Men moaned in agony where they had fallen, their cries rising thin and broken into the cool morning air. Some writhed in the mud, clutching at their torn limbs, while others lay still save for the shallow gasps of the dying. Horses shrieked in panic, their screams more piercing than the men's, echoing across the battlefield as they thrashed against shattered legs or collapsed in heaving piles of blood and muscle.
The stench was suffocating, iron, dung, sweat, and rot mingled on the breeze until many of the infantry resorted to breathing through their mouths,as to not let their nostrils be invaded by the foulness in the air.
Yet the battle showed no sign of ending. Through the haze of dust and death, the remnants of the enemy cavalry rallied.
Though their comrades may have laid crushed and mangled in heaps, these knights pressed forward. Their banners rose defiantly through the swirling clouds, and their steeds, though wide-eyed and trembling, pawed at the earth as if daring the ground itself to hold them back.
Asag's jaw tightened as he watched them approach. His formation tightened in turn, the veterans bracing their four-meter pikes like an iron wall while behind them the recruits fumbled, clutching their shorter spears with white knuckles. Fear showed plain in their eyes, some whispered the names of the gods mistakingly believing they were there, while others prayed in silence, lips moving feverishly.
"BRACE FOR IMPACT!" Asag roared, hurling another javelin into the advancing tide. The weapon found a rider, toppling him from the saddle, but it was only a drop in the storm.
The knights came on, armored bodies glinting like steel lightning beneath the sun. For generations their tactic had been unstoppable, charging peasants and conscripts who broke at the very sight of glittering lances and pounding hooves. Fear had always been their greatest ally, scattering foes before sword and lance ever touched them.
But not this time.
The infantry did not scatter. They did not break. The veterans snarled and dug their heels into the earth, their lances leveled like the spines of a colossal beast. Even the recruits, pale and trembling, found themselves locked in place by the weight of the men beside them.
Then it happened, the faltering.
The horses, noble beasts bred for war, were not blind to the wall of death before them. The pikes stretched out longer than any knight's lance, glimmering in the sun, and instinct screamed louder than spurs or shouts. They slowed, their charging line rippling into chaos as mounts balked, reared, or swerved desperately away from the bristling hedge. The more the knights lashed at them, the more frenzied the animals became.
In that hesitation, the formation struck.
The front rank of pikemen thrust upward in brutal unison, spears driving into soft bellies and exposed chests. Horses shrieked as steel tore through them, thrashing violently, toppling backward and crushing riders beneath their armored weight. Others stumbled forward, impaled and staggering, throwing knights from the saddle into the mud.
Seizing the moment, the second wave immediately surged forward, men with war hammers, daggers, and short spears slipping between the front lines. They descended like wolves on the dismounted knights. Hammers crashed into knees and joints with sickening cracks, sending armored men sprawling. Daggers found the gaps between plates, plunging into throats and armpits as knights struggled helplessly to rise.
The field dissolved into chaos. Horses collapsed screaming, flanks heaving and eyes rolling, as their riders held together by double the men, were hacked apart beside them.
To any noble observer, it would have seemed an abomination. Striking down horses was a dishonor, an act unworthy of knights or men of valor. But these were no knights, they were sellswords, . Chivalry was a luxury they had never known. For them, there was only survival, and in this case it meant butchery.
And so they butchered.
For those knights who still clung to their saddles, the infantry struck high. Maces slammed into stomach plates, into spines and shoulders, the blows echoing with a hollow, metallic clang. Some strikes forced knights to double over, the wind ripped from their lungs, their swords faltering for a precious instant. The hammer-men wasted no time, each strike was followed by a retreat, the fighters vanishing back behind the bristling wall of spears, allowing the next thrust to come forward like the steady tide of the sea.
But not every knight fell. Some, with the strength of desperation, wrestled their steeds into obedience. They lashed out from the saddle, hacking wildly with swords and flanged maces, their steel cleaving down through helms and shoulders.
One rider, his horse screaming as it reared, brought his mace crashing down upon an unlucky soldier, splitting his helmet like a melon. Without pause, he drove his spurs into the animal's flanks, forcing the beast to charge straight through a cluster of infantry. Men went flying, trampled beneath iron-shod hooves, their cries drowned beneath the thunder of the panicked mount. For a heartbeat, the knight seemed unstoppable.
But the formation swallowed him whole. The infantry regrouped with terrifying precision, collapsing in behind the spearmen, sealing the gap before it could widen.
The isolated knight disappeared into a forest of spearpoints, his cries muffled by the roar of men around him who, having no way to wound the man, instead started to hack at the steed's hooves.
All the while, the rhythm of battle continued. From behind the line, the second rank of soldiers kept their arms busy, sending volleys of javelins arching overhead. The sky seemed alive with flashing iron, and each fall brought with it a scream, horse or man, it scarcely mattered.
At a distance, Sorza watched with growing disbelief.
His knuckles whitened around his reins, his eyes narrowing as he tried to make sense of what unfolded before him. This was not the chaos of frightened peasants breaking at the sight of gleaming armor.
The spearmen never faltered, never stepped out of line. Those behind them worked in perfect rhythm, hurling javelins, then melting seamlessly back into the formation, as though rehearsed a hundred times before.
Sorza's throat tightened. He muttered under his breath, almost ashamed to give voice to the words: "This isn't working…" The bold confidence that had carried him into the charge drained away, replaced by a weight in his chest he could not ignore.
Doubt.
He snapped his jaw shut and raised his sword high, steel flashing in the sun. "Pull back!" he roared, forcing authority into his voice. "Pull back and regroup!"
The call leapt from mouth to mouth, echoing across the din. Knights tugged at their reins, spurring their mounts to wheel away. The retreat was ragged at first, men pulling back through clouds of dust and blood, but order returned as they gathered to a safer distance, shields raised, lances reset.
Sorza turned his horse, he could feel their eyes on him, searching for certainty, for a plan. He would give it to them, even if his heart whispered otherwise.
"Ready yourselves!" he shouted, lifting his sword once more. "We will charge again. This time we break them!"
His voice carried strength, steel in every syllable. But beneath it, in the tremor at the edge of his tone, there lurked the truth he dared not let them hear.
-------------
The clash between the infantry forces was no less intense than that of the cavalry. On the left flank, while the cavalry struggled to break through, the infantry battle unfolded with brutal ferocity. The two forces could not have been more different.
The Oizen infantry, largely composed of peasants, was a ragtag group hastily armed with spears and shields. Their shields were simple, wooden and without even having an iron rim. Most wore little more than cloth and leather tunics, as those with chainmail were put in the center, where they were clashing with the flank led by Akrwatt.
They stood shoulder to shoulder, gripping their spears with shaking hands, their faces pale as they awaited the inevitable charge. These were farmers, vagabonds, and laborers, men who had never seen battle before this day, and it showed. They were here only because their prince had called upon them, and also for the oppurtunity to plunder during war.
On the other side stood the mercenary infantry led by Alpheo, who was standing on the back directing the battle. Alpheo's soldiers were better equipped, each man wearing chainmail that glinted under the sun and helmets that covered their heads. Their shields were thicker, stronger, and better maintained than the Oizen peasants'. But most importantly, they carried with them not spears, but close-combat weapons axes, hammers, and maces.
Alpheo knew that the battle would be won not in long engagements, but in brutal, close-quarters combat, making use of shock and awe. The Oizen peasants were armed with spears, and spears were only effective while keeping distance. His men, wearing chainmail and wielding blunt weapons, would close that distance and render the spears useless. The goal was to get in close, deny the Oizen troops the space they needed to thrust their weapons effectively, and then use their superior armor and heavier weapons to crush them.
The two forces clashed, and immediately, the difference in experience and equipment became apparent. The Oizen peasants, trying desperately to maintain a shield wall, jabbed their spears forward, but Alpheo's soldiers moved in too quickly. The chainmail-clad infantry pressed forward relentlessly, shields locked together as they pushed through the thin line of peasants. The blunt weapons came into play, with hammers and maces smashing down onto shields, arms, and legs. The swords cut through flesh when the opportunity arose, but it was the hammers and maces that made the biggest difference.
Each blow from the mercenaries' hammers rang out with a sickening crack, breaking through wooden shields and shattering bones. Even the spears that managed to hit home glanced off chainmail or were deflected by shields.
The Oizen infantry, already untrained and nervous, quickly found themselves overwhelmed by the sheer brutality of the assault. Their spears, meant for keeping the enemy at a distance, were useless in such close quarters, making the infantry feel like mouses in a cage.
And currently the cats were having their times of day, picking each soldier off with the ease of a snake with a mouse.