The Year 1106 at Devizes 2026
Christian Nubian vs Ghaznavid
Game 1 Christian Nubian vs Ghaznavid
Game 2 Christian Nubian vs Berber
Game 3 Christian Nubian vs Tuareg
Game 4 Christian Nubian vs Ghaznavid
Game 5 Christian Nubian vs Komnenan Byzantine
After a Saturday night in Frome (“froooomm!”) — a place whose very name echoes like a drunken prophet calling out from a limestone cave — we had feasted on curry with Kevin and pretended, with the conviction of a novice monk lying to his abbot, to be disinterested in what became the most exhilarating match of the entire World Cup.
“By the Flaming Beard of Saint Longinus, let tomorrow bring thunder!” the Nubians cried as they packed for Devizes.
Game 4 dawned like a golden psalm over the desert, and the Nubians, still enthroned atop the table, found themselves facing the Ghaznavids of Paul Dawson — the Northern Powerhouse, the Ice-Forged Sultan, the man whose dice roll like judgement stones as the Nubian host as one roared their battle cry - "In the name of Holy Makuria, let our spears sing!”.
The Ghaznavid army in ADLG is a fearsome, elite force built around an oversized “Death Star” of Elephants and Dailami infantry — a devastating central formation capable of smashing through almost anything it encounters. This powerful core is supported by high‑quality cavalry that gives the army both speed and flexibility, allowing it to threaten flanks while the main battle line grinds forward with unstoppable momentum.
The army was made up of the following core segments
The Ghaznavids excel when their central “Death Star” can engage directly, combining elephant impact with disciplined infantry to crush enemy formations head‑on. Their cavalry ensures that this advance is not easily flanked, giving the army a balanced mix of brute strength and tactical reach.
However, all this quality comes at a cost — the army is expensive and often small in size, meaning every unit must be used with precision. When handled well, the Ghaznavids deliver thunderous, decisive victories worthy of their imperial reputation.
The lists for the Christian Nubian and Ghaznavid from this game, as well as all the other lists from the games at Devizes can be seen here in the ADLG Wiki.
Once more I was defending in an agricultural zone near the Nubian heartland, a place where millet grows tall and warriors grow stubborn.
I deployed deep, seeking time, space, and divine intervention against whatever Ghaznavid tempest would soon crash upon us.
The Ghaznavids, small but perfectly sculpted like idols stolen from a forbidden shrine, massed on one flank, hoping to carve away a portion of the Nubian horde — yet in doing so, they exposed themselves to the ravenous Beja. “Saint Phoebus guide our blades to their foolish ribs!” whispered a Nubian priest.
The Beja, free of their usual unreliable sulking, surged forward with the enthusiasm of zealots who had just discovered a new saint.
Their camel corps, too wide and ungainly to pass the Ghaznavid skirmishers in one glorious wave, instead advanced in chaotic fragments.
“Better a few camels now than all camels too late!” bellowed their sheikh, slapping his mount as it lurched into motion.
The battle’s heart beat on the Nubian right, where a titanic block of elephants — beasts so vast they seemed sculpted by angels who had misunderstood the assignment — thundered toward the Nubian infantry.
“By Saint Samuel’s Sandals, preserve us from tusks!” cried the Nubian skirmishers.
Foot archers sprinted across the field to screen their brethren, while the Camel Corps angled toward the Great Khan, or Sultan, or Supreme Hoof-Lord, or whatever title he claimed.
The Ghaznavids shoved their elephants and Dailami forward, wheeling them like a divine punishment in front of their cavalry to intimidate the Nubian cameleers.
Both battle lines were covered by a skin of skirmishers, and it seemed that the Nubian light infantry might soon be called into action and be taked with taking down the mightiest elements in the whole Ghaznavid host!
But this manoeuvre cracked open a radiant opportunity: the fanatical Nubian desert tribesmen hurled themselves at the Dailami flank, shrieking “Makuria Akbar! Makuria forever!” as they charged.
Their lone Guard Cavalryman — still bewildered that he, out of thousands, was first into combat — muttered “By the Cross of Dongola, why is it always me?” as he galloped into legend.
On the left, the Beja swept forward like a sandstorm blessed by Saint Moses himself, attempting to envelop a stubborn knot of Ghaznavid archers perched atop a hillock.
The skirmishers were driven back, step by agonising step, until the Ghaznavid camp loomed into view.
“Oh Holy Mary of the Desert, let their tents be our trophies!” sang the Beja as they closed in. Losing the camp would be a mortal wound to such a small army.
Ghaznavids vs Seljuks
The Nubian camels, finding a miraculous gap in the wall of elephantry, clattered into the Ghaznavid horsemen — outnumbered but aflame with courage.
Meanwhile, Nubian skirmishers danced between colossal feet and tusks, trying to hamstring the beasts with daggers blessed in the Cathedral of Old Dongola. “Strike low, pray high, and run fast!” shouted their commander.
Behold the storm tossed Beja, those desert born sons of sand and sun, now surging forward in a wild, ungoverned tide. Their confidence—so absolute, so incandescent—had melted away every notion of formation, leaving them a glorious, chaotic flood of camel mounted zeal.
The Ghaznavid archers smirked at such reckless bravado, yet that very foolishness steeled their resolve; for what greater honour than to halt the charge of a force so mighty in reputation, if not in discipline, and thereby save their baggage and their embattled right wing.
In the battered centre, the Ghaznavid elephants and grim Dailami foot reeled beneath the hammering of the Chosen Warriors of Christian Nubia, yet still they stood unbroken.
Quality favoured the Ghaznavids, but numbers—ah, numbers belonged to the Nubians, who now began to envelop the Dailami like a tightening noose.
Even the half-hearted combat-averse Nubian bowmen, normally content to rain death from afar, found themselves pressed into brutal hand to hand struggle as the countless hordes of the Nubian army flooded around, and then into the rear and flanks of the Ghaznavid line.
The suicidal Camel Corps, though faltering, had pinned a scandalous portion of Ghaznavid cavalry with their semi-suicidal attack
The camels may well be doomed, but their eagerness to engage had ended up denying the Afghani horsemen any chance to reinforce the centre, where the Nubian tide was already beginning to roll the Ghaznavids up like a worn carpet.
At last the elephants smashed through the thin veil of Nubian skirmishers, yet this triumph only tightened the grip of the Sudanese left wing upon the exposed end of the Dailami line.
And as the Dailami bent, so too did the elephants’ flanks open wide—inviting the Nubians to strike even as losses mounted on both sides.
The elephants, armoured titans of war, demanded ever more Nubian blood and effort merely to hold them in place. Victory, for the moment, remained a distant star.
Half - fully half — of the Holy Nubian Foot had now fallen in the grinding struggle against the Ghaznavid centre.
Only the archers remained to hold the line against the supposedly surrounded Dailami, who fought with a valour bordering on madness, determined to uphold the honour of Ghaznavidistan even as doom pressed in from every direction.
The battle twisted upon itself, turning ninety degrees as the Ghaznavids reformed their line to sweep leftward.
Yet again they found their advance smothered by relentless waves of Nubian skirmishers, each one eager to hamstring, harass, and hinder.
The full choir of Nubian archers now focused their fury upon the Last Dailami—an iron willed survivor whose legend, if he lived, would surely demand a film. His fall, the Nubians believed, would unlock the lynchpin of the entire reformed Ghaznavid line.
But the Nubians had miscalculated. Wave after wave of Light Foot had been hurled into the impossible task of elephant slaying, and their losses mounted like grains of sand in an hourglass.
These skirmishers, accustomed to darting away long before danger reached them, were instead commanded to stand and fight—and paid for it in blood.
At last the Nubian army reached its vast break point.
And so, by the narrowest margin imaginable, the Christian Warriors of Nubia—glorious, valiant, and terrible—were cast down in defeat.
Click here for the report of the next game in this competition, or read on for the post match summaries from the Generals involved, as well as another episode of legendary expert analysis from Hannibal
Post Match Summary from the Christian Nubian Commander
Warriors of Makuria, gather close! Camels of questionable bravery, Beja of intermittent usefulness, and archers who today discovered entirely new ways to disappoint me — lend your ears to the words of your commander, Chosen of Christ, Favourite of Saints, and Victim of Circumstances Beyond Any Mortal’s Control.
Let it be known across the deserts, the mountains, and even the ghastly cabbage‑strewn fields of Ghaznavidistan that today’s defeat was not the fault of your glorious leader. No, my children — today we were assailed by forces so ungodly, so cosmically unfair, that even Saint Moses the Black would have thrown up his hands and said, “Nope, not dealing with that.”
First, behold the elephants. Not ordinary elephants, oh no! These were beasts clad in armour forged from the tears of sinners and the hubris of infidels. Their hides were so thick, so unholy, that even Saint Michael himself would have needed a ladder, a hammer, and a week off from smiting duties to make a dent. We struck them with spears, arrows, prayers, and even a camel or two — and still they shrugged us off like flies at a baptism.
And the weather, my brothers! The sun, normally our ally, betrayed us utterly. It shone at the wrong angle, glared off elephant armour, dazzled our skirmishers, and made our camels sweat in ways that were frankly distracting. Saint Cyprian of Carthage clearly forgot to adjust the heavenly thermostat, and we suffered for it.
Then there were the Afghan archers — those unfeasibly resilient, unnervingly accurate, suspiciously blessed bowmen. I swear upon the Holy Spear of Dongola that they must have been protected by rogue angels. Every time we thought they would break, they simply refused, standing firm like saints carved from stubbornness and goat cheese. Their arrows fell upon us with such persistence that even our bravest warriors began to suspect divine interference.
And let us not forget the Camel Corps, who fought valiantly, heroically, and with all the tactical insight of a drunk monk. They charged, they flailed, they occupied Ghaznavid cavalry for an impressive amount of time — but alas, even their saint‑approved chaos could not overcome the enemy’s unholy pachyderm bulwark.
The Dailami, too, fought with a zeal that bordered on theological misconduct. Surrounded, overlapped, poked, prodded, and prayed at — yet still they refused to fall. Truly, their stubbornness was an affront to the natural order established by Christ Himself.
So yes, my children, we were defeated — but only by the narrowest margin, and only because the universe conspired against us. The elephants were too armoured, the archers too blessed, the weather too treacherous, and the saints too busy watching someone else’s battle. None of this, I repeat, none of this, was the fault of your glorious commander.
Raise your heads, Nubians! For though we fell today, we fell with style, with faith, and with enough dramatic flair to impress even Saint Samuel the Confessor. And tomorrow, by Christ’s radiant wisdom, we shall rise again — hopefully in a battle without elephants.
Hannibal's Post Match Analysis
Hear me, ye desert‑dwellers, camel‑enthusiasts, and worshippers of future sky‑spirits! I, Hannibal the Nasty — scourge of Rome, delight of Carthage, and inventor of insults so sharp they can slice figs — do now address the Nubian King’s pitiful post‑battle speech. Verily, never have I heard so many excuses poured forth with such sanctimonious confidence. Elephants unfair! Dailami too brave! Archers too accurate! Weather too sunny! Saints too lazy! By Baal’s blistered knuckles, thou art a fountain of foolishness.
O Nubian King, thou sanctified turnip of the Nile, thou didst blame the Ghaznavid elephants as though mighty beasts were somehow an affront to nature. “Unfair!” thou criedst. Unfair? Nay! I, Hannibal, rode elephants across the Alps — elephants are supposed to be terrifying. If thou expectest the enemy to bring only goats and polite skirmishers, thou art fit only to command a choir, not an army.
And what of thy complaints about the bravery of the Dailami mercenaries and Afghan archers? “Too brave,” thou wailed. Too brave? By Melqart’s magnificent moustache, what madness is this? It is unreasonable — nay, idiotic — to expect the enemy to field cowards for thy convenience. If thou art shocked that soldiers fight bravely, then thou hast misunderstood the entire concept of war.
Thou didst even blame the weather — “too sunny,” thou proclaimed, as though the Ghaznavids had bribed the sun. In Carthage, we call such whining the Song of the Soft‑Skinned. The sun shines on both armies, thou melon‑headed moaner. If thou art defeated by daylight, perhaps thou shouldst fight only at night, or underground, or in a cupboard.
And then, the crowning jewel of thy foolishness: thou didst blame thy Christian saints for failing to intervene. Saints! Saints who have not yet been invented in my time! Thou callest upon future holy men to solve present stupidity. By Tanit’s trembling sandals, thy religion is so premature it squeaks when thou mention it. I recommend instead the worship of proper gods — Baal, Melqart, Tanit — deities who actually exist and who do not require time travel to answer prayers.
But let us speak of the true cause of thy defeat: the Ghaznavid deployment. They hugged the terrain in a narrow, cunning formation, and thou — O unimaginative spread‑out commander — didst deploy thy army like a man laying out laundry to dry. Thy best troops stood flailing, searching for opponents who were nowhere near them. Thou wert wrong‑footed before the first javelin flew, and yet thou blamest elephants, saints, and sunshine instead of thine own lack of imagination.
Thy warriors wandered, thy bowmen loitered, thy camels floundered, and thou stood upon the field like a sanctified turnip, hoping divine intervention would rearrange the Ghaznavid line for thee. It did not. For even thy saints, imaginary though they be, cannot fix stupidity.
Thus I, Hannibal the Nasty, proclaim thee: Duke of Delusional Excuses, Archbishop of Blaming the Weather, and Grand Vizier of Expecting the Enemy to Be Incompetent. May thy future speeches contain fewer complaints, fewer saints, and more acknowledgement that thou wert defeated not by elephants, nor bravery, nor sunshine — but by thine own tactical dullness, which no doubt will now be repeated in the next game
Click here for the report of the next game in this competition
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Game 1 Christian Nubian vs Ghaznavid
Game 2 Christian Nubian vs Berber
Game 3 Christian Nubian vs Tuareg
