The Free Company in Italy - Vae Victis: Book III

[Grothgar]

November 14th, Just after my Last Post

John threw himself upon the waiting venetians. The venetians were taken aback by this sudden reckless move and they stepped back for a second before moving in. However just at that moment a huge wave crashed against the galley and the wave rolled up the galleys side and swept the portion of the deck, which John was fighting on, clean.

John tumbled over and over trying to get his bearings, he breathed in a mouthful of water and coughed and spluttered it up again. He saw the rail coming to meet him and he braced just in time as he crashed into the rail sending wracking pain through his limbs. The wave lifted him up and over the side but John caught the rail in his iron grip and held on for dear life. His hammer swung out of his other hand but thanks to the cord John had tied on it it couldnt go far. However it did extend as much as it could and then came swinging back cracking him on the side.

John gasped in pain as he only just held on as the wave finally drained off the deck. John swung his other arm up and slowly lifted himself up onto the deck. What he saw would have been funny if it was in a dream but one entire part of the main deck had been swept clean of both Company and Venetian men. John got up slowly as the clear part of the deck quickly became a maelstorm of fighting men once more. John picked up his hammer from his feet and started back into the fray.

John moved methodically around the ship using his hammer to good effect. While John was feeling his wounds and was feeling a bit sluggish so was everyone else and Johns fighting style, if you can call it that, was the most effective. John soon lost count of the number of heads he had cracked, it was almost getting second nature to him...

 

[unmerged(6528)]

November 14th

They charged forward, and the Venetian guard made their fatal mistake, the guardsmen stepped back in fear. Sensing their weakness, the mercenaries pulled them down quickly, taking down the heavier armored warriors skillfully and quickly.

Lochlan pulled his blade from the neck of a Venetian sergeant. And looked around for another opponent. He saw Karim getting pressed by two, and a pulled a knife from the sheath against his back. The Guardsman managed to look startled when the knife appeared in his throat, Karim viscously pressed the remaining one.

The storm was upon them now, and Lochlan could tell there was no good in it.

"Back to the ships." He heard Lieutenant Seraphim yell.

"Back to the ships!" Lochlan repeated, and sluggishly the men began to spill back over the other side, and down into the hold, bracing themselves for the storm...

 

[Rictus]

"Captain" Edward said as he scrabbled across the Venetian ship, "do you have enough men to capture and secure the ship?"

The skipper paused mid order, but didn't move to face Seraphim. "No, with this storm coming in so quickly, I'll need every man I can get just to keep this ship afloat."

"Damnation." Edward agreed. "Lochlan! Bring as many of our wounded across as possible, then cut the thing off!"

The scout master snapped a quick acknolwedge before heading back across the perilous journey. "Hans!" He called after him,

"Cockney, Duncun, you too." Edward wiped his blade on his overals, now spattered with rain, and sheathed it. "Kishlanksky, make sure the wounded they bring back are sent below decks as quickly as possible."

 

[TheF]

Just after Rictus' post..

After receiving his orders - albeit directly from Lochlan since Alv was nowhere to be seen at the moment - Karim quickly went searching for wounded.

"Help me.", he heard a voice with an Arabic accent cry. After pushing aside some Venetians that had passed away, he found the originator of the sound. It was one of the Moors under Cockney's command, or so it seemed.

He is an abonimation to Allah, thought Karim, and as he turned his head away he found that he could not stand the thought of leaving the man to die. He turned around again and offered his hand to the young Moor. After a moment of severe tension the Moor took the offer, Karim supported him as they made for the other ship.

 

[Lord Durham]

November 14 - The Storm


"Back to the ships!" Lochlan repeated, and sluggishly the men began to spill back over the other side, and down into the hold, bracing themselves for the storm...

Elsewhere, the individual melees slowly subsided, as the sky blackened and the wind swept in like an armoured fist, driving the rain before it in such strength that it was near horizontal. The Venetian soldiers became little more than blurred images as visibility grew impossible much beyond arms length.

Inexplicably, as if by mutual agreement, the battles ceased as men sought refuge on their own vessels where possible.

The original galley that Lieutenant de Bloomfielde's men had stormed became theirs by right of conquest. The majority of the Venetians were dead, and the remainder prisoner. The second ship that had lashed itself to Edmond's transport had cut ties, pushing away to prevent the boats from smashing each other to kindling under the relentless winds and rising waves.

Lieutenant Pohlman's ship was in good shape, though the Venetian galley she had faced swiftly drifted from sight, rudderless and at the mercy of the storm. The Lieutenant and Spiros were retrieved from the dinghy before the full fury of the gale hit, much tot he pleasure of his men.

Fredrick Scherer's transport never had an opportunity to engage the Venetian galley that had singled her out. Instead, they became involved in a game of cat and mouse, relying on archers to wreck damage and inflict casualties. The storm quickly separated them.

Captain and his 200 men took control of the Venetian galley that they had been left behind on when the Glory separated. With the enemy captain incapacitated, the balance of the Venetians had surrendered, and Captain was quick to order the ship secured against the storm. All they could do now was ride it out.

Meanwhile, Sir Paul frantically ordered his men off the rammed ship. They had done all they could, and the enemy vessel was fast filling with water. Soon she would sink to the bottom of the Mediterranean, and the race was on to disengage the Glory, before she was dragged down with it.


----------------------------------------

OOC: I've asked The_Hawk to finish off this chapter, and to begin the next. So if everyone can hold off I'd appreciate it. Thanks

EDIT: No problem, TheF, I just used the magic of 'delete and repost"

 

[The_Hawk]

(OOC: Wow, so much responsibility... )

November 14th, in the storm

Before he even realized it, the Cyprian was drenched, and the deck below his feet was rolling treacherously on the waves. He scanned the horizon briefly -- he realized abruptly that he couldn't see another ship anywhere, so thick was the rain. The storm's fury was rising, and with it, his ship's chances of surviving were drowning. Much like our Venetian friends. The only sound he could make out over the wind was the occasional ZZZZZIP of an arrow cutting through the air. He thought he could make out a few screams over the din as well. Off to the west - at least, he thought it was west - he heard a distant explosion. So at least the mercenaries are still alive, unless the Venetians are fighting themselves. Good. I haven't been paid yet.

He was starting to regret lowering the sails. The wheel was bucking under his hand as the wind slowly won the fight for control of the Glory. He briefly wondered if he'd be remembered as a tactical genius or a suicidal lunatic for that move. I probably won't be remembered at all, he thought, if I don't get those sails stowed.

The trouble was, even in the best of conditions, clambering around in the rigging was a tough job, and the current situation was far from the best of conditions. His men, he saw, had begun cutting down what sails they could, trying to land them on deck so they could be recovered. But the mainsail's still up.

Van Sant emerged from below, already soaked to the bone. He crawled over to the wheel, taking advantage of what handholds he could. "The hatches are sealed, sir!", he shouted. "The men're secure below!"

The Cyprian nodded, and reached up to push his sodden hair out of his face. The move nearly broke his arm as the wheel jerked suddenly; van Sant grabbed it quickly and together, they held it steady. With his free hand, Jonasz motioned forward. He couldn't even see the bow of his ship. "What about the mercenaries?" he yelled over the din.

"I don't know, sir!"

Jonasz nodded. "Take the helm! I've got to get the sail down!" He started to move, then paused and motioned at the hogtied Venetian Baron von Spandau had delivered to him. With the course of the battle, and the increasing storm, his wails were starting to get shrill. "And get this one below!"

In such weather, even covering a few yards on deck was an ordeal. By the time he reached the mainmast, he was able to spy Marteen halfway up the rigging. Hitching up his swordbelt, he reached for a rope to follow.

At that very moment there was a flash of light so brilliant that the Cyprian was blinded, a roar so loud he fell to his knees, clutching his ears. He could barely hear, but from his side he could distinctly make out the sound of wood shattering. The mast!

He scrambled forward until he found a handhold, and rolled onto his back. His vision cleared, and he stared upward. He thought: Well, this figures. At least the mast won't hit me. A moment later, these thoughts - and any others - were smothered underneath an eighth of an acre of wet canvas.

The End of Chapter 12

 

[The_Hawk]

Chapter 13: The Hunt

Jonasz drifted. Something was tickling him. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, something was registering. Something about Venice.

Venice. What was it about Venice?

The boats? That one-eyed captain? The batt....

No! That was it. The girl. A girl - there were others. No, but she was THE girl. No! -- the woman. They had been young, quite young, but she was still a woman. The ship had lain over in Venice for a few weeks. It had been so long ago. How had he forgotten?

Had I tried to forget?

He had been on an errand, hurried. He turned a corner, not looking; she fell into a canal. He stopped, stooped to help her out. She pulled him in. They were laughing. Laughing...

There. There she was, laughing. He saw her, saw her as she existed in a forgotten dream, and dream he had forced away. Black hair, wavy, to her shoulders. Skin just a shade paler than olive. Heaven when it glistened. And eyes - eyes without color...

No. He had always called them colorless, but only because he could think of no other name for them. They changed every time he looked. Green, warm. Blue, calm. Grey, stormy.

Wait. Now there was something else that registered. Stormy... stor...

As quickly as it came, it had gone, forgotten, reburied. Jonasz, briefly becalmed, was no longer still.

There was a grunt, and a sound like a wet sheep being thrown into a brick wall. Sunlight lashed out at the Cyprian as rough hands rolled him over. He felt the bite of wet sand on his face. Turning onto his side, he vomited a lungful of rainwater onto Sir Barkdreg's boot.

He awoke.

 

[Lord Durham]

November 15 - Morning


For the remainder of the day and much of the night the small convoy was swept up and buffeted by the mighty Mediterranean storm.

When the wind died and the skies cleared they found it was near dawn. Slowly, the various captains of the transports, and First Lieutenant Van Sant of the Glory, began to assess the damage, and it was not good. They would have to make for land.

Of the five ships of the convoy and the seven Venetian vessels who had tracked them for so long before attacking, all managed to remain together throughout the ordeal. All, that is, except for four. One enemy vessel had been sunk during the battle, split in two by the Glory, while another was left rudderless to wander aimlessly until repairs could be effected. Two other Venetian ships remained unaccounted for, which was fine by Captain. Those were two less problems to deal with.

The small fleet sighted land perhaps an hour after the storm broke, and the ships used their oars to maneuver into a small inlet.

The land was low and rolling, covered in a fine sand that spread as far as the eye could see. To the east rose a series of cragged mountains, while the west remained flat and unfeatured.

In the late morning the ships made anchor, and the men waded ashore under a clear sunny sky.

The best estimates for repairs were from two - five days. Either way, the boats would have to be divested of their cargo and brought as close to the beach as possible.

So work was begun. The injured were brought ashore to be tended to. The women, perhaps 100 in total, took on that chore, aided by the knights and their entourage. The horses were unloaded, though it would be hours before they would be calm enough to ride. On the sandy beach, the supplies, cargo and prisoners grew as the eight ships slowly gave up their load.

All the while the men and women felt a sense of urgency. They weren't sure where they had beached, but they were sure that the locals would not go out of their way to make their welcome a pleasant one.


The Beach

OOC: I will add to the map as new information is discovered.

 

[unmerged(6777)]

November 15 –Morning

Mustafa Jahlik surveyed the scene with tired contentment.

Arriving with his men in the late hours of the previous afternoon as the storm had almost reached its peak, he had deployed sentries along a 2-mile stretch of rocky coastline that lay near to some of the local currents. Lighting their powerful lanterns, they had huddled against the fury of the wind and rain, peering out into the dark white-capped seas. Towards midnight their vigil had been rewarded as two vessels had limped into sight.

Mistaking the lanterns on the shore as beacons of safe harbour, their captains had taken the risk to maneuver their crafts into the bay. By the time they realized that it was a trap, and that the shallow waters hid line after line of barely submerged rocks, it had been too late. Driven by high swells and hampered by the gale force winds, the ships had run aground and splintered, casting men and gear into the sea to be pounded against the boulders or drowned. Few men escaped the watery maelstrom, and his own soldiers had quickly moved to dispatch them – though in the black night, it was impossible to know whether they had succeeded in finding them all.

As morning had approached the winds and rain had abated and Mustafa had sent a rider back to this Caliph to request that wagons and additional men be sent to secure the area and carry back the loot. Running his eyes up and down the beach he saw the surf remorselessly teasing the bodies of at least fifty and perhaps a hundred men – Venetian by the looks of them - interspersed with the carnage was the wreckage of the ships – the flotsam and jetsam of their cargo which looked to be a valuable haul. His commander would be pleased, and the only risk now was the unlikely chance that any additional vessels that had been part of the fleet – for the Venetian galleys rarely traveled only in pairs – might come searching for their missing comrades.

He hoped the Caliph would send a sufficient number of men against that threat, though he knew that it would be risky to detach too many men from the city in case the Spaniards decided to attack again. As soon as his reinforcements arrived he would begin to scour the coastline – perhaps as far as the next major bay in each direction. For now, though, he ordered his men to stand down and, apart from a watch rotation, get some rest after their busy night.

 

[unmerged(9046)]

November 15, morning

The Avergnese and the two Spanairds came ashore with the rest of the Free Company. The squad formed up and took inventory for wounds and such. Tomas had a nasty cut, Philipe had a gash on his leg, but otherwise the small squad had come through the ordeal unscathed. The two Spanairds and the French had come together in this battle and from now on, there would be no "Spanairds" in this group; they were all the same.

As soon as he came ashore, Tomas fell to his feet and was violently sick for some time. He said "I don't care if I have to walk all the way back to France, but I never want to be on this Devil Water ever again."

Stroph (who silently agreed with his young Private) said nothing and the men gathered around him. Stroph - "Men, the Scouts and the Cavalry have their chores and we have ours. We and the Moors will form a perimeter around the camp to give us at least some protection. We do not know where we are and whether the natives will be friends or foes."

 

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November 15th, Morning

The wind, still recovering from the storms fury, blew through Lochlans air, and across his face. He sniffed it curiously, something was off, something didn't feel right about this place. The scoutmaster didn't have an acknowledged danger sense, but hlde was a pessimist when it came to the enemy. If the company ad been beached here, then he would assume the area was dast a bit dangerous.

The scouts were in a small group, set just a bit away from the activity of camp. He looked over his men, they were all a bit shaken, but then Lochlan himself was a bit shaken, he was just better at hiding it.

"Alright boys, here's the plan." Lochlan squatted down and traced in the sand on the beach. He drew a line. "Thats the coast, as far as we know." He gestured toward one side. "Thats the ocean." He getured to the other side. "And this is wherever the hell we are." He said. "Anyone see a problem with that?" He asked, and smiled crookedy at Hans who was just rolling his eyes.

"The problem is that we don't know anything about the beach, and we don't know anything about the interior." Young Alv said, then looked a bit embaressed about having spoken.

"Exactly." Lochlan smiled at the young squad leader. "So here's how were going to do it." He paused, and sniffed the wind again. Something was irritating him. "Alv, your squad will go up the coast to the west. Gerard, your to the east. Hans will take his and 6th squad, and set up a patrol pattern arouund the camp. Ill take 5th squad and start mapping out this terrain." The scout master stopped, and looked at them all. "For all you new people. The battle made you a true company member, but this is your trial by fire as a scout." He made a quick gesture as the scouts scattered, and set off to their assignments.

edit: /ooc well since I was informed of certain directional changes...The directions given to the scout groups have changed from the original.

 

[Lord Durham]

November 15 - Morning


Captain waded ashore from one of the captured Venetian galleys, finding the fledgling camp taking shape.

With a small nod of satisfaction to himself, he noticed that Stroph had already directed his men to take up a guard position along the perimeter of the base. Not really surprising, Captain reasoned, for the lad, as young as he was, had recently come over from the Auvergnese army, and knew the merits of keeping watch. If anything, the Free Company had taught that lesson to General St. Onge several times over.

"Captain!"

The mercenary commander stopped. Trudging up a sand dune was Lochlan, leading a squad of his men. The Ranger looked the worse for wear. But, true to form, he was ready to perform his duty. Captain had long ago grown accustomed to the Scout Master?s independent ways, and was in no hurry to change them. "How are your men, Sergeant?"

Lochlan stopped and studied the distance, ever alert. "Well enough, sir. Some cuts and scrapes, some sea-sickness, but I?ve seen to them."

Captain glanced at the yellow orb that hung like a fiery blast furnace in the west. "It can?t be past 10, and the air is already stifling. Have you eaten?"

For an answer the Ranger reached into a pouch and produced a piece of jerked meat. "I want to look around, sir. Something?s not right here." He put the meat away. "Any idea where we could be?"

"I would hazard North Africa, though I?ll have to confirm that with the sailors captains."

"Speaking of which, I saw that Cyprian guy throwing up all over Sir Barkdreg?s boot."

Captain chuckled, "That will endear the man to the knight, I?m sure." Captain grabbed the Scout by the forearm. "Look Lochlan, be careful. This sand is treacherous, and I think the sun will soon become just as unforgiving. In a way this reminds me of the Holy Land. We don?t know where we are, and the locals, if there are any, could very well be dangerous. Don?t go far."

Lochlan scanned the horizon, again. "Aye, Captain. Not too many trees to hide in around here."

"Right. And a word of advice, have your men pad their helmets, or wear something to cover their heads. I?ve seen many men collapse from this kind of heat. You have water?"

Lochlan padded a sack, "Yes, mother."

Captain grinned, "Good. That?s another thing, see if you can locate any fresh water. I think we?ll be going through it quickly."

With a final nod the Ranger flashed some hand signals, and the men headed off.

The mercenary commander watched for a few moments, then walked down the dune toward the camp. Halfway there he heard his name called, again. This time it was the Countess, and he stopped while she ran into his arms.

 

[Grothgar]

November 15th, Morning

John lifted a hand up to his face to wipe away the sleep that was forming in his eyes. The night before had been one of the worst of Johns life. First of all he had been in the middle of a desperate fight when the captain of the venetian vessel had become incapacitated and then the venetians seemed to lose all heart for the fight and had meekly surrendered. John had then noticed that the Glory had become seperated which he hadnt noted because of the fight going on. Just when he thought it couldnt get worse the storm had hit in its full force and he had spent the entire night being tossed about below decks.

John looked around and was, again, impressed by the discipline, the comaradary around him, it was like nothing he had ever seen before in his life and he was glad to be a part of it. He shook himself from his thoughts and started looking round for something to do, the clearing of the galleys was almost complete and John ached all over from all the carrying he had to do. John shook his head again to clear his thoughts and went looking for some more work.

 

[Lord Durham]

November 15 - Late Morning

Captain and the Countess walked through the bustling camp. Jacob and his boys were pouring over the cargo and supplies with a fine toothed comb, salvaging what they could and setting aside what they couldn't. Some of the cargo had sustained extensive water damage, but they wouldn't know the extent for some time yet.

Water was the most important item at the moment.

John the smith stood with hands on hips, surveying the camp. He saw Captain and the Countess and cracked a humourless grin.

"John," Captain began. "I've had no chance to talk with you since your arrival. How's the wound?"

For an answer the huge armourer took in a deep lungful of air. He coughed sheepishly at the end. "Much better."

The Countess smiled, "I'm so glad to hear that." Her eye held a mischievious look. "Though I warrant you would never have expected the adventures that have come your way."

The smith smiled widely, with humour. "You are right, my Lady. And I had to spend most of the time flat on my back."

Constance glanced at Captain. "Some men would not complain overly much at that."

The mercenary commander gave her a gentle nudge. "Don't tease the man, dear."

John blushed. "Er, Captain, would you have something for me to do? I feel I've been nothing more than a burden since I joined."

Captain stroked his chin. "Actually, there is. Why don't you set up your tools of trade. I'm certain there will be more than one man who needs his sword sharpened, or dents removed from their armour, or chain-mail relinked."

The smith's face lit up. "Of course, sir."

Captain removed his conical helmet and tossed it to the burly giant. "You can start with that. If you require apprentices, I'm sure there are lots of lads that would be more than willing to help. If you require anything else, then see myself or any of the Lieutenants."

Captain and the Countess moved on, while John the smith went searching for his gear.

 

[unmerged(6528)]

November 15th, Late Morning

The scouts were all getting ready to head out now, their preparations almost complete. Each squad leader was double checking the waterskins, and making sure the wraps around their necks were tight enought to stay on.

Lochlan squinted at the dune's to the south as he tied the cloth around his face in a veil like fashion that left his eyes uncovered, he also had another wrapped round to cover the back of his neck. He sighed and double checked the wrappings that held his various weapons to him. "My boots are gonna get absolutely filed with sand on this one, I can tell." He muttered.

"What sergeant?" One of his men asked.

"Nothing, just muttering." Lochlan said absently. His was the last group leaving, since he had wanted to make sure everyone else had taken the precautions Captain suggested.

"Alright boys, lets move out. Remember, just because there's alot less cover out here doesn't mean that we can't avoid being seen, those dunes are probably more dangerous than forests around Orleans." He said, and smiled crookedly.

The men all of whom had been there, laughed and shook their heads. They began to trail out of camp, eyes alert, hands near their weapons.

Before he vanished over a dune, Lochlan took a last look down at the camp. The scoutmaster wasn't a small man, he wasn't overly tall either. He was relaxed, and would slouch or lean. He had a litheness though, a liquidity of movement that seperated him. This was a legacy of years of training, and more years of experience. Brown hair blew down, obscuring his vision, he brushed it aside. He looked down on the camp. bustling with activity, he just hoped this didn't turn out as bad as he felt it could, there was something nagging at the back of his mind, if only he could figure out what it was. He hadn't been in a desert in years, and it hadn't turned out well that time...

 

[driftwood]

Clerk shuffled miserably about the camp. The midday heat was the worst feeling he had ever experienced in his life: his shirt had gone through several progressively darker shades as his body hastily sweated away all its moisture; his pants were sticking to his legs where they needed to move, but riding up where he wished they wouldn't; and now he was feeling lightheaded and exhausted.

He plopped down heavily in the shade of a recently-pitched tent, checking to see if anyone had left some water or ale conveniently near where his hand had landed (they hadn't). Then he saw Annette gliding by.

She seemed not at all to be bothered by the heat. Her dusky skin - a strange color for an Orleanais girl, now that Clerk thought about it - glowed healthily outside of the loose dress which seemed infinitely more comfortable than Clerk's soggy, constrictive clothes. He had been hoping that a savage pirate would burst into the hold where he was with the women and servants during the fight, so he could save her, but that sadly hadn't happened.

"Clerk!"

Clerk realized that Annette had been saying his name for some time. "Whu?"

"Have you drank anything today?"

"No .... why .... ?"

Wriggling her small nose in disgust at his behavior, and the state of his clothes, she pulled him up. "Come on, this isn't northern France ..."

[ooc: Sorry I missed the battle, but I've been travelling and otherwise busy for the last week or so. Like when I *had* to go to Atlantic City for an overnight bachelor party.

Anyway, I'm back. Guess I should introduce a regular character now...]

driftwood

 

[Lord Durham]

November 15 - Late Morning

The oarsman stood in chest deep water, pressed snuggly against the rocky shoreline. Nearby he could hear voices, rising and falling as they searched... searched for people like him.

As the water lapped gently against his back, his mind wandered to events that had led him here.

He was a tradesman from Ragusa, unlucky enough to be jumped outside a tavern in Venice. When he awoke, it was to find himself chained in the belly of a ship, a thick wooden oar lying horizontal before him.

The next months of his life consisted of rowing, eating a thin gruel with bread, and sleeping. Once in a while he and the other rowers were led on deck to stretch and take in fresh, salty air.

Then yesterday came the battle, followed immediately by a storm of unimaginable magnitude. When nature calmed the next morning, he heard the captain shout orders to anchor in a bay. There were lights along the shoreline, and possibly a village for supplies.

But, when they waded ashore, the Infidel struck, chasing, capturing and killing the exhausted men. Few escaped, and he knew he was one of the lucky ones.

His thoughts snapped back to the present, as he heard the voices fading into the distance. Finally, after an interminable amount of time, Paolo Borsa slipped away, striking east. He had no idea what lie ahead, but he prayed it was friendly.

* * *

The caravan worked it's way along the ancient trail that paralled the Mediterranean. It was laden with the usual goods and merchandise that a city the grandeur of Bizerte deserved.

However, Mehmed, the commander of the caravan guard, felt anything but deserving. For the past generation the people of his tribe had supplied escorts as the irregular caravans passed through their lands. It was a service performed in exchange for some goods.

But the Berber commander dreamt of conquest and glory, and chafed at the role his cousin, the leader of their tribe, had impressed upon young Mehmed.

That the ruling Hafsids were in power, and much stronger, did not register on the young commander. He felt their own position in the mountains to the east was a natural center of command.

One of these day, he thought, one of these days he would gain his cousin's respect, and attain glory he deserved.

 

[unmerged(2351)]

November 15th - Late Morning

Looking at the hustle and bustle as people carried out various tasks assigned to them to prepare the new camp.
Khan noticed Lochlan and his men disappear over a dune. "Obviously trying to establish where we are" he thought.

Thinking back to the previous nights activities, he was pleased with his conduct - hopefully he had committed himself well in the eyes of the rest of the company, especially the Captain.
Luckily he had come through the battle on the ships without too much bother, and harldy a scratch.

Removing Snaga from its sheath, he noticed there were flecks of dried blood on the point. Looking around, he couldn't see anything with which to clean the fearsome weapon.

In the distance, he noticed a huge bearded man setting up what looked like a rudimentary smithy. He began to make his way towards him.
"Khan, one second" said Alvin quietly, lumbering after him. The small wounds he had received in his legs only giving him some slight discomfort.
"Good fight, and good team methinks my friend" he said good naturedly, once out of earshoot of others milling around the site.
"Next time, it will be on dry land - and we'll show these boys how to really fight with an axe hey ??"
Khan smiled, remembering the carnage the two big men had wrought on the ship last night. "That we will, that we will" he replied.

As the two men approached, John the Smith looked up from the work he was doing on Captain's helmet.
"Can I help you?" he asked as Khan stood in front of him.
"You're a smith I take it ?" questioned Khan, as Alvin assumed a vacant expression (something he did on a regular basis when near other Company members).
"That I am, and what is it you need ? Not that I can find much at present" John replied jovially.

Handing the smith Snaga Khan asked, "Anything to clean this, not water and a rag though. As you can see, this one is special"
Taking the huge Lochaber Axe in his hands. John marvelled at the craftsmanship and work that had gone into creating this work of art - albeit one that dealt in death and destruction.
"I may have just the thing. Would you mind leaving it with me, and I'll see if I can find out where the hell it is amongst this mess" he said gesturing at the various piles of equipment lying around the beach.

"Of course", replied Khan, "How much is this going to cost me ?"..............

 

[Rictus]

Edward waded ashore, holding his swords above his head to avoid contact with the dreaded sea water. His hair was plastered to his scalp by sweat and water and thin trails of blood that crisscrossed his face. The lacerations weren't serious, he had simply had the misfortune to be next to a flimsy wooden chest when it had exploded during the storm. But they itched fiercely, and the salt in the water caused them to burn.

His troop of soldiers grimly followed him, too tired to talk.

Now, he fought the gently lapping waves to get to the beach and, after that the Company campsite, which sprawled out several hundred metres ahead of him.

The growing heat was incredible, which was way he had chosen to take a cooler route through the sea on his arduous return journey. Edward had felt that the heat in Italy was unbearable and had never beleived any of the Moors tales of the heat in Africa, and had scoffed at the claims of some about the climate in Arabia. He never thought anything could be as hot as Italy, but this was something else. This was hot.

He had rather foolishly used up his precious ration of water on the first leg of the journey, and had been regretting that decision ever since. He'd never been in anything like this, he didn't know how to survive, let alone thrive in this seemingly barren land.

As the six men stumbled wearily into camp, Edward waved his escorts away, ordering them to get some water and rest. Captain, who had been making the rounds, saw Edward and chuckled.

"Is the heat getting to you, Lieutenant?"

"How can anything survive in this place?" Edward said, exasperated, "I've had a look around all the only things this place grows are rocks and sand!"

Captain proferred his water bottle to the man, who chugged a generous portion. "Easy with that. We don't have much left."

"Sorry sir. This place is a wonderment, I'll give it that."

"So I take it you didn't find anything?"

Edward sat heavily in the shade of a tent (lacking one himself) and brushed back his hair. "We didn't get as far as I thought we would, but yes, we didn't find much except a few bodies and some odds and ends." To prove his point, he emptied a pocket into the cooler sand: the collection was mostly baubles, a few coins here and there, one interesting pebble and a plain, silver ring. Edward handed the ring to Captain.

"Got that off one of the bodies. I don't think he was one of the skippers, but he was dressed fairly fancily. You can keep that, it doesn't fit on any of my fingers."

Captain gave his Lieutenant an amused glance. "I didn't think you'd sunk so low as to rob the dead, Edwardm that's more like Alberics line of work. Anyway, what makes you think it'll fit on me then?"

"I don't. Maybe you can give it to Constance...?"

Captain considered this for a moment, before pocketing the ring. "Very good Lieutenant. Carry on."

 

[Sgt. Bloomfield]

Lieutenant De Bloomfielde wiped his forehead. The heat was stifling. Pushing back the tentflap, he strode into Captain's tent. Murmuring an apology he turned on his heal and retreated.

"No no, Edmond," Captain called after him, "It's all right... The countess was just leaving!"

So Bloomfielde counted to ten and then went back into the tent. Captain was blushing and the countess gave Bloomfielde a mischievous grin before brushing past him.

Bloomfielde threw himself down and kicked his boots off. "You know, Sir," he grunted, "I don't envy you the burden of command. And in this heat, too..."

"By God, Edmond, is that really necessary?" Captain was fanning his face and staring disapprovingly at Bloomfielde's pale and dirty feet. "At least it'll keep the vermin out tonight, I guess.... So, what's up?"

"I've got the camp pretty much organized, although we had to move the latrines twice. But Alberic is good man, and there isn't another squad in the entire Free Company that digs latrines as quickly and beautifully.... Except the fellow we used to have, Sir Dashart and Yoav and his something lions, I think... Do you remember Sir Dashart?"

"No," said Captain, a bit too quickly.

"What a pretty latrine he could dig... Anyway. I put Seraphim's men down-wind, because of the, you know, odour. We've got the cargo struck and stored on the beach. We dug a couple of pits above the waterline to keep the water casks cool. Most of the cannon were stored as ballast in the transports and we haven't broken them out. The Cyprian hopes that it won't be necessary to careen any ships, but if it is, we'd have to completely empty that ship. So unless you want the cannon set up for defense, we can probably leave them on board. It means, of course, that we've got Pohlman running around, fretting, and looking for something to eat..."

Bloomfielde yawned, then continued. "We've got a large sick-tent rigged and some of the Venetian prisoners are fanning it. I've got Mortlock, Rosencrantz, Guildenstern, and three of Scherer's squads digging little moats on the east and west, where the dunes slope off. Just in case we have visitors. Oh yes, and we haven't found any fresh water yet. I hope that Lochlan will have come across a stream or cistern or something. Otherwise it will be a big problem with the horses. We've coralled them over to the West, but we don't have proper fences nor wood..."

Bloomfielde yawned again. Captain said:

"Good work, Edmond. I see you've been busy. Let Seraphim or Scherer take over. Get some sleep, and for God's sake either take a bath or put those boots back on!"