The Guns of Naverhon, the First!

In the wild northern reaches of Zenta, near the village of Naverhon, we turn our gaze to a small encampment of Rotenburg mercenaries. These fellows have long been employed in the service of Hospodar Casimir, their skills being applied to the production of high technology weapons; although the term 'high technology' mainly refers to the height of what has been produced, rather than its sophistication. A prime example of this are the WMD, or 'Wagons Moste Destructive', that have been produced by adding cannons to ox carts. This blending of artillery and sub-optimal transport has had the effect of producing a weapons system that makes the cannons less accurate and the wagons slower. It has also made the ox even more truculent by giving them the self-confidence that comes from access to small-bore artillery. 

At this moment, some of the mercenary artificers are standing around one of their latest creations.

'What's this?' asks one, with interest.

''My latest creation', replies another. 

'It's very small', adds a third.

'Indeed, that's the point. It is a miniature mortar produced according to a design drawn up by my grandmother'.

'Miniature weapons designed by your grandmother?'

'Why yes - I call it "Nanotechnology"'.

This scholarly exchange of views is interrupted by the sudden sounds of drumming. Alarm! Alarm!

(Above) A little way to the east, Zentan troops seem to be approaching. By the silly cut of their caps and the sourness of their demeanor, these must be janissaries. Taken from their parents at the age of seven and then converted to Islam, these troops are just as angry as one might expect if one were looking at ex-Mittelheim children who have suddenly been prevented by their new religious strictures from drinking strong alcohol.

The general air of military indiscipline is reinforced by the arrival of some Albanian mercenaries. (Above) To describe these troops as badger-biting loonies would be to have caught them in one of their rare moments of quiet reflection. 

(Below) The Rotenburg mercenaries exit their tents and begin to try and form up.

'I don't understand', says one. 'Why are the Zentans suddenly so angry with us? I thought they liked us?'

'Hmmm', replies another. 'I had noticed the mood changing over the last day or so. Didn't you see those lasses yesterday who mouthed obscenities at us and then drew a finger slowly across their throats, before pointing at us'.

'I thought they were just saying how much they liked us', replies the first. 'My wife often does the same thing when I come back late from the tavern'.

The Rotenburg mercenaries consist of two parties of engineers, two platoons of Rotenburg Pandurs, and one platoon of Rotenburg reserve infantry. Being poor quality, ill-disciplined sweepings from the sort of prisons where even the cockroaches suffer from depression, these troops are a cut above the usual Rotenburg soldiery.

The mercenaries try and put themselves into some kind of order. (Above, right) The engineers are the key troops. In order to succeed, the engineers must exit from one or both ends of the road.

The mercenary commander decides to try and shepherd the engineers to the west. In the trees to the front, the Rotenbergers can hear the sound of angry Albanians. The is indistinguishable from just hearing the sound of Albanians. The Pandurs and infantry begin to try and form a firing line behind which the engineers can shelter. 

Meanwhile, a third platoon of Pandurs appears. They have been hanging out with the bears in the woods. It is clear that one issue of importance to the battle is whether these Pandurs can get to the scene of the fight before the janissaries do ...