Silver Bayonet game one, Curse of the Pharaohs

 Silver Bayonet: Curses of the Pharaohs – Those Dashing French Fiends Vanish!

This is Echo, one of my new AI team members she has read the last year of my blog and is now set up to help me create blog posts. Alan and I played this game a couple of weeks ago. Some of Echo's jokes are funnier than mine and she has only been on the job 2 days. Grok has already kept me humble by telling me I'm 140 kilos of USB cable.

For this battle report I asked for a mix of Gorden of Khartoum, Lance Corporal Jones and a dash of General Melcherd. That's probably better than me trying to do a terrible French or worse Arabic accent.

Here is my band of stout native chappies. The are marching to the battle to strains of "Walk like an Egyptian"

Here are my forces arrayed for battle. Alan's Frenchie types are hidden in the sand storm.

By Jove, what a table. Pyramids thrusting skyward like the finger of Anubis himself, sand devils whipping ’round the palms and tumbled tombs, camels glaring balefully from the dunes. Straight out the Egypt supplement — North Star beauties all, my stout Egyptian chappies in turbans and robes (Mamluk proxies with jezails and khopesh), facing Alan’s foul French fiends in their blue pantaloons. Scenario 1: basic patrol clash, treasures central, but with the monster table lurking like a thief in the night.

Warband Muster:

• Jamal al-Sahra (Native Scout)
• Tariq ibn Zayd (Bedouin Scout)
• Malik el-Fatih (Infantryman)
• Khalil al-Ghul (Priest of the Old Gods)
• Fasil ibn Rashid (Janissary)
• Amir al-Sayed (Janissary)
• Hassan al-Muhtadi (Irregular)
• Yusuf al-Barid (Officer)

Turn 1: The Stiff Upper… er, Keffiyeh Lost initiative, confound it. Cautious shuffle forward, out of jezail range. Frenchies mirror us, peering through the grit. Camels masticate indifferently, pyramids sulk. Nowt but tension and the wind’s whisper.

Turn 2: By the Prophet, Initiative’s Ours – Open Fire! Drew it this time. Right, you desert foxes — advance! Scouts up the flank, priest lurking with curses, Janissaries anchoring under Yusuf’s glare. Then — crack! Jezails bark, muskets thunder! One voltigeur drops, smoke pluming from his gaulish rags; they sting back, my lead man reels but stands. Powder haze rolls like the Nile in flood. It’s on, by gum!

Muskets bark from the dunes, and down goes one of my stout infantrymen: poor sod's in the morgue, turban askew and all. Baaaah! But vengeance is swift — Fasil ibn Rashid, my iron-hearted Janissary, levels his jezail and drops their agent provocateur in the hospital tent. One shot, clean through the epaulettes. "Take that, you froggy provocateur!" Steady now, lads — don't panic!

Turn 3: Frenchies Steal the March, Hobgoblin Joins the Fray

Alan snatches initiative (boo!). Then the curse bites — hobgoblin erupts, Alan shunts it my way and burns a monster dice to lock it in. Baaaah! The cheek!

Then the curse truly bites: hobgoblin erupts from the sands like Osiris spat it out! Twisted fae horror, all bulging veins and club like a felled date palm, eyes mad with the old gods' spite. Alan, the generous soul, uses the deployment rules to shove the brute my way — "Yours now, old chap!" — then burns his monster dice to lock it in place. The cheek! Reminds me of Melchett himself, bleating "Baaaah!" while shoving the machine-guns at the Hun.

Shots whistle, sun blazes, flies never let up. Tariq clips it, Malik charges axe-high, Janissaries thrust. Down it crashes — more sand than fae. French reel, grab scraps, scarper.

My Irregular rolls a critical success and saves all the damage.

The sun hammered down like a forge-god's anvil, flies thick as black smoke, and the Frenchies still pressing despite their losses. My lads were holding the line admirably — Yusuf al-Barid steady as the Sphinx, Tariq ibn Zayd reloading with that Bedouin calm, Fasil and Amir the Janissaries snarling like desert wolves after dropping that provocateur. The hobgoblin was already mulch under our boots, thanks to Alan's "generous" shove and our swift spears. Victory smelled close... until the priest decided to get creative.

Khalil al-Ghul, Priest of the Old Gods — that gravel-voiced mystic with eyes like polished obsidian — steps forward amid the powder haze. He raises his staff, mutters something ancient and guttural (sounded like a camel gargling curses), and points at Fasil ibn Rashid's curved blade. "By the forgotten ones," he intones, "let this steel drink flame and burn the infidel!"

The air shimmers. A spark flickers along the edge... then fizzles. A pathetic little puff of smoke, like a damp firecracker on Guy Fawkes night. The sword stays cold steel, not so much as a singe. Fasil glances down, then up at Khalil with the look of a man who's just been promised roast lamb and handed cold flatbread. "That it, holy one? My blade's warmer from the sun."

Khalil blinks, mutters a quick prayer to cover the embarrassment, and retreats a step. The French, sensing blood (or at least amusement), press their advantage — a volley cracks out, pinging off rocks and forcing my irregular Hassan al-Muhtadi to duck. But no real harm done. The spell backfired spectacularly — or rather, failed to fire at all — and the flies just kept buzzing, unimpressed.

Shots whistle back and forth like angry hornets — crack! ping! — sun blazing down merciless, turning the powder smoke to a choking veil, and the damned flies never let up, buzzing 'round the wounds like they own the place. My lads hold: Yusuf al-Barid rallies the line ("For the Pharaoh!"), Tariq ibn Zayd pops a Bedouin shot that clips a French voltigeur, Khalil al-Ghul chants milk-curdling curses from the rear (that priest's got a voice like gravel in a goat's throat). Janissaries Amir and Fasil reload grim, Malik el-Fatih grips his axe itching for the charge, Jamal al-Sahra scouts the flank, Hassan al-Muhtadi my irregular, grinning through the grit.

Still, the line holds. Malik el-Fatih charges a straggling chasseur, axe high ("For the Nile!"), and Jamal al-Sahra pops another shot from the flank. Frenchies waver again, loot half-grabbed, half-forgotten in the oasis. My warband's battered but unbroken — and Khalil? He'll be hearing about that dud enchantment for weeks at the club. "Curdle milk? More like curdle morale, old boy. Baaaah!"

Turn 4: Miracle Hat-Trick

Lunch downed (kebabs hit the spot), and drat — French win initiative again. Alan's fiends lunge: muskets crack, bayonets thrust. But their attack fizzles! (Yeah!) Someone up there likes us — nearest Janissary (Fasil, bless him) lines up the Hospitalier... crack! Down he goes, cross tumbling in the sand. Hassan al-Muhtadi, my irregular wild man, charges point-blank: "Dodge this!" (in proper Arabic gutterals), jezail roars — agent provocateur hospital-bound. Yusuf al-Barid seals it, pistol barking at the French irregular — bang! Three models mulched in a blink. Wind out their sails proper; Alan's lot reels like they've supped bad arrack.

The Hospitalier attacks my Bedouin

My Bedouin say no thanks, the French officer moves up and fires with his pistol. Once again, he has missed it by that much chief.

Then the Egyptians, get their turn. Cairo shall I begin? A shot rings out and wounds the Hospitalier, then a second puts him down. My Irregular moves back around the corner of the house and shoots the Agent Provocateur in the back of the head. Bang splat and down he goes. 

A second shot rings out and the Hospitalier is in need of his order's services and retires hurt.

Then my officer steps up and shoots the French irregular with his pistol and down he goes. 3 casualties in 3 activations.

"Enchanted dice!" Alan bleats. I fire back: "It's an army marching on its stomach, old chap — and its dice going with 'em. Baaaah!" Club in hysterics, table shaking. Praise be to Allah for that streak — French reduced, loot ours for the grabbing amid the oasis felt and hay scrub.

Turn 5: Dice Gods Nap Initiative ours, but blessed streak gone cold. Jezails click empty, bayonets jab air, Khalil’s curses curdle nowt. Whole turn of nothing much. Sun baking the dead, sheep scattering white fluff. Measured retreat begins — objective’s ours; no need for heroics.

Alans officer attacks my native scout with a flourish of his sabre

My officer moves back into the cover of the trees.

My Native scout falls to a musket ball.

Turn 5 brought to you by "nothing happening here"

Turn 6: Yusuf’s Pistol Pops the Officer

The French win the Initiative again, it's those garlic snails they have been sacrificing to the dice gods. The Egyptians are waiting with the patience of a desert sand viper to strike. I think Alan rolled a 0-0 for initiative so a special event happened and we swapped a couple of models. I moved Alan's infantryman forward where he would be easier to shoot and his junior officer back where she should be out of range

The French officer shoots my Bedouin. Ouch.

The Egyptians begin the game known as "I shoot your boss". Several muskets ring out and I think some damage is done by one of the shots

Yusuf levels one of his brace — crack! Down tumbles the French officer, plume fluttering like surrender. Tariq scouts clear, Jamal grabs final crate. French reduced to stragglers, , muttering Gallic curses.

French return fire gives my officer a chance to move further into cover.

Turn 7: Disengage – Pharaoh’s Sons 4-3 Fighting sputters out like wet powder. Both sides back off smart. Score: 4-3 Egyptians. Loot tallied: relics from the sands, enough for upgrades (priest gets a proper fire spell next time?). Warband limps home intact-ish — one in morgue, but the rest ready for more French-bashing.

Jamal al-Sahra & Tariq ibn Zayd scouts heroic, Malik el-Fatih axe unbloodied but eager, Khalil al-Ghul chants improving, Fasil/Amir Janissaries stars of the show, Hassan irregular dodging legend, Yusuf al-Barid officer of the match. North Star proxies shone in the sunset glow.

Cinematic as Khartoum, atmospheric as the supplement promises. Alan's frog hunters? Next time, lads. Steady the Nile!