The chronicles of the Old Ages oft depicted the cunning and resilience of warlords who, despite devastating setbacks, managed to rally their forces and turn the tides of conflict.
Among these men, Lord Tristan of House Lormat was not one.
His relentless pursuit of victory against the Bloody Gryphon stands as a cautionary tale on the dangers of overconfidence. Despite suffering significant losses, the Lion of Khule remained unyielding in his determination to bring the young lordof Faywyn to his knees.
Alas, as hindsight tells, it was not meant to be.
…
Excerpt from the illustrated records of the inception of the Udorian Empire - The Wars of the Great Beasts: The Rise of Udoris as a World Power by Dan Scott
✥✥✥
The Border - Faywyn, 4th Moon, 9th Day, 1624 Symfora Telos
----------------------------------------
Tristan Lormat rode at the head of his column, his destrier’s hooves muffled by the thick carpet of damp leaves that blanketed the forest floor. His eyes, dark and narrow, betrayed his concentration, though the sting of Lord Levi’s nocturnal ambush gnawed still at his pride, even nine days hence. Around him, his men trudged onward, their boots sinking into the soft loam, their movements heavy with exhaustion. These were seasoned soldiers, veterans of countless campaigns, but the weight of demoralization hung over them like a fog. The Gryphon’s cunning had bloodied more than their ranks—it had wounded their spirits.
The forest was a maze of twisted roots and dense undergrowth, its branches intertwining above to form a canopy that allowed only slivers of waning sunlight to pierce through. Progress was slow, each step hindered by the tangled wilderness. Yet Tristan pressed forward, his jaw set, his heart burning with a singular resolve: retribution.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, bidding the world farewell, the forest grew still, cloaked in a silence broken only by the occasional rustle of leaves or the distant cry of a nightbird. At last, Tristan raised a gauntleted hand, signaling the column to halt. His men, weary from the march, set about constructing a makeshift camp beneath the shadow of the trees. Fires were lit sparingly, their light kept low and flickering, casting long, restless shadows against the trunks.
Sentinels took their places at the camp’s edge, their eyes scanning the darkness, their ears straining for any hint of movement. Their foe was no common brigand but a cunning adversary, one who thrived in the shadows. Complacency, Tristan knew, could spell further setbacks.
The Lion of Khule sat by one such fire, its small flames casting a faint, flickering light upon his face. His dark eyes reflected the firelight, smoldering with the same quiet intensity. The night was cool, the air heavy with the scent of damp earth and charred wood. He was lost in thought when Captain Aelric approached, his weathered face lined with concern.
"My lord," Aelric began, bowing slightly. "The scouts have returned. They’ve found a path through the hills to the south—rough terrain, but more navigable. It will take us closer to Faywyn and reduce the risk of another ambush. There is also news of the replacement supplies. The baggage train should reach us within two days if they march without rest."
Tristan nodded, his expression unreadable. "Good," he said, his voice low but firm. "We move at first light. Ensure the men are ready."
Aelric bowed and turned to deliver the orders. Tristan remained where he was, his gaze fixed on the flames as though seeking answers in their dance. His thoughts turned to Levi von Grifenburg, that cunning pup who had outmaneuvered him time and again. A wry smile flickered across his lips, though it held no warmth.
"You’re clever, lad," he muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible above the crackle of the fire. "But cleverness will only take you so far. The forest and the rivers may be your allies, but steel does not yield to shadows. Soon enough, we’ll meet on the field, and then we’ll see who truly holds the advantage."
----------------------------------------
Dawn broke over the hills, pale and cold, its light filtering through the trees in thin beams that painted the forest floor in streaks of gold and shadow. Tristan’s men stirred, their movements sluggish at first, but with a renewed sense of purpose. Weariness clung to them like a shroud, but the reprieve of progress, of escaping the shadow of the Codfather’s relentless harrying and the promise of striking a decisive blow against Faywyn, drove them onward.
The scouts led the way through the southern hills, a treacherous path of loose stone and narrow bends that snaked its way higher into the rugged terrain. The journey was slow, the footing perilous, but the allure of retribution spurred them forward. Above the trees, faint columns of smoke rose into the morning sky, indicating their destination just beyond the horizon.
If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.
Tristan allowed himself a flicker of cautious optimism as they reached the crest of the hills. From here, the land stretched wide before them, the valley below blanketed in morning mist. The ascent had been grueling, the terrain unforgiving, but they had made progress. He tugged at the reins of his destrier, pausing to survey the scene.
Then, a chill crept up his spine, unbidden but insistent. The valley below lay too still, too quiet. The birdsong that had accompanied their climb was absent, and the usual rustle of the forest seemed muted. Tristan’s dark eyes narrowed as he scanned the horizon, his hand instinctively resting on the pommel of his sword.
"Captain," he called, his voice steady but edged with unease.
Aelric rode up beside him, his armor clinking softly as he drew near. "My lord?"
"Something is amiss," Tristan said, his tone low, almost to himself. Then, louder, "Send the scouts ahead. Ensure we are not walking into another of the Gryphon’s traps."
Aelric nodded, his expression grim, and dispatched the scouts with a sharp wave of his hand. Tristan watched them ride off, their figures vanishing into the mist, and felt the weight of the silence settle over him once more. He hated waiting, hated the uncertainty, but he knew better than to charge blindly into what could well be an ambush. Levi von Grifenburg had proven himself too cunning for that.
The minutes stretched into an agonizing eternity before one of the scouts returned, his horse lathered with sweat, his face pale and drawn. He reined in sharply, bowing his head as he spoke. "My lord, the path ahead is clear, but there is a fortified enemy position blocking the road just before it widens into a clearing."
Tristan’s brow furrowed. "What kind of fortifications?" he asked, his voice calm but laced with steel.
The scout took a steadying breath. "A layered blockade, my lord. Palisades at the front, followed by ditches and abatises. Beyond that, a line of wagon forts and another ditch. I managed to approach within a hundred paces before they spotted me. They let loose a volley of arrows, and I was forced to retreat."
Tristan’s hand tightened around the hilt of his sword, his mind already working through the implications. "How many man the blockade?"
"I could not linger to count, my lord," the scout admitted. "But I do not believe it to be more than a few dozen men. As for cavalry, I saw only a handful of horses—palfreys and pack animals, mostly. No coursers, no destriers."
"Scout horses and work beasts," Tristan murmured, half to himself. His lips twisted into a faint smirk. "No warhorses, then?"
"None that I could see, my lord," the scout confirmed.
For a moment, Tristan was silent, his gaze fixed on the distant valley. The Gryphon’s intent was clear: another delaying tactic, another attempt to frustrate his advance and buy precious time, perhaps for foreign aid to arrive. Yet this blockade, for all its defenses, did not strike him as insurmountable. The pup was clever, but cleverness alone would not save him.
"The Gryphon seeks to delay the inevitable," Tristan said at last, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest. "He builds his little walls and ditches, thinking he can hold back the Lion’s march. Amusing." He turned to Aelric, his expression hardening. "Prepare the men to march. At first light, we will test the mettle of those who dare bar our path. If they mean to stand against us, we shall give them the fight they seek."
"Aye, my lord," Aelric replied, bowing before turning to relay the orders.
----------------------------------------
The notion that ambushing an army is an easy feat has always been a fool's fancy. In truth, the art of ambush is a perilous dance of deception and perception, requiring a commander of uncommon cunning and soldiers disciplined enough to follow orders in the face of uncertainty. History, both ancient and recent, is replete with tales of ambushes gone awry—foiled by poor planning, faulty intelligence, or the fickle whims of fortune. Yet when such maneuvers succeed, their victories often echo through the ages. Hannibal's rout of the Romans at Lake Trasimene stands as a testament to the devastating power of a well-executed ambush.
James sought to emulate such feats, though his ambitions were tempered by the harsh realities of war. His foe, Lord Tristan, was no fool. The Lion’s host, though bloodied by his nocturnal assaults, remained a formidable force. To bring them low would require not just courage and guile but meticulous preparation.
The difficulties inherent in an ambush are legion. Reconnaissance is key—knowing the enemy’s movements, anticipating their path, and selecting a battlefield that favours the ambushers. James knew this lesson well. His scouts had trailed Tristan’s column for days, shadowing them through dense forests and over rugged hills, noting every pause and every misstep and preempting their actions and decisions. The Creed’s spies that fed intelligence to Madam Eliza on his council ensured that Tristan’s supply lines were well-monitored and tallied as they departed Khule. These baggage trains were then reduced to ashes whenever the opportunity presented itself, ensuring the enemy’s provisions stretched thin. Each act of sabotage drove Tristan’s host further into desperation, forcing them along a more predictable path.
Even so, deception alone could not be enough. The battlefield itself had been chosen with care. A narrow valley between steep, forested hills offered natural concealment for the Levi’s forces. Over the past weeks, his engineers had worked tirelessly to fortify the terrain. A line of wagon forts, bristling with crossbowmen and musketeers, stood as the main defensive barrier. Beyond that, rows of sharpened stakes, ditches, and abatises formed an initial line which must be crossed. Camouflaged platforms in the trees above housed sharpshooting bowmen, their lines of sight carefully marked to rain death upon the enemy.
Farther back, hidden from Tristan’s scouts, Levi’s heavy cavalry and pikemen waited in reserve. Their task was not to hold the line but to deliver the killing blow once the enemy had been drawn into the trap. On the surrounding hills, artillery crews stood ready by their cannons and mortars, their guns angled to rake the valley below with devastating fire.
The blockade itself had been carefully orchestrated to appear as though it were weaker than it truly was. Glimpses of hastily constructed defenses, poorly manned. It was a lie, of course, but a convincing one. The Lion, frustrated and eager for vengeance, would see the trap as an opportunity—one he would not hesitate to exploit.
Levi surveyed the preparations from a low ridge, his pale eyes scanning the valley. Everything was set, he knew; all that remained was for the Lion and his host to march right in.