Yeah, I had considered a naval action, but it felt kind of weird to have the LT navy sail up from Gunther-Piedmont in some vain attempt at blockade.
Whilst I mull that over I've done an interlude:
Interlude I.
The Scouts
Roger Teissenmann gripped his spyglass firmly, quietly taking in the sight before him. The Kingpriest had taken the bait, and now the forces of Filaharn under his command - some 70,000 in all - had apparently mustered and marched forth from Ellis and the bivouacs around the ruins of Vienna and had consolidated around the old town of Burglen, before marching towards Talhennweir's forces in the Haringoth plain. At least, that was the tale spun by Swadian spies and Ellisian sympathisers. The force he now observed marching along the worn Swadian country road below him was less impressive numerically - but then, so was the force Talhennweir had arranged to meet the Filaharnist on the field compared to the muster strength on paper.
He brought down the spyglass and rapidly scribbled notes on a folded piece of paper in his lap.
Not much in the way of cavalry... the winter and the devastation must be having some effect, at least... De Warenne's standards? Heavy Lowland contingent alongside so many Brigadiers?
To his confusion the Kingpriest had deployed a much larger contingent of Brigade Infantry than had been expected; it was hoped and presumed that the conservative theocrat would turn to his weaker and more expendable auxiliaries than to the weakened and under-strength Brigade units that were crucial to Lion Throne rule.
Has he dismounted his Brigade Cavalry en masse? God, that would be unprecedented... they were kept out of Vienna, largely, apart from the units most known for their close-combat capabilities. Is the shortage of mounts really hitting them that hard?
He scribbled down a few more notes, before glancing briefly to his right. He had brought with him ten other men, all mounted on fast coursers or hunting horses like him. None of them were regular Swadian military - former mercenaries, outriders and horse-thieves who had gained a reputation for capable scouting and fighting abilities and being loyal to the cause.
The Duke of Zollern needed proper knowledge of the composition of Pilofiro's force in order to select a battleground where his exhausted and outnumbered troops could outmatch the heathen foe. Ambushing this force was not an option - the Swadian pike blocks would break up over the uneven ground and the katzbalgers would have difficulty standing up to those Brigadiers and Propugnators; an unfair fight where they could force the Filaharnists onto the Swadian pikes would be preferred.
A snapped twig.
Teissenmann naturally snapped his head to the left, and cursed under his breath. A handful of Ptian cavalry - devoid of bows or quivers, walked into the clearing where the Swadians. The leader of this group yelled at the strange men in drab, ragged clothing yet immensely well-maintained harnesses and well-fed horses to identify themselves and surrender.
The next few seconds passed in a flash.
A badly-scarred Swadian horse-thief stuffed the notebook and pencil he was holding into an empty holster on his saddle and rapidly pulled a carbine out of another; swinging round towards the Ptians, he unloaded the carbine at medium range at the Ptian officer, who snapped back and fell from his saddle, dead.
The Ptians raced forwards, tugging and fidgeting to pull their sabres from their scabbards, yelling a guttural warcry in the name of their bloody God. Teissenmann scrambled to securely stuff his expensive glass into a pocket and to put those precious notes somewhere safe, his eyes rapidly darting around to observe any nearby threats. A Ptian, with a youthful face and war pick gleaming in the afternoon sun sprinted towards his position. The Swadian instinctively ripped his double-barreled pistol from his belt holster, pulled back a hammer, and unloaded the right barrel into the Ptian's chest before he could come into sword range. The boy fell from his horse, his weapon flying into the ground. His feet trapped in his stirrups, he screamed as his horse galloped deeper into the forest, dying.
Another threat - a much older, bearded warrior with greying hairs - curled off from a pursuit of another Swadian - and turned towards Teissenmann, swinging his sabre above his head; the gold trim denoted a veteran or an officer. As the Ptian closed, the Swadian pulled back the hammer on the left barrel and pulled the trigger.
Click.
He swore he'd loaded both barrels - he never went into battle without his guns loaded - must be a damned failure to ignite! He fiddled with the weapon, pushing the hammer down gently before smashing the pistol into his saddle in an attempt to clear any blockages.
The Ptian closed and brought his horse alongside the Swadian, arcing his sabre at Teissenmann in a attempt to decapitate him. Eyes widening at the sight, Teissenmann flinched and ducked, whilst instinctively attempting to parry or block the sabre with his armoured left hand. The blade cut along his lower arm, skidding along the vambrace and slicing through the un-armoured parts. Teissenmann bit back the pain and attempted to wrestle with the Ptian, grabbing at the sabre's hilt.
The Ptian's snarled and Teissenmann felt the man's breath on his face. The former pushed harder and released his reins, gripping the sabre with both hands and angling the blade towards the latter's face. Teissenmann suddenly released his enemy's sword and elbowed the Ptian in the ribs, catching the blade again as his blow recoiled. With his right hand he reversed his pistol and swung it's brass-capped end at the dazed Ptian's head frantically.
Thump. Thump.
Two hits connected, followed by a sudden crack and splash of blood as Teissenmann smashed his head against the Ptian's; the Ptian pulled from the fight, wrenching the sabre from Teissenmann's grip as he toppled off his saddle. Quickly adjusting to the situation, the Ptian then swung his horse back around and attempted to slash at the Swadian again, closing with a howl of anger. The Swadian was fumbling at his pistol again.
Please, God, make this work.
Even closer.
Teissenmann pulled the hammer back on the left barrel, and pulled the trigger.
Click.
Snap..spark---FLASH
A plume of fire shot up from the pan and a second later, from the barrel as the pistol bucked and barked a deep, hollow report.
A. C. Michaelson & Son. of Weymouthport, Murond, made irrationally high-calibre weapons for their cost. Though notoriously examples of 'craftsmanship' at work, they would eventually fire, though not exactly when desired. When they did, however, the smoothbore firelock pistols Michaelson made were the equivalent of any fancy Kaiserlicher horse pistol, and achieved the desired result.
The fat ball spat out of the black barrel, spinning and falling towards the face of the Ptian.
Impact.
The lead round tumbled through his facial structure, ripping skin and tissue, snapping and shattering bone it touched, each shard and tear adding to the carnage. Torn blood vessels spurted blood out from the gaping wound in the man's face. 'Carnage' was a fitting description; the Murond did not waste in firepower, and the horse pistol had mangled the Ptian's face into a mess of gore, bone and metal.
The Ptian's eyes bugged out, seemingly surprised by this turn of events, and stared at his opponent, his hands jerking reflexively, bringing his horse to a stop, before toppling over the right side of his saddle, dead.
Teissenmann let out a dark chuckle at this, and disgustedly stuffed the pistol back into his holster.
One more for the Emperor and for Swadia.
Looking around, he could see his compatriots finishing off the remainder of the Ptian band. A dozen of the heathens lay dead or dying in the field, with three Swadians joining them. A sergeant trotted up.
"They're all boys...The Pope's running out of men, eh, sir?"
Teissenmann looked away and shook his head, briefly glancing at the wounds on his left arm, before glancing back at the sergeant and replying.
"Recover our boys and take all the mounts. If any of the Ptian horse are wounded, kill them. Can't waste mounts for the heathen."
He took a deep breath and winced at the pain, grabbing at bandages in his saddlebag, and shaking off the sergeant's concern.
"Gather the boys, and make sure they make it fast. Take anything else of worth and let's double-time it out of here."
He gazed over the carnage this affair of outposts had created.
"Enough fighting for today. Let's see what Talhennweir does with this damned info, and leave the rest of the grunt work to the poor infantry. Onwards."
And let these damned heathens pray to their God that no peasant comes across them tonight.