TSA: 028 - Even More Fish in a Barrel (Patreon)

Night Raid

{Excerpt}

Throughout history, the art of feigned retreats was honed to a lethal edge by cunning warlords and noble princes alike. One such stratagem was masterfully wielded by Levi von Grifenburg, the Bloody Gryphon of Faywyn, in his battle against Lord Tristan of House Lormat, the Third Lion of Khule. While his seeming departure from the battlefield lulled his adversary into complacency, the Gryphon did not falter: Under the cover of darkness, did he return to set upon his foe land-bound with wanton ferocity. 

Stricken, the Lion could only watch from ashore, gnashing its teeth impotently before slinking off into the undergrowth to lick its wounds. This singular event during the campaign against Khule, and its holdings, is oft recounted as one of the most pivotal occurrences leading up to the annexation of northern Quilton.

...

Excerpt from the illustrated records of the inception of the United Kingdoms - The Wars of the Great Beasts: The Rise of Udoris as a World Power by Dan Scott

{END}

• [25.03.1624]

The Lion of Khule stood upon a promontory overlooking the charred remnants of his baggage train. Smoke billowed into the sky, a stark reminder of the ruin wrought by the Gryphon’s audacious assault. Tristan's face, a mask of stoic resolve, betrayed no hint of the fury seething within. The acrid stench of smoke, burnt wood and charred flesh filled his nostrils. The devastation wrought by Levi’s cannons was total; the supplies essential for the siege of Faywyn lay in ruin. His eyes, dark and brooding, scanned the wreckage and his disarrayed forces, taking stock of the losses and the morale teetering on the edge of despair.

“Abel.”

“Yes, My Lord?”

“Fetch me Captain Aelric,” Tristan commanded, his voice a low rumble that brooked no delay. The squire scurried off, returning moments later with a stocky, weathered knight clad in armour bearing the scars of many battles.

“My lord?” Aelric asked, his tone deferential.

“Have my orders for fresh supplies and spare cannons been dispatched?” the lord asked.

“Aye, my lord.”

Tristan nodded distractedly. “The pup is cunning,” he murmured, half to himself. “More so that that bastard whelp Aden adopted. He aims not for our lives but for our sustenance and guns. We cannot march on Faywyn nor lay siege without food and powder. Our men are weary and demoralized. I can see it now; the young Grifenburg intends not to face us in battle, but to cripple and choke our resolve to fight. He aims to force us back. No man confident in his victory aims to dissuade his foes from falling upon his blade.”

Tristan turned to face the captain, his gaze hardening. “The pup fears to do battle with us upon the open fields, but I have grown tired of this farce. Have the men sift through these ashes and salvage what they can. Food, armour, guns; whatever can still be used should be gathered with haste. Foragers are to be dispatched now to scour the woods for enough sustenance to keep the host long enough until fresh supplies arrive. When the baggage train has been scavenged to completion, we shall resume our march to Faywyn. My foe is a cunning one, I shall afford him no reprieve.” 

Captain Aelric, standing beside him, nodded grimly. “Your will be done, my Liege.”

…

Night fell over the devastated campsite, the moon casting a pale glow upon the smouldering ruins. Tristan’s men clumsily through the darkness, still persistent in their search for anything of value in the mess. Noisily, they sifted through the debris, seeking out unspoiled barrels of grain, casks of water, and untouched powder kegs

“Over here!” shouted one of the men, precariously hoisting a small barrel of water from beneath a collapsed wagon, its contents miraculously untainted by the flames. ”Water!”

Sean frowned at the fellow. “Take only what ye can carry,” he hissed, “but be swift. The lord suspects the brig might return come morning to pester us. We cannot afford to tarry.”

The earl turned away from the fool to glare at some other poor sap that drew his ire. His return to Faywyn was supposed to be a simple affair. He had endured the Duke’s disdain for weeks now, not because he was a saint, but because it was the wisest thing to do. Lord Tristan’s interference in the matter should have made all else inconsequential. After all, with Aden’s departure east and the subsequent absence of his army, The Lion of Khule should have had no equal in the region. 

Yet, time and time again, Lancelot managed to thwart them. Many whispered words of the attacks on Tristan’s forces as Levi’s doing, but Sean knew better than to believe such lies. The viscount was behind it all. 

Why, Sean wondered to himself as he glared at another fellow. Why didn’t things ever go according to plan?

"We cannot afford another such loss," Sean said to Drake beside him. The knight was silent as he also monitored the salvage operation. "Lancelot’s games will cost us dearly, otherwise. I must speak with the Duke. We must find another route to Faywyn, one less expected and less prone to his harrying tactics."

"...I suspect the Duke has already dispatched scouts to seek out an alternative path,” Drake replied after a moment of contemplation. “He isn’t stupid, nor is he blind. The forest is vast, and surely there’s a much safer route way can take."

Tristan’s eyes narrowed. "Well, he had better make haste,” the earl said. “Lancelot has never been the sort to rest on his laurels; he’ll be watching for any sign of weakness and would most likely seek to exploit it…"

“I can ill afford to lose possession of Faywyn now. Not now; too much has been sacrificed already to get to this point.”

…

Looming on the Strega alongside the opposite shoreline—unbeknownst to Tristan’s forces—a silhouette hid in the darkness. The Codfather laid in wait, its cannons silently trained on the unsuspecting scavengers. Levi stood upon the deck, his eyes narrowed as he watched through his seeing glass as the Lion’s host, bearing lit torches, toiled in the ruins of their baggage train.

“Patience,” Levi whispered to the nervous crewman beside him, his voice barely carrying above the river’s murmur. “Let them think themselves safe. We strike when they are most vulnerable.”

Minutes stretched into a tense silence, broken only by the occasional creak of wood or the splash of water as the Strega beat against the Codfather’s hull. Then, with a swift, silent signal, Levi raised his hand.

“Fire!”

The night erupted in a cacophony of sound and light as the cannons atop the brig roared to life. Grapeshot and incendiary shells rained down upon the men below, shattering the silence and plunging the scene into chaos. Screams of pain and panic filled the air as Tristan’s soldiers scrambled for cover, their recovery operation swiftly transforming into a desperate bid for survival.

From the brig’s deck, Levi watched the scene unfold expressionlessly. His plan had worked; Tristan’s forces were in disarray, and their efforts to salvage supplies were reduced to a frantic rout. “Reload!” he commanded as the cannons fell silent. “Helmsman! Show those poor bastards our Portside!”

“Aye, aye, milord!”

The Codfather moved with surprising agility for a vessel of its size, swinging into position for a fresh broadside volley. Tristan’s men, now scattered and demoralized, fled towards the treeline, leaving behind what few supplies they had managed to recover.

“Fire!” Levi ordered again, and another salvo of shot and flame tore through the night. The forest echoed with the sounds of destruction, the very air thick with the acrid smell of burning powder.

…

From a safe distance, Tristan watched the assault on his men, his gaze narrowed in a mixture of rage and frustration. His forces melted back into the forest, leaving behind the once-again smouldering ruins of their supplies. The Lion of Khule watched impotently as he was thwarted once more, his plans dashed upon the rocks of the pup’s dishonourable strategy.

But Tristan Lormat was not a lord easily cowed. His eyes burned with the promise of vengeance. For the Lion, the battle was far from over; this was no longer merely a war of conquest.

It was personal now.