Merchants surrounded the Exchequer’s tent moments after Grelig’s criers proclaimed all accounts closed until further notice. Merchants rumbled with thinly veiled anger. Many traders had brought their caravan guards. Rough men-at-arms milled around behind their richly attired employers, waiting for violence to start. Meanwhile, scores of journeymen and apprentices looked on from the fringes, intently watching the show.
Scalcus Long appeared at the tent flap, holding up both hands as if he intended to address the mob. The horde swarmed Long before he could even open his mouth. Six castle guardsmen rushed out of the tent. They used the flats of their swords as metal clubs. Bright swords met soft flesh with a dull, meaty crunch. The guardsmen beat back the enraged merchants with brutal force, forming a steel ring around the frail Exchequer.
Long moved his mouth, but a cascade of shouts drowned out his reedy voice.
“We want our money!”
“...Grelig has no right to...”
“He CANNOT keep our money...”
“Give it BACK! Give it BACK!! GIVE IT BACK!”
The horde whipped themselves into a fevered pitch. Master Merchants stood out like peacocks in a flock of plain brown pheasants, urging their caravan guards forward. The motley assortment of burly hirelings rushed the Exchequer with abandon.
The bubble of guardsmen collapsed. Blood soaked Long’s embroidered robe. Two guards tried to pull the Exchequer into the tent; instead, they only knocked him down. Four more guards ran out of the pavilion, trampling the fallen Exchequer with their ironclad feet. The tent began to shake as hands tore at the sides.
A medley of screams filled the air.
A deep horn blasted through the mob’s clamor. For an instant, every head turned to find the source of the resonating notes. A formation of dragoons tromped onto the fairground in a metallic cadence, holding their formation with frightening precision. The men marched in steps called by their commander, their iron-shod feet tramping the ground in an ominous rhythm.
An indecisive spasm flowed across the crowd, originating from the merchants closest to the approaching guardsmen and spreading forward towards the Exchequer’s tent. A tense silence fell over the throng until a voice shouted, “We’re surrounded!”
The mob found itself caught between the dragoons from behind and the guards that stood before the Exchequer’s tent. Abject fear wiped the indignant rage from the faces of the merchants.
The dragoons advanced until they stood ten paces from the roiling masses. The soldiers stood in tight, well-ordered ranks; their discipline a stern rebuke to the crazed riot. A deathly tableau settled across the field as Cyneld’s dragoons faced the throng. For a moment, the crowd seemed ready to disperse. However, the initial wave of panic had burned itself out, as the weathered armsmen took a careful look at the troops before them.
The soldiers wore long chain mail hauberks that reached to their knees. They bore heavy oval shields on their arms and they held short, broad bladed thrusting spears in their hands. Under their steel caps, however, trembling facial muscles contorted their smooth features. They were startlingly young.
The caravan guards began to laugh. Their enemy’s obvious fear swelled their courage. A small knot of guards crashed into the soldiers’ rigid line. Swords hacked up and down. The heavily-armed dragoons fought back, chasing after their attackers.
Cyneld’s ferocious bark boomed across the field, “Halt! Stay in ranks!”
The green troops ignored his command, and rushed into the wild mêlée.
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The Supreme Warrior *2014 ABNA Contest 2nd Round*
FantasyCalidon Dannik has been in love with Alynde, the daughter of Horgeond's most powerful Baron, since he was 10 years old. Now, Cal's father schemes to win her hand for Henrick, Cal's older brother. Unable to accept his father's decision, Calidon resor...
