The battlefield dissolved into chaos as the once-proud riders, now reduced to foot soldiers, threw themselves into the melee. Clad head to toe in steel, they surged forward with swords, axes, and maces raised high, their armor clattering like a storm of iron.
No longer thundering across the plain on horseback, they fought in the very same way that they despised.
The infantry met them with a wall of spears, the long shafts bristling like the spines of a hedgehog. Rows of men braced themselves, feet digging into the churned earth, shoulders straining against the weight of the charge.
The first impact was deafening. Steel rang against wood, shields shuddered, men grunted and screamed. The spears struck true, driving into the narrow gaps of armor, faces, throats, armpits, thighs, any weakness they could find.
Some knights staggered back with a howl, pierced by two or three shafts at once. But others pressed forward with terrifying strength, their shields battering aside the long weapons, their gauntleted hands seizing spearshafts and ripping them from their owners' grip.
"Push! PUSH!" a soldier screamed, his voice cracking with desperation as he leaned his whole weight into the struggle. Sweat streamed down his face, his arms trembling, as a towering knight loomed over him, shield smashing forward.
The clash became a grinding press of bodies.
Knights tore spears away and snapped them like twigs, axes biting deep into exposed throats, maces splintering shields and crushing ribs beneath. One soldier cried out as a mace caved in his helmet, the iron ringing once before his skull gave way with a wet crunch. Another tried to fall back, only to be caught by a sword rammed up under his chainmail, the blade sliding between ribs with a sickening squelch.
The line buckled.
Behind the spears, men armed with hammers tried to hold their ground, waiting for the knights to break through the points of the pikes. When they did, the hammers came crashing down, denting breastplates and cracking shoulder joints, but the knights paid them back with the same coin, turning the melee into a savage blur of iron and blood.
What moments before had been a carefully ordered formation now collapsed into a brutal brawl. Alpheo's hard-won lines, the disciplined ranks that had held back charge after charge of cavalry, were being torn apart as, without their strongest advantage, they were now on the back foot.
Without the reach of their spears, the infantry were forced to fight on equal terms against armored nobles who had spent their lives training for this kind of slaughter.
It was no longer a battle of formations but a massacre of flesh and will.
Asag, watching the carnage unfold.
On horseback, his men had repelled knights again and again. But now, with the enemy dismounted and smashing into them in close quarters, what he saw could only be called one thing—
—a one-sided carnage.
Still that did not mean they had lost.
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Alpheo sat stiffly atop his horse, the reins slick in his gloved hands. A faint tremor betrayed his nerves, running from his jaw into his shoulders. Beneath him, his mount shifted restlessly, ears flicking back as if it could feel the unease radiating from its rider.
This was not how the battle was supposed to unfold.
He had been so certain and proud, that his infantry would sweep the enemy's rabble aside like chaff in the wind.
He had even mocked his captains that morning, boasting that the fight would be decided before the sun reached its peak. Yet here they were, nearly two hours later, locked in the mud and blood, trading blows with peasants who stubbornly refused to break.
Alpheo's teeth ground together as his jaw tightened painfully. The reinforcements trickling into the enemy's ranks were the worst of it, each new cluster of men seemed to breathe fresh life into a line that should have already collapsed. He could see it clearly now: what he had dismissed as disorganized mobs were holding with a resilience he had not accounted for.
Why? he seethed inwardly, eyes narrowing. Why haven't they broken? The plan was sound. Every angle was covered. They should be scattering by now!
For a moment, doubt coiled its way into his chest, heavy and suffocating. His soldiers were still pressing, still grinding forward, but every heartbeat drained their strength. If the stalemate continued, fatigue would claim them before victory ever could.
If we keep hammering at them like this, they'll wear us down instead. I need to shift the momentum or everything slips through my fingers.
Just as despair threatened to take root, movement caught the edge of his vision. A lone rider, a blur of dust and steel, thundered toward him across the field. At first, Alpheo scarcely registered it, lost in the spiral of his own thoughts. But the rider's urgency, the whip of his cloak, the reckless speed of his charge, dragged Alpheo back into the present.
And at the very moment when ruin seemed inevitable, when frustration curdled into the taste of defeat, salvation came riding fast across the field, bringing with it the news Alpheo had not dared hope for.
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Egil sat on his horse, lazily chewing a piece of stale bread as his eyes scanned the treeline in front of him. The sun filtered through the leaves, casting dappled shadows on the forest floor, but the sight did nothing to stir his excitement. He leaned back in his saddle, bored, feeling like he'd been waiting there forever.
A hundred men, all on horseback, sat with him in silence, hidden among the thick trees. They were meant to be a surprise, a force waiting to strike at just the right moment. But that moment hadn't come yet, and to Egil, it seemed like it never would.
'How long are we supposed to wait?' he thought, taking another bite of bread and tearing it slowly with his teeth. The bread was tough, tasteless, but it gave his restless hands something to do.
He glanced down at his left foot, feeling the familiar throb of pain. 'Damn thing' he muttered to himself, casting a grim look at the limb, which less than a week ago had been pierced by an arrow.The wound had healed enough for him to ride again, but every time his foot brushed against the stirrup, a sharp jolt of pain shot up his leg.
From there he could see the battle going on , unfortunately he was too far away to even understand what was going on.
'I will let Alph worry about that , I only have to stick on what I know' he thought as he threw the remaining bread on the ground.
Straightening himself up with a sudden burst of energy, a smile spread across his face as he noticed one man riding up, dust kicking up from his horse's hooves. The rider, breathless , pulled his reins, stopping just before Egil.
It was Laedio...delivering the very new Egil had been dying to receive.
"They have given the order," he gasped, pointing toward the battlefield. "It's time. We charge."
Egil's smile widened, his weariness instantly replaced by excitement.
Finally, the monotony of sitting in the woods was over. With a quick glance at the line of men behind him, Egil's voice rang out with newfound eagerness.
"About damn time! You heard him, lads!" he shouted not worrying about being heard, his voice carrying through the trees. "We're done waiting. Follow me!"
With that he spurred his horse forward, the pain in his foot momentarily forgotten as adrenaline surged through him. His steed shot out from the tree line, galloping toward the battlefield, with a hundred riders thundering after him. The ground shook beneath the weight of hooves, and the dull roar of the charge echoed out of the forest and toward the battle.
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Sorza swung his sword for the ninth time on the same target first finally managing to disarm his foe.
Steel rang against steel, sparks leapt with every clash, and the weight of his blade started to sting at his arms. His chest heaved, sweat stung his eyes, but he pressed on, carving a path through the stubborn wall of infantry that refused to yield.
For a heartbeat, he allowed himself to believe the tide was turning. In one corner, a knight almost split two footmen with a brutal sweep, felling one and crushing the other under a boot and blade. Elsewhere, Sorza's guards heaved against the enemy spears, their shields shuddering with each thrust, yet managing to claw their way forward, inch by bloody inch.
At last, he thought, forcing down the ache in his muscles. We are breaking them—
A voice shattered his focus.
"Your Grace! Ahead!"
A mailed hand seized his shoulder, dragging him back just as his sword deflected another thrust. Sorza spun, irritation flashing in his eyes, until he followed his man's trembling finger.
Beyond the melee, past the churn of dust and bodies, a plume rose on the horizon,vast, thick, and growing, blotting out the light as it rolled closer.
Sorza's mouth went dry. His grip slackened.
"…Cavalry," he whispered.
The word clung to his lips like poison. In that instant, the truth slammed into him: the enemy had hidden them. Held them back. Lured him in. The hammer was about to fall, and he was the anvil.
"No… no, no—" Sorza stammered, panic flaring. His own glorious cavalry had dismounted, bogged in the mire of infantry, and now—now he would be the prey.
"Back!" he screamed, voice cracking as fear clawed through his chest. "To your horses! MOUNT! RETREAT!"He stumbled toward one of the corpses of fallen steeds falling down onto the mud and blood of the ground , clawing at reins, trying desperately to rally the chaos while getting up.
But the damage was already done. His knights saw the dust, heard the thunder of hooves, and dread spread through their ranks like fire through dry grass. Their confidence, so recently rekindled by the fact they were winning the engagement, withered at the sight of that charging tide.
Then the earth began to shake.
Egil's riders burst into view, a wall of steel and muscle, a hundred lances leveled in gleaming unity. The air itself seemed to split as their roar rose above the din. Egil, at their head, lowered his lance with a cry that carried across the field, a harbinger of ruin.
The impact was cataclysmic.
Chainmail split like parchment as lances punched through torsos, flinging men aside like ragdolls. Sorza watched one knight impaled, lifted screaming into the air before the shaft snapped in two. Those in heavier plate fared no better, though their armor turned the steel, the sheer blunt force shattered ribs and caved chests, leaving them writhing in the mud, choking on their own blood.
The horses themselves became weapons, slamming into the clustered knights, trampling the fallen under iron-shod hooves. Sorza's men, unmounted, disorganized, and terrified, were cut to ribbons.
Some tried to flee, only to be run down from behind, skewered mid-stride. Others raised shields in vain, their arms shattered beneath the weight of warhorses thundering past.
The proud formation that Sorza had forged with such boldness was ripped apart in seconds, his shining knights scattered like leaves in a storm. The field was nothing but blood, steel, and broken bodies.
And Sorza, the heir who had worshipped the charge, the thunder of hooves, the glory of mounted war, could only watch in horror as he became its victim.