The Trampling Boots of Battle - Part 1

Part 1

We weren't expecting the battle near the border marches.

They were poor terrain for a fight in any circumstances, boggy and broken by trees, there were few places where cavalry could be gainfully employed and even opportunities for archers and slingers were limited. That didn't mean the Captain-General was remiss in his diligence as a commander however; the company had posted outriders and flankers along our march column's route of advance, with a small detachment in the rear to prevent a raid on our camp followers.

The Toosians were crafty and bold with their plan, leaving behind or dismounting their well-renowned cavalry in favor of an ambush within a flooded marsh, their own lines anchored on the only solid ground. They could roll up the leading elements of our company while we'd have to slog through muck to relieve them, exhausting ourselves and opening up the possibility of defeat in detail as individuals and small groups stretched out across the bog, only to be met by their entire quantity of forces. It was just the sort of cunning that could turn the tide of wars.

Fortunately for us, the Toosians were crafty and bold, but not very smart.

When our outriders heard the whinnying of hundreds of horses hidden in a gulch, they'd immediately rode back to report as much. Captain-General halted our march column and we spent a half-day shifting to a different track through the march, outflanking their ambush and forcing them to attack us as their more limited supply of water ran low.

I was with the center of our battle line, rows of grey tunics emblazoned with light orange, the flag of the Flaming Suns Grand Company. With my spear in hand, I looked out across the damp, recently flooded ground and saw the Toosians marching, their steps ragged in the wet terrain but their faces locked in the grim expressions of men looking for a fight. They were a loud yell away from us, with a slight advantage in numbers, looking to smash our center and deal with our wings in melee.

A cry went out from their ranks and several men began winding up with homemade slings, flinging fist-sized rocks into our ranks. I narrowed my eyes and watched the missiles in flight, gauging their range and accuracy before deciding to save my strength. It was a reasonable move: none of the rocks landed anywhere near me, most falling well-short with wet thuds on the grass. The Toosians cut loose another volley and the men in their first rank started moving at a light jog, probably half of them with javelins in hand. The second volley was better directed than the first and I shifted to the side to avoid one rock that caught the wind and flew towards my mid-section. The man next to me, Dene the Greenthumb, snarled something indecipherable as I bumped into him, but otherwise kept his head about him. In the next few seconds, several javelins flew threw our ranks, most of them hitting nothing but air, but I heard Bayis cry in pain and fall to the ground behind me. I didn't spare a look though; there was nothing I could do to help him at this point other than hold the line.

The first of the Toosians were only a few seconds away when someone in the back ranks shouted the company motto, "Blood! Fire! Steel!" and the rest of the men roared, the men of the first two ranks, including myself raising their spears over their shields and bracing to receive the first of the Toosian's sacrifices to the god of war. I bellowed a war cry as loudly as I could, my throat parched in the mid-day heat and watched carefully. Directly opposite of me, wearing a shirt of well-maintained mail and wielding a long-handled axe, was a vicious looking man easily my height, but probably twice as wide with a scraggly beard and wild-eyed expression. The sound of his voice carried even over our own war cry and he quickly moved out ahead of his fellows. He was their center, their momentum, their inspiration.

He was my foe. The wild-eyed axeman was hardly aiming for me in particular; I was simply the one who happened to be in front of him when he crashed into our ranks. I lifted my shield at the last possible moment and took the impact as well as could be expected, taking two steps back before recovering just in time to have his axe catch my shield at an angle and bang uselessly off. That didn't mean it was a painless blow however: my left arm went partially numb due to the force transferring at the exact wrong spot on my elbow.

That was the first moment in the battle I realized I could very well die if I didn't win and win quickly.

I fell back another step, taking refuge in the spearheads to either side of me, daring the wild-eyed Toosian to step into our ranks to pursue before the lines were decisively engaged. His face told me he did want to, but had enough experience to ignore that feeling, backing away himself in a mutual break, our spears keeping their ranks at bay. Both sides were at an impasse, the mixed weapons of the Toosians against the disciplined spears of the Flaming Suns, neither side wishing to dive into the other's ranks without a clear advantage in either numbers or morale.

Raising morale was easy; several cries went up from both sides, while we raised our spears and took three steps forward, encouraging their first ranks to fall back. There is something about a levy's morale that can be wrecked by even the hint of retreat and we'd often exploited such by using the few paces forward maneuver to sow the seeds of doubt in otherwise stouthearted men. But the Toosians were well-trained enough that their ranks, while wavering in the face of so much sharpened metal, showed no signs of collapse.

But at least the maneuver had one good effect, it shifted the ground on which we stood that I was able to pick up a rock off the ground and hurl it towards the nearest Toosian. It didn't hit -- it didn't even come close -- but another man in the first rank murmured, "Go on Belus, throw another!"

I don't know why they didn't pick a rock off the ground and do it themselves, but I wasn't going to argue, taking one that was carrying a clod of dirt and again throwing it into the Toosian ranks. It was right as a cry went up from their side and the clod dislodged in mid-flight, falling right into one of their mouths. The sight of the fearsome-looking man suddenly choking and coughing on bog muck made the rest of the men in the Flaming Suns' center break into improbable laughter, followed by an even louder cry and a few spears breaking ranks to shift forward on their own... and some more... then even more. It was like being pulled out into the ocean by the tides, my own body carried forward by other's eagerness to close with the enemy.

The Toosians felt the sudden disruption in what was equally matched morale, their own members beginning to shy away, back down and shirk. The wild-eyed man stomped back and forth, yelling loudly in their foreign tongue, trying to restore their spines. He was well in front of their ranks, closer to me than any Toosian and I saw my chance, taking two very bold steps before he realized I was breaking ranks. Backing away would have been bad, playing into my advantage of superior range, allowing me to drive him back. Ideally, he would have closed up, hopefully dodging the thrust of my spear in order to bring his axe down upon me in close-quarters where my spear would be much less effective.

But the absolute worst thing he could do is just stand there, waiting to be skewered.

I was as surprised as anyone he chose the last, my spear jabbing towards him and slicing into his hip. He shouted some strange words and swung his axe down towards the shaft of my spear. But I was well-practiced in spearwork, instinctively pulling away after a successful strike and letting his axe miss its mark. The move left him off balance and I thrust again, that time catching the arm, but at a bad angle, my spearhead sliding off the mail without inflicting any real harm. I took a step back, creating enough space for any number of moves in anticipation of his recovery, but the man fell to one knee. He gasped loudly before looking back and bellowing to the remaining Toosians, beckoning them forward into melee.

That was a mistake. Not the call for melee bit, but turning his attention from my spear. The moment his head turned, I was moving forward, shaft held back for a powerful thrust. I covered the distance in a heartbeat and by time the wild-eyed man turned his head back to our lines, my spearhead was moving forward, aimed directly at his helmet-less head. He managed to dodge to an extent, my spearhead missing his face only to sink into the intersection between his neck and upper chest.

The resulting spray of blood blinded me when I pulled back my weapon, the hot liquid burning my eyes like crazy. I backpedaled quickly, lowering my face to my shield hand and wiping as much away as possible, when someone bumped me from behind and nearly sent me sprawling onto the ground. Blinking furiously, I looked around with one eye, seeing Flaming Suns men all around me, surging forward into the Toosian ranks. The Toosians were breaking, falling back haphazardly, with one section of their center outright routing.

As my other eye cleared of the wild-eyed man's blood, I saw him, still moving as he tried to rise again. One of the veterans, kicked him down and ran through his back before kicking his axe away from his hand, letting out a war cry and dashing into the melee that the Toosians were desperately trying to escape from. I shook my head and gave one last blink to clear my vision, then followed up after him into the melee. It was largely over before it began: only the first rank or two actually engaged being immediately overwhelmed when the rest fled as it was abundantly apparent that the Flaming Suns held the advantage.

With their center buckling under our spear, Toosian flags and bulges calls went up, committing their reserve to the action. The Flaming Suns center was still snarled up in the last bits of the melee and in no position to form proper ranks to receive them, in spite of the cries of various leaders. Those sort of commands never penetrated the ears of men with their blood raised. However our own reserve was close by as well. Our spears were able to pull back in reasonably good order before being overtaken, falling behind our reserve as the Toosians approached.

These were no routine levies, most of them outfitted in gleaming plate chest armor and great helms, their large shields providing ample protection from out own pittance of archers. They were disciplined, fit and eager, all of which were things one didn't wish to see a foe. Just the regularity of their march inspired a small amount of dread, it being the mark of well-drilled, well-trained troops who wouldn't back away without bloodshed.

Luckily, our own reserve was much the same, minus the armor, quickly forming a solid line as the center spears re-organized themselves and prepared to support whatever action our reserve took. The two forces again stopped at an impasse, neither side motivated enough for a cold charge into their enemy. There were more cries, more thrown rocks and a few scrapes between individuals in the no-man's land between the two forces. I finally got the chance to look around to either side, seeing much the same story played out along our left and right wings, the forces arrayed comfortable distances apart as they jeered at each other. The sun beat down on me even more harshly than before and I suddenly realized I was thirsty beyond all reckoning, probably a product of my blood going up, then cooling off.

"Water? Does anyone have some water?"

The veterans looked over my way, most of them shaking their heads the rest staring at me blankly. One of them looked downright apologetic, "Sorry boy, no water. It's all back with the horses."

An unknown voice rang out, "If you feel faint, just wring your sleeve into your mouth."

Suddenly a second voice cut in, "We ain't got sleeves, you simpleton!"

There was more laughter and a bit of backslapping, which seemed ridiculous with the Toosians so close. A short, bald man with a gruff expression sidled through the ranks of the center spears before coming up close to me and clapping a heavy hand on my shoulder, "You the one who felled that giant?"

"Uh?"

He pointed with his chin towards the corpse of the wild-eyed man, "Him."

"I didn't quite fell him exactly --"

"Did'ja stab him with that fuckin' spear of yours or not, boy?"

"I stabbed him. Twice."

"Ay, I can tell. We all can," He motioned around, where the the rest of the Flaming Suns center was looking towards me, "You're still wearing half his blood." He pointed to my tunic, drawing attention to the spray of blood not stopping with merely covering my eyes, "What's your name, boy?"

"Belus."

"Ho! Belus the Bloody! Got a surname, Belus the Bloody?"

I held out from speaking for a few seconds and the short gruff man tilted his head. I realized he wasn't going to let me get away with not answering and inhaled before speaking, "No..."

"Get one. D'ya know your mother and father?"

Now I was really bristling, "I know my mother."

"And? Who is she?"

"She's --"

I was saved by the most improbable of coincidences, a sudden cry of despair sounding off from the ranks of the Toosian's reserve and one of their champions, clad in almost full plate, falling to the ground with a metallic crumple. Standing over him was a single man, huge in stature, wearing a blood red armor and casually held a heavy flanged mace on his shoulder. The Toosian below was completely unmoving, his helm brutally dented with blood dripping from the eyeholes. The man in red armor put his foot on his head and shifted it around a bit then stepped away and faced the remaining Toosians.

Their ranks literally bowed as the man in red armor looked upward and turned to them. He swung his mace off his shoulder and took up a leisurely pace, strolling towards them as if he was a noble taking a walk through his gardens. Behind him, the cry of the Flaming Suns was positively deafening, men wildly waving their weapons overhead as they jogged to join the man in red armor.

The Toosians may have been a bit slow, but they weren't complete fools. A few seconds later their bugles sounded the retreat and the reserve pulled back, the men just outside of the man in red armor's reach moving fastest and creating an even more obvious bulge in their lines. The battle was over. Men were already streaming over the dead and wounded, lifting rings, jewelry, armor, arms, clothing, anything off them. The man in plate armor had his helmet removed, gurgling like an animal as a man finished him off with a dagger and started pulling off his plate.

I wasn't bothered by the brutality. The life of a mercenary was the only life I'd ever known.

The short man surprised me as he spoke, "You did good boy, but that one there, he's a real fighter." He jutted his jaw towards the man in red armor, "Skin as black as night, eyes like lumps of coal, the size of warhorse and half the fear of one. Brawls like the god of war himself. You should see about him in camp, see if you can learn anything from him."

I looked at him with a quizzical expression, tilting my head, "I already did..."

"Oh? Oh really? And how is it you know Red Mace Maher?"

It almost seemed like a good idea to tell him, but I merely shut my mouth and shrugged. The short gruff man shook his head and walked away, muttering something under his breath. But I didn't care at all. Exhaustion had set in and I did nothing but look out over the battlefield, watching one of our wings and our reserve roll up the Toosian wing and rout them. The only thing I could think of was that I was finally blooded. With the coppery stink of blood and screams of wounded and dying men in the air, nothing else seemed to matter.

Continued in Part 2

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