29JUN1621 The Last Stand of Glamorrigans

       Alisdair Gammorrigan stood in the doorway of his home and looked at his three grown sons leaning on their muskets in the field nearby. He sighed and tried to think of an honorable way of sending at least one of them away from the fate that was now fast approaching; not that any of them would hear of it if he tried. The Glamorrigans had ruled this little valley in Boozonia for the last three hundred years and those three stubborn lads would be damned if they would be the one that shied away from defending it. But now the enemy wasn't a rival clan out to steal a few sheep or cows, or the occasional raider from Gluttonia or Ferndalia. Now it was the full might of the Ferndalian army. This army had made short work of the fort that had been built to deny access across the southern border and was now busily grinding its way north through the rugged countryside. 

        Straightening his kilt and tightening his belt he stepped out into the yard and called to his boys, "Lads get ye over here", the young men dutifully jogged over to where their father stood. "There is little chance of us stopping the invaders here, the best we can hope to do is to slow the foreigners down a bit so that the Lowlanders can get things sorted out. I expect that each of you shall do your duty but I also ask that none of you engage in any foolish heroics. There is small point in getting yourself killed in a fight that is lost before its begun". He looked them each sternly in the eye, "I've no desire to have your dear mother learning of the loss of all her men-folk in a single afternoon" the boys nodded soberly at the thought, they had seen fighting but nothing of the sort that was soon to encountered this day. "Now get along to your posts and let those bastards taste our steel!"

 

the field of battle, each force deployed behind its red line 

the Ferndalians sweep onto the battlefield in force 

(confusingly all the following pictures are from the opposite side of the table)

 

and open fire on the common folk hiding in the little woods

 

the Glamorrigans shifted toward the enemy forces

 

fire was exchanged with little effect for a turn or two

 

as even more Ferndalians poured onto the battlefield 

the Clan leaders moved up to see off the advancing pikemen

 

the pike began to take casualties

 

 

but the clansmen could no longer stand the taunting

 and dashed out of the woods to drive off the annoying musketeers

this would prove to be their undoing

 

caught in the open just as they finished off the musketeers 

the ardent but unwise clansmen were slaughtered to a man

 

 

at the same moment the two leaders met in single combat,

 blows were exchanged and a single wound went each way

 

 

the next turn saw the pike push through the hedge

 into a wall of fire from the two units of clan leaders

 

 

to everyone's surprise the skirmishing muskets stood firm at the hedge

 and sent the enemy horse packing with casualties

 

 

in the following turn the pike were pounded with fire from three units and failed their morale,

 the survivors fled the field

  

but things were looking decidedly worse on the left flank of the the Glamorrigans,  

a flood-tide of Ferndalain troops were working their way around the small woods

 

 

to make matters even worse the clan leaders holding the great hall

 were wiped out in a very uneven firefight with four units of Ferndalian foots

 

 

driven mad with battle-lust Alisdair Glamorrigan  lead his men into the wood

 to once more try to kill the enemy leader

 

they drove the horse away but left themselves exposed to the fire of three enemy musket units

they died to a man hurling curses on the heads of their enemies

  

for a moment an eerie silence crept over the smoke shrouded battlefield

 

 

then an awful howl filled the air as the last of the Glamorrigans charged the nearest Ferndalians, desperate to spill the blood of the hated invaders

 

but no amount of bravery can stop bullets

 and they recoiled from the thunderous wall of fire and lead 

as they tried to rally another crashing salvo rang forth and they fell where they had stood

three centuries of tradition seeping away as their blood ran into the soil

        Marshal Maximo Pavolich rode forward to see what was impeding the progress of his advance-guard only to find them collecting their wounded and reorganizing. Inspecting the battlefield he saw that the Boozoniains has stood little (if any) chance. He also noted that they had all fallen facing the enemy with weapons in their hands. "How can we fight such people?" he wondered aloud, "They face certain defeat and death without flinching. Willing to die for a small patch of scruffy heather and moor. What sort of chance do we have facing an army of such men as these?" Glancing around to see if anyone had overheard his musings he straightened up in his saddle and shouted to his adjutant, "Get these troops moving! We have lost another day, at this rate it will take all year to reach their capital!"