The Battle of Fort Frost

The following is based on a true story. Names and locations have been altered or omitted out of respect for the dead. Due to the graphic nature of this story, reader discretion is advised.

Fort Frost, named after one of its chief architects, rested along the Suydam river where it could protect the only passable ford for miles.  Channeled around the front of the fort, a branch of the river served as a moat against frontal assaults, with only a drawbridge and small footbridge allowing anyone to enter the fort proper.  Traders and travelers could make use of the shallow fords to cross both branches, but the road passed directly under the watchful eye of one wall of the fort's defenses and a small redoubt tower.

War would find the fort, its position too valuable to be squandered easily or ignored.  The summer heat still lingered during the early parts of fall that year, prompting an attack near the beginning of October.   Fortunate, for the defenders, the harvest feast had drawn in a great deal of local soldiers and knights from their campaigns elsewhere.  They would be well prepared.

Word had spread about the army marching towards the fort, giving them time to prepare a few defenses along the ford.  The drawbridge, like much of the fort, had fallen into disrepair and could not be shut.  They would have to fight hard from the beginning in order to hold out.  Without the gate, they decided to position their forces to each crossing, hoping to be able to defend the bottlenecks from whatever the enemy had in store for them.  The outer defenses that had been placed across the moat would have to be abandoned, as there would not be enough men to hold them and secure the fort.

It was after midday when the enemy approached.  Cloudless skies and the sunny morning had left the humid air at a sweltering temperature across the barren plain to the West.  The enemy approached en masse, carrying no siege equipment and without cavalry; they would find no need of either.  They pushed up into the hail of arrows coming from the fort under cover of a shield formation until they reached the outer defenses.  What had once been planned as the first layer of defense was quickly repurposed by the attackers to protect themselves from arrows and to station archers of their own.



Defenders of the fort try to hold ground near the ford.
Photo by: Ellie Apland

Soon the battle raged across all three crossings.  The attackers found the two bridges to be well guarded.  A central redan tower jutted out into the moat, allowing the defenders to rain arrows down from the sides of both bridges as well as from the main wall.  Palisades had a similar effect in guarding the flanks of the ford, making any attempt to cross a dangerous affair.

The ford was the first to fall. The outer palisades had given them cover from the bulk of the fort's arrow fire, allowing them to mass troops there unopposed. A great blood price had been paid for the crossing, but the attackers had pushed back the defenders to the side gate of the fort. A small band of them skirted past the fort and looked for another way in. They would find the rear sally port lightly defended, only a few guards and one older knight.

Fort Frost at the height of the battle.

With the attacks at the bridges and side gate, this small battle would prove decisive, the victor having free reign to attack the enemy rearguard. The attackers formed up and advanced on the back gate. They expected to easily push through and swarm the fort.

The attackers were unprepared for the ferocity the knight had on the defense. He strode out, by himself, leaving his men to guard the gate. Outnumbered, he fought more as a predator than cornered animal. He strafed back and forth across their line, herding them more than fighting. Anyone who strayed from the line was cut down with a growl. He knew, from his many years of experience, that he only needed to buy time for his allies to crush the rest of the attack.

Even with his skill and determination, it was inevitable that the attackers would land a blow here and there.  The first hit him squarely on the left greave.  It would have been enough to break a man's leg, but it barely slowed him down, his armor absorbing the hit without much complaint.  He returned the strike in kind, cutting into his attacker's arm with a quick slash.  That man would never be able to hold a sword in his right hand again.

The Knight strafed the line, back and forth, keeping the enemy at bay.

He strafed the opposite direction, trading blows with a man towards the middle of the formation.  His bracer was left dented and nearly falling off from the damage, but he managed to land a solid strike to the armpit in return, just above the armor.  The blood flowed easily, covering the victim as he dropped out of formation.

Another swing clanged off of his right greave as one of them rushed in to try to stop his maneuvering.  Undaunted by the charge, he planted his foot squarely in the middle of his attacker's shield.  The sudden impact sent the man reeling, and easy prey for the knight.

As the din of battle subsided around the front and side of the fort, reinforcements arrived to bolster the rear gate's defenses.  They found the knight, still holding his ground against the remnants of the attackers.  The pile of dead surrounding the knight was a testament to his fury.  He took little notice of his allies and continued to press the attack until each and every one of this enemies was either dead or fleeing.

The immense effort finally catching up with him as the adrenaline faded, the knight sunk to the ground, fighting to fill his lungs with breath.  Cheers of victory reached his ears from men who would never know of his role in saving their lives.  Those that witnessed it would drink in his honor that night.

The Battle of Lakepoint

The following is based on a true story. Names and locations have been altered or omitted out of respect for the dead. Due to the graphic nature of this story, reader discretion is advised.

War had settled into the lands to the East. Winter neared, and the harvest from the surrounding farmland was vital to surviving the harsh cold months. Armies had fought over the lands for years, it was only natural that eventually they local warlords would reach out to their foreign allies for aid.

The Kingdom of Numenor answered their allies calls, dispatching a sizeable force of fighters seeking to prove themselves on the battlefield. The skill and experience of this force was enough to sway any battle in their favor. The strong warrior traditions of their culture had made them ideally suited to the intense combat they would soon find in the fields and forests.

Tales of valor and victory abounded. Each Numenorian could recount some deed witnessed or committed that had proved their martial prowess. One such tale is of the Battle for Lakepoint, a small garrison that cast its influence across the most vital supply route through the area.

The icy hand of winter had already swept across the fields, leaving behind a chill in the air and ice on the breath. Larger forces had become bogged down in the thawing mid left by the morning rain and ice storm. The two found themselves alone, separated from their army, and behind enemy lines.

The squire had found his knight, outnumbered by a patrol, along the supply route. The two dispatched the undisciplined fighters in short order. Their years of fighting side by side had made their ability to work with each other effortless.

They took a moment to gauge their surroundings, finding themselves only a short distance from the garrison at Lakepoint. With the main army well engaged with their own forces, the fort would be lightly guarded. If the two of them could dispatch the defenders, it would force the enemy to send reinforcements.

They approached the garrison, and kept a watchful eye on the guards. Only a handful for each of them to kill. The knight put on a grin. His squire, knowing the intent, nodded in agreement. The two set off to the fort.

Surprise had seen them into the front gate unimpeded. The two fought as they usually did, taking turns as attacker as the other guarded them. The squire cut them down with sweeps of his glaive as the knight prevented any of the enemy from closing in. In turn, the squire applied pressure to one side as the knight pushed forward and hacked apart the other.

At first, the fight seemed much in their favor, the sentinels had been woefully unprepared for an attack. But then, the full force of the garrison returned as a pair of patrols began filing in. The number of enemies had easily tripled since their attack began. Most men would have considered surrender at such odds, but the pair fought on, renewed by the increasing challenge.

The knight and his squire should have died that day. Each had taken several blows that would have easily killed a man, despite their armor. Just as the enemy believed they had delivered a deathblow, the bloodied fighter would let loose a flurry of blows in return. It was as though the gods themselves had deemed their cause important enough to stave off death and bless them with an angel to watch over them.

A stream of blood trickled from the fort into the lake. The pair of warriors had cut down the garrison to the last man. They were both covered in blood, their own and the enemies. Battered and bruised underneath their armor, they rested, objective secure, and waited. The blood and bodies had been enough to keep the next patrol at bay, but word would soon enough reach their masters.

Fresh reinforcements arrived as soon as they could be mustered from the enemy castle. The army marched down the supply road directly for the fort. The knight put on his usual grin. His squire shook his head and they both laughed. They set off into the woods.

The Glorious Charge of Macintosh

Any embellishment in this story is entirely accidental. A few of the details have slipped by over the years.

A friend's recent post got me to reminisce about the good old days of the local realm. Plenty of great stories and fond memories. Over the years, you get the witness quite a few cool fights and epic/funny moments. The talk of Hiedoran reminded me of one I love to tell from several years ago.

At the time, I was a young fighter at my second or third Oktoberfest. I had spent the bulk of the day heralding. While I really wanted to fight, heralding did give me a great chance to watch some good fights. I was there to witness the carnage caused by Macintosh and his charge into the enemy, glaive in hand.

For those of you who have never had the privilege of meeting him, Macintosh aka Mac, was the leader of Hiedoran. Soft spoken, easy going, and probably one of the nicest people you can meet, he had built up a sizable force from newer fighters. Despite being a little older and less fit than the average Belegarth fighter, he had developed a knack for glaive fighting and polearm formations.

On a typical day, most of Hiedoran's shieldmen were less experienced, resulting in the enemy doing their best to charge Mac and try to reduce the unit's damage output. This wasn't the case this day. Realm battles had been called, and the Knights of Numenor were out in force at that event. They formed up a strong flank along the edge of the field and gave Mac a strong shield wall to work with.

I was heralding near the middle of the fight, watching that side of the field. It started out like a typical battle. The different groups maneuvered and slowly engaged. Numenor was hit pretty hard, to be expected in those days. Mac's glaive went to work, hacking legs, breaking shields, and stabbing down the enemy. The knights rallied to his side, protecting him from arrows and onrushing foes alike.

The tempo of death dealing quickened as he began to break open a gap in the enemy line. Out of the wall of shields burst Mac, fury in his eyes and all the signs of overdoing it. The nicest guy I know was on a rampage, so caught up with his task at hand that those guarding him were running to keep pace. His angry, focused expression alone may have been enough to break the enemy resistance, but his glaive was happily leaving a trail of death behind him.

As to the final tally of dead, I am unsure. Those that fought along side him claimed that they didn't even have to swing their swords. The story has been retold many times, but each retelling fails to capture how truly epic it was.