- TNP Nation
- Yamantau/The Black Cathedral
Edmund surveyed the field, once a peaceful patch of farmland, now a muddy pit littered with broken bodies and shattered weapons. His heavy breath through the visor of his bascinet rising as a mist through the cold autumn air. The taste of blood, smoke, and ash coated his tongue as he braced himself for the next attacker. The Bhalka horseman that now desperately circled him, clutching his shortsword with both hands, was trying to find any opening he could to strike at the plate armored juggernaut that had cut his mount down from underneath him.
Edmund's grip tightened around the shaft of his halberd, trying to anticipate the next move. When the comparatively diminutive rider rushed him, Edmund simply slammed him in the back with the long oak handle of his weapon, sending the man face down in the mud.
"Get up." Edmund growled.
"Chamaig novsh!" the rider wheezed, staggering back to his feet.
Edmund hated their crude tongue, which was nothing more to him than the shiftless man's version of the mountain szlavs' guttural nonsense.
The rider rushed forward again, this time slipping past Edmund's guard and hooking his blade into the fabric of his tabard. Edmund took the opportunity to slam his gauntlet into the top of the rider's head, dropping him to the ground after a wet cracking split the air.
The rider writhed on the ground as his eyes rolled, blood foaming from his lips. Edmund thrust the point of his halberd into the rider's chest. Better to kill him now than let him choke on his own blood.
He looked around, seeing his battle brothers still lost in the battle din. He threw down the halberd and pulled his greatsword from the now dead rider's fallen horse. Having to pull mightily to dislodge it from the animal.
Edmund trudged forward towards his nearest brother-in-arms, Gustaff, who was doing a thorough job fending off three of the mountain szlavs. These savages who called themselves Yamanta could never hope to beat Gustaff in a fair fight. Edmund was large for an Ephyran, Gustaff still made him look small. He watched as a swift blow from Gustaff's hammer spike pierced the shoddy helmet of one of the szlavs, the moment it took to pry it free giving the other two a chance to attack. Edmund stepped through and brought his sword down in the shoulder of one, as Gustaff slammed a fist into the face of the other.
Gustaff immediately brought the freed hammer head down onto the toppled third attacked, dispatching him without much else of a fight.
"Come, we will yet see the end of this day, my friend." Edmund grunted, pulling his sword from the fallen man, and moving towards two more of their own. Gustaff simply grunted and hurried after.
Karl and Henrich, two of the junior members of the order, jogged up alongside Edmund, brandishing their broad swords, tabards torn and spattered with blood.
"Where....have you two...been?" Edmund asked between heavy breaths.
"Causing trouble, Ser!" they said in unison, wicked, crooked toothed smiles on their broad faces.
Edmund didn't ask anymore questions. He knew Karl and Henrich had likely caused more problems for the enemy than anyone would give them credit for.
A line of szlavs bearing pavise shields tried to block the path, but Edmund and Gustaff simply chose not to stop, slamming into the middle of the line, splintering the shields as the rest of the line scattered. Edmund let out a roar as he swung around, bringing his sword down on the screaming soldier he had just knocked to the ground.
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After all was said and done, Edmund stayed on the field to supervise the collection of the dead and wounded. Watching from the top of a small hill on the outskirts of the field. It felt good to rest. His body was stiff and sore, no longer the young man he was twenty winters ago. He looked past the sparse treeline, into the valley. The walls of Tagtaryev just barely visible in the distance. Three winters it had taken them to reach this far, even with the support of the Cairinnics, who had proven to be exceptionally skilled in warfare.
Edmund felt a hard nudge on his shoulder and turned to see Gustaff holding out a wineskin, which he took gratefully. He took a small sip before handing it back after Gustaff had taken a seat on the grass next to him.
"How far away do you figure that is?" Edmund asked, pointing to the vague outline of the city walls.
"Half day ride. More perhaps." Gustaff grunted. "How we get through though, I don't know."
Edmund smirked. "Apparently that Cairinnic, William I think his name is, the smith. He's got some contraption that he's very excited to show off when we get there."
Gustaff raised an eyebrow. "That bell looking thing?"
Edmund nodded. He couldn't understand much of the Cairinnic language, but the crude drawing that William had made essentially said the strange apparatus would bring the walls down.
William spent most of his time fussing with that, or keeping strange hours with the alchemist, an odd fellow named Mirko, who was oddly enough, of the szlavic ilk, yet had no qualms about treating amd caring for those who would seek to conquer his homeland.
"I dont understand why a trebuchet wouldn't work just as well." Gustaff mused.
"Apparently it's better than a trebuchet. Only takes two men to run it, too." Edmund replied, taking the wineskin again.
"Look. Some of their holy men." Gustaff said, craning his neck to get a better look at the robed figures who seemed to blessing the dead of both sides.
"Strange fellows, but God fearing messianists, as all men should be. Even though their customs are odd." Gustaff remarked.
Edmund looked at Gustaff with a puzzled expression. "How do you know about their customs?"
"You forget old friend, that despite my nature, I was in fact blessed with education and the ability to read. That's why I know the Czernic customs." Gustaff shrugged.
"You always call them Czernics, why?" Edmund continued his questioning.
"Because that's what they are. They're the Czernic tribes. We only call them Yamanta because of the first interaction with them. Three hundred years ago, we reached them, and when asked who they were, they pointed behind them, and simply said Yamantau, which in their tongue simply means mountain. They were trying to say they had a village there." Gustaff explained.
"Hmm." Edmund grunted. He was never one for scholarly pursuits, he himself never even being able to read. He could write his own name, and speak two languages, but that was his extent. Edmund excelled at combat, so nothing else mattered.
One of the priests had cautiously drawn closer to them. Standing at the foot of the hill, holding up his crucifix pendant towards them as he cataloged the dead.
"Ne brinite, nećemo vam nauditi!" Gustaff called out, assuring the priest of his safety.
Edmund again cast a puzzled look towards his comrade.
Gustaff shrugged. "Know thy enemy."
Edmund rose to his feet. "I'll see you back at camp. I hear a bed calling my name, and Im sure that the Khan will want to ride to their camp at first light. God be with you, Gustaff."
"And with you, Edmund." Gustaff replied. He turned to watch his friend leave, before returning his attention the priest. Who was now joined by a handful of others, all carefully watching the green skinned knight who watched them from the hill.
Edmund's grip tightened around the shaft of his halberd, trying to anticipate the next move. When the comparatively diminutive rider rushed him, Edmund simply slammed him in the back with the long oak handle of his weapon, sending the man face down in the mud.
"Get up." Edmund growled.
"Chamaig novsh!" the rider wheezed, staggering back to his feet.
Edmund hated their crude tongue, which was nothing more to him than the shiftless man's version of the mountain szlavs' guttural nonsense.
The rider rushed forward again, this time slipping past Edmund's guard and hooking his blade into the fabric of his tabard. Edmund took the opportunity to slam his gauntlet into the top of the rider's head, dropping him to the ground after a wet cracking split the air.
The rider writhed on the ground as his eyes rolled, blood foaming from his lips. Edmund thrust the point of his halberd into the rider's chest. Better to kill him now than let him choke on his own blood.
He looked around, seeing his battle brothers still lost in the battle din. He threw down the halberd and pulled his greatsword from the now dead rider's fallen horse. Having to pull mightily to dislodge it from the animal.
Edmund trudged forward towards his nearest brother-in-arms, Gustaff, who was doing a thorough job fending off three of the mountain szlavs. These savages who called themselves Yamanta could never hope to beat Gustaff in a fair fight. Edmund was large for an Ephyran, Gustaff still made him look small. He watched as a swift blow from Gustaff's hammer spike pierced the shoddy helmet of one of the szlavs, the moment it took to pry it free giving the other two a chance to attack. Edmund stepped through and brought his sword down in the shoulder of one, as Gustaff slammed a fist into the face of the other.
Gustaff immediately brought the freed hammer head down onto the toppled third attacked, dispatching him without much else of a fight.
"Come, we will yet see the end of this day, my friend." Edmund grunted, pulling his sword from the fallen man, and moving towards two more of their own. Gustaff simply grunted and hurried after.
Karl and Henrich, two of the junior members of the order, jogged up alongside Edmund, brandishing their broad swords, tabards torn and spattered with blood.
"Where....have you two...been?" Edmund asked between heavy breaths.
"Causing trouble, Ser!" they said in unison, wicked, crooked toothed smiles on their broad faces.
Edmund didn't ask anymore questions. He knew Karl and Henrich had likely caused more problems for the enemy than anyone would give them credit for.
A line of szlavs bearing pavise shields tried to block the path, but Edmund and Gustaff simply chose not to stop, slamming into the middle of the line, splintering the shields as the rest of the line scattered. Edmund let out a roar as he swung around, bringing his sword down on the screaming soldier he had just knocked to the ground.
________________________________
After all was said and done, Edmund stayed on the field to supervise the collection of the dead and wounded. Watching from the top of a small hill on the outskirts of the field. It felt good to rest. His body was stiff and sore, no longer the young man he was twenty winters ago. He looked past the sparse treeline, into the valley. The walls of Tagtaryev just barely visible in the distance. Three winters it had taken them to reach this far, even with the support of the Cairinnics, who had proven to be exceptionally skilled in warfare.
Edmund felt a hard nudge on his shoulder and turned to see Gustaff holding out a wineskin, which he took gratefully. He took a small sip before handing it back after Gustaff had taken a seat on the grass next to him.
"How far away do you figure that is?" Edmund asked, pointing to the vague outline of the city walls.
"Half day ride. More perhaps." Gustaff grunted. "How we get through though, I don't know."
Edmund smirked. "Apparently that Cairinnic, William I think his name is, the smith. He's got some contraption that he's very excited to show off when we get there."
Gustaff raised an eyebrow. "That bell looking thing?"
Edmund nodded. He couldn't understand much of the Cairinnic language, but the crude drawing that William had made essentially said the strange apparatus would bring the walls down.
William spent most of his time fussing with that, or keeping strange hours with the alchemist, an odd fellow named Mirko, who was oddly enough, of the szlavic ilk, yet had no qualms about treating amd caring for those who would seek to conquer his homeland.
"I dont understand why a trebuchet wouldn't work just as well." Gustaff mused.
"Apparently it's better than a trebuchet. Only takes two men to run it, too." Edmund replied, taking the wineskin again.
"Look. Some of their holy men." Gustaff said, craning his neck to get a better look at the robed figures who seemed to blessing the dead of both sides.
"Strange fellows, but God fearing messianists, as all men should be. Even though their customs are odd." Gustaff remarked.
Edmund looked at Gustaff with a puzzled expression. "How do you know about their customs?"
"You forget old friend, that despite my nature, I was in fact blessed with education and the ability to read. That's why I know the Czernic customs." Gustaff shrugged.
"You always call them Czernics, why?" Edmund continued his questioning.
"Because that's what they are. They're the Czernic tribes. We only call them Yamanta because of the first interaction with them. Three hundred years ago, we reached them, and when asked who they were, they pointed behind them, and simply said Yamantau, which in their tongue simply means mountain. They were trying to say they had a village there." Gustaff explained.
"Hmm." Edmund grunted. He was never one for scholarly pursuits, he himself never even being able to read. He could write his own name, and speak two languages, but that was his extent. Edmund excelled at combat, so nothing else mattered.
One of the priests had cautiously drawn closer to them. Standing at the foot of the hill, holding up his crucifix pendant towards them as he cataloged the dead.
"Ne brinite, nećemo vam nauditi!" Gustaff called out, assuring the priest of his safety.
Edmund again cast a puzzled look towards his comrade.
Gustaff shrugged. "Know thy enemy."
Edmund rose to his feet. "I'll see you back at camp. I hear a bed calling my name, and Im sure that the Khan will want to ride to their camp at first light. God be with you, Gustaff."
"And with you, Edmund." Gustaff replied. He turned to watch his friend leave, before returning his attention the priest. Who was now joined by a handful of others, all carefully watching the green skinned knight who watched them from the hill.