Overhead, the sun blazed down on the marching column, tiny specks on the winding ribbon of the desert trail.
Captain of Hundred Majid´s throat was parched, his lips had drawn back from the gums with heat and lack of water. His teeth hurt. The lancer´s mail shirt felt hot and terribly heavy, and his tiger skin cloak – the pride and joy of the Satrap´s Invincibles – was matted with sweat. Dust had covered the dark brown skin of his face and cracked in places, giving the Orc the appearance of a desiccated sand mummy. He had tied a rag around his forehead to ward off the sun, and his spiked helmet dangled gracelessly from the saddle by its strap. Its irregular bumping on his shin was a constant nuisance to him and irritated his mount, but at the moment he felt too weak to do anything about it.
His Kutara brayed and moaned. Not well-tempered at the best of times, now it was half-mad with thirst, and the inborn contrariness of the creature made it resent the reins more than ever. Right now, it wanted nothing more than to lie down and die, and Majid had to use his whip and spurs mercilessly to keep it on its feet. Even so, it was hard to keep the stubborn creature moving.
By the Gods, he would live through this, Majid vowed and bared his canine teeth at the sun, at the mirage, at the rocky trail. He was not yet ready to accept his fate. His infantry was plodding along on the path, probably as ready as the Kutara to give up and die on the spot. As yet, they still were more afraid of their captain than they were of the miles ahead. They kept on marching, even though their pace was hardly more than a snail´s crawl and the marching order had disintegrated visibly. He had ordered the other riders to keep to the flanks, and to shoot anyone who straggled. That was probably more of a mercy than a punishment, he thought with grim irony. Better to die quickly on the shaft of an arrow than slowly of thirst. He wondered idly how many of the men felt the same.
The Invincibles had left the gates of Belshazzar in good order: Caravan guards, swordsmen, archers, Goblin skirmishers, and his own pride, the Kutara lancers, marching to relieve the siege on the Goblin outpost of Khanark. They had been clean and well turned out, their richly embroidered robes, golden tiger skin cloaks and bronzed armour flashing in the sun. The Blackbloods believed in facing death in their finest apparel. Another irony, but Majid could not smile. Now the fine robes were frayed and soaked with sweat, the shining armour caked with sand. They dragged their weapons behind them in a most undignified manner. All semblance of pride in the face of death had vanished. This was a different death, he mused, a slow one that sapped the strength and wits and dignity. And while he was a veteran and no stranger to the horrors of war, he found it hard to meet this other death with anything like equanimity.
They had found the first oasis less hospitable than expected. Devout raiders had torched the buildings and tossed the corpses of the defenders into the wells. The water was brackish and undrinkable. Majid had pushed his men onward, hoping to find water at the next oasis, only to find it similarly raided. Now the Invincibles were desperate. They would not be able to make it to the third oasis along the trail, which lay some thirty miles ahead. Their only hope, if the map was to believed, was an unclaimed waterhole along a spur trail, that might hold enough water for all of them. If it was unharmed.
The captain´s reverie was broken when his Kutara raised its head with sudden eagerness. He could see its nostrils flaring, and it strained powerfully against the reins. Majid pulled sharply and brought it around in a circle, to its loud protest. He narrowed his eyes, peering at the horizon through the mirage. He could make out the tops of palm trees. His knees went weak. Trees meant water! Sparkling, clear, fresh, cool, blissful water. He licked his dry lips.
"Invincibles!" he shouted, surprised at the soreness of his throat and the harsh croak of his voice. "Water ahead!" To emphasise the point, he unhooked the empty waterskin from his saddle-horn and held it aloft for all to see. "Water ahead!", he called again. He could hear the foot soldiers taking up the call. Hope worked wonders on their strength. They straightened visibly and picked up pace.
In that second, a steel-tipped crossbow quarrel sped from the treeline and pierced the waterskin. All around it started to rain gray-fletched death.
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Met with my friend Marius this weekend to have a battle: an encounter between Blackbloods and Vulture Clan Dwarves in the desert.
We picked up on Joshua´s idea of a water source in the middle of the terrain. This little lake was surrounded with about six inches of free space, around which grew a thicket of palm trees. To my right were some nice white-plastered flat-topped buildings, one with a fine onion dome. The rest of the table had some rock formations, solitary palms and low walls to take cover behind.
Marius left the scenario to me, and I decided that both sides were near exhaustion with thirst and eager to get a drink. Every unit would have 1 less action per model until at least one of its warriors had touched the lake. With the enemy able to fire from the edge of the thicket, the clear area surrounding the waterhole would quickly become a killing zone.
This left both of us two tactical options, each something of a cloven choice: hunker down in the thicket and try to deny the enemy the water, or throw some troops forward into the teeth of enemy fire to get that extra action. I loved that idea: both sides staring at the precious water but knowing that going forward means death.
To introduce an element of urgency, I decided that both sides would have to test for Heatstroke (as per the desert climate effect) each turn; individuals and warbands that had already drunk, or models with the Desert Warrior ability were immune.
Since mounted models, with their high speed, could easily tip the scales, they would have to be handicapped. The rider would have to make a Leadership test at a -2 penalty for each move action to see if he could get his stubborn mount to move. As soon as the model got within 10" of the lake, the opposite would happen – the rider would have to take a Leadership test at -2 for each action he wants to take or forfeit. Failure means the model moves its full movement allowance on the straightest possible course towards the lake. As soon as the mount smells water...
Since the Vultures had a significant disadvantage in speed, I asked Marius to extend his deployment zone halfway towards the lake and deploy his troops nearer the objective than mine. I also struck Trolls, Ogres and assault warriors deliberately from my army list, feeling that they would give me an unfair advantage. Marius´ selection of troops was also pretty limited and thus predictable, so I showed him half of my contingent before he made his choices.
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(To be continued after I get back from Berlin next week)