The majority of the guard force in the square started walking briskly through the people doing commerce, herding them out of the square. At the same time, archers around the square nocked arrows and sighted in on the two groups that had just stepped off the Thallenrose. They stayed tight together and started sprinting toward one of the gates, holding shields to protect themselves. They knew they’d already become a target.
As townspeople made way, Domire readied himself quickly to give his next signal. This was why the crowd was limited at all times; thinner crowds could be cleared more quickly for the sake of security. Expediency was even more necessary now that the intruders were on the move. The attackers spied Domire as he raised his other hand, this time his left, as he put his right on his sword hilt. The assailants shifted their course towards Domire. He extended the first two fingers of his hand, then swung his hand down and forward., at the same time giving a verbal command. “Archers, volley!”
Two dozen blunt-tipped arrows sped toward the small enemy formation. At the same time, a third group of six appeared on the Thallenrose. They immediately started sprinting. The moment they were clear, a fourth half-dozen soldiers appeared. The first round of arrows hit the dozen men running at Domire. A few missed entirely. Some hit at oblique angles, deflecting off the men’s armor.
Three struck well, thudding as they bounced off and fell to the ground, their blunt points causing no damage. One landed on a neck and the “mortally wounded” runner obligingly went down. One arrow hit a leg; this man fell to the ground but then leapt to his feet again, staggering as he feigned injury on that leg and holding his sword up, at the ready in case he still might contribute to the fight. The third shaft hit an arm. The “wounded” man kept running but switched his sword to his other hand and held the hurt arm close.
In the moment when the third half dozen had appeared, Domire called, “Follow volley on the rear! Foot, charge on front!” The archers nocked and drew bows to loose another round, this time on the fresh group now stepping off the Thallenrose. As they stepped off, another half-dozen appeared. They had now landed twenty-five foot soldiers and five Sages on Grendhill soil.
Aton and Valkyr leaped from their staging point and ran towards the spot where Domire and the forward group would collide. Valkyr pulled back and loosed as they ran, falling behind as she slowed to steady her shot. When it was gone–aimed true to hit an attacker in the shoulder next to his breastplate–she pulled a new one from her quiver and repeated the action.
Aton could see Mifalla and Tido jump from their vantage point on the other side of the square. Tido had a liking to carry throwing knives along with his axe. He started pulling them out from their hiding places and throwing as he ran. A neck, under the ribs–the knives would have been deadly if they weren’t made of leather-bound wood. The attackers he hit slumped to the ground, pretending injury but smarting in truth.
The parties collided and the fight in earnest began. Only moments later the second enemy formation joined. The guards around the square did not lend their support. In a real fight they would have, but this occasion was a show, a test, and a rite of passage. This fight belonged to the five siblings, as warriors and as leaders. Casualty evacuation and archery support were allowed, but when it came to calling commands and the brawl itself, the Farella family used this as an opportunity to show the people of the land who they had leading them generation after generation.
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After the archers had completed their brief part, nineteen attackers and four Sages remained for the siblings to take care of. Five armsmen fell to Valkyr’s arrows, another limped, and three were taken from the fight by Tido’s knives before the opposing parties met in close combat.
This left twelve armsmen and the four Sages to face. Though they put up a good fight, the sixteen couldn’t hope to win against five Farellas, especially with one of them lame already in one leg from an arrow. All they could try to achieve was removing a couple of them from the fight before it was over.
Domire, broad-shouldered and wearing a distinct shadow of a beard for a boy of fifteen Turns of age which matched the brown of his eyes, leaped into the fight, bringing his sword down on one opponent and then another. His powerful strokes could be deflected sometimes, but they could not be ignored.
Valkyr, tall and clever-looking with her hair pulled back and concentration in her green eyes, hesitated for a brief moment before joining the melee. She began to move her bow to her back where it could be locked in place so she could pull out her knives. Deciding that she was still not partial to the knives, instead she started using her bow as a staff, swinging its familiar weight around in a whirlwind. Where she aimed to strike, she hit.
Tido, curly-haired and stockier than his siblings, deftly swung his blunt practice axe as though he had days to carefully plan each blow. His dark eyes considered and knew that each strike would meet its mark. Though he did not always make sure to hit his opponents where their armor left them vulnerable, they got the idea—a real axe in those hands would have breached any plate or mail of reasonable width to be worn. Few dared to try standing in his way, and when they did, they fell quickly.
Misolfa, running into the fight with her short hair swinging and with a twinkle in her blue eyes, swung her hammer decisively. Its heavily padded head prevented, disappointingly in her opinion at least, the satisfying thud she felt she deserved to hear after the effort of each blow, but she didn’t let that get in her way. It clanged on armor and smacked limbs, certainly leaving a bruise wherever it hit despite the padding.
Aton, though he was running, entered the fight with such a calculated and deadly grace that he seemed to stalk through the air, deliberately into a pit of vipers. Domire, Valkyr, Tido, Misolfa—all fought very well, all were on the point of being masters of their respective instruments of defense. All would soon collect their Royal Arms and hurtle toward a superlative level of skill. All babes born to the Farella throne, with the exception of an uncle or aunt, or their own father, were almost certain to become the most skilled at their respective weapons among anyone alive.
But Aton had no weapon of his own. Aton had no such guarantee of supreme expertise. His agility announced him to be a Farella though, and his own determination refused to let anyone think he might not belong. He wasn’t sure what it would turn out to be, but Aton would be all that he could be. He thrust, slashed, and parried with twin short swords, turning, blocking, and attacking with all the effort he could muster.
It was over in moments. Aton found himself facing the Sages and holding blades to the throats of two of them, breathing hard. Tido held the third one by the shoulder and kept his axe ready. The attackers had all fallen; House Farella offspring had won the day. The onlookers at the edge of the square burst forth with a loud cheer, celebrating the triumph.
Something was wrong, though. They were hushing each other and quieting down. They looked proud, but perhaps somewhat dismayed at the outcome.
Aton, Valkyr, Misolfa, and Tido all turned their heads. Domire had fallen.