“HOW CAN WE defeat them?! They are unarmed! You said it yourself!” Disgust and frustration tinged the Kings voice.
“But they outnumber us my Lord, by five men to one.”
“You counted them one by one did you? No, I’ve never been good with numbers..but victory is for the taking. That is all. There will be no more discussion.”
The King of Iron had said his piece – war was three dawns away. Men would die. Women would cry in the homelands not knowing if a corpse or glory would return. And children would play as usual, confused but largely ignorant to the horrors that lay ahead. All before horseback, archery and guns had become a staple of warmongering.
A bright pink sky greeted both sides on the morning of the battle, a lighter shade of red. A precursor to the ensuing violence and butchery, screams, moans and all the rest, from splintered bone to severed limbs. Due to the light, the Irons men could not see their quarry as they waited silently on the other side of the plain amidst trees.
A shout rang out. “To WAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRR!” screamed the King. The following twenty seven minutes was a blur of metal, chainmail, swords and fists hitting flesh. Murder upon murder on both sides. Bodies didn’t so much pile up, they formed a human carpet underfoot. Every single man under the Kings banner including the King himself died that morning. Never underestimate the fear that a horde of armless men can create in those running toward them with metal instruments of death. If they are prepared to fight with only legs to use, the psyche of the army was defeated before a single gush of blood was seen.
“Unarmed men…” No words had hung so heavy in a mans mind than charging toward fearless warriors with no weaponry. A genetic mutation meant the tribe had no arms …but their kicks landed with pummeling force. And furthermore, someone miscalculated. It was more like ten to one in their favour…