TSA: 030 - The French Way of Waging War

Something about mistakes and interruptions…

“Death is nothing, but to live defeated and inglorious is to die daily.”

-

Levi von Grifenburg, 

To his host on the night before “The First Battle.”

…

• [04.04.1624]

Levi beheld the dawn breaking clear and cold over the westerly reaches of his lands. From his vantage atop an overwatching hill, he surveyed his chosen field of battle with feigned indifference. In truth, the earl was alight with a warrior's anticipation. His scouts had returned, whispering of Tristan’s forces amassing for an assault. They would be here any moment now, it seemed.

His scant musketeers and crossbowmen lay hidden in their wooden forts, ready to unleash havoc upon the enemy. His cavalry, a collection of the best riders in his retinue, had been formed into a small, elite unit of heavy horsemen. They awaited his command in the fields to the southeast, biding their time. Pike formations stood ready to support the charge, and a collection of hastily prepared artillery was positioned in the hills with a clear line of sight on the battleground below.

All was silent atop these rolling hills. The men sat in tense anticipation, faith and discipline alone keeping their ranks orderly. For a long while, this was so. Then, the trembling earth heralded the demise of the tranquillity of this unnamed valley.

Amidst thundering hooves, Tristan’s vanguard appeared first, advancing cautiously across the frost-kissed ground. Levi watched, eyes keen and calculating, as they reached the staging ground, unaware of the danger lurking just a few meters ahead. Minutes behind them, the main body of Tristan's host—a heavy cavalry unit preceding a mix of spear-wielding footmen, armoured knights, and bowmen—marched with an air of confidence.

Unsurprising, given they vastly outnumbered their foe.

The Lion’s host halted their march two hundred and fifty paces away from Levi’s blockade. Minutes passed as they arranged themselves to smash through Levi’s formidable line of palisades, ditches, and abatises. Shield bearers took the lead, forming a shield wall to protect the archers, while a smattering of ribalds near-suicidally charged forward to begin clearing the line of wooden spikes that forbade any thought of a cavalry charge.

Levi watched the enemy advance; three contingents of infantry in the middle, flanked by light infantry on the left and heavy infantry on the right, both lagging behind to allow the infantry to tear open a gap in the blockade. War drums began to beat, and great battle cries quickly drowned out the valley, signalling the start of the battle.

As the enemy got within seventy paces of the blockade, Levi raised his hand. The archer beside him quickly took aim and launched a fire arrow into the sky. The projectile flew true, leaving a glaring trail of black smog before being carried away by the wind.

In response, Levi’s musketeers and crossbowmen discharged their weapons. Loud bangs and clouds of bluish smoke greeted the advancing foe. In droves, men fell before even reaching the blockade. The air filled with the roar of musket fire and the whistling of crossbow bolts. Chaos erupted as Tristan's men stumbled over the corpses of their comrades. The screams of the wounded and dying echoed across the field.

Moments later, with great fanfare, Tristan’s three contingents of infantry crashed into the blockade and began the laborious task of chopping down great wooden spikes and filling ditches under fire. Some wiser men realized no future but death awaited them and tried to flee. Alas, the press of men unable to see the carnage ahead pushed them deeper into the meat grinder.

Levi watched the impasse for a full minute before determining the enemy was too committed to retreat easily now. Tristan’s cavalry remained standoffish, awaiting a gap to form in the blockade, but Levi was confident they wouldn’t retreat. Not while they still seemed to hold the overwhelming advantage.

Confident in his assessment, he gestured towards the archer by his side again. Another fire arrow flew, another signal. This time, his contingent of archers hidden in the treelines responded, emerging to take potshots at Tristan’s light cavalry. The archers weren’t many, but they proved a great nuisance to the mounted men.

The battle raged on. Tristan’s men pressed forward, their will broken, but momentum not. Levi watched with narrowed eyes as the main body of his enemy's force finally punched a hole in the blockade and surged toward the wagon forts.

With a light frown, Levi gestured to his personal archer again. He had expected the blockade to hold much longer, but it seemed he had been overly optimistic. Another arrow flew. Another signal.

Just as Tristan’s forces seemed poised to overrun the wagon forts, Levi's elite unit of heavy cavalry finally responded, charging into Tristan’s disarrayed soldiers. Panic rippled through the enemy's ranks as their own cavalry sought to push through the blockage to engage Levi’s horsemen.

The clash was fierce, the battlefield a maelstrom of blood and steel. As his cavalry gained ground, from behind emerged his pikemen, sluggish yet undoubtedly terrifying to the enemy.

Forming a disciplined phalanx, the pikemen approached, contained by the heavy cavalry that preceded them. Ponderously, they pushed into the roiling mass of men, driving Tristan’s forces back with ruthless efficiency.

Trapped between the advancing pikes, the relentless cavalry, and the blockade behind them, Tristan’s infantry faltered. Sensing victory, Levi’s lips curled upwards.

“Now, let the cannons speak,” he declared.

A barrel-chested servant boy brought a war horn to his lips at that order. The instrument blared, loud and true. Soon thereafter, the hills erupted with thunder as hidden cannons roared to life, plunging the rearguard of Tristan’s ranks into chaos. Though not entirely accurate, the bombardment was the final blow. The Lion’s host broke, fleeing the battlefield in disarray.

“Pursue them!” Ser Justin ordered his fellow cavalrymen, a sneer playing on his lips. “In the name of your lord! Let none escape!” His voice cut through the din of battle, igniting a fervor in the hearts of the horsemen. They spurred their mounts into a furious gallop, hooves thundering against the blood-soaked earth. The desperate cries of the fleeing soldiers filled the air, but the cavalry showed no mercy. Swords flashed, and the relentless pursuit became a slaughter, the fleeing remnants of Tristan’s army falling beneath the hooves and blades of Levi’s bannermen.

As the cavalry carved through the stragglers, the pikemen advanced ponderously behind them, their long spears gleaming in the sunlight. They marched at a steady, unhurried pace, their formation unbroken. There was no rush for them; their purpose was clear. Any attempt by Tristan’s men to regroup was met with the cold, unwavering wall of pikes. The disciplined advance of the pikemen ensured that the retreat became a rout, scattering Tristan’s forces beyond hope of reassembly.

Back at Tristan’s camp, the rearguard, left to protect the supplies and noncombatants, received word of the defeat. Panic spread like wildfire. They had heard the distant sounds of battle—the clash of steel, the shouts of men, the thunder of cannons—and now, the bitter truth reached them. Their comrades had fallen, and the Gryphon’s victorious army was on the march. Abandoning their posts, they fled in disarray, leaving the camp vulnerable and defenceless.

Levi’s forces descended upon the abandoned camp with glee. Tents were torn down, supplies were seized, and the spoils of war were gathered. It was a thorough sacking, a final insult to the Lion’s already crushing defeat. Amidst the chaos, Duke Tristan himself, along with a handful of his closest loyalists, slipped away into the woodlands. Their escape was a desperate flight, the remnants of a once-proud force now reduced to a handful of weary, disheartened men.

Victory belonged to Levi, his triumph complete. His superior military acumen had turned the tide of battle, and his strategies and commands were executed with precision. This day would be remembered, not just for the bloodshed and the fallen, but for the decisive blow dealt to Tristan’s forces. It was a pivotal moment in the annals of history, one that would shape the stability of the realm for years to come.