Post by The Smith on Apr 11, 2008 13:32:40 GMT -5
Two thousand men on horse ushered out of the main gates at the castle of Vaith. Just like the last time they did this, they were wearing light mail and only their weapons as they rode. It was night again, and the cold desert breeze mixed strangely with the humid air. Mors was at the head of the column, his coarse black beard dark against his red, sunburnt cheeks. His eyes told the story of his life; a mixed song of joy and sadness, love and hate. At his side rode the second in command, the war hardened Ser Davos Swyft, short but strong, his balding head making him appear no less fierce.
They sent outriders to scout in every direction; Mors had heard the stories of Fowler's ambushes. Hell, he had been the victim of one just a month prior, when the Stonehawk had taken Lewys's host in the rear and did severe damage. Rumors had come trickling into Vaith about Fowler's ambush against the rivermen in the Pass. He's everywhere in this bloody desert, Mors thought.
The scouts had returned earlier in the day, while Mors was supping with Swyft and Ser Mychel Heatherspoon. "Ser," the messenger said, after bowing repeatedly. "We have located a village, not twelve leagues northeast of here." Mors nodded, taking a long drink of his ale and biting off a chunk of hard bread before replying. "And the villagers... are they evacuated?" The messenger smiled. "No, ser. It sits right on the banks of the Vaith. The fishermen and washerwomen were out doing their business whenever I left. That was close to an hour ago." Mors laughed, thinking that was too good to be true. "And how large of a town is it? Bigger than Greenmont, that last sorry excuse of a town we raided last month?" Again, the messenger smiled. "It is larger than your town below Deep Den, ser. It holds at least a couple hundred people, perhaps even three hundred or three hundred and fifty." Perfect, Mors had thought, Absolutely bloody perfect.
Now they were approaching the town. Mors dismounted and went ahead on foot, up to the top of a ridge his scouts had been using to keep an eye out for any soldiers or suspicious activity in the village. The climb took several minutes and Mors finally reached the top, sweating by that time. He took a drink of water from a cask a nearby soldier handed him, and then he laid flat on his stomach and peered to the north.
He could see a few lanterns shining here and there, and from that he could make out the outlines of the buildings of the village. It was sprawled out, and had several wide streets separating the homes. A few of the more important structures were even built of stone, including a small, greyish stoned keep with wooden spikes around it at the most northern part of the village. The town itself had no walls to defend itself.
Returning to his men, he once again gave the order for every living soul in the town to be put to the sword, spear, axe, or fire, unless the Lady Blackwood should be found or any other nobleman or noblewoman. He also ordered that any wounded or cornered Dornish soldier should be spared for questioning, and then tortured and killed afterwards.
Mors could feel the anticipation growing in his men as they neared the buildings. It isn't just me who revels in this, it is my men. My army. Lewys's army. The men that would have died for him, that loved my brother, as only someone who knew him could. He was a great leader. I carry his name, and his leadership, that is why they follow me. And they want revenge as much as I do.
Mors was in the lead of the army, his black hair flying wildly in the wind as he rode leaned over, close to his war horse. Mors's great beast of a dog, Aegon, came up beside him, his teeth snarled. The dog had not fought in battle with Mors until the Greenmont raid, where Aegon had suddenly tore the throat out of a fallen dornishman and took a finger off an unsuspecting woman. The dog was the only thing Mors had a soft spot for; even now, in the seconds before battle, he was worried about the dog and his closest friend.
A bell rung out through the village and suddenly villagers with crossbows and clubs came pouring out of the buildings, rushing the incoming men. Mors had only brought two hundred men with him into the village, just in case this very thing happened. He had sent 1,000 around wide to storm the keep from the opposite side, stealthily, and then the remaining 800 were to enter the town from the other side. A crossbolt thudded into Mors's shield just as he raised it, and another one stuck through the throat of the man beside him. Suddenly the two "armies" collided, and it was a rout. The ragged peasants were no match for the mounted cavalry. Shearing through their ranks, Mors threw his light throwing spear into an oncoming man's chest, and then speared two more with his heavier, fighting spear.
Suddenly a war horn sounded and the other 800 men poured into the rear of the peasant army, crushing them into pieces. Ser Davos Swyft led the chage, hacking with his shiny longsword. Mors dismounted and ducked a blow from a woman's club before gutting her soft belly with the point of spear. He saw Aegon finish her off by clamping his jaws down on her pretty little face. Mors smiled and ruffled the dog's hair before continuing. By now the host was dissolved and carnage was ensuing. A large, bearded man, seeing Mors as the commander, rushed into him headlong and knocked Mors off his feet. Mors spun away from a deadly blow, jabbing his own spear in front of him and allowing the large man to impale himself on it. The manuever worked perfectly as he knew it would. Sliding it out of the man's back, he made sure of Aegon's health and then rushed into a nearby building, looking to be a tavern.
The ambush had worked perfectly; what little resistance had been holed up in the keep was quickly overrun by the stealthy scaling of the walls; the peasant army in the middle of the streets had been taken in the rear perfectly by a much larger force.
The tavern was dark and silent; grunting, Mors and Aegon were about leave when the dog suddenly sniffed and barked, interested in something behind the bar. Silently, Mors crawled to the other end of the bar, ready for whatever lay on the other side. He found two men, wearing the colors of House Fowler, bleeding and in ragged bandages across their legs. Two women, looking to be serving girls, were curled up next to them, quitely sobbing. Mors stabbed the nearest girl in the face, sending his spear threw her skull and her brains spattering all around. The men, too injured to fight, began bitterly sobbing also, and the other woman screamed and ran from the bar. Mors chased after her and caught her. She was a pretty thing, he saw. He went and got four of his men to take the wounded soldiers captive before raping the frightened girl on the floor of the tavern.
Laughing when he was finished, he turned her over to his men. "Don't touch this one, she's mine. If any harm comes to her, you'll all pay." The men nodded, knowing he meant it. The buildings were beginning to go up in flames now. A soldier approached Mors, holding a young child in his arms. "What do we do with it, milord? We killed his mom but hes too young to just kill, ya know? I'd feel bad."
Mors swore, and then spat. "I bloody wouldn't. Was his mom Dornish?" The man nodded, yes. "Then I'll fucking kill the bastard." He grabbed the baby from the man's hand and bashed his head off the nearest stone wall. The soldier looked at him in disbelief, his face pale and his lip quivering. I don't even need to weed these weak men out, Mors thought. When it comes to it, they always follow the lead of the savage, hardened men. And I have thousands of those.
An hour later, the host was moving stealthily back towards Vaith, captives with them. They were to question them when they got back to camp, torture them if necessary, too. Mors did not worry about being in trouble for his butchery; his men knew enough to keep their mouth shut about what they do. "Raiding without harming the folks," is what they would tell anyone who asked. Any man who so much as whispered the truth would lose a hand, their cock, and then their life. Many of the soldiers in the western army liked Mors, as they had before he had been their commander and just Lewys's brother, but just as many feared him.
As they were approaching the castle, Mors turned to one of the wounded soldiers. "Did that town have a name?" he asked.
The older of the two looked at Mors with little concealed hate but replied. "Melongrove, ser."
"Melongrove," Mors repeated, saying the name to hear it again with his own ears. "The Melongrove Massacre." He laughed, and turned back to the two soldiers, smiling innocently, and said, "Has a nice ring to it, don't you think?" Aegon barked his agreement.
Results:
Mors improves from expert (improved) spear to master spear.
Mors improves from noteworthy ambushing to expert ambushing.
They sent outriders to scout in every direction; Mors had heard the stories of Fowler's ambushes. Hell, he had been the victim of one just a month prior, when the Stonehawk had taken Lewys's host in the rear and did severe damage. Rumors had come trickling into Vaith about Fowler's ambush against the rivermen in the Pass. He's everywhere in this bloody desert, Mors thought.
The scouts had returned earlier in the day, while Mors was supping with Swyft and Ser Mychel Heatherspoon. "Ser," the messenger said, after bowing repeatedly. "We have located a village, not twelve leagues northeast of here." Mors nodded, taking a long drink of his ale and biting off a chunk of hard bread before replying. "And the villagers... are they evacuated?" The messenger smiled. "No, ser. It sits right on the banks of the Vaith. The fishermen and washerwomen were out doing their business whenever I left. That was close to an hour ago." Mors laughed, thinking that was too good to be true. "And how large of a town is it? Bigger than Greenmont, that last sorry excuse of a town we raided last month?" Again, the messenger smiled. "It is larger than your town below Deep Den, ser. It holds at least a couple hundred people, perhaps even three hundred or three hundred and fifty." Perfect, Mors had thought, Absolutely bloody perfect.
Now they were approaching the town. Mors dismounted and went ahead on foot, up to the top of a ridge his scouts had been using to keep an eye out for any soldiers or suspicious activity in the village. The climb took several minutes and Mors finally reached the top, sweating by that time. He took a drink of water from a cask a nearby soldier handed him, and then he laid flat on his stomach and peered to the north.
He could see a few lanterns shining here and there, and from that he could make out the outlines of the buildings of the village. It was sprawled out, and had several wide streets separating the homes. A few of the more important structures were even built of stone, including a small, greyish stoned keep with wooden spikes around it at the most northern part of the village. The town itself had no walls to defend itself.
Returning to his men, he once again gave the order for every living soul in the town to be put to the sword, spear, axe, or fire, unless the Lady Blackwood should be found or any other nobleman or noblewoman. He also ordered that any wounded or cornered Dornish soldier should be spared for questioning, and then tortured and killed afterwards.
Mors could feel the anticipation growing in his men as they neared the buildings. It isn't just me who revels in this, it is my men. My army. Lewys's army. The men that would have died for him, that loved my brother, as only someone who knew him could. He was a great leader. I carry his name, and his leadership, that is why they follow me. And they want revenge as much as I do.
Mors was in the lead of the army, his black hair flying wildly in the wind as he rode leaned over, close to his war horse. Mors's great beast of a dog, Aegon, came up beside him, his teeth snarled. The dog had not fought in battle with Mors until the Greenmont raid, where Aegon had suddenly tore the throat out of a fallen dornishman and took a finger off an unsuspecting woman. The dog was the only thing Mors had a soft spot for; even now, in the seconds before battle, he was worried about the dog and his closest friend.
A bell rung out through the village and suddenly villagers with crossbows and clubs came pouring out of the buildings, rushing the incoming men. Mors had only brought two hundred men with him into the village, just in case this very thing happened. He had sent 1,000 around wide to storm the keep from the opposite side, stealthily, and then the remaining 800 were to enter the town from the other side. A crossbolt thudded into Mors's shield just as he raised it, and another one stuck through the throat of the man beside him. Suddenly the two "armies" collided, and it was a rout. The ragged peasants were no match for the mounted cavalry. Shearing through their ranks, Mors threw his light throwing spear into an oncoming man's chest, and then speared two more with his heavier, fighting spear.
Suddenly a war horn sounded and the other 800 men poured into the rear of the peasant army, crushing them into pieces. Ser Davos Swyft led the chage, hacking with his shiny longsword. Mors dismounted and ducked a blow from a woman's club before gutting her soft belly with the point of spear. He saw Aegon finish her off by clamping his jaws down on her pretty little face. Mors smiled and ruffled the dog's hair before continuing. By now the host was dissolved and carnage was ensuing. A large, bearded man, seeing Mors as the commander, rushed into him headlong and knocked Mors off his feet. Mors spun away from a deadly blow, jabbing his own spear in front of him and allowing the large man to impale himself on it. The manuever worked perfectly as he knew it would. Sliding it out of the man's back, he made sure of Aegon's health and then rushed into a nearby building, looking to be a tavern.
The ambush had worked perfectly; what little resistance had been holed up in the keep was quickly overrun by the stealthy scaling of the walls; the peasant army in the middle of the streets had been taken in the rear perfectly by a much larger force.
The tavern was dark and silent; grunting, Mors and Aegon were about leave when the dog suddenly sniffed and barked, interested in something behind the bar. Silently, Mors crawled to the other end of the bar, ready for whatever lay on the other side. He found two men, wearing the colors of House Fowler, bleeding and in ragged bandages across their legs. Two women, looking to be serving girls, were curled up next to them, quitely sobbing. Mors stabbed the nearest girl in the face, sending his spear threw her skull and her brains spattering all around. The men, too injured to fight, began bitterly sobbing also, and the other woman screamed and ran from the bar. Mors chased after her and caught her. She was a pretty thing, he saw. He went and got four of his men to take the wounded soldiers captive before raping the frightened girl on the floor of the tavern.
Laughing when he was finished, he turned her over to his men. "Don't touch this one, she's mine. If any harm comes to her, you'll all pay." The men nodded, knowing he meant it. The buildings were beginning to go up in flames now. A soldier approached Mors, holding a young child in his arms. "What do we do with it, milord? We killed his mom but hes too young to just kill, ya know? I'd feel bad."
Mors swore, and then spat. "I bloody wouldn't. Was his mom Dornish?" The man nodded, yes. "Then I'll fucking kill the bastard." He grabbed the baby from the man's hand and bashed his head off the nearest stone wall. The soldier looked at him in disbelief, his face pale and his lip quivering. I don't even need to weed these weak men out, Mors thought. When it comes to it, they always follow the lead of the savage, hardened men. And I have thousands of those.
An hour later, the host was moving stealthily back towards Vaith, captives with them. They were to question them when they got back to camp, torture them if necessary, too. Mors did not worry about being in trouble for his butchery; his men knew enough to keep their mouth shut about what they do. "Raiding without harming the folks," is what they would tell anyone who asked. Any man who so much as whispered the truth would lose a hand, their cock, and then their life. Many of the soldiers in the western army liked Mors, as they had before he had been their commander and just Lewys's brother, but just as many feared him.
As they were approaching the castle, Mors turned to one of the wounded soldiers. "Did that town have a name?" he asked.
The older of the two looked at Mors with little concealed hate but replied. "Melongrove, ser."
"Melongrove," Mors repeated, saying the name to hear it again with his own ears. "The Melongrove Massacre." He laughed, and turned back to the two soldiers, smiling innocently, and said, "Has a nice ring to it, don't you think?" Aegon barked his agreement.
Results:
Mors improves from expert (improved) spear to master spear.
Mors improves from noteworthy ambushing to expert ambushing.