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| A Fistful of Barrels |
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| By Christopher P Bartlett |
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| I came up with a scenario for Warhammer to make use of the disparate armies I had at my disposal. This involved finding a reason for Bretonnians and Empire to fight off a combined attack from Orcs and Chaos. Rather than a simple stand up and bash engagement, I concocted the following back story, which was to accompany the scenario. Still not had a proper chance to test the scenario out, as I can't remember what I did with the plan. The story remains, and perhaps that was the better of the two pieces of work. See what you think. |
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| All relevant copyrights belong to Games Workshop, apologies for not getting permission, but this is just a bit of writing I did when in Australia. Sorry chaps. |
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| The brightly coloured banners fluttered in the gentle breeze. There were few other movements in the slowly brightening morning. Although there were several guards on duty around the Bretonnian encampment, they had seen little sign of life, hostile or otherwise. They contented themselves by playing games of chance over barrels of wine, intended for their soon to be arriving guests. The envoys from Marienburg were due to arrive some time that morning, in the attempt to continue negotiations with Duke Pierre-Yves Girard Du Montagne. They wished for a more fruitful trade relationship with that most extravagant of the Empire’s cities and the fine wine-producing area of Girard Du Montagne. The Duke was wary of relationships of any kind with men of the Empire, his cousin Jacques Picard had fallen foul of a supposed ‘trade delegation’ of men from Reikland. They had been intent only on acquiring Bretonnian horses for their own ends. However, his advisors had been in contact with the Marienburgers for several months, and vouched for their integrity, so the Duke had therefore agreed, if somewhat reluctantly to this formal parley. They had arrived at the border town of Deux Arbres, the site of a small vineyard, to await the arrival of the merchant Franz Arbach. One of the wealthiest men in Marienburg, if not the Empire, he would be accompanied by his small retinue, the border area being rife with banditry, and worse. Dawn was spreading her gentle caress over the sleepy landscape, struggling to reach over the foothills of the mountains that gave Duke Pierre-Yves’ land its name. As he stretched and yawned at the doorway to the farmhouse he had commandeered, such were the privileges he enjoyed, he gazed out towards the mountains. He squinted against the slowly moving sun, as he saw movement in the distance. He rubbed his eyes and looked again. Yes, banners could be seen on the horizon, it appeared the Marienburgers were early. He retired to his room, to prepare for the formal nature of the occasion, which required his best attire which, being a fiercely proud (and rich) Bretonnian, was also his most flamboyant. * * * * * Still staring into the mirror, the Duke was not satisfied with his appearance. Constantly preening himself, he was a terribly vain fellow, which garnered him many disgruntled comments from the commoners under his rule, but also many female admirers at his castle in Girard. He was readjusting his tunic and hair for the fiftieth time when the door behind him burst open. “Monsieur Duke!” Pierre-Yves turned sharply at the intrusion, nearly ruffling his finely attuned outfit. He was somewhat startled to see Christophe LaFleur, sergeant-at-arms of his archery contingent. “Qu’est-ce que c’est Christophe?” not trying to hide his obvious displeasure at being interrupted. “Are those damn merchants here yet?” “Non, monsieur Duke, it’s a lot worse than that! I think you should come outside now!” he didn’t wait to see the Duke’s reaction, instead he darted straight back out, his sword rattling in his belt. The Duke noticed LaFleur had been dressed for battle, not meeting foreigners to discuss the price of wine. He sighed and followed more sedately, and walked out into the bright morning sunshine. What he saw however, quickly darkened the day, and his mood. Orcs. Dozens of them were coming over the hill, obviously intent on the destruction of anything in their path. The Duke knew that meant him, his troops and the whole village. He breathed a curse at not recognising the orcs’ banners on the horizon earlier, but that’s what he got for spending too much time cooped up in that castle. He swore that if by the grace of the Lady he survived this encounter, he would undertake quest after quest until his instincts were honed to their former glory. Such pursuits would have to wait however, else he would not be around to benefit from them. He bellowed orders, LaFleur was already sounding warning trumpets, and soon the few knights accompanying the expedition would be roused for action. He wished he had brought more than this token ceremonial force, but they were experienced in battle and would strive to uphold their honour, and his. For the first time in his life, Duke Pierre-Yves Girard Du Montagne was hoping the men of the Empire would come to his aid, if they did not, there would be no one around to offer the famous Vin du Montagne for trading. It was only as the bowmen were taking their positions, the knights donning their armour, that the Duke realised the full gravity of their situation. There were not only orcs lumbering towards them, but an unholy alliance of the foul green scum and dread Chaos warriors, refugees from some long forgotten Chaos incursion. They had banded together in this cavalcade of evil. Their twisted armour reflected the sun’ s rays and bathed them in wicked light, making it difficult for Pierre-Yves to count them. He shouted to the knights to hurry. He only hoped the Marienburgers would arrive in time to find someone to talk to and hopefully, to help fight the evil horde. He drew his sword and dashed towards the stables, mounting his swift stallion, ‘Tigre Fier’. He turned, raised his sword aloft and gave a thunderous shout to his knights, and they formed to face the enemy. * * * * * Franz Arbach was not pleased. And when the hard-nosed Marienburg businessman found displeasure, the men who worked and fought for him knew better than to get in his way. Some who didn’t know this soon learned the hard way: finding their homes ‘acquired’ by Arbach and themselves living on the street. Most people seemed to learn quickly enough. “Well, Arnaud? What’s taking so long? I wanted this meeting to be settled by noon, at this rate, the blasted wine will have gone off,” he looked down his beaked nose at Arnaud Macon, advisor to the Duke of Girard-du-Montagne, who, although becoming accustomed to Arbach’s short temper, still reeled from the tirade. “I assure you Monsieur, your men are tired, and these hills are not forgiving to your horses. Now if you had some beautiful Bretonnian hor-“ “I don’t care about those damn horses, I want this wine, and I want the deal finalised today! Do you understand?” “Yes Monsieur, I’ll talk to them,” Arnaud said meekly, scurrying off to hurry the stragglers. As a wealthy merchant, Franz Arbach could afford the best of everything, fine clothes, exquisite cuisine, and the finest soldiers. He always rode with his personal guards, who he liked to think of as true knights, but who in reality were just mounted mercenaries in extravagant armour. He could also command a good number of infantry to protect him on his important business visits. As his father Johannes Arbach had always told him, ‘Always protect the most important things, yourself and your money,’ and Franz had taken this philosophy to heart. Therefore, he never took part in any skirmishes that may occur, preferring to hide away with his money chests, until the true leader of his forces, Captain Jurgenvoch came and dragged him out of his hole. As he was meeting a noble man, he wished to impress him as much as he could, and thus had brought along the majority of his soldiers, creating an imposing force, especially for a trade negotiation. Arbach wanted to corner the lucrative wine market in Marienburg, and saw this step as one closer to that final goal. But, impatient as any child, he wanted things his way, and now. The fact that his men had been marching solidly for three days didn’t seem to dawn on him, riding as he was on a fine Arabian stallion, which seemed to get stronger the further they went. According to Arnaud, who’d helped broker the deal, they were only a dozen miles from the village of Deux Arbres, and should arrive later that morning. Still, for Franz that wasn’t soon enough. “Damn Bretonnians, never trust em, still, they make damn good wine,” said Franz, watching Arnaud hurry off, before turning his gaze back at the track in front of him. So frustrated at the delay, he didn’t notice the first plumes of smoke billowing up in the distance, and had no idea his potential money-spinner was under the gravest of threats. * * * * * Arrows from the Bretonnian bowmen filled the air, felling a few orcs, but their charge lost none of its impetus. The Duke, leading one of his regiments of knights, looked at this scene, dismayed. However much faith he had in his men and himself, they were surely up against impossible odds. He was confident of defeating the orcs, their savage and unskilled tactics could be overcome by the highly disciplined knights. But there was then the matter of the Chaos warriors to contend with. There were several dozen of them, not an easy task for a full Bretonnian army, and his was a guarding force, mainly for show. As more arrows flew towards the onrushing horde, felling several, goblin wolf-riders charged around the side of the orcs, aiming for the camp. His lieutenant, Lionel Mitterrand took the other unit of knights to engage them. Pierre-Yves raised his lance, and shouted to his men, “Allez mes frères!” he cried, spurring his horse towards the centre of the orc lines, his knights close on his heels. The bowmen, realising their village volleys were ineffective, threw down their bows, drew their swords and prepared for the carnage that would ensue. The lances of the knights levelled as one, the horses bearing down on the orcs, the Duke at the head of them. The thunderbolt of the knights struck the orcs’ front line, tearing a gaping hole through their centre. Lances cleaved through many bodies and a dozen died before they could react. The brutes recovered quickly from the shock of the charge, and began hacking and slashing at the mounted men. This battle would be costly, it was just a matter of the final price. Written in Sydney, Australia, May 2001. |
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