Post by The Stranger on Apr 1, 2008 1:34:50 GMT -5
Ser Mychel checked a blow with the flat of his blade, and the kicked out with one booted foot at the man who had attacked him. His heel caught the attacker in the chest and he went down into the mud. The Red Lion whirled around, as another attacker came at him. They traded a dozen blows, before Ser Mychel slipped under his guard and cut at his leg, below the knee. If not for the blunted edge of the tourney sword, the steel would have sliced through bone and sinew, hamstringing him and taking him out of a fight. Ser Mychel lashed out with his sword again and rung the man on his helm, knocking him to the ground. He looked around and saw that all the men who had attacked his small group of infantry were down. It was not a true battle, but a mock battle for practice.
Word had arrived a fortnight prior of the truce with the Ironborn and, though the fleet had remained on alert, no reavers came after the raven brought that news to Faircastle. Near two thousand men were garrisoned in the castle, having been called to arms by Lord Farman several months prior, when war seemed imminent. So far the men had only fought small groups of reavers, winning and losing minor engagements in half a dozen spots on the island. When word arrived of the peace, Ser Mychel and Ser Addam Farman, who was the castle’s Castellan, decided not to disband the armies and instead drill them. Most of the men were levied smallfolk, though there were knights and a few petty lords as well.
Faircastle’s Master-at-Arms took it upon himself to turn the farmers and craftsmen into skilled soldiers. He designed mock-battles using tourney weapons. Arrowheads were replaced with dyed cloth balls that would mark any spot they hit. Drills were run daily, the men were divided into cohorts of 100 and the teams were pitted against each other in different training scenarios. At none understood Ser Mychel’s ideas and plans and ridiculed his foolishness, but as the days passed the men slowly understood. Today he was leading a group of one hundred men in the defense of a small tower with a small stone wall, in the forests a few leagues west of Faircastle. The tower represented a castle and the goal of the opposing team was to capture it.
Ser Mychel had taken great precautions to ensure that no soldiers were killed in his drills, and three maesters were kept near by to tend to the more serous wounds. Most men left only with scrapes, bruises, and damaged pride, but occasionally a concussion or broken limb would need to be treated as well. Ninety men lay on the ground, half of them unconscious and the rest catching their breath. Thirty-five were of Ser Mychel’s team, and they had defended against the first assault, although more men had fallen than Mychel would have liked. The men who had been eliminated began to carry away the inert bodies of the unconscious men, while Ser Mychel organized his remaining soldiers around the opening in the small wall surrounding the tower.
He barked out orders, gesturing with the huge sword that was his preference. The open span of the wall was wide enough for eight men to pass through abreast. Of his five and sixty men remaining, half wielded spears and he arranged them into four lines, presenting a bristling hedge of spears and shields to any approaching enemy. The spearheads were replaced with the same cloth and dye as the arrowheads, though a hard thrust would still leave a mark on the skin beneath the dyed cloth.
The remaining thirty men, who had a mix of swords and axes, he placed directly behind the lines of spearmen, divided into two groups with a space in between them, and every man had specific orders.
With a roar, fifty men charge out of the tree-line, brandishing a variety of blunted tourney weapons. Three of the biggest men Ser Mychel had ever seen led the charge, and crashed into the wall of spears, knocking them aside with their shields. The spearmen began to back up, taking a few steps, then several more, jabbing ineffectively as they went. ‘Hamstringing’ was popular because even though the weapons lacked a bladed edge a blow to the leg would still drive a man to his knees making it easier to ring a blow on his head. Ser Mychel’s spearmen were dropping quickly, and those still standing began to lose cohesion. They began to back away more quickly from the onslaught, though a few landed blows knocking attacking men out of the fight, more defenders were falling. The spearmen broke and began to flee back towards the tower. They fell backwards and the attackers surged forward until Ser Mychel found himself surrounded by men attacking him. He blocked blow after blow and was even driven to his knees at one point but regained his footing and cracked his attacker across the helm with his sword.
He raised his sword above his head and whirled it around, and the men with swords and axes leapt deeper into the fray, pushing into the line that had formed of attacking soldiers. The fleeing spearmen turned, as one, and reformed their line in seconds to Ser Mychel’s extreme delight. They charged forward and caught the attacking force, that was already pinned by me on both flanks and had Ser Mychel in the center knocking men down single-handedly. Eventually men overwhelmed him, but he crashed to the ground to the sight of his men attacking the attackers.
An hour later, Ser Mychel sat in the small tower, while the maesters tended to the men whose wounds needed care. A score of broken bones, some shattered teeth, and several dislocated shoulders and knees was the end tally. The men would not be ready to fight tomorrow, perhaps, but the fleet would provide at least half a fortnight’s notice of any incoming ships and in half a fortnight these men would be in fighting shape. Ser Mychel brooded about his battle plans. They worked well enough in the mock fights, though he had tried them very little against true opponents. He liked the idea of a feigned rout to draw enemies into a position to be flanked, but he did not think the rout that his soldiers had performed was good. He would speak to them on the morrow, to improve. The army would be better than it ever had been when Lord Jaymes returned.
Ser Mychel Hill increases towards Master Battle (Generalship)
Ser Mychel Hill increases to Noteworthy Leadership
Word had arrived a fortnight prior of the truce with the Ironborn and, though the fleet had remained on alert, no reavers came after the raven brought that news to Faircastle. Near two thousand men were garrisoned in the castle, having been called to arms by Lord Farman several months prior, when war seemed imminent. So far the men had only fought small groups of reavers, winning and losing minor engagements in half a dozen spots on the island. When word arrived of the peace, Ser Mychel and Ser Addam Farman, who was the castle’s Castellan, decided not to disband the armies and instead drill them. Most of the men were levied smallfolk, though there were knights and a few petty lords as well.
Faircastle’s Master-at-Arms took it upon himself to turn the farmers and craftsmen into skilled soldiers. He designed mock-battles using tourney weapons. Arrowheads were replaced with dyed cloth balls that would mark any spot they hit. Drills were run daily, the men were divided into cohorts of 100 and the teams were pitted against each other in different training scenarios. At none understood Ser Mychel’s ideas and plans and ridiculed his foolishness, but as the days passed the men slowly understood. Today he was leading a group of one hundred men in the defense of a small tower with a small stone wall, in the forests a few leagues west of Faircastle. The tower represented a castle and the goal of the opposing team was to capture it.
Ser Mychel had taken great precautions to ensure that no soldiers were killed in his drills, and three maesters were kept near by to tend to the more serous wounds. Most men left only with scrapes, bruises, and damaged pride, but occasionally a concussion or broken limb would need to be treated as well. Ninety men lay on the ground, half of them unconscious and the rest catching their breath. Thirty-five were of Ser Mychel’s team, and they had defended against the first assault, although more men had fallen than Mychel would have liked. The men who had been eliminated began to carry away the inert bodies of the unconscious men, while Ser Mychel organized his remaining soldiers around the opening in the small wall surrounding the tower.
He barked out orders, gesturing with the huge sword that was his preference. The open span of the wall was wide enough for eight men to pass through abreast. Of his five and sixty men remaining, half wielded spears and he arranged them into four lines, presenting a bristling hedge of spears and shields to any approaching enemy. The spearheads were replaced with the same cloth and dye as the arrowheads, though a hard thrust would still leave a mark on the skin beneath the dyed cloth.
The remaining thirty men, who had a mix of swords and axes, he placed directly behind the lines of spearmen, divided into two groups with a space in between them, and every man had specific orders.
With a roar, fifty men charge out of the tree-line, brandishing a variety of blunted tourney weapons. Three of the biggest men Ser Mychel had ever seen led the charge, and crashed into the wall of spears, knocking them aside with their shields. The spearmen began to back up, taking a few steps, then several more, jabbing ineffectively as they went. ‘Hamstringing’ was popular because even though the weapons lacked a bladed edge a blow to the leg would still drive a man to his knees making it easier to ring a blow on his head. Ser Mychel’s spearmen were dropping quickly, and those still standing began to lose cohesion. They began to back away more quickly from the onslaught, though a few landed blows knocking attacking men out of the fight, more defenders were falling. The spearmen broke and began to flee back towards the tower. They fell backwards and the attackers surged forward until Ser Mychel found himself surrounded by men attacking him. He blocked blow after blow and was even driven to his knees at one point but regained his footing and cracked his attacker across the helm with his sword.
He raised his sword above his head and whirled it around, and the men with swords and axes leapt deeper into the fray, pushing into the line that had formed of attacking soldiers. The fleeing spearmen turned, as one, and reformed their line in seconds to Ser Mychel’s extreme delight. They charged forward and caught the attacking force, that was already pinned by me on both flanks and had Ser Mychel in the center knocking men down single-handedly. Eventually men overwhelmed him, but he crashed to the ground to the sight of his men attacking the attackers.
An hour later, Ser Mychel sat in the small tower, while the maesters tended to the men whose wounds needed care. A score of broken bones, some shattered teeth, and several dislocated shoulders and knees was the end tally. The men would not be ready to fight tomorrow, perhaps, but the fleet would provide at least half a fortnight’s notice of any incoming ships and in half a fortnight these men would be in fighting shape. Ser Mychel brooded about his battle plans. They worked well enough in the mock fights, though he had tried them very little against true opponents. He liked the idea of a feigned rout to draw enemies into a position to be flanked, but he did not think the rout that his soldiers had performed was good. He would speak to them on the morrow, to improve. The army would be better than it ever had been when Lord Jaymes returned.
Ser Mychel Hill increases towards Master Battle (Generalship)
Ser Mychel Hill increases to Noteworthy Leadership