Chapter 96: Black Banners
Marshal Eckhard stood at the edge of the ridge, staring down at the smoking gates of the Savoyard keep.
The uncoordinated popping of wheellock rifles echoed up the slope... flames were licking the walls of the inner courtyard.
It sounded like a slaughter, but it didn’t sound like a military engagement.
Even so, Eckhard couldn’t take any chances...
If Duke Charles of Savoy had left another hidden garrison of elite knights inside that keep to ambush Ragnar’s men, the invasion could still collapse.
"Dieter!" Eckhard roared, turning his face back to the apprentice.
"Keep the Gatling carts loaded and watch the eastern tree line!"
"...If any more Bohemians poke their heads out of those pines, you grind them into sausage!"
"Yes, Marshal!" Dieter shouted back, packing fresh powder into the pans.
Thus, leaving the secured ridge in the hands of the mechanics, Eckhard grabbed a fresh wheellock pistol from a dead rider, raised his broadsword, and began sprinting down the mud of the slope.
A detachment of fifty reserve Reiters followed closely behind him.
The old Marshal expected to burst into the courtyard and find Ragnar’s veterans locked in a bloody melee with heavily armored Savoyard halberdiers.
However, when Eckhard finally rushed through the smoking remains of the doors, he saw the people.
The entire courtyard was a mess of peasants, local militiamen, and townspeople.
Men in simple wool tunics were swinging pitchforks and blacksmith hammers.
Women were standing on the balconies of the inner keep, hurling stones, boiling water, and burning oil down onto the Swabian soldiers.
"Hold the line!" Captain Ragnar’s voice boomed over the noise.
Eckhard looked through the smoke and saw the mercenary standing in the center of the courtyard.
Ragnar swung his two-handed broadsword in a wide arc, snapping the shafts of three approaching spears before kicking a militiaman square in the chest.
"Don’t let them break the squares!" Ragnar shouted to the young Swabian farm boys, who were clearly hesitating.
It was a miserable situation for the new Swabian recruits...
Just a month ago, most of Konrad’s soldiers had been simple farmers digging up turnips in the dirt.
Now, they were standing in blackened steel armor, pointing their advanced wheellock rifles at people who looked like their own fathers and brothers.
A Savoyard peasant charged blindly at a young Swabian gunner, raising a wood-axe high above his head.
"Die, you heretic bastards!" the peasant screamed.
The young Swabian boy froze, his finger trembling on the trigger.
Ragnar didn’t hesitate for a fraction of a second...
The mercenary stepped forward, ignoring the hail of thrown rocks, and buried a steel dagger into the side of the peasant’s neck.
"Shoot them, damn it!" Ragnar roared, grabbing the Swabian recruit by the collar and shaking him violently.
"They don’t care that you are a farmer! They only see Lord Konrad’s armor!"
"...If you don’t pull that trigger, they will cave your skull in!"
"First rank, present!" a Swabian sergeant yelled.
"Fire!"
A volley of lead ripped through the mob of militiamen... the iron balls shattered the shields and rusted chainmail of the local guards.
Although the city’s inhabitants fought with true courage, courage simply could not overcome weapons like these.
The Swabian pike squares stepped over the bodies, creating a wall of eighteen-foot steel spears, slowly backing the surviving militia toward the walls of the garrison church.
Eckhard lowered his broadsword, letting out a long breath as he walked deeper into the courtyard.
Within ten minutes, the fighting finally broke.
The remaining militiamen, seeing half their neighbors lying dead in the mud and realizing that the Swabian guns could fire continuously without ever tiring, dropped their pitchforks and fell to their knees, weeping in the smoke.
"Secure their weapons!"
"Round up the survivors! Throw them in the lower cellars and lock the heavy iron grates!"
Eckhard walked up to the mercenary, looking around at the carts and the windows of the keep.
"You made a mess of the place, Ragnar," Eckhard noted dryly, holstering his wheellock pistol.
Ragnar let out a laugh, "I didn’t start the fires, Marshal. These crazy bastards started burning their own grain carts just to smoke us out."
"...I have fought the Pope’s best halberdiers, but I swear, an angry farmer with a pitchfork and nothing to lose is twice as terrifying."
"They fought well," Eckhard admitted, looking down at the bodies. "The town is ours."
"What about the ridge?" Ragnar asked, "I heard the volley guns roaring up there... did the Duke of Savoy’s heavy horse finally show up?"
Eckhard offered a satisfied smile. "...It was Friedrich’s Bohemians. The holy fool tried to ambush our rear with a fake commander and seven thousand mercenaries."
Ragnar’s jaw dropped slightly. "Seven thousand? And you held them?"
"...Dieter’s Gatling carts shredded their front lines in a matter of seconds. The survivors ran crying back into the eastern pines. We own this entire valley now, Captain." Eckhard said.
Eckhard looked up toward the highest tower of the border keep... the blue and silver banner of the Duchy of Savoy was still fluttering in the morning wind.
"Take that miserable rag down," Eckhard ordered, pointing his finger at the tower. "Raise the black banners of von Frundsberg. I want every single lord within fifty miles to look out their windows today and know who owns this land."
"At once, Marshal." Ragnar shouted, gesturing for two of his men to sprint up the stairs.
Minutes later, the Savoyard flag was tossed from the high battlements, floating down to land in the blood-stained courtyard.
In its place, the imposing black banners of Lord Konrad were hoisted high into the winter sky.
The eastern borders of Savoy were wide open... yet one task remained unfinished.
Two heavily armored Swabian Reiters emerged from the doors of the garrison church, dragging a man between them.
The man was kicking and screaming, his expensive robes covered in mud and ash.
It was Count Philibert.
They dragged the local lord across the courtyard and threw him into the dirt at Eckhard’s feet.
Comments