Cräg nôch tærann!

Vandus looked to the other members of the platoon. He was the only one who bore the red shoulder pad that distinguished him as a payed conscript. The black emblem sewn on to it in black leather, a fox head with one eye, signified him as a member of the esteemed and feared Order d’Militante (officially known as the Hereditary Order d’Militante d’Ranum of Strona). He was dressed in his typical war gear, a shirt and hood of iron chainmail provided most of the protection while leather gauntlets protected his hands and forearms. Over his chain shirt, he wore a hauberk of thick burlap painted with the colors of the hiring military, in this case red and orange, the colors of the Anos Legionaires. The last bit of protection was in the form of re-enforced leather shoulder pads baring the same colors and insignias. The only other things that signified him as more than one of the other worthless peons and fodder of the Anos Legionaires were his weapons, a steel short spear with runes of fortitude inscribed in it and a bronze shield with the same one eyed fox and runes of protection upon it, and all the little trinkets and trophies attached to his person from previous battles and fights.

Hanging from his neck, dangled a pendant of great sentimental value to him. It was a simple stone triangle, but inscribed in to it and repainted with some red ink was the Mark of Ranum, the god of Glorious Deaths. Those who looked upon it would be drawn in, lost in the intricacies of the mark (eight isosceles triangles all pointing to an empty center and aligned to create the illusion of 4 lines intersecting at a center point and the space in between filled with red). Vandus always felt a certain amount of comfort wearing that pendant, as if there was an invisible shield in front of his own that would always protect him.

The small differences in his appearance though, were a wild contrast to that of the other members of his platoon. All fair skinned and green eyed Anosians, they not only bore an almost familiar resemblence, but their uniforms were exact duplicates. Each wore a suit of chainmail covering all but the face. Over that each wore the same green and orange burlap hauberk over their torsos and leather shoulder pads, each painted a certain color to represent rank. Platoon commanders wore read on their shoulders, captains wore orange, foot soldier wore green and militia men wore yellow. Any man of higher rank wore specialized shoulder protection of different material.

The platoon of soldiers marched over the cobbled road at a fair speed. Far ahead marched another platoon, scouting ahead for dangers. The truth of the matter was, the kingdom of Anos was at war. A war they could not win. They were fighting the Odrun’s on one border, a kingdom of war hungry cavalry men intent on fighting for the sake of fighting, and the barbarian picts on another border. The kingdom had little hope of defeating the Odrun’s alone, let alone with the barbarian Picts marauding to the east. All seemed to be lost, but with great resolve the kingdom had kept alive. They had contracted out most of the Order d’Militante and many mercenary companies in the hopes of strengthening their small army. It was a long shot, but it was better than nothing.

Faintly, a thumping sound began sounding in Vandus’ ears. At first he thought it was his heart pounding during the steady march, but as it grew louder his weary eyes shot open. Drums. Drums pounding out a deathly call, signifying only one thing. The others heard it too and looked around wildly.

“Here they come!” shouted one of the platoon’s captains, waving his war banner back and forth. No sooner had he said that than the cries and screams of men erupted around them in the forest. Warcries. Out of the trees poured a mass of blue and tan flesh. The attacking force came at the platoon from both sides, catching the edges off guard. The first rush broke the lines of the Anos Legionaires and threatened to crash right through them, but those who had time to react held strong.

“Men! Form two groups facing the sides!” called the commander, gesturing wildly with his rune carved longsword. The soldiers, as poorly trained as they were, followed orders exceptionally well and through the midst of battle, they formed two lines, each facing the sides of the road.

Shield walls were formed and Vandus found himself at the front of one. Hordes of picts swarmed out of the trees, horrid barbarians dressed in simple leather and cloth. Most of them had a fair amount of exposed skin that was painted in blue war paint. All of them were armed with simple archaic weapons, bone, wood and stone axes, spears and clubs. Some held rusty swords and axes, obviously looted from previous raids. Each snarled and bellowed, even as they died. Vandus thrust his short spear over his shield in an unpredictable pattern, piercing flesh and leather, occasionally ducking an over head chop. The shield wall held strong and bodies began piling up. A lucky savage caught him across the nose with the tip of his crude dagger but was sent to the depths of hell a moment later by two quick jabs of Vandus’ spear.

Fighting had only lasted for no more than five minutes, but suddenly the barbarians ceased their assault. As Vandus pulled his spear from the corpse of one of them, he looked up and found no more, it was as if they had never been there. However experience had taught the young soldier one thing about picts. They were never gone unless you were dead.

“Raise those shields, archers!” he shouted. The other members of the platoon gave him an odd look at first but quickly they understood. Just in time the groups of men raised their shields in a vertical shield wall to intercept the sudden barrage of arrows coming from hidden archers in the trees. The rattling thunk and occasional cry of a man not so lucky was all that could be heard for a moment, then there was only silence. In the distance a crow called, pleased at the sight of battle as that surely meant he’d have supper, but that was the only sound. Slowly the shields were lowered as men looked about bewilderment.

“Cräg nôch tærann!” came a cry from the woods in the guttural voices of hundreds of savages. Vandus rolled his eyes, this was only the beginning.