Mount and Blade is, in essence, Oblivion meets Total War. Anybody who finds that sentence in anyway interesting should buy it (Warband is the best version to start with)! Still, this isn't the inevitable review. Rather, as there is barely any set storyline in the game beyond what the player creates on their own, Mount and Blade has terrific narrative posiblities, in that you could write out a log of your adventure as if it was well, a real story, and it would be totally different from anyone elses. Sadly, at around 100 combined hours in various iterations and mods I'm coming towards the nadir of my enthusiasm of the game, well at least his wave of it, and can't muster the desire to start again for the sake of doing such a log. Instead I've just written up this quick and dirty piece about a random battle I had whilst roaming enemy territory. It's a little embellished to get around having to write about game mechanics, "I pressed tab to end the battle then went into the spoils menu" could be a little bit much of a tonal shift! I'm not totally sure about it, but it is very much quick and dirty. With that out of the way, I present for your delectation: The Battle of the Field near Dvinsk Castle.
Working for the Tsar of Muscovy has been a lucrative endeavour. His constant warring has made for rich pickings from the villages of his myriad enemies. I can feed my men for weeks on ‘donated’ food and thanks to all the delicious velvet I’ve... redistributed; I afford to pay them for years. Understandably, my entrepreneurial activities have caused some jealousy amongst landowners. These days I seem to be forever dealing with their toady minions. The line is always the same, something about attacking villages “under their lords’ protection”. Well, obviously their lords aren’t doing a very good job of it!
It’s for this reason that today I find myself in a discussion with a representative of General Simon Grundel-Helmfelt of Sweden. He’s making the usual threats, demanding my surrender. No, I don’t think that I will be surrendering today. This only increases his blustering. This is getting tedious; I refer him to my policy advisor. His eyes widen in terror at my pistol, now pointed squarely at his chest.
“Go”
He leaves the camp a damn-sight faster than he arrived. As he’s almost out of earshot he starts screaming something. Probably profanity or threats. Pointless bravado. No matter, he’ll deliver my message and that’s all that matters.
I have the troops ready themselves for battle. I know the Swedes are doing the same; the messenger, for all his threats and demands, was just a formality. I double check my own guns; make sure that I’m carrying enough ammunition. Seventeen heavy musketballs. It’s not a lot, but it’s all the bag will comfortably hold. It’s not as if I’ll get many opportunities to reload anyway. A pikeman reports: the men are ready. I saddle up my charger and lead them onto the field of battle.
There’s a ridge up ahead. Perfect. I order my marksmen to form a firing line. The infantry to move slightly ahead and to the flank, ready to swoop in on the inevitable charge. Not the perfect placement, but it gives the marksmen an open field of fire. That’s what matters.
“Cavalry! Follow my lead!”
As the men form up I survey the battle line. They’re tough soldiers, almost all battle hardened mercenaries. I keep their bellies full and their coin purses bulging. That makes them dependable. They won’t break.
The last of the cavalry has formed up on me. It’s time.
I wheel my charger in the direction of my foe and spur the beast on. The men follow.
As we advance, I see a growing column of blue to my one o’ clock. It’s the enemy cavalry emerging from a hidden dip. Shit. If I let these horsemen charge my musketeers, they’ll break the line. Mercenaries or no, if they don’t run then they’ll be cut down. We can’t have that.
We charge toward the centre of the column, I bring my trusty wheellock carbine to bear, my men ready their pistols. The Swedes have seen us, they fumble for their guns, try to turn to meet us. It’s too late. The distance closes, 100 yards, 50, 25. I let fly. The ball rips through the central reiter’s chest. His fellows go down as the pistol fusillade hits. Their horses wail and scatter. We drive the charge through the hole in their line.
As we thunder from the carnage we have wrought, we move in a wide arc back towards the infantry. I set about reloading my carbine. Not the best job to do on horseback, but this battle is far from over and I’m going to need it if we’re to deal with this bloody Swede.
A thunderous roar signals the end of the remaining reiters, ripped to shreds by my musketeers. Any reverie is cut short. There is a hammerblow to my leg. My horse cries out in pain. Without looking, I know I’ve been shot. Not a true musketeer. It’s a pistol wound: I still have the leg.
As we approach the main field of battle I order my horsemen to charge in ahead, to support my pikemen in keeping their rabble off our musketeers.
Another volley cracks out. The musketeers are lost in the gunsmoke. Even where it isn’t so thick, you can taste it in the air.
The Swede’s numbers are thinning, they look ready to break. I spur on towards the melee. As I close in a pikeman falls. My carbine claims another. No time to reload now. I unsheathe my sword. In other circumstances a beautiful weapon, its blade sharp and well balanced. The basket hilt as much a work of art as one of practicality. The beauty is lost on these Swedes; all they see is the reaper himself. Four fall. A fifth goes down sans his head. He was well better dressed than the rest.
Must’ve been important, now even their disciplined pikemen are starting to turn and run. My men cut them down.
“Leave them! Hold this position!”
The men want to chase them down, feed their battle lust. But this battle still isn’t over, he hasn’t fielded his marksmen. He still has reserves.
I move to call up my cavalry. Before I get their attention, it becomes clear that I’ve dithered too long; his marksmen are approaching flanked by a little cavalry. The horses are nothing to worry about, the musketeers are another story. There are too many to charge straight in, we’ll be cut down in the open ground. I dither some more.
They take the opportunity. A crack of thunder. Shot cleaves the air, smoke engulfs their forces. A mistake, this could work to our advantage, they’ve unloaded too far out. No more dithering.
“Infantry. Cavalry. CHARGE!”
We barrel down the field toward the thinning cloud of smoke. We horsemen need to breach their line before they can reload or it’s all over. I dig in my spurs and ready my broadsword.
The musketeer doesn’t even see it coming, too absorbed in readying his gun. A good professional soldier. Pity. A solid blow to his neck his battle is over.
Their formation is too deep to break all the way through. I start swinging like a madman. The blade splitting flesh more effectively than any butcher’s cleaver. I’m dimly aware of weak retaliatory blows and of blood on my mail. The back of my mind, oddly disconnected from the carnage, wonders if it’s mine.
My wild hacking has opened a large enough hole to escape the combat. I take the opportunity. My blood lust has lost me any sense of perspective. I need to see what’s happening.
Out of the melee, it’s clear that we’re winning. The infantry have caught up and are spilling into the increasingly ragged musketeer formation. Their few escort cavalry have already cut and run. Probably the best idea that any of these Swedes has had all day. The less fortunate unmounted troops are busy learning first hand that muskets are ill-suited for the hand to hand fighting. Those that stand are being cut down with ease. A few run, but even at this range, my idle marksmen can bring them down.
The final remnants are swiftly mopped up, and the men get on with the important task of searching for valuables. I leave them to it. I have my own valuables to search for. Even if it is getting more painful, the leg wound hasn’t killed me yet, and I need to find this body before the men strip it of anything that may identify it. I check and double check to no avail. None of these corpses was ever a General. It looks like whilst I was leading from the front, the good General was busy slipping away. I bet he’s exactly the type to look down on freelancers too. Ha.
Our casualty count is reassuringly low, if everyone survives their injuries, we’ll have only lost one cavalryman. A shame, but I have to admit, a much smaller loss than I expected. With the red mist of battle cleared, the pain in my leg is agonising. I dismount for the first time since the battle’s start and hobble to the surgeon.
The sawbones says that the bullet missed the bone and the wound probably won’t immediately kill me. It’s clean and bandaged and that will have to do. We’re still too close to Dvinsk Castle for comfort. Digging the remains of the ball out will have to wait until the safety of Vilna. That’s assuming that the Tsar can stay at peace with the Poles for that long.
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