He remembered the arrows most of all. Plucked goose feathers once again taking flight as arrow fletchings, their brilliant white feathers now thirsting for crimson blood. That suffocating cloud of arrows, their volleys either death or disfigurement....
They had stood on the muddy banks of the River Yonne... 8,000 French and Scotsmen against 4,000 English and Burgundians, brought to this place near the little village of Cravant. It was warm that morning, humid, typical for so late in July. Dumas had stood in the ranks of the crossbowmen that day, but the bow had felt like a lead weight in his hands. He was damned tired. They had been marching for days beforehand to come to this place, and by now, his garments were tattered and torn. The metal links of his chainmail were beginning to rust, but they were hidden beneath the white and black livery of the Duchy of Brittany, carefully stowed away in his pack until the day of battle. The badge on his shoulder, three yellow chevrons on a red field proclaimed him as a man of Ambroise de Lore, the Baron of Ivry. It was somewhat strange, he thought... Here he was, fighting in the company of a Norman baron, in the army of a Count of Brittany, under the flag of the King of the French... A king who by all accounts, was slowly going mad. Why was he here? Why was any one of them here in this godforsaken place?
"You're here, my friends, to kick the arses of those bloody English sods all the way back across the Channel!" The Earl of Buchan, the Scottish commander shouted from the back of his horse which skirted about nervously by the steep river bank. He raised his waraxe in the air, and with his other hand he crammed a helmet onto his head, covering his wildly flowing hair. His oddly accented French was strangely amusing, but the troops stationed about Dumas raised their voices in a cheer, and he could not but help join in. The Earl cut an inspirational figure, and had fought many a campaign against the English before.
Old Poulet thumped Dumas on the back. "We'll show 'em this time, lad!" Dumas grinned at the old man, the eldest of the company. He had been a mercenary since Hourches, over forty years ago... A pissy little village near the Spanish border, as the old fellow could never stop telling the younger men of the company about. The French forces had slaughtered the Spanish there, only to be routed at the last moment by flanking charge by a English force of men-at-arms. Poulet had never given up his thirst for vengeance from that defeat. Old Poulet. Old fool.
Despite the zeal of the Franco-Scots forces, the battle didn't begin right away. In fact, the opposing sides stood on the banks of the Yonne for three hours, neither trusting in victory if they crossed the river. The Scottish began to grow impatient, demanding a sudden charge. They outnumbered the English, after all. But The Comte de Vendome, commander of the combined French forces, protested. He feared the English longbowmen... seen what they had done at Agincourt. So the Scots and French settled down to wait, the rising temperature slowly sapping their strength.
Without warning, the English and Burgundian forces suddenly surged forward, right as the French were settling down for their midday meal, lines of longbowmen rushing out ahead of the infantry, bundles of long ash arrows at their sides.
"Now lads, here's your chance!" The Baron de Lore shoved his way through the lines, to the front of his company. A page hurried after, struggling with the baron's shield. "Those bastards are going to try to cross, but they'll fail! Now, give them hell and cold steel!" The baron's sword rasped out of his scabbard, and he pushed through the crossbowmen to the men-at-arms, posistioning himself in the very front of the line. All throughout the French posistions, commanders rushed forward, taken mostly unawares by the sudden English assault. "Now fire! Fire you bragarts! Give them a volley!"
They tried. But the English had far more archers than they had reckoned. All the French and Scottish marksmen could do was cower under the shields of the men-at-arms. Thousands, upon thousands of those cursed ash arrow fell from the heavens, maiming and killing, indiscriminately. He remembered his crossbow being ripped from his hands, its firing mechanism mangled by and English arrow. And then suddenly, they were upon them. Swords, spears, warhammers... They smashed into the French front, splintering shields aside, piercing armor with vicious strikes. They fought like devils, the bloody English Goddamns... They were pushed back up the muddy slope, loosing ground.
Rushing foreword, he drew his rapier, jabbing over the shield of Old Parlout. A slam of a hammer wrenched it aside, and a spear took the old man in the side of the face. Down in an instant, no time even for Dumas to notice the jet of blood before he was desperately parrying the spear's second thrust aside. A great hack, and a sliver of wood went flying, but the rapier's blade held fast in the shattered remains of the shaft. The snarling English face, cursing at him, grabbing at him with his free hand. Dumas's booted foot flew out, kicked hard at the man's groin. He tumbled, was covered up by the shields of his comrades. Hold the line, hold the line!
Jostled and pushed about by his own side as much as the enemy, Dumas found himself shoulder to shoulder with the Baron de Lore. The Baron grinned at him, his face bloody, his helm long ago discarded. De Lore hacked at a Burgundian swordsman who came too close, bloodied fingers flying through the air. He screamed wildly as he slashed, then shouted to Dumas. "Told you to loose that bloody play sword! You need something to savage them! Savage them!" The Baron cried out again, and plunged into the enemy ranks, his heavy broadsword battering down his foes, as much as slicing them apart. Dumas breathed heavily, trying to follow, darting in with quick thrusts of the slim rapier, looking for his chance. But the press of enemy troops was too great... he felt himself being pushed back, no room to maneveuer. He gave ground, falling back between the others of his company. The sword was no use in a brawl like this... why the hell did he insist on carrying it around? He had claimed it off of an English noble during Agincourt, some fopish fool that had charged out too far away from the English that day. Now he would die like that fool, unable to hack his way through this melee. His vanity would get him killed.
Somewhere to his right, the Scots were fighting hard, trying to protect a narrow bridge over the river... He spotted the Earl again, swinging that great axe wildly from his horse... Suddenly, a thrown javelin slammed against his breastplate, tossing him from the saddle... A rush in the Scottish ranks, trying to protect him from the English that surrounded his horse... But the English screamed back in defiance, and the Burgudians ran up in support, their swordsmen cutting their way through, eager to win the bridge... The roar of combat was as if a monster from the depths of hell had escaped its prison, and was now screaming its way across the river... The Scots lost the bridge.. The army was now divided.
Cavalry began to pound through the river, sending dirty cascades of water about, the pouding thunder of the hooves reverberating in Dumas's ears. The French ranks began to fall back... A trickle at first, the Count of Brittany shouting, "Stand, Stand!"
It was to no avail... It had started, and soon the trickle became a rush. The Englishmen began to hack their way through, the archers dashed forward, the cavalry struggled through the dense waters... The French broke, left the bewildered Scotsmen to be cut down by the hundreds.
He ran. His company had been slaughtered, he saw the Baron, cursing madly, pulled away from the fight by his attendants, an arrow through his arm... He would not be captured by these English bastards, nor their Burgundian dogs! Never!
He recalled the mad dash to the woods on the banks of the Loire, the sun falling quickly... Reach the woods... Hide, rest, think... A smattering of soldiers ran with him, too many... They attracted the attention of the English cavalry... The horsemen rode them down, spears thirsting for blood... He remembered the horse behind him, could feel the hot breath on his neck. One chance, and he knew it.... He spun, the rapier hot in his hands, the blade swinging wildly at the horses head... He missed. The horse and rider slammed into him, the butt of the man's spear smacking into his head. Stunned, he fell to the grass....
There was the clatter of blades ahead, some of the others sensing the end and trying to stand and fight... Somehow, in the chaos, he went unnoticed, perhaps thought to be dead... Crawling through the tall grass, stumbling, keep low, keep low... He scrambled for the tree line. Suddenly a misjudged step sent him tumbling over a ravine... Falling, tossed about by rocks and roots... Another searing pain in his head. Blackness.
When he opened his eyes, it was night. The dull light of the moon shown through the thick branches above... He was cold, freezing... His clothes soaking wet and torn... Move... Just move... Every bone ached, the strain was too much. A heavy mist began to swirl on the edges of his vision. His eyes closed again.
Hours passed, or was it merely minutes? He remembered waking to shouting, English voices... Or were they? He could hardly hear. All he knew was fear, desperation. His head swirling, he somehow gathered the strength to rise. A thick mist obscured his vision... Crawling forwards a few feet, the wet ground suddenly gave, and he fell again, this time not into the solidness of earth, but the icy terror of water... A pounding in his ears, choking for breath.... Then darkness again.
This time, when he awoke, his head felt strangely numb. Almost a comforting feeling. Was this dying? No, no, not yet. Not now...
Opening his eyes, the world slid into focus... A black, crisp night greeted him. The cool sensation of a sandy river bank between his fingers.... The sudden hoot of an owl, causing his muscles to tense... Memories of the past few hours a haze in his head. He remembered rolling over onto his back, and looking up at the stars... Odd. They looked... Different. Something was different about them. For hours he lay there, listening to the sounds of nature about him. The wind blowing through the grass, the gentle trickle of the river, some small animals scurrying about the underbrush. The mists felt refreshing on his face....
He pulled himself to the river, cupping his hands in the icy water, drinking deeply, willing himself back to life. As he knelt on the bank, a distant rhythmic sound reached his ears... Drums? Yes, it was certainly drums... And... Flutes... An oddly melancholy tune. Rubbing his eyes, he peered into the night, scanning the trees. On the edge of his perception, there was a slight orange glow.... A fire.
Looking about, he steadied himself and rose to his feet. With no better course of action, he began to walk slowly forward, into the trees, through the mist, following the sounds and the light. There was a clearing ahead, voices... Strange accents. He moved through the undergrowth, inexplicably drawn towards clearing... He emerged from the treeline, a bewildered look on his face.
"Welcome to Barovia, Outsider."
