Arty tries High Fantasy Warfare

For 'verse proposals, random ideas, musings, and brainwaves.

Moderators: Invictus, speaker-to-trolls

Post Reply
User avatar
Artemis
Global Mod
Posts: 392
Joined: Thu May 22, 2008 3:31 am
Location: Savannah, Georgia
Contact:

Arty tries High Fantasy Warfare

Post by Artemis »

I'm hoping to get a universe out of this, but its still stewing. For the moment, here's some teaser fiction.

Chapter One: Mobilizing

“Just because the bell is ringing,” Artan was saying, “doesn't mean anything's happened over there yet.”

“My young friend,” Krause said, clapping a muscular, buckler-covered arm on Artan's shoulder, “don't do yourself the disservice of being an idiot. They don't ring the bell unless we're mobilizing, and we wouldn't be mobilizing unless someone had hired us, and no one would have hired us unless things had completely fallen off the cart on the Continent.”

Artan didn't say anything. He was too busy trying to wriggle out of the old veteran's grasp.

Krause chuckled, and finally released the young man with a gentle push forward. “Quit worrying and guessing, Art. The Major'll give us the true coin as soon as we're all assembled. Don't think about it.”

“So, what should I think about?” Artan asked.

“Beer!” Krause suggested, raising a finger to the sky as if the idea had just occurred to him. “How's my glassberry wheat doing at the tavern?”

“We're probably about to mobilize, and you want to know how your little hobby-beer is selling?”

“I told you to quit thinking about it,” Krause said, shaking his head in disappointment. “You'll get the quivers something fierce before we've even gotten to the meethouse.” The man harumphed. “And it's not a 'hobby', it's a craft.”

Art rolled his eyes. “You know the town as well as I do. If its made with anything but local barley, local water and local hops, they're not going to get too excited about it. However, yes, a few of the youngsters have taken a liking to it.”

Krause nodded, satisfied. “It'll take time, but word will spread. You won't be able to keep it on the shelf.”

“That's what you said about the maize liquor recipe you got from Amphire.”

“Hey, besides the hangovers, that was a perfectly fine amphrin whisky.”

“Krause, there was nothing to that stuff but the hangover!”

The two men shared a quiet chuckle, despite the glares of another group of mercenaries next to them on steps to the top of Grey Hill, where the brigade meethouse in Vassenkern stood. Krause made a rude gesture toward the men, and if it had been anyone but Krause and his young protege, there probably would have been a fight on the hill. As it was, Krause and Artan were merely treated to angrier glares, and the sight of their fellow Steeplers' backsides as they passed upwards.

“See those old turtles?” Krause said quietly, nodding at the men. “Know what they're thinking about?”

“Could it be the situation on the Continent?” Artan said sarcastically. “My, that would segue nicely into a continued lecture on me not 'giving myself the quivers,' wouldn't it?”

“You're wise beyond your years,” Krause said.

“Only because I stole some of yours.”

Krause barked laughter. “Take 'em, I've got plenty to spare.”

The Steeplers entered the meethouse, and found that they were some of the last to arrive. 7th Battalion was arranged by Company on the brick floor of the meethouse, some mercenaries breaking out cards or runes to pass the time, others speaking in hushed conversation, others as still and silent as monks. Krause traded grips with a few of the other members of his unit, the Dowsers, and took a seat on a pad of deerhide. Artan crouched down next to him and whispered to him. “Where's the Major?”

“Good question,” Krause said. “Talking to the messenger, maybe? Confirming and denying, that kind of thing.”

“Maybe,” Artan said, chewing his lip.

“Quit thinking,” Krause said, elbowing the boy so that he sat down.

Artan tried to take the old man's advice. Scanning the room, he found that he had some help in the matter.

“I see you've spotted the Danner girl,” Krause said, without looking up from the knife he had taken out and started sharpening.

“How do you know?”

Krause glanced at the boy, grinning wolfishly. “Because she's in the room. And if Scout-Corporal Wende Danner is in a room with Cavalryman Artan gan Valer, Cavalryman Artan gan Valer isn't going to be looking at anything else for long.”

Artan blushed slightly. At seventeen, he was still young enough to be embarrassed by such things, but not old enough to be embarrassed because he was embarrassed. “I'm not trying... it's not like-”

“Oh hush,” Krause said, rolling his eyes. “You're a healthy young Steepler man, and she's a healthy young Steepler girl.” The old Cavalryman narrowed his eyes in Wende Danner's direction, and made a low, satisfied noise. “A very healthy young-”

“You rot-brained old goat,” Artan said, shoulder-checking his mentor a little harder than he meant to. Krause chuckled, regained his seat, and put his whetstone-warmed knife back in its leather sheath. “At least I'm young and starstruck,” Artan said. “You're just a pervert.”

“I deny nothing,” Krause said, grinning proudly.

“Except to Edna, I hope,” Artan said. Krause didn't say anything – the mention of his wife was one of the few things that would make the man hold his tongue.

Before Krause could work up a good rebuke, the hum and murmur of activity in the meethouse ceased rather abruptly. The two cavalrymen looked up to the meethouse's pulpit, and went quiet themselves.

Major Gallena Seizmann tapped her gavel, signaling the beginning of the meet. “7th Battalion, Vassenkern township, Steeple Mountains Mercenary Brigade, all present, third day of Auctus, 3184. The time is zenith and seventy-eight, by the town clock.” she said formally. The battalion chronicler made a rapid shorthand notation in his book with a thin, copper-colored feather. “We are mobilizing, people.”

The Major took a moment to let it sink in. As Krause had said earlier, everyone knew intellectually that they wouldn't be called to the meethouse for any other reason, unless someone important had died, or everyone had somehow forgotten it was Remembrance Day. Still, it was one thing to know it, another thing to hear it in no uncertain terms. “Seventeen days ago, the so-called Freedom Union declared war on the Empire of Kronstadt. Kronstadt's treaty allies have responded, subsequently declaring war on all member-nations of the Freedom Union. Naturally, the Market has also entered hostilities, pulling all of their people out of Union nations.

“I'm sure the question you're all asking yourselves is who hired us first. I've just received a communique from the Falcon Empress Lyona Kronst, along with a letter of marque on any and all Union military assets. It is very likely that the other battalions, and Colonel gan Holden herself, have received similar items. Now, unless the Colonel has a good reason to turn them down, it is safe to assume that the Brigade is now in the employ, and under the command, of the Falcon Empress and her allies.”

There was quiet, but edged whispers among the Steeplers listening. No one was foolish enough to say out loud what they were all thinking, but they didn't need to. Everyone knew.

“I'm as... personally conflicted as you are,” the Major continued. “But the coda doesn't leave room for personal conflicts. We've been hired, and we'll do the job we've been hired to do, by the people who've hired us. As of right now, its as simple as that.”

And it was. If the Major said so.

“I've already spoken to the blacksmiths and armorers,” Seizmann concluded. “Any standard weapons and equipment you need repaired, take to them, the Brigade will pay for it. Anything else you want to take, that's out of your own purses. We will meet back here at dawn and two hundred, sharp, bring all your gear and kit. The rest of the night is yours, but remember – we're mobilized now. You are professional soldiers. Your conduct will reflect that.” The Major sighed, then nodded. “Dismissed.”

“Well,” Krause said, barely audible over the clatter and gabbing of the other mercenaries. “We knew the tree would fall sooner or later.”

Artan shook his head. “But... for the Empire? For the Market? This... this is wrong, Krause. No one here believes-”

“You heard the major,” Krause said, more curt than Artan had ever heard him. “It's done. I don't like it much – believe me, I'd love to be the one leading the charge through the Falcon Palace's gates – but we've got a civilization to support, and the best way to do that is what we're doing now. Empress' money is as good as anyone else's, and their grain and meat's as good as anyone else's too.”

Artan sighed. “I know.” Then: “Guess we better get the dahgs ready to go?”

“I'll be there in an hour or so,” Krause said, face pensive and drained of its usual humor and tranquility. “Edna will want to have words. Don't let Thunder get too excited, or he'll have the whole pack howling all night.”

“I'll take care of it.” Artan tapped Krause's shoulder with his fist. “God help you, man.”

Krause rolled his eyes. “With Edna? Hah. God'll be no help to me there.”
"The universe's most essential beauty is its endlessness. There is room and resources enough for all of us. Whether there is room for all of our passions is the question, and the problem that we work tirelessly to find a solution to."

-Qhameio Allir Nlafahn, Commonwealth ambassador, during the signing of the Kriolon Treaty.
User avatar
Heretic
Posts: 1750
Joined: Wed May 21, 2008 4:45 pm
Location: IN AMERICA

Re: Arty tries High Fantasy Warfare

Post by Heretic »

Man, I usually don't comment because I have a knack not to, but this caught my attention. Mercenary bands fighting for the Empire! Said Empire may or may not be evil! Beer and Wife jokes cracked me up, showing how soldiers try to keep the bad things out of their mind.

Continue please, I am interested in seeing what this "Market" polity is like.
Computers are like Old Testament gods; lots of rules and no mercy.
-Joseph Campbell
Blackwing
Posts: 160
Joined: Wed Nov 05, 2008 1:05 am

Re: Arty tries High Fantasy Warfare

Post by Blackwing »

Artemis uses High Fantasy Warfare.

IT'S SUPER-EFFECTIVE!

Blackwing faints.

...

That is all.
So Einstein was wrong when he said "God does not play dice". Consideration of black holes suggests, not only that God does play dice, but that He sometimes confuses us by throwing them where they can't be seen. ~ Stephen Hawking
User avatar
Artemis
Global Mod
Posts: 392
Joined: Thu May 22, 2008 3:31 am
Location: Savannah, Georgia
Contact:

Re: Arty tries High Fantasy Warfare

Post by Artemis »

Glad you guys like it! Got a bit more for ya, and I think a map or two will be up soon, as well as flags and banners and the like. Plus, a bit more in-depth discussion on dahgs.

2

The Unionist infantrymen was young, fast, and knew how to use the sharp-tipped staff he was stabbing at Count Visman's throat with. The Count would have been in trouble, if he had had both feet planted on the ground, as his would-be assassin did. Mounted on an armored, angry Spotted Ranger wardahg, Visman almost admired the boy's courage for coming after him.

He batted the thrust of the makeshift spear aside with a gauntleted fist, turned the reins of his animal toward the boy, and grunted. Tulan, Visman's dahg, snarled and swatted the boy aside with a paw, not at all unlike Visman's dismissal of the spear. The boy fell to the ground, reaching for his lost spear, and was killed instantly as Tulan put a heavy, clawed foot down on his chest with enough force to burst the boy's heart. The splatter of blood from the mouth, nose and eyes nearly reached Visman's face, and the Count wrinkled his nose in disgust.

Tulan panted and whuffed, eager for more action, but Visman calmed the dahg with a scratch behind the ears. “Ossul,” he called to one of his Captains. “Finish that up and come here.”

First Captain Tamiren Ossul, Kronstadt Army, gave the woman, a former Galfa slave by her hair color and complexion, one more shake of the throat before dropping her, her limp form sliding down the stone wall of her own house. The woman was near death, and another minute or two with the Captain's ministrations would probably have finished the job. As it was, she might live to see another day – but probably not. After all, what Visman had to say wouldn't take long, and Captain Ossul had a very good memory.

Here and there, the last pockets of resistance were being put down with similar ferocity and monstrousness. Visman didn't particularly care for the inefficient way it was being handled, but the boys and girls of Red Sword Division needed to blow of some steam somehow, and it was, Visman supposed, important to send a message to the Unionists that, whatever they wanted to call themselves, they were still slaves and collaborators in the eyes of Kronstadt and its beloved Empress.

“Your lordship,” the Captain said, running his hand down his untidy beard as a means of appearing somewhat more presentable.

“I've good news and better news, Captain,” Visman said, gigging his dahg out and away from the village, was beginning to catch fire in some places. His Captain followed him. “I've received word that the Empire has secured the services of several mercenary corps from across the Torataic. They should be arriving by the end of Auctus, if the sea-winds hold.”

“That is good news indeed, sire,” Ossul said, not quite keeping the disdain he felt for sellswords out of his voice.

“I've also been informed that two units, both at company strength, will be under my direct command. With this, we'll finally be able to break out of these bloody raiding actions, and into some real combat.”

“I'll not lie, my lord, I wish we could be moving with other Kronstadt units,” Ossul said. “But I'll not say this isn't good news.”

“I'm not done yet, Ossul,” the Count said, grinning to let his Captain know he was not offended. “I haven't told you the names of the mercenaries.”

Ossul raised an eyebrow. “Your lordship?”

“The Carruchin Wolfhounds, and the Steeplers' 7th Battalion. I believe you are acquainted with the latter.”

Ossul's expression melted into one of not-quite-shock, then hardened into a granite carving of a grimace. “Yes, your lordship. I know of the Steeplers. I'm not sure who this is more of an insult to, them or the Red Swords.”

“An insult?” Visman mused. “Hmm. And interesting way to look at it.” Behind them, there was a flash and a dull explosion as something particularly volatile – maybe the brewery, or the coal storehouse – went up. “I would think that you'd be eager to meet the Steeplers again. Especially considering they will be under my direct command.”

Visman pulled a leather folder out from a pouch strapped to Tulan's side. He opened it, pulled out a leaf of paper, and read aloud: “'The Steeple Mountain Mercenary Brigade, under the command of Colonel Amira gan Holden, are among the premier mixed-unit mercenary forces,' blah blah blah, 'over four centuries of dedicated service and professionalism' blah blah blah blah, ah yes, here we are, 'excelling at dangerous and stressful combat situations that would break many other units, our infantry and cavalry are both specially trained for action against overwhelming numbers and force.' That sounds like quite a strong claim to make, wouldn't you say, Captain?”

Ossul's expression remained stony for a few seconds, but then he nodded, and even smiled. “You wish to put such a claim to the test, my lord?”

“The Red Swords are as much my sons and daughters as they are my personal army,” the Count said, all pretense of innuendo and joking lost. “I will not let such an insult as the Steepler 7th gave us go unpunished. This war, Captain, is first and foremost about letting the entire world know that Kronstadt stands at its top, and that no one, enemy or ally, slave or freeman, shall forget that and not suffer the consequences.” The Count nodded once, and turned away from the Captain, dismissing him.

As Ossul went back to the village, undoubtedly to tell his Second Captains and other subordinates the news, Visman and Tulan ventured into the forest on the village's outskirts. It had barely started to be cleared for farmland expansion when the Freedom Union had arisen and the war had begun, and unlike most of the forests Visman was used to in inner Kronstadt, it was thick, dark and lush. God above only knew what kinds of vermin still lived in there.

As if to answer that question, in a most satisfactory way, a woman jogged out of the woods, something wrapped in a blanket and held close to her chest as she ran. The sudden movement startled Tulan, and the dahg dropped his chest almost to the ground and barked a warning. The woman skidded to a halt, lost her footing, and slipped into an undignified sprawl on the ground. She held on to the package, which was now wailing in either pain or fear, probably both.

The woman had ruddy, freckled skin, dark auburn hair, rounded-off facial bones, and the fierce honey-gold eyes that marked the Galfa people. Like most people in this village, she was likely an escaped slave, who had heard of these gatherings along the southern border, and fled. The child, now that Visman got a closer look at it, was of similar look, and probably no more than two months old.

Visman calmed Tulan as best he could, and looked the woman in the face. She looked back, her defiance more in the lack of hatred or resentfulness than the presence of those emotions would have been. The baby kept on crying.

Visman took out his pistol, an elegant weapon with scroll-engraved steel barrels and a dark red lacquered wood grip. Without comment, he shot the woman in the face, her strong, beautiful features destroyed as surely as a masterwork portrait would have been destroyed by a splash of crude oil.

Dismounting Tulan, Visman went over to the corpse. He had to pry the woman's hands open to get to the child, which had wet itself, and the blanket, quite pungently. Upon further inspection, the child turned out to be a baby girl, with a dark tan birthmark in the vague shape of a bird's wing encircling her shoulder. She wore only a small woven-leather necklace, upon which hung a hammered-tin pendant. It was marked in black paint with the current year, 3184, and the symbol of the Freedom Union, a spiked dahg collar torn in two.

Visman carefully removed the necklace, and dropped it in the child's mother's pooling blood. Visman wrapped the child back up and, holding it in the crook of one arm, walked back toward the village, now fully consumed in flames. Tulan walked behind, sniffing at the child, and trying to lick the thing before Visman grunted at him not to.

The Red Swords would be turning west to rendezvous with their new mercenary comrades, and if Visman's memory served, there was a Market trading post along the road they would be taking. He'd leave the child there.

After all, even after the inevitable victory, the Empire was going to lose a lot of slaves in the coming years. The sooner they started replenishing the numbers, the better.
"The universe's most essential beauty is its endlessness. There is room and resources enough for all of us. Whether there is room for all of our passions is the question, and the problem that we work tirelessly to find a solution to."

-Qhameio Allir Nlafahn, Commonwealth ambassador, during the signing of the Kriolon Treaty.
Post Reply