TEATRC tribute & universe expansion
- Thread starter jan_boruta
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Right. Ok, looks like i got in, but you forgot part of my story. Into the fight, the raiding part. here:
http://forums.taleworlds.com/index.php/topic,54426.msg4140037.html#msg4140037
well, i'll keep looking for other errors, but well...
Edit: Yeah, and i gave up.
http://forums.taleworlds.com/index.php/topic,54426.msg4140037.html#msg4140037
well, i'll keep looking for other errors, but well...
Edit: Yeah, and i gave up.
Hmmm, most of the links seem to work. Good work Venitius, I was really looking forward to this update.
Another piece of lore, this time about the Bermianese wars:
The Battle of Carpegna
Part 1
Autumn 1425
Fanum plains, Bermia
The radiance of the morning sun, hampered by the dense morning mist, finally reached the earth as the red ball slowly became visible on the grey skies. ‘Water and fire, archenemies amongst the elements, in eternal struggle.’ thought Fabian von Bolck, son of a Swadian adventurer and captain of a mercenary Landsknecht Fahnlein in service or the Brixian League. Around him, his veterans were sleeping in their tents. Within one hour, the morning would wake them, and they would once again march. Not against the forces of Aldobrandesco, who had signed a truce with the League, but around the fields of Fanum, to scatter the numerous bands of brigands and mutineers who spoiled the land. Von Bolck’s men already had fought hard in the previous weeks, bringing down a rebellious Baron and his forces. Once again, the Swadians had proven themselves to be the masters of the ‘Queen of the battlefield’, the long pike. But losses were severe, and some of his best soldiers, mostly Doppelsoldners, died of their wounds. Now, a quiet autumn to replace losses and hunt bandits and women lay in prospect. The Laurians were far away, training their levies, and the Zenoese were busy holding off Haelmarian influence and Hackapells.
Von Bolck seated down on a drum, and picked up a book. This moment of peace, free of worries about the near future, was valuable enough to enjoy. Equally careless, his soldiers slept on.
Steadily marching on one of the muddy highways near the river crossing, a large, stretched-out body of troops crossed the countryside. The column itself consisted of pikemen, young and silent soldiers wearing shining breastplates and helmets, and swordsmen with small shields on their back. Behind and in front of them were smaller bodies of arquebusiers, wearing light armour and with the look of born hunters in their dark eyes. At their head, Count Cordoba, commander of the eighth royal Laurian Tercio, rode his warhorse, whose feet threw up mud into the faces of the front ranks behind it. Around him, his personal retinue of one Black Sheep and four Rosrolian knights kept the same pace, proudly guarding the King‘s commander. Hundred paces ahead of them, a swarm of Herreruelos, mounted arquebusiers, scouted the fields for enemies, looking around on their lighter horses.
Since roughly a week, the column was marching through Bermia, from their bases in Lauria, over the river crossings and the caravan roads of Bonomia and Livania. It was the vanguard of a much larger army, led by the King himself, trained in new tactics and given new weapons and armor, to crush the resistance of the Brixian League. The eighth Tercio was the first troop of the ‘New Model Army’ to cross the river which was the natural border between the Livanian Duchy and the lands near Fanum, mayor city of the Brixian league. Now, they were near a village, marching towards Fanum to establish a bridgehead for the main army. According to intelligence reports, there would be only some mercenaries and militia looking bor bandits.
Behind the column, a horseman appeared, riding forward hard. Reaching the commander, he saluted and gave him a letter. “From his majesty the King!” he shouted. Count Cordoba took the letter and nodded to the messenger, who saluted again and rode off. Cordoba opened the letter, and a worried look appeared on his face.
“to the commanders of all Tercios in the vanguard:
The main force has been severely delayed by attacks on our supply train. These raids have been conducted by bands of unpaid mercenaries. Our advance has been halted. In order to maintain the element of surprise, I order all Tercios which have crossed the river near Carpegna to retreat back over the river, while avoiding detection by Brixian scouts.
his royal Majesty King Luis III Loeher.”
Count Cordoba turned around in the saddle, and shouted orders to his troops: “Soldiers, HALT! Turn the column around! Herreruelos, screen our retreat!” The flexible Laurian formation turned on the road, faces back in the direction of the river crossing, a few kilometres away. Cordoba passed them, riding to their head. “March. Move!” Without complaining, the regulars moved back across the road, hiding their surprise. Behind them, the Herreruelos still looked around, now watching the column’s back.
Seated on a small chair, Councilman Ugolino di Silvestro was eating some bilberries in front of his tent, when suddenly a horseman, covered with dust, rode up to him. “Signore, I’ve spotted a column of troops marching on the road near Carpegna. Their ensigns bear Laurian standards!” Di Silvestro looked up surprised. “Why would they march into our homelands in force? Everybody knows the Laurians don’t have a standing army of significance, only some armed peasants. Have they become so arrogant?” The scout replied: “Signore, they aren’t levies. I’ve seen a column of armoured pikemen without shields, accompanied by horsemen and other troops. They look impressive, Signore!” Di Silvestro rose from his chair, and gestured towards a squire, who brought him his helmet. “I’ll have a look at them myself. Sergeants, put the men into march formation and await my orders. Micca, Dimno and Giuseppe, in the saddle and follow me. Go!” While he rode off, with the three junior commanders following, his troops put on their heavy armour and took their weapons. Pushed into columns by mercenary sergeants, the Communal soldiers and the rich merchants in their expensive armour grumbled around, reluctant to face the bloody affairs of war.
They stood still on a hill near the road. On their right lay the village of Carpegna, and to the left lay the road. On it, the Laurian column was visible, marching in the direction of the river. The mist had faded away, and the shining armours were clearly visible to the Brixians. “We’ll need more men to crush that column.”, said di Silvestro, expressing the thoughts of his junior commanders. “Giuseppe, ride to the city of Fanum and warn all commanders there that a large Laurian column is walking around in our gardens. Get them here with their troops as soon as they can. Micca and Dimno, cross the countryside and gather every patrol, mercenary band or else you can find and get them here. I’ll block the way to the river. Godspeed! Now, off with you.” The four horsemen scattered, bowed over the necks of their horses as they galloped away.
Count Cordoba was still riding at the head of his troops, as suddenly, from behind a low hill next to a curve in the road, an army in battle array emerged. The shock was great enough for his troops to halt their march even before Cordoba ordered it. “Halt! Damn Bermianese! Infantry, form battle formation! Like in the drills! Cursed pigs over there!! You two, come here!” He pointed to two Herreruelos, who came riding at him. “I want you two go around that Bermianese rabble and get to the river crossing. Duke Louis should be there somewhere. Warn him and every other royal commander you see that I’m in trouble and need their help. Dismissed.” While the horsemen rode off, he reconsidered his situation: He could deal with the Brixians in front of him, but they surely had warned the whole countryside; enemy armies were likely on their way already to support them. And his soldiers were, although well-trained and enthusiast, lacking in experience. He watched them form the new formation, the Tercio: A solid block of pikemen, with blocks of sword-and-buckler-men on the corners, and groups of arquebusiers on their flanks. Around it, a swarm of Herreruelos formed a thin skirmish like, holding their arquebuses at the ready. It was a magnificent sight.
Count Cordoba knew the King would be furious if he heard about this: the whole element of surprise was lost, and the vanguard stuck in enemy territory. But first things first: He had to hold out until reinforcements arrived, if they arrived.
Councilman Ugolino di Silvestro watched in awe as the Laurians quickly formed into an impressive formation. The speed with which they formed marked them as trained troops. The main body of pikemen was a familiair sight to many Bermianese commanders: the feared Swadian Landsknechts, who came as mercenaries to Bermia, used their massed pike-tactics in Bermia too, although they were hampered by the shortage of trained men, which resulted in small phalanxes instead of the huge blocks which were renowned beyond Calradia. Now, the Laurians seemed to use the same tactic, apparently with sufficient soldiers at their disposal. “Where the hell does Luis got those troops from? Has he stamped this out of the ground in a mere summer? Does he have the devil on his side or what?” Di Silvestro raged about in the saddle while his troops still looked at the Laurians, which had begun their advance. He woke the horsemen standing nearby: “Wake up, fools! Forward! Shower those peasants with pointy sticks!” The horsemen, existing of Scorridori armed with javelins and sabers, and mounted crossbowmen, rode through the gaps between sections of their infantry, and began circling around the enemy, throwing and shooting their missiles at them.
The Laurians, trying to get an early advantage, were advancing towards the Brixians when the skirmishers attacked. Count Cordoba slammed his visor down as a bolt barely missed his head. “Herreruelos! Get those flies off me! Send them to hell!” The horsemen broke up their skirmishing formation and began horseback shooting duels with the Brixian riders.
Di Silvestro had already realised his army was superior in ranged troops. When the Laurian skirmish line dispersed, he rode towards his crossbowmen, deployed behind his infantry on a hill. “Shoot!” Calmly, the wielders of the famous Bermianese crossbow aimed their weapons carefully at the Tercio, and released their springs. A cloud of missiles flew towards the large target. The Rodoleros raised their shields…
The Battle of Carpegna
Part 1
Autumn 1425
Fanum plains, Bermia
The radiance of the morning sun, hampered by the dense morning mist, finally reached the earth as the red ball slowly became visible on the grey skies. ‘Water and fire, archenemies amongst the elements, in eternal struggle.’ thought Fabian von Bolck, son of a Swadian adventurer and captain of a mercenary Landsknecht Fahnlein in service or the Brixian League. Around him, his veterans were sleeping in their tents. Within one hour, the morning would wake them, and they would once again march. Not against the forces of Aldobrandesco, who had signed a truce with the League, but around the fields of Fanum, to scatter the numerous bands of brigands and mutineers who spoiled the land. Von Bolck’s men already had fought hard in the previous weeks, bringing down a rebellious Baron and his forces. Once again, the Swadians had proven themselves to be the masters of the ‘Queen of the battlefield’, the long pike. But losses were severe, and some of his best soldiers, mostly Doppelsoldners, died of their wounds. Now, a quiet autumn to replace losses and hunt bandits and women lay in prospect. The Laurians were far away, training their levies, and the Zenoese were busy holding off Haelmarian influence and Hackapells.
Von Bolck seated down on a drum, and picked up a book. This moment of peace, free of worries about the near future, was valuable enough to enjoy. Equally careless, his soldiers slept on.
Steadily marching on one of the muddy highways near the river crossing, a large, stretched-out body of troops crossed the countryside. The column itself consisted of pikemen, young and silent soldiers wearing shining breastplates and helmets, and swordsmen with small shields on their back. Behind and in front of them were smaller bodies of arquebusiers, wearing light armour and with the look of born hunters in their dark eyes. At their head, Count Cordoba, commander of the eighth royal Laurian Tercio, rode his warhorse, whose feet threw up mud into the faces of the front ranks behind it. Around him, his personal retinue of one Black Sheep and four Rosrolian knights kept the same pace, proudly guarding the King‘s commander. Hundred paces ahead of them, a swarm of Herreruelos, mounted arquebusiers, scouted the fields for enemies, looking around on their lighter horses.
Since roughly a week, the column was marching through Bermia, from their bases in Lauria, over the river crossings and the caravan roads of Bonomia and Livania. It was the vanguard of a much larger army, led by the King himself, trained in new tactics and given new weapons and armor, to crush the resistance of the Brixian League. The eighth Tercio was the first troop of the ‘New Model Army’ to cross the river which was the natural border between the Livanian Duchy and the lands near Fanum, mayor city of the Brixian league. Now, they were near a village, marching towards Fanum to establish a bridgehead for the main army. According to intelligence reports, there would be only some mercenaries and militia looking bor bandits.
Behind the column, a horseman appeared, riding forward hard. Reaching the commander, he saluted and gave him a letter. “From his majesty the King!” he shouted. Count Cordoba took the letter and nodded to the messenger, who saluted again and rode off. Cordoba opened the letter, and a worried look appeared on his face.
“to the commanders of all Tercios in the vanguard:
The main force has been severely delayed by attacks on our supply train. These raids have been conducted by bands of unpaid mercenaries. Our advance has been halted. In order to maintain the element of surprise, I order all Tercios which have crossed the river near Carpegna to retreat back over the river, while avoiding detection by Brixian scouts.
his royal Majesty King Luis III Loeher.”
Count Cordoba turned around in the saddle, and shouted orders to his troops: “Soldiers, HALT! Turn the column around! Herreruelos, screen our retreat!” The flexible Laurian formation turned on the road, faces back in the direction of the river crossing, a few kilometres away. Cordoba passed them, riding to their head. “March. Move!” Without complaining, the regulars moved back across the road, hiding their surprise. Behind them, the Herreruelos still looked around, now watching the column’s back.
Seated on a small chair, Councilman Ugolino di Silvestro was eating some bilberries in front of his tent, when suddenly a horseman, covered with dust, rode up to him. “Signore, I’ve spotted a column of troops marching on the road near Carpegna. Their ensigns bear Laurian standards!” Di Silvestro looked up surprised. “Why would they march into our homelands in force? Everybody knows the Laurians don’t have a standing army of significance, only some armed peasants. Have they become so arrogant?” The scout replied: “Signore, they aren’t levies. I’ve seen a column of armoured pikemen without shields, accompanied by horsemen and other troops. They look impressive, Signore!” Di Silvestro rose from his chair, and gestured towards a squire, who brought him his helmet. “I’ll have a look at them myself. Sergeants, put the men into march formation and await my orders. Micca, Dimno and Giuseppe, in the saddle and follow me. Go!” While he rode off, with the three junior commanders following, his troops put on their heavy armour and took their weapons. Pushed into columns by mercenary sergeants, the Communal soldiers and the rich merchants in their expensive armour grumbled around, reluctant to face the bloody affairs of war.
They stood still on a hill near the road. On their right lay the village of Carpegna, and to the left lay the road. On it, the Laurian column was visible, marching in the direction of the river. The mist had faded away, and the shining armours were clearly visible to the Brixians. “We’ll need more men to crush that column.”, said di Silvestro, expressing the thoughts of his junior commanders. “Giuseppe, ride to the city of Fanum and warn all commanders there that a large Laurian column is walking around in our gardens. Get them here with their troops as soon as they can. Micca and Dimno, cross the countryside and gather every patrol, mercenary band or else you can find and get them here. I’ll block the way to the river. Godspeed! Now, off with you.” The four horsemen scattered, bowed over the necks of their horses as they galloped away.
Count Cordoba was still riding at the head of his troops, as suddenly, from behind a low hill next to a curve in the road, an army in battle array emerged. The shock was great enough for his troops to halt their march even before Cordoba ordered it. “Halt! Damn Bermianese! Infantry, form battle formation! Like in the drills! Cursed pigs over there!! You two, come here!” He pointed to two Herreruelos, who came riding at him. “I want you two go around that Bermianese rabble and get to the river crossing. Duke Louis should be there somewhere. Warn him and every other royal commander you see that I’m in trouble and need their help. Dismissed.” While the horsemen rode off, he reconsidered his situation: He could deal with the Brixians in front of him, but they surely had warned the whole countryside; enemy armies were likely on their way already to support them. And his soldiers were, although well-trained and enthusiast, lacking in experience. He watched them form the new formation, the Tercio: A solid block of pikemen, with blocks of sword-and-buckler-men on the corners, and groups of arquebusiers on their flanks. Around it, a swarm of Herreruelos formed a thin skirmish like, holding their arquebuses at the ready. It was a magnificent sight.
Count Cordoba knew the King would be furious if he heard about this: the whole element of surprise was lost, and the vanguard stuck in enemy territory. But first things first: He had to hold out until reinforcements arrived, if they arrived.
Councilman Ugolino di Silvestro watched in awe as the Laurians quickly formed into an impressive formation. The speed with which they formed marked them as trained troops. The main body of pikemen was a familiair sight to many Bermianese commanders: the feared Swadian Landsknechts, who came as mercenaries to Bermia, used their massed pike-tactics in Bermia too, although they were hampered by the shortage of trained men, which resulted in small phalanxes instead of the huge blocks which were renowned beyond Calradia. Now, the Laurians seemed to use the same tactic, apparently with sufficient soldiers at their disposal. “Where the hell does Luis got those troops from? Has he stamped this out of the ground in a mere summer? Does he have the devil on his side or what?” Di Silvestro raged about in the saddle while his troops still looked at the Laurians, which had begun their advance. He woke the horsemen standing nearby: “Wake up, fools! Forward! Shower those peasants with pointy sticks!” The horsemen, existing of Scorridori armed with javelins and sabers, and mounted crossbowmen, rode through the gaps between sections of their infantry, and began circling around the enemy, throwing and shooting their missiles at them.
The Laurians, trying to get an early advantage, were advancing towards the Brixians when the skirmishers attacked. Count Cordoba slammed his visor down as a bolt barely missed his head. “Herreruelos! Get those flies off me! Send them to hell!” The horsemen broke up their skirmishing formation and began horseback shooting duels with the Brixian riders.
Di Silvestro had already realised his army was superior in ranged troops. When the Laurian skirmish line dispersed, he rode towards his crossbowmen, deployed behind his infantry on a hill. “Shoot!” Calmly, the wielders of the famous Bermianese crossbow aimed their weapons carefully at the Tercio, and released their springs. A cloud of missiles flew towards the large target. The Rodoleros raised their shields…
The Battle of Carpegna
Part 2
Part 2
With stamping feet and beating drums, the column marched proudly along the road. Soldiers were singing, the sun was raised, it seemed hardly as war. And of course it wasn’t, they were on patrol duty. Their typical Swadian voices sounded less grim, the beatings of the drums merrier, their feathers whiter. Fabian von Bolck marched at their head, and whistled the melody with his men. A horseman came riding at his column, heavily armoured in steel plate, bearing the device of one of the merchant’s cities. He stopped his horse in front of von Bolck, and his arrogant voice barely reached the captain through the soldier’s song: “Councilman Ugolino di Silvestro has engaged a Laurian column. He requests immediate support from the patrols in the countryside.” Von Bolck was annoyed by the young horseman looking down on him like on a peasant, and by the prospect of fighting a battle after the losses of the summer. “Then go find a patrol and leave us,” he said. The other, at first surprised, and then angered, raised his soft voice to a shrill sound: “The noble Councilman has ORDERED you to take your men and crush the Laurians! And Immediately!” Fabian fell silent, as he realised he had little choice; whatever the outcome of the battle, ignoring orders would mean severe penalties for him and his men. Behind him, the sound of the Landsknechts was weakening, as some began to follow the conversation: “…Trum trum, terum tum tum, Sie wird nicht müde und nicht stumm!” Fabian nodded to the Bermianese: “I’ll come help your boss. Lead the way, squire!”
At the river crossing, on the Livanian side, a large encampment marked the place of the royal Tercio of Duke Louis. His men were resting under the morning sun, and the Duke himself was sleeping in his tent. Suddenly, a large man in full plate stepped inside. Louis turned away from him in his camp bed, saying: “Get out or I’ll have you flayed.” The other didn’t move, but shouted: “Wake up Louis! Cordoba needs your help!” “Mañana, tomorrow…” The Duke turned back, and recognised his visitor: Nichart Briffaut, grandmaster of the Caliginous order. “Tell me, what’s happening?” Nichart grinned contend, and replied: “Cordoba’s Tercio is being intercepted by Bermianeses, and he needs our help to get out.” “The ‘element of surprise’ so far…” replied Duke Louis. “Nevertheless, if he’s in trouble, I’ll try to save his skin, to give him the opportunity to bear the King’s wrath alive.” He rose from his bed, and shouted around: “Someone, get my armour on! Muccion, saddle my horse! Sargentos, get the men into march formation!” The grandmaster interrupted him. “There’s no need for that, I already gave the orders. Your men must be ready by now.” Louis grinned sadly, while his half-plate was tied firmly on him by a servant: “That means I have to depart immediately, eh? Then I don’t have an excuse to shave me properly before. I must have the look of an ape now…”
“Councilman Ugolino di Silvestro has engaged a Laurian column in battle and requests your immediate support.” Councilman Grifone da Pianello gave the messenger an annoyed look. “Who does he think he is, the cursed bastard? NEVER will a da Pianello fight alongside a di Silvestro! I won’t throw dirt on my name by obeying that cow’s son. I’ll rejoice when I see his head on a pike even more than the Laurians! Now, get out of my face before I have you impaled.” The messenger departed hastily. How could he know the Pianelli and the Silvestri were separated by a bloody family feud, like so many Bermianese families? Di Pianello turned towards one of his Sergeants: “Di Silvestro seems to be rather busy now. We’ll pay a visit to Asti, the village he has received from the old madman Ezzelino.” The Sergeant grinned. “Certainly, Signore.”
The Tercio stubbornly stepped forward under a continuous rain of bolts. The pikemen in the Swadian Phalanx formation suffered the most casualties, lacking the shields to stop the missiles. But the young trained soldiers stepped over their dead and dying comrades and approached the Brixian infantry, drown up in a simple formation in front of their crossbowmen. At their sides, two blocks of arquebusiers calmly stepped forward, holding their loaded weapons ready. The Rodoleros at the angles of the Tercio held their shields high, counting their simultaneous passes. On the forward left angle, a captain with a standard bearer directed the troops. The Brixianese militia and communal soldiers levelled their weapons, bracing themselves for the impact as the Laurians came closer, a shiny, silent monster with prickly ends sticking out in all directions. The two formations collided.
The Laurian captain shouted his warcry, followed by his men: “Long live the King!” The Rodoleros jumped forward, slashing at the enemy, the shooters fired their arquebuses, while the pikemen aimed and stabbed at their heavily armoured opponents. Unlike the Swadians, who put their best soldiers at the front, the Laurian elite pikemen, the Coseletes, were dispersed along the Phalanx formation, giving it more backbone. These men pushed forward soldiers from the rear into the gaps left open by casualties, and those among the first ranks aimed their long pikes at enemy officers.
The Brixians, trying to use both their pikes and pavise shields, found out they could barely move both in the chaotic mass which was formerly their formation. The more flexible pikes wielded in both hands by the Laurians quickly found openings between the shields, and the Rodoleros already were successfully cutting paths in their formation. Some of the most rich citizens, able to afford a full body plate armour and armed with long swords, stepped forward and tried to break the enemy apart. But these ‘Doppiosoldi’, non-professional copies of the feared Swadian Doppelsoldners, got stuck in the confused melee that was the usual result of a close-quarter fight between blocks of pikemen. Isolated and picked out by professional soldiers, those and other Brixian front-rankers had little chance against the green Laurian troops.
Seated in the saddle of his warhorse, Count Cordoba sighed relieved as he watched his troops charging home. For the moment, they had prevented defeat, but he doubted they could win the battle on their own. Their formation was slowly falling apart, absorbed by the confusion of the melee, and Brixian reserves were pushed forward into the formless mass of troops. For now, both sides could only wait for reinforcements to break the stalemate, and pray their troops would hold their ground.
The heavily armoured horseman turned in his saddle. “Can’t your men march faster?” he shrieked. Fabian von Bolck looked back, and said: “Perhaps if you give us some Haelmarian Cheese!” “I doubt anyone could actually eat than stuff…” From within the column a shout emerged: “We’re not called Iron Bellies for nothing!” A roar of laughter filled the air, while the Brixian turned away from the Landsknechts, doubtlessly considering them as barbarians. The nickname ‘Iron Belly’ for a Landsknecht did not only reflect his notorious eating and drinking habits, but as well the fact that the only plate armour the Landsknecht wore was the thick breastplate, and occasionally a helmet, in contrast with the Bermianese, who covered themselves in mail and plate totally. “Don’t be angry Squire,” von Bolck said chuckling, “you may consider yourself lucky to ride at the head of these soldiers. It’s an honour few Bermianese have experienced.”
The lightly armoured horseman galloped past the waiting cavalry hold in reserve, and stopped next to the Councilman on his horse. Di Silvestro kept looking forward, watching the Laurian Arquebusiers deployed in a skirmish line engaging in a ranged duel with his crossbowmen. “What news do you bring?” he asked. “Signore, troops from Fanum are on the way and will arrive soon. Commander in chief is Podesta Angiolello da Carignano.” Di Silvestro nodded, still looking forward. “Good job. Now, join the cavalry. We’ll have to chase those Laurian pigs when they rout.” When the messenger turned and rode towards the cavalry, the Councilman turned his head and gazed at the hills in the west.
On the other side of the battlefield, Count Cordoba, whose sight was obscured by smoke, tried to get an overview of his situation. Behind him his four Rosrolians waited on their horses, the visors of their helmets raised, and on his left the young Black Sheep knight watched the battle, helmet in hand. Cordoba turned to him, and said: “Hey, you! What’s your name?” “Phalonse Elric, sir!” The Count nodded, and pointed at the Tercio, hidden in the smoke. “Well Phalonse, I need to get a general picture of what’s happening there. Ride to our men and see if they hold. Go!” The knight saluted, put on his helmet and spurred his horse forward. As he was swallowed by the smoke, Cordoba turned towards the road in the Northeast. A cloud of dust with glittering metal spots was visible on it, slowly moving forward. More to the North, another cloud could be seen, moving over the grassy field. After a few minutes, the knight returned, and after a swift salute he reported: “Sir, our troops are holding, but there are dead lying everywhere! Our shooters are blinded by the fog as well, and they just shoot around in the direction were they think the enemy is. Several officers are dead, but our standard is still raised!” Cordoba nodded, and looked over the fog at the enemy rear. “May the heavens help us,” he said softly, “the enemy got new troops.” Phalonse turned around, and saw the two large bodies of troops, reinforcing the enemy, League flags waving in the wind, and armoured horsemen riding around it. A shout echoed over the Laurian army: “We have not yet lost!”
Podesta Angiolello da Carignano, followed by some horsemen, rode his horse towards the Councilman, and raised his office baton in salute. “Good work, Ugolino! Now, let’s finish those pigs!” He turned towards a small officer in his retinue, and said: “Consul Volpello, get your troops to that mess over there and crush the enemy.” Consul Volpello degli Alti Crepacci raised his sword, and galloped to his troops, which were still marching forward. The podesta turned back at di Silvestro, and said: “I take over command. My troops will be held in reserve to be able to deal the killing blow.” The other gazed at the opposite hills, and his soft Bermianese voice sent a chill through the Podesta’s body. “Signore… there’s a company of heavy cavalry… Laurian.” On the crest of a hill, a double line of knights appeared, with shining armours and large lances pointed towards the skies.
Grandmaster Nichart Briffaut stopped his warsorse next to Count Cordoba, and shouted at him: “Good to see you alive! Louis is coming too, to save your ass! May I attack?” Cordoba smiled, and nodded. “Take my Rosrolians, they want to prove themselfes.” The Caliginous Knights formed a wedge with their Grandmaster at their head, and with the four Rosrolian Knights of Cordoba in the rear. Nichart Briffaut raised his lance, and the wedge, aimed like a spearpoint towards the enemy, began to move. Cordoba interrupted the protests of the young Black Sheep Knight, who didn’t want to stay back: “Shut it. Nichart won’t take you with him, his pride forbids that. He barely took the Rosrolians: He knows he’ll need every good fighter now. Besides, you’ll get your chance too.”
The Brixian reserves, troops of the Podesta’s retinue, were sent to the flank of the other infanty, to stop the Knight’s charge. By now, the fifty Laurians rode at full gallop, their lances levelled and their heads bowed forward, the whole force of their speed and weight concentrated in the small steel points of their heavy lances. Seated on their heavily armoured steeds, the knights appeared as a raging tempest of steel and hooves to the Brixians. The Militiamen and communal troops lowered their lances, covered behind their pavises, and braced for the impact, some of them closing their eyes in terror. The two masses of human bodies and animals collided. Knights were thrown off their horses, footmen were impaled and trampled, horses whinnied as sharp ends pierced their burdens and skins. Nichart Briffaut dropped his lance, buried deeply in a heavily armoured militiaman, and drew his long sword. At the head of his knights, he began cutting a path through the mass of footmen, his men wading through living and dead bodies barely keeping up with him. Mounted Sergeants and other Brixian horsemen were sent in to stop their advance, but their horses got stuck in the chaotic mass of troops, and they could only slow the knights down, who slowly pushed them back. At the same time, the reinforced Brixian infantry fighting the Tercio increased their pressure on the enemy, and the weight of numbers was felt when masses of militia streamed into each gap in the wavering formation. But still, the bloody and torn remains of the Laurian standard fluttered above the soldiers of their land. The battle was not lost yet.
At the river crossing, on the Livanian side, a large encampment marked the place of the royal Tercio of Duke Louis. His men were resting under the morning sun, and the Duke himself was sleeping in his tent. Suddenly, a large man in full plate stepped inside. Louis turned away from him in his camp bed, saying: “Get out or I’ll have you flayed.” The other didn’t move, but shouted: “Wake up Louis! Cordoba needs your help!” “Mañana, tomorrow…” The Duke turned back, and recognised his visitor: Nichart Briffaut, grandmaster of the Caliginous order. “Tell me, what’s happening?” Nichart grinned contend, and replied: “Cordoba’s Tercio is being intercepted by Bermianeses, and he needs our help to get out.” “The ‘element of surprise’ so far…” replied Duke Louis. “Nevertheless, if he’s in trouble, I’ll try to save his skin, to give him the opportunity to bear the King’s wrath alive.” He rose from his bed, and shouted around: “Someone, get my armour on! Muccion, saddle my horse! Sargentos, get the men into march formation!” The grandmaster interrupted him. “There’s no need for that, I already gave the orders. Your men must be ready by now.” Louis grinned sadly, while his half-plate was tied firmly on him by a servant: “That means I have to depart immediately, eh? Then I don’t have an excuse to shave me properly before. I must have the look of an ape now…”
“Councilman Ugolino di Silvestro has engaged a Laurian column in battle and requests your immediate support.” Councilman Grifone da Pianello gave the messenger an annoyed look. “Who does he think he is, the cursed bastard? NEVER will a da Pianello fight alongside a di Silvestro! I won’t throw dirt on my name by obeying that cow’s son. I’ll rejoice when I see his head on a pike even more than the Laurians! Now, get out of my face before I have you impaled.” The messenger departed hastily. How could he know the Pianelli and the Silvestri were separated by a bloody family feud, like so many Bermianese families? Di Pianello turned towards one of his Sergeants: “Di Silvestro seems to be rather busy now. We’ll pay a visit to Asti, the village he has received from the old madman Ezzelino.” The Sergeant grinned. “Certainly, Signore.”
The Tercio stubbornly stepped forward under a continuous rain of bolts. The pikemen in the Swadian Phalanx formation suffered the most casualties, lacking the shields to stop the missiles. But the young trained soldiers stepped over their dead and dying comrades and approached the Brixian infantry, drown up in a simple formation in front of their crossbowmen. At their sides, two blocks of arquebusiers calmly stepped forward, holding their loaded weapons ready. The Rodoleros at the angles of the Tercio held their shields high, counting their simultaneous passes. On the forward left angle, a captain with a standard bearer directed the troops. The Brixianese militia and communal soldiers levelled their weapons, bracing themselves for the impact as the Laurians came closer, a shiny, silent monster with prickly ends sticking out in all directions. The two formations collided.
The Laurian captain shouted his warcry, followed by his men: “Long live the King!” The Rodoleros jumped forward, slashing at the enemy, the shooters fired their arquebuses, while the pikemen aimed and stabbed at their heavily armoured opponents. Unlike the Swadians, who put their best soldiers at the front, the Laurian elite pikemen, the Coseletes, were dispersed along the Phalanx formation, giving it more backbone. These men pushed forward soldiers from the rear into the gaps left open by casualties, and those among the first ranks aimed their long pikes at enemy officers.
The Brixians, trying to use both their pikes and pavise shields, found out they could barely move both in the chaotic mass which was formerly their formation. The more flexible pikes wielded in both hands by the Laurians quickly found openings between the shields, and the Rodoleros already were successfully cutting paths in their formation. Some of the most rich citizens, able to afford a full body plate armour and armed with long swords, stepped forward and tried to break the enemy apart. But these ‘Doppiosoldi’, non-professional copies of the feared Swadian Doppelsoldners, got stuck in the confused melee that was the usual result of a close-quarter fight between blocks of pikemen. Isolated and picked out by professional soldiers, those and other Brixian front-rankers had little chance against the green Laurian troops.
Seated in the saddle of his warhorse, Count Cordoba sighed relieved as he watched his troops charging home. For the moment, they had prevented defeat, but he doubted they could win the battle on their own. Their formation was slowly falling apart, absorbed by the confusion of the melee, and Brixian reserves were pushed forward into the formless mass of troops. For now, both sides could only wait for reinforcements to break the stalemate, and pray their troops would hold their ground.
The heavily armoured horseman turned in his saddle. “Can’t your men march faster?” he shrieked. Fabian von Bolck looked back, and said: “Perhaps if you give us some Haelmarian Cheese!” “I doubt anyone could actually eat than stuff…” From within the column a shout emerged: “We’re not called Iron Bellies for nothing!” A roar of laughter filled the air, while the Brixian turned away from the Landsknechts, doubtlessly considering them as barbarians. The nickname ‘Iron Belly’ for a Landsknecht did not only reflect his notorious eating and drinking habits, but as well the fact that the only plate armour the Landsknecht wore was the thick breastplate, and occasionally a helmet, in contrast with the Bermianese, who covered themselves in mail and plate totally. “Don’t be angry Squire,” von Bolck said chuckling, “you may consider yourself lucky to ride at the head of these soldiers. It’s an honour few Bermianese have experienced.”
The lightly armoured horseman galloped past the waiting cavalry hold in reserve, and stopped next to the Councilman on his horse. Di Silvestro kept looking forward, watching the Laurian Arquebusiers deployed in a skirmish line engaging in a ranged duel with his crossbowmen. “What news do you bring?” he asked. “Signore, troops from Fanum are on the way and will arrive soon. Commander in chief is Podesta Angiolello da Carignano.” Di Silvestro nodded, still looking forward. “Good job. Now, join the cavalry. We’ll have to chase those Laurian pigs when they rout.” When the messenger turned and rode towards the cavalry, the Councilman turned his head and gazed at the hills in the west.
On the other side of the battlefield, Count Cordoba, whose sight was obscured by smoke, tried to get an overview of his situation. Behind him his four Rosrolians waited on their horses, the visors of their helmets raised, and on his left the young Black Sheep knight watched the battle, helmet in hand. Cordoba turned to him, and said: “Hey, you! What’s your name?” “Phalonse Elric, sir!” The Count nodded, and pointed at the Tercio, hidden in the smoke. “Well Phalonse, I need to get a general picture of what’s happening there. Ride to our men and see if they hold. Go!” The knight saluted, put on his helmet and spurred his horse forward. As he was swallowed by the smoke, Cordoba turned towards the road in the Northeast. A cloud of dust with glittering metal spots was visible on it, slowly moving forward. More to the North, another cloud could be seen, moving over the grassy field. After a few minutes, the knight returned, and after a swift salute he reported: “Sir, our troops are holding, but there are dead lying everywhere! Our shooters are blinded by the fog as well, and they just shoot around in the direction were they think the enemy is. Several officers are dead, but our standard is still raised!” Cordoba nodded, and looked over the fog at the enemy rear. “May the heavens help us,” he said softly, “the enemy got new troops.” Phalonse turned around, and saw the two large bodies of troops, reinforcing the enemy, League flags waving in the wind, and armoured horsemen riding around it. A shout echoed over the Laurian army: “We have not yet lost!”
Podesta Angiolello da Carignano, followed by some horsemen, rode his horse towards the Councilman, and raised his office baton in salute. “Good work, Ugolino! Now, let’s finish those pigs!” He turned towards a small officer in his retinue, and said: “Consul Volpello, get your troops to that mess over there and crush the enemy.” Consul Volpello degli Alti Crepacci raised his sword, and galloped to his troops, which were still marching forward. The podesta turned back at di Silvestro, and said: “I take over command. My troops will be held in reserve to be able to deal the killing blow.” The other gazed at the opposite hills, and his soft Bermianese voice sent a chill through the Podesta’s body. “Signore… there’s a company of heavy cavalry… Laurian.” On the crest of a hill, a double line of knights appeared, with shining armours and large lances pointed towards the skies.
Grandmaster Nichart Briffaut stopped his warsorse next to Count Cordoba, and shouted at him: “Good to see you alive! Louis is coming too, to save your ass! May I attack?” Cordoba smiled, and nodded. “Take my Rosrolians, they want to prove themselfes.” The Caliginous Knights formed a wedge with their Grandmaster at their head, and with the four Rosrolian Knights of Cordoba in the rear. Nichart Briffaut raised his lance, and the wedge, aimed like a spearpoint towards the enemy, began to move. Cordoba interrupted the protests of the young Black Sheep Knight, who didn’t want to stay back: “Shut it. Nichart won’t take you with him, his pride forbids that. He barely took the Rosrolians: He knows he’ll need every good fighter now. Besides, you’ll get your chance too.”
The Brixian reserves, troops of the Podesta’s retinue, were sent to the flank of the other infanty, to stop the Knight’s charge. By now, the fifty Laurians rode at full gallop, their lances levelled and their heads bowed forward, the whole force of their speed and weight concentrated in the small steel points of their heavy lances. Seated on their heavily armoured steeds, the knights appeared as a raging tempest of steel and hooves to the Brixians. The Militiamen and communal troops lowered their lances, covered behind their pavises, and braced for the impact, some of them closing their eyes in terror. The two masses of human bodies and animals collided. Knights were thrown off their horses, footmen were impaled and trampled, horses whinnied as sharp ends pierced their burdens and skins. Nichart Briffaut dropped his lance, buried deeply in a heavily armoured militiaman, and drew his long sword. At the head of his knights, he began cutting a path through the mass of footmen, his men wading through living and dead bodies barely keeping up with him. Mounted Sergeants and other Brixian horsemen were sent in to stop their advance, but their horses got stuck in the chaotic mass of troops, and they could only slow the knights down, who slowly pushed them back. At the same time, the reinforced Brixian infantry fighting the Tercio increased their pressure on the enemy, and the weight of numbers was felt when masses of militia streamed into each gap in the wavering formation. But still, the bloody and torn remains of the Laurian standard fluttered above the soldiers of their land. The battle was not lost yet.
Aaand, the last bit:
The Battle of Carpegna
Part 3
Epilogue
Including in this, is my kind of tribute to one of the greatest fans of tEatRC.
(For who digs deep enough)
The Battle of Carpegna
Part 3
Beating drums and harsh, sharp voices singing a war-song heralded the arrival of the Landsknecht Fahnlein of Fabian von Bolck. The Brixian commander, Podesta Angiolello da Carignano, turned around in the saddle to watch these fresh reinforcements. The battle was, up to now, proven to be a disappointment: The Laurian infantry still held their ground, and on the right, their cavalry was hacking his troops to bits. Some knights had broken through and were attacking his crossbowmen, destroying his ranged superiority. As the mercenary came near, the Podesta shouted his orders: “Captain, take your company to the left, around the enemy’s flank, and attack their infantry in their rear. Forward!” Von Bolck saluted, and led his men to the battlefield. Just behind him came his two ensigns, the first with the large square yellow flag with the Imperial Swadian Eagle, the other with the smaller League standard. Behind them came the drummers and pipers, and behind them the column, with Doppelsoldners leading the way. Past their sides, wounded stragglers passed by, dragging themselves to the rear.
The Laurian commander, Count Cordoba, watched the arrival of the new enemies, and, seeing them move towards his right, he realised they were about to flank him. But he did not despair: reinforcements were coming. They had arrived, at last. Duke Louis, his blackened helmet under his arm, appeared on the hill on his warhorse, followed by the tops of a forest of pikes. He spurred his horse forward, stopping besides Cordoba. With a broad smile on his unshaven face he shouted: “You ruined my siesta by walking into this mess! But my men want Brixian blood, so I guess I am obliged to help you! Have you left some of them for us?” Count Cordoba nodded. “My boys are fighting off Brixians there, in the centre, and the merchants got reinforcements too. It seems clear that they’ll attempt to flank me.” Louis looked at the centre. Then, the wind came up, scattering the smoke around the battle, revealing the carnage to the commanders. “It looks pretty deserate, there”, Louis said. Suddenly, the Laurian standard, up to now held high by its bearer, dropped. The two officers and the young Black Sheep knight of Cordoba’s retinue watched as the survivors of the Tercio wavered, bereft of their officers, the guiding hand of their commander gone. The next moment Cordoba saw a knight spurring his horse forward towards the fight, dropping his lance. It took him a moment to realize Phalonse Elric was gone from his side, and by then he was already in the fight, having jumped from his steed. He was seen by Cordoba struggling his way towards the fallen standard, picking it up and raising it above the fighting, his sword in the other hand. “Stay! Hold your ground, Laurians!” The Count could only say: “Madness, it’s madness.” Beside him, Duke Louis shouted: “Magnificent! The youg bastard! It’s magnificent!” They both saw the bloodied remnants of the Tercio closing their ranks, and the arquebusiers drawing their short swords and running into the melee. “They can’t hold out much longer” said Cordoba. Duke Louis put on his helmet, and pointed at the advancing Landsknechts. “I’ll give your boys some extra men, so you can hold out while I deal with those men.” At his command, a quarter of his pikemen and half his Rodoleros separated from his Tercio and rushed towards their battered comrades, into the bitter fighting. His remaining men placed themselves before the Swadian phalanx. The Duke led his horse to his standard, dismounted, and drew his sword. He knew the fierce reputation of the Swadian pike-and-shot, but he was confident.
Von Bolck had seen the new Laurian Tercio arriving at the battle, and now saw his path blocked by it. He realised the coming fight would determinate the outcome of the battle: the victor could sweep around the enemy, locked in a stalemate, and attack them in the rear. His men deployed from march column into the Gevierthaufen, the Swadian phalanx, with his remaining Doppelsoldners at the front. As always. A small group of League crossbowmen deployed behind and to the left of him, and the small Brixian Consul degli alti Crepacci rode past him, raising his sword. “God be with you captain!” As von Bolck waved his hat in response, he realised the Consul had got the same conclusion as him. He stepped into the formation, his Landsknechts opening the ranks for him and closing again behind him. He took position near the flags and drums in the centre of the pike block. “Forward!” The drums sounded the advance.
On the opposite side, Duke Louis stood next to the Laurian standard. At his left and right, the two blocks of Arquebusiers rapidly deployed into firing lines, holding their fire. At the front angles of the pike block, his remaining Rodoleros had formed two smaller blocks. They stood firm, waiting for the Landsknechts to close in. And they did, the massive formation moving forward on the beats of their drums, with iron discipline forged by years of hard experience.
“Fire!”
At point-blank range, mere seconds before touched by the pike’s points, the Arquebusiers fired their weapons at the Swadians. From this close distance, the leaden bullets dealt heavy damage to the phalanx, and its front rank was swept away, the Doppelsoldners and veterans falling as wheat in the field. Behind the screen of smoke, the Arquebusiers retreated to reload their guns, and began shooting on the Swadian flanks. The Swadian front was in confusion now, after the loss of its leading soldiers, but it wouldn’t take long for these experienced warriors to close their ranks again. Duke Louis pointed his sword forward, and shouted: “Charge!” The pikemen stepped forward, and the Rodoleros charged towards the now vulnerable front angles of the phalanx. The pikemen collided.
Inside his Gevierthaufen, von Bolck was in a rage, furious about the loss of his best soldiers. Besides, the Laurian shooters now harassed his flanks, and Rodoleros were hacking into his formation, forcing his Landsknechts to drop their pikes and draw their Katzbalgers, as the Doppelsoldners no longer protected them. Meanwhile, the flexible Laurian pike-block was keeping pressure on his men. His front ranks were in serious trouble, pinned between pikes and Rodoleros, and losses were mounting. He turned towards the Brixian crossbowmen supporting him, and shouted over the noise: “Come here and swat those flies off our flanks!” But the crossbowmen, not at all eager to enter a dangerous melee, turned and retreated. They left a raging von Bolck, who tried to keep his men together, as they wavered under the heavy attack. To his misfortune, von Bolck was able to witness the professional teamwork of the well-trained Laurians, who combined swift attacks of Rodoleros with the heavy shock-power of the Swadian-style pike block. Even he had to admit his hardened veterans were being beaten by those green Laurian soldiers. There was only one thing he could do in order to save his men. Retreat.
“Signore, the Swadians are retreating!” Councilman Ugolino di Silvestro rode up to the Podesta, pointing at the Landsknecht column, which was clearly retreating, while being harassed by Rodoleros while the Laurian pikemen reformed. They were about to sweep around the Brixian flanks and attack them from behind. The picture on the right seemed equally dangerous, as the Laurian knights had finally broken through the mass of militia troops, and were cutting down survivors. A heavily armoured horseman rode up to them, and the two League officers looked down disgusting at the small, blood-spat figure in the saddle. As he spoke, they recognized Consul Volpello degli alti Crepacci: “Signori! We’re losing the battle! My men are being surrounded, and the Laurians are braking though everywhere! We must retreat!” The Podesta nodded, and said: “We’ll withdraw. Go back to your men and hold your ground to give us more time.” As the consul galloped back to his men, who were about to be encircled, Councilman di Silvestro and Podesta da Carignano turned and rode away, followed by the remnants of their cavalry.
In a few minutes, the remains of the Brixian militia infantry had been encircled, and, as their commander refused to surrender, they were cut down by the Laurian infantry. After the League commander fell unconscious of blood loss, his remaining soldiers surrendered.
From among the men of Count Cordoba’s own soldiers, a bloodied figure stepped forward, and approached the two commanders. He raised the torn shreds of cloth which was formerly a flag, and presented it to Cordoba. “Well Phalonse, I DID say you would get your chance, didn’t I?” said the Count. Behind him, the Caliginous Grandmaster appeared, and shouted at him: “A shame you are one of Grimm’s minions! I would have made you an ensign at once!”
Being too tired from the prolonged fight, the Laurians weren’t able to pursuit their enemies, and limited themselves to let the Herreruelos harass them on their retreat. Guiding his men away from the enemy, Fabian von Bolck looked back at the battlefield, strewn with wounded and dead. He saw the Laurians and his Swadians lying where they fell, in large formations. With the Doppelsoldners at their head, as always. ‘Doppelsoldners lead the way, even in death.’ The partly philosophically-minded captain turned away, and prayed that Swadia would never be invaded by such soldiers as those Laurians.
The Laurian commander, Count Cordoba, watched the arrival of the new enemies, and, seeing them move towards his right, he realised they were about to flank him. But he did not despair: reinforcements were coming. They had arrived, at last. Duke Louis, his blackened helmet under his arm, appeared on the hill on his warhorse, followed by the tops of a forest of pikes. He spurred his horse forward, stopping besides Cordoba. With a broad smile on his unshaven face he shouted: “You ruined my siesta by walking into this mess! But my men want Brixian blood, so I guess I am obliged to help you! Have you left some of them for us?” Count Cordoba nodded. “My boys are fighting off Brixians there, in the centre, and the merchants got reinforcements too. It seems clear that they’ll attempt to flank me.” Louis looked at the centre. Then, the wind came up, scattering the smoke around the battle, revealing the carnage to the commanders. “It looks pretty deserate, there”, Louis said. Suddenly, the Laurian standard, up to now held high by its bearer, dropped. The two officers and the young Black Sheep knight of Cordoba’s retinue watched as the survivors of the Tercio wavered, bereft of their officers, the guiding hand of their commander gone. The next moment Cordoba saw a knight spurring his horse forward towards the fight, dropping his lance. It took him a moment to realize Phalonse Elric was gone from his side, and by then he was already in the fight, having jumped from his steed. He was seen by Cordoba struggling his way towards the fallen standard, picking it up and raising it above the fighting, his sword in the other hand. “Stay! Hold your ground, Laurians!” The Count could only say: “Madness, it’s madness.” Beside him, Duke Louis shouted: “Magnificent! The youg bastard! It’s magnificent!” They both saw the bloodied remnants of the Tercio closing their ranks, and the arquebusiers drawing their short swords and running into the melee. “They can’t hold out much longer” said Cordoba. Duke Louis put on his helmet, and pointed at the advancing Landsknechts. “I’ll give your boys some extra men, so you can hold out while I deal with those men.” At his command, a quarter of his pikemen and half his Rodoleros separated from his Tercio and rushed towards their battered comrades, into the bitter fighting. His remaining men placed themselves before the Swadian phalanx. The Duke led his horse to his standard, dismounted, and drew his sword. He knew the fierce reputation of the Swadian pike-and-shot, but he was confident.
Von Bolck had seen the new Laurian Tercio arriving at the battle, and now saw his path blocked by it. He realised the coming fight would determinate the outcome of the battle: the victor could sweep around the enemy, locked in a stalemate, and attack them in the rear. His men deployed from march column into the Gevierthaufen, the Swadian phalanx, with his remaining Doppelsoldners at the front. As always. A small group of League crossbowmen deployed behind and to the left of him, and the small Brixian Consul degli alti Crepacci rode past him, raising his sword. “God be with you captain!” As von Bolck waved his hat in response, he realised the Consul had got the same conclusion as him. He stepped into the formation, his Landsknechts opening the ranks for him and closing again behind him. He took position near the flags and drums in the centre of the pike block. “Forward!” The drums sounded the advance.
On the opposite side, Duke Louis stood next to the Laurian standard. At his left and right, the two blocks of Arquebusiers rapidly deployed into firing lines, holding their fire. At the front angles of the pike block, his remaining Rodoleros had formed two smaller blocks. They stood firm, waiting for the Landsknechts to close in. And they did, the massive formation moving forward on the beats of their drums, with iron discipline forged by years of hard experience.
“Fire!”
At point-blank range, mere seconds before touched by the pike’s points, the Arquebusiers fired their weapons at the Swadians. From this close distance, the leaden bullets dealt heavy damage to the phalanx, and its front rank was swept away, the Doppelsoldners and veterans falling as wheat in the field. Behind the screen of smoke, the Arquebusiers retreated to reload their guns, and began shooting on the Swadian flanks. The Swadian front was in confusion now, after the loss of its leading soldiers, but it wouldn’t take long for these experienced warriors to close their ranks again. Duke Louis pointed his sword forward, and shouted: “Charge!” The pikemen stepped forward, and the Rodoleros charged towards the now vulnerable front angles of the phalanx. The pikemen collided.
Inside his Gevierthaufen, von Bolck was in a rage, furious about the loss of his best soldiers. Besides, the Laurian shooters now harassed his flanks, and Rodoleros were hacking into his formation, forcing his Landsknechts to drop their pikes and draw their Katzbalgers, as the Doppelsoldners no longer protected them. Meanwhile, the flexible Laurian pike-block was keeping pressure on his men. His front ranks were in serious trouble, pinned between pikes and Rodoleros, and losses were mounting. He turned towards the Brixian crossbowmen supporting him, and shouted over the noise: “Come here and swat those flies off our flanks!” But the crossbowmen, not at all eager to enter a dangerous melee, turned and retreated. They left a raging von Bolck, who tried to keep his men together, as they wavered under the heavy attack. To his misfortune, von Bolck was able to witness the professional teamwork of the well-trained Laurians, who combined swift attacks of Rodoleros with the heavy shock-power of the Swadian-style pike block. Even he had to admit his hardened veterans were being beaten by those green Laurian soldiers. There was only one thing he could do in order to save his men. Retreat.
“Signore, the Swadians are retreating!” Councilman Ugolino di Silvestro rode up to the Podesta, pointing at the Landsknecht column, which was clearly retreating, while being harassed by Rodoleros while the Laurian pikemen reformed. They were about to sweep around the Brixian flanks and attack them from behind. The picture on the right seemed equally dangerous, as the Laurian knights had finally broken through the mass of militia troops, and were cutting down survivors. A heavily armoured horseman rode up to them, and the two League officers looked down disgusting at the small, blood-spat figure in the saddle. As he spoke, they recognized Consul Volpello degli alti Crepacci: “Signori! We’re losing the battle! My men are being surrounded, and the Laurians are braking though everywhere! We must retreat!” The Podesta nodded, and said: “We’ll withdraw. Go back to your men and hold your ground to give us more time.” As the consul galloped back to his men, who were about to be encircled, Councilman di Silvestro and Podesta da Carignano turned and rode away, followed by the remnants of their cavalry.
In a few minutes, the remains of the Brixian militia infantry had been encircled, and, as their commander refused to surrender, they were cut down by the Laurian infantry. After the League commander fell unconscious of blood loss, his remaining soldiers surrendered.
From among the men of Count Cordoba’s own soldiers, a bloodied figure stepped forward, and approached the two commanders. He raised the torn shreds of cloth which was formerly a flag, and presented it to Cordoba. “Well Phalonse, I DID say you would get your chance, didn’t I?” said the Count. Behind him, the Caliginous Grandmaster appeared, and shouted at him: “A shame you are one of Grimm’s minions! I would have made you an ensign at once!”
Being too tired from the prolonged fight, the Laurians weren’t able to pursuit their enemies, and limited themselves to let the Herreruelos harass them on their retreat. Guiding his men away from the enemy, Fabian von Bolck looked back at the battlefield, strewn with wounded and dead. He saw the Laurians and his Swadians lying where they fell, in large formations. With the Doppelsoldners at their head, as always. ‘Doppelsoldners lead the way, even in death.’ The partly philosophically-minded captain turned away, and prayed that Swadia would never be invaded by such soldiers as those Laurians.
Epilogue
Following the victory at Carpegna, the main Laurian army under King Luis III Loeher invaded the lands of the Brixian League. But the effect of surprise had been lost, and the Royal army was faced by a fully prepared League army in overwhelming numbers, and was been forced to retreat over the river. Although the campaign was a failure, the King was pleased by the victory of his ‘new model’ soldiers over a numerically superior foe, and as a reward, Count Cordoba’s Eighth Tercio was permanently assigned to lead the way of the future Laurian campaign armies. In little time, the new Laurian formation would be feared all over Bermia, and later, after invading Calradia, they forced the Swadians to adapt their pike-and-shot tactics to counter this new threat.
Captain Fabian von Bolck realised the Councilmen needed a scapegoat to blame their defeat on, and that he would be that person. He defected with his men, and went into service of Duke Aldobrandesco, who was always in need for good soldiers.
Consul Volpello degli alti Crepacci, after being wounded and captured, spent his imprisonment in Lauria, where he met a young Laurian lady. After being freed, he continued to visit her during truces and peace.
The Brixian League, weakened from within, continued to resist Laurian invasions, fending off their raids with great loss, while many commanders were fighting amongst themselves. As their merchants and peasants bled to death on the battlefield, so did their economy, and the once rich cities became impoverished. Ambitious future Laurian Kings would find little resistance here, as they began to fulfill their dreams of a Bermia, ruled by Laurian Kings.
Captain Fabian von Bolck realised the Councilmen needed a scapegoat to blame their defeat on, and that he would be that person. He defected with his men, and went into service of Duke Aldobrandesco, who was always in need for good soldiers.
Consul Volpello degli alti Crepacci, after being wounded and captured, spent his imprisonment in Lauria, where he met a young Laurian lady. After being freed, he continued to visit her during truces and peace.
The Brixian League, weakened from within, continued to resist Laurian invasions, fending off their raids with great loss, while many commanders were fighting amongst themselves. As their merchants and peasants bled to death on the battlefield, so did their economy, and the once rich cities became impoverished. Ambitious future Laurian Kings would find little resistance here, as they began to fulfill their dreams of a Bermia, ruled by Laurian Kings.
Including in this, is my kind of tribute to one of the greatest fans of tEatRC.
(For who digs deep enough)
cory8675
Regular
Well since this is a thread about ideas for future tetrc lore, and I'm addicted to late middle ages/renaissance I have some ideas lol. I think for one the bermianese should play a bigger role in Calradia. I do know that the laurians are from Bermia, but I'm talking a factions strongly based on southern Italy (Kingdom of Naples) or maybe a faction based on Northern Italy (Venice, Milan ect.) Because I see Russia (vaegirs and I think the halmar union is too idk), Poland (Grand Duchy I believe its called? not 100% sure), Central Italy (ellisians = Papal States I presume), Holy Roman Empire (swadia), Turks ( kerghit) and Spain (laurian kingdom) but I don't see anything really based on Italy. Maybe if there were perhaps an add on with a bigger map they could reside on a peninsula and what not. Another aspect that woudld be interestion is Naval Warfare btw I probably butchered the faction names earlier lol
btw I probably butchered the faction names earlier lol
While this isn't really a place for suggestions but EatRC-related tales, the names are correct. Still: the Haelmar Union is based on Gustav Wasa's Sweden, not Russia; the Ellissian Empire resembled a sort of Greek Empire (the Lion Throne being a mix between the Roman Empire and the Papacy, with a touch of Hindu mythology), not Central Italy. The Bermianese don't play a major role in Calradia simply because they're not on the continent at all. If you look at the map of the known world, you'll see Bermia is on the other side of the Obello, dominated by the Laurian Kingdom. If you have the original M&B you may want to try Struggle for Bermia, set a century before the events of EatRC in the Bermianese land (as of this, it's not Renaissance but more late middle ages).
EDIT: just saw you had SfB already. Nevermind.
EDIT: just saw you had SfB already. Nevermind.
A letter to the Gran Connestable Ezzelino Dalla Langa, ruler of the Brixian League
Anno Domini 1429
Your Grace!
Four years ago, a Laurian army emerged on our borders, intending on taking our lands by suprice with a new army, seemingly appearing out of nothing. Although they were beaten later, they defeated our army in their first encounter, being outnumbered by our troops. For your sake as well as bermias, I have taken the effort to investigate the orgins of this new threat to our states.
About ten years ago, some Laurian Nobles, after encountering Swadian mercenaries in battle, learned about the location of a continent in the south, where most of our foreign mercenaries hail from. They crossed the Obello sea, with travelling merchants as their guides, and arrived in the backward continent called Calradia. As foreign observers, they witnessed the Swadian way of warfare, with large blocks of professional Landsknecht pikemen rolling over the enemy. Due to lack of manpower, Swadian mercenaries in Bermia are mostly forced to fight in smaller groups or companies, while they are intended to be put in large blocks. This rather simple tactic, while executed properly by enough well-trained troops, can sweep away any foe they encounter.
Arriving back in Lauria, the Nobles informed the King, and were given the task of supervising the training of a 'New Model Army'. This training of formerly unprofessional peasant levies into a large standing army was executed entirely in secret. The army was divided into large companies led by Nobles, the so-called Tercios, including support and field artillery units.
A typical Tercio, while differing in size, will mostly be drawn in their typical formation (of the same name) on the battlefield. Their pikemen will be formed into large square boxes, like the Swadians, but unlike them, who put their best men at the front, the Laurians disperse their NCOs, or Coseletes, among the common pikemen, armed with pikes too. On each corner of the main block, a smaller block of Sword-and-Buckler men, called Rodoleros, is deployed. Formerly, some units of them were equipped with javelins, but they were discarded later for the sake of modernisation and standardisation.They are intended to flank enemy formations or to cut holes in it for the pikemen to employ, much like the Swadian Doppelsoldners, although lighter equipped. On the sides of the block, two seperate blocks of Arquebusiers are placed, to give ranged support and fire volleys at close range to disrupt the enemy.
In battle, the formation has proved to be very flexible. When faced by cavalry, for example, the Rodoleros and arquebusiers can find cover in the pike block, which can face in all directions to form an instant square or hedgehog. This flexibility is also an advantage against the heavier and slower Swadian Gevierthaufen, as proved four years ago in the battle of Carpegna.
I have all hope that, by god's will and with our brave soldiers, this new threat can be turned and Bermia be saved. We can learn to defy them, and as long as we live our lands will be free.
Most humble greetings,
Consul Volpello degli alti Crepacci.
Post Scriptum:
I feel obliged to ask you to have some understanding for the position of our former ally, Capitano Fabian von Bolck, accused of treason, as hostile influences from within our League have forced him to defect and go into servise of the usurpator Aldobrandesco. His troops have fought well in the aforementioned battle, and his defeat by a Tercio was for the greater part caused by lack of support from our troops, and the new Laurian tactics with which they outmanoevered and suprised him.
((If the above content conflicts with opinions of almighty D'Sparil or any other LoreMaster, please tell me so that I can edit stuff.))
Anno Domini 1429
Your Grace!
Four years ago, a Laurian army emerged on our borders, intending on taking our lands by suprice with a new army, seemingly appearing out of nothing. Although they were beaten later, they defeated our army in their first encounter, being outnumbered by our troops. For your sake as well as bermias, I have taken the effort to investigate the orgins of this new threat to our states.
About ten years ago, some Laurian Nobles, after encountering Swadian mercenaries in battle, learned about the location of a continent in the south, where most of our foreign mercenaries hail from. They crossed the Obello sea, with travelling merchants as their guides, and arrived in the backward continent called Calradia. As foreign observers, they witnessed the Swadian way of warfare, with large blocks of professional Landsknecht pikemen rolling over the enemy. Due to lack of manpower, Swadian mercenaries in Bermia are mostly forced to fight in smaller groups or companies, while they are intended to be put in large blocks. This rather simple tactic, while executed properly by enough well-trained troops, can sweep away any foe they encounter.
Arriving back in Lauria, the Nobles informed the King, and were given the task of supervising the training of a 'New Model Army'. This training of formerly unprofessional peasant levies into a large standing army was executed entirely in secret. The army was divided into large companies led by Nobles, the so-called Tercios, including support and field artillery units.
A typical Tercio, while differing in size, will mostly be drawn in their typical formation (of the same name) on the battlefield. Their pikemen will be formed into large square boxes, like the Swadians, but unlike them, who put their best men at the front, the Laurians disperse their NCOs, or Coseletes, among the common pikemen, armed with pikes too. On each corner of the main block, a smaller block of Sword-and-Buckler men, called Rodoleros, is deployed. Formerly, some units of them were equipped with javelins, but they were discarded later for the sake of modernisation and standardisation.They are intended to flank enemy formations or to cut holes in it for the pikemen to employ, much like the Swadian Doppelsoldners, although lighter equipped. On the sides of the block, two seperate blocks of Arquebusiers are placed, to give ranged support and fire volleys at close range to disrupt the enemy.
In battle, the formation has proved to be very flexible. When faced by cavalry, for example, the Rodoleros and arquebusiers can find cover in the pike block, which can face in all directions to form an instant square or hedgehog. This flexibility is also an advantage against the heavier and slower Swadian Gevierthaufen, as proved four years ago in the battle of Carpegna.
I have all hope that, by god's will and with our brave soldiers, this new threat can be turned and Bermia be saved. We can learn to defy them, and as long as we live our lands will be free.
Most humble greetings,
Consul Volpello degli alti Crepacci.
Post Scriptum:
I feel obliged to ask you to have some understanding for the position of our former ally, Capitano Fabian von Bolck, accused of treason, as hostile influences from within our League have forced him to defect and go into servise of the usurpator Aldobrandesco. His troops have fought well in the aforementioned battle, and his defeat by a Tercio was for the greater part caused by lack of support from our troops, and the new Laurian tactics with which they outmanoevered and suprised him.
Now, guess mal where our good Consul got this info from.
That's a pretty nice piece of Lore you made there!
You got a PM!
You got a PM!
[quote author=D'Sparil]Nikephoros dons his armor, and Zepyulos, the Spear of God, as he and his Legions head to the north to meet their enemies. The desperate letters he sent to the Pope have not been answered. The Brigade has left Ellis, and headed south to fight an invasion. He is alone. Weeks later the armies clash. By the end of the battle, the once proud Legions, conquerors of the world, are no more. A bleeding Nikephoros is brought to Sigismund. He takes the Laurel Crown from the Ellisian Emperor, and places it on his head.[/quote]
I'd like to write some stuff about it (unless voices rise against my writing-style). But sadly, I don't have this amazing game long enough to enjoy the first chapter.
In short: can anybody tell me more about the Ellisian army during their last days, about during chapter 1? Units, leader names, organization, I think I can use anything. Thanks in advance!
(I of course suppose that the Imperial Swadian army was about the same as it was during the latter campaigns (up to the fall of Vienna). If the earlier Swadian army units/structure differs though, please say so!)
Screw this, got other stuff to do.
Ulaanbaatar
Recruit
So... anyone can volunteer whatever lore they like?
Say a character, a story, a bit of history?
Say a character, a story, a bit of history?
Ulaanbaatar
Recruit
So this'd be part of a series of sometimes gritty, sometimes humorous battlefield stories, from the soldier's point of view. This is the story of Feldwebel Fritz, a sergeant in the Kaiser's Armee.
Excerpt from “A day in the life: Field Journal of Feldwebel Friedrich ‘Fritz’ Ulaan”
14 April
This will likely be my last entry in this journal. The Kaiser’s glorious Heer is retreating – I beg pardon: “strategically redeploying” and my companie has been assigned rearguard, with my platoon as the very tip – or, rather, end – of the spear. That is to say, we got the arse-end of this assignment and none of us is making it out alive.
In absence of any real documents, this shall serve as my last will and testament. I leave all my possessions to my darling Helga. If my body should be found, I wish it to be given a burial at sea... I know it is much for a mere infantryman like me to ask but I’ve always dreamt of joining the Reichsmarine and as a child growing up in Freising, have always been fascinated by the sea. Grant me in death the wish I never fulfilled in life – a life lived entirely für Kaiser und Vaterland.
The Laurians are getting closer. We’ve dug in and built a haphazard barricade to try and keep the marauding bastards at bay but there are simply too many of them. I can hear the clang of their pikes and sabres in the forest on the other side of the river.
They will attack before dawn.
15 April
Holy Emperor’s whiskers, what a scrap that was! I truly did not imagine I would live to see this day’s dawn. Ach, it is good to be alive!
I will try to describe the day’s events as clearly as I can remember them through the alcoholic haze that covers my mind right now.
The one thing I remember clearly was the mist of early morning, just before dawn. It seemed nature was firmly set against us, as if we’d done something to anger her. The rookies were shivering uncontrollably and their rifles clattered as they fell prey to the jitters.
“Feldwebel!”
I hear the familiar shout – the kind of authoritative bark that could only come from under a thick, bushy handlebar moustache.
“Jawohl, Hauptman!”
“Is there anything you can do for these recruits?”
“Write letters to their families, sir?”
The Captain wanted to retort but quickly saw the futility. There really was nothing more we could do for them. Their bellies were full with Haelmarian cheese and strong ale, their boots thick and clean and their coats suited for the weather. It wasn’t the cold that made them quake.
I’m not sure what happened next. I likely inspected the troops one more time and did my best to clear my mind and focus on my rifle and sabre and nothing else. The next thing I remember was getting a mouthful of dirt after taking a shot in the leg from and arquebus. I was in pain but lucky to be alive. Around me, some of the recruits were not so fortunate. Some were losing their minds with fear, others were holding on to their guts, trying to stop the bleeding – most were dead. A few of the veterans near me were trying their best to hold the line.
“Cavalry charge!”
I heard that phrase like a death sentence. But what can a soldier do? We got up, the veterans and I and made ready to meet the charge. As luck would have it, the very first one to fall from enemy fire was the standard bearer. How easily troops lose heart because of a stupid piece of cloth! It seemed to me some of them had suddenly found a god to pray to, for that is what I thought their mumbling to be. Myself, I never believed in such things – the one thing I truly believed in was my double-barrelled rifle – Martha. She never let me down.
Two shots meant two Laurian cavalrymen dead. The soldier next to me gets one shot off which hits before he too falls. I grab his rifle and fire another round. It misses. I don’t want to fire my pistol because they’re still too far away so I reload. Another two shots. One hits a horse and the rider falls to the ground. I hope that hurt, you bastard. Now I fire the flintlock and it hits a Laurian in the shoulder but doesn’t kill him.
Now I’m dead. No time to reload, no more shots to fire and half my men are dead and half the rest are dying. My hand frantically searches the cold wet ground for a weapon, hopefully a loaded rifle, all that was of any use was the banner, if nothing else I could use it as a pike. Indeed, the first cavalryman to reach me gets a thrust from the banner in the chest which only seemed to make him angry. The next horseman flies so close to me it sends me to the ground. Now I’m definitely dead.
I see the horseman coming back and he takes his sweet time to carefully aim his rifle while I lay there – prostrate and helpless, trying to think of a good last word. The only thing that comes out is:
“Scheisse!”
But then, the Laurian and I are both distracted by the strangest of things. A faintly familiar voice shouts out:
“Feldwebel!”
I look to my right and one of the rookies – his trousers still wet with his own urine jumps up and fires a shot. It misses, so he charges brandishing his sabre as if it were a Zweihander. Another rook joins him and the two of them unhorse to foe and then stab him mercilessly.
“That’s enough!” I get to my feet and try to reorganise things. “There are more coming. Form up and reload!”
But I’ve got nothing to reload, I have no rifle and no time to look for one. Curse my luck today! Banner and sabre in hand, I plant my feet firmly in the ground and try to look as authoritative and menacing as I can.
“Marksmen, fire!”
A line of infantry falls but more come charging.
“Fire at will. Damn it to hell, get them!”
At this point, I’m the one who loses his wits. Forgetting that they also have arquebusiers, I climb atop the barricade and start waving my sabre atop my head.
“Come and get me, you Schweine! I’ll take you on, one at a time, I’ll do the lot o’ yaz!”
And then, the dumbest thing happens. They stop. I’m dumbfounded. Was I really so intimidating? My sabre hand drops, I look to the rookie to my left, he’s as incredulous as I am. For a moment there, I actually felt quite smug. Then, I hear it again:
“Feldwebel!”
I look behind me and suddenly, it all makes sense. Riding furiously towards us, like a bat out of hell is General von Mackensen in front of his Dragoons. The main body of the army has reformed and come to join the battle. We held the line as long as we had to. We’re saved!
Ach, it’s good to be alive!
Excerpt from “A day in the life: Field Journal of Feldwebel Friedrich ‘Fritz’ Ulaan”
14 April
This will likely be my last entry in this journal. The Kaiser’s glorious Heer is retreating – I beg pardon: “strategically redeploying” and my companie has been assigned rearguard, with my platoon as the very tip – or, rather, end – of the spear. That is to say, we got the arse-end of this assignment and none of us is making it out alive.
In absence of any real documents, this shall serve as my last will and testament. I leave all my possessions to my darling Helga. If my body should be found, I wish it to be given a burial at sea... I know it is much for a mere infantryman like me to ask but I’ve always dreamt of joining the Reichsmarine and as a child growing up in Freising, have always been fascinated by the sea. Grant me in death the wish I never fulfilled in life – a life lived entirely für Kaiser und Vaterland.
The Laurians are getting closer. We’ve dug in and built a haphazard barricade to try and keep the marauding bastards at bay but there are simply too many of them. I can hear the clang of their pikes and sabres in the forest on the other side of the river.
They will attack before dawn.
15 April
Holy Emperor’s whiskers, what a scrap that was! I truly did not imagine I would live to see this day’s dawn. Ach, it is good to be alive!
I will try to describe the day’s events as clearly as I can remember them through the alcoholic haze that covers my mind right now.
The one thing I remember clearly was the mist of early morning, just before dawn. It seemed nature was firmly set against us, as if we’d done something to anger her. The rookies were shivering uncontrollably and their rifles clattered as they fell prey to the jitters.
“Feldwebel!”
I hear the familiar shout – the kind of authoritative bark that could only come from under a thick, bushy handlebar moustache.
“Jawohl, Hauptman!”
“Is there anything you can do for these recruits?”
“Write letters to their families, sir?”
The Captain wanted to retort but quickly saw the futility. There really was nothing more we could do for them. Their bellies were full with Haelmarian cheese and strong ale, their boots thick and clean and their coats suited for the weather. It wasn’t the cold that made them quake.
I’m not sure what happened next. I likely inspected the troops one more time and did my best to clear my mind and focus on my rifle and sabre and nothing else. The next thing I remember was getting a mouthful of dirt after taking a shot in the leg from and arquebus. I was in pain but lucky to be alive. Around me, some of the recruits were not so fortunate. Some were losing their minds with fear, others were holding on to their guts, trying to stop the bleeding – most were dead. A few of the veterans near me were trying their best to hold the line.
“Cavalry charge!”
I heard that phrase like a death sentence. But what can a soldier do? We got up, the veterans and I and made ready to meet the charge. As luck would have it, the very first one to fall from enemy fire was the standard bearer. How easily troops lose heart because of a stupid piece of cloth! It seemed to me some of them had suddenly found a god to pray to, for that is what I thought their mumbling to be. Myself, I never believed in such things – the one thing I truly believed in was my double-barrelled rifle – Martha. She never let me down.
Two shots meant two Laurian cavalrymen dead. The soldier next to me gets one shot off which hits before he too falls. I grab his rifle and fire another round. It misses. I don’t want to fire my pistol because they’re still too far away so I reload. Another two shots. One hits a horse and the rider falls to the ground. I hope that hurt, you bastard. Now I fire the flintlock and it hits a Laurian in the shoulder but doesn’t kill him.
Now I’m dead. No time to reload, no more shots to fire and half my men are dead and half the rest are dying. My hand frantically searches the cold wet ground for a weapon, hopefully a loaded rifle, all that was of any use was the banner, if nothing else I could use it as a pike. Indeed, the first cavalryman to reach me gets a thrust from the banner in the chest which only seemed to make him angry. The next horseman flies so close to me it sends me to the ground. Now I’m definitely dead.
I see the horseman coming back and he takes his sweet time to carefully aim his rifle while I lay there – prostrate and helpless, trying to think of a good last word. The only thing that comes out is:
“Scheisse!”
But then, the Laurian and I are both distracted by the strangest of things. A faintly familiar voice shouts out:
“Feldwebel!”
I look to my right and one of the rookies – his trousers still wet with his own urine jumps up and fires a shot. It misses, so he charges brandishing his sabre as if it were a Zweihander. Another rook joins him and the two of them unhorse to foe and then stab him mercilessly.
“That’s enough!” I get to my feet and try to reorganise things. “There are more coming. Form up and reload!”
But I’ve got nothing to reload, I have no rifle and no time to look for one. Curse my luck today! Banner and sabre in hand, I plant my feet firmly in the ground and try to look as authoritative and menacing as I can.
“Marksmen, fire!”
A line of infantry falls but more come charging.
“Fire at will. Damn it to hell, get them!”
At this point, I’m the one who loses his wits. Forgetting that they also have arquebusiers, I climb atop the barricade and start waving my sabre atop my head.
“Come and get me, you Schweine! I’ll take you on, one at a time, I’ll do the lot o’ yaz!”
And then, the dumbest thing happens. They stop. I’m dumbfounded. Was I really so intimidating? My sabre hand drops, I look to the rookie to my left, he’s as incredulous as I am. For a moment there, I actually felt quite smug. Then, I hear it again:
“Feldwebel!”
I look behind me and suddenly, it all makes sense. Riding furiously towards us, like a bat out of hell is General von Mackensen in front of his Dragoons. The main body of the army has reformed and come to join the battle. We held the line as long as we had to. We’re saved!
Ach, it’s good to be alive!
There March the Landsknechts
Part 1
Part 1
This story starts in the Year of the Creator 1391. In its soft Bermianese spring, a Vaegir merchant galleon arrived in the port of Eridania, bringing two young Swadian adventurers to Bermia, or Bermian as it’s called by the people from Calradia and Lauria. One of the Swadians, Ernest von Bolck, was the typical Doppelsoldner: Tall, broad, illiterate, sporting a large moustache and short hair, and with a thick skull with little brains in it. His family from Marienburg had a long tradition in serving the Holy Imperial army, providing it with Doppelsöldner and junior officers, but had long been impoverished. Having been a Doppelsoldner himself, Ernest had seen the last fortunes of his family disappear, and, after his company was disbanded and he left without chances, he had heard of a rich continent across the Obello sea, and boarded the Vaegir ship. His only possessions left were his ragged clothes, his Zweihander and his name, but for the 21 year-old Swadian, it was enough.
His companion, the clean-shaved and slightly younger Holger aus Friesach, or simply Holger, from Friesach, was a little short for a Swadian, but still taller than most Bermianese. Like Ernest, he had been a Doppelsoldner in the Swadches Heer, but, although his family consisted of humble peasants, he had been able to spare some money. His elder brother, a friar in the Swadian Church, had teached him the Swadian Alphabet, and he was somewhat more civilized than most other soldiers. Both men now stepped into a world of new opportunities, visible in the faces of beautiful women and the fat purses and rich clothes of merchants. They parted that day, the man from Marienburg starting as a mercenary for Eridania’s Savi, and the peasant son enlisting in Zena’s companies.
5 years later, Ernest von Bolck was in service of the Duchy of Faventia, serving as a junior officer commanding a file Swadians. His soldiers were fellow adventurers, Landsknechts coming mostly from Marienburg. He had gained some fame in fights for Eridania, Arretia and the city of Alba, and was well-known among fellow Swadians in Bermian. He hoped to gain enough fame to start a Swadian company on his own, but lacked funds to do so. At the same time, Holger from Friesach was a mercenary captain in the service of the merchant rulers of Partenope. He carefully had build connections with Calradian traders visiting Bermian, and paid them to encourage employness Swadian mercenaries to come to Bermian. He dreamt of setting up a pure Swadian Company, with large numbers of pikemen and smaller support groups, and around him he had already formed the core of this future army. Some bankrupt Swadian nobles had joined him, and he had enough Landsknechts to form a small Fähnlein.
One more year later, the Year of the Creator 1397, Ernest was in love with a Faventian Lady, and would marry her a little later. Besides this happiness, a further practical effect of this was new wealth from the girl’s family. Together with the loot from many a battle, the Marienburger was able to form his own company in service of the urban Duchy of Faventia. Most of his Landsknechts were from Marienburg; some were old comrades in arms, and others joined him to gain glory for their old city. The Marienburgers long had been proud of their city, supplying the Swadian armies with the best Landsknechts of Calradia. Word had reached Marienburg about their kinsman gaining fame and forming a Fähnlein in Bermian, and employness Landsknechts came across the Obello sea. Now, they would make a name in Bermian too.
Meanwhile, Hauptmann Holger had been able to get enough men to form two Fähnlein, enough to use the classic Swadian Phalanx tactic, the Gevierthaufen formation. His company now was by far the most effective of the two Swadians, and he knew his dreams were about to become reality. Both captains kept shouting oversea, tempting them to join them with promises of the rich cities, flourishing villages amongst fertile grounds, beautiful women and more loot together on one place than in the whole of Calradia. Their words were heard, and Swadians came to Bermian in greater numbers, swelling the ranks and replacing losses.
Two years later, Ernest’s wife bore him a son, who was named Fabian and destined as his father’s successor. Besides his upbringing as a future leader of men, he was taught literature and got a wider knowledge than the born soldier his father was. But Ernest’s plans for Fabian’s future were crossed when the popular Swadian drowned in a river in 1416, far in Zenoese lands. Fabian, being only 14 years old, could not succeed his father as captain of his company. Before his dead, Ernest had gathered more than two Fähnlein of Marienburgers, but afterwards they dispersed. Many of them joined the company of Holger from Friesach, the other famous Swadian leader in Bermian.
While Ernest was brought up by his mother in Faventia, Holger aus Friesach was forming his Swadian army from their humble beginning to an effective brawling force. His star was rising, but he was not yet recognized by his Bermianese masters as an important factor in their wars. The simple Swadian men who fought their wars were seen by the rich merchants and Councilmen of the cities as barbarians, illiterate savages with long beards and short hair. They had a vague view as the individual Landsknecht as a rather good soldier, but a bad leader and worthless conversation company. The rich townsmen, well-educated in culture and manners, clad in heavy armour and equipped with large shields, were regarded as more than a match for the ‘Swadian rabble’, brute force gathered in cumbersome formations.
For this, too, the battle of Ripe would be a turning point.
His companion, the clean-shaved and slightly younger Holger aus Friesach, or simply Holger, from Friesach, was a little short for a Swadian, but still taller than most Bermianese. Like Ernest, he had been a Doppelsoldner in the Swadches Heer, but, although his family consisted of humble peasants, he had been able to spare some money. His elder brother, a friar in the Swadian Church, had teached him the Swadian Alphabet, and he was somewhat more civilized than most other soldiers. Both men now stepped into a world of new opportunities, visible in the faces of beautiful women and the fat purses and rich clothes of merchants. They parted that day, the man from Marienburg starting as a mercenary for Eridania’s Savi, and the peasant son enlisting in Zena’s companies.
5 years later, Ernest von Bolck was in service of the Duchy of Faventia, serving as a junior officer commanding a file Swadians. His soldiers were fellow adventurers, Landsknechts coming mostly from Marienburg. He had gained some fame in fights for Eridania, Arretia and the city of Alba, and was well-known among fellow Swadians in Bermian. He hoped to gain enough fame to start a Swadian company on his own, but lacked funds to do so. At the same time, Holger from Friesach was a mercenary captain in the service of the merchant rulers of Partenope. He carefully had build connections with Calradian traders visiting Bermian, and paid them to encourage employness Swadian mercenaries to come to Bermian. He dreamt of setting up a pure Swadian Company, with large numbers of pikemen and smaller support groups, and around him he had already formed the core of this future army. Some bankrupt Swadian nobles had joined him, and he had enough Landsknechts to form a small Fähnlein.
One more year later, the Year of the Creator 1397, Ernest was in love with a Faventian Lady, and would marry her a little later. Besides this happiness, a further practical effect of this was new wealth from the girl’s family. Together with the loot from many a battle, the Marienburger was able to form his own company in service of the urban Duchy of Faventia. Most of his Landsknechts were from Marienburg; some were old comrades in arms, and others joined him to gain glory for their old city. The Marienburgers long had been proud of their city, supplying the Swadian armies with the best Landsknechts of Calradia. Word had reached Marienburg about their kinsman gaining fame and forming a Fähnlein in Bermian, and employness Landsknechts came across the Obello sea. Now, they would make a name in Bermian too.
Meanwhile, Hauptmann Holger had been able to get enough men to form two Fähnlein, enough to use the classic Swadian Phalanx tactic, the Gevierthaufen formation. His company now was by far the most effective of the two Swadians, and he knew his dreams were about to become reality. Both captains kept shouting oversea, tempting them to join them with promises of the rich cities, flourishing villages amongst fertile grounds, beautiful women and more loot together on one place than in the whole of Calradia. Their words were heard, and Swadians came to Bermian in greater numbers, swelling the ranks and replacing losses.
Two years later, Ernest’s wife bore him a son, who was named Fabian and destined as his father’s successor. Besides his upbringing as a future leader of men, he was taught literature and got a wider knowledge than the born soldier his father was. But Ernest’s plans for Fabian’s future were crossed when the popular Swadian drowned in a river in 1416, far in Zenoese lands. Fabian, being only 14 years old, could not succeed his father as captain of his company. Before his dead, Ernest had gathered more than two Fähnlein of Marienburgers, but afterwards they dispersed. Many of them joined the company of Holger from Friesach, the other famous Swadian leader in Bermian.
While Ernest was brought up by his mother in Faventia, Holger aus Friesach was forming his Swadian army from their humble beginning to an effective brawling force. His star was rising, but he was not yet recognized by his Bermianese masters as an important factor in their wars. The simple Swadian men who fought their wars were seen by the rich merchants and Councilmen of the cities as barbarians, illiterate savages with long beards and short hair. They had a vague view as the individual Landsknecht as a rather good soldier, but a bad leader and worthless conversation company. The rich townsmen, well-educated in culture and manners, clad in heavy armour and equipped with large shields, were regarded as more than a match for the ‘Swadian rabble’, brute force gathered in cumbersome formations.
For this, too, the battle of Ripe would be a turning point.
There March the Landsknechts
Part 2
(It's a bit long; If you want, I can split it up in 2 spoilers.)
Part 2
Spring 1419
Territory of Arretia, central Bermia
“Forward. Move it, move it. Onward, for the glory of our city.” Armatore Collardo di Callevilla rode past his troops, and the contrast between his hastily but soft voice and his encouraging words wasn’t noticed by most of his veteran troops, marching in a long-stretched column from Zena onward. Despite being though and battle-hardened men, their voices kept soft and their eyes calm in the heath of battle. And that was where they were heading to. Although the dense mist reduced their sight to mere meters, any soldier knew they were heading straight to a bitter fight. But they did not fear the communal troops of the cities of Arretia and Partenope, who had allied themselves temporarily against the city of Zena. As they stepped further, following the backs of the troops in front of them, the sounds of battle became clear, and wounded men were visible dragging themselves to the rear. But those were but few, and any soldier knew in his hart that they were winning.
Armatore di Callevilla rode back to his commander, Gouvernor Simone Boccanegra, who was surrounded by other Zenoese officers, and said to him: “That damn fog renders our sight to nil. We don’t know how much enemies are standing between us and Arretia. My boys are tearing the enemy formations apart, but we can’t pursue them when they flee.” The gouvernor smiled at him: “Don’t worry, Collardo. They can’t have more than some levies and some mercenaries here. We just have to stay close and march on in the right direction. Our worst enemy today is the mist, not those fat merchants in armour. Hey Clemente,” he said, turning to an officer on his left, “where are we now?” Armatore Clemente di Promontorio spread out a map over the armored neck of his charger, and said: “It seems we’re somewhere between Castello dell’Aquacheta and, er… the village of Ripe.” Capitano Francesco Bussone interrupted: “That must be the village my vanguard reached an hour ago. Let me see…” he bowed over the map, “…we’re half-way now. And we’ve already taken that castle in our back. It seems we can start sacking Arretia tomorrow!”
Hauptmann Holger whistled a song he and his comrades had sung back in Swadia. Somewhere in the Gevierthaufen, the large phalanx of Landsknechts standing nearby, a soldier began to sing on the melody: “Oh, du schöner Ehlerdah Wald, über deine Höhen pfeift der wind so kalt…” Holger ceased whistling, and patted the brown neck of his horse. His company, consisting of two-and-a-half Fähnlein Landsknechts, some Swadian skirmishers, and Hauptmann Holger and his small mounted staff of impoverished nobles and fellow adventurers, were standing in a forest north of Ripe and east of Arretia. The mass of pikes, held upright by the mercenaries, formed a dense forest within the real forest. An Arretian official came riding by, and said with contempt to the Swadian staff: “Who’s your commander? Or your chieftain?” Holger, dressed in simple half-plate over black with yellow slashed clothes rode forward. “It’s captain. Orders from the big merchant?” “Podesta Ezzelino Dalla Langa orders you and your gang to advance on the village of Ripe. Our troops are retreating and you must buy them some time. You and your ruffians have to hold back the Zenoese at least an hour. Did you understand?” Holger simply nodded. He turned his horse and ordered his men into march formation. While they were formed up, one of Holgers lieutenants, a young impoverished Swadian noble, growled behind his captain: “God, how I hate this effeminate creatures calling themselves men!” The older man whispered back: “Quiet, Georg; you’ll have enough chance to teach them how to fight in a couple of hours.”
They were waiting for the order to go, but they first had to let the other troops of the cities pass. When they appeared, it became obvious that it was a total rout: the whole army which the city of Arretia, together with its allies from Partenope, had sent to stop the Zenoese, came running for the safety of the forest. At their head came the most heavily armored militiamen, rich merchants in full plate calling themselves ‘Doppiosoldi’. When they passed by, the Landsknechts shouted at them: “Hure, hure!!” The mounted official asked Holger “What do they say?” “Whores.” The captain spurred his horse forward, while behind him his lieutenants grinned at the now red-faced official. “Enough time wasted. Marsch marsch! And sweep the road clear of all cowards moving in our way!” The routers quickly made way for the phalanx, scattering as it moved by. They marched southward, right into the mist.
Emile, assaltore in the army of the city of Zena, stared into the mist, watching for enemies to appear. Behind him, his comrades were looting the village of Ripe, and Emile heard the lamentation of peasants whose houses were burnt and possessions taken, and the screams of women. Emile pitied the women, and he didn’t want to be there. The communal troops had been easily scattered, and the road to Arretia seemed to lay wide open. The professional soldiers thought their job and duty done. The sentry heard the sound of drums, and raised his head. After a minute, something what appeared like a giant beast with countless spikes raising upward from it, became visible in the fog. Some moments later, he identified the formation as Swadian mercenaries, and ran back to the other Zenoeses.
“Halt!” Upon their captain’s command, the whole body of troops stopped in their track. In front of them, they saw the burning village, and in it their enemies, who were quickly gathering their forces. Soldiers dropped their loot and formed into formations. Skirmishers were dispersed among the houses, while the infantry formed a solid block in the village’s main street. Captain Holger drew his long sword, and shouted his orders: “Form up the Gevierthafen! Doppelsöldner in the second line! Shooters forward!” The handful of skirmishers, armed with blunderbusses and arquebuses, moved forward and started shooting, while the Landsknechts formed into their pike square. The precious Doppelsöldner were placed in the second line instead of the first, for Holger knew they would be vulnerable to the missiles from the Bermianese crossbows. Although his company was growing, he still was chronic short of suitable Doppelsöldner. On the beats of the drums, the phalanx moved forward, with Holger, followed by his officers, in its right flank. The skirmishers scattered to give them space, and they marched right towards the Zenoese.
Laying on rooftops and crouching behind obstacles, the Zenoese crossbowmen aimed their weapons. “Loose!” At their commander’s order, a hail of deadly bolts mowed down the first line of the approaching phalanx. In order to maintain their formation, everybody had to continue marching; the wounded who couldn’t get away quick enough, were trampled by their comrades. The next ranks, with leveled pikes, came closer to the Zenoese infantry. Their commander, a navy captain, ordered the charge. At the sight of the wall of pikes, though, most troops hesitated. But the Assaltores, shock troops destined to lead boarding assault at sea, raised their tower shields and sprinted forward, trying to avoid the points of pikes. Their example was immediately followed by the other troops, who rushed at the now stationary troop Swadians. But they couldn’t come any further. The Swadians, masters in warfare with the pike, stabbed at gaps between shields and weak points in exposed armour, for their method of wielding the pike without a shield gave superior flexibility and accuracy. The Zenoese now found out that their big shields were more of a hindrance than a help in the fight, as it was becoming a bloody push of pikes, in which the Swadians had a clear advantage. Some Assaltores managed to get through between the pikes, but were immediately cut down by the large Doppelsöldner now standing in the first rank. The two forces now became pinned against each other, with the flanks of both pressed against houses.
Ezzelino Dalla Langa, Podesta of Arretia, listened to the news of the messenger which just had arrived. It seemed his entire force, except the cavalry and some reserves, was fleeing in all directions. Castello dell’Acquacheta, guarding the way to Arretia, was taken by enemy forces, and its garrison commander, Councilman Tomasso di Bassa Ferrosa, was fleeing to the north, taking a large body of troops with him. The aging Podesta, surrounded by his escort of mounted Sergeants lamentated: “Ach, they all hath deserted me. Woe to me, and to our proud city!”
Armatore Collardo di Callevilla, followed by a fresh company, was searching enemies around Ripe, when he heard the sounds of battle, and hard Swadian voices shouting commands. He concluded that friendly forces were fighting Swadians in the village, and led his troops on a flanking move. Bringing his soldiers behind the phalanx, he advanced. They were spotted by the Swadian skirmishers, who fired a volley at them, thus alerting their leaders. Holger turned his horse around, immediately saw the danger, and roared at his Landsknechts: “Three rear ranks, turn around! Shooters, draw swords! Come on, noble Knights! Charge!” He spurred his horse forward, hastily followed by his ‘noble’ lieutenants, and rode right into the approaching Zenoese. Their advance was halted, as their front ranks were thrown into confusion by the sudden counter-attack, and the Swadian rear ranks were able to make their turn in good order. The shooters took their place before them, taking the place of the Doppelsöldner in the rear with their short swords drawn. Holger saw over his shoulder that his men were ready, and turned around, still hacking around with his long sword. “That’s enough, Knights! Turn back and break off! Follow me!” Followed by most of his lieutenants, who were still alive, he rode through the rear ranks of his company which raised their pikes, and stopped in the middle of their square. He dismounted, and his surviving officers followed suit. Attacked by enemy infantry from two sides, and protected by the houses on the other two, he was effectively surrounded. But it was a good position. As long as he had at least two ranks left, no enemy would pass them.
The heavily armored horseman, a mercenary of the city, gave his message to the captain, who looked a little upset after reading it. The Gouvernor looked at him, and asked annoyed: “What’s up, Francesco? Lost your grip on your men again?” Capitano Francesco Bussone responded “Those rats have sent new troops. Some overseas mercenaries who surprised my men in Ripe. Quite heavy losses, I read. For my men. It seems we’ve got an obstacle there…” Gouvernor Boccanegra pointed at a squadron heavy mercenary cavalry nearby, the Bermianese Hired Lances. “I’m quite prepared to remove any *obstacle* in our way, gentlemen. Maybe it won’t be necessary, but I’d rather be sure. Now…”, he raised his baton, and Armatore Clemente di Promontorio placed himself at the horsemen’s head, “…forward. Our noble city of Zena places its trust on you, noble souls. Wipe those foreigners from the field.” He pointed his baton forward, and the cavalry set off. They trotted over the muddy path, experienced human tanks clad in heavy steel.
Emile, the Zenoese Assaltore, knew he was as much in trouble as a soldier could be: trapped between a hedge of pikes and his comrades, still pressing forward. He hid his body behind his board shield, and pushed forward. He ignored the pikes going through his greaves piercing his legs, and still stumbled forward, gripping his axe ready for a slash when – or rather, if – he reached the Swadians. Another pike went through his shield, and impaled his shield-arm on it. He stubbornly tried to advance, pushed from behind, but he simply couldn’t, being held in place by the pike. He desperately tried to free himself from it, but a Doppelsoldner stepped forward and, after splintering Emile’s axe, cut the helpless soldier down. The other Zenoese trying to break through met a similar fate, and their losses began to mount quickly. Suddenly, they broke ranks and retreated. They rallied outside the village, but, being ordered to attack again by their commander, they refused to move. Meanwhile, the Zenoese at the other side of the phalanx didn’t know what was happening and fought on, receiving many casualties too.
“You must return to the battlefield immediately. Some of your soldiers are still somewhere out there!” Councilman Albertuccio da Borgoveccio stared at the speaker, and angrily responded: “I must? I *must* return to Arretia! My wife and children are there, trusting our feeble, old, worthless Podesta to protect them! I’ll take them out of that trap there before those pirates sack the cursed place. You know what they do to women?! SHUT UP. Get out of my way now, or I’ll see it as my duty of husband to gut you like a pig.” With a sad face, Messer Volpello degli Alti Crepacci, son of a wealthy merchant and horseman in Arretia’s army, moved his horse to the side. The Councilman galloped away, towards the seemingly doomed city. Volpello rode around, trying to find and rally some friendly troops. But he got lost in the mist.
The column of heavy cavalry halted at the sight of the village, seeing the Swadians driving off the second troop of Zenoese. Armatore di Promontorio noticed some of the houses were still on fire, and hesitated to order the charge. He thought the horses would be scared by the fire and spread confusion. But his men were eager for battle, and urged them to advance. Sighing, the Armatore gave in, lowered his visor and raised his sword. “Charge.”
The enemy infantry was in full retreat, and Holger used this respite to drag the wounded into the middle of the square, where the drummers and standard-bearers were too, and to reform the lines. At a shout by one of his lieutenants, he turned toward the south, and saw the mass of cavalry coming his way. Without orders, his men leveled their pikes again, and braced for the impact. The Doppelsöldner kneeled, and rested the ends of the handles of their Zweihanders on the ground. They didn’t need any encouragements; They knew they had to stand or die.
“Forward. Forward. Forward!” The Armatore urged his men forward, and kept his gaze locked at the enemies. He heard the whinnies behind him and the curses of horsemen, and he knew without looking that some horses were scared off by the fire, causing disorder in the ranks. As he still stormed forward, he saw the Swadians holding their ground, formed in a closed and fearsome formation. Other, less steadfast troops would’ve been routed at the sight of his cavalry, but the attitude of his opponents showed that they were calm, and sure of victory. He saw grinning faces above rough beards, and the next moment his horse impaled itself on a pike, and another ran through his upper right leg. He heard horses and men die, and saw only mud. Lying on the ground, he was knocked out by a stroke of a Zweihander while his men were butchered. They and their horses were impaled on pikes, some horses refused to run into them, while others ran amok riderless. Some horsemen managed to get through the chaos, but were isolated and pulled from their horses. Within a minute, a wall of dead horses and horsemen laid before the pikes, and the other cavalry couldn’t get their steeds over it. “Advance!” the Swadian captain shouted, and, to the cavalry’s terror, the wall of pikes came closer. The Swadian rear ranks still walked backwards, all on the beats of the drums. The phalanx drove the cavalry backwards, and then out of the village. Between heaps of corpses, the Landsknechts still held their ground.
Messer Volpello degli Alti Crepacci, trying to find out where he was, had just narrowly escaped from some Zenoese infantry appearing out of the fog. Now, he approached the village. He saw some houses on fire, and he spotted a few peasants hiding in some ruins. Then he saw the Landsknechts, a large square of big pikemen and Doppelsöldner, with in its middle the drummers, officers and two standard-bearers. One of the flags was the standard of Arretia, and Volpello recognised them as friendly troops. He rode towards the officers. “Hail, friends. You must be brave men to hold this place while the others flee.” Holger, whose arm was bound with his scarf because and crossbow bolt had pierced it, bowed and took off his hat. “We’ve got our orders, friend. Did you see any enemies around?” The Bermianese told the captain all he knew, and the latter said: “Right. I’m going to take the fight to the enemy. You’d better stay with us, small man.” With some shouts, he formed his company again, and, leaving the wounded with a small guard at the village, they marched south.
The Zenoese companies, pursuing a fleeing foe, one by one were attacked by the Swadian Gevierthafen coming from the north. Those parties, who were mostly smaller in size than the Swadians’, were caught by surprise, and weren’t hard to drive off. While they moved further, panic spread in their foe’s ranks, and by nightfall they had reached the ford near Castello dell’Aquacheta, the old border between Zena and Arretia. Aided by the mist as well as their stubbornness in battle, Holger’s Landsknechts had won the battle of Ripe. Only the next day Podesta Ezzelino Dalla Langa, who had fled to Arretia too, heard of the victory of his troops.
Territory of Arretia, central Bermia
“Forward. Move it, move it. Onward, for the glory of our city.” Armatore Collardo di Callevilla rode past his troops, and the contrast between his hastily but soft voice and his encouraging words wasn’t noticed by most of his veteran troops, marching in a long-stretched column from Zena onward. Despite being though and battle-hardened men, their voices kept soft and their eyes calm in the heath of battle. And that was where they were heading to. Although the dense mist reduced their sight to mere meters, any soldier knew they were heading straight to a bitter fight. But they did not fear the communal troops of the cities of Arretia and Partenope, who had allied themselves temporarily against the city of Zena. As they stepped further, following the backs of the troops in front of them, the sounds of battle became clear, and wounded men were visible dragging themselves to the rear. But those were but few, and any soldier knew in his hart that they were winning.
Armatore di Callevilla rode back to his commander, Gouvernor Simone Boccanegra, who was surrounded by other Zenoese officers, and said to him: “That damn fog renders our sight to nil. We don’t know how much enemies are standing between us and Arretia. My boys are tearing the enemy formations apart, but we can’t pursue them when they flee.” The gouvernor smiled at him: “Don’t worry, Collardo. They can’t have more than some levies and some mercenaries here. We just have to stay close and march on in the right direction. Our worst enemy today is the mist, not those fat merchants in armour. Hey Clemente,” he said, turning to an officer on his left, “where are we now?” Armatore Clemente di Promontorio spread out a map over the armored neck of his charger, and said: “It seems we’re somewhere between Castello dell’Aquacheta and, er… the village of Ripe.” Capitano Francesco Bussone interrupted: “That must be the village my vanguard reached an hour ago. Let me see…” he bowed over the map, “…we’re half-way now. And we’ve already taken that castle in our back. It seems we can start sacking Arretia tomorrow!”
Hauptmann Holger whistled a song he and his comrades had sung back in Swadia. Somewhere in the Gevierthaufen, the large phalanx of Landsknechts standing nearby, a soldier began to sing on the melody: “Oh, du schöner Ehlerdah Wald, über deine Höhen pfeift der wind so kalt…” Holger ceased whistling, and patted the brown neck of his horse. His company, consisting of two-and-a-half Fähnlein Landsknechts, some Swadian skirmishers, and Hauptmann Holger and his small mounted staff of impoverished nobles and fellow adventurers, were standing in a forest north of Ripe and east of Arretia. The mass of pikes, held upright by the mercenaries, formed a dense forest within the real forest. An Arretian official came riding by, and said with contempt to the Swadian staff: “Who’s your commander? Or your chieftain?” Holger, dressed in simple half-plate over black with yellow slashed clothes rode forward. “It’s captain. Orders from the big merchant?” “Podesta Ezzelino Dalla Langa orders you and your gang to advance on the village of Ripe. Our troops are retreating and you must buy them some time. You and your ruffians have to hold back the Zenoese at least an hour. Did you understand?” Holger simply nodded. He turned his horse and ordered his men into march formation. While they were formed up, one of Holgers lieutenants, a young impoverished Swadian noble, growled behind his captain: “God, how I hate this effeminate creatures calling themselves men!” The older man whispered back: “Quiet, Georg; you’ll have enough chance to teach them how to fight in a couple of hours.”
They were waiting for the order to go, but they first had to let the other troops of the cities pass. When they appeared, it became obvious that it was a total rout: the whole army which the city of Arretia, together with its allies from Partenope, had sent to stop the Zenoese, came running for the safety of the forest. At their head came the most heavily armored militiamen, rich merchants in full plate calling themselves ‘Doppiosoldi’. When they passed by, the Landsknechts shouted at them: “Hure, hure!!” The mounted official asked Holger “What do they say?” “Whores.” The captain spurred his horse forward, while behind him his lieutenants grinned at the now red-faced official. “Enough time wasted. Marsch marsch! And sweep the road clear of all cowards moving in our way!” The routers quickly made way for the phalanx, scattering as it moved by. They marched southward, right into the mist.
Emile, assaltore in the army of the city of Zena, stared into the mist, watching for enemies to appear. Behind him, his comrades were looting the village of Ripe, and Emile heard the lamentation of peasants whose houses were burnt and possessions taken, and the screams of women. Emile pitied the women, and he didn’t want to be there. The communal troops had been easily scattered, and the road to Arretia seemed to lay wide open. The professional soldiers thought their job and duty done. The sentry heard the sound of drums, and raised his head. After a minute, something what appeared like a giant beast with countless spikes raising upward from it, became visible in the fog. Some moments later, he identified the formation as Swadian mercenaries, and ran back to the other Zenoeses.
“Halt!” Upon their captain’s command, the whole body of troops stopped in their track. In front of them, they saw the burning village, and in it their enemies, who were quickly gathering their forces. Soldiers dropped their loot and formed into formations. Skirmishers were dispersed among the houses, while the infantry formed a solid block in the village’s main street. Captain Holger drew his long sword, and shouted his orders: “Form up the Gevierthafen! Doppelsöldner in the second line! Shooters forward!” The handful of skirmishers, armed with blunderbusses and arquebuses, moved forward and started shooting, while the Landsknechts formed into their pike square. The precious Doppelsöldner were placed in the second line instead of the first, for Holger knew they would be vulnerable to the missiles from the Bermianese crossbows. Although his company was growing, he still was chronic short of suitable Doppelsöldner. On the beats of the drums, the phalanx moved forward, with Holger, followed by his officers, in its right flank. The skirmishers scattered to give them space, and they marched right towards the Zenoese.
Laying on rooftops and crouching behind obstacles, the Zenoese crossbowmen aimed their weapons. “Loose!” At their commander’s order, a hail of deadly bolts mowed down the first line of the approaching phalanx. In order to maintain their formation, everybody had to continue marching; the wounded who couldn’t get away quick enough, were trampled by their comrades. The next ranks, with leveled pikes, came closer to the Zenoese infantry. Their commander, a navy captain, ordered the charge. At the sight of the wall of pikes, though, most troops hesitated. But the Assaltores, shock troops destined to lead boarding assault at sea, raised their tower shields and sprinted forward, trying to avoid the points of pikes. Their example was immediately followed by the other troops, who rushed at the now stationary troop Swadians. But they couldn’t come any further. The Swadians, masters in warfare with the pike, stabbed at gaps between shields and weak points in exposed armour, for their method of wielding the pike without a shield gave superior flexibility and accuracy. The Zenoese now found out that their big shields were more of a hindrance than a help in the fight, as it was becoming a bloody push of pikes, in which the Swadians had a clear advantage. Some Assaltores managed to get through between the pikes, but were immediately cut down by the large Doppelsöldner now standing in the first rank. The two forces now became pinned against each other, with the flanks of both pressed against houses.
Ezzelino Dalla Langa, Podesta of Arretia, listened to the news of the messenger which just had arrived. It seemed his entire force, except the cavalry and some reserves, was fleeing in all directions. Castello dell’Acquacheta, guarding the way to Arretia, was taken by enemy forces, and its garrison commander, Councilman Tomasso di Bassa Ferrosa, was fleeing to the north, taking a large body of troops with him. The aging Podesta, surrounded by his escort of mounted Sergeants lamentated: “Ach, they all hath deserted me. Woe to me, and to our proud city!”
Armatore Collardo di Callevilla, followed by a fresh company, was searching enemies around Ripe, when he heard the sounds of battle, and hard Swadian voices shouting commands. He concluded that friendly forces were fighting Swadians in the village, and led his troops on a flanking move. Bringing his soldiers behind the phalanx, he advanced. They were spotted by the Swadian skirmishers, who fired a volley at them, thus alerting their leaders. Holger turned his horse around, immediately saw the danger, and roared at his Landsknechts: “Three rear ranks, turn around! Shooters, draw swords! Come on, noble Knights! Charge!” He spurred his horse forward, hastily followed by his ‘noble’ lieutenants, and rode right into the approaching Zenoese. Their advance was halted, as their front ranks were thrown into confusion by the sudden counter-attack, and the Swadian rear ranks were able to make their turn in good order. The shooters took their place before them, taking the place of the Doppelsöldner in the rear with their short swords drawn. Holger saw over his shoulder that his men were ready, and turned around, still hacking around with his long sword. “That’s enough, Knights! Turn back and break off! Follow me!” Followed by most of his lieutenants, who were still alive, he rode through the rear ranks of his company which raised their pikes, and stopped in the middle of their square. He dismounted, and his surviving officers followed suit. Attacked by enemy infantry from two sides, and protected by the houses on the other two, he was effectively surrounded. But it was a good position. As long as he had at least two ranks left, no enemy would pass them.
The heavily armored horseman, a mercenary of the city, gave his message to the captain, who looked a little upset after reading it. The Gouvernor looked at him, and asked annoyed: “What’s up, Francesco? Lost your grip on your men again?” Capitano Francesco Bussone responded “Those rats have sent new troops. Some overseas mercenaries who surprised my men in Ripe. Quite heavy losses, I read. For my men. It seems we’ve got an obstacle there…” Gouvernor Boccanegra pointed at a squadron heavy mercenary cavalry nearby, the Bermianese Hired Lances. “I’m quite prepared to remove any *obstacle* in our way, gentlemen. Maybe it won’t be necessary, but I’d rather be sure. Now…”, he raised his baton, and Armatore Clemente di Promontorio placed himself at the horsemen’s head, “…forward. Our noble city of Zena places its trust on you, noble souls. Wipe those foreigners from the field.” He pointed his baton forward, and the cavalry set off. They trotted over the muddy path, experienced human tanks clad in heavy steel.
Emile, the Zenoese Assaltore, knew he was as much in trouble as a soldier could be: trapped between a hedge of pikes and his comrades, still pressing forward. He hid his body behind his board shield, and pushed forward. He ignored the pikes going through his greaves piercing his legs, and still stumbled forward, gripping his axe ready for a slash when – or rather, if – he reached the Swadians. Another pike went through his shield, and impaled his shield-arm on it. He stubbornly tried to advance, pushed from behind, but he simply couldn’t, being held in place by the pike. He desperately tried to free himself from it, but a Doppelsoldner stepped forward and, after splintering Emile’s axe, cut the helpless soldier down. The other Zenoese trying to break through met a similar fate, and their losses began to mount quickly. Suddenly, they broke ranks and retreated. They rallied outside the village, but, being ordered to attack again by their commander, they refused to move. Meanwhile, the Zenoese at the other side of the phalanx didn’t know what was happening and fought on, receiving many casualties too.
“You must return to the battlefield immediately. Some of your soldiers are still somewhere out there!” Councilman Albertuccio da Borgoveccio stared at the speaker, and angrily responded: “I must? I *must* return to Arretia! My wife and children are there, trusting our feeble, old, worthless Podesta to protect them! I’ll take them out of that trap there before those pirates sack the cursed place. You know what they do to women?! SHUT UP. Get out of my way now, or I’ll see it as my duty of husband to gut you like a pig.” With a sad face, Messer Volpello degli Alti Crepacci, son of a wealthy merchant and horseman in Arretia’s army, moved his horse to the side. The Councilman galloped away, towards the seemingly doomed city. Volpello rode around, trying to find and rally some friendly troops. But he got lost in the mist.
The column of heavy cavalry halted at the sight of the village, seeing the Swadians driving off the second troop of Zenoese. Armatore di Promontorio noticed some of the houses were still on fire, and hesitated to order the charge. He thought the horses would be scared by the fire and spread confusion. But his men were eager for battle, and urged them to advance. Sighing, the Armatore gave in, lowered his visor and raised his sword. “Charge.”
The enemy infantry was in full retreat, and Holger used this respite to drag the wounded into the middle of the square, where the drummers and standard-bearers were too, and to reform the lines. At a shout by one of his lieutenants, he turned toward the south, and saw the mass of cavalry coming his way. Without orders, his men leveled their pikes again, and braced for the impact. The Doppelsöldner kneeled, and rested the ends of the handles of their Zweihanders on the ground. They didn’t need any encouragements; They knew they had to stand or die.
“Forward. Forward. Forward!” The Armatore urged his men forward, and kept his gaze locked at the enemies. He heard the whinnies behind him and the curses of horsemen, and he knew without looking that some horses were scared off by the fire, causing disorder in the ranks. As he still stormed forward, he saw the Swadians holding their ground, formed in a closed and fearsome formation. Other, less steadfast troops would’ve been routed at the sight of his cavalry, but the attitude of his opponents showed that they were calm, and sure of victory. He saw grinning faces above rough beards, and the next moment his horse impaled itself on a pike, and another ran through his upper right leg. He heard horses and men die, and saw only mud. Lying on the ground, he was knocked out by a stroke of a Zweihander while his men were butchered. They and their horses were impaled on pikes, some horses refused to run into them, while others ran amok riderless. Some horsemen managed to get through the chaos, but were isolated and pulled from their horses. Within a minute, a wall of dead horses and horsemen laid before the pikes, and the other cavalry couldn’t get their steeds over it. “Advance!” the Swadian captain shouted, and, to the cavalry’s terror, the wall of pikes came closer. The Swadian rear ranks still walked backwards, all on the beats of the drums. The phalanx drove the cavalry backwards, and then out of the village. Between heaps of corpses, the Landsknechts still held their ground.
Messer Volpello degli Alti Crepacci, trying to find out where he was, had just narrowly escaped from some Zenoese infantry appearing out of the fog. Now, he approached the village. He saw some houses on fire, and he spotted a few peasants hiding in some ruins. Then he saw the Landsknechts, a large square of big pikemen and Doppelsöldner, with in its middle the drummers, officers and two standard-bearers. One of the flags was the standard of Arretia, and Volpello recognised them as friendly troops. He rode towards the officers. “Hail, friends. You must be brave men to hold this place while the others flee.” Holger, whose arm was bound with his scarf because and crossbow bolt had pierced it, bowed and took off his hat. “We’ve got our orders, friend. Did you see any enemies around?” The Bermianese told the captain all he knew, and the latter said: “Right. I’m going to take the fight to the enemy. You’d better stay with us, small man.” With some shouts, he formed his company again, and, leaving the wounded with a small guard at the village, they marched south.
The Zenoese companies, pursuing a fleeing foe, one by one were attacked by the Swadian Gevierthafen coming from the north. Those parties, who were mostly smaller in size than the Swadians’, were caught by surprise, and weren’t hard to drive off. While they moved further, panic spread in their foe’s ranks, and by nightfall they had reached the ford near Castello dell’Aquacheta, the old border between Zena and Arretia. Aided by the mist as well as their stubbornness in battle, Holger’s Landsknechts had won the battle of Ripe. Only the next day Podesta Ezzelino Dalla Langa, who had fled to Arretia too, heard of the victory of his troops.
(It's a bit long; If you want, I can split it up in 2 spoilers.)
Really? Thank you!
