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Burro Creek War

The blazing rays of the vengeful sun pierced through the thin air of the Atenveldt sky over the knoll at Burro Creek. The few surviving soldiers of the battered Allied forces, their lines stretched thin, squinted through eyes nearly blinded by sweat and exhaustion and beheld their doom before them. Although they had already killed hundreds of the Atenveldt foe, it seemed to the weary few that the gains dearly bought in the furious struggle had been for naught. For two long hours, the gallant men of the West, Caid, An Tir, as well as the mercenaries from Ansteorra and the East, had fought a desperate and increasingly despairing battle to save their King and battle flag from capture and death from the implacable hordes of the Sun kingdom.

But now as the lethal heat of the desert sun penetrated steel helms and pounding skulls screaming for cool, the brave men finally realized that the end which they had valiantly fought to stave off was near. Although they had sent a messenger to find the main contingent of their forces before all escape routes were cut off, no sign was seen of rescue. At last, all hope gone, like a wounded lioness at bay protecting her cubs, they turned to face the enemy for the last time.

Grimly, they watched as the Atenveldt forces ringed them in on all sides in ranks too numerous to count. They closed their own ranks and formed their shield wall, their backs to an impenetrable hedge which prevented both attack as well as escape. Gradually, the choking dust raised by the shifting battle lines cleared and revealed the full extent of their dilemma. Seemingly ressurrected from the dead, it seemed that the entire Atenveldt army, undiminished by the appalling losses inflicted by the allied force, stood before them as executioners.

The gleam of victory at hand grew in the eyes of the Aten host and as they awaited the command to attack, one of them began to rhythmically beat his weapon against his shield. Soon another followed. Then another. Within moments the pounding of the shields fell upon the ears of the trapped forces like rolling thunder at the Twilight of the Gods.

For the first time the courage of the defenders began to fail as the pulsing din blew cold as frost on their blazing hearts like the palsy of death. When suddenly from the rear of their serried ranks a voiced was raised, pure and defiant against the beckoning call of doom. A lone voice raised against the storm began to sing of the words of freedom and resistance against the foe. "Men of Harlech” the voice sang, piercing through the gloom as a ray of purest light. One by one cracked parched throats croaked the words, and those who didn't know them hummed.

And the storm was silenced. The barbarian hordes of Atenveldt stood amazed in awe as the joyful voices grew in volume and the soldiers glowed like bloody, battered angels. When the strains finally ended, the field lay quiet as the Atenveldt stood transfixed. When suddenly the Atenveldt king barked a command and the enemy once again came to life. Taking up their arms they rushed with merciless frenzy upon the defenders. in great silver and crimson arcs the swords rose and fell ringing on the shields or seeking out a space to bury themselves.

Like adders' tongues the defenders' pikes flicked out, slaying continuously. But it seemed that as one fell, he was replaced by two, while each defender's death diminished the allies alarmingly. For what seemed like hours the hand to hand struggle raged on, both sides suffering grievous losses, when the order was given to retreat.

As the Atenveldters pulled back to regroup for another attack, the defenders could see many a friend lying still in the sand, still facing the enemy in defiance. Nevertheless, they grimly noted, not without satisfaction, that the Atenveldt corpses far outnumbered their own. Atenveldt would pay dearly for this victory.

Before they could rest further, the survivors found themselves facing another onslaught. Once again friend and foe locked in mortal embrace as the battle surged back and forth. But on the brave soldiers fought, "Men of Harlech" still ringing in their ears as a sacred spell against the darkness. Just when it seemed the assault must succeed, the Aten forces pulled back again, noticeably fewer in number Still the carnage had cost everyone dearly, and now the odds stood at least eight-to-one.

No one knows how many times the inexorable tide of overwhelming forces swept up that knoll only to break on the defiant shieldburg. Yet the sun moved three quarters of the way to the horizon, and under growing shadows, the exhausted defenders still stood. Barely able to lift their shields, and gripping weapons slippery with blood, a mere handful still awaited with resolute heart the fate that had befallen their companions.

Yet they still stood, defenses drawn tight behind walls created by the mounds of corpses, which testified to the ferocity of the fight. But their numbers were few and strength was nearly gone. A burning heart may defy the darkness forever, but flesh and blood must rest or it will fail. So it was with the soldiers of the West and An Tir, so it was with Caid. So it was with a grim smile that they faced the final assault.

The Atenveldt king, sensing victory denied finally within his grasp, suddenly saw a glint of something catching the sun on the distant horizon. Something bright! Rescue on its way? But he still had time, for they were miles away. Summoning his forces for a final push, he led his troops in a wild charge. Smashing into the shield wall in berserk rage, he drove through and reached the banner, clutching it in his hand as he died. Standing bravely to defend the banner, Steingrim, a noble duke from An Tir, slew again and again until the bodies of the slain became a small hill. Yet another Atenveldt fighter, an earl from the Principality of the Sun, one Christopher Houghten, died with his hand on the banner. Still Steingrim fought on, but even he was finally slain. But rather than allow the banner to be seized, he gathered it to him with his dying strength and fell on it so the enemy might not see it.

The final four or five fighters left were borne down and seized alive, carried off for ransom just before rescue could arrive. For rescue it was, that arrived too late, along with a message, a message of victory, for elsewhere on four fronts, the allied armies had smashed the Atenveldt forces. As it was, the would be rescuers surveyed the scene of a battle ended too soon. They saw the concentric circles of bodies left as the shieldwall was drawn in tighter, and the mad tangle of bodies at the crest. They beheld the king lying slain by a madman's dagger near Steingrim and his honor guard to hell. Eyes blurring with tears, they beheld Maythen of Elfhaven, her voice, which had rung like a silver bell against the storm, stilled in death. Her lord, Duke William, who had slain endlessly before being overwhelmed, lay by her side. Sadly the general commanded that they all be given a soldier's burial and the giant cairn be erected over them to commemorate their gallant last stand.

This is the account of the Burro Creek Massacre, and the last stand on the knoll. Can anyone forget their sacrifice? Can anyone of true heart who hears of them and their courage, stand unmoved and not devoutly wish that he too had been there?

The war clouds have for a time been dispelled and peace currently reigns. But as is mankind's fate, they shall undoubtedly return to menace our noble kingdom. When they glower over us and our king must once more call us to war. can we fail to answer?

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