Post by Itanecrio on Apr 23, 2010 22:39:28 GMT -5
Tutarinya winced and sucked his thumb, looking up with chagrin at his master and sponsor, the Comrade Chastaron. The Comrade snorted and reached out to rough Tuta's hair.
"You're that quiet, lad, always moving, leaving things as they might hope to be found, I sometimes forget you're even here!" The Veteran's voice was still hoarse from the rigours of the last battle, already three weeks past. "You wait till you're fighting! You'll nick your fingers often enough, over time it won't even slow you down; and besides, Straight-through likes the taste of blood. Look at her gleam now, you've gone and woken up her wicked spirit." The Comrade stood, the dimness of the smoking candles still managing to catch the brass buckles of his clothing, the shimmer of velvets, the glow of supple leathers. The Comrade reached out, and the sword seemed to reach toward his hand. "You see Tuta? No edge has our Straight-through, that's why you got lazy isn't it? But as she leaps through armour, flesh, and bone alike, sometimes she catches a burr, sometimes a riders breast-plate will gnash against her, and leave her with a little edge like a razor. It's important to oil her nonetheless.
"After the lance breaks, Straight-through must take it's place! Your reach reduced from three man-lengths, down to one -the length of your arm and your hand-lance, for that's what this weapon is, lad, make no mistake. That is why we are the Lancers!
"A Comrade rides through the enemy. To be caught short, to stop and begin fencing, that is not our way. Ride through! Regroup, ride through again! Until they throw themselves at your mercy. Our sabres, they are reserved for when we are on foot. And if you meet brigands or knights on foot, then your strategy and foresight have failed you!"
Tuta looked up from where he knelt, the light of Straight-through reflecting into his eyes. "I saw you in the battle, sire. I thought their cross bows would get you before your lance could reach them." He could not hide the fear he felt recalling that prospect. He would he reduced to nothing, having not yet been elected as the Comrades herald and heir. A boy, houseless, and on the edge of a battle.
"Maybe it will come to pass that way one day boy. But there it is -that is the devils' cut on our deal. The Gods grant us righteousness and glory, but the devil gets to cut some of us down. But I promise you this boy, there isn't more than one man in a thousand that can hold his hand steady when he watches us lower our lances and begin the assault. Mark my words. A stray arrow seldom killed a lancer, not even to the throat. There's only one man in a thousand with the guts to fire an arrow straight at us, the rest are stray. And they've only got time for one real volley before we hit them! Remember that, even at the fore I've only got one arrow in a thousand that's truly aimed at me." The Comrade looked down Straight-through's length, handing it back down so Tuta could complete the oiling.
"How long do you think this war will last?" Tuta enquired.
The Comrade dropped his head, his back turned. He was laughing perhaps. "This isn't really a war, lad. Not a real one.
"Riches have got easier to make, lad. With the new ships, and the new roads. There's more riches flowing across the lands than water these days, so it seems. And where there's riches there's power. And power means fighting, lad. The fighting is going to last forever. Unless something changes. That's what we're about, lad. The Lancers! We'll ride down everyone who resists us, and bring them to peace -either underground, or under our Law. How long we have to fight, that's up to you. Tomorrow you ride behind me. Word reaches us the lords here have marshalled another army. That must have cost them a bit, I'd say." The Comrade's eyes gleamed, daring Tutarinya to finish the line of thought.
"And we'll make it cost them more dearly still." Tuta heard himself utter.
"That we will herald. That we will."
"You're that quiet, lad, always moving, leaving things as they might hope to be found, I sometimes forget you're even here!" The Veteran's voice was still hoarse from the rigours of the last battle, already three weeks past. "You wait till you're fighting! You'll nick your fingers often enough, over time it won't even slow you down; and besides, Straight-through likes the taste of blood. Look at her gleam now, you've gone and woken up her wicked spirit." The Comrade stood, the dimness of the smoking candles still managing to catch the brass buckles of his clothing, the shimmer of velvets, the glow of supple leathers. The Comrade reached out, and the sword seemed to reach toward his hand. "You see Tuta? No edge has our Straight-through, that's why you got lazy isn't it? But as she leaps through armour, flesh, and bone alike, sometimes she catches a burr, sometimes a riders breast-plate will gnash against her, and leave her with a little edge like a razor. It's important to oil her nonetheless.
"After the lance breaks, Straight-through must take it's place! Your reach reduced from three man-lengths, down to one -the length of your arm and your hand-lance, for that's what this weapon is, lad, make no mistake. That is why we are the Lancers!
"A Comrade rides through the enemy. To be caught short, to stop and begin fencing, that is not our way. Ride through! Regroup, ride through again! Until they throw themselves at your mercy. Our sabres, they are reserved for when we are on foot. And if you meet brigands or knights on foot, then your strategy and foresight have failed you!"
Tuta looked up from where he knelt, the light of Straight-through reflecting into his eyes. "I saw you in the battle, sire. I thought their cross bows would get you before your lance could reach them." He could not hide the fear he felt recalling that prospect. He would he reduced to nothing, having not yet been elected as the Comrades herald and heir. A boy, houseless, and on the edge of a battle.
"Maybe it will come to pass that way one day boy. But there it is -that is the devils' cut on our deal. The Gods grant us righteousness and glory, but the devil gets to cut some of us down. But I promise you this boy, there isn't more than one man in a thousand that can hold his hand steady when he watches us lower our lances and begin the assault. Mark my words. A stray arrow seldom killed a lancer, not even to the throat. There's only one man in a thousand with the guts to fire an arrow straight at us, the rest are stray. And they've only got time for one real volley before we hit them! Remember that, even at the fore I've only got one arrow in a thousand that's truly aimed at me." The Comrade looked down Straight-through's length, handing it back down so Tuta could complete the oiling.
"How long do you think this war will last?" Tuta enquired.
The Comrade dropped his head, his back turned. He was laughing perhaps. "This isn't really a war, lad. Not a real one.
"Riches have got easier to make, lad. With the new ships, and the new roads. There's more riches flowing across the lands than water these days, so it seems. And where there's riches there's power. And power means fighting, lad. The fighting is going to last forever. Unless something changes. That's what we're about, lad. The Lancers! We'll ride down everyone who resists us, and bring them to peace -either underground, or under our Law. How long we have to fight, that's up to you. Tomorrow you ride behind me. Word reaches us the lords here have marshalled another army. That must have cost them a bit, I'd say." The Comrade's eyes gleamed, daring Tutarinya to finish the line of thought.
"And we'll make it cost them more dearly still." Tuta heard himself utter.
"That we will herald. That we will."