1362, Oslo.

Chancellor Fritz von Kastilien stood at the railing on the starboard side of the mercenary ship he'd rented, watching the incredible waves roll towards the ship. The captain and crew were fighting a continuous battle to keep the ship turned into the wind so that the power of the sea could not roll right over them. Below deck the crew of Fritz's bombard was no doubt going over the wax and fat they had sealed their cannon in to prevent sea water damaging it, making certain it would be ready to fire when they arrived on the north coast. Indeed, very few living things braved the deck of the ship this night, and this was the force of the gale after being diluted and diminished by it's trip across the lands around Arhus and further north. If not for the chest of florins and the promise of plunder the vessel's captain would have turned back already.

On a normal night Oslo itself might have been visible by now, an imposing black citadel surrounded by dark forests. The last word out of the north, brought by a German spy, was that the former garrison of Oslo was the very army Fritz had driven off before the arrival of Prince Stenkil, but that information would be tested tonight.

Turning from the railing Fritz crouched low and shuffled his way across the deck to the stern, taking hold of whatever secure item came to hand to aid his passage. When he felt he was near enough to be heard, he bellowed, 'How much further?'

'Don't matter. Yer not gettin' ashore t'night!'

Straightening, Fritz glared into the Captain's eye and repeated himself, 'How much further?'

'Can't be far, tha waves are flatten' out. Don't matter though. Won't send a landin' boat out in this. No one would crew it.'

Sneering, Fritz replies, 'No crew will be necessary. The weight of the cannon will steady the boat, if you can get us in this harbor you claim to know! Get your job done, let me worry about getting ashore!'

Without waiting for a reply, Fritz turns and unlatches the door to go below. Movement is easier with a handhold always available, but in the absence of a horizon to watch Fritz's stomach begins to pitch to and fro with the motion of the ship. Fortunately he has not eaten for many hours, and there is nothing in him to cause nausea.

The same cannot be said for his guardsmen or the crew of the cannon. As soon as Fritz makes his way into the galley where they have gathered the sour, rancid smell of vomit drives it's way into his nose. Fritz's face wrinkles in disgust, and his stomach heaves a great lazy loop, but still his voice is steady, 'Make yourselves ready. We'll strap the cannon in the bottom of the launch before we lower it, so it'll be steady as we get aboard. Horses will come two at a time, slow, each with their master. I needn't tell you the consequences if you or your mount goes into the water.'

The men, those who were well enough to lift their heads, all turned to look at Gunther the Drillmaster. Encouragingly. This will be good, thought Fritz, turning his gaze on Gunther as well.

'Lord Fritz, it can't be done. It's near two miles up the coast road to Oslo, and the men are sick, the horses are sick, even the bloody cannon are sick. Can't be done m'Lord. I apo-'

Moving swiftly, but not too swiftly, Fritz drew his dagger and threw it hard, pommel first, at Gunther's face. An instant's shock comes across the normally unflappable soldier's face before he ducks, just barely avoiding being struck.

'The next one that says the word 'can't' to me gets the point. Am I clear?'

Stunned faces, too surprised and sick to even nod, gape back at Fritz.

'So you've all forgotten the humiliation of our consecutive defeats at the hands of Prince Stenkil? Forgotten the burning shame of being out manuevered twice in a row? Decided it's more important to lay about puking and puling in your hammocks while God brutalizes the north for us?'

'No! It will not be so, not if you still mean to serve me. I will breakfast in Oslo. Now make yourselves ready, and get the cannons in the launch boat. I will not say it again.'

And eventually, surprising even those men who set their hands to the work, it was done. The natural harbor southeast of Oslo took the sting out of the storm, the cannons levelled out the boat, and even the horses cooperated. There was still a deal of marching to be done ashore, but with firm, if wet, ground under their feet the men's spirits began to improve. A scout sent ahead to Oslo, the least sick man of Fritz's guard, raced back bearing news.

'M'Lord! We must return to the ship! We ca-,' under Fritz's sharpening gaze the guardsmen adjusted his intented speech, 'It's impossible m'Lord, they've reinforced the citadel with a full army of exceptional quality. So many men that they sleep in a camp outside the castle, making ready to march south. Hundreds of infantry and cavalry. Countless archers. We must go back Lord Fritz!'

'You fool, if they're sleeping outside the castle, then what do we care how many of them there are? Now, what force garrisons the citadel itself?'

'I believe it's a company of War Clerics, m'Lord. Just the one remaining on guard inside.'

'Excellent. We attack now. Get those bombards rolling!'

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 


The attack clearly took the Danes entirely by surprise. Under cover of the clearing storm, Fritz's cannon made their way directly up to the gates and blasted them down. Fritz watched the banners of the enemy cavalry march out to check the west gate of the second ring of the citadel, and sent his bombard to the east gate, which was quickly burst open.



There could be no mistaking that sound a second time, the Danes must know there was an assault of some kind underway. They retreated to the third ring, and sent messengers racing out the west gate, seemingly beyond Fritz's ability to stop. The bombard rolled on, and smashed the final set of gates.

Now the War Clerics could see what they faced. Their Captain, Yngwie, shouted in a quavering, shocked voice, 'You can't be here! We just got word that Prince Stenkil had defeated you and was driving on Arhus! The army is making ready for an offensive!'

Fritz spurred his guardsmen forward, into the gate, and spoke, 'I am here, you fool. I also swore I'd skewer the next man who said the word 'can't' to me. What do you mean to do about it?'

Yngwie, taking command of himself, replied, 'I needn't do anything. My messages will bring nearly two thousand Danes rushing to drag you down. This place will be your graveyard.'

'Your messages will never leave this citadel. My men have secured both of the outer rings. Oslo is mine.'

Now Yngwie felt sure of the situation, believed he had a grip on the future, 'But even still, my men outnumber yours. My men fight for their homeland, for the honor of their nation! You cannot find victory here!'

Fritz's reply was to shout, 'FIRE!'

The bombard, having rolled quietly around to the other gate, launched a set of cannon balls directly into Yngwie's line. Screaming horses and men fell along their path, and but Captain Yngwie instantly commanded, 'Charge!' (In reality my gold bar bombard missed four times at close range, the first round because they had been on explosive shot without me noticing it at the gates. Yet more proof that experience matters not at all to accuracy.)

The double stunned War Clerics staggered into battle against Fritz's bodyguard, losing several men initially, but then warming to the battle and evening the numbers. (I shaped the line so Fritz was as far away as possible when they attacked. He's got a lot of HPs, but no reason to take a chance against these AP buggers.)



Then Captain Yngwie, having never really recovered from the shock of the situation, fell just as Fritz's bombard crew assailed the rear of the War Cleric formation. The remaining Clerics threw down their maces and gave up the fight.



After the battle Fritz ordered the citadel sacked and the gates sealed carefully before sending word to his Russian contact that he was ready to make a deal. The long stifled expansion of the Russian Empire could continue, at the discretion of Fritz von Kastilien, of course, but they would have to invest the place over the protestations of the Danes. At best the two would have a falling out, and go to war, but at worst the Danes had lost their primary training facility, and been reduced to a single weary city.



Returning to the ships the bombards became stuck in the ungodly piles of muck, and the crew refused to abandon them. Fritz offered to send the ship back for the loyal men, but it seemed unlikely it would be possible to rescue them.