The dawn had come but an hour ago, lifting the early spring mist from the fields with golden rays and bringing warmth to the cool kiss of night. Splayed across a wheatfield, who’s crop was most likely ruined for the season, was the mightily Numinoriarn army, numbering nearly eleven thousand strong. Cook fires burned near the rough tents of the peasant troops, who had been crammed eight to a tent in some cases, as the commons made their preparations to break their fast.

The large and color tents of the nobles shifted, as servants got their master’s clothing ready and warmed lavish meals for them, or at least that was the norm for many of the tents. Near the left flank of the camp, two hundred and one good sized, if plain and undyed tents stood, as a dark blue banner floated in the breeze above them. In the middle of the banner, a rearing red horse seemed to dance.

Crispain, the duke to be of Essyer and heir of the Red Stallion, stepped from his tent, still fixed the plain black arming cap on his head, as an arming sword hung on his hip. Unlike most of his fellows, no servants bustled about his tent, as he had left them home to tent to his mother and ailing grandfather. No, it would by his fighting men that made sure that his tent and simple cot were packed away and placed in the wagons they brought with them, from the southern forests of their home.

“My Lord” said a peasant man, a cured leather jerkin snug around his torso and a crossbow in his hands. He bowed slightly, so the bolt did not fall out of the weapon he held, as that would have crossed his liege more then a lack of respect.

“What did you find out William” asked Crispain, staring north, towards a depression that was just visible.

“The Northmen have gathered a large force” said the crossbowman, “Enough to meet us man to man Sir. I counted the campfires meself and I have no doubt the good Duke Roger is hearin this from his own scouts now. They be two hours march from the camp, maybe less. I would say they slipped passed the outriders durin the night and camped in the dark. If we were ta march now, we could meet the bastards at Blood Dell.”

“Thank you serjeant” said the nobleman, waving his man away, towards a fire surrounded by men with crossbows nearby. The peasant bowed again and hurried away to get a quick meal, before the battle he knew would happen.

“Like we could march right away” muttered Crispain, thinking of his fellow nobles would brake at being told to drop everything for battle. By the ancestors, at least two of the Counts had brought tubs with them and would demand their bath first. The rest would want to take a long meal or spend time playing a morning game of stones.

His gray eyes fell on a rider racing towards the center of the camp, where a black banner flew, with red mountain and silver lightning bolt brazen upon it. The man would kill his horse if he were to force the beast much further. A few minutes passed and the Duke Roger appeared from his grand tent, lifted a warhorn to his lips and blew a long blast.





(Edit: I forgot the link to the OOC for anyone that wants to join up: long-live-the-king-ooc-t23801.html )

It was like someone had kicked over an anthill. The Essyer camp churned with men, some collapsing tents, other hurriedly donning armor or grabbed weapons and even more grabbing what little food was left over from breakfast to stuff themselves with. William the crossbowmen serjeant remained seated by one of the fires, calmly eating warm oat cakes and pointing out tasks that still needed to be done. None of the captains or noblemen swore to follow the Red Stallion banner, bothered him, know he had the Lord's favor as a scout and being on of the three to have saved the Duke's life (but not his hair).

Crispain himself ducked into his tent and undid the heavy leather belt that held up his sword. As the weapon's sheath touched the cot he slept on, an older fellow sat up from a pile of blankets on the other side of the plain wool structure. Wispy white hair gently wafted around his shrived old head, as he peered towards his master with eyes that had almost lost their sight (not that the old man would admit it). Skin sagged around around the man's arms and shoulders, where once slabs of muscle had held it tightly in place.

"Whats all the noise about Master Crispain" warbled the old man, with his head bobbing on a thin neck.

"Duke Roger is callin the nobles to gather to him" said the Duke to be, "And I want to go over armored. I should be on time with the rest of the lords but I'll have the better excuse to have taken my time in getting to the marshal."

"Those youngsters" grumbled the old man, as his bony fingers prided the heavy hauberk of mail from it's stand, "King Almer the Bold never would have stood for that"

"Almer is a hundred years dead Rollo" laughed Crispain, as he helped the old man slip the heavy metal tunic over his cloths and yanked his surcoat on over it, "Even you never knew him."

"Still never would have stood for it" muttered Rollo, slipping the coif over his lord's head and tied the cord around the young man's forehead, "And I did too meet Almer the Bold."

"Of course" said the nobleman, rebelting his sword on, over his surcoat. The heavy mail pulled at his shoulders already but it was a comforting touch, like that of a favored lover. Armor was too heavy to be worn on the march but with battle so close, the men could suffer a little to be ready for a fight. Nodded, he started towards the flap when the old man suddenly grabbed him.

"Be careful Crispain" said Rollo, running his bony hand over the face of his master, "I carted your father back from that hell and I can no bare the thought of what your poor mother would do if I were to cart you back. Don't do that to me."

"I won't" said Crispain, patting the shoulder of the man he had know longer then his own father and who the Duchess Keara had entrusted the upbringing of her son too. A smile ghosted his lips, as he gently pushed the old retainer down to sit on the cot and walked out of the tent, glittering in the morning sun. his boots crushed a few stalks of new wheat that had escaped all throughout the evening, as he joined a circle of noblemen and women around the Duke of Stormpeak.

The tent flap blew open and Jerid the Outlander bowed to Lord Zachary of Milsteading. The young man stood from his game of stones with his friend and fellow Lord, Clifford of Wrightlund. Zachary was of average height if not shorter, but had a defined figure that seemed at odds with his companion's large physique. Where Zachary's hair was blonde and short, Clifford's was long and red. Where Zachary had a slim sword fastened to his side, Clifford left his signature warhammer leaning against the bed post. "Yes, Jerid?"

The dark skinned man clasped the hilt of his oddly curved sword as he spoke to Lord Zachary. "The Duke has blown the horn of war, we are to be marching soon."

The Lord of Milsteading nodded at Jerid curtly as he moved a piece on the board absentmindedly. The Outlander stepped outside quickly, the tent flaps once again billowing in his wake. Zachary turned to his comrade.

"Well, Clifford, are you ready?" He asked with an audible sigh. Raising his arms at the squires came in to dress him for war, Zachary looked Clifford in the eye as the larger man chuckled.

"The question isn't that I'm ready, friend. My father and brothers will be fighting along side me." Clifford hefted his hammer over his shoulder and peeked out the tent. "Are you ready? You've been Lord of your domain for a fortnight and I have not seen you once mourn your father or attend to your duties. If not having a foreigner as a Man at Arms was bad enough you rely on him to perform your duties as well? I think you should take charge, and soon. Not only are your men grumbling, but so are the other lords. And they're liable to replace you."

Zachary reached for his goblet of wine as a squire finished dressing his armor padding. After taking a large swallow he replied, "I wondered why you were so quiet during our game. You usually join me in my merriment also. Has your father pressured you to sever ties with me lest I drag you with me in my downward spiral?"

Clifford just stared at Zachary for a moment before speaking, "Everyone knows you and your father hated' each other. Everyone's been lenient up to this point, but I will urge you once again to take charge. Let this battle be your shining rebirth as a noble lord." With that Clifford of Wrightlund walked into the morning light, leaving his friend to his own thoughts in the dark and aromatic tent.

Crispain glanced over at the armored woman who had come up to him. She was not one of the handful of female warriors in his retinue nor did she bare the coat of arms of another noble. It was safe to assume that she was Allianna Homewood, the leader of the mercenaries that Duke Roger had hired to accompany the army into battle (mostly as fodder to tire the Housecarls of the mighty norther king), a creature of some renown, if the tales that said she cut down the Jarl, Goðormr Skullcleaver in a raid on his castle, were true.

"Indeed" he said, his face smooth as still water, "A great army of Northmen is nearby and should be marching by now. If you are the mercenary I think you to be, you'll be earning that silver the King paid you."

With a wave of his hand, the lord dismissed her from his mind and joined a ring of nobility around the banner of Stormpeak. Duke Roger stood in the middle, his legs set wide and fists planted on his hips, as he studied all those around him with sparkling blue eyes. He was on older man, closer to fifty then forty, with iron gray hair that was starting to turn white around his temple. His musculature form had not yet gone to seed though and he could have wrestled as well as any of the younger men, if he were a crude peasant that joined in such low sport. His face was broad, with a strong jaw and a great beak-like nose that earned him the nickname, The Hawk of Stormpeak. The black doublet he wore was embroidered with a gold thread trim.

"Good Numinoriarn lords" called Roger, in a deep and booming voice, "I have received word from my outriders that the curish Northmen have stolen a march upon us and even now make for the Blood Dell, where we turned them back all those years ago. I call upon all of you, forsake personal pleasure this morn and ready yourselves for battle. We must march at once, so that the ground that was made sacred by the blood of your good countrymen shall not be despoiled. We must meet them there!"

There were grumbles. Many a count and baron had just awoken from their slumbers and not yet broken their fast. They stopped however, when those blue eyes turned to daggers of ice, aimed at their hearts. One such glare was aimed at the tents of the missing Count of Candive. The man was such a petty fool.

"You have one turn of this glass" called the Duke, as a servant passed him a hourglass, filled with only half the sand it should have been, "And then we march!"

With a slight bow to the assembled lords and ladies, he swiftly retired into his own tent, as a pair of squires came rushing over to help him armor himself.

Crispain tried hard to not crack a smile as the now grumbling baron on his right, a fat man in red doublet, as he complained to a earl about being starved while at war. He had already eaten, as the sun had just begun to peak over the horizon. He was almost ashamed, to be counted among the "southern lords" of Numinor, save for the fact he did come north more then once a season, to raid and pillage their enemy. He couldn't even remember when he slept in while on the march (or much when wintering in the south for that matter).

The half hour seemed to pass by in a blink of an eye, as the Duke of Essyer watched from atop a red chestnut Gelding, his odd two hundred knights, four hundred foot and two hundred archers, load the wagons and form into a column. Sunlight glinted off of spear tips, axe blades and helmets, as they waited for the rest of hte camps to be but away. Soon enough (too soon for some), Duke Roger blew a second blast from his warhorn. Horses started to trot forwards, as booted feet churned up dust. From somewhere behind the knights of Essyer, men bean to sing the first of three songs of the day.

"Love me one more time,
Make this night last forever,
For on the morrow, I leave for battle-

And if I die, just remember I love you,
And you'll always be mine,
Let us warm up this cold night together,
Come the morrow, I leave for battle-

I may survive,
And I shall return to you,
But come the morrow, I leave for battle-

And if I die, just remember I love you,
And you'll always be mine,
Let us warm up this cold night together,
Come the morrow, I leave for battle-

Until tomorrow,
Let me love you forever,
For come the morrow, I leave for battle-

And if I die, just remember I love you,
And you'll always be mine,
Let us warm up this cold night together,
Come the morrow, I leave for battle-"

The Marquis de Milsteading neatly tore a strip of meat from a leg of poultry with his incredibly white teeth. "Sir Jerid, you will find a small envelope with my seal hidden underneath the game board the Baron of Wrightlund and I had our game on. Take it to the Count of Candive's tent and place it under his pillow." Pausing to chew, the Marquis continued," Afterwards I wish you take twenty odd knights and ride under the Countess of Avenbale's banner. I think we should show our support to her in this time of need."

The foreign knight bowed with a flourish and turned on his heel towards the Candive camp. A few passing knights commented with a snicker at the Outlander, but were quickly silenced when he passed near them. The only thing more famous than the Marquis' wealth was his prized knight.

Zachary set the leg back onto the platter of roast duck, which a kneeling servant had stood by him with during the Duke's speech. "George, leave me. I have had my fill."


Whistling winds sang through the ranks, almost signaling the end of the half hour. As the breeze blew passed the mounted knights in their glory, and the soldiers in their earnest, it seemed to pause on a banner of three swans. The swans flew with the wind for but a moment before the banner lay at rest. The Marquis sat mounted on a white stallion, whose beauty was complimented by it's teal coat. The magnificence of the Marquis and his charger was made more apparent by the background of dull armored knights, with leering faces and common looks. A Count in the Duke Roger's retinue commented on the excess of mercenaries in the Marquis' retinue. He was quickly reprimanded by a Baronet, of common birth, that they were knights now.

"Let us warm up this cold night together..."

The only reason a vast cloud of dust was not rising about the marching host of Numinorians was the early rains of spring had fallen a few days before and the weather had remained cool or damp enough to keep the sun from drying out the lands. Flocks of birds took flight from their trees, as the mingled sounds of jingling mail, creaking leather, the tramp of boot feet and hooves, neighing of horse and the jumbled song and talk of men drove them away.

It took them a little over an hour to march to the dell, as the various noble jockeyed his troops about, reach trying to get as close to the Duke of Stormpeak as they good. It would be his honor (and theirs based on how close they were to him) to command the fight from the center of the battle line and thus meet the personal Housecarls of Konungr Agnarr himself. When the Marshal of the Army gave his report to King Gregor (as they would surely win this fight, no question about it), any he named as contributing were in for vast rewards but as he could command in the battle, one should be close to the good duke, so that they might be noticed.

Crispain grunted softly, as Blood Dell came into view. Across the small and once wooded valley, stood the Northmen, standing in the second of their battle formations, the shield wall. Simple and elaborately painted round shields overlapped each other, as the Jarls stood shoulder to shoulder with their Housecarls and the village thegns with the vast peasant fyrd. They had no mounted men in the army, as it was not the "proper" way to fight. Though the Jarls did ride to the battle, they had dismounted to join the ranks, just as the great Konunger had done himself.

When the Numinorians came into view, a great clatter arose from their foes, as the Northmen banged the haft of spear, axe or pummel of sword against their shields. Shouts came from their ranks, insults about their parentage, questions about the prowess of the men of Numinor, since they allowed women to join them in battle and promises of slavery or death.

That of course provoked a response from the men of Essyer;

*Axes flash, broadsword swing,
Shining armour's piercing ring
Horses run with polished shield,
Fight Those Bastards till They Yield
Midnight mare and blood red roan,
Fight to Keep this Land Your Own
Sound the horn and call the cry,
How Many of Them Can We Make Die!

Follow orders as you're told,
Make Their Yellow Blood Run Cold
Fight until you die or drop,
A Force Like Ours is Hard to Stop
Close your mind to stress and pain,
Fight till You're No Longer Sane
Let not one damn cur pass by,
How Many of Them Can We Make Die!

Guard your women and children well,
Send These Bastards Back to Hell
We'll teach them the ways of war,
They Won't Come Here Any More
Use your shield and use your head,
Fight till Every One is Dead
Raise the flag up to the sky,
How Many of Them Can We Make Die!

Dawn has broke, the time has come,
Move Your Feet to a Marching Drum
We'll win the war and pay the toll,
We'll Fight as One in Heart and Soul
Midnight mare and blood red roan,
Fight to Keep this Land Your Own
Sound the horn and call the cry,
How Many of Them Can We Make Die!

Axes flash, broadsword swing,
Shining armour's piercing ring
Horses run with polished shield,
Fight Those Bastards till They Yield
Midnight mare and blood red roan,
Fight to Keep this Land Your Own
Sound the horn and call the cry,
How Many of Them Can We Make Die!

Caspian glance down into the valley, as the army spread pot to match the Northmen and his troops over to the right flank. His vision was filled with red. Where once green grass and small Birch trees had grown was covered in small red flowers, called Blood Poppies. Now these flowers always seem to pop out of the ground wherever blood was shed and would keep coming back for maybe three years. But this valley was different. For over twenty years, the Blood Poppies returned and choked out all other plant life, claiming this spot for death alone.

Silence took hold of the land, as the armies stared at each other, until it was broken by a loud blast from a warhorn in the middle of the Numinorian ranks. A great shout of "Archers!" rose, as the lightly armored men (and women) ran forwards through the ranks and stopped in front of their comrades. Arrow was fitted to string, as bow and crossbow was pointed towards the sky. A loud twang and a cloud of death rose into the sky, to fall upon the Northmen. A sound like a million hammers sticking nearly at the same time came forth, as the steel points of the arrows and bolts stuck the shieldwall. Several dozen men dropped, near the flanks of the Northmen, screaming in pain or silenced forever. The warhorn blew again and up went a second flight of arrows. More of the peasant fyrd dropped but were replaced by their fellows behind them.

Seemingly at the same time, Duke Roger and Konungr Agnarr, shouted "Charge!"








* The March of Cambreadth and Tomorrow I leave for Battle in my previous post by Heather Alexander

Crispain's ears were filled with the wordless roar of men, as they raced towards their doom and the thunder of iron shod hooves crashing upon the earth, as his gelding brought the Duke down the valley. The clash of steel, screams of pain and wood shattering joined the dim, as the knights rode over the floor of the dell and smashed into the front ranks of the Northmen. Equine screams of pain cut through noise of battle, like razor blades through thin pieces of paper, as the air became thick with the smell of death.

As luck would have it, the knights of Essyer clashed with a united of the fyrd, struggling to try to hold the shield wall together and charge into battle like the Housecarls on their right. Without the tight ranks of shield (and hopefully spears) to hold the powerful chargers the Numinorian's rode at bay, there was little the poorly equipped peasants could do. Several raised their shields or swung axe or thrust with their spears but most of the disorganized frontal troops died.

Crispain's lance punched through the throat of a bearded man, as the fellow tried to bury his hand axe into the nose of his gelding. Only a swift jerk seved the light shaft of wood from snapping, as the Northman doubled over, clutching at his throat and trying to scream. A second man tried to gut his horse with a spear, thinking that he couldn't protect the beast's flank but his attempted failed as the pointed bottom of the Duke's kit shield caught the tip of the spear.

He nudged the flanks of the castrated horse, after wrenching the spear nearly from the Northman's hand, causing the beast to turn on it's left. A second quick thrust and the Numinorian lance claimed a second Northman for the day. Even before a small victory growl could be issued, a third peasant rushed him, this time the iron axehead of the Northman striking his heavy mail tunic and bouncing back off, no doubt bruising the flesh underneath.