The sun beat down mercilessly on the parched earth surrounding Tortuga Fortress. The Lazican army, a tide of helmeted men and shouting officers, surged forward towards the seemingly impregnable stone walls.
Their advance was a chaotic ballet of clashing steel and desperate cries, a grim testament to the relentless pressure exerted by their commanders. The general, his face grim beneath his battered helmet, watched from a vantage point, his gaze fixed on the fortress's seemingly insurmountable defenses.
East and west, the approaches were treacherous; pitfall traps, cunningly concealed, dotted the landscape, promising a gruesome end to any who stumbled into their gaping maws.
"Report!" he barked, his voice barely audible over the din of battle.
A lieutenant, his uniform torn and stained with blood and mud, scrambled forward. "Sir, the eastern flank is holding, but losses are mounting. The traps… they are taking a terrible toll."
