A Practice ARR : The Salmon Chronicles

[vae victus]

The bards tell an old story of Salmon who managed to finagle his way into the well of Segais. And around this well grew nine of the sacred hazel trees, and from each tree grew sacred nuts which from time to time would fall into the well. Salmon ate these crimson colored fruit and so gained all the knowledge in the world, which he used to escape the well. Perhaps we will be able to escape our own well, the Northern lands we've been forced to scratch a living from.

Rome has gone from our land, King Abellios triumphantly beating them back. The reality is that, the reign of Abellios the Unmarried was unsuccessful. His reign was blighted by his courting of the Caledonian princess, who turned out to be nothing more than a young boy disguised by their court! While he was wasting his time trying to see up those skirts - ah, if only he had, much time would have been saved - the Caledonians were able to take up a strong position on the Cymruian coast, as well as raided in the south enough to still up a pretender to the Romans in Corinium. Their heavy cavalry is legendary. Of course, while this was going on, Franks swarmed over the Saxon Coast, their very king in command.
We have taken the lion’s share of the island, however, the Romans left little in the way of infrastructure, what could not be carried was broken as our armies closed it. So we have been endeavoring to build while keeping en eye out on our borders.
And of course the Caledonians. Officially our allies, they have done all in their power to undermine us in the shadows. A habit they picked up during their long wars with Rome. But their foolish tinkering has proved their undoing. The Romanish Ones burned their fortress on the Cymruian coast to the ground, and have marched on their capital and now rule them in all but name. Their armies have all left the service of the Caledonian king and serve other masters or have turned to banditry.
But this serves us well. We have slowly built our power and armies, and now have thrown the Romanish Ones out of the Cymruian coast, and threaten their capital in the south. Their king is now trapped in his own trap and has abandoned they Caledonian capital. It only remains for us to find a reason to intervene. The LIBERATION of the Caledonians seems a good enough reason. But the time is not yet full. To lay siege to their capital leaves the way open to our heartland for the Franks, and we haven’t had any word about conditions in Eildon.


The Spy.
Word has come to us. As much from refugees as from the spy. Eildon smolders. Not worth the silver, the stream of refugees told us that, but a useful man willing to share information is always useful. King Divico is not in residence, it is not known if he lives or has passed to Magh Meall. Either way his capital is open and defenseless, with a population left unguarded, and the Romanish Ones are still in the vicinity with winter coming on. They cannot be given such refuge so close to us.
Our man was given a incorrect information, and sent away. A greedy, if intelligent man, he told the King of the Romish Ones, Asellio what had been relayed to him. The lie is all the better if the teller believes it. Mislead by incorrect information, he stayed away from Eildon, thinking that we were ready and prepared for a winter campaign. And his armies will freeze through the winter, living off of the bark of trees, boiled leather, and themselves…
A farmer came with news. Many came, those that still lived. All brought news of farmsteads burned out and livestock driven away, women abused, blood left spattered in the snow, drying into a dark crust. But only one brought the tale of what was going on in the camp. He had thought to sit, and saw a mount of snow he took to be a rock. It had been a mound of hooves. One of many. When the thaw comes, their vaunted cavalry would not be a threat. Our man had learned his lesson, he is steadfastly serving only one master.


As the thaws came Ollam Ri moved his forces out. He had not yet received official orders; but tales are told of Ri, tales that give the common folk as well as nobles pause to contradict him. Ollie Ri is not like other men. There had been enough indirect communication for this behavior to be swept beneath the rug, for now. And the king was impatient to sweep the Caledonians away. Ollam Ri is not a patient man, not an entirely sane one. He is called the Flying Salmon for his rants about a Salmon of Wisdom. Never to his face. He has sent many to walk amongst the mist. Some quicker than others. Ri is not like other men.


The Prelude
With the thaw also came news, masses of small folk clog the roads of Cymru. A disgraced Roman general who had remained behind when his people were cast out, joined the cause of the Romanish Ones, and was marching to relieve his master. Vertoris had been given a simple order : protect Segontium and the roads to Eboracum. There were no walls at Segontium, in any battle the city would have suffered. So Vertoris marched a small ways off, and began to prepare an ambush. This move of course we could not take full advantage of, even though it had left the Romanish Ones’ capital with a minimal garrison. The Saxon Shore was crawling with Franks. An entire new warband had joined the Frankish king, and their intent can only be hostile. Surely our own movements have not gone unnoticed. A small force had been seen flitting about Londinium, no signifying marks, but a mounted band of men speaking a strange tongue could only be an enemy. And the Romanish Ones don’t have the men to spare for such work.


The Best Laid Plans…
The Franks have violated our borders. Our man in Londinium shut the gates of Londinium and prepared for siege. They marched past us, under our walls and on to Corinium where they put the garrison of the Romanish Ones to the sword.

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The relief army the Romanish Ones had sent North to relieve their king marched right past the prepared ambush and threaten our capital. Hopefully our force can catch them. Segontium was never the target.

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Vertoris divided his men in two parts, attempting to make up for his lack of a strong cavalry arm. The discipline of the enemies units caught Vertoris off guard, the casualties were higher than they should have been. But he was still victorious. Secundus Crassipes would never see Rome again. Nor would he rebuild her.

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In the North the Romanish king avoided our forces by moving further North, but then was caught between our garrison moving out of our northern lands and the pursuing army of the Flying Salmon.

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They used their siege equipment against our men as if they were walls. But men move.

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The entire army was wiped out beneath our axes. Their men fought well, but it was a doomed effort, and they knew it. They had nothing to fight for. Not even life. Stories spread that Ollam Ri used the captured siege weapons to "free" the cowards who surrendered.

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Victory was short lived however, as the Franks declared war on us even as news of the conflict reached them. Perhaps we would be bloodied and need time to rebuild our forces. The news of the totality of the victory had yet to spread so far south.

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Segontium was sacked by one of their warbands that had not been accounted for. Cursed Franks and the gold they bought the Caledonians with!

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There will be a reckoning for this. The Caledonians continue their treachery by refusing to honor the military treaties between us.

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They will be dealt with if we are ever able to drive out the Franks from the Saxon shore.

Frankly
It would have been ill advised to wait till spring to make a move. We needed something to reverse the series of events that marred out victory over the Romanish Ones. Our own king, Andecombogios of the Long Name marched and raided Camulodunum himself. The garrison as well two Frankish navies were destroyed in this brilliant tactical move.

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Some say that this was a small victory and that we chroniclers only wrote of it to please keep the purse string of our benefactors open, but they are child oglers themselves and not worth replying to! These are the same who say that the King in his old age sits up with Ri and discusses the wisdom of salmon for hours. "The Salmon swims higher than the birds in the sky, for the sea is deeper than the sky is wide!"

[vae victus]

Winter
After the elation over our string of victories, and the initial shock of another war coming with the Franks had subsided, our forces settled in for the winter. Our store houses were full, and so this would be a time of celebration and feasting while the snow piled up outside, covering the battle dead. Winter would bring them no rest. Our hunters continued to prowl the now silent battlegrounds, picking off the hungry boar that came to tear apart the dead. This was the order of Ollam Ri. "Why waste meat?" We were unsure of which meat he was referring to. No one asked him to clarify.
Ollam Ri demanded that outriders maintain a circuit around Lindum. The Saxon Shore was not far after all, and without walls Lindum presented an easy target compared to Londinium. No one one complained to his face. "The sea will see if the birds will be content with those who already ferment or whether they will yet scrape the bones of the newly dead." No one asked what it meant. No one assumed it meaned anything.

The Battle of Lindum
Nothing warned us of their coming. Whether the outriders froze to death, were killed, or abandoned their posts, we did not know. They were not heard of. The King Faramond of the Franks and two of his warbands came towards us. It was the birds that saved us. Ri seemed to think that Salmon could fly for one reason or another, so he would often spread seed amongst winter trees for any birds that stayed behind. And in case his Flying Salmon should be tempted to come out of hunger. But it was these birds who took to sky all at once, not a great number of them, not many remained, but enough to catch the eye of the watchman. Not long after, he spotted the winter sun glistening on dull armor.
Ri split his forces in half, one to defend the lower city, the other the upper city. But as the enemy continued to advance, he saw how outnumbered he was. Those smallfolk who thought all was lost could be seen streaming into the snowy fields. They were cut down by the Frankish cavalry.

"They have come, yes they come, come for my Salmon wisdom they have. They shall not have it! But...yes...we will give them wisdom. Just as the salmon turns red and returns home, we to will run."

Ri of the Salmon Wisdom told his captains holding the lower city to feign nervousness and order a withdrawl to the upper city before the enemy closed. Archers and young men from the city armed with makeshift spears and javelins crowded the wall. As the men withdrew into the upper city, they were pursued by cavalry who thought the day was already won. They died on our shield wall when it emerged from the running men, and horses choked on their blood as spears slashed into lightly armored mounts. Riders were thrown beneath their neighbor's mount where they were kicked and stomped to death by frenzied horses. A few horses wildly kicked holes in our shield wall as they went down, speared in the chest and belly, but we filled the gaps. Their cavalry was decimated.

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Seeing their cavalry falling back down the hill, the Frankish infantry streamed towards us. They rushed up the hill, but it was slow going as they sheltered from arrows and javelins in their way up. When they reached up they were exhausted and our axes fell on their flanks as they pushed our spearmen back. Even as this process repeated itself and our ranks exulted in victory, the cries of men dying and shattering wood came from behind them. The Wild Salmon himself turned his own bodyguard and seeing the danger, screamed an oath towards the sky, turned towards the bulk of enemy infantry from the enemies reinforcements. This cry alone stopped the enemy that had been attacking in the wake of the cavalry for a moment, and several fell as arrows seems to grow from their bodies. Then the spell was broken and the Frankish troops again tromped over their own wounded to get to us. Their eyes were fury but their arms were wood.
Our flank was hard pressed and precious reinforcements had already been given just to hold the enemy reinforcements at bay.

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Ri's bodyguard slid between the tired men, allowing them to slowly fall back and rest. Ri himself was a screaming demon, his open helm allowed all to see his frothing mouth and his bloodshot eyes. He was covered in gore, and it wasn't known whether it was an enemies or his own. Even his standard bearer kept a distance and always stayed at his back - both to protect it as well as to keep from being seen. But there were so many Franks. The fighting seemed to have gone on all day. Men on both sides staggered back from the fighting to fall and choke as they gasped for air, even stripping of helms and armor to lie exhausted as the battle clashed about them. Even after the battle some were found frozen like this.

It was then that the horns were heard. Crashing into the city, five squads of cavalry ran through a sea of axes and swords, knocking the lucky few to the side, but crushing most beneath hooves and steel. They paused to regroup and sound their horns once more; one rider rode forward, lance aloft. It was the head of the Frankish King. A powerful talisman and omen! Even as we saw and cheered, the Franks turned to see what the commotion was, and so we fell upon them as they saw that their king was dead, and then the horsemen charged! The outriders had returned!

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That essentially ended the battle. The Frankish survivors were tasked with removing the bodies from the city. When was done they joined them. Ollam Ri scattered seeds amongst the forest, over the Frankish dead. The birds feasted.

[vae victus]

Hmmmmm, just realized I posted this in the wrong place.

[McScottish]

Hmmmmm, just realized I posted this in the wrong place.

Yup, just ask a mod to switch it to the Attilla forum.

Excellent writing thus far, I certainly look forward to more.

[vae victus]

Fever Dream

The Caledonians had been massing across the sea for a season. When they landed we were prepared for them, so they fortified themselves and waited. Some emergency must have called them back, but one warband remained. We know not why, but it us guessed that they waited too late and the weather turned against them and now they must winter on our Isle.


At council Dumnovellaunos was tasked with the assault. Given meagre resources, his main task was to bloody them as much as possible with as little life lost, but if that did occur it would be mere sword fodder that was lost.


“Confounded council. Damned me to this madman’s mission. They should have sent Ri so he could cut them with his magic salmon, send the Crazy Fish!………..I need more than this, but these villages have no trained swordsmen. But perhaps I can recruit some foresters and hunters. Neither have anything to do during the winter, and the Franks mar the forests which both need for the livelihood.”


Such men were found, but the ranks were still not filled, Dumnovellaunos paid for soldiers with his own coin. “Better to have them than not. Besides, I can make it back from the spoils. If I survive.”


On the eve of the battle Dumnovellaunos dreamed. He laid his men out in ambush, hunters out on the far flank ready to rise and fell the enemy with arrows from behind, and his cavalry would sweep in once the arrows had done their work. In the dream nothing went as planned. The enemy horsemen pursued the hunters back behind the lines, and then the Frankish infantry slammed into the line, bursting through almost immediately with their terrible axes, smashing shields aside, splintering spears, beating down swords, spraying blood and entrails. The stench gripped Dumnovellaunos’ nostrils and made him heave, leaving his beard thick with vomit, his mouth suddenly dry, he tried to rally his men, but no sound came from his throat, he could only retch as his men died around him. Fish. It tasted like fish. He tried to scream, but he gagged, convulsing over onto his side. The world swam before him. Dumnovellaunos grabbed his sword and focus on it, seeing nothing else, and pulled himself to his feet. Finally standing his vision cleared. His men were fleeing, being hacked down as they ran, heels speared, legs hamstrung, and the trampled by feet. And then he saw himself dead on the field, an axe buried in his chest with a Frank struggling to remove it. He awoke with a scream. He stormed through camp naked like a madman, awakening his captains himself for council. His plans would have to be changed. He made a mental note to thank Ollam Ri of Wisdom. And to never call him anything but that so long as he lived. And no telling how long that would be. In his own dream Ollam Ri smiled.

The battle went very differently than in Dumnovellanaunos' dream.

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He kept his force unified and sheltered the hunters even as they dealt death at a distance. Remembering the terror of the axes from the dream, Dumnovellanaunos put captains over several groups with specific orders not to engage head on, but to loop around with their axes and bring them breaking down into the back of the Frankish line. The cavalry finished the rest when they broke. In the aftermath Dumnovellanaunos ordered that the fleeing Franks be pursued and returned alive. The account of what happened next disagree with one another. Some say that the prisoners were merely executed on the spot. However, others claim that a captured noble was burned alive as a sacrifice of thanksgiving, and that the rest were laid open and left for the birds in the name of Ollam Ri. The madness spreads; why return prisoners if the purpose were only to kill them? That could be done in the tracks they fled in. Dumnovellanaunos would only reply that a good victory was won in the cold that day.

[vae victus]

Yup, just ask a mod to switch it to the Attilla forum.

Excellent writing thus far, I certainly look forward to more.

Thank you! I have made the request!

[vae victus]

Peace settled over our lands. Doubtless, we were still hostile with a growing number of tribes across the great water, but they were consumed in their own matter, and we had lost many men even in victory. Boats were always crossing the water, some carrying only 15 men, sometimes entire families, even larger boats or small fleets. We greeted these with steel. Those who did not swear loyalty were put to the sword or enslaved.


Peace was made with the Romans. The bitterness of death had passed and with seemingly the entire mainland seeking our land, a peace was brokered in hopes that it would lead to trade.


Some of our own did not take to this idea. Celtillus being one.


“Better fight the world than to make peace with Rome! Have you forgotten what they did to our forefathers?! How they butchered their way to peace creating a desert of death all around them?! Rome must be destroyed, we can make no peace with them! Even now they conspire with our enemies and offer our allies gold to betray us. They are ever at war! Those who backed this proposal seek to make us slaves and not for us to be free! What we have here is so precarious, the Franks are just across the sea ready to raid our cities and destroy our crops, the Caledonians have dispossessed the Gauls and now grows in power in alliance with the Geats against us, and it is deemed wise that we mack pacts with Rome?”


This idea gained a considerable amount of traction. the smallfolk were already terrifying themselves telling stories of Frankish and Caledonian raiding parties. More than once city militias were mustered for what turned out to be false alarms.

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Word came that Rome had agreed to trade terms. Not long after the voice of dissent was silenced and the smallfolk were too busy counting coppers to notice.

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Matters of greater concern arose. Any suspicions were put aside with the death of the High King.

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[vae victus]

Chaos seems to have a way of spreading, of taking inward signs outward manifestations. With the assassination and succession rolling through the land, it seemed a good time to sit back and let everything settle.


That was not to be.

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Sliding through the mists came a fleet. The watchman strained his eyes, held his breath and focused his eyes. Fleets. The alarm was raised, but the ships were already upon us, slicing through the sea noiselessly. Full of Franks. Peppermint shielded Franks.

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Camulodon juts out into the sea, the high city sits atop a butte, a good but limited defensive position. The lower city is not defensible against a possibly two pronged assault from sea, as it spreads out and there are no walls. So a defending force could easily be caught between two fleets.

Our Pictish men prepared themselves, put the civilians up in the high city, and took up their positions.

"Here we are at last. The sun feels good on my face. Mother always told me my face was a gift from the gods. A shame to hide it beneath this helm. Ah well, the armor suits me. It is as ornamented as I am. Now we will break these painted Picts and make room for ourselves. The sea will keep us safe. Well...safer. If we can break them quickly, then I will be the warlord over these lands. Lets not burn too much of the city."

"Sail us to the small natural harbor, signal the others to follow. Do not burn the city, this will be ours when sun sets! Now prepare yourselves, this is your new home! I will give my armor to man who raises our banner over the city!"

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Their scouting cavalry tried their hand first.

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They died on our spears, their riderless mounts fleeing the melee.

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The Franks streamed into the city, but we were waiting for them.

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While our men held them, archers fired heavy shot into them from higher on the hill.

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Our warriors fought bravely, the Franks greater numbers minimalized by our defensive position. Our men fought bravely.

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Many held against multiple enemies, fighting like mad man, clawing when disarmed, grasping with bloody hands until finding another weapon and fighting on until the blood dried and their weapons cleaved to their hands.

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Heroes that they were, they were not invincible.

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[vae victus]

As the battle wagged on, our small navy was able to beach and flank the enemy assaulting us. The fighting spread to the city as did the carnage.

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As the battle spilled into the city, the archers fired a volley of arrows lit afire. This was the signal for the cavalry to charge. The result was as expected. They broke. It was not a time to celebrate. Their reserves were already on their way.

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Our tower, which they had ignored and not burned for some inexplicable reason, they finally fired.

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And even as these men crowded into the city, more shiploads arrived.

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These were more wary. They had to walked over the bodies of their comrades, wading through their blood. They clashed with us again. The men who had been bloodied moved to back and our fresh men moved forward. The archers brought down their general before they reached us. But they smashed into us with a desire for vengeance.

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The hill was slick with blood, the only way our men managed to stand was to stand on corpses...of friend and foe. But even in death our friends and fathers...sons, aided us. Some who were not quite dead, seemed to rise from the corpses and pull enemy soldiers down to kill them with whatever was at hand. Broken swords, smashed spears, spent arrows. The cry raised up that the dead were fighting for us. Then the fire arrows fired again, the cavalry charged, and their general fell beneath hooves. He was recognized only by his armor at battles end, his helmet torn off, his head so much pulp attached by a thin red line.

The Franks broke.

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They were hunted down.

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It was a great victory.

[Alwyn]

Impressive screenshots and dramatic events (+rep)!

[vae victus]

Drink
Glorious as our last victory was, it was still the luck that our men were able to hold against a numerically superior force. Luck that our cavalry was able to break them. Luck that the rumor of dead men fighting on spread through their ranks like wild fire. Pictish forces were relying on strokes of fortune, and these could not continue.

Even as our men's wounds were healing, a new enemy appeared on the same silent sea the Franks had slithered in on.

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A massive raiding force of Geats slid into our harbor. Hopelessly outmatched, and still understrength from the battle with the Franks, we fought a fighting retreat to give our main forces time to escape. It was butchery. Their warlord led from the front ranks and his men followed his war banner with abandon. They followed the glistening crown of their king himself into battle!

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We watched as the fires kissed the sky. Some men watched all night, and were yet awake when in the morning only smoke was visible, puffing out onto the West wind.

The fire was seen for a long distance is it burned through the night. Even out at sea, Ollam Ri could see. The fire from that direction could only mean one thing.

"Hounded by the Romans, betrayed by the Caledonians, and now beset on all sides by Franks, Geats, Jutes, Saxons, Angles, and the Longbeards! Enough! Camulodonum burns! By the Salmon's scale we will rip them from this life and cast them into the sea as a sacrifice to the fish! The sea is ours and so is the sky! The moon can dance only as high as sky allows, but fish can swim wherever water abounds!"

The ships turned back from their proposed expedition, and made their back home. The ships leapt through the water. Men's families, homes, their very lives were in this direction where the fire was.

As day dawned, our ships came into view of Camulodonum. The smoke had begun to blow thicky out to sea. Our sails were obscured. If there had been a sober watchman to see. Too late they heard the chant of our rowers, our soldiers, screaming out to the gods for blood in unison.

The Geatish ship squadrons had no time to prepare, only to flee. Ollam Ri had eyes for one ship. He had seen the armor inlaid with gold. He had found the Geatish King, Ring.

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"Ring the King, thought he could steal and spring away like a thief, his blood will rise on the next tide and the fish will nibble his hide! Hahahahaha!"

Caught unawares, the Geats fled. But their men had drank deep of our mead. It was strong. Many drank their fill that day.

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"Throw them in sea so they can drink their fill, and if they are still warlike there are fish they can kill. Ring Ring the Goatish King, drank his fill and was thirsty still."



“…for it had been prophesied of him that he would eat the salmon of Fee, after which nothing would remain unknown to him.”
~ The Boyhood Deeds of Finn mac Cumhaill, Laud 610

[vae victus]

After this victory, Ollam Ri sailed off against the Franks. No longer would they raid our homes. Their defeat at our hands had broken their back and they could not offer but token resistance. The ruling house was thrown into the sea.

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The Frankish allies had marched to their relief, but they were too late. And a good thing. Ollam Ri set off knowing this peace was fragile, but hoping it would give the armies back home time to regroup and recruit.

Caledonia's king had sold himself as an underlord to the Geats. Service for assistance in retaking the lands his father lost through treachery. This could not allowed to be. After a season, Ollam Ri was commanded by the counsel to end this threat. A bold and unexpected move. The bulk of the Caledonian forces were assisting the new Geatish King put down a revolt and secure his power base. They were given the option of surrendering the city to us and living or death. They chose death.

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Instead of a raid however, Ollam Ri decided that this was as good a place as any to spend the rest of his life - as short as that was expected to be. He sent word back the counsel. What could they do? They glossed over this by releasing funds for the fortification of Burdigala. Ri was old now, and when he passed, it would make a valuable asset. They promoted Ollam Ri even.

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Ri began to raid Geatish lands. Carrying off women, children, cattle, gold, even piling wagons with building materials when they were present.

"Might as well steal their wagons too. It's better than burning because what was the enemies becomes useful to me. Their enemy."

So Burdigala was fortified.

Ri incorporated the small hamlet of Elusa to add to his power. Resenting his incursion already, the Geats marched on Elusa and occupied it, throwing up earth walls and towers. A strong Geatish presence so close could not be tolerated, otherwise they could wait until the Iberian Franks raided and even siege Burdigala.

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The battle was quick but fierce.

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We collapsed on them like a wall.

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The situation is still dire still.

Fishermen tell tales of fleets of Geatish ships beating towards our shores, Iberian Franks are seen massing on our borders, Geats regroup. And the interior tribes nourish their hate for us.

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News came that the last Roman vestige had been broken. Some celebrated, other mourned the loss of an ally. But Rome was still very much around. The Roman Separatists were in Spain fighting with the Iberian Franks for control, and the Easter Empire remains a powerful trade ally with us.

This news emboldened the Iberian Franks - who had fled Flevium when we took it - to renew their war with us.

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[vae victus]

Impressive screenshots and dramatic events (+rep)!

Thank you Alwyn! More is to come!

[vae victus]

Elusa was taken and a wall thrown up around the chieftain's hold. Onniorix stood and observed the land. This would be a good place to settle if the wars ever settle down, the raids stop. He thought to himself:

"We must hold here. The fortifications at Burdigala are not complete yet and if we hold Burdigala, we can retake the surrounding lands with relative ease. I cannot let down Ollam Ri the Flying Salmon of Segais for adopting me into the royal family. Normally only the High King himself can do such things. The king of each tribe desires more, to be High King of a United Kingdom, and so a loose confederation has developed on the mainland. And they will come against us more than ever after this success to prove their power and capacity to lead. We must be ready. At least we have received word that the Iberian Franks desire peace. Likely to rebuild before attacking us again, but we need the respite as well."

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We would not have such peace from all quarters.

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Outnumbered by a wide margin, Onniorix drew his men up into a defensive formation in the high city.


Onniorix was now grateful for Ri's advice to train men into pike formations. Not very valuable in hit and run raids, but they would proves themselves here. Or die.

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All too soon they came. Right at the new recruits.

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Blood began to run in rivelets down the pikes. Each thrust would send a small shower of crimson into the sky. Like a apple when shaken by the west wind, their crimson fruit falling to the ground.

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Steel points crushed through helms as if they were tin and javelins rained down, puncturing shields and hindering those wielding them.

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The Geats kept coming. We admired their courage. We didn't pity their deaths. The pikemen were grim in their duty, but there was a gladness in it. The way a tradesman delights in his craft, even as he labors with his body by the sweat of his brow, he can smile.

It was then that they broke through the barricade.

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They stopped, in shock at the number of men who had joined us from the city, as well as the number we had in reserve thanks to the pikes. And this was when the real slaughter began.

Onniorix seized this moment.

"AT THEM! CUT THEM DOWN! SEND THEM BACK THROUGH THE GATES! BREAK THEIR SHIELDS!"

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Onniorix hefted a two handed axe, his personal bodyguards heavy spathas. When confronted by an enemy shield, Onniorix would grab or bite into the top of the shield with the hook of the axe and haul the shield down. Then spathas would stab and bludgeon the thing of flesh cowering behind it. It became a rhythm between them, smash, stab, smash, stab, smash, stab. Suddenly Onniorix found himself alone facing a man with thick torques around his arms, his armor rich in glossy metals. A warlord. Onniorix hefted his axe, and buried it into the thick oak of his adversaries' shield. It buried itself so deep that he could not pull it out - he pushed forward instead, catching the warlord off guard, stumbling backward. A corpse caught the heels of the splendid warlord and he went down. In a moment Onniorix was upon him, his dirk drawn. Cutting off the heavy helm, he looked into his enemies eyes. And then stabbed into them.

The counter charge had been so unexpected, so swift, that the Geats were reeling backwards, the men in the front ranks glancing over their shoulders, wavering, the men behind shoving forward.

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We began to press them, stepping over their dead, the men in the back ranks finishing the job with dirks or spear butts.

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A rankman, stepped forward to face a Geat lord. The lord must have had a greater amount of liquid courage, for his sword was slow to parry, and the rankman's great sword ripped the soft flesh of his neck, wrenching his up and away. The rankman's fortune was made that day.







"We paid no attention to their number, or how many men stood behind our opponent. We knocked him down, and took on the next one. Until suddenly there was no one to step up against us. We had won."

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This was the first battle of the season.

[vae victus]

Second Battle of Elusa

A momentous battle had been won.

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But it mattered little.The Geats still had masses of sword fodder to throw at Elusa.

They came again. It was raining. Miserable weather. Attacking at first light they caught us by surprise. Only the quick assembly of the town's spearmen saved us from being burned alive in our beds. They managed to keep the cavalry at bay. A blessed moment of respite.

The pikemen had taken a beating, although performing with valor and repaying the enemy for their losses. They stood behind the city spears, hoping that they would not be called upon to fill a gap. Praying to the gods that they wouldn't face horsemen once more. More than one had wore a splint fashioned of rough wood to support a broken or injured leg. A few held their pikes with their one good arm, the other limp at their side, or bound up tightly to their chest.

The cavalry did not charge this time, a horse will shy away from a sea of pikes in most cases. They came in at a trot, and at the last moment spurred their mounts in an attempt to weave through the spears.

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The spearmen died, their bodies still held upright in the front ranks by the pressure of the horses, and their still living comrades pressing spears forward. As they slowly slipped down to the ground, foot and hoof reduced them to a broken mass of flesh.

A Spearman :"We are dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Death. Black wings coming surely, hopefully swiftly. Not lingering on the field until come follower cuts your throat as they rifle through your pockets. I couldn't endure the pigs feeding on my entrails while I'm yet alive!"

His Captain : "Get your shield up boy! Stop dreaming or we will all die here! They are reforming and getting more javelins, so stay ready you fool and you might live to spear a woman one day!"

The men laughed a humorless laugh. A thin cackle that had to fight its way out of their lips, revealing yellowed and broken teeth.

"Pay attention you fool! This is the glory you dreamed of, if you can live you can tell this tale to your grandchildren. How you stood toe to toe with the invader and protected your people from death!"

There was no more time to think. The horsemen came again, hurling javelins before attacking spear points with their swords, loping off spear heads if they could manage. A white horse pressed close, the rider resplendent and glowing gold even on the soggy day. Even as he cut the point from a spear, his horse slid in the mud, it tried to back up, panicked by the shouting men and their spears. The wooden end of a broken spear smashed into its soft nose, and the horse leapt to its hind legs in pained surprise, its front legs kicking the air before it. A spear slid into its belly and the regal animal fell backwards down the muddy hill, crushing its golden rider beneath its weight.

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As the infantry closed in, they had to pass the broken body of their general. Who would reward their service now with rich gold? Whose orders should they follow now? They milled about as captains argued who would take charge. And then our arrows began to fall. This cut discussion short. Shields up, but with no order, they advanced on us up the muddy hill. Expecting to be meet with spears, they relished the thought of cutting down the men who had slain their warlord, but they could not see, but for a stolen glimpse. Sling stones and arrows peppered them, searing for a target. And under this covering fire, the spears and pikes reordered themselves and moved back. Our men had been given time to arm themselves and they were ready.

As the first ranks of the Geats came over the crest of the hill, they met no resistance. The arrows and stones were no longer focused on them, but were raining down on those behind them. They lowered their shields to see what had happened, and then we met them. Onniorix had ordered them not to say a word until after they had clashed. The first men were thrown off their feet, on both sides as the mud was thick. Shield rammed into shield, and all but short swords became useless in the shield press. Each side strained against the other, ranks pressing against rank. They had the numbers, but the geography was in our advantage; they were coming over a hill, so most of their number were pushing up. Slowly we pushed them back. Panic set in, some of their men had become hopelessly mired in the thick mud and were unable to give ground. They either fell onto their backs trying to escape, or stood and fought until cut down, helpless as wheat at the harvest.

We pushed them down the hill, and as we fanned out and attacked their flanks, the panic amongst their ranks became complete and they fled, ragged broken men fleeing through the rain.

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​

[waveman]

If they win the Third Battle of Elusa that'll be pretty epic! And speaking of epic, the way you describe the generals often sounds like they way they would be in the epics; nice

[vae victus]

Summer had come. And with it, the sun. The bodies of Geatish dead that were piled just past the forest still had flesh on them. Everyone avoided that place, fearing the spirits of the dead.

But the living were more fearful yet. Having beat back the Geats twice. It had not been until days after the battle that it was known that the Warlord who had fallen in the Second Battle of Elusa, had been the Geatish King Herrauthr. One less pretender to unify the tribes against us. It would take years for his successor to secure his new political position as well as gather armies.

Which would have given us peace if we had only one enemy. But they seem to multiply daily.

Taking shelter in the damaged hall of Elusa, Onniorix held council with his advisors and captains.

After they gathered, Óengus, the old companion of kings spoke.

Óengus :"Onniorix, I applaud your defensive efforts, truly few could have held Elusa as long as you have, against such odds. Surely now it is time to retreat to Burdigala to recruit more spears?"

Onniorix : "Óengus, your counsel is well spoken and received as such. Yet I cannot return to Burdigala while Elusa burns. We hold here not for the city itself alone, but for the kingdom; if Elusa is lost then the enemy will press against Burdigala. Ollam Ri charged me with the defense of Elusa and I cannot return with Elusa in flames."

Óengus: "This is folly! How have you displeased the gods that they should visit you with madness, the dark covering that smothers the mind's flame? You have reviewed the roll marks, we've lost over half of our men, and while our numbers have been supplemented by vagabonds, travelers and sell swords, we still lack the strength to hold out again. Already the Jotuns close in on us, they have the heavy scent of blood in their nostrils. You know how the kings of the Western tribes crave to unite them in confederacy with themselves at the head, we stand against this ambition and so they will come to heap fire and death on our heads! It is better to have a live army in Burdigala than one whose bones bleach under the sun. This place is hardly worth losing the remained of the army over.
You have proven yourself, there is no need for more. Ollam Ri will be more impressed that you won two victories and brought back the warband complete! There is no need to further prove yourself. Return to Burdigala and live to fight again. You can return with Ollam Ri and match the Jotuns strength for strength!"

Onniorix : "My liege, you outrank me in court, but here I am in control. By the time your missives reach anyone of note I will either be victorious or dead. So with respect I refuse to yield this ground that so many have died for."

Óengus :Clutching a fistful of parchments, he brandished them as a sword. "Have you not read the reports? We are without half of our men, I know the people think that the dead piled in the forest all belong to the enemy, but we have lost many even in victory. Half your number is gone Onniorix. This Jotun warband is larger and better trained than anything you faced from the Geats. If we faced them with our full number from before these battles they would still number almost double our own. Retreat to Burdigala. Save your men, save yourself."

Onniorix: "Return to Burdigala Óengus, and tell Ollam Ri that if we do not return to avenge us on the Jotuns and to hang their men from trees in our remembrance. Our pikes will stand and our swords will dance, the rest is out of our hands. We have number enough to defend this place again, for victory or to delay the enemy."

The council wasn't dismissed this day. Having spoken Onniorix departed leaving Óengus and the rest standing there looking after him.

The Jotuns closed in, the fires growing closer each day as smallfolk fleeing the destruction streamed through Elusa. They did not stay. This was a bad omen when the smallfolk took their chances with deserters and bandits rather than seek refuge within their hold.

Rampart of Elusa

Flexing his fingers Finbar fingered the callouses on his hand. No new fires burned that he could see. They would be here soon. Soon his fingers would bleed from strumming his bow. "Like a bard of renown." he thought to himself with a chuckle.

Finbar the archer unwrapped folds of cloth that revealed bread and cheese. A gift from Ce, the scarred woman he had taken up at Elusa. Her farm had been raided by the Geats, her husband slain in the fields, ridden down like a dog, her children danced their lives out on the lances of her husband's killers. Then they had used her and left her for dead, but not before carving a rough outline of their king's crest on her cheek. Her hatred for them burned and after the first two battles she had been the first to walk through the fields of the dead and the dying carrying a butcher knife whose blade was thin from repeated sharpening. She had dispatched any Geat she found alive. Slowly. And she looked forward again to the same this day. Finbar may kill them, but she made them hurt. "A good woman that." Finbar thought as he chewed on the rampart. Waiting.

He looked out over the ground below the walls. Markers with flags had been walked off to give the archers their distance. The killing ground.

The Last Battle of Elusa

The Jotuns came. Arrows pelted shields with a harsh thwack! thwack! thwack! Some slid through flesh without a sound except the scream of their target. They had sent sword fodder ahead of the rest, mere thralls. Men with little training giving a spear when they should have been home wielding a plow.

Onniorix walked up and down the line, dragging his sword over the shields of his men.

"We must stand one last time; we have held and we will hold again. And every Jotun that we kill today is one that won’t stand against the Flying Fish when he comes to avenge us! We will take a grim payment from them this day! No prisoners, we need everyman at the front, none can be spared to act as guards. Slay your foeman and do not give quarter! If we die this day then we die with sword in hand, the good sun looking down upon us! Our forebears were called Cruithni, those unconquered by the Romans, like them we come from the North, from above the Wall, and like them we are unconquered still!"

Finbar the archer smiled. "If Ce heard that speech and we live through this day, it is sure to be an interesting night." He smiled to himself as he fired another arrow.

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Garulf watched the arrows fall thickly. "Good."

A runner stumbled to his knees before Onniorix. "Sir, its the barricade. They are attacking it and it won't hold much longer."

Without replying Onniorix began to walk. His standard bearer followed. His bodyguard followed. He blew his horn, two long blasts. hhhhrrrrrooooooo! hhhhrrrrrooooooo!

Then the barricade collapsed beneath the axes of the Jotuns.

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Finbar glanced over his shoulder, tearing himself away from the slaughter he was wreaking. "They have broken through. Night may come soon for us."

Garulf moved in behind his men. "Why didn't the Geats notice this part of the wall? Fools. I will destroy these Mountain Men and prove our supremacy. Perhaps even arrange for our king to meet with an unfortunate end. Torbjorn, take your men and break them!"

Axes and swords. Shields and armor. Arrows and flesh. The whole world seemed to collide with itself over and over again. Men lost in the sound and rage of battle waded through the ranks without thought. The screams of the wounded and dying echoed back on them, for they were the only ones who could hear, the only ones listening.

Finbar fired a high arching shot over the Picts into the Jotuns. Another. Another. Another. Another. Not aiming, there were to many to aim, no time to aim. Arrows followed one after the other. He never knew if his arrows were finding their targets. He just kept firing.

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The standard of Onniorix began to move through the ranks, coming forward. His men greeted this with cheers from bloodstained faces. Seeing this, Garulf himself moved forward, "I need to kill this upstart and break his men. Finish the battle quickly."

The two standards moved towards one another, the wind stretching them out against the sky, whipping at the edges. They met and the earth seemed to shake. Men on both sides fought with new vigor. The dragonhead of the Jotuns and our Boar tearing at one another in the sky.

Then the Boar banner fell.

As if universally commanded, the Picts began to give ground. Some men turned to run, then realized there was nowhere to go.

The Jotuns leapt upon them.

Finbar and his comrades kept firing. Fingers raw and bleeding.

Then two long blasts sounded hhhhrrrrrooooooo! hhhhrrrrrooooooo! All turned to look. The Boar banner reappeared.

The men took up the cry, "Onniorix lives!" And the blasts continued.
hhhhrrrrrooooooo! hhhhrrrrrooooooo! hhhhrrrrrooooooo! hhhhrrrrrooooooo! hhhhrrrrrooooooo! hhhhrrrrrooooooo!

The sound filled the world.

Caught off guard, the Jotuns stared. Several died staring. The Boar banner was cut off from the rest of the Picts, and had you been sitting atop the hall, you would have seen the bodyguard of Onniorix surrounding him as he sounded his horn. It was then that he earned his battle name.

"To the Boar! To the Boar! He calls us forward!"

The reserves formed a wedge and began to force their way through. They split through enemy spears, and some turned and hacked them down from behind. The horn continued to sound.

The Dragonhead came forward again. Garulf fought like a demon. His helm had been battered and obscured his vision so he had removed. Finbar drew another arrow and fired blindly. It crashed down on Garulf's standard bearer. A roar went up. Garulf looking around knew he had to seek out Onniorix. Another man raised the Dragonhead.

The wedge reached Onniorix as Garulf did. The protective ring around Onniorix thickened, even as he forced his way out of it, leaving a trail of blood in the lines where he dragged his foot behind him. Garulf swooped down on him, the Dragonhead banner filling the sky behind him. There were no wasted words.

Garulf brought his axe and Onniorix barely managed to move out of its path as the axe buried itself into the ground. Garulf heaved the axe out of the ground quickly, but it gave Onniorix enough time to lunge forward with his sword, the tip ripping through the rings that protected Garulf's arm, and then down. Only the mail kept the sword from slicing the bicep off. Garulf heaved the axe around, more out of reaction than skill, and the flat of the axe tumbled Onnioriz to the ground. Before he could rise off his knees, Garulf was standing over him, his now useless arm hanging limply. He took a step back and brought the axe over in an arc. But Garulf was tired, the axe was heavy and he only had one useable arm. The blade bite deep into the back of a corpse, as if it were trying to hide itself in the dead man's spine. Garulf was caught off balance and stumbled forward. And, rather simply, Onniorix stabbed his throat with the tip of a broken arrow. The fight had lasted moments. Onniorix's guard dispatched the man holding the Dragonhead aloft.

The Jotuns began to edge away. Arrows had taken their toll, and the stiff resistance inside the walls had quenched their desire to fight.

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They tried to regroup outside the walls, but the arrows were now even more deadly; these were exhausted men trying to catch their breath, not hold their shields up.

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We broke them there, and pursued them until the sunset.

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They left a trail of dead. An expensive imported Jotunish carpet.

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Onniorix was victorious.

Barely.

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http://images.akamai.steamuserconten...nd-color=black

[vae victus]

If they win the Third Battle of Elusa that'll be pretty epic! And speaking of epic, the way you describe the generals often sounds like they way they would be in the epics; nice

Waveman this campaign has been pretty epic, when the battles come, they come in waves. This is my second campaign, as the Sassanids I had nothing like this! It seems the Germanic-ish factions team up and try to tag team you. Thanks for reading!

[Alwyn]

This sounds like an exciting campaign. I enjoyed Onniorix's heroic stand in the three battles of Elusa. I look forward to seeing how your story develops. After the events at Elusa, is there a danger that Onniorix will believe that he is invincible and stand his ground even when he should retreat, or will the high cost of the third victory teach him caution?

[vae victus]

A bird chirped in the darkness.

Onniorix snapped his eyes open, suddenly tense, and waited.

The horn sounded. Another answered in reply. The alarm. Soon Elusa was ringing with blasts, awakening all with the call to arms.



"Are the Geats able to rally more men so soon?! Or have Saxons come to test us as well?!"

Onniorix's mind screamed as he cleared cobwebs from the corners of his mind. He burst from his quarters, half equipped, a chainmail shirt and helm his only armor. A captain came rushing to him, breathless, shaking, sweating. More than even a running man should on a chilly night like tonight.

"Sir, you must, you must see. You won't believe...just come, hurry!"

From the wall of the high city of Elusa he saw something moving in the darkness. He squinted his eyes against the dark, peering, looking, catching hints of movement but with nothing to focus his eye on.

Then the clouds shifted and a beam of the full moon shone down.

"Dian Cecht....it can't be..."

The banners. A Geatish and Jotunish banners flew. But...they were so tattered...so stained with...blood...

And then Onniorix was one of them, he saw through their eyes. He saw Elusa, saw their charges, saw his men fight back, saw himself cut men down. As he watched, the eyes he saw through went dark, the soul shrieking as lifeblood leaked out of its vessel. Then nothing.

A blink. A twitch.
Night sky.
He was rising. He stood, and looked around, but his vision was cloudy, everything around him seemed, cold. Movement everywhere around him, but no danger, no fear. Only desire, something he could not speak or properly speak, even in his mind. It was a want. He began to move. Difficult. Uneven. Lumbering. Fell down. Back up. Moving towards what..a city set aflame? No, no flame ever stood still. But the city was red bright with red hues of color, erupting before his eyes and drawing him on.

Suddenly he was back on the rampart.

He whispered to himself, something incoherent, his mouth continued to move even after he spoke, chewing over noiseless syllables.

He shook himself.

The dead were coming.

Cold sweat drenched him, and he shivered. So cold. We should have burned the bodies, sent them off properly, not have left them cold and piled in the forest for animals to feed on. So cold. And they come for our warmth. The warmth in our bodies.

Taking uneven steps, the dead advanced on Elusa. Masses of them, rank stacked upon rank.

"And we have no gates."

Fire arrows burned the sky. They burned the already dead. But they also seemed to excite them even more. They increased their speed, disjointed screams coming from their decomposing throats. A ragged hiss of escaping air.

Men ran. There was nowhere to go. They ran right into more of the dead. Onniorix heard their screams and turned. They were surrounded by the dead. He looked down at his hands, so much blood. Blood drenched his hands. He wiped them off on his trousers, then wiped the sweat from his face. Glancing at it he recoiled. Feverishly he grabbed a cloth and wiped his face. Blood. He looked at hie trousers, they were seeping red. Hefting his chainmail off, he saw the linen underneath it painted red. He was sweating blood. Like the nailed God the Christians speak of...

He looked up in time to see the army of the dead sweep into the shield wall, spears and pikes becoming trapped in multiple bodies as their targets climbed up the speaks and pikes to slay the wielder and continued on. Groups of armored men clustered together, their backs against the wall, and held out as long as their strength allowed. But all fell eventually.

The dead then saluted Onniorix, Geatish, Jotunish, and Pictish alike in one allegiance.

Onniorix looked at his hands and saw discolored flesh hanging from bone, saw the tendons twitching. Heard himself accept their adulation with a guttural cough.

He awoke screaming, clawing at the blankets, thrusting the woman from his bed, and bolting out of the door. His guards were startled out their half slumber, and closed around him, their unthinking response. He pushed and fought them, screaming about dead armies and fish.

They restrained him. When they heard what he was saying, they sent swift word to Ollam Ri.

They forced some smallfolk to tie Onniorix to his bed as his voice going from bellow to whisper in an uneven trill :


"So many dead. I see them in my dreams, rising from the forest floor, no light emanating from their eyes as they moved...they didn't walk so much as crawl across across the land. Insects. They come for us, for our warmth, they have no thought but to devour our warmth, to have what they cannot remember except as an urge for warmth inside their body. Keep the Adar Rhiannon from their song! Their song wakes the dead and lulls the living to sleep!"

The Dead! The Dead! The Dead!
They want themselves to be fed,
The warmth of our blood,
They come like a flood!
The warmth of our blood
They come like a flood!
The warmth of our blood
They come like a flood!
The birds sing,
So we scream,
For all we took,
For all we lost,
We may only hope,
That death comes at a stroke,
Not a sigh,
And that we will be burned,
So never to raise again and walk beneath the sky!"

The nigthen bird called again into the darkness.