The Rosebush

Testimony provided by Lorella D’Martel Scavélle, Centuria of the Legio Quinta Sycamoria Victrix. Her cognomen, “The Rosebush”, was awarded after the siege of Sycamore (Duchy of Sycamore's capital and eldest feidralin giant fig tree in the Northern Empire) in the closing battle of the Retaliations War of 1399-1402. During the decisive charge, her cataphracts endured thousands of arrows, darts and javelins. The legion's annals record that Scavélle and her mount had no less than three hundred and twenty projectiles embedded in their armor, besides a few more flesh deep. Ever since, she, the knights and horses of her ducal order, the Gendarme Belliqueuse, wear armor teeming with spikes, fashioned as thorns on a fluting of silvered branches. 

"I had just speared the giant which clubbed me with a cracked cannon, spending my last potion right after. Someone said that the flashes over the horizon were Diveus searing Trumuskerra’s eyes, but I couldn’t tell for sure. At the time I only thought of my hunger and thirst and tiredness. The lack of an open field forced the legions to fight on foot, our mounts in the bodegas beneath us. They were guarded by the dwarfs which fought the goblin sappers seeking to destroy Sycamore's roots. I fought on top of the same roots, preventing the besiegers from burning them. Even if this didn’t topple the city, the inhabitants and refugees on the canopy districts could choke - until we had a lot of corpses falling down the giant fig tree, just the kind of harvest the goblinoids wanted. Our archers had height, but were suppressed by ballistae. This led to inconclusive skirmishes.

After an eight months-long siege, we resorted to the Uraçu Plunge type of sortie. Some upper buildings would be collapsed, followed by aimed shots against enemy leaders.This should disorient the goblinoids while we thrusted with our cavarly. My troops would form the vanguard for one of the columns. As soon as the turmoil was established, we advanced down the root in a wedge formation. Goblinoids are natural warriors, but unruly even at their best. I remember that a minotaur with four plated horns ran towards us with his head down. It bellowed something unintelligible but equally offensive, noticed no one else went with him, staggered to a stop, looked backwards and was trodden by our mounts. Then the arrow rain started, metallic spatters clicking our armor. We shouted "Dégustez notre élan!" and launched ourselves into the horde. We pierced it on the first charge. Then came the harder deal, keeping the breach so the other riders could go through.

In the sycamorian cavalry, we are still taught to wield spears overarm for close combat between knights and infantry. Good for me, because when my spear broke, I grunted, spun the shaft and used the sharpened counterweight to stab the helpless foot-soldiers trying to unhorse me. Years of practice amounted for an hour of engraved reflexes, parry or pierce, cut or deflect. I found myself couting up my spots of pain and which ones likely included an arrowhead gritting my flesh. I also wondered if the drops falling down my backbone were sweat, blood, or both. A wretch tried to arm himself with a javelin stuck in my mount’s thigh, but my mare’s angry hooves left him choking on a bit of horseshoe forever. I swirled around to avoid more surprises and saw only a reel of death and pain. My hearing proved as lonely as my eyes. I remembered the tale of the commander which sang through the night to keep his troops together, and decided an attempt couldn't hurt more than it already did. I started the Anthem of Sycamore, and had company at the second verse.

While the enemy was busy with us, the columns galloped all around the siege ring, harassing, burning supplies, charging into unaware rears. I feared that the goblinoids’ morale would never waver, until spots of panic here and there spread so quickly that it looked like a dam bursting with cowards and deserters in every direction. Afterward there were hours of pursuit, wrecking camps and siege works, prisoner rescue, counter looting. I couldn’t take part on any of that, due to an arrow lodged in my eye patch. Good thing it was reinforced or it would have been my skull. The hobgoblin responsible for this identified himself at the prisoner inspection after the battle. Klafnius claimed that my bravery made him aim for my head so my soul wouldn't remain trapped inside it after I died. Typical barbarian foolishness. After leaving the field hospital I made sure to recruit him as a night watch for the legion, one doesn’t waste such good aim in forced labor."