Get your own Free HomepageThe Battlefield
By: John Faron
A Scribe’s Vivid Account of the Victory Over Invading Pagan Nomads...
As dark clouds obscured the bright mid-day sun, casting sporadic shadows across the land, two powerful armies confronted each other on the lush green plains just outside the borders of a towering castle. The fearsome, barbaric nomads stood in ragged ranks along the crest of a low hill, separated from our noble forces by a shallow valley.
Our benevolent leader rode his mighty steed to the front of our army, dressed in shining mail and tightly gripping his long, heavy lance. An assortment of other great lords rode up behind him, each prepared to lead their own contingent of armored knights into battle.
Interminable rows of infantrymen stood firmly behind the brave knights, wielding a wide assortment of fine weapons and possessing a scattering of armor. Many of these were simply local peasants, called upon in a time of need to defend their homes and families. Behind them was a long line of archers, armed with bulging quivers of sharp wooden shafts.
Suddenly and without warning, the horribly uncivilized nomads attacked, surging across the valley in order to engage our brave troops. Calmly, our leader lowered the tip of his lance, and his fellow knights followed suit. On this signal, the archers fired off shot after shot, stopping only to place another arrow on the string of their bows. A punishing hail of deadly shafts rained down upon the charging enemies, felling man after man. The heavy fusillade tore into the nomadic forces, and the valley echoed with their cries of pain as countless arrows were imbedded in their flesh.
But then the archers stopped. The remaining nomads in the valley, whose numbers were still quite impressive, continued forward, but more uncertainly. Then, with a thunderous roar of pounding hooves and feet, our courageous warriors charged forward to meet their opponents, sending up a tremendous battle-cry that could be heard for miles.
The horsemen arrived first, and stampeded inexorably through the invaders’ ranks, spearing numerous foes with powerful lance-thrusts, then wreaking havoc with blows from maces, war hammers, and their great swords. Their foes were swiftly felled before them, trampled under rampaging hooves and cut down by massive swipes from their blades. The knights found themselves to be nearly invincible on horseback, and fought fiercely for their homelands.
The infantry found themselves on a more level playing field, but their sheer numbers gradually overwhelmed the poorly equipped nomads. Hacking mercilessly with whatever weapon they possessed, they fought bravely and well. Short swords cleaved easily through soft flesh, and war axes sliced through both skin and bone. Shattered bodies fell amidst eruptions of blood from severed arteries, with broken limbs bent in unnatural positions. In the end, not a single nomadic warrior remained alive on the field. A small number had fled, never to return again, but the vast majority had been utterly destroyed.
However, as is the case with all battles, neither side was completely immune to the violent attrition of war. Scores of wounded men were able to stumble weakly away from the battlefield, helped home by healthy comrades. But there were others far less fortunate. Many of our noble fighters lay silent in slowly spreading pools of their own dark blood, their listless fingers still wrapped around their battered weapons.
No deed is perfect, for there are always dire consequences to one’s actions. But when the homes and lives of so many are heroically defended, those who died for that cause shall be long remembered, and honored for all time.
Copyright (1999) by John Faron
"The Outlet seems in dire need of new stuff, so I guess they're stuck with this. It's not bad, but it sure isn't anything special. Written a long time ago as part of a packet of pseudo-medieval stuff. Send any comments to The Writers' Outlet, and they'll contact me."
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