Celtic Struggle I
The horse hooves made the ground shudder as the battalions rode along the mountains. They had been sent by King Berthold to scout along the borders of the land. To seek out the enemies that hid waiting for a chance to attack. The Saxons were a ferocious bunch of barbarians willing to do anything to get what they wanted with a good selection of horsemen, infantry and axemen in each army. The heir to the faction's throne Gerthesnon was leading this army. They had no fear in their hearts, they rode or marched against anything in their way.
They came upon a large hill in the mountain pass and as they began the struggle up the hill Gerthesnon got a strange feeling. Something was wrong. He halted his men and listened. He thought he heard a cry resounding over and over. He ordered for the army to march on up the hill. At the top it was Gerthesnon who got the first look over. What he saw there made his hairs stand on end, a thing that is not usually made to happen to an experienced soldier. A camp had been set up on the other side of the mountain. A flag flew from the biggest tent. The Celtic Flag.
The Celts were a rambling band of ferocious fighters whose infantry talent could not be beaten. They tended not to use cavalry and archers would always travel. They had set up their camp here supposedly to regroup for an attack. In the distance infantrymen were visible, impaling sandbags with their swords or spears and slashing open sandbags with their axes that gleamed in the sun. How long had they been there for? That was the question that Gerthesnon put to himself. He didn't know and he didn't like the look of it. He would have to go back and tell his father of what he had seen. An arrow hit the ground beside him. He would have to go quickly.