Von Kolmen 1 Chapter 1

Chapter 1


The raider shield wall buckled under constant barrage from a rigid line of crossbowmen.  Oakwood splintered and flesh rent from bone as the steel tipped bolts sailed forth in a perpetual crescendo of fire.  In a way, von Kolmen admired the tenacity of the Wurgath raiders.  Though their front line wavered, the invaders were determined to force their way through the town streets to obliterate the obstacle that kept them from their due plunder.  As one warrior fell, clutching at the bolt that sprouted from his throat, another rugged youth surged forth to take his place in the formation.  The groans of their dying comrades did little to whet the fighting spirit of the lusty northerners.  What they lacked in tactical expertise, they made up for with the intestinal fortitude to force their way through any delicate strategem a more cunning general may employ against them.


The Gorran officer blew a sharp note on the corded whistle dangling around his neck.  Fortunately for him, his people’s way of war was born of steel, sweat, and blood - unbreakable by even the most tenacious of resolve.  His crossbowmen melted into the line of pikes safeguarding the southern street of the village.  Their tight formation spread from end to end of the street, each plated body woven tightly together like the links of a chain.  The lines lowered their spears at increasingly sharp angles in order to assault the enemy on every lateral plane.  Many a northern charged had dashed to pieces on the bristling mass of Gorran pikes.   Von Kolmen blew his whistle again, this time signalling the advance of his infantry.  The Wurgath, who had committed to close the gap on the enemy crossbowman, found themselves unable to cease their advance in the clutter of the village lane, lest they lose all momentum and open themselves to a counter offensive.  With defiance in his eyes, their chieftain roared out the command for an all-out charge.  If they could not get around the hazardous reach of the pikes, they would smash right through them.


Von Kolmen nodded, accepting his adversary’s challenge.  The Gorran infantry did not slow to brace for the charge, rather, their lieutenant ordered a counter-charge at the last possible moment to throw the surging raiders off step and meet them on their own terms.  The maneuver paid out in full as weakened bucklers snapped and bodies crumpled under the force of the pikemen’s sally.  A charging berserker wielding two axes leapt above the front line, only to be caught on the second row of pikes.  His body dangled for a moment from the points of two spears like a rabbit caught in a snare before the wielders shook his carcass loose.  A bold young warrior seeking to prove his worth stepped out in front of his comrades to break through the blockade.  Instead, he discovered the color of his insides as his lower abdomen split open from the swift puncture of a well-aimed spear point.


Though the shortsword and axe favored by the Wurgath ought to have turned pitched melee in their favor, the rigor of the Gorran line refused them entry into close combat.  When the chieftain realized a frontal assault was entirely ineffective, he ordered his reserves to flock around the edge of the village perimeter.  Dozens of the raging warriors poured out from alleyways, crawled over crooked fence-posts and toppled over thatched rooftops to overwhelm the stalwart defenders from all sides.  They roared like wild beasts, bloodlust clouding their sensibilities and numbing the threat of danger.


Van Kolmen blew two consecutive notes.  He hoisted up his two-handed sword and rushed to the right flank of his formation.  “Hack and slash!  Keep them at bay!”  He yelled out to his reserves.  The men of the rear guard all carried with them heavy greatswords of proud Gorran make.  Their burnished plate glimmered in the light of the morning sun.  The plumes atop their Morion helmets dripped with the crimson residue of dozens of battlefields.  Their ranks were rostered with the most grizzled veterans, men who had both defied and served death countless times.  The lieutenant swelled with pride every opportunity he had to lead them to battle.


Heavy two-handers effortlessly cleaved through the assault of the Wurgath reserves.  Though he wore a grim mask, von Kolmen felt his heart leap in excitement with every blow he dealt.  War was the favored sport of the Gorran people, and to cull its enemies was the pride of the nation.  A deft feint caught the raider before him off balance.  He followed with a heavy sweep that cost the warrior both his legs below the knee.  Before he had a chance to finish off the writhing mass, another warrior came leaping from a nearby rooftop.  The lieutenant sidestepped his reckless charge, bringing his fearsome blade through the warrior’s chain-mailed midsection, which bathed him in a shower of its contents.


The lieutenant forced himself away from the thick of the fighting, quelling his baser urges.  It would do his valor little justice if his unit were encircled by the numerous foe.  To his approval, he found that his pike sergeant had kept the formation tightly weld, holding them back from overzealous advance and in the safety of the rearguard’s watch.  The left flank of the reserves held just as strongly as the right, repelling the scattered Wurgath just as quickly as they came.


With the battle now turned against him, the chieftain resigned himself to his fate.  Von Kolmen watched as the bearded warrior dropped his axe in favor of a second shield and charged through the line of pikes in a final act of redemption.  He succeeded in pushing past the wall of spikes, suffering only a minor laceration to his shoulder.  The chieftain had long since abandoned the notion of pain, and shrugged off his men’s frantic stabbing as he smashed the edge of his oak shield on the jaw of the first Gorran he could reach.  A fountain of blood erupted from the hole where his jaw once rested as the pikemen crashed to the ground.  The chieftain pushed onward, straight through a spearpoint in the blindness of his vigor.  He grasped the top of the shaft and wrested it from its wielder, before lunging at him to close the gap.  Before anyone else could assault him, the Wurgath chief brought both of his bucklers to either temple of his quarry, crunching the helmet and skull encased within.  As he turned to continue his savagery on another pikeman, now grossly overextended and unable to defend himself, a stray crossbow bolt caught him in the back of the neck.  He choked on his own lifeblood as he dropped to his knees, arms swinging wildly all the while.


When their chieftain had breathed his last, the Wurgath line shattered completely.  Raiders dropped shield and sword alike to avoid the pursuit of the Gorran soldiers.  Von Kolmen pressed his men onward, cutting down those too slow or foolhardy to retreat.  As the formation neared the edge of the village, he called the formation to a halt.  The lieutenant knew better than to pursue them into the open woods.  Though crumbled, their number still grossly outweighed their own, and he feared they may be emboldened by the cover offered in the dense hardwood thickets.


“Lieutenant, your orders?”  Falkner, the sergeant of the rear-guard, hurried over to his commanding officer.  His plate bore scratches and gouges from the enemy’s steel, but all the blood that dripped from his outfit smelled of the north.


“Send the rearguard back.  Make sure the fallen move no more.  Once the village is void of living Wurgath, get some of the village women to tend to our wounded.  A few of those men lying about ought to be salvageable.”  The protection of their plate could defend them from the lethality of most projectiles and light weaponry, but injury from blunt force and the odd lucky strike was still a concern for the Gorran infantry.


“With haste, sir.”  The sergeant bowed his head before barking orders to his line.

Van Kolmen wasted no time either.  He commanded his pikemen to set up a blockade on the northern side of the village, while his crossbowmen formed a firing line atop the huts closest to the woodline.  Only the wounded who could no longer stand were offered the respite of one of the village huts they had converted into a field hospital.  When his men were emplaced and given proper guidance, van Kolmen walked to the village center to take appraisal of the situation.


The village mayor, a portly man with fingers like sausages, rushed to meet his savior.  “You came in the most opportune moment, sir.  May the Divine bless you and your men a thousand-fold!”


The lieutenant grimaced at the repugnance of the pig-man’s adulation.  “The Divine has already blessed me - with the blood of my foes and the bulk of my men still standing.  Tell me now, how many villagers have you lost.  How much of your harvest and lumber stock has been ravaged?  I must compile my report.”


As the mayor rattled off his estimates, von Kolmen’s senior sergeants came to him with their own reports.  All told, the village had sustained little damage aside from the loss of a fair number of woodsmen who had been caught in the initial skirmishes outside the village.  His own host had suffered even less, but each loss bit at him harsher than the death of any nameless peasant.  Four men had died in the fighting, three more were wont to succumb to their wounds, and nine would need to be carted back to garrison.  Von Kolmen shook his head in frustration.


“Ah, but ‘twas a splendid sight to see.  Your men in shining armor pushing back the savage horde!  A tale fit for the bard’s strings.  It shall surely be passed about in our taverns for years to come!”  The mayor smiled reassuringly.


“Will the bard sing the words of the dying?  How they begged for their mothers before the last drop of their blood poured out?  Or perhaps the lyrics will detail the stench of corpse piles, each the height of a church steeple.”  Von Kolmen replied flatly.  “Tales of romance and beauty belong to the picker’s lyre, leave war stories to the men who have fought them.”



The mayor’s eyes widened in shock.  He spluttered apologies, but the lieutenant pushed past him and made his way back to the front line.  Seven men.  Seven with whom he had broken bread and shed blood.  Seven men who had trusted him to bring them home.  Seven men who had gone to the Divine, and passed on their vigil to the brothers they left behind.