[SS AAR] The Iberian Wars -- An Aragonese AAR

[The Sundance Kid]

The Iberian Wars
An account of my own experiences in the Iberian Conflicts of the 13th Century.



When it all began, I was barely a man. I had been training with the Knights of Montesa for many years now, and had recently become one of the brotherhood, sworn to defend Aragon from enemy aggression. Relations with the French were stretched thin, due to our close proximity to the rebel kingdom of Toulouse, and the Spanish were as distrusting as ever, itching to get their greedy hands on our idyllic Mediterranean kingdom, and the valuable ports we controlled to Italy, Africa and the Middle East.

I was placed in the city of Zaragoza, a bustling trade hub just south of the Pyrenees, where a small garrison of the Aragonese army was placed. My governor was none other than Prince Alfonso himself, a man of extreme military and tactical skill, even if his management techniques were not quite on par with others of our time. I got on well with the Prince and dined with him several times, yet was surprised to find my first command would be that of an entire wing of the Grand Host.

* * *

Just started off, I'll post the first real update later.

[The Sundance Kid]

King Jaume had reigned for many years now, but he was by no means an inactive king. Majorca and Minorca had recently been added to his holdings, having seized them from corrupt kings whom had opressed their people so much that envoys had been sent to us, calling for aid. I myself had travelled to the islands, but had taken no part in the fighting, which I had heard was short and brief, the city of Palma being taken easily by the forces of Jaime Encina, one of the King's noblemen. I thence travelled back to Barcelona, and was thus dispatched to Zaragoza to await further instructions from the Prince.



The highways and byways of Aragon had become corrupt and unfaithful during the preceding decades, due to filthy Moorish influences from the south and traders from across the seas. Prince Alfonso therefore sent the Archbishop of Zaragoza himself, with a small retinue, to the Fagal crossroads, where he preached to the masses travelling between and towards Aragon's two great metropolises.



We also heard a rumour on the wind that a diplomat, whose name escapes me, had been sent southwards to parley with the Spaniards of Leon and Castille, to negotiate trade rights and the like. I knew that Alfonso did not count on this meeting, and I was even more suspicious of an impending war when the entire army was moved to Zaragoza.





After several talks with the Prince, his advisors, and my fellow commanders, I learnt that we were to strike at the fortress of Pamplona, in the Basque region on the western edge of Iberia. It was historically a Spanish territory but had been lost to a rebelling lord, who had styled himself a king and ruled the surrounding land from his stone bastion. We were to storm the castle as quickly as we could, taking this 'king' by surprise and leaving him little time to defend effectively. While Alfonso rode into the countryside, looking to set up a watch on the border of the two counties, I began overseeing the construction of two huge catapults, ready to demolish the walls of Pamplona.



A few months later, when all supplies and preparations had been set, the army marched with a quick step out of the gates of Zaragoza, kicking up the summer dust that settled upon the semi-fertile plains of northern Iberia. The column was well-fed and watered, and they made good time to Pamplona, stopping in most villages and hamlets to take extra supplies and forage for foodstuffs. I was invited to eat with the Prince in his tent, but I dined each knight with my soldiers, more used to a warrior's rations than the hearty feasts of royalty.



We besieged the fortress on August 12th, St. Lorenzo's Day. It was a hot week, and the sun made the metal armour of the soldiers blister and burn, the men inside cooking in their own juices. We waited outside for a week, stopping all wagons going in and any peasants who tried to flee -- we directed them towards a nearby town, where the other refugees were being held, ready to be sent back into Pamplona as Aragonese men and women.



By the time we assaulted the castle, the weather had abated, and the first morning was misty and wet. Despite a light bombardment, we were instructed not to waste our ammunition, and the catapults were rolled out of sight again, the men standing to attention, all eyes on the walls.

On the third day, the mist cleared. The sun beat down again, hot yet refreshing after the preceding damp. I remember feeling a slight sense of foreboding as I pulled my hauberk on, my helmet feeling all too familiar against my greasy mass of hair.

The reports our spies brought us were not good. The enemy had raised an army of roughly equal stature to ours, with many crossbowmen and archers. Alfonso hesitated, then signalled the attack. If we waited any longer, more soldiers may have mustered from the surrounding fiefs, coming to the baron's aid. The huge catapults groaned and grumbled steadily into position, lining up their sights at the walls of Pamplona.



As the first shot sailed out of the catapult, we saw a rope fall gracefully down from a rampart, and a claoked figure slide skillfully down it. At the top of the rope two soldiers appeared, their swords drawn and their expressions furious. The man sprinted across the dry fields, dodging one arrow and almost stumbling as another tore through the outer skin of his arm. Clapping a hand onto the shallow wound, he hurried over to Alfonso, kneeling elaborately.

"Sir," he panted, as a physician ran over to tend to the arrow wound. "Diaz' army has retreated to the central plaza, to better make a stand against us. He leaves two regiments on the walls; both spearmen. Our way is uncontested to the inner city."

Alfonso smiled, then glanced at me, raising an eyebrow at the doubts I had earlier voiced to him. "Men," he cried, raising his sword aloft, "Forward!"









The stones from the catapults thudded into the walls, but we all watched in dismay as they broke upon the battlements, the walls taking little damage. From atop the barricades we heard the sound of raucous laughter and jeering. We cheered in reponse as the next stone hurtled straight over the top, taking five men hurtling with it over the street and into the opposite building.

With another signal and several relayed orders, the catapults wheeled slowly around from their firing positions, making for the gates. Once outside, their stones resumed an unrelenting barrage, buckling the iron portcullis and sending it in pieces into the courtyard. With a shout of "Aragon!", the army hurtled forwards, the Alforrat horsemen leading my infantry as they stormed the gatehouse.



Once in the city, everything was quiet. We charged in, but met no resistance. The towers were unmanned and the few outer defenders had fled into the next level of the castle. Feeling uneasy, I climbed to the top of the wall and surveyed the area, watching Alfonso order the catapults to the next gate.



The catapult once again began its bombardment of the portcullis, rocks hurtling into it like clockwork. Suddenly, the attack stopped. I glanced up from my spot on the wall and gave Commander Muertos a quizzical look, who returned it, similarly confused. The lead engineer, manning the catapults, hurried through the army, and whispered something to Alfonso. The Prince looked startled, then absolutely dumbfounded. He whispered something back. The engineer shook his head.

Alfonos cleared his throat. "The catapults have run out of ammunition!" he shouted, "and they need time to make some more! We make camp in the lower city, tonight!"

I slumped against the ramparts, my second-in-command giving me a grim smile. "There goes our quick attack, sir," he said.

"Yes, indeed," I replied, shaking my head in wonder. "Only the stupidest things make obstacles, don't they, Jésùs?" He smiled and nodded. "Well then, better make camp. Men, get your things!"

* * *

As we settled down in the lower levels of Pamplona for the night, we received even worse news: a rebel army had mustered near Narbonne, and marched down to Barcelona by the coastal roads. King Jaume had mustered a small force, but a few regiments were going to be pulled from Valencia to quell the storm.



In political and foreign affairs, however, Aragon had done exceedingly well. In the north, King Jaume's daughter had sealed a trade agreement and military access with the French, and in the south, the diplomat had apparently done similar with the King of Leon, securing trade rights.





Far away, in Majorca, we had received a Papal Emissary, carrying a Bull intended for the King himself. It was, however, handed to Governor Encina, due to the rebel crisis around Barcelona, and he duly acted on it, sending out a priest to deal with the unfaithful in the Baleares.





In Pamplona, I settled down on my mat, drawing a blanket around my shoulders, trying to ignore the cold nights of the Pyrenees. My regiment had acquired an inn or tavern of some sort and we had distributed the beds and blankets between us, sleeping with our weapons at our sides, despite the many guards out in the night. With our guard duty in five hours, we hunkered down, readying ourselves for the battle tomorrow....

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That's all for now, folks.

[Aldgarkalaughskel]

Very good AAR, + rep.

Which mod are you using?

[The Sundance Kid]

Stainless Steel 6.0, no cheats, no submods. I had a campaign on SS 5.1 with Aragon, but it was so far in an AAR would have been stupid, so I decided a new one, following a particular general would be good. I think the narrator will be whoever the princess in France ends up marrying (I'll just say it was him )

[AntonM]

Great AAR, but i cant see the pictures! Anyone knows why?

[Ride Ze Lightning]

Great AAR! I really enjoy reading this one, and I can't wait for the next updates

[Laconian]

Good AAR. I'm eagerly awaiting the next updates.

[The Sundance Kid]

Great AAR, but i cant see the pictures! Anyone knows why?

I'm not sure, anyone else getting this?

Cheers for all the comments guys, next update about to be played then written up

[zznɟ ǝɥʇ]

Good stuff! Never had the guts to try an Aragon campaign, keen to see how you do.

[The Sundance Kid]

* * *

Many months have passed. Snow lies heavy on the ground to the north, and we hear of drifts burying travellers through the mountains. Our supplies are still abundant, but without fresh ones within the next few months Alfonso fears the siege may have to be abandoned. We have heard of such atrocities from inside Pamplona's walls -- cannibalism, digging up recently dead corpses to eat, even a man who gnawed on his own arm to stay alive. Alfonso can hardly stand it. He keeps telling me -- "Arias, we are going to go in there, and we are going to stop their suffering." But we do not act. We cannot. Our military might is not yet enough. We must be reinforced...or starve them out.



One cold winter morning I was summoned from my bed in the Inn by Luca, Alfonso's personal messenger. He looked almost envious as he passed me a note, sealed with the royal stamp.

My dearest Lord Vilenna,

As you may well be aware, my father, King Jaume, is in need of assistance -- an army of rebels has encamped themselves outside of Barcelona, and have butchered the two regiments he sent to deal with them. Though the rebels incurred losses and retreated into the mountains, he needs an able cavalry officer to drive the rebels back out into France, or Toulouse, or to annihilate them utterly. He instructs you, Arias Vilenna, to ride with all haste to Zaragoza, and there raise an emergency corp of knights to combat the rebels. God speed, my brother.

Faithfully and with respect,

Alfonso, Principe de Aragon.

I have the letter yet, in my solar in the Grand Temple of Montesa. I remember reading it carefully three times, then thanking Luca and collecting my things. My men were not agrieved at my departing -- they knew I could not refuse a king's order. They asked only that I return in good time, and I asked only they saved me at least one rebel to impale upon my sword. Few words were exchanged other than that. There is no time for poetry in the life of a soldier.





I took little over a week to reach Zaragoza, and from there, my contingent of 30 local knights rode to the crossroads outside Barcelona. It was winter, and the sun was chill and devoid of heat as we rode to the crest of the hill, and espied the rebels waiting below us.





I had noticed their scouts for the previous few days, following us along the well-beaten Aragonese roads, attempting to blend in with the dense scrub of the upper plains. Their forces were cohesive and ready, their crossbows notched and prepped, their armour strapped on tight. A Zaragozian knight, Rodrigo, shifted uncomofrtably next to me, and tapped his breastplate uncertainly. I knew what he meant. Armour did little against bolts.

I raised my sword, steadily pointing it to the sky. Further down the hill, the rebel captain raised his own, returning the salute. After a moment's pause, I wrenched on my helmet, swung the sword in a circle and shouted, "Charge!"



The horses careened through the crossbow ranks, the first volley of bolts mis-aimed and the second sent in all directions by the proximity of hooves and snouts.





The infatry behind blanched in terror at their mangled compatriots, and several threw down their spears, sprinting down the hill. The rest stayed resolute, launching their javelins into my horsemen, impaling two with sickening crunches and spearing a third horse, crushing the rider beneath. I glanced around in my saddle and saw Rodrigoin a fierce duel with the rebel captain, a crossbow bolt puncturing his left forearm, blood oozing out of the wound, soaking the cloth. With a kick into the flanks of my steed, I galloped towards the fight, bringing my sword arcing around, sending the captain's head clean off his shoulders. Rodrigo collapsed backwards in the saddle, breathing heavily and in a ragged fashion. Leaving another knight to tend to him, I turned to see the remainder of my battalion herding the rebels down the hill, running them through if they tried to fight back. I had won. We had won.



My task complete, I spent several days in Barcelona, where the king personally thanked me for my services. I did not expect, however, the honour he bestowed upon me when he granted me a plot of land in the countryside outside of Valencia, where he said that an old royal manor house was located, which I could now call my own, and assume the title Earl. Congratulating and thanking me once again, I was instructed to return to Pamplona, and bring word of the victory to Alfonso.



Along the way, I met many Moorish merchants travelling up from the south. Many were beside themselves with grief and agony, and the few Spanish-speaking ones managed to give me this message: The Moorish Sultan was dead; killed, even, by a foreign blade. To my own mind, I was ecstatic -- the greatest enemy of Iberian Christendom, dead! To my soldier's mind, I saw an opportunity, and immediately sent word back to the king in Barcelona.

The king did indeed act upon this information. He quickly sent a messenger to Alvar Galan of Valencia, who, mustering a small but well-trained army, route marched down the coast towards Murcia, a small town which was ripe for Aragonese harvesting.





The Moors, unable to field a large enough army to defeat Galan in the field, elected to stay behind their walls, waiting for his inevitable attack. When it came, the attack left them astounded.







The day dawned cloudy and dismal, a storm brewing in the heavens. I recall Captain Vasquez telling me many years later about the weather, and how it was an ill omen. And what an omen it was.

The defenders amassed on the walls near our catapults, the main body of soldiers hiding behind, away from the sting of our arrows and the thud of our rocks. Galan ordered the barrage to begin, and the catapults were dragged into place.







The Aragonese infantrymen poured into the breaches in the Moorish walls, their flimsy wooden palisades no match for our catapults. Galan himself rode in with the men, sounding the Valencian horn as he charged.





Our men fought hard, and purged a path through the swathes of Moorish troops to the plaza, hacking and slicing as they were surrounded by hostile warriors. Suddenly a cry went up from the breach -- a Moorish spearmen had pierced Galan's side, and he slumped in the saddle as blood drenched his tabard. Bodyguards rushed to his aid, but another quick thrust drove through the injured man's gut, piercing his intestines and ending his life.

The Aragonese army, enraged, worked up a frenzy of destruction, butchering the remaining Moors and skewering their general on a pike outside the city. Murcia was ours, but at a great cost to the kingdom; our noblest general dead.





When word reached us in Pamplona of this marred victory, I wept, having travelled alongside Alvar to Majorca before. Alfonso shut himself inside his inn for days, and we heard him shouting at length, though we knew of no others inside. Aragon had gained territory, but lost a brother. Those were grim days.

Part 2 is done, Part 3 will be up maybe today, probably tomorrow.

[Schrödinger]

Really good so far, well done!

[Sabinus]

Nice work, loving it.

[The Sundance Kid]

Two months passed since word of Galan's death reached us. Our supplies grew thin, then were restocked by a caravan from Zaragoza, then slowly began to grow thin again. All that could be looted from the lower city had been, and the gold had been used to buy more wheat from passing tradesmen. We could hear the dying moans of the rebels in the fortress, and several men went mad listening to their death rattles.

One cold night was about to spark the fire into an inferno, however. Alfonso had been biding his time, patiently waiting for the rebels to surrender. Instead, they had been mustering their strength into one final, last-ditch attempt at ousting us from the city.

I was asleep when it started. I have lived through enough warzones to know the ring of a sword from a scabbard, or the whistle of a dart through the air. I immediately jumped to my feet, fully clothed, my armour on and my sword drawn. I roused my officers, who in turn roused the rest of the men in the inn, and we quietly crept down the stairs to the veranda, where I leaned out into the night to survey the situation.





It all seemed normal. Only the shadows of the city, and--

I squinted and leaned closer. Oh god, I thought. Creeping down from the upper gate were 3 full regiments of soldiers, ready to butcher us in our sleep. With a roar of defiance, I leapt out into the street, my men following me, shields raised and their faces grim. "Hold the street!" I bawled, darting to the next inn. I hammered on the door with my sword hilt, frantically trying to awaken the rest of the men. "Get up! All up! All up! Surprise attack!" I heard the sounds of muffled talking from inside, then the bustle of soldiers hurriedly getting weapons and helmets. I ran to rejoin my men, sending two off to warn the others. "They must've killed the sentries; go and tell Alfonso to rouse everyone!" I cried.



The Pamplonans drew closers; I tightened my grip on my sword. I could hear men stomping out from all the buildings behind me, but I couldn't fathom how many, and I wasn't taking my eyes off the enemy. Sure enough, their speed had doubled, and they were now charging down the hill, onto our spears...

WHAM! The first wave of spearmen hit the deck, revealing a dark mass of crossbows nestled behind. I raised my shield before I head the twang of the bowstrings, and watched in utter horror and relief as two crossbow bolts slammed through my shield, splintering the wood and stopping an inch from my chest. Nearby I heard the scream of several comrades, their flesh punctured by the evil darts.

"FORWARD!" I yelled, raising my sword and signalling the counter-charge. The few men I had smashed into the oncoming rebels, driving them back, gaining heart at the surprise and terror in their faces. Behind me I heard Alfonso's horn, and I bawled another rallying cry, breaking into a sprint as the rebels retreated, speeding back to their fortress. My men broke formation as they ran, all shouting and yelling, their weapons waving madly in the air as they gave chase. Suddenly, as we neared the walls, arrows began to thud down into the grass, several impaling men or shields. I slowed to a halt and regained my senses, calling the troops in, forming a weak phalanx. Slowly, steadily, we backed away down the hill, as the rest of the army mustered behind us, the battle already over.





Alfonso appeared next to me, panting and still strapping on his breastplate. I gave him a sidewards glance and grinned. "Good sleep, general?"

Alfonso guffawed and slapped me on the shoulder. "Arias, you're too funny to be a soldier. I'd hate to see you killed." I looked at the floor in modesty, searching for something else to focus on. "Which is why," he continued, "I'm giving you command of your own cavalry corp."

I looked up in surprise and jubilation.

"Now, don't get me wrong, it's only eleven men and a regiment of the Alforrats, but it's better than slumming it with the rank-and-file, no?" I was speechless.

"But...sir..."

"But nothing, Arias. Come, let's go and get some food, now we're up."

* * *

The end of the siege drew closer, and everyone knew it. In the south, the king's ambassador had visited the Portuguese, intent on negotiating an alliance or military aid of some kind against the Pamplonans, but they weren't ready to commit so generously to our cause, instead accepting trade rights, and the marriage of their daughter to my prince, Alfonso. I have never seen my lord so happy, and he left for a week to visit and marry his new bride in Zaragoza. I stayed in Pamplona, now the second-in-command of the Grand Host of Aragon.



In the north, around the Basque Region, two english ships were spotted, which were immediately challenged by a spanish naval vessel. The ships were indeed carrying troops, and though we got no word of the outcome of the affair, we can only imagine that the English have their sights set on our Iberian homelands. King Jaume has reportedly sent another diplomat to the English colony in Caen, where he hopes to secure a peaceful agreement with them.



Also, our beautiful princess, Constanza, married a fine Aragonese nobleman in the spring. Ignacio de Tolosa, a competent governor, was immediately dispatched with his new wife to Murcia, where he was to rule in Alvar Galan's stead.



* * *

The day dawned early. I was up before my men, slipping on a shiny tabard, the red and yellow stripes glorious against the rising sun. With a sense of finality, I drew down my visor. Today would be the day.





With only my bodyguard of knights, I rode to the walls of the fortress, and called out to Diaz, like I had been instructed. After a moment, a single soldier stepped out onto the ramparts, his helm askew and his spear drooping lazily. "Begone, demon of the underworld!" he spat with contempt. "You have turned our city into a quagmire of hellish deeds and evil thoughts, and now you wish to parley?! I would rather have death and take my chances with St. Peter, than become your subjects!"

He gestured through the portcullis beneath him. "See my brothers? My comrades? My friends? See their corpses, their spirits gone through lack of sustenance and hygiene? You have killed them! You, and you, and you! We will not parley!"

I felt a tear roll down my cheek. This wasn't how war was glorified in Montesa. This was indeed hell. But a far worse hell would it be if we left now, having achieved nothing. The men would not allow it.

"Very well, brother," I called up, "you have made your decision. I shall meet you on the field."

The man spat on the battlements. "Give me a clean death," he growled, "and bury me well. For I do not wish to join the green and rotting in the streets."



* * *

Alfonso returned within the hour. The men readied themselves. All was done.





The catapults once again churned into action. Soon, the gatehouse was destroyed, the gates under our control.



As we moved quickly up to the fortress, a flaming shot from the catapult arced overhead, slamming into a tower and utterly destroying it. A ragged cheer went up from the men, which grew into a crescendo of roaring and barking. I drew my sword and spurred my mount onwards. Now was the time. Now.



In front of the arches leading to the courtyard stood a rag-tag assortment of spearmen and swordsmen, the man from the wall standing clearly anbd defiantly in the centre. The mainstay of the rebels had congregated at the centre, but it seemed these men had broken ranks, as I could see and hear Diaz yelling at them from a hundred metres away. None paid attention. As we approached, our jog moving into a charge, they raised their weapons and crouched low.



My horse smahed through their ranks, my sword catching one in the throat and the force of the charge knocking another aside. I saw the man from the wall valiantly thrust his spear at one of my men, downing the horse and skewering the soldier soon after. He whirled around and drove another off his horse with the spear butt, but his spear went hurtling off over the crowds, out of his grip. Wrenching his helmet off, he began to smash furiously at the downed man, repeatedly striking him with the blunt metal. I watched with an overwhelming sadness as two swords were driven into his back, then again, and then a third punged deep into his neck. With a crippling lethargy, his body keeled over and hit the ground.



The soldiers in the centre were weak and underfed. They fell like dominoes, my sword moving like clockwork, in time to a steady rhythm. Diaz himself rode courageously into the fray, but was felled by an Aragonese crossbow bolt, which dug into his collarbone and killed him instantly. After only ten minutes of fighting, we had rounded up over 200 prisoners, and killed the rest. Alfonso came over to me and smiled grimly. I hesitated, took off my helmet, and threw it on the ground, stalking past him and down the hill. No one tried to stop me.



* * *

Several days later, when the castle had been cleansed of all Diaz' servants and belongings, Alfonso came to me in my chamber. He was returning to Zaragoza, to be with his wife, and needed me to look after Pamplona until he or someone else returned. "I felt," he said carefully, "that you would appreciate some respite from war." With a sad chuckle he left, and I would not see him again for many months.

During that time I grew as a person and an artist, experiencing the culture of the city far more than its destructive capabilities. However, despite all the time I spent there in much enjoyment and good company, I itched to get back in the field; to command my own army. The chance would come sooner than expected.



The kingdom was now rival to that of Leon, and perhaps even the Islamic Moors. I knew Jaume wasn't content, though. He wanted to unite Iberia, and he would get damn close.



* * *

Several weeks later, I got word that a Moorish army had landed on Majorca, and was making for Palma. Sure enough, we got words just days later that the town had been besieged, and Jaime Encina had had hardly any time to muster a defensive force. Before I could act, however, my spearmen receiving training in Zaragoza, I got further word of a Moorish army attacking Murcia, which was under-garrisoned too.







Ignacio, Constanza's new husband, in an act of chivalry volunteered to lead a relief force to Murcia, his 240 Men-at-Arms marching ahead while he tried to whip up support in the countryside.



From my western border, another threat had also arisen. Despite numerous requests, several Spanish armies were still encroaching upon my soil, so I had no choice but to send my foremost spy and planner to infiltrate their castle at Burgos, and learn of their plots. Subterfuge has never been a passion of mine.



So ended another year, and I had gone from a lowly knight in the brotherhood, to a powerful baron of a fortress-town. Soon, my mettle, and the mettle of Aragon, would be tested to the limits.

[Aldgarkalaughskel]

Very nice updates.

This is one of the best quality AARs I've ever read, and I can tell you, I've read a lot.

The ratio of text / pictures is just perfect to me.

Your description is naturally flowing, and very personal, always keep the perspective that personal and detailed. I can really imagine myself in the place of the Aragonese generals, and I think somehow that's the aim of a good AAR.

I also have to compliment the pictures, some of them are really stunning! (I especially liked the first one in the 2nd update - the inn at night - and the one with the general bodyguard standing in the sun in the 3rd update).

I hope it very much, that you'd continue this thread!


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As to the strategy: you are in a very tough position, jammed between the French and Leon, and now the Moors attacking you. An alliance with a powerful faction would be very wise, but i know the AI diplomacy is very stubborn. Unless you pay them off with a good load of money, you have to raise your reputation to reliable or very reliable in order to make alliances easily.
Attacking Leon is still very risky, and you'd have to face excommunication from the pope, if you do it. I hope you can expand your territory without getting gangbanged by your neighbors. Aragon is one tough faction. That's what makes them interesting.

[The Sundance Kid]

Thanks very much for the support, I'm really enjoying the campaign and I'll definitely be carrying on with it -- if Arias dies, I will most likely have a student or comrade of his take up the journal.

As to the strategy, I know, my original intentions were to take Pamplona quickly and sweep around the east coast, taking Granada and Cordoba, but due to financial limitations I couldn't raise an army in Valencia for several turns, and Pamplona proved a tough nut to crack -- I've lost a lot of good soldiers in there. Also, it was difficult to maintain the 'we have control of the lower city' bit, as of course, this can't be done in-game. I'm also trying to develop Arias' moral and personal character, to give the AAR some more flavour. In the next update, he gets married

I'll write up Update 4 now.

[Aldgarkalaughskel]

As to the strategy, I know, my original intentions were to take Pamplona quickly and sweep around the east coast, taking Granada and Cordoba, but due to financial limitations I couldn't raise an army in Valencia for several turns, and Pamplona proved a tough nut to crack -- I've lost a lot of good soldiers in there. Also, it was difficult to maintain the 'we have control of the lower city' bit, as of course, this can't be done in-game. I'm also trying to develop Arias' moral and personal character, to give the AAR some more flavour. In the next update, he gets married

What is the difficulty level you're playing on? I presume VH/VH.

Maybe it's better that you were not able to sweep around the east coast, because sometimes (in fact many times) overexpanding is a very dangerous sport in VH/VH.

One idea stormed through my mind... how about taking the Italian isles (Sardinia and Corsica)? I dunno if they are owned by anybody yet. :hmmm: (But defense comes first, i know).

Can't wait to see the next update! Go, Arias, go!


edit: This AAR makes me wanna play the Aragons too. After I finished my Teutonic campaign, i will immediately start an Aragonese one.

[The Sundance Kid]

What is the difficulty level you're playing on? I presume VH/VH.

Maybe it's better that you were not able to sweep around the east coast, because sometimes (in fact many times) overexpanding is a very dangerous sport in VH/VH.

One idea stormed through my mind... how about taking the Italian isles (Sardinia and Corsica)? I dunno if they are owned by anybody yet. :hmmm: (But defense comes first, i know).

Can't wait to see the next update! Go, Arias, go!


edit: This AAR makes me wanna play the Aragons too. After I finished my Teutonic campaign, i will immediately start an Aragonese one.

Yeah, it's on VH/VH, it's a nice change, the AI is very challenging in 6.0. If I expand to Sardinia, though, it leaves those islands open to Italian attacks, and I would never be able to get a relief force over there in time for a siege, whereas I can with the Baleares.

On my 5.1 Aragon campaign I managed to hit Murcia, Granada and Cordoba within 15 turns (with a handy crusade on Cordoba, I might add.) At the moment, Arias wants to hit the Moors, but the council reckon Toulouse is a better bet, but that's all mentioned in the last update. It's quite hard to describe battles he wasn't in, too I might only report on his battles, and just mention the outcomes of the surrounding ones.

Well, I'm off to play the next update, if anyone wants the save at any point, to work their own outcomes, I'll happily post it

[Aldgarkalaughskel]

Yeah, it's on VH/VH, it's a nice change, the AI is very challenging in 6.0. If I expand to Sardinia, though, it leaves those islands open to Italian attacks, and I would never be able to get a relief force over there in time for a siege, whereas I can with the Baleares.

On my 5.1 Aragon campaign I managed to hit Murcia, Granada and Cordoba within 15 turns (with a handy crusade on Cordoba, I might add.) At the moment, Arias wants to hit the Moors, but the council reckon Toulouse is a better bet, but that's all mentioned in the last update. It's quite hard to describe battles he wasn't in, too I might only report on his battles, and just mention the outcomes of the surrounding ones.

Well, I'm off to play the next update, if anyone wants the save at any point, to work their own outcomes, I'll happily post it

This AAR is just getting better and better (loved the letter form).

I might say: AVENGE IGNACIOOOO! (Of course after taking Toulouse.)

I thought Toulouse was in French hands already, but if it's rebel, it's probably the best way to go and create a nice little bridg-head there. Hopefully, the Moors won't send too many full stacks on Murcia.

And yeah, you're right, the Italian isles would need heavy defense.

I would gladly see a savegame.

[The Sundance Kid]

I write in this journal once again, as duties and happenings in recent months have prevented me from my usual chronicling of these times. I got word several months after sending my spy to Burgos from Murcia that the siege had been broken, Captain Hernan Rivadeneyra, a commander from the Valencian garrison, having led a relief force of Men-at-Arms down the coast. Hernan was one of my fellow knights at Montesa, and he wrote to me personally to tell of the victory:

My dearest Arias,

So good I have not felt in an age, since we two duelled on the dusty courtyard of Montesa. I was approached by Ignacio de Tolosa (the princess' new husband) while in Valencia, and he instructed me to make with all haste for the town of Murcia, a Moorish settlement on the coast that we had acquisitioned several seasons before. The going was tough on both my men and I, but we made it to the town after half a moon's circle, and witnessed the besiegers around the fringes.

Had I been commanding the forces we used to, where knights were few and far between, I believe I may have been able to gain an advantage on them, but I was commanding over 200 soldiers and we were spotted easily. To our good fortune, however: Captain Tristan, of the City Guard, had mustered the Murcian regiments and had begun to march on their position, distracting them from my task force.



As Tristan bared down upon the Moorish troops, my own soldiers spread out into the long grass surrounding the town, making our way silently towards the rear of their positions. Once about one hundred feet away, I gave a bellowing roar and we stormed their lines, from front and back! I myself downed their general, my soldiers finishing him off as he collapsed into the dusty earth.



The battle was quick and decisive: their missile troops were of good quality, but were in no position to fire once my men had flanked them, and were mopped up quickly. Their infantry was crushed like between a crab's pincers, and we chased the fleeing and wounded well into the afternoon. Overall, my friend, a good day, and I wrote merely to inform you in your mountain kingdom of the events of the wider world. I hope we may regale each other with exaggerated stories of derring-do in person at some point.



Yours faithfully,

Hernan Rivadeneyra

With Hernan and Tristan victorious at Murcia, I knew that Ignacio would soon arrive, ready to assume his governorship. Having never met the man save briefly seeing him once at a tournament, I knew nothing of his capabilities, but I had known Constanza before and I knew she would not settle for a fool, even at her father's wishes. I was confident of Murcia's continued survival under Ignacio and Hernan's commandership.



Meanwhile, many miles away, across land and sea, Palma was undergoing a similar Moorish attack, the Islamic peoples intent on wiping us off the map. I knew that Jaime Encina, a general of renown and the only surviving general from the old wars, would not give it up without a fierce fight.

I was never close friends with Encina, but I knew several in the Balearic garrison, and they described the battle to me, years later, as I researched it for my books.

The battle started with roughly equal forces, however, the Moors had brought superior professional troops, whereas the Aragonese garrison was merely militas drawn from the city.



As my friends looked out, they saw the first wave of soldiers were slaves, men taken from the African tribes and forced into Moorish service. I was told of their great delight as my friends put them out of their misery, sending volley after volley of arrows and bolts into their unprotected bodies.





The ram quickly hammered through the weak wooden gates, but Encina had surrounded the entrance with the militamen, and he himself stood defiant in the gateway, his sword drawn, barking orders to his men, the very picture of a great commander. The enemy ladders were quickly broken or batted away, and the spearmen from the wall hurried down, joining the fray. In the close proximity and clash of battle, the enemy troops were massacred.







Through tactical genius, and, of course, the sheer excellence of the soldiers, my friends told me of how they smashed the Moors and drove them from the field, defying all the odds and saving Majorca for Aragon. Or so they say.



* * *

About a month later, King Jaume received word of the Fatimid Sultan's death, far away in the East. Though it did not affect us unduly, we were all worried about the strength of the new ruler, and whether the Moors would take advantage of this lull to push eastwards instead of northwards. All Aragonese eyes were intently fixed now upon Africa.



After a week, Murcia was once again under threat -- this time Ayyub al-Andalusi, a Moorish chieftain, was approaching with an army larger than any the Moors had ever set against Aragon. In Valencia, troops were hurriedly mustered to weather the storm. In Pamplona, I readied my men for the call to arms, ready to send them to their deaths at the coast, grief filling my heart once again.



The Moors attacked Murcia the next full moon. They brought siege equipment and readied it quickly, attacking within days.



You could not comprehend the sorrow I feel writing this now, even after all these years. The beleaguered Murcian force was under strength and under equipped, and Ignacio had only ever trained for army leadership, and never commanded. His forces lined up in front of the gates, ready to take the hit.



The Moors broke upon the walls like water upon rock, ripping down sections of timber and breaking their way through the gates. Ignacio had organised his men into a similar defence of that at Palma, and the Moors became trapped in a crescent of yellow and orange, the Aragonese swords hacking and slashing for their wielders' lives. Suddenly, al-Andalusi broke through our lines, and charged the catapults along the side street. Ignacio, moving to save the artillery, engaged the far more experienced general, blocking his path to the pieces.



The duel was fierce and frenetic. Both bodyguards cut each other to pieces, and soon only Ignacio, Ayyub and two bodyguards remained, one on each side. Ignacio's bodyguard held the Moor off admirably, but slipped in his saddle and was cut down by the Muslim enemy. Ignacio, seeing his fate, thrust wildly at Ayyub, the sword clattering from his hand onto the cobbles. As the blade reared back and came hurtling towards him, he threw back his head and cried, "CONSTANZA!" Then the blade slipped neatly between his ribs, and he was gone.



Only a few seconds later, the Alforrat division came galloping around the bend, swords drawn, thirsty for blood. Ayyub wheeled in a panic, but his horse reared, preventing his escape. The Alforrats descended upon him in fury, hacking and roaring, cutting the Moor to pieces, sending chunks of flesh everywhere. He was barely recognisable afterwards.



The Aragonese soldiers purged forwards and drove the remaining Moors from the gate, their shock apparent at losing the Amir of Andalusia to a Christian blade. It was a victory, but Aragon had lost another son, this one fresh into it's fold. Also, our princess was now widowed at 22, and the future of Aragon was looking bleak and war-filled. My heart boiled with rage when I learnt of Ignacio's grizzly demise. Placing my helmet firmly on my head, I roused my army. We were heading to Granada, to teach these Moors a lesson they would never forget.



A week later I was in Zaragoza, dining with Alfonso. His other guests were charming, including a young woman by the name of Sancha, daughter of a visiting Duke. I must admit I was surprised when, after the meal, Alfonso led both me and the Duke to a corner, sat us down, and began negotiations for my marriage to Sancha.

"Wh-what?" I stammered uncharacteristically, taken aback.

"This man, here," said Alfonso to the Duke, apparently ignoring me, "is in need of a good woman and a healthy son. I already have me a daughter, and I'm a year younger than he is. He seems to have taken quite a shine to your daughter and...oh, did I mention that he was the Governor of Pamplona, the largest fortress in Aragon?"



A week later we were married, on Midsummer's Eve. At that moment it seemed that even with all the death, and destruction, and horror upon horror that had plagued me these last few years, some things could lighten your heart to a point where nothing could be felt but bliss. Thus started the happiest years of my life.



* * *

In foreign affairs, I paid little attention over the next few months. I was so in love with my wife that she occupied all the spare time I had used in the past for poring over charts and records, her greta spirit encapsulating me.

I received word that our diplomat in Italy had negotiated some rights with Venica, and we had exchanged map information. This was a good move, as it softened relations between Genoa and Venice, who had been at each other's throats since Venice had taken Milan by force the previous winter.



In Zaragoza I began organising the creation of a Montesa Chapter House, at the will of my old Seneschal back in the Preceptory. He felt that with such a violent front to the north and west, an experienced corp of knights would be useful, and I could only agree.



Another week later, Alfonso called a council of nobles to discuss the war with the Muslims. I attended, and I voiced my opinion regularly, having been the only nobleman there to have ever served against them, in a campaign in my youth. Much to my confusion, however, and seemingly Alfonso's, the older members voted to take the city of Toulouse in Gascony, giving us a road to northern Europe.

"But gentlemen," I said heatedly, "We can hardly defend Aragon as it is, we are just expanding out borders to unecessary places, we should focus on--"

"We have spoken, Lord Villenna."

"But--"

"We have spoken, Lord Vilenna."



I collapsed back into my chair, frustrated. It seemed my veangeance against the Moors would have to wait, lest I incur the council's wrath.

* * *

Done.

[Schrödinger]

Still brill!
You ahev just the right ratio of pictures to writing, really good!