Duncan stepped up to Alaric, who was standing by his horse, holding the reins loosely in one hand and gazing outward at the battle down the slope. Roderick’s forces had given several cheers in the last few moments. They had seen his small army and Thorold’s response, repositioning men to contest Alaric’s inevitable advance. Clearly, it had bolstered their morale, for the sound of the fighting had intensified shortly after.
“My lord, we are ready to step off and go over to the attack.”
Alaric nodded absently, a look of quiet determination etched across his face. It had taken less than a half hour to bring his troops up and position them for an advance. He cast a glance over his assembled infantry, his heart swelling with a mix of pride and apprehension.
Jaxen’s company held the center of his line. This would be the young officer’s first real test. To his left stood Lee, a seasoned warrior with a grim resolve, while Jes, a fiery and fearless leader, held the extreme left flank and had command over the militia. Keskow’s company was to Jaxen’s right. On the far right was Rikard, a hard man. Rikard’s company had been armed with throwing spears and shields, a weapon of both simplicity and deadly effectiveness.
Alaric had positioned the militia on the far left, a move that placed the less experienced troops alongside the bannermen’s hardened men-at-arms. The right was where the men would bear the brunt of the Thorold’s cavalry charge should an attack be driven home.
Behind his primary line stood Materin’s company, organized into four ranks. Alaric had shifted this company slightly more to the right, but not overly much. The men’s bows were strung, each archer holding several arrows in hand. Materin’s one hundred eighty bowmen were ready to unleash a storm of arrows upon the enemy. Hauled by teams of horses, his two artillery pieces had been brought up. These were mounted in the beds of wagons and had yet to be set up. Alaric hoped to use them once his line met the enemy’s. He had no idea how effective they would be.
Alaric was about to take a very big risk. The fate of his men, and perhaps the outcome of the battle, hinged on the plan he’d just devised. His heart pounded in his chest at the thought of what he was about to do, each beat a reminder of the stakes and what would happen should he have miscalculated. The plan would either pay off spectacularly or fail utterly. If it failed, he would lose everything. He tightened his grip on the reins, ready to lead his men into the crucible of battle.
Thorold was forming a new line, his officers desperately trying to rally to confront Alaric’s inevitable advance. Alaric had watched as Thorold’s rearmost ranks, battered and exhausted from the prolonged battle they had been engaged in, began to turn and form to face his advancing forces. The new line looked painfully thin, a frail barrier against the coming storm.
Instinctively, Alaric understood that once his men started the advance, moving downhill, momentum would be on their side. The slope would lend them speed and force, turning their advance into a powerful move forward. He scanned the terrain, noting every dip and rise, every potential obstacle.
The tension in the air was thick, an energy that set his heart beating faster with every passing moment. His mind raced through the strategy he’d laid out, the movements that would follow, the signals that would guide them onward. Every detail mattered, every decision a potential turning point. The enemy was formidable, but Alaric’s forces were ready. Not only that, his men were led by officers who knew their business.
However, Alaric understood that once he gave the order to advance, his overall control of what was to come would diminish. It would be up to his officers and sergeants to pull off what he intended, to execute his vision for the fight ahead. Though he had faith in them, he still found it an uncomfortable feeling.
Taking a deep breath, he steeled himself for what was to come. The weight of command pressed upon his shoulders with tremendous might, but with it came a fierce determination, one that would not see him looking back or second-guessing himself. The time for action was near, and he knew that the fate of the battle—and perhaps the war—hung in the balance.
“My lord?”
“What?” Alaric looked over at Duncan in question. He’d been lost in his thoughts. Then he understood what Duncan was expecting. “Right, give the order, the command to go forward.”
“Yes, my lord.” Duncan stepped away, moving with purpose to the center of the line, where the man with Alaric’s banner stood. He drew his blade, the polished steel catching the sunlight, and waved it high for all to see as he looked first to his left, studying the battle line, and then to the right. “Draw swords.”
The call echoed along the line, taken up by officers with commanding voices. The sound of blades being yanked from scabbards filled the air, a metallic symphony that sent a shiver of anticipation through the ranks. The men stood ready, their faces set in grim determination. The only company that did not yank out their swords was Rikard’s. They held their spears at the ready.
“Forward march!” Duncan’s voice rang out, clear and resolute. He pointed ahead and began advancing down the hill, his steps confident and unhesitating. The entire line stepped off after him, their movement synchronized and disciplined.
Alaric’s standard-bearer went with Duncan, carrying the banner high. The pennant, usually following Alaric around, instead fluttered in the breeze behind Duncan. Though it was frequently the case, they were not just symbols of unity and resolve, a beacon for the troops to rally around and draw inspiration from. Banners and pennants on the battlefield were indicators of where commanders were located. Should the need arise to find one, one simply located the specific banner.
As the line advanced, the banner swayed with the movement of the bearer, a bright spot of color against the grim landscape of war. It signaled to every soldier that their commander was with them in spirit, if not in body, guiding them into the fray. Alaric watched them go, a mixture of pride and concern in his eyes. This was the moment he had prepared for, the moment where all their training, discipline, and strategy would be put to the ultimate test.
The descent down the hill felt like the beginning of a storm, the calm before the inevitable clash. The men moved with purpose, their steps steady, their eyes fixed on the enemy below. Each step brought them closer to the decisive moment, the crash of contact.
Alaric felt a pang of conflict, instinctively wanting to be with them, standing just before his family standard, a visible symbol of leadership and solidarity. But he knew that this time, strategy dictated otherwise. He could not afford to let his enemy know his true position. Thorold needed to believe Alaric was with the infantry, not with the horse. That the banner was on the field should be enough to convince the enemy king that Alaric was there.
Alaric had moved twenty horse soldiers to the top of the ridge, positioning them in clear view of the enemy. It was a calculated move, designed to show the presence of a cavalry wing without making it appear as a significant threat.
Alaric pulled himself up into the saddle, the leather creaking under his weight. The familiar feel of the reins brought a measure of comfort amidst the tension. Rikka, Kiera, and Eld were already mounted and had been waiting. Ezran and Thorne were there too, their presence a reassuring reminder of the experienced warriors by his side, the last of his Shadow Guard. Besides some of Ganister’s men, Keever completed the group, his eyes scanning the field with a keen, watchful gaze.
To anyone observing from the battlefield, they appeared as a small cavalry wing, poised but not formidable, nothing to be overly concerned about. Alaric’s heart raced as he settled into his saddle, the hot breeze brushing against his face, bringing with it the warmth of the day. He knew in moments it was to get much hotter. Below, his infantry continued their deliberate descent down the hill, each step through the long whispering grass drawing them farther from him and closer to the enemy and the battle near the river’s edge.
His gut tightened as his infantry reached a low-lying stone wall, a field boundary marker. The line slowed as the men scrambled up and over it. Once they had passed the obstacle, Duncan called a brief halt to reorder his lines. Then, after a few moments’ delay, Alaric’s infantry was moving again.
Thorold had yet to release his cavalry. He was waiting for the battle line to move farther into the open. As his men continued steadily downhill, the distance between them grew, but so did Alaric’s resolve and his desire for action. It took all his effort to remain calm and collected.
“Are your men ready?” Alaric asked Keever, glancing back down the reverse side of the hill, where the bulk of his cavalry contingent waited. They were already mounted and organized into a line, their horses pawing at the ground in anticipation.
“They are, my lord,” Keever replied, steady and confident.
“Soon after Thorold starts his horse into motion, we begin moving,” Alaric said, his gaze shifting back to the battlefield. He hesitated, then looked over at his bannerman. Keever had always been skilled with a horse, his prowess in smaller skirmishes well-known. “Have you ever participated in a charge this large?”
“No, my lord, I have not,” Keever admitted, a hint of unease in his eyes. “I’ve only ever been in small fights, maybe twenty-five horse at most on both sides.”
Alaric gave a nod, his expression steely. He had expected as much. “If it goes the way I think it will, when they reach the flank of our line, the enemy horse will break, with half going around each side. It should allow us to hit, and shatter, a good portion of their cavalry wing.”
“Are you certain about that, my lord?” Keever asked, his voice tinged with uncertainty. “I’ve seen cavalry run over a line of men, and they will be hitting us from the side, the extreme flank. That is a dangerous spot for us to receive a charge.”
“Certain, no,” Alaric admitted, his tone measured but resolute. “But this is what I believe will happen.” He glanced over the battlefield. Thorold’s cavalry had yet to move.
“And if it doesn’t occur the way you envision?” Keever pressed, anxiety threading through his words.
“Then it will be ugly,” Alaric said. “Our charge will be into not only the enemy horse but our men as well.” He paused, allowing the gravity of the situation to sink in, that unhappy reality. “If it goes the way I think it will, after we crush a portion of their cavalry, we will need to pursue the rest, catch their king if we can. The infantry will continue onto the fight to relieve our army. I plan on going with them. At that point, when we have thoroughly bested the enemy cavalry wing, you do with your command as you deem best. If you see an opportunity to make a difference, to bring a charge home, take it.”
“I understand, my lord.” Keever straightened his posture, determination setting in his features. “I will do just that.”
“If we are successful and break the enemy’s mounted wing,” Alaric breathed, a hint of hope seeping into his voice, “there is a very good chance we will win the day and defeat Thorold’s army.”
Keever nodded.
Alaric turned his gaze back, eyes narrowing as he watched his infantry line continue its advance. They were almost halfway down the hill and to the enemy. Within moments, they would be in contact with the enemy’s scratch line. A tightening in his stomach reminded Alaric of the weight of command, the responsibility he bore. Now matters would play out as they would. He would do his best to manage things, but… going forward, there was only so much he could do.
“They’re in motion, my lord,” Keever said, drawing his attention.
Alaric’s gaze shifted to the enemy cavalry. Thorold had started his line of horses into a steady walk. The sight of the enemy king amongst them as they moved steadily forward brought a flicker of encouragement to Alaric’s heart. Averndale’s cavalry troopers held their lances high, each one pointed up at the sky, their steel tips glinting and flashing in the sunlight as they moved across the field toward Alaric’s infantry. The scene was almost serene.
“They have taken the bait,” Alaric said, a sudden intense triumph surging through him. He clapped his hands together. “They’ve taken the bloody bait.”
“Should I call up my boys?” Keever asked, his voice tinged with eager anticipation.
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Alaric’s eyes were fixed on the advancing enemy. “Not yet. Let them gain a little more momentum. I don’t want Thorold breaking away once he figures out what is about to happen. I need him committed.”
He watched as the enemy cavalry transitioned from a walk to a slow trot, then began moving faster, steadily gaining momentum for a full-out galloping charge. The riders leaned forward, their horses’ powerful muscles propelling them rapidly across the battlefield toward contact.
Duncan, clearly seeing the cavalry in motion, had called a halt, his voice carrying over the din. The infantry on the right, Rikard’s men, hastily began shifting into a wall formation. Materin’s bowmen were in motion too, jogging to the right with bows ready and arrows already nocked. To the unpracticed eye, it looked like the infantry were in chaos, but Alaric knew it was anything but.
He could hear the hooves of the enemy horse now, a rhythmic pounding that sounded like distant thunder rolling across the plains. The ground seemed to tremble under the oncoming charge. Alaric’s heart raced in time with the approaching cavalry, but he kept his face calm, his demeanor steady. His men looked to him for leadership, and he would not let them down, not betray his anxiety. Every muscle in his body was coiled with tension, ready to spring into action at the right moment.
“This is your show now, Keever. Bring your men up,” Alaric commanded, his voice firm and steady. “Begin the advance.”
Pulling his sword out with a swift, practiced motion, Keever turned in the saddle, his eyes gleaming with determination. “Here we go, boys! Forward!”
Alaric’s cavalry began to walk up to the summit of the hill, the sound of hooves cracking loudly against the stone. Alaric looked over at Rikka, who sat astride her horse with a calm, focused expression. “Remain behind the cavalry.”
“Is that where you will be?” Rikka asked, her gaze steady on him as Keever’s line moved onto the summit and then rapidly past them, their lances pointed skyward.
Kiera, beside Rikka, drew her sword, the blade glinting in the sunlight. Alaric had no wish to be amidst the lances or the line as they crashed into the enemy. He had done that, and it was a dangerous place to be. He nodded, his concern for Rikka’s safety gnawing at him. The thought of her in the thick of the fray made his heart clench with worry.
“Then that is where I shall be,” Rikka said resolutely, “with you.”
Alaric’s concern deepened, his protective instincts warring with his understanding of her capabilities. The battlefield was an unforgiving and unpredictable place.
“I am a weapon,” Rikka said. “I will be fine. You need not worry about me.”
Alaric scowled, the lines of worry etched deeply into his face.
“I will watch over her,” Kiera said, voice filled with quiet assurance.
“I know,” Alaric replied.
“And my job is to watch over you,” Rikka said to Alaric, her voice filled with unwavering resolve. “That and more.”
Keever shouted an order, his voice carrying, and the cavalry moved from a walk into a slow trot. Alaric nudged his horse forward, following after them, his eyes fixed on the enemy cavalry now moving at a gallop and almost upon his infantry.
Ahead, he saw the flank of his line of infantry had fully transformed. The front rank facing off against the charge knelt, their spears facing the enemy in a formidable wall of pointed steel, the butts anchored in the ground.
Alaric reached over and drew Oathbreaker, the familiar weight of the weapon a comfort amidst the coming chaos of battle. The sword’s well-worn hilt fit perfectly in his grasp. As the pace increased to a fast trot and then a gallop, the rhythmic pounding of hooves echoed in his ears, mingling with the roar of blood in his veins.
Maggie galloped hard, just ten paces behind his line of horse soldiers. The wind became strong against his face, carrying with it the scents of sweat, dirt, grass, and the metallic tang of impending conflict. His heart pounded in time with his horse’s powerful strides, the hammering of her hooves, the adrenaline coursing through him sharpening his focus.
Ahead, the enemy cavalry bore down on his infantry, their lances lowered in a deadly charge. Alaric’s grip tightened on Oathbreaker, the blade gleaming in the sunlight.
A horn rang out from the enemy cavalry, a piercing note of warning and call to break off, but it was too late. Thorold’s cavalry had already committed, they were too far along and into the charge. A handful of riders managed to rein their mounts in, but the rest, maddened by what was to come and not understanding the call, plunged onward, closing the last few yards to contact. Alaric held his breath as he rode forward, the tension coiling in his chest.
Would the enemy line do what he expected?
Then, it happened. The line of charging enemy suddenly split, the animals instinctively avoiding the spears. In that moment, he felt a fierce stab of satisfaction. He had never seen a cavalry charge driven home against a shield and spear wall. Every time he had seen it tried, the horses had gotten a say in how things went down, and this time was no different.
Thorold’s cavalry charge broke to either side of Duncan’s battle line. Those holding the spears were completely untouched, their formation holding strong. Then the air was filled with the screams of horses and the shouts of men. Riders fell as the men behind the first ranks threw their spears, giving a solid toss at the enemy. Materin’s bowmen, positioned strategically along the flank, released a volley at the enemy streaming to either side of the battle line. Arrows hissed through the air, finding their marks with deadly accuracy. Even more men and horses went down.
It was instant chaos.
On the back side of Alaric’s infantry line, the enemy cavalry started to turn away, attempting to regroup and ride up the hill away from the arrows and spears flying through the air. But there was nowhere for them to go, for Keever’s horsemen, with lances lowered, were bearing down upon them. Many of the enemy, seeing Alaric’s cavalry for the first time, pulled their horses to a shocked halt. Their path of retreat was cut off, trapping them between the deadly pincers of Alaric’s strategy.
A heartbeat later, there was a terrible crash as the first of Keever’s cavalry reached the enemy. The sound of metal clashing, horses colliding, and men screaming filled the air. The impact was tremendous, bodies and beasts thrown into the fray.
Alaric blinked as it happened, and then he was amongst the enemy. Instinct and training alone guided his actions. Without even realizing it, he chopped down with his sword. The impact was hard, jarring his hand as his blade connected with the back of an enemy horseman. The blow did not cut deep. In fact, it did not cut at all, but the force of it hammering into the chainmail armor was enough to knock his target from his mount and to the ground. Then, Alaric was past the enemy and approaching the back side of his infantry line. Hastily, like many others, he reined up sharply and wheeled about. Almost immediately, he came face-to-face with another enemy horseman.
His opponent, sword out, lashed with a fierce cry. Alaric turned his horse swiftly and, twisting about in the saddle, blocked the attack, the force of blade meeting blade resonating through his hand and arm.
Snarling fiercely like an animal, the enemy maneuvered his horse closer, swinging again at Alaric. Their blades met once more with a ringing clang, the sound piercing through the chaotic noise of battle. All about Alaric, men on horseback fought one another.
Men on foot swarmed around them, their presence adding to the confusion of the melee. One of Alaric’s men, armed with a short spear, jabbed it into the side of his opponent’s horse. The animal screamed in pain, rearing up and throwing its rider. The enemy rider landed hard on his back, the breath whooshing out of him.
Another of Alaric’s soldiers stepped forward with ruthless efficiency, stabbing down into the rider’s throat with a sword. Blood erupted from the wound, a gruesome fountain.
Alaric could feel the heat of exertion, the sweat mingling with the grime of combat. Every muscle in his body was taut, ready for the next strike, the next defense. He wheeled around, scanning the battlefield, searching for another enemy. Chaos swirled around him. Dozens of men on foot hacked and stabbed at the enemy riders, while friendly riders chopped with their heavy cavalry swords. Despite the pandemonium, no immediate threats or targets were within easy range, and those nearest were rapidly being cut down.
He took a deep breath, calming his racing heart, and searched for Rikka. It took a moment, but he spotted her a few yards away, bloodied sword in hand, with Kiera, Eld, and Thorne. They were screening her from the enemy. Relief washed over him; she was safe.
Ezran was by Alaric, wheeling his horse about, vigilant eyes searching for threats. Turning back to his infantry line, Alaric saw that it was still intact, though it had come to a complete halt. He spotted Jaxen, having emerged from the line, engaged in personal combat with a dismounted enemy trooper. They traded several strikes, then Jaxen batted his opponent’s sword and stabbed him in the thigh, driving him to the ground. He turned and immediately attacked another dismounted enemy soldier. It was what Alaric wanted to see. Jaxen was setting an example, showing his men he was not afraid to fight. Alaric’s gaze moved on. Only a portion of the last rank had been released into the fight. Duncan had kept the rest in formation.
The enemy cavalry was in disarray, their initial charge blunted and broken. Those on the back side of his line where his own cavalry had hammered home were almost finished, thoroughly broken, but more needed to be done. The job had only just been started.
Duncan needed to reform, advance, and hit the enemy infantry, to relieve the pressure on Alaric’s king’s army. He looked around, searching, scanning. The battlefield was a chaos of motion and noise, filling the air with the clash of steel on steel, the cries of the wounded, and the snorting of exhausted horses. Then, he saw him.
“Duncan,” Alaric raised his voice over the clamor, shouting for all he was worth. “Duncan!”
Looking around, the man spotted him. His face was smeared with dust from the march and sweat, but his eyes were sharp and focused. Alaric pointed with his sword toward the enemy down by the river, maybe five hundred yards away.
“Continue the advance!” he bellowed, his voice carrying above the din of battle around him, which was beginning to die down.
Duncan nodded firmly and turned, shouting to the nearest officers. What he said was lost in the cacophony around Alaric, but his urgency was clear. After a moment, officers and the sergeants began calling for men to return to the line, even as it began to move again, grinding steadily forward.
The ground they left behind was a gruesome tableau. No enemy remained standing; they had either been cut down or had won free and fled. Horses and bodies lay scattered about, some tangled together in death. Riderless horses ran off in all directions. The field was littered with lances, shields, and discarded weapons.
“Fall back in!” an infantry sergeant was shouting to the men who had not returned yet. Several men were rifling through the bodies, searching for coin amongst the dead. “Fall back in, you bloody idiots!”
“Reform the wing!” Keever was shouting as he rode back and away from the aftermath of the fight to clear ground, drawing the cavalry to him. “On me! Reform! Come on, boys, we need to reform. The day’s not done. There’s still work to be done!”
The infantry began streaming back toward the line, their movements weary but disciplined as the riders began to heed Keever’s call.
Alaric suddenly remembered Thorold. His heart skipped a beat, and he glanced around, searching frantically. He could not see the enemy king’s body anywhere on the field. Panic flared briefly before he looked beyond his infantry, where the other portion of Thorold’s cavalry had gone.
There he saw the king, with his standard-bearer, amidst a group of twenty mounted soldiers, riding away from the advancing infantry. The rest of the king’s cavalry from the front side of Alaric’s battle line had scattered, riding off and away from the spear and bowmen. Alaric had a chance to make a difference now, to cut off the head of the snake and end this once and for all, for Thorold was vulnerable.
“Keever! Keever!” Alaric called, his voice urgent as he got the other’s attention.
“My lord?”
Alaric pointed at the enemy king. “I need cavalry with me, now!”
Without waiting for a reply, Alaric yanked Maggie around and dug his heels into the horse’s side, urging her into a gallop. He began riding along the back end of his line, navigating through the chaos. He wove this way and that to avoid fallen horses, men, and discarded weapons and shields. His focus was razor-sharp, heart pounding with the rhythm of his horse’s hooves.
He rounded the side of his line, his eyes locked on Thorold, who was still drawing away. He glanced back and saw twenty horsemen hot on his heels. Their faces were set with grim determination, ready to follow him into the heart of the enemy’s formation. Ezran was there too. The thunder of their pursuit was a chorus of hooves and war cries, a harbinger of the reckoning that was to come.
The rest of the cavalry was rallying to Keever.
“After the king!” Alaric shouted at those who were with him, pointing where he wanted them to go. Thorold’s momentum had taken him and the other riders with him well past Alaric’s line. They were slowing and beginning to swing around, angling back toward his own army and the safety of his scratch line.
Alaric could not allow that to happen. He had an opportunity here, and he intended to take it. He leaned forward and dug his heels into the flanks of his horse. Maggie surged beneath him, her powerful muscles propelling them both forward. He chose a spot between the king and the enemy army and angled for that point at full gallop.
The ground blurred beneath them as they thundered across the field, the wind whipping past Alaric’s face. He could see Thorold clearly now. The enemy king had his back to Alaric.
They were closing the distance rapidly, the gap between them and the enemy king shrinking with every passing heartbeat. The weight of the moment was palpable, the chance to turn the tide of the battle with a single decisive strike. His grip tightened on his sword, his resolve hardening. They were almost at the point where he would be between Thorold and his army.
Someone in the king’s group spotted them closing in at nearly the last moment. The king looked around, then he and his company dug their heels in, and suddenly, the chase was on. Alaric had not only the momentum on Thorold, but also now the angle to fully cut him off from making it back to his lines. Realizing that, the king’s party turned away from his own army, moving instead toward the river and the edge of his battle line, along which grew numerous trees along with a thick, tangled undergrowth.
Alaric urged his horse on, digging his heels repeatedly into her flanks. Maggie responded with a burst of speed. Her breath was now coming fast and hard. He could feel the power of the horse beneath him, her hooves thundering on the ground as she flew across the field. The distance closed rapidly. His heart raced, a sense of triumph building within him. There was nowhere for Thorold to go, not anymore, for Alaric and the horsemen with him had won the race and completely cut the king off. They were now between Thorold and his army, almost at the river itself.
There was nowhere for Thorold to go.
The king’s party abruptly wheeled around with startling speed and, galloping hard, came directly at Alaric and his horse soldiers. The sudden maneuver caught him off guard, but he quickly regained his composure and prepared for the shock of contact, angling his course for the charging horsemen. The distance between them and their charging foes closed rapidly—ten yards, five…
Alaric fixed his gaze on the rider directly in front of him. With a feral snarl, he swung his sword in a vicious arc. He had a flash of his opponent’s eyes, the fear in them, then the blade connected with a sickening crunch as it sliced through the flesh and bone of the man’s raised sword arm.
But before he could revel in the moment, another horse and rider slammed into Maggie from the front in a head-on collision. The force of the blow sent him hurtling through the air. Alaric barely had time to register what had occurred before he hit the ground with a bone-jarring impact.
His vision exploded into a blinding whiteness.