Expansion The Munrian War: Fall of Emder [Iron Cult Expansion to Emder]

[Dreadheart]

The wind blew West, and with it, carried the vague scent of burning wood. This wasn’t coming from the numerous fire pits lit throughout the camp. Tybog could tell thus much by the heavy aroma of the spring’s leaves, scattered in the invisible host of ashes looming over him. This was the city burning. This was the villages engulfed in flames. This was the Iron Cult laying siege upon Emder.

“Come, sir.” Julietta gestured to the piece of cloth laid over the dry dirt, by the campfire. “Join us!”

Tybog offered a smile. Short lived and deprived of much sentiment. He took a step forth and joined the handful of soldiers that held fellowship around the flickering flame.

“Any news, Cap? We have a place?” asked Mauro, youngest of the company. The man-
Well, boy, more like it, was barely seventeen winters old. He had served as a drummerboy for about five years in the 88th. One of the many strays and orphans left by the passing of war, lucky or damned enough to be picked up by the Guard. A practice rather common, in central Erovan armed contingents, though the Iron Guard in particular valued those deprived of home, or relatives, for they made the more silent fodder to the ever thirsting meatgrinder that was the war for Erova.

 

[Dreadheart]

“It seems we will be along the centre, lad.” Captain Tybog said, picking a biscuit offered by Julietta. “We hit them from the South, along with the 71st and the Twins.”

Past few years, the Iron Cult had been through a period of relative peace. Although not deprived of violence, the Spires of Fuernburg had decreed that the realm had to undergo an industrial renaissance. New weapons were forged, new technologies perfected, and new subjects assimilated into the behemoth of the Cult’s structure.

It eventually became a common talk among Ostrians and central Erovans, the expansionism defining the great realms of Espada and the Eirish Empire, ever-swelling along the West, seemingly unopposed. Eventually, the Iron Cult awoke to the continuous warnings of fate, when word of the Sparnish Witch-King Marcus Aumont, of Espada, declaring himself a God, having corrupted the Sparnish church enough to embrace his most vile act of heresy.

It was then, when the Iron Cult finally gave life to its grim war machine, orchestrating a massive mobilization against the lands of Munria. Long craving the rich ports like Volkenmech, of Emder, the Iron Cult decreed that access to the sea was vital for the coming geopolitical tension brewing across Erova.

Alas, to achieve such, a great mass of flesh and souls had to be offered to the altar of Death. And the Iron Guard was among the finest candidates for the task…

 

[Dreadheart]

“Rest, lads” Tybog nodded to the troops, after he finally managed to swallow the hardtack. Dried to a brick, these crude rations were on occasion all what preserved the Guard in campaigns and trying times. And yet, Tybog could still not help himself but struggle against the occasional scratching of the trachea they caused upon swallowing, if not dipped long enough in hot water, or tea.

There was an eerie silence across the camp. Most of the troops had fallen to sleep, wrapped in their bedrolls around the nearly faded pitfires. Tybog gazed over his shoulder. He could see each and every one of the troops befalling mad, or running by the dread of the hell they were about to walk into. And yet, hardly anyone ever did.

It wasn’t the fear of the firing squad that held most from desertion. Nor was it the will to serve the Cult’s grim schemes. It was simply home…

Most of these troops never had any. Born in slums, raised in the streets like urchins, only to be tossed to the painful tanneries or metalworking factories of the great cities, or put to work to exhaustion to the huge farmfields of the South. The Guard, for most, was all the family they could have. Home was the Regiment, and family, the Company in which they marched with, to the beating of drums and cannon fire.

 

[Dreadheart]

The city of Gronharen was huge. A major trading hub of Emder, Gronharen had been under the control of the freeguilds and merchant leagues ever since its establishment. Regardless the wars that Emder province was caught on, none had truly impacted Gronharen enough to force the greedy local council to invest enough coin to erect defences that would grant the settlement any defensive traits.

Alas… No real effort was required, either. Gronharen was massive. The chaotic layout of the buildings, and the several storeys each building consisted off made the city a living maze, with many parts of the main streets being so overwhelmed by the hanging arched and towering buildings, they were deprived of any sunlight throughout the day.

“The Infantry will make the push to Gronharen” General Wilhelm Von Altegroll grunted. The very thought of having to contest such a large settlement caused the elder no little degree of disgust. He hated; HATED sieges. The fact that Grinharen had no curtain walls was perhaps the only positive he saw in this engagement.

“The enemy has a strongpoint to the North, sir” the attaché remarked, pointing the short wooden rod he held at hand towards the distance. Along the South banks of the thick river that cut Gronharen across, there were several lesser villages and settlements that lied scattered around the many hills that embraced the small peninsula that peaked at the meeting of the large river and a smaller, much deeper, sourced in the waterfalls of Evadama hill, standing over the city to the South-West. A place that General Wilhelm had planned on capturing, to establish a vantage point for his artillery, early in the confrontation….

 

[Dreadheart]

“Arrangements have been made, you ignorant…” General Wilhelm Von Altegroll hissed, visibly irritated by the persistence of the Attache to find yet another issue on his well-thought plan. Von Altegroll was no fool. If his opinion was to be trusted, he was a well-seasoned commander, knowing all tricks an enemy could use against his Iron Guard. And now, this young brat from Fuernburg walks in and -corrects- him? As if he knew better…

The old General shook his head, nodding to the nearby lieutenant who stood at the head of a handful of soldiers holding large trumpets.

“Give the signal, lieutenant…. Let’s get on with this mess!”

The trumpets sounded from behind the hills, loud enough to echo across the field to the city. A sound piercing and persistent, causing enough horror to the locals who had yet to evacuate the settlement to rush inside and lock hastily themselves in, barricading if they could.

Troops dressed with flamboyant blue and white tabards and coats of linen rushed across the city’s streets, forming their ranks as their commanders barked orders.

Nadaufe DeFaurre, General of the Freeguild forces in the region, walked out the high building, to the balcony that offered a commanding view of the city and beyond. He had set his command post in Kropsyde, a small town right to the North of Gronharen. He had successfully traced the Iron Guard’s movement from the border for a whole week. It was Nadaufe’s belief, the enemy would bypass Gronharen to join with the main Iron Cult offensive against Volkenmech, the “Key” to the Kraken Sea. Agents of the Iron Cult had already instigated a revolution in the city itself, making its capturing much easier a task. What Nadaufe had counted on was the difficult setup of Gronharen would cause the Iron Cult’s commanders to deviate from engaging in a siege, to avoid excess losses and a prolonged engagement in Emder’s mainland.

What he was unaware of, unfortunately for him, was that the Iron Cult had prepared for just such an occasion, and planned to demonstrate the shocking capabilities of the Iron Guard for lightning war, a dogma yet untested in Erova…

 

[Dreadheart]

“Onwards, lads!” Captain Tybog unsheathed his scimitar and held it aloft, as the beating of the drums started. On each step, a tremor shook the soil, as more and more of the tightly formed troops marched onwards to Gronharen. Several blocks of infantry advanced towards the long bridge that connected the country road to the city’s Southern entrance. Unlike other Erovan armies, who were quick to burst in war cries and shouts to raise morale, the Iron Guard advanced in utter silence, save for the rhythmic beating of the drummers and the ground shaking marching.

“Onwards! Iron within!” the captains of the Iron Cult called to their troops, leading by example as they marched several meters ahead of their formations. It was for honor and for morale, the higher the ranks the farther ahead they’d march. It inspired confidence to the troops, or so it was believed. Ironically enough, after a certain rank, this rule did not affect the officer. But Captains were always in the front. The first to fight. And, most of the times, first to be shot.

A high pitched noise passed over the infantry formation, louder by the moment, until a towering column of dirt and tile shrapnel arose, as the heavy cannonballs made impact with the soil. The cannons of Gronharen, deployed behind the city, in hilltops, had started roaring, welcoming the enemy to the battlefield.

“Keep hammering them, mr Aart.” Nadaufe DeFaurre nodded to the artillery officer.

He could see the irony in the moment. It was the Iron Cult and its trade that allowed the FreeGuilds to develop such powerful artillery pieces, almost a decade ago. It was now these weapons of war that fired against the Cult. History, it seemed, did not come without a little bit of irony.

 

[Dreadheart]

The artillery bombardment landed around the main street, as the Iron Guard’s formations advanced ceaselessly towards the city. Though inaccurate, the shrapnel launched in each impact caused some of the farther front troops wounds, some severe enough to force them fall off the formation.

Captain Tybog looked over his shoulder, to the tightly packed troops that advanced behind him. His mind was spinning. He could not know what kind or how stiff a resistance they would meet in the city. He could not know what horrors they would be facing. All he knew, was that-

Another explosion darkened the soil. Now the Guard was barely a dozen meters from the first buildings of Gronharen!

“Come, lads! PUSH!”

As the first troops squeezed through the city’s street, trying to preserve their ranks as best as they could, cannonballs landed on the rooftops of the buildings, cracking entire segments of the upper stories, or collapsing entire chunks of the structures, adding to the debris piles in the street. Cries of pain and pleas for help echoed from the houses, while occasional musket fire from the Iron Guard’s lines eliminated panicked citizens who found themselves in the open, running, when the Guard advanced.

“Keep your heads low! Keep the line!” Tybog shouted. Though they had entered Gronharen, and the enemy’s artillery kept firing, as heartlessly as they did, into their very own city, there were yet any enemy troops to oppose the Guard…

 

[Dreadheart]

The General’s eyes narrowed, looking through the spyglass at the cavalry engaging the Freeguild cuirassiers outside Evadama, beneath the hill. The Guard’s cavalry bested the enemy two to one. Von Altegroll’s plan had up to then been clockwork.

“They won’t flanking us anytime soon….” He shrugged. “Keep up the shelling!”

The Iron Guard’s artillery atop the Evadama Hill was cloaked by a white mist, emitted by the hot cannon barrels. The gun crews rushed to reload the cannons, pushing the heavy payload into the barrels, before jumping away, as the artillery officer shouted for the billionth time the same calls.

“Clear!” the crews ducked down. Only the newest of them actually bothered covering their ears. The veterans knew it was in vain; Eventually, they all turned deaf by the earthshaking cacophony of cannonfire.

“FIRE!”

The fiery edge of the rod was pushed into the narrow opening, filled with black powder. Another cannon roared flames, casting the heavy load into the city. Though Gronharen was a large settlement, Von Altegroll had made plans on where the enemy would be. His effort with the artillery barrage was less to inflict casualties, and more to disorient, and provide cover to his advancing infantry which he reasoned would be half way in the city by now.

 

[Dreadheart]

“Stay low!” Tyborg gestured to the nearby troops. Having crossed the South road, the Guard’s formation had completely bent, by now. Advancing through narrow streets, any cohesion their formations had was now lost, with the troops pushing from debris to debris, seeking cover as they went.

Other elements of the Guard kept pushing along the centre, with the halberdiers and heavier troops tasked with taking the main road. But Tybog’s sections were far from it. They had made their way to Saint Coen’s bridge that connected the South with the Eastern part of the city.

Saint Coen’s bridge, and the surrounding district, were defined by several lesser rivers and canals made by the inhabitants to serve as open sewage, driving the thick dirt that floated in the river down the flow, and out of the settlement.

“On me! Shields front! Muskets at the back!”

The troops presented their heater shields, forming a line two men deep going from one side of the bridge to the other. Behind them, the rifle troops armed their muskets and advanced. The tension spiked when the view of the river farther into the city was cleared.

Rifles screamed and blades shined, as the Guard elements pushed through the dirty bogs of the river, engaging the Freeguild troops that had barricaded themselves at the other bank. The action was not far enough for Captain Tybog to know, they would be soon engaged. And, given how long they’ve been allowed to push…?

Oh, this was going to hurt BAD!

 

[Dreadheart]

Julietta’s kettle hat flew off, as a red mist was spat from her neck. Her entire body fell in the place that soon, the hole in her cranium filled with blood and brain liquid.

Another of the buildings by the riverside was crowned by a dark mist, as the Freeguild artillery landed yet another shot. The entire front of the structure collapsed, burying several Guard troops under its massive cloud of dust and screams. There was now hardly any building Captain Tybog could see from atop the bridge that had yet to feel the kiss of artillery fire. Every time he stepped on the rabble from the ruined city and felt soft under his boot, he held himself from looking down. Far too many times he had done so, only to gaze at a buried limb, or scattered body of yet another trapped civilian or comrade of his, now becoming part of the terrain in which the Captain was called to fight in.

“They are holding!” troops shouted, hoping that the Captain could hear, through the continuous musketfire and explosions from the artillery bombardment.

Captain Tybog rushed ahead, to the North side of the bridge. His troops had been scattered all over it. Some covering behind the bridge’s rail, others sticking low, within the debris piles, while some, sharper aim than others, chose to climb on the ruined buildings, to get a better mark on their targets. The situation was growing stale, with the Freeguild troops forcing the Guard to fight over the river. The casualties sustained were low, for now, yet Tybog recognized that the enemy planned to stall the offensive. And this, could only mean reinforcements were underway. He had to act. Now!

“On me!” he shouted, sliding over the barricade he covered from, pushing onward while he remained ducked, as bullets squealed over his head from almost every direction.

 

[Dreadheart]

Captain Tybog cogged the hammer of his rifle. His left hand blackened by the smoke produced in each of the ignitions, to the point he had to wrap a torn piece of fabric on it, to avoid burning.

The Freeguild troops had yet to notice him and the few dozen guardsmen he led through the narrow corridors of the district. They were busy keeping the pressure on the Guard across the river, still denying them to cross in enough numbers to push them from position. Tybog planned to change that.

One after the other, his men creeped from their cover, advancing in relative silence towards the back of the enemy’s position. In the heat of battle, none truly bothered looking over their shoulder. Tybog counted on that, to gain a better shot in close range.

When one of the Freeguild troops pulled from the ranks, bracing his bloodied arm, he sat on a corner, while another of his comrades rushed to tie the wound. Neither of the two was over twenty winters old, Tybog reckoned. Not that it mattered…

As soon as one of the two eyed to the coming Guards, realizing the encirclement, Tybog shouted the command, and so all the muskets sparked in a volley of fire and lead.

Many of the enemy troops fell, while the rest turned in horror, realizing the dire state they found themselves in.

Within moments, the two sides exchanged fire, initiating yet another engagement in the narrow streets of Saint Coen.

The air grew thick with white smoke, restricting any visibility to the bare minimum. Bodies fell on both sides, while the soldiers ducked behind cover, or squeezed themselves in corners, to avoid the stray shots that were at that point fired blindly.

 

[Dreadheart]

Hooves echoed on the street tiles, as blades shined through the white shroud engulfing Saint Coen’s streets. Enemy riders, dressed in flamboyant blue coats and wielding curved long swords, rode through the chaos, attacking the scattered Guard troops that pushed through the streets.

“They are flanking us!” the soldiers cried out.

Some of the troops turned their rifles and fired against the cacophony of galloping horses, of which many made their marks. Alas, the narrowness of the streets, and the chaotic manner of the confrontation denied either side critical success.

“Hug the walls! Sharpshooters, on the windows!” Tybog roared, grabbing and pulling his troops into their way, trying to desperately preserve any level of cohesion possible. Another blast from a landed cannon shot shook the buildings, close enough to him he fell on his knees and covered his head with his hands.

A rain of debris turned his coat and hair white of ash. He could no longer recall at which point he had lost his kettle hat; Perhaps the only of his little protection worn. His gambeson outfit was tattered. He recognized some tinny bullet holes, fired from long enough distance they never managed to pierce through the thick fabric.

At least we have yet to face them in melee, he thought. He knew, though, before the day was out, he would be surely granted such an experience regardless…

Tybog peaked out from the high debris pile infront of him, crawling over it to see the enemy’s position at the other end of the street. The struggling troops of the Freeguild were being decimated. Most had fallen, with their comrades taking cover behind the dead and dying. Forced to fight in two sides, they had enough firepower to repel neither. Cornered, and with the cavalry far from them, they were doomed, and they knew it.

“Pull back! Pull back, men, its over!” they started shouting, abandoning their post to boot farther, to Kropsyde.

 

[Dreadheart]

“Onward! Form ranks!” Captain Tybog shouted, waiving his rifle aloft to signal his scattered troops. Rallied by their recent success, the troops rushed towards their commander, forming up in the typical tightly packed squares in the middle of the wide road, running over the enemy piles of dead and dying.

Looking over, to the South, they could see their comrades crossing the Saint Coen’s bridge in numbers, led by a cavalry contingent, while others pushed along the river, making their way through deep bogs and numerous floating corpses, as the waters turned red from the spilled blood.

“We are gaining on them, lads! Keep the pressure!”

The city had been turned into a battleground. All across its domain, troops engaged in brutal street fighting, while the more the time went by, the more chaotic the battle became. Cavalry galloped around the city, picking on exposed troops and deserters alike. Cut-off sections of infantry invaded houses and looted their way through, to their allied positions, or rushed to escape from pursuing enemies.

The number of artillery shells spent on the city had reduced the settlement to rubble and its once high and rich streets to murder pits laid with corpses and debris. Numerous black columns reached to the skies, while a white shroud engulfed the entire settlement to the point the artillery of both sides fell silent, in fear of hitting their own.

 

[Dreadheart]

“Take your positions! Keep your heads dow-”

The officer’s voice was cut suddenly, as his mouth blasted red, with his lower jaw flying away as a stray shot found its mark. The man fell on the ground, with two of his soldiers rushing to his aid. By the time they turned his body over to see what had happened, the man’s life had been drained from his now empty shell of a body.

The fighting had now progressed to the very edge of Gronharen, to the North, near Kropsyde. Captain Tybog and his troops formed ranks and prepared to advance. This time, they had pushed through the narrow river, following the guise of the 71st, who had been engaging the enemy from within the ruins of the city, while the latter held their positions in Kropsyde.

Tybog finally started marching onward. The runner who informed him of the situation with the 71st claimed that the enemy’s artillery was exposed, with the crews having turned the guns around to engage an Iron Guard detachment that attempted to flank Kropsyde.

This was the moment Tybog could capture the enemy’s most prized asset: The cannons!

“Onward! Hold your fire!” he commanded.

The troops now marched disordered, with no drums to give a rhythm, for the drummer boys of the sections behind Tybog had all fallen during the earlier hours of the battle in Gronharen.

As the troops advanced up the slope, into the field, the Freeguild’s guns became visible. Amidst the white shroud, the long barrels of the field guns kept firing at the distance. They indeed had engaged the Guard’s flanking troops, Tybog reasoned. He could not be certain, for the shroud of the smoke denied visibility so far to the distance.

 

[Dreadheart]

“First rank! Fire!”

The muskets spat fire, before the vanguard of the Iron Guard was shrouded with white smoke from the ignition of the black powder. The rifle volley befell the artillery crews who, realizing their situation had made a desperate attempt to turn the guns around. Pointless, given the distance and the size of the guns themselves. As the first volley was fired, many of the crews were shot, on varying degrees of severity.

“Second rank! FIRE!”

The muskets inflicted yet another volley of wounds to the crews. At that point, the remaining men abandoned hope, cast their tools away and started running from the field.

“Advance!” Tybog roared. His voice had started cracking. Dehydrated, tired, and wounded, fatigue had finally started setting a toll on him.

The troops advanced across the field, with one of the men breaking formation and rushing to the enemy’s abandoned cannons. He pulled the blue and white flag, fallen from one of the dead; A standard bearer. The man then rushed back, offering the flag to Captain Tybog.

“Good man” Tybog acknowledged, picking the flag and hastily storing it behind his belt.

“Captain Tybog! Captain Tybog!” A soldier cried out, running towards the company. A runner…

“What’s the matter!?” Tybog demanded.

“I bring word from Captain Elias! You must come to Kropsyde quickly! The enemy is moving!”

“What are you talking about, lad? We have broken through, there is no enemy!”

“Sir” the runner caught his breath, pointing behind Tybog’s troops. “They are coming.”

Tybog’s eyes widened in view of the distance. As the shroud cleared, the captain could recognize the Freeguild infantry forming up under the river separating Kropsyde and Gronharen. They were regrouping; preparing for what it looked like a final push to dislodge the Iron Guard from Kropsyde. Something which put Tybog and his men right in the middle.

“Damn.” He exhaled. “Tell your captain we are coming.”

Tybog gestured ahead, to Kropsyde.

“We move North, lads! Quickly!”

The troops started running across the open field, towards the settlement of Kropsyde. Unlike Gronharen, which had been savagely bombarded by both sides’ artillery, Kropsyde was relatively intact, granting the now defending Iron Guard troops significant level of cover, and vantage points…

“Sharpshooters, up the roofs!” Tybog instructed as soon as his troops made it to the settlement.

“Set a perimeter! I want a rifle behind every window!”

 

[Dreadheart]

The night’s veil halted the battle, and the soft rain caressed the dead and dying still lying scattered in the streets of Gronharen. The Iron Guard had managed to pierce through the city within a single day, and yet, they now found themselves overstretched. Although troops had remained in Gronharen, securing the south bank of the river, the Northern districts still had significant enemy presence. Occasionally, musket fire could be heard through the rain, as skirmishes within the streets happened throughout the night.

In Kropsyde, Tybog and his men took a most needed breath. While some held watch, and others patrolled the settlement for any enemy raids, the majority of troops simply fell and tried to get any sleep they could, to fend off the fatigue from the day’s fighting.

Captain Tybog made his way in a high building, which seemed like a townhall, from the looks of its architecture. A large hall in the main chamber, with several banners now torn or half-burned by stray artillery fire that set small sections of the structure aflame. The second and third story were much more narrow, separated in several rooms that had now been plundered by troops, or scavenged for furniture to form barricades in the streets, or bar windows for the coming engagement.

Tybog walked up the wooden stairs, to the highest point. The room was circular, with an exotic rug laid on the floor. Parchment pieces and books now layered the floor, as the furniture had been brought down or cast against the windows. A fire pit was made using a broken barrel and several of the books found in the building, set in the middle of the room to provide little warmth for the soldier standing on watch.

“Captain, sir?” the young lad approached Tybog.

The captain picked one of the books from the floor. A green hardback book, decorated with golden thread.

 

[Dreadheart]

"That is a Pottaunese book" Captain Tybog nodded.

"Pottaunese?" the soldier wondered. He was young, young enough not to have travelled out of the province he was born, save for the few marches he had been part of with the 88th. To him, any land that did not speak Ostrian was considered exotic, for he had no knowledge or insight in it.
"How can you tell, Captain?"

"The letters" Tybog admitted. "The Pottaunese tend to bend every corner of the letters enough to make an impression. They cannot abandon their old Empire at least in mind." his gaze was lost for few moments in the book. Perhaps the very book was merely the excuse, triggering the mind's darkest corners to make the Captain lose track of time.

"Anyway." he took a deep breath, recollecting his thoughts before turning his eyes to the soldier. "Get back to your duties, lad. Walk. So sleep doesn't get to you."

"Yes, sir." the soldier nodded, pulling himself back to the edge of the chamber, by the barred window.

Captain Tybog made his way towards the stairs.

"You think they will come, sir?"

Tybog halted.

"You think the enemy will come out of the city? Here?" the soldier insisted. His eyes wandered beyond the view, to where he could recognize the flickering light coming from the many flames and pit fires in the northern part of Gronharen. One could only guess if these were fires, pits or even remnants of the bombardment, still refusing to fade. To the eye, in the night's dark, they resembled distant candle lights.

"If they don't, lad..." Tybog looked down. He stretched his lips on his teeth, holding himself from saying what he truly thought. "Then we will go to them."

The Captain's steps carried the man down the stairs, leaving the young soldier to his watch.

 

[Dreadheart]

The dawnbreak illuminated the war-torn city of Gronharen, revealing the carnage unleashed the past day. Within just a day, the once rich settlement had been reduced into piles of rubble and ashes. Some of the buildings still emitted smoke from the artillery's barrage. While the Guard had pushed clear through the South districts, and managed to barricade in Kropsyde, the Freeguild forces still held in the North districts, over the river. Due to the chaotic nature of the engagement, the Guard was unable to clear the North, allowing enough breather for the Freeguild troops to rally... And rally, they did.

The first shots were fired by the Freeguild troops, barely after the sun rose in the sky. Some two dozen infantrymen attempted to push across the field and test the dug in Guard troops in Kropsyde. Of course, without artillery, they were quickly pushed back by the troops, with the Guard suffering little to no casualties.

"Get to positions! Stay in cover, lads!" Captain Tybog commanded. The troops rushed, broke in the outer buildings and picked spots behind windows, while others brought down furnature to create barricades behind the entrance.
The muskets of both armies were more than capable of engaging across the field. And both armies knew it. The Freeguild troops, across the field, in Gronharen, had formed similar defensive lines in their side of the city's edge.

 

[Dreadheart]

The ground was laid with wounded troops. At distant corners, the doctors had piled the dead, trying to use the torn buildings to reduce their visibility, as morale in the Freeguild Army had already plummuted. To deny the disintegration of his forces was to lie to his own self. Nadaufe DeFaurre was no fool. As he walked across the narrow street, his mind wept by the situation he faced. Any reinforcements were too far, and their commanders most likely too unwilling to contribute to an already failed endeavour.

"Sixty seven are out of the fight. Twenty more need at least a day of rest before they can use a rifle." the regimental doctor reported.

DeFaurre knew his troops were not going to last a prolonged siege.

"Captain." he commanded.

"Sir." the officer rushed forth.

"Inform Lord Togmur to prepare the dragoons. We have one chance to dislodge these bastards before the day is out."

Horses snarled as the cavalrymen picked their gear and performed the routine checks on their stallions, forming in lines between the buildings. They waited for their commander to return. And he did. A tall, bald man with long beard and a surprisingly longer hand, walked with head tall and a sword at hand, still in its scabbard.

"Lord Togmur" the officer voiced. "The men are ready."

"Good." the Lord replied. "The enemy has been pushed from the Northern districts, soldiers. With a final push from us, they will have to withdraw from their salient. We will claim a great victory this day."

 

[Dreadheart]

There was no coffee, or tea, or any comforting beverage this day, as it was custom in the Guard. There was nothing comforting at all, all things considered. With the Freeguild remnant troops holding the North, the Guard had no choice but to continue the siege in Gronharen. Captain Tybog, still fatigued, though sleep had cleansed a part of the exhaustion from yesterday's battle, walked within the rather crowded remnant of the richly decorated house, that had now turned into a mess of partially burned parchments, wounded and half-asleep troops lying on the spot, and shattered glass and pierced windows, from the musket fire.

Though no orders to attack the enemy were issued, as of yet, Tybog observed as the first skirmishes, in the form of ranged exchanges between the two salients, had already unfolded. Judging by the looks of it, casualties were less than minimum. With both sides well dug in, any shots making their marks were causing wounds, if nothing at all, save for few cases the soldier was unlucky enough to be caught in shrapnel from glass or wood, and be wounded in the eye, or face.

This was going to be a rather long day, Tybog thought....

Across the field, the sound of hooves could be heard, as cavalry contingents made ready. The field between Kropsyde and Gronharen was dotted with scattered bodies of fallen soldiers from both sides, since yesterday's clashes. The two had now barricaded themselves in opposite strongpoints, exchanging volleys, and yet, far to the North, along the Northern Road, the situation was different. There had been no fighting there, as of yet, and now, given the Freeguild faced the enemy holding Kropsyde, that Northern Road provided a rather tempting target.... To control that region meant they could encircle Kropsyde, and cut off the guard from their support farther South...