We March!

{Excerpt}

Beginning winter of the year 1623 S.T., the first military Battle Dress Uniform was issued to the Greenfield militia. The standardised uniform―later given the designation, M1 BDU―was a dominantly dark brown attire consisting of smooth linen underwear and a long-sleeved tunic and trouser hoses, both cut and sewn of soft, but thick cotton. This was worn underneath some form of armour(e.g. A combination of Gambeson worn under Chainmail, or an Arming coat under Plate armour depending on mission requirement, availability etc) which was in turn worn underneath a hooded cloak made of either soft waterproofed leather or camouflage-patterned deer fur.

Each unit was issued a metal helmet and a pair of calf-height hobnailed leather boots with the brown trousers worn tucked inside. Originally 40 cm tall, the boots were shortened to 32 cm a few days after adoption into service to save leather. The helmets were handmade out of wrought iron on a production line in Greenfields and are reinforced in front to increase their effectiveness against most fielded ammunition of the time. The militia was also issued camouflage helmet covers which were generally just crude netting into which foliage could be inserted.

The hooded cloak falls to the ankle and generally serves as a means of providing additional insulation during cold weather, but can also serve as additional camouflage for units should the need arise.

The M1 BDU used by the militia, like all the others that came after it, was designed to ensure practicality, effectiveness and economic feasibility, hence it was generally straightforward in design and made out of locally sourced materials. But due to supply problems during the first few months of adoption, some militiamen were issued brown work clothes paired with gambesons instead.

…

Excerpt from Justin Sider’s account on the rise of the Bloody Gryphon’s Crimson Army

{End}

Seven days later.

Redwater,

Souville Province

…

THE CRIMSON LIGHT OF DAWN bled over the horizon. It shaded the pristine carpet of snow that stretched out as far as the eyes could see with the shadows of lonely hills and withered trees. The soft orange light reflected off Levi’s blank gaze from whence he stood decked in a thick fur surcoat at the edge of the frozen Strega, seeming to stare far ahead, an aura of desolate melancholy wafting heavily off his lonesome person.

“She’s beautiful isn’t she, Viscount,” Levi said, hearing the crunch of footsteps in the snow behind him. The hoarsely spoken words escaped his gently parted and chapped lips with the same beguiling desolation of the frozen world around him.

“Who is, Your Lordship?” Lancelot asked, confused as he came to a stop beside the earl.

“Winter,” Levi replied softly. “Once every motley year she comes to rule, wielding death’s chilling grip, oh so sullen and sad, yet so dispassionately beautiful.”

"... I see."

A brief silence

"Sorry," Levi said at last, albeit with a sigh. “I forgot your trademark board-like stiffness when it comes to matters of this sort. You have a message for me, viscount?”

"Yes, m'lord," Lancelot replied simply, apparently not taking the earl's earlier words seriously. "The men are ready for departure."

“It's time.”

{COS}

Donner crouched underneath the warm light of a lit torch, bent over as he tucked his trousers into knee-high boots before firmly tightening the boot’s laces to hold it in place. It is commonly said that the most important life lessons are learnt the hard way; the militiaman had no intention of getting snow into his shoes once again. Especially not during what could eventually turn out to be a long hard march ahead.

He smoothed down his battle dress as he looked out an arrow loop in the wall at the bustle outside as servants, other militiamen and knights alike prepared for departure.

The militiaman subconsciously adjusted the helmet on his head as well before finally turning his attention to his fellow squadmates who stood, arguing fiercely, in their little corner of the Keep’s main hall.

”I tell you, yeh,” Lagger, annoying as ever, muttered in his ever so conspiratorial tone, “the young lord was just lucky last time. Felling Redwater was a fluke that probably ain’t gonna happen again and we all gonna die on this ancestor’s forsaken quest.”

“Watch your mouth ya little shit, are you trying to get us in trouble with the knights again?” Tridge reprimanded the fellow as he peered down the hallway to make sure no one heard what Lagger had just said. “I have no interest in shovelling shit for another minute just cuz ‘you’ cannot tame that horrible tongue of yours.”

“I ain’t us getting in no trouble, Tridge! Last time, it was Mob Sir Liam caught blabbing, not me!”―don’t you dare drag me into this, Lagger―” Besides, even if I did get us in trouble, we are still gonna freeze to death a few days later so what difference does it―”

“Lagger! Would you, for bloody fuck’s sake, shut up!” Trim growled, sounding more frustrated with the diminutive blabbermouth than Donner thought he ought to be. Having been assigned in the same group for so long everyone was already familiar with how annoying Lagger could get once he got his momentum going, so it was certainly surprising to see Trim―the one considered to be possibly the tamest and most mature in the group―react with such blatant aggression.

To be fair though, the former carpenter, possibly worked up about the entire ordeal that is the Lord’s newest expedition, must have found Lagger’s unceasing drivel a little more than he could stomach at the moment. Donner looked on, amazed, as the giant of a man somehow managed the impossible feat that is rendering the usually unstoppable rant that is Lagger silent.

This forced quietude dragged on for a few moments before Trim finally turned his stern gaze to Donner who had so far remained silent. “What do you think, sir mason?”

“Me?” Donner raised one curious brow before turning towards Mob who simply shrugged in response.

“You are probably the one with the best head amongst us,” Trim replied gruffly, “I would like to know what you make of this wintry… quest.”

“It doesn’t matter what I think,” Donner replied, “it’s not like my opinions would change anything, would it now?”

“It would not,” Trim replied with a shake of his head, “but speak still, mason.”

Donner sighed, relenting.

“It doesn't matter what any of us think. Even the knights don’t seem to be too averse to His Lordship’s plans so why should we? Besides, rumour has it that the Lord himself is going to Pyrga along with us. And given he insists on departing with just about one-fourth of his entire army, I say he seems pretty confident, no?”

The group once again fell silent. “So, we might still make for Pyrga despite the snow?” Tridge asked, his husky voice tinged with worry.

Donner shrugged.

“Yes.”

…

“I am sure you have all heard the story…” The earl paced, his boots crunching audibly through the snow as his calm but solemn voice reverberated across the silent keep.

Donner stood in formation with the rest of the militiamen, watching silently as Lord Levi spoke. At the young lord’s right stood the viscount whose stern gaze scanned the faces of the men gathered, forcing an odd, sober tension into the very air. Such sobriety hung in the air, Donner almost felt he was funeral instead.

”During the great war that ravaged most of southern Algrim,” the Lord continued, “my father, at the behest of His Majesty the King, stood against the Herteleans in the defence of the common folk with as many men as we do now.”

The earl paused, turning his attention to a man in the front of the formation.

”You,” the earl called to the man, “what is your name?”

“Tannor, sire.”

“Tannor,” the lord repeated, “do you have a family, Tannor?”

“Y-yes, m’lord,” the fellow replied hesitantly.

“Good. Now tell me Tannor, do you know what the Hertelean invaders do when they conquer a town?”

“T-they murder, m’lord?” the one known as Tannor replied with more than a hint of uncertainty.

“Yes, Tannor,” the earl nodded approvingly. “They murder, steal and destroy.

“They will pillage the fruits of your many years of labour and burn what they can not carry with them to the ground. Your families would be left impoverished to starve in a land stricken by the famine brought by the marching armies. And that’s if you are lucky.

If you are not, your mothers, sisters, wives, lovers and even little daughters would be raped by so many and so terribly. Even to the point their delicate members would be left swollen and turned inside out. Even to the point that they may not be able to take a man nor bear a child again. Even to the point of their very deaths. Your sons would be sold as slaves in foreign lands to toil for the rest of their lives, or worse, as castrated animals to be sacrificed to the old gods by the most corrupt of the mountain tribes.

“And don’t think you would be safe either,” the earl added with a chilling calmness. “If you are lucky you lot would be sold to some corrupt noble abroad to polish his great rod with your tight arses for the rest of your sorry lives. If not…” The earl trailed off with a dark chuckle.

Donner gloved fists tightened as he took a deep breath, forcibly calming himself. The thought of such harm befalling his family flared in his mind but he quickly tamped down the rampant emotion. His tightly closed eyes opened to see a pale Trim standing frozen beside him, an emotion akin to rage smouldering in the carpenter's eyes. Lagger who stood in front of the larger man was shivering visibly, and for some reason, had his buttocks clenched tightly together, so much so, that even water may fail to seep through.

Donner looked back towards the earl. The young man, who apparently was rumoured to still be wet behind the ears, stood silently in front of the militiamen, observing them. For a moment Donner thought their gazes met, but the lord roving eyes barely paused on him.

“Many of you questioned my decision to capture Redwater,” the earl continued, “and many still question my decision to attack Pryga, but none ever thought to consider what would be the result of leaving power-hungry traitors, who would align with the likes of the Herteleans, to their own devices.

“My father, with what remained of his decimated knightage, held the eastern gate of wall Maria for twenty days. With what remained of his decimated knightage, he slaughtered the traitors to the crown. With what remained of his decimated knightage, he led the spearhead that drove the Herteleans off Algrian soil.

“Though he had the least men, it was by wisdom rather than by good fortune, by daring rather than by material power, that he and the brave men he led prevailed. And now, we have before us an ordeal of the most grievous kind. The enemy desires to wilt us down till we can fight no more, till we bend at their very will. Till we would become slaves at their mercy. Our wives, sisters, lovers, daughters and mothers taken away. Our children and siblings sold as merchandise. Our freedom a thing of the past.

“Shall we allow these audacious enemies to violate us with such impunity? Will you permit their armies to instil terror in the hearts of your loved ones? This is an issue of life or death for the people of Greenfields, of Redwater and of Algrim. The issue is whether our people shall remain free or fall into slavery… There is no room in our ranks for whimperers and cowards, for panic-mongers and deserters! Our people must know no fear in a fight!

“You ask, what is my goal? I can say: It is to wage war, by sea and by land, with all our might and with all the strength we have within; to wage war against a monstrous tyranny, never surpassed in the dark, lamentable catalogue of human crime.”

Donner watched, faintly entranced as the Lord spoke, his grave gaze travelling through the crowd as if searching for an answer to some great woe.

“Now, I will tell you a grim truth. Our only hope of surviving this dilemma is holding Pryga. We must take Pryga, by fire and blood for on the right and left enemies enclose us. The Strega, our lifeblood cut off from us; the Aiga and Quilton behind, hem us in.

“I am amongst you at this time, not as for my recreation or sport, but being resolved, in the midst and heat of the battle, to live or die amongst you all; to lay down my life, for my kingdom, and for my people, my honour and my blood.

“To teach the world that a malediction attends those that violate the territory of the sons of Algrim. The result of our efforts will be unclouded glory and durable peace.

“We must live up to the standards our forefathers set: we must resist our enemies in any and every way, and try to leave those who come after us a people that is as great as ever, dead and buried in the earth.

“For we are the guardians of values which have no price. Always in solidarity, never in solitude. We keep watch so that our families may sleep in peace. Always awake, We advance to make fear retreat, here, elsewhere, and farther [afield] still. We will always go to the front so that the people may never falter!

"We are the guardians. The shields. The wagers of war!”

Silence fell and for a few brief moments, no one spoke.

But, without order or instruction, someone stomped.

Then another,

And another,

And as if goaded by an unknown force, the powdery snow rose with their feet, heavy with indignation, with the desire for conquest and liberation, chanting with great vigour the name of the people.

Donner’s eyes glazed over, his feet stomping against his will. Deep down he felt something was wrong with everything, with the war, the enemy, even the speech.

Nonetheless, he stomped and shouted in chorus with his fellow soldiers.

Nothing beats being a part of something greater.

“WAR!”

“WAR!”

“WAR!”

They shouted, their voices echoing the fields and rousing all the townsfolk within earshot.

Donner’s gaze rose to meet his lord. A young man of seemingly indomitable will. A leader worthy of reverence.

Then the earl spoke, raising his voice far above the rest of the crowd.

His voice drenched in viscous valour.

“Now, My brave men!”

“We march…

Unto victory!”