The Confrontation Part 3

The crescent moon hung low in the sky, casting faint silver light over the rugged coastline of Sardinia. The jagged cliffs shielded a secluded cove where the two Elysean frigates, Shadow's Edge and Seafarer, were anchored. The larger ships of the line, Elysea's Pride and Lionheart, continued their bombardment of Fort Cervo in the distance, their cannon fire masking the movements of the landing forces.

General Berthold stood on the deck of Shadow's Edge, his arms crossed and his face set in grim determination. Around him, soldiers moved quietly, their boots muffled against the wooden planks. 

Berthold turned to his second-in-command, Captain Armand, a stout man with sharp eyes and a calm demeanor. 

"Are the men ready?" Berthold asked.

"Yes, General," Armand replied. "The first wave is prepared to disembark. We've secured the sailboats to ferry the cannons and supplies ashore."

Berthold nodded. "Good. The success of this operation depends on speed and silence. We can't afford to alert the rebels before we're in position."

He turned to the troops assembled on the deck—five hundred men, their uniforms darkened with soot to blend into the shadows. Their faces were stoic, their weapons and gear secured to minimize noise. Behind them, small cannons, crates of ammunition, and barrels of ammonium nitrate were loaded onto the sailboats tethered to the frigate.

"Listen closely," Berthold said, his voice cutting through the quiet. "This is not a fight for glory or recognition. This is a mission of precision and discipline. Our brothers on the ships are risking their lives to keep the rebels distracted. It's our job to ensure that distraction is not in vain. We move quickly, we move quietly, and we hit them where it hurts. Understood?"

A chorus of muted affirmations rippled through the ranks.

Berthold raised a hand and pointed toward the shoreline. "Let's move."

The first wave of soldiers climbed into the sailboats. The boats, powered by long oars, glided silently toward the shore, their dark hulls blending seamlessly with the shadowy water. Berthold sat at the helm of the lead boat, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword as he scanned the shoreline for any signs of enemy scouts.

The cove was narrow and sheltered, its rocky cliffs forming a natural barrier against prying eyes. As the boats reached the shore, the soldiers disembarked swiftly, their boots sinking into the damp sand. They moved to secure the area, their muskets at the ready.

"Clear the perimeter," Berthold ordered in a hushed tone. "We can't afford surprises."

Scouts fanned out, disappearing into the surrounding vegetation. After several tense minutes, one of them returned, giving a silent signal that the area was secure.

"Bring the cannons and supplies ashore," Berthold commanded.

The next wave of boats arrived, carrying the first of the small cannons and crates of ammunition. Soldiers worked in near silence, hauling the heavy equipment onto the beach and covering it with tarpaulins to minimize its visibility. The ammonium nitrate barrels were handled with extreme care, their deadly contents too valuable—and volatile—to risk mishandling.

As the final boat reached the shore, Berthold turned to Captain Armand. "We need to establish a staging area. Find a defensible position close to the fort but out of sight."

Armand nodded and gestured to a group of officers. They unfolded a map of the area, illuminated by the faint glow of a shuttered lantern. Berthold leaned over the map, tracing a path with his finger.

"There's a cluster of trees here," he said, pointing to a spot less than a mile from the fort. "It's close enough to stage the cannons for the assault but far enough to remain hidden. Use the natural cover to conceal our forces."

"Understood, General," Armand replied. "I'll lead the advance team."

By the time the soldiers reached the designated area, the first hints of dawn were creeping over the horizon. The trees provided ample cover, their dense foliage shielding the troops from view. Soldiers worked quickly to establish the staging area, digging shallow trenches and camouflaging the cannons with branches and leaves.

Berthold stood at the edge of the camp, his eyes fixed on the faint silhouette of Fort Cervo in the distance. The sound of cannon fire from the Elysean ships continued unabated, a constant reminder of the distraction that made their covert landing possible.

"Status report," he said as Captain Armand approached.

"All cannons are in position," Armand replied. "The ammonium nitrate has been secured, and the men are ready for further orders."

Berthold nodded, his mind racing with the logistics of the assault. "Good. Have the engineers prepare the charges for the gate. We'll move at nightfall."

"Yes, General," Armand said before turning to relay the orders.

As the day wore on, the soldiers remained hidden, their movements limited to avoid detection. Scouts reported back periodically, confirming that the rebels remained focused on the naval bombardment. Vittorio and his men had yet to realize that the real threat was now less than a mile away.

In the staging area, the engineers worked methodically to prepare the ammonium nitrate charges. The barrels were fitted with fuses, their deadly contents carefully measured to ensure maximum effectiveness against the fort's reinforced gate.

Berthold inspected the preparations, his expression unreadable. "How long until the charges are ready?" he asked one of the engineers.

"By nightfall, General," the engineer replied. "We'll have everything ready for deployment."

"Good," Berthold said. "Make sure the men know their roles. This assault must be flawless."

As the sun dipped below the horizon, the soldiers gathered for a final briefing. Berthold stood before them, his voice steady and commanding.

"This is it," he said. "The moment we've been preparing for. The rebels think their walls will protect them, but tonight, we'll prove them wrong. Stay focused, stay disciplined, and follow your orders. Victory depends on each and every one of you."

The soldiers responded with quiet determination, their resolve unshaken despite the risks ahead.

As darkness fell over Sardinia, the Elysean forces prepared to strike. The naval bombardment continued, a relentless cacophony that masked the sounds of their final preparations. Berthold drew his sword, its blade gleaming faintly in the moonlight.

"Move out," he ordered.

The soldiers moved as one, their footsteps muffled by the soft forest floor. The cannons were hauled into position, and the charges were loaded onto makeshift sleds. Under the cover of night, the Elyseans began their march toward Fort Cervo, their eyes fixed on the prize that awaited them.