NationStates Jolt Archive

OOC: Closed to those not involved in Scand's PT RP.

Euphyrias, City-State of the Euphyriad Plain

Diophanes Lysimachus closed his eyes, and lowered the heavy helm onto his head.

Cold steel walls closed in on his face and cranium, creating a claustrophobic sensation. Blindly, he ran his hands from front to back through the tall, red-dyed horsehair plume atop the helm. He opened his eyes again, looking into a polished bronze mirror, and stared at the warrior in front of him.

The warrior stared back. His face was covered by a full steel helm, with cheek and nose guards, and ridged reinforcement lines running across the apex. Above his brow was a thick guard to deflect downward strikes, with another at the rear to guard the neck. His shoulders were huge, protected by banded steel plates with bronze links, and his chest was armoured in the same style. From his waist hung a ring of studded leather strips, beneath which the lower part of his tunic extended to the knees. Shaped steel greaves covered his shins.

This was the uniform of the Novus Proeliator, the new warrior of the city of Euphyrias.

Over the last six years, the Senate had created what had become known as the Novus - a military force the like of which the plains had never seen. While most of the plains cities still fought in the old way, calling each man from his farm to the war, and using only the equipment their troops could afford to arm themselves with, Euphyrias had created a disciplined, professional force. They had taken the best and brightest of their city, and trained them to obey, to live justly and when ordered, to kill without hesitation.

Diophanes adjusted his tunic, pulling the thick collar out just enough to cover his neck. Cheering echoed from the streets as, he knew, the might of the Novus marched through the crowded city. Rank upon rank of spears, held high by the new soldiers of Euphyrias, moved past his second-floor window as clouds of blossoms twirled upon the breeze.

He pulled his sword an inch from its oiled sheath, and snapped it back into place. Content, General Diophanes Lysimachos left his home, and went to survey his men.

The shining silver column of soldiers, fully two thirds of the Novus, finally came to a rest fifteen miles from the city after a four hour march. The city of Itanthium, Euphyrias' traditional rival, was now barely thirty miles away.

Under a rapidly darkening sky, six thousand Euphyrian soldiers erected their tents, and the evening air was filled with the smell of cooking fat. The fields were illuminated by a thousand camp-fires, reflecting from the pure white tents to cast an orange glow over the scene. Tempers wound tight by the march were eased with the promise of a full belly, and water skins were left undrunk in favour of hoarded wine.

The soldiers sang old songs, which an age ago had been sung by their grandfathers on the eve of battle. The drink flowed freely, and a few tongues were loosened and a few inhibitions removed. One man began to sing an old song, as old as the world itself, and the others shuddered without knowing why. After a time, their voices joined his in a song to the city's ancient and terrible god of war.

-

In the darkest recesses of reality, the daemon-god Daeva stirred from his eternal slumber. Slowly, he shook free the last decaying magics which his brother and sister had set upon him. The worship which these men gave, scarce fare compared to the cult which had once served him, was like water to a man dying of thirst.

Their belief strengthened him, rekindling the ashes of his once-mighty power, and in return the daemon gave his blessing. Delving into their fearful minds, he lodged a little of himself within each of these soldiers of Euphyrias, making them his unknowing servants.

Tomorrow would bring battle, and great would be the sacrifice in Daeva's name.

OOC: Approximate force strength.

Novus Euphyriad
4,000 Novus Dorii Infantry - Laminata banded steel armour, dorus spears (approx 2.75m in length), falcata swords. Heavily armed and armoured infantry, well-disciplined, aggressive and confident. Able to fight in phalanx formation.
1,000 Novus Sagitarii Archers - Linothora chainmail, saggitar recurve bows, falcata swords. Disciplined and confident.
1,000 Novus Equerii Cavalry - Laminata steel banded armour, dorus spears, falcata swords. Medium cavalry suited to all roles. Well-disciplined and aggressive.

Army of Ithantium
Approx 30,000 Irregular Infantry - Armament may vary substantially. Training is minimal and morale accordingly depends more upon popular opinion than upon discipline.
300 Royal Guards - Heavily-armed and armoured cavalry bodyguard with strong warrior tradition. Aggressive and confident.

The Battle of Antinon

The Novus stood upon the field of Antinon, their heads bowed. The musical patter of raindrops upon steel filled the senses, until all one could do was stand and try to forget the freezing cold.

"Sagitarii to the front!" yelled the Centurii, and the Dorii parted with mechanical precision to let the archers pass. Barely three hundred yards distant, the army of Ithantium stood thirty thousand strong. Their centre was disorganised mass of infantry, their right flank flooded with cavalry. A knot of colour at the rear betrayed the presence of the Ithantii King.

Once more the Centurii screamed their will.

"Sagitarii!" they bellowed, their words only half-heard in the deluge. "Load!"

Arrows were strung to greased cords, their barbed steel heads thirsting for the enemy. Overhead, the grey clouds had turned to black, and the rumbling thunder made itself known. The Sagitarii drew their strings back, aiming their powerful bows toward the hidden sun.

"Loose!"

With a clattering rush, a thousand arrows leapt into the darkening sky. They ripped through the air, and turned down towards the foe. Few were equipped with shields of any effectiveness, and steel barbs ripped into soft flesh to soak the sodden earth in blood. Men screamed as the arrows bit deep into their arms, chests, faces and calves. Panic spread through the Ithantii like a wave, but their officers kept them steady.

Another volley, and another rain of death. The enemy's army was falling as much to the fire as to shameless desertion, as the entire centre fell back from the onslaught. Save for the Sagitarii, the Novus stood as still as stone, their faces grim and their spears tall and resemblant of a birch forest.

The twentieth volley reached the enemy, and yet another mess of wounded men fell to lie screaming in the crimson-stained mud. The Sagitarii let their bows fall to their sides, and stood silent, facing the Ithantii with pitiless eyes.

"Dorii!" rose the call, every man echoing the cry. "Dorii, phalanx formation!"

Spears were lowered, and the four thousand Dorii spearmen assumed their familiar stance. Spear to the right, shield to the left. With my spear I slay my enemy and with my shield I protect my brothers, as they protect me.

It was war borne of mathematics. This concentrated formation, in which four heavy steel spears faced every enemy, into which the Euphyrians had placed so much hope, trust and pride. As one, they marched forward, the bloodied enemy falling back from the wall of steel which presented itself to them.

Enemy officers screamed oaths and curses, even going so far as to beat their men back towards the phalanx. The Euphyrians increased their pace, and their spears were thrust forward to return red. The Ithantii, to their credit, fought as best they could against the tide of silver warriors, but to no avail. Their flanking units refused to attack, and within minutes the fight was already over. Hundreds of bodies littered the ground, and the Euphyrians found themselves advancing over flesh.

On their left, the Equerii broke into the charge, their horns blowing deep notes across the field. They smashed into the Ithantii light cavalry with the force of a hurricane, their spears lifting the enemy from their saddles as they turned to flee.

"Attack!" cried the Centurii, "Drop your spears, men! Draw your blades and cut them down!"

The Dorii dropped the spears from which they took their name, and drew their cruel falcata, wickedly curved blades capable of cleaving a man from head to neck and severing limbs in a single blow. They tore forwards, eyes burning and teeth grinding as their blades sliced into the Ithantii.

Those who stood were cut apart in a frenzy, men still hacking at bodies after all breath had left them. The Dorii surged onward, hunting the enemy without quarter. Even as they held up their hands and screamed surrender, they slew them, the heavy falcata littering the field with severed hands, fingers... heads.

Every man among the Novus was there, from the Dorii, who beat the enemy to death with their shields and fists. The Sagitarii, who struck hard into the retreating men, dragging them into the mud and hacking them to death with great, sweeping strokes of their blades. The Equerii, who leapt from their steeds to butcher the remaining enemy with swords and fists and teeth.

In a debaucherous orgy of blood, the Novus killed and killed. All discipline was lost as even the officers themselves joined the slaying, screaming like madmen. Lightning crashed through the black clouds, and a tree burst into flame to illuminate the carnage. Ten thousand lay upon the field, their bodies rent and broken. Half of them still lived.

The air was filled with blood and screams as in their madness the Novus turned their blades upon the wounded, and the daemon-god smiled.

OOC: lol wut

I seem to be developing a few words as I go, so here's a little key.

Centurii - Centurion
Dorii - Spearmen
Equerii - Cavalry
Sagitarii - Archers

Antinon, the day after the battle.

General Diophanes Lysimachus opened his eyes, and was blinded by the afternoon sun.

He lay upon his back, the ground still drenched from the storm. He could taste blood upon his cracked lips, and a dull throb in his neck betrayed the presence of injury. He gingerly lifted a mud-smeared hand, expecting to find a jagged wound, but felt only unbroken skin sore to the touch and covered with crusted blood.

For a few minutes, Diophanes stared into the sky, watching the circling crows and almost afraid of what he'd see once he stood. His muscles screamed in protests when he finally forced them into action, stiff from a night spent unconscious on the battlefield. He pushed himself up onto his knees, and paled at the view he had both predicted and feared.

Bodies. Ragged, hewn by the blades of the Novus and torn by the beaks of carrion birds. Ten thousand dead littered the field of Antinon, staining the once green and pleasant pastures a dull, muddy crimson. The enemy dead lay where they had fallen, here and there a knot of mutilated bodies showed where they had tried to surrentder, or fought to their last.

Diophanes' memories of the battle were hazy, slipping from the mind like a dream. He rememberd leading the charge of the Equerii against the enemy's cavalry, but beyond that point was merely suggestion and terrible illusions. Flickering images of gross depravity, of wild-eyed berserkers and frothing madmen, slaughtering surrendering men and bathing in their blood to the accompaniment of their own raucous laughter. Ghoulish, insane imaginings of soldiers ripping the enemy apart with their bare hands only to fight amongst each other for the privelige of cramming the quivering, still-warm flesh into their gaping mouths... he shuddered at the thought.

Grass-fires smouldered where unattended campfires had burned out of control during the night. Diophanes stumbled through the field of death, his eyes on a distant huddle of men in red Novus tunics and thick cloaks. They flinched at his approach, their fearful faces as pale as snow. Some were shivering despite the sunshine. One soldier sat away from the others with his head hidden beneath his woolen cloak, sobbing quietly into the fabric.

The leader of the group, a man wearing a helm with the black plume of a Novus Lokhius, recognised Diophanes' rank and stood to speak.

"General..." he said in a quiet voice, "would you care to sit with us?"

Diophanes mutely nodded his assent, and sat cross-legged in the mud. A small fire burned in the centre of the group, who numbered about fifteen. The Lokhius sat beside him. His next words brought shock.

"Do you remember anything, sir?" asked the gaunt-faced soldier.

The reply was a shake of the head and a murmur, the ability of speech having not returned. Did these men suffer from the same blank memories as he? How was that possible? The Lokhius reached to one side to draw a muddied steel helm towards him. He turned it so that the wide back faced Diophanes, and showed him his reflection.

His shoulder armour had sprung loose, the clasps snapped by a fall or a blow. Every surface of his armour was covered in mud. His helm sat slightly lopsided, the tall red plume ragged and mud-sodden. He saw his own terrified eyes staring from the helm's depths, the pupils completely dilated, but when at last he saw the caked blood which ran from his mouth to his chest, General Diophanes Lysimachus flung his hands to his face, fell screaming into the wet, bloody ground, and retreated so far into his own mind that he never spoke again until the day he died.

All the while the visions tormented him. Blood-maddened warriors and screaming cannibals, the horrific, re-awakened memories of the taste of warm human flesh upon his tongue. And through them all, the echoing, hateful laughter of the malevolent daemon-god.

OOC:

Lokhius - Sergeant

The new General was a man named Aristos Megastus. A tall, lean officer with a scarred face and piercing blue eyes, Megastus was a former Dorii Centurio Primus, and spoke not a word of his experience at the field of Antinon.

For two days, the soldiers of Euphyrias had wandered aimlessly in their own private hells before Megastus had pulled them back into the ranks. He himself had dragged entire platoons to the nearby Lake Theodanus, throwing his men bodily into the cleansing waters.

With the actions of Megastus and a growing number of other officers, the Novus recovered some sense of itself and her casualties could be counted, bodies buried and wounded attended to. Equipment was salvaged from the battlefield, even the armour and possessions of the dead. With complete refusal to acknowledge the personal anguish of his officers and men, Megastus manipulated the ingrained obedience and iron discipline of the Novus to force them back into the march.

The men were shaken and wounded, both within and without, but the horrors which they had seen were gradually forgotten as the familiar structure of the Novus re-exerted itself upon their thinking. On the third day, the bloated bodies of the enemy were flung into shallow trenches covered and with quicklime, to stop the spread of disease. With gaunt faces and grim resolve, the Novus resumed their march to the gates of Itanthium.

OOC:

Centurio Primus - First Centurion. Battalion commander.