NationStates Jolt Archive

One king had been removed, but Frozopia's new enemies had not succeeded in their attempt to destroy the royal line. And thus with this opportunity to undo what the rebels had achieved, the Frozopians marched north.

Rolling green plains lay underneath blue sky, and this combined with the prospect of destroying an enemy left General Derfel in a good mood. Pausing his horse, Defel watched the next regiment of Frozopian infantry march as he chatted cheerfully to his aides. The blue coated infantry were careful to avoid catching his gaze, always wary of their superiors although a few had the cheek to grin at him. Derfel pretended not to notice these.

Progress was sluggish, it always was when soldiers were gathered in large numbers and 20,000 men was something not to be scoffed at. That said good roads lay ahead and according to the Frozopian scouts the enemy had not gathered any resistance.....yet. Derfel knew something of Osteian soldiers, they were tough and disciplined. Derfel hoped some of this discipline had faded with the dissolvment of the officer classes, but he knew this was unlikely. From all reports this enemy was a organised force.

Gazing to the north, Derfel stared over the horizon. By now the first infantry regiment would be crossing the border. Derfel said an inward prayer, praising the lord for granting him a beautiful day to march on but also a prayer for victory. Although he knew odds were in his favour, pressure was stacked upon him to succeed. Failure would probably mean an end to his military career and a shameful return to Londinium.

"Pass me that parchment again Charles." He turned on one of his aides, a tall blonde man who was still grinning from a joke he was told.

"Here sir."

This force of men has hereby been placed in your command so that you can destroy the rebels who have seized the Empire of Osteia and place the last remaining heir on the throne.

Cavalry Battalions:
1st Royal Heavy Cavalry Battalion
4th Light Regiment

Infantry Battalions:
2nd Royal Frozopian Guard
3rd South Essex Guard
1st Wessex Regiment
4th Wessex Regiment
8th North Essex Regiment
2nd South Essex Regiment
7th Essex Regiment
5th Londinium Regiment

Artillary Detachment of 25 guns and 500 personnel

The young nation of the Ansurian people was being smothered in its cot.

Frozopian troops, loyal to their King and to his line, which had included Charles the Third of Osteia - the incompetant King slain by his Ansurian subjects - were already advancing into her lands. Border guards were captured or slain, their small blockhouses and wooden fortifications no match for the determined Frozopian professionals.

Peasants were cowed, with some fleeing north to escape the conquerors.

---

"...in blue uniforms, Mandalore," said the man. A peasant from the southern shyrs, the farmer was dressed in hard, weathered leather and dark wool. His young son, a boy of no more than twelve years, stood beside him. "No mistake. M'boy was there wi' me when 'ey come up the village lane, an' 'e saw 'em as well."

The tall man was dressed in simple, dark green cotton. He had no frogging, no braid or adornments. He dined on mutton, bread, water and milk and slept on a straw pallet bed as he would expect of the people he ruled. Once Robert Turnell Mallix, now Mandalore the Bastard, he lived with all the comforts of a peasant in a building built for the highest kin of Kings.

His face was hidden totally by an ornate steel helm, marked by the distinctive Mandalorian 'T'.

"You have seen these soldiers before?" he asked, his voice deep and melodious.

"Aye, Mandalore," replied the peasant. "I've seen 'em marchin' about on the plains, when I've walked over the hills near the village. I've seen 'em drillin' an' changin' the guard at the ol' border fort. They was Frozzers, no doubt about it."

Underneath the expressionless mask, Mandalore was worried. He dismissed the farmer and his son, expressing his most sincere gratitude and promising reward for their service. As they left, Mandalore ran into the halls and high-ceilinged rooms of the Imperial Palace, his deep voice ringing as he called a name.

"Solborne!" he yelled, echoing throughout the stone building. "SOLBORNE!"

General Samuel Athan Solborne was sixty-three, and had been the only Ansurian General in the service of Imperial Osteia. His battle-strategies were simple, though deceptively powerful. He was personally responsible for the training of the officers of the new Ansurian army, though a number of lesser commanders were also available to instruct.

The General had been asleep by a large fireplace, the once-flaming blaze now reduced to a cluster of charred logs, their embers glowing a dull red. The old commander was woken by the cries of his lord, the first Ansurian ruler for more than three centuries. He called Mandalore's name, leading the new ruler to him.

"We are attacked!" explained Mandalore, his eyes almost wild. Once a Sergeant in the army of Imperial Osteia, he had been a soldier, though had only a bare understanding of strategy, and was uncharacteristically unnerved by his lack of knowledge. "Attacked from the south, by the King of Frozopia! His men march upon us, their aim to rule or to enslave!"

"Calm yourself, Robert," said General Solborne, the only man to still use Mandalore's born name. "I feared this, yet was prepared."

"They have twenty thousand, Samuel! Twenty thousand! We are barely organised, and have only the Guards under our command! By the time other regiments were mustered, they would already be at the gates!"

"The Guards will hold," the General muttered, "of this you needn't doubt. Get them close to the enemy where they can fight him hand to hand, and we shall win. The greatest problem will be the enemy cavalry, though I believe we can gather enough to counter them."

"There is hope, Solborne?" asked Mandalore. A grown man, reduced to a young boy by lonely burden of authority. Solborne was his battle-father, his commander. Though he was now a man of strategy himself, orders were a comforting assurance.

"There is hope, Robert," replied the General. "We are the Mandalorians, the greatest warriors of this or any age. If the enemy have twenty thousand, and we only ten, or five, we shall use the cunning we were born with and the gutter fighting we learned as adults. We shall fight harder than he, and be victorious."

General Solborne gave a racking cough, his years showing on his face. "Go to your officers, Robert. Command them, and ready the regiments. Save your people again.

"This, I order you."

OOC: Order of Battle. These are the regiments to be mustered, and who are believed will be ready in time to give battle to the Frozopian invader.

Household Division - Mandalore the Liberator
4 Battalions - 1st Regiment of Foot The Grenadier Guards
3 Battalions - 2nd Regiment of Foot The Ior'icshyr Guards
3 Battalions - 3th Regiment of Foot The Wor'ic Guards

Halcon's Brigade - Colonel Halcon, 10th Regiment of Foot
1 Battalions - 6th Regiment of Foot The North Ior'icshyr
1 Battalions - 10th Regiment of Foot The South Ior'icshyr
1 Battalion - 20th Regiment of Foot The West Ior'icshyr Regiment

Elements, The Heavy Brigade - Brigadier Joseph Humble
1 Regiment - 1st Dragoons The Ior'icshyr Mounted Guards
1 Regiment - 2nd Dragoons The Imperial Dragoon Guards
1 Regiment - 4th Dragoons The Ly'eshyr Dragoon Volunteers
1 Regiment - 6th Dragoons The Camo'brishyr Dragoon Guards

Artillery Detachment, Imperial Regiment of Artillery - Major Malachai Lawrence
4 Batteries - 12pdr Foot Artillery

Elements, Imperial Logistics Division - Master Engineer Timoté de la Jonsour
4 Battalions - Imperial Army Ordnance, Transport and Supply Regiment
1 Battalions - Imperial Pioneer Regiment
1 Regiment - Imperial Army Postal and Courier Service

TOTAL
13 Battalions of Foot - 11,232 Infantrymen
4 Regiments of Heavy Dragoons - 3,456 Troopers
4 Batteries of 12pdr Foot Artillery - 608 Artillerymen, 32 12pdr Field Guns
5 Battalions, 1 Regiment of Logistics Personnel - 5,184 Staff Officers, Pioneers, Carters & Couriers

14,668 Combatants, 32 Guns, 5,184 Non-Combatants

"Wha- what do we do with the prisoners ssssir?" Asked one of the generals more inexperienced aides. His face turned red with embarrassment at his stuttering, ignoring the snigger of a couple of his comrades. Derfel remained silent.

The enemy had fled before the Frozopian army in most places, but some of the early garrisons had been caught off guard and it was these (or at least those who surrendered) whose fate Derfel contemplated. The rest had died has they stood.

"There is no mercy for rebels, and we do not have the time to send them back to Frozopia to be properly punished. Execute the lower ranking ones.
We shall allow the officer classes to live for the moment, but for the rest set up firing squads when we next come to a halt. Do not offer parole to the officers, not till I have gauged their honor correctly."

"Yes sir." Spoke the aid, relieved that his stuttering had been ignored.

"And Frederick do sort out that stutter it is quite grating on my concentration."

"Yes.....sir." The aide shaping his words carefully.

"Good lad!"

Patting the young mans back, he allowed his horse into a trot up the line as he spotted another rider carrying more information. It was the same old stuff: Abandonned barracks, a few cases where privates had been punished for stealing from the peasants and a fear of the Lieutenant colonel commanding the lead Regiment that the enemy were gathering their numbers in preparation.

"Perhaps we could pursuit them a bit harder sir?"

Derfel frowned. Several of his staff thought he was being too slow in his pursuit of the enemy, but the truth was with such large numbers any sort of chase would mean leaving their supplies and artillary behind and more than likely running blindly into a ambush.

"Dont be foolish. We shall keep at this pace. Gaining ground on such a small force is almost impossible. Do not fear: When these rebel scum find some courage they will turn and fight. And when they do they will find out why we Frozopians have the best army of Britain." The General grinned and bursting into a canter this time.

"And we will win!"

The rattle of musket fire and the scream of horses, and thick, scarlet blood littered the dusty ground.

Troopers were torn from their saddles by musket balls as the volley hit home. Smoke, rising from a nearby copse betrayed the position of a score of Ansurian Dragoons, now fleeing to their mounts before the Frozopian cavalrymen could mount a pursuit.

A black-coated cavalry officer yelled for order, and pummeled his men into something resembling a line of attack. He raised his sword for the company to see, and brought it down with a battle-cry. The Frozopian cavalry roared straight into a charge, driven by their commander to chase down the rebel Dragoons...

Captain Tom Wilkinson, a middle aged cavalry officer born with a fishmonger for a father in the hard streets of Londinium, was first aware of the ambush as the horseman infront of him exploded in a spray of blood as two carbine bullets tore through him. The horse reared and crashed into his neigbour, and for about a minute the company was a mess of reeling hooves and screaming horses. Pushing his own horse through the fray, Tom had time to see horsemen garbed in blue bursting from the small forrest that ended on the edge of the road.

Already the company had escaped the fray of injured horses and were awaiting their officers command. Tom didnt hesitate:

"FORWARD!" The remains of the company burst into a gallop.

The big Ansurian horses sweated as their riders pushed them hard, trying frantically to escape the enemy cavalrymen. Though their mounts were more powerful, the Dragoons were laden down with forage, sleeping rolls and equipment.

Men screamed as the flicking sabres tore their spines open to the sky, slashing steel meeting soft, yielding flesh and biting deep into vulnerable skin and kidneys. Rich blood sprayed from open wounds, and the Ansurian stragglers fell from their horses to hit hard on the stony road.

---

Lieutenant Wallace sighted along the long barrel of his six-pounder. Loaded with canister, the double-shotted bronze gun was covering the northern road with enough musket balls fit to destroy a battalion. Barely a handful of these guns had yet been forged for the Horse Artillery, but one of them was in his charge.

Dragoons thundered past, Frozopian light cavalry tight on their heels. Wallace touched his linstock to the fuse of his gun with practiced judgement, and stepped calmly backwards with his fingers in his ears.

The gun fired, projecting a plume of foul smoke nearly eighty feet long and thirty wide at the largest point. Four hundred musket balls ripped through the air at hundreds of feet a second, spreading into a teardrop nearly four hundred yards long. They hit accurately, tearing into the cotton uniforms and soft bodies of the Frozopians.

To the left and right of the road, dismounted Ansurian Dragoons rose from concealed positions. Earth had been scraped and shaped, sod cut and placed facing the road, giving the two-foot hollows an impression of open grass. They clambered into kneeling and prone firing positions, carbines at the ready. They cocked their weapons, and fired into the charnel house that had once been a company of cavalry. Smoke billowed from barrels and powder sparks singed faces as the Dragoons settled into the familiar motions of firing their weapons.

Bite, pour, spit, prime, wad and weapons were against shoulders again. Another volley, more ragged than the first, sent its lethal payload against the ambushed enemy.

Captain Tom Wilkinson died that day, the first officer casualty of the war. The cannister fire tore through him and his horse, splattering his brain, blood and guts all across his fellow horsemen. Again the air was torn by sounds of screaming men and horses as the enemy opened fire on the unfortunate company of men.

"RETREAT!" Roared one of the horsemen, and immediatly the horsemen swung around on the road and galloped for the distant safety. In the chaos two more men fell, their horses shot underneath them. One of them was able to stand again and began to stagger away but the carbine fire finished him off.

After 15 minutes of hard riding, Lieutenant Gore was confident he had outrun his pursuers. Pulling to a halt on the old road, he quickly shouted the order to halt. Of the 93 horsemen 58 were missing. One of privates was confident he had seen some of them outride the main group. They were joined a couple of minutes later by 8 more horsemen who had remained at the scene of the first volley. After another 10 minutes they rode on to find the faster of the horsemen waiting for them down the road.

43 Horsemen had been left behind. Many had died instantly, but Lieutenant Gore had heard the screaming of the dying and injured even over the chaos of the ambush as he fled. Some of the men would die alone, cold and crying for their friends to help them. Some would be taken alive, and it was these that Lieutenant feared for. The Frozopians had shown little mercy for their prisoners. Why should the enemy be any different?

Of the survivors only 9 were injured, and most of these had been injured in the first volley. There was little time to assist those injured in the madness of second ambush.

General Defel would not be pleased.

The Frozopian cavalryman emitted a silent scream as the saw began its work. His head was swimming with brandy, but the pain and sheer horror of the amputation had penetrated his drunken haze. The surgeon sawed back and forth, cutting through the unfortunate man's shin just above the bloodied stump that had once been a foot.

The steel teeth ground against yielding bone, breaking through to the marrow and eventually snapping through. The cavalryman wept as the saw cut through the muscle of his calf, his futile attempts to prevent the pain obstructed by four burly orderlies in blood-spattered aprons and sweat-stained shirtsleeves.

Rain battered against the canvas roof of the surgeon's tent which shielded those Frozopians who had already suffered his ministrations. Six black-coated men sat dejectedly, several with tears rolling shamelessly down their faces and all wounded during the ambush

---

Captain Ayers was a product of the rushed officer training course of the Ior'ic Military Academy. Enough officers to replace half of those taken prisoner and killed during the revolution had been trained, though with only combat training, a far cry from the gentlemen soldiers of other nations.

Ayers had ordered the wounded treated, as he would have expected of any enemy other than that he faced. The Frozopians executed Ansurian prisoners, though parolled officers as hostages tradeable for their own captured aristocrats. The Ansurian military couldn't cope with losing its only trained commanders, and would grudgingly trade the sons of Dukes and Earls for their 'artisans'.

In a temporary camp five miles from the city of Ior'ic, the Ansurian forces assembled. Soon, the march would begin, and the free men of Ansuria would pit their resolve against the invading Frozopian royalists.

Once the cavalry officer exited the tent, the general cursed the foolishness of the deceased officer. Spuring his men into a chase of enemied soldiers into unknown territory was always a bad idea, and in doing so the officer had obliterated his whole company.

The general turned on his aides,
"Make sure this doesnt happen happen. Reinforce my point of caution among the outriders. This sort of foolishness is unacceptable."

"Yes sir."

Darum'ayustapir was a small market town. Its large marketplace hosted dozens of stalls and sellers from miles around, some travelling almost ten miles to sell their wares. All manner of fruit and vegetable, meat and dairy could be bought at Darum, and hundreds came to the little Not'amshyr town to buy and trade.

No more.

Booted heels thudded through the streets, soldiers dressed in Osteian red thronged the little paths and roadways between shacks and cottages as they made their way to the defences. Furniture, planks and brush had been dragged into barricades barring the main roads, nailed together with care, for it was the only thing which would keep the enemy at a bayonet's length.

The Frozopians were coming, and Darum and the men it protected were their target.

OOC: Order of Battle. These troops present in Darum'ayustapir (Darum-on-the-River).

Elements, Imperial Ansurian Army - Lieutenant-Colonel Nathaniel Groves, 20th Regiment of Foot
1 Battalion - 10th Regiment of Foot The South Ior'icshyr
1 Battalion - 17th Regiment of Foot The Mi'lunshyr Light Infantry
1 Battalion - 20th Regiment of Foot The West Ior'icshyr Regiment

The Frozopian battalion, a unit of the 5th Londinium regiment were astonished to find their enemy had halted in the small village of Darum'ayustapir. Around the village were a company of confused light cavalry, members of the 4th light regiment. Most of the horsemen had dismounted, but a few kept riding in close to have a look at the village before swiftly riding out of range.

Spotting the approaching infantry battalion, Captain Brochaevel trotted upto the marching men greeting the officer riding at the front with a salute.

"Greetings sir! Captain Brochaevel of the 4th light regiment reporting for duty sir!"

"Greetings Captain. I am Lieutenant colonel Hamilton. Whats this we've ran into?"

The captain frowned. "Not sure sir. The buggers wont bloody budge. Seems like they want to put up a fight."

"Captain please refrain from swearing. Remember that officers must act like gentlemen whether they are gentlemen or not. Are there any other enemy units in the area?"

"I apologise sir. We've scouted the surrounding country side carefully, and I've sent a report back to the main army, but theres no sign of any other enemy units nor any orders sir."

"Ok captain. I want you to ride forward and offer them a chance to surrender themselves to us. Promise them life for all their men if they choose to do so. If they refuse then I cannot make such a generous offer later. Understood?"

"Yes sir."

Riding back to his own men and cursing vehamently the arrogance of his ruling classes as he did so, he pulled out an old white shirt from his kit which he had carried for days on end on his horse, and tied it around his sword blade. Mounting up, he carefully held the sword high and approached the obstinate Ansurians......

"Enemy rider approaching, sir!" yelled Lieutenant Sanderson, mounted upon a bay gelding, the reins in his left hand. Before him, the men of the Grenadier Company of the 20th stood, muskets steel-tipped and at the ready, behind one of the village's barricades.

Lieutenant-Colonel Groves marched smartly from a requisitioned cottage to stand beside the young officer's horse, one hand subconciously moving to hold the rein.

"Got your glass eye on you, Sanderson?" asked Groves, "I want to get a look at this bugger."

Sanderson fished in his saddlebag for his extendable telescope, eventually finding it and handing the piece to his commander. Groves extended the telescope, peering out over the Grenadiers and their barricade to focus on the approaching horseman.

"He's not looking too comfortable on that nag of his," said Groves, "go see what he wants, Sanderson."

"Aye, sir," said the young officer, nudging his mount towards the barricade and giving orders for it to be parted to allow him past. He steered the big horse through the narrow alley of thorns and splintered wood which had been created, and pushed it into a trot as he left the defences behind.

"Greetings sir." Captain Brochaevel approached the horseman warily, carefuly lowering his sword. It was always a dangerous thing approaching a new enemy under the flag of truce. You were never sure whether they would honor the sign of peace.

"I have been ordered to inform you that if you and your soldiers surrender, we can promise your men and officers life. Should you refuse we cannot guarranty making such a generous offer at a later date. That is all."

"My compliments to you commander, sir," replied Lieutenant Sanderson, his face bearing a wide smile, "but he can stick his white flag up his arse."

Half an hour later and a company of Green coated Frozopian riflemen marched in a column down the old beaten dirt road. Marching at a brisk pace, the column paused 300 yards from the village before breaking into a skirmishing line.

"Ok lads. We are gonna march up to that pig hole they call a town and line up 150 yards or so from that blockade. Then we are gonna shoot the bastards to pieces. Make your first shots count, hopefully they wont expect Frozopia's finest Riflemen to be on the battlefield, and remember, aim low! When we've softened the buggers up we can send in the pansies to tidy it up. Ya hear?"

The men grinned and began to fan out further. Carefully moving low over the next 100 yards, the riflemen paused at the 150 yard range to shoulder their weapons.......

Ahead of the riflemen the company of light cavalry had carefully screened their approach. Although unsure whether they were successful or not, they swiftly rode behind the riflemen and were ready for any sort of counter attack from the town.

"They're a bit far away," asked Lieutenant Sanderson, his eyeglass trained on the now-revealed enemy infantry, "aren't they, sir?"

"I would have said so," replied Lieutenant-Colonel Groves. "What colour are their uniforms?"

"Looks like... green, sir," said Sanderson. Puffs of silver-grey smoke erupted from the enemy skirmish line, and the young Lieutenant was pitched backwards in a spray of gore. His limp form raised a cloud of dry dirt when it hit the road, and lay still.

"Take cover!" yelled Colonel Groves, "THE ENEMY HAVE RIFLES!"

The Colonel fell behind a stone wall as rifle bullets zipped through the space he had been standing. The Grenadier Company had fallen into cover behind a stone wall, though several of their number lay twitching at the barricade.

"Sergeant-Major Cowes!" bellowed the Colonel, "Get here, man!"

The call was echoed by Captain Brockhurst of the Grenadier Company, and the RSM of the 20th made his way to his position. The Captain pointed Cowes on his way, and a few short seconds later the burly man came running past Colonel Groves, sliding into cover behind his commander with a scraping shower of gravel.

"Sir..." mumbled the Sergeant-Major, "reporting as ordered."

"Cowes," said Groves, "I need you to take an order to Lieutenant-Colonel Marchwood of the 17th..."

---

"GO!" screamed the officers of the 17th, "Go! Go!"

Green-uniformed men erupted from stone-walled strongpoints along the boundary of the town as the entire 17th Regiment of Foot advanced against the Frozopian riflemen. Chivvied by their Sergeants, who had been thoroughly briefed by the battalion's officers, the men of the 17th formed as they ran, becoming a pair of thick, rapidly advancing lines. Each man carried only his musket and bayonet, with packs and shakos left behind.

Rifles fired and men fell screaming, but the Ansurians were too many, and the battalion's advance continued.

Colonel Marchwood commanded the left line, and his eyes were on the enemy cavalry, his objective to block them from the right. Major Ricks commanded the right, and his men gritted their teeth readied themselves to charge through lead to overwhelm the enemy's skirmishers.

The enemy's own infantry were too far behind, and could only watch as the 17th made their attack.

"BACK!" Roared the Rifle captain, and immediatly the Riflemen stood and ran. Riflemen are deliberately chosen for their speed and accuracy, and this company was no different. Sprinting 60 yards away from the fast approaching enemy, Blunte called for a halt and quickly the company formed a ragged line across the road.

"RELOAD." The Riflemen swiftly reloaded, their expertise clear. Swiftly reloading and ramming it down the barrel, they prepared to make this volley count. It took 30 seconds to complete the process. Many had the benefit of their ammunition wrapped in leather in preparation of the sniping they had been performing, but the rest had to tap load.

"PRESENT!" Blunte shouldered his own rifle, Lets make this volley hurt the bastards he thought. By now the enemy were but 60 yards away and fast approaching.

"FIRE!" The riflemen let off another devastatingly accurate volley, smashing heavily into the advancing line.

"RETREAT!" The riflemen stood once again and sprinted further back....

Meanwhile Captain Brochaevel swung his light cavalry in an arc, quickly escaping the fast approaching line as he cursed his lack of numbers. If he had another company of light cavalry he might have been willing to test the enemy line, but for now he would do his damndest to outflank them. The black garbed horsemen pushed their horses a bit harder, riding out to the north east...

Lieutenant colonel Hamilton, who had been watching the progress of the Riflemen through his prized eye glass, immediatly began to distribute the orders to the 5th Londinium battalion. Captains swiftly began to roar orders to their companies:

"LINE FORMATION!"
"DUMP ALL YOUR GEAR!"
"MARCH AT DOUBLE PACE!"

The brilliantly disciplined Frozopians were formed up within a minute and marching at double pace in an orderdly double line. The officers continued roaring orders.

"CLOSE THAT GAP!"
"DO NOT BREAK THE LINE!"

And then there was silence, but for the pounding of the ground as the Frozopians marched and almost jogged forward, for there was no need for orders anymore. The Frozopians were ready to fight.

Fully half a company fell to the volley, some tripping their comrades behind as the sprinting infantrymen advanced over their wounded. Ahead of them, barely forty yards distant, the enemy riflemen were scrambling for cover.

"Halt!" ordered Lieutenant-Colonel Marchwood. His arms spread over the men to his left and right. "Present your arms, and aim for their backsides!"

Of the seven hundred or so men remaining of the 17th, nearly five hundred could bring their arms to bear.

"I want them limping, or I'll want to know why!" yelled their Colonel. "FIRE!"

Hundreds of flints sparked, hundreds of primers flared, and hundreds of muskets discharged their payloads. The enemy infantry were obscured by a wall of powder smoke, and Marchwood's orders were echoed through the cacophony.

"RALLY SQUARE!"

---

Lieutenant-Colonel Groves ordered his men forward as the second stage of his attack began. The 20th streamed through doorways and gaps in the barricade, their red uniforms bright as blood against the dull greys and greens of the town of Darum'ayustapir. They formed into companies in line, three deep along the edge of the town.

The riflemen were scattered and sprinting in the opposite direction, but the sheer number of musket fire scoured through them. The slowest and the oldest of the riflemen were thrown violently to the ground as the musket balls tore through them snatching their lives away. Although the smoke of musket fire hid them from view, the screams of the wounded and dying were not lost to anyone....

------------------------

Captain Brochaevel swung his horsemen to face the line of companies forming outside the town. If he could just slow down their approach the Frozopian infantry battalion would have time to engage the enemy square. That said he would have to keep the 17th in square formation.

"Forward 50 yards! We want to threaten both battalions! Understood!?"
The horsemen nodded warily and pushed their horses forward.

--------------------------

Meanwhile Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton had slowed his men to a normal march. It was important that when the Frozopians arrived at the enemy square they would be able to give an orderdly fire. The line had become slightly ragged, but quickly reformed without checking pace. As they go to the 40 yard mark, the various captains called a halt and the double line began to load their weapons.....

"Fix bayonets," ordered Groves, his order repeated by the parade-ground voice of Sergeant-Major Cowes.

"FIX BAYONETS!" barked Cowes.

The red-coated Ior'icshyrmen removed their spike-bayonets from oiled sheaths, and sunlight reflected from the glistening blades. A few seconds fumbling, and the seven hundred and fifty bayonets of the 20th Regiment were locked in place, their wielders hardened to their use.

"Advance."

"'TALION WILL ADVANCE!" bellowed the big RSM. "MARCH!"

Eight hundred and fifty pairs of hobnailed boots crushed the grass as the 20th Regiment of Foot marched with fixed bayonets towards the enemy light cavalry. The enemy fell back without challenge, as was expected, shuffling their way westward.

The 20th wheeled, their pace never slowing, and they advanced again on the nervous enemy cavalry. The horsemen fell back again, further westward past the now-beleaguered 17th which was suffering in square under the sustained volleys of the Frozopian professionals.

The green-jacketed men died where they stood, their fire ragged and their officers desperate. Lieutenant-Colonel Marchwood was wounded, a bullet in his lung, and men crouched behind the bodies of their fellows while desperately reloading muskets. The 20th must hurry, or the 17th would be lost.

---

"Major Fore!" shouted Lieutenant-Colonel Groves, one hand cupped to his mouth and the other gripping the reins of his mount. "The battalion will split here! Block those bloody cavalry!"

"Aye, sir!" responded Fore, turning to give orders to his five companies. "Half-battalion will wheel to the right!"

As one half of the 20th wheeled to the right to face the enemy cavalry, the other half under Colonel Groves wheeled left to face the enemy infantry. Their muskets promised death, and Colonel Groves drew his blade.

"Half-battalion!" he yelled, his voice reaching over the heads of his four hundred men. "HALT!"

A small reverberation ran through the soft Not'amshyr turf as both half-battalions were ordered to a stop. They stood for a second, eyes straight ahead, each half-battalion's hopes given to the men protecting their rears.

"PRESENT!" ordered Groves, and his three hundred and seventy muskets were brought to bear, their steel-crowned barrels levelled against the enemy.

"FIRE!"

With the 17th Square on breaking point, Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton gave the final orders that were designed to be the hammering blow on the enemy formation.

"FIX BAYONETS!" Officers all along the line officers roared the command. The infantry rammed the steel blades home before taking aim.

"ONE LAST VOLLEY!"

"ONE LAST VOLLEY!" The ordered was echoed down the line.

But then the 20th half battalion appeared out of the musket smoke and the battle that looked won suddenly looked like disaster.

"HALF BATTALION TURN!" Roared Major Hudson, a young man, his face paled by the smoke of musket fire and the blood pouring from his wounds. One of his fellow officers held him so that he could stand, but this did not stop him roaring orders. The enemy volley slammed heavily into the Frozopian line, but it did not slow their turn enough. Ominously the Frozopians swung on their new enemy....

"FIRE!"

Returning the volley in the last few yards, the Frozopian half battalion levelled their bayonets for the incoming charge....


----------------------
Meanwhile the other half battalions had hesitated for a few seconds before their officers spurred them to continue firing upon the square. All those years of drilling, all those hours on the parade ground reloading and firing, reloading and firing until they were half blinded by the musket smoke and their fingers numb and bloody from the repetitive motion and the cold air. All this training until their hands were able to reload the musket without the brain even knowing, all this contributed to the deadly rate of fire they gave.

The remains of the rifle company had joined this battalion, and took joy in the vengeance they performed on the enemy. One or two of them even took the arduous steps to reload their rifles to their optimum accuracy, taking snipes at the enemy officers, although the smoke blotted their view in most cases. Blunte did not try to stop them.

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Captain Brochaevel eyed the enemy square warily, spuring his horsemen to the southern end of the west side. He was still relunctant to push home a charge, for any charge even if it was successful through the square would quickly be countered by the 20th half battalion.......

Nearly four hundred muskets flared, and the front of the half-battlion was enveloped in smoke. The enemy had been caught in mid-wheel, though their discipline was formidable. Lieutenant-Colonel Groves kicked back his spurs and waved his heavy sabre, yelling for his men to attack.

"Now kill them, you bastards!" he screamed. "Bloody KILL THEM!"

The men of the 20th Regiment broke ranks and ran into the chaos of battle with a cry, their Colonel at their head. His sword was raised for the charge and his teeth ground with fear, and suddenly the blue-jacketed enemy loomed. They fired as best as could be expected, bullets plucking at red-coated men and sending them howling to the damp grass, but the attack was in full flow and the advantage was his.

Groves hacked at a lone enemy infantryman, his blade burying itself in the panicked man's forehead and grinding against the bone. A hail of musket balls buzzed past Groves' head and arms, but a fateful round found its mark, and the Colonel was pitched to the ground as his horse took the bullet full in the neck. It whinnied pitifully, blood bubbling through its teeth and from the wound, but the sound was drowned away by the din of clashing steel and the screaming wounded as the Ansurians wreaked bloody vengance upon the enemy.

Colonel Groves wrenched his weapon from the corpse. The sword felt heavy in his hand, but practice allowed him to wield the butcher's blade with a deadly skill. Following his men and bellowing encouragement, he advanced into the billowing smoke.

---

The square was broken.

The enemy were advancing, their bayonets bright in the grey smoke, and the 17th had taken as much as it could. Their officers gave the order, and the green-jacketed men fled from the attack, no stomach for a fight against such numbers.

---

Major Fore ordered his men to wheel, keeping the enemy cavalry to their front. The 17th would not hold, he knew, and if was neccessary, his half-battalion would have to reinforce them.

The enemy were split, but so was he. The battle was turning, but which way would be decided by steel, guts and raw aggression.

The enemy slammed heavily into the bloodied half battalion. Captain Hancock desperately tried to pull his dying commander further behind the line, but it was too late. Major Hudson gave one last scream of pain as a red coated soldier drove his bayonet heavily into the Frozopian officer, who died seconds later choking on his own blood.

Roaring with anger Captain Hancock stabbed his sword low into the offending private, feeling the stomach of the soldier burst open in the process. Pulling free his sword, he back swung it into another opponent, forgetting already the dying enemy....

The Frozopians fought viciously, but the enemy volley and charge had taken its impact. The thin blue line would not be able to hold forever, but they would make the enemy pay for every step forward they made.

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Meanwhile Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton was giving orders to his advancing Frozopians. The men had been eager to chase the fleeing enemy and loot the dead, but the officers roared command after command untill they had them under control, and now they were ready for manouvering.

"1 COMPANY! 2 COMPANY! TURN!"

The 150 men had formed a ragged line, with more and more Frozopians joining it. Slowly the line was gathered, ready to march. All about them wounded men screamed for help underneath the thick smoke, but the few who tried to help (or loot them, as the case maybe) them were ordered back into the formation.

"RELOAD!"

"FORWARD!"

The 2 companies marched quickly, taking an arc that would bring them into firing range upon the enemy flank. It was a long route and Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton could only hope they got their before the Frozopian half battalion broke completely.

To reduce this risk, 55 men who made up the remains of Rifle company were already sprinting towards the struggling eastern flank. The tough riflemen would do their best to secure the line, but more importantly they were a reminder that the half battalion was not forgotten.

"3 COMPANY! 4 COMPANY!"

The two companies swung in the opposite direction of their comrades. They would slow if not stop the other half battalion. Instead of advancing, the two companies took their time to form a secure line and a defence against the approaching enemy....

"'TALION, HALT!" yelled Major Fore. Enemy cavalry and infantry to his front, and every musket was loaded. The Major smiled as he drew breath for his next order.

"'TALION" he bellowed, "MAKE READY!"

Muskets at hips. More than three hundred men at his command.

"PRESENT!"

Muskets to their shoulders, and the enemy were in for the beating of a lifetime. Fore's last order was lost in a cacophony of noise and death as muskets spat and crackled along his line. The enemy was lost in a haze of smoke as the volley hit, but their cries could still be heard as they felt the full force of the volley.

"RELOAD!" shouted the Major, and his men began the familiar motions that would keep them alive. There were enough veteran soldiers in the half-battalion to regulate the others, and the men reloaded with patience and care as Fore stared into the swirling grey smoke.