Part 13: Endgame
Chapter 12: Endgame
It seems like just yesterday we were all armies of equal size, and now here we are...
Herr Zwiebel, ever so briefly commander of Smarmadonian forces, is now safely tucked away in Madagascar under heavy guard.
As for the escaped political prisoners from China,
Eight is clearly your simultaneously unlucky number.
Initiative goes to:
Jargonia! Make it count sir, make it count.
Their last ace played, Jargonian forces now found themselves surrounded and overextended, hemmed in from both sides by re-enforced Neo-Roman divisions.
With no alternative left to them, they awaited the inevitable...
Neo-Roman forces in Iceland, having caught the scent of their prey in far away Ural, moved swiftly to corner the remaining Jargonian forces
The last meaningful contingent of Jargonians occupied the territory of Ural. Advancing upon them, 13 divisions of Iron Legion soldiers, weary from war and eager to strike the final blow.
With the advantage of working in once Jargonian lands, Chief Medibot ordered his men south to secure the remains of what now remained of his once great snow fortress. There, he ordered the defensive walls hastily repaired with whatever slush could be acquired, determined to waite out his Neo-Roman attackers.
General Ironicus however, his forces well informed of the weakness of Ural's defenses, was prepared. He ordered his attack at dawn.
The Jargonians awoke to the sound of the alarm, as over their ramparts they spotted wave after wave of Iron Legion troops advancing upon them. Determined to hold their icy ground, they pulled back to within the walls of their frozen fortress.
It would prove to be a critical mistake.
From high above, General Ironicus' dirigible fleet, the Flying Sweater Puppies, deployed over the defender's stronghold and unleashed upon them a decimating wave of napalm. Within minutes, the once-glorious snow forts defenses were laid waste, and the Jargonian army exposed to their attackers.
For a moment, Chief Medibot was still. Then, slowly, he doffed his had, unsheathed his saber, and turned to his men.
"My friends," He said, "This is the moment. It is here that we, us fortunate few, shall pass through our mortal lives, and in to history."
Then, raising high he saber, Chief Medibot ordered his men to charge the enemy.
General Ironicus, from his vantage point high atop a snowy peak, could see below the final charge of his longtime adversary.
"Counter them swiftly," He told his commanders, "They shall not be spared their glory."
With a coordinated shift of lines, the Neo-Romans embraced their foes. The defenders, now attacking, smashed in to the Iron Legion center, and were swiftly outflanked.
It was there, in an empty field of snow, in a lost corner of Eurasia, in a swell of glory, the last meaningful resistance to the empire of Neo-Rome was swiftly silenced.
Their last hopes dashed, the last remaining active Jargonian force, facing a force ten times their size, was left no choice but to surrender and accept defeat.
The Great War had finally ended.
Neo-Rome held the field.
Coming Soon: Epilogue!