Post by vermilition on May 14, 2007 4:47:07 GMT -5
As the shouts of the dead and dying filtered over the wall too his ears, Ruthus cleaned the ichor from his sword and threw the rag aside. Scanning the wall his noted the number of casualties on his side of the wall.
Counting the number of bodies he swiftly gave up after he reached double figures. As a soldier he was born and bred not to care about the dead, nor too count their stinking corpses, only to make said stinking corpses with his sword and spear and to stop himself from becoming a corpse by using his shield.
It was simple. Black and white.
And it hurt his head to see a shade of grey.
Looking down around him he spotted the remains of his shield. It had been hewn in half with the power of an axe. The man wielding it was tough. He had taken 3 arrows and made it too the walls, fuelled by some inner need too kill.
Only a spear through the chest had stopped him. But that was after countless stab-wounds.
He hoped that he never had to fight another man like that again…
Peering over the battlements he spotted the would be invaders moving back through the fields of their own dead too their camp some 700 meters away, just out of range of the cities cattapults...
Along the wall came a commanding officer. His iron armour laced with silver to denote rank and privilege. Obviously his armour was untouched by the stain of blood, git, he must have been one of those officers who was born into the job.
Despised by all soldiers these men were the shame of the king’s army.
First to run but first too get the gold.
Men saluted too the man but pulled faces and mouthed obscenities at his back as his body guard of war acolytes made their way through the blood soaked walls. Ruthus in turn saluted but struggled too hold back a laugh as a scribe, taking copious notes for his master, slid and fell in a pile of guts fresh from a disembowelled corpse.
Along the wall all those with a vision chortled and pointed, but miraculously found something too do as the scribe turned around to face them as he picked himself up.
You never messed with a scribe.
They were so close to an officer they could easily whisper in his ear, they also had an astounding memory and an uncompromised access too the records and files of the inner sanctum, enough access to make sure that a footslogger could find his way into a cell in the dungeons.
A sense of calm drifted over him as the day became night. Little children ran around the city lighting the lamps. This was a job for young men mostly, but all young men had been drafted too the army for the siege. That also ment the summer games would never be on this year.
But the siege was more important at this moment in time.
Sheathing his sword he looked around. A perfect shield partially covered the body of a fallen comrade, whose neck was penetrated by a barbed arrow, it must have been a lucky shot moving over Ruthus took the shield and tested it. Nothing noticeably wrong. Dropping to one knee he gently closed the eyes of the fallen warrior offering up a quick prayer, raising himself again he muttered, “I pray this shield serves me better than it served you.”
Three hours later Ruthus felt better, a cold ale nestled in his hands he sat remembering the moments of the battle.
Three charges in one day.
That was less than normal, but each attack was like hell braking on the walls, maybe they were lucky that it was only three attacks.
A man entered the bar with an expression of shock and wonderment.
He jumped onto a table to gain attention. There was outcry as the man scattered a few men from their table.
“I beg your attention brothers!” He called, every head in the bar turned, if it hadn’t already, “The bodies of the dead are too be thrown from the walls, the night watchmen are throwing the bodies now and plan to set them alight to prevent the invaders from marching on our walls!”With his message delivered the man leapt down and ran of into the night.
Ruthus’ shoulders drooped and his thoughts became heavy.
“Now they will be pissed…”
Ruthus returned too the wall the next day as the smoke from the charred corpses vied with the morning mist too block out the morning sun. Looking down onto the camp of the enemy Ruthus could see they were alive and buzzing, riled up from the desecration of their fallen comrades' corpses. Sliding his sword from the sheath at his hip Ruthus went through a series of motions designed too loosen the muscles needed to swing a sword.
With each swing of the blade Ruthus fealt a muscle loosen as the loosening release wound its way up his arm.
The wrist circled itself loose as the blade whistled through the air, followed by the lower arm muscles and the upper arm muscles, Ruthus loosened the swing, making larger circles with his sword as more muscles complied too the movement.
Now his shoulder began to sing freely as the movements seamed to become easier and more willing.
Satisfied with his moves Ruthus returned the sword too its battered scabbard and stood at his post, along with the other 600 men on his section of the wall.
He did not have to wait long, as he began too feel a morning drearyness take him he heard the explosion of a section of wall coupled with the screams of the dead and the dying. Jolting upright he looked over the wall, seven catapults had converged upon the wall, spiting their firey death upon those unlucky enough to stand before them.
To his left another rock tore into the wall face, lifting Ruthus from his feet and throwing him too the ground. He tried to rise again but found his sences dulled by the impact. Even with a helmet on, being hit in the head hurt, alot.
He managed to rise again on the third try but only with the help of the nearest soldier, the heavy armour almost kept Ruthus down but he staggered too the wall as someone screamed about ladders.
As if on que a ladder appeared beside him and he rushed to push it down. With the aid of his fellow soldiers Ruthus toppled the wooden ladder and sent the men on the ladder too a bone crunching death.
Men on other parts of the wall were not doing so well, some tried to throw back the ladders while others were cut to pieces as their backs were away from their enemies.
Ruthus rushed too the aid of his comrades, it was a quick 200 meter sprint too the skirmish but the heavy plate armour made it a marathon.
Whilst still charging Ruthus plunged his sword into the stomach of the nearest man. He pulled it out of the guts and he slashed left and right too try and dismebowl the attackers.
Suddenly a hammer blow shot through the armour of the warrior and Ruthus fell down, blow rained down upon him form feet and fists and suddenly he was pulled out of the frey by allied hands.
But Ruthus was left upon the wall, he watched in silent horror as the wave of attackers nocked back the valiant defenders.
Feeling the blood rush from his face he screamed in unbridaled agony as a blade sliced into his back, slowly his vision faded and the world seemed to go grey, but before his ancestors called him home Ruthus caught a glimpse of the ground as he was thrown from the battlements...
Counting the number of bodies he swiftly gave up after he reached double figures. As a soldier he was born and bred not to care about the dead, nor too count their stinking corpses, only to make said stinking corpses with his sword and spear and to stop himself from becoming a corpse by using his shield.
It was simple. Black and white.
And it hurt his head to see a shade of grey.
Looking down around him he spotted the remains of his shield. It had been hewn in half with the power of an axe. The man wielding it was tough. He had taken 3 arrows and made it too the walls, fuelled by some inner need too kill.
Only a spear through the chest had stopped him. But that was after countless stab-wounds.
He hoped that he never had to fight another man like that again…
Peering over the battlements he spotted the would be invaders moving back through the fields of their own dead too their camp some 700 meters away, just out of range of the cities cattapults...
Along the wall came a commanding officer. His iron armour laced with silver to denote rank and privilege. Obviously his armour was untouched by the stain of blood, git, he must have been one of those officers who was born into the job.
Despised by all soldiers these men were the shame of the king’s army.
First to run but first too get the gold.
Men saluted too the man but pulled faces and mouthed obscenities at his back as his body guard of war acolytes made their way through the blood soaked walls. Ruthus in turn saluted but struggled too hold back a laugh as a scribe, taking copious notes for his master, slid and fell in a pile of guts fresh from a disembowelled corpse.
Along the wall all those with a vision chortled and pointed, but miraculously found something too do as the scribe turned around to face them as he picked himself up.
You never messed with a scribe.
They were so close to an officer they could easily whisper in his ear, they also had an astounding memory and an uncompromised access too the records and files of the inner sanctum, enough access to make sure that a footslogger could find his way into a cell in the dungeons.
A sense of calm drifted over him as the day became night. Little children ran around the city lighting the lamps. This was a job for young men mostly, but all young men had been drafted too the army for the siege. That also ment the summer games would never be on this year.
But the siege was more important at this moment in time.
Sheathing his sword he looked around. A perfect shield partially covered the body of a fallen comrade, whose neck was penetrated by a barbed arrow, it must have been a lucky shot moving over Ruthus took the shield and tested it. Nothing noticeably wrong. Dropping to one knee he gently closed the eyes of the fallen warrior offering up a quick prayer, raising himself again he muttered, “I pray this shield serves me better than it served you.”
Three hours later Ruthus felt better, a cold ale nestled in his hands he sat remembering the moments of the battle.
Three charges in one day.
That was less than normal, but each attack was like hell braking on the walls, maybe they were lucky that it was only three attacks.
A man entered the bar with an expression of shock and wonderment.
He jumped onto a table to gain attention. There was outcry as the man scattered a few men from their table.
“I beg your attention brothers!” He called, every head in the bar turned, if it hadn’t already, “The bodies of the dead are too be thrown from the walls, the night watchmen are throwing the bodies now and plan to set them alight to prevent the invaders from marching on our walls!”With his message delivered the man leapt down and ran of into the night.
Ruthus’ shoulders drooped and his thoughts became heavy.
“Now they will be pissed…”
Ruthus returned too the wall the next day as the smoke from the charred corpses vied with the morning mist too block out the morning sun. Looking down onto the camp of the enemy Ruthus could see they were alive and buzzing, riled up from the desecration of their fallen comrades' corpses. Sliding his sword from the sheath at his hip Ruthus went through a series of motions designed too loosen the muscles needed to swing a sword.
With each swing of the blade Ruthus fealt a muscle loosen as the loosening release wound its way up his arm.
The wrist circled itself loose as the blade whistled through the air, followed by the lower arm muscles and the upper arm muscles, Ruthus loosened the swing, making larger circles with his sword as more muscles complied too the movement.
Now his shoulder began to sing freely as the movements seamed to become easier and more willing.
Satisfied with his moves Ruthus returned the sword too its battered scabbard and stood at his post, along with the other 600 men on his section of the wall.
He did not have to wait long, as he began too feel a morning drearyness take him he heard the explosion of a section of wall coupled with the screams of the dead and the dying. Jolting upright he looked over the wall, seven catapults had converged upon the wall, spiting their firey death upon those unlucky enough to stand before them.
To his left another rock tore into the wall face, lifting Ruthus from his feet and throwing him too the ground. He tried to rise again but found his sences dulled by the impact. Even with a helmet on, being hit in the head hurt, alot.
He managed to rise again on the third try but only with the help of the nearest soldier, the heavy armour almost kept Ruthus down but he staggered too the wall as someone screamed about ladders.
As if on que a ladder appeared beside him and he rushed to push it down. With the aid of his fellow soldiers Ruthus toppled the wooden ladder and sent the men on the ladder too a bone crunching death.
Men on other parts of the wall were not doing so well, some tried to throw back the ladders while others were cut to pieces as their backs were away from their enemies.
Ruthus rushed too the aid of his comrades, it was a quick 200 meter sprint too the skirmish but the heavy plate armour made it a marathon.
Whilst still charging Ruthus plunged his sword into the stomach of the nearest man. He pulled it out of the guts and he slashed left and right too try and dismebowl the attackers.
Suddenly a hammer blow shot through the armour of the warrior and Ruthus fell down, blow rained down upon him form feet and fists and suddenly he was pulled out of the frey by allied hands.
But Ruthus was left upon the wall, he watched in silent horror as the wave of attackers nocked back the valiant defenders.
Feeling the blood rush from his face he screamed in unbridaled agony as a blade sliced into his back, slowly his vision faded and the world seemed to go grey, but before his ancestors called him home Ruthus caught a glimpse of the ground as he was thrown from the battlements...
