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‘Noble’ Sam Mathews
Come soon, bring everything
Part IV
-Only fools fight in the dark-
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“Fast moth’rfuckers,” ‘Grimace’ Oswald declared, lower portion of his mouth crooked where a mule had clipped it when he was little. Allegedly. He was talking about Ran-Sahor’s caravan riders. As a matter of fact this was the same exact thing he’d said half an hour earlier, when the Cofols had galloped the other way. “Them nimble small horses,” the former pirate added, squinting his eyes to better see the group now returning in the direction of their large camp.
There and back again.
“What are those slanted dicks doing?” Mary Clopton asked, the heavy-bosomed hunter wearing a mean expression on her face. ‘Crusty’ Glover another from Zacharias group grinned wide, gold teeth gleaming eerily in the light of the moons.
The clouds clearing in the sky allowing their light to illuminate the flat fields beyond their tree line. Sam rushed stooped behind the long flat leaves of a fat tropic tree, heavy dampness soaking his clothes, found an even bigger one next and stuck his head out to better see what was going on.
The bigger horse caught up with the Cofol in the blink of an eye. Its legs moving in a blur as it covered the distance so fast that by the time the man turned around to check whether he was being followed, the Zilan was right next to him.
Similar scenes playing out across the field in the distance.
Shite!
Sam gasped witnessing the Cofol’s neck breaking, head stuck in the mud when it pivoted and the Zilan Ranger snapped his head his way, eyes gleaming as if he could see Sam thirty meters away, hiding behind the local banana tree. The fruit of it full of seeds and not that flavorful.
“Tits on that blonde,” Glover said coming up from behind him. “I swear—”
The arrow lifted him clean off the ground, mud and rotten leaves flying everywhere and hurled him backwards two meters to nail him on another moss-covered tree trunk.
His words left unfinished.
“THEY’RE COMING!” Sam barked at the top of his lungs and dived away. He rolled out of the flat meter-long leaves towards their positions, but found a Zilan sneaking up in there, bow in hand and aimed.
Not towards him.
Sam grunted, made to down his sword, but the differently dressed Zilan scout, jumped away on one leg, rotated mid-air bow turning alongside him and fired afore he landed with his back on another tree trunk.
The arrow whistled over his head, Sam ducking in panic and his boots slipping on rotten shrubberies, leaves and termite gutted branches. He landed on an elbow his teeth rattling, heart beating wild and unready to fight for his life so soon.
But fight he did.
The Zilan jumped on him, blade gleaming in the dark and its face dark, but for the azure eyes. Sam twisted madly, trying desperately to find the arm holding the knife, catching the blade near its grip instead. The Zilan pushed hard to knife him between the ribs, the blade opening his palm, thump blocking it from going forward for a second. The next the long knife continued moving, its point digging into his mail rings and Sam growled frantic as he’d his right arm blocked. The Zilan opened his mouth, smelling of gore and ripe fuckin’ banana of all darn things and Sam lowered his head in a last moment good old fashioned head-butt.
The forehead on nose-bridge variant.
Blood splashed him in the face, the crunch of the bones breaking nigh satisfying and the Zilan recoiled with a groan. Sam didn’t even breathe. He swung his sword to shove the blocking knife aside and cut the scout once across the chest through his armour.
“Bah!” The Zilan gasped and tried to move to the side, but Sam switched the grip on his sword and cut it once more vertically right at the collar bone, his sharply edged blade sinking to the lungs.
He killed it dead.
“Damn,” Sam grunted breathing heavy at last. Fucker almost had me there. Knowing this was no time to celebrate he stepped over his opponent trying to locate where everyone else was.
It wasn’t difficult. There was intense fighting all about him, so he clenched his jaw and headed further inside the trees.
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Lydia Hyde shot an arrow from almost point-blank range despite her surprise, but the Zilan scout put a hand on it and snatched it away as if the two of them were performing a number in a Lesian circus. Lydia cursed and jumped away dropping her bow, nervous fingers fumbling with the handle of her shortsword. The scout flipped the arrow in his hand and hurled it her way so fast and with so much force, it went into her thigh to the fletching’s. The Lorian adventurer let out a scream and stumbled back a couple of feet in shock. With a snort the Zilan reached calmly for an arrow to finish her off, but Zacharias who was running towards her across from Sam dived rather adroitly for such a heavy-set man and bodied the scout to the ground.
“Moth’rfucker,” Oswald cursed, a bleeding cut on his left arm, an arrow protruding out of his back and came faltering near them.
“Where?” Sam grunted and twisted about to locate the scout that had shot him, while the former pirate wrestled the other on the ground.
“I got her,” Mary Clopton informed them and stepped out of her hiding place. “Popped her blue tit I did.”
“BIT O’ FUCKIN’ HELP HERE YE CUNTS!” Zacharias blasted them still fighting with the scout and Sam got a dagger out. He tossed it to Mary.
“Help ‘em out,” he ordered her and sprinted away to find his friends.
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Had Hush been naught but a finger taller she’d been dead, Sam thought, the woman sporting a bleeding line where the arrow had grazed her sworn head. Jingo dodged the Zilan’s shortsword, downed his axe to cleave the arm wielding it off, but got punched in the throat afore he could swing his weapon again and was pushed back.
“Galloping,” Marlo grunted parrying a similar blade away two meters to his right, a manic grimace on his rugged face. “Fuckin’ Goblin!” The Zilan jumped away with an affronted glare and reached for his satchel.
“Ignorant Sinya Nore,” he spat and flinched hearing Sam’s tumbling sword plunging his way. The long blade zipped past Marlo missing him for a hair and despite the Zilan’s desperate attempt to get out of the way sunk into his chest with a thud.
“Just pissed myself,” Marlo declared gravely and stuck his own sword into the slain Zilan just in case, afore turning to deal with the maimed scout that was trying to get away, the Zilan’s hand on the stub to stop the bleeding. “Twas a burst,” he clarified walking a bit funny.
Sam stepped in front of the faltering scout, mouth pressed tight.
“Give it up mate,” he warned the Zilan, but before he could get a reply Hush sneaked up from behind the injured scout and opened his throat with her dagger.
A torrent of blood splattering Sam’s pants.
“Fuck you,” Hush spat, face covered in gore from her own cut.
“Well, that’s a finger up the stinger,” Marlo agreed and stooped to get Sam’s sword out of his opponent. He tossed it to him with a glare. “Almost had me there lad. Not in a good manner is my meaning.”
“I had to think fast,” Sam admitted. Hurling the sword was a risky decision.
“That’s the troublin’ part,” the veteran adventurer said with a grimace. “That you were thinking.”
“Any others sneaked up inside?” Sam asked him, while Hush went to check on Jingo.
“Who the fuck knows at this point?” Marlo grunted and wiped the moisture off his face.
“Let me talk—”
“They are coming,” Hush said interrupting Sam and pointed with her arm beyond the treeline. The Zilan cavalry had stopped pursuing the Cofols in the distance and turned back, but there was a large black mass coming from the river now. A lot of soldiers moving together.
“Find the others and regroup,” Sam said and sheathed his sword. “Stay in the trees. I need to inform Garth.”
“What are we supposed to do?” Marlo griped. “I’ve piss in my boots here lad. It’s warm now, but swiftly coolin’ off!”
“Rejoice for it’s good for ‘em calluses,” Sam deadpanned and added all serious. “Stay in the plaguin’ trees gents.”
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“Five hundred,” Folen declared, a Hoplite-type blade in his hand, his lute strapped on his back. Garth, arms crossed on his chest, snapped his wild head his way. The curls on it twisting all over the place.
“Are ye sure? Cause I can’t see a plaguin’ thing!”
“I’ve been a scout for a moon,” Folen replied and Garth grimaced not looking reassured despite his admission.
Lyceron came trotting from the frontline, the three hundred strong guards already formed fifty meters away.
“They have the numbers,” the Hoplite informed them and Sam cursed looking at their leader thinking about it.
“Keep your men for now,” Garth told him. “How are Ran-Sahor’s costly idiots?”
“They lost twenty, as many horses are out of the fight,” Soletha said from atop her horse. Soren was standing next to her on foot, but she had to look up to him just the same. “There are Imperial Rangers with Rothomir’s troops. Ambushed them on the return,” she added smiling to the grinning Nord. “What should I say to Ran-Sahor?”
“Hmm. Let them rest for a bit, but I expect them to be ready to help for real this time,” Garth grunted and glanced Sam’s way. “You’ve seen any of them in the woods?”
“Not in the woods,” Sam replied. “These were scouts most likely. No fancy armour. I’ve seen one of them in the field riding like a specter right out of Oras Hells.”
While still not heavy, the rangers wore a distinct tight-fit sturdy armor with interlaced strips of dark-green leather tightly knitted together and reinforced with steel wire. Maeriel had one and her pupils received the same upon finishing their lengthy basic training. Elaniel had one on when she was killed, the memory dampening Sam’s mood.
“Mysterious rangers aside,” Garth said and walked to his horse. “The plan stays, hopefully without any more surprises. Then again we’ve plenty of crooks an’ fools here to open a fuckin’ guild!”
“Hardir,” Lyceron said, his eyes glowing under his helm. “It is better to reinforce them now. Give me Hobor’s unit and I’ll hit them in the flanks.”
“That’s a fuckin’ big field, a wide front,” Garth grunted. “Let’s not increase it further. I don’t want them lookin’ too close to the south and the jungle. You stay put and Hobor, I need you for later.”
“For what?” Soren asked, but Garth didn’t reply. He signed for Bing and Kirk to follow him and walked away to talk to a runner from captain Mutilus.
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“Hey,” Soren yelled looking where the big Hoplite stood with his unit of fifty. About twenty meters away from their position. “Where are ye from?”
Hobor turned his huge helm and stared at him.
“North,” he replied, his heavy baritone voice heard clearly, despite the clamor of the coming enemy host.
“Hahaha!” Soren guffawed. “Me too!”
“Mmm,” Hobor grunted.
“Sam, I need your men to stay in the forest,” Garth said returning.
“What is it Arguen Garth?” Soletha asked noticing something Sam had missed.
“We have trouble at the rear,” Garth replied with a frown. “Up at the gullet. Ride to Ran-Sahor and tell him to get his arse on a saddle. I need him to chase Pelleas away.”
“How do you know it’s him?” Sam asked and Garth pointed a finger on the dark skies.
“The wyvern told me,” he replied and grimaced seeing the rows of Abarat guards marching on their shieldwall. “Folen tell Mutilus I want him to hold whatever the cost,” Garth said breathing out and reached for his own helm. “Lyceron, you are helping them if they start cracking. I trust you not to fuck it up.”
“I won’t Hardir,” Lyceron replied solemnly and returned to his hundred-strong unit kept as first reserve.
“We need Anfalon here soon,” Garth said stopping in front of Sam.
“You expect trouble?” Sam asked, glancing at the seemingly empty skies nervously to catch sight of the wyvern but failing.
“A fuck ton of it,” Garth murmured and gave his shoulder a slap. “Tell me this isn’t yer blood.”
“It isn’t,” Sam responded with a frown.
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The Abarat soldiers, their bronze colored cuirasses glowing in the moonlight, made contact with the Goras guards in a deafening clash of shields and swords. Such was the rumpus and the violence of their attack the three men deep line of guards reeled back and almost disintegrated on impact.
Officers yelled, soldiers screamed and sparks ignited all across the line when blades connected with plate and shield. Metal on metal. The Goras Guard lines caving in right at the middle after the first casualties.
“Fuck,” Garth said and Sam glanced his way very worried. “Kirk tell Lyceron to move in! NOW! Sam,” he snapped turning his way. “Ride back, but don’t engage. Be ready to help though, if this goes south.”
Huh?
“How do I know when?”
Because this doesn’t look good at all!
“Look for Hobor, or Soren,” Garth growled and moved to approach the frontline. “The moment you see ‘em charge in, you move as well.”
What in all gods, Sam wondered. “Garth I should help right now!” he grunted running after him and the young Monarch of Goras paused, grabbed his shoulder and eyed him feverishly.
“There’s twice their number beyond the river,” Garth told him. “We can’t retreat and they won’t stay there forever. So shite hits the fan, you’re comin’ out of them woods. Ye get it now?”
Good grief.
“Aye,” Sam grunted and Garth let him go.
“Good man,” he said.
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Sam reached the first trees of the forest ten minutes later and found Marlo eyeing the unfolding battle sporting a deep frown. The rest of the adventurers had gathered at the edge of the woods as well to watch the struggle.
“How many did we lose?” Sam asked Marlo.
“Half a dozen.”
“Are you sure?”
“Some might have gone to loot Rothomir’s camp. What am I? Their moth’r?” Marlo informed him with a shrug. “Seems as good a plan as any. Where are the Cofols? Could have used them now.”
“Garth sent them in the gullet. We have Cultists near the supply train,” Sam replied and checked to see if he could spot the Zilan camp from where they were.
He couldn’t.
“Fuck the supplies. He needs them here, they are creeping around our line,” Marlo grunted. “Eh, here comes Lyceron at least.”
Sam turned to watch the Hoplite’s assault on their opponent’s south side. Their arrival stabilizing the line and even pushing the Abarat soldiers back.
“We should attack now!” Hush yelled to be heard. “Fuck are we waiting for?”
“Garth says there are enemy troops beyond the river!” Sam yelled back at her.
Hush blinked, then nodded.
“You think Anfalon got lost?” Marlo asked only half-joking.
I sure hope not.
Sam sighed and gave a slight nod to Mary who had approached them to return his dagger.
“Gratitude Mathews,” the hardened adventurer said. “I cleaned it for ye.”
“How’s Lydia?”
“Bandaged. In pain. But she can shoot an arrow,” she replied and pointed at a resting at the base of a tree Jingo. “What is he doing?”
“Got a knock on the head,” Marlo replied. “Don’t worry about him. Fucking bullshit,” he puffed his cheeks out. “Only fools fight in the dark.”
Aye, Sam thought.
And Tyeus laughs at them.
> Having been alarmed by Ran-Sahor’s returning raid Garth prepared his force for Lord Onas response, but the Zilans didn’t respond as ‘swiftly’ as he’d expected. The mercenary riders had reached his camp earlier, killed a couple of guards and got tents and supplies set on fire. It’s uncertain if they caught the Zilan sleeping and they probably didn’t. Lord Onas’ camp was mostly empty. Mounted Rangers came after the Caravan Guards and fought them all the way to the well illuminated Goras’ force night camp. It is very likely the Cofols had more casualties, than what they ever inflicted.
>
> While the Ruler of Goras focused on the threat facing him, more danger lurked at his rear.
>
> Arguen Garth Aniculo upon learning that he’d a hostile force near the supply train that was still slowly coming up the Gullet, ordered Ran-Sahor’s chastised horse-archers to deal with the threat in his rear. In the meantime Vulas, the leader of Abarat’s regulars was marching from the river. Such was the distance between the two camps due to Garth’s caution that it was quite the time afore the Zilan reached their lines. When they did, whether due to the difference in numbers, or quality, Vulas soldiers almost broke through.
>
> Lyceron leading a force of a hundred Goras guards, older and longer trained, managed to block their advance and stabilize the frontline. Vulas’ soldiers were apprehensive at the hoplite-type dragonhead-engraved cuirasses and shields, since the unit wearing them –the venerated Hallowed- signified the presence of a Monarch in the field firstly and was an elite Othrim of the Phalanx secondly, no one really wanted to test.
>
> Vulas ordered the men back a hundred meters and the fight came to a pause, while the two groups redressed their lines. The Zilan also managed to spot humans amidst the hoplite-armour wearing opponents and that their leader wasn’t a known warrior of the past, but a mere youngling like Lyceron. So not twenty minutes later Vulas ordered another attack and the Abarat soldiers advanced en masse. The second clash fiercer than the first.
>
> Brutal fighting ensued, but despite Vulas’ men faring better this time against Lyceron’s unit, the battle slowled down to a crawl. Lord Onas who was watching the fight, ordered veteran war hero and Hoplite leader Roran, of Saeveril to break the stalemate. Turn a grueling slow win into a fast victory. Lord Onas was equally worried himself that if the bloody affair dragged on for too long, the wyvern could make an appearance, or the situation change dramatically as it often had in many past battles.
>
> Roran’s ancient Second Othrim went over the bridge at a steady trot unseen, marched the ten kilometers to the battle site in an hour and then engaged Lyceron’s side from the flank. While they executed the maneuver perfectly, they failed to totally surprise the defenders as Garth charged them timely with a smaller force led by Hobor, the Nord and stalled them long enough for Lyceron to turn on them. From the other side of the field, Sam Mathews’ adventurers abandoned the woods and attacked the rigid mass of Hoplites from their north flank, this time the dark working to their advantage.
>
> Five minutes in, Garth realized he was losing men at an alarming rate and rushed into the fight himself, bringing Soren and everyone else with him.
The horses had crashed amidst the sinister hoplite formation from the sides. Sam saw the shadowy shapes morph into coherent figures at the last moment and by the time the horse stopped, skewered through the brain by a spear, he couldn’t appreciate the newfound clarity flying as he was over them. He landed on a hoplite and they both went down, the battle lines losing any semblance of order in this part of the field.
Sam tumbled in the mud, grass and blood mixed in the mire, his opponent equally covered in it and equally shaken. He stopped on a smarting knee and immediately jumped into a punch, his left hook connecting with the helm-less Zilan’s jaw and snapping his head back. Sam growled more than him, a broken fang lodged between his knuckles, darn thing piercing through his leather gloves like a knife through lard. Sam’s hand was hurting from both sides now and bleeding equally at least.
He stepped back, parried a spear thrust away with his sword, but got pierced by another, the blade punching through his shoulder pad. Sam roared and twisted around arching his swing. His sword clanked on a helmet and he dragged it down, cut a hoplite’s face deeply. A shield bashed him from the side and he almost went down, black cuirasses all about him and shields with the red letter Z engraved on them, the Old Lorian number two (II) right under them.
God darn it, he thought and rushed a hoplite defending against Marlo. The adventurers all out surprise charge had penetrated deep in Othrim’s formation, which was good as it had disrupted their assault, but they also had gotten themselves as deep in the shite, which wasn’t.
“WORST FUCKIN’ IDEA!” Marlo roared defending himself like a madman against his skilled opponent. “YER IN A PLAGUIN’ ROLL TONIGHT MATHEWS!”
Sam made to cut down the Hoplite, but another came at him. He jumped away, tripped on a body and went down. Mary Clopton’s glass death stare unnerving him. He kicked away from her broken body, rolled on his shoulder and jumped on his feet just as Oswald got killed via multiple spear thrusts in his face and chest, his mangled bleeding body making the opposite journey. Sam grunted in rage and jumped a Hoplite his sword swinging.
The blade landed on a shield, sparks lighting up his opponent’s alien helm, the eyes behind the sinister long vertical slits cold. A spear whooshed coming at him and Sam ducked instinctively, but gotten a boot on the chest and was shoved back, the Zilan stepping forward. The spear arching around and buzzing as it returned like a scythe. Sam just grimaced, as he didn’t have the time to parry, the battle around him chaotic and a hazy blur that is up until the Hoplite’s armour disintegrated in an explosion of blood, pieces of flesh, bone and what was probably a lot of fucking innards.
The heavy battle-axe bursting out of the gored in half Zilan’s stomach.
“Gah,” Sam gasped covered in gore and a spade like hand reached through his haze to stabilize him, almost pulverizing his shoulder in the process.
“Fuck’s sake,” Garth complained arriving behind Soren. “Try to crack the heads only my friend, we might need the plaguin’ plates!”
“Hahaha!” Soren roared and then another very tall hoplite came up next to him, the second giant not as amused.
“We charge again Garth?” Hobor asked, while the Lord of Morn Taras stepped forward, made another two quick steps and kicked an injured enemy hoplite in the head so brutally hard, the boot cracked his jaw and broken his neck at the same instance.
“Pull back,” Garth replied and stooped to pick up the corpse’s spear. “Let them come again,” adding with a glance his way. “Sam you look like shite.”
“Fuckin’ idiot,” Marlo agreed still pissed with him from earlier for whatever reason. None of this was Sam’s idea, or plan.
Garth’s respite lasted five minutes.
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A wall of spears, lacquered black cuirasses and helms marched on them, slotted through the black shields specially built in openings and this time the defenders were pushed back, the edge of their line caving despite their efforts.
“SPREAD OUT!” Garth bellowed chopping the shaft of a spear in two and jumping away of another. “DON’T BUNCH UP LIKE FOOLS!”
“We need to retreat!” Sam yelled at him, his left shoulder a bleeding mess, the arm attached on it not in a much better condition. “GARTH!” he barked grinding his teeth.
A Hoplite got out of the line and charged the Ruler of Morn Taras responding to his words. Sam tried to stop him, but he got speared through the shin by another coming up behind him and went down. Hobor stepped forward and blocked two of them from advancing on Garth’s position, a third one dying for no apparent reason with his throat slit.
Garth parried the first Hoplite’s spear thrust away, kicked watery mud on his helm sneakily and attacked when his opponent reeled back half-blind. The Hoplite blocked Garth’s blade with his shield, the metal wrapping and tried to decapitate him swinging the spear wide. Garth ducked under it, rolled on the ground lithely and used a strange silvery all metal axe to savagely strike at his opponent’s knee.
A weapon the old Gish used to carry.
“Bellas!” Someone yelled from the hoplite lines as the Zilan went down on his maimed knee. Garth flipped the sword in his hand switching stance, as he stood up from the ground and chopped the Hoplite’s head clean off his shoulders without hesitation. He jumped away instinctively next, an arrow aimed for his face missing. Garth turned sharply right, another arrow bouncing off his helmet, two more narrowly whistling very near him.
“KILL HARDIR!” Someone yelled irate, most of the Othrim near their position losing interest in the rest of the fight and the unseen rangers firing arrow after arrow on an agitated Garth. He twisted and turned lithely, a strange dance in the mud trying to avoid getting skewered and surprisingly he succeeded, much to everyone’s disbelief.
“What the actual fuck? Did ye see that shite?” Marlo commented, a big lump on his forehead and tended a hand to Sam. “Think I broke me head, or something.”
The Hoplites pulled back again, to redress their lines and Marlo dragged Sam with the help of Soren closer to their own much thinner positions. The battle raging in the center and the distant other edge of the frontline. But it was clear the Zilan were slowly winning as the Hoplite force was still largely intact.
“Is he dead?” Garth asked, stopping to glare at a Zilan Ranger scouting their position from about a hundred meters away, her silhouette clearly visible now that the waking up fiercely red sun slowly peeked over the heights behind them. Garth raised his arm, hand turned into a gloved fist but for the extended fat middle finger and aimed it at the seething ranger suggestively.
This dude, the adventurer thought shaking his head at their leader’s theatrics.
“The foot is fucked,” Sam grunted responding to his query, clenching his teeth to combat the mind-numbing pain. “And so are we, when they come at us again.”
> But the Second Othrim didn’t.
>
> Not only that, but it had turned around and marched towards the river again. As Lord Onas had feared at the start of the night and the battle, things never stay in one’s favor for long.
>
> Gods and war don’t work like that.
>
>
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