Thanks to Sam Norberg, who wrote and sent in this fictionalized battle report of his Best of the Rest Game versus Kevin Spear! Enjoy!
…
The Baron was pontificating again. His loud, nasal, voice drifted through the dust of travel, from his retinue to the front of the column, as he laid out impossible stratagems and improbable feats of chivalrous glory. Recent employer of Griffin Company, he voiced his opinions on their best use in defeating his distant cousin and neighbor, once they reached his small but wine-wealthy lands.
“Shouldn’t a taken this one, sir.” Sir Jacob Richter still had a peasant’s tongue and decorum, despite his five and ten years anointed. Astride a Clydesdale of full 18 hands, the burly knight towered over his mounted companion. His ruddy complexion was screwed up in concern.
“Pay was too good.” Captain Shef Samuels didn’t turn to look at Sir Jacob, but kept his hawk nose forward, eyes scanning the steep walls of the pass through which they traveled. Only six-hundred feet wide, the miles-long pass traveled down through the mountains and into the flatlands below. His compact frame moved easily with his gelding’s pace – light chain shirt and Griffin-emblazoned gambeson shifting with each step. “Anyway, most of the good opportunities in Tioga had already been taken. He really was the best of the rest.”
“Pay’s always good when the employer’s so bad. We’ve had three scraps already. Lads is nervous about all this fighting.” Sir Jacob shifted in his saddle and spat to the side. “Best we’re done with this un quick Captain. I’ve a bad feeling.”
The Captain held up his hand for silence. A moment brought the sound of pounding hooves, and a few breaths later an outrider cantered toward the column front on a lathered horse.
“Told you I had a bad feeling.” Sir Jacob reached down reflexively to loosen his war sword in its sheath.
…
“Who are these riffraff who block our way?” Baron Jules van Devonshire preened. “Have you informed them whom you serve?” He looked to his entourage of sycophants who nodded with over-importance.
“Baron, they ask leave to pass first. They are quick-marching to thwart a raid they believe will come this evening, in the valley we passed through this morning.” Captain Samuels kept his voice even as he reported. “They appear to be a remnant of The Order and are well-mounted and harnessed with many veterans. Their Commander, Sir Kevin, seems a reasonable sort. Perhaps we could be of assist…” The Baron cut in.
“No! That will not do!” he looked at his mistress, who heaved a bosomy sigh to reflect her adoration at her lord’s manly decisiveness. “They are a ragged remnant of a fallen order and have no standing here. I am Baron Jules van Devonshire, eighteenth in line for the crown, third cousin, twice removed, from her majesty the Queen. They can wait while we proceed.” He waved an idle dismissal. “Go tell them, Captain.”
…
Sir Kevin looked distressed and frustrated. “Sir. We will not be delayed in this. Our purpose is higher than yours – surely you can see that?” Samuels nodded. “My employer insists, and I have no choice. I will bid my men make as much haste as possible.”
“That will not do.” Sir Kevin replied. “There are children whose fate we hold in our hands. If you will not stand aside, sir, we will thrust you there all the same.” The Captain’s eyebrows raised. “Will you now, sir? Come. I can be past you in less than an hour. Do not force the issue.”
Sir Kevin’s look of frustration was replaced by sadness. “Captain, I do not wish harm to you or your company, but we will not be delayed by such as you. If we must, we will sweep your foot aside. You have no heavy horse, sir. You cannot stand.” His look pleaded for sense but found none.
“Sir,” replied Samuels, his voice tight with nerves, “I have no wish to fight you, but it seems we’ve little choice.” He paused to listen to the steady tromp of hobnailed boots outside the tent. “And I think your heavy cavalry may not appreciate my pikes.”
…
He gestured for the signal-adjutant. “Company to form up. Full harness and battle kit. Captains and Commanders to me.”
The column shook itself out quickly – men dropping baggage in pre-determined areas, donning and adjusting armor, and making the myriad practiced preparations of a company constantly at war. There was no reckless haste, and deployment was swift.
Opposite Griffin Company, the enemy deployed swiftly as well. Their heavy cavalry concentrated on the Griffin’s right – a motley of nature’s own winged beasts, knights horsed on pegasi, and two great regiments of heavy horse – resplendent in their armor and tattered but proud banners. The enemy’s own foot – heavily armored foot knights and more lightly armored swordsmen, took the center and left, anchored by another great winged beast far to the left.
…
“Jacob.” Samuels laid one hand on the knight’s shoulder. With the other, he gestured toward the massive tangle of claws, wings, and acid smoke, far on the left side of the pass. “I need you to harry that beast and I need you not to die. Keep it distracted for me. We’re going to give it our flank as we pass. Can you hold it for me?” The big knight grimaced.
“Does a Vampire shit blood?” and in a clatter of hooves and armor, he was off.
The Captain didn’t know the answer.
…
Randal Harland was a veteran even to veterans. He had been with The Company before Captain Samuels had been knighted – back when it was but two regiments of light foot. Now, grey hair cropped short, he stood spear-straight and gazed over his captain’s right shoulder, his pitted iron armor reflecting the late-morning sun.
“I am giving you the left. You will have all the light and heavy infantry, as well as two companies of pikes. Sir Jacob will keep that beast at bay. You must drive the enemy back, Harland. I need the left and the center cleared, so we can withdraw the right and collapse behind you and past the enemy. You have sixty minutes. I can give you no more.” The weathered commander nodded briskly and turned to leave. “Randal…” the Captain’s voice was quiet, “keep the lads in check. If you can out-maneuver them and avoid a fight, do it. Even if it takes longer. These are not the enemy.”
…
“Laurence, I am giving you the right.” Samuels eyed his youngest captain with a skeptical look. “Take the third through fifth pikes, one unit of light infantry, and hold. Do not fight if you can help it. Present a solid wall of pikes, and their heavy horse should hold off.” Captain Samuels fixed the captain with his stare. “Don’t fight if you can help it. As soon as we win the left and center, I want you to recall in good order. Understood? This is not the fight to seek to blood yourself or your griffin. There will be time later, yes?” The fool boy had been chosen by The Company’s youngest griffin as a life companion, worthy of its trust and friendship. Tradition demanded a position of leadership, but both griffin and rider left much to be desired in their understanding of tactics. Today would be a test.
…
Sirs Dyer and Harkness came as a package or not at all. Brothers, they had been in harness since early youth, and their skills with blade and lance were only surpassed by their ability to find reasons to fight one another – over and over. The Company had a pool constantly going, betting on which would initiate their next scrap. At the moment, however, as with every battle, they were deadly focused.
“They’ve two casters that we’ve seen. Stevens spotted ‘em when he brought the flag of truce.” The Captain grinned viciously. “Why don’t you go introduce your charming selves.”
…
The last of the troops were deploying as Captain Samuels returned to the baggage to allow himself to be kitted. His squires dressed him quickly – under-padding, chain, plate with its many buckles and straps. Nearby, Halifax – oldest and strongest of The Company’s griffins – was patiently bending his muscled neck to allow four armorers to rest his plate barding into place. The heavy segments hissed as he lifted his head and shook like a dog – the armor moved well with him and he nodded sagely as the armorers stepped back.
“Ready, my love?” Samuels rapped a gauntleted fist on the metal plates of the griffin’s armor and received a baleful stare in return. “Alright, alright! Take me to the front. The left is where we’re needed. We’ve overweighed there to turn the flank.” The great beast took a hop and leapt into the air with a rush of wings.
…
Halifax landed next to his younger brother, on a small hill overlooking the left and center of the pass. The two griffins bumped foreheads in greeting, metal plates grinding. Captain Samuels nodded to Captain Lark as she warmly greeted Halifax. “Saoirse.” He bowed slightly to her griffin with a wry grin. “Puffin.” The griffin butted him gently and with affection.
“How do they shake out?” Samuels turned his eyes to the foe, roughly 240 yards away.
“Smooth, Shef.” Captain Lark shook her head. “Too smooth for my liking. Those foot in the center? Anointed knights, every one of them. I’d bet my ass. We don’t press them hard enough, they won’t move.” She spat to the side and looked back up, expectant. “They don’t move, those heavies on the right roll us up.”
“I don’t want blood today if we can help it.” Samuels replied. “Do your thing. Find a gap. Get behind them. Make ‘em move. They don’t move, then introduce them to Puffin here, but do it gentle-like.” He turned and scanned The Company’s lines and nodded approval.
“Bugle? Signal general advance.”
…
The fool boy had over-committed already. Captain Samuels grimaced as he watched. The 4th Pike Company had veered far out on the right flank, and now charged the knights in the wood, while Captain Laurence drove his griffin close on their flank. Samuels could see the intent – if Laurence could drive his beast through the right flank, he’d have the backs of all the enemy’s cavalry. But – his grimace turned to a scowl – pikes and woods do not mix well. The tight-knit block hit the trees and lost cohesion. He could imagine the long spears, snared in branches, rattling as men fought to hold their position. The charge faltered, far short of striking home. Then the worst unfolded.
With a flowing grace that belied their deadly speed, a full regiment of knights on winged horses banked, dove, and struck the ragged flank of the 4th. A single, larger, Pegasus stooped into the woods to challenge Captain Laurence. Even 500 feet distant, Samuels could hear the griffin’s bellowed challenge. And then, horrors, the rumble of hooves roared above the din – the knights charged through the woods and over the collapsing pikes.
…
The right flank was lost. The 4th Pikes were dead or scattered, and there was no sign of Laurence or his faithful griffin. The winged knights lifted off from the edge of the wood, moving swiftly toward the center. A second regiment of knights now cantered forward to pin the center pike wall in its forward-facing – thus exposing its flank to another deadly winged assault. Samuels could see the Griffin Company regiments desperately shifting to counter both threats but knew it would not be enough. The 3rd Light Infantry Company faced off directly in front of the approaching cavalry – a disaster waiting to happen. In minutes, the center would collapse, and then their left would be rolled up. This ragged band certainly knew its business.
But Griffin Company was not yet done. Captain Samuel’s mind raced. He swept the battlefield with his gaze. In a moment, he was decided.
“Signal! First Heavy Foot to me! Third Light Company to engage the enemy more closely.” Samuels bent over Halifax’s armored neck. “Fly like the wind, my brother!” He leaned his weight, pressed a knee, and the great beast pivoted toward the right flank and stretched his wings. Great leonine haunches propelled them into the sky, skirting the back ranks of the orderly pikes and light infantry as they closed with the enemy in the center.
…
Bjorn Karlsson had served with Griffin Company for seven years. Good years. He was not the biggest man, nor the most deadly, but he had a knack for building friendships. The captain had seen it, cultivated it, and now Bjorn led the 3rd light infantry with pride and the casual command of one used to his work. He also had a good sense of tactics, and knew with a dread in the pit of his stomach what his orders would be before he heard the signal bugle pierce the air.
“Lads!” He bellowed as he turned, twirling his greatsword slowly in lightly armored hands and faking a smile. “Those fuckers,” he gestured with his head to the well-harnessed knights approaching, “are going to charge us. But they’ve underestimated our speed. Let’s show them how light foot move!” Bjorn turned, knowing his small company would follow, and sprinted toward the heavy horse. With a roar, his men followed. They struck the knights before they could couch lances and charge –heavy weapons hacking at horses’ legs and soft muzzles. Stallions screamed and knights fell.
…
Captain Samuels watched the light infantry strike the surprised enemy knights, carve through the first rank, and falter. The veteran knights dropped lances, drew their short arming swords and cavalry picks, and began to slaughter the lightly armored troops. “So fast,” Samuels breathed as Halifax streaked toward the confrontation. “Too fast.” The enemy horse would be clear in a moment, and free to reform in good order.
In the periphery of his vision, Samuels caught movement behind the enemy cavalry. Out of the dust galloped Sir Dyer, lance lowered and visor closed. The lone knight struck the rear of the enemy with a crash, his lance shattering as it unhorsed one foe, and his war sword sweeping upward from the sheath in a terrific blow that sheared half a helm off the head of another. He disappeared into the back ranks and the rear of the enemy cavalry roiled in confusion, even as their comrades in the front finished off the last of the light infantry.
“First Foot!” Samuels bellowed as his griffin skimmed over the helmeted heads of his veterans moving toward the enemy at a jangling trot. Their answering shout rose to greet him as he swept to their front and pointed with his lance at the flank of the enemy cavalry desperately attempting to reform.
“Charge!”
…
A big man in full harness weights 300 or more pounds, and the men of the 1st Heavy Foot had been picked for their size and brutal efficiency. When they struck the flank of the enemy horse at a full run, they did not waste time hacking at armor, but eviscerated horses, pulled men bodily from their saddles, and chopped at horse’s exposed legs. Only after the armored enemy was on the ground did the rear ranks drive three-edged rondel daggers through exposed joints in visor, neck, and armpit, to efficiently murder their downed foe. Within moments, the heavily armored foot slaughtered, to a man and a horse, the regiment that had stood before them. With the same terrible efficiency, they reformed their ranks and trotted through the wreckage of man and beast.
…
Captain Samuels charged over the enemy horse and drove Halifax hard into the flank of a troop of heavily armored ogres. His lance screeched along a breastplate, found purchase in a shoulder joint, and punched through chain, and easily out the other side. Dropping his lance, he drew his military pick and laid about him as Halifax tore great rents in the armor. Water poured from the rents, and Samuels paused. “By the gods…” he whispered. The armored water elementals turned toward him, even as their wounds mended.
…
On the left, lines of heavy foot, pikes, and light infantry steadily double-timed forward. The enemy backed their lines in perfect order. Far to the left, a howl marked another blow struck in the duel between Sir Jacob and the great beast that threatened the flank. The center had become a complete mess. Captain Lark nudged Puffin into another circle, watching the ebb and flow of battle below her. They were patient, she and Puffin. It was why the Captain trusted them. She had been circling for 30 minutes, watching and waiting for her moment. This enemy made few mistakes – dressing their lines, watching their angles – no good opportunity had presented itself. Yet.
But with the chaos of the melee in the center, opportunity arose.
The foot knights holding the enemy center were clearly torn. They could see slaughter descending on their mounted comrades, as the Captain led his frantic counter-attack. As a group, perhaps unconsciously driven by their conflicting imperatives, they lost slight cohesion and began to drift out of position.
“There!” Lark cried. Her griffin stooped, the wind whistling through armored joints. With a crash, they landed and spun, facing the backs and sides of all the enemy infantry line. To their right, an astonished standard bearer drew his sword and crouched, warding his charge – a tattered and beautiful flag bearing the visage of the Green Lady. Lark saluted with a grim smile.
“Time you should be stepping aside, standard. You have one minute to save dozens. One minute, and then I unleash hell.”
…
Pikes clattered against lances as the winged cavalry descended full into the front of the 2nd Pike regiment, now holding the outside right of the center. A few men fell to lucky blows, but the long spears held steady and, behind them, the cavalry grimly drew swords.
The 3rd Pikes engaged the water elementals closely now, more propping them up with their hedge of iron tips than piercing their thick armor. The Captain took the opportunity to withdraw, as the 1st Heavy Foot emerged from the wreckage of the enemy horse. He spun in the saddle, seeing a high vantage from which to gain a good view.
“Hold here!” he bellowed at the plate-wearing footguard. “Be ready to withdraw on the bugle.” A second regiment of the splendid cavalry was fast approaching from the right. A clash between them and his foot was to be avoided at all costs. Halifax surged upward and landed on a hill behind the enemy line of battle. Off to his right, Samuels could see Sir Harkness harrying one of the enemy casters with a few half-hearted pokes of his lance. As he spun to face the rear of the enemy, Halifax cried in rage and a shadow descended, all striking hooves and beating wings. The Pegasus that had challenged Captain Laurence danced on nimble hooves as it engaged Halifax, flapping its wings to obscure his view of the battle.
…
Let us step back for a moment and bear witness. The struggle nears its end. Here, beneath the trees, a cocksure Captain draws his last breath, cradled in the ragged and torn arms of the griffin who loved him. Around him lie dozens of pikemen, slain by his foolishness. There, a bloody and furious beast backs slowly away from the armored knight who refused to give way – there is respect in those eyes, and great sadness. Here, a lone winged horse struggles desperately against a larger and heavily armored foe – the love for its allies driving furious but hopeless combat. There, an ancient flag dips, obscuring the face of a Patron god – the man holding it suddenly looks old, and sad, as he directs his comrades to give way to their enemy.
Here, heavy horse refuse a charge – seeing that the day is lost – knowing that they could trample and spear these armored foot who so recently destroyed brothers of decades of service but knowing, too, it would be but an act of hate. There, a bugle calls and instantly pikes withdraw, step by measured step. They leave behind a motley of armored elementals and winged horsemen, watching one another through the forest of spears.
There are no cheers. Something tragic hung over the field of battle. Captain Sheffield Samuels backed Halifax away from the bleeding Pegasus, turning at the sound of hoofbeats.
“Sir Kevin.” Samuels nodded.
“The day is yours, Captain. Pass quickly, that we might bury our dead and resume our march.” Sir Kevin’s sadness was only surpassed by his grace, his sheet gentlemanly composure.
“I’m…” Samuels found himself at a loss for words.
“No need to say it.” Sir Kevin managed a smile. “It was fated we meet and test one another’s mettle. I did not expect it to be so bloody.” He sighed and both men watched Griffin Company file quietly and quickly down the pass. The baggage train alone bore some revelry, laughter and cheers drifting through the late-morning air.
“The Baron.” The Captain bit the title off sharply.
“Some things are more important than money, Captain.”
“Not when you’re a mercenary, Sir Kevin.”
“We are who we choose to be, Captain.” Sir Kevin nudged his mount down the hill toward his ravaged troop, already forming up to march onward to rescue.
Captain Samuels sat in silence for several minutes. So much so that Halifax turned his head to watch quietly through one great eye.
“Well, shit.” With a nudge, the Captain launched his mount toward the baggage.
…
Baron Jules von Devonshire was “explaining” the course of battle to his fawning retinue when a shadow darkened the sky and Halifax descended amid the shrieks of hangers-on. Captain Samuels slid from the saddle and strode to the Baron, armored legs clanking as he paced the wagon The Baron held court on.
“We have won through, my lord. We will be in Northburg by nightfall.” He glanced aside at the Order foot knights standing at salute. They had held such for the passage of the entire Company. He grimaced.
The Baron sneered, “Cowards.”
The Captain’s gauntlet caught the Baron on the side of his head, sending him reeling from the wagon to crash into the dirt.
“You dolt!” screeched The Baron as his personal guard closed around him. “How dare you touch me!”
Captain Samuels calmly drew a scroll from within a pouch at his side. Slowly, he unfurled it and held the paper in both hands.
“You’ll never work again!” raged the Baron. “I’ll see to it! You’ll never take another contract!”
Samuels slowly tore the paper in half, dropping the pieces to the muddy earth.
…
As we pull back from the scene, listen closely! Can you hear it? It is a sound of hope, perhaps. A frail sound as it cuts through the forest, but clear nonetheless. As the gossamer curtain sweeps over the scene, we are left with just this…
In a pass in the mountains, under the soft sun of exactly noon, a bugle cries out. To those who know, who have seen the terrible face of war, tears may come with recognition. Of hope for redemption. For the possibility of a new-forged friendship, fragile though it may be. Those who have seen Service might imagine dozens of booted feet striking the ground in concert. They might picture arms shouldered and precise steps spinning regiment after regiment to face back up the pass. They might imagine a future paved not by coin, but by compassion. In war, there is always much to be redeemed. The chances for such are few, but here is one. Indeed, the sound of three ascending notes might conjure all of this for those of us who understand.
The bugle cried “recall”.
…
The End.
Really well written, epic re-telling.