"It really is Mitra's priest commanding!"
Riders behind Duncan rushed forward, and the gust of wind on the central battlefield began to swirl. The rangers scattered to both sides, revealing the elite cavalry of the central army, appearing hundreds of meters beside the infantry.
Commanding so many cavalry was a first for Duncan; the nomads were not well-trained, and he couldn't employ too sophisticated formations.
"If only the Roman legions were here."
Duncan understood for the first time the helplessness of God's Whip, Attila. Facing the arrayed heavy infantry, advancing was no option, retreating wasn't viable either. The enemy engaged in a war of attrition with him, using foot archers to exchange for mounted archers. Mitra's formation was like a turtle shell, leaving no openings.
But even if it's steel, we must bite off a piece of meat now!
"This battle must be won!"
"If we lose, my invincible reputation will be shattered."
