The frosty morning turned tolerable by noon. The militia shuffled this way and that, unloading the covered wagons that had maintained their curiosity for days. They were pleasantly surprised at the equipment, fine boiled leathers and some scaled armor for their veterans. The weapons were the sort of mass-produced mediocrity expected from the apprentices of Reyvadin, but they were better than slings and pitchforks. Perhaps there was something to The Light after all, what with this peculiar blessing. They had long feared the possibility of being subjugated by the Brigade, although their old chief had struck a good trade bargain with the slender foreigner the Fallen Brigade had sent to negotiate. However, the allegations of the Battle-Priest Farran had seemed more credible as the months dragged on. They would defend themselves and sort out the rest later, when they could think clearly. Best of all, they had the protection of Farran's divine master, for each man had been forced to commit to the Cycle of Prayers. They expected Farran's words to finally come true, that such homage to give weight to their prowess and protect them.
---
Faril, the chieftain Staid Ha'nel's first wife, tapped the spoon against the bowl. She was proud of how her clever plans had come through, and with the same diligent care as the first preparation she mixed Staid's warpaint and constructed ferocious images in her mind. She barked for him to come forth, but he fumbled noisily in the only other room in the hut with his peculiar new armor. She scoffed, rebuking the man for his delay. She cut herself short of a greater verbal thrashing, for she knew very well while he lacked her brains, he lacked not in aggression. She would stir the boiling pot, not kick it over. He finally stooped through the doorway to face her, his stony face glaring at her. Whether this was his way of preparing for what was to come, she did not care to know. She drew a wild pattern of greens and blues, and a zig-zagging line of white slashing across his cheek and down his throat. He grumbled as she ornamented his shield with laces of bone and weaved hawk feathers into his dirty locks.
She reflected upon him perfectly the ferocity and savageness within her wily, feminine heart.
---
Abhorash tightened his bootlaces carefully, completing his ritualistic preparation. He combed his fingers through his long, dark hair-- he had intended to bind it, but reasoned that his helmet would limit its wandering sufficiently. He had brought few personal effects as he was ordered, but his helmet did not stay with the rest of his possessions. The ram's horns upon the barbutte-style helmet curled downwards, giving the impression of a bull with his head to the ground in preparation for a vicious strike. They were gilded to protect them from damage, but after ten years in the heat of battle, the nicks in the metal where steel had torn it apart showed a few marks where bone white horn came through the protective metal coat. The second deep horn called. One more to go. He had left his favorite steed back in Camp Perdition. The standard traveling rouncey, a beautiful white-coated but dull beast, was tied to the tree in the small, makeshift camp. It was far too small for an assault force of this size, but the men of the Fallen Brigade did not intend to be sleeping under the stars when the day was over.
He re-checked his equipment, and trotted past the calling sergeants and scrambling helots to meet Hallsward at the lonely tent at the edge of the mass of men. One of the provisions wagons had been emptied and quickly reassembled as a shoddy table. Hallsward's two scouts, lean Khergit men who Benlyk had not met, fussed over the map Daevon had provided, re-aligning the geography as they saw fit. Hallsward merely stood, staring across the hayfield, up the hill where the enemy marched like angry ants defending their queen. Jeshto Hallsward was an imposing figure in his elegant cuir bouilli, even without the full compliment of heavy chains beneath. Benlyk silently approached him to take his orders.
"We are matched, Benlyk." said the commander.
"In numbers, but never in spirit."
Jeshto glanced sidelong at the younger man, before replying, "I will not speak so ill of these people. They think they are defending their homes. They believe it, because they do not understand the choices of free men. Slavery is a condition one earns, not one which shall be imposed upon the free and strong."
Benlyk did not mind to think deeply, but it was irregular for him at this critical moment when he had prepared not to ponder but to kill, quickly and mercilessly. He stayed from probing further. "Yes, commander. What orders do you have for the second column, and shall I have a troop of helots?"
It was not always that the slave-soldiers were brought to the field. However, for long fights, throwing the helots into combat allowed for the veteran freemen to rest, or to maneuver into more favorable positions while the blood of slaves covered their movements. Oddly, Kith Lokis had sent more helots than standard infantry. Even those infantry were lightly armed compared. Benlyk looked at the hill, and the reason for it was made apparent, but he was no more comfortable with the idea.
They had come from the southwest, but the only road to Tulbuk put them at the lowest point in Tulbuk Valley, northeast of the village. The tea plants in the hills were already harvested, leaving the mountains around them a gloomy backdrop. Appropriate. The hayfield, the only grazing ground in the whole valley, separated them from the base of the hill by 300 meters. Another 150 meters uphill and they'd finally reach the edge of Tulbuk. It was not to be an easy fight.
"You will take 2nd Company and a trace along the shepherd's path, to the south. Cut east. Wait on the hill until you see the second rush of helots march, and send your own troop in after that. I leave it to your best judgment when to attack with the regulars, ideally when 1st Company reaches the top of the hill. Our archers will split between us. The archer captains know what to do, but be mindful of them and their business."
No sooner had he finished than a runner approached, and Benlyk turned towards his company and the helot sergeant. The archer squads were already advancing ahead. He quickened his pace, and a familiar rush, a powerful physical and emotional well of power began to flow within him.
---
Jeshto cleared his throat. "Fonhu, make the call." The deep, blaring horn sounded through the valley. The response was even louder. At his word, the deadly orchestra begin. The cries of the helots, the roaring of the troops, the clattering of weapons against shields, and the crack of the lash in the air.
"Grab the maps, we are advancing with the infantry," he barked, to which the scouts responded with a brief moment of confused hesitation. Commander Hallsward stepped out of the tent into the afternoon sun, with the resourceful young Fonhu grabbing a light crossbow and trotting behind him. Although he covered the ground at the pace of the quickly marching men, Hallsward appeared to glide amongst them with a poised determination. The two scouts scrambled to keep up.
He could make out the calls of the helot leaders, he heard their gutteral calls and brief, brutal speeches. He reveled in the moment, at the head of such a force. The poorly equipped slaves would do perfectly- match the enemy's fatigue with his own men, evening the scales of the battle. It was almost quantifiable numbers in his head, certainly a visible image of pushing and pulling back and forth. The enemy archers had begun to shower the slaves before they had even reached the bottom of the hill, and a few writhing men now littered amongst the hay, dragging themselves behind the stacks and rolls to find some brief peace before bleeding to death. He raised his hand, and was obeyed.
The rest of the force moved up, an equal line of helots before his regulars. He turned to watch them, and noticed his teams of archers sprawling over the hills. They had surely caused damages, for no finer archers were to be found than amongst the band of villains, but the final, brutal task awaited the infantry. He turned his attention back to the hill, watching the first wave struggle against the rocks and arrows cast upon them, their meager wooden shields turning into strange feathered objects. Two minutes later, with thirty of the one hundred and forty or so of the slaves having succumbed to wounds, the slaves hit the top of the ridge. The feet beneath the shields which had been as rooted as trees for the better part of an hour now shuffled once more as they engaged the helots.
The familiar clattering of wood and steel and flesh filled the valley.
---
Abhorash rocked forwards and backwards, poised to strike at an enemy a hundred meters away. The archers on his left kept the enemy from sending any fire his way to their own detriment. He saw the first wave of helots crash into the enemy position, and he eagerly raised his hand to prepare his own call for their charge. However, the nervous troop leader mistook the order. No sooner had he raised his hand had the mad dash began, and his force of slaves bolted down the small hill into the small field outside the village where a wall of shields, spears, swords, and men awaited them. He cursed and bounded forward, grabbing one of the slaves in padded white armor by the collar.
"What are you doing?!" he screamed at the young man, no older than he. The youth was wild eyed, with a single tear and a confused expression of fear and ferocity familiar to Benlyk. He dropped his shoddy scythe in surprise. Benlyk gently released him with an angry growl, and the young man regained his weapon and bolted towards his fellow slaves, and to his death. Abhorash's regulars, his brothers, the 2nd Company, stood firmly on the hill. They were quiet, with only a few speaking from time to time as they offered each other wagers as to who should be most glorious, or who shall live and die with greater honor at their appointed time. The talk expected of true soldiery.
The helots were sundered by the Hill people. Through the melee, a single figure stood out amongst the militia on the eastern side of the village. A man in heavy chains, a white tabbard with a red cross over it, swinging a knobbed mace wildly, cracking the skulls of the slaves with furious repetition.
---
The first helot troop stood on the hill for no more than five minutes. Hallsward had been uncertain of the quality of the troop, and had admittedly scant experience commanding such miserable warriors. He had expected at least ten minutes, and hoped for much longer. He cursed, raising his gloved hand to his stubbled chin and surveying the second and final troop of slave soldiers just a few yards away. He heard them chattering fearfully amongst one another. He should have placed them behind the regulars so that they did not bear witness to the reckless display of the first troop. Something must be done. He called his helot leaders, the choice slaves who had impressed the masters, to converge at the front and form ranks. Jeshto strode forth to meet them.
As he reached the center of the gathering, he gave quick instruction to his leaders to face their troops and stand beside him. In the background, the helots of the first troop had begun to withdraw down the hill with a clattering of weapons and chanted jeers from the militia defense behind them. He turned briefly to witness the events behind, and turned his attention to the troops before him, taking a deep breath and calling to them.
"This world was not fit for the weak. It is the fate of each man to die. That fate lays within your hands. The meek shall fall to dust, but the mighty shall live thirty lives and know the taste of death only once. And towards his own end, he shall smile with ferocity. Helots, you shall make your choice today.
You have all heard the creed of the Brigade that you serve. To die is to find weakness, and the Brigade will be weaker from it. You will not die today except by your own hands, by your own failures."
The first troop's retreat had nearly cross the field. He turned, watching several of the bloodied and teary eyed men fall in the grass, and a dozen lay down into the hay, fearful more of Jeshto Hallsward's wrath for their failure than of the enemy. The fleeing men stopped thirty yards from Jeshto's stern gaze, about a half dozen of them in total who did not hide their faces in the dirt of the field.
"First troop! Why do you run? Is it death you fear, hm? Here is your next order. Come to me now."
The slaves stood by, each one looking amongst them, clutching their various cuts and sores. One came forward and met him at a spear's length, a Swadian by appearance and stature.
"Aye, commander?" he loudly responded, the dialect of the streets being evident.
"What is your name, boy? Do you fear death? Why have you dared to come before me?"
The Swadian slave panted furiously a moment, looking aside towards the ground for his answer.
"Ahh... th'name is Frank, missir. And, eh-- nay, s'not death that be concernin' me. S'far as I figure, I'm a'ready dead 'less I go take that hill from th'boys up there," he replied. "I jus' can't seem t'find m'sword."
Jeshto gave a slow, stern smirk towards the injured slave. He stepped forward, withdrew his shining sword, a beautiful heirloom passed between many generations of high blooded Hallswards, with a malicious hiss. It spun in his hand towards the bold slaves throat, and turned at the last moment with the pommel towards Frank's belly.
"Take it. Prove to me your courage, show that you are strong. Lead these men into Tulbuk, and when I meet you atop that hill you shall be not be slave-- but you shall be the master. The strong shall inherit the earth."
The chattering second troop was silent. One of the young boys, a camp follower of the helot troops, ran forward and handed Frank a new leather sallet; he took the sword, and the helmet.
His words were short, and hardly intelligible as he shouted to his new command. But the words mattered little to the helots. With a furious roar, they replied and moved with a thunderous clamber up the slopes into Tulbuk. Jeshto called his horn blower, and the 1st Company charged at their heels for the final assault.
---
The 1st Company and Hallsward's second helots charged in a mass upon the field before Tulbuk. Benlyk's own helot troop still held their ground courageously against the militia, but the retreat of the frontal assault had brought more men to bear against them. They wouldn't make it to the arrival of the second wave. With a call, the 2nd Company charged down. It was premature, he knew, but it was the only opportunity he would have to support the helots and Jeshto's charge at the north. With a single voice, like a macabre chorus, they shouted down their foes and charged in.
Abhorash smashed his shield into the first man he found, knocking the older man over as he stumbled upon a slave's corpse. He slashed at the man's leg, cracking through the lamellar scales with a splash of blood. Another step forward, a coup de grace. He barely glimpsed the spear jolting towards him, with a quick twist of his arm he deflected it behind him. The clever spearman, sidestepped a counterswing, bumping into the wall of the hut beside him. He thrust once more, up, towards Benlyk's face, forcing him to raise his shield high and block his view. Instinctively, he dropped it as quickly as it contacted the point, blocking a third strike aimed at his loins. He smashed his sword against the shaft, attempting to crack it, but it thudded in response and smacked against the wall. He made a quick turn to his left, giving him a moment to glance behind as he kicked towards the spearman's grip.
His foot connected to the man's forward hand, and he cried out as he lost the grip. Benlyk turned back to his enemy, throwing his shield against the spear and into the wall, lunging towards the militiaman with a thrust. He caught the man in the hip and the spearman dropped his weapon entirely. An arrow whirred past Abhorash's ear, causing him to spin against the wall as his opponent fled unarmed towards the village center. An axeman charged straight towards him, his back now against the wall. He jerked sideways down the wall as the axehead crashed into the wall of the hut, throwing off clay shards and dust. He quickly jumped away from the axeman as a second strike landed where he had stood moments before.
He spun around, finding himself suddenly in the main road of the village. And very much alone. The limping spearman had found a replacement, a pitchfork, and the axeman was coming towards him once again. He slashed the air towards the pitchfork, his attention fixed upon the axe in front of him. The axe crashed into the ground with a wild swing, and Benlyk used the opportunity to move in close. He pulled his shield forward to knock the man off balance, but the axeman threw a quick elbow upwards into his jaw, just beneath his helmet. He stumbled back, turning to block the pitchfork with his shield and giving him another warning slash, missing by mere inches from the spearman's forearms.
His hair tumbled out place, impairing his vision. He rushed towards the spearman blindly, pushing him into a backpedal as Benlyk threw off his shield, grabbed him and thrust his sword into the man's gut. He spun the dying spearman around, tossing the man towards where he had expected the axeman to be behind him. The man fell limply towards the air, falling down and impaling himself further on the dusty road. Abhorash tore off his helmet, pulling back his hair and leaping behind a barrel as an enemy archer shot towards him in a sudden panic. The arrow thudded into the barrel. Abhorash grabbed a stool from beside the barrel, throwing it at the archer as he attempted to draw from the quiver, disrupting him just long enough for Abhorash to barrel into the man and tackle him to the ground. The archer shoved back, his legs flailing beneath Benlyk as he brough his helmet crashing down into the man's skull. The archer's eyes glazed. A second strike, and he moved no more. He glanced back and rolled to the side, just in time to avoid the axe once more as it crashed down, splitting the unconscious archer's torso with a sickly splash.
Abhorash landed on a knee and pounced towards the axeman with a deep and hideous roar. He responded with slamming the butt of the axe into Benlyk's gut, cutting off the battlecry into a cough. The burly axeman grabbed his hair and threw him off. A club-shaped log from an disrupted pile of firewood lay on the ground where he was tossed. He grabbed it in his off hand, the helmet still clutched in his right. Benlyk stood, positioning himself to dodge the next swing of the axe. An arrow crashed between the two men, shattering the shaft into a thousand pieces against the clay wall beside them. The axeman swung again, left to right, which Benlyk easily sidestepped. Another swing, overhead. A dodge, but much closer after a quick lunge by the axeman. A third strike, another overhead attack. Benlyk bounded forward, stepping on top of the axe and leaping, throwing his knee into his opponent's jaw, glancing but disorienting the man. He landed, and brought his helmet down against the man's head. The right horn cracked apart, digging two inches past the man's skull. The attention of the battle had moved. He darted forward, turning between the buildings to the outskirts of town.
The 2nd Company and the helots were falling back towards the hill. The front assault was being counterattacked and met half-way, and a large mass of troops were dispatched from the front to push back his men. He charged to the edge of the melee, calling to his men to form up and push back. He leaned towards a dead helot to take his shortsword. As he stood, an arrow caught him in the left arm. He cried out, stumbling back. A few enemy militiamen heard it, and turned their attention towards him. The 2nd Company was outnumbered, with a hill at their backs making safe retreat to recover a challenge. One of the new aggressors took an arrow to the head from an archer atop the hill in the familiar dark hues of the Brigade. He tumbled over, landing at the feet of his two companions. The three men looked towards the hill at the lone sniper-- but the sniper was not long alone. Three. Ten. Forty men were suddenly visible, wearing dark leather armor. Suddenly, forty yards down the low hill, a familar figure appeared.
---
Horaem Ramses called out loudly to his men. They were tired. The last three miles were grueling. Yet he had heard the familiar clatter, and knew that he may yet be able to affect the results of the day. After a thirty minute quick march, his forces had arrived. A rider had been dispatched from the tent at the edge of the field to meet him, but there was no word from the Commander. Horaem covered his eyes from the glaring sun above, spotting Hallsward on the hill to the south at the edge of the fight. Corpses tumbled down the hill. He drew his sword, a hook-shaped weapon that applied its weight to make particularly nasty cuts. He tossed it and barked his men, splitting a squadron of shieldbearers to join the front assault. His archers, spears, and greatswordsmen charged up the left, filing quickly in two rows up a well-trod herder's path to the southest.
In ten minutes, they were at the top of the short hill just a few score yards from the melee. He called forward the archers, and a few let fly what few shots they could take. It disrupted the supporting enemy militia. It bought time, and that's what the 2nd Company in front of him needed more than anything. His men charged into the battle. The militia was cast into confusion, and attempted to flee towards the village. Most were cut down, and a few surrendered. The 2nd Company and Ramses' men turned north, catching the enemy infantry on the hill in total surprise. No matter where they fled, Fallen blades and arrows found them. The final push by relief troops ended the battle just as the sun began to lower from its highest perch.
---
Staid Ha'nel leaned against the wall of the hut, his weapon and shield far from reach, somewhere upon the northern hill of the village. His right eye was swollen shut, and through its twin he scanned what was left-- only a few broken souls, the surviving, bloodied militia were dragged back from the fields of the battle- the rest had been put to a quick end to silence their groaning and still the death throes. The swords had been sheathed, but death remained abundant for several hours more.
The survivors were rounded and sat in several small circles at the center of town. Their women and children cried from the hills and houses where they had taken and remained in refuge. Some of the men had joined them in tear shedding, but most were too dazed at the unthinkable events of the day to weep. The Fallen Brigade guardians watched with stone-faced determination, and over the course of their confinement cut to ribbons those that lacked the courage to sit and await their fate. So they waited as the looting began.
Staid watched the two wily strong men, archers by their attire, emerge from Battle-Priest Farran's hut. They looked around briefly, but it was very clear that he was their intended victim. They grabbed him, and he stumbled at first and finally gave away, buckling and dragging for several dozen meters back towards the hut's door. He was tossed through the door, landing on the fine mat inside the shadow of the hut's doorway. His arms gave out, and he crashed upon his chest to hit the solar plexus just in a way to knock the breath out of him. He jerked to his knees, looking around the overturned room silently. Farran had been an impeccably ordered man. Staid barely recognized the place. However, a dozen scroll papers and a few books were piled neatly upon the table.
A few dark men, the enemy leadership apparently, talked quietly to one another nearby. Hell, maybe noisily, his head was spinning too quickly to hear. Farran was bound to his own chair, his head slumped but with a occasional and wild glares, his mouth gagged to prevent him from shouting. He looked up, saw them nodding. A stout Vaegir with a bloodied silver helmet stepped away towards him and called to the archers. Staid was lifted again by his captors and dragged out towards the village square behind the Vaegir. He noticed first the helmet, a frightful thing that at one point had two horns but only one now remained.
A sturdy wooden box frame had been erected like a drying rack in the square. The archers held him against the frame, and the Vaegir now looked him in the face. He rolled his head, giving a weak snarl, but then noticed both Farran and his wife being brought forward, both under the control of two strong men each. His wife continued to resist without success. She was snapping words wildly, a sound all too familiar to him. She had always been smarter than he, and so far as he trusted her he put it to his advantage.
The archers bound his arms to the frame tightly, but their work was interrupted. Faril screamed terribly, freeing one arm from a captor, twisting and stealing the dagger of the other. He loosened his grip and stepped back to draw his long blade. The wild woman slashed the air towards the other and bounded towards Farran. The Battle-Priest's captors let go quickly, but it was too late- the dagger drove straight into his neck as bright crimson blood splashed in bursts upon the scene. The Fallen let him fall to the ground with liquid gasps, grabbing the woman. She stood stoically above her victim, but did not resist.
The archers and onlooking Vaegir wasted no more time and Staid's attention was returned to his own plight as he was tied to the frame, uncertain of what particular cruelty awaited him upon it. The Vaegir called out, displeased with the archers' work, and a helot boy ran forward with some sort of tools. The Vaegir slammed a hammer into the frame, driving a nail into the wrists of the bound man. Staid cried out. The second nail, the second hand. He screamed for Faril to save him, or kill him. The Vaegir bent, offering him a view of his wife again. Her face was cold, the priest's blood upon it already beginning to darken. The third and fourth nails were driven into his feet, and the frame was hoisted upon two posts to leave him a few feet into the air. He roared with rage. He even called out a passage that Farran had made him to memorize, something about the Shield. It didn't make much sense even when he learned it, but he said it anyways. The Fallen laughed without pausing their endeavor.
A wild-looking man, another archer, ran up with a bucket. None of the other Fallens spoke with him, and some seemed to even step away. He cooed and laughed, almost a giggle, as he began to paint the board beneath his feet. Staid looked down and noticed the lumps within the bucket and realized that it was no paint, but gore and guts removed from some corpse. Or, hopefully from a corpse, and not some villager caught between life and death. The mad artist was called back to the others several meters away by a tall and imposing man in elegant boiled leathers. In quick succession, the tall man made his second command.
Thwack, thwack- thwack.
Two arrows struck his chest, another struck him where the pelvis. There he hung for three days.
"Arrows beats Lights!"
---
Frank Kellsworth lowered his bow. He hadn't ever shot one, and he attributed this fact to his poor accuracy. He still hit the intended target, however, and that was good enough for now. He looked at the man beside him, a calm Nord with a fondness for whiskey (which considerably altered his demeanor) who he'd seen before, and had once demanded him to run a heavy pack of arrows to the other side of Camp Perdition for the practice range. He was grateful that upon doing so he was sent away from the range, instead of being sent upon it like less obedient slaves. He handed the Nord the weapon, receiving an unexpected nod.
"Frank. Walk with me," called Hallsward as he passed from behind. Frank obeyed. They took only a few more steps towards the hanging corpse. A fighting woman, who had just assassinated the Hospitallar they had intended to interrogate, caused a brief fuss as she was dragged away towards the Battle-Priest's hut.
"Your strength been have been measured. You have done what I have commanded. You may depart at your leisure from the Fallen Brigade."
The men stood silent for several moments. Impassive as ever, Jeshto looked with stern serenity upon the corpse of the defeated. Frank felt compelled to run. The freedom to escape, knowing that more than likely he would not be shot full of arrows, was a novel and dangerous thought that had not dwelled in his mind as a logical possibility in months. The shifting of the paradigm from property to liberty took some time to comprehend. He stepped back, and turned to the north. Don't run, he thought. Walk carefully. This is dangerous.
Yet, those subconscious warnings went unheeded and quashed. What became of the man who let those voices command him? Would he fear the rest of his days that one day he would die? Frank had known death, embraced it in his arms, and defied it twice that day. He had cursed The Light, and bested it. He stopped and wheeled around.
"I... dun think I'll be doin' tha', if s'pleases ya sir."
Frank tugged the borrowed sword out of his rope belt, timidly offering it to its owner. Jeshto turned his head, then his torso, and glided his hand over the pommel to reclaim it.
"I hated th'bein' owned. But I hear what ya said. An' tha's it I s'pose. I hated bein' what I were not meant for. Th'brave ain't meant to cower and serve. There ain't no where else I b'long. I seen the slums, traveled the roads, an' been forced t'bow m'head to Gods I ain't got much mind for. I figured all then that I's as good as dead, made na'difference. But not t'day. T'day, maybe for th'first time e'er I know I be alive."
Jeshto nodded.
"Then Tulbuk shall be left in your care, under the authority of the Fallen Brigade. I will leave an aide and two helots to serve you. See Tulbuk prosper. Horaem's garrison regiment will be left and you will train beside them until the hour comes that you join your brothers on the battlefield."
An instant later, a horse was led at a runner's pace to Hallsward's side, and with a jerk of the reins, a kick, and whip he was gone.
