Gates of Mead

Kurbads von Pertikis lived in the cold north of the Wild East, a land few knew about and a land where fewer lived. The young baron was in charge of small contingent of lesser-knights that the master had assigned to him. Twenty in total, less the squires and pages; but he could not in good conscience describe them “noble”, with most being mercenaries rather than knights; nonetheless, with comparable gear all things told. In a land far outside the careful watch of the Church, permissiveness of fouler deeds was stronger. The savagery of pagans did not help either, with their frequent raids and unscrupulous tactics, the young baron frequently found order and discipline among his troop dancing along a line he wished they stayed away from. Upon a review, and good tongue lashing from his commanding officer, he was ordered to plan an expedition to the south-east, where it was believed a pagan holy site was located. He and his men were to lay an ambush and slaughter the pagans, with the fate of the site left to his imagination. To bring fire and sword was a revelry most enjoyed but with no designated village to raze, booty could be scarce. It would ultimately depend on what the pagans brought with them to the site. Whether the men saw it the same, he did not know. A certain percentage of booty was to go back to the Order’s coffers, so how he went about collecting this tithe before the men did was another open issue he groaned about. After preparations were completed they rode out in the direction of the holy site.
After a couple days the troop was nearing the location they had heard about. They stopped at a nearby river to rest. The young baron then sent off a few knights to scout the area and report back by the end of the day if they found anything. The knights of less-than-reputable birth made merry and began to drink and play cards and play music. The veterans shifted uneasily around the perimeter and kept their sword arms ready. One of them approached their leader to explain the unease among the men. They were no longer in Order territory and were worried that they were the ones walking into an ambush. A previous expedition had failed to return and the Order had little idea of what had transpired. The young baron weighed his options and pondered if erecting an ersatz fortification was worth the effort. He knew the men would groan about it and hate him more, but to neglect his duty would not earn him any favours among them either. Surely a fence would be better than nothing at all, or so he thought. He consulted with the senior knights if they should move to a more defensible position and it was agreed upon that having the river to their backs would make escape neigh impossible. Ultimately, he decided that the troop would move to a more defensible position and construct a light barrier.
By the early evening the scouts had returned and had brought news of the location of the pagan’s holy site, some half-day’s march to the west. They also reported seeing several groups of unarmed pagans wandering about in the area, most likely en route to the holy site. Before one could consider it morning the troop moved out at double pace and arrived at the holy site before three-quarters to noon. He had the scouts keep watch around the perimeter while he had the men prepare an ambush. Today was an expected holy day of the pagans, a wide net would be needed if they were to complete their objectives. “Lord Brother, look!” The young baron turned to see one of the scouts return albeit without the rider. The horse slowly galloped back, everyone stopped working and stared. A stillness gripped the forest. The young baron’s eyes met those of his second-in-command, no words were exchanged but both knew what this meant. Before he could yell “helmets on” they were pelted by fury of arrows, one of the mercenaries being struck dead where he stood. The rest scrambled to form a hasty battle line and the squires huddled in the back, winding their masters’ crossbows. Soon the arrows stopped and the jeering started in the accursed tongue of the pagans. How did they get the drop on them, he wondered, but he didn’t have time to think such thoughts. Soon the mind was replaced with the beating of blood, hands numb from the tight hold on the sword—sensationless, without feeling or sensation, washing over one’s body. Then from the thicket the pagans emerged, clad in all manner of garb and arms. The young baron gave the order to form into a battle line, shoulder to shoulder, arms to arms, and marched forward head on to meet the enemy.
In what felt like an instant the two masses were upon each other, the crashing the Order’s shields making a sickening crunch at it met the pagans softer, unlayered shields. The pagans balked and reeled as Brothers’ arms plunged into the gaps of the enemies. A maelstrom of wood and steel ravaged the forest.
Soon it was no longer possible to tell where the battle lines were. The young baron knew he need to reform his line lest the enemy maneuver around and flank them. He attempted to signal but in that moment a godless pagan struck his shield arm with his axe, shattering the bone and leaving a deep gash where the mail gave in. He howled in pain; his knights, taking notice of their leader, rushed to defend him but in the confusion exposed their flanks. The pagan commander, sensing the confusion, pressed the advantage presented to him. The knights began to fall one by one as they were overwhelmed from all angles. The young baron could feel his body going into shock from the wound, his sword thrusts becoming ever more erratic, undignified, sloppy. Pray as he might, he did not believe that God would deliver them unto victory. What should have been an easy victory was taken from him. Why had his scouts not noticed such a large host moving upon them earlier, were they paid off, or were they also ambushed. Such questions raced through his mind while his eyes transmitted less and less information to his brain. He cursed his luck, he cursed the pagans for their deviousness, and he cursed the fetid land to which he was brought.