“Death is nothing, but to live defeated and inglorious is to die daily.”
…
—Levi von Grifenburg, to his host on the night before ‘The First Battle.’
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The Border - Faywyn, 4th Moon, 9th Day, 1624 Symfora Telos
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Levi stood atop the crest of the hill, the cold dawn breaking behind him, casting pale light over the valley below. The frost-laden fields stretched wide before him, his chosen battlefield cloaked in the uneasy stillness that often preceded bloodshed. From his perch, Levi surveyed the preparations with an expression of studied indifference, though inside he burned with anticipation. Scouts had returned mere hours ago, bearing word that Tristan Lormat’s forces were amassing for an assault. The Lion of Khule would soon arrive, marching headlong into the valley.
Below, nestled amid the frosted grass and brambles, his musketeers and crossbowmen lay hidden within their wooden wagon forts, the faint glint of steel betraying their readiness. His cavalry—an elite unit of heavy horsemen drawn from the best of his bannermen—waited silently in the southeast, their mounts pawing the frozen earth in restless anticipation. Behind them, pike formations stood resolute, their long spears forming an impenetrable wall. On the hills beyond, artillery was positioned with care, their barrels aimed at the valley floor, waiting to speak thunder and fire when the moment demanded.
The tranquility of the morning was broken by a low rumble, faint at first but steadily growing—a sound that sent a ripple of unease through the men gathered below. Tristan’s vanguard appeared, their ranks advancing cautiously across the frost-kissed plain, their banners snapping in the cold breeze. Levi’s eyes narrowed, his gaze calculating as he watched the enemy forces reach the staging ground, blissfully unaware of the danger concealed mere paces ahead.
Behind the vanguard came the main body of the Lion’s host, their numbers vast and imposing. Armored knights rode at the fore, their warhorses’ breath misting in the chill air, followed by blocks of spear-wielding infantry and columns of bowmen. The sheer size of the force was daunting, but Levi’s lips curled into a faint smile. Numbers, he knew, were no guarantee of victory.
The enemy halted two hundred and fifty paces from the blockade Levi had constructed—rows of sharpened stakes, deep ditches, and tangled abatises that promised to break the momentum of any assault. For a long moment, the battlefield was still, the air thick with tension. Then, the war drums began to beat, and the Lion’s men moved into formation. . Shield bearers took the lead, forming a shield wall to protect the archers, while a smattering of ribalds near-suicidally charged forward to begin clearing the line of wooden spikes that forbade any thought of a cavalry charge.
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As the enemy got within seventy paces of the blockade, Levi raised his hand. The archer beside him quickly took aim and launched a fire arrow into the sky. The projectile flew true, leaving a glaring trail of black smog before being carried away by the wind.
At once, his musketeers and crossbowmen opened fire, the valley erupting with the deafening roar of musket shots and the sharp twang of crossbow strings. Smoke billowed, mingling with the morning mist, as men fell in droves, their cries of pain and terror echoing across the field.
Chaos engulfed Tristan’s vanguard, and moments later, Tristan’s three remaining contingents of infantry crashed into the blockade. Soldiers stumbled over the bodies of their comrades, their shield walls breaking under the relentless hail of bolts and shot. Yet still, they pressed forward, hacking at the spikes and filling the ditches under a ceaseless rain of death. Levi silently watched the impasse for a full minute with narrowed eyes, his face betraying neither satisfaction nor doubt. His enemy was committed now, too entangled in the slaughter to retreat easily. Not while they still seemed to hold the overwhelming advantage.
Confident in his assessment, Levi gestured for another arrow. This time, it summoned the hidden archers concealed in the treeline. They emerged like wraiths, loosing arrows at Tristan’s light cavalry, harrying the riders and forcing them into disarray. Though few in number, the archers proved a great nuisance, disrupting any attempt at coordination among the Lion’s flanks.
The battle raged on. Tristan’s men pressed forward, their will broken, but momentum not. Levi watched with narrowed eyes as the main body of his enemy's force finally punched a hole in the blockade and surged toward the wagon forts.
The battle raged on, the Lion’s host slowly but surely punching a hole in the blockade. The enemy’s infantry surged forward, closing in on the wagon forts. Levi frowned slightly, signaling again. Another arrow flew and minutes later, his heavy cavalry finally emerged from hiding and thundered into action.
The charge was devastating. Levi’s horsemen crashed into Tristan’s disorganized ranks with the force of a storm, their lances shattering and swords flashing in the pale light. Panic rippled through the enemy lines as the cavalry cut deep into their formation. Behind the charge came the sluggish but inevitable pikemen, their long spears gleaming as they marched in disciplined phalanx
Caught between the advancing pikes, the relentless cavalry, and the blockade behind them, Tristan’s infantry faltered. Levi watched as the once-imposing army began to fracture, their will crumbling under the weight of relentless assault. His lips curled into a faint smile as he spoke, his voice low and commanding.
“Signal the artillery.”
A war horn blared, its mournful note cutting through the din of battle. Moments later, the hills erupted with thunder as the artillery opened fire. Projectiles fell upon Tristan’s rearguard, shattering ranks and plunging the battlefield into chaos. Smoke and flame engulfed the valley, and the Lion’s host, once so confident in its strength, began to break. Men fled for their lives in droves.
Levi’s cavalry surged after the dispersing body of Tristan’s army, their swords flashing as they carved through the stragglers. The pikemen followed at a steady pace, ensuring no attempt at regrouping could succeed.
By the time the sun reached its zenith, the Lion’s host was fully shattered, its soldiers scattered or slain. Tristan himself, along with a handful of loyalists, had slipped away into the woods, leaving his camp and supplies to be sacked. Atop a warhorse, Levi watched as his men descended upon the abandoned tents, their cries of triumph mingling with the crackle of flames and the groans of the wounded.
Hard-won as it might have been, victory was finally theirs.