Lands of Darkness

[Easthaven I]

Lands of Darkness

Battle of Brancus Village
August 20th, 1468AD
Brancus’ Village

“How many do we currently have, Marcus?” Asked Fornalin as they marched towards the archery range.

“About two hundred and forty, Fornalin. And I don’t think anymore will come. The other half of the men of the village are against the rebellion.” Marcus answered.

“And how many Cossacks usually come to collect tribute?”

“Twenty to forty horseman. All armed with swords, but no bows. Quite lightly armored. They would never expect something like this. They come to fill their guts, their pockets, and appease their pleasures.” The latter made Marcus Brancus cringe.

“That is good, very good. Surprise, numbers, and hunger for vengeance is on our side.” He patted Marcus on the back and smiled before he began instructing peasants on the skills of archery and swordplay. He would then develop a plan to defeat the incoming Cossacks.

-------------------------------------------------------

What is he thinking? Who does he think he is coming to our humble village filling the people’s minds with glory and honor!, thought Koros, an upper middle-class man of the village. He always made the poorer folk pay more tribute than himself. Once he gave away his maid to a Russian officer just out of paranoia. This village has lived quite peacefully under Russian rule for years, all we have had to do was sacrifice a few women, food, and money. And besides, even if he does kill the Russians who come, they will only send more with a mission to burn the whole village…then what?

Koros had already made up his mind once he took the horse from the stables. He galloped as fast as his untalented horsemanship could take him. He would reach the nearest Russian outpost by nightfall.


=================================


August 25th, 1468 AD
Brancus’ Village

“The Cossacks will ride through these fields, here. We will go about our business so they will suspect nothing until they reach within half a kilometer from the village, then we shall form two lines in front of the village. The first line will be the swordsmen holding the pikes up, the second line will be full of our archers. Once they are within range you fire two volleys then resume until you have expended your arrows. The two horse groups waiting in ambush will wait ‘till they have past your positions and have been showered with arrows, then you will come upon their rear.” Fornalin said to the ‘officers’ as he looked down upon the field where the battle would take place. The men nodded in acknowledgment.

“Prepare your men. If everything goes as we have planned we have nothing to worry about. We must kill them all so that they will not notify others of the uprising. After the engagement, I will ride and bring back reinforcements. We may have to evacuate the village, but we will have plenty of time. Do not worry about your families…they are safe.” He brought his fist to his heart and gave a nod to his ‘officer’ cadre. They nodded back and dispersed to ready their men for battle. Fornalin then turned to Marcus.

“Are you sure the Cossacks come through this spot?” He asked

“Yes, Fornalin. Not once have they taken another route. And not once have they brought more than forty men. Do not worry, my friend, we can not fail.” Young Marcus Brancus patted Fornalin on the back encouragingly before he walked away to check up on the peasant-soldiers.

“We won’t fail.” Fornalin said to himself confidently, while butterflies ran rampant in his gut.


=================================


September 4th, 1468AD
Brancus’ Village

Fornalin sat in the inn drinking a cup of ale as he tried to relax himself for battle. Though it would be very small and quite easy considering the factors, he couldn’t help but feeling doubt burn a hole through his stomach.

A young boy came running through the entrance doors…

“Fornalin! A Russian rider is approaching the village!”

“Only one?” Fornalin asked, showing no emotion.

“Yes, sir. We saw him coming out of the forests, riding very fast.” Said the boy as he struggled to breath and talk at the same time.

Fornalin immediately got up and ran to the village east end, where the battle would ensue.

He looked out onto the field and witnessed the boy’s words come to life. A single Russian rider galloping at full trot. He was a kilometer away and getting closer.

“Should I signal the men?” asked the man standing beside Fornalin, watching the same horseman.

“No. Let him come in the village.” Fornalin answered, his eyebrow arched, “has this ever happened before?”

“No, never. There has always been at the least twenty riders. This is quite unusual. Maybe they needed to spare some men to fight the rebels in the west.” The man suggested.

Maybe, thought Fornalin doubtfully.

The Cossack reached the edge of the village. He halted and threw a sack that landed a few feet from Fornalin’s feet. Fornalin did not avert his eyes from the rider. The rider met his gaze and smiled before pivoting his horse around and galloping forward in hasty pace back to the forest.

Fornalin then looked down at the sack and grabbed the bottom. He lifted it to spill its contents onto the ground…a head bounced and rolled through the grass. The spectators gasped at the sight of the familiar face.

“Who is he.” Fornalin asked urgently.

“Koros! He’s one of our own!”

Fornalin immediately dropped the sack. He grabbed a golden feathered arrow from his bag as he stepped forward and moved his bow off his shoulder. Beyond the arrowhead he saw the rider galloping frantically towards the haven of the forest…he was a hundred and thirty yards away. Fornalin arched the bow upwards and released.

The missile pierced the sky over the field and soon began its decent towards the earth…claiming its prey.

Fornalin armed his bow with another arrow.

“ASSUME POSITIONS!” He yelled. After the pause of the confusing event, the village went back into activity. Mothers gathered the children into their homes. Peasant-‘officers’ signaled their men…peasant-soldiers assumed positions.

“What is it, Fornalin? There is no one.” Called Marcus Brancus.

“They know! They know!” yelled back Fornalin as he ran to the pike lines and archer lines, getting them straight and in order.

Then it began.

The rumbling.

The distant war cries.

The slight tremble of the earth.

“THE COSSACKS ARE COMING!” somebody yelled.

“Heavens…there’s hundreds…” whispered Fornalin. What have I done.

“Hold the line! Keep it steady!” He ordered.

The merciless riders kept riding. Swords in the air, they screamed in enjoyment. The hooves of the horses pounded the earth, thumping fear into the hearts of the innocent.

They came nearer.

“SIR! There’s more coming to the village rear! Hundreds!” came a cry.

Fornalin placed his arrow back in the bag and slung his bow back over his shoulder as he ran to the middle of the line.

“Everyone to the left of this point, form a column! NOW!” he ordered. The archers and pike/swordsmen began shuffling as they attempted to form a column. “FOLLOW ME!” he called as he began marching into the village.

He turned to one of the ‘officers’ of the remaining line.

“Spread your men out! Fill the space!”

He then turned and began running to the other end of the village, his men ran, too.

They arrived at the other end, as the Cossacks on this side began to arrive within half a kilometer of the village.

“FORM YOUR LINES! HOLD AT ALL COSTS, MEN!” he ordered over the commotion. He looked out onto the field as the peasants formed their pitiful lines. There were about two hundred horsemen racing towards them, much fewer then the other side of the village.

He turned to the ‘officer’ in charge.

“I’m going back to the other line, more of the enemy is there. Hold this line, soldier. Your family depends upon it.”

“I will not move.” The man solemnly answered.

Fornalin nodded and began running back to the other line.

He arrived, the Cossacks were within two hundred yards of the village.

“RELEASE YOUR ARROWS, ARCHERS!” He yelled.

In amazing unison, the peasant-archers arched the bows in the sky and released. A cloud of arrows glided through the air and landed upon the dark shadow that was fast approaching.

Fornalin himself arched his bow upwards and released a few of the golden feathered arrows.

Many Cossacks fell, but the shadow would not falter. Its speed was constant. It was within fifty yards away when the hidden peasant riders ambushed them. But forty untrained horsemen could not do much damage to a horde of Cossacks. The valiant effort was slaughtered.

“HOLD THE LINE!” Fornalin desperately but defiantly called out to his men as the Cossacks got nearer.

Flamed arrows began raining down on the village from the rear of the crowd of Cossacks. The wailing of women and children began. The desperate cries became as constant as the unfaltering shadow ahead.

The peasant-archers, with much discipline, kept releasing their arrows. The swordsmen/pikemen, although trembling with fear, kept their pikes arched upwards.

Fornalin released another arrow, it struck a Cossack square in the head. He released another, and killed another. Nonstop, he sent his death out to the ever-closing Cossacks. Then his last golden-feathered arrow streaked the air. He dropped his bow and bag, and unsheathed his sword…Domasken.

“GET READY, MEN!” He cried out.

The first line of Cossacks struck the pikes. The clash was intense…horses flipped, men were launched. One Cossack escaped the hedgehog unscathed only to be met on the other side by Fornalin’s silver sword.

“HOLD THE LINE!” Fornalin ordered. But soon there was no more line. The Cossack horde flooded through. The pikemen dropped their pikes and began fighting with their swords. The archers released their last arrows and began fighting with their fists, for they lacked any secondary weapons.

Fornalin charged the Cossacks with rage in his eyes. He killed beast and man alike as he swung his sword every which way. He fought one of his best fights he had ever fought. He killed and created heaps of corpses. That gloomy day he was death itself. Soaked in blood he ran through the village, through every hut, slicing and dicing the evil men who killed his family. Every villager fought desperately with what they had, mostly shovels, pitchforks, sticks and knives.

The numbers were overwhelming, and the Cossacks were without mercy. And no matter how fierce the King of War was on that god-forsaken day, he could not stop the onslaught.

The Cossacks rode through. One beheaded a crying child standing above her murdered mother. One woman tried desperately to run away but it was futile, a shower of arrows pinned her back. Countless other women and children were trampled under the hooves of the beasts.

He himself holding many open wounds, was (by sheer luck) knocked unconscious by the broad side of a sword…

[ChrisiusMaximus]

OMG!! that was most thrilling, you dont write for a month then come and make me fall off my chair again!!

Please dont stop!!

[Easthaven I]

Heh, thank you, thank you. Much appreciated.: stay tuned, bro...

[Easthaven I]

Lands of Darkness

Heat upon the Sworn-Brothers
September 6th, 1468AD
Fort Trilo

The Persian Army now numbered 8,000 infantry and 2,000 cavalry. All were adequately armored and well trained, not the best trained but well nonetheless. 400 Immortals made up the elite force as General Cornelius’ guard. New scouting information had arrived and Cornelius called for a war council. They all sat and looked at Belisarius pin a map of Persia on the wall. He then began…

“Captain General, Darian has sent word of a large Russian army passing through the pass of Vadela in early August. He estimates the strength at 20,000 men with 10,000 cavalry. The Russian general is General Sasha Malenko, not their best but still a very competent and experienced Captain. But this is not an immediate danger, for we will not even make contact until next year. There is a different Russian force that has appeared crossing the Ergili Pass seven days ago. It is believed to number 17,000 men and 4,000 cavalry, heading this way.” The young Belisarius pointed to the mentioned locations as he discussed the issues, “Whether they wish to engage us before winter we do not know. But I believe we must, or else we will be facing a force of over 50,000 Russians by eve of next summer if we allow these two Russian armies to combine.”

“And who is the commander of the Ergili force?” asked Cornelius.

“General Nikita Bera, another competent commander but in no way their best.” Answered Belisarius.

“Any information on the actions of the nations in the south?” asked Hasduman.

“Rome has transferred a legion to our border but nothing drastic. They still view us as a small rebel force about to be quelled by the Cossacks. The Greek city-states has done nothing we need worry about.”

“Any word from Phyllicus?”

“None.”

“Anything else, Belisarius?” asked Cornelius.

“Well, Captain General, there has been several conflicts in the deep southeast of Persia by warring clans but that is nothing new. But what is of concern is that a small force has emerged from the war zone and has begun marching northwest towards Fort Antioch.” Said Belisarius.

“And you do not know anything of this approaching army?” asked Hasduman.

“No, nothing. It could be the Gauls, or maybe a Roman expeditionary force. It could even be Russian but we have no knowledge of them or their destination.”

“Very well. Good work Belisarius.” Cornelius then stood up and walked to map in the front of the room, “I propose we decamp and move out to engage the enemy before the break of winter. We will be outnumbered 2 to 1 but we have no other choice. If we wait until spring, we may be outnumbered 5 to 1, and that is unacceptable.”

The commanders nodded in agreement.

“Ready your men, inform them the day of the first battle has come. We march out tomorrow.” He held his fist to his heart and bowed his head, the commanders did likewise before they exited the room.


=======================


September 7th, 1468 AD
Some Russian-made Fort, not far from Brancus’ Village

Fornalin slowly opened his eyes, taking a few minutes for his eyes to adjust, he made out a room with over a dozen small cots, each with an ill person resting upon them. He himself was on one in the far right corner. He sat up and realized his wounds had been attended too and were healing quite rapidly (most Immortals healed quickly and Fornalin healed quicker than they all did). A young woman caring for one of the patients saw him and quickly ran to him.

“Please, go back to sleep before the Russians see you.” She said softly, gently forcing Fornalin back down. He obeyed.

“Where am I?” he asked.

“Fort Kiersk. A Russian Fort. You were taken prisoner during the uprising at Cyrrie Village.” She said. Fornalin realized that must have been the name of the village he stayed at. He always simply called it the Brancus’ village. “You must be an important man, for they refrained from killing you. They wanted to heal you so that they may interrogate you, probably for information on other uprisings and such. Everyone here is here because the Russians deem you as the leaders.” Her face saddened. “I am sorry. I will try to tell them you are sick but I’m afraid sooner or later they will take you and put you with the other prisoners.”

“There are more prisoners?” he whispered. His memory slowly came back to him and he began reorganizing his thoughts from the confusion they were in.

“Yes, laborers. Digging and building.” She said. He finally noticed her beauty under the dirt. Her eyes were dark blue and her hair a dark blonde with streaks of brown. Her figure was unbelievably sharp with curves every which way. His heart became depressed when he realized she was Persian and the Russian savages probably had their way with her. He became even more depressed when she reminded him of his beloved Natalya. How he wished to have seen her body before he left.

“They will torture me and every soul in this room. We will not be placed with the laborers.” He said nonchalantly.

Her expression changed to one of guilt and sorrow.

“Yes, they will torture. You most of all, you must have been some important man. If you wouldn’t heal so damn quickly I could keep you in here much longer. But they come nearly every day to check up on you. You must have fought valiantly, you had so many horrid wounds. I am shocked by your resilience.” She said as she changed the bandages on one of his wounds. “But fighting the Russians are futile. Too many, too strong. You seem an intelligent man, why did you not run and hide?”

“Fighting in the name of justice is not futile, and do not say it as such!” he said sharply to her. It did not effect her, she must have experience with the rowdy.

“They took your freedom, I suppose. And you must pay them back for it.” She finished up the bandages quite professionally, and patted her work.

“They took my life.” The rage dripped into his system as he remembered his dead son. She then stared into his eyes as if to tell him she was sorry, even though she had nothing to be sorry about, she too suffered and lost everything under the hooves of the Cossacks.

Then a group of Russian soldiers entered the hut and began marching towards his cot.

“A guard must have seen you wake. I will pray you do not suffer much, my brave friend. May the gods be kind to you, for they will not.” She kissed him on the forehead and stood back as the Russian guards approached.

Fornalin sat up in a dignified position as the Russians halted at his cot. A guard walked up and knocked him unconscious.


to be continued...

[ChrisiusMaximus]

OMG is poor old Fornalin doomed or will he yet conjure up a mirraculous escape.

[Easthaven I]

Lands of Darkness

…continued

The Torture
Fort Kiersk

Fornalin was dreaming. He was at home with his beautiful Natalya and his son Elias. They had just gotten back from a picnic and young Elias ran off freely and safely upon the green lush field. Fornalin had his arm around his wife, flushed with elation. As they walked towards their son, Natalya collapsed. Fornalin helped her up and saw blood staining her white gown in the stomach area. She weakened and collapsed again. Fornalin panicked uncontrollably as he tried desperately to help his wife. ‘Where is our son’ she asked him. He looked around, tears flooding his vision. Another streak of panic overtook him. ‘Go find him’, she said. She looked down at the blood nonchalantly and said… “All is well. For it’s only a…”


Cold water splashed his face and he woke coughing and sputtering. His upper jaw hurt from the early blow, but it merely fit in with all the other soreness he felt upon his body.

“Get him up.”

He was lying on stone in the middle of a damp cell, naked. It was lighted by two openings in the upper right and northern wall and by numerous candles. Four Russian soldiers were present. The leader, the biggest one who balked the order, was standing before a table of silvery objects. The contents of which, Fornalin could not establish. Two of the soldiers lifted him up as ordered. They lifted him off his feet, a third soldier grabbed his arms and shackled them to the ceiling at the far end of the cell.

He hanged naked from his wrists, a king, renowned general, beloved soldier. He held his head high, despite his undignified position.

“Well, you are a lucky fellow. The state you were in, we would have slit your throat where you lay on the battlefield. But…luckily we were told you were not only the leader but came from the west. And not just a Persian from the west, but a soldier. And not just a soldier,” the Russian officer said in Persian as he walked towards Fornalin, “But an Immortal.”

Fornalin did not show any emotion on his face. He merely stared at the tall, dark, grinning Russian, somewhat annoyed at being woken from that dream. How he wished to have had this Russian slit his throat on the battlefield, reuniting him with his family.

“Yes as so it seems, I can not die honorably in battle. It is my curse.” He told the Russian in the Russian language. Surprising the Russian at first.

The Russian laughed.

“But you can still die, my friend. So tell me all I want to know about the rebel army of the west, and we will not only let you go but compensate you handsomely for your services.” The Russian then lifted his knife and grinned, “but if you do not, you will be forced to endure pain you have never felt before.”

Fornalin’s face remained solemn and rock solid, but then a grin appeared, then chuckling, soon he was bursting out laughing.

“Hahaha, my rusky friend, please stop or else I will laugh myself to death.” He continued laughing until finally ending it with a sigh. “Well, let the festivities begin before your sour smell spoils my enjoyment.”

The Russian officer lost his grin and turned away. He then brought up a long leather whip.

“Let it begin.” He said. He walked to the Persian’s rear and took fifteen paces back. He let the tails drop to the floor as he readied himself.

“Captain.” A soldier called to him.

“What is it?” he answered back, still bothered by the Persian’s remarks.

He looked up and beheld a scarred back, not an inch of skin lacked scar tissue.

“Good God!” the Russian gasped.

“Heh. The wife’s quite rough in the bedroom, lad. She’s quite the wildcat if you ask me!” Fornalin joked. But what they didn’t see was a tear forming in his eye as he was forced to remember Natalya. But like he has done many times in the past, he forced the lovely images out of his head to harden his soul for enduring hell’s work.

In truth, the scars were from Immortal training and from his time when the enemy held him prisoner with his sworn-brothers Cornelius and Eleazer, many years ago.

After the joke, the Russian officer began. After every ten lashings, the officer would ask Fornalin to speak, and everytime Fornalin gave him a wisecrack remark.

Sixty-five lashings went by and the Russian officer stopped. He wiped the sweat off his brow.

“Its obvious he’s too used to whippings. Get him down and to the medical tent. The nurse has 1 hour to fix him up before we take him back.” He went to the table to gulp down some water.

The soldiers got Fornalin unshackled and began dragging him out of the cell, blood dripping profusely all along the way.

The pain drowned Fornalin so much that he was on the verge of unconsciousness. He yearned to scream in agony and to weep a river, for it hurt so badly. But he didn’t. And soon unconsciousness overtook him.


-----------------------------------


When he woke up, he was laying on his belly on the cot. He was still without any clothes, but someone had laid a blanket gently upon him. His back was covered in wax and bandages. How miserable can I get, he joked as he laughed silently.

“I am glad your injured self can still hold a smile, though I do hope it is not out of insanity.”

It was that beautiful girl again. How lucky Persian men are to have such beautiful Persian women always about.

“I am fine.” He replied. “how many survived Cyrrie village?”

“Only a few. They’re all being used as slaves, building wooden pallisades, buildings, trenches, stables and such.” She said as she looked at Fornalin’s wounds, changing the bandages of his earlier wounds, “one of them asked for you. Marcus Brancus he said his name was. He was whipped, though, they’re not allowed over here.”

Fornalin acknowledged this, and kept it circulating throughout his mind. He hurt too much to think very clearly.

Then the door to the hut burst open and once again the Russians came marching.

“Stay strong, sir.” The girl said before she was pushed aside.

They then punched him across the jaw, and began dragging his naked body to wherever the next torture session would take place.


--------------------------------------


Cold water splashed his face again, waking him up from the exact same dream he experienced hours earlier, and again it halted at the same place. He itched to know her final words.

He was on his knees, on the hot dirt. The sun arched high above in noon position. They were at the center of the fort, he guessed. And there before him laid a concrete coffin. How appropriate.

“Mr. Immortal, it is obvious you need some time alone and to yourself. You need time to reflect and gather your thoughts.” The Russian officer grinned, full of malice. “Well, have fun.”

Two Russian soldiers removed the top of the concrete coffin. Other soldiers then dragged Fornalin to the coffin and forced him inside. He didn’t even resist, for it was futile. His face grimaced in pain when they forced his back on the concrete. But he just laid there, naked and in pain, waiting for them to close his casket.

They gave him a large gulp of water, and a hard biscuit. Then the Russian officer appeared above.

“See you in a few days.” He grinned as he waved goodbye.

The top was replaced. He was flooded with dense darkness, chewing on his biscuit. He could barely move a muscle, even when he did it was painful anyway. Half of an inch from his nose was the roof, he could feel the top of his head hit concrete, and he barely need to extend his toe forward to touch the other end. His shoulders were cramped tight as the walls of the coffin hugged him. A slight feeling of claustrophobia began to seep in but he fought it.

Then something startled him. He wasn’t alone. He felt a large rat crawl over his leg and make squeaky sounds.

He sighed in misery.

I guess it can’t get any more miserable then this, he thought, unless it has babies. And then the babies start to nibble where they shouldn’t be nibbling. He chuckled in misery.

But he waited hours for the rat to enter his kill zone. He laid completely still and the rat took its precious time to crawl up his body. Until it ran right near his right hand, he snatched its neck and snapped it.

He let go of his grip as the rat laid lifelessly on his gut.

Score one for the good guys, he whispered through a sigh, May lightning strike me now, oh god, may lightning hit me.

[ChrisiusMaximus]

Breathtaking!! I can almost feel Fornilan's pain.

[Easthaven I]

Thank you Chrisius, very much.

But I can't help but feel my writing is slacking somewhat. Maybe I'm just paranoid.

[vovan]

Well, I think it's some great stuff, too.

[Easthaven I]

Thank you, 'poly readers, thank you very much.

[Easthaven I]

Lands of Darkness

Prelude to battle, and Continuation of Torture
September 10th 1468AD
Persian Army of the West

Dusk seeped the countryside as the 10,000 men under General Cornelius and the 400 Immortals marched. For nearly a year, the men had been constantly training under the leadership of Lord Cornelius Valens. For nearly a year, they grew into a magnificent band of brothers. For nearly a year, they trained and waited for that time they could begin the fight for their homes, their families, and their freedom. Within a day they will be face the face with the men who enslaved their nation.

The army set camp, patrols were established, scouting parties sent out, and General Cornelius called a war council.

“General Bera’s camp is a day’s march from here,” Cornelius began, “and they have nine thousand more foot soldiers than we do, and their cavalry outnumbers ours 2 to 1. We surely can not engage them on the plains, for they will defeat our cavalry and envelop our flanks. We must find a site where their cavalry arm is not as significant and their foot soldiers can be prevented from enveloping our flanks. Any suggestions?”

“We must defeat their cavalry. But I do not worry about our swordsmen. Their spirits are high, and they’ve been training for a year. In melee, we will surely defeat them. But only if we can keep their cavalry away.” Belisarius suggested.

“Do not underestimate the spirits of the Russian swordsmen, young Belisarius. They’ve conquered. They’ve been through combat. Most of our troops have not. The Russians are disciplined individuals who throw themselves into battle recklessly, and seldom do they retreat. Do not confuse them with that sloppy Russian pig you disemboweled near Fort Trilo.” Hasduman declared to Belisarius. Belisarius just grinned.

Then Datis, one of the thirteen Elite of the Immortals chimed in…

“There is a river that flows from the Ergili forests. More of a stream most of the year, but around this time it should be enough to anchor one of our flanks. Thus, we will be able to place most of our cavalry on one flank.”

Belisarius rolled his eyes. “Then they, too, will be able to put all of their cavalry on one flank. Four thousand against our two thousand it will remain.”

Datis bit his lip in embarrassment and seceded back into the ring of officers.

“If Fornalin was here, he’d think of something never thought of before. A trick or ruse.” Someone said.

“But Fornalin is not here and we must think up our own ruse.” Cornelius said, he began brainstorming ideas on how to make the Russian cavalry a moot point in the battle to come. “How many men do we have garrisoned in Fort Medes?”

“Six hundred.” Came the answer.

“How many horses?”

“None.”

“Very well. We will set our battle lines with our back to the Ergili Forests, and our left flank anchored on the Ergili River. Fifteen hundred of our cavalry will be on our right flank under the command of Belisarius, where they will be led by two hundred Immortals. You will engage the enemy cavalry and then feign rout and retreat into the forests. The six hundred soldiers from Fort Medes will begin marching tonight to their positions in the forests, they will temporarily halt the Russian pursuit long enough for the fifteen hundred to rally, turn, and fight the enemy within the forest. This should let our foot soldiers fight the Russians without so much cavalry harassment.” Cornelius finished, he stared at the map and showed no emotion.

“And of the other five hundred cavalry?” someone asked.

“They will act as reserve…our only reserve. Datis, you will lead them. They will hide under the trees of the forest, out of sight. Once the Russian cavalry pursues our own into the wood, the five hundred will come out and engage the remaining Russian cavalry or the Russian swordsmen.” Answered Cornelius.

“And the rest of the Immortals?”

“They will lead our swordsmen into the melee.” Cornelius felt nervous, and had doubt about the plan. But he did not show his feelings to the men. He was better at modifying and adding to a plan than he was at developing one…that was Fornalin’s job.

“Send a messenger to Fort Medes. Get them in position by tomorrow. Expect the battle to occur in two days, men.” Cornelius said.

They remained a little longer, modifying any details they might have left out. It would take a days march to come into contact with the enemy, a day later the first battle of the new Persia will begin.




September 10th 1468AD
Russian Fort Kiersk

Fornalin was fighting a battle of his own. Fighting to keep his sanity. For nearly four days he lay in his coffin. In his own **** and piss, he lay. His stomach rumbled constantly, begging for food. His throat was swollen, his tongue dry, lips parched. He couldn’t swallow. He did not sleep well, though he was in and out of consciousness. The dead rat remained on his gut. He hungered for it and nearly went crazy that he could not grab that rat and chew its head off, eat the meat off its bones. Hell, he’d even eat the bones, the head, eyes, everything.

The air grew thick. He lost feeling in most of his limbs. And in and out he leapt from his dreams. Or dream, for it was the same one. The picnic, Natalya collapsing, blood stain on her gown, Elias disappearing, and Natalya not finishing her sentence.

‘All is well. For it is only a…’ she would say.

And now again, he entered the dreamworld.

They walked. He had his arm around her lovely neck. Elias, joyfully leaping over the healthy grass. Natalya falls. Clutching her stomach. The blood.

‘Where is our son’, she said. He did not know.

She looked down at the blood and said, ‘All is well. For it is only a wound, neither fatal nor crippling, and heal it shall.”

“Ouch!” he yelped as he hit his nose on the concrete half an inch above him. He startled awake from the dream. She finished what she needed to say. What did she mean? The wound would heal…but what wound? The wound Russia inflicted on Persia? The wound I felt after her and Elias’ deaths? Her wound?

…her wound?

He tried to clear his thoughts, for harder and harder it got to think clearly as he laid in this ****hole coffin.

He gasped at the thought that entered his mind.

It is impossible. She was dead! She died in my arms, and I saw with my own eyes!

Don’t let such ridiculous ideas corrupt your mind, they will only drive you insane. Dreams are never literal, they have a deeper meaning, a symbolism hidden within the messages.

Oh god, why didn’t I check to make sure! Why didn’t I feel her temperature! Her breath! Her heart! Why did I lose control over myself? Never, in the direst of circumstances, have I ever lost my self-control. Never have panic and madness possessed me, yet I allowed my grief to possess me when the life of my wife was not certain! Oh god, what if she still breathed as the Russians set fire to our home! Oh god what if they took her prisoner! What would they do to her?

He began to weep. Though, no tears formed for he was lacking proper hydration. He wept without tears.

What if she still lives?

Then, in front of his eyes, the concrete top slid to the left and off the coffin. The bright light was blinding, he closed his eyelids as hard as he could. He heard the Russian officer’s voice above him.

“You have had enough time to play with your little tower,” he laughed, “time to wake up to your wonderful life and speak to your friends once again.”

Then he made a sound of disgust.

“Eghhh, you stink worse than a horse’s hole, my friend.” The Russian officer said, “Clean him up, feed him, and throw him into his cell.” He heard the officer order his guards.

Fornalin kept his eyes clamped, but still the light stung his irises. He couldn’t stop thinking about Natalya.

What if she lives?

The guards grabbed each of his shoulders and dragged him through the dirt. Until unexpectedly he was thrown into some pool. He struggled but managed to get his head above the water and gasped for air.

“Clean yourself, you sheep s***.” The guard said in broken Persian.

Fornalin opened his eyes as they focused. He grinned and scooped up a handful of his own feces plastered to his rear and launched it to the Russian guard, splattering his face.

“Agh, you Persian bastard of a stinking whore!”

Fornalin got one hell of a beating. But he just laughed like a madman at them. He was unusually happy, partially do to a little madness, relief from being out of that coffin, and a little from the craziness at the question he kept asking himself…

What if she lived…

Finally, he was thrown into a pitch-dark cell that was flooded with water to his knees. They gave him five biscuits and two cups of water.

His mind slowly returned to him. He began thinking about everything: His wife, the war, his current predicament, Marcus Brancus. His lost self finally found a path…

“How am I going to get out of here.”

[ChrisiusMaximus]

FANTASTIC !!!

[Easthaven I]

Lands of Darkness

Battle of Ergili River
September 12th 1468AD
Battlefield Ergili

It was noon. Cornelius, upon his horse, looked down at the ranks of Persians standing shoulder to shoulder, shields on the left, weapons on the right, eager to do battle. The Persian style of fighting was always melee and depended on the individual. In the melee, the men stayed with their squads and as a squad they fought. The Russians fought in melee, too, but strictly individually. They depended on the mass numbers of the troops and the fanaticism they displayed.

Dark clouds covered the sky and veiled the battlefield in a gloomy shade.

“Looks like a storm is approaching.” Hasduman said as he looked towards the sky. A few droplets blinked his eye.

“A storm indeed.” Cornelius replied, still beholding the battlefield. Across from the Persian ranks 80 or so yards away stood the Russians, their rear sloped upwards upon a gentle slope. Twice greater their size was.

It began to rain.

“Looks like we’ll be fighting in the rain.” Hasduman said as water slid down his gray brow.

“Indeed it seems that way.” Cornelius replied.

“Should we begin?” Hasduman asked as he looked around the battlefield. All was in place.

The Russians hadn’t moved. Their battlelines were exactly as Cornelius envisioned them to be. Their cavalry on their left and their infantry anchored on the river like his own. It looked as though he could make the first move. But then a rider came running towards him from across the river.

“Not yet, Hasduman.” Cornelius said as he watched the mud splatter under the hooves of the approaching rider.

Thunder snapped the air, followed immediately by a lightning streak.

“Lord Cornelius.” Said the rider.

“Yes.”

“From the scouting party you sent to the south.” He handed Cornelius a letter.

‘That will be all. You may go to the camp, replenish, and return to your post.” Cornelius ordered.

“Thank you, sir.” The rider galloped away towards the camp.

Cornelius opened the letter. Hasduman watched his eyes as they bounced from word to word. Another thunder and lightning broke the silence. Almost silence, for the falling of rain could be heard and the small trickling of raindrops upon armor reached the ears of Hasduman and Cornelius. But no man made sounds could they hear. Though the Persian men whispered amongst themselves. Cornelius had ordered them that no war cries nor insults would be shouted until they were but feet away from entering a melee. He kept his soldiers professional and under strict discipline.

Finally, Cornelius handed the letter to Hasduman and looked upon the battlefield once again.

“It seems the unknown army from the south has been making forced marches. They are heading towards this position. They are but a day or two away, Hasduman. The scouts estimate 7,000 men and 4,000 cavalry.” Cornelius still held his true feelings inside but one could tell he was displeased with the news.

Hasduman finished the letter and discarded it into a puddle.

“We can do nothing about it at the present. You have a battle to fight today, Cornelius. We will handle this new problem when it arrives.” Hasduman’s horse shuffled. “Shall we?”

Cornelius brought his attention once again to the ranks of Persians standing before him.

“Let us begin.” They began galloping at a slow trot towards the last line of the Persians.

“Send out the first wave.” Cornelius ordered.

Hasduman raised his hand and signaled the officer in charge as well as the trumpeter.

The bugle began and the first 3,000 began marching forward. In response, the Russians sent out 5,000. The first wave of each army marched slowly towards each other. The Russians began striking their metal and making noises in an effort to scare the Persians. They began shouting insults and throwing obscene gestures to the approaching Persians as they marched. The Persian ranks, as ordered, remained silent.

The rain fell hard and straight down upon the helmets of the soldiers. Mud puddles formed.

As the first waves got within 50 yards of one another the Persians increased their pace to a trot and slowly a jog. The ranks lost some of its integrity and form as they did so. The Russians soon did likewise.

Thunder and lightning pierced through the sky once again. Some soldiers on both sides pissed themselves.

As the waves got within 20 yards of each other, the Persians began running at full speed as trained. Soon the Russians did like wise.

“Order the cavalry attack!” Barked Cornelius.

Belisarius heard the bugle call. He unsheathed his sword, raised it above his head.

“Forward men!” He yelled over the rain.

The fifteen hundred armored horsemen began a slow trot towards the opposing cavalry force.

As the waves reached within 10 yards, the Persian released their bottled up adrenaline into a massive war cry that swallowed up the 5,000 Russian voices in an instant. Following there aft, was the collision of the first lines as the two massive waves ran at full speed into each other. Men were clotheslined, others beheaded or disemboweled, others set flying backward by the collision with a man and his shield. Metal on metal clashes competed with the hard rain for sound supremacy. No longer could you discern individuals from afar, only two fluid organisms emerging into one massive orgy. No longer did water form puddles, but blood formed puddles. The Persians fought with unbelievable ferocity, each man released their anger and rage they had bottled up for years under the rule of a foreign tyrant. They fought for their families, for freedom, for revenge. Each Persian had their reasons for fighting as vigorously as they did, but all those reasons linked together to form a massive unbreakable chain. But the Russians fought close to if not as fanatically as the Persians did. The melee was intense and chaotic. Every man soon had touched blood.

The Persian cavalry arm now increased their speed. The Russian cavalry commander seemed indecisive, whether to meet the oncoming Persian horsemen or wait for them here. Finally he ordered an advance as the Persians were within 50 yards from them.

Belisarius lowered his sword towards the enemy and increased to his maximum speed. His stallion raced fervently through the raining pellets.

“DEATH TO THE ENEMY!” Belisarius cried out. His men answered with a war cry and a spurt in speed.

Thunder and lightning became more frequent in the sky.


Emir, one of the Elite Immortal generals who led the first wave, is soaked in blood. He decapitates a Russian from behind. He turns and slices another in his midsection, releasing the man’s intestines onto the mud. He finds another target and runs toward his next prey but trips over a dead Persian. A Russian finds him an easy target but receives a spear thrust through the face from Borio, Emir’s best friend and another of the Elite Immortal Generals. Borio helps Emir up and together they slice through a concentrated group of Russian swordsmen.

“Quite the stubborn buzzards, eh Borio!” he cries as he swings his sword upon a foe.

“You joke, my friend!,” Borio kicks a man in the groin, “they fight like children!” he grunts as he hammers down on a man in the back of the head with his longsword.

Borio then receives a spear through his left thigh from an injured Russian on the ground. He hollers in pain but quickly stabs the Russian before removing the spear from his thigh and resumes fighting.

Emir, too, receives a wound from a Russian’s shortsword through his shoulder.

Thunder erupts but is drowned out by the din of the battle.

Cornelius races up and down the ranks encouraging his men as they watch the fight. The Russians send out another 3,000 men into the melee.

“Send out the next wave!” Cornelius orders. A bugle is sounded and the next 2,000 men begin marching towards the melee.

A lightning bolt strikes in the distance.

Belisarius beheads a Russian horseman. After several minutes of fighting he cries out a war cry in signal for the rout. The fifteen hundred horsemen feign being routed and retreat from the engagement in confused order. They race towards the forest, and as predicted the Russians pursue.

But on their way, a detachment of about 600 horsemen break away from the main Russian cavalry force and attack the flank and rear of the Persian ranks. They inflict numerous casualties and cause disorder. Cornelius himself enters the fray to battle off the Russians. After the main Russian cavalry force enter the forests in pursuit, the five hundred Persian horsemen under Datis hiding in the forest near the river, spring out and attack the Russian flankers in their rear. Finally, the 600 Russians are routed and retreat after nearly losing all their force.

Datis rallies his men and attacks the Russian flanks.

Soon, 7,000 Persians and 14,000 Russians are in the massive melee. 3,000 Russian soldiers remain with General Bera, as they ward off the attacks from Datis’ five hundred. Only 1,000 men are left with Cornelius, not yet in the melee.


--------------------------------------------------


The Forests

Belisarius raced forward into the forest, jumping over logs and tree roots. His men close behind. Ducking branches, he arrived at the line of Fort Medes’ soldiers waiting patiently.

“THEY ARE BEHIND US!” he yelled as he rode past them. His men raced after him.

He rode into a small clearing nearly 40 yards past the line and halted. He waited for his men and rallied them together. The men tried to calm their horses as they saw their commander wanting to speak.

“Men! Instead of turning and striking back, we are going to circle the line and hit the Russians in the rear. But we must hurry before they retreat back or break through the line! Follow me!” he cried. He wheeled his horse to his left and raced into the forest. His men followed.


The Russian Cossacks raced into the forests 40 or so yards behind the Persians. Smiling with glee and high on their ‘victory’ they rode through the wood in search of their prey.

The commander far in the lead did not notice the spike sticking from the ground nor any of spikes that formed a large semi-circle line directly in front of him, for they camouflaged so well with the woods. His horse ran right into one flipping over and launching him forward into a tree. Though only knocked unconscious by the impact, he would never wake again, for a Persian slit his throat where he lay.

As the more concentrated horsemen approached, the Persians rose from their concealed places, bow in hand, and launched a massive volley of six hundred arrows into the surprised victims. With whisps in the air, they struck their targets a many, and sent them hurling off their horses. The Persians resumed their archery after that massive volley, and kept sending arrows through the tiny spaces between trees, branches, and leaves, delivering death by the dozens. The enemy horsemen’s horses neighed wildly as they finally noticed the spikes before them and that the whiffs they heard nearby was death itself, they bucked off many of their riders and stampeded in retreat.

Finally, a smart Russian signaled a retreat. The Russians tried desperately to wheel their frightened horses around. Many just leapt off their horses and began running away on foot.

But their retreat was cut off. The Persian horsemen appeared from the shadows and into their rear they attacked.

“It was all a trap!” some crying Russian yelled in desperation.

The slaughter ensued. The Archers stopped firing, except for a few sharpshooters, and armed themselves with eight-foot spears and swords holding firm the line that kept the Russians trapped. They would act as the anvil as the Persian horsemen hammered the Russians out of existence.

The cries and screams filled the air in the forest, as the Russians lost all fanaticism for fighting and just threw up their arms and tried desperately to escape. Very few would succeed in this endeavor. They were trapped between an anvil and a hammer and only death would save them.

Soon the fight in the forest turned into a melee, but a one-sided one. Belisarius rode his horse from place to place, decapitating Russians left and right. Those crawling away, he would grab his spear and stab them to death where they lay. Though, few Russians did make a valiant stand however futile.


--------------------------------------------------

The Battlefield
The battlefield however was not as successful. However brave the Persians fought, they could not contend with the sheer numbers of their foe. General Bera had 2,000 men, of his remaining 3,000 waiting on the sidelines, work through the melee and attack Cornelius’ 1,000 men on the other side. Cornelius himself was now fighting in a desperate brutal brawl. Datis’ five hundred kept attacking Bera’s reserves so now everybody present was fighting for their life.

The rain seemed to pick up even more, and a steady heavy downpour added to the misery. The battlefield was one of mud of a rainstorm, blood of wounded men, piss of scared men, and sweat of the fighting men. There was no order, no distinction of a formed body of men. Just one massive bloody orgy on a muddy field under the unrelenting rain. This is how the northerners fought, unlike the Romans, Greeks and Carthaginians whom fought in phalanxes or legions.

After hours of fighting, Cornelius spotted Belisarius and his men exiting the forests and rallying together for a charge into the melee on the battlefield. Cornelius did not smile at the thought that Belisarius has just annihilated 4,000 of the enemy cavalry…all of the enemy cavalry. Instead, he fought his way out of the melee and ran to Belisarius.

Belisarius saw him and rode his horse out to meet him.

“Belisarius, their numbers are too much.” Cornelius was covered in blood, wearing torn garments, a dented breastplate, a cracked shield, and had many gashes and cuts on his body. He huffed and puffed his words out, “I want you and your men to cover our retreat!”

Belisarius, though disappointed and now without a victory high, obeyed.

“Let me get you a horse.” He said.

“Have one waiting for me!” Cornelius patted Belisarius’ horse and began running back to the battlefield.

The retreat was horrendous to accomplish. Cornelius grabbed Hasduman and together they fought through the Russians gathering the Immortals and trumpeters.

He had the Immortals surround the trumpeters in a small pocket.

“SOUND THE RETREAT!!” he screamed at the exhausted trumpeters as he fought off two Russian swordsmen.

The bugle was sounded, although it was very sloppy.

“RETREAT! RETREAT!” Cornelius yelled even in exhaustion.

Slowly and unbelievably, the Persians gathered and with their backs to their destination and their fronts fighting the enemy they backed off until finally they had room to run. They ran, though slow for they all were exhausted beyond exhaustion, towards Belisarius and his cavalry.

The Russians tried to pursue but they too were exhausted and when they saw Belisarius charging with his cavalry and Datis and his cavalry coming up on their rear they decided to halt and fall back as well, against the wishes of General Bera.


The Persians fell back to their camp in good order when they realized the Russians were not pursuing them. The six hundred men from Fort Medes, took up positions to guard the camp since they were the least tired. Emir collapsed in exhaustion, and soon Borio collapsed beside him. Everybody fell to the ground as they passed into the haven of the camp gates. Most were wounded. They left the camp 8,000 strong and returned with half that number. The cavalry soon arrived. Belisarius lost 500 of his 1500. And Datis lost only 100 of his 500. The field surgeons were about to become just as exhausted as the soldiers as they ran from person to person tending to wounds. Emir lost an ear and was wounded in the left shoulder, right hand, and a gash on his back. Borio had a hole in his leg, a damaged eye, and a broken jaw. Hasduman had a stab wound on his side that was not serious and several cuts. Philip, he and Pavil were in the second wave, did not sport any serious wound only minor cuts and bruises. Pavil had a serious gash wound on his forehead that wouldn’t stop bleeding and covered his face in blood. Cornelius had two wounds on both his legs. Mazaeus, one of the Elite thirteen Immortal Generals, was missing. The only Immortal Generals who had no wound but scratches and cuts were Belisarius, Marion, and Otto. And they were all with the cavalry.

The Russians did not escape without some injury, however. They lost their entire cavalry and lost 7,000 men. 11,000 Russian men total were killed compared to the Persian 4,600. Despite the differences, it was a defeat for the Persians.

General Cornelius walked throughout the camp talking to and aiding the men, Hasduman at his side. Despite the end to the battle, the rain did not halt. It poured buckets full. Keeping the men from building their fires.

“I try desperately to find hope, Hasduman.” Cornelius said as they walked through the camp, witnessing the carnage the battle dealt upon his men. “But I find none. Especially now. What will we do? We’ve lost half our entire army, which took us a year to raise. Fornalin said we needed a decisive victory in destroying the first enemy army we encounter yet we failed. They still have 10,000 men and there is a 30,000 man army approaching from the gates of Vadela. Next year we will have to deal with that army. And this army. That’s 40,000 against 4,000, Hasduman.” His voice quivered. Hasduman never witnessed Cornelius’ will falter, but now it did. “Oh and how could I forget. An unknown army of over 7,000 with 4,000 cavalry is fast approaching. We will be lucky to see the sun rise again, Hasduman.”

“We were given a death blow, but survived. It is not over yet.” Hasduman replied, cradling his wounded side. A pause followed.

Then Cornelius laughed.

“Is that it, my friend? All the wisdom you could share? Haha. Very well, I will take it. Though there isn’t much I can do with it.” Cornelius said smiling despite the misery.

“I have been through many battles, as have you Cornelius. Many wars. The impossible has been done. The unthinkable as been achieved before. Against insurmountable odds we’ve risen from our own ashes like an immortal phoenix and snatched victory from the jaws of defeat. Who is to say it can not happen again? And again? And again and again and again. There are no rules in this crazy world…no rules that can’t be overcome. We may perform the impossible as many times as we wish, and I wish to do it now. How about you, old friend?” Hasduman smiled as he looked at Cornelius.

Cornelius, like a boy who hurt himself and was sad being cheered up by his parents’ nonchalant approach to the situation he deemed difficult, had his spirits raised greatly by this small pep talk.

“Now that is much better.” Cornelius smiled as he limped on both legs. “You are right, all is not lost and I should not act as though it is. We can yet perform a phoenix!” he entered the command tent, Hasduman right behind.

[ChrisiusMaximus]

what can I say that I have not already said, this is pure excellance.

[vovan]

Well, I would like to add to the comment by Chris. Most excellent stuff. The quality and especially the quantity is amazing. Keep the goods coming.