A New Dawn - The Battle .open sl.

[SalsaDoom]

General Pennebrygg's well conceived battle plan might have been terribly effective had it ever had a chance to be executed. With the enemies night attack, the soldier's of the 3P Trading Company's third army had been blunted. Still, these were experienced campaigners who had fought in hard situations before, under commanders who had unsure grips of the battlefield.

Sentries at the edge of the camp are startled out of their thoughts but the sudden crash and clatter of the enemy, drums banging in the night where there had been none before. Suddenly, without warning, there was enemy all around them, scimitars flashing and bolts whistling from their hand crossbows. They didn't understand how the enemy had managed to bring his troops so close so quickly, but they understood that if any of them wanted to survive the night they had to alert the main camp. Cries of “Alarm!” and “The enemy is attacking!”, came out into the night as sentries abandoned their posts and scrambled back to their sergeants and company's.

Against the tide of enemy attackers, in the darkness, they had little chance to fight back, so they merely ran to their units and hoped they were preparing themselves. They were. Undaunted by the fearsome visage of their enemies, sergeants rose up from their rest, and bawled at their men, “Get awake you dogs! Get ready! Form up! Form up you bloody bastards, or everyone last one of you will never see light again! Do it!!” and the soldiers responded out of instinct. Less then a quarter of them were sleeping, it didn't take much to rouse them, they had been preparing themselves for several hours now, all but a few.

Everywhere soldiers slammed the Molins spring-cartridge into their Molins-Bennet bolt-pipes. The Canthric peoples had once outlawed magic, and had only limited talent with it, especially compared to the Lunaherns, whom magic seemed almost second nature. But what they did have was an excellent understand of what they called, “Natural History”, the manner in which things worked, and the Molins-Bennet bolt-pipe was this knowledge compacted into a powerful and effective weapon, one they believed would bring them victory against almost any odds – that, and their astoundingly powerful field cannon. It was a compact and study weapon that mounted a blade on the business end for close combat, and was long enough to repel cavalry. It was miserably inaccurate, however, so it was fired in massed volleys, the reason for the battle line.

“Form lines lads, form battle lines!” shouted officers to their men, “Come up lads, quickly now, get to your places!”, and the sergeants and their corporals grabbed their men physically if necessary to get into ready. With impressive speed and resilience, the battle lines were forming. Great long lines of men, only two men deep, one standing directly in front of the other, with hundreds of men on either side of him. Bayonets glinted in the moonlight as they stood, stony faced, ready to receive their orders. Each man had a tall tower shield that he leaned on. Eight regiments of twenty five hundred men. In the center of each line was the Colours, the flag blue and gold flag of the 3P Trading Company, and a flag unique to each regiment which formed the physical manifestation of all of their pride. Each flag was given to the regiments commander by the Lord Consul himself. The flags were held by Ensigns, the youngest officers, most of them only 15 to 17 years of age, all of them under twenty. They were surrounded by Colour Sergeants, strong burly men wielding halberds. Metal scraped as officers pulled their long sabers out and held them up, looking along their lines at the men, and then forward into the trees where shapes could be seen moving, and a sudden shriek sounded, hundreds of unearthly voices screaming.

Elsewhere the forest, Captain Ambrose Throckmorton, of the tar'Firem'kar Zilut'snel – The Armed Ministry – pulled his tall top hat onto his head, covering the metal brain pan that all soldiers wore for protection. His men were skirmishers, men trained to run forward of the battle lines and harass the enemy, exactly what the enemy skeletons were doing now. He swore, his men were loading there weapons, different ones then what the regular infantry used. These were Molins-Ezekiel rifled bolt-pipes, identical in principal to the Bennet, that is, it used a spring to push a bolt out of a metal tube with impressive force. Different however, was the tube, which as spiraling grooves to make the bolt spin in flight, making it deadly accurate. Its bolts didn't have flights, they were instead all metal and superbly balanced. Ambrose's troops where the finest, men who had actually payed money to enter this elite group of soldiers. They had too much pride to show fear.

Ambrose lit a cigar, took a quick sip from his belt flask, and pulled his heavy falchion out. He looked over toward the forest hearing the great shriek from the forest. He looked at his men, they were leaning against trees, crouching low, grasping their weapons and watching toward the blackness of the forest. They were hard to see, their uniforms were jet black unlike 3P's soldiers, and blended in to well for his tastes. Most importantly, from what he could see, they were not afraid. Not his men.

Behind the battle line, General Pennebrygg put down his tea cup, and told his orderly's to store them away carefully. He walked over toward Lieutenant General Packett, who was snarling at one of his Majors. “Mister Packett! What the devil is going on here?” Packett spun his heel and spoke evenly, “The enemy has launched a night offensive. His skirmishers have broken threw the sentries, but our lines are are already almost formed. Some of them are ready. We should send out our own skirmishers to meet them, General.” Pennebrygg shook his head, “No, let them come to us, we shall soften them up with cannon fire, then let our lads repel their attack with volley fire.”
“General, they will know the locations of our lines then, and our cannon.”
“It won't do them any good, Mister Packett. Knowing where they are will only hasten them into their defeat.”
“General, sure--”
“Do it, Mister Packett! Have it done this minute!” Pennebrygg snapped hotly.
Packett saluted razor sharply, and turn on his heel again, he shouted in his strong voices that carried their the night, “Cannoniers, get to your business, Officers, prepare to receive skirmishers!” he ordered men out to relay the orders and preceded to load his brace Bolt-pipe pistols.

On the battle line, the officers accepted their orders gripped their swords tightly, some had bolt-pipe pistols in their free hands. The shrieking suddenly got louder, and out of the forest came shapes, some skeletons, others were ghostly visages, skulls wreathed in ethereal fire, seeking to destroy the living.

“Good gods.” breathed one of the ensigns at his Colour Party. “Ready!” shouted a Colonel to his regiment, “Lets give them a volley!”, the order was repeated down the line, and a few seconds later, the order, “Fire!” was given. The unholy shriek of the skull spirits was met by the loud metal shriek of the Molins-Bennet bolt-pipes, and a wall of bolts was thrown up into the advancing enemy. But they hardly seemed to notice and slammed into the line of soldiers.

Elsewhere, the cannoniers wheeled the 8 pounder cannons into position, and fired at where they believed the enemy was coming from. The sound was low, flat boom that rolled across the landscape, sounding very much like thunder. Only, this came in fast, measured intervals, like clockwork, every forty five seconds, one of the sixty 8 pound cannons sent a massive iron ball crashing threw the forest, smashing into threes and bouncing off the ground, irratically, the shots bashed down trees and flung into the murky depths. Twenty howitzers, firing their shells in high arcs, leaving thin, nearly invisible tails from their fuses, although most of these struck trees and landed nowhere near their targets. All off this massed gunnery could be heard for miles and miles around, and the quick flashing of red light from the forest showed where they were.

Soldiers threw down their shields and jabbed at the skull spirits, entering into a dangerous melee. Sergeants and their corporals fired measured, point blank shots into the partly solid creatures, but their interest was keeping the line solid and secure. The hideous skull spirits took massive damage, it seemed to the soldiers, they only barely reacted to shots that would have knocked large man flat on his back, and cuts and slices from their bayonets were ignored almost entirely. Men screamed as flash was bitten and ripped, snarled as they fought. “Don't back off! Don't you buggers dare take a step back, or you'll all get the flogging of your life!” sergeants bawled at their men.

As sudden as it came, the skill spirits seemed to slacken their attack, and their numbers dwindled where only a few seemed to be left, fighting was sporadic and quick over the battle lines.

“You see, Mister Packett, nothing to be worried about.” Pennebrygg spoke, watching the action slow down.
Packett pushed his shako down over his eyes and remained silent, he knew better. The real attack had not started yet, and his side had tactically not gotten off to a good start so far.

[SalsaDoom]

/* Er, this is a touch late.
Well, this plot died horribly.
So, here is exactly what happened to for
those of you actually were sort of
Interested. In the briefest explanation
possible, here it goes.
*/

The two armies of 20,000 each, the 3P Trading Company's 3rd Army meets a foreign army of undead in the forest not so far from Myrken Wood itself. They battle. At first the undead launch a successful attack, throwing the arrogant General Pennebrygg off balance. Pennebrygg's military career had been decidedly spotty, however, he learned from his mistakes.

The Undead attacked the Company's line and using mages sitting astride massive bone golums managed to smash the battle line and force the Company to retreat out of the forest into the relatively open fields. The cannon, the best weapons to destroy the deadly bone golums, were unable to see their targets properly and were only able to fire in the general direction of the enemy.

Once in the open fields, the 3P Trading Company's cannon were able decimate the bone golums. 3P's more experience cavalry were able to keep the less experienced Lunahern cavalry away from the infantry -- who were able to keep up their devastating volley fire without having to form into defensive squares. With their heavy weapons disabled, the 3P cannon continually blasting, and the troops shooting their bolt-pipes unhindered into the columns of undead soldiers, they were forced to retreat. Still, the undead were remarkably resilient.

Pennebrygg ordered his horse artillery to move along to either side of the enemy army and blast it long the length of the thick columns rolling along the undead troops crashing and crumpling massive numbers. When he detected the undead had had enough, he ordered the cavalry and order artillery to form around behind the army cutting off their escape into the forest.

Finally, he ordered his infantry to advance, stopping occasionally to fire a volley into the undead. Not willing to risk having is entire army defeated in a single battle, the Undead Commander ordered the retreat. With the Company's horse artillery and cavalry on their rear, they could not move into the safety of the forest. They were forced to move long the edge of the forest until night fell and they were able to escape under the cover of darkness.

By the time night fell, the undead army was gone without a trace. Pennebrygg ordered the 3rd Army back to the Myrken Wood Company Fort, and it passed through the Planar Gate back to where it came. Things at the Company return to business as usual, leaving most details of the battle, why it happened, and who they undead were, known only to its Officers.

--SD