[center][h3]Tautom City[/h3]
[b]The street linking the Royal and Harbour Districts[/b][/center]


Quintus let out a grunt as he hefted the spear in a hard overhead throw. Quintus watched the iron tip sail through the air before it slammed into the dirt. It wasn’t Ardoiwn’s blood that graced the spear as intended, the pilum had missed him by inches. Vetellius turned to his commander and grinned at him with a hint of sarcasm. [i]“Do all nobles throw good like that sir?”[/i]
[i]“Bah. The wind caught it, it was headed straight for him. You saw it!”[/i] Quintus snarled in response, frustration clear in his voice. Vetellius simply smirked [i]“Well. Hopefully your blade skills are better than your throwing skills… We’ll be fighting them the old fashioned way.”[/i]
[i]“You mean the proper way.”[/i] Quintus responded, the frustration in his voice receding as he suddenly barked out himself. [i]“SOLDIERS! READY PILUM!”[/i] The cry was carried by the other officers in the ranks, soldiers hurriedly replacing their swords with the much deadlier throwing spears, beginning to draw them back as they got ready to unleash the barrage of cold iron on the enemy. [i]“THROW!”[/i]

Bolstered by the frustrated rage of their leader the Lamperts charged.
Ardoiwn was still hung up on the fact that they had tried to slay him in such a manner. The thought of being slain without even seeing his killers face… Ardoiwn shook his head, this was no time for such thoughts.
[i]“Cleph!”[/i] Ardoiwn cried to the man next to him, [i]“Yes sir?!”[/i] Cleph answered, [i]“Take our right, if we’re going to win this we’re going to need to punch through and surround them!”[/i] With a nod the second in command howled and moved down the line. Ardoiwn looked ahead, the distance between the two forces closing. Suddenly he saw the glint of steel as the enemy soldiers changed weapons. [i]“I can’t bring them all out of this...”[/i] The man whispered to himself dejectedly.

With a single barked command, the front ranks unleashed their pilum towards the enemy. The spears, designed with a soft iron shaft to bend after impact, embedded themselves in shield, armour and flesh without discrimination. Any pilum that were lucky enough to embed themselves in shields and armour now made these defences useless and unwieldy, the spears stuck in place, their iron tips bent so they couldn’t be pulled out. Those Lamperts were forced to throw their shields aside, making them easier prey as the Amalian’s swords were drawn once more. 

The frontliners of the warband use their axes and maces to hew the stuck pilums off their shields, to varying degrees of success. Some broke theirs off with ease, but others couldn’t get it done before the enemy was upon them -- there was not the luxury of time.
Thankfully untouched by the volley Ardoiwn considered the options ahead of him. Force of arms alone would not see him through, but diplomacy was already spent. The only hope was to punch deeply enough to turn it from a clash of lines into a chaotic melee.
His spear leveled in front of him Ardoiwn cried out, [i]“For Lampertei!”[/i]

With battlelust and yells and cheers, the company of Lamperts charge forth to meet the enemy, and slam their axes, swords and maces into Amalian frontliners -- splintering shields, breaking bones and, if not that, denting armor. A bloody crucible. The Lamperts may be outnumbered, but covering the width of the street it is impossible for the Amalians to use this to its full effect, to surround or flank them.

The charge was met by the immovable strength of the Amalian shields, the charge’s chorus was answered by Amalian screams. Quintus watched as the front rank of his men buckled under the charge’s impetus, but stood strong, only a few of his men falling under Lampert blade or axe. He knew what would happen next, he had no need to give the orders. From the front, an officer roared. [i]“Hold shields! HOLD!”[/i] as the line of Amalians started to regain their footing, one soldier briefly threw back his shield, thrusting with a shortsword into the gut of one Lampert, resulting in a pained cry as deep red and brown guts spilled from the wound. In a second, the soldier withdrew back behind his shield as the Lampet fell, screaming in abject terror and agony. Quintus watched as this motion began to mirror itself across the entire Amalian line, like an armoured machine, the soldiers behind the front rank braced the soldier in front of them as they began to lash out with short blades, ideal for the chaos of the battlefield. More Lamperts began to fall, blood starting to fill the gaps in the cobbles as the Lampert’s weapons crashed against shields and armour with little effect, if they could even swing them to begin with in the cramped press of the battle lines. Even so the Amalian’s still took casualties. Each one was ignored by his comrades, and simply replaced. Deciding to press the advantage, Quintus growled, raising his voice above the screams of dying men [i]“AMALIANS! ADVANCE!”[/i].

Ardoiwn looks on with horror at the display in front of him. The lampert charge made little ground on the metal wall, the quills of short swords punching through narrow gaps to bring swift death. Ardoiwn could merely watch as Alo took a blade into the gut, the man was now on the ground, trying to keep his innards within. Pert took a sword between the ribs, nonetheless he tried to fight on but his strength was gone, his blows glancing.
They were all dying. There was nothing Ardoiwn could do about it. 
Ardoiwn did not hear nor see any greater progress on the flanks either, whenever an opening was made, whenever a lampert struck down one of their cowardly foes two more would take his place.
As his friends and comrades died around him a cold rage began to burn in Ardoiwn’s breast. He had to punch through, he had to make the death of those that followed him worthwhile. He had to kill as many enemies as he could, he had to kill all of them.
Charging to the front Ardoiwn was a rapid fury, seven blows here, six of them faints, one striking true. Two blows above the head to punch a spear into a leg before his enemy could respond. Not good enough. Faster, he had to be faster. One enemy got too close, within his spear. Their sword swept across Ardoiwn’s face, but it wasn’t deep enough. Ardoiwn brought his head into his enemy before pushing them away and spearing them.

With fury in his eyes, Ardoiwn breathed heavily, his teeth clenched as exhaustion was pushed aside. He had to kill their leader, then he could slay the rest, then he could save his friends. His eyes darts through the frightened faces before him to make out any man who resembled an officer, anyone with a distinguishing helmet, a plume, the air of command. His eyes falls on a red horsehair crest adorning an ornate helmet, and another beside that, both belonging to two officers, one looks to be in his prime, a scarred face and a grim set dark expression. The other is older, his face beginning to relax in its age, but no less determined, experience obvious in his eyes. With a faint surge of hope in his chest Ardoiwn shouts at them, [i]“Are one of you the coward!? The coward that would slay my friends without so much as a word!?”[/i]

Quintus turned his head to the cry, spotting the source instantly. Ardoiwn had taken down several soldiers in front of them, having pushed the gap made in the lines before the soldiers could push back. The Amalian’s had begun to advance, pressing into the Lamperts all the more, making their larger, heavier weapons next to useless, almost impossible to swing around as their own comrades were pressed shoulder to shoulder in the melee. Here the Amalian blade came into its own, slipping between shields and gaps in armour, slaughtering the Lamperts who came at them like madmen. Quintus was relieved to see the tides of the battle becoming clear. But even so, he watched as this Lampert leader hacked his way over Amalian men towards him, followed by a handful of his emboldened retainers. He knew he had to be dealt with. Quintus took his shield up, nodding to Vetillius as he grunted, his eyes set straight forward [i]“The center is buckling. That one.”[/i] He nodded towards Ardoiwn [i]“He’s rallying the Lamperts. He needs to die.”[/i]

Even as Quintus looked on, the cost of the Lampert charge was beginning to show, while they had managed to make a dent in the center of the Amalian line, it had cost them their flanks, as slowly the Amalian veterans carved their way to the rear of the Lampert line, slowly but surely, the Lamperts were being surrounded, and all that was left was to cut the beating heart from the Godless heathens. Quintus sucked in a sharp breath, in front of him, was the final soldier between him and the berserking warchief, holding his shield high. Quintus grabbed him by the shoulder, bracing him and falling into formation as he growled in his ear [i]“Stand fast soldier. I will give you fifty silver pieces if you carv-”[/i]
[i]“With all due respect sir. Shut up.”[/i] Quintus blinked at the growl from the soldier in front, seeing that he was watching Ardoiwn intently, until finally, the moment came. 

Ardoiwn’s spear punched through an Amalian soldier’s shoulder. There was a sickening crunch of bone and armour as the weight of the blow sent the soldier onto his knees, Ardoiwn grunted as he pulled his spear from the man, the Amalian soldier dying in a pool of blood beneath his face. With the Lampert leader momentarily distracted, the soldier in front of Quintus suddenly struck, throwing his sword out from behind his shield towards the Lampert leader. There was a sound of metal on metal, blade on shield as it was stopped dead in its tracks. At the last second Cleph appeared, having parried the blow, saving Ardoiwn’s life. 
[i]“What are you doing here?!”[/i] Ardoiwn cried as his friend replied, [i]“Flanks are collapsed, thought I’d save your life.” [/i]
While his focus was on his lord however Cleph presented an opening, one the Amalian took to bring his shield down on Cleph’s leg. Cleph howled in pain as his knee was crushed. The Lampert warrior screamed as bone gave way to the metal rimmed shield, his scream was cut short a moment later as the Amalian’s sharp blade tore into his chest, resulting in a brief gurgle before he fell away in the tide of battle. The Amalian looked now to Ardoiwn with a curse on his lips, lifting his blade back for another try at the Gastald, but Ardoiwn wasn’t paying attention.. As he thrust with the shortsword for the Lampert’s neck, Ardoiwn’s spear suddenly shot upwards to catch the attack before parrying the blade away. The tip of Ardoiwn’s spear then shot forwards and hit the soldier in the hand. The Amalian screamed, dropping his blade before it reached its target as the spear pierced his skin, blood oozing from the deep gash. Quintus grimaced, imagining the end for the soldier in front of him. But it wasn’t over.

As Ardoiwn pulled his spear back for a finishing jab into the Amalian, there was a burst of blinding speed, a fit of unexpected rage, when the Amalian lifted his shield, throwing it into the spear before it could begin its forwards momentum, and then threw a hard kick at Ardoiwn’s crotch. There was a soft thud, before Ardoiwn’s eyes widened in unexpected pain, quivering as a loud groan escaped his mouth. With his eyes rolling into his head, the Lampert didn’t have time to stop the Amalian from tearing Ardoiwn’s heavy knife from his waist. Coating the side arm’s handle in his own blood, the Amalian lifted it, and pulling away the shield, swung it hard for Ardoiwn’s exposed face. There was a wet parting sound as Ardoiwn’s flesh tore, the blade cutting deeply. Blood poured down Ardoiwn’s face as he staggers back, before falling in a heap on the ground, defeated.

Quintus watched the grisly spectacle with wide eyes, his mouth open as he watched the berserking Ardoiwn felled by a nameless soldier. Looking past the soldier, he saw the Lamperts closest were also briefly shocked by the apparent death of their commander. The Amalians took full advantage of the brief lapse in their foes rage, with a triumphant roar escaping from their throats, the Amalian center began to push back, hacking down any Lamperts who tried to return to the fight. Quintus looked back to the soldier in front of him, who was still holding the hefty knife and panting, the bleeding wound on his hand almost forgotten. [i]“What’s your name soldier? You did… Well… Better than I thought.”[/i]
The soldier didn’t answer at first, his mind lost to the carnage unfolding before him, before finally he seemed to snap back to reality. [i]“It’s… It’s Triscus sir.”[/i]