625 AL, Spring
Eagles Claw Keep
"You're really letting him go aren't you?" The man's voice was gruff, hoarse, and raspy like a smoker. A fact clearly identified by the small light of a match and the the soft red embers wafting from a long brown tobacco pipe.
"That Volyorian?" replied the man watching from the balcony before the man with the pipe.
"Yes, Rhedun variety with a hint of--."
"Hazelnut. Rudolf loves it, he lights up like a pine tree, but I never cared much for the stuff."
"Aye, that is true Your Grace."
Both men were tall, easily 6ft though the man with the pipe was slightly shoulder if more broad shouldered than the man before him in fine clothing. "Please Bertold you can dispense with the pleasantries."
Instead of being taken a back by the comment the man with the pipe simply laughed before clamping his teeth down on the smooth crafted form of the cedar wood shaft. It's smooth lacquer frame spoke of clear craftsmanship. Moving out onto the balcony to stand beside the man in fine clothing the smoker took his pipe out and pointed off to the North, "Say wasn't your boy going to see his grandmother before he headed to Windfall?"
"Yes, Max was heading to the Fortress to visit his grandmother and left before dawn. She is praying at the annex of Eonwaris. The poor woman was never the same after the passing of my father."
"She loved the man deeply Fyrdinand. Maximilian was a rarity in this world. Honest, Honorable, Just, Brave, and a natural borne leader of Men."
"I sometimes wonder if this time of peace is just a prelude to something horrible. What do you think Bertold?"
"I say, take the peaceful times when you can, for they can be just as rare a thing."
"Well said Lord Commander."
"Well what else you keep me around for? My stories?"
Both men chuckled as they stared at the sunrise for a solid minute before Fyrdinand replied, "Obviously for your opinions on the varieties of tobacco." Bertold laughed and bowed before making his way out of the room. Both men had seen the worse in their races nature, and the brighter moments. Gaea kept churning like it always had, were they all just dust in the wind? Or did the Gods have a plan for all of them? As these thoughts raced in his head he reminisced over the events in his life. His days as Imperial Crown Prince growing up with the Northmen, and the Mad Counts Rebellion, to the years of peace he carefully nurtured. Unlike his father, the late Emperor Maximilian, Fyrdinand had a certain distaste for conflict. But his mind locked upon it, and dredged up the not so fond memories it entailed.
599 AL
Mad Count's Rebellion
The Mad Count, not so mad as the historians would put it, rebelled against Fyrdinand in 599 AL. Claiming that having Elven blood disqualified him for the throne of a realm of Man. The entire County of Paleis rose in revolt and rumors floated of sedition once more in the South. The latter proved to be untrue by the fact the all the rest of the Imperial nobility rallied to the cause in some shape or form. Whether in men, finances, or supplies.
For four months Emperor Fyrdinand bide his time, gathering his forces, and assessing the situation. The Emperor's Sun Watch performed daring raids and skirmishes across into rebel territory. Even so far as capturing the border village of Eserleben and the small town of Havulburg. Both on the road to Paleis. Following this the Imperial Army marched from Sarin and reached Havulburg by August 4th.
That was when news reached the Emperor by the Sun's Watch scouts, Count Rorian d'Paleis had gathered an army numbering 12,000 strong along the Northern shore of the Atanos River. When the river makes one of its mighty bends so the shores faced North-South. Much of the Army was made up of levies, the Count's own troops, and mercenaries recruited from the cities South of the Kalzmere Mountains. A company of Gallowglass from Windfall, an entire Regiments worth of Free Lances from Rhedan, and even a company of Highlanders from the Anglarikan side of the Pelarin Mountains. Count d'Paleis must have emptied his treasury to pay for the manpower he now possessed.
Thus the Imperial Army moved South-East. Making a direct line to face off the Count's own army along the mighty River Atanos. If they could destroy the Count's army then the Castle pf Paleis itself would simply be a matter of time unless it surrendered immediately. Thus the stage was set for the Battle of the Atanos (599AL).
Battle of Atanos (599AL)
The day was sweltering, with clear skies, and the ranks smelled of sweat and greased weapons or armor. Both armies were well rested, as the Count d'Paleis had not moved across the river despite being camped near a wooden bridge wide enough for horses to cross. The dirt road led off of the main road along a North-South axis. Running all the way down to Southmarch.
The Imperial's faced the Rebels across a steep but narrow stream. The Emperor had drawn up his soldiers and levies along the North and North-West axis of advance. While the Army of the Empire commanded by Duke Karl-Lothair II vas Sundgau and Count Vilhelm IV vas Fregar's Stead. The Duke held the line on the far South of the Empire's position while the Count held the center and the Emperor the extreme North.
The two armies stood off from one another, banners dangling in a breeze less heat wave, men took swigs of watered down wine or ale from skins at their sides. Some poured water on themselves as it sizzled along their armor. Both sides were attempting desperately to keep cool. Fyrdinand himself had his helmet off, dangling by the horn of his saddle. His short hair was matted down with sweat and water.
"Ugh this place already reeks of horse dung." Beside him was Gregor vas Hohelgruben, Imperial Marshal, and long time friend of the Emperor. Gregor was a competent field commander, insisting that he lead the Imperial forces against the rebels alone but Fyrdinand disagreed, and so the humorless Marshal now sat on his black steed. Taking a sip of watered down wine from his sheepskin the Marshal kept talking in his typical humorless fashion, "Don't suppose they'd just lay down and die now would they. This heat's making my balls cry like a virgin whore."
No one could guess at what Gregor was even talking about, or what a virgin whore actually meant. Fyrdinand simply shrugged his head and glanced up. It was nearing high noon. He couldn't let his army just stand there till they fell over from heat exhaustion, but not let the rebel Count flee over the river either.
"You sure the Sun's Watch is across on the other side." asked Fyrdinand as he lifted up his spyglass. Seeing nothing on the horizon across the low rolling hills on the other side. The Marshal's reply was blunt, matter-of-fact, "Matthies is a wiry old fucker'. He's not Lord Captain of the Watch for nothing Your Majesty."
"Enough of this. Signal the advance of our leading Regiments." ordered the Emperor. Gregor turned to his monarch, "May I inquire as to which Regiments Your Grace is referring too?" Such behavior to the Emperor would be a severe lashing, but Gregor was tolerated for his loyalty and aptitude for killing more of the enemy than anyone else. Fyrdinand just glared at Gregor. Gregor turned his head away and smiled to himself, he loved to needle, and he'd needle Maximilian too if he was still alive.
"Right. Signals! Order leading Regiments to advance!" Gregor pointed to three Regiments arrayed in rectangular blocks to his left. Archers and crossbowmen were in front of them. A banner man lifted up a blue flag and waved it a certain number of ways. The three Regiments identified both dipped their banners momentarily in acknowledgement.
The Grimblades
The central Regiment was a Regiment of Halberdiers, The Grimblades, one of the first Regiments raised by Maximilian. A young Bertold stood in the first rank, just 17 years of age, and sporting blonde hair and blue eyes under his helmet. Behind him was Vyrvet, The Old Goat, a man somewhere in his late 50's and definitely the oldest man in the Regiment. Vyrvet was beloved by the Regiment and age may have slowed his movements but not his skill with a weapon. In addition to his knack for coming up with some of the most profane expressions that Vaemidia herself would cover her ears in protest. Some of the men joked that Vaemidia had given Vyrvet a little to much sour when he was born, back when the wheel was relatively new of course, though they kept that second part quiet.
Karlich was before them looking back, the Regimental standard bearer beside him, and nodded as the bearer replied to the command. "Captain Karlich drew his sword and hefted his shield, "Begin! March!" The Regiment came to attention, and with the drumming of the Regiments drummer boy Siegen they began to advance in cadence. The jingling of tassets, the swaying of plumes, and the profanities about the heat abounded. Behind him Bertold could hear Vyrvet mutter, "About fuckin' time." Some of the men around him chuckled under their breath. The rest kept lock step with their eyes fixed forward. Karlich lead them, a solid block of infantry, across the open field. Closing in on the line of archers that moved forward several yards before exchanging fire with the enemy across the way. To the left and right Regiments of Imperial Infantry advanced. Craning his neck Bertold could see the standard of the Bayren Regiment and a Regiment from Sarin.
The cries before them signaled the upcoming engagement as the missile troops traded fire with the enemy. The volleys of the Imperial Yeomanry intermixed with the masses of crossbow bolts unleashed by the peasant levies. The Grimblades advanced past parting Yeomanry in unison with the other two Regiments. The Regiment continued to advance as bolt and arrow fire started to come down. The Halberdiers did have bucklers strapped to their backs if the enemy ever got to close and they had to draw their arming swords. Otherwise the soldiers plate was to protect them from missile fire. Bertold sweat was now mixed in with anxiety as arrows and bolts whizzed past them. The soldier next to him momentarily stopped as a clang sounded off. An arrow had glanced and ricochet off the man's breast plate. Vyrvet meanwhile was muttering behind him, "Common ya fuckin' whore mongerin' swine breedin'...." The profanities continued unabated as the ranks slowed their marche to traverse the steep banks of the stream. Keeping ranks they advanced through the stream and began to clamber up the other side. Karlich pitched backwards as a crossbow bolt struck the side of his helm, denting it and unleashing a slurry of curses, the banner bearer Humbalt helped the Captain up. The Regiment's front rank rose from the dip to be greeted by a flurry of missile fire. A man cried to the right but Bertold didn't stop to look and kept eyes forward in cadence.
While the drummer boy, Siegen, began to beat faster. The war tune of the Grimblades as they picked up pace with the other two Regiments. Their own sides volleys arced above them as the missile troops advanced behind. Moving as teams the missile troops fired by lines at sections of the enemy lines. Behind him Vyrvet was now huffing it as the Regiment began to advance at a faster pace to gain momentum.
The drumming of cavalry to their left drew Karlich attention, Bertold couldn't see and kept eyes forward as a Sergeant off the left bellowed,"Battle Pipes!" This was a tradition of the Grimblades. Behind them one of the rear rankers, probably Heinrich, slung his pipes around and began to play of the tune, "March of the Grimblades," as the men began to sing the lyrics. This kept them together morally as they endured missile fire and the to keep cohesion. The enemy was before them and the Grimblades were now rapidly picking up pace. The lyrics turning into a cacophony of roaring might. the front rank lowered their Halberds as the Grimblades crashed in as one. The clattering of blades, the swooshes of weapon swings, the whizzing of missiles as the enemy archery fell back through their own lines. Grimblades stepped over the bodies of the freshly fallen as they pushed as one solid mass of anger and rage against the enemy.
Bertold in the initially rush yelled as he thrust forward, goring a boy no older than him, and the flurry of battle commenced. The beating of the drummer seized as Siegen himself was with the second rankers, only the pipes of Heinrich were heard ushering them forward. Filling them with patriotic furor. Vyrvet was bellowing hoarsely behind him, a chop of his halberd came right after Bertold was nearly knocked off his feat when a sword struck his shoulder pauldron. The chop of Vyrvet's Halberd clove the attackers arm off. Blood sprayed as the attacker screamed in agony, though it all sounded the same to Bertold, nor could he see as warm blood splashed his face. Only the sound of Vyrvets voice kept him knowing he was indeed still alive.
"Come on ya bloody bastards I'll fuck ya rottin' corpses!" The Old Goat was full of frenzy as he pushed Bertold forward. The Grimblades led by Karlich slowly clove a bloody path through the Count's Men-At-arms with the other two Regiments. The drumming of hooves and the neighing of horses could be seen off to their left flank and Bertold feared they'd been taken in the rear. But that was soon dispelled by the sound of drums far off the right. Signalling Imperial troops from the Count or Duke had joined the fray. Bertold wiped the blood from his brow and swung his Halberd in an arc, catching a man with the ax of his weapons blade by the hamstring, wrenching it. Feeling the resistance as the ax blade sliced through the man's muscle and sinew. Having burst the chain links of his leg mail. The man was silenced as a second ranker stabbed the spear point of his own Halberd into the man's throat. His cry replaced by a choking gurgle. The drumming of hooves got closer and panic seemed to ensue as Bertold was struck in the side of his left leg. He fell down thinking he'd been mortally wounded. Vyrvet stepped over him as the ground was turned into a slosh-pit of blood and corpses. Red liquid, a puddle of gore, Bertold sat in it as he looked at his leg. A spear blade was sticking in his thigh. It was not all the way in, just an inch worth but it hurt like nothing he'd felt before. Having burst the side riveting of his tassets. He looked about in a daze and saw a horse with the rider slouched over the saddle, arrows pierced the horseman like a porcupine, and Bertold seemed to be lost as the battle whirled around him. His reverie only broken by the sound of Vyrvet's voice next to his ear. Looking up Bertold could see the grizzled veteran with his leathery face and missing teeth smiling, "Ya old right you blimin' bastard!" Another Grimblade, a third ranker, grabbed Bertold and hauled him up. Vyrvet slammed a Halberd into Bertolds hands, "Come on we got killin' to do!"
Bertold's eyes cleared as the haze lifted and adrenaline once more coursed through his veins. He could see Karlich with Siegen and the standard bearer, Fehlen, rallying the Grimblades to them. The Regiment was arrayed in a haphazard arc with rear rankers dispatching straggling enemy troops with ruthless efficiency. Apparently when the Mad Count's cavalry retreated some squadrons actually fled into the infantry battle sowing panic and breaking up formations. In the rush the Count himself had thrown his reserves into the battle that now took the shape of a large 'L' laid horizontally with the shorter tall pointed down. Bertold trudged forward, stumbled, and looked down to see the corpse of a boy no older than 15. Armed with nothing but a shortsword, shield, mail shirt and helmet the boy had been sent to war. Then he saw the sickening cause of death. The boy's body had been hew shoulder to groin. His intestines poked out from the gash causing Bertold to decorate the body with his breakfast.
"You! Here now!" Bertold looked up to see Karlich point at him. Bertold's training kicked in and he rushed over to fill a place beside the Captain. The Mad Count had committed his forces in their entirety and was now being worn down by the forces of the Empire. The Emperor had gathered some 14,000 men for this campaign, and even with the odds in his favor the Emperor had more trained troops than the Count ever could. Thus as a rush of infantry came at the Grimblades Bertold rejoined the fight with a yell of courage and fear.
The Emperor
The Battle had gone well in his favor. The Imperial Cavalry had driven off the enemy horsemen then crashed into the Rebel Count's flank. Turning it. While the Mercenaries began to lose heart and were trying to extricate themselves from the fight and retreat across the bridge. All the while the Imperial's bore down across the entire front line. Within two hours it was all over. Count Rorian d'Paleis was found dead slumped up against an Oak tree near the bridge with a sword and spear in his gut. His horse slain by cross bow bolts a few yards away. The Emperor himself had joined the fight during hte later stages of the battle and with the Sun's Watch miraculously appearing over the horizon sealed the enemies fate. Roughly half of the entire Mad Count's army had been killed with over a thousand wounded. The mercenaries were allows to march South and away, while the peasants were rounded up and sent home. The enemy officers were all executed by decapitation at dusk. Such was the fate of traitors.
