The leading army of the invaders swept through the outer city like a malignant tide, crashing upon the obstacles in their path and tearing them apart. The seething tide of humanity meticulously tore all manners of barricade and rubble along their routes, clearly more interested in clearing the way for the rear army than in advancing themselves. But they did not balk at conflict either, for wherever the waves of men crashed against strongpoints held by the men of the Home Guard, much slaughter was to be had. While the coerced inductees of the Aachish mercenary regiments seemingly held little motive to pursue such an aggressive advance, from many weeks experience travelling and fighting alongside their new masters they knew well their place.
Their sole purpose in the campaign was to draw the fire of the enemy, to pave the way for the rest of the mercenary companies forward. The sheer weight of their bodies would be the price paid in blood for every foot of the city so taken. While perhaps they could defect to the city’s defenders, beg for the Empress’s mercy and turn their coats against their new masters, the thought to do so did not once cross the mind of even a single man. The capture of the city was a foregone conclusion, how could it be any other in consideration for the massive disparity of numbers? Neither did any of the men hold any pretense or personal reservation over the morality of assaulting their fellow countrymen.
No principled man would have joined the enemy, eagerly aided their homeland’s invaders to despoil their own countryside, and put to death directly by the sword or indirectly by famine tens of thousands of innocents. No, the only things these men still held as sacred within the depths of their black hearts were their own miserable lives, and the alacrity with which they advanced stemmed solely from the fear of what their betters in the mercenary companies would do to them should they be found wanting. They had personally borne witness to and even aided countless atrocities by that point, and none held any desire to experience such things for themselves.
Inch by bloody inch they pressed further into the city, the great wave dividing itself again and again as it squeezed past branching roads and arteries of the city into alleyways so narrow that only three men could march abreast. It was a godsend for the men that they were only armed with short and nimble polearms; billhooks, war scythes, and glaives fashioned from reforged farming equipment that could be swung or thrust with but little difficulty even in the tight confines of the outer city. But for all that, for all of their zeal, their armament, their absolute terror at the consequences of failure, it did little to make up for their very nature. They were undisciplined, sloppy, each man fought only for himself and damn the rest. While they held far more battle experience than any member of the Home Guard, had fought in numerous battles as the Duke’s army burnt a line of desolation directly into the heart of the Empire, it availed them little. They held neither the conviction and camaraderie of the Aachish mercenaries, nor the greater cause of the Home Guard and its absolute trust in the Lord Protector who cared more for their lives than even the Empress. The inductees could not hope to understand the essence of fraternity and unity necessary to fight as a disciplined formation, and when they met with a force that did understand that concept, they found it immovable.
Like great titans from the myths of old, the men of the Home Guard stood stalwart and defiant in the face of the waves of invaders. Neither side held an advantage in the length of their polearms, but where the inductees were emphatically thrusting about every which way in the clash, leaving gaping holes in their wall of steel as each man fought to save his own life, the Home Guard did not. A wall of sharp steel held steady in the hands of the stoic Home Guard greeted the inductees as they dashed themselves against it in their eagerness to overcome the defenders. Here and there men of the Home Guard would fall, their semi armored chests pierced through by the lucky stroke of a spear or gruesomely beheaded by the swing of a glaive, and inevitably they did give ground. But for every fallen defender, it seemed that two more would take his place. The rear ranks advanced to the front to take up the positions of the dead as the invaders fought against a seemingly endless stream of men.
The men at the fore of the inductees may have had but little luck in pressing through the defenders, but that did nothing to quench the terror held in the hearts of the men to the rear. The Aachish mercenaries would surely soon arrive, and they could not afford to be found halted in their tracks having barely advanced a quarter of a mile. All across the outer city, the rear rank of inductees pressed forward, pushing their comrades into places where no space existed for them save that occupied by the gleaming steel tips of the Home Guard’s spears. Pushed relentlessly forward, the tide of men turnt to a bleeding, screaming mass of the impaled with such horrendous sounds emanating from the dead and dying that even the rear ranks were given pause. The spears of the Home Guard had begun to buckle and snap by the time the invaders’ advance finally halted, trembling in place. As those amongst the middle ranks saw naught but inescapable death before them, they quailed, edging backwards only to be stopped in their tracks by the forward pushing of the rear. Finding their only route to safety obstructed, edging gave way to pushing and prodding until finally all out shoving as the invader’s formation crumbled.
Had that been all, the vast majority of the inductees may yet have lived. They had advanced naught but a quarter mile into the outer city and while many ranks of men now lay in tangled heaps upon the bloody cobbled streets, the limited width of the roads and alleyways meant that only a relative few had so perished. The Home Guard itself would not advance, their orders and all of their training had instilled within them only the directive to stand fast in the face of the enemy. But the cruel points of the Home Guard’s spears were not all that assailed the invaders, and across the breadth of the outer city the din of angry men and battle gave way to the terrified screams of one sided slaughter.
Shaded windows were shattered, wooden doors were blown wide off of their hinges, and in many cases even entire walls that had been beforehand strategically undermined, were blown apart by a veritable flood of immense men in heavy armor. With force, those men came charging from their hiding places into the already wavering ranks of the mercenary inductees. The men of the Empress’s Shield struck the foe from the flanks and the rear, carving through tightly packed bodies with practiced ease, their halberds and great swords finding little armored resistance to their wickedly sharp blades as they dismembered limbs or cut bodies in twain, while their war hammers caved in skulls and helms alike with every stroke.
The individual compliments of the Empress’s Shield were positioned in groups so small that they were always vastly outnumbered by the enemy they now engaged. It was an unfortunate necessity, owing to the small size of the regiment and the great quantities of the enemy, but this mattered little for the choking tightness of the city streets and alleyways meant only a few of the foe could engage them at any one time. Held back not by the skill at arms or equipment of the foe, but only by each man’s personal stamina, every member of the Empress’s Shield became death incarnate.
They were mad demons, awash with so much blood that the steel helms of their armored bulk became completely doused. With every turn of their heads or swipe of their weapons they spattered the crimson ichor in a shower of metallic drops. Their expressions could not be seen through the thick obscuring great helms they wore, but surely, they must be cackling madly, predatory grins of bestial delight twisting their faces with rabid joy as they rent their victims limb from limb. Advantaged not only by their vastly superior skill at arms but also by the element of surprise and nigh impenetrable armor, the invaders could scarce touch them and for every such mad demon fallen, hundreds of invaders joined him in finality.
With the sergeants of the enemy embedded mostly to the rear of their columns, the invaders found themselves almost entirely without direction within minutes of the assault. Trumpeters, officers, and even the banner bearers themselves were swiftly slain before the rest of their companies even held even the presence of mind to notice their attackers. With none left to give orders, to raise the banners high for the survivors to rally, the companies were rendered sluggish and unadaptable to the changing circumstances. With their formations all but crumbling already from their ongoing clash with the Home Guard, they seemed to evaporate entirely as the Empress’s Shield began its slaughter. Panicked men from the rear ranks fled towards the front while the front ranks desperately tried to prevent themselves joining the steadily growing pile of bodies below the tips of the Home Guard’s spears. Neither end of the scrambling column allowed the other a means of retreat, and the entire mass was with fatal inevitability pushed upon the waiting ranks of the Home Guard and slain to a man.
Such unilateral victories were not the case in every engagement. In some the Home Guard had been drowned by weight of number by the tide of enemies upon their first contact, and the survivors of the clash were free to march deeper into the outer city. In such cases, they would later be met by the grim faced ranks of the Home Guard’s second or third lines of defense, who knowing what had befallen their fellows avenged their deaths with furious determination. In others, the men of the Empress’s Shield failed to make a timely appearance, whether appearing too swiftly and being pressed into their own retreat by a seemingly endless sea of foes or arriving too late and finding their counterparts in the Home Guard destroyed entirely or otherwise heavily weakened from repelling the enemy assault by their own power.
In several cases, the quantity of the Empress’s Shield had been found insufficient, whether by a fiercer resistance than had been expected, unfavorable terrain, or even their own places of concealment being discovered early by particularly cautious enemies mattered little, for very few men lived to retreat in such circumstances. But these instances of failure or unexpected losses were rare with respect to the battlefield as a whole, and nearly the entire advancing force of mercenary inductees, or at least those posted to the ancillary avenues of the city, lay in tangled bloody heaps or were in full flight.
The city’s main thoroughfare, however, was different to the narrow alleyways that had so defined the rest of the battle thus far. It was wide, intended to allow great processions of the Empire’s legions entry to the inner city. Nearly one hundred men could stand abreast in the grand street, a width that no makeshift barricade in the world could have obstructed. Thus, it was decided to not even attempt to do so with such primitive defenses, and the street was kept wide and open. It was almost suspiciously so, at least to the enemy that had retreated from the choked alleyways of other engagements.
Such keen deductions on the part of a few unlucky souls that had been met with failure elsewhere and joined up with the main force of the invaders were correct. It was unsurprising that such unnatural emptiness had been deliberate, for the wide avenue that had once been choked full of wagons and workers holding all manner of cargo had been purposefully cleared earlier that week to leave it barren and devoid of any obstacle. While some of the wiser members of the invading force may have been aghast at the thought of the city’s defenders willfully forgoing such a great advantage, they knew not the true purpose. For while barricades and rubble had been used to stem the tide of the enemy elsewhere, to slow them down or redirect them from the smaller roads, the defense of Maegwyn’s main thoroughfare would be decided by the strength and courage of men.
A deathly silence hung over the advancing mass of mercenary inductees, broken only by hushed whispers and the slight sound of leather gloves gripping tightly upon cold steel. In the distance, the roar of battle raging elsewhere could be heard. With the obstruction of the large and imposing intervening buildings that thoroughly isolated the road, it could not be sensed by any man present the course of the battle. But that their fellows had encountered the city’s defenders was a certainty, and knowing that fact only made the ease of their progress thus far more tense.
It was plainly evident from the sound at least that the battle was not the one sided slaughter that every man there had so desperately hoped, for the clashing of steel upon steel rang out almost as loudly as the blood curdling screams of the dying. But for all that noise, not a single soul amongst the city’s defenders was to be found, the street hauntingly empty and bereft of any indication that humans had ever lived there at all. Occasionally a slight breeze would blow, loudly rattling panes of glass or swinging wooden window shutters wide, and every man would feel mortal terror building within the depths of his heart.
These men were no professional soldiers, but hastily impressed farmers and hunters. Their minds were easily given over to fear and doubt at even the most slight ill omen as their worries assailed them. The enemy must be lurking within the surrounding buildings! They could only have given themselves away by accident and would surely soon be upon the column! But these wild imaginings were met with only disappointment, to the immense relief of many. Anytime a suspicious sound was heard, one of the sergeants organizing the general advance would direct a few men to investigate while the column moved on, for they could not afford to halt for even the briefest of moments. But all such reconnaissance was met with were empty homes, devoid even of furniture so frantically had they been stripped bare.
That the city’s defenders had emptied even the houses lining the avenue as they had the street itself was mystifying, and confusion and lack of comprehension led the invaders’ minds to the worst of imaginings. To have taken even the very furniture from homes, items that could have proven crucial to the city’s defenders for the construction of barriers or makeshift pavaise and not used one scrap of it to block the invaders’ advance was an act of such insanity it boggled the mind. This was the widest road, the majority of the invading army out of any route in the city had set upon its course, company by company arranged in as proper a formation as could be managed with their admittedly limited armament. An obstruction anywhere along the path would have broken formations, forced men to part as the great body of troops squeezed its way through, slowing the whole column, tens of companies and thousands of men down to a crawl. But their advance was unimpeded, swiftly moving through to the very heart of the city at a brisk marching pace.
It was almost as if the city’s defenders wanted them to advance, to take in the greatest amount of the invaders directly to the heart of the city. But for what purpose? The mercenaries, even if they had never been to the city themselves knew well the route, for the Duke’s men who most assuredly had thus travelled had described their intended target to the utmost detail. The main thoroughfare travelled directly to the curtain wall’s gatehouse, twisting and turning as it went to provide ample cover from the city’s cannons. But for all that distance, it never narrowed and on its steady course the army would soon reach the walls, ready to begin its attempt to break through them.
The Home Guard could not be so dull, so imbecilic, as to believe allowing the invaders uncontested access to their ultimate objective would bring any advantage. Yet here they were, almost an entire half mile advanced into the outer city. They had not been inconvenienced or delayed by so much as a minute up to that point. Men who had been jittery and fearful of the possibility of an enemy ambush had begun to let their nervous worries vanish, as with every step no attack was made. Every time scouts investigated a building, they found naught but dust. Gradually an army that had defined itself by their jittery nature grew bolder, ignoring the sounds that occasionally made their way down from the surrounding buildings entirely to advance forward.
Eventually the column was joined, at first in the ones or twos, slowly but steadily, only to grow into a steady stream by their fellows who had attacked the city from other directions. It would seem that the rest of the city had not been as barren as the main avenue. The first companies to join up with the advancing column had not seen the Home Guard themselves, but had passed through numerous obstacles and crude traps of weakly supported rubble. Delayed most certainly, but having been minimally impacted, they were surprised to find that their chosen route converged with the city’s main artery rather than bypassing it. Later came others, those who had successfully managed to drive the Home Guard from their choke points or that had redirected their assault upon finding the Home Guard’s positions to be unassailable. None that reached the advancing column, however, had encountered the men of the Empress’s Shield, for to lay eyes upon such men was to bring only death and suffering upon her enemies. Thus, the column continued, unsure of what they may encounter but blissfully ignorant of the cruel whims of fate.
The invaders were finally brought to a halt within Victory Square, a grand plaza that had been built within the outer city to commemorate the triumph of the Empress during the civil war. Though it had since fallen upon difficult times, its buildings still remained stout and strong. Being constructed not of the mere timber and thatch so common elsewhere in the district, but of durable and ageless stone and mortar, they had aged gracefully while the city decayed around them. None of the demolitions made to enhance the city’s defenses had dared to consider toppling such sturdy constructions, for the stone was mighty enough that it would take a barrage of cannon to bring it down. These great buildings lined the plaza, casting it in shadow under the ever watchful eyes of a weathered bronze statue cast in the Empress’s image. However, it was not these abnormally grand, for the likes of the outer city at least, buildings that had so abruptly halted the invaders, but the amassed ranks of the Home Guard.
While constrained within the rest of the city to fight in small groups numbering less than one hundred, in formations not even five abreast in many circumstances, here they were arrayed in whole companies. As if to mirror that of the invaders, the Home Guard had formed into large blocks of spearmen and occupied the northern half of the plaza. While the area was too constrained to perform proper field maneuvers, it was large enough for several companies to muster side by side. Furthermore, the Home Guard themselves had brought thousands of men, the entirety of the great company under the second captain of foot. Though still greatly outnumbered by the invaders, they held fast in the face of the enemy, their spears thrust outward as they prepared to receive a charge. It seemed to the inducted mercenaries that the battle would be decided in an open engagement, one free from the trickery so evident elsewhere in the city. Their spirits were raised, for in the limited time that they had trained under the instruction of the Aachish in the arts of war, they had primarily prepared for battles in just such conditions.
“Men of the Home Guard, today these base marauders run through our city with hate in their hearts and death upon their spears. They seek nothing short of the destruction of all we hold dear, in service to a coward and traitor that would see our fair lands set ablaze. I ask you now, stand strong, stand firm! For even if we die today upon the blades of the enemy, we fight not for ourselves but for that of our people, our wives, our children!” A large man armored in antiquated but thick plate armor in a style not dissimilar to that of Nathaniel gave a rousing speech to the assembled men of the Home Guard.
This was the second captain of foot himself, Gerald Nibbons, and with an impassioned cry he raised a large mace to the sky in defiance of the invader. Caring not for his own life, he stood upon the base of the Empress’s statue, visible for all in the plaza to see, stoking the fires within the hearts of his men. Beside him stood the company’s ancient, the standard emblazoned with the Lord Protector’s seal held high. Brash and foolish like so many of his fellow captains, the man sought only to win the day. While such a belief was commendable on the part of the city’s defenders, he was unfortunately unable to grasp his own importance to the Empress’s armies, armies that hopefully would survive for longer than a mere day of battle. Almost as if rehearsed, the invaders became incensed at that speech and charged forward into the waiting ranks of the Home Guard.
“That fool better not get himself killed…” Nathaniel muttered as he perched low by a barely open shutter, observing the antics of the third captain of foot in evident displeasure. The lines had barely been joined, and already the man’s arrogance had led to the focusing of several of the enemy’s skirmishers upon him, peppering the company’s standard and the Empress’s statue in arrows.
“When will we strike?” Suddenly from his right, came the impatient voice of Andross, almost seething in anger as he was forced to stand by and watch the unfolding battle from above.
“In due time Andross, while I have utmost faith in your regiment, we are but fifty to many, many more. If we wish to tip the scales of this battle we must bide our time.” Stirred from his pondering of the battle, Nathaniel’s soothing voice filled the air of the room. His tone was soft and calming, as if coddling a child. Not that Andross was one of course, but the man was impulsive and perpetually wrathful. It never hurt to calm him, and whether caused by a lack of intelligence or unwavering trust in the Empress, he was surprisingly receptive to being so treated.
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Hidden inside the stout homes surrounding the plaza were Nathaniel and his entire compliment of the Empress’s Shield. Joining them, were approximately two hundred men of the Home Guard seconded from its third great company, crossbowmen all. From the shuttered windows of the buildings, they could hear the clash of battle. Screams and shouts echoed throughout the sturdy perimeter of the plaza and rang inside the ears of nervous men. They had lain hidden for an hour before the enemy had begun to pass by, making as great a speed as they could manage towards the city’s curtain wall.
It was a gamble to be sure, allowing the foe to draw so near on only the third day of siege. If the Home Guard lost this engagement, then it was a likelihood that the entirety of the mercenary force would sweep down upon a lightly defended curtain wall and breach it entirely. But the bold strategies of the Duke could only be countered by equally bold strategies on the part of the Lord Protector. With the vast majority of the enemy lured into the plaza after facing such stiff resistance elsewhere, they were primed and vulnerable, ready to be torn apart when the trap was finally sprung. But Nathaniel could not act yet, for many men more still marched into the plaza and the morale of the invaders still held firm. Only when they revealed their vulnerabilities would the time be right to close the trap about their heads.
“The Home Guard has not the means to win this battle alone, the mercenaries will not falter without our intervention! Every defender slain is an arrow of the Empress plucked from its quiver and trodden upon the ground; we must intercede!” Peeved at Nathaniel’s dismissal of his question, Andross pointed to the window through which the sounds of battle echoed. Outside the Home Guard were hard pressed to fight off the invaders now that they fought upon even footing, formation against formation.
“I myself have no love for the sacrifices that we must make either, but for the defense of the city these deaths are necessary. We cannot afford to stumble now, so close to our goal. With every passing minute more of the enemy are brought into our trap. It is not by caution that we will bleed the army of the Duke dry, but by bold action.” Quenching the longing to join battle within his own heart, Nathaniel put on the stone faced guise of a general as he patiently explained their inaction to Andross.
It seemed that no matter how carefully he discussed his plans with other commanders, his bodyguards remained ignorant of their meaning. Perhaps he had only himself to blame, these men were new acquaintances, ones who had never held command and had never been upon the losing side of a battle. They knew not the necessity of sacrifice. While Nathaniel himself may have yearned to join with battle, to protect the lives of his countrymen that he had sworn to protect when he assumed the position of Lord Protector all of those long years ago, he knew that their deaths were a necessity. As much as he may have placed the lives of his men even over the carefully laid plans of the Empress, in this circumstance for his stratagems to have any success at all it would need to be made over the cold bodies of his men.
Outside, the mercenaries tore through the Home Guard with more success than they had found in any other engagement, reaping a deadly harvest as they cut their way through the block of spearmen. Emboldened by the success of the front ranks, the long column of men continued to advance into the plaza, where its individual companies soon filled the remaining space. Among the infantrymen was a single horseman, one equipped in dull and battle worn steel, but not one of Albion’s archaic designs. While many of the sergeants and captains that lay concealed behind thousands of their own men held some manner of scavenged armor or castoffs from the Duke’s army, this man was suited in one of Aachish make.
This must be the commander, Nathaniel noted to his surprise. Distinct from all other officers in oncoming mercenary horde, this man stood apart both by his unique armor and the large destrier upon which he was mounted. Nathaniel had assumed that the endless rains would have ensured any horsemen amongst the enemy fought dismounted, but evidently this mercenary captain had deemed the imposing height of his mount necessary for the battle ahead and braved the muck filled track surrounding the city upon his horse. This could not be just any mercenary captain, the man looked out arrogantly as hundreds of men, both his own and the city’s defenders, were struck dead by the clash of battle. Furthermore, he was surrounded by several similarly if less elaborately armored men, albeit men outfitted in antiques that could only have been fashioned in Albion. This could only be the commander of the entire detachment, a target then Nathaniel mused.
“No, they will not win this battle alone, I agree. But the enemy’s moral will falter long before the Home Guard are defeated entirely, look how even now they struggle and doubt upon facing stiffer resistance than expected!” Peering out the window with his head held low to prevent being seen, Nathaniel watched as the invaders clashed against the Home Guard.
In terms of weaponry, the invaders far outclassed the Home Guard, and the wicked blades of their billhooks and glaives reaped a grim harvest from the ranks of the city’s defenders. But despite the immense rate of attrition within the front ranks, the men of the Home Guard held firm and steady, forcing the enemy to all but willfully impale themselves upon their proffered spears to advance inch by bloody inch. It was not merely by skill at arms or superior weaponry that decided battle, but also courage, the hearts of men. The mercenaries certainly held greater individual skill, but that paled in comparison to the bravery of the city’s defenders, and as in so many other engagements throughout the city the Home Guard held firm.
“I see now… The invaders appear to be stalling. I do not think that I will ever agree with your ruthless tactics, but it seems that your ploy has met with some success. I must admit, I did not expect to see such ferocity possessed by… mere peasants. I will defer to your greater experience.” After several minutes of raging battle had passed, Andross saw the sheer courage of the Home Guard and, thoroughly embarrassed from misjudging the situation, he apologized to Nathaniel.
He was surprised to see such heart possessed by mere conscripts, and hastily trained equipped ones at that. His expectations for the city’s defenders had been lain low after observing how similar men had buckled easily at the earth works upon contact with the enemy. For men of such a lesser regiment as the Home Guard, especially one consisting of the same class of men that had proven its weakness beyond all doubt during the first day of battle… it was a miracle. Such zeal, they could have been members of the Empress’s Shield themselves with such devotion did they refuse to break even in the face of such seemingly insurmountable numbers.
“You… This is the turning point. Look how the fierce expressions upon the faces of the Duke’s men sink and turn to despair. They thought they had already won as they felled the first ranks of our spearmen, but they still stand strong. Crossbowmen, launch at will upon the enemy! Men of the Empress’s Shield, to arms! Follow me into battle and we shall drive these dogs from our city!” Unworried about giving their position away now that they trap had finally been sprung, Nathaniel loudly gave the order to attack to all of the assembled men.
Closed shutters opened with a bang, one overlooked and drowned out by the sounds of combat. But what could not be so overlooked was the steel rain that soon fell upon the enemy. While Nathaniel’s orders had only been heard in one among dozens of houses lining the plaza, the onset of the deluge of crossbow bolts was the call to action for the others. Soon, all around the plaza the deadly missiles were disgorged, falling upon the foe with an almost unnatural accuracy as even the most blind of marksmen could scarce miss when shooting into the throng of enemy bodies. The already stalling advance of the enemy hated completely in confusion as they came under attack from every direction.
While the rate of loosing the heavy crossbows given to the Home Guard was by no means swift, they made up for the long delay between launched missiles with sheer volume. The enemy at first was paralyzed by the sudden eruption of violence and death within their own ranks. It was especially shocking after they had advanced so far into the city and not once did they encounter an enemy ambush. But the screams of swiftly dying men and the hot sprays of arterial blood jetting out from where the dead and dying had been penetrated could not be ignored.
Thinking quickly, evidently an experienced men well used to the chaos of battle, the mercenary’s commander made loud rousing calls to the companies that were soon relayed by trumpeter and standard bearer. Under the blaring of horns and the waving of banners, men who had once been confused and fearful became focused, their anger and terror directed towards the source of the sudden ambush. In a mad dash, the men nearest to the houses began to charge against them. But after hacking down tightly locked doors with their weapons they came face to face with the Empress’s Shield. No matter how quick upon his feet the mercenary commander was, no matter how experienced in battle or tight the grasp of his hand upon the whip of order may be, he could not have prepared his men for this.
The mercenaries were weak, cowardly even. They were used to the slaughter of the heavily outnumbered or the unarmed, men who had at worst thought only that they would be set against those in similar circumstances to their own. When the news of the great victory of the earth works had circulated amongst the Duke’s encampment, they had rejoiced for they knew that they would not be faced with the knights and men at arms of the Empire’s nobility. The Home Guard were but peasants, ones who had not even been tempered in the atmosphere of fear and greed that had been so carefully cultivated by the Aachish mercenaries. But unfortunately for the mercenary inductees, what lay in ambush for them inside the houses lining the plaza were not men of the Home Guard, but the epitome of martial skill and knightly virtue left in the entire Empire.
“With me!” With a raging battle cry, Nathaniel at the forefront of his companions launched himself against the ranks of the mercenaries, a bloodied great sword held high and his war hammer dangling from his belt. He was soon followed by fifty men of the Empress’s Shield, their unexpected appearance and their terrifying skill driving a wedge deep into the heart of the invaders’ formation.
As premature as his attack was, striding out before even his bodyguards could join him, Nathaniel became quickly surrounded. But for a warrior of his caliber, such an encirclement meant only more souls for his sword to harvest, and with but a few swings he found himself surrounded only by the dismembered bodies of the slain. His thick, archaic armor may have been of but little use against armor piercing spurs or the increasingly common bullets fired from an arquebus, but against the shoddy weapons of the mercenary inductees it was all but impenetrable.
Not stopping for a moment to parry or dodge the strike of an enemy, for such actions would swiftly drain his stamina and were only of any real utility against men of a similar caliber to his own, he charged forward into an ever thickening crowd of the enemy. With every step, short spears or glaives came screaming towards him, only to be deflected from his armor by a timely angling of an armored gauntlet, pauldron, or his cuirass. His great sword cut through the hafts of thrust spears or glaives with ease, leaving their wielders dumb struck until his sword cleft their heads from their shoulders. Only when he was assailed by the spur of a halberd did he ever pause, expertly deflecting the blade with one stroke only to return the favor by disemboweling the attacker with another. Surrounded by so much death and blood, his brain tuning out the screams of the dead and dying to which he had long been inured, he felt… at peace. Nay, excited, perhaps even in frenzy!
It was truly exhausting to deal with the flightful fancies and gross inexperience on the part of the Empress, and it was an unexpected joy to lose himself in the throes of battle. While he had slain many at the earth works as he stood by as observer, it was never truly enough for the enemy had already been half beaten by the time they reached the lines of the city’s defenders. But here… there were so many bodies, so many targets to prove his mastery over and to ease his frustrations within the whirlwind of battle. It had been so long since the civil war, so very long since he had last been able to let himself go and simply to engage in almost mindless slaughter as he cleft through foes of such vastly inferior skill. He had thought that perhaps his days of blood lust were behind him, only to feel absolutely overcome with furious emotion after entering the melee. But despite the tumultuous combination of glee and hatred towards the foe that spun around his head, delighting in his wanton slaughter, his mind retained his target – the mercenary commander.
Despite his intense emotions, for an aging man in his late thirties the rigors of battle were trying. No matter his experience or the ease by which he dispatched his attackers, bit by bit he felt his strength draining away. He would not be able to reach his target, the one whose death would surely plunge the rest of the enemy army into absolute chaos. He no longer possessed the power and endurance of his youth, and the number of enemies mounted by the second as the enemy commander marshalled his forces against Nathaniel.
Or at least, he would not be able to accomplish his objective alone. Suddenly the foes to Nathaniel’s rear were cut down and he once more joined by his three bodyguards, Andross the first among them who reached Nathaniel with the head of a mercenary impaled upon his great sword.
“Slow down Lord Protector, I will not explain to the Empress why her champion lies slaughtered at the hands of mere peasants!” With a growl of anger directed at Nathaniel’s recklessness, Andross chided him. Though angry at the thought of failing in his duties to protect his charge, his feelings were tempered by his own glee at finally engaging in battle against the hated foe.
“How could I ever be laid low at the hands of such men? You delude yourself Andross! Now to arms, we must slay the enemy general or soon they shall recover!” In a better mood than he had felt in years now that he was thoroughly covered in blood and gore, Nathaniel eagerly exclaimed his intent.
Now with the added weight of three of the Empress’s Shield, and the bulk of the enemy’s attention drawn by the fanning out of fifty others of that famed regiment’s numbers, Nathaniel rapidly progressed towards the foe. As he progressed, his mind coldly observed a decapitated head roll out from within its cleft helmet. The face of the head was clean shaven and flush with childish fat, this was no Aachish mercenary but a mere lad of Albion. He had thought it odd at first, that the first of the mercenary armies would be so lightly armed and green in battle. It did not match at all with the black reputation of such companies. But his idle ponderings were answered as he beheld the faces of his own countrymen with each strike of his sword. How pathetic, to be driven by such greed as to take up service in the arms of the traitor, to despoil their fellows and country for naught but mere gold. The Duke had more to answer for than he had ever thought previously, turning men of Albion over to the rabid dogs of Aachenwald to be corrupted into the gods only knew what manner of base creature.
Eventually, the party cleared a bloody path into the heart of the mercenary formation. So much terror did their assault wreak that naught but the commander’s bodyguards dared to stand in their way, all others having long fled screaming. With a nod to his bodyguards, the group split four ways with Nathaniel approaching the mercenary commander alone while his three bodyguards engaged their counterparts. Trembling in both anger and blood lust, he gave no formal challenge as he flung himself bodily at the mercenary commander, his great sword pointed forward in a thrust. Before the man could even react, Nathaniel’s sword pierced straight through the chest of the commander’s steed, instantly slaying it and causing the man to tumble bodily to the ground.
But this man was a veteran far and above the likes of the rest of the army, an officer pulled from the Aachish ranks solely to command by whip and sword the newly inducted members of the mercenaries. He would not take his death lying down, and quickly sprang up despite his heavy armor in an impressive display of both strength and agility. Nathaniel withdrew his sword from the body of the fallen horse, attempting to bring it down upon the commander’s head only for his strike to be deflected in turn. Surprised at the skillful display, Nathaniel could not bring his own sword back into a striking stance before he was kicked heavily in the chest and fell backward, his great sword going flying from his grasp.
Knocked flat onto his back with the wind knocked from his lungs by the compression of his steel armor against his chest, Nathaniel struggled to get up. As he looked up, he blinked, the overcast sky darkened by the face of the mercenary commander, his sword held aloft and ready to drive down into Nathaniel’s prone form. With a snarl, Nathaniel rolled to his side, avoiding the downward strike of the commander, while quickly springing up. The commander’s sword deflected off of the cobbled stone of the street, the man’s hands shaking. Nathaniel examined his own hands, finding them empty, his own sword flung several paces away. He would need to finish the fight without the use of his sword.
Thinking quickly, he bent low and ran forward in a charge as the commander attempted to recover his shaking arm, catching the man in the torso. While the commander was clearly quite a bit younger and far more agile, he was not the heavier of the two, especially not with the extreme weight of the archaic armor of Albion, and Nathaniel succeeded in tackling him to the ground. The commander’s own sword was dropped in the scuffle as both men fell hard upon the stone street. The two men struggled on the ground, the commander struggling to push Nathaniel off, while Nathaniel pinned the man’s limbs to the ground. However, the commander was stronger than Nathaniel and no sooner had he thought he had successfully pinned the commander’s limbs did the commander grab Nathaniel and roll to the side.
Now trapped below, Nathaniel saw the cold gleam of triumph in the commander’s eyes as he reached for a knife, only for Nathaniel to bared his own devilish grin as his mailed fist came hurtling at the commander’s helm. The commander blinked his eyes, mildly concussed and discombobulated by the sudden blunt force, only for Nathaniel’s fist to come forward once again. Now, weak in his limbs he was easily pushed off by Nathaniel, who proceeded to pummel the man’s helmet with both of his fists. His gauntlets creaked and complained, but the heavy metal was sturdy, something he had experienced for himself over long years upon campaign, and it did not give. The air gave a resounding crack as the commander’s face guard gave way, caving in until the metal bit deep into the flesh of his face.
“M-m-mercy! Y-y-you can take me for r-r-ransom!” With bloody rivulets falling down the man’s face and a bloody mouth from Nathaniel’s fists, he begged for his life, now deeply humbled from the fight.
“What need have I of gold? I only crave the blood and tears of my enemies. We offer no mercy, for none has been offered to us!” His own grin turning into a maniacal smile underneath the cover of his helmet, Nathaniel returned the commander’s pleading for mercy with another mailed fist.
With fist after fist, the commander’s face was turned into a bloody ruin as bones snapped like brittle ceramic under Nathaniel’s tyrannous hand. With every strike, more and more viscous crimson ichor covered his armored hands and spattered the area indiscriminately. Soon the commander’s head was nothing more than a ruined, oozing mess, completely devoid of life. Nathaniel stood up with a blissful sigh, covered in detritus from the day’s encounters. It always felt so good to engage in single combat with a worthy opponent, it brought his blood to a pleasant boil and let him forget all of his worries, entrusting his life to the certainty of steel.
Around the victorious Nathaniel, lay the slumped bodies of the commander’s bodyguards. Though they had outnumbered the Empress’s Shield by two men, all of them lay dead upon the ground, the killing blows having been delivered precisely to their most vulnerable places, whether by stroke to a chink in their armor or a simple crushing of their helmet with a war hammer. Not a man among the Empress’s Shield spoke in either congratulation or denunciation, their stark silence while not contrary to their normal behavior also revealing their horror at the ruin of what had once been Nathaniel’s opponent. Around the four men, the rest of the mercenary company stood in shocked silence, having seen the commander that had brought them to torturous fear for the past month now lying all but obliterated from existence upon the ground, his crazed killer covered head to toe in blood. Quickly the surrounding men fled, running every which way in an attempt to escape from the crazed killer and his armored companions.
“Conserve your strength, they are already broken and will be brought down either by our crossbowmen or themselves in their frenzy.” With a raising of his hand, Nathaniel stopped his bodyguards from chasing any of the fleeing men down.
Nathaniel’s bodyguards nodded in assent as they looked at the retreating men. While they had decimated one company in their pursuit of the army’s commander, the rest of the plaza was still filled with dozens of others engaged in mortal struggle with both the Home Guard and the other pockets of the Empress’s Shield. The air was filled with deadly missiles and screams of pain and death as the battle raged on.
While Nathaniel’s group engaged with the enemy commander, the men that had attempted to storm the veritable fortresses from which hundreds of crossbowmen spat death were easily repelled by the heavily armored infantry of the Empress’s Shield. Walls of steel quickly formed around the houses, making them all but impenetrable even given the shocking numbers disparity, for the already disillusioned mercenaries with their peasant weapons and largely unarmored bodies were no match for the Empress’s bodyguards.
Had the collective mass of invaders held firm, had a wise commander kept their fear in check and reorganized them to destroy the small pockets of the bodyguards with the sheer weight of their bodies then disaster may yet have been averted. Before he was engaged, the enemy commander had been making efforts to that effect, and had in several cases succeeded in forcing the Empress’s Shield back. But with any leadership the mercenaries may have had otherwise occupied, the commander of the army now lying slain and the various sergeants and captains having joined him in death or lost control of their men entirely, their companies trembled under the withering rain of death. All across the plaza, the invaders’ lines buckled before dissolving, each man within the column fighting only for himself as he sought to escape.
As a body not dissimilar to a mass of insects, the invaders retreated, casting off armor, weapons, anything that could slow them as they desperately fled back from whence they came. The Home Guard let them retreat, although the rain of deadly missiles did not abate until the last man had cleared the plaza in contemptible retreat. Thousands of the foe lay dead or dying on the street, and the men of the Empress’s Shield gave final mercy to any they found that still drew breath. But the Home Guard did not retreat, holding firm in formation, albeit at a more relaxed posture, for this battle at least they had won greatly with only a few hundred of their own slain for a great reaping of the enemy.
A sense of jubilation threatened to sweep over the city’s defenders until the good sentiment was stifled and smothered in its cradle by the forbidding blaring of a trumpet. It was unlike those that had been employed by the mercenaries before. One more deep and threatening than the more shrill and loud trumpets preferred by the legions of Albion. It was an Aachish trumpet. The trumpeting sounds were soon followed by intense screaming as what could only have been the shattered remnants of the forward army of the mercenaries met with the rear army in their flight – and were summarily executed. It was only practical after all, the retreating men were too few to ever pose much of a threat again, and their flight only worsened the morale of the Duke’s army and raised the spirits of the city’s defenders. Their deaths, cruel and merciless coming from their own allies, would serve as a warning to the rest of those that dared to stand in the Duke’s way. Soon the screams silenced, the brutal work having been finished, and the rear army of the mercenaries, the real Aachish mercenaries, marched into view from around the bend of the road.