Life in the Old World
The Count of Nordland
The Northerners were men. Savage and ferocious men. But men all the same. The False Gods had provided some with terrible gifts. Two years ago his troops had done battle against a terrible cabal of cultists that had splintered a great tower through sheer force of will and today they did battle with armored warriors more metal than flesh. But the vast majority of them, given a mutation or two, were the same as any other man; albeit taller and broader than most. And men need to eat. They need to drink. They need shelter from the elements. They need tools to cook food, maintain weapons, make fire pits and pitch tents. The list of supplies needed to carry out a military campaign was innumerable from twine and flint to chisel, trowel and adze. Take these supplies away and any army, no matter how ferocious, would falter.
"Count Theodric the batteries are in positions."
I gave a thin smile and nodded curtly to my captain, "Give them a volley."
"Volley!" cried my captain Lutdorf as the engineers scrambled to make good on my instructions.
"You may wish to step back my lord," said the engineer who had informed me of their readiness, "The cannons can be quite loud."
"Very well. Captain let us move the retinue closer to the battlefield." Without waiting for a response I kicked my horse into a canter and moved away from the cannons and down the hill toward a fortified bluff where a regiment of Nordland hunters were raining a steady stream of arrows down unto the barbarians below. The hunter's serjent hailed us with an upraised hand.
"Ceasefire," I ordered him, "You will want to see this."
No sooner had I spoken than the cannons above us began to roar. As if swept by a powerful gale whole bands of Chaos warriors fell to the ground. I spied one man spin to the earth after his arm was blown off by one round and another armored hulk attempt to block a round with his shield only to have it shatter through him, leaving only a bloody metal stump in its place. It was an ugly and messy canvass to gaze upon but the men whooped and hollered like it was a festival in Salzenmund.
"I'm going to have words with the engineers," muttered Lutdorf, "They are missing half of the shots."
My captain was a serious man, a trait I normally appreciated, but sometimes (a lot of the times) it bordered on dour. Clapping him on the shoulder I exclaimed, "Leave it be man. Sigmar is about to grant us a great victory."
Lutdorf spit and muttered, "Sigmar had nothing to do with it."
The archer serjent coughed and looked away. The scriptures were clear that Sigmar was an active and benevolent deity who guided the actions of all successful men. My captain's remark bordered on heresy.
"Not directly of course. But through our actions and planning we have manifested his will," I responded as smoothly as possible. My captain had the good grace to merely grunt. Fortunately the serjent archer looked mollified. As an Elector Count I obviously did not give a damn about the opinions of peasants. But the last thing I needed was a witch hunter getting word of the comment from the drunken serjent after the battle. It was inconvenient enough that one witch hunter had suffered an unfortunate accident while investigating Lutdorf. A second would raise all sorts of problems.
"They are reforming for another charge," breathed the serjent almost in disbelief. Sure enough the Northmen were reforming their ranks, though they more spread out than before, and preparing to charge my lines.
"You were right Captain, their honor demands they continue to battle if there is even the slightest chance of victory," I murmured.
"Aesling filth," he replied spitting again.
If the Norse were smart they would have been beating a disciplined retreat. Of course if they had been smart the northern savages would not be in their current predicament. It had been all too easy for me to goad them into battle. All I had to do was evacuate a few villages and burn whatever couldn't be carried to the ground. Of course the peasants had broken down in tears about the destruction of their livelihood but they couldn't appreciate that as a Count I had to look after the security of the province as a whole. Three villages were small price to pay for the destruction of a war band that could easily destroy more important towns such as Ublingen and Beilen. The destruction of the villages had ensured that the Norse could not feast themselves on domestic store as they were want to do and left them chomping at the bit for battle. At the first sign of an Imperial flag they had girded themselves for battle and marched forth in pursuit of my forces. I sent them on a merry chase across the fields as my woodsmen circled around with vials of pitch and set fire to their camp. The Norsemen were not stupid, the camp had been fortified, and many woodsmen killed attacking it. My diversionary force had also taken casualties. But at the end of my ploy the Norse were four days march from Dreizack with next to nothing for food. For fear of starvation they were forced to take the field in terrain favorable to my position and weakened from hunger to boot. Now they were in optimal range of the artillery I marshaled from Salzemund, under fire from some of the greatest archers in the Empire, and forced to fight uphill against my infantry.
But fight they did. I couldn't help but grimace as their warriors hit my formation and devastated the first line of spear men.
"Resume your fire," I snapped to the archers and kicked the side of my horse to resume the canter toward the battle line. I was not much of a fighter but the knights around me were all quite formidable. I had been told by my captain that the presence of a count on the battlefield could inspire the men. One because the men respected leadership from the front and two because they assumed it meant victory was nigh– high nobility never risked their necks unless victory was already well in hand. As I grew closer I experienced the ferociousness of the barbarians first hand. Their eyes filled with the rage and blood lust, they tossed themselves at his men with abandon and not without efficacy either. My first line had been broken and already the second was being hacked to pieces. But the Norse had taken casualties in the charge as well. My personal regiment of greatswords had moved in to do battle with their much depleted heavily armored warriors and my halberdier and spearmen were slowly but surely making work of the other Norse warriors. The cannons had ceased their bombardment for fear of hitting my own troops but had taken a massive toll on the enemy before silencing.
"It's butchers work now. I don't even spy their chief among them," said Lutdorf as we dismounted a few meters from the back of the line. The terrain was jagged and treacherous now and unfit for mounted warriors.
"I had the cannons aim for his regiment first," I said with a grin.
Lutdorf looked at me with his one good eye and then almost, almost, cracked his own grin. "There might be hope for you yet."
A swelling feeling of pride filled my chest. It always surprised me how much his commoners praise meant to me. More chivalrous nobles would have looked down upon my actions but as Lutdorf would say chivalry can't kill your enemies but it can kill you.
"If its butchers work to be done, let us get our pound of flesh," I shouted as I dropped the visor of my helmet and drew my blade. My knights did likewise and with a cry we fell into the melee. My personal retinue was composed of the Knights of the Black Bear, so christened by my father. Over the years we had developed a symbiotic and effective fighting formation. They would take all the hits and fight everything while I picked off the wounded as we advanced. It was effective insofar as it kept me alive, though my knights occasionally portrayed their chagrin with a stolen glance or two after the battle. I was loathe to reproach them openly on the off chance that they might let a spare blade accidentally reach my person in response. Lutdorf swore it would never happen as it would cast great dishonor on the knights but I preferred to not take the chance. They missed my battle hardened father. This made two of us. Father had always taken care of the abominable matters of court that I now had to attend to.
With a quick slash I finished off a dying warrior with a mutated claw for a hand. The perverse ligament continued to jerk around after the man collapsed, as if possessed of a separate mind. By Sigmar mutants were disgusting. The regiments around me began to push harder either inspired by my presence or the mailed fist of my knights. A stab in the throat of a man whose legs had been nearly hacked off by one of my knights and a thrust into the heart of a man missing half his face after a blow from Lutdorf and we were practically at the front lines. Though the fighting had only lasted a number of minutes I was already panting with exertion and sweating bullet as a result of the weight of my plate. Lutdorf swore I would appreciate the mail the day I got hit by a stray arrow but for now I found the armor intolerably heavy. Fortunately it seemed the battle was mostly done. The Norse had begun to flee en masse and the battery of cannons had resumed their fire to harass their retreat.
A chorus of cheers began to ring out among the ranks and I raised my sword to join them. Lutdorf walked over, his armor caked in blood. "Congratulations Elector. I do believe you have won a decisive victory."
One of my knights, Theog, lifted his visor and gave a raucous smile, "Your father would be damn proud lad."
"This may not be the Battle of Ems but it sure is one hell of a beating," one of the older knights named Teldman exclaimed referencing my father's now legendary defeat of the Graeling.
I took the compliments in good order but inside I couldn't help but seethe. My father's victory had been against a mightier host to be sure but his "glorious" charge to break the enemies ranks had resulted in nearly seven times the casualties of this battle. Proportionally speaking this was a far superior tactical victory.
Must I always be in your shadow father I wondered somberly as the rain of congratulations and almost as good as your father compliments continued.
Suddenly an idea came. An idea so vivid and articulated that it could have only have been inspired by Sigmar himself. My smile broadened and this time it was genuine. Lutdorf noticed the distinction and lifted his eyebrow apprehensively. This was only the beginning.