"We look like one big hedgehog," Asag muttered under his breath as he marched forward, his eyes sweeping across the endless rows of spears and lances bristling in every direction. Unlike Jarza, he wasn't on horseback.
The strategy they had devised was meant to counter cavalry, and there was no place for a lone rider in such a formation. One man on a horse in the middle of tightly packed infantry would be a liability, a beacon for enemy archers, and the perfect embodiment of that old truth: kill the head, and the body will fall.
For that reason, Asag walked on foot, embedded deep within the square, surrounded by the men he would lead.
Beside him, a soldier carried the company's herald. The banner fluttered in the cool breeze, its colors bright against the sky.
The formation itself was a marvel. The front ranks were a wall of steel and muscle, hardened men gripping their four-meter lances with calloused hands. Every weapon angled outward, ready to thrust into the flesh of the first horse that dared to charge. Behind them, the younger recruits stood in place.
Their knuckles whitened around different weapon than their more skilled comrades, their eyes darted nervously, but their feet stayed planted. They took strength from the veterans, mimicking their steady breathing, their firm postures, their silence.
From where Asag stood, the formation looked like a forest of iron. A deadly hedge, each lance a tree with a sharpened point.
It was hard not to feel pride. They had trained for this day, and against cavalry, this was as close to perfection as men with steel and wood could hope to achieve.
How Alpheo had ever thought of this method, Asag did not know. But he had to admit, the captain's wild boasts had proven true. The square was no empty trick. It was the ultimate shield against a cavalry charge.
Alpheo understood something that many lords and captains never did: discipline was the foundation of survival. Especially here, when half the soldiers were green boys who had never seen battle before today. Left alone in the open, those recruits might panic, throw down their spears, and run.
But Alpheo had given them a role, one that didn't demand heroics, but that was vital all the same. They were placed at the heart of the formation, ringed by veterans, their backs protected by steel and also denying them any route of escape.
Their task was simple: hold steady, brace the line, and let the formation do the killing.
Asag's gaze shifted toward the far left, drawn first to the fluttering banners of the enemy. But then as he leveled his gaze forward, he saw it: a swelling plume of dust, rising from the horizon in a thick, churning cloud. It spread wide, blotting the line between earth and sky.
He didn't need to see the shapes within to know what it meant. He had seen it before.
Cavalry.
The veterans noticed it as well, though they said nothing. The recruits, however, weren't so disciplined. Nervous murmurs rippled through the ranks, whispers rising into fearful chatter. The dust cloud might as well have been a storm rolling in to sweep them away.
Asag's jaw tightened. Fear spread faster than fire in dry grass, and if he didn't stamp it out now, it would consume the square before the first charge even landed.
He raised his voice, sharp and commanding, cutting through the noise like an axe."Soldiers!"
Hundreds of heads turned toward him, every face tense, expectant. The banner above his shoulder snapped in the breeze, drawing all eyes to their leader.
"We have trained for this!" Asag's voice carried, rough but steady. "You've seen the power of these lances, the strength of this formation. Do not forget it now."
Some of the recruits shifted their weight, breathing heavier. The veterans, however, stood still as statues, their calm spreading like a steadying hand through the ranks.
"I'm not one for speeches," Asag continued, his tone blunt, almost mocking. "But hear this: your best chance of living through this day is to hold the square and trust the men beside you. If you think you'll survive by running…" he jabbed a finger at the ground"…then you've got shit for brains. A horse will run you down before you take ten steps. Those beasts got the cock of three men, and the speed of ten, so good luck on both ends...''
Some nervously chuckled at that, though the sound was not as lively as Asag had hoped.... He really was really not one for speeches...
He decided to wrap it up as fast as he could and avoid more shame
"So don't think. Don't doubt. Just do what you've trained to do. Lower your lance, lock your feet, and stand your ground. Together, we're a wall no rider can break!"
"USSAH!"
The cry came first from the veterans, who clearly felt the second-hand embarassed from their captain.
It rolled through the formation, picking up the recruits one after the other. Their voices cracked at first, but then grew louder and stronger until the entire square thundered the word as one.
Asag looked into their faces one by one. The fear was still there, of course it was, but now it was chained, and hopefully less likely to break out.
Their knuckles were still white, their breaths still fast, but their feet no longer twitched with the urge to run.
They were ready. Or at least, as ready as men could ever be to meet a wall of charging horses.
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The banner-holder waved the flag high, its vibrant colors snapping in the brisk wind, while the trumpeter's horn echoed across the battlefield, signaling the advance of the cavalry.
The knights and their steeds surged forward, spurred not only by the thirst for glory and riches but also by a burning desire to avenge the insult they perceived from the enemy.
For what awaited them was not an opposing cavalry but a formation of mere foot soldiers.
For the proud cream of the Oizenian warrior class, this was the highest insult they could have received by the enemy.
"This insult shall be answered with blood—theirs!" shouted a young man of barely twenty summers, taking advantage of knight's pride to push them forward with greater ferocity
This young man was none other than Sorza, the heir to the throne of Oizen , leading the charge with a fervor fueled by his ambition for glory and the weight of expectations placed upon the heir.
He had been given command of the cavalry by his father, the reigning prince, who saw this battle as an opportunity to elevate his son's standing among the lords and knights of the realm.
In a world where leadership was earned through bloodshed and valor, no man would willingly follow a leader who had never tasted the dust of the battlefield or wielded a sword in earnest combat. The prince knew that his son's future depended on this moment, on proving himself worthy of command.
So he gave him the prestigious command and hoped this day would be the one where he would finally earn his spurs.
The task had been deemed 'safe' enough by the prince, based on the reports from spies who had noted the enemy's low numbers of mounted troops.
Sorza, despite his youth and inexperience, was flanked by a cadre of seasoned guards, their sole purpose to ensure that the young heir emerged from the battle unscathed.
As the cavalry closed the distance, the pounding of hooves drowned out all other sounds, a thunderous drumbeat that resonated in the hearts of the men.
The lords and knights riding alongside the prince's son shared his determination, their eyes fixed on the enemy ahead. To them, the sight of footmen daring to stand against their mounted might was nothing short of a grievous affront.
And as such they burned with the desire to teach these 'lowly' soldiers the true power of chivalry, to trample them underfoot, send a clear message to any who would dare oppose them, and wash away the sting of the perceived insult with some commoner's blood.
Sorza's heart raced at the prospect.
This was his moment to prove himself, and so as they neared the enemy lines, he tightened his grip on his sword, ready to carve his name into the annals of history.
Not knowing that , however, all that he would put down would be the start of a warfare's model that relied on footmen instead of cavalry.
Truly the start of the end of chivalry and knighthood.