The black-winged scavenger birds wheeled lazily in the skies above, their circles growing tighter and lower, as if they already sensed the feast of flesh that would soon be theirs, their beaks opening as they cawed for those who would prepare the banquet for them.
Jarza stood near the center of his formation,his steed's hooves planted in the churned earth, the stench of blood and sweat heavy in his nose. His face was carved into stone, unreadable, save for the glint of iron resolve in his eyes.
He had spent decades in the press of battle, back then he had followed orders. Now he gave them,he found it to be a nice feeling to have...
"Rotate the lines!" he bellowed, his whistle shrieking as he cut a wide circle in the air with his sword. His voice tore through the din like a warhorn. All across the front, captains took up the order, shouting it down the ranks.
The maneuver was risky, the sort of thing that could turn a steady line into a tangle of bodies if done poorly. But Jarza's men were drilled for such maneuver, after all; after months of just marching, the very least they could do was drill in their free time. With mechanical precision, the front rank disengaged, shields angled to protect their retreat, while fresher troops surged forward to take their place.
The Oizen levy-men, raw and untrained, did not exploit the shift. They could not.
Their arms shook from exhaustion, their breath came ragged, their spear-thrusts slower and clumsier with each exchange. Many no longer struck at all, clutching their shields to their chests as though the wood itself might save them. A few had even dropped their weapons entirely, eyes wild, feet shuffling back despite their officers' frantic screams.
Jarza's lip curled. These weren't soldiers. They were farmers and field hands shoved into armor, for those who had it, while they barely knew how to strap on. His troops had no illusions of honor, no qualms about grinding such men into the dirt.
"Hold steady, lads!" an officer barked down the line, voice sharp, as the fresh rank bristled forward, shields interlocking with a thunderous clap.
Step by step, the new front advanced, pressing like a slow, relentless tide. Behind them, the withdrawn men leaned on their spears, panting, sweat streaking through grime on their faces. They would have only a few moments to breathe before they were thrown forward again.
The Oizen formation wavered under the renewed assault. Spears wobbled, shields sagged. Then the mercenaries struck, hammers smashing into shield rims, splintering them apart, maces crunching into arms and legs. Blades slid through gaps in defenses, carving flesh from bone. Each push was a thunderclap, each rotation a fresh wave battering against a shoreline of terrified peasants.
For a moment, Jarza allowed himself the smallest breath, tipping back his helmet to scan the battlefield. His gaze flicked toward the flank where Clio had been stationed with his smaller detachment.
His men were a patchwork of grizzled mercenaries and recruits who still reeked of the villages they had been dragged from. Normally, Jarza would have called such a mix a recipe for disaster. But Alpheo had made the choice, better to blend the veterans with the green ones than risk an entire levy block collapsing at the first sight of blood. Still, he could not help but wonder how Clio was faring.
His thoughts were cut short by movement on the horizon. Jarza narrowed his eyes, spotting the silhouettes long before the banners came into focus. A rolling dust cloud rose behind them, betraying their march.
Reinforcements.
He spat into the dirt. More infantry, trudging forward in formation to bolster the Oizen line before it broke. The peasants in front had been crumbling, already one hard shove away from fleeing outright, but the sight of fresh troops would stiffen their spines, keep them anchored where they should have already routed.
Jarza's jaw tightened. If those reinforcements reached the front, this fight would drag on, bleeding them of time and men alike. He would not allow that.
"Signal the captains!" he snapped, his voice a cutting edge. "Another push, now! We break them before those bastards arrive."
The officers scattered to relay his order. Jarza's gaze stayed fixed on the enemy, cold and merciless. He knew peasants' hearts, if they saw their front shatter, if they glimpsed comrades running for their lives, the infection of panic would spread like fire in dry grass. Those reinforcements might falter before they even touch the fighting.
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Asag stood amidst the slaughter of his own doing, the roar of battle pressing in on all sides. Sweat stung his eyes, running down into the puckered burns on his face until the scars themselves seemed to burn anew.
He dragged a gloved hand across his brow, smearing grime and salt into the sting and closing one eye as it burned. The ground before him was a butcher's yard, broken men and shattered horses tangled together in grotesque heaps of flesh and steel.ù
He took solace knowing that most of them were of the enemy.
Four times the enemy cavalry had thundered down upon them. Four times his line had held, spears bristling, javelins screaming through the air. Four times the knights had been driven back, leaving the field littered with the dead. But each defense had cost his men dearly.
Their breath now came ragged. Their arms felt like lead. The once-deadly storm of javelins had dwindled to a meager drizzle. Where dozens had flown at the first charge, only a handful rose now. Each man clutched two, maybe three at best, holding them like lifelines. At most, they could break two more charges. And then—
He clenched his teeth. And then they'd be ground into the mud.
He would not allow it.
"Hold steady!" Asag bellowed, his voice cutting through the clash of steel and the cries of the dying. "They're spent, same as us. We break them here—or we die here!"
The veterans growled in reply, worn but unshaken. The recruits nodded quickly, eyes wide, their pale knuckles locked around spear shafts. They believed him, or at least they needed to. But belief alone wouldn't stop hooves.
Asag's gaze swept the killing field, and then the idea came to him. Ugly. Grisly. But better than waiting for the next charge.
"Use the dead!" he roared. "Drag the carcasses backwar , build the line ahead of the spears!"
For a heartbeat, his men froze, staring as though they had misheard. Then the order rippled down the ranks, shouted from throat to throat until squads of ten broke formation and hurried to the front.
The nearest groups reached the fallen horses first. The beasts were massive, their bodies still warm, blood pooling into the mud beneath them. Some twitched weakly, their last spasms of life jolting the men who bent to seize their hooves and legs. Faces twisted with disgust and strain, the soldiers hauled the corpses, grunting as they dragged the dead weight back toward the line.
"Gods… it weighs a ton," one recruit panted, his boots slipping in the gore. "Is this really—"
"Better than waiting to be trampled," a veteran snarled, shoving the carcass into place before yanking the younger man back for another. "Move!"
One by one, the dead mounts were dragged into position. Frontline soldiers watched in silence as their comrades built a barrier of soon to be rotting horseflesh before their shields. The stench was suffocating, thick with blood and entrails, but no one complained. Better a wall of corpses than no wall at all.
They gripped their spears tighter as the grisly barricade grew, the line bristling with a mix of fear and determination. When the knights came again, and Asag knew they would,he hoped the deterrent would work.
He had lived with horses for the majority of his early life, so he knew just how fearful they could be if the right buttons were pushed.
And he hoped they would be....
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From atop his mount, Sorza squinted through the haze of dust and blood, struggling to comprehend the madness unfolding before his eyes. At first it looked as though the enemy infantry was faltering, breaking formation, scattering in small groups. His heart leapt. Then he saw it clearly.
They were dragging dead horses toward their lines.
For a moment, his mind refused to accept what he was seeing. Mercenaries hauling limp carcasses by the legs, dumping them in heaps before their spears. A wall of the dead, built from the shattered remains of his knights' pride.
"What devilry is this…?" Sorza muttered, his lips curling, his hand tightening painfully on the reins.
But instinct surged up, drowning out hesitation. This was no spell. No trick. Only disarray. To his eyes, the infantry looked exposed, their formation cracked wide open. He rose in his stirrups, his voice carrying over the battlefield with fierce command.
"They're out of position!" he thundered. "Now is the moment! Ready the charge—ride them down before they close their ranks!"
The battered knights, though weary from four failed assaults, answered with obedience, seeing the opportunity too. Lances lowered, spurs dug deep, and once more the ground quaked beneath pounding hooves. Dust plumed. Steel glinted. Sorza's heart surged with savage hope.
This is it. They'll break. They must break.
But as the charge closed the distance, as they were close to finally smash their lances on the open enemy figures, something was wrong.
His stallion faltered. Not slowed by exhaustion, not yet, it refused. Sorza felt it ripple through the beast's frame, a hesitation that no spur or shout could burn away. He cursed and dug his heels deeper.
"Faster, damn you!"
Instead of surging forward, the horse fought him, snorting, eyes rolling white with terror, hooves skidding against the dirt. Around him, the charge unraveled. Steeds balked, shying sideways, stamping and whinnying, their riders yanking furiously at the reins to no avail.
"What are you doing?!" Sorza roared, rage and confusion twisting his face. He drove his spurs mercilessly, but his mount thrashed its head, foam flecking from its mouth. It would not go forward. None of them would.
And then Sorza understood. His gaze fell on the carcasses, the stinking barricade of dead horses piled across the field. His knights' steeds smelled it, saw it, knew it. War-beasts bred for the charge, now recoiling from the corpses of their own kind.
"They're spooked," Sorza whispered hoarsely, disbelief clawing at his throat.
The dream of glory shattered in him like glass. All around, horses stamped and whinnied, riders shouting in desperation, but the charge had died before it had begun. Dust churned with the hollow sound of failure.
Sorza's jaw clenched until it ached. Fury boiled up inside him, scorching hotter than shame.He could not go back home as a failed commander.
So with a final bellow, his command cracked like thunder:
"DISMOUNT!"
Every knight heard it, and heard it once again. "Dismount and fight on foot!"
Armor clattered as they obeyed, boots striking earth in ragged rhythm.
Swords, axes, and maces scraped free of scabbards as noblemen and seasoned riders, men who scorned the thought of trudging like peasants, abandoned their steeds along with the lances. The field that had once thundered with hooves now rang with the raw, grating sound of men forced into the very warfare they despised.