The cavalry thundered across the open field like an unleashed storm, a tidal wave of iron and flesh driving the earth itself into trembling submission. A cloud of dust rose with them, half-swallowing the horizon until the world was reduced to sound and fury.
The pounding of hooves reverberated through the ground and into the bones of every man present, an unrelenting drumbeat that matched the hearts of the riders, each thundering beat crying for blood.
The horses, too, seemed gripped by the frenzy of battle. Their eyes rolled white with fire, their nostrils flared wide as they gulped the dust-choked air, snorting like war drums in animal form. The sheen of sweat , muscles rippling like coiled steel beneath their coats as they thundered forward.
Above the confusion, banners cut sharp lines of color against the haze. The standards of proud noble houses flailed in the gale of movement: a lion rampant, a crowned eagle, a pair of crimson swords crossed in eternal combat. In the dust-laden air, they looked almost like strokes on some furious painting, each emblem crying out its owner's honor. To charge beneath them was glory; to fall beneath them was legacy.
—UZZAH!—
It was not a war cry meant for the enemy, who would hear nothing beyond the avalanche of hooves, but for themselves,for the men at their sides, for the blood in their veins.
"Cut through them! Smash them and claim victory, men!" shouted Sorza, though the words were more balm for his nerves than true command. He rode not at the point of the spear, but near the heart of the host, where the risk was thinnest. His father's orders had been clear: the heir could inspire, but he could not be squandered. The burden of blood was left to lesser men.
Yet as the enemy infantry drew near, something strange struck Sorza's eyes. He leaned forward in the saddle, squinting through the haze. What at first looked like an ordinary shield wall was instead… what was it?
Hundreds of spears jutted out, long, impossibly long, their iron tips gleaming like a bristling sea urchin in the sun.
They were thicker than common pikes, gripped by both hands of the men in the front rank, braced against shoulders, planted into the earth. And behind them stood ranks upon ranks of soldiers pressed tight, as if welded into a single body, daring the cavalry to come.
A chill tightened Sorza's gut.
If the charge struck head-on, the horses would impale themselves, momentum shattered, men crushed in heaps. It would not be a clash,it would be a slaughter.
He cursed beneath his breath. If only I had archers… if only I had bows to rake their unshielded fronts, break them apart before the charge. But I don't.
For the briefest moment, hesitation gnawed at him. On a battlefield, hesitation was death, so he shoved it down, forcing himself into clarity.
"FLOWERS OPENING!" he roared, rising in the stirrups, his voice tearing through the maelstrom.
The order raced down the line, knight to knight, until the whole cavalry answered. The formation shifted with a grace born of endless drill. What had moments ago seemed like a solid spearpoint rushing toward the enemy began to ripple and unfurl. The host split in two, each half veering outward, left and right, as if a colossal flower was blooming across the field.
Dust sprayed high as the wings expanded. To the infantry waiting ahead, it would look like a flood parting in two, threatening to close in and drown them from both sides.
Sorza's chest swelled with fierce anticipation. Yes. Not headlong into their wall. If I can crush their flanks, their neat little square will unravel. Once the wings fold back in, the heavy cavalry will crash through the broken middle like a hammer through glass. They'll rout. They must rout. And when they do, victory will be ours.
He tightened his grip on the reins, the fire of command overtaking his earlier doubt. Around him, the roar of men and the thunder of hooves carried him forward, as the flower of war bloomed wide to swallow its prey.
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Asag squinted through the haze of dust rising from the battlefield, his eyes narrowing as he caught sight of the enemy cavalry's maneuver. The mass of horsemen that had been barreling straight toward them suddenly began to split, the swirling dust clouds dividing into two distinct trails as the cavalry veered off toward both flanks.
His heart pounded in his chest as he realized what was happening.
This was Asag's first time commanding on a battlefield , in normal occasions, Alpheo would have never given command to an inexperienced man. Unfortunately, he was lacking, humanly speaking, of everything that could be used to lead men into battle.
Luckily Alpheo had explained to him well the strength and weakness of what he called ''Reisläufer" and had even explained to him all the things that could happen and how to respond to them. And by that it meant he knew what to do.
Which was exactly nothing other than what he was already doing...
"STEADY, MEN! HOLD THE LINE!" he bellowed, as the men held their spears and weapons tighter, their knuckles white with tension.
The cavalry came closer.
"STEADY!" Asag roared once more, his voice raw with the effort. The spears were set, angled forward like a wall of thorns, ready to pierce any horse that dared to charge.
The enemy riders were so close that he could distinguish the colour of each horses mane and face. Even from inside the formation he couldn't help but feel scared of such beast, and from that he knew that the men on the first line must be shitting themselves; even the brothers that he had marched with for months must be feeling their knees giving in.
Still it was too late to get cold feet.
Asag's eyes narrowed as he gauged the distance. The moment was upon them.
"JAVELINS!" he bellowed.
In an instant, the recruits, the soft meat of the formation, snapped into action. They had been drilled for this for a few hours , and despite their inexperience, they moved as ordered. Arms shot upward, each soldier hefting a javelin and taking aim at the oncoming cavalry, which of course just meant aiming their javelins up into the air, as they had no clear sight of the enemy.
Then, as if by a single breath, the javelins were released. A swarm of projectiles arced through the sky, their deadly tips glinting as they descended upon the enemy. The air was filled with the sound of the javelins whistling through the air before finding their marks.
The first line of knights took the brunt of the volley. Some javelins struck true, piercing through chainmail and into flesh, others instead nailed through the plate as the cinetic energy was enough to cut through the steel, allowing the weapon to bury itself only a few inches into the flesh.
Knights cried out as the sharpened points drove deep, some falling from their saddles with a pained grunt. Horses screamed as they were struck, their powerful bodies faltering under the sudden pain, collapsing to the ground and throwing their riders violently.
For those armored in heavier steel plate beneath their mail, the javelins might not have penetrated as deeply, but the sheer force of the impact was enough to unseat several of them. The knights found themselves tossed from their saddles, landing heavily on the ground, the wind knocked out of them. Some struggled to rise, only to be trampled by the hooves of their own charging comrades, breaking their limbs and necks in the process.
The effect was immediate and chaotic. The front lines of the cavalry were disrupted, their advance faltering as the wounded and the dead littered the field. Yet the charge was not over, as the lines behind avoided their fallen companion as they advanced to give the footmen a taste of the cavalry's steel. (MAP IN THE COMMENT)