The Sound of Steel
The cold wind cut through the wheat field, threatening the crops with a dangerous tongue of death. But that was not the only menace of the end that lurked amongst the grain. Moonlight and a sliver of the dawn sunlight reflected off of the blades, armour, and shields of the humans that lay waiting for their prey. They waited, faces pressed close to the earth, the dirt that belonged to the fields surrounding Norsford, the northernmost town of their kingdom. The men lay there silent, listening for the rebels they knew were on the other side of the field. Their King was with them, to see another rebellion crushed and peace restored. Ahead lay either glory and victory or death and defeat. For most there would be no middle ground.
Walter Callaghan II raised up in the field, to his full height. Around him, one hundred of his most trusted guardsmen rose alongside their Regent, unsheathing swords and placing their sallets on their heads. The sea of red loyalists waited for their leader, who quietly watched the town ahead, without any sound he rose his sword into the air, a simple blade with little ornaments but a red ruby embedded in the pommel. He let the blade fall and began pacing forward, towards the wooden walls of the town. The army marched, muffled sounds of equipment and armour rustling in the dawn light that shone brighter constantly. Walter retrieved his shield from his back, and began to lightly tap his sword on it, beating slightly faster and louder every time he repeated the motion. The men of Arcerion caught on, and quickly began repeating the action, beating their swords in unison with their leader. The battalion continued their march towards the walls, where campfires had begun to disappear and shouts became drowned as the sound of steel on steel grew. "Unfurl the banners!" barked the King as he continued his approach on the walls. Behind him, three banners dropped and began flapping in the very wind that had chilled the now trampled crops. The first and center was a red flag with the double-headed Eagle on its centre, the flag these soldiers fought, bled, and died for. The second flag, on the right, was the flag of the House Callaghan, similar to the national flag, this one had the Callaghan boar in gold on its centre, rather than the Eagle. The third was the battalion's banner. This was by far the most ornate, individual pieces of cloth from victories, captured enemy standards, and citations being stitched freely onto the borders. The 3rd Battalion marched on, beating word on shield, and their red armour had a harsh glow to it that struck fear into the hearts of the rebels.
"Loita! LOITA! Loita! LOITA!" the men shouted. This call for 'Fight, FIGHT' echoing across the plain. They grinned with the sadistic smiles of veterans, scarred faces and pockmarked armour showing their trade was not one they had learned mere days before as their enemies had. The battle began slowly, the 3rd continuing its march, uninterrupted by the rebels watching them. But that ended too quickly. A smattering of arrows, crossbow bolts, and rocks began to be fired or slung from the fire step, and that was when the fight commenced. "En bloc!" the King yelled, and his men obediently formed into a solid rectangle, width facing the wall. They joined their shields, metal clattering as a wall of their own was formed. "Advance on the march!" came the King's cry, and the men moved forward, a drummer beating the pace. their armour had shielded them from casualties so far, but regardless, the King was now in the center of the formation, insulated from assailants. The gates of the city opened, and the rebels poured out, an unruly mob hellbent on seceding from their true rulers.
The wasps and flies continued to bite, but these insects were made of mostly wood and steel, the projectiles beginning to have effect. To the King's right, he saw a younger soldier take two arrows to the chest, and he collapsed. The line swallowed him, and he fell behind. But he survived, he would not fail. He swiped the sword in his right hand and snapped the shafts of the airs clean off, blood dripping onto his armour's fabric and creating a dark red stain, but he rejoined the line, limping along. The King saw to his left two soldiers felled by a storm of crossbow bolts, and a third man received a gift of an arrow to the neck, which sent him down screaming and gushing blood, no doubt blood that would fertilise the crops for next season. "Hold! Hold this damn line or else no one returns to Innsington!" yelled the King, and his men heeded his words. Resuming their chant. The rebels drew closer, but the King was not afraid for his men, he was afraid if his return to the capital would be delayed by burying all these damned ruffians.
"Arrow! Form Arrow!" yelled the King hurriedly. The rebels were so close he could see the saliva dripping from their hungry mouths as they screeched and hollered all the while sprinting at his formation. But he had the trained soldiers, and they whirled and wheeled until they had formed the cohesive shape, and the final roder of the day was given. "Charge! Kill all of the fucking bastards!" yelled the King as he laughed and began running with his miniature horde. The men hooted and hollered, sprinting in formation at the leather clad rabble in front of them. The two forces met with a thunderous clap, men of the 3rd ploughing deep within the rebels, quickly becoming surrounded. The King was in the center, shouting encouragement to the men of his command, their experience beginning to show. The ring began to slowly collapse as his men were outnumbered, but the King did not feel fear on the outside, only on the inside. He fought his own internal battle, but realized he had to make a change or he would lose his command. He strode towards the weakest area of the line and tightened his shield strapped to his left arm.
He wrestled between two young soldiers, both had barely felt a razor grace their face, the lads could not have been more than twenty years each, but they were surprised to see such a god of the battlefield grace them with his presence. The King reached his sword arm back, and lunged it forward, ramming it through cloth, leather and mail and into the ribcage of a rebel opposite him. The metal scraped bone, and the rebel screamed in agony, the tortured mouth drooling blood and spittle that followed him to the ground he was soon to be buried in. The King hesitated not, and slashed down, caving in the skull of a pitchfork-wielding fool that had glanced the clumsy farm tool of the Regent's shield. The warrior laughed, and continued to ply his trade, killing several more men before he heard panic behind him. A greta brute of a man with a longsword in one hand and a battle axe in the other had begun to crunch through the line, and the King left his position, and strode to meet the beast. The mammoth had just skewered a Bannerman, the youth handing the Battalion's colours to a fellow soldier before collapsing into darkness. The lord of the realm unleashed his battle cry and sliced expertly at the lumbering insurgent in front of him. The beast blocked it with his longsword and swiped sideways at Walter's head with his axe. Walter dropped to the ground, dodging the blow and rising with his shield raised. He felt the longsword connect with it, the blow feeling like it had shattered his left forearm. But the sword had only caught in the upper rim of the piece of equipment, catching the blade. Walter merely shrugged off the blade and let his sword's pommel connect with the fool's nose, feeling the hard steel shatter bone and cartilage alike under the now broken skin. Raging and hollering like a wounded animal, the axe came down again, this time directly on the King's chest, mangling the coat of arms forged there and slicing the leader's chest with a shallow wound. The entire crowd slowed the fighting to a halt, and let out a gasp, seeing the most important figure in the realm bleed like a mere mortal. Callaghan stumbled backwards, and felt his own blood, and saw it in quantities he had never thought he contained. "You stupid northern imbecile!" he roared and brought his sword across him, delivering a staggering blow to the brute's sword hand. The crowd released another gasp of astonishment, seeing the hand stil gripping the weapon fall to the ground. The King did not stop however, he dodged a clumsy, pain-driven blow and stepped behind the giant. He then stabbed his sword through the left knee, blade entering the dirt and pinning the left leg to the ground. Effectively hamstringing his opponent, Walter released his sword, which remained upright in the gore, and drew a knife. He walked up behind the fool and grabbed the sweaty, matted hair that crested his hair. The soldiers on both sides watched silently, only the sound of nature audible. "This is how we treat damned traitors in this country!" he yelled to all, and yanked the head back, exposing a thick, veiny neck. He brought the knife across, flesh and gore spilling openly onto the dirt accompanied by copious amounts of blood. He kicked the body to the ground and uttered one final statement. "Drop your weapons or watch your families burn!" And they did, swords falling and rebels herded like willing cattle together, effectively cutting short this domestic folly. The King and supreme Regent withdrew his sword, and raised the bloodstained steel high, and uttered a victory cry, uttered by the remaining victorious members of the 3rd.