Otherways: The Battle
They engage early in the afternoon. A bad time for fighting, perhaps, with the light dying early at this point in the winter, but the Tusaines don't seem to care, and the Tortallans can't afford to let them gain ground under cover of darkness. The cavalry mount up, mostly knights and those few commoners who can ride and weild a weapon at the same time, and ride out.
It's four hours after noon, give or take, when Alex takes his first wound, a slash to his right leg from an enemy cavalryman. Gary, riding nearby, lops the Tusaine's head off and helps Alex roughly bandage the wound.
"You'll be okay to keep going?"
"I'm fine. It's not too bad."
Perhaps another two hours after that and the light is failing fast, making it hard to see surely. By this time Alex's horse has been killed, an all too common thing in cavalry warfare, and he's afoot, knives thrust through his belt and sword in hand. He's tired, bruised and sore, but alive. More than can be said for too many of his comrades, friends he's seen cut down by Tusaine warriors.
The slash to his thigh is bleeding again, broken open by the effort of fighting afoot in full plate mail. He's taken other cuts, one to his side where the breastplate and backplate meet and one to his throat, a shallow scrape that came far too close to slicing open his jugular.
The man he faces now is a behemoth of a Tusaine, a good foot taller than Alex and heavier, clad in rusted chainmail and weilding a sword with some skill, although not the level of skill expected of the knights of Tortall. Alex uses his smaller size and greater speed as much as he can, dodging out of the way of the other man's sword whilst darting in to slash at him; wounds are exchanged, minor irritants, nothing fatal. Alex can feel the blood running from the wound in his thigh, running into his boot and making his footing unsteady. The cuts on his throat and side are bleeding as well, neither bad enough to be fatal, but both distracting. The sting of sweat in open wounds is a tiny pain compared to the wounds he's taken, but one that distracts him.
The Tusaine lunges, strikes high and hard. Alex brings his mailed up desperately to block the blow that's too high for his sword to reach, taking the brunt of the man's blow on his forearm. A cracking sound and he knows the bone has been fractured. It's his off-hand, so it's not as bad as it could be, but it hurts, and it throws off his balance. The Tusaine roars and lunges again, and Alex moves too slowly, the hilt of the man's sword striking hard against his cheek. He falls back, blinking and shaking his head to clear it, and doesn't move in time. The Tusaine brings his sword-hilt down on Alex's sword-hand, shattering the bones. Alex screams, and the Tusaine reverses the sword, driving down hard and fast where the breastplate doesn't quite cover his lower abdomen, impaling the Tortallan knight.
The Tusaine releases his sword and pulls a dagger, and Alex closes his eyes, preparing for the final strike. The wounds he's taken already are enough to kill him, given time, but obviously the Tusaine wants to be sure. There's a strangled cry and sudden weight across his legs, and Alex opens his eyes, biting his lip against the pain. The Tusaine is limp across his legs, a black-fletched arrow sticking out of his back. Alex has to bite back a harsh chuckle at the irony; the Tusaines use black-fletched arrows. Struck down by his own allies.
He drags himself out from under the dead man, unable to keep back cries of pain as the movement jarrs his injuries. One hand is held tight around the sword still sticking out of his stomach; he can't afford to lose much more blood, and keeping the blade in him hurts, but it prevents the wound from bleeding too much.
He's seen injuries like this before. Usually the men died, of shock or blood loss or infection. He can only think of one place he might go and survive.
If he can get there.
It's four hours after noon, give or take, when Alex takes his first wound, a slash to his right leg from an enemy cavalryman. Gary, riding nearby, lops the Tusaine's head off and helps Alex roughly bandage the wound.
"You'll be okay to keep going?"
"I'm fine. It's not too bad."
Perhaps another two hours after that and the light is failing fast, making it hard to see surely. By this time Alex's horse has been killed, an all too common thing in cavalry warfare, and he's afoot, knives thrust through his belt and sword in hand. He's tired, bruised and sore, but alive. More than can be said for too many of his comrades, friends he's seen cut down by Tusaine warriors.
The slash to his thigh is bleeding again, broken open by the effort of fighting afoot in full plate mail. He's taken other cuts, one to his side where the breastplate and backplate meet and one to his throat, a shallow scrape that came far too close to slicing open his jugular.
The man he faces now is a behemoth of a Tusaine, a good foot taller than Alex and heavier, clad in rusted chainmail and weilding a sword with some skill, although not the level of skill expected of the knights of Tortall. Alex uses his smaller size and greater speed as much as he can, dodging out of the way of the other man's sword whilst darting in to slash at him; wounds are exchanged, minor irritants, nothing fatal. Alex can feel the blood running from the wound in his thigh, running into his boot and making his footing unsteady. The cuts on his throat and side are bleeding as well, neither bad enough to be fatal, but both distracting. The sting of sweat in open wounds is a tiny pain compared to the wounds he's taken, but one that distracts him.
The Tusaine lunges, strikes high and hard. Alex brings his mailed up desperately to block the blow that's too high for his sword to reach, taking the brunt of the man's blow on his forearm. A cracking sound and he knows the bone has been fractured. It's his off-hand, so it's not as bad as it could be, but it hurts, and it throws off his balance. The Tusaine roars and lunges again, and Alex moves too slowly, the hilt of the man's sword striking hard against his cheek. He falls back, blinking and shaking his head to clear it, and doesn't move in time. The Tusaine brings his sword-hilt down on Alex's sword-hand, shattering the bones. Alex screams, and the Tusaine reverses the sword, driving down hard and fast where the breastplate doesn't quite cover his lower abdomen, impaling the Tortallan knight.
The Tusaine releases his sword and pulls a dagger, and Alex closes his eyes, preparing for the final strike. The wounds he's taken already are enough to kill him, given time, but obviously the Tusaine wants to be sure. There's a strangled cry and sudden weight across his legs, and Alex opens his eyes, biting his lip against the pain. The Tusaine is limp across his legs, a black-fletched arrow sticking out of his back. Alex has to bite back a harsh chuckle at the irony; the Tusaines use black-fletched arrows. Struck down by his own allies.
He drags himself out from under the dead man, unable to keep back cries of pain as the movement jarrs his injuries. One hand is held tight around the sword still sticking out of his stomach; he can't afford to lose much more blood, and keeping the blade in him hurts, but it prevents the wound from bleeding too much.
He's seen injuries like this before. Usually the men died, of shock or blood loss or infection. He can only think of one place he might go and survive.
If he can get there.