Players'-side account of the Battle of Scorn'el, the climax of my previous campaign.
By King Sigurd of Trafalgis, ally of Overking Tarkane:
The Last Charge
The fight for the East continues...
The Battle of Scornel
The Mongali had broken out of Do Chaka, leaving a trail of destruction.
The Overking had assembled his threehundredthousand something men at the walls of Scornel, to decide the fate of the the League and the Borderlands. From the city's towers the sentinels said the army stretched out on the plain below them looked like an ant hive on fire.
It was a grey morning. King Sigurd of Trafalgar is sat alone on his old trusted steed, Buchelas. Buchelas was showing signs of age but still held its head high above the younger horses by its side, muscles ripping, and its hooves stamping eagerly. The horse seemed to him now almost a relic from his past days of service as mercenary in foreign lands. He looked over his shoulder, to his left and right, his lieutenants. Beyond that, his huskarls, his raven knights, his cavalry and his foot soldiers. Beyond that the combined forces of Scornel and Mount Fire. Although they were confident in their numbers, the sight on the plain below made even the bravest warrior wince.
The Mongali. An ocean of death. The world' fiercest warriors, each man born on the saddleback with a passion for killing and war. History lessons had proven that no infantry force had ever beaten them. The Khan's banner with their unreadable letters waved among them. Sigurd spat.
The whole valley thundered like a flood as hundreds of thousands of hooves marched beneath them. Horsemen, clad in black and brown, with scimitars and composite bows, marching proudly, raising a roar that filled the ranks of his men with fear. A rider and his standard bearer rode ahead of the foremost column of horsemen, raising an armoured fist, the whole army stopped dead in their tracks behind him. There was a moment of silence. Sigurd looked back on his own men. He unsheathed Frostbite and spurred Buchelass in front of the mass to break the silence.
"Warriors from all corners of the world! Together we stand here today, to fight an enemy, vicious and bold, yet also, made of flesh and blood, like us. Fight together! Even if you fear, remember courage. Even if you falter, find strength. If you bleed, make them bleed! Show these butchering dogs no mercy for no will be given you. Know that on this glorious day, time stands still and all the gods are watching, while your wives and children are praying from your homes, awaiting our victory. Do not fail them... To victory!"
Sigurd dismounted and sent Buchelas away.
"You'll live to fight another day, old friend."
He joined the front infantry rank and the men cheered and raised their spears like a rippling ocean of steel. The Khan's riders below were laughing and throwing insults, but he knew that would not last long. Hold the hills, keep them from flanking me. This had been the Overking's final orders. It was a difficult position for the Mongali to manoeuvre around, and they would need to take it if they were to take Scornel. The storm of riders below them divided into two parts. One marched to the edge of the hill, the other to Tharkanes force further east.
"They are coming!" The confused commanders among the Scornic leaders starting giving individual orders. A lord had his archers preparing fire. A few hundred arrows landed on the great mass bellow, without much effect. In response, the Mongali prepared their bows.
"Cover!" That all Sigurd could shout before the sky was black with arrows. He raised his shield and the arrows whined past him. The entirety of the infantry was lying down and hiding behind shields. Another volley of arrows came up in the air and rained death upon them. Men screamed in agony and died, and when Sigurd took away his shield, he could see a horde of trampling steel charging in a wedge right at them. The Mongali were attacking? Sigurd called upon the elder Gods and counter charged with his huskarls.
The Mongali heavy cavalry were elite troops, armed with shock lances and their horses were heavily barded. But although they were mounted, they were charging up hill and right at the wooden stakes plunged before them. Before the infantry could get to grips with them, the riders turned their horses in an elegant manoeuvre and rode away, back to their lines. Sigurd's men were met with another hail of arrows.
"Back!" He cursed his own impetuousness. He should know the Mongali were not foolish enough to charge straight on. Men fell as they turned around, arrows sprouting out of their armour, blood gushing from the wounds. His gazed out on the northern ranks, and could see the Mongali were doing the same. He took hold of the Royal Banner, a black silk raven on a red triangle, and waved it high. Hopefully Xiang or the other commanders would see it was a trap. Luckily, the commanders maintained enough control of their men and the line was maintained.
Repositioning themselves, the crossbowmen and archers concentrated now fire on the Mongali who had moved within range. The enemy horse archers moved back and forth, feigning charge, feigning retreat, even turning around in their saddle to shoot backwards. The Scornic heavy arbalesters held their position behind sturdy pavise shields and with slow determination, launched volley after volley of bolts into their ranks. Horses and men fell on both sides and the air was buzzing with projectiles. Breaking of the main force, he could another group of Mongali coming to reinforce the divisions below.
"Ask Tarkane for some reinforcements. They are sending the first wave up here." Sigurd sent his messenger riding downhill to Tarkane.
Dead mean littered the field in front of them, and now, finally, He could let out a sigh in relief. The arrows had ceased. There was a calm stillness in the air, and suddenly the sun broke through the clouds. Sigurd closed his eyes for a moment, and then, when he opened them, the Mongali had formed two branches, one cutting like a knife at Xiang's flank, the other on his own. The Scornic was left in the middle, without resistance. The Khan was planning to crush the weaker parts of their body, and then encircle the bigger Scornic divisions in a total envelopment.
He ordered his men to wheel to face the flanking manoeuvre. Wheeling took its time, and before they could reposition. Thousands of fierce dismounted Mongali warriors charged up the hill with a terrible war cry. He held his blood thirsty huskarls back and ordered the men at arms in. Both sides clashed, the Mongali charge pushing at them first, but as the weight of men fell upon them from uphill, they were gradually pushed back. In return, a division large division of horse archers broke the ranks and charged at the arbalesters and crossbowmen. He ordered the archers run and to retreat to the rear ranks and not to shoot into the melee anymore, as it would kill his own men as well as theirs.
"Get the Scornic forces to send back up. Don't just let them stand there!" Sigurd looked at up at the battalions of rag-tag, amateurish scoundrels the Scornic leaders had drummed up. They were standing there, making no sign to move. Before the messenger could arrive he was hit by an arrow, and Sigurd did not have time to respond before the Mongali broke ranks again and charged his huskarls.
"To death!"
There was a thunder as the heavily armed sides clashed. Ironed hooves trampled down his men, but their fortunately their impact was short. The huskarls stuck spears in their horses and with hasty expertise, slew dismounted riders with their axes... Sigurd gathered his bodyguard behind him in a wedge and started ploughing through them... They, riders, who had attacked too early, started to flee. His huskarls and men at arms, blood-thirsty and high on adrenaline, began to follow. Learning from past mistakes, Sigurd rallied them to his banner to receive the second charge. The Mongali light cavalry had hit the men at arms in the flank and had them routing off the field. Sigurd ordered his cavalry in, and there was a great roar as they hit the enemy upon the flanks. But at the centre Sigurd was locked in a bloody struggle. His reserves had joined the fight impetuously. He looked up at the vast Scornic forces, their incompetent commanders still standing there. Fools. We're finished.
Then, from behind, he heard a Western war cry. Out from over the hill, through a screen of smoke and fire, he saw Xiang alone, on his horse, with his spear in his hand. He barely had time to think how the fellow commander had been able to come from the right side of the field because coming up behind him he could see a force of thousands of horsemen. They gathered momentum, and charged downhill at the Mongali. Joining them, hundreds of Scornic cavalrymen. Horses clashed with horses, one after one, man after man, the Mongali started to flee. Scornic battle mages cast their spells and tore the enemy ranks in confusion.
The Mongali had lost the first encounter. Xiang and Sigurd met each other in the middle, both kings soaked in the blood of their enemy.
"Good job. And thank you for the belt." The belt Xiang had loaned him was magical and had given him a supernatural strength. Something he had first noticed when he had first split a Mongali warrior in two with his sword.
"Keep it. They'll be back"
Both tried to see what was going on down the valley. Mongali skirmishers were covering the retreat, setting fire to hay balls, throwing up a screen of smoke.
"What we have killed wasn't nearly half of them. They'll push us off the hill if they go any further"
They realised they were now on most upper ridge of the hill, their men positioned just below them, tired and weary of fighting. If they were pushed any further, they'd have to fight the Mongali uphill, which was not a good idea. Two Scornic commanders came up to the two, and asked for plans. More reinforcements had arrived from Tarkane's valley floor. Sigurd told them to put their forces as tightly together as they could, because now the Mongali were wounded and mad like dogs, and they would do anything to get them off the hill.
Minutes passed. No sign of the enemy. Then there was a thunder and a flash of lightning bolts that tore into their own ranks. Down the field he could see three lone hakkomon chanting and shouting profanities in their own language, conjuring magic. The archers tried to take shots at them, but shortly after a storm of fresh unstoppable Mongali riders came up behind them, through the smoke screen, shouting, screaming and waving swords and hand axes.
"Hold the line! Spears to the front!" The shield wall formed just seconds before the impact. Their mad horses jumped past the front ranks, and made a nasty rift through the lines. Xiang and his cavalry counter charged, but this time, it did not sway the balance. It seemed both sides had run out of tactics and it came down to a brutal melee around the hill. Sigurd hacked his way through the horsemen, but realised gradually that his infantry could not hold up. He was lost in the Mongali ranks, where princes and champions started to gang up at him. He felt the agonizing pain as a lance was plunged into his chest below his shield. He was bleeding heavily. He cut and tore at the riders surrounding him, but they were too many. A handful of his huskarls, exhausted and blooded, threw themselves at the enemy and got him out of danger.
"Save the king! Save the king!" Sigurd's strength was ebbing, when he was lifted by strong arms and carried him off the battle. When they came back to their own ranks they insisted on carrying him back to the rear lines, but their king growled and they let him loose. Standing there, with an Odin field cleric hastily casting some minor healing on him, he could see the Mongali gaining ground. Xiang's cavalry were loosing. They were pushed off the hill. He took the nearest banner he could find, a torn tattered banner of a Scornic prince who now lay dead besides it.
"Retreat!"
The order repeated itself throughout the army. Sigurd sent a cavalry screen providing cover, and the infantry formed up under their commanders, and turned in down the hill in a hasty march. Sigurd got Buhcelas and assembled his remaining men - they were only too happy that the Mongali were not giving chase. Both sides were counting their dead now, and down in the centre, a greater battle was brewing between Tarkane and the Khan.
Before the combined forces arrived down the valley floors, by the walls of Scornel, the battle was raging. An utter disaster was in the making. Tarkane's commanders were displaying great ineptness and divisions were spread and scattered all over the field. The Khan's disciplined troops were drawing them out with feigned retreats, isolating units and annihilating them. Trakhane and his mighty divisions of Imperial cavalry stood idly by, unable to aid the tide of the battle. Before total catastrophe came upon them, the retreat was sounded; Tarkane and his entourage turned around and marched of the field, without spilling or sharing a drop of blood.
Hundreds of thousands of men ran, panicked, for their lives. Sigurd's huskarls cursed the weaklings, but could do little but follow the stream of retreating soldiers.
The first day of the battle was lost.
The War Council.
"Our men did not die out there today so that we could turn around and run like cowards."
Tarkane sat in his field throne, surrounded by his host of commanders and sub-commanders, eager to voice their opinion. In the corner away from the heated argument, sat Xiang and Sigurd, the two outsiders.
"My liege, if we go back we can gather more divisions and reserves. We can double this force."
"It will take a year! By then our lands will be scorched!"
The Scornic leaders were hot-tempered while the Imarr captains considerably more cool. Archduke Ulfius was looking grim and almost, reluctant. Tarkane was heavily concentrated, not talking, nor looking, immersed in his own thoughts. An important decision was to be made. After a long pause he spoke.
"King Sigurd and War master Xiang, what would you do in my place?"
Xiang spoke first.
"You must attack. We lost the field but still carry the advantage in numbers."
Sigurd nodded.
"You have over two hundred thousand men left. You outnumber them at least two to one. If you retreat the Mongali will be reinforced too. Right now, their horses are weary and tired, and they too have lost many men."
The men within the field tent fell silent as they considered the odds. At last, the Overking stood up, his bronze ornamented ceremonial armour shining in the torchlight.
"We'll fight tomorrow. Outside Scornel."
The commanders bowed in silent obedience. With a curtly nod Archduke Ulfius left the tent.
The Last Charge!
The enemy have not expected the Eastern forces to return. They are building siege engines. These were the reports from the scouts. The sentinels of Scornel were watching from the walls as this great machine of destruction unleashed before them. Mangonels, siege towers and battering rams would soon assail them from all sides. But on the plain, behind the enemy lines, they see the morning mist rise amidst clouds of dust. Soon, the points of thousands of spears. It was a most welcome sight. The men from all corners of the Imarr Empire and the Scornic league marched in unison to join the fight, on the second day of the battle.
This time, Tarkane’s cavalry host rode at the front, supported by divisions from the Knights of the Bloodhammer and the Thrinians. Their steel lances sparkled in the sun, their banners whipped in the wind.
"Tarkane is determined to steal the glory for himself after yesterday's defeat and as usual, let us do all the dirty work." One of the few competent commanders in the Scornic host spat and looked at the cavalry preparing for a charge.
"He is all too dependent on us." Sigurd smiled. "If we loose, he looses. I think he knows this."
The Mongali cavalry skirmishers were already in action. Arrows shot into the knights, who maintained their controlled trot. Fortunately for them, the Mongali had little time to prepare. The cavalry began to aim right at the Khan's main body, which were still camped outside the city's walls with nowhere to retreat. Sigurd's elite huskarls dismounted and gathered around him. He reached out for the Royal Trafalgaric banner, the Black Raven, now in tatters after yesterday. A stout ox was led before him by some thralls. Sigurd dismounted and drew his sword.
"My men. You've fought for me like lions and you have proved you valour. Now those who give their lives today will have a place at Odin's High table forever. Glory is ours."
He looked the ox into its frightened eyes and with a single blow of the sword cut its head off.
"Odin!" The raised their arms. "Odin!"
Most of the foreigners assembled around them looked uneasily upon the Trafalgars. Warriors from Scornel and the Overkingdom joined in, hoping to gain the favour of the war god for the battle.
"Hardly a time to prepare meals" Xiang was laughing, where he came riding with his men. "When the enemy is upon our arses."
Sigurd smiled.
"You again? You've got to stop coming around on my flank."
"Well I've got to teach your men how to use a horse."
"Fine. I'll teach yours how to fight."
They smiled and watched the horizon. A part of the Mongali main body had broken off and was circling them like a bird of prey. There was a moment of sombre silence as they both realised this battle would be final and after this there would be either death or life.
"If they can annihilate us they can hit Tarkane in the rear. Then all will be lost."
Xiang nodded spurred his horse to a canter. "Let us not make it so. King Sigurd, it’s been an honour to fight together...” He turned around and raised the spear in salute. Sigurd raised Frostbite in return. Blood from the ox dripped on his face.
"War master Xiang! Always an honour."
At that moment, above his head, Sigurd saw a sign, one he would not forget. A raven circled the skies them and for a moment, he knew that the gods had heard them.
In the centre Tarkane's knights charged and the Mongali heavy cavalry counter charged, both sides collided with a roaring thunder. A vicious fight ensued, but the combined forces could but stand and watch the second Mongali force, that had them outranged and outmanoeuvred. Arrows whined through the air, men fell screaming, the terrible armour piercing arrows plunging deep into them. Fire arrows exploded and for a moment it seemed as if he was standing in an inferno, beneath the gates of Scornel.
"Get the bastards! Get them now!"
A lone knight, no doubt a young man eager for glory and fame, broke the ranks and charged ahead with his squire. The army watched in bitter silence as the man was pierced by dozens of arrows and fell dead of his horse. Sigurd looked around. Spurred by his martyr example, knights and men at arms from all divisions started to break the line, ignoring the arrows. He tried to stop them, but by then it was too late. The spirit of wrath lay over them now, and they were keen to avenge themselves. The Scornic commanders on their horses looked confused around as the stream of men followed.
"Charge!"
The Mongali skirmishers moved away too late, and were completely overrun. The second line of horsemen yelled curses and instead of retreating, joined the battle. Both sides crushed into one another with their full weight, and the enemy flanks whipped around their own. Their only hope now would be to break the centre. The men at arms fought their way through a mass of Mongali dismounted warriors, with new gained strength cleaving them in half’s and smashing their skulls. The attack gathered momentum and Sigurd slaughtered his way through them, his men filling the gap and killing with a ravenous blood thirst.
"Blood for Odin!"
"Blood!" They answered.
"To the banner of Trafalgar is!"
More Mongali warriors came charging to envelop Sigurd's wedge. His men tired yet spirited, prepared to receive the counterattack. Horses and men cut through them and the lines disintegrated into utter chaos. Each man fought for himself, and Sigurd waded through the foggy field in confusion, cutting down Mongalis as they came near. The trample of hooves. The Mongali had an elite force of heavy cavalry ploughing straight through them his men. The elite, most seasoned warriors that usually rode at the back of the army was now fully upon them. The Trafalgars were wavering, Scornel soldiery were already running.
Then he heard the war cry.
"Odin and Thor!"
The Raven Knights standard came charging, and he saw men on horses like phantom horses out of the fog. Only but a few were left, but that was enough. They hit the Mongali in the rear, whom turned to flee.
"Give me a horse!" Sigurd took the Grandmaster's second horse and rode up the top of a nearby hill to gain overview. Xiang had broken the left flank and had been able to do the unthinkable, envelop the Mongali. The last of the Khan's elite fought bitterly, but the soldiery took began to flee. Further on, near the city walls, Tarkane's attack had proceeded as planned, and it had turned into a real slaughterhouse. The enemy fled the field first in terror, then in good order. Xiang, taking his cavalry, and Sigurd, taking the remains of his, gave them chase.
"Victory! Victory!"
The men were cheering, even crying as they rode them by. A fifth had fallen, many more were wounded, but they had won the field and would soon be able to recover. They had beat the Mongali and lived to tell the tale of this battle of battles.
