Stand your ground

There is no way that you are going to run from a bunch of young boys with wooden weapons. Taking up a defensive position near the narrow part of the ally by the manure heap you wait calmly for the boys to attack. There is a good chance that they will not have the nerve to fight you once they see you have stopped running. As the boys round the corner into the alley you think they are going to break and run, but their leader starts yelling out orders like a drill sergeant.

“Form ranks! Shields up” the youth has better quality clothing and is carrying a real shield. His head is covered with an oversized helmet so it is hard to judge his age, but he is clearly older than the rest of the boys, maybe as old as fifteen or sixteen. You’ve seen boys that age dead on the walls and wonder how he was not drafted in the defense of the city.

Slowly the pack of street rats get into order, a row of four of the larger boys with shields made from scrap wood and sharpened poles as spears line up in front. Behind this line the group advances to about twenty feet away.

“Javelins, ready, Throw!” comes the command and about six sharpened broomsticks are launched towards you. Two of the handmade spears don’t even reach you, one flies over your head and the other three are on target. Two bounce harmlessly off your shield but the third shaft hits you in the leg above the knee and draws blood as it sticks momentarily into your thick muscle before it too falls to the ground. After the first round of javelins the boys are picking up and throwing stones; the accuracy of the stones was much better. These boys, like street rats from every city, probably spent hours each week hurling stones at stray dogs, feral cats, the fat rats that come out in the evening and even at each other in their youthful squabbles over new territory. Luckily the rocks are not heavy enough to do any damage when they hit your armor, but they do hurt when they bounce off your exposed sword arm and lower thighs. Slipping along the wall to the pile of manure are two boys holding a homemade net of strings and rope tied together with twine and weighted with pebbles around the edges.

You could actually lose this fight! You realize that if you stand here and do nothing, the net might give them the time they need to close. Once pinned to the ground by five or six of these dirty young hoodlums the others could use their crude knives and makeshift spears to cut into your neck or groin. It would be a brutal way to go. When in doubt charge – that has been your training and it is what you do now. You cover the twenty feet separating you from the boys in six steps, the homemade spears and shields do not intimidate you at all as you slam into the larger boys in front like a falcon hitting a flock of doves. Two of the boys are knocked from their feet and the others stagger back from the impact. Your spear hits one of the staggering targets in his leg and a ribbon of red appears where he is struck. You hear the leader shouting out orders:

“Grab him! Don’t let go!” but the moral of the gang has been broken and all around you the boys are scrambling away. The leader’s helmet might have saved his life; it is nearly dislodged as your spear hits the side of his head with a loud thud, but the **** of the blow has been turned. He drops to his knees and then falls to the side twitching. Suddenly the alley is empty except for you and the youth. Moving carefully to his side you kick his helm the rest of the way off his head.