"Sellez donc bridez de belles montures
Vrais chevaliers, laissez tomber toute parure
Armez-vous, drapez votre foi
Fiers Swadiens, les cieux vous envoient!"
-A portion of Notre Terres, or "Our Land" in English translation, sung by Swadian cavalrymen in 1192.
Battle of Amere
Rindyar Castle
Stray dogs and loose horses roamed the abandoned village outside of the castle. The barren doors creaked at vacant winds while barrels and weaved baskets that carried grain and vegetables were dug out clean.
Spots of ashes dotted the stone walls of the castle while Swadian banners rippled like torn rags in the wind. Only fifty men were left defending their lord's home. Most of them haggard and jaded. Peasants that used to work the field were desperately armed and armored with poorly chipped swords and woolen tunics.
They rationed their bread and salted pork storage to a minimum. By next week, they resorted to slaughtering the few horses and a few dogs just to get small bits of meat in their mouths. The lack of sanitation allowed disease to creep upon the garrison. Only a few bodies were thrown out of the castle, a small hindrance to the defenders, but its major effects would grow inevitably.
Day and night, winged beasts harassed the towers from the clouds, diving down, plucking the wary guardsmen like ants. Though they could be warded off with crossbows and man-made smoke, it cost a deadly amount of quarrels needed for the next assault.
"This is lunacy!"
A dozen mounted knights and household guards bunched up at a secret passage, a tunnel that lead to the outside of the castle. Lady Elys and other servants rode on the back of loyal knights, ready to depart. Count Rafard himself volunteered to stay behind.
"Lunacy?" Rafard said, "Yes it may be lunacy, but a far more regretful decision would leaving these men behind to fend for themselves. They expect one of us to be here anyway."
"Don't you know what they'll do to you?! Rafard this is an enemy we have never seen the likes of. Who knows what they do to their prisoners!"
"It's a professional army. That's all I know."
"And?"
"Killing prisoners would be useless. If they want to take the land, they need to know it. I may not know their methods in interrogation but it's going to be worse than what we do."
"So ride with us! Live to fight another day!"
"No, Klargus. Look around you." He gestured to the cracked and barren walls of his home, "All that's left of the defense are poor peasants with bows and broken blades. All my loyal guards are dead or riding with Elys. If the men saw their lords abandon them, what good is Swadia to them?"
"…Are you saying they'll rat us out?"
"Yes, they'll scout for the enemy, tell them which season is good to fight in and which season to rest. Maybe even die for the enemy if they saw me ride out of this tunnel."
Klargus sighed, understanding Rafard's intentions, "Heavens grant you strength then, I bid you luck on your fight."
"Yours as well brother, keep Elys safe."
Rafard slapped the horse and the escapees trotted into the dark tunnel. He watched as their torches slowly dim into small flames. Soon the trotting and light faded out in the darkness.
A sergeant walked up to him, disheveled.
"Count… do we surrender? The food storages have run empty, we won't last another day in this condition."
"…. Wait a few hours more, our king makes his arrival."
Saderan Encampent, Unhun Castle
Colt Formal had ordered for three legions to march towards the northern realms, fearing that the armies' current position would be surrounded. Which was why another fifty-thousand Saderans invaded the east, where the steppes and deserts resided. They were to strike hard and fast, establish a frontline and hold it until the next legions would arrive.
Everything had been operating smoothly ever since they entered through the gate, with little to no losses and already gaining a few fiefs from the natives. All that was left was to establish a garrison foothold within this world and the supply lines and reinforcements from Falmart would enter through much more adequately.
He sat in his lavish tent, eating. A single candle burned a wax scent that filled the inside with a rich and liberal smell.
Suddenly, a guard with a plumed helmet opened the flaps of his tent, interrupting his pork dinner.
"My lord, a meeting has been called." He began, "The enemy's relief force from the west is marching towards us. They just passed the last village."
Formal took one last bite of his pork and set his cutlery down, "How large is the army?" He said.
"Our wyvern scouts say it's near fifteen to twenty thousand. The size of three full legions. We're already gathering the men."
Colt nodded, "Hmph, it seems our forces are finally matched. Let's see what these natives are made of."
He rubbed his lips clean with a handkerchief and strode out of the tent, escorted by his bodyguards.
Outside, orders were constantly shouted by officers, campfires were stomped out as the Saderans prepared for a battle.
Orcs and lightly armored auxiliary trudged past him, growling and roaring for a fight. Wyverns came from the sky beat their wings until they reached the ground. Their riders jumped off their scaly backs and lead them to troughs of cattle meat. Legionaries and Saderan cavalry fell into formation, awaiting their orders after a warm breakfast and good rest.
Three thick rows of infantry stood, a skinny line of archers in the back, while the scattered formation of orcs, lightly armored goblins, massive ogres, and demi-humans waited.
The clamoring of the encampent was shut out as he entered inside the large red tent. Around the brown table sat gold antique cups and silver wine jugs, a map was absent, leaving the center with an improvised one drawn by a skilled cartographer.
Officers looked and nodded before him, a few mutters of "Lord Formal…" and "My lord…".
He pulled a chair out and sat, folding his hands on the table. "I assume you've heard of the relief force marching their way here yes?"
"Yes of course my lord," An old officer said, a scar on his right eye that left it shut, "We plan to send the full might of the legions, thirty-five thousand. We'll strike hard and fast, and move on. Take the towns and establish a supply route."
"Though I am confident that we'll crush these savages, using the entirety of the army in my opinion would be daft and too risky." He denied, "We may have superiority in the skies but we still lack intelligence on how big this world really is. They were even smart enough to burn the maps before we took the first castle."
The old officer, disappointed but keeping his composure, simply nodded.
"We could flank their lines with cavalry." Another officer with a feathered helmet set on the table said, "Take a small contingent, a legion or two, and lure the enemy in. There we crush there lines with cavalry from the sides."
"A good idea in concept but we need most of our cavalry should the barbaric horse archers in the steppes cause a hassle on our army." A bald officer chimed in, drinking from his cup, "Their horses are fast and fierce, I've heard that they even defeated Calasta in the field. They rained arrow after arrow on his soldiers constantly. He was able to escape though… unfortunately."
"Any other plans then?" Colt said, to which none of the officers interjected and shook their heads no, "If that's the case, I will lay my own out. One thing I want to make sure is that we march as soon as we can after this. We will take no more than three legions, archers will join the fray as well. Have them placed at the center, all in a tight formation, the skirmishers will stand at the front when we begin the battle, and have them retreat behind our infantry when we call the advance."
"We should take it slow, have them march at a small pace. If we want to decrease the chance of disorientation within the ranks, we have to keep them as one." Said another Legate.
"Indeed. If the battle turns into the enemies' favor, we'll use the Auxiliary cohorts to demolish their flanks-"
"You want to give those beasts glory?" A noble cut him off.
"Of course not, but they are a rabble," He sighed, "If we keep them idle here in our camps, there's bound to be a revolt. I'd rather we keep the cohesion of our army before the next one arrives."
The monsters weren't that worrisome though, they were forced to fight for the empire. Any form of rebellion would cause the death of their leaders and chieftains, which would surely lead to the extinction of their clan and culture. Plus, fighting for money was key to surviving for the auxiliary, And the greedy, unintelligent orcs and goblins would never refuse such an offer to get paid killing.
He continued with his plans, laying out the positions of each archer and infantry unit, and where the auxiliary would stay. One priority he preferred was that the orcs and beastly ogres stay hidden from the enemy until the time was right.
After his plans were settled, he took one last sip from his goblet and stood from his chair.
"Today is our moment to shine gentlemen. After this battle, we will be revered and I can assure you that we'll celebrate soon after. In the next two weeks, we rest and wait till the next supply run is completed, then take the closest town to garrison in. Is that all?"
They shook their heads no, albeit, with satisfying grins and smiles.
Swadian Realm
Count Klargus hadn't seen his king clad in his armor since fighting the Vaegirs and those were ages ago. Everyday it seemed as if the king was rotting like a dead plant, laying in his keep all day while munching buttered pork and beef. But now, he was full of glory and mettle like the old times. He wasn't sure if the heavens gave Harlaus a vision, or if it was his own will. No matter the case, he was still admired by his king's revelation and hoped it would rejuvenate him to his prime.
A narrow sea of red and silver stretched across the green plains, crimson pennants and banners flew above them.
The red lion banner of King Harlaus rippled in the wind as he rode forth in front of the relief force of his own ten-thousand, flanked by the Marshall Count Klargus who fielded five thousand men, and Count Meltor, who fielded the 4th largest contingent of two thousand men. The rest of the lesser nobility rode in the front, proudly donning their colorful heraldry, only able to bring a few hundred, some only brought a few dozen.
Behind the nobility, cavalry standards were hoisted by skilled and rich mounted knights, armored in red coat of plates and chainmail. All while their great helmets glinted in the day. Their numbers counted up to six-thousand strong, commanded by the Swadian Constable: Charles De Praven.
Even after a hundred years, it was the largest force of horsemen ever assembled in the Swadian realm.
In the rear, Swadian infantry marched behind. Spears and polearms rested on the shoulders of footmen while red kite shields were strapped to their backs. Most were clad in chainmail with red cloth tabards and surcoats worn above. The rest was made up of recruits and militants too poor to afford fine armor, marching only in gambesons and ragged footwear, boar spears and axes in their hands. Levied peasantry could only carry crossbows with bucklers, clubs, daggers, and inherited short-swords fastened in their belts.
The wheels of wagons creaked while cattle was hauled along by quartermasters and servants. Fletchers, workers, cooks, and blacksmiths alike trudged by the sides of the marching column.
A good number of eighteen-thousand Swadians marched east forward to Rindyar Castle.
Harlaus took a glance behind his shoulder, "Is there any word on Count Delinard's whereabouts today?"
"None yet," Klargus said among trotting hooves, "Word is that he's still gathering more fighting men from Elberl and Veidar. He's trying to fill his ranks as much as he can."
"Hm, we'll have to continue without him then. The more we let the enemy encroach themselves into our territory, the more they will grow."
"He's a man who likes to prepare for the worst. Hopefully it turns into our favor, especially against a force of… thirty? Forty-thousand troops?."
"Fifty-thousand, and counting…"
"Ah yes fifty thousand. Phew, how does a man raise an army that large? Must be some kind of demon if he can march through our lands within a month."
"Well that's what the peasants are saying Klargus," Count Meltor chimed, draped in a yellow surcoat and chainmail, "It could just be fear, stories of war are always exaggerated. Minstrels and travellers only tell them in taverns just for a shiny piece of denar. I say the enemy is less than ten thousand strong, give or take."
Harlaus coughed, "I just can't find myself believing that such a number exists. Especially when they came from out of nowhere. You have to perform some sort of miracle to command that much respect."
"Indeed sire, it's as if the times have gone mad. We should've heard about this months ago."
"No matter the rumors gentlemen, hard times are ahead. We spent a month gathering this army so make it count."
It was truly a daunting task for King Harlaus, waiting for the lords from all around the realm to arrive, only for some to show up with a dozen men by their side. He could understand the circumstances of their affairs, but it was tremendously specified that he needed all they could use. Even if it were farmers with clubs and scythes. All while the countryside was burning and refugees began piling into the towns.
"Also…" He mused, "Meltor where are our scouts? They haven't reported to me or anyone else since this morning."
"It concerns me as well my liege. There's rumors going about that demons and giants are lurking in the forests. Illusions propped up by the enemy perhaps, but every group of scouts I send, there's always one of them missing."
"These people know what they're doing then, dammit." He muttered, "Any word on the other Kingdoms? Fifty-thousand legionaries or not, we can't take any chances."
"None yet my liege. The riders and emissaries are still making their way towards the other realms." He sighed, "In all honesty sire, I don't think the any of them will be joining us at all."
"Well we best count our blessings and pray to the heavens they grant us a miracle today. Everything we fought for… the great magnificence our lands hold… will be for nothing."
Even though the nobility rode with a sense of worrisome and trembling fear, most of the Swadians were fresh, fully awake and ready to fight by midday. A few levied peasants in the marching columns even grew confident, singing songs and cheering. Bored knights called for a small lunch, eating chunks of bread and pork while they jounced in their saddles.
Suddenly, Harlaus raised a hand, stopping the column of Swadians.
The words "Halt!" echoed from afar as the king gazed at the flat grassland plain before them, rugged steppe mountains lied in the distance, with a dense forest flanking their right. The castle was just an hour away.
"We'll set our camps here. Tomorrow we march for Rindyar Castle."
"Do you think there will be a battle tomorrow sire?" Klargus asked.
"There could be. It is inevitable in the end." Harlaus said with a stark gaze at the horizon.
Commands were shouted for the workers and soldiers alike to make camps. Footmen sharpened stakes and posted sentries, while servants rolled out tents and hammered in nails as they hoisted the tents up. Cooks began to herd cattle into makeshift fences that were mostly taken from wagons. Blacksmiths and fletchers unloaded their tools to begin repairing weapons and arrows alike.
Before foragers and scouts could begin though, a foreign, sudden, unsuspecting blare of a war horn cried from behind the horizon.
Harlaus himself did not recognize that blow of a horn, nor could any of the other nobility. It was bold and full of pride but with a dark ominous shrill. The Swadians stopped their work, the sound of saws and shouting fell silent. They only had trumpets, so it was not Count Delinard's contingency arriving, no. Rhodoks, Vaegirs, Sarranids, and even Nords themselves never blew any horns, only small bands of sea raiders and tundra bandits in the north.
Above the hills, a purple gonfalon was hoisted in the sky. In the center, gold dragon wings sprouted out like a flower, waving in the soft wind. Accompanying it was the sound of metal armor clinking and foreign chanting.
Three thick rows of a tightly packed Saderan formation emerged under the purple gonfalon and over the horizon. They held foreign banners never seen before, armed with spears and dark scutum shields, just like the stragglers and fleeing refugees had told them.
They were organized, their armor forged to match their comrades, red capes strapped to each man's back. The only ones that wore different sets of armor were the commanders and their plumed helmets, standing out like sore thumbs so the infantry knew who to obey.
Though most Swadians wore red dyed garbs and tabards that matched their kingdom's colors, most of the army was concocted of a vast assortment of armory. They could only find their lords and commanders by heraldry and flags, not armor or uniforms.
Despite the differences in armor, both of their numbers were equally matched, with battle-hardened and seasoned warriors on both sides. Even if the Saderans lacked cavalrymen, their disciplined lines and organization made up for the lack of horses.
Harlaus shouted his battle plans, automatically beginning the battle without hesitation.
"Form up! Battle formations!" Harlaus barked, riding his horse through the camps with his retinue behind, "Infantry at the center! Crossbows at the front! Riders! Cover the flanks! Quickly!"
His orders were echoed by other lords and commanders in an instant, hastily shouting "To arms! To arms!", as they rode frantically pass the red camps.
Footmen hollered and scrambled from their half-made tents and picked up their spears and kite shields. Crossbowmen in red gambesons cocked back the strings of their crossbows and slung their quivers over their chests. Heavy knights who had just dismounted from their horses hoisted themselves onto their saddles once again and rode to the flanks with haste, trying to find their lord and commander. Two columns of red and steel formed up, most of the veterans at the front while levied peasantry and recruits stayed in the reserves.
Skirmishers formed in a scattered formation at the front and raised their crossbows towards the approaching mass of legionaries. In front of the infantry, archers began to form up in the front aswell.
Count Deglan, covered in a hauberg with a green banner behind him, bellowed the command, "Crossbows! Shoot!"
Steel tipped bolts whizzed through the air, arching over the field and plummeting over the Saderan skirmishers.
Both sides exchanged volleys, with archers loosing their arrows at the Swadians and the crossbowmen shooting at the archers in response. Deglan himself could see the white fletched arrows prickle a few of his men, while he saw the opposing skirmishers get whittled down by his crossbow bolts.
With a shout, the Saderan archers retreated behind the infantry through gaps as the shieldwall was formed.
The Saderans held the advance, stopping. Their black scutums interlocked and were raised above their heads with spears jutting out. A turtle formation. Only their banners stuck out of the shell of shields.
Quarrels snapped and bounced off the unfazed scutums, like rain pattering against a roof.
With loud commands, they again pressed their advance slowly, marching as one body.
Harlaus rode behind the lines of the army with the nobility, getting a wider view of the field and ready to give his orders.
"We match their numbers equally, should we advance my liege?" Said Klargus.
"Slowly. We can't let them outflank the formation. Meltor and Rochabarth will lead the cavalry on the left and right flanks. When the time is right, listen for three blows of a trumpet. That is when the horses will advance."
Klargus nodded and rode behind the Swadian infantry, putting on his great helmet.
At his muffled words of "Banners! Forward!", the first row of Swadian footmen began to march as one. Their chainmail shambled loudly, helmets glistening as they marched over the field like a sea of red poppies.
Another volley of crossbows were loosed upon the Saderans, but again it proved to be a futile gesture.
"Hold!" Klargus shouted behind his helmet, the Swadians standing only a few dozen meters away from the Saderans, "Close ranks! Shieldwall!"
Crimson kite shields interlocked like the Saderans had done before. Spears jutted out and opposed the enemy.
"Forward! We march as one!"
Closer and closer the two mobs of men slowly converged, the shouting and adrenaline between the two armies grew louder and louder amidst the field.
Carnage then struck. Both formations met with insults and screaming. Red against gray, kite shield against scutum.
Shields pushed against each other, trying to overpower opposing side. Spears thrust and bit at exposed parts of armor, throats, pits, and faces. Both formations were caught in a scuffle, exchanging blow after blow. Crossbow bolts were loosed from the Swadians once again. This time, it feathered the legionaries within while they were locked in battle, but did not break the formation as intended.
Some few Swadians in the back hurled javelins, hoping to cause damage behind the shieldwall.
Klargus saw a javelin be thrown into the air, spinning. It struck a legionary, straight into his mouth and protruded out of the back of his neck.
It was a stalemate, both sides growing exhausted with each push. Even though the Saderans sported more numbers, the rear was pinned down by volleys of bolts and javelins. The Swadian footmen themselves were also experienced and reliable troops, able to hold the line.
But as the cries and yelling died down to nothing but the heavy pants of wary men, a pause fell on the battle.
"Legions of Sadera! Advance!"
"Hoo!"
An entire synchronized push shoved the Swadian formation back, some tripped and fell, swarmed by the sea of Saderans. The legionaries chanted in unison, pushing the shieldwall altogether. Each time the chant begun, "Hoo!", the Swadians were pushed back. Their footing dug into the dirt, trying not to lose anymore ground.
But the Saderans grew more aggressive, pulling out there gladius' and hacking into the fallen Swadians. One of the legionary's plunged his spear into a Swadian's stomach. Blood spurted from his mouth as the Swadian moaned in pain.
More losses on the Swadian side began to rise, bodies falling onto the grass. The Swadian formation was slowly giving ground, retreating, but not routing, not yet.
The formations finally disconnected. They needed time to breath. The masses departed to reveal dead bodies of both sides littering the grass they fought upon. In desperation, the Swadians began to hurl missiles and ranged weapons at the Saderans. Darts, javelins, and even stones plucked from the ground were thrown at the shieldwall.
The nobility of Swadia watched from afar, behind barriers of stakes and wagons that had yet to be dismantled.
"Gah! It's no use, we're getting nowhere!" Harlaus grunted.
"They're too tightly packed, if we don't do something, we'll have to route our forces." Said Klargus, riding back from the battle.
Count Meltor rode to Harlaus' side, "Sire, we can turn the tide with our cavalry! Our Men-At-Arms and Knights can wedge through the sides and ride into the center."
"But we can't risk our horsemen getting swamped in a sea of disciplined soldiers!"
"Well we have to do at least something!"
"If we want our cavalry to turn this battle into our favor, we have to weaken their flanks." Count Tredian entered the conversation. Though he had only brought a thousand men, he carried the most cavalry units in his party, "Make them focus on the center more. They'll add more men to the middle once they start to struggle."
"He's right." Harlaus lamented, "We have to to do something to make them relieve the flanks."
"We need horses. Heavy horses." Tredian said, "A small contingent of chargers will do."
Three dozen knights formed a wedge behind the buckling infantry, shaped like an arrowhead, aiming straight for the center. Their heavy destriers and hunters dug their hooves in the dirt in anticipation, puffs of steaming breath streaming out of their snouts.
Ser Collins, a sworn Swadian Knight of Suno and one of the captains of Count Tredians cavalry, led the formation. Two large banners of his king and lord were hoisted behind him, big as sheets.
He gave a steady glance at his men before shouting his order.
"Forward!"
Plate armored chargers ran at a steady pace, straight at the footmen that split apart to carve a path for them. Through heaving puffs, the horses picked up speed, couched lances now protruding from the formation.
"Charge!" He yelled.
A few of the footmen they passed waved their helmets, cheering for the knights, bidding them good luck. The final line of footmen opened like doors, just in time to reveal the wall of the foreign scutums.
The knights screamed their battle cry. Two crimson banners that were big as sheets rippled above them. They charged with pride and courage, enough to scare the first few legionaries at the front, who moved their shields away in terror, breaking the line.
Like the thrust of a spear, the brazen wedge formation smashed through the shieldwall. Ser Collins took the first kill, breaking his lance into a legionary's chest. He pulled out his arming sword right after and slashed at the legionaries from his saddle.
Seeing that the shieldwall was finally broken, the Swadian infantry joined the fray once again, no hesitation. Those at the center charged at the exposed gap before the Saderans could reform.
Legionaries pulled out their shortswords and close combat weapons, ready for the Swadian charge.
A crazed and bloody frenzy soon broke out. Sword struck against sword and shield alike, axes hacked at limbs and torsos, maces bashed in skulls and dented armor.
A blood soaked Saderan tackled a Swadian on the ground and bashed his shield against his skull, crushing it.
Poleaxes and flashing billhooks appeared from the Swadian side. They maimed and struck the Saderans with heavy swings, constantly whittling their numbers.
A footman in a kettle hat swung his billhook into a legionary's neck, tugging it out and tearing chunks of his throat out, soaking his comrade's red capes with darker crimson blood.
"What is our legion doing!?" A noble cried, "Why are they dying?!"
"Yes, they're dying." An experienced legate chided, "Battles tend to be like that."
He turned to his Tribune, "Reinforce the center with the left flank, push these barbarians back to where they came from."
"Wouldn't we be exposing the flanks, legate?"
"Let them come if they want to. Those beasts have been itching for a fight anyways."
Ser Collin fought hard and fast beside the footmen and knights.
He swung his sword vigorously high up from his saddle, cleaving a man's head off. His horse even held the ground firmly with bold kicks at anyone who attacked their position. A volley of arrows rained onto him, but he did not flinch, not one bit. Arrows flew into his coat of plates and glanced off his helmet, creating sparks, not one scratch.
But the fight from his saddle did not last. A legionary snuck a spear into his destrier's exposed armor, causing her to scream and stand on her hind legs. Another spear was then stabbed into her chest, killing her.
He fell hard onto the ground as his horse tumbled down, but the pain only subsided. He was caught in the thick of the fighting, there was no time to think about the pain.
He stood, shield and sword at the ready. His heater shield deflected a spear's thrust, and returned the blow with a slash at the Saderan's neck.
Collins could see more and more Swadians join his fight, relieving him of anymore backstabbers. He saw his fellow knight charge into a group of legionaries, shouting, "Forward! Forward!", constantly as he chopped through the sea of men.
But more pressing matters occurred as he caught a glimpse of more legionaries marching into the center. All around him the legionaries began to reform, picking up spare shields and spears in place of ones they lost.
A confident Swadian tried to charge deep into enemy lines, but to no avail he was merely cut down, and so were the Swadians around him.
Though it wasn't both flanks, the enemy finally left the right flank naked and skinny. Harlaus could the see the backs of the right flank depart from their comrades and march into the center.
"Aha! Now's our chance!" Harlaus yelled, "Meltor!"
"Yes sire!"
"Take our cavalry from left flank and tell them to charge the enemy's right! Push into the center and route these foreigners back to where they came from."
Meltor nodded and rode at the front of the red cavalry units, his horse covered in the yellow coat of arms.
"Cavalry, follow me!"
Hundreds of red banners and standards flew over their heads as their steeds began to pick up speed, spearheads of their lances flashing.
Ser Collins dragged a wounded knight away from the fight, back to where the rest of the footmen began to reform the crimson shield wall.
The two formations disconnected once again, both sides retreating and leaving a larger pile of bodies that littered the ground with blood, bodies, and death.
The legionaries shouted out those damned commands again, "Legions of Sadera! Bring the empire glory!"
"Hoo!" They all shouted again, shieldwall reformed.
A dozen voices cried out in fear, but Collin's was the loudest and the bravest.
"Close ranks! Stand your ground! All of you!"
"We've no chance!" A voice shouted back, more cries of cowardliness beginning to grow louder and louder in fear.
"We can't break through their center again!"
"Retreat! Live to fight another day!"
"There's too many of them!"
Suddenly, the ground below both the Saderan's and the Swadian's feet began to rumble, with pebbles and rock alike shivering off the ground. It deafened the feared shouting and wailing, with the screams of knights and men-at-arms intensifying behind their backs.
Ser Collins turned back, behind the sea of red Swadian footmen. A hundred horses charge at the right flank, the unit of Swadians on the right parting ways so the horses can move freely without disruption. The trotting hooves of a thousand heavy destriers and hunters sounded in the air. Red banners and standards flapped over their heads as their steeds began to pick up speed, the chainmail and plated armor draped over the horses glistened like a stream of silver coins.
The invigorated legionaries' morale melted as a wedge of knights aimed their lances at the formation.
They shuffled backwards in fear, trembling at the sight of a bold cavalry charge. The centurion at the front tried to hurdle them back into formation, calling them cowards and deserters until he too saw what faced them.
A knight's lance broke into his face, tearing through his skull and ripping his upper head off. His plumed helmet was flung away, a woeful sight to his men who finally broke off and retreated.
"Haha yes! Swadia stands!" Ser Collins yelled. He pulled his white arming sword out and pointed the gleaming point at the enemy, "Men of Swadia! With me!"
The footmen cheered and charged with their polearms at the scutum shield wall, chanting with every last bit of their hopes for a victory.
Meltor, leading the charge in his golden surcoat, road through a sea of Saderans. He swung his spiked morningstar with might and main, bludgeoning in helmets and heads, all while his bodyguard kept him from being surrounded. More and more horsemen smashed into the Legionary's lines, breaking their formation and causing them to throw down their weapons and scatter.
"Push into the center!" He cried, raising his bloodied morningstar.
The red cavalrymen chopped their way through, from the broken right flank of the disoriented legionaries and into the heavy center. The red banners of Swadia stood upon the Saderans, blotting out the purple flags of Sadera.
With the shieldwall breaking, the footmen finally made way. The Saderans began to give ground, trying to fight off both the cavalry and infantry that pushed them back.
"Victory is close!" Ser Collins yelled, "Push forward men!"
Him and other footmen charged through the wall. They fought off alarmed legionaries who grasped at their shortswords for close combat. With their right flank exposed and the shieldwall struggling with the Swadian infantry, the Saderans finally retreated at the sound of a war horn.
In the heart of a dense and dark forest, they peeked through the trees and branches with their soulless primal eyes. Heavy puffs of breath steamed out of their large green snouts. They bared their sharp rotten teeth, some few grinned as they sharpened their heavy axes.
A red plumed legate rode in front of the rag-tag cohort of ogres and goblins. He pulled out his gleaming shortsword and aimed it at the crimson sea of Swadians.
"It's time you lot prove your worth!" He yelled, "Charge!"
It was a whirlwind of disaster for the Saderan formation, but a golden moment for the Swadians. Heavy polearms of footmen maimed the struggling legionaries, as the mounted knights and men-at-arms cut their way through the formations.
Victory for the Swadians was inevitable.
Ominously, the trees on their right creaked. They swayed back and forth, as if the wind blew hard and fast. But it was a clear day with no signs of a storm brewing. Birds flocked away from the trees, frightened.
A deep silence fell on the Swadians as the sound of trees were bent and shuffled. They could feel the ground beneath them vibrate and shake to heavy stomps.
Fat green fingers shoved a grabbed a tree and pushed it over, roots and stems pulled from the ground. From the forests revealed a massive hulking beast that stood as tall as the trees they emerged from. Fast and agile goblins passed by the ogre's and orc's stumpy legs, daggers and poisonous darts in their hands. They roared in a hellish choir and raised their weapons in the air, shutting out the victorious morale the Swadians held.
"By the heavens…" Meltor muttered, fear in his eyes.
Tired Swadians tried to form their lines, but the fresh and ready goblins and demi-humans were fast and agile, some few jumping over the shields and spears. Screams of terror howled among the Swadians, and the worst only came as more and more began to route.
Meltor could see a knight get swarmed by goblins, his horse hounded by numerous throwing knives and darts. His steed flopped onto its side, trapping the knight's leg underneath its dead body.
"What in heaven's name are these things-gah!" He only gurgled after, a small dagger was plunged into his throat, ending him.
An orc smiled with saliva dripping from his lips. His fingers plucked a small boulder from his pouch and dropped it in his massive sling. His muscles and biceps flexed as he swung it in a circle. The boulder was let loose, straight into the Swadian formation.
The speeding boulder smashed and tore into a dozen footmen, picking up dirt and dust at its impact. It bounced into the ground and into another group, ripping off heads and piercing through ribs and torsos.
Ogres stood like islands in the sea of men and swapped away the soldiers into the air like swapping away flies. One of the tall beasts flung a mounted horseman forty feet into the air, all with a swing of his wooden log.
Arrows rained upon the Swadians again. The Sadaren legionaries once again joined the fray with their lines and shields reformed like they were at the beginning of the battle. They began to finish off the Swadian army with one last push. Spears were stabbed into routing
Death was upon the Swadians, and defeat was truly certain.
"Retreat!" Meltor screamed in his muffled great helm, the trumpet blaring all around him, "Retreat! Now! The battle is lost!"
All of the Swadian forces were in retreat, routing. Footmen threw their weapons down and ran away from the carnage, some sergeants waving their way back. Both mounted knights and men-at-arms trotted away from the deformed battle field, some horses left empty and running back. The last few that were too injured or too exhausted to run back home were left behind to a foreign fate that awaited them.
Soon, the battlefield began to grow quieter and placid. The last things the victorious Saderans heard from the Swadians were wails of cowardliness and cries of retreat. All that was left in the field were the carcasses of horses and men alike, laying in the blood-stained grass with no hint of light. Already there were flies that began to feast on the corpses, and birds began to circle above the field.
A faint storm of souls scattered pass the legionaries and auxiliary as they stood strong and victorious. The Saderan gonfalon was raised high, and stabbed into the ground.
The Battle of Amere, won by the Saderan Empire's auxiliary and legions.
"We have won! Haha!" A legionary cheered, raising his hands in the air.
Jeering and gladdening shouts of happy men began, breaking the silent field with a shrill of victory.
Terror had already struck the nobility, so much that it caused Harlaus' horse to back away even if he was far from the battle. So much so, that he ignored the thousands of injured Swadians returning. Words could not form in his mouth, only expressions that twisted into awe and terror at the beasts that they could only imagine in their nightmares. But what stung Harlaus and the commanding lords' minds was those beasts were not on their side.
"Klargus." Harlaus called for Klargus, a pinch of anger in his voice.
When the count rode up to his side, the old king spoke softly, quiet, "We hold the line at Dhirim. No more ground will be lost. Do you understand that?"
"Yes… S-Sire."
Before Harlaus could join the retreat though, his king's gauntlets gripped his shoulder tightly, fury in his eyes.
"I mean it." He snapped, "Either Swadia wins, or Swadia dies. I will not let foreigners and outsiders who have tamed these damned demons ravage and rape this land. We. Hold. The. Line."
Klargus' eyes, wide and taken aback from the beasts that had arrived and most certainly turned the tide of the battle, slowly narrowed in determination. Finally, the king was in his prime.
He nodded, "Yes sire."
Reyvadin
Reyvadin was farthest from the snow, built in a clear tundra. It stood on a cold and damp green hill, snowcapped peaks standing behind it. A great difference in comparison to Rivacheg, where the towers and walls were built entirely out of black cold rock stone with thick white snow piling onto it.
Two walls of thick shaved pinewood defended it, while vibrant paints traded from Geroia faintly colored the small parts of housing inside the walls. Door frames and porch columns were painted in red and green patterns, while carved yellow swans and flowers lined the blue colored edges of sharp, triangular roofs.
Lamellar armored guards walked along the wooden palisades with long bardiches resting on their shoulders, sharp-eyed archers in fur and leather observed from log towers.
Thick wooden gates from the gatehouse creaked open. A rider draped in red galloped between two Swadian Knights, their red lion banner rippling in the wind above. A dozen silver Vaegir knights who met the party before followed after.
As they galloped through the town and forward to the keep, townspeople and workers glanced at their way, a few giving them dark looks, not happy on foreigners entering their home. The townspeople wore white and green tunics, their hems and necklines rife with family embroidery, whereas the peasantry in Swadia only covered themselves in plain white and red tunics.
The group of Swadians and Vaegirs dismounted from their coursers and destriers at the granite stairs of the main keep, white banners draping over the black stone.
The Swadian messengers stepped inside the cold hall of the king while a group of armored Vaegirs stood behind.
Yaroglek sat, assuming that the Nords decided to wage war again, or the Sea Raiders near the coasts amassed an army and began to terrorize the outskirts. Not that he cared much for the villages, but more on the fact that they'd be blocking off trade routes and merchants from traveling to Rivacheg.
"Your majesty," The knelt messenger knelt, "I bring a message from the Swadian Realm."
The court constable spoke first, "Speak loud boy, what message do you bring?"
"My king wishes to sign a defense pact with the Vaegir Kingdom, temporary or not. His scouts report that a large invading force of fifty-thousand is terrorizing the land. They've already sacked three of our lord's fiefs and march forth to Dhirim to set a garrison foothold."
The red garbed messenger handed the brown piece of rich parchment sealed by red wax to Yaroglek, "Fifty-thousand?" He breathed, sitting straight and no longer bored.
"A frightening number. But this could surely be a lie," The Chamberlain denied, "No kingdom would raise such an army just to take Calradia. Calradios himself fielded half of that and defeated the native tribes with ease."
"It could be…" The Constable nodded, "But I have recieved reports of large detachments near Dramug Castle for the past few days. Just this morning a patrol had a skirmish with red cloaked men near Vezin. I assumed they were outnumbered by forest bandits but I guess I was wrong. It's probable that they're sending scouts into our territory now."
Yaroglek rubbed his chin, hunched over the table, thinking, "How did they land in Calradia and sack three castles without a word getting out to us?"
"That is if the army is marching as one." The messenger added, "Large forces with foreign banners marching south into the Sarranid and Khergit realms have been seen as well. We don't even have a full count. Just estimates."
"Hmph" Yaroglek breathed, "I fear we may be facing a conquest from a grand nation. Not a petty raid or shorthanded war they wish to have."
"Should we agree to Harlaus' message then?" The Constable asked nervously, "We only field eight thousand fighting men, levy the realm and altogether we'd march with only a thousand more peasants. Even with the Swadians, we'd only match half of what the scouts counted."
King Yaroglek folded his hands on his chest, thinking. The quiet fires of the silent keep crackled as his old mind returned to war.
Swadia had fought with them before, yes. Against the first Nordic raiders and Khergit hordes, so it was no obstacle to agree. But before was ages ago, before Yaroglek himself was even born. His war with the Swadians was harsh, a stalemate that only ended in death.
Yet, these 'conquerors' did not deserve even a fraction of the land that their fathers had bled for. The Nords were more deserving of ruling Calradia than an army with no noble claim. But this was a prepped force ready to take the country with professional tactics and skill. They sent scouts first, planning on the weakest parts on where to attack. It was not some peasantry that grew cocky and armed themselves with cheap swords.
Damn. He was the king of the Vaegirs, he fought wars like his father and those before him. But now the realm was on the brink of collapse while he was in charge. Only eight thousand fighting men dammit, not only that but the bulk of the force was dressed in rags and equipped with hide shields and skinny pikes. Why had this have to happen when he was king?
No, he would not ask himself that. Like his father told him before his passing, a king does not ask but simply does. It is the sole reason why the kingdom had yet to fall from war.
With two words, he spoke through the cold frozen air.
"We shall." His voice echoed throughout the quiet hall, "The Kingdom of Vaegirs will accept King Harlaus' wishes. Write a letter to the King and send the messenger on his way."
A chancery nodded to his king from behind a desk and plucked a quill from the ink.
He turned to the constable to give his orders, "Because we cannot spread our forces thin, I can only spare three hundred men to Dhirim, Boyar Khavel will lead the detachment. Send word to the marshal, Boyar Marmun, that our forces will be drawn at the rivers near Curaw by tomorrow. We cannot match their might, but if by some miracle we can at least route them."
The Constable bowed, "It will be done sire."
"Swadia has stood with us before. And we will stand with them once again."
At his youth, he read the old books of Calradios and his conquering of the land. Stories, plays, all telling the stories of how Calradios and the exiles united the land into one great empire. But during his conquest, he had yet to hear anything of the tribes that were there before Calradios. Not even whispers. No stories of how they made their last stand. Records of their culture and alliances still lingered through rotting books and exaggerated texts, but it was nothing noteworthy, only that they were the downtrodden in Calradios' great campaign.
'What if now, we are the downtrodden?' Yaroglek said to himself.
Phew, this chapter was a pain in the ass. Seriously, trying to come up with a decent battle with at least some medieval tactics is pretty time consuming, that and being toppled with exams at the end of my semester, it was really hard to write.
Please don't get mad that the Swadians lost, the war isn't over yet, and the next is going to focus more on the aftermath of the battle rather than another one. Warning that there will be some OCs, but they are just along for the ride, I'll try not to make them insufferable or anything like that.
Now, you may notice the French text in the start and if that is weird, leave a comment about it or something like that, and I can remove it. But I've always thought that the Swadians were based off of the Feudal French, rather than the Feudal English because of their crossbows and knights, rather than the longbows. It could be a mix, not sure, but I like the idea of them being speakers of an uncommon language. (Yeah I know the Swadians speak english in here but thinking that they speak French gives it a more fantasy-like feel. It helps make Calradia feel like a real fantasy place than medieval europe 2.0.)
The lyrics were taken from the French Crusading song "Les Terres Saintes", which is a pretty good listen. I recommend it.
Also, this being the second chapter, this is where all the fantasy and realistic medieval stuff begins to intertwine. There is also a discussion about whether this is a second gate or not. It... really depends? I am writing this for fun, but I also already have a plotline with just Calradia being the only ones to go through the Gate. But hey things can change.
Should the seven kingdoms meet the JSDF? I mean, things would be easier, but it would also take out some of the stuff I wanted to do, like arranged marriages, rebellions, civil wars and unique battles when the Calradians enter the gate guns blazing (Or swords and axes blazing). It will pretty much be far from canon because this will be a long struggle between two equally matched forces.
Then again, it depends on you guys. Thank you all for leaving reviews and follows/favorites, they help me write this stuff. It is my first time posting on, so criticism is welcome, just don't go on and start cussing me out like an immature child. Also, some tips on how to improve the writing and dialogue, ESPECIALLY the dialogue. Seriously, I need alot of help on that, it is not my thing. Also, because realistic Medieval customs and stuff is not discussed as much as WW2 or Modern military, or other time periods, if you have any information on real life medieval customs, weapons, armor, and tactics, it would be greatly appreciated. Hell, give me some info on how daily life was in the middle ages!