Shouts the pair to one another across the valley?
Just kidding. I’ll assume they’d discussed that at some point before the battle.
“Ah, a classic pincer maneuver! It’s as old as the book. Brother, do you remember that one time we were playing Eschec and I pinched half your army? Well, you still won that game, but it was certainly a close call. Weren’t those the days?”
After a few moments gazing wistfully into the distance, Baldur turns to the Ram group and says. “We shall follow the Bull Group into battle. We shall attack them from the rear, after the men-of-arms. Charge in the standard formation at my signal. Never fear men. We have the advantage, and we shall be victorious.”
Walking away from the group and looking into his pocket, “Yes, I know your speeches are better, but frankly your current voice doesn’t project very far.” Týr chitters angrily. “Oh, don’t take it so personally.” Baldur and Týr argue like brothers until the evening, when the army splits up and silence falls until the following morn.
In the combat, Baldur shall lead his group, attacking with his sword. He has no particular target in mind.
*With the signal given each of the bearers lift their standards from the grass and unfurl their identifying banners. The men-at-arms quietly crest the top of the southern hill and descend its northern slope into the shallow valley. Next the woodsmen come into view over the top of the hill, jogging forward in an untidy mob a little over twenty yards behind the spearmen. Finally Hrothgar appears, mounted and fully armored in heavy plate, his crossbow nestled in his lap and his axe’s shaft resting against his right shoulder.
On the other side of the field Cyrus, Cutter and their peasant group appear atop their hill, descending briskly towards the Shedlunds. Baldur and Naimar’s group follows in their wake, forming a long winding column of disorganized serfs bustling into the valley.
Hrothgar’s men-at-arms are spotted first. Calls go out into the dark as the Shedlund soldiers bunch up reflexively at the spying of an approaching enemy. The elder Roland’s response is immediate and firm, his booming voice halting his men’s panic at once:* “SPREAD THE LINE! SPEARS TO THE FRONT!” *He turns in his saddle and gestures to the third, non-noble horseman, who nods in return and hurriedly digs through his pack for a moment before producing a wooden horn. He puts it to his lips and lets out a loud blow.
The junior noble is riding up and down the line screaming at the men.* “FILL IN THOSE GAPS! FILL 'EM UP!” *The spearmen have gathered on the southern side of the formation with the pikemen stepping forward to take their place behind them. The hornman’s call continues into the dark.
It isn’t long before the Ironhall forces approaching from the north are spotted. The elder noble doesn’t hesitate.* “SQUARE UP!” *This is clearly something they’ve drilled extensively; the soldiers file into triple rows perhaps twenty five men wide, facing outward in all directions, each about three feet apart from their fellows. Those with shorter spears take a knee at the exterior of the formation, bracing for impact. Within moments the Shedlund forces have assumed a tidy square with the three mounted figures sitting in the center of the formation. The horn blast continues, pausing only for its blower to take breaths.
Bull group is the first to make contact; driven forward by Cyrus Faramond’s roared commands they collapse against the northern side of the pike square, the first row immediately almost entirely decimated on the ends of Shedlund spears. The serfs hesitate, those in the front only driven forward by those behind them. Here and there a pikeman is pulled down but they sell their lives dearly. Soon a no-man’s-land about five feet wide has formed between the serfs and the enemy soldiers, with the disciplined pikemen refusing to break formation and the serfs refusing to charge. The horn continues.
Hrothgar’s men-at-arms arrive moments after Bull group. The first row of soldiers lose their shields against incoming spearpoints but they keep moving forward until the length of their formation is right up against the enemy’s southern square wall and the two groups descend into a brutal and chaotic melee. Hrothgar himself rides into the melee alongside his men, bowling enemies over with swipes from his massive weapon. The horn continues.
There is a response.
From the north, at an unsure distance, there is a long, slow horn blast answering the Rolands’.
“Damn!” Spits Cutter. “Well, we figgered there’d be more of 'em!”
Ram group is driven around their fellows and led by Baldur personally into the western spearwall where they fare little better than Cyrus’ men, except perhaps at the northwestern corner of the square where the peasants manage to break through the no-man’s-land and directly engage the pikemen. Naimar, perhaps reluctantly, joins Baldur in combat. Harrow calls out to the embattled Faramond. “He’ll be killed!”
It is difficult to measure losses among the chaos but it is certain that the two peasant groups have taken considerable casualties. In the break between their lines and the enemy’s there is a short trench of piled bodies, many of them squirming, still alive, and trampled underfoot when their compatriots are driven over them. The roar of combat and the screams of the injured are deafening.
Seconds after the combat had begun there is the plodding of hooves as Choke returns with the cavalry. The lights stay back, circling the action at a distance. The heavies move to the east where they line up and charge the last of the square’s sides and suffer horrendous casualties at the ends of pikes. The weight of collapsing horse carcasses splashes pikemen aside and the surviving heavy cavalry break through and engage. The Rolands continue to bellow encouragement to their men.
Minutes pass, painfully, as the battle goes on.*
“Where are those Arcadians?!” *Roars Harrow as he observes the battle.
Soon Ironhall’s momentum is lost and the combat seems stalled. The northern and eastern pike walls hold strong. The southern line is mired in close combat with Hrothgar’s men-at-arms. The western wall has buckled beneath the heavy cavalry’s assault but few of the horsemen remain alive.*
“Perhaps we should sound a retreat.” *Harrow offers reluctantly.
As if in answer a peasant calls out to his master.* “M’lord!” *His hand is pointed eastward.
Barely visible among the dark treeline at the end of the valley is a mounted figure, slowly picking its way through the grass towards the battle. Opek stops and turns, lifting his sword toward the forest. There is a great cry as the pirates emerge from cover and run towards the Shedlund’s east line, javelins in hand. Their double volley is deadly; nearly all of the surviving pikemen and heavy horsemen are killed by the attack. The Laughing Dogs pour into the square’s now-exposed interior where they engage all four lines from within.*
“Cyrus!” Calls Cutter. “This is our chance!” *The pair ride around the combat and into the opening alongside the pirates. Cutter spurs his horse hard and drives at the junior Roland, the Nutcracker extended forward towards its target. Moments before impact he windmills the wickedly-spiked weapon into the noble and the two are both sent to the ground among the combat, their horses vanishing a they’re pulled down with their riders.
Cyrus leans forward on his horse, hovering inches above the saddle. He rides by the elder Roland, using willpower to successfully score a blow, his sword driven straight through the noble’s chain and piercing his side, only to be ripped free a the Faramond passes before circling around. The Roland falls from his horse where he is set upon by Arcadians and butchered.
Opek doesn’t enter the melee himself. He rides towards Sir Harrow and Henry Faramond who are watching the battle from the base of the northern hill.* “Ten minute behind- a multitude of peasants. We are on anvil.” He looks back at the chaos; with the fall of the eastern lines the entire square is beginning to collapse. “Broken anvil.”
*The light cavalry and woodsmen can hardly contain themselves and, without orders, rush in to get in on the slaughter before it’s over.
Cutter, Naimar and Baldur all survive relatively uninjured but have lost their mounts. Hrothgar alone remains horsed.
Sir Harrow could not be more pleased.* “If they meant to catch us between two blocks they have failed. Look at what we have done! We’ve got a wolf by the ear! I say we press our advantage and engage whoever else Shedlund sent down that road.”
Cyrus roars gleefully at the carnage, and will butcher any remaining Shedlund soldiers. If there is time to do so, Cyrus will recover the elder Shedlund noble’s sword.
“There’s more coming, lads! Cutter, recover their standard and bring it to me!” Cyrus will attempt to gather the Shedlund battle flag before the second group of Shedlund soldiers arrives. Cyrus will attempt to ignite the Shedlund flag, holding it in his left hand as he charges, instead of a shield. “Gather 'round, Bulls! There’s yet more Shedlund graves to be filled!”
Get my iron men reformed, then. And as many Arcadians as possible to recover their javelins.
Hrothgar sighs. “Timing could have gone better on this one, I didn’t want peasants butchered on set pikes - that’s just a waste. But that’s conscripts for you. Now it’s our turn to give some back.” Louder: “Now it’s our turn to give some back!” waves axe.
About 30 of the men-at-arms have survived the battle.
About 55 of Bull group has survived.
About 60 of Ram group has survived.
About 180 of the Arcadians have survived.
All of the light cavalry have survived.
All of the woodsmen have survived.
All of the heavy cavalry have been killed.
There are still perhaps 100 surviving enemies, most of whom are injured. Unless an order is given to take them alive they’ll be killed within the next few minutes as the victors pick among the carnage. An additional 15 or so enemies have been taken prisoner by the Arcadians.
The men-at-arms file back into formation with four rows of about seven men. The Arcadians need no encouragement to recover what javelins they can.
“Right. We should’a charged from one direction an’ then from the other only once the bastards had committed.” Offers Cutter.
Hrothgar is met by a roar from his gathered troops.
To Harrow:
It’s your call here. Do we offer Shedlund’s forces a chance to surrender to us, and use them as we see fit in future matters, or do we let our forces mop them up?
House Faramond has no skin in that one way or the other. But Ironhall seems like he might be the type who’d want to leverage these forces in any future negotiations with Shedlund. After all, he spared Lord Wilfred, though, that, of course, was a matter of nobility, whereas it seems any one who would have been of any real use to us is already taking a dirt nap. Also, there’s always the matter of where to put all them, and the resource expenditure at keeping them alive.
So as I said, your call.
“If a hundred trained pikemen may be willing to turn coat for their lives, I say give them the chance - let 'em lay down their arms for now and talk about it later. We have a few extra berths we didn’t have half an hour ago.”
Get everyone left back into their units and space them out again. Hit the enemy from three sides when they get here and I doubt conscripts will stand that for long. If Opek’s dogs are ready, they can line up in front - not as fodder, but to javelin the enemy, pull back, let us take the enemy charge if they try it, and then they can circle round the melee. When they’re in position and the enemy engaged with our other foot troops, the Arcadians and the woodsmen can have at them. Again, the light cavalry to mop up once the enemy break and run.
Hrothgar will stay horsed but will be in there laying about him when the going gets hot - his men-at-arms have earned a show of willingness, and he’s in iron. Just need to make sure there’s support close by so he doesn’t get mobbed!
“Well met!” Baldur cries out, winded. He orders his group into a loose formation and to hold until further orders. [del]Riding[/del]Walking up to check on his brother, he hears him conferring with Cyrus.
“You speak true, young-brother. It is not our decision to make.” He waits patiently for Harrow to respond, occasionally checking on his pocket where Týr rests after an exciting battle.
Sincerest apologies for the considerable delay. The game should be back in full swing shortly.
:Sohan is tiring of holding her bow, the anticipation of shooting an arrow is killing her:
Our story began miles away in the Eastern Provinces. Castle Hammerfall, the Scar Fells, Shoalbrook, the Broken Jaw and the acres of swaying winterwheat, all of it seems a distant memory. Turbulent Bunic politics have swallowed up the Faramonds as it does so many things. The party, a loose confederation of the forgotten, the downtrodden and the dishonored, has already lost one of its member to the Mists that first sent them westward, the Mists that have pursued them even into the bosom of civilization. Here they have learned of bastard sons and demon-slayers, of fey-touched weapons and fey-forged bracers.
Shedlund and Ironhall are fading stars in the black. Wherever their petty squabbles take them it’s clear Tiribunus is a tarnished crown. Perhaps the age of the Plainsfolk has passed and it will be the Farpeoples and Arcadians that inherit the world. For now the Faramonds have thrown their swords in with Ricnan Melanaeus and it has brought them to the blood-soaked slopes of the eastern Greatwood. The first of Shedlund’s forces, led by members of the Roland noble house, were defeated, but at a steep cost of lives. Horn blasts from the north signal more enemies approaching from deeper in the Greatwood and Opek, Ironhall’s temporary pirate ally, reports a horde of conscripts arriving from the east.
Sir Harrow and the party have elected to stay and fight.
*About an hour has passed since the doomed pikemen broke the treeline and poured into the wide valley to their deaths. Directly between the two hills is a stain upon the earth, like a bloody footprint. The muddy ground here is dyed deep red with blood and packed with the still bodies of men and horses. Ironhall’s forces are scrambling to get into order about fifty yards west of the carnage. Opek and the Laughing Dogs are in a thin stretched line at the front, the mounted leader unmoving, gazing east towards the trees.
Directly behind the skirmishing javelineers are the few surviving men-at-arms, Hrothgar visible above them on his horse. His heavy armor and axe are both slick with gore; he has shown himself unafraid of getting his hands dirty.
Flanking the men-at-arms on either side are the remnants of the Bull and Ram groups. Cyrus and Cutter are with Bull group to the north. Baldur and Naimar are both with Ram group to the south. Baldur and Naimar are on horses taken from members of the light cavalry and Cutter is on foot.
Sohan is with the woodsmen who are mobbed up along the slope of the northern hill a few yards west of the rest of the army.
The light cavalry are formed up a good distance west from the main force, ready to ride around when signaled.
Harrow, Choke and Henry are behind the force observing.*
“Let them come.” Sir Harrow has clearly been swept away by the glory and excitement of it all and would likely march his men into the Mist itself in pursuit of both. The anticipation is killing him.
What do you do?
Hrothgar mulls over his plan, but it still seems a good one to him: Engage the front of the oncoming horde with his few remaining armoured regulars, but have the Arcadians gall the enemy with their javelins as they come. Then hit the enemy in flank with our conscripts, woodsmen and Arcadians, while leaving them room at their rear to run away - even rats fight in a corner. Hold back the horse until the enemy break, then once they go, chase them down and run them to exhaustion. Meanwhile, if the remainder of the beaten pikemen were willing to turn coat, have them lay down their arms and fall out for now and we will come to terms later.
The majority of the survivors are injured. Those strong enough to do so are slowly crawling away from the scene in all directions. Those that aren’t writhe in the center of the valley where they’ll likely be trampled in the upcoming battle. Most of the few uninjured survivors (numbering approximately 15-20 men) have been taken as spoils by the Arcadians who hold them at the ends of lengths of rope and chain.
Also notable: Many of the serfs, previously haphazardly-armed, have taken spears, pikes and swords from among the fallen.
Cyrus managed to take the senior Roland’s steel sword after the battle.
If the Shedlund soldiers carried a standard, Cyrus still intends to defile it immediately prior to charging in the next battle. Cyrus will direct the Bulls to charge any formations which threaten to flank Hrothgar’s men. If no such targets are available, Cyrus will direct the bulls to charge anyone involved in combat with Hrothgar’s soldiers.
During the melee, Cyrus will attempt to seek out and personally attack any individual who appears to be in a leadership role. Cyrus will not use willpower against lesser soldiers, but will use willpower every round during combat with noble soldiers. He will attempt to kill any obvious Shedlund noble without taking them prisoner, and will ignore any heat-of-battle offer or gesture of surrender as long as any Shedlund noble still lives.
Cyrus will use the elder Roland’s sword in the coming battle, even if it is not of better quality than his own.
To Hrothgar, “I knew Harrow’s blood could boil. Watch him; he’ll be rolling in the dirt same as me, soon enough.” Cyrus doesn’t even try to hide a malicious smile, before he bellows orders full of profanity, urging the Bulls back into formation.
To those within earshot of Henry:
How much time do we have before the next wave? It’d be a pity to let all these dead and gravely injured fighters just lie around in pile waiting to be trampled. It’s a waste. We should spread them out and arrange them in ways to provide the most dispiriting effect to the enemy.
*The loud, ominous call of a horn arrives from the north. It’s close. Cyrus’ pit dog, Brute, lets out a low howl in return and all the assembled soldiers go quiet. Moments later there is a horn blast from the east.
A wind kicks through the valley as one agonizing minute after another slips by. Finally there is movement from the east; row after row of mobbed peasants appear from the morning fog. Most of them are armed with farming implements and some of them don’t appear to be armed at all. At their front is a small group of a half a dozen mounted men in simple light armor wearing Shedlund’s colors. Yeomen perhaps. All told there are hundreds of them. Anything more than a vague approximate is hard to figure: They number between three and six hundred men. They stop once they’ve all cleared the treeline and assemble in untidy lines about 200 yards from the Ironhall force.
Cyrus gives the signal to his men. A peasant lifts the Shedlund standard while Cutter sets it alight with a torch. The standard is handed up to the Faramond who hoists it over his head and bellows a challenge to the gathered enemy, riding back and forth at the front of his regiment, burning scraps of cloth tumbling to the ground in his wake.
A second horn blast goes up from somewhere among the enemy force. Assembled and facing the Ironhalls, they wait.
Another horn call from the north. It’s close now.*
To Harrow:
You know, we might be able to use these injured to our advantage after all. What if we give them back to Shedlund as at least a temporary peace offering? It’s not as if they’re going to be in any shape for fighting anytime soon so we’re not strengthening Her forces. At the same time, Shedlund’s forces are unlikely to fight us while dealing with extracting their wounded from the battlefield. This will give us time to regroup and plan our next move. It also will allow us to size up fully what we’re up against.
Of course, this largely depends on how bad Shedlund wants these forces back, and the type of people remaining who are actually in charge here. I don’t think the Eastern force is really in any situation to negotiate.
Cyrus is quite opposed to that idea.