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Nachhexen-15-Jahrdrung -20-2492

POV of Joachim von Mackensen

Everything happening in those months was madness. Montfort felt like a whirlpool of blood and confusion, a perpetual chaos where every day dozens of Bretonnians and Imperials fell in the skirmishes. At first, in our naivety, we thought the war would be little more than a march: we would take Montfort, perhaps Gisoreux, and everything would fall under the control of our families. But it all unraveled in ways none of us had foreseen.

With so many Imperial nobles present, each one hungry for plunder and glory, the internal disputes became as fierce as the battles against the Bretonnians. The men of Talabecland demanded the offensive be pushed toward Parravon to honor Taal in the forests, while those of Middenland thought only of securing the gold mines of Montfort. Fights broke out even among allies, arguing over which house should claim the best lands or resources. To make matters worse, much of the local population had vanished before our arrival, leaving the mines nearly empty and fueling even greater greed to control them.

The greatest quarrel of all was Gisoreux. A large, wealthy city, close to Montfort, rich in silver and gold, and with an immense peasant population. The nobles licked their lips thinking of the wealth it must contain and the tolls they could levy on Marienburg's merchants for crossing the pass. Ambition blinded them.

Defeat came to us suddenly. I myself nearly lost my life in that charge against the Bretonnian knights, where we inflicted many casualties until those cursed damsels intervened. The entire battlefield turned against us: flocks of birds, wild beasts bursting from the forests, nature itself rising to halt our advance. It became impossible to maintain unity. Middenland, Talabecland, Reikland, Stirland, Averland… each contingent began acting on its own, launching isolated offensives that were swept aside with ease by a Bretonnian army more united than ever. We lost our momentum and retreated until we were entrenched.

Since then, it has all been endurance. We gained nothing beyond defending the little we held, while every day more Grail Knights arrived to reinforce the Bretonnians. The pressure was unbearable; our Imperial knights were outmatched, forcing us to shelter behind Montfort's walls. And with much of the Imperial army distracted in Parravon by a necromancer, we found ourselves surrounded and besieged.

Fortunately, the siege did not last long. The Bretonnians lacked supplies, though their constant assaults and cannons pounding day and night robbed me of sleep for weeks.

And then came the army that rescued us. I never would have imagined it would be him commanding it.

Albrecht… that brat I used to torment before his rise. I always saw him as stubborn and brutal, and now that same nature had made him a feared general. He gave Josef von Behring of Talabecland the beating of his life. No one could stand against him. What had been endless disputes among nobles ended in minutes, replaced by whispers of poisoning or of persuading Prince Karl Franz to remove him.

The idea of dueling him died the day Albrecht decapitated a noble without hesitation after being challenged. From then on, no one dared try again.

I will personally never forget the Stirland noble who did. To challenge Albrecht in those conditions… knowing he was taller, stronger, better armed, and protected with runes. That was not bravery—it was a conscious suicide.

At last, we regained the order we had lost. We once again saw the discipline that had marked the first day of the campaign, when the Imperial army marched toward Montfort. Patrols returned to the roads, garrisons to their posts, and a firm presence was established against the Bretonnians, for we all knew an offensive would soon come.

The walls were adorned with the bodies of twenty-five Imperial captains, men who in life had been little more than pawns in the nobles' struggle for power. Each had sought to control as many state soldiers as possible to increase influence in the army. Their boldness was paid in blood, and their corpses hung for days as a warning.

The sergeants fared no better. Several were publicly flogged before their men for corruption and taking bribes. The ill-gotten coin was confiscated and handed entirely to the state soldiers who had remained loyal, untainted by intrigue. It was Albrecht's way of making clear that discipline and loyalty stood above any personal ambition.

Meanwhile, I had become the general's assistant. My duty was to deal with nobles who tried to enter the council chamber, each bringing their "recommendations" and plans, but always with an eye for personal gain. Most of the time, my task was to tell them no in the most diplomatic manner possible. Though there were exceptions: the son of the Elector Count of Wissenland appeared often, and he could not be ignored, forcing me to deal with him far more than I wished.

After several days of stockpiling supplies, preparations for the new campaign began. That was when Albrecht confided the attack plan to me. We would build a bridge near Parravon to cross the Grismerie River quickly and establish a blockade at the foothills of the Massif Orcal. The bulk of the army would march south with the aim of raiding Quenelles. It was predictable that the Bretonnian knights would attempt to intercept us along the narrow strip of Bastonne beside the river.

There, with batteries of cannons and Imperial muskets, we could hold them off for several days. The idea was to force the Bretonnians to fight in ground less favorable for their cavalry charges, closer to the mountains, where the open space diminished and our tactics could prevail. With a solid blockade and the threat looming over Quenelles, we would drive them to fight on our terms.

And so it happened. Some Imperial patrols began improvising a bridge over the river, lashing together the locals' fishing boats with planks and ropes. It was a precarious construction, but firm enough to allow the passage of men and horses in small numbers. And, by Sigmar's grace, the Bretonnians did not notice our maneuver.

The next day, a force of ten thousand soldiers crossed and began raising a wooden fortification at the foothills of the Massif Orcal, in lands crawling with greenskins. In little time we had palisades, ditches, and artillery positions. There, a new kind of weapon was deployed: a multi-barreled cannon, operated solely by Albrecht's personal troops, alongside nearly nine hundred riders armed to the teeth with pistols, though their armor was reinforced only on the front of their bodies. It was no fortress worthy of Helmgart, of course, but solid enough to halt a Bretonnian advance while the bulk of our forces marched against Quenelles.

To my surprise, Albrecht had vanished from the area. Prince Karl Franz, remained as second-in-command in the siege of Quenelles, while I was appointed commander of the blockade at Bastonne. My task was to direct the defense while trenches were dug and the Reikland musketeers were positioned. Around me toiled without rest the men of the state regiments who had once been punished for corruption: men who had taken bribes were now sweating blood in the trenches, forced to redeem themselves through hard labor before facing the coming battle.

Every day I had to ensure the works matched Albrecht's plans. To be honest, the man might be the finest duelist in the Empire… but drawing, that was not his art. His diagrams looked more like secret codes than fortification plans. Still, I think we managed to interpret them well enough.

Meanwhile, hundreds of Bretonnian peasants were brought across the river every day. There were days when thousands crossed, especially after we razed Chammonay and later Perrche. The defense of those lands had been minimal—barely a few hundred knights, unable to stop the thirty thousand Imperial soldiers marching with a thirst for victory.

The siege of Quenelles was short and brutal. By the fifth day, the walls gave way under the unrelenting pounding of artillery, and the general assault was ordered. Two Grail Knights tried to hold us in the castle, but they were cut down, and with their fall the city was ours along with a fortune in plunder. For a moment, the nobles nearly lost control, eager to push toward Aquitaine to exploit the Bretonnian rout, but the prince intervened just in time. He reminded them of what would happen if they defied orders—and the mere fear of Albrecht was enough to herd them back into line.

Instead of rebelling, the nobles spent themselves scouring every village and hamlet of the duchy. The result was devastating: Quenelles was bled dry, its towns empty, as all the peasants were transported to our side of the river to be resettled in the Westerlands. Albrecht only wanted the peasants, nothing else. The rest of the loot was divided as usual, but for the general, the peasants alone were the true payment.

For days, Quenelles was laid waste. Only the Lady's shrines were left standing. Finally, our scouts the other side of the river reported the Bretonnian armies were beginning to gather on the other side of the Grismerie. Alarm spread throughout the camp.

"Bretonnians are coming! To your posts!" I shouted with all the force of my lungs. "Handgunners, take position! Infantry, form ranks! Where in Sigmar's name are the cannon crews?"

The men of Reikland, Westerland, and the punished state regiments began to move, filling trenches and parapets. That was when I saw, incredulous, Albrecht's cavalry charging at full speed.

"What the hell are doing…?" I muttered, watching them disappear toward the horizon, where the Bretonnian cavalry had not yet fully appeared.

"Relax," said one of the gunners as he slid a steel piece into the chamber. "They're going to harry them. They'll be back." His comrade nodded, then glanced at me calmly. "Ready."

I forced myself to stay composed as messengers on horseback galloped to Quenelles to summon back the troops still plundering the last villages of the duchy. Before long, we heard the thunder on the plain and saw Albrecht's riders returning, galloping at full speed, firing pistols point-blank into the Bretonnian knights chasing them. The maneuver had worked: many Bretonnians lay wounded, and, more importantly, their cavalry lines were charging in disarray.

"Hey…" said the gunner at my side.

"What?" I asked, distracted, never taking my eyes off the front.

"If you're going to stand here, wear this." He handed me a piece of cloth dampened with a dark powder. "Our lord says breathing this is dangerous."

I didn't argue. I tied the cloth over my face, imitating the gunners, and settled to watch the fight from the safest vantage.

Albrecht's cavalry came back after sowing chaos among the Bretonnians. They had managed to drive the knights into a disordered charge.

"Too few," the gunner muttered, his hand on a crank. "Wait for them to bunch up. We won't waste ammunition in vain."

At his signal, the Reikland handgunners opened fire. The knights who had gotten close were cut down before they reached the palisade. A few fell so near their bodies ended up hanging over the stakes.

The silence didn't last. Within minutes, a larger host of knights appeared on the horizon, this time in a tight wedge, ready to crush the Imperial infantry behind the defenses.

Of course, they still had to break through the palisade. They might have tried to skirt the blockade through the hills, but the terrain was treacherous and unsafe. That was when we saw her: a Bretonnian mage advancing at the head of the wedge.

Suddenly, the ground quaked beneath her spells. Thick black roots burst from the earth, tearing the palisade apart as if it were straw.

"Damn it…" I growled, watching as our strongest defense vanished in seconds.

The Bretonnians wasted no time. They launched their charge, hurling their horses against our lines. But at that very instant came a deafening roar: Albrecht's multi-barreled cannons.

The air filled with fire. A storm of projectiles swept the plain, tearing the leading riders to shreds. The charge collapsed in on itself, horses and men falling atop one another, tangled in chaos.

I covered my ears, but still the roar of the artillery shook through my skull. I caught sight of one of the gunners turning the piece directly toward the mage, and soon all the cannons were firing at her. The gunners worked like madmen, reloading again and again, unleashing volleys that shook the very earth.

After multiple barrages, the Bretonnians began to retreat, leaving behind a field littered with corpses and dying horses. We could still see them in the distance, regrouping.

What followed was a long, grinding skirmish. The Bretonnian sorceresses hurled everything they could at our positions: gales, wild beasts, roots that tried to rip out our trenches. And the gunners answered with equal fury, firing every time one of them dared show herself over the enemy line.

It was a battle of attrition. Each day we endured their witchcraft, and they suffered under our ceaseless fire.

But when all the troops had finally crossed the Grismerie, we received the order to withdraw. That night, we crossed back over the river and destroyed the bridge. The next day, we watched the Bretonnians cross, only to find the entire duchy plundered and desolate.

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If there are spelling mistakes, please let me know.

Leave a comment; support is always appreciated.

I remind you to leave your ideas or what you would like to see.

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