Field Battle (1)
North Africa's nomads. In truth, it was hard to call the people of this era's North Africa settlers. Especially the Berbers and Tuaregs, the nomadic tribes that made up the bulk of Morocco's population. Like the Mongols of Asia, they handled horses and camels as extensions of their own bodies. That was why Morocco excelled at cavalry. These light cavalry units, bolstered by nomadic tribes, had one defining trait...
"The enemy is swarming us!"
"Hold your positions, everyone!"
"Gaaah!"
Swarm tactics. In other words, hit-and-run maneuvers. They used light armor to inflict cumulative damage over time. Chase them, and they'd hit you with a Parthian shot—drilling a hole right through the head of anyone pursuing. That was the real problem. It was why settled peoples had always struggled against nomadic cavalry from ancient times to now.
So the sedentary folk had always clung to defensive strategies: building walls and using geographic advantages to repel the nomads' assaults.
But technology was starting to close that gap. By this era, Europe had already surpassed the Middle East in scientific advancement, rendering nomadic cavalry far less of a threat than before.
The musketeers finished reloading. I confirmed it and glanced toward the Duke of Aveiro's forces. The Portuguese troops had repelled the enemy infantry assault on their left flank—which was our right.
Now it was time for the roundup hunt.
"Use your pikes to keep the enemy cavalry at bay!"
My aides relayed the order. Pikemen gripped their pikes and shook them menacingly, pushing back the cavalry. A medieval heavy knight might have charged straight through, but these pointy-eared heathen riders were lightly armored. Getting impaled would turn them into elf kebabs, so they had no choice but to fall back.
Seizing the gap, the musketeers advanced. They fixed bayonets and fired at the fleeing light cavalry. Hitting fast-moving riders was tough, so most shots targeted the horses—broader surfaces. Mobility was a cavalryman's lifeline. A rider without a horse was worse off than a lightly armed arbalester.
"Fire!"
Acrid smoke poured from the muzzles. Several riders tumbled from their mounts, shattering their formation.
"First and second ranks, advance!"
It was like claiming territory in a game of Go. As we pushed them back, the pikemen—our shield wall—expanded our operational range. Rodeleros darted through the gaps, finishing off fallen or resisting foes. I issued them a harsh command.
"Kill every pointy-eared elf with an earring in their left ear, surrender or not."
"Understood."
Earrings denoted military or noble families. If I planned to win over this region or rule it indirectly, I'd have spared them. But I had no intention of entertaining rival powers, so I ordered them exterminated.
"S-spare..."
"G-gaaah!"
Enemy riders' bodies and heads began separating. Most in these elite cavalry units were from semi-noble or prominent families anyway—they couldn't escape death.
"May God's curse be upon you! Slaughtering those who surrender like this—merciless fiends!"
The enemy cavalry captain cursed me. I met his gaze without a word. We'd already crossed the Rubicon. No room for hesitation in cruelty.
"Collect the heads of the enemy cavalry officers and hang them on the pikes."
"Understood."
A brutal act. It wouldn't fly against fellow Christians, but thankfully, my foes were heathens—and non-humans, elves at that. Without the fantasy skin, I couldn't have done it. But their inhumanity let me act without qualms.
Enemy heads dangled grotesquely from the pikes. Seeing it, the enemy cavalry seethed with rage.
"Daring to desecrate and mock the dead...!"
They looked ready to charge, but the musketeers prepped to fire kept them at bay. They just circled us, seeking an opening. I had no plans to strike first, so we hunkered down, waiting for the Portuguese to link up.
The battlefield hung in tense stalemate. After a few more clashes, the enemy began to withdraw. It made sense. They hadn't broken my left flank, their right-wing infantry was combat-ineffective thanks to the Portuguese, and dusk was falling. They chose retreat.
Our first victory. I savored it fully.
Inside the command tent. This debut battle had earned me the Duke of Aveiro's trust. I'd tackled a tough assignment and proven my mettle. Thus, the Portuguese-Malaga allied command was formed, naturally incorporating me—the commander of the Malaga-Ceuta county forces—and my advisor, Giambattista della Porta.
"Congratulations on today's victory, Duke of Aveiro."
"It's everyone's achievement."
He couldn't hide his glee, though. Whether to flaunt his veteran status or just celebrate surviving, he was already drafting a report on parchment to send back to Portugal crediting the landing operation.
"That said, I hear you took no surrenders?"
"Yes. The enemy are wicked heathens who dared mock the Catholic faith—they deserve punishment."
"Hmm..."
The duke seemed regretful. Suspecting as much, I probed his intentions.
"What about the Portuguese side...?"
"We believe they can be converted."
"I see. As expected of your mercy."
His face relaxed into a smile. That brief exchange revealed Portugal's true aim in their grand conquest of Morocco: indirect rule. They'd try co-opting local nobles. Portugal had outposts worldwide but, as a kingdom, lacked manpower to garrison everywhere. It was only natural.
My domain? Just a county. Even annexing Ceuta, it was compact enough for me to manage directly. There lay our differing positions.
"Then we'll accept all surrenders without distinction."
"My thanks for your consideration."
We'd landed at Tangier. Gauging Portugal's intentions as future owners of this land would smooth our relations.
"Now that we've secured this beachhead..."
At the duke's gesture, his aide brought a map. No tactical novice, the duke had dispatched scouts to survey the area. The rough map showed mostly flat plains dotted with minor hills—ideal for Morocco's cavalry. Their retreat felt more like a strategic pullback.
"Nothing but open plains, no proper hills in sight..."
"Indeed. And our spies report a massive dust cloud rising from the south."
A large army on the move. Coming from the south... that felt ominous.
"Have they spotted any orc heathens?"
"No reports of orcs yet."
Morocco had invaded and partially occupied the Songhai Empire around this time. Once Mali's successor and West Africa's wealthy powerhouse, Songhai had declined since Askia the Great. Morocco now used captured soldiers as Mamluks—Muslim slave troops. We might soon face an orc-elf coalition right before us.
"We should move quickly."
The duke shook his head firmly at my suggestion. He stated his case quietly.
"Night's falling—who knows when they'll raid. Besides, we lack intel on this land."
He had a point. Frustrated, I could do nothing. Blitzing the enemy's heart was impossible now. Lingering here meant facing their orc-elf main force. The beach victory was minor. Without action, we'd be pinned to this shore forever.
A room packed with people. They bellowed like mortal enemies, refusing to yield an inch.
"For this naval campaign, experienced Genoa must take overall command."
"Don't forget—this is a Catholic alliance. Naturally, the Papal States should lead."
"Have you forgotten which nation proposed this war?"
Diplomats raised their voices. Amid them, one man—swallowing his rage no longer—spoke up.
"How can we save the Christian world from heathens like this?"
His words drew all eyes to Jean Parisot de Valette, Grand Master of the Knights of Malta.
At 63, Valette's voice still boomed. In Latin tinged with his native Occitan dialect from southern France, he addressed them.
"The Christians of Jerba groan under heathen tyranny!"
Appealing to their emotions, the Grand Master had them nodding.
"We understand your intent well, Grand Master."
"My thanks for your understanding."
The Genoese diplomat feigned sympathy, seeking alliance with the Knights. The Papal envoy intervened.
"We know the Grand Master's will, but you above all understand the heathens are no pushovers."
"True enough."
The Knights of Malta had battled heathens at sea for years—they knew better than anyone.
"So we must choose the alliance's commander with utmost care, no?"
Back to square one. The Grand Master felt outmaneuvered, but it was too late. Spanish, Genoese, and Papal diplomats resumed their diplomatic skirmishing.