Sometimes it is small things that make a big difference. We all know the names of the great battles and the great generals throughout history and attribute the great victories to them. But as life is really full of chaos, could it not be that the butterfly that flutters its wings in your garden causes the monsoons in India? I suspect that it may have been a little known incident that helped win Gulf Wars XIII for Trimaris. (Sorry, did I say that? It was a tie. It just seems that we did better than usual in the tie.)
It was Friday, out on the heavy combat fields. It was a good day to die. No really, it was a lovely day to die. The air was fresh. The sun was shining. It was pleasantly warm. It was a highly unusual day weather wise for Gulf Wars. Hundreds of soldiers were mustered out on Hastings field in a scene of color and pageantry that stirred the blood. Two battles had been fought already. Those fighters out upon the field were properly warmed up and well into the battle. Those who had less exercise through the winter were perhaps looking forward to its end and a good drink and a good sit down. They lined up for the third and final battle on the fields.
Everyone moved into place, the deadly archers, the allies, the striking black and red of Glen Abhean, the flashy royal blue of the Triskele Legion, the talented ranks of Cerebus, and over on the left, the gold and black of the Asgardians with their huge V-shields. Across the field were loads and loads of enemy in gold with black stars, and dragon bedecked Midrealmers, and the doughty Calontir army in purple and gold. These last, the golden birds of prey with their talons out and aimed, were the ones poised before the equally vicious sable Ravens of Asgard. Those ravens glittered silver, engraved on every shield the Varangians held. The golden birds flew on every shield of the Calontiri. Steely eyes glared out across the field. Calontir and Asgard both knew they were well matched.
The cry went out to “Lay On” and everyone went about their appointed business of killing the enemy in good fun. I dare say that in the next five minutes or so there were enough good stories to fill an An Tir winter. But then a “Hold” was called when a fighter had gotten a hit hard enough to knock her a bit confused. She needed to be seen to by the Chirurgeons and taken off the field. These sort of holds take a bit of time and everyone knew it. The fighters took a breather. Helmets came off and people looked about to see what was what.
Let’s go to our hero now as he removes his gloriously shiny helm.
Daniel von Hessen is an Asgardian of the deepest dye. He bleeds black and gold. He is his Duke’s man any time, anywhere. He looks at war through the eyes of Sun Tzu, at politics through the eyes of Machiavelli, and history through the eyes of whoever won. He reminds me a good deal of the descriptions of Bohemond by Anna Commenus when the first crusaders arrived at Constantinople. To summarize, he’s tall, damned good looking, charming, and a ruthless son of...well, you get the idea.
Daniel recently has been working on new armor. He’s been pulling it together bit by bit and each time he takes the field, he’s more dazzling than the last. He’s six foot six and mostly covered with brilliantly reflective plate armor, which gives him another two inches. Sunglasses are a great help if you want to make out detail like his head. He is instantly recognizable and for the enemy undoubtedly makes a great target. Daniel is used to this though, his previous armor was all white Japanese which made him look exactly like a Star Wars stormtrooper. He does not believe in camouflage, not in this theater of operations anyway.
So Daniel removes his glittering helm and glances around. He takes a deep breath and smiles because he loves war, really he does. He sees Ari Tyrbrandr, armed with axe and shield, next to him. They have been plugging away at the Calontir lines. Ari has been hewing limbs in the manner of the violent Norse while Daniel has been prodding at their soft underbellies with his mace and nearly superhuman reach. The pair of them have been doing rather well, they’ve been able to move forward foot by foot while felling their opponents with excellent regularity. They are feeling pretty good.
They were feeling pretty good. Now they don’t feel quite so good.
There seems to be a little problem with the color in the picture. There should be people wearing purple and gold in front of them. Those people should have fierce expressions and intent to do bodily harm to Daniel and Ari. That part is correct. To the sides and back of Ari and Daniel there should be people wearing the black and gold of Asgard ready to give aid and succor. That part is not correct. Alas, for thirty feet behind them and to either side, Ari and Daniel see only the purple and gold of Calontir. They are surrounded and deep in the enemy lines. The Calotir army is looking at them like a man looks at cooked bread. Yes, Daniel and Ari are toast.
The hold is still on. When it is over, the two Asgardians have every right to expect that they will be, to use a favorite phrase, clubbed to death like baby seals. But right now, no one can throw a blow and they are just looking at each other.
“What about a prisoner exchange?” There are a couple of guys from Calontir in a similar hotspot. The Calontiri consider this and Daniel and Ari are full of hope. After some consideration and a lot of looking at Daniel’s armor, they agree only to trade Ari back for one of theirs.
Ari pats Daniel on the arm, “Good luck, old man,” shoulders his shield and returns to the company of his fellows. Bright Daniel, shiny Daniel, rich looking Daniel, is all alone with the Calotir army now. He is thinking fast. To his credit, he is thinking medievally as well.
“What about a ransom, guys? Let’s deal here. What will it take?” queries Daniel, knowing the value of a six foot eight guy armed and alive to his companions as well as to his captors.
Their spokesman, looks him over well and says, “It’s not much, we want, just a drink.”
Daniel is thinking he’s gotten off cheap. “That’s cool.”
The spokesman wants to make sure Daniel understands fully, “We ALL want a drink.”
Daniel is thinking big now. His service as an Asgardian squire has prepared him amply for this particular kind of hospitality situation. “A keg. Tonight. You’ve got it.” Daniel was free.
Later that night, Daniel went looking for the Calontir army. The Calontir army, for their part, went looking for him. Though Daniel thought that all good warriors in a celebratory mood ought to be found at the Knowne World party, the Calontir army thought that ransomed guys who owed them a keg ought to be found in Asgard. Following their line of logic, the Calontir army invaded Asgard. The good Duke Baldur met the invading force and upon learning of their quest, gave the Calontiri that which they love best, good song. Duke Baldur is very crafty because his singing totally disarmed them. Ari Tyrbrandr, being in camp, demonstrated and tapped the keg that sat awaiting their pleasure. Mystified at not finding a single Calontir warrior, Daniel finally returned to camp to find the army rolling the tapped ransom off in a wagon. They were most pleased with their payment and celebrated the day’s trials and tribulations with gusto.
The Calontir army was a spirited lot and did everything together. If one sang, they all sang. If one charged the enemy line, they all did. I hear they even pee together. So you know if one was going to drink, they were all going to quaff Daniel’s offering. The Calontir camp in its entirety was not all that large. That keg lasted them quite a while. It seemed to kick off a great deal more enjoyment than might have been thought possible. I wonder what Daniel put in it? In typical Calontir fashion, they began to sing. Then they began to sing off key. Then they began to sing in a slur. Finally, they talked. When the Calontiri cannot sing, you know they are in trouble. It was four in the morning before the golden bird of prey carried them away and we could not hear them anymore. On Saturday morning, their camp was very, very, very quiet. You could feel the headaches leaking out of the tents.
At this point, I don’t need to go into a long discussion of the Fort Battles. I don’t need to tell you how our heavy artillery and our glorious archers pounded the enemy to death. I don’t need to tell you how fearlessly and perfectly our troops did their jobs of attacking and defending. I don’t need to tell you of the perfect strategies that lured them in and kept them out. We were magnificent, of course. But did anyone see if the Calontiri were wincing when there was loud noise or dying before they were hit on the head? Just curious. Just curious.
So never underestimate the power of small things in the march of history. Be bold, step forward, give life some dash and style. You never know when you may be able to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat or at least have the good fortune to raise a glass with the valiant Calontir enemy.œ
Eridani Aurus A . S. XXXVIII 4-18-04
