Swiss Arms

Swiss Arms

Chapter 126

-VB-

Louis von Wittelsbach

"What?"

The wounded and barely conscious man-at-arms in front of him struggled to get the word out.

"T-The enemy annihilated the vanguard, Y-Your Grace," he gasped out with a rasp. If it wasn't for his fellow man holding him up, then he would have fallen to the floor already. "Sir von Seitegren was ambushed by crossbowmen, at least a hundred of them.

"How did he get ambushed that your and a dozen are all that's left?!" Louis hissed angrily. "Sir von Seitegren couldn't have fallen so easily to a hundred crossbowmen!"

It wasn't even a month ago that he sent the knight out to keep the enemy distracted, but instead of coming back with news of his enemy being held back, he was dead?!

"M-Milord, they were already roaming the countryside next to Holzkirchen!"

Louis froze.

Holzkirchen was a market town less than a day's travel away from Munich. The enemy's vanguard had already reached there?

Tyrol was already on his doorstep?!

Louis felt his legs trembling. He felt dizzy and a sudden urge to vomit gripped his stomach like an iron vice.

His enemies were already at his gates, and he hadn't even been able to gather half of the troops he wanted.

"How many of them are there? Just a hundred?" he asked, even though he didn't want to believe that a mere one hundred crossbowmen were able to take out half a thousand men-at-arms and knights.

"It had to be more than a hundred, milord," the man-at-arms grimaced. "The enemy… they were everywhere in the forest. Whenever we thought we were safe, they would strike at us. If we turned our back, they would strike at us. And the only moments we would be safe from them would be if we stayed in position with our backs to each other. But even then, we weren't safe because bolts would fly out of the forest." Then he shuddered. "And then their commander…"

The man started weeping.

"Get a hold of yourself, man," one of the knights in the room snapped at the man-at-arms.

"T-Their commander," the man sobbed. "He tears people by their limbs."

"What?"

The man began to talk, and throughout it all, he looked like he had seen a demon in person.

It was their third engagement.

After losing Sir von Seitegren in the first ambush and then another half of the knights in the second, the wounded and ragged vanguard fell back on Sir Jeremiah. With the help of deceased knight's right hand man, Michael, the two re-organized the men to pull back to Holzkirchen.

They barely managed to run out of the forest when they found them.

Just a bare dozen men led by a would-be barbarian in bear fur cape and roughly hammered faceplate and chestplate.

But that would-be barbarian held a sword that was as wide as he was, taller than he was, and half as thick as the forearm of any respectable man-at-arms.

That wasn't a sword. That was a slab of steel that should have snapped in half from its own weight.

The sight of the sword just

casually hefted over the shoulder of the barbarian made them all pause, even though there were over two hundred of them against their dozen… And at least a hundred more quickly gaining up on them.

"Who are you?!" Sir Jeremiah demanded from atop his horse, which was one of the dozen or so that were left after the ambushers targeted them specifically in the two previous ambushes.

"Count Hans von Fluelaberg, ally of the Duke of Tyrol."

He never heard about any Fluelaberg nearby, so -.

"... an ally of Tyrol," Jeremiah hissed. "It must be your peasants that ambushed us in the forest!"

"Yes. And I'm here to offer you a chance to surrender."

Everyone blinked.

Sir Jeremiah scoffed. "You think we will give ourselves up so easily?"

The count stared at them before shrugging. "I tried," he said almost conversationally before he dropped his sword.

The sword

sunk almost a foot into the ground just from its weight.

And then the count began to grab the spears that had been planted around him.

"What do you-?"

He pulled out of the spears… and threw it.

The head of Sir Jeremiah's horse disappeared - torn off from its neck - and then there were screams and gurgles behind him.

The spear the count had thrown had pierced two men behind the knight, and Sir Jeremiah almost fell over. But he was quick thanks to not having full plate armor on, and managed to pry himself before his headless horse fell over, spasming its limbs in its death throes.

"Are you sure you don't want to surrender?" the count asked again. There was no pride, no pity. It was just neutral.

"CHARGE!" Sir Jeremiah roared and the few cavalrymen still left thundered forward.

The count shrugged … and threw another spear.

A cavarlymen was torn out of his saddle after the spear punched into his chest.

A horse shrieked as another spear stabbed into its chest.

One of the men-at-arms died after a spear pierced through his guts.

Again and again, spears came flying and

someone died.

By the time they reached the count, there were fifty corpses on the field… and the crossbowmen from previous ambushes caught up with them.

Bolts flew and struck their exposed backs.

Then Sir Jeremiah was upon the count.

The count parried a stab from the knight, grabbed his wrist and neck, and pulled.

Everyone froze as the knight screamed.

And then … And then everyone heard flesh tearing with rips, crackles, and pops.

The knight's arm came off with a final tear, and the count wielded it like a club against Sir Jeremiah.

He did not stop beating the knight until he was dead.

"E-Everyone ran away after that," the man-at-arms finished.

Louis stared at the man. He was ready to dismiss the story but he could see wounds that correlated with the story. A missing arm. Arrow wounds along his legs. Exhaustion.

"... Dismissed."

Afters the guard took the man-at-arms out of the room, Louis turned to look at the rest of the nobles and knights in the room.

"... It's obvious that the accusations of witchcraft from last year wasn't one made without cause," he spat. "So not only is Tyrol making overreach where he should keep his damn hands to himself, he is allying with real witches!"

Some of the people in the room looked unnerved.

Why wouldn't they be?

After all, the church in Rome outlawed belief in witches because it was "superstition." Except there was nothing superstitious about a man ripping other men with his bare hands, was it?

Could he perhaps use the local archbishops to force a white peace? To bring the church into this war and put a hold to it while he gathered his forces?

"Bring me parchment and a quill," he snapped at one of the servants. "I have a letter to write."

-VB-

Prince-Bishop Emicho von Kyrburg of Freising

Though he had not overtly joined Tyrol's attack against Duke Louis von Wittelsbach, Emicho had also made sure to support the duke and the newly minted Count of Fluelaberg. Of course, it wasn't anything direct. A few letters of support to neighboring nobles, abbots, and bishops. A cart filled with weapons that should have made it to Tyrol.

Things like that.

"Your Grace."

He looked up from his desk where he was reviewing the latest proposal from the City of Freising regarding lowering the tariffs for goods from the Duchy of Lower Bavaria. Unfortunately, he was going to have to say no, because lowering tariffs against them would mean that the larger duchy with more cities, crafters, smiths, weavers, and other artisans would gain an advantage without his people gaining anything.

"Yes?"

The servant looked around for a bit before stepping and handing him a letter without a word.

When Emicho saw the wax seal, he nodded and accepted it. The servant bowed and left in a hurry, closing the door behind him.

Emicho quickly broke the seal, pulled out the letter, and read it.

And smiled.

"Yes… Everything is looking up."

Soon, the Wittelsbach influence would fall, and with it, he will be able to make his own moves without having to look over his shoulder every time.

And the young baron… no, the young count was leading the charge against the Duke of Upper Bavaria with the stated goal of restoring the current duke's older deposed brother as the duke. That had been the plan, yes.

For Emicho, though, this was merely his chance to see if the young count had the potential to be more and to make a connection with him.

Who knows, right? If he got in trouble and the count wasn't doing anything else, then he could certainly ask the bloodthirsty count to come help him out.

He stood up from his chair, making it lightly scrape. Then he walked over to the lightly smouldering hearth and tossed the letter into it.

He made sure to watch the letter burn up completely with not a single "square inch" of it remain.

Yes, the young count possessed quite the potential, and his bloodthirsty work was the least of them. The books he had his men buy from the count's own library opened doors to worlds he didn't know existed.

In fact, he had already put many of the suggestions and recommendations for "medical" work found in "biology" books.

And just like the count's home, he saw less disease here in Freising, which was a city of almost five thousand souls. To receive a report that less than one hundred had died from disease last year?

Gold.

Those books were worth their weigh in gold, and the young count was bound to make more.

This war? This war served him well: get rid of one thorn and gain a potential ally who would only grow bigger.

'Yes… Things are looking up,' he smiled as he walked away from the ashes.