Lykourgos VI: The Battle of the Sodden Field
The First Day of the Forth Moon, 873 AD.
The Woodsroad, Southern Teleytaios, Klironomea.
Eventually Romanos came to find him, the sound of fighting maybe making him move a little more briskly than he normally would of, which was a little amusing. When his friend saw that it was just a sparring match with Eros he cooled down immediately, directing a critical but not unkind look at the squire.
"Not bad. Not bad at all, Eros. You're still learning, but very fast."
"He rarely makes the same mistake twice, Romanos. He's a credit to your order."
"Actually, your Grace," Eros interjected looking more than a little embarrassed, "I've not been initiated yet."
Lykourgos looked between Eros and Romanos in confusion.
"What? Romanos, do you mean to tell me that-"
"I was only waiting until your coronation, your Grace." The knight held up his hands in a conciliatory manner. "I can assure you, and yourself as well Eros, the ceremony will take place as soon as you're crowned. Unless you order it sooner, of course."
Lykourgos nodded, and Romanos looked back at Eros.
"My apologies for interrupting you both, but I'd like to speak with you your Grace."
Lykourgos nodded.
"Of course; walk with me. Eros, I'll see you as we muster."
"Of course your Grace."
The young man dipped into a graceful bow and made to leave. Ilias, who had been watching the sparring with a rather amused expression whilst perched on a fence, looked over at the prince. Lykourgos nodded towards him with a small smile, signalling that yes, he could go and spend some time with his friend instead of looking after him for a bit. Walking with Romanos the prince snaked through the camp, no real location on his mind, and allowed his friend to make some easy conversation with him.
"You're fighting with us on horseback?"
He nodded at the Grandmaster.
"I am. You'll lead our heavy and light horse on the right flank, just past our flanking troops on foot, and I'll mirror you on the left."
Romanos gave him a mildly concerned look.
"When was the last time you partook in a cavalry charge, your Grace?"
Lykourgos stopped to think, a faraway look coming over his face.
"Nearly five years ago. The Battle of the Anarian Marches. I was right behind you, wasn't I?"
Romanos nodded.
"You were. I know you're fine for riding, so I won't press or try and get you to reconsider, just... please don't charge in too early. Wait for the right moment. I don't want your hatred of Isen to get the better of you in this battle."
"It won't, I promise. I'll wait for just the right moment and not move a second before. I don't want to cost us our victory with my own actions."
Romanos smiled lightly at him.
"I'm glad to hear it. You'll take half of our mounted knights in that case, and the mounted squire bands as well. That should give you a thousand men on horseback at your command. If it is not too presumptuous, your Grace, I'd like to keep the true Violet Knights under my direct command."
He looked at his friend, weighing his options. Whilst any knight in the Order of the Violet might take the name, the real Violet Knights were the inner circle of Romanos' order. They rode into war on mighty destriers and drafts in full barding, each man heavily armoured and wielding a greatpike of castle-forged steel to sunder any enemy lines, and were all round some of the best heavy cavalry in Klironomea. Well, the Kataphraktoi of the east might give them a run for their money, but there was certainly nothing in the west to rival them in terms of combat effectiveness.
While he was naturally and instinctively against relinquishing command of all of the Violet Knights to his friend, they were in reality the Grandmasters to command. He'd trained them, he'd equipped them, and he'd commanded them this whole time; if anyone could make the best use of their talents, it was certainly Romanos.
"Very well. How many Violet Knights are there?"
"Around eight-hundred, your Grace."
Lykourgos nodded, running through the numbers.
"Right, in that case you'll take command of them and I'll take command of the rest of the mounted knights. That should bump up the numbers I'm commanding a little and make up for the lack of such elite forces on the left flank under my command, no?"
Romanos made a humming noise and got visibly lost in thought for a moment.
"I think... yes. Yes, that makes sense to me. If I were you I'd keep the heavy horse at the front of your formation to shatter the enemy if they try to outflank us, whilst keeping the squire bands as less of an armoured fist and more of a harrying force to chase down any stragglers and routers. We don't want to let the enemy leave the field today, after all."
"No, my friend," Lykourgos replied, "we certainly do not."
----------------------------------------
Most of their men were behind the ridge. It was a shallow thing, and had they any trebuchets then the big war machines would almost certainly have been visible above it, but it hid most of their flanking troops well enough.
Two-thousand Longbowmen stood behind a line of stakes and hastily dug trenches a little above the foot of the slope, each man ready and able to do what must be done in defence of the realm. Angels, but he was proud of his men. It had started raining not long after he'd spoken with Romanos on the allocation of their horsemen, but neither man had been willing to let that dampen their spirits; the men needed to know that they weren't put out by the brutal march and a little bit of ill weather. It was a war fought on his territory, and simply put there no force in any of the heavens that would sap his morale whilst fighting on his own lands. Besides, the rains had been light and sparse, so the ground was still solid and stable.
The approaching soldiers of house Blackoak were marching up the road, the sound of their boots echoing out across the sodden field. They they were in a far wider formation than the road would accommodate, which suggested that they suspected battle, but they were still in a marching formation rather than battle lines. A cautious march, he supposed was the right term. He hoped that his lieutenants in the middle of the field would hold steady and not act until they'd received the signal from the frontline, but he hadn't the time to think of that at the moment. He needed to rely on the frontline drawing the foe in so that his flanks could encircle their sides, whilst himself and Romanos used the horsemen to break whatever counter-flanking manoeuvre the foe attempted. He would have little idea on how the battle was going until he was in the thick of it and could see for himself, but he had to trust in his men to do as they were bid. He'd go mad with nerves otherwise.
"Are you alright, your Grace?"
The quiet voice of Eros sounded out next to him, and Lykourgos nodded. His squire seemed more than a little worried, but he wasn't going to hold that against the poor lad.
"I'm alright, Eros. Just the anticipation making me want to charge in right now is all, even though I know I can't. I need to wait until the time is right."
The squire nodded at him respectfully.
"I understand, your Grace. I trust in you to move at the right moment, and will follow where you ride."
Lykourgos smiled at him, hoping the gesture didn't look as rueful as it felt. It wasn't that he was sad that he was at war again, more so that he felt... he felt guilty precisely because he should have felt sad. But he didn't. No, he was Prince Lykourgos of house Sperakos, rightful King of Teleytaios and breaker of the nobility. He was made for war, and he knew it. He didn't know how he'd known it, and he certainly hadn't felt like it after his first war, but looking back on the savagery that had overtaken him once at Haestinghen and again at the Anarian Marches he knew that he was made for war.
He was to be a soldier-king, that much was certain, and he would never have anyone claim he was unworthy of fighting by the side of the men who fought for him. If he would not stand with them, then they had no reason to stand for him at all.
A few more minutes passed, and then there was a great deal of shouting.
"Nock! Draw! Loose!"
"Loose!"
"Loose!"
The command for arrows to be loosed was shouted out several times in a quick succession, but it sounded less like panic and more like a careful yet swift repeat of the motion. A part of him wished he'd decided to be their with his longbowmen at the front, after all it had been a little while since he'd been able to practice his skills with a bow, but no. He needed to be here, ready and able to deal a decisive blow to the rear lines of the enemy. Even if the centre formation of his forces broke, which he did not for a second believe would happen, the destruction of any enemy rear-line units would leave them without ranged support or a baggage train to speak of, as well as crippling their command capabilities and rendering what was left of this army impotent.
And that was just the worst case scenario; a victory would mean that the enemy was left with no army to be rendered impotent at all.
But such thoughts were useless at the moment. He needed to keep his mind on the here and now, and right now it sounded like there was a ranged duel ongoing as the enemy infantry advanced up the road towards them. Lykourgos couldn't see what was happening, but if he had to guess then he'd say that his longbowmen were likely winning in whatever ranged duel was ongoing, thanks to their greater range and power their weapons held when compared to the shortbows favoured by levies. Well, favoured was probably the wrong term since shortbows were all most levies would have to hand when called upon to serve, but his point remained nonetheless. The longbowmen would do a far better job at culling the foe from a distance when compared to their levied counterparts.
Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.
The sellswords amongst their number would certainly be toting longbows of their own however, and so Lykourgos had to hope that they'd been placed at the fore of the enemy's march and not at the rear.
Still, it would be a little touch and go when the sellswords and levies got close amongst them. The longbowmen could hold themselves in a fight and the forces of the church would reinforce them if needs be, not to mention that the trenches and stakes would make a full on frontal charge up the slope a very tricky manoeuvre, but there was still the inherent risk of the foe breaking through. Still, that was what the flanking manoeuvres were for; the frontline was merely there to tie the foe down, to hold them in place, but once the flanking forces crashed into the sides of the enemy lines they'd go down like wheat before the scythe.
"Hold steady men, hold steady."
He spoke softly, quietly even. He wasn't sure if he was talking to the men around him or to himself really, but he spoke nonetheless. Nearly a full hour later he was almost certain he'd go mad with anticipation, the sounds of combat on the frontal slopes of the ridge being carried back to him by the wind as light rainfall pattered off of his armour, and as such when he saw one of his Lieutenants give the signal for the flanking forces to move he almost mistook it for the signal that his own men needed to follow. He realised his mistake just before he called for a charge though, and luckily his throat tensed up at the last minute stopping him from saying anything.
That was a bloody good bit of luck; that could've been bad.
The flanking force next to him charged forth, the heavy infantry of his army rushing onto the field and swiftly taking up their places on the side of the mass that was the enemy. He couldn't see what exactly was happening, but he could see enough to know that his trap had been sprung just as he'd hoped.
"Men, with me at a trot. We'll be moving to a more exposed position to better view the side of the battle and ensure we can respond should the enemy try to counter-flank our forces. Keep close and don't start forwards when you see the enemy. We charge when we need to, not a moment before."
There was a muttering of agreement and acknowledgements around him at that, the men recognising their place in the plan. They just needed to wait a little longer. He just needed to wait a little longer. His vengeance would be upon him momentarily.
For another hour he sat there astride his horse, the short trot the only movement he'd ordered in the last two hours whilst the battle raged on around him. It was infuriating, but he'd chosen this position for himself. The flanks of the enemy were engaged, so there was no way to charge in from the sides. Well, not unless he was willing to flatten the backs of his own men first anyway, so that avenue was closed to him. The front was much the same, save there were even more obstacles to overcome with a charge there. No, he was just here to launch a countercharge, and if the words of the aide next to him were anything to go by then the time was fast approaching.
"Your Grace, along the edge! That's their knights, your Grace!"
He looked over and then nodded at the aide. Very astute of the young lad; the foe's horsemen were only just organising themselves in ranks to charge at the flanking soldiers of his own forces. He spoke loudly and as clear as he could, coughing twice to clear his throat before he spoke to avoid another set of orders getting caught in his throat. While he spoke he moved to clinch his helmet in preparation for the battle to come.
"Right then, as soon as they set off at a gallop I want us doing the same! They'll need to shift direction to face us and that'll mean they'll completely bypass our men on foot! We're going to charge at them head on! Who's with me!"
There was a chorus of cheers from his men as he spoke. He raised his sword aloft and spoke again.
"WHO'S WITH ME!"
There was another chorus, this time far louder, and as the knights of the foe began to trot out into the open he pointed his sword at them and bellowed out his command.
"CHARGE!"
For a few seconds there was little movement, the horses taking their first few steps at a much slower gait than the gallop it would soon be, but almost before Lykourgos had even had the time to think about that his destrier was building up speed. The men around him too were rapidly gaining pace, riding hard on the backs of their coursers and rounceys with blades arms ready to deal a fatal blow to the heavy horse of the foe.
Now, heavy cavalry such as this was far better suited to charging at ranks of infantry, and not at other bodies of similarly armoured horsemen, but when push came to shove it was a job they would have to do. Besides, he had the initiative, and that would be all it took to win the day here. He was sure of it.
After what felt like an age of riding at the enemy and staring at them as they drew closer the two forces of heavily armoured horsemen finally collided. Almost instantly the sound of crunching bones and the screaming of dying men and horses were in his ears. Mounts went down at the force of a collision with another, men in full plate and mail armour were sent flying from the saddle to drown in the mud, and with practiced actions his sword rang out with the sound of steel clashing against steel.
It was a horrible, messy, chaotic slog, and he relished in it.
This was what he was best at. He could do this. He could lead a band of screaming men into the fray with no regard for keeping himself alive, he could front an assault that led to the victory his men had wished for, and most of all despite his lack of self-preservation he could keep himself well enough to do it all again and again. War was in his blood, and in moments like this that fact was made plain and clear.
He swung his greatsword around, catching a blow that a short man in mail had sent towards his neck. With a swift riposte he forced open the man's guard, leaving him completely open to the follow up strike that split the mail of his throat guard and pierced through his neck. Angels, if only Lord Brathaxe could see me now.
The thought of his late foster father sent a momentary spike of melancholy through him, but it was quickly washed away as he made to defend himself from yet another opponent. He wasn't even really giving this fight his all, what with his attention wondering, but somehow his limbs always seemed to be in the right place at the right time. He'd grown very good at fighting these last ten years.
For all the skill he possessed however, he had to admit that Ser Romanos really was something else. Having cleared the ridge and already surged forwards, Lykourgos could see across the flat field all the way to the other flank of the foe, where the Grandmaster himself was leading his Violet Knights against the rear lines of the enemy with his silvered sword atop his massive draft horse. It seemed that the heavy horse of the enemy had been concentrated on the prince's flank, and as such his friend led his knights almost uncontested into the sternguard of the foe.
Lykourgos' entire army had done him proud, that was more than true, but he knew that none would take offence when he said that it was the Violet Knights under Romanos that truly stole the field that day. They were as a thundering avalanche of steel-clad hooves brimming with lethal weaponry, slamming into the lines of the foe with wild abandon and hardly even being slowed as they rode on through the shattered rear lines. As their relentless charge advanced they left little more than bones and sinews trampled into the dirt of the field, the terrified foe barely even having time to scream before they were laid low under the might of the greatest knights that still lived.
Ranks of levied bowmen and spear-wielding lowborns were sent careening back, their comrades further behind them breaking ranks and running as fast as their legs could take them. Lykourgos looked back at his light cavalry awaiting the order to charge behind him, and with a single motion of his arm nearly five-hundred men on horseback began to gallop down the ridge and towards the fleeing enemy. The age of the knight may have been coming to a close, but looking upon the brutal efficiency of their charge into the rear lines of the enemy, it was clear that the armoured heroes of yesteryear were intent on making sure it lasted for just one decade more.
Yes, he thought with a wry smile as he watched the enemy lines break, very few of the fleeing foe will remain come the day's end. There's little the conscripted masses of the foe will be able to do now that they've panicked and ran from the field. Still less their mercenaries; sellswords won't fight for the losing side. Not if they can help it.
That thought brought his mind to his brother, half of who's small army was made up of Symon's company. With any luck Rhema had been able to make good on his orders, alongside his commanders of course. He trusted his brother, of course he did, but Lykourgos wasn't foolish enough to think that there wasn't an element of chance involved in his brother drawing the enemy west. Ah well, he thought as he attempted to still his mind, there isn't anything to be gained by worrying about such events here and now. Rhema's force will pull through, he's got Crowe to see to that. Symon as well. They might not have been particularly orthodox commanders, and Symon was a sellsword to boot, but they were some of the most experienced in the entire Teleytaian military.
There was a jarring impact on his shield as an arrow impacted with a dull thud, causing him to quickly move behind the steel-rimmed wood to better cover himself. There seemed to be a small group of archers that had taken to firing on the melee of heavy horsemen, those enemy bowmen furthest from the devastating charge of Romanos' men who hadn't yet been touched by the commotion. Well, we'll just have to change that, won't we? The last of the Blackoak heavy horse was either being cut down or making to flee, and so he called out to his own heavy horsemen around him.
"Halt! Halt! Give no chase! Form back up on me! Form up on your prince!"
There must have been a full hundred bowmen raining arrows down on him, on his men, but he didn't care. Eros had wheeled about his horse to rejoin his side, and so he spared a brief look at the young man and nodded respectfully. He hadn't the time nor need for anything else.
Turning back to face the enemy without even bothering to check if anyone else was following him he spurred his horse forwards again, aiming to lead the knights under his command in a charge against what was left of the enemy's rear line and link up with the Violet Knights of Romanos. There was little risk of confusion or attacking friendly forces; the Violet Knights were extremely distinctive, and even if the rest of the knights under himself would not be as distinctive he still doubted that they could be mistaken for Owkrestans. The men of Owkrestos boasted few heavy horsemen or knights amongst their ranks, and though house Blackoak did maintain a good body of them it seemed that they were all with Ser Aerna, and therefore were marching on his brother far from this place. No, this army seemed to be little more than levied men, sellswords, and the thousand traitors and roses who'd coalesced under Lieutenant Isen and had hoped for glory and riches by betraying their homeland.
Lykourgos would make sure they found nothing more than a shallow grave.
----------------------------------------
"Went the day well, your Grace?"
He nodded at his friend, grinning widely.
"That it did, Grandmaster."
"I have a gift for you, actually. A moment please, your Grace."
Romanos gestured for two of his knights to move forwards, both of them very big men with a look of grave seriousness about them. There was a corpse held up between them, and at another gesture from Romanos they dumped it unceremoniously at Lykourgos' feet.
The eyes of the familiar face were wide with shock, now frozen in such a position. One arm hung stiffly from its socket, whilst the other was severed at the elbow. Both of the man's legs had been similarly detached at the knee joint, and his chest seemed like it had been stoved in by an armoured hoof. Angels, this man had not had a clean death.
Good.
Before him was the corpse of Lieutenant Isen, the seven-times-damned traitor who'd very nearly been the death of him on the walls of Anaria. He was very, very pleased to see him like this. A pity that he hadn't been able to kill the man himself, but you couldn't win them all.
"We recognised him when the worst of the fighting was over, your Grace. It seemed a shame to leave him to rot when he could serve as an example."
Lykourgos felt his lips twitch into the beginnings of a smile, but forced it back down. It was a little amusing how against the execution of the nobility Romanos had been, and yet for some reason he felt that parading around this corpse was fine. Still, Lykourgos had to agree with the Grandmaster on this one; it would serve as a powerful message indeed.
"I agree. Have him tarred and sent back to the capital. No, better still, tar him and have him sent to King Aleksandar of Owkrestos. Let the young king know that, though he may not have sanctioned this war, it was his duty as a king to see that his vassals are reigned in. He has failed in his duty. Send it to him as a warning, telling him that if he does not submit himself before me in recompense for his failures then I will come to him myself. Of course if it comes to that then I will not be going to him alone, but at the head of more than ten-thousand men. Do you think that message might find an audience with him?"
Romanos smiled grimly at him.
"A bit on the nose, but it certainly would. I'll have these two men of my knights deliver it personally under a banner of parley. That should see them safely to Stagspring."
"Good. Make it so. Ach, enough of this Romanos; we've won the day here! Let's go and congratulate the men then have a few drinks. Angels know I need it, and I'm willing to bet you do as well."
"Well, that certainly sounds like a plan. Come on your Grace, let's get back to into our camp."