Re: Steel and Gunpowder

Chapter 92: Strictly for Infantry

A week passed... the knee-deep mud of the western mountain passes had tried its best to swallow the Swabian army whole.

It had been seven days of grueling marches through narrow valleys and unforgiving pine forests.

Now, standing on the edge of a jagged, heavily forested cliff, the old veteran finally saw the prize.

Down in the sprawling valley below, the winding dirt roads opened up, leading toward a heavily fortified stone fortress.

It was the primary border keep of Savoy, the very place where the greedy local barons had dragged the fake crates of Fugger silver just a few days prior.

Thus, the silent march was over... the real, bloody work was about to begin.

Marshal Eckhard let out a long, exhausted breath, his breath fogging in the freezing evening air.

"The roads leading to the main gates are completely clear, Marshal," a gravelly voice announced.

Eckhard turned to see Captain Ragnar marching up the muddy incline.

The mercenary wiped a layer of frost from his scarred cheek, looking highly satisfied.

"I sent the black-armored Reiters to sweep through the southern and eastern parts of the valley,"

"They spied on the outer hamlets and the farmhouses. The Savoyards have no forward pickets. The arrogant fools think they are safe sitting behind those stone walls."

"Of course they do," Eckhard muttered, "They think they just robbed a defenseless merchant convoy. They don’t expect the Devil of Swabia to knock on their front door a week later."

After hearing such words, a young, soot-stained apprentice pushed his way through the brush to join them.

It was Dieter, his hands black with grease and gunpowder.

"Marshal Eckhard!"

"The artillery train has cleared the final pass! The twenty-one cannons are ready on their carts.

...we stripped the muffled wool off the wheels, and the Gatling wagons are fully primed."

"Excellent work, Dieter," Eckhard nodded firmly. "We put the camp right here, at the edge of the treeline, I want the pike and shot squares formed up before midnight. Position the twelve-pounders on the high ridge overlooking the castle walls."

Ragnar frowned slightly, "If we are setting up twenty-one massive bronze cannons and four thousand men in the mud, we cannot do it in the pitch black, Marshal. Men will break their ankles, and the powder kegs will get mixed up in the confusion."

"I know..." Eckhard said flatly. "But if we light the torches, the people in the castle will obviously see us, we lose the element of absolute surprise."

However, Eckhard just offered a smile. "The element of surprise was simply to get us across the border undetected, Ragnar, we are already here. Now, Lord Konrad wants them to look out their stone windows and shit themselves in terror before the first cannon even fires. Light the torches."

Ragnar grinned, "With pleasure, Marshal."

Within the hour, the order rippled down the hidden Swabian ranks.

The shivering farm boys and veteran mercenaries quickly struck their flints.

One by one, the flames caught.

First, it was just a dozen flickering lights in the dark treeline. Then a hundred. Then a thousand.

In a matter of minutes, the entire ridge overlooking the Savoyard valley was completely illuminated by a sea of fire!

Down in the valley, inside the warm walls of the border keep, Count Philibert of Savoy was having a magnificent evening.

He was sitting at a grand table, drinking a chalice of incredibly expensive spiced wine, and laughing loudly with his border captains.

Just a few days ago, his men had ambushed a highly vulnerable Swabian merchant convoy.

They had dragged dozens of heavy, iron-banded crates into the lower vaults.

The Count hadn’t even bothered to open all of them yet; the weight of the crates alone told him he was going to be the richest man in the Duchy!

"Drink up, my friends!" Count Philibert cheered, raising his golden chalice. "The Swabian heretic is a fool! He leaves his silver unguarded on our borders, and now we reap the—"

"My Lord! Count Philibert!"

The doors of the banquet hall were violently shoved open.

A terrified watchman collapsed onto the floor, he dropped his halberd.

"What is the meaning of this?" the Count demanded, "...boy, you interrupt my supper!"

"The ridge..." the watchman choked out, "My Lord... look at the northern ridge!"

Even so, the Count rolled his eyes, assuming a local peasant had accidentally set a barn on fire.

He stood up and lazily walked over to the narrow glass window. He wiped the winter condensation from the glass and peered out into the night.

The golden chalice slipped from his fingers, hitting the floor.

The entire northern ridge was on fire. No, not on fire...

It was thousands upon thousands of organized, perfectly spaced torches.

And even over the howling winter wind, he could hear the grinding of wheels pushing bronze cannons into firing positions.

"Saints preserve us..."

"That... that is an entire army."

The border captains drew their swords, shouting contradictory orders... servants began running through the halls.

The Count grabbed his cloak and ran out of the banquet hall, sprinting across the courtyard toward the garrison church.

The church was the safest, most structurally sound building inside the fortress walls... it also served as their emergency command center.

When Count Philibert pushed the doors of the church open, the local priest, Father Claude, was already standing near the altar.

Several of the senior garrison sergeants were gathered around the holy pews, spreading out hasty maps and shouting at each other.

"Silence!" Count Philibert roared. "Give me the numbers right now! How many men do we have inside these walls?"

The sergeant swallowed hard, "My Lord... the Duke of Savoy took almost every veteran halberdier and knight when he marched west to Burgundy. We are operating on a skeleton crew. We have four hundred guards."

"What about the militia?" Philibert demanded, "We have the local villages! We have farmers inside the outer walls!"

"We have maybe eight hundred peasants, My Lord," the sergeant stammered. "But they are untrained."

"I don’t care if they piss their pants." the Count shouted, shoving the man back. "Go to the armory. Empty the racks. Give those peasants every rusty spear, every pitchfork, and every broken crossbow we have! Force them onto the battlements! If they refuse to fight, hang them from the walls!"

"Y-Yes, My Lord!" The sergeant quickly bowed and sprinted out of the church to carry out the desperate order.

Father Claude slowly walked forward, clutching his rosary to his chest. "Count Philibert... this is madness. That is the Swabian army on the ridge. That is the Heretic’s banner! If we arm the peasants, it will only end in a bloody massacre. We must send a message!"

"I am already sending a message, you fool!" Philibert barked, rushing over to the desk near the altar.

He grabbed a piece of vellum and a quill, he wrote a desperate plea for immediate reinforcements.

He wrote that the Swabian Viscount had marched a host across their borders in the dead of night, bypassing the Emperor’s laws.

"Take this to the fastest rider in the stables!" the Count ordered, shoving the wet vellum into the hands of a waiting guard.

"Tell him to ride out the southern gate! He must reach the main army! He must find Duke Charles!"

The guard snatched the letter and sprinted out into the night.

Count Philibert slumped against the desk, running his hands through his hair.

The reality of his catastrophic mistake was finally catching up to him...

"Father Claude..." the Count whispered, "Duke Charles and our main army are currently marching on Burgundy."

The priest nodded slowly, "Yes, My Lord."

"If our main army is already two weeks away in the west... how are they supposed to march back here before those Swabian cannons blow us to hell?"

"...we have high stone walls."

"They cannot just climb over solid rock, priest. We just need to hold the gates. I sent the rider. If we can bleed them for a week, Duke Charles will turn the main army around and save us. Now go out there and pray for their fucking souls, because I need them to fight!"

It was a lie, of course... the Count knew his rider would take days just to reach the Duke in Burgundy, let alone march an entire army back.

But fear was a powerful motivator, and right now, Philibert needed meat shields to stand on those walls.

Thus, the long winter night finally gave way to a freezing dawn.

High up on the muddy ridge overlooking the Savoyard fortress, Marshal Eckhard stood with his arms firmly crossed over his steel breastplate.

Down in the valley, the imposing stone keep was illuminated by the early light.

He could see the uncoordinated movement of hundreds of terrified peasants and a handful of professional guards scurrying along the high battlements like trapped ants.

Though the enemy looked pathetic, Eckhard didn’t feel a single ounce of pity... they had stolen from the von Frundsberg house.

They had taken the bait, and now they had to pay the toll in blood.

"Marshal Eckhard!" Dieter called out. "The artillery train is aligned. All twenty-one twelve-pounders are loaded with solid iron round shot... we have a direct line of sight to their main gates and the two flanking watchtowers."

"Good," Eckhard grunted, "What about the Gatling carts?"

"Covered and waiting in the rear, Sir," Dieter confirmed. "Lord Konrad specifically ordered us not to waste their barrels on stone walls... they are strictly for infantry slaughter."