Post by Percival Vizharen on Jul 24, 2010 12:15:24 GMT -6
They say that a soldier is born to kill; that when the offspring is conceived and comes into this world, its purpose is already set in stone. Fate is what the commander calls it. He says it’s where all things have been decided, and we are all simply reading the pages of an established book. Have you ever asked yourself, can I change fate? In all my years of service to the Griffin Court, I have often wondered what fate would have in store for me. It wasn’t until I transferred to Commander Vincere’s regiment that I realized fate is but a fickle façade. It is something to mold like clay, each groove in the design shapes the final outcome. I began to see the world I grew up in was an illusion; that nothing was true, and everything was simply permitted. We fought our way through northern England, changing fate with the strokes of our swords. In a way, we were artists; each soldier had his own canvas and a brush with which to paint it. My painting is like the others in my regiment, and it tells a story; our story.
June 1st , Day One:
I arrived with a small group of men to join the regiment. There were a lot of new faces in the crowd that was to be Vincere’s army, faces that hadn’t experienced life. I could tell that most of these people were young; younger than me when I had been introduced to war and its addiction. I found Vincere’s tent, and waved off the soldiers that had come with me. As a Lord of Griffin, I was entitled to certain privileges they were not, one of which was meeting the Commander himself. I glanced up to see the pair of guards standing vigil by the opening of the tent. Both men were heavily armored and used their spears to lean upon. These were seasoned men that wore many scars like medals on their face. I walked up and nodded before passing under the low bearing canvas. I removed my helmet, and my eyes adjusted to the lack of light inside.
“Are you certain their forces have spread this wide? My scouts did not confirm this in their report.” Commander Vincere said, leaning heavily upon the spine of a chair. He, and a group of other important men, was looking over a map that was spread out on a large table.
“Yes, my lord. My division was driven back from here, and we suffered terrible losses from archers. Sir William Thornsby was killed in the retreat.” Lord MacFarland replied, shifting uncomfortably at the sight of me.
“My Lords, I mean no disrespect by arriving without invitation. I am Lord Aaron Mosby, and I have brought twenty men to add to our war,” I said. I showed them all respect by my stance. I could make sense of most of their expressions, and I gathered some were irritated with my arrival. All of them seemed annoyed except Commander Vincere, who had yet acknowledged my presence in the room. The silence that followed my introduction made me uneasy.
“Mosby. Mosby, Mosby.. I have heard that name.” Vincere said after a long pause. Vincere looked up from the map to stare right at me. I couldn’t read his face but I had the sudden urge to look down. His tone reminded me of my father, low bearing but powerful. I forced myself to continue watching him.
“I have heard of you. You served with Lord Lockhart in the eastern campaigns. You alone were responsible for the victory there, repelling the Spanish from the shores. I heard you lost many men.” Vincere said. He moved from behind the chair, stepping past his small entourage of leaders to find a spot right in front of me. I wanted to step back when he looked up to me.
“I wish those men were still alive. Good lot, those lads.” I replied, trying to lighten the mood. My conscience was heavy with guilt. I had commanded that division, and lost more than half in the fight on the beaches. We managed to repel the invasion, but at a great cost. Hearing of Vincere’s campaign, we had marched to join his cause.
“We lose men every day, Mosby. Are you up for another war?” Vincere asked, crossing his arms over his chest as he regarded me. I felt my face go hot and shifted as well.
“Yes commander!” I replied.
“Have your men make camp for the night. War begins in the morning when we march to York. The Spanish are nested there with the bulk of their forces. Lord MacFarland and his men are leading the charge with Lord Mills. We push to cripple our enemies’ grasp of northern England.” Vincere had turned from me, walking back toward the table. The pair of Lords remained still, simply watching me as I listened.
“What would you have me do, Commander?” I asked, straightening a bit to show some pride.
“Join their ranks and bolster their line. We need experienced men on the front if we’re to make any leeway into York. The fortress is heavily fortified, but they are not expecting something to hit the heart of their strength which gives us the advantage. However, this fight is our sacrifice, and we will lose many men in this fight. We cripple them in York, and their forces to the south have no way to reinforce themselves.” Vincere turned to face us.
“With that said, this meeting is adjourned. As you return to your tents, ask yourself what it is you are fighting for. Because when we go to war tomorrow, it may be the only thought that keeps you alive. Good eve.” Vincere kept the look of his face from us but he leaned back over his table to study what they were discussing before I arrived.
I felt confused as I left the tent with the others. What was I fighting for? I glanced up to see Robert, one of my men waiting there for me. He waved. “Mosby.”
“Yes?” I stepped close to him, eying him. What had been said moments prior was dismissed to the back of my mind.
“The men made friends with the quartermaster. We have some stew on the fire back at camp. Shall I show you the way, sir?” Robert asked. Robert was an older man with a thick graying beard. His voice was deep, and his tone carried a level of respect reserved for the soldiers in our unit and myself. I had known Robert for years, since I was a squire. He had served in Griffin during the Sarmaetian Civil War campaign, and took a devastating blow to his leg. Fate changed when his leg managed to heal without infection, truly a miracle administered from the Ebony Hall’s Grandmaster.
I glanced down, swallowing a lump that had formed in my throat. When I looked back to Robert, he had an expectant expression, but he patiently waited for me to answer.
“Yea. Let’s head to camp.” I told him.
“Very well, sir. We already have your gear laid out and the lads should have your tent up by the time we arrive.” Robert said while turning to lead me through the shifting crowd of soldiers.
June 2nd, Day 2; Early Morning.
I didn’t sleep very well last night, and I was sure it showed in my eyes when I helped my men pack up our camp. Robert and John worked on breakfast while we spent our time divvying up supplies and tying them to the horses. The march came early, and at the sound of a trumpet. It was loud and distant, but we responded by pulling our unit together and moving to join the mass. It’s hard to explain the organization of military movements. When we eventually came to a march, each Lord or Knight’s unit made five ranks with ten man lines. The Lords and Knights rode horses while Sergeants ordered the men through cadence. I didn’t see MacFarland or Mills during the march, but that was expected since I stayed with my men. All of my men had earned their knighthood through war; each tried and tested through the arduous tasks of war. We rode horses, taking the furthest back rank.
Passing through the English countryside in the early morning was something to behold. In June, the grass was a deep green, lathered with a coating of dew that gleamed brightly in the sunrise. There were times as we crested a hill, I would catch a glare from a far off knoll. The wind was soft and peaceful, cooling the sweat that formed about our brows. My men were unnervingly calm considering the odds. As we rode, I recalled the conversation from the night before.—
“The Commander says we’re hitting the heart of them. Said ‘sommat’ about finding out what we’re fighting for. What do you lot think o’that?” I asked, leaning against a rotting log. My feet were up by the fire, my boots warming as the flame’s fingers attempted to reach the soles. I wiggled my feet simply out of habit.
“That’s too much thinkin’ for sommat about war. I fight cause I don’t want the bloody Spanish in England.” Robert said.
“Aye.”
“Aye.”
Their simplicity made me chuckle. “Then you know what you’re fightin’ for, aye?” I looked Robert’s way, smirking.
“Indeed. What about you, Mosby?” Robert asked.
“I’m still finding that out.”—
The trumpet sounded up ahead, and the sound of screams traveled up the ranks. The regiment had created a large column, pushing over into the hills of York. There was something going on toward the front rank. The entire regiment stopped, and sergeants yelled for their men to ready their weapons and shields just in case. A messenger on a galloping horse crested the hill and came toward my group.
“My lord!” He yelled at me, clearly winded. “We’ve arrived, but the Spanish have seen the front lines. Fighting has already erupted, and Lord MacFarland is ordering the back ranks to head west. He wants a flank set up while they hold the line!”
The first thought that came to my head questioned the integrity of this MacFarland. Bloody idiot. I turned to Robert and raised my hand, motioning to the west. Without a word, my unit collapsed to the western side, ambling forth to gain ground. Twenty of us pushed our horses up the hill and we turned to look out over the supposed field of battle. Screams filtered through the air as men swung swords and struck others. I stopped to see if I could discern sides. I saw Griffin banners waving, then the Spanish. It seemed as if we had attacked the surrounding camp around the fortress. Poor scouting intelligence was the culprit of this cluster, but Vincere and company had to adapt if they were going to make any notch in this war.
As we crested the hill for a better view, my men slowed their horses until they were beside me, and we watched the front flanks batter one another. I wore a confused look that Robert noticed. “Sir! What is it you want us to do?”
Unable to truly decipher what was going on below, I shook my head. “MacFarland wants us to set up a flank here on the western side.”
“Just us?”
“I am not sure. We’re going to wait for any others before we do anything drastic. If we keep back, and out of sight, we may not be noticed.” I told them, letting my horse shift its feet below me, spinning a bit.
“You heard’em. Keep back and out of sight.”
We eased back, waiting for support that never came.
There was a good bit of time that passed by while my men and I waited. It became clear to us that MacFarland wanted us to form a flank with only twenty. He was mad. I eased down off my horse and landed a little too rough, but I was angry and I am sure it was showing.
“We are wasting bloody good lives below. It looks like it is nearly mid-day..” I said pointing up at the sun while moving up toward the top of the hill to look down. “..and we have not contributed to this fig--.” My words were cut short when I saw the Griffin forces withdrawing. Bodies littered the ground from both sides, and the Spanish were using archers from the fortress to push our men back. From where I was, I could see that the remaining infantry was giving chase to what was left of the Griffin forces. Fighting ceased to give way to retreat, yet the Spanish were hungry for kills. I knew this was why we were here. I saw a gap forming between the Spanish infantry and the opened fortress gate. I turned in a mad dash back to my horse.
“MOUNT UP, MEN!” I yelled as I reached up to grab the horse’s harness to hoist myself up. The back of the horse wasn’t a welcoming feeling, and it sure didn’t help the sudden sick wave I felt in my stomach. I glanced around to look at my men as they scrambled up to get on their horses. I took the lead, pressing the heels of my boots in to urge my horse forward. Pointing down toward the bottom of the hill, I glanced back.
“The infantry pushes forward, baited by the retreat. We’re going into the fortress. I want chaos inside, just set everything on fire. Do what you have to. Sir Robert, lead the charge.” I said while freeing the shield from the leather strap on my horse’s side. It took a moment to slide my armored hand through the leather loops, but it was comfortable when all was said and done.
“It shall be done, my lord.” Robert said, coaxing his horse to face the downward slope of the hill. Withdrawing his sword, Robert pointed the blade toward the fortress. “TO VICTORY!!”
My horse was protesting by the time we leveled out at the bottom of the hill. The horse’s gallops were harsh, rocking me violently but I knew where to compensate. When we came within range of their archers, I raised my shield, praying to myself as we attempted this suicide run. I heard and felt a thump upon my shield. Small fragments of wood splintered toward me and I looked up to see the tip of a small arrow. It had barely penetrated through the thick shield. Looking back, I saw that Robert and his horse just passed by a small pair of soldiers that tried to attack him. Their attempts failed and proved fatal when Sable’ and Richard passed by chasing Robert. Both of these Spanish soldiers were bludgeoned across their faces by Sable’ and Richard when their horses galloped by.
“YAH! YAH!” I screamed while driving my heels into the side of the horse. I took a moment to glance back behind. The infantry that had been chasing the Griffin army was turning about to close the gap. I laughed. Never interrupt an enemy when they are making a mistake. I looked ahead, trying to see where Robert, Sable’, and Richard were. They had just passed the main fortress gate and took the guards out. From where I was, I could tell that I was roughly 75 feet away. Just as I coaxed my horse to go faster, I caught the movement of something in my peripheral. My horse protested and immediately favored its right side, toppling over. There’s nothing in my life that could compare to the amount of pain I felt then.
My horse landed on my legs, pinning me to the ground. I cried out in agony, and I suddenly felt helpless. I lay back, angling my chin up and watched from an upside down point of view as my men carried on without me. I look back, over the top of my horse and see the infantry advancing. I could hear the beats of my heart and it sounded like thunder. I have to move. I try my best to ignore the pain as I use leverage to shove my horse up to free my legs. It doesn’t work and I lay back defeated again. My heart pounded, and I started to breath too fast. It began to set in, and I knew I was about to die.
“Sir!” John screamed, and he came sliding beside me. I noticed then that the archers had quit firing arrows; I assumed it was because their infantry was drawing closer. My heart leapt when I heard Sir John’s voice and I looked to him with an expression of despair.
“Hold on, lad, I will have you freed.” He said, shoving his shoulder into the lifeless body of my horse. He groaned and slid in the mud but I began to feel my legs coming loose. Eventually freed, I crawled back simply exasperated with stress. I brought my leg up, kneeling before coming to stand. The fortress was thirty feet away, and I could hear the approach of the Spanish infantry behind me. I dare not look back for fear of slowing down, but I reach down to help John back to his feet. Together, we began our approach toward the main gate. It took us a few moments to actually get inside, but we both had the same idea when we made it. He turned left as I turned right; we were looking for the gate mechanism.
I managed to find the main spool and saw where it was locked. I kicked the locking clamp and the spool sprang to life. Outside the guard room I heard the iron gate fall, driving deep into the ground where it settled, effectively cutting the infantry off from their own fortress. I stepped from small room and looked about outside. The fortress wasn’t very large, but it was tall and hosted a large portion of the Spanish leadership. I knew at once my men were outnumbered, and we needed to work fast or we’d be killed. John and I met up once again just inside the main gate. Behind us was the iron gate, and ahead of us was a large open court yard that was simply covered with hay to tame the mud. Small structures were caught on fire and burning, likely used as storage for arms and food.
My attention turned to where the fighting was. High up on the walls, roughly twenty-five feet up, my men were fighting with the archers. I motioned to John, and we both made our way up the stone steps to join in the fray. For the first time this day, I reach down to free my sword from its scabbard at my side and grip it tightly. I came to my first unsuspecting opponent as he attempted to strike Sable’ in the back. His sword was caught by my own and cast sideways so I could strike him with the corner of my sword. I must not have realized my own strength because I knocked the man on his back. He lost his sword in the fall; it bounced some place below, near the gate. I cut into his head with my sword, using enough force to kill him. I might have stopped to watch what followed, but I was beckoned by second nature to raise my shield. I defended myself from sword swinging soldier, but stumbled back in recoil. He seemed terribly powerful.
I twisted, bringing my body to a more supportive stance so I could hold my ground. My legs screamed in protest, my muscles in shock from the constant strain. The man swung again, and this time I managed to anticipate his swing and lodge his sword into the top of my shield. He pulled back, attempting to free his sword from the wooden shield. I tore away, disarming him and leaving myself without a defense. My shield was tossed over the edge of the high wall, taking with it his sword. Now I turned back, gripping my sword with both hands. He charged forward, his upper body low to compensate for his size compared to my own. I assumed he was trying to tackle me, but I knew that would be the death of me. So I stepped back and sideways, dragging my sword upward from a low guard. The sharp edge of the blade caught just below his chin and tore through his head. The swing had enough force behind it that the strike lifted the man off his feet and left him on his back. I assumed I had delivered a killing blow because he hadn’t moved from that position.
I turned about, looking along the archer walkway to see all twenty of my men engaged in combat. I had just enough time to look about once before I was hit in the stomach. My heavy armor took most of the shock from the impact, but I toppled backward with someone on top of me. I yelled with surprise, dropping my sword to struggle with the man on top of me. He straddled my stomach and punched my face, knocking my helmet off my head. I tasted blood and my temper flared. I reached up to grab his collar and yanked him down closer. My other arm wrapped around the back portion of his neck, and I squeezed as hard as I could. I had him pinned to my chest while I weaved my legs around the back of his to keep him in place. I wedged my free hand out and patted my side for the knife I kept there for such occasions. I freed it from its sheath and stabbed the man in the side. He screamed, but I didn’t let that stop my will to survive. I stabbed him again, and again, until he was limp. It took some effort, but I shoved him off of me.
“MOSBY, THE FORTRESS IS BURNING! WHERE DO WE GO?” Robert screamed amongst the chaos. He offered his forearm to me, helping me back to my feet. Unaware of my surroundings I took this moment to look about and see what happened while I had been fighting. Robert handed me my sword, but I was focused on the climbing flames. Every structure inside the fortress was burning well, and the flames were licking at the stone archer walkways we were on. I turned to Robert.
“We need rope. Make for that tower; collect enough rope to descend back to the ground.” I told him. I shifted uncomfortably, my leg cramping from over exertion.
“Yes my lord.” Robert said. He turned from me and waved his hand. “SABLE’, JOHN, RICHARD! THAT TOWER!” Robert’s voice rang out over the sound of fire. The men he called the names of turned from their fights and began to fall back toward the tower. Robert had already kicked the door in and was moving up the ladder. Sable’ stopped to shove a man over the edge of the walkway and into the fire before running to follow Robert. Richard had to stop short of moving into the tower because another soldier had caught his attention. I turned about, bringing my back to the tower. I had to get my men moving out of the fortress if we were going to survive. I lowered my sword to help my run, and came up beside Aric as he killed a man. Aric brought his sword high to strike me.
“ARIC! It’s me!” I screamed, raising my sword to block the impending strike, but Aric did not follow through and lowered his guard.
“Sorry,” he said, clearly out of breath.
“It is fine, lad. We are pulling back; move to that tower and meet up with Robert up top. This place will be falling down around our ears before too long.” I yelled over the sound of battle. I watched him nod, and he turned to motion to the others who began to jog up.
“It is time to move lads; head for that tower.” He told them while waving his hand. I patted his shoulder and led the way. I lightly jogged toward the tower, trying to keep my speed while giving my legs some rest. I saw a man coming up the stone steps about to intercept us. I raised my sword, and without a stutter in my stride, my sword cut across his chest before he had time to react. I stopped to watch his body fall back down the stairs. A tall structure burned a bright orange and it collapsed on top of him, blocking the only way up or down. Now was the time to move, I thought. I glanced up to see Aric and a few others pass me by, and I joined them.
When we got to the top of the tower, Robert was coiling the rope. He had figured enough length for a single man to descend at one time. I watched him toss the running end over the edge of the tower. I leaned over to make sure it hit the ground below. What I saw below was a relief; Commander Vincere had his army push through the confusion earlier, and now the Spanish were overwhelmed with nowhere to fall back to. I turned back to Robert.
“Let us be on with this. Our time is running short, lads.” I said, walking by them to wait my turn. I opted to go last because I felt compelled to protect my men. None of them protested, they just simply did what was required of them. Robert went first and he leaned out over the ledge before walking down the side of the fortress. His gloves kept his hands safe from rope burn, but he had to really show his strength by keeping himself latched to the rope and not just plummeting to his death. Robert managed to touch the ground first, and slowly the others made their descent. I was worried and it showed on my face. I knew we were all exhausted, and this feat would test us. I was worried for my men.
My turn came after several moments, and I reached down to grasp the rope and peer over the edge. I had never told my men this, but I have an astonishing fear of heights. Like any Knight, I took a deep breath and bravely leaned over the edge. Forcing myself to descend, I gripped the rope so tight my fingers were going numb. I walked along the vertical stone built tower until I reached the ground below. I didn’t turn about until I heard someone call my name.
“Mosby.”
I knew the voice, and turned about to check my assumptions. Commander Vincere.
“Yes sir?” I asked.
“You have bloody well timing, mate.” He said, clasping my shoulder. I could still hear a lot of fighting off in the distance, but this did not seem to bother Vincere. I found this odd.
“MacFarland and Mills ordered me to the west flank with no instruction. I just took the initiative.” I admitted.
“You came through alright. We are pulling back now. We have accomplished what I wanted thanks to you and your men. If you do not mind, have your men join the ranks while we march back.” Vincere said. I noticed that he never smiled. His tone was always business, and he seemed well versed in the art of war. I felt a mutual respect for the man. Nodding as I passed him, I was certain I looked exhausted. My men followed after me, and we joined the ranks of men moving south.
June 3rd, Day 3, late evening.
When night came, it was like God had thrown a blanket over Earth to block the sun. I had forgotten how dark a forest is at night. Our campaign had taken us south west of York, where we marched along the coast line. The coast ran parallel with a thick, hilly forest that succeeded in keeping the regiment in the darkness. My men and I had lost our horses in the first battle. Thanks to the fire in the fortress, and our only way out blocked, we had to sacrifice them to make ends meet. I regretted it now, as I am sure Robert and the others do too. The order spread through the ranks to begin making camp. So we stepped from the forest into a small clearing. It was the tip top of a ledge that stared out toward the Irish sea. I was at the tree line, and I could hear the sounds of the waves below. For a soldier who had been fighting most of my life, the sound of the sea brought an unordinary peace to my soul.
“Robert, talk to the quartermaster and see if we can get some tents to set up over there.” I pointed toward the furthest back bluff. I watched Robert nod, and he cut through the ranks to find the quartermaster. The rest of us meandered on up the small rising to check the ground for debris. It took awhile for the regiment to divvy out gear for everyone. I didn’t mind cause I lingered by the drop-off to listen to the waves. In one day, I felt that I had endured an entire lifetime. I felt a light touch on my shoulder and turned my head to see Vincere.
“We lost a lot of men today.” He said, looking out toward the sea with a blank expression.
I followed his gaze and took on a thoughtful look. “They died a good death, Commander.” I meant it. The Spanish didn’t belong in England, and I figured they got that message after our fight.
“You have new orders, Mosby. The Spanish are pushing south, but with limited numbers. However, our army isn’t what it was, and our enemy shares this sentiment. I feel we can work this to our advantage.” He looked at me with an unreadable expression and it made me watch him uneasily. I stayed silent.
“When I fought in Sarmaetia, we were terribly outnumbered. General Apollo assigned each Talon a small group of twenty men or so, and our job was to cripple the enemy in any way possible using small strikes on important elements. We hit supply lines, killed courtesans, even poisoned springs to destroy the morale of an army. When it came time to fight them, their will had diminished and we practically walked right over them.” I saw a nostalgic look in Vincere’s eyes, and it made me smirk.
“So, I am assuming you want me to lead one of these groups?” I had to ask. I stepped back to survey our surroundings a bit better. My paranoia stemmed from years of warfare, and it made habits I could not control.
“Yes.” He answered without allowing the pause between my question. “I want you to head east from here come morning. Scout reports suggest there are small Spanish units spread through these regions. If you can, weed them out by harassing their supply lines. We are looking to push them east, toward our fleet in the North Sea. When we have them wiped out, we are pushing north to take Northumberland. Do you have any questions?”
I shook my head no. “I will get it done commander.” There was some weak pride in my voice; I was tired.
“Good. I have another Lord coming to join you. He is simply there to bolster your numbers. His name is Vizharen. He’s served in every major war since before I was a man. He is also a Talon, and a bit of a loose cannon. Keep him on a leash.” Vincere didn’t wait for my reply; he turned and walked off. I turned back to look at the darkened white lines of the Irish Sea.
July 22th, Day 52, Mid-Day.
Vizharen. Vizharen. Vizharen. – I kept reminding myself that this was for Skye, but his tactics were both brutal and complicated. At times, I found myself following him simply out of curiosity, but that changed. Percival is a wild animal, a demon used to destroy only. If I ordered something to be preserved during combat, he went out of his way to destroy it. I would have had him killed off, but my unit’s strength was dwindling. We tore across England, harassing the back flanks of powerfully placed Spanish armies. It was my unit alone that was responsible for pushing the Spanish south into Vincere’s armies. Some might consider this debacle a success, but I feel Vizharen has robbed me of that notion. I feel there is not a sweet taste of victory, only the sour taste of something fowl and dishonorable left in our wake. I find myself thinking at night; thinking of what we did to the Spanish when we caught them. Their screams still haunt me in my dreams.
--- Our trip to the eastern shores went as planned, and I found the voyage to be somewhat favorable, considering our recent history with weather. I remember sitting on the deck of the ship, watching the faces of my men as they walked about enjoying their brief rest. Everyone looked exhausted, but there was something I noticed that stood out. My men went out of their way to avoid Vizharen. I didn’t blame them, he was simply unnerving.