The Heirs of Britain - Game Sixteen

 

The Heirs of Britain

Session 16: 485, Once More into the Breach!

 

__________ Session 16: 485, Sarum __________ 

The knights go about their business for the remainder of spring; reports of Saxons landing continue through the season, and indeed into the Summer. No reports yet come of Saxon attacks. Nonetheless, Uther calls for his army to assemble: they muster at Thornbush Castle, the lands of Sir Statirius. Sir Iwan’s heart leaps a little; there is hope he will see Lady Eleri therein…

The young knights meet at Sarum with their Earl Roderick and march to muster. At Sarum we see the fruits of the Earl's treasure: Our ranks are swelled, even beyond our capability in Salisbury's best years. We are bolstered by foreign mercenary knights.

Sir Elvorix recognises them, last seen some years hence in the service of the Saxon Shore. He recalls them to be impressive knights: They are from Breton, and led by the sturdy Sir Merrion. They number two full eschilles; twenty knights in total. Alas, Roderick's regular forces are reduced from the ambush of last year; he has replenished, but many of the reinforcements are young. This is likely their first battle.

It is a short march to Thornbush. Arriving, the knights find the King's forces also reduced: Apart from the losses, Gorlois is once more absent. Earl Roderick reports word from Cornwall: Gorlois is once more beset by Irish raiders. Sirs Iwan and Vandagild, suspicious, find reason to stand near the King's tent, overhearing this: Gorlois is indeed beset by these raiders, and he claims they are being led by a new King. Troubling.

Sir Elvorix, for his part, is suspicious; many times has Gorlois skipped muster. The tall Roman is loyal to the Duke, but that loyalty has its limits. Sir Vandagild, however, trusts Cornwall. They have been there; the Irish coast is not far, and it is no stretch that those strange men might sail their warriors forth with little warning.

King Uther's muster is also reduced by the absence of several Barons and vassals. Summerland, noticeably and predictably, is absent. Duke Ulfius and Sir Blains are here, for whatever value they might bring. Most absent men are from the north: Bedegraine, Lindsey and the like.

The Wolves of Logres prepare for the battle. Sir Iwan quietly checks his gear and horse, glancing occasionally, hoping for a glimpse of Lady Eleri. Sir Elvorix grunts and berates his squire, Vandagild's youngest brother Vandimund, telling him to polish his shield. The Roman is not kind, but Vandagild says nothing: He prepares the boy for war; his hard manner is appropriate. Meanwhile, the Aquitanian utters his usual prayers. Both of his brothers are here; Sir Vanduva rides in another eschille, and Vandimund squires his friend Elvorix. He greets them eagerly, once more impressing familiar maxims upon them. He then seeks Sir Uvan, conveying confidence and cheer, and offers warm greetings for Sir Cadel.

As the forces array before their King, Uther publicly praises Earl Roderick for his forces! His rough voice calls this forth: Look, thee, to this proud force of Salisbury! He knows Roderick has suffered as hard as any of his vassals; if he can manage to bring such a force, then any of you ought, too!

This predictably brings some contempt from the gathered men of Logres. Nonetheless, Uther clearly respect's the Earl's muster and decision, and he takes the latter aside. The Wolves of Logres spy the men conversing, but cannot get too close: They hear nothing of Summerland of Blains in the conversation, but both men look pleased. Whatever they're discussing is making Uther happy.

So gathered, the muster of Logres marches south, to bring battle to the invaders.

__________ Mearcred Creek __________

The warriors approach a plain: A creek weaves in the low ground, near the edge of a forest. There seen: Fragments of the Saxon force; their banners high above the gathering men. As the British army forms ranks, the rest of the Saxon army emerges from the trees, gathering in thick lines of burly infantry.

A proud Saxon rides forth, sitting high atop a steed, surrounded by other mounted warriors. The Wolves presume this is the Saxon “King” Aelle; his unit is the only cavalry in the invading army. The knights keep a keen eye: Aelle is manoeuvring his forces through the woods, using them as cover. Vying for position, the armies shuffle. The positions soon stabilise, and King Uther bellows! Charge! The signallers and leaders echo the call, and the Knights of Logres thunder across the fields of southern Britain!

The cacophony of the terrifying advance of these hate-filled, professional warriors, atop hulking steeds, conceals the alarm cries: Saxons on the flank! And Lo! A significant portion of Aelle's army emerges from the woods on the flank of the British men! The pressure of this sudden appearance limits the manoeuvrability of the British men, impeding the charge! Each knights rattles and bangs against his fellows, legs and shoulders slamming between churning horses as the knights gallop toward their hated foe!

The Wolves ride as one: Led by the erstwhile Sir Iwan, and joined by Sirs Porkins, Myles, Uvan, and four other knights. Their flank is secure by the contingent of Breton mercenaries; the presence of this veteran unit on bolsters morale, allowing Sir Iwan the confidence to manoeuvre more boldly.

The handsome commander, Sir Iwan, holds high his lance and calls his target: Saxons infantry, bearing great-spears and clad in sturdy maille; these well-drilled and tightly formed foreigners outnumber the men of Salisbury two to one! As their vile Saxon foes comes into focus, Sirs Vandagild and Elvorix cannot contain their rage, gripping their lances ever tightly and snarling with Hatred. Sir Iwan, leading men so close to the home of his Amor, is too inspired!

The knights slam into the waiting spear-wall, each struggling to deftly deflect the deadly thrusts: Sir Elvorix, smothered with friends and foes alike, cannot land his blows! His shield holds out one blow, but one opens a gash through his maille! The Aquitanian, Sir Vandagild, has modest success: He takes a probing blow on his shield as he drives his lance into the abdomen of his hated foe; the Saxon collapses, breaking the deadly shaft under his weight! Sir Iwan, however, finds his timing: His clever shield sends a foe’s spear tumbling from his hands, as the modest knight plunges his lance perfectly through the chain of his second foe; the weapon shatters, but tears the gravely wounded Saxon from his feet! The men continue battling in this way, until the foe withdraw: Under such courageous leadership, and inspired by his sturdy, powerful arm, the eschille of the Wolves wins the engagement!

His hunter’s eye quick to note, Sir Vandagild notes that his squire, Atticus, is not to be seen; he presumes the young Roman, Elvorix’s cousin, is off collecting horses. The Aquitanian shakes his head, sighing, and rejoins the formation. Around him, he sees many Saxons and few Britons: The success of their charge has brought them ahead of the main force of Logres, whose momentum was hindered by Aelle's cunning manoeuvre…

__________ A Warrior’s Woes __________

Sir Iwan calls forth: Hold! Hold the Breach! Thus, he drives his men forth to do battle once more. Alas, still surrounded by the Saxon horde, the Wolves meet battle with an another outnumbering foe: Some lighter spearmen, in leathers, joined by young but eager Saxons in cuir boilli, who clutch their great-axes excitedly.

Sir Elvorix looks for Roderick's banner in the battle, to fight for his best but that erstwhile Lord… but he sees it not! Does Roderick not come to fight, to break through this breach? The Roman tries to call upon the force of his loyalty, but, there is no love felt there: He coughs, his split side spraying fresh blood down his horse’s flank. Wounded once more, and surrounded by these wretched subhumans, who flail at him with axes and spears… He cannot help but recall the many slights from “Good” Earl Roderick over the years... Dismissed in court while calling for his Lord’s respect, among many others… still aching sorely from his wound… Who else to blame for his savage situation but Roderick!? He would rather be fighting the Irish with Gorlois! So dismayed, overwhelmed by his sense of betrayal by his Lord, he nonetheless enters battle, instincts driving him to spur his mount. Distractedly, despairing, he slashes at the warriors; he doesn't need the Earl to fight! His blade cuts at the eager youths around him, the black fog of his brain forcing instinct guide him; Saxon blood splashes around him!

Sir Iwan has no such doubts: He grits his teeth, his heart swelling with loyalty for mighty Roderick: He has given Iwan charge of this eschille, and Iwan will not falter! He slams his blade into a young warrior, and once more into the spearman besides! Sir Vandagild, too, brings to heart the memorable words of Red-Blooded-Roderick, smiling as he does! He sings as he fights, his dauntless blade cutting to and fro; Here and there a Saxon stumbles or falls, the inexperienced warriors no match for this practiced and impassioned assault! And so the fight continues for some time: Each man, inspired or dismayed, brings home his blade again and again, and yea, the Saxons once more falter!

The Wolves of Logres fight to their name! Their savage advance and relentless pursuit lays many Saxons bleeding in the churned field; the path of their breach opens and widens; the punch through the enemy, beyond the “killing zone”, and into the second rank! For Roderick! The shout comes, and is echoed, by all voices but one…

Along the line, however, the battle hangs in the balance: The melee churns violently along the whole front, neither side buckling!

__________ Fortune Falters __________

Once more the Wolves are beset by two units of the swarming foe - their advanced position draws the ire of many foes! Wealthy, well equipped warriors are sent: Some commander of the Saxons undoubtedly sends his best to bring the surging knights down! They are clad in quality maille, and with gleaming great-axes and rippling muscles they run screaming toward Iwan’s eschille, weapons held high overhead! Beside them spearmen advance, thrusting their long weapons under the shields of the outnumbered men!

The Roman, still distracted and dismayed by the past betrayals of his Lord, nonetheless fights for advantage. Sir Elvorix beats the spearman at his side, spilling some Saxon blood! Alas, the expert Saxon slams home his great-axe, which batters through shield and maille of the preoccupied Roman to rend moderately! The latter swears loudly, muttering furiously about Earl Fucking Roderick sending him into a swarm of fucking Saxons; and where is he now? Who rides to aid Elvorix!?

Beside him, Sir Iwan slashes through a spearman’s shoulder, and brings his sword to parry a heavy cut from an assailing Greataxeman: Alas, the blow is ferocious, and Iwan’s sword is jarred from his grip! The axe bursts through his defences, and the wealthy warrior's carving blow slices through Iwan's thigh, catching on the shredded maille and tumbling the handsome knight from his steed! Unarmed and dismounted, Iwan gasps as he thuds heavily onto the hard earth!

Sir Vandagild sees Sir Iwan fall, and spots now the malaise and wounds of Sir Elvorix. His heart floods with their sacrifice and journey to help bring him safely from the Forest of Gloom, from their tireless vigilance as he lay wounded for many a week… He roars, overwhelmed with his passion for his companions, wounded and ailing around him! He spurs his mount to Iwan’s side, his blade carving an unstoppable path through the ribs of the man who wrenched Iwan from his steed! The burly Saxon collapses to the earth, unconscious! The spearmen beside him too suffers from the Aquitanian’s wrath, tumbling to earth wounded! Though the axeman is likely worth ransoming, Atticus is still nowhere to be found; curse that roman child! Besides, Sir Vandagild worries only for his friend and leader, Iwan, disarmed and dismounted beside him! Vandagild shouts to Uthred, Iwan's hulking squire: The young Berroc-Saxon gives the wounded Sir Iwan his mount, and takes up position behind him in the saddle.

Sir Vandagild does not risk dismounting to secure his prisoner; his grandfather's stories of prudency in battle, now well-supported by his own many scars, push him to caution. Plus: Sir Iwan is a mess; his safety and defence are paramount.

Around them, the battle shifts in favour of Logres! A surge of British men push forth, exploiting farther the breach of the Saxon lines rent by the Wolves of Logres!

__________ Turning Tides __________

Sir Iwan, mounted once more, the massive Uthred at his rear, calls his unit to stand fast against the encroaching Saxons, holding the ground he has taken! His skilful leadership and manoeuvring brings his men to fight only a single enemy unit. From the masses of Saxons before us, we hear a familiar, infuriating chant growing: Wo-Tan, Wo-Tan, Wo-Tan... the knights form to engage, and a wave of heavy javelins whip past, slamming into sturdy shields... But Lo! Not all are safe: Sir Iwan, already ailing from a mighty gash, and not the largest of men, is struck in the collar! The heavy missile drives him backward, and only Uthred’s quick thinking and size keep the knight from tumbling once more. Nonetheless, the handsome warrior lolls senselessly in his saddle as Uthred tries to maintain stability!

Pressed now by the fanatics of Wotan, Sirs Elvorix and Vandagild fight on! The knights fight well, Elvorix once more overcoming his malaise to draw Saxon blood. Each knight deflects the savage blows of the Wotan men, and drives his blade into his zealous foe! Sir Elvorix screams as he does so, visualising Roderick! Sir Vandagild’s weapon is mostly kept at bay by Saxon chain, but still he draws Saxon blood!

Sir Vandagild is stunned only a moment, seeing Iwan with the great javelin transfixing him; A moment of flashback, as he recalls Sir Brannoc so slain by such a shaft. Still, the Aquitanian rallies quickly: he takes charge of the eschille!

He calls: “Uthred! Get Iwan safely from here! Back, thee, to safety! We withdraw!”

Uthred nods sharply, manoeuvring around the overburdened steed, taking the reins and pulling from the battle.

Alas! The fate of the battle takes a similar turn: Aelle's resurgence pushes back the Britons, the flank pressure once more taking its toll on the advance of King Uther!

__________ Regroup and Rally! __________

Sir Vandagild's leadership is solid and prudent; he leads an orderly withdrawal. Many are wounded, and Sir Iwan is a casualty. Remaining so deeply engaged while the British army is pushed back may lead to further unnecessary death....

Powerful, blue cloaked warriors, well armoured with greatspears pursue the withdrawing eschille! With careful leadership, Sir Vandagild leads the way…

Sir Elvorix is still plagued by the melancholy fog, which slows his wit and arm... The warriors get the best of him, but his shield and armour keep him safe. Sir

Vandagild, his mind sharpened with the responsibility of leadership, lands a well-timed blow, slashing a Saxon's helmet from his head; the burly Saxon drops to the earth!

With this, the Wolves fight clear of the encroaching foe, withdrawing to the rearguard.

There, Sir Elvorix calls to his former squire, Sir Porkins – but the knight calls him Sir Roderick, repeatedly. He is nonsensical; his words some mindless expression of despair. Tears stream down his face, awash with the melancholy! Porkins nonetheless tends to the wounds of the broken man.

Sir Vandagild, unmounted and having directed his men to various tasks, strides to Sir Elvorix; he slaps him hard across the face!

The Roman looks up, shocked; Vandagild points toward the battlefield, addressing Elvorix sternly: “We have a fucking battle to win, Elvorix. The fucking Saxons, who come thus to our lands to rend British flesh, pillage British lands, and violate British people, are there. THERE! Iwan lay mere breaths from Heaven, brought low fighting these fucking Saxons, and here sit thee, drowning thyself in tears!”

He leans close, placing a firmly hand on Elvorix’s shoulder: “Snap. Out of It. Get thy shit in one sack; we have a battle to win. Fuck the Saxons.”

Elvorix snaps to his senses!

"Iwan, he is wounded? What!? Whe-” he stutters, lurching to his feet; he starts off to find Iwan.

Sir Vandagild grabs his arm, pulling him backward: “Nay! Not the time! The battle turns against the King; our breach squashed, and the men of Logres flounder. We must engage; mount thee thy steed, Sir Elvorix! Now; on thy horse!”

Elvorix nods, and turns to seek his steed and Vandimund.

Sir Vandagild turns on his heel, and storms off, eyes hunting: He finds Squire Atticus. Something in the Aquitanian’s bearing makes clear his meaning; Atticus begins stammering an excuse before anything is said.

Vandagild cuts him off: “Shut the fuck up. I care not. Get thee on thy your horse.”

"I lost it! I…"

Vandagild swears, and spins again, marching to the towering squire Uthred.

“I’ll bring it back,” he says, commandeering the huge squire's Rouncy and marching it to Atticus, thrusting the reins heavily into the Roman boy's chest. Uthred stands dumbly for a moment.

“Set thy arse on this horse. Stay with me. Hunt not for fucking horses; I need thee to have my back.”

The Aquitanian waits not for a response, turning and mounting his own waiting charger, Deadwind, with a clean leap. He roars a command, forming his unit, and cantering to the front.

__________ Breaking the Back __________

Surveying the field quickly, the hunter finds his moment, and target: A formation of disengaged shield warriors, wielding only swords. He thrusts his lance toward them, declaring the charge! The knights of Salisbury form tight beside him, their momentum gathering to a deadly crescendo.

Sir Elvorix, try though he might, cannot summon his passion for his companions in the charge; the shock of the last few hours is too distracting! Still, with renewed focus he fights well: The Roman slams his lance through his foe's face, cropping him at once! Sir Vandagild, not to be outdone, drives his own lance through a Saxon eyesocket. The success is repeated along the eschille; the foe crumble before the British brutality! The knights barely slow with their crushing charge, punching through the faltering lines of infantry, past the second and into the enemy's third rank!

Lo! The Saxon army calls for a retreat, as the sun starts to hang low in the sky! The Saxon leader, Aelle, keeps his men in good order, but Uther is cunning; the King of Logres outmanoeuvres his foe in these crucial moments!

"Look Vandagild, they shatter before us! Let's drive them back, back to the ocean!" calls Elvorix, invigorated by the impetus of their assault.

"Aye! All the way back!" Vandagild shouts!

They follow the withdrawing foe, the Aquitanian directing his force against a foe with mixed arms; bows and maces. Arrows shower the advancing knights, but they cannot defeat British maille! Moments later, the cavalry hits them; each of the able Wolves strikes home! Slashing blades spill Saxon blood on the field, and once more the crushing assault pushes the withdrawing foe back! Yea, back so far, that the Wolves of Logres now ravage the enemy camp!

Emboldened by the withdrawing foe, and the violent penetration of the Salisburian eschille, the tide of battle swells into British favour! Along the line, the men of Logres take ground and blood from the retreating foe!

Sir Vandagild, a fox in the henhouse, leads the pursuit among the wavering forces - two flailing units meet the wrath of the Wolves of Logres: Saxon great-axeman levies; and mixed warriors of maces and bows. The hail of arrows clatter against British shields, and the wolves descend: The beleaguered infantry are no match for the momentous cavalry advance; the British forces lay waste to those before them, riding through the camp and slaying the despicable invaders!

Until sunset, pursuit through the camp continues! Javelineers and veteran warriors with greatspears scramble to engage the men of Salisbury; but the panicked javelineers hit nothing of significance before the knights are among them. Sir Elvorix decapitates a javelineer and cuts a warrior; Vandagild too hacks down foes as the unit ravages the enemies camp and rear! So doing, the Wolves obtain a significant bounty of Saxon loot; and at dusk, return in glory to the British lines.

The mercenaries claim a share of the loot.

Back in the British camp, the men of Uther's army are claiming a mighty victory. Still, Aelle retains the majority of his forces and, somehow, has kept order among his men. Only fatigue and the encroaching night saved his force from complete route from the rampaging Salisburians. Alas!

The Battle of Mearcred Creek is won! A victory claimed, though technically indecisive.

The able Wolves return, laden with treasure, to bestow his share upon Sir Iwan, and check on his health; The handsome man groans on his gurney in the rear; he is unconscious still, but he will live.

____________________

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King Arthur Pendragon 5.2