A band of Mercenaries (Friendly Alien & Ohm)

[Friendly Alien]

"Come on, men of the woods! You don't expect the rebels to stroll over to us for a fight, do you?"

"Yay!"

Thesis raised his sword over his head and yelled at his men as much as he yelled for his men. They had been forced to march for three days at the quickest pace possible for mortal men just to get to this advantageous terrain. Had they been forced to fight on the open plains, then the opposing cavalry would have destroyed them. The battles they had been fighting these past few months had been accompanied with mixed results. Sometimes they won, sometimes they lost, but each time they had the good sense of always withdrawing to positions they rest and refill their energies.
This had been different with the cavalry hounding them. The enemy commander was fortunately one of those 'politically assigned generals' that didn't have any military experience, thus they were easy to trick and fool. Sadly though, this particular one was wealthier than most and managed to hire a good amount of cavalrymen.

But Thesis' superior had a plan. If they could move into a mountain pass and use the narrow pathway to their advantage, they could deny the cavalry any chance of using their cavalry. Of course... Cavalry is known as one of the most terrifying and devastating assault forces in the world, save for perhaps berzerking Minotaurs, but thankfully neither side had managed to recruit any. Yet anyway.

Thesis thought this was a stellar strategy, and they did have enough mercenaries to cover the 500 feet or so narrow passage. The mountains where steep and it was impossible to climb down them, so they felt safe that the only thing they had to worry about was what lied ahead. Men clad with leather vests and spears stood ahead of them, and Thesis could spot with his squinting eyes something he had seen many times before. Hastily raised militias, pressed into service to fight for their lord. The Satyr, clad in a gleaming curiass of bronze, sculpting out imaginary lines of muscle on his chest. He wore separate pieces of armour on the rest of his body, like greaves on his legs and wrists. Carrying a large round shield, like his fellows, they formed an impressive line of interlocking shields to stop any charge. Their swords with an inwardly curved edge was a cruel weapon to behold, meant for slashing more than striking, it provoked a mental imagery of beasts raising heavy weapons over their heads, smashing it down on enemy heads.
It was exactly what Thesis wanted the undisciplined men ahead to consider. Looking around to his men who had refused to meet out in a charge against the enemy, according to their plans, he felt proud. Satyrs never did have a good reputation, but by the spirits of the woods and the Sacred Grove, did he ever train them into warriors one could depend on.

"Good! Let them smash themselves against our shields like the waves against the shore!"

The enemy commander did not see the excellent position that his foes had placed themselves in. His own captains protested, but he have had very clear orders to destroy this 'rebel band' as soon as possible. Thesis, his fellow captains, and his female general had anticipated this. Their grand foe was impatient, and this had helped Thesis and his side plenty a times. A charge was ordered, and the cavalry together with the militias. Thesis braced himself on his furred legs, and stood with his left arm behind his shield ready to meet the charge. With a big grin on his face, he new this would be but a short moment of blood and sweat.

Only a few short moments later, the seasoned and rugged Thesis felt his face splatter with warm viscera. His blade had impacted with a screaming man's face. He withdrew and straightened himself, moving back to reform with his line. There was a loud commotion of shouting, horses yelling, men dying, and the clashing of steel and iron. His people contrasted fiercely against the opposing forces. Human farmers and shopkeepers put in arms against Satyrs with the lower body of some hoofed animal and the upper body of hairy men, their heads crested with thick and curved horns. All of them sported a beard of varying sizes and lengths. Thesis himself kept his at an average conservative length of a couple of inches. Now though it was caked with drying blood.

He suddenly grit his teeth and turned his head around as he heard a horse screaming. One strangely ornate horseman cut down a man he knew with a large axe, ending his battlycry abruptly. Thesis growled like a wolf and darted forwards and dropped his shield. He jumped up and grabbed the arm of this horseman with his left hand, and used his weight to pull him down. He desperately tried to swing his weapon at this mad Satyr, but Thesis held his sword to block any intercepting blows.
The man screamed as he fell down, and without realizing it, Thesis stabbed the enemy general in the eye with his blade. Without a leadership, the army would soon disintegrate and disperse.

 

[Shoegaze]

• • 
    
    As her generals lead the flank, high priestess Omorose led the vanguard to the mountain pass’ bluffs where the pugilists and archers could rain pitch and arrows down on their enemies. The Blackpaw twins, Tristain and Theodane, assumed their bear forms and lurched into massive boulders teetering on the shelf of the pass. After one thorough push, the boulders trundled down the bluff and flattened a congregation of vanguards as the pugilists threw their flint-head spears down at their victims. Their blood painted the already red loam pass, remnants of armour and weapons laying strewn about the bone white willows and their boughs.
    
    From her haunt, Omorose observed the change in battle—it was in their favor. With the battlefield thick with dead, Omorose was able to treat the injured. A long, white tendril of light sprouted from the end of her staff like a whip and sent a line of the vanguard hurling into the Cliffside. She found herself mana-spent; her energy was dwindling dangerously low and her jerkin in tandem with the mass of her breasts was virtually asphyxiating. Her face was wet with blood and sweat, her mane, a starless mohawk festooned in tribal threads, matted.
    
    “They retreat!” Theodane holler from the cliff’s lip.
    
    “They’re routed!” his brother cheered in retort.
    
    Omorose eased down a rock ledge and pulled into a roll as she hit the earth. Exhausted, she sighed, shedding a cincture of threadbare wicker and brass fitted around her hips. Her flesh was pressed, bronze skin rubicund and red, but she pressed through the corpses and the gore matting the sward.
    
    With the general dispatched, the battle was won, but there was little reward. Carrion birds circled overhead and casted their eerie shadows over the stony corridor. Some already bit into the dead of both factions, for their hunger didn’t discriminate against a fresh meal. These birds, so Omorose noted, were massive. Their wings spanned meters and their beaks were serrated. She watched them saw through dead flesh, ripe and warm, then devour the sinew.
    
    “The day is won, milady.” Omorose warned Theodane to cease with the formal titles. Her people were not lords nor ladies, knights nor maidens, they were soothsayers and soulcallers and warmongers.
    Omorose simply stood in silence, her queer black eyes sweeping over the dead. She rolled her shoulders, sighed again and pressed her lips in a hard line. “Yet there is no cause to celebrate. Burn the dead, see the injured to meal and poultice and yurts erected.”