The bait had worked. Harold, stung by pride and the humiliation of the earlier duel, had mirrored Aleric's westward drift without question. Now, the enemy's right flank was dragged farther from Percy's center, leaving an empty gap yawning like an open wound in their line.
Aleric turned sharply to his rider, a lean man with quick eyes. "Take this to Count Rick. Tell him the moment has come. He must press forward and hold the center at all costs. I will break Harold, and when his flank collapses, we will crush Percy's heart from the side and behind."
The messenger bowed his head and spurred off at once, vanishing into the haze of banners and dust.
Aleric's lieutenants exchanged uneasy glances. To stand apart from the main host, with Harold's veterans looming before them, was peril enough. To deliberately bait an isolated battle seemed madness. Yet none spoke their doubts aloud. The memory of Aleric's cunning in earlier skirmishes and the steel in his gaze now silenced hesitation.
"Hold formation," Aleric commanded. "The trap is not yet sprung."
In the center, Count Rick received the messenger with furrowed brows. The young commander's words were bold, audacious — yet as Rick studied the shifting battlefield, he saw the wisdom within them. Harold was indeed isolated, dangling on the edge of annihilation. And if Percy could be held long enough, the plan might turn the day.
Rick raised his voice, ringing above the tramp of marching feet.
"Men of the West!" he cried, his sword flashing in the sun. "Before you stands an enemy swollen with pride, yet weary from their long march! They boast of numbers, but numbers alone do not win battles. It is the steel in your arms, the fire in your hearts, and the courage in your souls that will carve victory this day!"
A great cheer erupted, rolling through the ranks like thunder. Banners lifted higher, shields clattered, and the tiredness of the march seemed to fall away beneath the weight of Rick's words. With renewed vigor, the host surged forward.
Marquis Percy watched with disbelief as the allied center advanced. His horse stamped beneath him as he rose in the stirrups, gaping.
"They dare?" he snarled, his voice shrill. "They dare advance against me?"
The shame of it twisted his gut. He, with his ten-thousand-strong army, forced into defense by a smaller foe? The humiliation boiled his blood. Rage overcame reason.
"Forward!" Percy shouted, brandishing his jeweled sword. "We will meet them head-on and crush them under our weight!"
His captains hesitated. "My lord, the men are weary from the march—"
"I care not for their weariness!" Percy snapped, eyes burning. "Do as I command! Advance!"
And so the weary soldiers stumbled forward, pressed by pride rather than wisdom, their steps heavy, their breaths ragged.
On the right, Elias's initial charge had spent its fury. His men had hacked their way deep into Bron's flank, but the melee devolved into a brutal grind. Shields locked, men pushed and shoved, killing in inches rather than yards. Blood slicked the earth, and both sides bled heavily, though Bron's men fell faster.
Elias's greatsword gleamed red as he pulled his men back just enough to reform the line. "Steady!" he called, his voice calm amid the chaos. "They bleed more than we. Hold firm, and victory will be ours!"
Jaren, sweat streaking his face, barked orders to rally stragglers. Though his brother's calm irked him — that effortless composure Elias always carried — even Jaren felt the faint tug of hope as he saw the enemy wavering.
And then came the horn.
A blast thundered from the west, rolling across the battlefield like a storm breaking. Harold stiffened, eyes narrowing. From the slope of an adjacent hill, cavalry thundered into view — three hundred strong, lances lowered, their banners snapping in the wind. Behind them surged two hundred infantry, their shields flashing like scales of a serpent as they poured down the incline.
"From the hill?!" Harold gasped, his face blanching. He had dismissed the high ground as irrelevant, too stunned by Aleric's maneuver to guard it. Now the trap closed like a noose around his neck.
Aleric's voice cut through. "Forward!"
With a roar, his main host surged ahead, colliding with Harold's line in a deafening crash of steel. From the front and the flank alike, Harold's men were struck, torn between two storms.
Panic spread like wildfire. The fear of encirclement gnawed at their hearts. Men saw the cavalry cleaving through their flank, spears skewering, hooves trampling. They saw the infantry descending like an avalanche. And they broke.
One of the soldiers yelled, "We are finished," with his eyes staring at the horizon, maybe he had already seen his death. This had a domino effect as more and more soldiers delved deeper into the abyss and finally began fleeing for their lives.
"Hold the line!" Harold screamed, slashing down one of his own men as he fled. "Cowards! Fight!"
But his voice was lost, his threats drowned by the shrieks of the dying and the thunder of the charge. The will of his men crumbled, shattered beneath the terror of being surrounded.
He cursed inwardly at himself for failing to recognize the intent of Aleric. He simply disregarded the hill's importance because it was far from the main battlefield, and was in shock at how far the youth had thought.
Aleric carved his way through the chaos, his blade flashing in calculated arcs, every strike precise. He cut down the guards who remained loyal to Harold, until at last the baron himself stood before him.
Harold's hand shook around his sword. He was no duelist, no warrior of note. Pride had brought him here, but pride could not save him.
"You—" Harold spat, but his words ended in a wet gasp as Aleric's blade pierced him cleanly. The young commander wrenched his sword free, Harold collapsing at his feet.
Lifting the baron's head high for all to see, Aleric's voice rang above the carnage. "The serpent's fangs are broken! Forward, men of Deryn! Finish them!"
The rout was complete. Harold's line disintegrated, his soldiers scattering like chaff before the wind. What had begun as a measured dance of maneuvers ended in utter annihilation.
And as Harold's headless corpse lay upon the trampled earth, Aleric knew the day had turned in their favor — the trap had sprung, and victory was within reach.
The thunder of hooves shook the ground as Aleric wheeled his cavalry back into formation. Around him, Harold's routed men fled in droves, some tossing shields and spears in their panic. Others begged for quarter, but there was no quarter in this fight — not when the fate of kingdoms rested on the field.
Aleric's eyes, sharp as a hawk's, turned toward the center. From this distance, he could see the banners of Count Rick wavering, the press of Percy's main host grinding them down. The allied center was buckling, men staggering back beneath the sheer weight of numbers.
"They cannot last much longer," Aleric muttered. His face hardened. "Sound the horn again. We march to the center."
The deep blast rolled out, and his men, though bloodied, answered with a roar of renewed purpose. "To the center! To Rick!"
In the allied center, Rick wiped blood from his brow, his sword arm trembling from exhaustion. Around him, his men were being driven back step by step. The ground was slick with blood, littered with broken spears and bodies.
"Hold, damn you!" Rick shouted, his voice raw. "Hold the line!"
But even as he commanded, he knew how close they were to breaking. They had already lost a thousand men in the grinding clash. His men's shields splintered under the pounding, and their breath came in ragged gasps. The Marquis's men pressed harder and harder with their numbers.
Rick could see it in their eyes: the creeping terror that soon the line would shatter.
So he climbed atop a mound of corpses and raised his sword high, his voice booming like a war drum.
"Men of the Crown! Brothers of the West! Just a little longer!" His voice cracked, but his eyes blazed with fire. "Do you not hear it? Do you not see it? Victory is at hand! Our brothers are coming! Hold the line, and the enemy shall break before us!"
A cheer rose, ragged but fierce, as his soldiers rallied, pressing back for one more desperate stand.
And then they heard it.
The horn.
The ground trembled. Dust plumed from the west, and then — like a storm breaking upon the shore — Aleric's cavalry thundered into the rear of Percy's center. Lances shattered upon backs, swords scythed through men who never even turned in time. Panic rippled like lightning through the Duke's host as they realized they were being crushed from behind.
Aleric himself rode at the head, his blade a silver arc as he cut down standard-bearers, tearing down Percy's banners one by one. His infantry surged behind, hacking into the enemy's unguarded flank with merciless precision.
Cries of alarm rose through Percy's army. "We are surrounded! The left is gone! The flank is broken!"
From his vantage, Percy's face blanched. He had assumed Harold would overwhelm the young baronling. Instead, Harold's banners were gone, his men scattered, and now the very heart of Percy's line was being torn apart.
"Impossible, " Percy whispered, his voice cracking. "This cannot be…"
But no denial could stop the tide. His army's formation crumbled as soldiers threw down arms and fled, clogging their own retreat with the crush of bodies.
In the Allied Center, Rick saw the enemy's collapse and seized the moment. "Now!" he bellowed. "Forward, men! Drive them into the mud!"
With a roar that shook the heavens, the allies surged. The tired men who had nearly broken now found strength anew, spurred by the sight of Percy's soldiers scattering in terror. Their spears stabbed deeper, their swords cut harder, and for the first time, Percy's grand host recoiled.
Aleric's charge met Rick's renewed advance, hammer and anvil crushing the Duke's soldiers between them. The rout became complete. Blood and dust mingled in the air, the cries of the defeated drowned by the triumphant roar of the allies.
Amid the chaos, Aleric raised his sword high, his voice cutting through the din.
"Deryn! Deryn! Press them! Leave none to rally!"
His men surged at the cry, their morale unshakable. The sight of Harold's severed head still fresh in their minds, they carved through the enemy with fury, knowing the battle was theirs.
And though the allied army had bled, though the ground drank the lives of friend and foe alike, the impossible had been done: a smaller army, through cunning and will, had broken the pride of Marquis Percy, the coward, like he was percy quickly turned around and escaped with his closest retainers.
Observing this development in the Center Ser Bron timely retreated from the battlefield while losing a fair number of soldiers in the process.