The Marches military concerns

War is a thrice-ploughed field.

Marcher Traditional

Film: Ironclad

The rich Marcher soil gives rise to great military strength and three of the Empire's armies come from the Marches. Marcher generals have a reputation for being cautious, and for valuing victory more than personal glory. War is seen as work, hard dirty work, something to achieve over months of effort, not something to be won or lost in a moment. It is also seen as a shared responsibility, something that everyone who can must face together. On campaign, even Marcher generals who can't fight for whatever reason are expected to share the same risks and privations as the common soldier, one yeoman amongst many.

Powerful households field ranks of heavily-armoured yeomen wearing their colours and fighting together. Neighbours well-used to working together fight shoulder to shoulder. The expectation of loyalty and sacrifice can make a Marcher household a fearsomely cohesive force. Traditional rivalries are put to one side when a Marcher army faces a force of outsiders, and folk who would go out of their way to avoid acknowledging each other will fight back to back against a band of invading orcs.

The strength of the Marcher forces is derived from their long hours of toil. Arms hardened by days at the forge, cutting a forest, or threshing grain are strong enough for any fight. It is common for Marchers to wield weapons made from the tools of their labour; bills used for cutting hedges and great hammers used for driving piles are pressed into service of war. The wealthiest may march in a harness of plate but plenty have nothing more than a hard leather tunic or quilted jack they have made themselves. Their true strength is their loyalty and discipline; at their best a Marcher army is a great hedge of steel, moving inexorably forward like a harvest-gang through a field of wheat.

Service to the Empire in one of the Marcher armies is considered an excellent coming of age for the sons and daughters of a yeoman. This offers them a chance to learn a little of the outside world and to earn enough to purchase their own farm and become yeomen themselves. For a nation that prides itself on its military prowess, it also ensures a steady stream of soldiers with practical experience of battle.

Beaters

Beaters roam through the Marches, learning every part of the land, watching for thieves, vagrants and other ne’er-do-wells. Beaters are often instrumental in settling land disputes between neighbours and they still play a vital role in the tradition of beating the bounds. Beaters often live off the land and most are skilled woodsmen or hunters. They serve as an informal police force, investigating crimes and tracking criminals. While an individual beater often associates with one or more households, they make no secret of the fact that they maintain an informal network among themselves.

The beaters watch the boundaries and defend them against trespass until its forces can muster. They also remain vigilant for internal threats. In addition to the orcs that still occupy the more inaccessible hills and wild forests of the Marches, there are bands of Féni, the ancient people driven from the fertile lowlands centuries ago. These primitive humans cover their skin in green and yellow tattoos and launch raids against civilised Marchers to steal cattle or crops. If something or someone is raiding out of the forests or hills then the beaters are the ones who are called on to hunt it.

In time of war, beaters serve the Marches as scouts, ranging ahead of the main force. Their experience watching the boundaries of the nation makes them useful light troops, particularly in forested areas, an excellent complement to the heavily armoured yeomen.

The Marcher officer walked out into the middle of the gathered mob, slow and casual, thumbs tucked into his belt. He took a long look around.

“Who here’s got a neighbour they can’t stand?”

The circle of Marchers looked tentatively one to another, a few raised hands and chuckles.

“Quite a few of you, I see. So let me ask you this – raiders come to burn their farm, would you go help them?”

Nods, fist shaking, raised bills and bows.

“Course you would, only common sense; they burn that farm this week, could be yours the week after, couldn’t it?”

He pointed at the gaudily dressed Free Company officers swaggering about in the League lines on their flank.

“See them? I don’t like ‘em. I don’t like their plumes, I don’t like them silly pantaloons, I don’t like the perfumed piss they call wine, or the way they put on airs when they talk, or their grub what’s so full of spices it gives me the gallopin’ trots. Nope, I don’t like ‘em, not one bit. But, them? They’re our neighbours.”

He pointed to the other end of the valley, where thousands of grey-skinned orcs covered the ground like blades of grass on a pasture.

“And those motherless bastards? They’re going to try and burn down our neighbour’s barn.”

Rumbling growl, stamping feet, billhooks banged on the ground.

“We proposin’ to let em?”

Full throated roar, weapons brandished, rising chant.

“Right then, let’s go pull the idiot neighbour’s arse out of the fire, eh?”