1866-02-11: To Reach Duval: The Coast
To Reach Duval: The Coast
Summary: The 3rd Regiment's ride South from Goldhollow to the Great Salt River… (Part One)
Date: 1866-02-11
Related: http://eternalcrusade.wikidot.com/log:1866-02-10-old-grudges-of-a-new-day & http://eternalcrusade.wikidot.com/memoir:1866-02-10:house-tarris-orders
NPCs: {$npc}
Players:
Henric  

The deep reverberation of twenty horse rolled over the hard packed roads of the southern lands; a rush of clattering hooves and chinking metal persistent with a driven purpose and devilish haste. The animal’s nostrils had flared and their bodies glistened with sweat, foaming up around their legs to indicate the extent of long hours at quickened pace. Their ears pressed flat in obedience that flickered on defiance and men’s throats were run raw from ruthless encouragement that allowed no rest.

The black tabards of House Tarris covered the riders and their cloaks flared out demonically behind them as the wind of the coastline drove up to parry them. They had made it. Birds would be quick, so the horsemen had to be quicker and they had arrived. They had stayed upon the roads which cut them easily through wild forests, by-passed cliffs, sent them straight through the valleys, and lead them south where the waters of the Great Salt River converged.

They had met with no resistance. They had given no one the opportunity to resist them, whistling their horses on as if in a great race, leaving any civilian upon the road wide eyed in startled wonderment and fear.

The shoreline came into sharp view over the crest of a grassy knoll, causing the horsemen to tighten their firsts upon the reins and slow their animals with triumphant smiles shared between them. The Great Salt River flowed wide as an ocean, touching the horizon as the fading sun glistened upon her like wavering gold. It was a natural place for anyone to wish to stop, for the view was perfect.

The commander, given by the gleam of his tarnished iron plate armor and the distinguishing mantle of fur upon his shoulders fastened by gold hinges, raised his arm at a bend to signal his group to a walk. The animals took the opportunity to heave deep lung filling breathes, snorting their exhaustion in outward sounds which filled the air present. The men used the chance to open visors, take drinks from their canteens, and reposition their chafed bodies against the leather saddles.

“There it is. The Great Salt River,” Henric boasted loud enough to carry his voice back to the rear guard, while the black mount he was upon buffeted his hold on the reins as the animal tossed its great head, prancing the commander sideways down the hill. Tail lashed and snapped against hindquarters as the animal was fighting the bit; ears pinned flat, legs hefting high in impatient anxiety. Henric kept the upset stallion in check with a sharp heel and nudge, conquering the refusal to set the animal’s head forward toward the shoreline.

Adjusting his seat, Henric contemplated the reason for the stallion balking and the continued fight against the reins. His head turned as his gaze scanned their surroundings when a certain itch could be felt between his shoulder blades. The sense that he was being watched grew, as did the restlessness of his horse underneath him. There was a general tension that built rapidly throughout their small numbers, sending men’s fingers to twitch upon sword hilts and the hum of conversation to draw quiet. A disconcerting hush had gripped the lands, lands which most of them were foreign to.

Naturally, upon instinct of preventing an ambush, Henric drew the regiment to a grinding halt. The anxiety only grew. The men behind him began to voice their trepidation of the situation. They were out in the open with dense forest on their right flank and the roadway ahead leading around a blind descending bend of rock and further tree. The horses began to whicker, picking up on the distress of their riders.

“We’ve sun left. If you’re with me men, let’s press on and quickly. Keep alert,” Henric issued the orders and not sooner than he had done so, the bugle of another force broke through and compounded them with dread of an impending fight. It came from where they intended to go. “Break for the forest if what comes out numbers three to one!” The men seized control of their fear as the sound of weapons unsheathed sung with the ring of metal.

A second bugle from behind them. A third from their right flank in the forest. It sent panic rippling through the men as the forest began to move toward them. Henric grunted at his ill fate, “Hold together men. If we cannot run, we’ll break through whatever comes at us. Hold with me! Stand strong! Courage in War, Honour and Glory.” Cassomir and Tarris motto’s used.

The glint of steel and sound of horse came up from the bend, too far yet to mark their colours but close enough to mark their numbers. Someone from behind him spoke what he thought, “It’s more than three to one Sir.” Henric cast a look toward the forest, seeing the archers, then ahead to note the mark of cavalry, which had also flanked them and took the approach to the rear. They were effectively trapped.

“Disarm,” Henric snapped back to a flurry of protests, “Disarm or our lives are wasted here!”

The men reluctantly complied and Henric raised his arm in supplication to the approaching force.

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