Lykourgos III: The Stand at Haengen
Fifth Day of the Fifth Month, 874 AD.
Haengen, Western Nordicos, Klironomea.
Megalothiriopolis lay to the south, Corthraxiopolis to the east, and the lands under his command far behind him. The army had made good progress marching down this road, and he thanked the Angels that the Nordicans had maintained their stretch of the Riverroad far better than had been initially expected.
He wasn't sure exactly why the well-maintained nature of the roads had been left out of the scouting reports brought to him, but he supposed it didn't matter at the moment. Still, it was something he'd like to make sure didn't get left out in the future.
The Nordicans had marched out to meet them, as he suspected they would. They had to, lest the second largest city in their kingdom fall to him without a fight. The terrain here was good, the enemy arrayed in ranks before him, and for the first time since he had stormed Stagspring he was being assailed by flights of arrows and ballistae bolts.
In short, it was all very exciting.
The army before them was somewhere around three times smaller than Lykourgos' own forces, though given that he'd only brought fourteen-thousand soldiers to this battle in practice it was closer to two times smaller rather than three times. Still, the quantity advantage was solidly within the realm of the young King's forces.
There were no armsmen amongst the ranks of the Nordic army arrayed before him, and by his estimations they'd still be garrisoning Corthraxiopolis and seeing to the protection of house Petrinos in their palace. Nordicos had never held the potential for a large army, but it did maintain a solid core of light cavalry around which the rest of the army acted.
Those light horsemen had played havoc on his lines in the earlier portion of the battle, but in the melee that now dominated the field?
Most had now dismounted to join their comrades in holding the line. There was little more they could do from horseback to keep their fellows safe.
"LIEUTENANT CORVAN! GATHER AS MANY OF YOUR MEN AS YOU CAN AND PUNCH THROUGH THEIR LEFT FLANK! TAKE THE HILL WITH THOSE SCORPIONS!"
The man, Corvan, struck down a Nordican knight with what looked like a small but noticeable amount of exhaustion, then turned and nodded.
"Aye, your Grace!" He turned about once more, looking to a few of his men closest to him. "You heard his Grace, get to it! Thousand, on me! Advance!"
Lykourgos couldn't help but smile as a few dozen men moved with their Lieutenant to carry out their orders, swiftly joined by many of their fellows as soon as they realised what was going on or the orders otherwise made their way down the line.
It was only for a few more moments that he looked over his men, and then he got back to the sinful task at hand. The four Nordican levies stood opposite him seemed uncertain as to their chances, even as to how they should approach him, and so he couldn't quite keep the smile from his face as he lowered the faceplate on his helmet once more.
He swung his sword about his head in a wide arc, forcing his opponents to keep their distance from him. His sword was far greater in length than the longseaxes and shortspears that the levies arrayed before him wielded, and there was little chance he was going to let them out of his sight before the fight was done.
One of the men surged forwards and swung their blade about in an arc, and though there wasn't the opportunity for a riposte the attack was easily parried.
Lykourgos swung his sword out in front of him a few times almost lazily, the movements having little force behind them save only enough to make a chopping noise as it cut through the air. These peasants wouldn't be able to touch him here, and even if they could it would hardly make a difference; full plate armour with mail and a gambeson beneath it was more than enough to render almost any blow they might have been able to strike him with worthless.
They could hope to bruise him, and little more.
Twice more did the same man surge forwards, testing his defences with . Lykourgos' blade bit back with a slash across the man's chest, and his opponent toppled to the floor in shock.
He turned to look at the other three Nordicans surrounding him, levelling his sword at each of them in turn. After less than a moment the three men dropped their swords to the floor, defeat in their eyes.
"Smart move." He turned his head and nodded at their fallen comrade on the floor. His wounds looked serious, but not quite fatal. "Carry him behind my lines. He fought bravely, and I can certainly use men like that. Go, now!"
He snapped out his orders to them, and at once the men obeyed. Two of them moved to pick up their friend, whilst the other looked at him with an expression that made it very clear he was glad not to have been killed here. He spared them no more than a half-second's glance, and then moved forwards to the next set of soldiers to face down. Be they men he would spare or men they would slay, he would face them down all the same.
There were few amongst the ranks of the enemy that had phased him so far; most of them had been veterans of the Grey Company wielding their polearms and axes in tightly-packed ranks, since they knew well to keep each other's flanks guarded and were hell to separate from each other in order to face. They knew where there strengths did lie, and they utilised them well.
Still, the Grey Company itself was busy fighting for Licotemos against the invading Kortherans as far east as Klironomea went, and so those veterans were few and far between. That by itself was noticable in how the Nordican lines buckled and bent under pressure, although to their credit they had not yet broken. It had been close a few times, but they were still fighting. It was a testament to their courage, their morale, and it made them a worthy opponent.
The enemy had picked a good place to face him, in all fairness. It wouldn't be enough by itself, for simply having the terrain on your side wasn't ever going to win a pitched battle by itself, but they'd chosen to face him at a place that would have been one of his first choices if he were fighting on the other side of this battle.
The terrain was hilly and rough, though not enough to truly impede the goings-on of the massed infantry in their formations. It had rendered his advantage in heavy horse almost null, as there was no way in hell that a heavily armoured rider and mare would be able to manoeuvre up and down the small rocky hillocks effectively. This was a battle for blocks of infantry, for soldiers on foot fighting in small bands, and whilst he still had an advantage in both quality and quantity there as well it was still countered somewhat by the many chokepoints and hilltops that needed to be taken piecemeal.
Though this may have seemed prideful or vain, or perhaps even reckless, he couldn't escape the fact that he was glad that this was an actual fight instead of a massacre. The battle he'd fought in at the Einarbrycge had just been a festival of gore and slaughter, save the storming of the Starling's camp.
Huh. Strange to think about, but that battle was now two years past. Time seemed to really have flown by since then.
Still, he couldn't shake the excitement that came with knowing that he was in a fight to the death, knowing that he could kill those who stepped in his way with few able to stop him. He was as a daemon on the field of battle, perhaps not as agile or strong as Rhema but certainly with the stamina and staying power to outlast him. Did it make him sinful, to enjoy fighting? Maybe. He'd have to ask Nasos for absolution later. He'd ask Dreamwulf as well, but the man was no longer a monk as he had been. Besides, monks didn't absolve people of their sins, for that was a priest's job.
Ensuring that he'd saved that thought for later, he brought his focus back to the fights going on around him. A pair of men armed with longseaxes rushed towards him, and he moved forwards at a brisk pace to meet them halfway.
He struck forwards with his shield whilst swinging his sword out in an arc to his right, feeling the crunch as a man's nose shattered under the force of the shield and the jolt as his sword caught itself in another's spine. A quick follow-up after pulling his sword free of the man to his right made sure that the man with the broken nose soon found such an injury to be the least of his worries.
The two men fell to the floor, their eyes already glassy and their limbs sprawling. They were, without a doubt, dead.
Angels forgive him for saying this, but he truly did enjoy this. He knew he shouldn't, not really, but he loved it nonetheless. He couldn't help it, he supposed; he'd been raised by a man who was more a soldier than a lord, had grew up around military men of all stripes and walks of life, had even made his fame leading them during the Twilight Rebellion. Soldiery and warfare was in his blood, however pretentious or belligerent it may have made him sound.
He loved war. He loved fighting. His whole life he'd had to be calm, calculating, and stern, but in times such as this he could almost feel his mind embracing the same wild nature that he knew dwelled so very deeply in his beloved brother's soul.
They were cut from the same cloth, he and Rhema, and there were so very many times he felt things would be so much easier if he could just give in to impulse and relish in bloodshed as much as his younger brother did.
He couldn't, though. He just couldn't. There were expectations bearing down on him, ones that his brother had shorn a long time ago. It wasn't Rhema's fault and he'd never think less of his brother for it, of course not, but it just meant that the two of them were living with very different expectations riding upon their backs.
Rhema was a warrior and a dependable right hand, as loyal as it was possible to be and someone who genuinely tried their best to apply themselves when necessary. But, by his own admission, he wasn't cut out to rule people. He wasn't a king. He knew the basics of stewardship and administration nowadays, and that was definitely something that made Lykourgos intensely proud of his brother, but he had his limits.
Lykourgos wasn't allowed those limits. He had to keep moving forwards, had to keep learning, had to make sure he wasn't falling behind in any of the subjects that a man who wanted to rule over an entire people needed to keep himself alive and those people thriving. He had to keep moving forwards, and he had to make sure he never stopped.
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Bloodshed stripped all that away from him. Bloodshed allowed him to, even if only for a day, remove the cloak and crown of duty and responsibility and instead relish in the inherent artisanry of death on so grand a scale. He was whole in these moments, and when he felt his sword cut through the sword-arm of a woman who'd thought to take him by surprise he was the most at peace he could ever remember being.
He felt a grin slip over his face as he cut her down with a follow-up swing, then allowed himself a moment to relax. The enemies nearest to him were dead, this hillock taken, and so he looked out over the others nearby where his brave soldiers were fighting. He watched them fight, alone or in groups, as though they were born for it. They cut Nordican levies and knights down with an almost surgical application of force, their lesser commanders knowing where and when to strike the foe and reinforce their comrades.
For a moment he wondered if any of his men would catch sight of him there, would see him looking over them whilst covered in the same blood and guts that they were whilst his slickened armour glinted as it caught the sunlight of the golden hours.
He was no painter however, and so however kingly such an image may have appeared there was little use for him to dwell on it at the moment. There was still more killing to be done.
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For two further hours did he fight and kill, moving from hillock to hillock alongside his guards as though they had been made for this war. Dreamwulf was at his side, as was Lieutenant Aetvia and a few men she'd handpicked from her thousand. Of course he was impressed with the skill by which his men carried and wielded their weapons, the authoritative tone with which the Lieutenant barked out orders, the way they were followed to the letter but still with room for improvisation, but the thing that really stood out to him was Dreamwulf.
The blind man was once again proving himself in the sport of battle, and he was an opponent that Lykourgos was very happy to say he'd never have to face.
He wasn't really keeping track of who had killed how many people this time, since he was more concerned with achieving victory than the petty dramatics that had characterised his war against his siblings two years ago, but he was glad to see his bodyguard fighting again. There was something about the rough and yet somehow perfectly timed movements the man made whilst fighting that captivated him, well, when he himself felt closest to letting go of his inhibitions and embracing his wilder side as well.
He knew that some amongst the Scelopyrene barbaroi were rumoured to allow themselves to fall into battle-trances before a fight, rendering them unable to be harmed or slowed until killed. There were times such as this where Lykourgos wondered whether or not his friend had a little northman blood in his veins flowing alongside that of the Skraeling and Klironomoi as well, such was the ferocity and tenacity with which he fought off the advances of the foe.
Of course, it didn't truly matter where it was that Dreamwulf's ancestors might have come from, nor did it matter as to what people they belonged to. Dreamwulf was Dreamwulf, and he was a ferocious fighter.
There was a cry from some of men below, a commotion that heralded a shift in the way that one of the battle-lines was moving. He moved down towards the men, signalling for Aetvia to hold the hillock they had been standing atop with her men whilst Dreamwulf moved alongside him after a quick "With me".
"Your Grace! Your Grace! It's the Axeknights! They're here!"
Lykourgos cursed and wheeled around, immediately moving to face one of the new arrivals.
"Dreamwulf! There's three men coming, heavily armoured and wielding polearms. I'll take the one in the centre, you take the one on the left; our boys already have the one on the right occupied."
The bodyguard nodded, not a hint of doubt or argument in his voice.
"Aye, friend! Don't worry for me, I'll see us out've 'ere."
Though the man couldn't see it he nodded, as though on impulse, and concentrated on the knight who was to be his quarry for the ensuing fight.
The Axeknights of Morna were hulking fighters, matched only in size and the weight of their arms by the Knights of the Bloody Cross in Haraldia. They were tall and well-built, each man covered from head to toe in full plate whilst carrying a truly huge poleaxe.
The thing that really set them apart however was the haft of said poleaxes; the Axeknights of Morna worshiped the Angel from which they took their name, and to honour the Angel of Stone and Steel the hafts of their greataxes were carved from stone rather than wood, with leather-wrapped handles. Lykourgos knew that each one must have weighed a great deal, but the Axeknights handled them nearly as deftly as any other man might have handled a traditional poleaxe.
Nearly.
He knew he would have to be agile to win this fight here, for brute strength and any attempt to outlast one of these vaunted fighters would fail. They were stronger than him, and they certainly had more endurance than he did. He needed to be faster on his feet and with his hands than the opponent stalking towards him right now.
Moving at a brisk pace he readied his sword once more, and as soon as he was within his weapon's reach of the man he swung in a wide arc towards him. The blow was easily parried, as he'd expected, but in the half-second after that first swing he'd confirmed what he'd been worried about.
The jarring feeling made from his steel sword hitting the stone haft of his opponent was going to drain the muscles in his arms very quickly. Very, very quickly.
He swang a few more times, each one attempting to strike at a different area around the knight before him, but every one of them was turned aside by the haft of the poleaxe wielded by his opponent. It didn't matter that Lykourgos had been able to effortlessly strike down all those who had stood before him before now, for he knew that he was now facing a true warrior with skills to match his own and a physique that surely surpassed him.
He tried for an experimental jap forwards, and swore when the parry left him open to the resulting riposte. How the man opposite him was able to wield a weapon with a haft of solid stone so effortlessly was a mystery to him, but more to the point it was a mystery that he definitely wouldn't have the time to solve right now. He needed to kill this man, and recover before moving on to the next.
He was vaguely aware of the people around him fighting with other Axeknights of Morna, and facing similar struggles. The warriors-knights of the mountain had earned their reputation as stoic fighters and excellent soldiers, and although he hadn't known whether or not to doubt the tales of their resilience before today he certainly knew not to doubt them now.
Turning aside blows meant for him or otherwise moving himself out of the way, he danced backwards as the knight advanced on him. A nasty blow to his shield had made it obvious that the best way to avoid dying here was not to block, but to dodge. Well, as much as he could anyhow; the Axeknight seemed adamant that he was to be struck down, no matter what.
He swung his sword twice more, grunting with exertion as he felt the steel blade make contact with the stone. A jarring feeling rang down his arm, and after the same such feeling had ran down his sword arm so many times he could feel it starting to go numb.
That wasn't good. It wasn't good at all. He could draw his longseaxe and swap to fighting with his left hand whilst his right arm recovered, but that would mean either clumsily attempting to swap his shield over to his right arm or abandoning it altogether and relying on the much shorter blade to carry him through.
He didn't like his odds in that scenario.
Instead he ducked under the blow that came his way and rammed forwards with his full body weight behind the shield, crashing into the knight and causing him to stumble. He would have liked to be able to take advantage of the position that put him in, but an armoured fist crashed down on top of his back and caused him to fall to the floor. He quickly turned himself around so he was facing upwards and scrabbled back a little as a slight glint of light caught on the man's helmet and axehead as it was raised high overhead, and in that moment Lykourgos braced his shield for the blow.
The poleaxe broke through the wood of the shield and crashed against his arm and chest, and although his plate armour prevented him from being seriously injured from such a blow he knew that there was going to be some serious bruising across his front as the air was knocked out of him.
Without wasting a second, without so much as thinking, he reached upwards with his tired right arm and twisted his body so as to thrust with as much force and reach as possible with his sword, straight through the chink in the armour of the Axeknight where the breastplate met the tassets. He pulled back just as fast as he had thrust forwards, and the knight stumbled backwards whilst pressing a hand to the wound.
The tall man drew his hand away, and levelled his gaze at Lykourgos once more. For all the King's stamina, he knew he was flagging here. He had wounded his opponent severely, but evidently not enough to stop the man from fighting on.
He raised himself to his feet as fast as he could, gasping a little from a mixture of exertion and the pain in his shield-arm, and readied his sword once more. He glanced at the remains of his shield, and decided against tossing it aside; there was a gash down the middle and the item was certainly not in any shape to be used after today, but it wasn't as though it would have no use in the continuing fight. He needed to be able to protect himself with something after all, and all things considered he'd rather that his bruised left arm get injured than he would his sword-arm.
He wasn't exactly as skilled as his brother was with his non-dominant hand, after all.
The large knight may still have been standing, but he was now losing blood. It was only a matter of time before he came crashing down as all the others did, and all Lykourgos now needed to do was keep himself standing longer than his opponent.
With another grunt of exertion he forced himself to bolt forwards, and launched into a flurry of blows with his tired sword-arm. The man opposite parried and attempted to do the same, but eventually settled for punching Lykourgos in the stomach so hard that he felt it even through his armour.
His sword fell from his hand with the force of the blow, but he sprung back up and hooked his shield around the head of the man's axe and pulled forwards so that the axe similarly fell from the man's grasp whilst he was batted in the face by the bottom of the shield.
Lykourgos dropped the shield and threw himself at the knight, the two of them toppling over and grappling on the ground whilst wearing full plate armour.
The knight soon righted himself and all but threw Lykourgos off of him, the two of them standing once more and continuing to grapple and grab at the other.
Lykourgos punched the man a few times, his chest heaving and cries leaving him with every punch that he threw. By this point he was thoroughly exhausted, his reserves of energy more than spent, but he had to keep fighting. If he won here, then he could claim to have bested one of the Axeknights of Morna in single combat. That wasn't a feat many people, many Kings, could boast of!
As for if he lost, well... there was little use dwelling on that.
He punched and kicked at the knight, wincing and groaning as the return blows fell, but he soon found the opening he needed; a momentary lapse in the other man's concentration, a slight turn of the head to where his sworn brother had just been laid out by Dreamwulf.
The King wasted no time in pressing this advantage, throwing himself at the knight and knocking them both back to the floor. Almost as soon as he felt the jolt of hitting the floor he scrabbled with his hands at his belt, pulled out a blade, and struck it through the eye-slit in the visor of the Axeknight.
Just like that, the man was dead.
Lykourgos withdrew his blade from the man's helmet, and stared for a moment at the blood on the steel as ichor pooled around his opponent's head and waist.
His dagger. He had intended to draw his longseaxe, but he wasn't going to complain about drawing his dagger. It had saw him through the duel well enough, after all.
A pity there was no room to negotiate with the man who had tried to kill him. He seemed as though he would have been a truly excellent fighter to have fighting in the rapidly uniting kingdom.
He slowly rose to his feet and picked up his sword and shield, leaning on the battered kiteshield as he attempted to regain his breath. What had made an ostensibly religious order fight alongside his enemies after he had been declared the Defender of the Faith? Well, although the church pretended to be united he knew better; the actions of the bishops in Owkrestos had taught him that the Council of Patriarchs was not being respected as it should have been, and as such his influence over religious affairs was limited outside his demesne.
Of course, this also gave him somewhat of an excuse to begin meddling further in church matters himself. Perhaps it was growing steadily towards being time to talk to Patriarch Olyver about some of the man's ideas for reform, since if nothing else they would certainly help centralise more power in Anaria and take it out of the hands of disloyal middlemen hundreds of miles away.
But those were thoughts for another time. He stared down at the corpse of the Axeknight, still sat upright with one hand clasped around the haft of the great stone-handled poleaxe, and exhaled a very shaky breath.
The battle here was all but over. With Lieutenant Corvan's soldiers taking the enemy's scorpion emplacements, his forces had all but won. Though he knew the war was not yet over, he could not help but smile.
Another foe bested in honourable combat. What sweeter thing could kingship bring than that?