Ironsides Family/Armstrong/Battle for Dulbin

The Battle for Dulbin - Armstrong of the Nine Finger!

This story takes place in the region of Dulbin, homeland of the Hero of Democracy, Sir Armstrong Ironsides. An army of Perdan attempted to takeover the Fontanese region, but Fontan and the Hero of Democracy answered the call.

Armstrong Ironsides, Hero of the Democracy, went to bed after he finished regulating the orders for his unit on the coming attack of Dulbin the following afternoon. He was unable to sleep, tossing and turning with so much on his mind. His eyes opened and closed as he frequently turned over in his cot, searching the darkness he occupied.

Dulbin was his homeland and he was terribly morose for its situation. Region after region had fallen to the invading Perdan. Nearly the whole Duchy of Westmoor now flew the orange lion high, and fairly quickly Dulbin was about to join the conquered club. Armstrong could not let that happen. The brave and proud Fontan Rangers were set to attack the takeover force the following day and the Roughnecks were ready to return home with them.

Armstrong wondered how he could use his unit to make a difference in the battle. What advantages or opportunities could the land he knew so well offer to benefit their attack. The Perdanese were most likely working off of maps and information forced from the locals, which would suggest largely inaccurate and false reports as the Dulbanic people would never wholly submit to the invaders. This could be advantageous for the Rangers attack, and so as the minutes ticked by Armstrong swept his memory for all known paths and routes to any given location in Dulbin. All these things he had thoroughly discussed with Captain Daityas and his men each time they considered the tactics to use in the battle, but maybe, perhaps, there was something he missed. It plagued him the whole night.

On top of this, he was anxious about the threats to Fontanese Democracy on all fronts. This was an even greater demon plaguing his beloved realm. Tyranny was swelling on all sides, and the distressed damsel, saviour and beacon was eclipsed all at once. The Confederates tore Fontan into this Great War, and they had yet to face their justice. Soon, he dreamt, he would defeat them and liberate Fontan City from the worst tyranny on the East Continent.

He dreamt on, and worried endlessly. He was the Hero of the Democracy, but there is only so much one man could do. The realm must rely on unity, he thought, as a way to guard Democracy. Devotion to Democracy was the way to combat tyranny. This was all he could think of in this weary dreaming night. The only paths he knew to free Fontan from the gross gang of enemies. Despite his own personal attachment to these principles, he wondered about the many other nobles comprising Fontan. Were they as devoted, as steadfast and as firm in their resolve for Democracy? The only answer he could give himself was ‘trust.’

It was a restless night, though come dawn, Armstrong was tranquil to fight. Armstrong woke to the sound of Captain Daityas ringing the morning bell outside his tent. It was the crack of dawn and the Roughnecks were beginning the fateful day.

As he exited his tent, unarmored and massaging his stiff muscles he looked above and saw a crow circle over him three times. He stopped immediately and watched as the crow finished its circuits and vanished towards the horizon. He took another step and his foot landed on a snake eating its own tail. He stumbled back in awe.

“An omen!” he yelled, “Morning doom! What will befall me this day? Daityas! Daityas! Did you see it?”

“What was it m’Lord?”

“First, I saw a crow circle over me three times, and then I stepped on a snake devouring its tail – the Ouroboros!”

“A crow! Oh oh.”

“What could it mean? Do we have an augur at command?”

“None, Sir, none at all.”

“Then I can only make my own interpretation…. The crow represents death, that is easy enough, but the tail-devourer is a symbol for immortality. A contradicting message from the gods! How typical for them to play games with a man’s life. They send rhymes and puzzles for the Hero of Democracy to solve.”

“Sir…now that I think of it, I have heard some of the men speak of a Roughneck who hails from An Najaf –“

“The Sergeant? What of him?”

“I have heard that he is able to see, prophesize they say. Maybe he can understand this omen?”

“Why have I not heard these things?”

“The men are unsure of your feelings towards mysticism and the undercrafts.”

“They should never be nervous to speak to me! I am Democratic, all will have a voice in my court. Where is he Captain?”

“Last I saw Meneca was in the blacksmith’s tent.”

“Bring him at once!”

Daityas found Meneca in his tent and brought him to Armstrong. Meneca saluted the Hero of Democracy and listened while the omen was related to him.

“Interesting.”

“What?”

“May I speak my mind Master? I can only speak what I see, but if you are unwilling to listen then it is worthless to try.”

“You may friend. Speak truthfully and clear as spring water. I will not be prejudice. This incident has happened to me without my consent, and so I must give it all my attention until I am rid of it.”

Meneca thought for a short moment before he made his interpretation.

“You see two contradicting elements in this omen, but I see two harmonious aspects.”

“Explain that statement Sergeant.”

“In death, life is sown.”

“I do not understand.”

“Death, breeds life, uh, death will act as the soil for life to grow. It is another way of saying that death will be the means of immortality.”

“How does that apply to me?”

“You are the Hero of the Democracy are you not?”

“I am.”

“The powers wish to assure you that your death will make you immortal. The hero will leave his legacy.”

“So…I am to die.”

“Eventually, yes.”

“Today? In this battle? The battle for my homeland?..., how fitting I must fall on the land of my birth.”

“Master, there was no indication of when you will die. Die you surely will, but the gods have shown you that you will not be forgotten. Your death will give you a new life, one living in legends and memories of Fontan.”

The Hero of the Democracy took this interpretation to be correct and put it to memory. Then he rallied his men and began the march to war. On they marched until they met up with the few Fontanese troop leaders who arrived to fight. Armstrong had not received the order to hold off the attack from the Marshal, as these other commanders seemed to have missed, and continued with the assault.

Off the battle began, the Fontanese outnumbered by the Perdanese. The Roughnecks took a volley of arrows and kept marching. Then they engaged in close combat. Here, Armstrong felt that this would be his end, and fought like a regal lion defending his throne, or like a proud eagle displaying its majesty above a mere mouse. The Perdanese were terrified when they recognized the Hero of Democracy’s armour. Shouts were heard among them to be very careful not to get in his way. Too bad for them he was aiming to kill them all.

The two armies clashed in mortal combat. The Roughnecks performed as best they could but were quickly overrun by the onslaught of Perdan. Armstrong and the Captain dispatched a few monarch scums, and Meneca was able to dismember one. The Captain met his end by a crowd of Perdanese who surrounded him and all at once fell their swords into his body. He died standing up. Meneca, having witnessed the death of the Captain, foresaw his own coming doom and decided to spare himself the thought of falling at the hands of the Perdanese and so took his own life.

That fate was unacceptable for Armstrong. As a hero, he deserved no less than a glorious death against the enemies of his people. If he was to die on this field, then so be it and so be it known that he died with the blood of a thousand tyrants on his hands and a smile on his face. On he fought with the remaining Roughnecks.

Inevitably, the Perdanese hacked their way towards an opportunity over Armstrong and took such to have him lose his mighty shield and blazing helmet, leaving him with his sword and bare hand against a mob of enemy soldiers. One brutish fellow in particular, from Brive, thought he could outmatch the Hero and challenged him to a duel. The big fellow charged with undisciplined anger towards the well positioned blade of Armstrong and had his throat opened up. All the blood in his body gushed out in three or four spurts covering Armstrong. Then, as quickly as he fell, two more Perdanese attacked. These two were festooned magnificently, one having his forearm broken in two by the clasp and twist of our heroes bare hand, and the other having his skull parted by the sword of Democracy. That sword then had its fill of the lungs of the broken forearmed soldier. After numerous stabs the broken forearmed man fell gurgling only to be stepped on by three Perdanese troops pursuing the head of our Hero of Democracy.

These ones were not as quickly done away with, but surely these were their final moments. One was able to scratch the shoulder of Armstrong with his sword, but had his chest broken apart by Armstrong’s powerful foot. Another managed to bruise Armstrong’s chest with a bash of his shield, but was unable to use his sword as Armstrong removed the shield and forced the bulk into the man’s stomach, then breaking his face with the butt of his own sword. Battle was Armstrong’s passion, and he was taking in all the joy of it in each hyper-violent moment. The third Perdanese became the only man in history to take a piece of our hero as he sneakily jabbed his sword viciously towards Armstrong. The Hero of Democracy flinched and tried to grab the sword, but was too late and ended up clinching the blade causing the pointer finger of his right hand to be sliced completely off. The roaring scream produced by our hero was so booming it exploded the head of the Perdanese villain. After guts and gore flew in every direction, the Perdanese no longer desired to attack Fontan’s greatest Hero. Allowing them safe retreat, Armstrong and the Roughnecks walked calmly away out of battle wounded and battered. They had lost a significant amount of men, but were not beat outright.

The battle was lost, the Roughnecks met defeat, and Armstrong was unable to fight on. This was a terrible afternoon for the Hero of the Democracy. Though the curse of his heroism did not taste its victory on him yet, he sensed that the taking of his finger was the first pass around of the crow. Two more and Armstrong would face death. Heroes rise and heroes fall much like the stream of the seasons, but Armstrong was confident that his life would not be lost in vain so long as Democracy lived on. Armstrong would live in the hearts and minds of the Democratic.