march on to hell and bring back the Devil’s head. God bless them to be so. Today they’ll have to be. Sweet Lord, twelve-thousand men… Say it not be not to many.
Leading his horse in front of the center formation, the boxes were lined abreast of each other; he called commandingly, “Form Captains to me! Quickly sirs, do be quick!” Three men, one from each of the divisions, answered with a shouted “Aye Mi’lord!” and came to him. These three men he would depend on, as formation leaders they were each responsible for some four-hundred men. Their decisions would determine what happens today as much as his own; as Lord Captain his purpose was the whole army, as Form Captains theirs was the leading the divisions.
Arriving first, the captain of center formation saluted him with a raised fist to brow saying, “Mi’lord Captain.” Edward Dourne was young but skilled, possessing a good head for tactics, and was a capable fighter. His men respected him, and the younger ones adored him. Willful and bold, the young man had lead men before, leading from the front with an almost disregard for danger; he didn’t act without thinking, his actions always purposeful though often emotionally motivated. He’d charged his section, at great risk to himself and them, into superior numbers and well placed spear-men in the past, but only to keep another section from being flanked, surrounded, or overrun. The Lord believed he would fare well as a Form Captain, but he was untested as of yet with any group larger than section size. He’s young but strong, and his head do seem to work, but can he handle what we will face? Can he face these odds? “Good Captain, is your Form in good order?” The Lord Captain, asked.
The young captain responded, “Aye mi’lord, they be well ordered and ready,” wheeling around the young captain called to his men, “The Lord Captain asks if you are ready boys, and I know you do be! Men, tell the Lord Captain you’re ready!” Center Formation erupted in noise, the men’s battle cries howled before him, their horses stamping hooves rumbled the ground underfoot. “Are you Soldiers? Are you warriors? Tell him then men! Tell the Lord Captain What you men are!” he cheered with them then, “We’re the Mids!” The young captain beamed, his pride shown through helmeted face, “Aye Mi’lord Captain, they do be ready. They’ll fight well today, sir. Their hearts be ready for it.” The Lord captain, atop his horse responded in turn, giving a great cry and raising his fist high, “Middle Cavalry!” The men yelled all the louder.
The Captain of the Left Form arrived saluting, “Mi’lord Captain.” Rob Elrith was his best officer, having been with the Mids for near twenty years, he had more experience than any of them, even himself; had it not been for himself, Elrith would have been Lord Captain. Elrith had actually been his section leader when he had first been recruited, and had been responsible for most of his training. Rob’s advice was near always taken, and was always good. Rob was one truly remarkable soldier, both as a fighting man and leader; once killing twenty men then carrying three wounded Mids, one on his back with one under each arm, through a shallow river, only to go back and get three more. Rob was the ideal of a Mid; respected by the men to an almost legendary status. Rob was the Mid’s hero. Elrith my dear fried, you’re the best I’ve got, the one I do depend on the most, the Lord Captain thought, thinking on the past he shared with Rob, I would have followed you my friend, I do pray you know that.
The Right’s arrived shortly after, duplicating the fist to head salute, “My Lord Captain.” Albert Kickson was a fastidious type, actually somewhat obsessive; he always spoke clearly, pronouncing every word he spoke as it is written. One of the few Mids to
