Margrave Ulm was no stranger to war. In fact, it could be said that he was pretty good at it, having spent 40 of his 55 years on God’s green earth serving in the Holy Imperial Army. Reclining back in his saddle, he raised a plate-clad hand and lifted his helmet visor, the well-oiled joint not letting out a single squeak. He casually surveyed terrain before him. The position he had chosen to command from, on top of a hill, offered a commanding view of the currently tranquil valley over which his hundred-and-twelve cavalry and fifty peasant levies would soon charge.
On the opposite side of the valley were arrayed 12 wagons, arranged in a semicircle formation anchored against the base of the other hill. Each one was spaced around 3 metres from the others, with the gap between them covered by wooden mantlets. In each wagon stood 4 or 5 men, some holding pikes, others clutching arbalests. A small number of them held thin metal rods with wooden handles. Chuckling softly to himself, Ulm began to wonder if it had been a mistake to call up all his cavalry. After all, if these upstart peasants had to resort to crude metal clubs as weapons, did he really need a hundred heavily armoured, armed, and mounted trained fighting men to crush them? Even his peasant levies, pressed into service from surrounding villages, were better armed than these “rebels”.
He quickly composed himself. After all, hubris had caused armies far greater than his to meet untimely ends at the hands of unremarkable foes. He knew this well, since the time he witnessed the remnants of an Imperial army rout a victorious Veneri army as they looted the Imperial baggage train, not having bothered giving chase as the Imperials broke ranks and fled. Nevertheless, although the rebels had the advantage of a fortified position, his years of experience told him that his force of elite cavalry would completely crush them like a steel-clad foot stamping down on a snail.
The rolling green terrain and blue sky were obscured as Ulm lowered his visor. Once again raising his arm, he let out a shout: “My brothers in arms, in the name of our Lord and Liege, let us crush these rebels underfoot! Attack!”
Men and horses, clad in plate with lances levelled, thundered down the hill in two ranks like a landslide made of muscle and steel towards the wooden wagons of the rebels. Seeing their foe charge, the men in the wagons prepared for combat. The pikemen braced their weapons against the wall of the wagon behind them, pointing the sharp steel tips towards the charging horsemen. The crossbowmen also raised their arbalests, preparing to fire once their enemy was in range. The clubmen scrambled down through doors in the back of the wagon, lighting long ropes attached to their weapons in a campfire burning at the centre of the wagon fort before climbing back on to join their comrades.
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Watching from his hilltop position, Ulm couldn’t help but notice the peculiar way the clubmen were clutching their metal implements. The way they held them seemed more akin to a crossbow than any blunt weapon. A hint of doubt began to creep into his mind. Shaking his head, he returned his focus to the battle at hand.
As the cavalry closed within a hundred metres of the wagon fort, the arbalests let fly their bolts, the projectiles embedding themselves in the heavy oak shields of the equestrians. Unfazed, they continued their charge. Only 20 metres to go. Ulm had full confidence that his knights would smash the pathetic wooden fortifications of th-
A deafening sound, louder than even the sounds of the hooves of the charging horses, echoed across the valley, gouts of flame erupting out of the ends of the levelled clubs alongside thick clouds of smoke. 7 knights crashed to the ground, blood dripping out of newly-punched holes in their breastplates. However, it was not the sight of his beloved subordinates’ lifeless bodies falling from their horses that caught Ulm’s attention. Rather, it was the horses themselves, terrified by the deafening sound of what seemed to be thunderbolts thrown by the clubmen like pagan gods of old. Rearing on their hind legs, the front row of cavalry screeched to a halt before the wagon walls. The second rank, trailing close behind, slammed into the stalled first, sending men and horses flying everywhere.
It was at this moment that the wooden mantlets dropped down to reveal men hidden behind them. Wielding heavy maces and halberds, they charged into the mass of hapless knights, unable to rise due to their heavy armour. Their lances useless at such close distances, some attempted to draw their swords, but were struck down by mace blows that, while not fully penetrating their armour, crushed the hard metal shell and the soft man inside alike. The peasant levies, seeing the cavalry charge meet with disaster, turned tail and abandoned the field.
Perched on his hilltop roost, mouth agape, Margrave Ulm could hardly believe his eyes. His vaunted cavalry company, which had once routed an army ten times its size, had disintegrated in the face of pike-and-club-wielding peasants. Pulling on his horse’s reins, he turned around and rode as fast as he could in the opposite direction. “I must report this matter to His Magnificence the Emperor”, he thought as the rushing summer air stung his eyes through his visor. “This rebel, this ‘Lee’ fellow, is no ordinary character…shooting lightning from metal staffs, this can only the work of a witch!”