The Frozen gates
20 miles south of Chateau le Breton
The wind howled with the God's disapproval of the situation as the 300 stood there, line abreast, spears glinting in the winter morning and a light snowfall collecting on their kite shields. Between each shield held a spear, 6 feet long with a sharpened tip. Behind each shield stood a man of Breton, his mail armor and steel kettlehelm marking him as a loyal footmen, the red Lilly of Breton showing through the quickly worsening weather.
Arthur Breton, eldest of the 4 children of Breton, Elder brother to two murdered, son of a Father slain by Tepet's military incompetence as much as he was by the Bull's heretic forces. Heir a throne that he did not want, wielder of a blade he had yet to earn in battle. Leader of a band of men he had yet to lead in to battle.
Still, he had a duty to carry out, a promise to defend his realm and it's people at all costs. Yet he held only three hundred men under his control, and he was the sole Exulted. This battle was not to defeat the Bull's hoard, yet to hold them off for as long as possible. 5 miles behind them, down the small mountain goat path, lay a train of peasants. Most were women with children, the few elderly who chose to leave, and what ever pack animals could hold the few earthly treasures they could, mostly family heirlooms, the House Breton Heraldry, his Little brother's Books, his mother's still unfinished tapestry, the little remaining Jade of the House Breton coffers.
His youngest sibling, his dear sister who was barely in her 16th year, stood guard along side this train, as did her 40 or so Handmaidens and huntresses. Unlike many of the southern Houses, who schooled their daughters to be only good in matters of the house and court, the Daughters of Breton received the same training of the sword and bow. Each of them held a Northern Longbow and an arming sword, as was the tradition of their mothers and grandmothers before them.
His mind was torn from his thought by the sound of a Icewalker warhorn in the distance. Standing from his kneeling position, he slipped on his painted helm and strode through the snow towards his men. He knew the forces rapidly advancing towards his line were Ice walkers, lightly armored tribal warriors that lacked heavy armor and cavalry, and he understood why the Bull would send them his way.
In all likelihood the Bull's main forces had detoured to the west, taking a much larger and less well defended pass, but one that would put them too far out of the reach of House Breton's Vulnerable. He was the little fish here, one not worthy of the Bull's direct attention. This was something that both satisfied Arthur, and pissed him off.
"Sir, enemy sighted, 250 yards or so down the slope. I can see a line of archers...Arrows incoming!" He snapped to his line and gave the order, "Shields up!" with that, the kiteshields of his men were wrenched upwards. To add to this, Arthur channeled his powers to pull a pair of large rectangular slabs of mountain stone from the ground and held them in the air, blocking a good portion of his men from the storm of arrows. As the arrows fell he felt his arms begin to shave and tremble, the stones were largely comprised of granite and took more force then normal to lift them.
Then, thankfully, the stone and bronze tipped rain ceased. He propelled the stones a good distance to the sides of his men and rest for a moment when another warhorn sounded. He knew what this meant and could see the looks in the eyes of some of his men. If he were to fall here, then let it be a glorious end.
He stepped through his line and drew Godpiercer in his right hand. "Son's of Breton, my brothers in arms, the odds are not good, and the Bull's heretical mages have cursed us with this gloomy day. I will be frank with you all, this battle might be our last...our last Stand! These heathens come here and wish to draw blood, then let us show them their own! Fuck the Bull, fuck the odds, For glory, For Honor, For House Breton!"
This drew a chorus of cheers from his men, who banged their spears along their shields as a challenge to the coming Ice walkers, "Come then, heathens, come to meet you're gods!" With this, Arthur turned to the coming icewalker and readied his longsword...Yet, the enemy stopped just in view of the Son's of Breton. A voice called out, one Arthur recognized as not from the North. "Northmen, Son's of Breton, we know why you fight, throw down you're weapons, submit to the Bull's armies, and you're women and children shall live!"
There was no answer, then lieutenant, the man who called for the Breton's surrender, heard a distinct whining as what appeared to be a large boulder, the size of a pumpkin came flying at him. Just at the last moment, as the poor Lieutenant looked on in horror, the boulder exploded with the force of a firesalt bomb, sending a wave of stone shrapnel and shards in all directions, peppering the lightly armored skin walkers and tearing unarmored flesh in to bits.
Arthur's reply came in through the wind, booming and defiant over the blizzard as it worsened, "Icewalers, come and get them!" this was fallowed by a warcry from the Breton's as the icewalkers recovered. While more of a shock tactic then a artillery strike, the move did rip the unprotected face of the men in to bits, horribly disfiguring him for the rest of his days.
Giving their own cry, the icewalkers broke ranks and charged the Heavy Infantry of House Breton. The Ground trembled with the advance of a thousand tribesmen as they advanced, yet the Son's of Breton held their ground as their foes came ever clearer. 50 yards, 30...25...15...10...
As the first wave neared Arthur Let loose a roar and summoned forth what remained of his power with a mighty swing that cut the air and carried with it the Lion's roar of his Anima. This first swing felled no less then 5 of them, blackend steel, glowing with blue energy, whistled as the Lion of Breton cut through hide, leather, mail and gambison, a spray of blood and cries of pain causing the nearest Ice walkers to falter at the realization that their first foe was of the Dragon blooded.
The large white Lion roaring above him helped. With this momentary pause, the Son's of Breton did as they were trained to do: advance. They thrust with their spears, skewing a hundred tribes men and giving forth their own warcry to carry their Lord's through the air. For a split moment, the skies clear,ed the winds died down, and the snow ceased.
It seemed the Lion's roar had startled the mages that lay some miles down the pass.
This trend continued, though they would advanced and retreat many times to keep their hold of the narrowest portion of the pass. Arthur remained in front of his men, leading them from the front as any good commander should, cutting down tribesmen left and right, even as his injuries began to pile on and his armor began to degrade from the repeated blows. With the Lion of Breton above him, and Godpiercer in his hands, he was a whirlwind of death, a maelstrom of blood and gore that tore through the ranks of the heretics, easily felling several dozen before pulling back and resting behind the wall of shields and spears that were his men.
They did this for three days, three days of fighting in the snow, three days of holding the Frozen Gates. On the evening of the 3rd day, it look like the Son's of Breton would break, the Enemy sent forth their largest wave yet, Arthur pulled his last card from his sleeve. Ordering his men to stand back a few yards, he buried his blade in to the frozen snow and reached out to the two walls of earth on his flanks. The Lion once again appeared, letting forth a final roar of defiance as the pass seemed to tremble and quake. As the enemy neared, the Knight Captain used what little power he had left to begin a landslide on each slope.
The final trap was sprung, and the Ice walkers looked on in horror as the two waves of snow and stone came down upon them from each side with a massive crash that shook the Heavens as it did the Earth. As the dust cleared the Breton infantry slowly started forward, shields and swords ready, only to find their lord on his knees, his sword planted in to the ground and he him self resting on it, that last act having drained him completely.
The Knight-Sargent, Arthur's second in command, gave the order to collect their Lord and any wounded left alive and make for the camp of their wives.
As they traveled south, towards Port Ilya, word seemed to have spread of the stand of a small little house against the tides of the Bull.
