The Battle for Tihr

[Captured Joe]

The wounded bandit came at him again shouting, making ready for another swing. Hurst pretended he wanted to block the swing, but when his foe came within reach of his weapon, he struck him in the body from his left with his Morningstar, sweeping aside the small axe which tried to block it. Mortally wounded, the bandit fell on the ground.

As he turned away from him, the dying man said something to Hurst. He first didn't get what he meant, but after some moments of brain activity, he understood. "Oi, you attacked first, bandit or not. That's all that matters; You are, or was, my foe. Beggar or lord, doesn't matter." He walked away towards Cheids, who apparently was still alive too. The side of his body hurt; it seemed something was bruised or broken by the bandit's slash without being noticed by him in the battle. Also, his head was hurting a lot now, and he waited for Cheids to suggest any action.  Let's carry on", said the latter. The two mercenaries continued their walk to the camp.

((I'm sorry for the delay, but I was not sure if I could just kill Geralt or not.))

 

[Lord Tim]

Luger’s head felt empty. He breathed deeply to let the oxygen fill his brain again.
The sounds of battle faded away in the distance. Before him, figures of men blocked his line of sight.
A blow to the chest woke him up again. It hurt, but no more than the rest of his body did.
A few lived out, unshaved men replaced the figures he saw earlier. These men were better equipped than the ones that just raided his camp.
Deserters... He thought.
Talking about the bandits, the fighting seemed to have ended completely behind him.
Luger wasn’t sure if his men were dead to the last man, or if the raging fire adsorbed the clashing of sword and the screams of pain.
Marvin’s voice relieved him.

“Let him go!”
The young man, still severely wounded from what happened in Tihr, pointed his sword up with his right arm and used the left to hold on to trees in order to keep his balance.
Behind Marvin, Wynant and more knights emerged out of the smoke from the burning and ruined camp. Hurst and Cheids came out of the woods.

Luger stood up, he started to wipe the dirt of his cloths, but realised they were drained with blood and water.

“Well, gentlemen, it appears we have ourselves a situation here.”
He stood in the middle between two parties, all with their weapons drawn.

“It is clear that we outnumber you, but I cannot afford to lose more men while getting rid of yours.” He said to the deserter that blew his pummel in Luger’s chest.

“I say we make a deal. I give you an amount of prisoners, one for every one of you and you walk away.”
Without waiting for a response, Luger turned to some of his knights.

“Bring me some prisoners.”
“Er... We cannot, sir.”
“What? What do you mean, you can’t?”
The knights glanced towards each other, hoping one of them would have the guts to tell him.
Wynant stepped forwards.

“I let them escape. They were in danger of getting burned alive, they ran off.”
Luger’s face turned furious.
“Have you gone mad?! You allowed, our only profit made in Tihr, to run off? Only so that they could replace the men we just slaughtered and pillage some more of the land!
You better hope they don’t cause any trouble near Praven, or you’ll pay for it.”

Luger now turned back to the other party, whom didn’t manage to get a word in between there.
“Well... it seems we cannot give you prisoners. Here’s another deal. We don’t have enough horses left to carry everything with us, so you’re free to take everything we leave behind.”

 

[RalliX]

Beorn sat in his tent, in company of several Leidang officers. These were his own picked men, who he commanded. He trained them all, and each of them commands a hundred or more men.
As marshal, the old man had command over the forces of the kingdom as a whole, but these were the men of Sargoth and its surrounding villages, who Lethwin had given personal command over to him.

Turegor, Gerlad, Turya, and Rayeck were those lords who he had entrusted with the training and command of a thousand men each. Turya and Gerlad he had known well for decades. Strong men.
Excellent commanders and tacticians.
Turegor and Rayeck are younger Jarls, not grey of hair like himself and the other two; Yet what information he has been given about them suggests they are more than capable.

At the moment, Beorn devised plans which he would send to them by horse or bird. Even now, the newly organized scout corps gathered information on castles, garrisons, passes and paths to exploit.


Sigurt of Kulum had heard the sounds of fighting far off in the woods south of him. He decided to check it out, carefully.
Who's to say what would happen to a lone, armed Nord found nosing around foreign lands?

Especially enemy lands. Sigurt used to be a caravan guard, but it seems the Nords finally found a use for light cavalry. He was happy to serve his countrymen for once. This army Marshal Beorn had founded was like nothing Sigurt had heard the likes of since the days of the empire.

The rider mused about what he had been taught about the old nation which all of the Calradian successor states had sprung from, as the courser under him trotted closer towards the sounds which he had heard. "They should be just a bit past this hill."

 

[Ludial]

While all the talking and yelling was being done, the men in leather had started to slowly inch away and back into the river, crossbows unwaveringly pointed at the newcomers. Only their chief had remained where he was, still half-crouched like his men, quietly shifting his sarcastic gaze from one knight to another. When he had done the full round, his eyes stopped on the old noble and waited for him to finish.
Taking a quick glance behind him, the unknown Rhodok turned again to Luger and shifted his weight on his back leg. 'Just one little thing, old coot. You burnished slavers are worth less than the dung of my pigs. HAGEL!

As he roared the last word, the grizzled veteran turned and ploughed into the water. What came over his head took the image of a swarm of streamlined black insects that clattered out of the trees on the opposite bank, buzzing angrily into the huddled group of armored men. Three dropped where they were, dead or dying, with a short black shaft sticking out of a unprotected face or the throat that should have been covered by a misplaced gorget. Another pair stood where they were struck, taking a precious moment to realise they each had a couple of quarrels in their chests, until they finally slid to the ground from the full height of their armored bulk. That's when the scream and wail went up. The surviving men scrambled for cover, holding on to shafts embedded in different parts of their bodies, cursing and growling and calling the names of gods and noble houses. Young Marvin had collapsed next to his tree with a feathered chink of wood that had pierced his right pauldron, half-conscious with pain but still gripping his sword. Wynant, perversely, had had his weapon literally nailed to his fighting hand by a bolt and was clutching it, leaning against a tree with his features distorted in an expression of pained fury.

One of the knights who had stood at the back of their group and had thus been unscathed charged after the crossbowmen, roaring something about the blood of Swadia with his longsword raised in high guard. His passage amongst his wounded comrades was akin to that of a man who had left his mind on the field of battle and was out for nothing but blood. But just as he was about to reach the water a quarrel struck his helmet off his head, another jerked him as it took him in the shoulder and a third went over his face as he slipped on the mud of the riverbank and landed with a wet clatter.

On the other side, barely visible shadows were making their way up the slope of the shore like some kind of malign river spirits. One of the silhouettes stopped and turned to look at the knights for a few moments. Then it yelled at them, with the voice of the skirmishers' chief: 'Forget about punishing your men, old geezer, we punished them enough. Better take care of'em and leave this forest as quick-like as you can. Or the fenn-trolls will getcha!' And then only the gradually quieting rustle of grass and twigs gave away their departure.

Luger, having stood where he was during the whole mad ordeal, raised a hand to touch something cold and harsh he had suddenly felt across his cheek. He had not been spared a quarrel, but had been spared its sting. Instead he was 'gifted' only with a long and bleeding groove left there by the passage of a shaft that had barely scoured the skin on its way to a body behind him. He turned to look at his men - a handful were already going cold on the ground and fully half of the rest were freshly wounded. This had not been a good day. Nor a good omen for the days to come...

 

[Captured Joe]

Hurst could barely believe it. Just before leaving the cover of the trees, he saw something what should never happen.
His Captain, Lord Luger, stood there like a drowned cat, bartering with a group of deserters like a cowardly trader. Offering them the prisoners first, then the loot from Tihr which had cost so much Swadian blood, just so that the Deserters would leave them alone. For Hurst, this was disgusting, and he sucked in a fair amount of air to tell his Lordship what he thought about it.

Before he could speak though, the Deserter shouted something himself, and jumped into the water. Still partially concealed by the trees, Hurst watched in astonishment as a volley bolts ripped through the air and the bodies of a fair amount of Swadians.

The deserters left, and Hurst, followed by Cheids emerged from the wood. "What the hell is going on here?!"

 

[RalliX]

Sigurt watched from afar, his horse sitting back behind the hill, and himself proned in silence, looking through the grass and pine-needles.

Whoever these two parties were, they were not friendly to each other. The crossbowmen were probably Rhodok deserters, judging from their equipment and actions.
The victims of their treacherous volley were definitely Swadians. They weren't too close, and it was dark, but he could tell.

"This isn't the source of the ruckus I had heard earlier though..."
Groups don't simply decide to back off and start shooting, Sigurt knew. There must be a third party.
He decided to stalk around a bit, to see what happened.

The Scout made sure to note where he left his horse, and began to circle around to the rear of where the Swadians were facing. He used the trees and bushes as cover, and moved steadily.
He heard the shouting and arguing of the men at arms further down; they had gotten the worst of it, it seems, from what he could piece together of their language. Sigurt had almost missed the cinders of the burnt camp. Some of them still held a glow.

His eyes scanned and scoured through the details which light would reveal. He spotted corpses, and sneaked towards the closest. Sigurt identified it was a forest bandit. The harsh kind of woodsmen which his caravan had to deal with from time to time, in the past.
"Those Swads are some unlucky sons of..."

Some fresh lad had spotted him. A Swadian, probably sent to get medical supplies from the half-burnt camp. He rushed back to get help, leaving Sigurt time to leave in a rush as well.
The Scout sprinted back towards his horse to mount up and retreat.

 

[Lord Tim]

Luger was left in despair, stunned as he was, he tried to overlook the damage dealt by the sudden, cowardly attack from those Rhodoks. Nearly all of his men were now wounded or dead.
“That’s it!
Everybody to the horses and try to get at least one wounded with you on the horse.
We ride straight to Praven, leave everything we don’t need behind.”
The bunch of exhausted men limped towards the horses, some of them leaning onto each other.
Luger turned to the mercenary, who was one of the few men standing.
“Hurst, you’ve been most helpful. Accompany us for the night, and I’ll pay you once we reach Praven.”
He stepped on one of the horses, since his own steed had died and most men didn’t care about personal mounts no more.
About fifteen horses, most of them carrying two Swadians, gathered in front of the burning pile that was once their camp.
Luger now finally had the time to conceive the damage dealt to them.
Marvin was riding along with another knight, unconscious. Wynant rode the horse with one hand, the other one had been quickly splinted and proved useless.
“Let’s go home.” Luger mumbled.
The last part of their journey began, the mists of dawn started to rise up in the forest.

 

[Captured Joe]

Hurst, grumbling inside his mouth, approached Luger. He could not wait to leave this accursed company; Nothing but bad luck and misery since he had joined it. The noble turned to him.
“Hurst, you’ve been most helpful. Accompany us for the night, and I’ll pay you once we reach Praven.”

Well, that was at least one reason to stay a bit longer in this band. He mumbled a salute, and went to the leftovers of the camp to pick up his baggage.
He also saw the others he recruited for his company before leaving Tihr. They were dead. The two footmen had been struck down by the Forest Bandits' arrows, and the Vaegir adventurer, who had apparently sneaked back to the camp after he had been injured, was killed off by the Deserters' bolts. 'Well,' he thought, 'that was my mercenary band. There's no point in trying again. When we make it to Praven alive, I'll join a Garrison or a better company as a ranker, I think.' And if he would ever see that treacherous deserter leader again, he would gut him with his Morningstar.

There was a positive side to this, though. Many of the baggage and loot from Tihr had to be left behind because of lack of horses and mules, and because many of its owners had died. If he could carry enough of it himself, he could even make some profit out of it, maybe.

The company set off to the south; Both mercenaries, covered under as much loot they could carry, followed Lord Luger's banner. After they reached Praven, they would split up; Cheids was to stay in Luger's company, while Hurst would search for another company to serve in. He didn't believe in Luger as a leader anymore.

 

[Lord Tim]

The hooves plodded through the mud, the first rays revealed a slight mist that hung around the grasslands. The smell of wet grass reached his nose. For a moment he forgot the pain that nearly crippled his entire body. The blood had dried on his cheeks, but it felt like it was frozen. The winter cold had now reached the southern Heartlands.
Before them emerged a tower from the fog, followed by a large stone wall.

Praven, they were home.

The lookout immediately ordered the bridge to be lowered. The horses went slowly on the walkway. From the dark streets resounded loud cheers, quickly extinguished when the first riders emerged.
The physicians ran towards them.
Luger seemed to experience it all in a daze. In slow motion, he saw familiar faces in the crowd, desperately searching for relatives, friends and acquaintances who did not make the trip back.
Groaning and creaking he stepped from the exhausted horse that spent the last miles with him. When landing on the ground he nearly collapsed, but he was soon joined by some civilian men. The chief physician rushed to him and put his hand on his shoulder.
"Come on, let us tend to you, my Lord."
"No, see to my men first.”

 

[RalliX]

The dead and barren foliage of a passing year was smothered in frost and snow and marching men-at-arms of the Nord-lands.
The army was not yet fully formed. Not ready yet; but it had good officers and training.
Even now several masses of 100 men march over the broken terrain of a forest, testing their cohesion, while the fresher recruits and new officers do so on open dirt.
They carried the whole of their gear, and switched paces very regularly, changing directions, wheeling the formation.

An order was barked through several of the large groups. "SHIELDWALL!"
The men began moving into their position, with three ranks and thirty-three files. The first two ranks raised their shields, the first rank crouching down, to have their heads covered by the shields of the second rank standing behind and over them, the third rank preparing a volley of javelins to hurl over the wooden barrier.

Beorn mused as he watched; a rather classic tactic in Nordic warfare, useful in a stand-off, to protect against ranged attacks while delivering some back. But Beorn had realized it could easily be taken a step further. The front two ranks were occupied by steadying their shields, and couldn't throw anything themselves. Luckily, they can be used as ammunition carriers by the rear rank, extending the volume and longevity of the tactic's usefulness, that is, until the enemy meets them. By nature, it is a very static formation, movement being disruptive; at most, a slow walk can be achieved while maintaining some protection.

But what about the before, and after?
The Nords were only foot-mobile, and limited in range by their lack of bowmen. Perhaps the rear rank in a shieldwall company could be equipped with bows.
"At least we now have horsemen."

Ten man troops of scouts matched their horses' speed with that of infantry companies as they marched. Then suddenly they galloped forward away from the footmen, threw javelins towards targets at the gallop, retrieved them, and finally retreated as if being chased back to the safety of their infantry. Skirmish tactics.
They would not be able to pick their javelins back up in a real battle, but such things should not be lost during training.
These are the men who would find the enemy, distract the enemy cavalry, harass the enemy archers, and chase the routed. Such soldiers were vital, and yet completely lacked by the Nords in field battles until now. He could now weed out so many weak-spots in another group, which would otherwise be untouchable by slow footmen.

One unwary clod of crossbowmen. One loose body of footmen. One lonely group of horsemen; the little things in great number are what shall turn the tide of a battle, and then a war. Beorn knew it well. He would slowly, defensively open up an enemy, then make him pay for every mistake; advancing the conquest in every calculated order and risk.

Closer to the camp, one could observe new arrivals and levees arriving daily, recruits being trained in the simplest basics of combat, and drilled in small groups. Recruits get thrown at each other and veteran trainers, sparring with wood and padding.
All had been ordained by the marshal as it progressed. He found great satisfaction in watching the men fight their mock-battles.
And the winter was only just starting.