The culture flip.

The tavern was small. Dust and dirt was building up in the corners an under tables as though it meant to invade; not the sort of place to find any respectable noble. Yet that was exactly where Lord Rikenstein found himself, no, not Lord Rik anymore - just Jon , he silently mused. Grouped around Jon were several of the fine locals inhabiting this poor excuse for a town. No matter, soon my work here will be done and I can move to the next filth bucket. , the thought almost brought a chuckle to Jon, but he swallowed it and continued with his spiel, "as I was saying, the King is growing weak. Sure, old Bismark was quite a general back in his heyday, but...well, have any of you seen that French Queen? Now there's a ruler; looks that could twist a man's manhood into knots! Smart to go with it too. Yup, the God's above surely expanded a good deal of effort on that one." Apprecietive chuckles arose from around the table.
The mood around the table was light, which was exactly the way Jon wanted it. Just enough to suck these fools in, to make them see that he was "one of them". It was now time to deliver the sword. "Speaking of France, have any of you fine men been there?" Without waiting for an answer he pressed on, "I have. At Burlogne. The battle of Two Hills."
Jon's face grew darker with each word as his voice lowered and the peasants around him now leaned in closer. The somber mood was part of his strategy, people tended to remember things much better if they could associate memory with emotion, but the somber mood he was creating was also quite natural. He really had been at the Two Hills and try as he might, he never could get those images out of his head. One image stood out among all the rest,
A knight charging down a single spearman. Sunlight reflecting on the upraised sword. The noise of battle muting as if distant thunder filled his head. The peasant drops the spear as nerveless hands raise as if to ward off the inevitable, the look of stark terror written across the man's face. The dark stain of urine on the man's breeches.
Strangely, Jon couldn't remember that sword ever falling. He continued,
"The battle, as I'm sure you all know, was won by our glorious army. But you probably don't know how bravely the French fought. Or how bravely they died." The lie tasted like ash in his mouth as he recalled that French spearman, "They fought hard because they had something to fight for! Their cities are wonderous. Great temples with massive stone columns the like of which I've never seen before or since. Huge open marketplaces with entertainment at all times of the day. Street theaters all around, I could go on but I think you see the picture." Lord Rik took a deep breath before going on, "And it's all because of Queen Joan. She loves her people and her land flourishes while the only thing Bismark does is destroy things!"
The conversation continued for a while longer before changing to other topics, but by the time Lord Rik left the tavern, he heard the dark mutters of uprising behind him. A slow smile crawled across his lip, "Another small town. One by one until I can work on the "great" city of Heidelburg itself." He felt like laughing. It would be a good day.

Nice. Bit different from the mostly war stories around here.

Marcus scurried through the halls of the mighty Drachensfell Castle, his footsteps echoing off the cold stone floor. He wrung his hands together nervously as he worried how the King would take this news. Marcus arrived at the massive wooden doors; on the other side the King could be heard snoring - even through the heavy oak. One of the royal gaurds standing watch spoke without deigning to look at Marcus, "State your business."
"I...I have a message.... for the King. It's....it's quite important."
Now the royal gaurd turned his head to look at Marcus, "Then you'd better give it to him, eh?". With that he turned and pounded his mailed fist against the doors twice, and swept the door open, motioning to Marcus to proceed. As Marcus started in, the gaurd leaned down, "I hope it's important, I haven't seen a beheading for a few weeks now." And gave Marcus a slow, hideous grin which wasn't friendly at all. No, thought Marcus, that grin was not at all friendly.
Marcus had taken no more then three steps into the King's bedchamber when Bismark himself fairly roared from under the covers, "What in God's name... a man cannot sleep?"
"My lord, I bear important news from the North. There have been a number of small uprisings!"
This all came out in a rush as Marcus practically fell to his knee. He noted his own trembling hands and the pale cast of his skin and decided to continue before he fainted, ".....it looks as though Heidelburg itself may...it may...well.... it may revolt!"
"WHAT!!!"
Bismark threw threw the covers aside and rolled his fat, heaving body out of the bed. "Get my war counselours, assemble my army," his voice went muffled for a while as he struggled to pull a robe over his enormous belly, "I don't believe this! After all I do for..." He stopped and refocused his eyes on Marcus, who was still quivering on the floor,"How reliable is this information?"
"Sire?"
"GODDAMMIT, I SAID HOW RELIABLE IS THIS!"
"It's...all true, I swear", this came out as a squeek.
"Hmmmm, well I suppose that I'll just have to teach them who their master is, don't you agree peasant?"
"Yes, of course your Lordship", Marcus was fairly weak with relief. Maybe he'd get through this after all!
Bismark had finished dressing himself and now called to his gaurds, "Is the war room being readied? What are you doing just standing around for? Get me something to eat, and... oh yes, take this foolish peasant to the headsman."
Marcus fainted.

Lord Jon Von Rikenstein followed the escort to meet Baron Korlof. As he trailed through the seemingly endless corridors, which were obviously designed to impress and intimidate young lordling and their ladies with large, rich tapestries and gilded statues, he thought back to his close call not a month past.
He had been in a small village somewhere south of the Southern garrisons.
"As I was saying, Joan is quite some ruler. Yes indeed, old Bismark is just past his time...", he was interrupted by a mug being slammed on the table in front of him. Forthy beer slopped over the rim and spilled on Jon's lap. He jumped to his feet, wiping the beer off. The mug's owner was right there, close enough to Jon that he could smell the man's truly disgusting breath. He wrinkled his nose in disgust and opened his mouth to protest. The man didn't give him a chance to speak,
"Who do you think you are? What you're saying is like... treason and all that. We're good King's men we are, and we don't like traitors!"
Jon realised that once treason is mentioned out loud, everybody would of course join in the cry for fear of their own skin - no matter that most of these men had been agreeing with him not five minutes ago. So he did the only thing he could have. He balled his fist and broke the man's nose. An outcry raised up at that and no matter that Jon had been winning the crowd up to this point, he was still an outsider and these locals were about to teach him that lesson. As a knight, he felt somewhat disgusted for having to fight these common folk, but the alternative just didn't suit him at all. He let his contempt show openly on his face as he reached for his dagger. The look on his face then froze as he realised his dagger was missing, "Thieving scum", he roared as he picked up the chair he had so recently been using and now used again in a slightly different fashion as he swung it over his head. He was surprised it didn't break as it connected with the head of the ugly fellow. There was a definate cracking sound, however. He felt like giggling at the thought and now he was smiling as he swung back and forth, scattering the folk around him. The smile left his face as two men hit him from the side at the same time. Once on the ground, everybody found their courage and started piling over, kicking and punching at all three men on the ground. "This is not looking good", thought Jon. He felt heavy boots connecting pretty well with his ribs now, as the locals got a feel for it, but now another, nastier grin had crossed his lips because now he saw where his dagger had fallen under the table. That's when things got really, really ugly...
He remembered killing most of them and chasing the others off, but there had been one young man who had been too scared to run. With a snarl, Jon pulled the bloody dagger back for one more thrust when an image of a spearman came to his mind. The snarl was replaced with a look of disgust, at himself mostly.
"What's your name, boy?"
The young man looked to be on the verge of loosing his bladder, but he managed to stutter, "M...M..Marcus, sire"
"Well Marcus, I've just given you an extension of your pathetic life. Use it well", with that, he wiped his dagger, turned and walked away.
"Lord Rikenstein, sire", the announcement snapped Jon back to the present and he almost showed the shock on his face. Almost, but he caught himself in time. A good thing too, for these damned nobles liked to play their games and could read a book out of any expressions you were foolish to let paint your face. Give them a lever to work on you with and you may well pay dearly. Unfortunately, Jon knew all about that. No matter that he had been good friends with this one for longer then he cared to think about, he had gone too far now...
"His escort backed out of the room as Jon stepped forward to clasp the Baron's arm in his own, "Baron Korlof, my good friend. It has been many years, has it not?"
"Indeed it has been my old friend."
"And look at you now, a Baron no less! However did you manage that? And command of the Heidelburg region as well? Who would have thought it. I remember twenty years ago when we were both squires, green as they came too!"
"I remember well, Jon. And I seem to remember that you got me in more trouble then a young squire should see."
They both laughed at that, but Jon noted there was a slightly uneasy edge to Korlof's laughter. He must know then that Jon had not come to merely catch up on old times, but to collect on an old debt. So if he was uneasy, Jon would keep him that way. No mention of what he wanted yet. He had to be careful, and patient. He just needed to find his own lever on his old friend and when he pried he would move a nation.

What do you all think so far? Any good or should I go back to my day job! Any feedback is welcome.

I LIKE IT ALOT

yea carry on I want to know weather or not the whole region riots or if bismark gets there...

The war room at Drachensfell castle was filled with excited chatter as the various lords and generals sat at their positions around the White Stone table. The White Stone was a huge slab of the finest marble, transported from the long ago provinces of the once mighty Roman empire. Around the room, the royal gaurds stood to attention, their highly polished plate mail gleaming brightly in the light of a thousand candles. And of course, the honor gaurd took their customary position three paces behind the King's chair.
Bismark, for all his blustering behaviour, was no fool. After all, no man lives to be as old as... how old am I now? , as old as he was. He knew many of his so called trusted retainers would turn on him like a rabid wolfpack given half an opportunity; it was a testament to his politacal savvy that he still ruled Germany after so many years. Now, as he lounged in the great throne at the head of the White Stone, gazing around at his war counsel, he could have no idea that many miles to the North, Lord Rikenstein was meeting with Baron Korlof and laying plans that could end with the death of a King.
Lord Zouvee had everyone's attention now; he was standing and gesturing quite wildly. Bismark fancied he could see bits of spittle falling from the lord's mouth. The King decided it was time to pay attention.
"...and there is no WAY that a buch of flaming farmers could possibly, possibly ever take a whole city from us. The whole idea is flipping ridiculous! I mean, we have a large garrison at Heidelburg, right? How will abunch of PEASANTS ever defeat them!"
Bismark noted, with slight alarm, that lord Zouvee's eyes had taken on a slight reddish tint and...was that steam coming from the man's nose?!?
"This has never happened before! The whole idea is...is..." Lord Zouvee stopped to wipe the spittle from his mouth, "...is STUPID. WHOEVER THOUGHT THAT HEIDELBURG COULD BREAK AWAY FROM MIGHTY GERMANY CAN ROT IN HELL!!! DO YOU HEAR ME!!! DO YOU? I WILL NEVER BUY FROM HEIDELBURG. I WILL..."
King Bismark sat up in definate alarm and motioned to the royal gaurdsmen behind the lord. As they carried the stricken lord Zouvee away everyone tried to ignore his rantings as they studied their fingernails, or took a sudden interest in the tapestries upon the walls.
After an uncomfortable silence, Bismark cleared his throat. Several people jumped. "I have reconsidered sending the army to deal with this small matter. I believe the reports to be greatly exaggerated", after all, Zouvee was right, wasn't he? " I have also recieved word from Baron Korlof." THis news jerked everybodies head up in sudden interest. "He tells of several SMALL uprisings in the outlaying villages, but nothing serious. All of these riots were caused by one man. The Baron informs me that Lord Rikenstein has resurfaced and is causing mischief. As you all know, Lord Rikenstein was once a trusted member of my personal Honor Gaurd. I counted him as my friend until he betrayed me. I also stripped him of all his lands, monies, and trappings before exiling him. The penalty for returning to German soil is death by slow torture." The King was quite pleased he had managed to keep a straight face thus far. Of course Lord Rikenstein had betrayed him. He had betrayed him by refusing to keep his mouth shut about Bismark's private indulgences. Well, he had shown the great Lord Rik a lesson in politics had he not? He continued, "At Baron Korlof's request, I am sending a detachment of the Red Fist knights. This should relieve the pressure on the current garrisons at Heidelburg and secure the region. "
"My Liege", the interruption came from the general of Drachensfell's main army. "What of the army? At your request I have assembled them in very short time and they stand ready."
"Hmmph, send them to the Westerly grasslands... for training or something. Seems to me like they're getting fat and lazy anyway."
Luckily the King didn't notice the way one man stifled a laugh, or the way a few more took that sudden interest in that tapestry. The conversation continued for a a long while, but the King had made up his mind, so he went back to daydreaming while his counsel carried on.

prehaps you could have the french supply the the rebeals....
tell me to butt out if im interfearing to much

The French Palace at Paris was one of the grandest in the world; no expense had been spared in the construction. Each room was a demonstration in exquisite artwork. The Queen's bedchamber was no exception. Lord Jon Von Rikenstein lounged on the expansive, yet feather soft, mattress, propped up by a collection of silky pillows. It had been a hard few days, riding from Heidelburg to the Great Palace of Paris. But as tired as he was, the sight facing him seemed to revitalize him, body and soul. Queen Joan D'Arc was wearing those silken underthingies again - and not much else. She stood with her weight on her right leg, hands on her hips and her chin held high. Her entire demeanour was that of challenge and Lord Rik never turned from a challenge...
She turned out to be a worthy opponent.
Much later, as they lay in bed together, the Queen spoke, "How did your mission in Germany fare?"
"It went well. Better than I could have hoped."
"Did you visit with the Baron of Heaidelburg?"
"Of course. He played perfectly into my hands. He betrayed me to Bismark, as I knew he would. But my men ambushed his messenger and changed a few words that will make all the difference. In the meanwhile, both Bismark and my dear friend the Baron believe they have the situation well in hand. I can only hope Bismark was calmed enough by the Baron's assurance that all is well to not send his armies. And if he chooses another division besides the Red Fists..... Well, I have contingency measures prepared."
"I am sure we will succeed, my sweets. After all, once Heidelburg is in our hands, the great French Armies stand ready to defend her. Bismark has grown too old and too soft to have the heart for a full scale war.", Joan trailed off as Jon reached over to her to prove once again, that he was a most mighty champion....

It had been two months past since Jon had lain in the arms of the French Queen, Joan d'Arc. In that time he had not been idle; all the plans he had set in motion were rapidly coming to fruition. He had gathered all the German outlaying villages to him and assembled a motley army of farmers, smithies, tailors and other peasant workers. The the ragtag army had been secretly bolstored by many of Joan d'Arc's personal gaurd; and then there was the Red Fists, sent by Bismark himself. Jon was particularly pleased that Bismark had fallen for that, had he forgotten that Jon commanded the Red Fists before he was called to act as Bismark's honor gaurd? Jon had stayed in contact with his old unit, learning much valuable information about Bismark's habits and quirks. That was how Jon had learned that Bismark longed to take to the field of battle again. From there he formed his plans to take revenge on the King of Germany. How long had it been since Bismark had unjustly stripped Jon of everything he had loved? Six, Seven years? He only needed to start a war large enough to lure Bismark on to the field and from there... Once exiled from his homeland, it had not been easy to make his way into the French Gaurds, but not due to a lack of fighting skill, after all, he was the finest swordsman in Germany, but more because of his German heritage. He had to earn every promotion by his own skill. But once he was gaurding the Queen herself, as part of her honor gaurd, it was surprisingly easy to seduce her. With that accomplished, he now had an army behind him. No matter that the French army had never won a major battle against the German; Lord Rik had taught the French new tactics and strategy to defeat the Germans.
Now, as Jon surveyed the battle plans laid out in front of him, he mused that he may well need some of those tactics. He had heard that Baron Korlof was fielding the entire garrison of Heidelburg against Lord Rik's army of peasants. Not only was the peasant army outnumbered, the cities garrisons were trained soldiors. They also had fine German armor and well made weaponry whilst Lord Rik's army had only wooden shield's for armor and very little melee weaponry. Although the Red Fist's were some of the best trained knights in the land, and heavy cavalry were a force to be reckoned with anywhere in the land, Lord Jon was unsure about the coming battle. His secret meetings with his loyal friend's in the Red Fists revealed the Baron's army's strengths. Over a thousand archers, almost four thousand infantry (with seven hundred heavy infantry), three thousand spearmen, and of course three hundred of the Red Fist Heavy Cavalry knights.
Lord Rik's army consisted of just over two thousand peasant foot soldiors, three hundred Red Fist knights (who really were on his side!) and four hundred of the French Gaurds.
Nine thousand trained German troops against three thousand farmers, half of which didn't even have a sword yet! Lord Rik's frown deepened as he continued poring over the battle plans. If he lost the fight here, then it had all been for nothing! He had to get Bismark's attention and if taking Heidelburg for the French didn't take his notice.... Still, Jon had to find a way to defeat the Garrisons of Heidelburg. If only he knew the Baron's plans. Suddenly it struck him; looking at the maps and plans laid before him, Jon knew how the Baron would deploy his troops.... and Jon would make him pay dearly! A smile grew across Lord Rik's lips as he could taste the forthcoming victory. Soon, my dear Bismark, soon we shall meet and I WILL HAVE MY REVENGE!!!

Keep going this is great!

Excellent writing. Eagerly awaiting the next installment!

Lord Rik stood at the head of the table in the crowded war tent. Seated around the table were the various commanders of each regiment of the peasant army along with the two French commanders, and of course, the lieutenant of the Red Fist Knights. Lord Jon laid out his plans for defeating the German army, "Baron Korlof is a most competent general, but his one major failing lies in being overly cautious. This will be in his favor considering the huge numerical advantage he possesses. Thusly, he will follow strict German war doctrines and strategy; but his second, and most fatal, failing is an inability to adapt to a changing battlefield." Jon hoped that his old friend had not changed in this respect, "We will definately change the field when the Red Fists reveal their true alliegance. Our biggest concern is the timing of this event. We already know that the Red Fists are the only heavy cavalry in the Baron's army, besides the Baron and his few retainers that is. German battlefield strategy since the Great Roman Wars has remained very effective, but unchanged. It reads like this; first, the archers fire. No less then three volleys, but no more then six. Whilst the archers are at work, the infantry has already begun their march on the enemy. Usually only two thirds are sent forward with the final third being held in reserve. When the armies close ranks, the cavalry is sent out. Either to the right or the left flanks, or if the occasion permits, straight through the middle. This gives the infantry a chance to destroy most of the palisades or other anti-horse measures the enemy may have deployed. But the cavalry is always the final blow."
Lord Rik took a deep breath and glanced around at his officers. He noted more then a few pale faces. With nearly three times their number to face against trained and well equiped troops, he could understand their concern. As for the French, they knew all too well the effectiveness of the mighty German army but to their credit, they kept their faces composed. Jon continued, "As effective as these strategies are, remember, they were developed in the South, against the Roman armies where most of the land was open and flat. The German army has forgotten how to fight amongst wooded glades and forests. Baron Korlof will look to find the nearest open land that he thinks he can pin us to; and that land is the farms just west of Glen Oaks. That is where he will seek to do battle. And that is where we will defeat him!"
Jon pieced out his battle plans and as he spoke, the pale faces surrounding him started to grin as hope replaced the grim acceptance of things to come.

more. This is really good.

Yep, I agree.

The Baron sat astride his steed, surveying the fields at Glen Oaks. He wore a strange half-smile which his commanders would have told him, had they the guts, made him look somewhat of a simpleton. However, Baron Korlof was most pleased with himself; he had outmanuvered that fool Rikenstein and now had him right where he wanted him - on the open fields. He looked across the fields (why were those fields wet? It hadn't rained in over a week.) to where the ragtag army faced his mighty army; why, they didn't even have any armor! Just those ridiculously oversized wooden shields and less then half had a real weapon! The rest of the rabble were holding wooden spears that were half again as long as they should be! It had been many long years since Korlof had taken the field of battle, and while he was pleased to do so once more, he was quite disappointed in the lack of any real opposition. He waved to the commanders to commence the battle.
A bugle called out one long note followed by two shorter ones. By rote, the long lines of archers stepped forward with arrows notched. A third note was sounded and the first arrow flew free, followed closely by a thousand more. The sky turned black and time seemed to stand still as the arrows reached their peak. Slowly, so slowly, the arrows turned and fell earthwards. The Baron sat forward on his horse with that smile growing on his lips; until the rebels raised those huge shields and took very few losses. The Baron snarled slightly and ordered the infantry to march while the archers reloaded for a second volley. Let's see how those shields hold against solid German steel! Again, the arrows did little damage and the third stike did even less. The archers were ordered to hold bows now as the infantry had closed almost two thirds the distance with no answer from the rebel bowmen. Korlof watched with glee this time, as the rebel army seemed to crumble before his eyes. Half the army began routing on the left flank while the right held. He couldn't believe his luck! He watched as the German army, not even closed with the enemy yet, began a lumbering encircling manuver to take advantage of the weakened flank. Suddenly, he realized he heard hoofbeats - hundreds of hoofbeats and he spun to his commanders, "Who ordered the knights to charge!"
"no...nobody, sire."
"Ahhh, stupid knights. Always looking for glory! Pah! No matter, the fight is already over, see." He gestured to the field where the remainder of the rebels were fleeing into the woods. The German infantry commanders had split their forces into two parts, one to pursue the rebels into the woods and the other to circle around to gather up the first bunch of cowards who ran. Baron Korlof watched in amazement as the first row of the pursuing infantry sprouted foot long shafts from their armor and fell to the ground. "Archers! They have archers hiding in the trees! Why don't they run up and kill them!"
"Sire! Our infantry have just walked the best part of a mile to engage the enemy over the muddy fields whilst wearing heavy German armor. They are becoming fatigued."
The Baron's mouth worked soundlessly up and down for a few moments before clamping together. He noted with incredulity as the peasants, unencumbered with armor and wielding those huge spears, turned about on a force three times their number. Fighting from the tree line, with covering fire from archers seated in the trees above who could fire unimpeded over the heads of their comrades, the peasants were knocking many infantryman to the ground; using their long spears like cattleprods. This would almost have looked comical if it hadn't been for the knights, who had just arrived, slaughtering the fallen footsoldiors.
"But they're on our side! THEY CAN'T DO THAT!!!"
The Baron was furious at this betrayal, but he still had numbers on his side and the second half of the army had turned from their encircling manuver to assist their countrymen. But now the first half of the rebel army came back through he treeline. These ones were armed with swords, and with the French gaurds amongst their ranks. The Germans wheeled around yet again, plainly wishing to help their friends who were still dying, but unable to ignore this new threat. Now the Red Fists relented their slaughter and turned to face the other half of the German army, who were now caught between the rebel swordsmen, and the knights. The peasants wielding the oversized spears melted back into the forest along with the archers, who had already climbed down from their vantage points. The Germans who had been caught in the grinder just a few short minutes ago were now forced to watch the same happen to the rest of their army. Try to recover as they might, they were to exhausted to reach their friends in time.
The Baron watched all this with that same half-smile frozen on his face. It had all happened so fast! So many dead and wounded in such a short time. His army divided and each half attacked front and back; this was unthinkable. He still had a thousand archers and the two thousand foot that had been held back in reserve and he began to order them to march when his reserves commander caught his arm, "Sire, think! We have nothing to counter the treacherous knights with! With such few numbers and no palisades, thoes cavalry, backed even by those flaming peasants will crush us. Our foot soldiors will have to march across that damned mud again and they will be as tired as the first wave was! Our archers are ineffective against their shields and we have lost the battle! We can't match their manuverability and we are simply outgeneraled! It is time to call the retreat, sire. Call the retreat."
The Baron looked at his commander coldly for several long minutes before turning away. He looked back over his shoulder as he began to ride away, "Sound the retreat."
Lord Rik swung his broadsword in a large arc culminating in a spectacular shower of blood as his blade found it's way between the shoulder plate and breastplate of the man facing him. As always in battle, Jon was happy. A grin was fixed on his lips as he cut through one opponant after another. Faster and faster his sword snaked through defences as if there was nothing to stop it, seemingly cleaving through armor as if it were butter. Of course, Jon knew the weak points of the German armor intimately and as for the men facing him, they had never even participated in the Drachenfell's Tournament of Champions let alone won it - three times over! He let a short bark of a laugh as he ducked low, an enemy blade humming through the air above his head, and stabbed with his dagger into the man's groin. He pulled away and turned as he rose, spinning, to take the man's head off with his sword. He knew that somewhere on the other side of this human forest was the fearsome band of Red Fist knights, hewing their way to meet him somewhere in this tangled mess of war. But for right now, he reveled in the deadly dance.
From what seemed to be a great distance, he heard a horn blow three, four times. The retreat! They are retreating! Lord Rik grinned even harder as he continued dealing death to all who stood in his way.

Keep it up. I'm enjoying this.

Jon stood at the center of the field; his deep red cloak moved slowly in the wind, his armor bore many marks and dents, but still shone nonetheless. His expression, so happy not one hour past in the midst of battle, now looked as though it had been carved from stone. Strewn around him like deadwood were the bodies of thousands. Pieces of armor, weapons and shields lay scattered on the muddy, bloadsoaked ground and a slow, cool breeze swept the field, stirring cloaks and fallen banners alike as if trying to give at least the impression of life to the unnatural and morbid scene. Jon hated the gory aftermath of war, and he especially hated seeing the ravens and other scavengers come out to feed once the noise died down. He caught movement from the corner of his eye and saw that the peasant army was gathering together from the various corners of the field that their violent, personal and desperate struggles had taken them. He also noted, with a slight smile, that the Red shields had already removed their warhorses from the bloody grounds and tended to them properly. Still as efficient, deadly and proffesional as they ever were He started picking his way through the carnage to where they waited.
Stephan finished unstrapping the heavy saddle from his warhorse and, with the help of his friend, moved it with the rest of them. Having only seen twenty one winters in his life, he was the youngest to have ever been asked to join the notorious band of the Red Fist. He had, in fact only ridden with the band for the last year, but in that time, he had proven himself to be more then the older, more grizzled knights had hoped for. As he set the heavy saddle down and stood back up, stretching his back and wiping a cloth across his brow, he saw a man striding towards the Red Fists. The man wore a shining, but well beaten, breastplate and greaves, but no other armor besides a leather undervest. Not one of the knights then, but he had a look to him that you could never ascribe to a peasant - maybe one of the French? The man walked straight up to Lord Commander Glavius. Stephan joined the others in walking over, with a curious expression, to see who this stone faced stranger was. As he arrived to join the rapidly growing crowd surrounding the newcomer and the Lord Commander he could see that the two men were staring at each other hard. In the blink of an eye, the stranger had his sword unsheathed and was attacking Glavius, who had also somehow managed to bare his blade. With a yell, Stephan began to run to help his beleagured Commander. His sword was barely halfway out when on of the older knights caught his arm and pulled him back. "What are you doing? We have to get in there and help!"
The older knight gave a soft chuckle and leaned down to speak in Stephan's ear without taking his eyes off of the two fighting men, "Don't be alarmed now, boy. That's just their way of saying hello. See."
Stephan looked around, and far from seeing the alarm that he still felt, he saw his comrades enjoying a masterful performance. He turned to watch his Commander and the stranger - stranger? If he knows Lord Glavius like that, could he be the leader of this whole thing? Lord Jon Von Rikenstein? Stephan searched his memory and came up with a match. He had heard of Lord Rikenstein in heraldry classes. That man had been a great champion. He had won the great Tournament of Champions what - two, three times? But he had been stripped of his title after betraying the King, or something. Stephan remembered because no other noble in the last hundred years had suffered such a cruel and extreme punishment. To have been a member of one of the mighty noble houses of Germany, only to have that taken from you? To become a ... a... a commoner! Such was the price for betrayal, Stephan bitterly reminded himself. He shook himself from his thoughts and concentrated on the "battle" before him. No matter how good this Lord Rikenstein had been, he would surely be taught a lesson by Lord Commander Glavius, who was simply a devil with the sword. Glavius had been a Roman Legionaire, captured in the great Roman Wars and forced to fight in one of the Slave divisions. Through his skill alone, he had risen to become division commander, general and finally he recieved a knighthood from Bismark himself for "performances of exceptional valor". As Stephan watched, the two swordsmen seemed to be involved in the most graceful dance he had ever seen. A far cry from the bloody work of chopping through a battlefield, the two men in front of him worked swords as though they had rehearsed the performance beforehand. Stephan hadn't known that a sword could make such beautiful noises, humming through the air with such speed to create varying pitches. Back and forth, One man gaining the advantage before the other pushed back. Never once did Stephan hear sword connect with armor.
Jon was grinning, as usual, as he barely managed to deflect the lightning strokes of his age old friend. You've gotten better my old friend. Much better. Sweat started to bead on his forehead as he delivered his counterblow, a low sweeping arc to cut up deep under a breastplate, into the short ribs. Glavius spun away and deflected another whipquick strike as Jon reversed his sword. Jon was tiring quickly, as he knew Glavius must be also. His muscles felt like water but he maintained his focus. There was too much pride at stake here - after all, he had never come close to losing a "hello" to his old friend. He noticed that while Glavius had improved his form tremendously, he had one opening. He tended to leave his torso open; not a bad battlefield tactic to let your foe waste his time trying to split the strong German steel breastplate while he left himself open for the counter, but Jon had spent his life finding ways to exploit the smallest opening. After a flurry of snakelike strikes from Glavius, Jon found himself on the offence once more. He swung high, with a two handed grip and as Glavius perried, he commited himself to the attack by allowing his sword to carry through in a full swing. He let the momentum pull his right shoulder down and as Glavius let loose a short bark of triumph (he had Jon's neck wide open for a "killing" blow) Jon thrust his shoulder hard into Glavius's breastplate with the last of his flagging strength. Glavius came within a hair of finishing his attack on Jon when he was caught by the shoulder charge and lifted off his feet to land flat on his back. Dazed momentarily, Glavius recovered and started to roll to his side to regain his feet when Jon's swordpoint appeared as if by magic at his throat.
Jon helped Glavius to his feet to the sound of swords beating on shields as the other Knights of the Red Fist roared their approval of this fine display of swordsmanship. The two men grinned wildly at each other as they clasped forearms. The rest of the day was spent in celebration of the day's victory and with Jon reacquainting himself with several old friends from his old unit. The knights even deigned to allow the peasant army to join them. Not quite treating them as equals, but not ignoring them either. It had been a hard and trying day for all. Tomorrwo would come the dirty work of salvaging the battlefield, but for now, good times.