Post by The Smith on Nov 3, 2008 16:14:52 GMT -5
Ser Samuel Tarly 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 young knight whirled around, as another attacker came at him. They traded a dozen blows, before Sam 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. Samuel 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.
Men were streaming into Horn Hill from all over the Reach, once the declaration against the King had been spread to every corner of the realm. News was coming in multiple times a day of the reactions of various lords and lordlings, and the changes in status around the continent. As the military center of the Reach, Horn Hill was already an imposing castle, rising high above the rolling hills of the Reach. Massive curtain walls surrounded the fortress, with murder holes and arrow slits facing nearly every direction. Outside of the granite walls was a permanent military fort that had been maintained and improved perpetually since the Dornish War twenty years prior, though it had not been truly populated by an army since then. Lord Robert Tarly had worked since the day of his ascension to Lordship to increase the defensive capabilities of his castle, and his plans had come largely to fruition.
While waiting for the Lord Hightower’s orders, Lord Robert had requested that Samuel begin drilling the soldiers that were gathering at Horn Hill, to improve the army before it was thrust into battle. He designed mock-battles using tourney weapons in which soldiers could practice combat and strategy. 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. Today Samuel was leading a group of one hundred men in the defense of a small tower with a stone wall, in a light forest a few leagues south of the Horn Hill. The forest was nestled in between the hills that eventually grew into the Dornish Marches, a few leagues to the east. The tower represented a castle and the goal of the opposing team was to capture it.
The heir to Horn Hill and the castle’s Master-at-Arms, Ser Gerold Costayne, had taken great precautions to ensure that no soldiers were killed in his drills, and a maester was 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 Samuel’s team, and they had defended against the first assault, although more men had fallen than Sam would have liked. The men who had been eliminated began to carry away the inert bodies of the unconscious men, while Sam organized his remaining soldiers around the opening in the small wall surrounding the tower.
He barked out orders, gesturing with the longsword that he trained with, though he secretly longed for the greatsword of his ancestors, which had been melted down by the Horned Wolf before Samuel was even born. 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 that Samuel had ever seen led the charge, followed closely by Ser Gerold Costayne, and they 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 thump him on the head. Samuel’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 Samuel 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 Samuel’s extreme delight. They charged forward and caught the attacking force, which was already pinned by me on both flanks and had Sam 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, Samuel sat in the small tower, while the maester tended to the men whose wounds needed care. A collection 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 by the time any battle was underway, all the men who had participated in the exercise would be in fighting shape. Samuel brooded about his battle plans. They worked well enough in the mock fights, though he had never tried them against true opponents in the field. 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 enough. He would speak to them on the morrow, to improve. The army would be better than it ever had been, if and when the Mandermen under Lord Oakheart encroached into the Far Reach.
Ser Samuel Tarly improves toward Master Swordsman
Ser Samuel Tarly improves to Expert Battle
Men were streaming into Horn Hill from all over the Reach, once the declaration against the King had been spread to every corner of the realm. News was coming in multiple times a day of the reactions of various lords and lordlings, and the changes in status around the continent. As the military center of the Reach, Horn Hill was already an imposing castle, rising high above the rolling hills of the Reach. Massive curtain walls surrounded the fortress, with murder holes and arrow slits facing nearly every direction. Outside of the granite walls was a permanent military fort that had been maintained and improved perpetually since the Dornish War twenty years prior, though it had not been truly populated by an army since then. Lord Robert Tarly had worked since the day of his ascension to Lordship to increase the defensive capabilities of his castle, and his plans had come largely to fruition.
While waiting for the Lord Hightower’s orders, Lord Robert had requested that Samuel begin drilling the soldiers that were gathering at Horn Hill, to improve the army before it was thrust into battle. He designed mock-battles using tourney weapons in which soldiers could practice combat and strategy. 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. Today Samuel was leading a group of one hundred men in the defense of a small tower with a stone wall, in a light forest a few leagues south of the Horn Hill. The forest was nestled in between the hills that eventually grew into the Dornish Marches, a few leagues to the east. The tower represented a castle and the goal of the opposing team was to capture it.
The heir to Horn Hill and the castle’s Master-at-Arms, Ser Gerold Costayne, had taken great precautions to ensure that no soldiers were killed in his drills, and a maester was 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 Samuel’s team, and they had defended against the first assault, although more men had fallen than Sam would have liked. The men who had been eliminated began to carry away the inert bodies of the unconscious men, while Sam organized his remaining soldiers around the opening in the small wall surrounding the tower.
He barked out orders, gesturing with the longsword that he trained with, though he secretly longed for the greatsword of his ancestors, which had been melted down by the Horned Wolf before Samuel was even born. 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 that Samuel had ever seen led the charge, followed closely by Ser Gerold Costayne, and they 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 thump him on the head. Samuel’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 Samuel 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 Samuel’s extreme delight. They charged forward and caught the attacking force, which was already pinned by me on both flanks and had Sam 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, Samuel sat in the small tower, while the maester tended to the men whose wounds needed care. A collection 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 by the time any battle was underway, all the men who had participated in the exercise would be in fighting shape. Samuel brooded about his battle plans. They worked well enough in the mock fights, though he had never tried them against true opponents in the field. 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 enough. He would speak to them on the morrow, to improve. The army would be better than it ever had been, if and when the Mandermen under Lord Oakheart encroached into the Far Reach.
Ser Samuel Tarly improves toward Master Swordsman
Ser Samuel Tarly improves to Expert Battle