The Lantern Waste

Improved rules

These are likely the final version before I get the artwork put in.Download conqueror_first_edition.pdf

February 21, 2008 in Conqueror | Permalink | Comments (0)

One big download

Here is the lastest and greatest, which incorporates the most recently-edited rules and the army lists, as well as some fluff.

Obviously some editing still needs to be done and the artwork hasn't been put in yet, but this is pretty much what the finished product will look like.Download conqueror_complete_rules.pdf

January 05, 2008 in Conqueror | Permalink | Comments (0)

The King gazed out across the darkened city. From his vantage point at the top of the citadel, hardly a light was visible below in the cold hour before dawn. Overhead, the stars were almost wholly obscured in low-lying cloud – clouds that had been over them for a week.

Last night’s storm had been particularly bad with ear-splitting thunder and sheets of lightning that lit up the sky. Terrific winds howled across the city battlements, but not a drop of rain fell. Now the air was calm, almost stifling.

To the west, there was a dull, sinister glow: the vast camp of the Dark Lord’s armies. The sullen red light started at him angrily like an unholy tide that threatened to sweep the world before it.

Suddenly, he felt the air shift. The banners above him shook themselves and then began to unfurl.

“Sire,” said one of his nearby knights. “The wind shifts! The clouds are starting to move away.”

The King cast back the hood of his robe and looked up. The clouds were beginning to thin and more stars were becoming visible.

“Yes,” the King said. “It is a sign. Summon the Council.”

A few minutes later an assembly of three dozen warlords gathered in a large hall within the keep. The room was well-lit with ornate lamps hanging from the ceiling and from holders on the walls. In the center was a rectangular table with a large parchment map of the city and its environs.

Most of the assembled nobles had already donned their armor and were seated around the table, but the King was still wearing a plain brown robe – a strange sight amidst the heraldic splendor of those around him. Making him stranger still was the fact that he had shaved his hair and face – a striking contrast to the full beards and shoulder-length hair around him. Only the Eryxians were similarly groomed – and they mitigated this austere look with brilliant gold-plated scale armor.

As he entered, they all stood up and bowed. “Your Majesty,” they said.

“My lords,” he nodded and proceeded to the head of the large table at the center of the room. He pulled out his chair but did not sit.

“There has been a change of plan,” he said. The room was silent. “The enemy has advanced faster than we expected. As you can see, his camp is already within a day’s march of the city. We have not yet repaired the walls, nor have we enough supplies to withstand a siege. If we allow ourselves to be invested, Oldburg will fall.”

“But what of our ships, your majesty?” asked a tall man in elaborate silk clothing. “We command the seas and can keep Oldburg supplied indefinitely. Even now, Whitespire is assembling additional stocks of food for transport here.”

The King shook his head. “Duke Brassos, we appreciate everything the Pylean League has done, but it is only a matter of time before the Dark Lord’s sorcerers succeed in blocking the harbor, either by using infernal machines, magic or summoning sea beasts. No, we must fight now.”

He straightened up and gazed into the distance. “I have foreseen it. Last night Thracios spoke to me, urging me to hold back no more. The priests of Luminos also report the auguries to be favorable. We shall therefore attack at the rising of the sun.

“My lords, upon this battle all depends,” he continued and his eyes swept the assembled leaders. “There is no retreat to Boatenburg, or Whitespire, or Kingsdell or even

Meroe

– all of us gathered here will stand or fall, as our ancestors did thousands of years ago.”

“Some of our ancestors, you mean,” said a cloaked figure near the back of the room. He pulled back his hood revealing brilliant blond hair and the fair, ageless visage of an elf. Across his brow was a cunningly intertwined circlet of gold and silver leaves.

“I beg your pardon, your Majesty,” the King said with the shadow of a smile flickering on his lips. “King Alarion, I know elves are loathe to give advice, but you alone have seen similar dark times. Can you tell us nothing?”

The elven king’s face was grave. “What can I say that you do not already know, King Otto of Godenland? Upon this battle the hinge of fate will turn. I do not believe that we will fail, but many of us here will not see today’s sun set. I was at the Declean Hills, back when you Thraciots were as children. You were fewer then, and your weapons not as deadly, but you had the mastery for you kept faith with your gods and trusted each other. I can also recall the ruin you inflicted upon yourselves when you abandoned both policies.” He sighed and said nothing more.

“Then it is long since time that we returned to the wisdom of our fathers,” the King said. “Here is the plan of battle,” he said, pointing at the table.

“Prince Tephemet,” he began, gesturing to a sleek Eryxian with a neatly shaven head arrayed in gilded scale armor. “Your chariots will be most successful on the left wing, for the ground is flatter and firmer there. Also there is the coast road close at hand to get you around any obstacles.”

An assistant placed a small shield with a blue field and a blazing sun on the map. Across from it were a series of black flags indicating the enemy encampment.

“Next to Eryxia, we shall place Suebia’s infantry,” he said, setting down a small shield with a yellow field and a blue dragon on it. “How many men have you, Duke Roderick?”

A tall man with a graying black beard and long dark hair stepped forward. He was wearing a suit of mail reinforced with plates on the elbows and knees and had the look of a seasoned warrior at the height of his skill. “Your majesty, additional levies arrived last night, giving us three thousand foot and five hundred horse,”

“Good, I want the infantry there, but the cavalry shall be with me,” the King said.

“Next to your infantry we will put our small but noble detachment from Weirland,” he said, setting out a shield with a white tower on a green field.

“Lord Offa,” he said, gesturing to a stout warrior in well-used armor. “The feud between our countries is ancient, but let us hope today’s battle brings better days to come.”

The Weirlander nodded. “That was the wish of King Osric as well, your majesty,” he said.

“Then it shall surely come to pass,” the King said. “But before that there must be blood and death.” He turned now to the finely attired Duke Brassos. “Your Grace, I will place the Pylean troops next to Weirland. You come provided with many archers and crossbowmen and they will stand here, to cover your flank and support me.” The King touched the map and a shield with a black chariot drawn by a black horse on a golden field was placed next to his finger.

“With the Pyleans will be the detachments from Aquilea and Hesperia,” he said.

“That is well,” said Gaius Metulus, the Hesperian legate. He was clad in armor that looked strangely out of place, for its design was like that of the ancient legions. “I had wondered how you would relay messages to our detachments. But keeping us with the Pyleans is wise, for we all speak the same language!”

“Indeed,” the King smiled. “I did not fancy my men trying to wrap their tongues around Hesperian.”

“I will be here with the Sacred Knights and the chivalry of Godenland, the Ostmark, Suebia and all others fit to ride. Several shields were placed here, one bearing a white unicorn on purple for Godenland, another with a silver hammer on purple for the Ostmark, and a plain red shield for the Knights of the Sacred Order of the Thracios.

“Next to us will be the infantry of Godenland and the Ostmark,” he said, and additional tokens were placed. “Though their numbers are few, I would also like the dwarves sent by King Thrar to take their place with my people,” he said. A dwarf in heavy armor clanked up to the table and climbed onto a chair for a better view.

“We stand with you, King Otto, and honor our ancient alliance,” the dwarf said, stroking his long braided beard. “We only regret that the great distance has kept so few of our people from coming.”

“Lord Gunnar, every warrior you have sent is worth his weight in gold,” the King replied. “I am relying on you to hold the hinge at the center,” he said pushing a token with a golden hammer and anvil on it forward.

“Finally, with your majesty’s leave, I entrust our right wing to King Alarion the Ageless and his host from the Alfenwald.”

“The position of honor…” intoned Duke Brassos.

“Yes,” said the King, turning to him. “And I know of none more worthy. This is the first time in more than a thousand years that King Alarion has emerged from his woodland home to aid us. It is an event our great-grandchildren will speak of – if we carry the day. I will not have the loremasters say that I did not show due deference.”

King Alarion walked over to the map and the assembled leaders parted before him.

“We will put our spears here, covered by archers,” he said. “Our cavalry will guard the flank.”

He paused to look King Otto in the eye. For a moment there was silence as the two sovereigns – one thousands of years old, the other barely 30, looked upon one another. Otto’s brown eyes did not flinch from the steely gaze of the elvenking.

“Your plan is bold, King Otto, but our need requires it,” he said after a moment. “Let us speak no longer but form our companies, for already the sun’s first rays touch the eastern horizon.”

“Thank you, your majesty,” King Otto replied, somewhat distantly before coming back to the present. “My lords: to your companies, and may Thracios bless us.”

“For Thracios!” they said, and filed out of the room. At last only King Otto and Duke Roderick stood alone by the table. The duke was in his mid-forties, seasoned by war and a veteran of many raids.

“The elven king is a mystery,” he said quietly. “Why did he stare at you so?”

King Otto walked over to one of the windows and gazed out.

“He was testing my heart, I think,” he said. He thought for a moment and then turned to the duke.

“Have you seen your life pass before your eyes? In moments of great peril, the memories go flooding past in an instant and you think: ‘this is the last I shall know of this world – my next vision will be of Mordhra before the judgment seat.’”

“Yes, your majesty,” the duke replied. “All men have, I think.”

“Well, as I looked into the eyes of Alarion, I felt as though my life was passing before my eyes, but it was a life I have not yet lived. I saw my wife and son returned from Boatenburg, and I watched him grow up – and his brothers too, who have yet to be born. I saw the banner of Godenland flying over Whitespire and myself seated on a throne there – with a white crown on my head. And then it all vanished in blood.” “Did you see victory?” asked the duke, frowning.

“No, it was as if the battle did not happen,” he said, rubbing his forehead. “What could it mean?”

“I do not know, your majesty,” the duke answered. “But I do know we have no time for elvish riddles. The army awaits.”

“Yes,” the King said after a moment. “Let us go to meet our fate, whatever it may be.”

The armies slowly filed out of the two western gates of Oldburg. The Eryxians – dark, exotic, and silent – filed out of the Coastal Gate, followed by the other southern allies: Pyleans with flashy arms and polished armor trimmed with silk and other fine cloth; Aquilean marines in blue cloaks and leather jerkins; Hesperian legionnaires, like ghosts of a bygone era in their segmented armor; Suebians, in simple shirts of chain mail with long swords and round shields; and finally Weirland with spears and great axes on their mail-covered shoulders.

Out of the Forest Gate to the north came the main host of Godenland. There were some shouted commands and the clanking of steel but over the whole there was a hush as the sky grew slowly brighter. There were no songs, not drums, no clarion calls to war, only the dim rumbling of thousands of feet on cobbled streets and grain-covered fields.

Beyond the Forest Gate the Wood Elves were already formed. They had camped outside the city walls, preferring the sheltered groves and fields around it to the opulent splendor of Oldburg.

As King Otto rode out of the citadel in the dim light, it seemed that his capital was inhabited by ghosts. The usual morning babble was gone: almost all of the women and children had been evacuated by royal decree to villages to the east, away from the advancing Borean armies.

The famed fountains were still as he led his personal guard out to the square in front of the palace. The Knights of the Sacred Order of Thracios were waiting for him. They were a new order, only a few weeks old but already they were two hundred strong. As yet they had no heraldry, only scarlet cloaks and capes draped over their armor. Their banner was red, unadorned.

He nodded to them and together they made their way through the deserted city.

As they passed through the gate, he could hear the hushed whispers of nearby Godenic troops. “There goes the King and his Red Knights,” they said.

“Yes, but now the King is one of them!” said others.

It was true. The King had taken the holy vows and was the first Grand Master of the new order. Instead of the royal arms he also wore red over his brightly burnished full-plate armor.

Now he was in position and as the eastern sky grew brighter, the rest of his forces advanced into line several miles from the city walls. To the west, the Borean host was stirring as well and though the wind was out of the south, blowing the clouds away, he could still hear the throb of the Borean war drums, like thunder on the edge of hearing.

At length, errand riders confirmed that their forces were in position. King Otto gazed out at the fields before him, filled with the growth of high summer. Here and there a farmstead dotted lush countryside, but as daylight spread over the landscape, a darker line advanced to consume it.

The sun rose in splendor, and for a moment it shone brightly through the clouds. The vast Borean host almost seemed to recoil before it, but then the wind shifted and heavy clouds drifted down from the north, obscuring it once more.

A nearby Red Knight looked back at the eastern sky. “Luminos is with us,” he said.

“What of the clouds? I thought we were promised sunshine,” replied one of the King’s guards.

“The time is not yet ripe,” the knight replied. “When the sun bursts forth, then it shall be our time.”

The King turned. “Who said that?” he asked. A young man in heavy armor and scarlet trappings spurred forward.

“I did, your majesty, my name is Aldred, and I am – or was – a nobleman from Heathdale.”

“What are you know?” asked the King.

“I am a Knight of Thracios, your majesty, as you are. I have pledged my life to him and today he will claim it or not, as is his need.”

The King smiled. “You comfort me, Aldred of Heathdale. Ride with me and stay at my side during the battle. You are young, but there is wisdom in your words.”

“Thank you, your majesty.”

The King said nothing for a long time as the day slowly brightened. Before him the Borean host slowly advanced, like a dark tide covering the landscape.

After an hour, they were scarcely half a mile away. Their numberless banners displayed all manner of savage symbols, but one was repeated more than any other: a spiked crown on a black field. It was the White Crown of the North – the Imperial Crown of the Dark Lord.

The Borean drums rolled and horns blared, and in answer the Thraciots began to give their own battle cries. All eyes fixed on the King in the center, but he did not move.

The Borean host fell silent.

Out of the middle of the vast dark army, a small group of horsemen came riding, black-harnessed on black chargers. One of them bore a banner of ancient design, not unlike those once used by the Hesperian legions hundreds of years ago. The pole was made of silver and the White Crown blazoned upon the sable field of the standard glittered with gilded threads and crystals in the cloud-obscured morning light.

Slowly they rode forward, their weapons sheathed until they were a hundred yards from the King.

“What is this?” asked one of the King’s outriders. “Why do you come before King Otto III of Godenland in manner of war?”

“We offer a parley,” answered one of the dark riders in a low voice.

“Come,” shouted the King, spurring his horse. He turned, “Aldred, and you six, come with me. The rest of you remain here.”

The King and his escort rode forward and met the advancing delegation.

“I am here,” the King said. “Now speak your peace.”

“I am Metras,” said the messenger who had spoken earlier. He cast back his hood and revealed a pale face with thin white eyebrows and a perfectly hairless scalp. His gaunt cheeks were smooth and beardless. His yes were yellow, and seemed to shrink from the sudden light.

“Your majesty,” he said with a bow. “I am an envoy of the True Emperor. I come on behalf of His Imperial Majesty to make you an offer.”

“It is plain to see you offer me war and conquest,” the King replied.

“No, your majesty,” the envoy replied. He turned to one of his companions who held out a wooden box bound with burnished silver. Slowly he opened it with great care and held up a crown of white gold, studded with diamonds and clear jewels.

The messenger held it aloft. “O mighty King Otto of Godenland, you are the greatest ruler of the age!” he said, his voice suddenly ringing out. “The True Emperor recognizes your quality and offers you this crown to signify your achievement.”

“It is a trick,” growled one of the red knights. “It will cast a spell on us or overthrow his mind.”

“Nay,” said the messenger, frowning. “It carries no magic, other than the awe that your King has earned.”

“And what am I to do with such a gift?” asked the King. “A crown I already have.”

The messenger smiled, showing sharpened white teeth. “You shall rule as Viceroy to his Imperial Majesty, the King of Kings. You shall choose a place for your seat and it shall be the capital of all the world! The Boreans will serve you as they serve the True Emperor, and through His power your reign will never end.”

The King looked at the messenger and as his gaze met the yellow eyes, suddenly the earlier vision returned. He saw all he had before and more. He saw the crowned heads of the world doing homage at Whitespire; he saw the banner of the House of Martel worshipped in temples and he saw endless legions of Boreans falling on their faces at his approach. Riches beyond reckoning were poured out before his throne by his conquering armies – and on his head was the crown now held before him.

“Will you not accept?” the messenger whispered. “No mortal has ever been offered more…” he said and the King now had new visions, of sumptuous feasts, sensual women and – and his wife’s death.

“Karyn!” he King cried softly. He now saw her, aged and bent, lying still in her bed. His children, now middle-aged stood by, but he looked younger than they. And then he saw them passing away, and their children, yet still he ruled, forever young, forever wealthy, forever venerated.

“Immortality?” the King cried, looking away. “This is your great gift? Never!” He stood up in his stirrups. “Tell your dark master that I want no share of his rulership and none of his unnatural gifts. A King I am, but I am also a mortal man, and such I shall remain.”

The messenger frowned and placed the crown back in its box.

“Yes,” he said turning back to the king. “A man you shall remain – and shortly you will taste the mortality you have chosen.”

The dark riders turned and galloped back into their lines. King Otto stood looking at them for a moment, and then looked to the north east, where the elves were positioned. Across the vast field he could clearly see King Alarion and the keen gaze of his grey eyes entered into him. Now he understood.

“Listen,” he said quietly to his escort. “I will fall this day. Phanatos has written it and soon Mordhra will come for me. You will have to carry the burden after I fall. Duke Roderick will succeed to command the army, but you, Aldred, will take command of the Order. Is this understood?”

The knights nodded. He turned to Aldred. “Do you question my vision?”

“No,” Aldred said. “I see it clearly in your eyes. This day you will be with Thracios.” Then Aldred looked up at the sky. “The wind is moving to the south again and the clouds are breaking up. Now is our time.”

“Yes,” the King said, and they rode back to the lines.

They had reached them and turned about when the sun broke through the clouds, which rapidly began to thin out. A stiff breeze took their standards and the sudden golden light was greeted by clarion trumpets and valiant horn calls.

“Luminos is with us!” the King cried. “Thracios will guide us!”

“THRACIOS!” cried the Red Knights, and they spurred their horses forward.

Now all along the lines the battle cries echoed as both armies surged together. The King and his Red Knights led the charge into the center of the Borean host. Their armor gleamed in the bright morning light as they aimed their lances at the enemy.

To the south, the Eryxian chariots also rumbled forward and crashed into the serried ranks of gitlings before them.

To the north, the elves were sending a deadly hail of arrows which cut down huge swathes of the enemy.

As the King rode forward, a massive force of black riders surged out to meet him. There was a terrific impact as the two bodies of horsemen came together.

The King’s lance was shattered as he impaled a dark rider upon it. All around him the enemy cavalry was thrown down to the ground. The Red Knights had been at the forefront and now the supporting Thraciot cavalry surged around them, tearing into the black riders and sending them tumbling from their saddles.

The King swept out his sword and cut down the black riders still in reach. The rest were riding here and there, fleeing from the onslaught. Some of his knights began to ride off in disorganized pursuit.

“Halt!” he shouted. “Reform! To me!”

He looked around. On his left, huge battalions of Yagurs - the toughest and largest Boreans of all - were moving forward. Armed with pole-axes and heavy armor, they could stack up his cavalry and slowly grind them down. To the right he could see nothing for the clouds of dust, but he could hear the war cries of the dwarves closing in and he smiled at the thought of the small detachment seeking to win fame and glory for their people.

The last of the dark rider fugitives had fled into the main enemy mass and coming out through them was a company of ogres armed with massive battle axes.

“A worthy foe,” breathed one of the Red Knights near him. Some of the knights were passing replacement lances forward and one was offered to the King. He took it without a word.

He stood in his stirrups and shouted to the horsemen around him. “Behind them are more Boreans. We cannot let ourselves get stopped. We must go clean through – Stop for no one!”

The knights nodded. “Pass the word!” The King said. “We go clear through!”

The knights turned and echoed the command. Around them the feudal vassals gathered – proven warriors from Godenland, the Ostmark, Suebia and even Eryxia. The Ogres were advancing.

“Now! Charge!” The King cried.

With horn calls and another shout of “Thracios!” the assembled knights spurred forward. They pounded straight into the arms of the advancing ogres.

From across the field, King Alarion could see the engagement unfolding. Far-sighted even among elves, he stood with his knights on a low hill for a better view. His own people were barely engaged – their arrow storm had seen off two charges without recourse to swordplay. Next to them the Godenic infantry was locked in combat with untold masses of Boreans, but beyond them the dwarves were carving a bloody path through the enemy lines. Past them the rising dust of battle obscured things, but it looked as though the Yagur charge had been blunted by Pylean pikemen backed up by deadly crossbow fire. Farther still, the Eryxian chariots continued to play havoc with the Borean right wing.

He turned his gaze back to the center, where the cavalry was pausing to regroup. The rout of the dark riders had caused the Borean center to collapse upon itself, but now it was surging forward once more, led by ogre shock troops.

“He leads the charge himself,” said one of the elf-lords observing the scene. “Surely he knows to do so is suicide.”

“Yes, Galathor,” the elven king replied. “He knows his death is written. But unless we break the Borean line we shall all be overwhelmed. Even now, another charge is coming towards us and I fear this one will not be stopped by arrows alone.”

King Alarion patted his horse and without spur or word the steed rode down the hill to bring the king into position.

As he descended he took one last look and saw King Otto III flung from the saddle by a massive axe-stroke. He then saw the ogre that dealt it impaled by a Red Knight, who spurred right on past the fallen king.

Aldred dropped the butt of his broken lance and blinked his eyes to keep back the tears of rage. The King was dead, cut down by an ogre. He had seen the axe shatter his armor and bend the King’s body sideways, breaking his spine and sending him sprawling to the ground.

Some tried to stop but Aldred continued to yell “Ride on! Ride on! Stop for no one!”

He slashed at an ogre, nearly severing one of its arms and then his horse barely avoided having its head caved in by another. Aldred ducked and drove his sword point into the beast’s eye, punching through the thin bone in the back of the socket and into its brain.

There was a sharp tug that almost ripped the blade out of his hand as the horse continued to ride forward, but the sword came free as the creature toppled over. He slowed slightly, for there was an open space and he was alone, but within moments a dozen other horsemen caught up to him, all of them in red.

“Forward for Thracios!” shouted one and they all rode on into a mass of Borean infantry. Aldred watched as the lead knight’s horse was cut down. The rider was pulled from the saddle and butchered, but Aldred’s horse kept its footing. The sun shone brightly behind him and he could hear the hoof beats of additional riders coming in. The Boreans began to turn their faces away from the bright glare and their ranks began to waver, then open, then break.

Aldred slashed and hacked his way through, his sword and armor covered in gore, his helm smeared in it and his sword slick in his hand from it. Some of it was his own, he was sure, but he felt no pain.

Suddenly, he was through. There was nothing before him but trampled ground and, a few miles on, the remnants of the Borean camp. Their baggage train was gathered to his right, though fugitives from the battle were already fighting with its guards.

Aldred rode forward and others slowly gathered to him. He looked back as the mass of chivalry tried to hammer its way through the Borean ranks. The center was starting to give way, but the flanks were still holding.

When several dozen knights had rallied to him, he called out. “Let us go back and retrieve the King!” He cried. Though weary, the men gave a ragged cheer and formed up.

They impacted just south of the Borean center, causing total panic in the enemy ranks. Even the Yagurs, who were now deep into the Thraciot lines, paused when they saw the red and purple standards to their rear.

Another cheer went up from the north, where King Alarion’s cavalry had turned the Borean flank.

As the sun reached the noon, the Borean army began to disintegrate. Individual units stood firm here and there, but a growing mass began to quit the field.

Their horses spent, the enemies around them fled, the Aldred and the exhausted surviving Red Knights made their way to the spot where the King had fallen. They had to dismount, for the ground was strewn with dead and wounded ogres, horses, Boreans and knights.

“There!” one of them cried and they struggled through the carnage to find Thunder, the King’s grey charger, slain. Not far away, the found the King himself, body broken and half-buried under an ogre.

“Does he live?” asked a knight.

Aldred bent down. For a moment, he was about to shout with joy, for the King’s eyes turned and met his. Then he had a vision – a vision of a majestic company of knights, clad in scarlet and now bearing a mailed fist on their livery. Behind them he saw castles flying their banner, dotting the landscape.

Then it seemed to him that the King spoke, but it was only a whisper. “This is my immortality,” he said and then the light in his eyes faded, and he was no more.

Aldred fell to his knees. “Rest with Thracios,” he said, as tears rolled down his cheeks. The others gathered around also kneeled.

“A sign,” whispered one, and pointed after a moment. Aldred turned to look. The King’s last movement had been to raise his gauntleted hand – into a clenched fist.

“That shall be our symbol,” Aldred said. “And it will last forever.”

- end -

July 02, 2007 in Conqueror | Permalink | Comments (0)