Chapter 64: War Games Drills
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Third POV
Fifteen miles north of Nemosport, a war game was about to commence—the third of its kind, orchestrated by Richard to sharpen his men's skills in the art of war.
The afternoon sun hung high in a pale blue sky, a pleasant breeze rolling over the grassy hills and scattered copses of trees.
The weather was perfect for a bloodless battle.
The scenario was simple: a capture-the-flag mission. Victory for the attackers lay in seizing the flag; the defenders, in holding their ground till calvarymen from the north arrived.
All weapons had been carefully blunted to avoid serious injury or death—but pain, bruising, and battered pride were unavoidable consequences of failure.
The offensive forces were on the move.
About fifteen kilometers from the shores of Neméos territory, seven great carracks sailed northward, their black-and-gold sails billowing in the wind.
On the quarterdeck of the lead ship stood a man with brown hair tied into a braided ponytail, the sides of his head shaved clean.
A well-trimmed brown beard framed his hard jawline as he peered through a Westerman fareye.
Ragnar, thirty years of age, wore long-sleeved tunics beneath chainmail, over which he donned a shirt of scale armor.
Padded trousers and leather boots completed his ensemble.
He looked every inch the seasoned warrior, an Ironborn and Riverlander by blood, tempered by years of hardship and salt.
Two years ago, Ragnar had crossed paths with Richard in an axe competition at the Lannisport tourney of 273 AC.
He had been bested and humiliated—but now stood as the commander of the Nemean Navy Men, a hundred and fifty-six elite sailors.
Richard had granted him a second chance at life and glory, and Ragnar had vowed to repay that debt in full.
Through the fareye, Ragnar spotted the flag—a fluttering strip of crimson and gold—and the defenders entrenched on a distant hill. Seventeen kilometers away, or two kilometers inland.
A grim smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "Signal the fleet," Ragnar ordered.
A long, low blast of a horn carried across the water. The other ships responded in kind, adjusting their course to follow Ragnar's lead. With steady hands, Ragnar maneuvered his ship toward the beach.
At four hundred meters from shore, he called for the anchor to drop. Men scrambled to prepare the longboats, lowering them into the water with practiced efficiency.
Twenty-eight longboats were deployed, each carrying sixteen men. A total of four hundred and forty-eight soldiers. Among them were a hundred and twenty-eight seasoned Nemean Navy Men under Ragnar's direct command.
The remaining three hundred twenty were hardened Nemean infantrymen under Dalton, a chief centurion and proven battlefield commander.
Once ashore, the infantrymen formed into four tight columns, their discipline evident even in practice. They had adapted since the Stilwood conflict.
Their armor has been improved, there has also been added plating to the arms to protect the sword arm.
The spear had been abandoned in favor of the Nemean short sword—broad-bladed, double-edged, and perfectly balanced for close-quarters combat.
Their shields were rectangular, now referred to as Nemean shields, and built for both defense and battering.
Slung across their backs were strange new weapons—pilums, a type of throwing spear introduced by Richard himself.
The pilum's rule for the war game was simple: if your shield was struck by one, you had to discard it.
Ragnar's navy men lined up alongside Dalton's infantry in a wedge formation. Their circular shields and blunted swords or axes glinted in the afternoon light.
The navy men were less organized than the infantry—they were raiders and boarders, trained for chaos rather than order. But they were brutal and efficient in their own way.
When the lines were formed, Ragnar pulled down his grimhelm—a steel helmet with chainmail protecting the neck—and bellowed a command. The march toward the hill began.
On the other side, the defenders occupied the high ground. Two trenches had been dug into the hillside, reinforced with wooden stakes and crude earthworks.
In the first trench crouched a hundred and five newly trained Nemean infantry, most of whom had never seen a war game before.
They clutched their Nemean swords and shields, faces set with grim determination despite the fluttering of nervous hands.
Ten meters behind them, the second trench held eighty-three longbowmen.
These men had spent six grueling months under Richard's personal instruction, refining their aim until they could put an arrow through the eye of a charging boar at fifty paces.
Gregor, aged twenty-four, commanded the defenders. He was one of the few to pass the Nemean knight program and was known for his iron will.
A skilled archer in his own right, Gregor scanned the approaching attackers through his fareye, eyes narrowed beneath the visor of his helm.
"Hold," he commanded.
When the attacking force reached a hundred and fifty meters, Gregor's hand shot upward.
"Loose!"
A rain of arrows flew across the sky. The shafts were tipped with cloth and blunt heads, but they struck with bone-jarring force.
The attacking side responded by tightening into a testudo formation—shields raised overhead and locked together into an impenetrable shell.
The arrows clattered and thudded harmlessly against the wall of iron and wood.
Still, eleven men were eliminated—some struck in vital areas, others whose shields were hit three times. They raised their hands in submission and stepped aside.
Gregor's archers loosed another volley. Then another. A fifth followed, thinning the ranks of the attackers further. Fifty-one men had been eliminated by arrows alone before the attackers drew within striking distance.
Dalton's infantry reached the first trench line, pilums at the ready.
"Throw!" A hundred pilums arced through the air. The defenders responded in kind, launching their own blunt spears.
The sound of impact echoed over the field. Shields were struck and discarded. The lines met with the scrape of steel and the thud of bodies colliding.
A brutal melee ensued. The defenders fought desperately but were outnumbered and inexperienced. Dalton's infantry pressed forward, shields smashing against shields.
In the chaos, Gregor's keen eye spotted the decorated plume of a centurion's helm. He notched an arrow and loosed.
It struck the centurion in the throat. The man staggered, raised his hand, and stumbled toward the sidelines—eliminated.
On the right flank, Ragnar led his navy men in a flanking maneuver.
They broke through the left side of the first defensive line, storming uphill toward the archers. The longbowmen fired until the last possible moment before drawing swords.
Gregor met Ragnar at the crest of the hill. Their blades clashed in a flurry of sparks.
Ragnar's strength drove Gregor back, but the younger man's skill allowed him to parry and counter.
Blow after blow, they fought until Gregor feinted, twisted, and brought his sword across Ragnar's knee.
Ragnar stumbled, then dropped his weapon. He raised his hand in surrender, grinning despite his defeat.
But the damage was done. The navy men had overwhelmed the archers and seized the flag. The defenders broke and scattered. Dalton's infantry overran the trenches.
The defenders were defeated.
Five minutes later, a hundred cavalrymen appeared on the northern horizon, led by Reynard. They had marched eight miles, but they were too late.
Seeing the flag captured, Reynard pulled up his horse. He sighed as he understood the situation.
Had the defenders held for five more minutes, the cavalry would have struck the attackers from behind and secured a defensive victory.
But now the hill belonged to the attackers. To charge uphill against entrenched infantry would be suicide. Reynard signaled the retreat.
The war game was over.
The attackers had a hundred and thirty-eight men eliminated—seventy nine infantry and fifty-nine navy men—about thirty one percent of their force.
The record of the war game now stood at two to one in the attackers' favor.
The victors roared their triumph into the afternoon sky, voices raised in celebration.
Slogans of the offensive forces echoed across the hillside, punctuated by the rhythmic pounding of shields against swords.
"Neméos! Neméos!" they cried, the chant rising and falling in a powerful wave that carried down to the shore.
Meanwhile, about a kilometer south, Richard and Alicent reclined comfortably on a fine woolen mat beneath the broad canopy of a tree.
They watched the war game from beginning to end while enjoying a picnic, which included cakes, fruits, and tea.
Behind them, dozens of loyal Nemean knights and servants stood at a respectful distance.
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Author Note: I had fun writing this chapter, hopefully y'all enjoy. For future events I might set up battle scenes like this. I'm surprised I've been consistent by doing three chapters in three days. I gotta keep writing so I don't meet writer blocks again.