The Siege
Once rumoured were tales of the Regent and her conflict with the Emperor. Murmurings of masks, of pride, power, incursions, and a severed alliance. That private affair mattered little to the minds of Ascalon’s chivalry. West of the Bakavis lay their desired foe, a chance for a new generation to make their mark. And so they rode.
So moved their foe. Broken Moon Oblivion, Executor of the Retribution Legion. A thousand lances spoke their declaration. The ancient city fell under siege, its Regent marked for death. There atop the walls strode a lone knight, he who declined the glory of the campaign. In duty he would hold. In duty, he hoped, the Regent would come.
The Morning
The sun’s first rays graced the vale of Arescod on the dawn of the twenty-fourth day, this time with a distant thunder. The realm’s swiftest riders burst forth across the Bakavis with cheers that roused the beleaguered city. The river’s western way had been claimed in the night, the banners of Ascalon’s chivalry emerging with a host of thousands. From Olveston, Rynaros, Aberstow and Renar came many more knights and their entourage, that great host arrayed upon the southwestern plains. The fields of their home were marked by white tents that bloomed across the vast grassland, their masked commanders more than ready for their clash. Each sword was sharpened, armour polished. A thousand horses were readied, with even the mortals of The Retribution Legion armed akin to Ascalon’s finest retainers.
The host of Ascalon rallied to their regent, a tapestry of vibrant heraldry formed of hundreds of banners and tents. Their dense camps indicated a force far greater in number, and many hoped to say the same of their spirit. The clouds were thin, the rays sharp since the first light. They gazed across the rift, the great walls of Arescod casting shadow into the plains. Hours passed, the darkness receded. It was time.
Unto the Plains
Arescod was spared the worst of the season’s downpour, no sodden ground would hold back the hooves of either side. At the parting of the clouds a hundred horns resounded through the air, and the Ascalonians stepped forward. The longbows held the centre, of course. They followed the memories of Arnheim, Riverhall, Havengate, Starfall and Dragon’s Crossing, a great mass of wide-shouldered yeomen; it was as if their entire bodies were shaped by their craft.
Their flanks were covered by that beacon of chivalry, the Knights of Ascalon with their mounted men at arms, lances at the ready. On the right flank led the Regent, Adrienne Lévesque, supported by much of the Royal Duchy and the Talonguard. On the left were arrayed the knights of Chysis. The infantry were scattered about the formation in blocks, with some held in reserve at the back. The only exception was a long bataille of pikes in the vanguard.
The horns blew again.
And so they rode.
The scholars saw it from the walls. A volley for the ages. And another. A dozen more. The Retribution Legion faced the barrage of three thousand bowmen. Their discipline held, shafts ripping through their ranks before their javelins could reply. When they did, it stung the core of Ascalon. On the flanks, the air rang shrill with the tumbling and screeching of horses. Hundreds fell with their riders, yet the Legion’s charge still came. Chysis on the left struck first, their mass of hooves sounding the greatest crash of a decade.
And yet there was one greater. The mark of death came to bear upon the Regent’s flank, the ire of the Retribution Legion met by a defiant charge. Their lances levelled and struck home, shafts and shields crumpling in an instant. The Regent galloped at their head with Talonguard and their pikes, the knights of the Royal Duchy spanned wide to the right. That single charge shattered man and horse alike, the Legion’s vanguard broken.
From the Gates
Sir Marcel Doussain had sallied forth with the Royal Retinue. He looked to the centre and saw death. Chysis had punctured through, and so he rode to the Regent.
She was kneeling. He looked for blood - it surrounded her, her feet, her companions. Recognition flashed through his eyes as he lifted his visor, beholding the plate of the Talonguard upon the ground. There lay their Commander, Sir Owin Fortescue. He who would reclaim the Reach. He who had given his life for Ascalon.
Broken Moon Oblivion was his next target, a living form amongst a sea of the dead. He cantered to the edge of the flank, approaching a congregation of solemn knights. He sought her mask, and here lay the form of a First One - in Arescod plate. Amongst those who had found victory, Sir Yves de Pointe met his end at the tip of a lance, plate warped and body crumpled. His own lance had shattered beside him, and the man lay still amidst the bodies of the Legion. A martyr.
There ended the battle of Arescod. Its tale would be told in many ways, each chapter a whole of its own. Through the telling of those who survived, their deeds would live on.