Writings, medieval draft one

Posted on

Seimon looked out over the battlefield below, taking in everything. The smell of blood, tinny on the wind, mingling with the stink of fear, sweat and far worse muck. The sight of hundreds, possibly thousands of bodies, most dead, all interlinked with ally and foe alike. The sound of pitiful cries from the few remaining wounded, crying out for help that would likely not be in time, and almost certainly not enough. But nothing matched the feeling inside. A feeling of guilt, mixed with relief.

He had been conscripted to a unit of spearmen in the second reserve for Lord Stackpole’s army- reluctantly of course. The unit had been given a few days drilling practice before the long march into Kriils. It was on the grasslands a few miles short of the border town of Graycott the army finally halted, weapons distributed and units fed. After a short rest the call to order had run through the assembled troops and Seimon had taken his place to march again. But as the army crested the hill above the town a terrifying sight was revealed. Lord Stanlow, rival of Lord Stackpole for the vacant throne, was waiting with a host far in excess of Lord Stackpole’s.

Rushed orders had the invading force take position whilst Stackpole’s honour guard accompanied him to the parley. From his position towards the back of the force Seimon could see little, but murmurings and rumours made it back to them eventually- this was an unbeatable force, outnumbered five to one, some rumours suggested far more. As the honour guard returned a flag was raised and the first troops began to advance, swordsman and militia moving to engage the advance elements of Lord Stanlow’s host. Seimon’s fellow spearmen moved forward on commands to take up the vacant space ahead and a cold feeling of dread entered the stomach of every man in the unit.

An hour after the first advance, nobody had details of the initial contact, but as wave after wave of soldiers were pressed forward, and the entire first reserve was committed to battle, the second reserve finally advance to a position in which they could see the massacre below. It was clear casualties had been heavy on both sides, but the steady stream of units advancing from this side of the plain was dwarfed by the numbers across the battlefield. It was at this point a cavalry force arrived on the East of the field, a mix of light and heavy horse advancing at a gallop into the flank of Lord Stackpole’s infantry. Lacking heavy cavalry of his own Lord Stackpole had immediately ordered his light horse to reinforce and waved the second reserve onto the field.

The reserve began to trudge down the field, swords ahead with spears following up. The light cavalry ahead reached the reinforcing cavalry of Lord Stanlow and was quickly repulsed. Unfortunately the line of retreat was blocked by the advancing swordsmen. Confusion hit the combined units as the cavalry of the enemy charged them. At this point men from Seimons unit faltered, some dropping their weapons and retreating, whilst others merely hesitated, unsure what to do. As the line became stretched, it was clear to Seimon the heavy cavalry would be upon them shortly. Throwing down his spear he quickly turned and joined his fellow recruits in fleeing.

As he reached his armies lines Seimon could see a furious Lord Stackpole hacking fiercely around him with his longsword, cutting down conscripts as the fled past him. One, clearly more travelled than the rest, dodged a swing from the mighty sword and planted a knife through a gap in Lord Stackpole’s armour, leaving it up to the hilt under his armpit. Caught by surprise Lord Stackpole sank to his knees as more men ran past to the safety of the trees behind. Seimon stopped ahead of his Lord, feeling no duty to him, instead feeling a raw anger as the potential for death dawned on him. He reached down to lift the greatsword, only to discover it’s weight was beyond his ability to swing. Abandoning the idea he instead reached for the knife- still embedded inside Lord Stackpole- and twisted, before tearing it out and pushing the man to the ground with his boots.

A cheer rose from around him as he moved into the trees, pocketing the knife as he went.

Now, some time later he watched with barely a hundred men as the victorious troops of Lord Stanlow looted the battlefield. The guilt at his murder of Lord Stackpole- aided of course by another whom he’s not seen since- combined with relief at surviving the battle. The relief was cooled by the knowledge it could only be a matter of time before the soldiers stripping corpses ahead were reformed and sent for the survivors. A fast retreat home seemed pointless given the lack of horses. Some men had left, but the majority held on, seemingly looking to Seimon for leadership or at least guidance since his killing of their former master. Seimon offered nothing, being no more than a farmer presented with an opportunity to slaughter a weakened man, he had no experience to draw on. No plan, no idea what to do next. Stackpole’s honour guard had remained with the group, offering no threat to Seimon, despite their role being that of protection, a role in which they had clearly failed.