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Langschwert
Planetoid
- Joined
- Jan 23, 2013
"Stay together lads, stay together!" Michael cried as he and the remainder of his men, the Band of the Black Hand, waited in a ha-ha a hundred yards from the wall, crouched beneath the four foot wall as the trebuchets launch missile after missile into the wall. From four, five hundred yards away, he could still hear their practiced loading...the sound of the crank drawing down the beam, the three hundred pound stone rolled into place in the sling, then the shout of clear!. A pin was pulled, and with a long creak the basket fell, flinging the stone into the air and then out to smack into the curtain wall of Hartwell with a boom just before them. Stone shattered, crunching, and the top of the wall began to shift uneasily beneath the feet of men as it readied to give way.
The Band of the Black Hand were far from the only men that were taking cover behind the ha-ha, waiting for the wall to come down. The Red Suns were a little further on, and the White Trees just a little further down. All were dressed in regulation armor, modified Lorica Segmantata that provided far superior protection when compared to the boiled steer hide that the men of Harwell wore. Their helmets were stolen from the Japanese, Samurai helmets wrought of steel, with long guards that covered their necks and emotionless masks that made them all the more terrifying in battle. They carried large, square shields with plumbata holders on the back, most of which are empty now, and had started the battle with pilum, of which only a handful remain, most of their missiles spent at the top of the twenty foot wall, keeping men from bringing up boiling oil to throw at them. One thing that every man had was a short, thrusting sword at his hip and a dagger at the back of his belt as a backup weapon.
What made the difference between the Band and the others, though, was the fact that they were a professional company. The Rangers of the city, men and women who projected the power of Arx Bellum throughout the area, were drawn largely from their ranks and the ranks of companies like them, with other men standing watch on the wall of Arx Bellum in peacetime. Not so for the Red Suns, nor the White Trees. They were militia, drawn up in time of great need to protect the city and punish wrongdoers.
Another stone sailed overhead, as large as a man, and with a crack embedded itself deeply in the base of the wall. An ominous creak and crack was heard from within the wall, and quite suddenly, in a roar of falling masonry, a section of the wall fell. At first, it was quite narrow...only ten or so feet wide, but by some miracle of chance another two stones flew by overhead, striking twenty feet to either side of the first hit within a heartbeat of each other. The wall was weak already, and with their force as well the wall fell inward in a fifty foot length. The screams of men both atop the wall and those that were behind it waiting to repulse attackers was staggering, and cut off when the stones fell. Dust rose from the shattered wall, and for the moment all stood still.
Michael glanced back toward the siege engines, nodding to himself as he saw two red flags waving back and forth. It was a signal, pre-arranged, that said the attack would cease so as to not crush their men beneath the flying stones. Already the trebuchets were being wheeled to one side, to attack a different section of wall. One man started to climb over the edge, and Michael rounded on him. "Stay down, you damn fool. We'll get our chance to give 'em hell, just..."
He got no chance to finish. Behind him, there was a great TUUNNNG! as the ballista released their cargoes. Normally, they were loaded with great darts as tall as a man that could pierce three men like a kebab at a street market vendor, but this time they were loaded with something different. Glass balls, the size of a man's head, flew over their heads to crash into the neat formation waiting for them behind the wall, those men who had not been crushed quickly reforming, knowing that they still outnumbered their attackers by a good margin. Alone, they would not do much damage, but their contents were what was truly dangerous. Gasoline, mixed with benzene and soap flakes made a good, home made napalm, and they had plenty of it on hand from various small gas stations around the city proper. Small, trailing fuses followed the balls into battle, some snuffed by wind, but enough still lit to suddenly engulf a good third of the waiting men in fire.
Screaming shapes that might have once been men ran from within the fire as a second and third volley of hell fire lashed the waiting men, and it was at this point that Michael stood, drawing his sword and pointing it toward the city in a dramatic gesture, his voice ringing out over the battlefield. "Attack!" he cried, suiting his words with action as he crawled over the top of the Ha-ha, sprinting toward the city. He did not look back, knowing that his men were behind him. He dashed through the fire, jumping a puddle of burning fluid and emerging to face the front ranks of the defenders. His great shield's boss took one man in the nose, shattering it, even as his short stabbing sword came up to gut another man, sharp steel piercing the boiled leather breastplate he wore as if it were not there. He would have been overrun, though, had it not been for his men arriving.
Within five seconds of that first attack, with the discipline of men long accustomed to it, the band of the Black Hand was lined up on either side of him, shields locked together with a three inch gap between them, their swords plying in the gap. Thighs, stomach, and head were their target, the three targets taught in the close in formation sword fighting. Here and there, a defender fell with a plumbata dart through the throat, or pierced by a pilum, but by and large they died to the sword, their bodies falling beneath the hobnailed boots of the men of Arx Bellum.
Further and further the Band pushed, with the Red Suns and the White Trees falling out to either flank, preventing them from being attacked by stragglers coming from the wall or the perimeter of the city. The defenders fought and died, but mostly they just died, their crude blades unable to dent the armor of the warriors that faced them, and their wicker shields offering no protection at all. Michael sensed them wavering, and in that moment, he cried out, a wordless roar. His men took him up, their steps double timing as they struck into the heart of the enemy formation. The defenders had seen too much...the invincible city wall falling, their brothers buried, engulfed in fire, knifed down by the relentless shield wall, and split, spattering like water on a hot skillet into the city.
The shield wall broke at that moment, men haring off after individuals. One thing that you learned in this brutal, hand to hand fighting, was that you couldn't run and defend yourself, but you could certainly chase someone and kill them. Relatively few men reached the defenses of the city alleyways, but it wouldn't matter now. More companies were entering the city, quickly starting to establish a secure perimeter within the city. As Michael looked around, he saw a man on horseback approaching them, and was shocked to see one of his fellow founders, and current Macto, Justin, riding it. He nodded to the man, and spoke. "I think we've broken them, here at least. My men need rest, and a chance to poke around."
The older man, the macto, nodded as he heard Michael. He was dressed in a lightweight version of their armor, but his blue eyes still held the fire that Michael had seen four years ago when they had first joined forces with the other ten men to found the city. Justin had been leading the largest band, and the one who by and large introduced the Roman method of fighting to the men as a winning strategy. He deferred to the man as a war leader, but they largely saw themselves as equals. "As you wish. We're still pushing forward here...I'd very much like to reach the senate district before nightfall, and put this damnable abomination of a city to the torch shortly after that." Suddenly, the old man grinned, visible by a crinkling of the corner of his eyes. "Don't let a girl stab you, Michael. We will need you after all this is done." Without a further word, the Macto turned, and started after the main thrust of the army, his bodyguard trailing behind, also mounted.
Michael laughed as he heard him, and shook his head as he watched the man go. Rape and Rapine were expected pleasures of the men in the army, now, with the pay adequate but minimal, differences made up for by ready loot when they attacked a city such as this. He turned to his men. "Alright, gentlemen, split up into groups of five and we'll do a bit of exploring, eh? Don't go anywhere alone, and remember to bring back your loot to the tents so we can distribute it evenly at the Hailing." The men saluted him, fist to chest, and then split into their pre-arranged half squads, disappearing into the city. Michael turned toward his, the newest men of the Band, and spoke with a grin. "Well, gentlemen, shall we?"
He did not wait for an answer, disappearing into the labyrinth of rich city streets in search of treasure. There were a few brief scuffles, men attacking them from ambush, but the heavy armor and excellent training of the men meant that they just left a trail of bodies behind them. Most of the houses they broke into were empty, though, people long ago left them. Any men they found who were older than twelve, the age at which men began to train to fight in Hartwell, were killed out of hand, but women were told to wait just outside the city for their fates to be decided, or they would perish within the walls as the city was set to the torch. At least, the ones who were not so pretty were told that. The prettier ones were taken into other rooms by this man or that, and used to celebrate the fact that they had survived the attack. Typically, they stumbled out naked and dazed, a firm slap on their ass used to send them toward the waiting group outside. Some were given tokens of the man who took them, giving them his protection against further attacks and giving him first rights to them when all was said and done. Michael did not partake, watching to make sure none of the men were ambushed during their little escapades.
By the time they finished with the first street, they had loaded up two wheelbarrows of gold ingots, silverware, and various bits of jewelry. They were, after all, among the richest section of town, and the haul the Band brought in would make all of them quite wealthy. Michael glanced at the house on the end of the street, a large, fortress like mansion with one sally door left open, and sent a grin toward his men. "One last one, gentlemen, and then we'll be on our way." He said, leaving one man outside to guard their loot as he led the other four within, little expecting what he would find...
The Band of the Black Hand were far from the only men that were taking cover behind the ha-ha, waiting for the wall to come down. The Red Suns were a little further on, and the White Trees just a little further down. All were dressed in regulation armor, modified Lorica Segmantata that provided far superior protection when compared to the boiled steer hide that the men of Harwell wore. Their helmets were stolen from the Japanese, Samurai helmets wrought of steel, with long guards that covered their necks and emotionless masks that made them all the more terrifying in battle. They carried large, square shields with plumbata holders on the back, most of which are empty now, and had started the battle with pilum, of which only a handful remain, most of their missiles spent at the top of the twenty foot wall, keeping men from bringing up boiling oil to throw at them. One thing that every man had was a short, thrusting sword at his hip and a dagger at the back of his belt as a backup weapon.
What made the difference between the Band and the others, though, was the fact that they were a professional company. The Rangers of the city, men and women who projected the power of Arx Bellum throughout the area, were drawn largely from their ranks and the ranks of companies like them, with other men standing watch on the wall of Arx Bellum in peacetime. Not so for the Red Suns, nor the White Trees. They were militia, drawn up in time of great need to protect the city and punish wrongdoers.
Another stone sailed overhead, as large as a man, and with a crack embedded itself deeply in the base of the wall. An ominous creak and crack was heard from within the wall, and quite suddenly, in a roar of falling masonry, a section of the wall fell. At first, it was quite narrow...only ten or so feet wide, but by some miracle of chance another two stones flew by overhead, striking twenty feet to either side of the first hit within a heartbeat of each other. The wall was weak already, and with their force as well the wall fell inward in a fifty foot length. The screams of men both atop the wall and those that were behind it waiting to repulse attackers was staggering, and cut off when the stones fell. Dust rose from the shattered wall, and for the moment all stood still.
Michael glanced back toward the siege engines, nodding to himself as he saw two red flags waving back and forth. It was a signal, pre-arranged, that said the attack would cease so as to not crush their men beneath the flying stones. Already the trebuchets were being wheeled to one side, to attack a different section of wall. One man started to climb over the edge, and Michael rounded on him. "Stay down, you damn fool. We'll get our chance to give 'em hell, just..."
He got no chance to finish. Behind him, there was a great TUUNNNG! as the ballista released their cargoes. Normally, they were loaded with great darts as tall as a man that could pierce three men like a kebab at a street market vendor, but this time they were loaded with something different. Glass balls, the size of a man's head, flew over their heads to crash into the neat formation waiting for them behind the wall, those men who had not been crushed quickly reforming, knowing that they still outnumbered their attackers by a good margin. Alone, they would not do much damage, but their contents were what was truly dangerous. Gasoline, mixed with benzene and soap flakes made a good, home made napalm, and they had plenty of it on hand from various small gas stations around the city proper. Small, trailing fuses followed the balls into battle, some snuffed by wind, but enough still lit to suddenly engulf a good third of the waiting men in fire.
Screaming shapes that might have once been men ran from within the fire as a second and third volley of hell fire lashed the waiting men, and it was at this point that Michael stood, drawing his sword and pointing it toward the city in a dramatic gesture, his voice ringing out over the battlefield. "Attack!" he cried, suiting his words with action as he crawled over the top of the Ha-ha, sprinting toward the city. He did not look back, knowing that his men were behind him. He dashed through the fire, jumping a puddle of burning fluid and emerging to face the front ranks of the defenders. His great shield's boss took one man in the nose, shattering it, even as his short stabbing sword came up to gut another man, sharp steel piercing the boiled leather breastplate he wore as if it were not there. He would have been overrun, though, had it not been for his men arriving.
Within five seconds of that first attack, with the discipline of men long accustomed to it, the band of the Black Hand was lined up on either side of him, shields locked together with a three inch gap between them, their swords plying in the gap. Thighs, stomach, and head were their target, the three targets taught in the close in formation sword fighting. Here and there, a defender fell with a plumbata dart through the throat, or pierced by a pilum, but by and large they died to the sword, their bodies falling beneath the hobnailed boots of the men of Arx Bellum.
Further and further the Band pushed, with the Red Suns and the White Trees falling out to either flank, preventing them from being attacked by stragglers coming from the wall or the perimeter of the city. The defenders fought and died, but mostly they just died, their crude blades unable to dent the armor of the warriors that faced them, and their wicker shields offering no protection at all. Michael sensed them wavering, and in that moment, he cried out, a wordless roar. His men took him up, their steps double timing as they struck into the heart of the enemy formation. The defenders had seen too much...the invincible city wall falling, their brothers buried, engulfed in fire, knifed down by the relentless shield wall, and split, spattering like water on a hot skillet into the city.
The shield wall broke at that moment, men haring off after individuals. One thing that you learned in this brutal, hand to hand fighting, was that you couldn't run and defend yourself, but you could certainly chase someone and kill them. Relatively few men reached the defenses of the city alleyways, but it wouldn't matter now. More companies were entering the city, quickly starting to establish a secure perimeter within the city. As Michael looked around, he saw a man on horseback approaching them, and was shocked to see one of his fellow founders, and current Macto, Justin, riding it. He nodded to the man, and spoke. "I think we've broken them, here at least. My men need rest, and a chance to poke around."
The older man, the macto, nodded as he heard Michael. He was dressed in a lightweight version of their armor, but his blue eyes still held the fire that Michael had seen four years ago when they had first joined forces with the other ten men to found the city. Justin had been leading the largest band, and the one who by and large introduced the Roman method of fighting to the men as a winning strategy. He deferred to the man as a war leader, but they largely saw themselves as equals. "As you wish. We're still pushing forward here...I'd very much like to reach the senate district before nightfall, and put this damnable abomination of a city to the torch shortly after that." Suddenly, the old man grinned, visible by a crinkling of the corner of his eyes. "Don't let a girl stab you, Michael. We will need you after all this is done." Without a further word, the Macto turned, and started after the main thrust of the army, his bodyguard trailing behind, also mounted.
Michael laughed as he heard him, and shook his head as he watched the man go. Rape and Rapine were expected pleasures of the men in the army, now, with the pay adequate but minimal, differences made up for by ready loot when they attacked a city such as this. He turned to his men. "Alright, gentlemen, split up into groups of five and we'll do a bit of exploring, eh? Don't go anywhere alone, and remember to bring back your loot to the tents so we can distribute it evenly at the Hailing." The men saluted him, fist to chest, and then split into their pre-arranged half squads, disappearing into the city. Michael turned toward his, the newest men of the Band, and spoke with a grin. "Well, gentlemen, shall we?"
He did not wait for an answer, disappearing into the labyrinth of rich city streets in search of treasure. There were a few brief scuffles, men attacking them from ambush, but the heavy armor and excellent training of the men meant that they just left a trail of bodies behind them. Most of the houses they broke into were empty, though, people long ago left them. Any men they found who were older than twelve, the age at which men began to train to fight in Hartwell, were killed out of hand, but women were told to wait just outside the city for their fates to be decided, or they would perish within the walls as the city was set to the torch. At least, the ones who were not so pretty were told that. The prettier ones were taken into other rooms by this man or that, and used to celebrate the fact that they had survived the attack. Typically, they stumbled out naked and dazed, a firm slap on their ass used to send them toward the waiting group outside. Some were given tokens of the man who took them, giving them his protection against further attacks and giving him first rights to them when all was said and done. Michael did not partake, watching to make sure none of the men were ambushed during their little escapades.
By the time they finished with the first street, they had loaded up two wheelbarrows of gold ingots, silverware, and various bits of jewelry. They were, after all, among the richest section of town, and the haul the Band brought in would make all of them quite wealthy. Michael glanced at the house on the end of the street, a large, fortress like mansion with one sally door left open, and sent a grin toward his men. "One last one, gentlemen, and then we'll be on our way." He said, leaving one man outside to guard their loot as he led the other four within, little expecting what he would find...