Post by James on Jul 7, 2009 5:28:39 GMT -5
The Rise of the Pendragon - Chapter Two:
Alectus, I will lend you money to gather whatever can to defend Londinium but that is all, leave now and carry your banner high, you must lend your strength to your people.”
“If that is what my king insists,” Alectus replied, his tone dripping with venom as he rose from his seat. Without another word, Alectus swept out of the hall, his armour clinking with each step.
This is the story of Lord Alectus of Londinium final battle.
Alectus sat atop a great warhorse, a gift from the funds lent by Vortigern to aid in the defence of Londinium. The beast was as strong as an ox and not easily startled by the sound of battle, well at least that was what the merchant had told Alectus as he brought the horse. Lord Alectus of Londinium, descendant of the line of Caratacus himself, forced to prepare himself from battle by bargaining with merchants and mercenaries; the thought sickened him to the core.
The lord surveyed across his army, stretching across the vast green fields surrounding the sickening city of Londinium. Long ago in the times of his ancestors he would have been crouched in waiting within the forests in the horizon, but that was before the Romans. Now the British fought in the open, bravely and honourably against the barbaric scum of the Saxons. Two thousand men against the full might of the Germanic tribes that would seep out of the forests.
Within the middle of the army were the five hundred men that had mustered to his banner, nothing more than farmers and their sons armed with blunt weapons and quaint shields. They would fight to save their lands and families but they would falter, his only hope relied upon his two flanks. Mercenaries from across southern Britain, some even exiles from Gaul and King Clovis, funded by Vortigern’s final pitiful gesture. They were strong men and armed with fine weapons, Alectus knew that if they were to win it would be because of them.
The lord himself was dressed for combat, mail armour enclosing his body from his shoulders to his feet and even then some believed more was needed. Several tradesmen had tried to sell him great iron helmets, but he wanted the enemy to see his face when it bore down upon him. A weathered and lined face from years of fighting, where once lively hazel eyes had become a dull brown and vibrant chestnut hair now a mere wisp of colour atop his head.
With a sudden eruption of noise, the first of the Saxons erupted from the trees in utter chaos as they tore towards Londinium’s last chance. The placement of the British army blocked the road to Londinium; every last man would need to be killed for the Saxons to progress to the city.
“Men,” Alectus’ voice barked out across the field, the towering figure turning his horse to face the incoming Saxons. “Ready your arrows!”
At least the horse is staying calm, Alectus thought as he surveyed more and more Saxons emerged from the woods, far too many for him to stand against. Swinging around he turned to look at the faces of his men, fear craved across each of their features, the men looking ready to bolt and the boys ready to weep. However the mercenaries still waited upon his command, bows drawn and arms rippling under the strain.
“Fire!”
The sound of whistling arrows hammered back against the war cries of the Saxons, several of them crumpling as the arrows found their mark. Not waiting for another command, the mercenaries sent another volley into the incoming Saxons, sending more and more to the wet grass below them.
“Men, stand strong!” Alectus barked, wheeling his horse around once more and riding to inches of the front line of his army. “We have been deserted and forgotten by our friends, left for our families to be tortured and we to be killed. Well, I will not stand idle! With cold steel I shall save Londinium! Will you join me?”
Alectus’ ears were greeted with a roar from both farmer and mercenary a like, leaving the lord momentarily stunned. Where a moment ago a collection of fearful farmers clutched their weapons in shaking hands, an army of soldiers now stood, ready to charge towards death or victory. Vortigern’s words came back to him as the Saxons drew ever closer, lend your strength to your people.
“Londinium!” Alectus roared, unsheathing his sword and galloping toward the first of the disorganised Saxons. Behind him he could hear the shouts of ‘Londinium’ and the sound of thundering footsteps following him.
Sunlight, faint through the grey clouds, flickered off Alectus’ long and sharp blade as he brought down across the neck of the nearest Saxon, another bouncing off his horse’s flank. While the first wave of Saxons were a group of disorganised men, separated by their lust for battle, already a far more sizable and organised bloc was moving out of the woods.
“Help!”
Alectus slashed free of the rabble that had surrounded him to find a young boy sprawled upon the floor, a weasel-like Saxon baring down upon him with a dagger. With a clank of an armoured foot against horseflesh, his mount broke into a gallop bearing down upon the Saxon and the boy. Alectus knew though that he would never reach the boy in time and brought up his sword arm, lobbing his weapon at the Saxon, the smooth blade slicing through the air as it flew.
The handle of the sword struck the temple of the Saxon with a resounding crash, the man crumpling into a heap upon the ground. Alectus watched as without hesitation the boy jumped up, snatching the fallen sword, and brought it down hard into his attacker’s chest. When the young can so readily kill then we are in dark times indeed, he thought bringing his horse to an abrupt stop by the boy.
“My sword, son,” Alectus ordered, reaching for the bloodstained sword that the boy offered to him. “Get to the back of the line, you have done more than expected of you already.”
The boy, without an utterance of thanks or fear, reached for the discarded dagger of the Saxon and fled back toward the bloc of Alectus’ army. The lord himself turned to survey the field of death before him, the first wave of Saxons all dead but the field too was drenched with British blood, the cost of this small respite before the full force of the Germanic tribes would descend upon them.
“In formation! Reform a line! Steady for the next attack!” Alectus roared as he thundered back into the midst of his own men, escaping an arrow by an inch. “Anyone with a bow, fire at will! Everyone else into a line!”
As arrows flew through the air, the rest of the army attempted to create a shield wall between the way to the city and the Saxons. Shields were dropped and boys trampled as the inexperience army pushed and shove, as the Saxons drew ever closer. Alectus knew now that all hope was lost, they were outnumbered and out skilled and only a quick but glorifying death could be sought now.
“Flee!” roared a horrifying voice, the shape of a giant emerging from the woods. “Flee and your lives may yet be spare!”
Even from such a distance Alectus knew who had stepped forward from the Saxons ranks. It was Hengist the Heinous, the Saxon King that had raped and pillaged the whole of Kent, the giant that had snapped a man in two in battle. Undefeated in battle his mere presence turned defences to rubble. Already Alectus noticed that his shield war had thinned, men and boys fleeing alike away from the battle.
“Steady, stay steady,” Alectus muttered, but it was too late.
In unison the mercenaries on either flank turned and began to flee, leaving nothing but teenagers and old men to face the Saxons. Alectus knew why they fled, not out of fear, but because money was pointless if you were not alive to enjoy it. That was the problem with mercenaries, now he stood with less than five hundred against scores of Saxons and Hengist himself, he could not lead these brave men to their deaths.
“Run!” Alectus roared, his voice cutting through the sound of battle as clear as if it was a silent morning. “Flee the land quickly and head to the west, save your families but not your lands! Go!”
Without a moment hesitation weapons and armour was dropped as the soldiers turned to flee from battle. The Saxons, who had marched for a bloodlust, quickly gave chase to their fleeing quarry. Footsteps echoed throughout the field as everyone but Alectus ran in some direction, their prints indented upon the wet shallow earth. The Lord of Londinium knew that he could not flee, Caratacus’ blood flowed in his veins, the blood of the bravest warrior, and he turned to face the Saxons for what he knew would be the final time.
“Londinium!”
The battle cry was hardly audible throughout the chaos of the field, but he charged toward the Saxons with his sword held high. If he could hold the encroaching army for merely a minute it would give enough time perhaps for his men to flee, to give them a chance to live their lives out within the safety of the west.
The first arrow struck him upon the shoulder blade, the tip bouncing harmlessly off his armour. Two more struck him in the chest and twice more his armour saved him as he rode into the heart of the Saxon’s army. His bloodstained sword swung in a frenzy cutting down any that came near him, blood splattering across horse and men alike before the fourth arrow struck his horse within the neck. For an instant the great horse stayed steady before it tumbled, sending Alectus to the warm bloodied ground.
He felt his sword slip from his fingers as he fell, it clattering somewhere upon the ground away from his. Gloved fingers grasped for anything, feeling something cold and metallic buried between the warm flesh of a fallen foe. Seizing the unknown weapon within his hand, Alectus leapt to his feet swinging it at the enemies that closed in around, the spear point slicing at the exposed neck of a surprised Saxon. Blood squirted from the wound, drenching the lord’s cheek in warmth as a yell echoed across his head.
“Stop! Halt!” Hengist cried, pushing aside two of his men to come into the view of Alectus, a great thick figure enclosed within a fur skin cloak. “This is a true warrior! He will finally give me a worthy battle unlike his brethren.”
Alectus rose to his full height, Hengist still over a foot taller, to face the hideous Saxon King. His body looked disfigured beneath the cloaks, limbs seemingly being where they should not. The soulless black eyes bore down upon Alectus and he couldn’t help but look away. Here was his chance to provide ample time for his men to flee, all but a few Saxons had yielded chase to watch their King duel him, if he could survive for a little longer then he could die in meaning.
“I would not duel me, my lord. It is unwise, even for Saxons kings, to duel the blood of Caratacus,” Alectus said, wiping the blood from his cheek.
“He jests!” Hengist roared in laughter, snatching a huge war axe from the hands of a nearby man. “Perhaps if the Woden had been kind, you could have been a strong brother of mine instead of a weakling islander.”
“That would have been very unkind indeed, I prefer to bathe in water with women, not in mud with the pigs!” Alectus spat, his spear now moving protectively in front of him.
Hengist eyes flashed with anger before he roared and swung the great axe at Alectus, the lord catching the axe within one of its ridges with his spear, throwing the assault back. Grabbing his opportunity, Alectus lunged at the giant with his spear, embedding it in his thigh to the handle. The wound barely slowed Hengist, the axe flying once more at Alectus’s head. He threw himself to the ground to avoid the blow and reached to tear the spear free of Hengist’s thigh, only a grunt coming from the giant as the blood began to pour from the wound.
Another blow came from the axe as Alectus clambered from his feet, his spear partially blocking the attack but the force alone causing him to stumble down to his knees. With a sharp kick to his ribs, his grasp on his spear loosened and it slipped to the ground. Alectus knew that it was over; he could do nothing but to look up at Hengist’s slightly drawn face staring down at him.
“Worthy indeed,” Hengist muttered, bringing the edge of the axe to Alectus’ throat. “But the blood of Caratacus shall spill.”
Alectus felt the axe glide across his throat and saw the glint of triumphant on Hengist’s face before everything went black.
Alectus, I will lend you money to gather whatever can to defend Londinium but that is all, leave now and carry your banner high, you must lend your strength to your people.”
“If that is what my king insists,” Alectus replied, his tone dripping with venom as he rose from his seat. Without another word, Alectus swept out of the hall, his armour clinking with each step.
This is the story of Lord Alectus of Londinium final battle.
***
Alectus sat atop a great warhorse, a gift from the funds lent by Vortigern to aid in the defence of Londinium. The beast was as strong as an ox and not easily startled by the sound of battle, well at least that was what the merchant had told Alectus as he brought the horse. Lord Alectus of Londinium, descendant of the line of Caratacus himself, forced to prepare himself from battle by bargaining with merchants and mercenaries; the thought sickened him to the core.
The lord surveyed across his army, stretching across the vast green fields surrounding the sickening city of Londinium. Long ago in the times of his ancestors he would have been crouched in waiting within the forests in the horizon, but that was before the Romans. Now the British fought in the open, bravely and honourably against the barbaric scum of the Saxons. Two thousand men against the full might of the Germanic tribes that would seep out of the forests.
Within the middle of the army were the five hundred men that had mustered to his banner, nothing more than farmers and their sons armed with blunt weapons and quaint shields. They would fight to save their lands and families but they would falter, his only hope relied upon his two flanks. Mercenaries from across southern Britain, some even exiles from Gaul and King Clovis, funded by Vortigern’s final pitiful gesture. They were strong men and armed with fine weapons, Alectus knew that if they were to win it would be because of them.
The lord himself was dressed for combat, mail armour enclosing his body from his shoulders to his feet and even then some believed more was needed. Several tradesmen had tried to sell him great iron helmets, but he wanted the enemy to see his face when it bore down upon him. A weathered and lined face from years of fighting, where once lively hazel eyes had become a dull brown and vibrant chestnut hair now a mere wisp of colour atop his head.
With a sudden eruption of noise, the first of the Saxons erupted from the trees in utter chaos as they tore towards Londinium’s last chance. The placement of the British army blocked the road to Londinium; every last man would need to be killed for the Saxons to progress to the city.
“Men,” Alectus’ voice barked out across the field, the towering figure turning his horse to face the incoming Saxons. “Ready your arrows!”
At least the horse is staying calm, Alectus thought as he surveyed more and more Saxons emerged from the woods, far too many for him to stand against. Swinging around he turned to look at the faces of his men, fear craved across each of their features, the men looking ready to bolt and the boys ready to weep. However the mercenaries still waited upon his command, bows drawn and arms rippling under the strain.
“Fire!”
The sound of whistling arrows hammered back against the war cries of the Saxons, several of them crumpling as the arrows found their mark. Not waiting for another command, the mercenaries sent another volley into the incoming Saxons, sending more and more to the wet grass below them.
“Men, stand strong!” Alectus barked, wheeling his horse around once more and riding to inches of the front line of his army. “We have been deserted and forgotten by our friends, left for our families to be tortured and we to be killed. Well, I will not stand idle! With cold steel I shall save Londinium! Will you join me?”
Alectus’ ears were greeted with a roar from both farmer and mercenary a like, leaving the lord momentarily stunned. Where a moment ago a collection of fearful farmers clutched their weapons in shaking hands, an army of soldiers now stood, ready to charge towards death or victory. Vortigern’s words came back to him as the Saxons drew ever closer, lend your strength to your people.
“Londinium!” Alectus roared, unsheathing his sword and galloping toward the first of the disorganised Saxons. Behind him he could hear the shouts of ‘Londinium’ and the sound of thundering footsteps following him.
Sunlight, faint through the grey clouds, flickered off Alectus’ long and sharp blade as he brought down across the neck of the nearest Saxon, another bouncing off his horse’s flank. While the first wave of Saxons were a group of disorganised men, separated by their lust for battle, already a far more sizable and organised bloc was moving out of the woods.
“Help!”
Alectus slashed free of the rabble that had surrounded him to find a young boy sprawled upon the floor, a weasel-like Saxon baring down upon him with a dagger. With a clank of an armoured foot against horseflesh, his mount broke into a gallop bearing down upon the Saxon and the boy. Alectus knew though that he would never reach the boy in time and brought up his sword arm, lobbing his weapon at the Saxon, the smooth blade slicing through the air as it flew.
The handle of the sword struck the temple of the Saxon with a resounding crash, the man crumpling into a heap upon the ground. Alectus watched as without hesitation the boy jumped up, snatching the fallen sword, and brought it down hard into his attacker’s chest. When the young can so readily kill then we are in dark times indeed, he thought bringing his horse to an abrupt stop by the boy.
“My sword, son,” Alectus ordered, reaching for the bloodstained sword that the boy offered to him. “Get to the back of the line, you have done more than expected of you already.”
The boy, without an utterance of thanks or fear, reached for the discarded dagger of the Saxon and fled back toward the bloc of Alectus’ army. The lord himself turned to survey the field of death before him, the first wave of Saxons all dead but the field too was drenched with British blood, the cost of this small respite before the full force of the Germanic tribes would descend upon them.
“In formation! Reform a line! Steady for the next attack!” Alectus roared as he thundered back into the midst of his own men, escaping an arrow by an inch. “Anyone with a bow, fire at will! Everyone else into a line!”
As arrows flew through the air, the rest of the army attempted to create a shield wall between the way to the city and the Saxons. Shields were dropped and boys trampled as the inexperience army pushed and shove, as the Saxons drew ever closer. Alectus knew now that all hope was lost, they were outnumbered and out skilled and only a quick but glorifying death could be sought now.
“Flee!” roared a horrifying voice, the shape of a giant emerging from the woods. “Flee and your lives may yet be spare!”
Even from such a distance Alectus knew who had stepped forward from the Saxons ranks. It was Hengist the Heinous, the Saxon King that had raped and pillaged the whole of Kent, the giant that had snapped a man in two in battle. Undefeated in battle his mere presence turned defences to rubble. Already Alectus noticed that his shield war had thinned, men and boys fleeing alike away from the battle.
“Steady, stay steady,” Alectus muttered, but it was too late.
In unison the mercenaries on either flank turned and began to flee, leaving nothing but teenagers and old men to face the Saxons. Alectus knew why they fled, not out of fear, but because money was pointless if you were not alive to enjoy it. That was the problem with mercenaries, now he stood with less than five hundred against scores of Saxons and Hengist himself, he could not lead these brave men to their deaths.
“Run!” Alectus roared, his voice cutting through the sound of battle as clear as if it was a silent morning. “Flee the land quickly and head to the west, save your families but not your lands! Go!”
Without a moment hesitation weapons and armour was dropped as the soldiers turned to flee from battle. The Saxons, who had marched for a bloodlust, quickly gave chase to their fleeing quarry. Footsteps echoed throughout the field as everyone but Alectus ran in some direction, their prints indented upon the wet shallow earth. The Lord of Londinium knew that he could not flee, Caratacus’ blood flowed in his veins, the blood of the bravest warrior, and he turned to face the Saxons for what he knew would be the final time.
“Londinium!”
The battle cry was hardly audible throughout the chaos of the field, but he charged toward the Saxons with his sword held high. If he could hold the encroaching army for merely a minute it would give enough time perhaps for his men to flee, to give them a chance to live their lives out within the safety of the west.
The first arrow struck him upon the shoulder blade, the tip bouncing harmlessly off his armour. Two more struck him in the chest and twice more his armour saved him as he rode into the heart of the Saxon’s army. His bloodstained sword swung in a frenzy cutting down any that came near him, blood splattering across horse and men alike before the fourth arrow struck his horse within the neck. For an instant the great horse stayed steady before it tumbled, sending Alectus to the warm bloodied ground.
He felt his sword slip from his fingers as he fell, it clattering somewhere upon the ground away from his. Gloved fingers grasped for anything, feeling something cold and metallic buried between the warm flesh of a fallen foe. Seizing the unknown weapon within his hand, Alectus leapt to his feet swinging it at the enemies that closed in around, the spear point slicing at the exposed neck of a surprised Saxon. Blood squirted from the wound, drenching the lord’s cheek in warmth as a yell echoed across his head.
“Stop! Halt!” Hengist cried, pushing aside two of his men to come into the view of Alectus, a great thick figure enclosed within a fur skin cloak. “This is a true warrior! He will finally give me a worthy battle unlike his brethren.”
Alectus rose to his full height, Hengist still over a foot taller, to face the hideous Saxon King. His body looked disfigured beneath the cloaks, limbs seemingly being where they should not. The soulless black eyes bore down upon Alectus and he couldn’t help but look away. Here was his chance to provide ample time for his men to flee, all but a few Saxons had yielded chase to watch their King duel him, if he could survive for a little longer then he could die in meaning.
“I would not duel me, my lord. It is unwise, even for Saxons kings, to duel the blood of Caratacus,” Alectus said, wiping the blood from his cheek.
“He jests!” Hengist roared in laughter, snatching a huge war axe from the hands of a nearby man. “Perhaps if the Woden had been kind, you could have been a strong brother of mine instead of a weakling islander.”
“That would have been very unkind indeed, I prefer to bathe in water with women, not in mud with the pigs!” Alectus spat, his spear now moving protectively in front of him.
Hengist eyes flashed with anger before he roared and swung the great axe at Alectus, the lord catching the axe within one of its ridges with his spear, throwing the assault back. Grabbing his opportunity, Alectus lunged at the giant with his spear, embedding it in his thigh to the handle. The wound barely slowed Hengist, the axe flying once more at Alectus’s head. He threw himself to the ground to avoid the blow and reached to tear the spear free of Hengist’s thigh, only a grunt coming from the giant as the blood began to pour from the wound.
Another blow came from the axe as Alectus clambered from his feet, his spear partially blocking the attack but the force alone causing him to stumble down to his knees. With a sharp kick to his ribs, his grasp on his spear loosened and it slipped to the ground. Alectus knew that it was over; he could do nothing but to look up at Hengist’s slightly drawn face staring down at him.
“Worthy indeed,” Hengist muttered, bringing the edge of the axe to Alectus’ throat. “But the blood of Caratacus shall spill.”
Alectus felt the axe glide across his throat and saw the glint of triumphant on Hengist’s face before everything went black.
*thumbs up*
