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Alright, so let me put it simply. Battles are crazy. Indescribable. And everyone reacts differently. One of us bounces and growls and wiggles her rear. Another can’t shut up with his words of encouragement and telling us to stick together. I can’t say I mind. After all, I’m the one in the line, surrounded by fighters yelling their war cries, with shield held up, sword at ready, and bawling like an idiot.
We’re a scrappy little group. Small but fierce. Determined. Surprising. No heroic deeds to recount here – none of us have single-handedly turned the tide of battle or slain a hundred men by sheer virtue of skill. Not here. Look somewhere else – like to the bards. All we’ve got is pride, guts, and the tenacity to stay together, hold our ground and keep each other alive.
Let me tell you about one of those battles. It was the Midrealm (Draco Invictus!) against the AEthelmearc army. We were contesting a bridge of theirs and to resolve this dispute we were to meet in honorable combat on that bridge. I couldn’t help but think, as we lined our ranks up, that it looked far too small for the lot of us and unbidden – an image of the thing collapsing and plunging all of us into the water sprang into my mind.
“Doesn’t look that deep,” Gaius from behind me. He shifted and I heard the creak of his armor.
“It’s muddy, no telling how deep the river is,” our captain answered. I think I detected some sadistic amusement in his voice.
“Well, at least our armor isn’t too heavy,” I offered. We were mostly clad in leather.
“Speak for yourself. I’m going to rust.” Ah, Robin and his chainmail. I winced in sympathy and hoped that Gaius was right.
That bridge simply couldn’t hold us all.
“Well, if you do go for a swim, bring a fish back. I’m hungry.” Not sure who that was. But the person who squealed “fishy!” seconds later was none other than our growling, butt-wiggling Magrat.
There was a batteplan alright. I don’t remember much more of it than ‘kill them all dead.’ And so we lined up and got ready. Oh yes. There was something else in there, something about archers. That will be important later.
“Our battle plan?” Drust asked from where he stood behind us with his polearm.
“Don’t die,” we all said in unison.
“Very goooood.”
And like a puppy dog that had just been given a bone Magrat thumped her sword and shield together and wiggled her butt.
I soon discovered that fighting on a bridge wasn’t nearly as hectic as fighting in the open field was. My adrenaline – which was bouncing around my skull like a ferret – got bored and curled up to sleep, instructing me to wake it when it was actually needed. Since we all didn’t fit on the bridge we all couldn’t be in the battle – at least not until the people up front went down or fell off. After the first few fighters drug themselves to collapse on the bank I was able to see that Gaius was right – the river was only waist deep. I was trying to ascertain if there were any fish down there to bring back with us when Raphael reminded me about the archers. I looked up in time to see one smirk.
The arrow pinged off Raphael’s helm first. I heard his startled cry and only had time to get in half a blink before it pinged off mine. I yelped. Behind me came a ‘ugh!’ and then swearing. I assumed that meant it had made its mark on someone – finally.
After that I kept my attention on the battlefield. And eventually the adrenaline-ferret roused itself and I started crying again. By that time we were near the front of the line and someone in a blue tunic was reaching back and grabbing random people. I was seized by the shoulder and shoved up in the front of the line, the cry of “shield charge, get up there!” echoing in my confused brain. I didn’t know where any of the other Fen Militia was. But it really didn’t matter, because there was nowhere to go but into the enemy lines, which bristled with spears. And I swear, they were all smirking at me.
So we charged. And they counter-charged. And the person that hit my shield was almost three times my size.
Thankfully, we had several assholes in our group that decided that I would learn how to stop charges. And by a*****e, I’m sure all of you know I am referring to Eric deBovine, in the most loving way you can call a person an a*****e. Ah yes. That surly fighter whose most common response to any woe was “********!” (which apparently has become a word of its own, not to be mistaken for the phrase ‘******** it’) and who enjoyed poking people with daggers like they were some overgrown pincushions. So when this fighter the size of a warhorse came my way I dug in, fell back one step, and then stopped moving.
They told me later that Drust almost got killed because he stopped to stare. I can’t verify if that was true. My eyesight was full of fighter belly, because that’s about as high as I reached on him.
Thankfully, while I was standing there dumbfounded (what, I’m NOT flat on my back being used as a metaphorical red carpet into my side’s lines?) the person to my left had the common sense to swing. And down he went. Of course, having someone three times your size in front of you is a far better shield than the Fen Militia warshields are, and so as he fell I once again had full view of all the spears arrayed before me. And they had full view of me. Things went downhill rapidly from there.
I caught a spear in the chest. I caught the railing of the bridge in the back of the knees. And the river caught me head-first.
I drug myself out, coughing and spluttering while the adrenaline-ferret went bouncing through my brain chattering about how FUN that was and LOOKIT shiny polearms coming STRAIGHT AT YOUR FACE. I decided to momentarily ignore it, at least while I straightened myself out, pulled my tunic down to cover my posterior, and limped back up out of the river.
I met Gaius at the side. He checked if I was okay, compared stories of how we both went down – which took all of two seconds – and then we were once again back into the fray.
And as a side-note, none of us managed to emerge from the river with a fish that day.
