Chapter 1
charclone
Well-known member
Optio Amulius Zuf Genialis, second in command of Count Arruns Lu Bonifatius’ cohort frowned. Besides the Count and his son, there was twenty men from the cohort. Behind them was the gate through which they had traveled to this world. Around them were unfamiliar trees.
But before him, amidst the ruins of some celebration of some sort, was what concerned him.
Standing alone, clad in black armour, a knight blocked the way. Behind him, people, dressed in clothing both familiar and strange, rushed aboard some strange, long, horseless carriage, clearly meaning to escape while the knight bought them time.
“Hah! Finally! Someone with some backbone!” Jeered the Count’s arrogant son. One day, that boy’s arrogance would cost him. But so far, he had been lucky. As well as smart enough to pay attention to his training master, Optio Amulius admitted to himself.
“Father, perhaps we should at least match his challenge!” The Count looked at his son, before motioning his troops back, and nodding to his son.
The boy dismounted his horse and drew his blade.
The knight simply shifted his posture, the strangely shaped blade remaining before him. It reminded Amulius of flames. Decorative? Or was there a purpose behind the shape of the blade? Amuluis pondered.
The Count’s boy approached the knight, his own blade, shorter than the knight’s, held before him.
“Careful boy, you aren’t nearly as well protected as he is, and his blade has more reach.” Amulius cautioned him.
“I can see that Optio! But that also means he is slowed by the armour, and the blade is heavier than mine. Harder to stop and feint!” The boy laughed.
“Idiot.” Amulius muttered under his breath.
“Careful Optio. That is my son, though your attempt to council him is appreciated. Still, even if they escape, a noble prisoner would be of far more value than a few slaves.” Count Arruns said.
“I meant no disrespect Count.”
“Of course you didn’t my friend. But one day my son will be in charge, and he already dislikes your cautious attitude. Hopefully, I can turn this lesson to teach him why such cautious advice is valuable.”
The horseless carriage roared and moved along the black stone road. The knight spared it a glance, before the Count’s son yelled, giving away his intent, and charged.
The knight’s blade came up and parried the blade with practiced ease.
The young noble attempted a feint, that became another lunge.
As the knight parried it, it suddenly became obvious to the Optio.
“That knight is inexperienced. Practiced with the blade, not half bad, but I doubt he has practiced with it long, nor has he been in a real fight. Probably some nobleman’s son that came to test his mettle at this festival.”
The Count nodded, wincing as the Knight finally counterattacked, a vicious kick to his son’s shin, followed by a swipe at his chest, that turned to a lunge as his son danced back.
“Well, his mettle is surely being tested. Though, I wonder, where is the militia? Surely such an event would warrant some form of guard for the nobility?”
The Count’s firstborn batted another horizontal swing aside and lunged again. As before, he relied on the point to penetrate the armour. His aim was poor, and the knight dodged. Instead of hitting the, presumably, thinner, besagew it skittered off the knight’s pauldron.
The hilt of the knight’s sword came up, and the pommel smashed into the heir’s head. Instead of backing off, the Count’s son instead rolled with the blow, and stepped inside of the knight’s reach.
With a scream, he drove the point towards the knight’s throat. His blade sparked as it slid off the gorget protecting the throat.
He attempted to step back, to gain better momentum.
The knight advanced, and grabbed his still outstretched arm, holding that held the sword.
The knight swung his sword up, to cut the boy’s arm.
Rather than risk losing his arm, either to the blow or the injury, he thrust his other arm in the way.
Count Arruns began to step forward as he heard his son scream in pain, before stopping himself.
With a heave, aided by the pain of the blow to his off hand, he wrenched his arm free, and feinted backwards. Again, the knight attempted to pursue, but the Count’s son instead stepped inside the knight’s reach, his blade again aiming for the knight’s throat.
Again, it bounced off, but the Count’s heir learned his lesson. He pressed the attack, trying to find a weak point. The knight for his part did a decent job of keeping his joints protected, keeping his arms close, and attempted to open of the distance.
Finally, one of them made a mistake.
The Count’s son feinted again, this time for the slits in the helmet. Instead of falling for it, the knight smashed his armoured head into the boy’s own.
Stumbling back, and bleeding profusely from the nose, the young noble charged, refusing to let the knight open the distance.
Batting the Count’s son’s blade away with the hilt of his own sword, the knight sidestepped the charge, and brought his blade down at an angle.
Count Arruns gave an anguished cry as his son fell, the knight’s blade finding the gap between the helmet and armour and biting deep into the flesh and bone at the back of the neck.
The knight was visibly breathing hard. In the distance, the rest of the Legion gave cries of victory. But on this small portion of the battlefield, there was silence.
Finally, after several heartbeats, the Count broke it.
“Take him alive!” The Count ordered; his voice hard.
Optio Amulius winced, as the knight went down. Bravely, valiantly, but futilely, he tried to resist, until a soldier got behind him, and smashed the haft of his spear into the knights head.
The knight fell and was beaten swiftly to unconsciousness.
Silence resumed.
“Bring him. Put him and my son’s body on his horse. We return to camp.” The Count ordered; sorrow audible in his voice.
But before him, amidst the ruins of some celebration of some sort, was what concerned him.
Standing alone, clad in black armour, a knight blocked the way. Behind him, people, dressed in clothing both familiar and strange, rushed aboard some strange, long, horseless carriage, clearly meaning to escape while the knight bought them time.
“Hah! Finally! Someone with some backbone!” Jeered the Count’s arrogant son. One day, that boy’s arrogance would cost him. But so far, he had been lucky. As well as smart enough to pay attention to his training master, Optio Amulius admitted to himself.
“Father, perhaps we should at least match his challenge!” The Count looked at his son, before motioning his troops back, and nodding to his son.
The boy dismounted his horse and drew his blade.
The knight simply shifted his posture, the strangely shaped blade remaining before him. It reminded Amulius of flames. Decorative? Or was there a purpose behind the shape of the blade? Amuluis pondered.
The Count’s boy approached the knight, his own blade, shorter than the knight’s, held before him.
“Careful boy, you aren’t nearly as well protected as he is, and his blade has more reach.” Amulius cautioned him.
“I can see that Optio! But that also means he is slowed by the armour, and the blade is heavier than mine. Harder to stop and feint!” The boy laughed.
“Idiot.” Amulius muttered under his breath.
“Careful Optio. That is my son, though your attempt to council him is appreciated. Still, even if they escape, a noble prisoner would be of far more value than a few slaves.” Count Arruns said.
“I meant no disrespect Count.”
“Of course you didn’t my friend. But one day my son will be in charge, and he already dislikes your cautious attitude. Hopefully, I can turn this lesson to teach him why such cautious advice is valuable.”
The horseless carriage roared and moved along the black stone road. The knight spared it a glance, before the Count’s son yelled, giving away his intent, and charged.
The knight’s blade came up and parried the blade with practiced ease.
The young noble attempted a feint, that became another lunge.
As the knight parried it, it suddenly became obvious to the Optio.
“That knight is inexperienced. Practiced with the blade, not half bad, but I doubt he has practiced with it long, nor has he been in a real fight. Probably some nobleman’s son that came to test his mettle at this festival.”
The Count nodded, wincing as the Knight finally counterattacked, a vicious kick to his son’s shin, followed by a swipe at his chest, that turned to a lunge as his son danced back.
“Well, his mettle is surely being tested. Though, I wonder, where is the militia? Surely such an event would warrant some form of guard for the nobility?”
The Count’s firstborn batted another horizontal swing aside and lunged again. As before, he relied on the point to penetrate the armour. His aim was poor, and the knight dodged. Instead of hitting the, presumably, thinner, besagew it skittered off the knight’s pauldron.
The hilt of the knight’s sword came up, and the pommel smashed into the heir’s head. Instead of backing off, the Count’s son instead rolled with the blow, and stepped inside of the knight’s reach.
With a scream, he drove the point towards the knight’s throat. His blade sparked as it slid off the gorget protecting the throat.
He attempted to step back, to gain better momentum.
The knight advanced, and grabbed his still outstretched arm, holding that held the sword.
The knight swung his sword up, to cut the boy’s arm.
Rather than risk losing his arm, either to the blow or the injury, he thrust his other arm in the way.
Count Arruns began to step forward as he heard his son scream in pain, before stopping himself.
With a heave, aided by the pain of the blow to his off hand, he wrenched his arm free, and feinted backwards. Again, the knight attempted to pursue, but the Count’s son instead stepped inside the knight’s reach, his blade again aiming for the knight’s throat.
Again, it bounced off, but the Count’s heir learned his lesson. He pressed the attack, trying to find a weak point. The knight for his part did a decent job of keeping his joints protected, keeping his arms close, and attempted to open of the distance.
Finally, one of them made a mistake.
The Count’s son feinted again, this time for the slits in the helmet. Instead of falling for it, the knight smashed his armoured head into the boy’s own.
Stumbling back, and bleeding profusely from the nose, the young noble charged, refusing to let the knight open the distance.
Batting the Count’s son’s blade away with the hilt of his own sword, the knight sidestepped the charge, and brought his blade down at an angle.
Count Arruns gave an anguished cry as his son fell, the knight’s blade finding the gap between the helmet and armour and biting deep into the flesh and bone at the back of the neck.
The knight was visibly breathing hard. In the distance, the rest of the Legion gave cries of victory. But on this small portion of the battlefield, there was silence.
Finally, after several heartbeats, the Count broke it.
“Take him alive!” The Count ordered; his voice hard.
Optio Amulius winced, as the knight went down. Bravely, valiantly, but futilely, he tried to resist, until a soldier got behind him, and smashed the haft of his spear into the knights head.
The knight fell and was beaten swiftly to unconsciousness.
Silence resumed.
“Bring him. Put him and my son’s body on his horse. We return to camp.” The Count ordered; sorrow audible in his voice.