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[you may have missed it, but the second part of XXIX was posted in it's thread. Be sure to read it first]
An UnOrthOdOx view of the Glory of War.
I surveyed the landscape of Meridia. The town lay nestled up against the mountains, a river running right before the town gate posed perhaps the greatest challenge, though, as it would negate some maneuverability and prevent any form of regrouping or retreat once the charge was sounded.
The safe thing would have been to find a crossing to the east. However, I was in no mood for either safety or delays. Time was of the essence here. Western Spain must fall then we could turn north to meet the approaching Demogyptican armies before turning our attention to both Pamplona and the Stormian invaders along a unified front.
Having heard word of our advance, the town guards awaited us upon the opposing bank of the river, the tips of their pikes gleaming in the sun as the peasants scrambled behind them to seek some kind of shelter from the coming battle. They let out a cry of defiance, secure in their safety across the river. I took it all in, weighing the possibilities.
It was true that this was no common rabble, these were trained soldiers we would be fighting. Word of Bilbao must have spread this far by now, and they must know that no quarter would be given. This obviously was giving them determination, but it would matter little. They were outnumbered by superior troops. I slowly reached down and unhitched the horn that Master Zen had given me from the Dragon’s rib and raised it to my lips. An unholy sound resounded as it seemed to take a life of it’s own vibrating in my hands. The cries of the Spanish fell silent, unsure of what to make of such a sound, and then all became chaos.
I continued blowing the horn until my breath was exhausted, and I had seen my riders flying past me in their charge. Perfect in their formation, swords outstretched. I replaced the horn in the saddle, drew my own sword and spurred my mount forward deep in the middle of our formation. A great cry rose up from both forces as the charge plowed into the river and resurfaced upon the far bank. I witnessed as the first line came in contact. Horses were toppled, men were thrown, but pikes were also ripped from the hands of defenders, exposing them freely to the second line of the charge. The screams of horses and men were deafening. As I approached at full gallop, the defenders had reformed into a semi-circle formation, once again setting their pikes to absorb the force of the charging riders.
I let out a cry and spurred my horse even harder, dead set on breaking this defensive formation. And, as I flew towards it, I saw my opportunity. There, a young man of perhaps 20 years faltered and lowered his spear just enough. I guided my mount straight towards that point, and he raced along, the point of the spear missing his underside by mere hands breadth. My sword caught a neighboring defender at the seperation of the armor at the neck and my horse cought the young man clean in the head as we galloped through, with a force that wrenched my sword from my grasp.
I reigned in and reached for the flail at my back, but too late as a defender caught my mount squarely in his chest, forcing the horse up, and throwing me from my seat. Rolling as I struck the ground I quickly stood and could see the man directly in front of me desperately attempting to remove the pike from between the horses ribs. Anger washed over me, and I cried out as I hurdled forward, unhitching the flail at my back and bringing it around square into the side of his shocked face, spraying blood every which way with the force of the blow. Seeing only the men responsible for my own son’s death, I swung again and again at the lifeless body, forgetting the world around me as I vented my frustration until a cheer broke out behind me and I turned to see that there only stood our riders upon the field.
I replaced the flail and spit at the corpse in disgust before going to search for my sword and survey the damage. There were many wounded, and some mounts would never be the same again, but the day was indeed ours. My sword had caught itself in the collarbone of it’s victim, and took some effort to remove. Wiping it clean, I replaced it in it’s sheath and grabbed a mount.
It took some time to round up the citizens of the town, and there was some minor resistance that was quickly dealt with at the cost of a few peasants lives.
“Citizens of Meridia. I am UnOrthOdOx…”
“YOU are nothing but a common butcher! We have heard of Bilbao, why don’t you step off that horse and face judgement like a real man, you ravenous beast! For in the name of God, you will be struck down, devil!”
It was an unusual sight. An apparently able bodied man in the middle of the rest of the elderly, women and children. Had he simply fled the battle? If not, why was he not there? I calmly dismounted, unsheathed my sword, and threw it at his feet. It was not until he stepped forward that I noticed the robes. Yet another man of this Christ. He bent slowly and picked the sword up, apparently contemplating his options. Finally, at long last, he must have decided that my death would be worth the sin as he charged headlong and attempted to thrust the sword straight into my chest with little skill.
I easily sidestepped the lunge, catching his arm at the wrist with one hand and striking at the elbow with the other, breaking the arm in an instant. He fell to the ground crying in pain, and I placed my foot upon his neck, slowly applying pressure.
“As I was saying. I am UnOrthOdOx, and I claim this town in the name of the Glory of War. There will BE no resistance. There will be no rescue. You will comply or perish. If by some miracle a rescue is attempted, you – WILL – be slaughtered. Comply, and I will allow you to live.”
The struggling beneath my foot had ceased. I picked up my sword and remounted my horse before looking over the populace. My point, it seemed, had been made abundantly clear.
An UnOrthOdOx view of the Glory of War.
I surveyed the landscape of Meridia. The town lay nestled up against the mountains, a river running right before the town gate posed perhaps the greatest challenge, though, as it would negate some maneuverability and prevent any form of regrouping or retreat once the charge was sounded.
The safe thing would have been to find a crossing to the east. However, I was in no mood for either safety or delays. Time was of the essence here. Western Spain must fall then we could turn north to meet the approaching Demogyptican armies before turning our attention to both Pamplona and the Stormian invaders along a unified front.
Having heard word of our advance, the town guards awaited us upon the opposing bank of the river, the tips of their pikes gleaming in the sun as the peasants scrambled behind them to seek some kind of shelter from the coming battle. They let out a cry of defiance, secure in their safety across the river. I took it all in, weighing the possibilities.
It was true that this was no common rabble, these were trained soldiers we would be fighting. Word of Bilbao must have spread this far by now, and they must know that no quarter would be given. This obviously was giving them determination, but it would matter little. They were outnumbered by superior troops. I slowly reached down and unhitched the horn that Master Zen had given me from the Dragon’s rib and raised it to my lips. An unholy sound resounded as it seemed to take a life of it’s own vibrating in my hands. The cries of the Spanish fell silent, unsure of what to make of such a sound, and then all became chaos.
I continued blowing the horn until my breath was exhausted, and I had seen my riders flying past me in their charge. Perfect in their formation, swords outstretched. I replaced the horn in the saddle, drew my own sword and spurred my mount forward deep in the middle of our formation. A great cry rose up from both forces as the charge plowed into the river and resurfaced upon the far bank. I witnessed as the first line came in contact. Horses were toppled, men were thrown, but pikes were also ripped from the hands of defenders, exposing them freely to the second line of the charge. The screams of horses and men were deafening. As I approached at full gallop, the defenders had reformed into a semi-circle formation, once again setting their pikes to absorb the force of the charging riders.
I let out a cry and spurred my horse even harder, dead set on breaking this defensive formation. And, as I flew towards it, I saw my opportunity. There, a young man of perhaps 20 years faltered and lowered his spear just enough. I guided my mount straight towards that point, and he raced along, the point of the spear missing his underside by mere hands breadth. My sword caught a neighboring defender at the seperation of the armor at the neck and my horse cought the young man clean in the head as we galloped through, with a force that wrenched my sword from my grasp.
I reigned in and reached for the flail at my back, but too late as a defender caught my mount squarely in his chest, forcing the horse up, and throwing me from my seat. Rolling as I struck the ground I quickly stood and could see the man directly in front of me desperately attempting to remove the pike from between the horses ribs. Anger washed over me, and I cried out as I hurdled forward, unhitching the flail at my back and bringing it around square into the side of his shocked face, spraying blood every which way with the force of the blow. Seeing only the men responsible for my own son’s death, I swung again and again at the lifeless body, forgetting the world around me as I vented my frustration until a cheer broke out behind me and I turned to see that there only stood our riders upon the field.
I replaced the flail and spit at the corpse in disgust before going to search for my sword and survey the damage. There were many wounded, and some mounts would never be the same again, but the day was indeed ours. My sword had caught itself in the collarbone of it’s victim, and took some effort to remove. Wiping it clean, I replaced it in it’s sheath and grabbed a mount.
It took some time to round up the citizens of the town, and there was some minor resistance that was quickly dealt with at the cost of a few peasants lives.
“Citizens of Meridia. I am UnOrthOdOx…”
“YOU are nothing but a common butcher! We have heard of Bilbao, why don’t you step off that horse and face judgement like a real man, you ravenous beast! For in the name of God, you will be struck down, devil!”
It was an unusual sight. An apparently able bodied man in the middle of the rest of the elderly, women and children. Had he simply fled the battle? If not, why was he not there? I calmly dismounted, unsheathed my sword, and threw it at his feet. It was not until he stepped forward that I noticed the robes. Yet another man of this Christ. He bent slowly and picked the sword up, apparently contemplating his options. Finally, at long last, he must have decided that my death would be worth the sin as he charged headlong and attempted to thrust the sword straight into my chest with little skill.
I easily sidestepped the lunge, catching his arm at the wrist with one hand and striking at the elbow with the other, breaking the arm in an instant. He fell to the ground crying in pain, and I placed my foot upon his neck, slowly applying pressure.
“As I was saying. I am UnOrthOdOx, and I claim this town in the name of the Glory of War. There will BE no resistance. There will be no rescue. You will comply or perish. If by some miracle a rescue is attempted, you – WILL – be slaughtered. Comply, and I will allow you to live.”
The struggling beneath my foot had ceased. I picked up my sword and remounted my horse before looking over the populace. My point, it seemed, had been made abundantly clear.
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