The "Wagon fort", or "Wagenburg", was a fifteenth-century battlefield tactic of utilizing wagons, drawn them together, lashed wheel to wheel and transformed them into a defensive enclosure. A fort born of innovation and creativity. The wagons formed a barrier against charging infantry and cavalry alike, turning a vulnerable mass of half-trained peasants and wooden carts into a hedgehog of blood, wood and steel (In this case, just iron).
It was nothing miraculous. Nothing invincible.But an advantage it's provide was all I needed to won the battle.
With a few adjustments and some improvisation in the field, it became perfect tactic for this exact situation.
Thank you, Jan Žižka, for your wisdom.
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Amid the chaos of the raging battlefield, behind a wall of wagons and polearms, I stood there directing the flow of combat with my voice alone. Like a lead singer commanding a roaring crowd, like a conductor guiding a grand orchestra, I slashed my heirloom shortsword through the air, carving orders into the noise amidst chaos .
"Another volley! Fire!"
Behind me, twenty levies armed with nothing more than sharpened wooden sticks obeyed instantly. They hurled their crude spears in a tight volley. The weapons themselves were laughable at best, too weak to kill reliably, so fragile they shattered on impact with anything solid. Single-use missiles, like a Roman pilum, but worse in nearly every aspect, except maybe cheapness.
And that was precisely the point.
Vindia's pinewood timber industry had supplied me with so many of them that I had lost count. Thousands, perhaps ten thousand, crafted in barely three weeks. Quantity has a quality of its own. For I just need something to distract and weaken them down.
"Reserve! One pavise, One spear! Fill the gap at wagon number three!"
A shield bearer and a spearman sprinted forward, plugging a growing breach where many bodies had slam so hard against the wagon wall that the structure had begun to shift. I had no idea how many corpses stained the timber already. All I knew was that the fight was not over, and no gap could be allowed to form.
"Sire! First slinger squad is low on ammunition!"
The shout came from above, from the roof of the house anchoring the right corner of the formation. I had placed men there for two reasons. First, to serve as my eyes, reporting enemy movement from the high ground. Second, to wield one of the most underestimated weapons in history in my humble opinion "The Sling".
Two cords. A pouch. A pebble launched with enough speed to flay flesh and shatter bone. Accuracy was its weakness, but that mattered little when fired into a dense mass of barbaric idiots crowding against the wagon wall.
"Ammo carrier! Sling team! Right house!"
The runner moved at once, hauling a basket of stones from a supply wagon and attaching it to the rope-and-pulley system we had rigged in advance. The platform creaked upward, delivering fresh ammunition to the rooftop.
How many had they slain? I did not know.I only knew to keep shouting orders. To keep watching. To wait for the battle to decide itself.
Wave after wave crashed against the wagons. More spears flew. More stones screamed through the air. More screams answered them. My world narrowed until nothing existed beyond commands and motion.
Then, unbidden, a thought surfaced.
How long has it been?
"About twenty minutes?" someone answered.
John stood beside me, patting my shoulder, smiling as if this were a tavern brawl rather than a slaughter.
I frowned. "Weren't you supposed to be commanding the infantry?"
"Now, now, sir, relax," he said, grin widening. "We won."
"What?"
I looked around.
The heavy snowfall had eased, settling back into a gentle curtain. The battlefield, moments ago a storm of motion, had gone still.
"They're fleeing! We won!" a slinger shouted from the rooftop.
"Yes! They're running!" a spearman cried, raising his weapon high.
"Then… we won!" a knight bellowed.
"Victory!"
"I'm alive!"
"We won!"
The cheers washed over me. I exhaled slowly, exhaustion finally catching up, and let them celebrate for a moment before asking the question that mattered.
"How many casualties?"
The knights relayed the order. Squad leaders counted wagons, rooftops, reserves. Heads were tallied. Injuries reported.
The result was impossible in my calculation.
"ZERO" (Except one man, who had injured himself, stubbing his toe while running ammunition)
I then walking onto one of the wagons and peered through an embrasure. Beyond the wall lay a sea of beastmen corpses, crimson blood staining the white snow. At least sixty bodies, as far as I could see. Some still breathed, broken and dying in the cold.
A chuckle escaped me. The battle had been absurdly one-sided.
Turning back to my men, I asked lightly, "So… anyone want a fur cape?"
They smiled awkwardly. All except one.
"I do," said Stahl, the lone survivor from this village.
"Then let's celebrate!" I declared. "Free booze for everyone back in the city!!!"
The cheers that followed were louder than even the battle scene itself.