das
Regeneration In Process
I take that back.
If they were controlled by a human player, they probably will not. But since they are AI, all I could say is good luck.
Beliux said:
Mars said:
Pax Romana
- Thread starter Vanadorn
- Start date
I take that back.
If they were controlled by a human player, they probably will not. But since they are AI, all I could say is good luck.
Cataphrak
Knight of RPG
actually, it depends on the difficulty, to decide if they can take the city or not, however... why aren`t the arabians sending rienforcments
Vanadorn
Motorcycling Paladin
@ das: Mars! Very funny. Glad the war god is enjoying this!
@ Cataphrak: Zulus are standing between us right now. They've sprung a trap on the I'm sure reinforcing Arabs, but I cannot see their movement in Zulu land.
Next chapter (and the sad one I mentioned earlier for those who are fans): 30 seconds.
@ Cataphrak: Zulus are standing between us right now. They've sprung a trap on the I'm sure reinforcing Arabs, but I cannot see their movement in Zulu land.
Next chapter (and the sad one I mentioned earlier for those who are fans): 30 seconds.
Vanadorn
Motorcycling Paladin
“Captain! War ship closing! East!”
Captain Thrium and most of the top side crew ran to the bow rail of the Furious Thundercloud to see what Pratius, the ship’s lookout, was calling about. Sure enough, bobbing wildly on the southern seas was a slightly smaller and sleek hulled version of the Roman vessel. The sails were stretched full on the approaching galley that was crossing the Thundercloud’s heading in an effort to cut her off.
“Grey and white?” on of the crewmen asked, noting the colors of the other vessel. “Cap’n, who sails under grey and white sails?”
Thrium shook his head. “Could be the Phyrgians. Or maybe the Phoenicians. Dammit, I though both those tribes had disappeared long ago.” Judging the other vessel’s speed and the blowing wind, he sighed deeply. “All right, boys! I want the sail dropped now. I want every yard of cloth we have stitched to our mast and blowing away.” Pointing, “You, get the runners loosened and get the men ready, we might have to use a boost if possible.” Looking up, “Pratius! I want a distance sounding from you every 5 minutes. Don’t be fancy, just your best guess!” Waving his arms and racing for the rudder, he cried, “Come on you men, get to it!”
The deck became a mass of organized chaos. Sailors climbed the main mast, unfurling the last of the red and black sail. Others caught the trailing ropes, tightening the cinch lines hard against the lower bracing. Meanwhile, Captain Thrium caught hold of the rudder himself, turning the tired galley back towards open water, trying the skew the vessel back the way it came.
“Twent…Twenty-Eight hundred meters!” Platius called from above, gripping the guardrail tightly to avoid pitching into the ocean.
The Thundercloud slid into a rolling stop as the wind caught the sail along the aft side. With the cold waters of the Serenic almost washing over the starboard rail, the great galley righted slowly, its heading back west toward the empty lands they had passed earlier.
“Cap’n!” Kirus, dragging himself hand over hand to Thrium by use of the rails and ratlines, gripped his friend by the shoulder. “Cap’n! Be careful! The hull’s not wha’ it once was an’ the transom still weak even afte’ the repairs we did!”
Thrium nodded, relaxing the tight turn he had been holding, allowing the Thundercloud to better pick its way through the churning waves. “Gotcha, Kirus. She might be tired, but she’ll hold.” The wind caught full along the sail, billowing it out and driving the galley forward. With a lurch and a groan, the Thundercloud lifted its bow out of the frothy churn and gathered speed in its new westerly heading.
“Twenty-one hundred meters!”
“Neptune’s beard!” Thrium gently feathered the rudder, angling the Thundercloud closer to land. “How the hell did we lose that much ground? What? Are they sailing on moonbeams and devil’s wings?!”
Kirus looked back at the closing galley, a scowl coloring his craggy face. “We’re ridin’ low, Cap’n. Full crew and passengers to boot. Plus, tha’ ain’t no canoe or barge we’re lookin’ to outrun. Tha’ there’s a mean, eel skin smooth, cornered mink of a war junket; and we’ve been a-water wit’out a dry dock fer more months than I’ve got wrinkles.”
The eastern sky darkened slightly as clouds from the cold southern waters churned up behind the sailing ships. The winds increased, fueled now by the circling storm front many kilometers away. This gave a rise to both vessels speed. The mast of the Thundercloud groaned as it was pushed forward against the braces.
“Fifteen hundred meters!”
Taking a quick heading, Thrium said, “Kirus, I want everything we don’t need pitched over the sides. Can the food and water, leave us 2 days on board. We’ve got to lighten our load.”
“Ay, ay, Cap’n!” The deck master raced for the hold, tapping a half dozen burly sailors along the way. In short order, barrels and boxes were brought up on deck and cast over board; a long trail stretching behind the Thundercloud looking like some gory wound of flotsam and jetsam. Thrium felt the vessel respond under his hand as the weight lifted from the hold of the ship. The deck tilted slightly under his feet as the Thundercloud picked up more speed.
“Twelve…Eleven hundred meters!”
Kirus, sweating and puffing, rejoined the Captain. “Holds mostly empty, Cap’n! Alls left is bare ‘ssentials an’ a su’prised family o’ rats.” He smiled. “They chattered somethin’ fierce at us!”
The galley continued its flight, its pursuer staying tight behind. After every barrel and bale had been stowed and roped, the entire deck was filled with the crew and her guardian legionnaires. No one missed the fact, that even with the reduction of weight and full sails, that Pratius’ calls continued to cry out the bare faced truth of the situation.
“Five…Six hundred meters!”
After 3 grueling hours, it was becoming apparent that the Thundercloud would be unable to outrun the other ship. Without the order being needed, bows and arrows were brought topside. Swords were passed about. Ropes and grapples were prepared. The legionnaires went below decks and emerged later garbed in their red leather and iron breastplates.
“Five hundred meters!”
“Wha’s the plan, Cap’n?”
Thrium shrugged. “Still working it, Kirus.” The galley rose and fell under their feet, sliding up and down through the troughs and waves. “What’re our chances?”
The grizzled deck master sucked his teeth. “Don’ know fer sure. Can say that we ain’t gonna survive a rammin’ from them; hulls mostly empty prayers to Neptune and driftwood nowadays. An’ most o’ the boys are no better’n a fair shot wit’ the bow. I give us even odds an’ a roll o’ the dice, not knowin’ which way to hedge our bets.”
“Thanks. Real help you are.”
“Jus’ being up front wit’ ya, Cap’n. It’sall I’ve ever been.”
“Nah. You’ve been a great friend and a good deck master, Kirus. No one I’d rather have at my side than you.”
“Four hundred fifty meters!”
Thrium seemed to deflate. “I’m not holding much hope out as you Kirus. I’ve heard too many stories of barbarian attacks on sea and on land. Raw animals they are; no parley, no talking, no prisoners – just loot and plunder. We’ll get no quarter from these sea dogs.” The storm clouds had now crept closer to the vessels, the air charged with ozone and the sky spitting lightning. He pointed. “About time Zeus showed up. Hope he likes the show.”
Judging the distance to the land, Thrium said, “I’m going to bring us closer to shore. Just in case things go bad, I want our boys to have a chance at making it home.”
“Don’ talk like that, Cap’n. You’ll see us through, you ‘ave through worse.”
“Just being a realist, Kirus. Part of the job and comes with the title.” Gently, the Thundercloud edged closer to land. “This is gonna slow us down more, so get the men ready.”
Saluting smartly, Kirus said, “Ay, ay, Cap’n!”
“Four hundred meters!”
As the distance to shore shrunk from thousands to hundreds of meters northward off the starboard rail, the deck master had the crew and legions as ready as they were going to be. Hastily constructed barricades of planking were erected to guard the men from oncoming enemy fire. Arrows were divided and redivided again. As the great vessel slowed from the drag of the shrinking water line, the call to the runners was given out; the great paddles adding some of the stolen speed back to the Thundercloud’s heading.
“Two hundred meters!”
Lightning split the sky, less than 3 kilometers east and south of the racing ships, followed by a clap of thunder that rattled the deck. The wind picked up in time with the rain that came lashing out of the sky.
Kirus returned to the Captain. “At least this’ll keep them from torching the sails!” he cried.
Thrium nodded. “Yeah! Listen, I want the sails half furled, don’t want a hawser line rip cording across the deck.” Kirus nodded, running to get the order fulfilled. From above, Pratius dutifully called out the ever-shrinking distances, better able to judge as the space narrowed. The Thundercloud and the barbarian galley both reduced their sailcloth in the face of the storm winds blowing.
“80 meters!” was the cry, followed frantically by, “Arrows!!”
Wobbling wildly out of the windy sky, a barrage of desperate arrows landed around the Roman galley, none of them striking anything or anyone with real force. “Son of a…!” Kirus swore, shaking one of the fallen shafts at the closing vessel. “Ya filthy animals!” he howled, joined by the jeering catcalls of the assembled host. Another volley was sent, again with limited results. “Let ‘em waste their shots, boys. Neptune’ll be teachin them their errors afore this day be done!” The crew cheered.
“60 meters!” and later still “45 meters! ARROWS AGAIN!”
This time the volley landed with more punch, sticking into the deck and sails of the Thundercloud. A few heartbeats later, a 2nd volley struck, this time actually hitting one of the sailors, hitting the unfortunate Roman high on the shoulder.
“Kirus!” Captain Thrium called. “Volley!”
“You ‘eard the Cap’n! FIRE!” As one, over one hundred bows thrummed out as the Romans fired their arrows back at the chasing, grey sailed ship. The sight of falling men and others ducking for cover gave heart to the crew. “Come on, boys! Bend yer bows…send a shaft to their hearts fo’ Cap’n Thrium!”
“Captain Thrium!” cheering, the Romans sent another wave to toward the chasing ship. Back and forth, the two crews fired their bows at one another. As the distance was called down to 30 meters and less, target became more defined, even with the wind and rain spoiling most aims. The wounded and slain tolls began to mount steadily higher on both galleys.
“Pratius!” Captain Thrium called. “Get me a headcount!”
He had to wait some two dozen heartbeats before the answering cry came, “Two hundred, Captain! 20 meters! Captain, they’re trying to come along out port side!”
Daring a glance back behind the protective cowling, Thrium growled, seeing that his lookout was right. He thought about sliding back south, but realized that he would end up tacking before them, losing what wind he needed to keep them from drawing upon his vessel now. Silently he commended their captain. His crew still outnumbered theirs, but the Thundercloud could not risk even a gentle jostling or ramming. Gritting his teeth, he allowed himself to be forced northward; towards land and progressively shallower waters.
The volley of arrows was almost constant now, the firing of bows droning into one another as dozens and hundreds of shafts were traded back and forth. The grey sailed galley drew closer, constantly riding the port aft. As the broadsides of the vessels drew even, the pace of volley fire grew frantic. The original defense works of the Romans became useless under the new angle of attack. Kicking them down, the crew instead tried to use the defensive posturing and shields that the legionnaires were providing to return fire from.
The enemy vessel was crewed by much better archers, their shafts picking loose Romans off with almost contemptuous ease. In addition, besides the targeting of those on deck, arrow after arrow were sent at and through the port holes that the runners were mounted through, striking the crewmen below and slowing the Thundercloud even more.
Thrium wanted to faint as he watched the other galley’s navigator thrust the rudder hard to the south. The bow of the galley swung towards his vessel. At the same time, their runners pulled up and in, hastening the swing. There was nothing he could do but yell out, “Brace for impact!”
Like a swatting hand, the starboard bow snapped through Thrium’s portside runners like matchsticks, and slammed like a pounding fist into the Thundercloud’s hull. With a lurch and a groan, the mighty Roman galley listed far to starboard and then rolled port, its hull splintered and the water pouring through. Pratius was flung like a child’s toy sling from the crow’s nest, smashing into the deck of the barbarian galley with a bone snapping crunch before bouncing limply over the side.
“We’ve been holed!” Thrium cried, abandoning the now useless rudder. “Repel boarders! Carpenters below!” Drawing his sword, he charged toward the rail, trying to keep the raiders from boarding his vessel. They swarmed over, hacking and slicing at the Romans with their curved blades. The legionnaires held firm, a rock for the frightened sailors to base their defenses from.
“Captain, captain!” Shoving his blade into the guts of the pocked raider before him, Thrium backed up and turned. One of the carpenters, soaked to the skin was grabbing his arm. “Captain! It’s no use! We’ve been holed deep and we’re taking on too much water!”
“Neptune save us!” he swore. Clapping the sailor on the shoulder he shoved him back and yelled out, “Abandon ship! Children of Rome, abandon ship!” As his men fought a rapid retreat to the starboard rail and land not too far away, Thrium charged toward his cabin, dodging arrows and swords when able. Shouldering his door open, he was dismayed to see the water was already knee deep across his chamber. Hastily, he grabbed the charts and log book off the table, sweeping the precious papers into the oil skinned bag. Giving the room a final look, he turned and ran his way back up to the deck and the fighting.
“Kirus!” he cried, trying to find the deck master in the mass of battling men. “Kirus!”
“’Ere Cap’n!”
Looking, he saw his first mate shoving a trio of sailors over the rail. “Catch!” he cried, hurling the precious bag at him. Kirus caught it, frowning at Thrium.
“Wha’ you doin’, Cap’n!”
“Get that to Rome!” he ordered, redrawing his sword. “I’m staying till everyone’s off. That’s an order mister!”
“But why!?!?”
“Like I said before, it’s part of the job!” Saluting his friend and accepting one in return, Captain Thrium of the Furious Thundercloud marched back into the mass of shrinking legionnaires and rejoined the fight against the barbarian attackers.
By the time Kirus and the six dozen surviving members of the crew had escaped the massacre and swum safely to the swampy shores, the flashing lightning and storm muted daylight showed only one vessel riding the turbulent waves of the Serenic Ocean; and as the day turned into night and no one else swam out of the water, every man standing there knew that the Furious Thundercloud and her brave Captain had been claimed by the watery grasp of Poseidon.
“Captain! War ship closing! East!”
Captain Thrium and most of the top side crew ran to the bow rail of the Furious Thundercloud to see what Pratius, the ship’s lookout, was calling about. Sure enough, bobbing wildly on the southern seas was a slightly smaller and sleek hulled version of the Roman vessel. The sails were stretched full on the approaching galley that was crossing the Thundercloud’s heading in an effort to cut her off.
“Grey and white?” on of the crewmen asked, noting the colors of the other vessel. “Cap’n, who sails under grey and white sails?”
Thrium shook his head. “Could be the Phyrgians. Or maybe the Phoenicians. Dammit, I though both those tribes had disappeared long ago.” Judging the other vessel’s speed and the blowing wind, he sighed deeply. “All right, boys! I want the sail dropped now. I want every yard of cloth we have stitched to our mast and blowing away.” Pointing, “You, get the runners loosened and get the men ready, we might have to use a boost if possible.” Looking up, “Pratius! I want a distance sounding from you every 5 minutes. Don’t be fancy, just your best guess!” Waving his arms and racing for the rudder, he cried, “Come on you men, get to it!”
The deck became a mass of organized chaos. Sailors climbed the main mast, unfurling the last of the red and black sail. Others caught the trailing ropes, tightening the cinch lines hard against the lower bracing. Meanwhile, Captain Thrium caught hold of the rudder himself, turning the tired galley back towards open water, trying the skew the vessel back the way it came.
“Twent…Twenty-Eight hundred meters!” Platius called from above, gripping the guardrail tightly to avoid pitching into the ocean.
The Thundercloud slid into a rolling stop as the wind caught the sail along the aft side. With the cold waters of the Serenic almost washing over the starboard rail, the great galley righted slowly, its heading back west toward the empty lands they had passed earlier.
“Cap’n!” Kirus, dragging himself hand over hand to Thrium by use of the rails and ratlines, gripped his friend by the shoulder. “Cap’n! Be careful! The hull’s not wha’ it once was an’ the transom still weak even afte’ the repairs we did!”
Thrium nodded, relaxing the tight turn he had been holding, allowing the Thundercloud to better pick its way through the churning waves. “Gotcha, Kirus. She might be tired, but she’ll hold.” The wind caught full along the sail, billowing it out and driving the galley forward. With a lurch and a groan, the Thundercloud lifted its bow out of the frothy churn and gathered speed in its new westerly heading.
“Twenty-one hundred meters!”
“Neptune’s beard!” Thrium gently feathered the rudder, angling the Thundercloud closer to land. “How the hell did we lose that much ground? What? Are they sailing on moonbeams and devil’s wings?!”
Kirus looked back at the closing galley, a scowl coloring his craggy face. “We’re ridin’ low, Cap’n. Full crew and passengers to boot. Plus, tha’ ain’t no canoe or barge we’re lookin’ to outrun. Tha’ there’s a mean, eel skin smooth, cornered mink of a war junket; and we’ve been a-water wit’out a dry dock fer more months than I’ve got wrinkles.”
The eastern sky darkened slightly as clouds from the cold southern waters churned up behind the sailing ships. The winds increased, fueled now by the circling storm front many kilometers away. This gave a rise to both vessels speed. The mast of the Thundercloud groaned as it was pushed forward against the braces.
“Fifteen hundred meters!”
Taking a quick heading, Thrium said, “Kirus, I want everything we don’t need pitched over the sides. Can the food and water, leave us 2 days on board. We’ve got to lighten our load.”
“Ay, ay, Cap’n!” The deck master raced for the hold, tapping a half dozen burly sailors along the way. In short order, barrels and boxes were brought up on deck and cast over board; a long trail stretching behind the Thundercloud looking like some gory wound of flotsam and jetsam. Thrium felt the vessel respond under his hand as the weight lifted from the hold of the ship. The deck tilted slightly under his feet as the Thundercloud picked up more speed.
“Twelve…Eleven hundred meters!”
Kirus, sweating and puffing, rejoined the Captain. “Holds mostly empty, Cap’n! Alls left is bare ‘ssentials an’ a su’prised family o’ rats.” He smiled. “They chattered somethin’ fierce at us!”
The galley continued its flight, its pursuer staying tight behind. After every barrel and bale had been stowed and roped, the entire deck was filled with the crew and her guardian legionnaires. No one missed the fact, that even with the reduction of weight and full sails, that Pratius’ calls continued to cry out the bare faced truth of the situation.
“Five…Six hundred meters!”
After 3 grueling hours, it was becoming apparent that the Thundercloud would be unable to outrun the other ship. Without the order being needed, bows and arrows were brought topside. Swords were passed about. Ropes and grapples were prepared. The legionnaires went below decks and emerged later garbed in their red leather and iron breastplates.
“Five hundred meters!”
“Wha’s the plan, Cap’n?”
Thrium shrugged. “Still working it, Kirus.” The galley rose and fell under their feet, sliding up and down through the troughs and waves. “What’re our chances?”
The grizzled deck master sucked his teeth. “Don’ know fer sure. Can say that we ain’t gonna survive a rammin’ from them; hulls mostly empty prayers to Neptune and driftwood nowadays. An’ most o’ the boys are no better’n a fair shot wit’ the bow. I give us even odds an’ a roll o’ the dice, not knowin’ which way to hedge our bets.”
“Thanks. Real help you are.”
“Jus’ being up front wit’ ya, Cap’n. It’sall I’ve ever been.”
“Nah. You’ve been a great friend and a good deck master, Kirus. No one I’d rather have at my side than you.”
“Four hundred fifty meters!”
Thrium seemed to deflate. “I’m not holding much hope out as you Kirus. I’ve heard too many stories of barbarian attacks on sea and on land. Raw animals they are; no parley, no talking, no prisoners – just loot and plunder. We’ll get no quarter from these sea dogs.” The storm clouds had now crept closer to the vessels, the air charged with ozone and the sky spitting lightning. He pointed. “About time Zeus showed up. Hope he likes the show.”
Judging the distance to the land, Thrium said, “I’m going to bring us closer to shore. Just in case things go bad, I want our boys to have a chance at making it home.”
“Don’ talk like that, Cap’n. You’ll see us through, you ‘ave through worse.”
“Just being a realist, Kirus. Part of the job and comes with the title.” Gently, the Thundercloud edged closer to land. “This is gonna slow us down more, so get the men ready.”
Saluting smartly, Kirus said, “Ay, ay, Cap’n!”
“Four hundred meters!”
As the distance to shore shrunk from thousands to hundreds of meters northward off the starboard rail, the deck master had the crew and legions as ready as they were going to be. Hastily constructed barricades of planking were erected to guard the men from oncoming enemy fire. Arrows were divided and redivided again. As the great vessel slowed from the drag of the shrinking water line, the call to the runners was given out; the great paddles adding some of the stolen speed back to the Thundercloud’s heading.
“Two hundred meters!”
Lightning split the sky, less than 3 kilometers east and south of the racing ships, followed by a clap of thunder that rattled the deck. The wind picked up in time with the rain that came lashing out of the sky.
Kirus returned to the Captain. “At least this’ll keep them from torching the sails!” he cried.
Thrium nodded. “Yeah! Listen, I want the sails half furled, don’t want a hawser line rip cording across the deck.” Kirus nodded, running to get the order fulfilled. From above, Pratius dutifully called out the ever-shrinking distances, better able to judge as the space narrowed. The Thundercloud and the barbarian galley both reduced their sailcloth in the face of the storm winds blowing.
“80 meters!” was the cry, followed frantically by, “Arrows!!”
Wobbling wildly out of the windy sky, a barrage of desperate arrows landed around the Roman galley, none of them striking anything or anyone with real force. “Son of a…!” Kirus swore, shaking one of the fallen shafts at the closing vessel. “Ya filthy animals!” he howled, joined by the jeering catcalls of the assembled host. Another volley was sent, again with limited results. “Let ‘em waste their shots, boys. Neptune’ll be teachin them their errors afore this day be done!” The crew cheered.
“60 meters!” and later still “45 meters! ARROWS AGAIN!”
This time the volley landed with more punch, sticking into the deck and sails of the Thundercloud. A few heartbeats later, a 2nd volley struck, this time actually hitting one of the sailors, hitting the unfortunate Roman high on the shoulder.
“Kirus!” Captain Thrium called. “Volley!”
“You ‘eard the Cap’n! FIRE!” As one, over one hundred bows thrummed out as the Romans fired their arrows back at the chasing, grey sailed ship. The sight of falling men and others ducking for cover gave heart to the crew. “Come on, boys! Bend yer bows…send a shaft to their hearts fo’ Cap’n Thrium!”
“Captain Thrium!” cheering, the Romans sent another wave to toward the chasing ship. Back and forth, the two crews fired their bows at one another. As the distance was called down to 30 meters and less, target became more defined, even with the wind and rain spoiling most aims. The wounded and slain tolls began to mount steadily higher on both galleys.
“Pratius!” Captain Thrium called. “Get me a headcount!”
He had to wait some two dozen heartbeats before the answering cry came, “Two hundred, Captain! 20 meters! Captain, they’re trying to come along out port side!”
Daring a glance back behind the protective cowling, Thrium growled, seeing that his lookout was right. He thought about sliding back south, but realized that he would end up tacking before them, losing what wind he needed to keep them from drawing upon his vessel now. Silently he commended their captain. His crew still outnumbered theirs, but the Thundercloud could not risk even a gentle jostling or ramming. Gritting his teeth, he allowed himself to be forced northward; towards land and progressively shallower waters.
The volley of arrows was almost constant now, the firing of bows droning into one another as dozens and hundreds of shafts were traded back and forth. The grey sailed galley drew closer, constantly riding the port aft. As the broadsides of the vessels drew even, the pace of volley fire grew frantic. The original defense works of the Romans became useless under the new angle of attack. Kicking them down, the crew instead tried to use the defensive posturing and shields that the legionnaires were providing to return fire from.
The enemy vessel was crewed by much better archers, their shafts picking loose Romans off with almost contemptuous ease. In addition, besides the targeting of those on deck, arrow after arrow were sent at and through the port holes that the runners were mounted through, striking the crewmen below and slowing the Thundercloud even more.
Thrium wanted to faint as he watched the other galley’s navigator thrust the rudder hard to the south. The bow of the galley swung towards his vessel. At the same time, their runners pulled up and in, hastening the swing. There was nothing he could do but yell out, “Brace for impact!”
Like a swatting hand, the starboard bow snapped through Thrium’s portside runners like matchsticks, and slammed like a pounding fist into the Thundercloud’s hull. With a lurch and a groan, the mighty Roman galley listed far to starboard and then rolled port, its hull splintered and the water pouring through. Pratius was flung like a child’s toy sling from the crow’s nest, smashing into the deck of the barbarian galley with a bone snapping crunch before bouncing limply over the side.
“We’ve been holed!” Thrium cried, abandoning the now useless rudder. “Repel boarders! Carpenters below!” Drawing his sword, he charged toward the rail, trying to keep the raiders from boarding his vessel. They swarmed over, hacking and slicing at the Romans with their curved blades. The legionnaires held firm, a rock for the frightened sailors to base their defenses from.
“Captain, captain!” Shoving his blade into the guts of the pocked raider before him, Thrium backed up and turned. One of the carpenters, soaked to the skin was grabbing his arm. “Captain! It’s no use! We’ve been holed deep and we’re taking on too much water!”
“Neptune save us!” he swore. Clapping the sailor on the shoulder he shoved him back and yelled out, “Abandon ship! Children of Rome, abandon ship!” As his men fought a rapid retreat to the starboard rail and land not too far away, Thrium charged toward his cabin, dodging arrows and swords when able. Shouldering his door open, he was dismayed to see the water was already knee deep across his chamber. Hastily, he grabbed the charts and log book off the table, sweeping the precious papers into the oil skinned bag. Giving the room a final look, he turned and ran his way back up to the deck and the fighting.
“Kirus!” he cried, trying to find the deck master in the mass of battling men. “Kirus!”
“’Ere Cap’n!”
Looking, he saw his first mate shoving a trio of sailors over the rail. “Catch!” he cried, hurling the precious bag at him. Kirus caught it, frowning at Thrium.
“Wha’ you doin’, Cap’n!”
“Get that to Rome!” he ordered, redrawing his sword. “I’m staying till everyone’s off. That’s an order mister!”
“But why!?!?”
“Like I said before, it’s part of the job!” Saluting his friend and accepting one in return, Captain Thrium of the Furious Thundercloud marched back into the mass of shrinking legionnaires and rejoined the fight against the barbarian attackers.
By the time Kirus and the six dozen surviving members of the crew had escaped the massacre and swum safely to the swampy shores, the flashing lightning and storm muted daylight showed only one vessel riding the turbulent waves of the Serenic Ocean; and as the day turned into night and no one else swam out of the water, every man standing there knew that the Furious Thundercloud and her brave Captain had been claimed by the watery grasp of Poseidon.
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biggamer132
King
Thrium died! Stupid pirates. 
barbslinger
Gun blast'n shot drinker
I sense that a ship someday will bear Thriums name. Pretty rough though. I was hoping that crew would make it back to Rome someday. I hope Kirus and the rest make it through.
deleted_scenes
Chieftain
- Joined
- Jul 20, 2004
- Messages
- 50
Not the Thundercloud! Sonsabitshes!
Vanadorn
Motorcycling Paladin
“Pompeii 1st Pikemen…sally forth!”
The heavily reinforced gates swung open, allowing the smoky air of the burned crops and villages east of the city to sting the eyes of the soldiers gathered there. The trumpeter blew his horn, and enmasse, the stalwart defenders poured into the battlefields. A volley of arrows was hurled over the high walls, clearing the exit way of any Arabian forces clustered too close to the battlements.
As had been practiced and drilled over the past eight days, the elite fighting men charged out, forming blocks and ranks without pause or delay in their advance. Ansar warriors attempted to disrupt the swelling defenders’ attack, but were rebuffed with a series of well-set pikes and short distance countercharges.
The Centurion gave the order, “Double time!” followed by the drummer beating a rapid cadence, setting the pace for the pikemen to jog. They ran eastward toward the growing knot of mounted fighters that were attempting to keep reinforcing Romans from reaching the city. As the imposing Pompeii 1st drew to within striking range, a lone blast and howl of, “Charge”, filled the air.
The hundred or so enemy warriors were forced to flee, caught between the massive blocks of the pike units from the city and the reinforcing companies they had been harrying. Whipping their steeds, they punched their way through the narrowing gap, racing northward to link up with the main force and return.
The cheering Romans on both sides clapped each other warmly. “Carthage 8th Pikemen,” the sweating, heavy-set Centurion saluted, fist thumping over his heart. “Redeployed and force marched here from garrison duty at Lugdunum.” He grinned. “Heard you had a rat problem?”
“You’re soldiers are most welcome here, Carthage 8th. Pompeii 1st, and yeah, the damn buggers have gotten into our fields and eaten our grain.” He waved back toward the city proper. Both sets of companies began the short and fast march back to Pompeii’s eastern gates. “Let’s get us behind walls before we get run down. Blighters are gut rocking good at their charges. Damn quick charges too. Caught the Syracuse 2nd Spear company out in the open some two weeks ago during maneuvers to bolster our defenses. Count Ingius was leading ‘em.” He shook his head sadly. “Poor bastards were sliced, slashed, and skulgged before they got closer than three bow shots from the city walls.”
“Sorry to hear about that, Count Ingius was a good man.” The other Centurion looked about, noting the wreckage and destruction of the farmlands and peasant huts. “Looks like they’ve been here for longer than a few weeks! What they do, burn everything on the 1st day?”
“Yeah. They all mounded together, had some big rally, pooled their forces and what not. Then after what we guess to be a night of heavy drinking and whipping themselves into a frenzy, they torched every hut, house, field, mill, bridge, tree, and bush around here. Damndest thing we’ve ever seen. Just wholesale destruction and wreckage. Any Roman found was torn apart by their damn horses and the torso’s mounted on spears. They’ve since devoted their attention north of the city; seem to be setting themselves up for another wreck-fest. Still sieging the city, but just enough in order for us to keep our heads down.”
The sally ports opened and both units entered the city, safely before the rallying Ansar Warriors could return to attack the fielded pike men. Once inside, the gates were closed and locked, the heavy braces fitted into place. The brave citizens of Pompeii had already prepared the city as best as possible. Every rain barrel was filled; bands of youths were gathering feathers from every stall and hen house, bringing them to the fletcher to make arrows. Extra pans, pots, and horseshoes were being recast into arrowheads and spear points. The city’s already healthy sized population was burgeoning from the added peasantry and farmers that were huddled behind the walls as well.
The populous greeted the Carthage 8th with cheers and thanks, the addition of their forces effectively doubling the defensive power of the beleaguered city. Both Centurions wasted no time garrisoning the parapets, posting new squads of men at both main city gates, and relieving some of the tired members of the Pompeii 1st who had been pulling extra shifts to account for the lack of trained defenders. By days end, the veteran troopers from Carthage had learned many of the tasks the trim and tight pikemen of Pompeii had to deal with and account for.
As the night waxed and the moon rose, the people of Pompeii were once more treated to the bonfire celebration and harassing of the Ansar Warriors. The Arabic troops were chanting and crying out their eerie ululations. They had mounted their steeds and were racing their armored mounts back and forth across the northern plains. Swaths of flames and trails of fire gave testament to the devastation they were preparing to set upon the now stripped Roman fields and villages. Families who had farmed those lands for generations grew angry and wroth at the thought of their homes and livestock being butchered and consumed by the fires.
Shortly after the 9 PM call, there came a steadily increase in rumbling across the land. The ground quivered and dust was seen falling from thatch roofs above. It grew slowly but steadily, sounding across the lands like the rumbling of some great awakening beast. The people of Pompeii grew leery, unsure if the mounting threat would be hurled at their walls and people.
The troops on the northern walls saw the effect first as the most distant of torches and flames seemed to scatter and become extinguished. Slowly, the line of quenched fires crept towards the anxious city. The lack of illumination made any real identification of what was occurring impossible, but it seemed that the northern plains were crawling, the grounds seeming to move oddly as if under its own control and power.
More and more citizens and troopers crowded the streets, walls, and roofs in an attempt to better see what was occurring. The Arab forces still in camp were growing panicked, trying to strike their tents, saddle their steeds, and don their arms and armor. In scores and hundreds, the charged north towards the creeping blackness that was approaching their position.
The ever-growing rumbling swelled even louder. “Pompeii 1st! To the north gate! Carthage 8th! To the north gate!” The Centurions grew excited, laughing with each other as their men formed ranks swiftly. The portcullis was raised and the oaken gates lowered, sending frightened concern through the common folk.
“Charge!” Two thousand determined warriors of Rome took to the night field, slamming into the remnants of the Arab encampment, scattering the disarrayed raiders still running about. When finished with the brief and bloody melee, they once more drew ranks, their iron pikes bristling as the fortified their position. They waited.
The rumbling had grown loud now, punctuated by screaming voices in Arabic and cries of “Vie Victus!” in Latin. The whinnying of solid Roman steeds and the clash of steel on flesh sounded across the land. Riding out of the dimness, the welcome sight of the Knight Legions, their banner waving proudly, her troops and knights exhausted, cantered up to the waiting forces of Pompeii. Sir Gaius Pellias dismounted, and with a scornful flick of his wrist, flung the pale-blooded pennant of the besieging Ansar warriors at the pikemen leaders’ feet.
A cheer went up throughout the assembled men, and was echoed by the people of Pompeii as well. The most needed and anticipated Roman troops and forces from the distant lands of Egypt had finally arrived in southern Rome, and meted out justice on the maraudering Arab invaders.
The heavily reinforced gates swung open, allowing the smoky air of the burned crops and villages east of the city to sting the eyes of the soldiers gathered there. The trumpeter blew his horn, and enmasse, the stalwart defenders poured into the battlefields. A volley of arrows was hurled over the high walls, clearing the exit way of any Arabian forces clustered too close to the battlements.
As had been practiced and drilled over the past eight days, the elite fighting men charged out, forming blocks and ranks without pause or delay in their advance. Ansar warriors attempted to disrupt the swelling defenders’ attack, but were rebuffed with a series of well-set pikes and short distance countercharges.
The Centurion gave the order, “Double time!” followed by the drummer beating a rapid cadence, setting the pace for the pikemen to jog. They ran eastward toward the growing knot of mounted fighters that were attempting to keep reinforcing Romans from reaching the city. As the imposing Pompeii 1st drew to within striking range, a lone blast and howl of, “Charge”, filled the air.
The hundred or so enemy warriors were forced to flee, caught between the massive blocks of the pike units from the city and the reinforcing companies they had been harrying. Whipping their steeds, they punched their way through the narrowing gap, racing northward to link up with the main force and return.
The cheering Romans on both sides clapped each other warmly. “Carthage 8th Pikemen,” the sweating, heavy-set Centurion saluted, fist thumping over his heart. “Redeployed and force marched here from garrison duty at Lugdunum.” He grinned. “Heard you had a rat problem?”
“You’re soldiers are most welcome here, Carthage 8th. Pompeii 1st, and yeah, the damn buggers have gotten into our fields and eaten our grain.” He waved back toward the city proper. Both sets of companies began the short and fast march back to Pompeii’s eastern gates. “Let’s get us behind walls before we get run down. Blighters are gut rocking good at their charges. Damn quick charges too. Caught the Syracuse 2nd Spear company out in the open some two weeks ago during maneuvers to bolster our defenses. Count Ingius was leading ‘em.” He shook his head sadly. “Poor bastards were sliced, slashed, and skulgged before they got closer than three bow shots from the city walls.”
“Sorry to hear about that, Count Ingius was a good man.” The other Centurion looked about, noting the wreckage and destruction of the farmlands and peasant huts. “Looks like they’ve been here for longer than a few weeks! What they do, burn everything on the 1st day?”
“Yeah. They all mounded together, had some big rally, pooled their forces and what not. Then after what we guess to be a night of heavy drinking and whipping themselves into a frenzy, they torched every hut, house, field, mill, bridge, tree, and bush around here. Damndest thing we’ve ever seen. Just wholesale destruction and wreckage. Any Roman found was torn apart by their damn horses and the torso’s mounted on spears. They’ve since devoted their attention north of the city; seem to be setting themselves up for another wreck-fest. Still sieging the city, but just enough in order for us to keep our heads down.”
The sally ports opened and both units entered the city, safely before the rallying Ansar Warriors could return to attack the fielded pike men. Once inside, the gates were closed and locked, the heavy braces fitted into place. The brave citizens of Pompeii had already prepared the city as best as possible. Every rain barrel was filled; bands of youths were gathering feathers from every stall and hen house, bringing them to the fletcher to make arrows. Extra pans, pots, and horseshoes were being recast into arrowheads and spear points. The city’s already healthy sized population was burgeoning from the added peasantry and farmers that were huddled behind the walls as well.
The populous greeted the Carthage 8th with cheers and thanks, the addition of their forces effectively doubling the defensive power of the beleaguered city. Both Centurions wasted no time garrisoning the parapets, posting new squads of men at both main city gates, and relieving some of the tired members of the Pompeii 1st who had been pulling extra shifts to account for the lack of trained defenders. By days end, the veteran troopers from Carthage had learned many of the tasks the trim and tight pikemen of Pompeii had to deal with and account for.
As the night waxed and the moon rose, the people of Pompeii were once more treated to the bonfire celebration and harassing of the Ansar Warriors. The Arabic troops were chanting and crying out their eerie ululations. They had mounted their steeds and were racing their armored mounts back and forth across the northern plains. Swaths of flames and trails of fire gave testament to the devastation they were preparing to set upon the now stripped Roman fields and villages. Families who had farmed those lands for generations grew angry and wroth at the thought of their homes and livestock being butchered and consumed by the fires.
Shortly after the 9 PM call, there came a steadily increase in rumbling across the land. The ground quivered and dust was seen falling from thatch roofs above. It grew slowly but steadily, sounding across the lands like the rumbling of some great awakening beast. The people of Pompeii grew leery, unsure if the mounting threat would be hurled at their walls and people.
The troops on the northern walls saw the effect first as the most distant of torches and flames seemed to scatter and become extinguished. Slowly, the line of quenched fires crept towards the anxious city. The lack of illumination made any real identification of what was occurring impossible, but it seemed that the northern plains were crawling, the grounds seeming to move oddly as if under its own control and power.
More and more citizens and troopers crowded the streets, walls, and roofs in an attempt to better see what was occurring. The Arab forces still in camp were growing panicked, trying to strike their tents, saddle their steeds, and don their arms and armor. In scores and hundreds, the charged north towards the creeping blackness that was approaching their position.
The ever-growing rumbling swelled even louder. “Pompeii 1st! To the north gate! Carthage 8th! To the north gate!” The Centurions grew excited, laughing with each other as their men formed ranks swiftly. The portcullis was raised and the oaken gates lowered, sending frightened concern through the common folk.
“Charge!” Two thousand determined warriors of Rome took to the night field, slamming into the remnants of the Arab encampment, scattering the disarrayed raiders still running about. When finished with the brief and bloody melee, they once more drew ranks, their iron pikes bristling as the fortified their position. They waited.
The rumbling had grown loud now, punctuated by screaming voices in Arabic and cries of “Vie Victus!” in Latin. The whinnying of solid Roman steeds and the clash of steel on flesh sounded across the land. Riding out of the dimness, the welcome sight of the Knight Legions, their banner waving proudly, her troops and knights exhausted, cantered up to the waiting forces of Pompeii. Sir Gaius Pellias dismounted, and with a scornful flick of his wrist, flung the pale-blooded pennant of the besieging Ansar warriors at the pikemen leaders’ feet.
A cheer went up throughout the assembled men, and was echoed by the people of Pompeii as well. The most needed and anticipated Roman troops and forces from the distant lands of Egypt had finally arrived in southern Rome, and meted out justice on the maraudering Arab invaders.
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Cataphrak
Knight of RPG
I just got here, and... THEY SUNK THE THUNDERCLOUD!!!!!!!!!!! *tries to calm himself* sooooo, you gonna name a fleet after Thirum and Sytimatically commit genocide on anyone not called the Zulus?
Vanadorn
Motorcycling Paladin
Thanks to all who mourned the passing of the Furious Thundercloud. I had circumnavigated almost 7/8ths of the continent, but with the wounding it received early in its voyage, it had been sailing on 2 hp for a long time. No friendly harbors, no healing. Along the southern line of the ocean, somewhere just west of Mecca, a barbarian galley appeared...and I couldn't retreat fast enough.
Don't want to spoil things for later on but, for those who cared about the Roman's loss at sea, worry not! Even on Pangaea, my people will seek to dominate the oceans and exact their revenge!
Hopefully something else tonight. Depends on my daughter or whether I'm actually playing civ.
V
Don't want to spoil things for later on but, for those who cared about the Roman's loss at sea, worry not! Even on Pangaea, my people will seek to dominate the oceans and exact their revenge!
Hopefully something else tonight. Depends on my daughter or whether I'm actually playing civ.
V
Vanadorn
Motorcycling Paladin
Marakuru checked the edge of his precious iron sword against the thick callus of his thumb, almost satisfied with its keen sharpness. Laying the pilfered blade back across his muscular thighs he stropped the weapon with a worn whetstone, carefully working the sharpening block to avoid scratching the metal. The days were not only growing longer, but warmer as well. He had already shed his shirt and the dan-zan tree he sat under offered only so much protection from the sun’s heat. Looking over the other soldiers, the warriors from Zulu, he felt a swelling of pride. These men followed him, went where he did, listened to his words, accepted his council. They respected him and his knowledge of combat and battle, offering their ears to the young man the same way…the same way he hoped they would for the Red Spirit.
A grin briefly flashed, his white teeth standing out as he thought that. Marakuru was wise, but he was not the wisest; this he knew. He was also not the strongest, the best fighter, nor the most brilliant tactician; but he was good at these skills as well. It occurred to him, that in was not the strive to be the best, but to be better than the average man, and have the council of the best at your beck and call.
“Marakuru?”
The young man turned, his prideful thoughts blown aside from the questioning voice on his attention. He saw Prospero, the Roman warrior and his friend and mentor standing there. “Yes?”
“The news has come. Swazi has fallen to the Arab Nation.”
“Kuh Juhn Duw Hie!” he swore, attracting the attention of the nearby Zulu. “How? When?”
Prospero held his hand up. “Less than 4 days ago. A large contingent of Ansar Warriors and ground forces fell upon the western most city almost two weeks ago. They burned the wooden palisades down after they had been rebuffed by your countrymen and then slaughtered many of the citizens and warriors until they were able to establish rule and control.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry.”
“Black Sister, guide their spirits to the burning lands. May their ancestors find them and keep them safe.” Marakuru stood, his muscled form rising like a cat uncoiling from a crouch. “Warriors of Zulu! he called. “Gather round. Gather my brothers, for I have news that demands blood to be spilled and honor to be avenged!”
The dark skinned soldiers massed about their young leader, listening with rapt attention as he and the Roman spoke at short length of the tragedy of Swazi. When the tale was done, he then asked, “The telling of this woe makes my blood run hot, does it do the same for you?”
“YES!” They clapped their spears and swords against their hide bound shields, emphasizing their anger.
“Then we must defend our homeland even stronger from the threat of the Arabican people. Prospero tells me that his own people are still suffering under the threats of the mounted devils that roam his land. But we must look to us and our own troubles.” He raised his sword high over head, catching the sun on its reflective length. “The Red Spirit speaks to us. We must away from this area. We run, my brothers, run with the whips and dogs of the war god on our heels. We run west, toward whatever invading people march across our land.” He stomped his foot down hard, sinking his sandals into the rich, loamy earth. “The gods of stone and soil will guide us, our ancestors will lead us; lead us to the Arabicans. Lead us to victory!”
“VICTORY!!”
Marakuru sheathed his sword and reached down to grab his bundle of blankets, food, and meager belongings. “Take only what will add strength to your stride and wings to your feet. Warriors of Zulu, we run And we run now!”
In less than five minutes, the entire camp had been struck and every runner, warrior, and Impi was charging toward the setting sun, following hard in the footsteps of Marakuru; the man-boy who would see the Zulu Nation free.
A grin briefly flashed, his white teeth standing out as he thought that. Marakuru was wise, but he was not the wisest; this he knew. He was also not the strongest, the best fighter, nor the most brilliant tactician; but he was good at these skills as well. It occurred to him, that in was not the strive to be the best, but to be better than the average man, and have the council of the best at your beck and call.
“Marakuru?”
The young man turned, his prideful thoughts blown aside from the questioning voice on his attention. He saw Prospero, the Roman warrior and his friend and mentor standing there. “Yes?”
“The news has come. Swazi has fallen to the Arab Nation.”
“Kuh Juhn Duw Hie!” he swore, attracting the attention of the nearby Zulu. “How? When?”
Prospero held his hand up. “Less than 4 days ago. A large contingent of Ansar Warriors and ground forces fell upon the western most city almost two weeks ago. They burned the wooden palisades down after they had been rebuffed by your countrymen and then slaughtered many of the citizens and warriors until they were able to establish rule and control.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry.”
“Black Sister, guide their spirits to the burning lands. May their ancestors find them and keep them safe.” Marakuru stood, his muscled form rising like a cat uncoiling from a crouch. “Warriors of Zulu! he called. “Gather round. Gather my brothers, for I have news that demands blood to be spilled and honor to be avenged!”
The dark skinned soldiers massed about their young leader, listening with rapt attention as he and the Roman spoke at short length of the tragedy of Swazi. When the tale was done, he then asked, “The telling of this woe makes my blood run hot, does it do the same for you?”
“YES!” They clapped their spears and swords against their hide bound shields, emphasizing their anger.
“Then we must defend our homeland even stronger from the threat of the Arabican people. Prospero tells me that his own people are still suffering under the threats of the mounted devils that roam his land. But we must look to us and our own troubles.” He raised his sword high over head, catching the sun on its reflective length. “The Red Spirit speaks to us. We must away from this area. We run, my brothers, run with the whips and dogs of the war god on our heels. We run west, toward whatever invading people march across our land.” He stomped his foot down hard, sinking his sandals into the rich, loamy earth. “The gods of stone and soil will guide us, our ancestors will lead us; lead us to the Arabicans. Lead us to victory!”
“VICTORY!!”
Marakuru sheathed his sword and reached down to grab his bundle of blankets, food, and meager belongings. “Take only what will add strength to your stride and wings to your feet. Warriors of Zulu, we run And we run now!”
In less than five minutes, the entire camp had been struck and every runner, warrior, and Impi was charging toward the setting sun, following hard in the footsteps of Marakuru; the man-boy who would see the Zulu Nation free.
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Vanadorn
Motorcycling Paladin
@ Rbis - Yes, for about 3 years. There was a time I wanted to be a writer very bad, but unfortunately, at the time I was young and not as focused or mature as I needed to be in order to truly pursue a career in writing. So I ended up just scribing for fun, until one day...poof! I just stopped. I'm back now, and getting more into the idea as time goes by. It's been suggested both here and from people in my personal life that I should do this again and try to make a living out of it. What I used to laugh at and dismiss before, I'm giving real thought to nowadays.
More coming up in: 30 seconds.
Thanks again to all!
V
More coming up in: 30 seconds.
Thanks again to all!
V
Vanadorn
Motorcycling Paladin
Horrified, the Knight Legion army could only watch as the usurping forces of the Arab nation began the grisly act of visibly beheading the resisting citizens of Caesaraugusta from the high city walls. The screams and pleadings of over two hundred men and women were cut short by an equal number of hacking Saracen swords. Sickened, the severed heads were allowed to fall outside the gates, blooding the ground and rolling to a stop on the trampled grasses. The leader, identifiable in his bright red gutra, held aloft his gore-covered blade and cried out, “Latin dogs! Your people will be slain like this every hour unless you pull back from these walls! It is the will of Allah that has granted us the strength to capture your city! Leave or be prepared to watch the unspeakable again!” Without waiting for a reply, he descended into the city, while the bodies were quickly soaked in oil, set ablaze, and allowed to burn in the open on the high parapets.
“General, we have to do something!”
Gaius stomped his foot. “And what in Mars’ Bloody Fist do you expect me to do? Without trebuchet support and a team of at least god damn pikers, we cannot take the city!” He paused. “At least not without massive loss of life. My god! That crazy bastard’s gonna keep his word you know. We launch an attack; he’ll start killing citizens. And not a couple hundred at a time. I’m talking everyone. Are you ready to accept that kind of responsibility!?!”
“But General…”
“Answer me, Captain. Are YOU ready to accept that responsibility?”
The knight captain withered slightly, shoulders deflating. “No, General. I’m not. None of us are. But we’ve got to do something.”
General Gaius rubbed his temples, thinking back on Iuldias’ words so long ago; concerning the most thankless job of actually performing a war, and not bothering those above or below with the logistics of making it happen. “We’ve already stripped every earldom, county, barony, and fiefdom for 50 leagues in all directions of every militia band and part time soldier we could drum up. There is a serious dearth of modern age soldiers for kilometers and kilometers about. So even if we were somehow able to just storm the walls and clean and clear every robe wearing invader from the streets, alleys, and gutters, we’d have no way to defend the city afterwards. Unless you’re seriously suggesting that we tie up over 3,000 knights and twice that number of squires, armorers and farriers, the most potent single fighting power in all of Rome and the greater world, as garrison forces within the city walls?”
The assembled knights said nothing, none of them having given the situation that much thought before. Some of the captains looked at their general with a frank expression and newfound respect.
Gaius nodded. “I thought so.” Waving a scrap of parchment, he continued. “According to our man, Prospero, the Zulu have been forced to remove their forces closer to their heartland. Seems there was a rather large contingent of heavy infantry and more of those damned Ansar Warriors traipsing across the Zulu country; most likely on their way here to whack out Sabratha, Pompeii and the entire south western duchy. So the warrior units that were watching our west border are no longer there.”
He shook his head, struggling to find the right words to explain his thoughts. “Put it this way. We know for a fact that he has only 1,000 Saracen knights guarding the city. We can defeat such a force easily in the field, but behind stone and wood, it will take some time. If we stay here, many, many good and innocent Roman citizens will die a horrible, quick and brutal death, but the city will be freed. If we leave, every citizen will survive, grow old and have a life and we can take our city back later when we have the proper troops to defend it. I know that Lord Caesar has commissioned at least 6,000 more pike men and 3,000 more knights. These troops will be available before the middle of next season. With their added strength, we can easily bolster our defenses as well as add some power to our attack and liberations.”
“I’m suggesting this: leave Caesaraugusta under the temporary care of the Arab nationals, strike out westward and deal with the remaining cavalry riding roughshod over our lands and the Zulu lands, aid our allies in repelling some of the Arabs from their shores and cities, and then next season, return here and rescue our countrymen in one powerful, concentrated, unified assault.”
The other knights were silent, digesting Gaius’ plan. “General,” one of them questioned, hesitating slightly, “It sounds like a fine plan. How do we know the…Arabs…will honor their word and not put any more of our people to death?”
Gaius smiled. “Because they are an honorable people. And in order to become an Ansar Warrior, they have to take a vow of honesty. A vow that if they break, will doom them to their own version of hell for eternity.” He leaned in closer. “Notice, although our code suggests that Roman knights be honest, not once have we ever had to SWEAR to be honest.”
The other knights nodded. “Can we trust him to keep his word? His vow?”
General Gaius grimaced. “I will go and speak with him. I will get this vow from him. And when he sees that we do indeed leave the area, he will have no choice to believe us. However,” he added, “I want a three dozen of our best rangers roaming the countryside outside the city. If he sends a messenger or rider out to get word to his own country and countrymen, I want that note to stop dead and disappear. We don’t want him getting reinforced or new orders until we come back to finish them off later.”
“Hear, hear!” “Will do, General.” “Good luck, General.” “Sooner this is done here, the sooner we can get the rest of these scum the punishment they deserve.”
Dismounting, Gaius began walking towards the repaired gates and walls of Caesaraugusta, prepared to do the unthinkable and willingly leave a city full of Romans under the scathing and enemy eye of a hostile people. Leaving the city to these animals, he thought, I hope this gamble pays off.
“General, we have to do something!”
Gaius stomped his foot. “And what in Mars’ Bloody Fist do you expect me to do? Without trebuchet support and a team of at least god damn pikers, we cannot take the city!” He paused. “At least not without massive loss of life. My god! That crazy bastard’s gonna keep his word you know. We launch an attack; he’ll start killing citizens. And not a couple hundred at a time. I’m talking everyone. Are you ready to accept that kind of responsibility!?!”
“But General…”
“Answer me, Captain. Are YOU ready to accept that responsibility?”
The knight captain withered slightly, shoulders deflating. “No, General. I’m not. None of us are. But we’ve got to do something.”
General Gaius rubbed his temples, thinking back on Iuldias’ words so long ago; concerning the most thankless job of actually performing a war, and not bothering those above or below with the logistics of making it happen. “We’ve already stripped every earldom, county, barony, and fiefdom for 50 leagues in all directions of every militia band and part time soldier we could drum up. There is a serious dearth of modern age soldiers for kilometers and kilometers about. So even if we were somehow able to just storm the walls and clean and clear every robe wearing invader from the streets, alleys, and gutters, we’d have no way to defend the city afterwards. Unless you’re seriously suggesting that we tie up over 3,000 knights and twice that number of squires, armorers and farriers, the most potent single fighting power in all of Rome and the greater world, as garrison forces within the city walls?”
The assembled knights said nothing, none of them having given the situation that much thought before. Some of the captains looked at their general with a frank expression and newfound respect.
Gaius nodded. “I thought so.” Waving a scrap of parchment, he continued. “According to our man, Prospero, the Zulu have been forced to remove their forces closer to their heartland. Seems there was a rather large contingent of heavy infantry and more of those damned Ansar Warriors traipsing across the Zulu country; most likely on their way here to whack out Sabratha, Pompeii and the entire south western duchy. So the warrior units that were watching our west border are no longer there.”
He shook his head, struggling to find the right words to explain his thoughts. “Put it this way. We know for a fact that he has only 1,000 Saracen knights guarding the city. We can defeat such a force easily in the field, but behind stone and wood, it will take some time. If we stay here, many, many good and innocent Roman citizens will die a horrible, quick and brutal death, but the city will be freed. If we leave, every citizen will survive, grow old and have a life and we can take our city back later when we have the proper troops to defend it. I know that Lord Caesar has commissioned at least 6,000 more pike men and 3,000 more knights. These troops will be available before the middle of next season. With their added strength, we can easily bolster our defenses as well as add some power to our attack and liberations.”
“I’m suggesting this: leave Caesaraugusta under the temporary care of the Arab nationals, strike out westward and deal with the remaining cavalry riding roughshod over our lands and the Zulu lands, aid our allies in repelling some of the Arabs from their shores and cities, and then next season, return here and rescue our countrymen in one powerful, concentrated, unified assault.”
The other knights were silent, digesting Gaius’ plan. “General,” one of them questioned, hesitating slightly, “It sounds like a fine plan. How do we know the…Arabs…will honor their word and not put any more of our people to death?”
Gaius smiled. “Because they are an honorable people. And in order to become an Ansar Warrior, they have to take a vow of honesty. A vow that if they break, will doom them to their own version of hell for eternity.” He leaned in closer. “Notice, although our code suggests that Roman knights be honest, not once have we ever had to SWEAR to be honest.”
The other knights nodded. “Can we trust him to keep his word? His vow?”
General Gaius grimaced. “I will go and speak with him. I will get this vow from him. And when he sees that we do indeed leave the area, he will have no choice to believe us. However,” he added, “I want a three dozen of our best rangers roaming the countryside outside the city. If he sends a messenger or rider out to get word to his own country and countrymen, I want that note to stop dead and disappear. We don’t want him getting reinforced or new orders until we come back to finish them off later.”
“Hear, hear!” “Will do, General.” “Good luck, General.” “Sooner this is done here, the sooner we can get the rest of these scum the punishment they deserve.”
Dismounting, Gaius began walking towards the repaired gates and walls of Caesaraugusta, prepared to do the unthinkable and willingly leave a city full of Romans under the scathing and enemy eye of a hostile people. Leaving the city to these animals, he thought, I hope this gamble pays off.
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barbslinger
Gun blast'n shot drinker
Wow! is all I say! Gaius is putting his genralship on the line for this one. The beheading tie-in was nice. Really looking forward to the follow ups.
BTW Vanadorn, are you saving any screenshots of military strength, maps and other goodies. This story reads fantastic without them because, and I think I speak for most here, we are INVOLVED with the characters. However, after it is all said and done it would be great to repost with all the screenies. If you could just save them off I would be willing to do the repost work. This story is fantastic reading but once it is done it would be even better for new CFC players to be able to read it with more logistical clarity.
Great work.
BTW Vanadorn, are you saving any screenshots of military strength, maps and other goodies. This story reads fantastic without them because, and I think I speak for most here, we are INVOLVED with the characters. However, after it is all said and done it would be great to repost with all the screenies. If you could just save them off I would be willing to do the repost work. This story is fantastic reading but once it is done it would be even better for new CFC players to be able to read it with more logistical clarity.
Great work.
biggamer132
King
I came back from two days to find a bunch of new and great entries. When's the next part coming out?
Vanadorn
Motorcycling Paladin
@ Barbslinger - Unfortunately, I never took screenshots of the game during this point. Infact, when I started writing this, I stopped playing that day. The game still sits in my saved file, waiting for me to catch the story up. It's also part of the reason why i am adding a piece or two just about every day. So there are no screenies of this time frame, and if I were to show one of how things are now, then it would be very unfair since the world is quite a different place.
I promise to add what I can when able. As to the power level and stuff about this time: I am kind of inched a bit ahead
of Maya and Arabia, with Egypt running behind them. Iroquois and Inca are much further down. I'll try to post some demographic bars with this - don't know how they'll turn out.
@ Biggamer - thanks. Aim to please.
To all wondering, next part in 30 seconds.
I promise to add what I can when able. As to the power level and stuff about this time: I am kind of inched a bit ahead
of Maya and Arabia, with Egypt running behind them. Iroquois and Inca are much further down. I'll try to post some demographic bars with this - don't know how they'll turn out.@ Biggamer - thanks. Aim to please.
To all wondering, next part in 30 seconds.
Attachments
Vanadorn
Motorcycling Paladin
It is with deepest regret and most heartfelt sorrow, that we are forced to inform you of the untimely passing of Magister Ioral, Master of Sorcery, Chief Alchemist, and Personal Advisor or our King and Sovereign, Lord Marcus Aurelias, Caesar. His passing will be missed by every citizen and student. Sincerely yours, Senator Ungus Tiberius.
Archimedes crumpled the note slowly, feeling the paper as it wadded in his grasp. When it was as small as he could make it, his limply tossed it into the flames of the small fireplace. “Farewell and god speed, Magister Ioral,” he said, offering a benediction to the kindly old man who gave him a chance so long ago.
His eyes flicked to the rooms other occupant. Leonardo Vincius sat without movement. His gaze was slack and angry, his hands folded into his lap. Archimedes glanced lower, still shocked to see the engineer’s left leg ended where his knee would be, the rest of his length was instead a stout oaken stump. Raising his eyes, he was caught with Leo’s angry grimacing watching him.
“Have a good look?” he practically sneered, his voice dripping with venom.
Archimedes said nothing, refusing to be baited by his constantly angry companion. “It’s been almost a year, Leo. At least you didn’t die.”
“Would have been better if I did. I’m a god damned freak, that’s what I am.” He tapped the wooden leg with a sharp knuckle rap. “A freak. I should be standing on the corner, letting the local street urchins play with my stump and throw rotten eggs at me. Why? Because I am a freak!” He snatched his ever-present jug from the stand and slugged back a huge drink. Without care, he allowed the wine to trickle out his mouth and run down his chin.
The sound of a knock at the door interrupted Archimedes’ next comment. Sighing, he opened it, revealing the dowager, along with Father Raspius. “Hello Miss Lisa, Father Raspius.”
“Ah, crap!” Leo snarled. “Not this farce again.”
“Leonardo Vincius!” rebuked Miss Lisa, her normally stoic features frowning slightly. “We do not speak that way and in that tone when in this house and when a lady is present.”
The engineer merely grunted, taking another large swallow of wine.
The priest of Zeus let himself in, crossing the room and sitting opposite the surly Leo. “Listen, Leo. I’ll come every day if I have to. I know that you’re angry and pissed off…”
“Does it show?”
Raspius squinted in response to the sarcasm. “And pissed off,” he repeated, “but Zeus hasn’t given up on you, neither have your friends, and neither have I. The only person who’s given up is you.”
“Oh, please! I don’t buy this newfound crud about the gods caring one speck of sand about us. Archimedes has told all about the religious interests in learning and the discourses going on at the libraries and temples. Well let me tell you something, priest; Zeus couldn’t care a flying fig about you and he sure as hell couldn’t care a fornicating flying fig about some crippled FREAK like me.” He motioned to the door with his wine jug. “Now if you don’t mind, I don’t feel much like entertaining today, so go soak your head and leave me alone.”
Miss Lisa sucked in her breath and grew limp, almost fainting in Archimedes’ grasp. Father Raspius bowed his head, standing slowly. With almost tearful eyes, he looked down at the scowling Leonardo, who returned the gaze and sardonically barked, “What?!”
The priest of Zeus gave the crippled engineer’s chair a swift kick, knocking the surprised man backward and to the floor. Leo tried to roll to his stomach, but Raspius gave him a hard shove, turning the engineer over again on the floor. The priest of Zeus followed the increasingly angered engineer, constantly knocking the man down every time he tried to pull himself up. Finally, unable to take the abuse anymore, Leo rolled backward out of Raspius’ range, gathered his good and bad limb underneath him, and leapt to his feet. Brandishing his fists, he cried out, “What in Tartarus are you doing?! Touch me again and I’ll knock your teeth down your throat, holy man or not!” He wobbled slightly, but was more than able to remain standing.
When he realized that Miss Lisa was staring at him with mouth agape, Archimedes was smiling proudly, and Father Raspius was no longer instigating him but was instead appraising the upright engineer with a thoughtful eye, he began to take stock of his situation. He was not only vertical, but standing on both limbs, real and artificial. The wonderment of his position startled him, threatening to drop his slowly quivering form back to the floor.
This time Father Raspius reached out, not to assault, but to steady and strengthen the surprised Leonardo. “Good. Very good. Next time I come by and your just sitting there miserable and stewing, I’m going to knock more sense into that thick skull of yours. You get me?”
The stunned engineer could only nod, still in awe that he was standing.
“Excellent.” He gave Leonardo a firm grip on the shoulder and a warm show of teeth. “You keep this up, my friend. Trust in yourself and remember the words of the almighty Zeus: wisdom and determination are just as important as strength and skill, but all tasks require the will and power of the person to succeed.” Letting go, he gave Archimedes a firm handshake and escorted the dowager from the room. “By the way,” he added, before closing the door, “we’d be interested in having you and your thoughts at some of our discourses. I’m sure that when every priest from here to Giza and back has had their fill of talking and learning about the gods and the spiritual world, we might like to learn about other subjects as well. Just food for thought, since I’ve read some of your notes and find them to be…how did I put it Archimedes?”
“Brilliant, Father Raspius. I believe the word you used to describe Leo here was brilliant.”
The priest snapped his fingers nodding. “That it is. That it is. Be a shame if a brilliant man just drank his life away wouldn’t it?” And with that, he left the shamed Leonardo alone to think on his words and contemplate his rediscovered sense of self.
Archimedes crumpled the note slowly, feeling the paper as it wadded in his grasp. When it was as small as he could make it, his limply tossed it into the flames of the small fireplace. “Farewell and god speed, Magister Ioral,” he said, offering a benediction to the kindly old man who gave him a chance so long ago.
His eyes flicked to the rooms other occupant. Leonardo Vincius sat without movement. His gaze was slack and angry, his hands folded into his lap. Archimedes glanced lower, still shocked to see the engineer’s left leg ended where his knee would be, the rest of his length was instead a stout oaken stump. Raising his eyes, he was caught with Leo’s angry grimacing watching him.
“Have a good look?” he practically sneered, his voice dripping with venom.
Archimedes said nothing, refusing to be baited by his constantly angry companion. “It’s been almost a year, Leo. At least you didn’t die.”
“Would have been better if I did. I’m a god damned freak, that’s what I am.” He tapped the wooden leg with a sharp knuckle rap. “A freak. I should be standing on the corner, letting the local street urchins play with my stump and throw rotten eggs at me. Why? Because I am a freak!” He snatched his ever-present jug from the stand and slugged back a huge drink. Without care, he allowed the wine to trickle out his mouth and run down his chin.
The sound of a knock at the door interrupted Archimedes’ next comment. Sighing, he opened it, revealing the dowager, along with Father Raspius. “Hello Miss Lisa, Father Raspius.”
“Ah, crap!” Leo snarled. “Not this farce again.”
“Leonardo Vincius!” rebuked Miss Lisa, her normally stoic features frowning slightly. “We do not speak that way and in that tone when in this house and when a lady is present.”
The engineer merely grunted, taking another large swallow of wine.
The priest of Zeus let himself in, crossing the room and sitting opposite the surly Leo. “Listen, Leo. I’ll come every day if I have to. I know that you’re angry and pissed off…”
“Does it show?”
Raspius squinted in response to the sarcasm. “And pissed off,” he repeated, “but Zeus hasn’t given up on you, neither have your friends, and neither have I. The only person who’s given up is you.”
“Oh, please! I don’t buy this newfound crud about the gods caring one speck of sand about us. Archimedes has told all about the religious interests in learning and the discourses going on at the libraries and temples. Well let me tell you something, priest; Zeus couldn’t care a flying fig about you and he sure as hell couldn’t care a fornicating flying fig about some crippled FREAK like me.” He motioned to the door with his wine jug. “Now if you don’t mind, I don’t feel much like entertaining today, so go soak your head and leave me alone.”
Miss Lisa sucked in her breath and grew limp, almost fainting in Archimedes’ grasp. Father Raspius bowed his head, standing slowly. With almost tearful eyes, he looked down at the scowling Leonardo, who returned the gaze and sardonically barked, “What?!”
The priest of Zeus gave the crippled engineer’s chair a swift kick, knocking the surprised man backward and to the floor. Leo tried to roll to his stomach, but Raspius gave him a hard shove, turning the engineer over again on the floor. The priest of Zeus followed the increasingly angered engineer, constantly knocking the man down every time he tried to pull himself up. Finally, unable to take the abuse anymore, Leo rolled backward out of Raspius’ range, gathered his good and bad limb underneath him, and leapt to his feet. Brandishing his fists, he cried out, “What in Tartarus are you doing?! Touch me again and I’ll knock your teeth down your throat, holy man or not!” He wobbled slightly, but was more than able to remain standing.
When he realized that Miss Lisa was staring at him with mouth agape, Archimedes was smiling proudly, and Father Raspius was no longer instigating him but was instead appraising the upright engineer with a thoughtful eye, he began to take stock of his situation. He was not only vertical, but standing on both limbs, real and artificial. The wonderment of his position startled him, threatening to drop his slowly quivering form back to the floor.
This time Father Raspius reached out, not to assault, but to steady and strengthen the surprised Leonardo. “Good. Very good. Next time I come by and your just sitting there miserable and stewing, I’m going to knock more sense into that thick skull of yours. You get me?”
The stunned engineer could only nod, still in awe that he was standing.
“Excellent.” He gave Leonardo a firm grip on the shoulder and a warm show of teeth. “You keep this up, my friend. Trust in yourself and remember the words of the almighty Zeus: wisdom and determination are just as important as strength and skill, but all tasks require the will and power of the person to succeed.” Letting go, he gave Archimedes a firm handshake and escorted the dowager from the room. “By the way,” he added, before closing the door, “we’d be interested in having you and your thoughts at some of our discourses. I’m sure that when every priest from here to Giza and back has had their fill of talking and learning about the gods and the spiritual world, we might like to learn about other subjects as well. Just food for thought, since I’ve read some of your notes and find them to be…how did I put it Archimedes?”
“Brilliant, Father Raspius. I believe the word you used to describe Leo here was brilliant.”
The priest snapped his fingers nodding. “That it is. That it is. Be a shame if a brilliant man just drank his life away wouldn’t it?” And with that, he left the shamed Leonardo alone to think on his words and contemplate his rediscovered sense of self.
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Vanadorn
Motorcycling Paladin
“King Proaga. Isandhlwana is lost.”
The Zulu king said nothing.
“King Proaga. The Arabican forces have taken the city. Our people have been beaten.”
Still the royal lord remained silent.
“Intombe. Bapedi. Swazi. Isandhlwana. When will this end, King Proaga? When will the constant destruction of our people be brought to a close? We cannot fight on like this.”
The once mighty Zulu King seemed small somehow, his wide shouldered body diminished and shrunken while seated at the throne. He drew breath lightly, seemingly almost afraid to move as he watched Jumanga, his closest advisor pace around the chamber.
“We have been beaten, King Proaga. We have been beaten, overrun, abused, and embarrassed. In other cities in other lands, the great kings and queens laugh at us. They laugh at the Zulu people. Other fighters sneer cruelly at our Impi warriors. They snub their nose at our pathetic forces. The day of the Zulu came and went long ago. The glory of Zulu has past us now. We are not long for this world if things continue along this way.”
Proaga just watched Jumanga, the same way a kiriki bird watches a crouching leopard.
“The people have not had glory since the great Shaka ruled us. The people have not had victory since the days of our ancestors. Something has to change, King Proaga. Something has to change soon.”
The Zulu King was sweating now, great beads of it rolling across his forehead and dripping down his nose. He began breathing faster.
“But what can we change? We cannot change the past. What has happened has happened. We can change the future, but how does one change what hasn’t happened yet?” He held up a finger. “Ah! I think I know how.”
Proaga seemed faint, his eyes were fluttering as he struggled to stop the continuous sweat from pouring from his skin.
“If a man is on a path that leads to a cliff, and that cliff leads him to his doom and death, it is possible to save that man it you change the path he is on now. That is what we must do now. We must change the path we are on today, in order to change our future.”
Proaga tried to open his mouth to speak, but could only choke slightly, his mouth filling with copper tinged saliva. He worked his jaw, spilling some of it from between his slackening lips.
“In order to save the Zulu people, Great King Proaga, we must change the Zulu’s Great King.”
Proaga clenched his hands uncontrollably, crushing the brass goblet he had been drinking from, spilling the poisoned juice across his lap and down his leg. His form quivered now, his hearing and vision fading rapidly.
“So it is with a heavy heart but a firm sense of purpose, that I, Jumanga, take the crown and throne of King of the Zulus.” Reaching, he took the decorated crown from the dying Proaga’s head, and staring deeply into his former king’s eyes, he hissed, “The king is dead. Long live the king.”
Proaga’s mighty heart beat wildly and then burst. Limply, he fell forward, the floor rushing up to meet him. He rolled down the dais and across the chamber, stopping with his gaze staring up, looking at the roof of the room he had ruled the Zulu’s from. And then he saw nothing else.
Jumanga, the new King of the Zulus sat on the now vacated throne. “Wihipian!” he cried. The captain of the guard entered, shocked to see Proaga dead on the floor and Jumanga seated on the throne. “Wihipian!” he repeated. “Send the fleetest runner we have to the Caliph of the Arabican people. I want to speak with him about peace.”
The captain stood there, unsure how to react.
Jumanga leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “I have given you an order, captain.”
Wihipian remained frozen a few moments longer, staring at Jumanga’s solid and determined gaze. Finally, he swallowed a lump in his throat, visibly coming to a decision. “Yes, my king.” Bowing low, he strode out, leaving Jumanga smiling and satisfied as the throne room doors gently closed.
The Zulu king said nothing.
“King Proaga. The Arabican forces have taken the city. Our people have been beaten.”
Still the royal lord remained silent.
“Intombe. Bapedi. Swazi. Isandhlwana. When will this end, King Proaga? When will the constant destruction of our people be brought to a close? We cannot fight on like this.”
The once mighty Zulu King seemed small somehow, his wide shouldered body diminished and shrunken while seated at the throne. He drew breath lightly, seemingly almost afraid to move as he watched Jumanga, his closest advisor pace around the chamber.
“We have been beaten, King Proaga. We have been beaten, overrun, abused, and embarrassed. In other cities in other lands, the great kings and queens laugh at us. They laugh at the Zulu people. Other fighters sneer cruelly at our Impi warriors. They snub their nose at our pathetic forces. The day of the Zulu came and went long ago. The glory of Zulu has past us now. We are not long for this world if things continue along this way.”
Proaga just watched Jumanga, the same way a kiriki bird watches a crouching leopard.
“The people have not had glory since the great Shaka ruled us. The people have not had victory since the days of our ancestors. Something has to change, King Proaga. Something has to change soon.”
The Zulu King was sweating now, great beads of it rolling across his forehead and dripping down his nose. He began breathing faster.
“But what can we change? We cannot change the past. What has happened has happened. We can change the future, but how does one change what hasn’t happened yet?” He held up a finger. “Ah! I think I know how.”
Proaga seemed faint, his eyes were fluttering as he struggled to stop the continuous sweat from pouring from his skin.
“If a man is on a path that leads to a cliff, and that cliff leads him to his doom and death, it is possible to save that man it you change the path he is on now. That is what we must do now. We must change the path we are on today, in order to change our future.”
Proaga tried to open his mouth to speak, but could only choke slightly, his mouth filling with copper tinged saliva. He worked his jaw, spilling some of it from between his slackening lips.
“In order to save the Zulu people, Great King Proaga, we must change the Zulu’s Great King.”
Proaga clenched his hands uncontrollably, crushing the brass goblet he had been drinking from, spilling the poisoned juice across his lap and down his leg. His form quivered now, his hearing and vision fading rapidly.
“So it is with a heavy heart but a firm sense of purpose, that I, Jumanga, take the crown and throne of King of the Zulus.” Reaching, he took the decorated crown from the dying Proaga’s head, and staring deeply into his former king’s eyes, he hissed, “The king is dead. Long live the king.”
Proaga’s mighty heart beat wildly and then burst. Limply, he fell forward, the floor rushing up to meet him. He rolled down the dais and across the chamber, stopping with his gaze staring up, looking at the roof of the room he had ruled the Zulu’s from. And then he saw nothing else.
Jumanga, the new King of the Zulus sat on the now vacated throne. “Wihipian!” he cried. The captain of the guard entered, shocked to see Proaga dead on the floor and Jumanga seated on the throne. “Wihipian!” he repeated. “Send the fleetest runner we have to the Caliph of the Arabican people. I want to speak with him about peace.”
The captain stood there, unsure how to react.
Jumanga leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “I have given you an order, captain.”
Wihipian remained frozen a few moments longer, staring at Jumanga’s solid and determined gaze. Finally, he swallowed a lump in his throat, visibly coming to a decision. “Yes, my king.” Bowing low, he strode out, leaving Jumanga smiling and satisfied as the throne room doors gently closed.
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