The most common kind of battle is an encounter. It happens when two opposing forces suddenly run into each other. In these kinds of fights are usually won by the more decisive side. Oskar was leading our patrol when we ran into an enemy lance. We were going through woodland thickets. Neither of us noticed each other until we were but a few yards apart.

“Up and at em’ lads!” The lanky highlander immediately charged the enemy.

We went in hard and fast. Spear leveled, targe angled, I darted an unprepared archer. No need to thrust. I ran the head into his gut. The steel point drove through his gambeson and punctured his bowels. A killing wound. Twist and tear. I turned to find my next opponent. A pained whiney echoed through the clearing. Oskar hamstrung the knights mount. The animal collapsed, throwing its rider.

The blur of a weapon made me swing my shield. The targe punched the sword blow at a bias. Robbed of its power it clattered harmlessly aside. I jabbed my spear at the new assailant. He lurched out of the blow. I recovered my point and charged shield first into the enemy. Aggression was the primary tactic. The targe hit his torso. My shoulder knocked him off balance. His reeled from the impact. Winston bolted past me and swung his axe. The blade hacked deep into his shoulder. It sheered the flesh and stuck into his ribs. Winston dragged his blade out as I covered him from any potential aggressors.

Osmund and Alwin doubled up on a man at arms. It was almost contemptuous how easily Alwin killed the man. Osmund engaged him from the front whilst Alwin maneuvered into an opening. His backhand sword stroke nearly decapitated him. Godwin was locked in combat with a swifter opponent. He had managed to react with alacrity to the surprise. For all his speed he would be finished soon. Alwin was already moving to get behind him. Oskar took the knight with a pommel strike to the head. He would be captured for questioning. All that remained were two other men. We killed them before they could surrender. The fight was over in moments. Our band had proven superior to their lance that day.

These scouting engagements had become something of a regular occurrence on our march to the capital. We were meant to link up with the Duke of Artois at the edge at his holdings before we turned east towards Loueti. The moment we left Monforte lands; we were effectively marching through hostile territory. We did not know it at first. It took an arrow and a death to alert us.

There were mixed reactions from the towns and settlements we came across. Most treated us with cautious politeness. Others refused to have any business with us at all. Securing supplies was a mixed endeavor. Word had spread of what happened in Dusien. Each territory had its own loyalties. The pragmatic understood that accommodating our troops would lead to upsetting a significant part of their populace. Despite the distant treatment we found the road south uneventful.

Everything changed when a rear column of march was hit by a flight of arrows. It was a poor attempt. Three shafts were loosed into a pack of men. They were all bound to hit something. The problem was that there were a lot more than three men. All of them armed. Two injured, one death. The pursuit was brief and bloody. Before any of our commanders knew what had happened, we saw smoke rising from behind us. The archers and their village had paid the price, and so would we.

What followed was a cavalcade of challenges. We had just given carte blanche to our enemies. Captain Alessia was not pleased by our men’s break in discipline. I reserve any commentary on this. Though I do speculate that conflict was inevitable. The attacks that followed were far too swift to have been reactionary. Every step on the road south we were harried by skirmishers, good ones. They came at us in proper ambushes with real weapons. Though no force assembled itself for a direct confrontation, our foragers were picked off, arrows were launched in the night. In response our forces marched together. The Isles and Free Cities contingent had previously moved parallel with each other. We prepared fortified encampments at night. Strangely enough the persistent external threats made us come together as a cohesive body.

Our enemies made one terrible mistake. Despite the inconveniences they caused us, this kind of conflict was something we excelled at. What the Isles lacked in drill, we made up for it as born raiders. Facing an enemy that harried you and refused to come to the field was a nightmare for conventional forces. The Free Cities condottiere were consummate professional soldiers. They had a flair for the unorthodox, but they were no irregular fighters. We were.

Reconnaissance in force is the official military term. We call it reiving. Bands and occasionally larger forces detached themselves from the main column of advance. We moved on ahead and behind the army. When we entered territories with hostile sympathies, we went in the night and dissuaded the locals from making any trouble. Captain Alessia was less than happy about our method of pacification. But she held her tongue when faced with the results. We rooted out potential ambushes and harassers through our ruthlessness. In our wake were a few burnt out homes and hanging trees. A minor price with all things considered. Things were… different back then.

Winston was with the Captain on our methodology. He did not take to the change in pace too well. Osmund was a pragmatist and the rest of us were raiders. Still, he got stuck in in when the fighting started. The latest clash with a lance confirmed our suspicions. These attacks were not conducted by groups of disorganized locals. There were those of course, but the quality of the attackers left us a little suspect. The knight we bagged was proof enough. This fool still wore his livery on his surcoat. We had no idea who he was, but somebody would.

“So, how much are we getting?” Oskar asked.

I shrugged. We had returned to the main body and turned in for the night. Other men had dug ditches and piled mounds. The scouts were excused from such duties. We all sat surround a campfire as Godwin prepared a stew.

“I don’t think we will get the ransom. We would need the hostage in our hands for that to happen.”

“Fair enough,” Oskar grunted.

It was common practice for captured knights to be held hostage rather than be killed. There was a whole system of ransom in place for them. War is a rich man’s game, eh? Oskar, ever the intrepid profiteer had done his studying on the southern way of war. It was a shame that his prisoner would no longer be his to bargain with. Lord Cedric had him disarmed and then questioned. The knight had been conducive to the questioning. He was a talker. He threatened and bragged more than he should have let on. I am told that not a single bribe or blow was needed to get him to reveal everything. Not that there was anything to hide.

Godwin served helpings of stew from the pot. It was beef. Some youths from a hamlet had gotten the idea that they could bag one of our own without reprisal. We left the settlement alone but hung the boys and their families. We also took their cow. This was turning out to be the most comfortable campaign I had been on. It was the first time that I had tasted beef as well. The food was good, fighting easy. Little loot though.

“So, what did Sir Loose Lips have to say for himself. The usual crap aside.” Asked Godwin.

“Nothing we didn’t expect,” I replied. “A bunch of hot heads have been kicked up to try their luck against us. Hence the occasional peasants and hedge knights. Nobody major had moved against us. Not that they don’t want to. If Loose Lips is to be believed, he is a member of a knightly order. He moved alone because his order refused to act. The men we killed were apparently his father’s troops. It changes nothing.”

“Good men dying for young men’s foolishness.”

“Good?”

Godwin gave me a look. “We were lucky. We caught them with their pants down. Oskar reacted first and he reacted correctly. If it were a pitched fight, it could have gone either way. I for one do not want to be on the wrong end of a charging knight.”

I gave that some thought. It could have been a close thing. If Oskar hadn’t struck first and they had, we would have been the ones at the end of their blades. I had reacted instinctively to his orders. Looking back, Winston and Osmund took a moment before they got stuck in. It was not cowardice but surprise that made them slow. We were lucky and well led. Godwin and Oskar were veterans. There was a difference between green levies and seasoned campaigners. Other patrols had come back with casualties in their numbers. Whilst we held the upper hand, we were not untouchable. Their leadership was not made up of fools either. They could learn.

We found that out the hard way. Dead men tell no tales, especially if they are never found. When several scouting parties failed to return, we thought nothing of it. There were contingencies you could not expect in the field. It was not uncommon to be late. Thankfully, Oskar was a paranoid soul. When he caught the scent of something being off, he made sure he was not going to be on the sharp end of it. We rotated out of scouting duties and resumed our place in the column. Our organization was all very ad hoc but it worked. Until it did not.

People were missing and we had no idea where they went. Scouts running late was nothing unusual. Late over a day meant something was wrong. Other bands were sent to find where they went and what had happened to them. That ad hoc allocation of duties may have helped with convenience, but it left a lot of holes in our knowledge. It took time to narrow down who was missing and where they had been posted. Since Oskar had pulled us out early, we didn’t have to go looking for the missing scouts. It was proving to be a wise decision. The scouts sent looking for the scouts were going missing as well.

Our advance south was coming to a standstill. There was no clear opposition before us but the persistent threat behind us had us all on edge. The enemy had grown bolder and had begun harrying the rearguard and stragglers. Requisitioning supplies and foraging had to be done under escort. The line of march had become a slow affair. We risked being late to our rendezvous. That risked being late to the capital for the Estate General. Once the assembly was in session, their doors would remain shut until a recess. The original plan of marching through towns on the way there was already out the window. A display of force would have been tantamount to picking a fight. The Dukes adjutant attached to our force was less than happy with our performance.

Ah, you are wondering how such things could happen without interference from the crown. You are not wrong in finding the events absurd. In more peaceful times such acts of infighting would have elicited royal censure. If the crown were strong, we would not even be here in the first place. The country was on the brink of civil strife. There were no clear borders, but it was brother against brother. Households were torn apart by high ambition and petty partisanship. The rule of law tethered at a blades edge. If somebody wished to make war with their neighbor, nobody would stop them. Outside of factional heartlands, it was all a little… wild. The kingdom was effectively at war with itself. It was just that nobody wanted to recognize it as one. There was a chance to bring things back from the edge. But that part comes later time.

Our indecision was admittedly brief. But the enemy we faced was one who would capitalize on even the slightest of delays. I thought the band had dodged the danger. That we would be safe in the middle of an armed mass. How the fates must have howled at my relief. The next thing I knew was that we were given a direct assignment.

“Tell me, how bad did you piss off his lordship?” Asked Oskar. He was none too pleased by the turn of events. Neither was I.

“Apparently not enough. If I knew we would be put up for this I would have tried to get my money’s worth.”

“Seems plenty salty to me.”

“They gave us to the southerners because of you. We are the victims of your success.”

Godwin who overheard our exchange snorted in amusement. I was as close to a friend as Oskar ever could have. Our bickering whilst regular was done over a history of master and protégée. He saw the killer in me and gave me a chance. But it was still his fault. The commanders had come to an agreement that they would make a dash for the south. It would be hard marching on iron rations. Regardless of the decision, they wanted to know who had been giving them so much grief. The moment we had left Monforte territory the going had been hard. We would take the blows this time. But we would not go without knowing who had struck us. To that end we were drafted into this mess.

Outside of the housecarls we were one of the best. There were the veteran freebooters and highlanders, but they were already acting as our scouts. In a way us pulling out landed us this job. And what a job it was. The condottiere had a small contingent of light cavalry. On the battlefield they were overshadowed by the heavier knights. On campaign however, their utility was priceless. They would have screened our movement as outriders if only there were more of them. We had been posted with them to identify our new shadow. So, what help would a single band of footmen be for a group of mounted scouts? Why bait of course.

Not for the first time was I looking into the face of Marcus and thinking how stupid his moustache looked. Oh, it looked ridiculous on you my friend. Why else did you shave it off? Anyway, we were going to be the finger put into hole to see if it gets bitten. No matter how clever a plan is, for the poor bastards who have to act as bait it never looks great. Marcus’ explanation of things did not engender much faith either.

“Well you see chaps, it’s all very simple. The fellows who have been giving us a bad show are getting away with playing silly buggers. We intend to show them what for– “

Godwin nudged me and muttered “What is he saying?”. I gave him the side eye and a little shrug. Now considering that I was having trouble following him, everybody else was positively lost. He spoke in Auburn and only I had a strong grasp of the language. Oskar was passable and Osmund knew enough to get by. The rest had a few words and phrases. I think I was getting the gist of it. Unfortunately, Marcus struck me as the kind who would have “I say” in his vocabulary. Janie was unequivocal in her opinion of men who said that. Our leaders were hard faced men weathered by fire and iron. They looked the part of sea lords who had stood in the shield wall. Marcus did not rouse much confidence in any of us. His colorful doublet, fastidious grooming, and manner of speech gave the impression of a southern rake rather than a war leader.

A little wiser and a lot more disgruntled, we took to the rear to catch unwanted attention. Marcus and his riders were following us from further back. They would circle around once we were engaged and would encircle the attackers. Thankfully, our band was not the only ones drafted into this role. Some twenty men in total would pretend to be stragglers falling out of line. We would make a large but attractive target. Stragglers were usually the injured, ill-disciplined, exhausted, or all the above in an army. Easy pickings.

We were all sweating like pigs under our cloaks. Not that pigs could sweat but you catch my meaning. Men on the march did not go about in full armor. Even knights wore only parts of their harness when on light duty. We had to look like a bunch of strays unprepared for what was about to hit them. Going about in mail and leathers was a sure way to signal that we expected trouble. We could either go about in plain clothing or wrap everything under our issued black cloaks. Whilst summer may have ended it was still an uncomfortably warm day. Especially for us northerners. Still, sweating buckets was better than the alternative of fighting unprepared. Alwin, Godwin, and Oskar all had maile hauberks. The two older men wore their helmets but Alwin eschewed the extra protection. Beneath the iron links was some light padding. It must have been uncomfortable to say the least. We had been at this for well over an hour now. Winston and Osmund just had gambesons, at least the material could breath. My boiled leathers may have been practical up north, but it was stifling now.

Hot, irritated, and scared, we were getting sloppy. Lost in our own discomfort we failed to notice the men in the single patch of green to our left. In an open field it should have been the one position we always kept an eye on. Our first warning came from a deadly hail of arrows. The volley was brutal. It scythed down a handful of men. We immediately raised shields and turned to the source of the attack. I hit the ground. I knew from experience that a targe was unideal for stopping projectiles. It was too small to properly hide behind. Copying my decision, Winston dropped himself as well. He had no shield of any kind at all. The next volley was loosed soon afterwards. We watched the arrows have terrible effect on us. They shot through several inches of our shields before they were caught. They punched through maile and armor as if it was cloth. I saw Godwin get hit in the hip and the shoulder before he went down. The weapons were terrifyingly powerful and disconcertingly accurate.

“Get down! Get down!” Someone screamed.

Soon we were all lying down as pot shots flew over us. Occasionally they would hit one of our prone men. Things had quickly gone to hell. Our position was untenable. If we just lay here the archers would pick us off or charge us when our numbers fell low enough. There was no good cover nor a safe path to flee down. It was all open fields except the one patch of woods the bowmen occupied. We had just walked into a clean ambush. Where the hell was Marcus? Where was our cavalry?

I looked around and saw consuming shock and confusion. Nobody was doing anything besides looking to their immediate survival. Should we wait for Marcus to arrive? Could we wait? I met eyes with Oskar. The veteran highlander kept his head. We communicated a slight nod and knew what we had to do.

“On Me Lads!” He bellowed.

“Charge!” I screamed.

It was a moment of terror as I sprang to my feet. I imagined a hundred arrow shafts flying my way. Targe held out before me I made good on my war cry. A shaft slammed into my shield and I felt a searing pain in my hand. I didn’t look. I knew I needed to be seen by the men. They had to rally on us. Our only good way out was through the archers. Pain, fear, the imminence of death. My heart exulted at oblivion. Heedless of the arrows in front, and uncaring if any would follow behind, I made that run.

Every pounding step was made in the dark. My shield covered my head and upper body. Still, a shaft to the leg or gut could easily bring me down. Blind to what was immediately in front of me, terror and exhilaration fueled every moment. Some men speak of a feeling on invulnerability. As if the gods of war reached down and guided their hand. Turned aside killing blows. I have never felt that. Every moment was fill with uncertain terror. Aside from that initial arrow, I had yet to feel the sting of another one. Instinctively I knew I had come close enough and lowered my shield. Several yards before men were men in green and brown. They held stout war bows in their hands. Some were looking at me whilst the rest desperately loosed their shafts at targets behind me.

Blind fury replaced terror. I hefted my spear and hurled it at the nearest man. It was a bad throw. But it disrupted the man’s aim. Their failure to kill me made me see red. I drew my heavy sword and laid into them. It was not pretty work. Nor was it good. It was savage butchery. I closed with a man who made eye contact with me. He was taller, far more muscled. His weathered face spoke of a seasoned outdoorsman. But he was pushed back in the face of reckless rage.

I came in with a heavy overhand blow. The archer parried it with a hastily drawn messer. He tried to turn into a counter stroke, but I was already coming with another sweep. Men later told me that I was screaming as I fought. Anger lent my blows speed and strength far beyond what my opponent had expected. Another hasty parry but this time it was poorly aligned. The weak form broke under my weight. The blow hit him in the ribs. His blade had saved him from death, but the impact of the sword was still strong. Stunning him, I swung the edge of my targe into his nose. The leather-bound rim contacted cartilage crunching it beneath the blow. Something hit me from behind and I stumbled foreword. Riding the fall, I quickly stabbed into my man’s chest.

Pivoting on my leading foot I turned to face a boy armed with a short sword. It was another messer. A common weapon in the Reich. He looked young, almost out of place. Not that it mattered. He flinched when our eyes met. A terrible mistake. I lunged like a Free City swordsman. Point leading, the tip of my blade broke his teeth and rammed itself through the back of his head. Then it was all over. I had been deaf to the fighting until I couldn’t hear it anymore. Just the panting of straining hearts and the pitiful wail of broken men. The abrupt gagging and spatter of somebody throwing up. It sounded like victory.

I let the boy slide off my sword. I tried to get the targe off my hand but found it snagging. There was a tearing pain when I tried to shake it off. For the first time I looked at my hand to find that an arrow had passed through the shield and mutilated my little finger. It felt surreal to see it stuck to the wood by an arrow shaft. Looking at it made it worse. I knew it was bad. The arrowhead had clearly cut through the bone and my little finger hung by a few scraps of skin. Sickened and lightheaded, something else took over. I drew my knife and cut the last scraps of flesh connecting my finger. There was no pain, just a throbbing numbness. The digit was bleeding profusely. I removed my targe and that was when Winston found me.

“Bloody hell…” Winston gasped. “Are you alright?”

“Pouch, on my belt. Help me work it.”

It was as if I was looking through somebody else’s eyes. I calmly walked Winston through cleaning and binding the stump. I was surprised how much I remembered about patching people up. I always kept a small pouch on me for such occasions. It hurt like fire, but I found myself removed from everything. Once we were finished, I felt compelled to treat as many injured as I could. I was no battlefield surgeon, but an apothecary’s son still had a few tricks learnt on the field. There was no conscious choice in my actions. I just did what I did.

My memory of what happened next is rather hazy. Veterans call it shock. It comes and it goes. Some are touched by it briefly. Others it mars permanently. Maybe it was the loss of the finger. Or perhaps it was the killing. I just did what I did and when we returned to camp, I fell asleep. Marcus can tell this part of the story better. No? Fine.

While we were being torn apart by enemy archers, Marcus and his wing of horsemen moved to encircle them. They should have charged them from behind. What they found whilst getting into position was a squadron of heavy cavalry waiting behind a ridge. They were knights prepared to ride us down once the archers had us disorganized. Seeing the threat, Marcus moved in to engage the greater of the two. Light horse facing heavy knights in a direct collision is suicide. Their better armor and longer lances give them an undeniable edge. Marcus’s mob however had ways around that problem.

The Tzar’s cataphracts and various other eastern horsemen were superb mounted archers. In open engagements where the order of battle was unimportant, they could run rings around their opponents. A contingent of good mounted archers was priceless. Marcus and his horsemen were not born to the saddle. They could however mimic the eastern riders. The Free Cities were avid adopters of the crossbow. As descendants of the Old Empire, it was not surprising. On lighter agile mounts they avoided direct conflict with the knights. Riding carousels they loaded and fired their latchet bows into their more cumbersome foes.

A latchet bow, or latch, is a small crossbow with a quick reload. It has an impressive draw strength. At close range they could punch through maile. Did I also mention that it could be handled with one arm? Perhaps it lacked the range and power of a composite bow, but it did its job. There is ironic parallel of us being peppered by arrow flights whilst our allies did the same to their enemies. By the time Marcus and his riders finished off the knights, we had charged the archers.

Whilst I slept Godwin was taken to a dressing station. He had the arrows removed and the wounds properly seen to. It looked like it was going to be fine. Or at least as fine as one could be after getting shafted. Only the highborn fully recovered from injuries like that. Godwin would feel those wounds for the rest of his life. He was no cripple, but he was weaker for it. It was agreed that we would all chip in to buy a mule for our band. It would be good for something to carry our loads. And carry Godwin whilst he recovered. I think we had internalized that this supposedly quick and bloodless campaign would prove otherwise. We were in for a long haul.

People would later come to call this period the phony war. Whilst we made our dash southwards, there were dozens of minor conflicts erupting all over the kingdom. The archers who had attacked us were mercenaries from Grossewald. Reich men. Their longbows were indicative of their origins. We were not the only foreign force abroad. The question of whether those men had been agents of avarice or soldiers under orders was a pertinent one. But it would make no difference to our immediate course of action. We let this one lie. There was a job to do, and we were running late.