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The Cintran-Nazairi Border
Field Marshal Menno Coehoorn grimaced in annoyance upon feeling the chafe of the armor against his armpits.
His attendant, a young boy from the vassal province of Toussaint, glanced up nervously at his master. He'd tightened the straps a tad too much and clipped just a hint of skin when the pieces closed in like the edges of a scissor. Menno stepped down from the stool he'd been standing on and struck the boy soundly across the face. The attendant yelped like a kicked dog, running back to fetch the boots so that the Marshal wouldn't tan his hide.
"Do that one more time and I'll have your bollocks as a coin purse!" The Marshal roared.
"S-Sorry, milord!" The boy cried.
Once fully suited, Menno grabbed a silver goblet full of wine and downed the sweet drink before heading out of the pavilion. He was greeted with the sight of a dragon come to visit the Nilfgaardian encampment. It was small, lithe and slender compared to the larger hybrid dragons that formed the Imperial Air Cavalry. The dragon was the mount of an emissary, sent from the capital itself with a message from Emperor Emhyr. The sealed letter contained orders for the Center Army Group, addressed to the acting Field Marshal.
It read: Seizure of Princess Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon. Strategic Value- Absolute. Mission Parameters: Alive and whole. Failure unacceptable.
Menno didn't need the vermilion seal to know it was Emhyr's handwriting. The emperor wanted the princess alive, the fate of the rest of the royal family was of no concern. That meant that Center Army Group was free to sack the city and enact a decade's worth of vengeance for the humiliation at Sudduth and the Marnadal. The Field Marshal acknowledged the command with a casual salute, "Tell His Eminence that it will be done. Once the horrid business of claiming Cintra has passed, I shall deliver the princess to him personally."
The emissary nodded and got back on his dragon. The beast emitted a rattling hiss as it unfurled its long limbs and took to the sky. The day for preparations was complete, Menno Coehoorn and his army were ready for battle. The Cintran vanguard had been sighted by the Nilfgaardian auxiliaries, the Scoia'tael. They were marching up the steps past the Wyrm's Ruin, but were bogged down by the wandering hordes of undead that were stirred awake by the beating footfalls of marching companies. By their reports, the Cintrans were fielding more infantry than cavalry. Six thousand regulars, two thousand knight cavalry and only a hundred dragonriders. Compared with the Nilfgaardian armed forces that amounted to three times their size, the Cintran defense proved to be a paltry act of defiance. Just by looking at the numbers, Menno was confident that he would crush the opposition within a few days. He made one last inspection before giving the order to move out.
The Imperial Air Cavalry, the latest addition to the Empire's vast arsenal, had a host of Gigabeisten dragons at its disposal. Since the advent of the winged beasts, Nilfgaard had experimented with the creatures, cross-breeding the species to create new and terrifying combinations. The gigabeisten were one such combination, crimson-scaled nightmares that fired concentrated bolts of lightning in place of the usual fireballs. They were easy to train and quick to breed, surpassing the ones trained in the North as they needed no bond with any particular rider to function properly.
Menno didn't like riding dragons, and he didn't much care for the dizzying heights they reached. He preferred the use of horses, reliable beasts that trod the humble soil much like their human riders. The Field Marshal got on his trusty mount, patted the horse on the neck affectionately, then swung his fist in a wide circle. "Adhart! We march for Cintra!"
The armored boots thundered to one beat, and the North trembled with the roar of Nilfgaardian cadences.
New Amendale
Reyncourt hoisted himself up on his horse with little difficulty, having grown accustomed to the weight of his armor. His body swung smoothly over the saddle, and soon he was swaying in rhythm with the animal's nervous clopping. The mare grunted and nickered, her ears flitting attentively to her surroundings. The beast was a trained war-horse, accustomed to the noise of battle and obedient to her rider's commands. Reyncourt could trust her, and if she was going to see him through this war- he might even get to name her.
The glint of steel caused him to look down, and there beside his horse stood the Lady Fenne, his paramour and the love of his life. Fenne's eyes were moist, but she didn't cry. She'd shed her last tears the night before, when she'd lain in his arms silently begging for him not to go. Alas, such was the duty expected of a knight. He served the crown and he must go, lest he be called craven and dishonor himself. The woman raised his helmet and placed it upon his waiting hands. She folded her own hands to her belly, which had grown noticeably swollen in the past few months. A new golden band, an engagement ring, was upon her finger. It glistened in the light with green emeralds, the work of a dwarven artisan who visited the city recently.
This was Reyncourt's promise to her. He would go to war and return to New Amendale, as her husband. Damning all the consequences, the knight would elevate her station and thus ensure a loving home for the child to come.
Having said his farewells, Reyncourt rode out to join the long line of marchers heading into the Marnadal Stairs. They were heading towards hell, for this was the first time anyone in the North had ever faced the Nilfgaardians in all their cruel might. The Cintrans that remained in the city stood few, a horrifying thought should the battle at the mountain pass be lost to the invaders. The capital was a concentrically fortified city, with two curtain walls to hinder its enemies should a siege occur. Recently, the queen ordered a moat to be dug around the entire perimeter of the walls to prevent tunnelers and sappers from undermining their defenses. Long wooden spikes were erected along the deep trenches, while water was allowed to seep in from man-made channels from the Yaruga. Only three narrow corridors of soil remained, at the three main gates to draw in the majority of an army laying siege- right in the path of killing fields to saturate invaders with boiling tar.
It did inspire confidence in the Cintrans, but there was always room for error there. Whatever the North had, the Nilfgaardians had more and better. From the things Reyncourt had seen in the battles against the Nazairi defenders, he knew Nilfgaardians were a crafty lot and must not be underestimated. Why were they invading? Was it for honor, for vengeance, for power? It all boiled down to one simple need- land. Nobody made any more of it, not counting the Fall. Whatever was in the world was all there was and ever will be. Cintra, Nilfgaard or it could be fucking anyone else. Everyone wanted more land and violence was the only way to get it.
The men of the Emberheart Legion, now Cintran regulars, greeted the knight as he passed them. Reyncourt offered them a cordial reply and an acknowledging wave of his hand. These men helped him build his home, worked his fields and vineyards, helped establish trade between towns and New Amendale. He knew every one of them by name, spent coin in service for their betterment, christened their children when they were born. The bond between them was strong, and he wished them all the luck and fire for the battle to come.
Along the way, he saw his half-brother riding with the queen on Sorlanmaeger. They passed each other with naught but a nod, then parted when the great dragon flew at the helm of the procession.
The calm and serene scenery of the Cintran rolling hills and swaying tree lines changed to that of the rugged terrain of the Marnadal. Cold and unwelcoming ruins from the Fall littered the ground, hiding within their shadowy domain the shambling undead that wandered their ancient halls. The army passed through them, with the occasional bouts, but onwards to meet the true foe. In the wide valley of sundered rock and dragonbone, surrounded by arching towers from the world of Saggrel, the Cintrans at last caught sight of the Nilfgaardian vanguard. And they felt the sting of their arrows first, before the harrowing of dragon lightning. The terrible gigabeisten, hundreds of them, dotted the sky in swarms. They outnumbered the dragons of Cintra by a dozen to one, while the Nilfgaardian infantry outnumbered theirs by twenty. And that was just the first wave.
It was enough to shake the foundation of any army's morale.
But Calanthe, brave Calanthe, had her ways of rousing the fighting spirit of any man. Commanding Sorlanmaeger to land before the assembled throng, the queen spoke to her loyal soldiers. She did not fear the whistle of Nilfgaardian volleys, nor the roar of distant winged wyrms. She knew that they must make their stand there, and much would be lost. The lions of Cintra would not tuck tail in the face of danger, they'd lash out especially when pressed to a corner. The queen reminded them of what they were fighting for, appealing to them what mattered most. Their lands, their families and the very identity of their sacred kingdom.
Nobody wanted to see the Nilfgaardian sun fluttering above their castles or hanging from the shields of local taverns.
"The blackclads have come for blood, let them drown in their own! Follow me!"
With a thunderous shout, the Cintrans followed their queen into battle. And what a glorious battle it was! The dragonriders of Cintra met the Imperial Air Cavalry in a storm of shrieks, fire and lightning. Sorlanmaeger soared above the smaller gigabeisten and dove down to destroy the charging blackclad mounted knights. The queensguard, riding with the Cintran dragonrider knights, followed Calanthe to keep the enemy off her tail. Below, Cintran pikemen boldly met the charge and allowed the Nilfgaardians to impale themselves upon their long poles. Pikes splintered and shattered, men were thrown off their dragons and horses, while arrows continued to rain in scattered volleys. St. Vandal's bastards racked up an impressive kill count, though they themselves were too busy to keep a clear record. The defending army was holding its own rather well in the first few hours, but for all the courage of the Cintrans they couldn't stand the black tide for long.
King Eist, riding into the fray, waded in too deep into the clash. As shields and bodies pressed tightly against one another, the king made himself too big a target to ignore. Eist had come to the aid of an overwhelmed bunch of infantrymen when his head suddenly snapped back. A long arrow of birch swayed slenderly as it protruded from his eye. History would remember it as a Nilfgaardian arrow shot at random, but in truth it was a Scoia'tael arrow, shot from the ruins adjacent to the battlefield with deliberate and deadly accuracy. As payment for some unknown transgression, the elf savored the kill, knowing that he'd slain a human sovereign.
As for the Cintrans, they stared in horror as their king slipped out of his saddle and landed among the dead piling up on the ground. They took a severe blow to morale, but kept fighting for the sake of their queen, who fought the battle valiantly in the air. She didn't see her beloved fall, her attention focused on the largest gigabeisten among the air cavalry. She bade Sorlanmaeger to tackle it to the ground, and therein lay her error. The Nilfgaardian dragons didn't fight duels in the air, they fought as teams. Whereas the Cintran dragonriders attacked one at a time, the gigabeisten attacked all at once, sometimes sharing the same target till they've torn it to pieces. The queen soon found herself surrounded by the beasts, and Sorlanmaeger howled in agony as the gigabeisten bit at his wings.
Averon, seated behind Calanthe, stabbed his spear against the dragons to free her mount. He succeeded, but the large one Sorlanmaeger was fighting clawed at the harnesses holding their saddle firmly to the greater dragon's body. With a sudden snap, the harnesses broke and sent both queen and queensguard hurtling to the ground.
Averon bore the fall well, landing softly atop some saplings. Queen Calanthe, however, wasn't so lucky. She was dragged by her stirrup across the rocks, and the woman suffered a dozen hits from the jagged stones. The solid crack of her body colliding with those rocks indicated a multitude of broken bones. When her foot finally slipped out of the stirrup, she skidded over the ground like a pebble over a pond and came to rest at the foot of a hill. Sorlanmaeger, sensing his rider in danger, decapitated the gigabeisten with a strong snap of his jaws. The greater dragon flew down and encircled the fallen monarch protectively, killing anyone who tries to approach with a baleful pillar of flame shot from his yawning maw.
The Myrmidon, upon recovering from the fall, looked around and saw only desolation. The Cintran army had been broken. Routed, they scattered and fled the Marnadal in total disarray. The Nilfgaardian light cavalry pursued and rode them down. He hadn't seen hide nor hair of Reyncourt anywhere, Averon feared the worst. He scrambled towards Sorlanmaeger, permitted by the dragon to approach when he recognized his scent. The queensguard commander bent down and looked after Calanthe.
The queen had broken her back on the rocks. She could barely move her head as it rolled slowly and heavily to face him. Her blood ran in rivers down her temples, and a horrid gash marred the lower half of her face. She spoke in garbled phrases, and Averon strained to hear them.
"Cintra... take me..." She struggled to swallow amidst the pain, "Home."
They'd fought, they'd lost. Cintra, like its queen, was drawing its final breaths. Averon could scarcely believe it. Just recently had he suffered the ethnic cleansing of Brokilon, only to come home to an age he no longer recognized. Now, he was going to lose everything he held dear. Nevertheless, he still had a job to do, and that was to fulfill his queen's dying wish.
Averon gently took her in his arms and with the remains of the saddle he tied her to himself as he mounted Sorlanmaeger. His queensguard were sacrificing themselves to cover his escape, and when he finally took to the skies, only two dragons remained to escort him home. Averon left the battlefield, heavy of heart and crestfallen. Some of his kinsmen fought on, chief among them was Reyncourt. But no one would be there to sing of their valor. The dead lay where they have fallen, carrion for both bird and necrophage.
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