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Spring, 1375
The Stanton militia regrouped again; Rabia and Turin in the narthex with every fighter that could be spared, some civilian volunteers choosing to defend the windows in their stead. Logan remained in reserve with Patel in the center with a score of hand-picked fighters, while Sonia collected spare weapons and reusable projectiles and armed some civilians to defend themselves if things came to a last stand. Now exposed by an open door, the defenders at the front of the church threw up an impromptu barricade using chairs, tables, and whatever could be erected as an impediment. Soon enough Rabia, Turin and the others crouched behind a waist-high barrier, waiting for the next wave as projectiles began embedding themselves against the fortification.
“Here they come!”
Sure enough, the next attack was focused on the front, and the zipping of crossbows was soon joined by the clash of arms. With Pizzaro throwing the bulk of his fighters there, the Stanton militia was slowly pushed back from the barricade.
And then the center gave way.
A screaming pikeman broke through the cordon and charged through the nave, in his berserk anger aiming to strike down a family huddling nearby. Logan quickly intercepted, impaling the attacker with his awlpike and lacking space to let the writhing man die, simply hurled him out through the nearby window. Rabia had counterattacked as well, wheeling from the narthex to strike at the enemy breach from the rear, his hammer crushing another attacker’s bardiche followed by a second strike crushing the wielder’s skull. Together with the other warriors from the reserve the pair fought their way back to the narthex. It was another chaotic and bloody exchange, friend and foe falling in heaps around the seats and noncombatants huddled along the walls. Finally the remaining Legionaires fled once again, covered by those firing from outside. As other defenders slowly rebuilt the barricades over the doorway and repaired the covered windows the Forester staggered back to the nave and warily sat on the floor. Most of the surviving townsfolk stared back at him questioningly.
“Can we hold out against another attack?” Someone asked quietly.
Logan looked back over at the remaining defenders. Of the Stanton militia, perhaps only two hundred were left, and many were wounded, all were exhausted, and all were demoralized.
The Forester shook his head. “No, I don’t believe we can.”
The silence that fell over the church was deafening.
Finally, Father Mackie stepped forward.
“Let us pray then, for forgiveness from our crimes.”
All eyes turned back to Logan. The Forester sighed and nodded.
“We can do that, Father.”
Regardless of faith or lack thereof, the eight hundred-odd cityfolk sheltering in the building prayed for the crimes they had committed. For the first time in decades Logan, with Sonia at his side, prayed. He prayed to the Heavens for his failure to prevent the Guester Massacre and for his failure to hold back the dragon’s wrath. And he prayed for his son, who he hoped had reached safety before this vice slammed shut.
For the first time in years, for one brief terrifying moment, the community unified.
And then survival returned to the fore.
“We can pay our lives dearly, and hope for a miracle.” The Forester simply stated as he got back up.
Pairs of ax men were sent to guard each window, and all of the surviving pikemen were sent to the barricade at the narthex to confront the next wave. Trying to keep the bandage on his head from falling over his eyes, Rabia kept a tense watch on the doorway, his hammer ready to cave in the head of the first bandit to break through. Logan watched from the transept with an arrow loaded in his crossbow, his awlpike by his side, ready for any breakthroughs. The remaining militia sat with their backs to the church walls, their ranged ammunition mostly exhausted, awaiting a final feat of sword and spear play while the women, children and elderly huddled along the pews in the nave and the altar in the chancel , all awaiting the last act.
But that final attack never occurred.
All night, the battered defenders waited for the raiders to renew their onslaught, but strangely nothing further occurred, not even sniping shots.
Evidently the Ragged Legion were content to loot what they could.
In their guarded preparations, the townsfolk did not notice that in the darkness outside the dragon had flown out, slowly circled the church in the center of town once, and then left. Pizarro knew better. The bandits under his command knew better, cowering under the giant silhouette casting a long shadow on the moonlight. Silently the Ragged Legion broke off the attack, carrying their dead and wounded, and what treasure they could carry, and disappeared into the coming dawn.
The people of Stanton waited at their positions all night, barely keeping up to prevent themselves from collapsing from exhaustion. When the night went by and the sun began to rise without any assault, Logan, Turin and anyone with an iota of energy left to check the ruins.
The scouting parties carefully picked their way through the charred and broken wreckage of what had once been Stanton, facing no opposition.
At the edge of town they came across an equally nervous line of militia from Goldsboro, belatedly coming as reinforcements to support their neighbors.
And then it was finally over.
With the support of their allied troops, the remaining townsfolk finally left the protection of their stronghold to rest and pick up the pieces of their home. It was a sad sight: Stanton was a gutted wreck. Fully a third of all the homes in the city had been destroyed in the fighting, charred broken buildings with lonely chimneys standing forlornly over the ruins. Whole districts had been reduced to ash, the remainder looted and ransacked. Bodies lay everywhere. Even the Goldboro militia seemed shocked by the death and destruction as they assembled around the city square.
“Has Stanton finally become cursed as well?” A young lad from the neighboring town asked, more to himself than anyone in particular.
Warily propping himself against the church wall, Logan nevertheless managed to give a wan smile. “Sure seems like it, kid. Nothing lasts forever.”
Radical Face - Always Gold
From
Skalifer ~ Alita_Berserker!
The Stanton militia regrouped again; Rabia and Turin in the narthex with every fighter that could be spared, some civilian volunteers choosing to defend the windows in their stead. Logan remained in reserve with Patel in the center with a score of hand-picked fighters, while Sonia collected spare weapons and reusable projectiles and armed some civilians to defend themselves if things came to a last stand. Now exposed by an open door, the defenders at the front of the church threw up an impromptu barricade using chairs, tables, and whatever could be erected as an impediment. Soon enough Rabia, Turin and the others crouched behind a waist-high barrier, waiting for the next wave as projectiles began embedding themselves against the fortification.
“Here they come!”
Sure enough, the next attack was focused on the front, and the zipping of crossbows was soon joined by the clash of arms. With Pizzaro throwing the bulk of his fighters there, the Stanton militia was slowly pushed back from the barricade.
And then the center gave way.
A screaming pikeman broke through the cordon and charged through the nave, in his berserk anger aiming to strike down a family huddling nearby. Logan quickly intercepted, impaling the attacker with his awlpike and lacking space to let the writhing man die, simply hurled him out through the nearby window. Rabia had counterattacked as well, wheeling from the narthex to strike at the enemy breach from the rear, his hammer crushing another attacker’s bardiche followed by a second strike crushing the wielder’s skull. Together with the other warriors from the reserve the pair fought their way back to the narthex. It was another chaotic and bloody exchange, friend and foe falling in heaps around the seats and noncombatants huddled along the walls. Finally the remaining Legionaires fled once again, covered by those firing from outside. As other defenders slowly rebuilt the barricades over the doorway and repaired the covered windows the Forester staggered back to the nave and warily sat on the floor. Most of the surviving townsfolk stared back at him questioningly.
“Can we hold out against another attack?” Someone asked quietly.
Logan looked back over at the remaining defenders. Of the Stanton militia, perhaps only two hundred were left, and many were wounded, all were exhausted, and all were demoralized.
The Forester shook his head. “No, I don’t believe we can.”
The silence that fell over the church was deafening.
Finally, Father Mackie stepped forward.
“Let us pray then, for forgiveness from our crimes.”
All eyes turned back to Logan. The Forester sighed and nodded.
“We can do that, Father.”
Regardless of faith or lack thereof, the eight hundred-odd cityfolk sheltering in the building prayed for the crimes they had committed. For the first time in decades Logan, with Sonia at his side, prayed. He prayed to the Heavens for his failure to prevent the Guester Massacre and for his failure to hold back the dragon’s wrath. And he prayed for his son, who he hoped had reached safety before this vice slammed shut.
For the first time in years, for one brief terrifying moment, the community unified.
And then survival returned to the fore.
“We can pay our lives dearly, and hope for a miracle.” The Forester simply stated as he got back up.
Pairs of ax men were sent to guard each window, and all of the surviving pikemen were sent to the barricade at the narthex to confront the next wave. Trying to keep the bandage on his head from falling over his eyes, Rabia kept a tense watch on the doorway, his hammer ready to cave in the head of the first bandit to break through. Logan watched from the transept with an arrow loaded in his crossbow, his awlpike by his side, ready for any breakthroughs. The remaining militia sat with their backs to the church walls, their ranged ammunition mostly exhausted, awaiting a final feat of sword and spear play while the women, children and elderly huddled along the pews in the nave and the altar in the chancel , all awaiting the last act.
But that final attack never occurred.
All night, the battered defenders waited for the raiders to renew their onslaught, but strangely nothing further occurred, not even sniping shots.
Evidently the Ragged Legion were content to loot what they could.
In their guarded preparations, the townsfolk did not notice that in the darkness outside the dragon had flown out, slowly circled the church in the center of town once, and then left. Pizarro knew better. The bandits under his command knew better, cowering under the giant silhouette casting a long shadow on the moonlight. Silently the Ragged Legion broke off the attack, carrying their dead and wounded, and what treasure they could carry, and disappeared into the coming dawn.
The people of Stanton waited at their positions all night, barely keeping up to prevent themselves from collapsing from exhaustion. When the night went by and the sun began to rise without any assault, Logan, Turin and anyone with an iota of energy left to check the ruins.
The scouting parties carefully picked their way through the charred and broken wreckage of what had once been Stanton, facing no opposition.
At the edge of town they came across an equally nervous line of militia from Goldsboro, belatedly coming as reinforcements to support their neighbors.
And then it was finally over.
With the support of their allied troops, the remaining townsfolk finally left the protection of their stronghold to rest and pick up the pieces of their home. It was a sad sight: Stanton was a gutted wreck. Fully a third of all the homes in the city had been destroyed in the fighting, charred broken buildings with lonely chimneys standing forlornly over the ruins. Whole districts had been reduced to ash, the remainder looted and ransacked. Bodies lay everywhere. Even the Goldboro militia seemed shocked by the death and destruction as they assembled around the city square.
“Has Stanton finally become cursed as well?” A young lad from the neighboring town asked, more to himself than anyone in particular.
Warily propping himself against the church wall, Logan nevertheless managed to give a wan smile. “Sure seems like it, kid. Nothing lasts forever.”
Radical Face - Always Gold
From
Skalifer ~ Alita_Berserker!
Category Artwork (Digital) / Fantasy
Species Western Dragon
Size 1800 x 1200px
File Size 2.89 MB
Listed in Folders
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