Fate of an Empire, Part 2: The Lion
Being one of the Chronicles of Cyron
The Gladiator | The Lion | The Vagrant Prince
Krytas seethed with rage. He watched helplessly from the great stone bridge as the city of Dahndras burned. Screams of anguish and terror rent the air as two Noverian legions ransacked the town. His Lionguard, no match for ten thousand legionaries, had been caught unawares by the surprise attack, and were driven across the river. The destruction of his home city was punishment for Krytas meddling in the affairs of the Empire.
Now, the remaining five hundred of his elite troops occupied the bridge that joined Sparos and the Eldlands, awaiting the inevitable assault by the Noverians once they finished their bloodthirsty plunder. Behind them, amongst the elegant, shimmering spires of the elves, Krytas could hear the commotion of elvish warriors being mustered. Rumor had it the great elf prince himself was in the city, and that he would partake in its defense.
If the Noverian general was smart, he would not wait for the elves to join the fray. Even now, Krytas could see enemy cavalry forming on the opposite bank. It appeared that very soon, six hundred men and horses would be thundering towards the surviving hoplites.
They did not have to wait long. The Noverians were supremely confident that their cavalry would easily clear the way over the river. The horse soldiers galloped across at full tilt.
Krytas deployed his Lionguard six across. Their round shields, embossed with the snarling head of a golden lion, overlapped to form an implacable barrier. The bridge was ancient and solid, yet it trembled under the rhythmic hammering of six hundred horses galloping in unison. When the cavalry came within fifty yards, the highly disciplined hoplites separated ranks, and lightly armored skirmishers darted forward to throw spears and sling stones.
The effect of the barrage was devastating. Horses reared in terror and riders were thrown as the missiles struck home. The cavalry charge devolved into chaos, and the horsemen behind plowed into the ones ahead.
“Lionguard, advance!” Krytas barked above the mayhem. The hoplites closed ranks once more and marched steadily forward. The flagstones of the bridge were slick with blood, and the Sparan soldiers stepped cautiously over dead men and horses. With eight foot long spears set firmly in the crooks of their arms, Krytas and his Lionguard rushed forward in a sudden burst of speed at the disorganized mass of men and horses.
Razor sharp spear points rammed home, piercing flesh and chainmail. The Noverian cavalrymen threw their javelins in desperation, but most of the projectiles glanced harmlessly off of the hoplites’ sturdy aspides. The Lionguard advanced in a solid, inexorable mass. Their plunging spears and bashing shields forced their enemies back across the bridge.
Desperate to stem the slaughter, the Noverian general rallied a cohort of archers to cover his cavalry’s retreat. The Sparan advance halted as hundreds of arrows began to plummet from the sky. The phalanx withdrew, but not before several bolts felled some of their countrymen.
Once he and his men were safely out of range, Krytas assessed the outcome. His Lionguard had decimated the Noverian cavalry, killing over half, and suffering minimal losses of their own. What was more, the Sparans had succeeded in buying enough time that Prince Galadros now stood at the head of four thousand elves, arrayed in glittering scale mail.
The elven prince was tall, lithe, and fair, with lustrous brown hair that fell past his shoulders. In his right hand was a shining silver spear, and an oval shield was slung across his back. Sheathed at his side was an elven saber, notable for the slight backwards curve of its blade.
Krytas, by contrast, was of medium height and well muscled. He had a close cropped beard that was jet black, and his shoulder length hair was slick with sweat from the day’s exertions. Meanwhile, his studded leather cuirass was covered in gore, and his flowing crimson cloak was tattered and torn.
“I’m so sorry, my friend,” Galadros said as the two men clasped hands. The elf’s vibrant voice was full of sorrow and regret.
“I should have known something like this would happen.” Krytas’ tone was gruff and impassive. “It’s my own damn fault.”
Galadros observed the afternoon’s carnage. “It looks like you have given them a bloody nose, at least.”
“We’ll give them a lot more than that tomorrow, by Jor.”
“I take it this act of retribution means you were successful in liberating Atilius?”
Krytas nodded. “Atilius was half dead when Saria found him, but she patched him up, and got both he and Sibylla safely out of Noveria. They ought to be in the Caladen Lowlands by now.”
“Let us hope so. I hear the Emperor has dispatched five full legions to deal with them. You have to admit; it was a brilliant move on the Emperor’s part to attack Dahndras and trap you.”
“I expect their legate regrets allowing his troops to run roughshod over the city instead of finishing us off,” Krytas mused. “I can’t believe the damn fool sent his cavalry straight at us on the bridge like that.”
“I am sure he thought your men were too demoralized to put up much of a fight. And not every general is of the same quality as you and Atilius, my friend.”
“Yes, well, tomorrow the bastards will find out what the Lionguard is truly made of.”
Overnight, a truce was established for the legionaries to recover their dead and wounded. Once the morning came, however, any notion of peace was forgotten.
Century by century, nine cohorts deep, an entire Noverian legion advanced across the bridge under withering fire from elvish bowmen. Marching in testudo formation, the rectangular shields of the legionaries were nearly impenetrable. Occasionally, an arrow would slip through, a man would cry out in pain, and a slight gap would open up as he went down. However, the breach was always closed immediately, and the horde forged ahead relentlessly.
Krytas and his Lionguard waited for the inevitable clash. Their large shields were set firmly before them, and their ranks bristled with spears. The Noverian legionaries collided into the Sparan phalanx with a terrific crash, and a colossal struggle ensued.
Soldiers on both sides heaved with powerful muscles, jamming their shields against those of their enemies. Spears thrust forward, seeking vulnerable flesh to pierce, or gaps in the shield wall to exploit. Neither side gave any ground, even as the stones became slick with blood.
Firmly ensconced in the thick of battle, Krytas shoved his spear blindly in front of him. He felt slight resistance as the broad point connected with a legionary’s segmented armor, and punched through. The man fell backwards, and Krytas’ weapon was ripped from his grasp. Suddenly, a gap in the Noverian line had formed. Batting legionaries aside with his shield, Krytas drew a leaf bladed short sword and rushed forward into the breach.
The warrior known as the Lion of Sparos hacked left and right with his xiphos, cutting down one foe after another, and the gap continued to widen. More hoplites surged ahead to join their fearless general. Hemmed in by the cohorts behind them, the legionaries directly in the path of the rampaging Lionguard had nowhere to run. Rather than be cut down, some decided to take their chances, and leapt over the walls of the bridge into the roiling river below. The rest were slaughtered wholesale.
The hoplites reformed their ranks as the next cohort of Noverian legionaries advanced, and the whole lethal shoving match began again.
When dusk fell, the Lionguard, bloodied and weary, had stubbornly held their ground.
“Tomorrow, you should rest,” Galadros observed as he sat with Krytas at a campfire. “We will take the front line.”
“We’re resting now,” Krytas grunted. “My men will be ready come the dawn.”
“I have no doubt, my friend. But Dahndras is our city too. And the Noverians would have been across the river into the Eldlands had you not delayed them long enough for us to muster. You and your Lionguard have earned a respite. You lost a number of warriors.”
“We’ll hold them at the front. Have your archers continue to hammer at their rear. If it gets to be too much, we’ll pull back, and you can have your turn.”
Krytas was cut off from the rest of his phalanx.
He slapped a gladius aside with his shield, and his riposte cut out his attacker’s throat. A sloppy spear thrust glanced off the metal studs of his breastplate. He hacked at the hand gripping the weapon, separating it from its owner. Legionaries continued to crowd in around Krytas, and he grimly held his aspis before him as he sought to hold them off.
Galadros watched in dismay as the Noverians smashed through gaps in the Sparan battle lines, isolating the hoplites into smaller groups, and cutting them down piecemeal. He held his spear aloft, its silver shaft glittering in the afternoon sun.
“Elves of Dahndras, with me!”
Elven warriors who had been waiting for three days to join the melee yelled in exultation and surged forward. The Noverian legionaries were so preoccupied with their eradication of the Lionguard, they had not yet formed ranks to block a reprisal from reinforcements. They were completely overwhelmed as the elves crashed into their lines like a shimmering silver wave.
All cohesion and order was lost. Legionaries panicked and fled, or threw themselves from the bridge. The demoralization rippled from cohort to cohort as legionary after legionary watched their fellows retreating in terror.
The route was on, and there was no stopping it.
Standing at the gates, covered in blood and ichor, Krytas and Prince Galadros surveyed the long trail of carnage leading out of the city. The elven counterattack had broken the resolve of the Noverians, and they were slaughtered by the vengeful defenders as they fled.
“Do you think they’ll come back?” Galadros asked the Sparan general.
“I doubt it. The point was to lay waste to Dahndras. They’ve accomplished that.” Krytas started to walk back to where his few remaining Lionguard were commandeering the abandoned Noverian fortifications.
“So what will you do now?”
The Lion of Sparos turned to face the elf prince and declared adamantly, “I will muster as many hoplites as I can and march to Caladen to help Atilius shatter the Empire.”
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This was a great story, which battle were you inspired by? There's clear inspiration, I'm gonna bet that it was taken from one of the Greek campaigns, or one of the battles from the Gallic Wars.
Enjoyed reading the tactical details. Was this based on a historical battle?