Chapter 3
May 27th, 1663. Grössenstadt.
A soldier of the Bickenstadt Liberation Forces physically shook in his boots. He had heard a sound so terrifying that he could barely even stand. It was the shriek of a Demigryph, said to be so laden with magic that it interrupted any spells nearby mages are trying to cast.
He wasn’t entirely sure why he was so scared, he had heard scarier sounds over the years, but it shook him to his core nonetheless. The only comfort he could find was in his musket. He had been taught by the Baron von Bickenstadt himself that no matter how strong a man is, a bullet will put him on his ass.
The Grand Imperial Army was coming, the shrieks of the Demigrpyhs meant to be an ill omen for the enemies of the Empire.
Officers spoke to each other in hushed whispers, unnerving their men greatly with their secrecy.
“Should we abandon this side of the river?”
“I don’t know…I don’t want to just, give them territory for free. I don’t think the Baron would like it.”
“Be that as it may, they outnumber us and have us outgunned. Despite our fortifications I do not believe we can hold, not with the deployment of the Demigryph knights. We should consolidate our forces on the other side of the river and dig in even deeper.”
The officers all quietly murmured to each other. His reasoning was sound, and they didn’t like the prospect of fighting overwhelming numbers with a river to their backs.
“...what if we trap this place before we leave?”
Everyone looked at the one who spoke with surprise, then smiled.
“That’s an excellent idea, why didn’t I think of that?”
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“Empress! The enemy is pulling back! They’re crossing the river back to the Bickenstadt side!”
The Empress raised an eyebrow.
“Truly?”
“I saw it with my own eyes, ma’am! The ferries are moving men across!”
The Empress pursed her lips in thought. The messenger stared at her perfect face unblinkingly, completely entranced by her beauty, and her gift from the gods.
“Hm, I don’t like this.”
She stood up from her chair with urgency.
“We are commencing our attack! Kill as many as we can before they cross!”
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May 28th, 1663.
Cannons fired back and forth, engaging in counterbattery fire. A Bickenstadt artilleryman adjusted his cannon by a few degrees and gave a thumbs up. They fired, and the roundshot flew in a great arc and slammed down, less than a foot away from a Grössenstadt cannon, shattering an artilleryman’s shin. He dropped the ground and shrieked in pain, screaming even louder when his comrades began to drag him away.
Imperial infantry advanced on the retreating Bickenstadt forces. Left to guard the backs of their comrades were the most experienced men, grenadiers and veteran line infantry. They could be relied on to stand firm.
They manned the palisades, though notably not the trenches, each one gripping their muskets with grim determination. Their comrades were still only halfway done, they would have to hold for a long time, possibly even hours. Hours of constant, dirty, grimey hand to hand combat.
The Imperials approached in open order formation, a large gap in between each company to minimize the damage taken from small arms and artillery fire. They approached at a jog, eating up the distance far faster than the defenders would have liked.
A cannonball smashed through an Imperial cannon, leaving it in a heap of iron and broken wheels. The man standing behind it was killed near instantly as jagged shards of shrapnel cut off signals to his brain.
Soon the Imperials were within musket range, and the Bickenstadt forces began to fire. Their bullets whizzed past, only dropping a handful of the thousands approaching them. They loaded and fired as swiftly as they could manage with hands shaking from adrenaline, throwing as much lead down range as possible.
The first of the Imperials dropped into the trenches, and soon after that they began to tumble to the ground and scream. Their feet had been impaled by two inch long caltrops left behind by the defenders. Then, the Bickenstadters fired into the trench, downing anyone fortunate enough to avoid the caltrops.
A Bickenstadt officer briefly turned to check the progress of the retreat. They were about two thirds of the way through, with a few companies still waiting around at docks. It would take ten minutes for the massive but sluggish ferry to cross the mighty river, and then ten minutes back. Not to mention the time it would take to unload and pick up their cargo.
He turned back and raised his saber, dropping it to order another volley on the approaching attackers, forced to crawl over the bodies of their fallen comrades. Imperials pushed through the trenches, knowing that their best chance for survival was to defeat their enemy, as retreating without being ordered to would get you shot for deserting your post.
They pushed harder into the defenses. One of the men leading the charge shouted encouragement to the men behind him as he ran forward, completely missing the thin wire which broke on his shin. After a few seconds the earth shook, and a massive explosion sent him tumbling forward. He looked back and saw at least ten men were dead, limbs blown off and portions of skull visible through the gore. He had tripped a mine, and rushed past fast enough to avoid the explosion.
He looked forward, grinned, and raised his musket high in the air.
“The only way out of this fucking trench is forwards! FORWARDS!”
The men behind him roared and charged, redoubling their efforts. They paused occasionally to fire at the defenders, picking off a few at a time.
Bickenstadt grenadiers stood in formation, each one holding fist sized iron balls. A man passed by with a torch and lit the fuzes before the grenadiers tossed them at the approaching Imperials. A few of them were duds, rolling harmlessly up to the Imperial’s feet. The vast majority burst after a few seconds, sheering flesh and splitting bone as fragments of iron ripped through the charging men.
The defenders fired off their shots as quickly as they could. A man was half-way through ramming a ball down his gun when he realized he had no time to finish. He left the ramrod in his musket and leveled his bayonet at the men in front of him. A second later the Imperials smashed into the defenders, bayonets flashing and gun butts crashing down onto skulls.
The grenadiers were slowly pushed back from their positions through sheer mass, gritting teeth and digging feet into the ground as they were attacked from below. The Imperials rammed their way into the defensive line, unable to scatter the defenders but able to push them far enough back that they could properly bring their numbers to bear.
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The grenadiers held their lines with sheer grit and determination, parrying and thrusting madly at the charging Imperials. They refused to allow their lines to devolve into a messy murderball, they kept in step with their fellow grenadier near perfectly, operating fully on instinct and drawing on every last ounce of experience they had.
They held the line for what felt like hours, though it had hardly even been twenty minutes yet. Both sides were exhausted, but determined to win. The last of the Bickenstadt infantry, minus the men fighting, had finally boarded the ferry. The grenadiers felt relief and pride that they had saved the lives of their comrades. Now, all they could do was wait for their turn, knowing that they were likely dead men walking. The forelorn hope.
The Imperial lines had thinned, as had the defenders, but the Grand Imperial Army was beginning to waver. Their men were exhausted and losing motivation. The Grenadiers, fighting with no respect to their own lives, had managed to push them back to the trenches. The fighting was dirty and brutal. Men’s skulls were smashed with gunbutts, and a grenadier was full on strangling an enemy on the ground, having lost his musket somewhere in the melee.
A grenadier raised his musket to stab an enemy he had knocked over when a high pitched shriek echoed through the surrounding area. Both he and his Imperial foe froze in terror, completely unable to move or react to anything.
Men turned to look at the source of the noise and saw sixty beasts, twice as large as any horse, with men decked out in dashing plate and armed with glaves riding on top of them, screaming down into their backs.
The Demigryph knights crashed into the Bickenstadt grenadiers, piercing them with their long blades and crushing them underneath taloned claws. The Demigryphs shrieked again, sending true, primal terror into the hearts of everyone around. Massive talons tore through muskets and armor with ease, and any bayonet aimed in their direction simply glanced off of enchanted demigryph armor.
Soon, the Imperials were cheering, and every single Bickenstadt grenadier lay dead on the ground, literally torn to shreds by the Demigryph’s massive claws. The Demigryphs let loose an ear piercing shriek before taking off and flying in the direction of the next ferry station. They would drive the Bickenstadters back across the river at all costs, and they would do it easily. The Demigryph knights were invincible.
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June 6th, 1663. Leibenstadt.
The Baron stood at the entrance of a massive, hand carved tunnel. It was large enough across for a company of men to march through, though it would be a little cramped. They would have to march in a column, but if everything went to plan that would not be a problem. There would be no cannons firing into the tunnel. Hopefully.
It went up at a fairly steep slope, and wooden support pillars were placed periodically to keep it from caving in. The Ottoman siege engineers were hard at work, mundane ones breaking away rock with pickaxes and the earth mages gouging out earth like plastic. Imperial engineers were assisting, though with the Ottoman’s more experienced men they were mostly observing and asking questions when applicable.
If the Ottomans calculations were correct, and the Baron had no reason to suspect they weren’t, the tunnel would come up into the first major layer of their defense, inside the lowest part of the citadel. That would allow them to take the first layer with little struggle, and it would provide a better staging ground for the actual assault.
They had to take four layers of defenses, with essentially three mini-citadels built and carved into the mountain itself and the various forts at the foot making up the first layer. The project to create it was taken up by the Empress’s grandfather, and it was finished shortly after she ascended to the throne. Many elven slave laborers were used in the construction, and the foot of the mountain was littered with mass graves containing their broken bodies.
It was a monument to the Empire’s martial prowess, and to the Empire’s cruelty towards elves. It was a perfect target, one of great strategic AND symbolic value.
They would be done in around two to three months, ideally, and they had to be very careful that their work was not discovered for those months it would take. And after they finished and took the first layer of the citadel’s defenses, it would likely not work again, or at least to the same degree of success.
A messenger saluted the Baron, who returned the gesture, and gave him a letter.
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Baron,
We’re being pushed from the Grössenstadt side by the deployment of the Demigryph knights. We’re currently evacuating our positions and digging in deeper on the Bickenstadt side. By the time you read this, we’ll be holding firm on our home turf.
We trapped the positions heavily, so they’ll take casualties just trying to engage our men in melee. Our grenadiers will keep them from the evacuating soldiers, and they’re tough lads so I imagine they’ll get out alright.
My friends from Orkney are distinguishing themselves well. We’ve decided to stay on the Grössenstadt side and harass their supply lines. It will be dangerous, but we have yet to lose a single man. Caelen has sacrificed a few men to Jörmungandr, but I’ve been reigning him in.
Fergus.
Fyrir lýðveldið
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The Baron shook his head as he read the letter. He wasn’t expecting them to be driven from the Grössenstadt side so early, and he certainly wasn’t expecting them to withdraw with minimal fighting. He sighed heavily.
“All they need to do is buy time. I just have to trust that their judgment is sound.”
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June 14th, 1663. Ebenenstadt.
A militiaman walked with his musket over his back, moving in a loose group of other militiamen. They were farmers primarily, but they were called up to defend their homelands when the time came, and every month they had a few days of militia practice.
They stopped where their officer, a retired soldier from the Grand Imperial Army, told them to stop. They were standing on perfectly flat farmland, and in the distance they could see what looked like a solid wall moving in their direction.
Their hands began to shake as they watched the Brayherds get closer, slowly able to make out details of their banners, the banging of drums and deep voiced singing of cadences.
“Si vis pacem para bellum. Dulce bellum inexpertis. Casus belli AY! Flavi vult AY! Inter arma AY! Silent leges! AY!”
A loud voice boomed through the surroundings, aided in volume by wind magic.
“Bellum omnium, contra omnes!”
The voices of the Brayherds, all sang in near perfect unison, greatly unnerved the militiamen, especially as it raised in volume from the Brayherds getting closer and closer.
“Bellum omnium calculo est. Lus ad bello, lus ad belli. Bella horrida! Non me constringis! Cupivisset, si vis pacem para bellum.”
Soon, the militiamen could make out detail on the Brayherd’s shields, presented forward as a singular, massive wall of wood and steel. The Brayherds began to dash, and the militiamen’s legs began to shake.
Before they even reached the formation the militia broke, scrambling from the charging brayherds. The Brayherds cheered and continued to run forward, swiftly overtaking the retreating militia.
“Eos vivos capere!”
Brayherds slammed scutum into the backs of the men, knocking them to the ground then straddling their backs. The battle was over before it even began, the disciplined and legendary Brayherd legion would bowl over any militia any day.
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“Caprae Loco would like for your farmers to continue as normal.”
The mayor of Jebsdorf shook in his boots. The brayherd in front of him was massive, and he was not a very tall man. His goat eyes were, as far as the mayor was concerned, freaky and off putting as well.
“W-w-well, I suppose that could…”
The brayherd spoke over him as he trailed off.
“Excellent.”
He stood from his too-small chair and extended his hand.
“Pleasure working with you, that surprisingly painless. Caprae Loco appreciates your cooperation.”
The mayor nervously took his hand and the brayherd shook it vigorously, almost painfully.
“Continue your work as normal. The only difference will be some of your grain will be diverted to Caprae Loco, and the rest towards Baronis’s forces in the south.”
The mayor began to speak and he was cut off.
“Baronis de Bickenstadt has requested we treat you people well, so thank him that you will be treated well. We will leave you enough grain to feed your people. You can do the caluclations.”
The mayor breathed a sigh of relief.
“Thank the gods.”
The brayherd chuffed.
“Thank Baronis, mayor.”