight. Merely different ways and means of fighting.

As if to prove his fears correct, reports were already starting to come in that his demi-human auxiliaries and vanguard units were starting an assault upon a nearby bastion the barbarians were using for shelter. True, its architecture was strange according to the accounts and didn't match the style of the towers around them, but stone walls were stone walls.

What a conundrum.

Pertus could, if he were so inclined, pull on the proverbial 'leash' on the demi-human forces and have the fortification encircled and isolated rather than letting them waste their lives trying to assault a stronghold, but such a move would take time. The time spent dispatching a courier to the one in charge of the demi-humans, the time for the minder to reestablish control in the heat of battle, and the time needed to encircle the structure in the first place.

And in all that time the barbarians would be allowed to fortify themselves further. Gods forbid if a tunnel network connected it to other currently unknown bastions, allowing the defenders to pool their strength without exposing themselves to attack.

No, for now it was better to just let the more bestial demi-humans do what they wished for the moment. Regardless of what happens, he benefits. If they breach the stronghold and slaughter the defenders to the last man, then the problem will solve itself and they will be deployed elsewhere. If they breached the walls but get slaughtered by the defenders, or fail entirely, then their blood will be an acceptable price to pay for information on how these barbarians fight.

The most important thing for now was that he needed to push as far and as fast as he could before a true defensive line could be established against him. Urban fighting always favors the defender, and without knowing the means by which these barbarians fight, he can hardly blindly assault them.

In the midst of his musings he noticed the standard of Italica held by a collection of men beside one of the buildings; a storefront of some kind. Inside was the Count of Italica himself, looking at something Pertus couldn't see from this angle. Curious, Pertus approached the Count, passing the guards and careful to avoid as much broken glass littering the ground as he could before reaching the nobleman.

"Remarkable craftsmanship," Court Formal noticed the general's arrival and showed off a golden necklace with a ruby attached to the chain. "How much do you think this would be worth? A hundred, maybe two hundred, denarii?"

"Already talking of coin?"

"Simple curiosity," the Count explained, looking at his own reflection within the jewel. "If possible, I'm interested in taking several of these jewelers into my service. I have no doubt my daughters would love these sorts of trinkets."

"Certain of victory, my lord?" he asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Not to the degree as some," the Count shook his head, gesturing beyond the perimeter. "The way they are talking would make one think the battle is already over and our standard was being raised all across the city. Are they deaf to the sounds of war horns in the distance?"

"Is that all they are saying?"

"I heard some talking of the value the slaves will bring," the Count motioned to a small line of men, women and children being led through the Gate in chains. "I would say that while they don't look well built for menial labor, perhaps more domestic pursuits are their forte."

Truthfully, Pertus's biggest concern was the strangeness of the whole engagement thus far, beyond the obvious. He was assaulting a city, a megalopolis, from within said city. Even when he takes the city, he'll be under siege before long.

How do you besiege a city where a magical portal allows for constant reinforcement and resupply for the defender that is completely beyond the capability of the besieger to disrupt?

By that logic, how does one break a siege where the besieger is in the midst of their home territory and can constantly bring in their own reinforcements and supplies to extend the siege indefinitely?

It might devolve into simply brute forcing their way through. Pertus fully expects the first wave to fail. As will the second, and the third, and the fourth after it. But if one feeds enough meat into any battle, they'll eventually win. Still, even the more bestial demi-humans aren't that dim-witted to keep charging to their deaths.

Proper motivation will be-

"My lords," a courier raced in, his hurried steps crackling against the glass, and knelt before Pertus. "My apologies, but our forward troops have encountered the enemy."

"Finally," Pertus nodded to himself while Count Formal dropped the gold chain back into the glass case he took it from. "Where?"

"The northern advance, my lord," the courier stated. "The fifth cohort is engaging a barbarian shield wall. Progress has slowed to a crawl in these narrow streets. The barbarians are armed with an assortment of maces and clubs, but they also seem to be using some form of… smoke to disorientate our forces."

"Smoke?" Pertus gestured to the courier to elaborate.

"I don't know what else to call it, my lord. The barbarians are throwing small metal cylinders into our lines that expel a white smoke. The men were saying that their eyes started to burn as the smoke blew over them."

"Burn?" the Count questioned, his expression growing grim.

"Ah… irritated I mean, my lord," the scout clarified. "It's not combustible, or at least it doesn't seem to ignite when a flame is exposed to it. But the others were yelling that the stuff makes their eyes burn as if something were thrown into them. Eyes watering, hard to breath, harder to see. It's making it impossible to advance further or push the line."

'Wonderful. Smokers,' Pertus mused to himself. "How many barbarians are in that line, approximately?"

"Seventy or so, my Lord, it's hard to tell with all the smoke."

"Then send word to the second wyvern corps to fly over and smash that shield wall from behind," the general ordered. "But make damned sure they know to stay clear of those metal birds in the air. Gods know we already have our own hands full just taking this city, no need to enrage the wildlife as well."

"Yes, my lord!" With a curt bow, the courier raced off.

"Smoke?" Colt raised an eyebrow to the general as the courier made his way to the wyvern riders.

"I've seen connections like it before," Pertus explained to the count, "the Zeinab people use poison smoke in a similar way, though they tend to use them with glass spheres rather than metal cylinders. The battlefield is already deadly enough without poisoned smoke blowing about in every direction."

"Agreed," the count nodded, having returned to fiddling with the gem in his hand. "I expect a long day ahead of us-"

A series of war horns blew around the makeshift staging area. An attack was coming.

Without delay, centurions started bellowing out orders to form up along the street, covering all avenues of attack so they would not be caught unaware by a flanking maneuver. Men dropped what they were doing to assemble while camp followers raced behind the establishing lines to stay clear of the battle. Pikes leveled out, testudos clanked into place, and missile troops readied to unleash a flurry upon the advancing foe.

Approaching the newly established line were a collection of… metal carriages and wagons?

They rolled forward, as space permitted, through unknown means. Atop them stood men in green clothes angling what looked like bolt throwers, yet he could see no bolts readied. More green men walked alongside the wagons and carriages, all of them carrying some sort of… crossbow? Staff? They held them as a crossbowman would hold his weapon, but they looked more like thin cylinders than staffs. They reminded him of the wizards from before in a way.

Battle would soon be joined. Yet this would not be the battle.

There were a few hundred men, maybe a thousand a most, approaching his line. Given the size of the attack, or lack thereof, this was no doubt a probing assault. Not a push to break the line, but to see how the legion responded. What else could they hope to achieve against a rapidly solidifying line of several thousand with mages, monsters, and beasts of war mixed in-between?

Still, he didn't like the look of those bolt throwers. At their current range, they could start punching through some of his ranks, breaking up his legion's formation, maybe even killing a few wyverns before they could ascend high enough.

He did not like that at all.

And it seemed the legate on the line agreed with him. Another horn blew and a wave of demi-humans charged forth in a loose formation. Their charge would either stall the barbarian advance or check it if they were-

RRRRRRRRRRRRrrrrrrr

A deafening roar like a dozen horns rang out for all to hear. A shrill series of tones and caws that caused pain to flare up in Pertus's teeth. While he quickly covered his ears in a vain effort to escape the alien sound, a dead wyvern slammed into the side of the glass tower above him. Bloodied glass fragments rained down on him, shards digging into his skin as he tried to balance covering his ears and keeping the glass from cutting something important on his person. The count fared little better, taking refuge inside the structure again with his guards covering him with their shields.

Loud, almost rhythmic clicks, followed. The demi-human advance against the defenders ended in bloody silence. They did not break so much as it simply stopped when the last one fell to the ground, their flesh shredded apart.

Without pause, the unseen magic started to tear through his troop's ranks. Neither shield nor armor seemed to protect his troops. Like a hot knife through butter, it cut and sliced through rank upon rank with ungodly speed. His men died in their dozens. Every tick of the clock another group fell, corpses laying upon one another in bloodied piles.

As a legate attempted to command the legionaries, a loud crack preluded his head exploding in a shower of gore upon the men he was leading.

Another louder crack from somewhere above their lines (from a man perched inside a metal bird!) was followed by a centration's head exploding next, his body crumbling to the ground like so many others.

Order began to collapse as more and more men died in similar displays, to say nothing of the continued assault by the barbarians' magic.

Some men broke ranks and were ripped apart, some held their ground but died in fiery explosions. A few hid behind some of the abandoned metal carriages, their metal hides seemingly the only thing capable of providing some form of protection to his exposed forces. Even then, bits of metal were chipped away at and his men were still killed by these barbarians' unseen magic.

One crossbowman, one of many missile infantry who had taken refuge in the buildings beside the advancing barbarians, managed to get off a lucky bolt into the leg of one of the dismounted green men. The barbarian dropped his staff and let out a pained cry as he fell to one knee. The legionary was then shredded into little more than stringy meat moments later when the green man's comrades focused their magic upon him.

Other displays of futile resistance mirror similar results.

A legionary attempts to stab into the vest of a green man, but his blade failed to break through the material and he is killed where he stood.

A lance of cataphracts, returning to the camp after hearing the horns, wheeled around on their steeds to smash the line, their lances leveled. The only injuries they caused is from the corpses of their steeds smashing to the green men's lines from the momentum of their charge.

Leaping out from behind a metal carriage, a legionary sinks his blade into the exposed throat of a green man, only for him to be cut down moments later by his foe's vengeful comrades.

An imperial battlemage throws a fireball at the advance, setting a few barbarians on fire, but as some roll on the street to put out the flames the mage is singled out and rendered into little more than bloody pieces.

On and on it went. Petty resistance brutally crushed in a manner Pertus had never seen before.

Cracks.

Explosions.

Cracklings.

Blood.

Death.

Devastation.

Three legions….

A wyvern falls in battle to a metal bird in the sky, its body impaling itself upon a metal pole, the rider nowhere to be seen.

The demi-humans were the first to route, their handlers dead.

The men began to waver next, orderly retreats turning into stampedes as legionaries and auxiliaries alike trampled upon one another to escape the carnage.

Three… legions….

Some simply sobbed on the ground as the world became little more than a hail of unseen magic and death.

Explosions echo from the distance, implying a similar fate befalling his advanced forces.

With all this going on, did he even have three legions anymore?

Crack.

Bang.

Retreat.

He needed to bring some semblance of sanity to this retreat so they could at least fall back in the vague image of good order, lest they all be cut down as they ran.

"Sound the horns to fall back!" Pertus cried out to any who would hear him, "have the drums beat to retreat back to the Gate! Now!"

Several horns blew, signaling a general retreat. Not that many could hear it over the sounds of carnage and mayhem. The back ranks seemed to be the only ones who heard the command, breaking their formations to quickly march back to the Gate. As for the rest…

Another wyvern smashed into the ground, its scaly hide riddled with bleeding holes.

A green man threw a rock between one of the last standing links of the testudo, shortly exploding right under their feet.

This position was lost.

"Lord Formal, we must fall back!" Pertus raced over to the Count, the man stared blankly at the carnage alongside his guards. The general shook him, "my lord!"

Formal blinked, his senses returned to him, and looked away from the devastation "…yes," he nodded in agreement, trying to ignore the maelstrom around him. "…yes, you are right, general. This battle is lost. But what of the wounded?"

"Anyone who isn't already with the healers at the main camp are lost," Pertus grimaced at the thought of leaving so many brave men to such a fate. But the line was almost broken, and he had many thousands more men to think about. "We need to draw in the battle line, concentrate our forces to break this… hellish advance before we're rolled back beyond the Gate entirely!"

"Damn it all," Colt Formal swore aloud as he and his retinue followed Pertus and his men out of the building's far exit, through a stretch of jagged glass. "How could this have happened?"

"If I knew that…" Pertus winced at the sight of the carnage, the wagons and carriages wheeling ever closer.

"What sort of devilry and black magic are we facing? This-"

CRACK!

"My lord!"

Pertus froze as his face was caked in Count Formal's gore, the man's torso torn open while his body thrown into the arms of one of his equally blood drenched retinue. The guards formed a hap dash schiltron to keep any further attack at bay.

For what good it did.

More cracks followed.

Pain flared in Pertus's chest before he even heard his armor groan under the force of an attack. Thrown unceremoniously onto his back, all the air kicked out of his lungs, he watched helplessly as one of the metal birds cut down another wyvern rider in seconds with the same unseen magic the barbarians were using against his troops.

As he laid there, the rest of the count's guards falling one after another, Pertus looked to the epicenter of the pain in his chest. Upon inspection, he saw a small pellet embedded into his plate, laying right above the part of his chest that was the epicenter of that unseen force that threw him to the ground.

Groaning as pain swelled across his abdomen he was now more than ever certain that his decision to enchant his chestplate with the most expensive protective magic he could find was well worth the cost.

Buuururr
That loud horn came from a metal… wagon? It was large enough to be a wagon dragged by a score of oxen, but it moved on its own through unseen power like the rest of the barbarians' things.

A small block of pikemen who had survived the assault until now, yet had not fallen back, swiveled to meet the thing's charge. Their polearms bent and broke upon the wagon's metal skin, while the men were then crushed beneath its mighty wheels or thrown asunder by the sheer mass of its charge. Crossbow bolts and javelins from men still hiding within the buildings bounced off its sides.

Slowing to a stop, men poured down the small ramp clad in green with bulky vests upon their chests in a similar vein to the ones marching beside the other wagons, each armed with the same staffs all the barbarians seemed to have. Even this close he could hardly see what was happening, feeling men crumpling to the ground with little bloodied holes in their armor as a whistling noise buzzed around them.

Wait…

He looked again at the pellet in his armor, no bigger than his finger.

Was that… it?

Three legions, the assorted might of nobles across the Italica province, and scores of demi-human auxiliaries, were being felled in a matter of minutes to… metal pellets shot from staffs?

How could things so small be so deadly?

Pertus had little time to rationalize his situation as some of the barbarians rushed over to him. Before he could even demand to know what they were doing to his forces, language barrier be damned, he was flipped onto his belly and held to the ground as they bound his hands together in metal shackles.

It was at that moment, the sight of his men scattering in every direction, dropping to the unseen magical assault, or being shackled similarly like himself, that Pertus knew that not only was the battle lost, but their foothold would soon follow.

As he was picked up and dragged into one of the metal wagons he knew it would only be a matter of time before word of this… catastrophe reached the fortifications around the Gate and from there Alnus Hill. The defenses would have to be strengthened a thousand times over to even have a chance of resisting this kind of magic. More trenches, more walls, more ballista, more catapults, more troops, more everything.

Look at him, being thrown into the back of a horseless carriage and still all he could think of was war.

Still, there might be a single silver line to the situation.

Off the top of his head, Pertus could note no fewer than five additional legions who could be quickly redeployed to aid in the defense of the Hill once word of this catastrophe reached Godasen and the others.

They will have to succeed where he failed.

At the very least, they will fare far better than his men did.

After all, while he might have failed, surely a force four times the size of this one, stationed in entrenched positions alongside siege engines, thick walls, and with the attackers forced through the narrow passage of the Gate, they would be more than enough force to keep these barbarians at bay, their unknown magics be damned.

If not, then what in the Gods name could possibly stop these men in green?