Yüzbaşı Halil Karaçelik had never trusted an alliance born of necessity. The banners of the Iron Sultanate hung limp in the cold wind beside the sigils of New Antioch, their fabrics snapping against one another like quarrelling tongues. The front lay at the ragged edge of the Kingdom of Hungary, where vineyards had become killing fields and a medieval market town had been pulverised into a maze of stone ribs and shattered bell towers. Halil walked the trench line beneath the broken nave of a church whose roof had long ago collapsed into the mud. Above, the shell of its tower leaned like a drunkard refusing to fall. Below, his men reinforced firing steps with carved lintels and saints’ headstones. Across the wire, the guns had gone quiet — which meant the Heretic Legions were moving.
He had fought beside the soldiers of New Antioch for three months now, long enough to learn the cadence of their prayers and the hard edge in their eyes when they spoke of holy dominion. They were disciplined, certainly. Brave, beyond question. But they carried relics openly, icons nailed to their breastplates, and spoke of victory as though it were already written in heaven. Halil distrusted such certainty. Steel did not bend to prophecy; it bent to pressure, to angles, to weight. His own faith was forged in furnaces and tempered in oil, practical and severe. He would fight with them — he must — yet he kept his reserves positioned so that the Antiochene flank never stood without Sultanate oversight. An alliance, yes. Never dependence.
As dusk thickened into a bruise-coloured haze, the first shapes emerged between the skeletal houses beyond the trench line. The Heretic Legions did not advance in ordered ranks but in staggered silhouettes, armour daubed in ash and scripture inverted into blasphemy. They moved through alleyways and collapsed courtyards, using the old town’s bones as cover. A cracked statue of some long-dead king toppled under artillery concussion, and with its fall came the howl of horns. Halil raised his sabre and felt the vibration of distant boots through the duckboards. Around him, minareted helmets and Antiochene visors turned toward the same threat. Whatever his doubts, the line would hold tonight — not for shared creed, nor shared destiny, but because the trenches had been dug deep, and Halil Karaçelik intended to make the enemy drown in them.
Ciarán and I allied our forces to take on Justin and Aaron’s Heretic Legions. This was a large game using the Supply Raid scenario with 2000 ducats per side (1000 ducats per player). It was also my first game. A baptism of fire, but I think we played well. Took our chances and at times the dice luck swung both ways. In the end Ciarán and I eked out a narrow win – Ciarán has a super Yoeman who has performed great deeds. He took out a Heretic Priest with, more-or-less, the last action of the game, gaining 2 VPs for us. This was the margin we won by.
We’ve a game planned over the weekend. I look forward to learning more about Trench Crusade.
Until next time,
Owen