TSA: 009 - The Pikemen​

The tortured rabble.
​

{Excerpt}​

The true messenger pigeon is a variety of domestic pigeons derived from the wild rock dove, selectively bred for its ability to find its way home over extremely long distances. The messenger pigeon has an innate homing ability, meaning that it will generally return to its nest (it is believed) using magnetoreception.

Flights as long as 1,800 km (1,100 miles) have been recorded and their average flying speed over moderate distances about 965 km (600 miles) long is around 97 km/h and speeds of up to 160 km/h have been observed for short distances. Because of this skill, domesticated pigeons are used to carry messages as messenger pigeons. They are usually referred to as "war pigeons" if used during wars.

…

Excerpt from Milburga Leah's Speculum universale - 'The Voltulian Philosophica', located on the coordinates 00.00.24.05.02; Udoris/Udoris/Zoology/Avians/Domesticated.​

{END}

• [25.13.1623]​

Faywyn.



IT was common knowledge that the world was at its darkest just a few hours before dawn. Sombre shadows and the morning fog stalked the open field. The golden hue of the rising sun stained the horizon crimson as dark, gloomy clouds drifted lazily in the gentle late summer breeze. Carefree and unrestrained. It was a quiet morning. The willowy tune of the travelling winds meandered across the town, ushering in the soothing awakening of dawn.

Donner stood among his fellow militiamen, his heart pounding in his chest as their instructors barked orders at them. Sweat dripped down his back, and his arms ached. Before joining the militia, he had never held a weapon of war before, let alone trained to use one as demanding as the pike thrust upon him by his instructors. The weapon was rather hefty, its long wooden shaft tapering towards one end to which an iron point was affixed. Slung over his shoulder was an equally large, but light shield, which, according to his trainers, he should be able to draw on a moment's notice.

Around him, his fellow militiamen stood ramrod straight, the metal tips of their weapons glinting in the dim light. The sound of boots crunching on the grass behind alerted him to Ser Liam’s approach. The former bannerman of House Hera was a gruff, no-nonsense man who tolerated little. As usual, he paced up and down the line, barking out commands with an emotion akin to sadistic enthusiasm.

"Raise your pikes!" the knight shouted. "Hold them level and keep your grip tight. Now, thrust!"

Exhausted, Donner clumsily thrust his pike forward, feeling the weight of the weapon as it moved through the air. It was as heavy as he had expected, despite this though, he struggled to keep his balance.

Unfortunately for him, the instructor noticed, a scowl creeping onto his face. "You there!" he bellowed, his voice booming across the training yard. "What was that? You call that a thrust? I've seen better from a drunken tavern-wench suffering from a bout of devil's feet!"

There were a few stiff chuckles, but no one dared laugh lest they drew the knight’s ire. Donner wilted under the man’s withering gaze, his already flushed face turning bright red. "I'm sorry, sir," he stammered.

"Sorry?" the knight snarled. "You've been here for over a week, and you still can't even manage a proper thrust? What are you, some kind of useless sack of potatoes?"

Donner flinched as Ser Liam stepped closer, his eyes burning with anger. "Listen up, boy," he growled. "I don't have time for incompetence. Your good lord wants us to make soldiers out of you lot or he will have our collective hides sewn into a rug for his fancy bedchambers. Personally, I like my hide just where it is and I would rather not have it made into a rug. Do you understand?” Donner nodded. “Good,” the man purred. “We are training you to be the best, but you need to meet us halfway, yeah? You need to show some damn initiative and dedication, or else..."

Donner swallowed. “...Yes sir.”

The knight glared at him for a moment longer before turning around. “Raise your pikes and thrust, you cockless maggots! Thrust!”

Donner ignored the aching in his shoulder muscles as he did as he was instructed to his utmost ability, his hands trembling with nerves. This was a far cry from the humble farm work he was used to, and even further from what he had expected when he signed up to join the earl’s nascent army. Sadly, it was too late to back out now; the punishment for desertion, if captured, was a proper hanging. The two desiccated corpses swinging from the bough of a tree in the distance were proof enough of the earl’s callous resolve.

Ser Liam strode up and down the line, his eyes fixed on each of us in turn. "You're here to learn discipline," he growled, "and discipline means following orders. If I tell you to jump, you ask how high. Understood?"

“Sir, Yes, sir!”

“Right your pikes! Now march!” The formation slowly began to lumber forward. “I said March! Move maggots! Move! I will make fine soldiers out of you worthless lot yet, mark my words!”

…​

Donner emptied a bowl on his head, relishing in the feeling of the cold water running down his sore muscles. “Who do yer think the earl is training us to fight against?” Trim―or Sawyer Trim as he was known in town―a fellow militiaman asked as Donner bent over to scoop another bowl of water from his pail.

One fellow, a somewhat short bloke going by the name Mob shrugged. “Dunno,” he said, “I heard someone say the young lord’s spooked by the war in Bycrest and he’s having ‘em train us so his little arse can feel safer. Crazy nobles.”

“What did you expect?” another man, one Donner could not pin a name to, whispered in a conspiratorial tone, “He’s young and highborn. Getting all rattled by a war more than a month’s march away is expected of his kind ... But, what if there is indeed a day we are sent out to fight? He did promise to pay us monthly regardless if there is a battle or not. I don’t think any noble worth his salt would willingly give out coin unless there’s something for ‘em to gain from doing so. There might be something those folks in their gilded homes know that they aren’t telling us.”

“If there is indeed a war, I will still fight,” Mob commented, his tone bearing a hint of uncertainty. “If yer thinks about it properly, asides from plunder, there is an even greater opportunity to profit.”

“Profit?” Trim asked, baffled.

“Think about it,” Mob said as Donner reached behind to wash a dry spot on the small of his back. “If there is a war, regardless of how well-trained we are, the young lord would never send us out to fight on the field, right? I mean yer’ surely noticed we are only being trained on either spearplay or archery, both of which would most likely be from the safety of the Keep. If all goes well, even if there is a war, we would be able to hold out in the fort until the lord’s vassals send their armies to help after which many of us might be rewarded greatly for valour in battle.”

“Yer mean…” Trim said, trailing off.

“Yes. Some lucky sod amongst us might get knighted for sticking an arrow up another noble's arse someday. Preferably from up atop them fancy walls.”

The men all fell silent as they mulled the thought, but Donner, despite how logical their arguments might seem, still felt knighthood was well outside the question. The rest though still somewhat made sense, and while a few things didn’t quite add up, Mob indeed had a point. This might truly be an opportunity…

If they survive said war that is.

But who was to say there would indeed be a war soon, or any at all? For all they know, the Duke might just return next spring with his knights, disband the little lord’s militia and everything would go back to how it has always been.

Donner dismissed the thought as he poured one more bowl of water over his head before leaving the bath area to don fresh tunics. With an exhausted heave, he returned to the barracks, the once grassy, wood-fenced compound stomped bare and dotted with lines of linen tents. There he drew water from the barrack’s shallow well to wash his used garments before leaving them out to dry on a cloth line.

Except for a few important necessities and the wooden shack at the end where another knight―the house master―slept, the barracks were bare with not a single frivolous structure in sight. After returning his pail and bowl to his shared tent, Donner quickly joined a queue to finally receive his breakfast, despite the sun nearly fully rising to its crest.

It was torture, and after this, they would return to that accursed training before heading for literacy class a little before late noon. At least, literacy class wasn’t half bad and afterwards, dinner would be served, but their sadistic instructors would surely insist they run another few laps well into the night before they can bathe and sleep.

Then rinse and repeat the next day.