The Battle of the Red Street

The sun had yet to rise when the word went out. The darkness of the predawn twilight hid the messengers quietly going door to door. The soft, cool morning air cloaked the quiet throng of innocent townsfolk, scurrying for the safety of the church or some other public place they felt safe. The ever so slowly lightening sky bore witness to the militiamen gathering their pikes and crossbows, forming together in bands as they marched to their mustering place.

The Governor only noticed what was happening when the army had almost fully formed, arranging themselves for a march on his palace. It was in this predawn cold that runners went out from the palace. Soon, angry Franks were being mustered, donning what armour they had, grabbing what weapons they possessed and marching to meet your militia.

Your march is halted by the Frankish mercenaries, their irregular ranks almost as bad as that of your militia. Over a hundred of your soldiers rush out in front, their shields held at the ready while the Frankish mercenaries readied their iconic axes. Hundreds of francisca were hurled towards your lines, impacting on the shields of your legionnaires like rain. Almost as soon as it began, the rain of axes stopped, the last few impacting the shield wall before a guttural warcry tore forth from the barbarian warriors. The thundering of boots on the cobblestone road came from beyond the shield wall, providing cover for the next phase of the plan.

The militia surge forwards, their pikes lowering as your legionnaires duck out of the way and shuffle to the back of the formation. Strabo snapped a quick few orders and your troops dispersed, their squads spreading out and moving to cut off enemy flankers.

The Frankish charge slammed into the pike wall. Shields raised in a timely fashion saved many of the barbarians from meeting an untimely end, even though the multiple layers of weapons prevented them from getting closer. With the Frankish charge stopped, you counted the seconds until the crossbowmen fired their weapons, your fingers ticking down on your hand until you got to none. You frown at the lack of crossbow bolts flying into the exposed necks of your enemies.

“Where are those damn archers?” you muttered. Strabo, apparently having heard you, turned to Vera who was dutifully standing behind you for some reason.

“Go find out what’s taking them so long,” Strabo ordered and the girl slammed her fist against her chest in salute, before dashing off down a side alley, sword being pulled from its sheath. You turn your attention back to the fight and growl lightly. The Franks, now getting over their halted momentum, were gradually pushing forward. The weight of nearly a thousand Frankish warriors jamming against your militia’s pikes.

“They’re wavering” you say in a low voice, seeing that the militiamen were actively backing away from the yelling Franks. The barbarians themselves held vicious, predatory grins on their face at the steadily dropping morale, they knew that when the militia broke and ran, they’d be able to run them down.

“We always knew they wouldn’t hold for long without support” Strabo commented, looking very calm despite scanning the rooftops and the side streets.

“Where the hell is Julian?!” you growl, annoyed that the idiot chose now of all times to betray you. “One would have thought he’d be here, leading his men!” you add, only getting a grunt in reply. It was pretty clear that these weren’t Julian’s men anymore. With still no sign of the crossbows and the ever increasing loss of morale amongst the militia, you realise it’s finally time to do something. “Want something done right, do it yourself” you mutter, yanking your sword from its sheath and striding forward. You yank terrified militiamen out of the way as you make for the front, finally arriving at the Frankish line just as your men begin to turn and run.

You waste no time, dashing forwards and grabbing the shield of one of the enemy, before swinging at his neck. Your sword slips through his flesh and bone like a lightsaber through warm butter, lopping off the Barbarian’s head in the blink of an eye. Immediately you are on to the next man, thrusting your sword through his plain wooden shield right where his arm should be. An agonised scream tears from the Frank as his shield falls to the ground, a no longer needed hand still attached. A quick jab to the guts has the Frank go tumbling after his discarded appendage, grasping at his belly with his one good hand. You twist around in time to catch another Frank off guard, forcing him to raise his shield and catch your blade on the iron boss. You decide to not show off just how awesome your sword is just yet and stop the blade before it goes clean through the shield. Instead, you pull back your blade and kick the man in the shield, launching him into the men behind him and knocking them off balance.

The Franks might have pressed their attack against you, if not for the timely arrival of crossbow bolts from a house to the left of the street. You glance up and see several harried militiamen and Vera firing bolts as fast as they can into the crowd, forcing the Franks to raise their shields. With the Franks now paying attention to the new threat above them, they didn’t notice as a wall of pikes suddenly slammed into their front, several of their number falling as the iron heads punched through what armour they wore. Those Franks at the front reacted quickly, to their credit, lowering their shields while their comrades behind them shuffled forward to try and cover them with their own shields. This time, however, the militiamen had some zeal to their attack, trying with all their might to push against the Frankish shield wall. Several of the more enterprising militiamen even grabbed some of the francisca that were lying around and tossed them back, not doing much, but still,the thought counted.

You grin and push forward, pikes on either side of you preventing the buddies of the Frank you target from helping as you grab his shield and stab him in the shoulder. The Frank dropped and you pushed forward, pikes filling in the gaps around you as you killed the next man. Crossbow bolts killing anyone that dared lower their shield to fight you.

The Franks begin backing up. What was once a predatory grin now fearful, wide eyes and scowls of frustration. A cry from behind the formation tells you that your flanking troops have done their job and gotten behind the enemy. Now the Franks were stuck between a rock and a hard place, another grin crossed your features as you pressed forward, killing again and again, each time defended by bolt and pike.

Finally, you arrive at the center of the formation and a taller than average Frank in gleaming maille armour. Bronze plates adorning his shoulders and a green cape around his neck.

“You are the dog who leads this” the Frank grunted, looking at you with hate filled eyes.

“Woof” you reply “Even men fear dogs, nature breeds killers far better than we mere humans” you state in a low guttural voice. The Frank grinned at your response before striding forward, his sword flashing in the dawning light.

“Then it will be an honor to feed your pack” the Frank said. You snort in amusement, at least the man knew he was done for. With that banter out of the way, the Frankish leader charged at you, snapping his sword arm up and striking at you with a flick of his wrist. You parry the blow with ease before stepping in and thrusting at him. The Frank decided to grab the blade of your sword, probably thinking it wasn’t anywhere near as sharp as it actually was. This was a stupid idea and his fingers agreed, jumping ship the moment the wrapped around your sword and fleeing for the ground. Your adversary growled his pain but his sword was thrust at you anyway, forcing you to parry. You step closer while parrying another swing from the Frank, forcing him to back up and into some of his men, fighting behind him. This caused him to trip up and allowed you to step into his guard, your sword slipping between his ribs despite his armour. A grunt is all you get from your opponent, his sword clattering to the ground so that his one good hand could grab at his wounded chest. You slip the sword out of the man and kick him to the ground, watching as he bounced a little on the drenched ground.

“I hope the drains don’t get clogged with blood” you mutter as you look around, noticing the few millimeters of blood coating the street. You look up and assess the battle before snorting in amusement. In a display of Hollywood-esque coincidence, your forces just finished mopping up the last of the enemy as you turned to look. The last few executions took place as your eyes scanned what was once a battleground.

“We’ll count the dead when the city is in our control” you heard a gruff voice come from behind you. You turn and see Strabo talking with one of the militiamen who didn’t look happy.

“Men of Tarentum!” you call out, getting the attention of the militia “This battle has been justly won!” you begin “But our work is not yet done!” you say and several of the militia visibly sagged in dismay. “However! Your part is done” you say and eyes snapped towards you. “You have done your part but I cannot expect you to carry on when you have homes and families to think about” you explain. Around you, the militiamen look at each other, themselves and then draw themselves up.

“Nuts to that!!” one of the Militiamen shouts. You smile as a chorus of ‘hear hear’ sounds out through the street.

“Well then, if you wish to follow, follow” you say “Those who do not, don’t, you’ve won your battle! There is no cowardice now” you say before turning. A glint catches your eye and you spot the enemy leader’s sword on the ground. Somehow it has managed to find the only dry spot on the street. You pick it up and frown at it, using a bit of your godly power to divine it’s nature. You chuckle when you feel a hint of godly power in the sword. “What luck” you mutter before turning around and looking for someone to carry the sword for you. “Vera!” you call out as you see the teen trotting towards you and Strabo. She stops and instantly goes red as you approach her. “Take this sword, don’t lose it, I want it kept” you saw as you hand the blade to the girl. She sheaths her own sword and accepts the one you give her, resting the longer than average blade against her shoulder.

“Let’s carry on before the Governor is able to escape, or worse, send a runner” Strabo grunted. You nod and begin striding towards the palace.

“ONWARDS MEN, AD VICTORIAM!!” you cry, getting a chorus of “Ad Victoriam” in return.