A moment passes, and you consider calling for your ships to turn back in the face of the size of the settlement, but you decide that the die has been cast, so to speak, and you yell orders to prepare for battle. A great ruckus breaks out among your ships, with men rushing to strap on armor, extra arms being thrown behind the oars, sails being drawn in, and bows being notched on the decks.
You turn towards Joral, a scheme to win her permanently over to your side brewing in your mind, and are greeted with a swift kick to the groin. Your eyes flash with pain, and you drop to your knees as the woman dashes past you, plants one foot on the railing, sheds her simple dress in one motion, and dives cleanly into the water.
Seething with anger and a throbbing pain, you stagger to your feet, but your ship has already traveled well past where she is swimming towards shore, shouting something in her indecipherable language. You tell yourself that you have bigger fish to fry, and rush belowdecks to strap on your armor with Luther's help.
When you emerge a few minutes later, your ship is nearly in position for disembarking. The enemy patrol boats are circling warily, but volleys of flaming arrows have kept them at a distance, and even caught one of them aflame. Horns are blaring from them, though, and are being matched at the settlement ahead.
The longboats have surged ahead, and your Halberdiers are swarming out of the boats in the shallow sea, with some of them staying behind to portage them as makeshift battering rams. Your archers are likewise taking positions behind the beached enemy craft, firing unorganized salvos at targets of opportunity. There is little organized resistance, but there are definitely more fighting men here than there were at the previous settlement, and the occasional sling rock or javelin thunks in amongst your men.
The cogs strike sandbars with their deep drafts, and ramps splash down into the surf. The horses are quickly driven down them, and you find yourself wading through the choppy seas in your plate armor. Thankfully, the slope up to the beach is gentle, and the waves give you or your fellow knights little trouble.
In a few minutes, your men are organized, and you yell for an advance on the palisade as you marshal the horse to the rear. Resistance is still scattered, and your men are doing an excellent job of suppressing any Sea Raider that pokes his head out of a watch tower. Before long, your men are at one of the gates. Your archers light arrows and send them far off into the town, to sow confusion, while your men bang longboats against one of the flimsy gates.
As they do so, a few of the patrol boats land and disembark men, but these are not the fierce warriors you remember from Torchester. These are the young and the old, and a few quick charges of Heavy Cavalry leave them scattered or dead.
Turning your attention back to the gates, you are pleased to see the wood begin to splinter, then crack. With one final groan, the gate your men are assembled at breaks off its hinges, and your men begin to pour into the city, with you and the cavalry taking up the rear.
Out of the blue, you are alarmed by a blast of horn coming from the forest to the east of the city. Your stomach drops, as you and your men are terribly exposed at the gates. You turn your mount in the direction, and are startled to see men you recognize as the Duke's bursting out of the forest, in great number. Slightly perplexed, you give a mighty yell, rear your horse back, and plunge deep into the chaotic city.
***
Smoke billows in the distance as you sit around a fine wooden campaign table, nursing an ale and a sore sword arm as you speak with the Duke. The day's events flash before your eyes: scattering resistance, mass panic, a few ragtag bands of warriors that were summarily slaughtered. In a day, a city burned and destroyed.
As you sit with your Uncle-in-law, you rehash the events that led to this unexpected turn of fate. When you express your surprise that he was present on the field today, hearing that he had headed off to the Capital, he explains that he often leaves false rumors about troop movements behind his forces to throw off any potential spies in his midst. With a city the size of Torchester, one can never be certain.
He likewise expresses his surprise at finding you here this morning, stating that his scouts had been observing the city for two days when they caught sight of your brazen landing on the beach. With little other choice, they rushed to your aid, and the rest, as they say, is history.
A shooting pang from between your legs reminds you of the inauspicious start to the morning. Joral was not among the prisoners taken, few though they may be. The majority of the townsfolk that survived are scattered into the countryside, save for a few prisoners who were marked as nobility by their fine furs and colorful jewelry. The flames from the town's smoldering remains throw smoke up in the distance. The losses amongst your troops were minor, and a great settlement of the enemy has been destroyed.
When you share your news about the size of the enemy host, the Duke looks at you with a wily grin. "Large though their host may be, I have received word that a great army led by several of my fellow Dukes has driven the enemy from the North side of the river, and is now warily camped across from this great unclean horde that is pressing on our capital. And yes, it is as great, if not greater, than you fear.
"We are to lead a strike at their rear, from the south, in two weeks time. We will hold their attention while our allies cross the river and crush our enemies between us and, we can hope, the royal forces."
You sit and ponder this bizarre turn of events. The Duke tells you that they will likely camp for a day or two before marching north. You take a strong drag from your ale. What now, Count Stone? Any suggestions for the Duke? Tasks to tend to? Men to visit?
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Topic: Lordship: A Suggestion Game (Read 327974 times)