ok, this is set in the ww2 china battlefield mod...
i was charging at the japs, gun in one hand, radio in another. the last thing i suspected was being hit by an artillery strike our spy said wouldnt be till an hour later. it was the initial blaast that struck me, so i had no time to run. last thing i remeber was being pulled out by my commander artimenner. i woke in camp 2 days later, the doc said i had to have an operation to remove shrapnel in my brain. i survived all right. just another daring exploit from me
I was out recruting from swadia (I was part of the Nords and we were at peace with them) and a GIGANTIC ARMY of Khergits, 857 Total swarmed me. I only had 31 Guys, and i had one of the Khergit Lords as a Prisoner (Lord Tonju)
I was out looking for Companions when Lord Plais of the Swadians Attacked me, I only had 5 companions with me all armed with bows and heavy armor. No **** us 6 managed to take down half of there 120 men no problem then most of the got knocked unconscious as i recall it was me and Deshavi left and we took on another 40 and then the rest routed. I was so ****ing surprised when i won.
this is the story of my favourite javelin throw.
it was back in M&B .808, and I had nearly nothing in my party, only 15 vaegir night, 3 dark knights and some sword sisters, as well as marnid, against a party of about34 dark hunters.
the dark hunters started off on the other side of these 2 hills, and i could see them riding over the saddle. so thinking i was screwed anyway, i pulled a jarid out, aimed and let fly.
i was shocked to see this come up :
Dark Hunter Killed By Steel
Damge: cant remember
Shot difficulty: 9.
i did have a screenshot of this jarid sticking out of the guys head, but my computer got reset.
Once after I just began, i was cornered by 10 looters, it looked pretty grim, so i kept firing a bolt and riding away untill only 1 was left, then i ran out of bolts, so thinking i was screwed i tried to charge him down with my horse but he fluked and annaged to cut down my horse and i was left to fight him bear-handed (My sword was stolen in a previous fight) and I dont know how but i managed to beat him up when he had a falchion. Man it was awesome.
So, I was just minding my own business, bringing some slaves to zendar, not really paying attention. My band had about 4 unconscious guys (two swadian knights, one hired blade and one vaegir veteran, probably forgetting one but for the sake of the story I'll keep going) so anyway, I had 10 slaves with me, and I sold off all the stuff already, intercepted a vaegir caravan you see. In my party were a few seargents, some assorted mounted troops and a lot of the lower class units that hadn't died in the last battle. Anyway, without even seeing it, a vaegir war party of 70 intercepted me.
I was screwed, I thought about leaving the game right there but decided I'd at least try it out. I started the battle and had my scimitar out, using my charger to do run-ins, slashing before they could swing back. I ordered my band to stay put, and I knew as long as they stayed together it was a nice defensive balance. So I decided I would just attempted to keep circling around doing my charges until I withered their army away, and it was working well until I ran straight into a group of them. They turned my horse into mince meat in a few seconds and I ordered my men to follow me. From there, I had my shield out and my view point directly over my guy so I could see each swing, and rapidly moved to intercept each attack right before they came so I could fight my way out of being surounded. Then, over the hill, I saw my cavarly charge in and do some damage on them. Had like 8 arrows stuck in my shield, and waited for some enemy knight or something to come sweeping by so I could get myself another horse.
My infantry were working well, staying together, but I was still on the ground trying to fend off three guys. That's when my knights were surounded and being killed. I managed to steal a slow horse and work my way back to the seargents, where we stuck together and fought them off. it was then that I got the option to leave the battle and took it, but dammit, most of my mounted allies were dead so I went slow as hell, and they intercepted me again. I realized this one would go until the end.
When I started up again, I had my horse. I had four mounted fighters left, and two seargents, that was it, in my entire party, except for a ton of prisoners and somewhere between 5 and 10 unconscious ones. We dwindled them down so hard from there that I kept fighting after it asked if I'd like to retreat. I went back with 20 slaves and had got something like 10000 gold in total from all the stuff.
150 Swadian knights were under the command of lord Tim of the Swadian rebels. The entire northern half of Swadia had turned rebel against the king. It was only a matter of time before they would invade the south with the help of their Rhodok allies. But one day, not so far south from Dhirim these 150 knights saw an extraordinary chance when an army mainly existing out of crossbowmen and militia appeared on the plains, carrying the royal banner of king Harlaus. The knights formed lines and lowered their lances. With a simple "Charge!" the many crossbowmen and footmen were crushed by warhorses and chargers and lances pierced through their linen or leather armor. It took less than ten minutes to capture the king. But as lord Tim turned south many more banners emerged on the plains. Hundreds, if not more than a thousand. Apparently the king had brought company. There was no way out from there. lord Tim slit the kings throat in front of both armies and simply stated: "May or deads be honorable and our names be remebered for this.". The 150 knights lowered their lances again and stormed in the never ending mass of men.
The royalists took such a beating there that it took barely a month for lady Isolla to conquer the south of Swadia. But lord Tim and his knights were no longer there to witness it.
I play Solid and Shade mod more often than I play the original, so this may be a bit odd. I belong to the Kingdom of Swadia, and thought that I could get him to give me a better standing in the kingdom if I took a castle. So, I gathered up my zombies, demons, and necromancers, along with a few companions; in total, I had alittle over 50 soldiers. Well, thinking that fewer men would mean I wouldn't be seen, I charged the castle... and had to build siege towers. My builder was under lease to the king, so it took days! And in that time, every bloody khergit in the land apparently thought I looked tasty! I saw so many horse, I became glad my didn't have a head! Well, I managed to beat them, launch a siege, and lay into that castle. I managed to take it (They only had a couple hundred) and only lost a few Destroyers, Homunculus's, and revenants/zombies. After the battle I thought I'd be clever and ask my king for it... didn't work. He ended up giving it to Lord Do-Nothing-and-send-the-Artificer. I was so bloody ticked....
Me and my 750 Men strong army were met by five fully stacked Khergit Armies (Maybe they didnt like me taking most of their cities?). After playing some inspirational music about liberty and telling my men a speech, i lead my army 60% of which is cavalry, i set up my Archers on a mini plateau while the infantry in front, my cavalry went around the back pausing the onslaught while my infantry charged, 122 routed out of 2400, the rest were killed...
This is a tale taking place in the 80 years of war mod.
I was doing what mercenaries do best; some honest looting to supplement my meagre 200 denar a week salary. When who should show his face? - only the owner of sed village. (ye olde awkward turtle). He had 70 spanish troops and I had my merry band of 30 elite liege marksman. I initially thought i was in ye olde ****e but I have never to this day run from a brawl so charged the army head on. My tactic is always the same: line up, shoot, shoot, move forward and shoot more. This time they had cavalry, spanish riders (nasty devils) anyhoo, I line up the men ordered no shots to be released and then as they whapped out thier mallets I saw a sword amongst the marskmen- a seargent to be sure. I did what any man does in a situ involving a party of cavalry in sight getting larger and sent my one infantryman forward 50 paces; he obeyed and as the riders were distracted crowding round him I ordered double ranks and the command to fire. 29 guns came to shoulder and my pistol added to the flack as the iron balls ripped through the sitting duck of a cavalry group. Horses fell, men screamed and the air was wrought with the sounds of dying men. I will never forget that fateful day when spanish souls met the almighty by the dozen! The remaining horses bolted leaving a heap of 20 dead mean who only seconds before had been so proud. The rest of the battle was more bloodshed though not so taxing as expected. 50 men marched toward with pikes and armour aplenty. Alas no match for my now well positioned troops. wave after wave of spanish men flew back, span and dropped as the fire kept on raining down. The noise that day. The execution style battle dried up and one man of the last wave stood untouched. I ordered a cease fire. silence... Dismounting I walked to the field of bodies and blood to the one last man. silence...I halted 10 paces away and we each took a shot with pistols. Both missed. silence...I walked forth with my flemish blade, thin and lethal to finish this, stepping on the corpses of all that had died. We were locked in combat as sword blows were exchanged. Finally he let his sword drop and I plunged my sword into his throat up to the hilt. with a final cry that rang out accross the valley, Blood spurted, covering my face and hands and he collapsed ontop of a fallen comrade to the cheers of my men. I will never forget that one last man. I escaped with no injury and no marksman perished. The seargent? he escaped with injury to fight another day.
The last of the Dark Hunters disappeared, the hooves of the scrawny saddle horses thundering into the dawn.
She stayed motionless until the sun was warm in the summer sky. A flawless blue sky that mocked the night. Ipek's avatar, the silver goose, swung lazily above the horizon, wings slow-motioning her onward.
Slowly, she pulled herself through the narrow gap, rough splinters gouging her bare arms and shoulders, her long dark hair catching and tugging her backwards, until at last she fell in a heap outside the woodshed. She stood quickly, muscles tensed, then relaxed. Not a sound except the cawing of well-fed ravens and vultures. She glanced back at the pile of rough-hewn firewood that had protected her even as it had bruised and battered her.
The raiders had arrived in the dead of night, and she had been snatching an illicit moment of youthful passion with one of the smith's apprentices. He had leaped up the stacked wood, running to the fatal - and futile - defence of their village. His feet had thrown the logs into a tumbling fall that knocked her flat, then buried her completely. The Dark Hunters had no use for firewood, and so she was spared - physically.
Emotionally, she suffered unimaginable agony. As she walked aimlessly towards her father's house, she saw dead men and boys everywhere: In doorways, in the narrow laneways, sprawled across a broken wagon. Here and there, a dead woman was also seen, and she recognised them as older, uglier and infirm. There was no sign of life, and she dared not cross the blood-sodden threshold to check inside any house.
Half the houses were smoking ruins anyway. Her father's house, opposite the smithy - her father was a skilled fletcher and did a lot of work with the smithy's arrowheads - was part-burned. She stood looking at the ruin for an age, and her mind called a hundred curses on the Dark Hunters. Then, she knelt, and, taking a broken javelin from the hand of a dead man, she scratched into her forearm until fresh blood welled up.
"By the Great Gods, by Armagan and by Ipek, I will avenge my family. If I die trying, I will follow the Dark Hunters and kill them, one by one, until none are left. I..." Her voice, a croaked whisper, failed, as she recognised the man who had held the javelin - the Smith, a jovial giant with ash-grey hair. A single dead Hunter lay under his corpse, but in his other hand was the cloth of a woman's dress. The Smith had a young wife, a pretty thing and they were devoted to each other - now, it seemed, she must be in the merciless grip of the Dark hunters.
"I will avenge the dead, but above all, I will not rest until I have rescued the living - whether from here or elsewhere, if anyone is a captive of the Dark Hunters, they can call me friend."
She walked into the Smithy, which was a black and smoking shell. The filthy smoke brought tears to her eyes, but she could still see what she was looking for - the storeroom door.
It fell open, the hinges clanging discordantly as they fell from the ashes. The stores - raw materials for the smithy - had been plundered, but not everything was gone. On her right was a massive box of charcoal. She began emptying it. Eyes streaming from tears, she pulled at the black lumps until the floor was covered. At one point, she realised she was sobbing and screaming breathlessly - her mind could not help but picture her father and her brother, she could not still the imagination that pictured them as they would have died, wielding their shortswords in desperate defence of their house and home, cut down by black-armoured demons with huge axes.
An age later, she collapsed, chest heaving for breath, with the box almost empty. She picked herself up straight away, and in a subconscious throwback to her previous life as the daughter and apprentice of a respected tradesman, she dusted the soot and grime from her leather vest. She gripped the box and heaved. She was strong, for a girl, and it moved, grating across the lumps of charcoal until the metal ring-handle appeared.
The sight of the trapdoor gave her new strength, and she didn't rest until she knelt to grip the handle. After a few deep breaths, she swung up the small hatch. Blued steel glinted in the poor light. She lay flat on her belly, reached down and pulled up a perfectly balanced arming sword. It had lain on top of a mail coif and a pair of stout leather gauntlets. She took them too, but left the heavy kite shield and the three massive axes. She knew her swordwork, but was a novice with most other weapons.
Back in the smoke-clouded street, she knew that that would soon change. To beat the Dark Hunt, she must master all weapons, and above all she must master men - command warriors and lead heroes.
With a last breif prayer to Ipek and Armagan, she placed one foot in front of the other and began walking...
Here lies before us the one known as dafreshboy, who once spun a great tale that, alas, fell upon ears far more knowing than he. "Forsooth,", they proclaimed, "he be not wise, the one who makes bogus claims!". For dafreshboy, his tale be not one of valor and courage, but of woe and imagination.
For many months, he traveled from village to village, proclaiming his great deeds for all to hear. But, for those who inquired, much evidence did abound. Evidence that, when added together, proclaimed a much different tale than our young hero did speak. Lies and deceit did abound, and battles fought were nothing more than battles imagined - alliances forged were nothing more than wistful longings.
His mythical steed upon which he slay the mightiest of dragons - nothing more than a humble mule was he. Those dragons be sparrows, as innocent and harmless as could be. The mighty lance he did wield, yes, but nothing more than a broom handle did it prove to be.
A mighty army he possessed, you ask? Why, yes! The one that forced him out after mounting the King's sheep, of course! Many loyal companions, you say? Ye Gods, no! What honest man would be willing to spend a night alone with him?
His claims, oh, how they dogged him! Sleep became elusive, and rest he did not! For he knew, felt in his bones, that those he claimed for enemies now truly were. Suspicious he did become, and oft was he tossed out of taverns, for vigilant eyes supposed him an enemy agent! Oh, woe was he!
Dear dafreshboy's day of reckoning, it did come. At the hands of his enemies, of those he had lied to and deceived, you ask? Nay, I say! For this statement reeks of pun! Trip, oh, trip he did, and die lying face down in a mammoth pile of horse dung!
Here lies before us the one known as dafreshboy, who once spun a great tale that, alas, fell upon ears far more knowing than he. "Forsooth,", they proclaimed, "he be not wise, the one who makes bogus claims!". For dafreshboy, his tale be not one of valor and courage, but of woe and imagination.
For many months, he traveled from village to village, proclaiming his great deeds for all to hear. But, for those who inquired, much evidence did abound. Evidence that, when added together, proclaimed a much different tale than our young hero did speak. Lies and deceit did abound, and battles fought were nothing more than battles imagined - alliances forged were nothing more than wistful longings.
His mythical steed upon which he slay the mightiest of dragons - nothing more than a humble mule was he. Those dragons be sparrows, as innocent and harmless as could be. The mighty lance he did wield, yes, but nothing more than a broom handle did it prove to be.
A mighty army he possessed, you ask? Why, yes! The one that forced him out after mounting the King's sheep, of course! Many loyal companions, you say? Ye Gods, no! What honest man would be willing to spend a night alone with him?
His claims, oh, how they dogged him! Sleep became elusive, and rest he did not! For he knew, felt in his bones, that those he claimed for enemies now truly were. Suspicious he did become, and oft was he tossed out of taverns, for vigilant eyes supposed him an enemy agent! Oh, woe was he!
Dear dafreshboy's day of reckoning, it did come. At the hands of his enemies, of those he had lied to and deceived, you ask? Nay, I say! For this statement reeks of pun! Trip, oh, trip he did, and die lying face down in a mammoth pile of horse dung!
Here lies before us the one known as dafreshboy, who once spun a great tale that, alas, fell upon ears far more knowing than he. "Forsooth,", they proclaimed, "he be not wise, the one who makes bogus claims!". For dafreshboy, his tale be not one of valor and courage, but of woe and imagination.
For many months, he traveled from village to village, proclaiming his great deeds for all to hear. But, for those who inquired, much evidence did abound. Evidence that, when added together, proclaimed a much different tale than our young hero did speak. Lies and deceit did abound, and battles fought were nothing more than battles imagined - alliances forged were nothing more than wistful longings.
His mythical steed upon which he slay the mightiest of dragons - nothing more than a humble mule was he. Those dragons be sparrows, as innocent and harmless as could be. The mighty lance he did wield, yes, but nothing more than a broom handle did it prove to be.
A mighty army he possessed, you ask? Why, yes! The one that forced him out after mounting the King's sheep, of course! Many loyal companions, you say? Ye Gods, no! What honest man would be willing to spend a night alone with him?
His claims, oh, how they dogged him! Sleep became elusive, and rest he did not! For he knew, felt in his bones, that those he claimed for enemies now truly were. Suspicious he did become, and oft was he tossed out of taverns, for vigilant eyes supposed him an enemy agent! Oh, woe was he!
Dear dafreshboy's day of reckoning, it did come. At the hands of his enemies, of those he had lied to and deceived, you ask? Nay, I say! For this statement reeks of pun! Trip, oh, trip he did, and die lying face down in a mammoth pile of horse dung!
this is set in Calradian 1650. The Nords, Khergits and Rhodoks have lost each a large part of their lands but struggle on to survive, each playing a desperate game to make the most of the constant bickering between Swadia and Vaegeria.
Ro'ert flicked the heavy travelling cloak back from his shoulders, and it thumped wetly onto the rump of his horse. With his left hand he hefted his sword-hilt, satisfying himself the blade would draw in a hearbeat. With his right, he drew and cocked the short-barrelled 'Dragonspit' cavalry musket. He had it nestled comfortably in the crook of his elbow as he swing a booted leg over his horse's neck and dropped to the ground. The mud slapped wetly around his calves and small droplets mingled with days of travelling grime on his white tailcoat.
The sound came again from the clump of rocks. A strange noise, not normal for an animal, yet even less normal for a human. Ro'ert had fought for a few years now and was not easily scared by something small enough to hide behind a rock-heap the size of his horse, but his scalp prickled.
The recent rain glistened on the grey stones and sparkled brilliantly on the mosses and grass that grew among them. He screwed up his eyes as he tried to see if anything there was not made by the Mother of Nature. He looked around him a few times, then stomped forward, and slightly to his right. The heavy boots made any attempt at a quiet approach silly, so he tried for speed instead. The thick mud of the rutted highway mocked that attempt for a few seconds until he reached the grassy embankment and was able to take long, eager strides.
He was only a few paces from the rocks when he finally saw it - the red of a Swadian uniform. He instantly checked his movement, swinging his short musket up to shoulder height, and looking around again - left, right, behind: There was nothing to see for many hundred paces in any direction, save this clump of rocks. And the red.
"Hey!"
Nothing.
"Hoi! Lobster!" He used the Nordic slang term for a Swadian soldier. Still, nothing, and he began to feel foolish for his extreme caution. He relaxed slightly, but still kept his distance as he circled round the rocks to get a better view of the redcoat. And his caution was justified. A pair of pistols was levelled at him, the Swadian's broad brimmed hat covering the locks - they would be dry, despite the recent rains.
He stood still. "I loaded a few minutes ago, Lobster. My powder is fresh and dry. Can you say the same?" The Swadian smiled bitterly, and blew on the hat - drops of water pearled off the waxed fabric.
"Okay," Ro'ert admitted in a friendly tone, "I guess you can say the same. Nice hat. Not many feathers that colour left in Calradia, I'd guess. Look, you've clearly got two pistols pointing at me, and at the same time, I'm pointing my little dragon at you. Are we going to actually kill each other?"
The Swadian did not respond, but a flicker of pain passed across the soldier's pale face. Ro'ert saw why. "You've broken your leg, heh? Look, I'm not really in the mood for a fight. How about we both put our guns away, and I'll get my flask - good Sargoth brandy. It'd be a shame to have survived last night's slaughter and die in the sunshine..." As a token of goodwill, he let the muzzle of his gun slide away to the right a fraction. He knew that the weapon pulled to the left when cold, so he was pretty happy he could plug the lobster if he had to.
"Thanks, Snowy," The Swadian gasped as she lowered her brace of pistols. Her voice was strained with pain, and no wonder, for as Ro'ert relaxed and looked more closely at the broken leg, he could see the darkness of bloodstains on her uniform. He had seen some women soldiers before in Swadian units, but none so close, and he had never spoken with them - even last year when Sargoth had allied itself with Swadia to try and reclaim the Wercheg territories in yet another futile campaign.
He whistled his horse, which ambled across, lazily almost, as if to say that there was no rush for anything. The flask was a large one, but he had taken a hearty measure in the night since the bloody skirmish with the Swadians. When he turned round, the girl - somehow he could no longer think of her as a Lobster, or Swadian - was loading one of her pistols! She smiled cheekily.
Dumbfounded, he handed the flask across. She gulped for a few seconds, then handed it back and loaded her second pistol. The balls were actually not balls at all, he saw. They were hexagonal, and fitted perfectly the hexagonal barrels of the pistols. The weapons would be as accurate at a hundred paces as they would be at two paces, he realised.
"You've got nerve, that's for sure. What would you have done if I'd called your bluff?" He took a pull at the flask himself.
"Died, I guess. Assuming, of course, that you were telling the truth?" He nodded. He hadn't survived this long by carrying an empty firearm anywhere, nor one with wet powder in it.
"My name is Melie'a. But if you want to call me Lobster, I can't stop you. Here, pull me up a bit so I can straighten this leg."
Ro'ert did so, without pausing to ask himself why he was helping - it was natural. They were both just soldiers, they took their orders, ran the risks and tried to kill each other during battle, but now? There was nothing to kill or die for and they had shared a drink together. On top of which, the Nords and Swadians were allies as often as enemies in the constant violent bickering between the Calradian territories.
"Ro'ert. I heard a wierd noise... what was it?" He passed her the shortened pikestaff that had clearly served as a crutch. There was no other use for the stout timber, broken off two paces from the iron footpiece. She smiled again, and scraped the barrels of the two pistols against each other, replicating perfectly the unnatural rasp that had brought Roe'ert off his horse.
"I heard the horse. I was hoping to get the drop on someone a bit less wary... Lucky you're not a vicious bastard, else it could have gone a bit wrong. But, I would rather a quick bullet than die of exposure out here - or be dragged off by some of those milita scum!" She hauled herself to her feet.
"I've got no money, but if you can help me to the Crossroads Inn, I'll see you get a meal and a bed for the night at no cost." She looked longingly at the horse, and Ro'ert realised she must have walked - or hopped - the best part of a thousand paces from the skirmish by the bridge. Through the rainstorm. He found himself suddenly a little wary of her. He had already pegged her as clever and calm, and now, clearly, pretty tough physically.
"Hmm. OK. But I'd rather see those pistols out of your hands - you're a little too smart to be left to your own devices, Melie'a." He helped her mount up, then slapped his horse on the flank and took station two paces to her right, the Dragonspit cradled again in his left elbow, almost accidentally pointed straight at her. He wasn't a fool, by any length...
"Thanks Dad." Meli'a settled herself onto the wooden bench that ran at right angles to the servery and nodded her head to Ro'ert. His face was a picture: Disbelief, hunger, and suspicion chased each other across his travel-worn features. It was no wonder, either. In most of the Calradian sub-continent, roadside inns served plain fare of dubious repute. The heavy wooden platter that sat on the table before them was as far removed from this normality as Wercheg from Tulga. Heavy tankards glittered with rich red wine, fresh bread rose slowly and steamily from where a knife had just sliced it, rich juices ran from the thick pink cuts of ham and the halves of four apples were white and crisp beside a pile of soft-boiled yams.
"Bloody hell. Bloody, bloody-"
The door banged noisily against the stone wall, and Ro'ert turned, his hand instinctively reaching for his absent swordhilt. This was the Crossroads Inn, and no weapon crossed its thresholds if not carried by the Inn's own militia. Except -it was apparent- for the three firelocks that now pointed across the dining room.
Three men in dirty white uniforms not too diferrent from what Ro'ert wore, the slow-matches smouldering above the locks of their heavy weapons. The fourth man carried a half-pike and his uniform, although no cleaner, was adorned with bright scarlet raven-badges on the cuffs, denoting a Under-officer. The brightness suggested that his appointment was relatively recent.
The man Meli'a had addressed as 'dad' pointed a massive bell-mouthed blunderbuss through the servery, with the hatch-door half closed to provide him with cover. A loud bell rang clearly from above them. Every kitchen or servery in the Inn had bell-ropes, to call for militiamen if a fight broke out. It was a costly place to eat and sleep, but the money was considered well spent.
The Under-officer spoke, grinning broadly. "You can put that away, old man. We have permission. There is a criminal in here who needs to be brought to justice!"
Before anyone could react or voice an objection he took three long strides to stand over his quarry.
Two of his men covered the room with their firelocks while the third followed the Under-officer to where he stood, leering down at Meli'a. He flicked a glance at Ro'ert and jerked his half-pike.
"Him too, aiding-"
Ro'ert had reached the same conclusion just a second earlier, and brought his heavy riding-boot up into the soldier's crotch hard enough to lift the man bodily from the floor. He lunged for the fallen firelock as the blunderbuss exploded in a dirty gout of smoke and whistling shrapnel. Diners screamed and yelled in shock and anger, and the little serving-wench heaved a tray full of steaming soup-bowls at the two infantrymen remaining at the door.
The Under-officer was no novice: The steel butt of his half-pike cracked Meli'a across the skull and he brought the blade flashing down towards Ro'ert's grasping hand. Ro'ert twisted away at the last moment and suffered only a tiny nick, but he was weaponless, and the grinning Under-officer faced him over the pike blade.
There was no foolish bandying of insults. The Under-officer feinted with the blade then rammed the butt-cap down and forward. Ro'ert jumped clumsily backwards. The same heavy boots that had made his attack on the soldier so effective now hindered him, and the end of the pike still tapped him heavily outside the knee. Something clanged under his left foot, and he crouched, fingers grasping.
The pike-blade glittered as it came towards him, a diagonal downward thrust that seemd to be slow-motion. For an agonising eternity Ro'ert looked at the razor edged leaf-blade, the crosspiece in the shape of a raven's spread wings, and the long, dark shaft. Then he rolled back and to his left, crying out in pain as he clenched his left hand shut.
The Under-officer didn't press his advantage. He was a sly street-fighter, and he wasn't going to be drawn in by the fake cry of pain. His blade was unsullied with gore, and the trick was too obvious. He laughed as he took the time to whip his head round in two quick glances over his shoulders. His immediate companion had staggered to his feet and held the muzzle of his firelock at Meli'a's unconscious form. One of the other two was nursing serious wounds from the blunderbuss, whilst the fourth man - although bleeding copiously from the head and face, was now supported by two of the yellow-coated Inn militia, waving heavy pistols to restore calm.
Ro'ert shuffled the blade through his hand until he touched the hilt. He stepped back, and shrugged as if in defeat. His opponent stopped grinning.
"Then lie down, you treacherous ****ing bastard,"
Ro'ert kep his left hand pressed into the back of his thigh, concealing the blade as he dropped to one knee, leaning forward onto his right hand as if about to lie down. The inital uproar had died down to a few arguments, and he heard rather than saw the Under-officer draw the half-pike back ready to crack his skull.
Whipping his left hand round he sprang forward from his right foot, and felt the satisfying crack of bone as his skull caught the Under-officer square on the joint of his elbow. The blade caught on something and he closed his right hand round the hilt as the two of them tumbled to the floor. The Under-officer had dropped his half-pike, preferring instead to screw his thumb into Ro'ert's eyeball. But with his left elbow broken, he couldn't grip Ro'ert and hold him against the eye-gouge. Ro'ert simply pulled his head back, and hammered his fist down into the man's face. He had picked up a shortsword, which had clearly skidded clear of the soldier's scabbard when Ro'ert's boot smashed into his groin earlier, and like all Nord weapons it was adorned with a little raven image. The sharp edges of the raven's head and arced wings gouged deep into the Under-officer's cheeks, but a crack across the shoulders sent Ro'ert sprawling.
"Stop right there!"
More yellow-coated militia had arrived, and with a round dozen pistols covering them, the brawl came to a sudden stop. The blunderbuss had been discarded by the old Innkeeper, but he held a double-barrelled pistol which looked just as deadly. He waved it at the Under-officer, who scrambled to his feet, murder flashing in his eyes as he probed the damage to his elbow with careful fingers.
"Back up, sunshine. That's my baby girl there you just slugged, so don't even think I'll give you a second chance. Deep breaths, and stand damned still." The white coats pulled away from Meli'a and Ro'ert.
Outnumbered by the pistols, the Under-Officer realised he would have to try talking.
"We are under Colenel Monta'ue. Chasing deserters and fugitives from recent fighting. These two have been identified as a Swadian fugitive, and a former Nord officer who has deserted and assisted the Swadian. Desertion is a crime regardless of the army or country. Our orders are to take them to Tihr for trial immediately."
"Then, young man, I suggest that you continue the search elsewhere. This is my Inn, and that is my daughter. And the horseman who brought her in is my guest. You are clearly mistaken and twelve pistol barrels pointed at your heads is all the proof you need, Under-Officer. My compliments to the Colonel, and tell him that the four-pounders are excellent little guns. We could do with some shell missiles, but no more grapeshot, I've run out of cellar space for it."
The Under-officer knew when to cut his losses. With a snarl, he kicked at his unwounded soldier. "Come on!"
He dragged the wounded men to their feet and pushed them out the door, spitting a last curse back at the Inkeeper.
"We'll be back, old man!"
Once upon a time, Arkon had arrived in the land of nords, and offered to work for the current king in exchange for money. The King agreed and Arkon went on his way, ambushing Vageir Caravans and villagers. Soon enough, his troops were trained and strong, and Arkon felt the need to prove himself to his would be king, and attacked one of the noble lords of the Vageir.
The battle started well, as the Lord had seemed to bring only Infantry forward. Infantry that was quickly cut down by Arkon's battle hardened huskarls. Slowly, Arkon pushed these inferior infantrymen into the river, and soon it ran red with their blood.
But all was not to go well with Arkon this day, for over the horizon a bugle was sounded, and a wave of Knights rode over the hill and into the riverbed. It only took the ironclad will of the nords to not turn tail that day, but morale was lowered all the same.
Having just finished slaying a group of infantrymen, Arkon drew his spear and charged the horsemen, determined to keep them away until the Huskarls could regroup. He stopped one, then two, and then was knocked to the ground by a third. As the Knight sat above him, gloating his good fortune and raising his sword for the kill blow, Arkon averted his eyes to avoid the shame of this defeat.
But instead of the hiss of the air being cut by the Knight's blade, all Arkon heard was two dull thunks and a splash..
When he looked up again, he saw the saddle was empty, and the Knight lay on the ground beside him...
With two hatchets sticking from his faceplate..
The Huskarls, regrouped and inspired by their leaders charge, pushed their way past him and set to work on the Knight's horse's, who's charge had been interrupted by the three riderless horses standing in the river.
Arkon stood in awe as his Huskarls performed their profession, and vowed from that day onward never to get on the wrong side of a Nord.
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