Joint-Kingdom of Belmorn
Current Leader/Government: King Marhorn Dryadson I (Elven)
Settlements Owned: 1
Provinces Owned: 2
Population: 61,400 humans/44,000 Elves/11,000 Half-Elves
Population Happiness: 25%
Imports: Cattle (Erimir), Iron (Elslen)
Exports: Lumber (Erimir)
Wealth: Poor
Alliances:
Trade Pacts:Erimir
Cease Fires:
Army Status Cards
The Sorrowsong Host Current General: King Dryadson I & The Council of the Nine
Location: Hadelmere
Morale: 100%
Strength/Unit Breakdown: - <Troop Type>/<Number of Troops>/<Bonuses>/
-<Elven Phalanx Levy>/<5,000>/<No Bonuses>
- <Elven Longbow Levy>/<5,000>/<No Bonuses>
- <Glade Watchers>/<1,000>/< Superior archers, well trained, will not break >
- <Elven Sword Levy>/<5,000>/<No Bonuses>
Current Action: Waiting
Maraver’s TrenchguardCurrent General: General Maraver, of Surgo House Stoneheart
Location: Outside of Fengarde (West)
Morale: 100%
Strength/Unit Breakdown: - <Troop Type>/<Number of Troops>/<Bonuses>/
-<Crossbow Soldiers>/<300>/<Fast reloaders, Disciplined>
- <Belmornian Rangers>/<100>/<Superior archers, Stealthy>
Current Action: Manning Maraver’s Trench, ten miles west of Fengarde.
On Breaking A SpearheadTen Miles West of FengardeGeneral Maraver of the Surgo House of Stoneheart marched the length of the trench. He was an anchor of calm amidst an unbearable chaos. Men and women hurried backwards and forwards, exchanging loaded crossbows for empty ones. Those who held a loaded crossbow, fired without hesitation – and much aim – before handing it back for another. Despite the piss-poor shape the aging Dwarf General had found them in, these humans were proving their worth tenfold. An arrow passed the Dwarf’s ancient face, but he did not flinch.
“They’re coming!” screamed a young woman; she was short, but taller than Maraver. He hid a smile at the ridiculous figure she presented, because the leather armour she was wearing was at least half a dozen sizes too big.
“Dancers, three lines of ‘em, General,” called Maraver’s watcher, who was until two weeks ago a very under talented farmhand.
“Dun gimme ‘lines’ lad, gimme numbas,” shouted Maraver in response.
“Over a hundred, General,” the watcher replied, as he pulled down his crude iron helmet.
“Aye, so just over a hundred lad? Or nearer a thousand?” said Maraver; his cracked lips formed a hidden smile beneath his bulging white beard.
The watcher hesitated, looking at Maraver, then peeking over the trench parapets, then back at Maraver again. The Dwarf stifled a hoarse laugh.
“Two hundred, General,” the watcher finally said with half-flouted confidence.
“Righty’o lads and ladesses, looks like it be time for round three,” roared Maraver. Women’s screams and men’s cheers greeted his words. “They burned your homes, slaughtered your Queen, murdered your husbands, and destroyed your livlihoods. Ya have nothin’ left to live for, so give ‘em no mercy.”
The Dwarf chanced a peek over the trench, by standing on a purpose built bench. A half dozen arrows whizzed past him – they Lizards were getting smart, they were starting to learn his habits – but he was not dismayed by what he saw. This was their third assault in two weeks, and it was just as half-hearted as the previous two.
Around five hundred Lizardmen archers stood a hundred yards away, hunched behind abandoned wagons, fallen trees and boulders. Anything that would provide them with cover from Maraver’s devastating and relentless crossbow volleys. Behind them, in thinly ranked but wide spread lines were a detachment of Sword Dancers.
“Hold fire, hold fire, let ‘em come,” ordered Maraver, as he descended from the bench. “Wait til ya can see the whites o’ their eyes, then hit ‘em all at once. I want everyone, even the wee children, with a crossbow, to line the edge of this trench. Don’t let ‘em see ya though, we don’t wanna be ruining the surprise do we now?”
Maraver’s motley band of militia-soon-to-become-veterans obeyed without question. All of those firing at the concealed Lizard archers ducked down. A few hissed whispers passed to and thro, and within minutes, the greater part of his ‘army’ had thrown themselves against the wall of the trench. Crossbows were clumsily loaded. A few boys, no older than six or seven, ran down the length of the trench to drop freshly loaded weapons.
“’Ite Timmy me boy, you’re my man, give us a holla’ when you can see the whites o’ their eyes, lad,” said Maraver. He clasped his leather-clad hands firmly behind his back and breathed a sigh.
The watcher’s eyes bulged, but he did not waver for more than a second. Carefully, he poked his head back over the trench so that his eyes were level with the dirt and watched. Seconds passed like days, and the tension built to the point that Maraver swore he could taste it on his tongue.
“I can see their whites,” shouted Timmy, all smiles.
Maraver nodded, but then clenched his eyes shut as he caught a glimpse of an arrow striking Timmy’s exposed neck.
“For every man or woman we lose, they lose ten!” Roared Maraver, punching a fist into the air. His army repeated his words in thundering unison. “Let ‘em have it, let ‘em have it all!”
Maraver’s troops brought their weapons over the top of the trench. A tense second or two passed as each of his three hundred nobodies took aim, and then there was the heart-rending release of the massed crossbow strings. In a blink of an eye, the old Dwarf was back up on his bench, surveying the slaughter with glee. The Sword Dancers, lightly armoured and with only wooden bucklers to protect them, had been cut to pieces. Half of their number lay on the ground, bleeding and screeching, whilst their comrades broke. He noticed an intense whistling sound, and looked up to see hundreds of arrows coming down on the trench.
“Cover lads ‘n ladesses, lest ye be fucked by an iron point,” shouted Maraver, throwing himself against the trench wall and making himself small as possible.
The barrage of arrows continued for some minutes, and a dozen or so of Maraver’s men left the fight permanently, but the majority had missed their marks. Maraver stood to his feet and smiled crazily at his troops, who responded with likewise expressions.
“We see another night after all,” he said. Timmy’s in spasm body caught his eye. “Take him away, gently now, and bury him with honour. He fought tha’ good fight, and his name’ll live on in the tomes of our tomfoolery!”
Maraver Stoneheart, second son of the deceased Dwarven Count Tremlin Stoneheart, was unwittingly becoming the saviour of an entire people. He had visited Fengarde three weeks ago, after hearing that the new human Queen was open to the possibility of intervening in Surgo’s civil war. When he arrived to attend a scheduled meeting between him and a council of human noblemen, he found a peoples of the verge of defeat. A Jourian assault on the city had fallen a week earlier, leaving many dead, and he was almost instantly certain that what remained of Fengarde’s defenders would not stand against a second attack.
Still, his clan depended on him. Without aid, they would fall to the terrorists that had proclaimed themselves the masters of Surgo. His peoples just did not have the men are material any more to fight a war that was destroying the very land they had bled to protect. So he had stayed, drinking crap ale and eating limp meat, hoping beyond hope that he’d get his audience – and that Fengarde would withstand the attack.
When the fires started, Maraver was no hero. He packed his things and left the city – hastily making for Hadelmere. However, on the way, he was shocked that so many thousands of refugees had only made such a short distance despite the time they had been given by their Queen to flee. Belmorn was a massive country, full of beautiful woods and blanketed with plains of green grass; it had no roads though, just paved bridleways, and this had no doubt contributed to the slow pace of the evacuation.
Driven by his good natured heart, the Dwarf abandoned his diplomatic mission in favour of rear guarding the refugees. Dozens of them sided with him, when he announced at the top of his old lungs his intention to ‘bar tha way to tha greenskins’. Whilst Queen Alistine fought for her life in Fengarde’s central square, Maraver and his company were busy digging earth works and collecting weapons from fleeing militiamen. By the time all was said and done, and Fengarde was reduced to ashes, a two-hundred foot long trench had been dug, straight through the bridleway. Heavy stakes had been shoved into the ground in front of it, to form a thicket of death to any mounted riders. Crossbows in their hundreds had been gathered, and Maraver planned to use them all to create a relentless rain of death.
The first vanguard elements of the victorious Jourian army came in the form of a thousand Sword Dancers. They had snickered at the sight of such a peculiar but feeble looking fortification, and attacked. Maraver’s troops, despite the little training they had, were able to release a devastating stream of bolts into their poorly protected forms. Only a few dozen actually made it to the trench, and though they were dangerous, the old Dwarf led his men and women to in successfully repelling them. Three hundred lizards had been killed that day, and only two dozen of his.
This victory sent ripples of news through the trail of refugees that had by now come halfway to Hadelmere Hold. This brought Maraver more men, and women, who upon hearing of his actions, had turned and marched back towards Fengarde. Within days, the wily Dwarf had accumulated three hundred souls to his non-existent banner.
He trained them day and night, when the Jourians weren’t attacking, and soon had them well versed in the use of crossbows and the ‘fast fire’ tactics he was employing. When the second assault came, backed with archers and stone throwers, Maraver was ready. After an hour long barrage, and several casualties, the Lizards made a frontal assault. Breaking from cover, Maraver’s troops repeated their earlier use of massed crossbows, and drove the Jourians back once more.
The second victory brought dozens of human rangers, who had fled Fengarde, to his call. He dispatched them to the nearby woodlands, to watch for Jourian flankers, and to harass them if able. All the while, the Elven army in Hadelmere, grand in its size and composition, was oblivious to his actions. He had broken Sar’Nassa’s momentum, saving thousands in the process, and buying time for the Elves to make their move. Though he was not of Belmorn, Maraver Stoneheart was a stalwart champion – the very stuff of valour, and to strangers, he was not afraid to show it.
