Chapter 3: The Battle of Vizcaya

No pasaran. They will not pass. This was the rallying cry of the remaining Estalian defenders in Vizcaya. They had seen the suffering brought about at the hands of the greenskin victory at Irrana Pass. Resolute in their determination to hold back the invaders, they resolved to not allow the enemy horde one more inch of Estalian soil. So it was that their oath would be tested, and the price of its fulfillment to be paid in hard-fighting and blood. Beyond this gruesome cost, however, the Estalian nation stood to lose not only more of its fair sons in battle, but also its fortune and lands. The survival of the newly unified kingdom stood in the balance as the sun rose on the fields south of Vizcaya. One thought pervaded all armies preparing for battle: what would the price of victory be?

Dust gathers on the horizon, as the greenskin horde storm up along the Ranapierna River on their way to the outskirts of Vizcaya. The defenders watch on, emboldened by the presence of an Estalian mage and the promise of Bretonnian reinforcements coming from the east.

The greenskins had the simplest objective: smash the defenses around Vizcaya and keep the war going. The war-bosses knew that victory at the town would mean the beginnings of a mighty Waaagh!, an amalgamation of every orc, goblin, and beast for hundreds of miles. Eager and blood-thirsty warriors would flock to the banner of the Bad Moonz if the tribe could prove their worth at Vizcaya. Failure meant an end to weeks of pillaging and raiding, something the greenskins loathed to think of. No raiding meant no killing, and no killing meant no blood. Blood-sport and "teef collectin'" were at the cornerstone of greenskin "economics" -- they needed to keep fighting and, more importantly, winning.

Meanwhile, the human forces had a much more difficult task ahead of them. The town had to be held with only a paltry force, composed almost entirely of survivors from the battle at Irrana Pass and levies conscripted from the neighboring regional capital of Bilbali. The defenders' only hope was the promise of Bretonnian reinforcements that were on their way from the east in Brionne. The sole reinforcement provided by the Estalian army was a bright wizard, well versed in the lore of fire, named Ignacio Brillante. Upon his arrival, Brillante was immediately entrusted with commanding the remaining troops and Tilean mercenaries that defended Vizcaya. His response was measured, for he didn't want to disappoint his comrades -- they were depending on him after all. Still, he knew he wasn't an army commander. Brillante was sent to Vizcaya to reinforce the town's defense, not lead the soldiers there. Still, no other commanders remained. It was up to him to keep the barricades intact and hold back the bestial invader.

The greenskin horde had grown once more since Irrana Pass. Many local orc and goblin tribes saw the advantages of forming a great Waaagh! to conquer the Estalian nation -- the wealth from such a conquest would be immeasurable. 

Yet, just as the greenskin horde formed up and began their preparations to march forward, equally large clouds of dirt and dust were kicked up from the east. The Bretonnians, under the leadership of Sir Robert, had arrived. With him, he brought a large contingent of knights of the realm, bolstered by a motley crew of men-at-arms and peasant bowmen. It was clear that the Bretonnian lords on horseback would have the honor of taking the field, sweeping along the open country and smashing into the greenskin flank. At least, this was the plan. The reality was that the Bretonnians still had a way to go, riding along some hilly terrain before they could finally arrive at the outskirts of Vizcaya. In the meantime, it would be up to Brillante's garrison to hold out until the knights arrived. Thus, the wizard ordered for his rangers to hold the sides of the entryway into town, with this contingent composed of some hand-gunners and a company of mercenary crossbowmen known as Petrocelli's Valiants. The Valiants had survived the battle at Irrana Pass, and they were eager once more to face the savage enemy again in battle. To the front, Tilean cannon and pikemen, led by one Captain Fredo, were to hold the main road into town alongside Brillante himself. The stage was set and the battle for Vizcaya began in earnest.

The Bretonnian reinforcements, led by Sir Robert and his retinue, charged up the hilly terrain overlooking Vizcaya in the west. Although the Estalian and Tilean defenders could see their allies in the distance, the Bretonnians still had a long way to go before they could close the distance with the greenskin invaders.

Seeing the situation unfolding in favor of the greenskins, Sir Robert shouted for his cavalry to move in quickly. They had to charge in as soon as possible if they had any hope of supporting the Estalian defenders. Yet, they delayed. Some of the peasants in the Bretonnian contingent had gorged themselves during foraging runs, while others were struck by the sight of the greenskin host. With fear, confusion, and mild hesitation running wild among the ranks, Sir Robert found that moving his peasant levies was going to be a hard task. His knights were also reluctant not out of fear, but rather out of so-called "chivalry" and "rules of war" -- they weren't going to act like savages, charging in wildly into the fray. No. They elected to wait, holding their position near the hill until it was the right moment to strike. In every possible way, Sir Robert found that his troops were simply going to take a while to get to Vizcaya. It seemed the defenders were going to be on their own for most of the day.

It was a stroke of good fortune that the local count of Bilbali, Señor Rivera, sent a contingent of his guard to assist the besieged troops at Vizcaya. They weren't expected to arrive for at least another day, but good roads and speedy mounts allowed them get to the battlefield much earlier than anticipated.

As the Estalian and Tilean troops in town hunkered down, though, a group of mounted guardsmen arrived on the field from the north. Swiftly, they took up positions along the eastern end of town, identifying themselves to the garrison as royal guardsmen in service to the local count of Bilbali, one Señor Juan Rivera. The sight of Rivera's guard was one to behold, especially considering the delays the Bretonnians were experiencing on their side of the field. Even though they were still outnumbered, the odds of survival seemed to increase just ever so slightly. Once the greenskins were in range, Brillante, emboldened by new reinforcements and a fiery vigor in his heart, ordered for the Tilean cannons and crossbowmen to open fire on the enemy to the south. Volley of shot and bolt rained down upon the foe, harassing their advance all the way up to the edge of town. The cannon focused on the mighty giant stomping along the main path, while the crossbows elected to aim at the enemy skirmishers and infantry instead. The initial waves of missile fire did not do much to the greenskins, but slowly the rangers zeroed in on their targets.

"Sparare il cannone!" The Tilean cannon crews let fly their volleys of shot, as they explode all around the horde's mighty giant.

Even under withering cannon fire, the orcs cared little for the consequences of human volley fire. As the giant lagged behind, the mainline infantry charged across the open fields and made a beeline path for the town's defenses. All that stood between the greenskin horde and the human defenders were some meters of flatland and a hastily-erected barricade made of crates, wagon wheels, sandbags, and ruined furniture from nearby houses. There was no way that the few defenders in Vizcaya could hope to meet the orcs in melee, thus they resolved to do all they could to weaken them as they approached. As the greenskins sprinted forward, their skirmishers, composed mostly of goblin archers and javelins, let fly volley after volley of arrow fire into the defenders. A few poison-tipped missiles found their mark, injuring Brillante and his compatriots. Still, even under this sporadic barrage, Brillante procured his tome and prepared to cast a mighty, fiery tempest at his enemies. "Infernis tempestus!" he shouted, as a gout of flame exploded from his hands and towards the advancing orc warband.

"That dere humie is blastin' us apart!" Although wounded, Ignacio Brillante, a bright wizard in service to the Estalian Magus Conclave, fights on during the defense of Vizcaya. He unleashes a spout of fire towards his foes, disordering the already-battered orc warriors.

However, Brillante's spell-cast and Tilean cannon fire were still not enough. The orcs pressed on, equal parts bravery and savagery driving them forth. Local town militia commanders ran from one end of town to the other, informing the defending garrison of how the battle was proceeding. With the Bretonnians still held up on the flanks, they called upon the Valiants to re-position and begin firing their crossbows once again into the greenskin skirmishers. Yet, just as the orders were dispatched, an orc shaman ran up to the front, casting all sorts of hexes on the Valiants. Petrocelli's "orphans," as they were known, were stunned, as bright lights and haunting roars disordered them and left them in disarray. They did their best to get back in good order, but the shaman's spell-cast was just too strong. The Valiants, now distracted and virtually useless, had to be reinforced. Brillante ordered for the count's guard, that mighty royal cavalry, to charge into the fray and disrupt the enemy's advance. The guardsmen knew what this meant: they would die in the process. Still, accepting their fate, they boldly advanced towards the greenskin line and smashed into the skirmishers and infantry that formed the first wave charging into Vizcaya.

"A la carga! Viva Estalia!" The royal guard cavalry charge into the middle of the greenskin line, seeking to disrupt their advance into Vizcaya. Goblin arrow fire and orc infantry slowly cut their way through the human cavalry, scattering the remains of the Estalian charge within the hour.

Within the hour, the royal guardsmen tore a large gap through the greenskin line. However, the goblins regrouped behind the orc infantry, firing upon the Estalian cavalry and slowly whittling away at their numbers. Immediately after these volleys, orc infantry, brandishing axes and maces, charged in and cut a bloody swathe through the remaining guardsmen. Those that survived fled the field, while the remainder put up a last stand before being cut down. Once more, the path to Vizcaya lay open. The Bretonnians had by now engaged the greenskin flank, but their main forces were still some time away from the center of the fighting. With the way clear, orc warbands charged into the palisades and barricades, tearing them apart and rushing towards the town center. If the main plaza could be taken, then the defenders would surely fall. Brillante knew this could not happen. Even if it cost him his life, the sight of orcs pillaging and burning the town's outskirts would cause a chain reaction all throughout the line. So, with this in mind, he ordered for the remaining gunners and Tilean pikemen to establish a new defense inside of the town, commanding them to hold the enemy back at the breach.

"Disparen!" The Estalian gunners line up, although disordered, and attempt to fire another volley into the breach, trying to slow down the advancing orc warriors. Unfettered by the paltry defenses put up by the town defenders, the greenskins charge in and slaughter all those in their path.

The gunners on the far side of the town could not hold. Even though they had an excellent killing field, as the breach narrowed between the base of a rocky hill and the town itself, a small detachment of greenskins pushed through and threatened to storm the plaza. Quickly, Captain Fredo was ordered to plug the gap with his pikemen. He marched them into position, formed up the famed phalanx, and held his ground best he could. Yet, something overcame the seasoned Tilean mercenary. As Fredo witnessed the onslaught of the orc foe, he realized that the battle was lost: the enemy had breached their defenses, the Bretonnians were still a ways away, and the center was also in jeopardy. He and his men were surrounded. The final nail in the coffin was a ghastly sight he saw occur at the end of town. In the distance, he saw Brillante himself, the brave mage commander of the town's defense, be overwhelmed by a troop of orc infantry. As the orcs were repelled by savage cannon fire and some of Brillante's own sword-work, the mage stumbled back, bleeding heavily from his lips and side. A few soldiers ran to aid him, setting him down at the foot of a nearby tavern. There, Brillante gave his final orders -- that same rallying cry that had kept them going thus far: "No los dejen pasar." Do not let them pass. And then, at once, all hell broke loose.

Captain Fredo's Fighters hold the line, establishing a pike phalanx and attempting to hold back the greenskin advance on the far side of town. Yet, as the battle carried on, Fredo felt a great uncertainty in his heart. Could the defenders truly hold out until the Bretonnians arrived?

Severely wounded during the battle, Ignacio Brillante, mage-commander of the defense garrison, utters his last words before passing out from his wounds. Defeated and worn out, the tired mage is carted off to the rear lines. With no commander, what could the Estalians and Tileans hope to do now?

First, Captain Fredo called for a retreat of his fighters, believing the battle lost. Local militiamen tried to encourage him to stay, even offering up their own personal fortunes in recompense, but still he would not listen. The defenses had fallen.

"Cobarde -- coward! Get back in there and fight! It's in your contract, damn it!" Militiamen try to force Fredo's Fighters to head back to the front but, alas, to no success. Captain Fredo routs from the field!

With Fredo's retreat and the loss of Brillante, a lone soldier, whose name is lost to history, approached a nearby royal guardsman. Quickly, the soldier picked up a nearby Estalian banner, holding it aloft as the guardsmen ordered for the man to report in on the status of Vizcaya's defense. "Vizcaya is in danger of falling -- run to the Bretonnians, and urge them to send troops now! We cannot hope to hold them back any longer!" The guardsman nodded, and then replied swiftly, "Then godspeed, soldier, and pray to Myrmidia the day can still be won!" With that, the guardsman rode off to the east, seeking to inform their Bretonnian allies of the dire state Vizcaya was in. On his way to the flank, he saw that the town was worse off than he initially believed. From his horse, he observed that Petrocelli's crossbows were now routing as well, having seen Captain Fredo do the same. "Damn Tileans," murmured the guardsman, "They only ever think of coin!"

A lone soldier, now bearing the banner of Estalia and his regiment, informs an inquiring guardsmen of the town's status. Calling for the Bretonnians to rush to the town's aid, the guardsmen gallops off to the east in search of reinforcements.

Some time later, the guardsman arrived at the Bretonnian flank. He was summoned to appear before Sir Robert, who commanded his contingent from the top of a nearby hill. "M'lord," shouted the Estalian guardsman, "The town of Vizcaya is in grave danger! They ask that you send troops to help secure the plaza at once!" Sir Robert cackled, replying, "My good man, this battle shall be won, I assure you. Why, the greenskin savages have fallen right into my trap!" The guardsmen cocked his head to the side, confused. Sir Robert then proceeded, explaining, "You see, I have tricked the greenskins into thinking they have secured victory. Now, I shall order my troops in and crush the foe as they celebrate their premature victory!"

"M'lord, with all due respect, your troops have been slow in the advance -- and you only wait to attack until after the defenders have fallen? How could you throw precious lives away like this!?"

"Estalian," replied the brash Sir Robert, "Be grateful our soldiers are here at all. Now, stand aside, and let us Bretonnians show you the true meaning of gallantry!" Sir Robert then strode off, overseeing the deployment of his troops. The guardsman, struck by Sir Robert's nature, rode west to send word to Bilbali. Meanwhile, back in the town itself, the remaining defenders rallied around the last troops still standing: a small contingent of cannon crew, still manning their Tilean organ gun. They moved it into position quickly, having swung it about and aimed it at the charging greenskins. "Hold, hold . . ." ordered the chief gunner, lining up the shot just right, "Fire!" The cannon let loose a fiery plume of shot and shrapnel, enveloping the orc warband and causing them to fall into disorder. Yet, even these brave gunners stood little chance, for goblin skirmishers ran up from the south and began to pelt them with arrow fire. Eventually, they too fell back, wounded or dying as a result of the endless missile volleys. For all intents and purposes, Vizcaya was undefended. Yet, in the distance, a miraculous sight -- almost as if mighty Myrmidia herself had ridden down from the heavens to aid her people.

"Let them have it!" Tilean cannon crews open fire with their organ gun, ripping into the flesh and bones of the charging greenskins.

"For the Lady of the Lake!" The Bretonnians charge from the hills and make their way into the heart of Vizcaya's outskirts.

The Bretonnians charged. A mighty war-horn called for the attack, as the knightly orders lowered their lances and prepared to clash into the greenskin flank. The ensuing melee was a bloody one, suffice it to say. The second wave of greenskins, composed mostly of heavy infantry and skirmishers, held on for dear life in the face of the cavalry assault. Although the Bretonnians had been slow on the draw, when their attack finally came it did so with the ferocity of a mighty tempest of flesh and steel. Yet, not all fronts of the charge were met with success. For instance, as one of the contingents arrived to try and aid the fleeing Tilean crossbowmen, the same shaman that had disordered them turned instead to face the oncoming Bretonnian knights. With another hex cast, the image of a magical chicken was conjured up. For some reason, one of the knights was allured by this rooster, electing to break formation to go chase after it. Elsewhere, other mounted knights were slain by heavy axes or poisoned arrows, their armored bodies tumbling off their horses and crashing down to the rocky earth below. But, for the most part, the charge was successful in weakening the remaining greenskins. However, there was still the problem of securing the town.

"Let me at 'em boss! Dese humies don't know what's comin'!" Once more, the cunning night goblin "Shifty" prepares his bow to fire upon his next victim: a trio of Bretonnian knights.

"Sacré bleu! A holy chicken! Men, we must capture!" As the Bretonnian knights charge into the fray, an orc shaman casts a hex on one of the mounted contingents. A bewitched knight, now believing the magical chicken is holy, charges after it. He was swiftly demoted after the battle for his poor conduct.

Swiftly, a group of Bretonnian men-at-arms ran towards the town, able to see that the greenskins had managed to penetrate the outer defenses. An Estalian militiaman, along with the lone banner-man, sprinted towards and quickly directed them to take up defensive positions inside the plaza. Once there, goblin archers once more pelted the soldiers. However, these reinforcing Bretonnian footmen were fresh and rested. Although they did take some casualties, their spirits were high and their armor and weapons still clean and ready for battle. The remaining orcs in the town sought to engage the Bretonnian footmen, but many lost heart and quickly retreated in the face of enemy reinforcements. Meanwhile, the greenskins on the outskirts of the town were too caught up fighting with the Bretonnian knights, as the greenskin reserves were compromised by the charge. Although a good number of the greenskin forces were still eager to have at it, the war-bosses saw what way the wind was blowing: the Bretonnians had successfully reinforced the town, and they didn't have the warriors necessary to take it. Within the hour, the remaining goblins and orcs began a fighting withdrawal, as the Bretonnians chased them back to the Irrana Mountains.

Vizcaya was safe.

"Vamos -- let's go! Get in there, men!" Bretonnian footmen arrive on the scene, as Estalian militiamen encourage them to charge into the plaza. Swiftly, the reinforcing men-at-arms rush to secure the town center, thus discouraging the remaining greenskin invaders.

Victory at Vizcaya came at a great cost however, especially for the Estalians and Tileans. All the remaining defenders from the battle at Irrana Pass were slaughtered or retreated, leaving only the Bretonnians to come reinforce the town's defenses. The knights felt content with their duty, believing that they had once again saved their fellow neighbors to the south. The levy infantry, although happy that they had survived the battle, found that the Estalian town provided an excellent opportunity for personal gain. After all, there were barely any defenders left to oppose a few instances of looting or, as they called it, 'foraging' and 'recompense' for a job well done. The knights were too busy chasing the greenskins from the field to care, and the remaining Estalian militia were too weak to do anything. Thus, the Bretonnian soldiers took whatever worthwhile trinket they could find to bring back to their villages in Brionne, elated that their involvement in the battle was over.

"By Myrmidia . . ." An Estalian guardsmen watches the Bretonnians chase off the remaining greenskins, while footmen loot the homes and churches around the outskirts of Vizcaya. Unable to put up any resistance, the Estalians can only stand by and see their already embattled town suffer at the hands of impoverished levies seeking to bring back some fortune to their squalid villages in Brionne.

Still, even as looting went on into the night, the greenskins were defeated. Although defeat for the orcs and goblins meant that the promise of a Waaagh! would not come to be, this did not mean that the greenskins were no longer a threat. It only meant they were weakened, relegated to raiding the mountains once more and unable to storm the lowlands as they had done some weeks ago. With the threat of a greenskin invasion dealt with, news of the victory at Vizcaya was spread throughout the peninsula. Upon arriving at Magritta, messengers were received at King Esteban's court, informing the Estalian king of the battle's conclusion. The king was both ecstatic and concerned. On one hand, the greenskins were driven back -- they'd be relegated to banditry and minor raids, as they had been in the past. This, he thought, he could easily handle. On the other hand, there was the problem of dealing with the aftermath of the invasion in terms of diplomacy and economy. The good king had spent much in ensuring the survival of his people. There were the Tileans to pay and the Bretonnians to offer favorable treaties to, not to mention his own lords and ladies who were still bitter at the cost of the whole affair in terms of lives, land, and coin.

Esteban needed a solution, lest he find himself facing the end of an assassin's dagger, sent there by a disgruntled nobleman or an angry Tilean prince. As he pondered his options, Myrmidia seemed to smile upon him again that day with a blessing -- or, at least, what seemed like one initially. His would-be salvation came at the hands of a man who arrived at court a few days after the conclusion of the battle of Vizcaya. He was dressed in wonderfully flamboyant clothing, adorned in fine silks and leathers from head to toe. Bearing a satchel full of books and a globe of the world in his hand, he sought to meet with King Esteban as soon as possible, bringing news he thought the king of Estalia would enjoy hearing given his present circumstances. It was no secret that King Esteban was struggling to finance the war against the greenskins, and this fellow reckoned he had the perfect solution.

The solution to King Esteban's woes, it seems, would lie on the other side of the globe . . .

His name was Marco Colombo, and he was about to lead the way in discovering the New World.