“Line! Line!” Lawrence yelled, jumping into the trench at the front and the Owl archers stood at the back, while the other soldiers stood at the forefront with their spears raised and ready to impale anyone coming near.
In the distance, a man on horseback seemed to ride forward a little, his eyes scanning the defenses and Lawrence observed a brief look of confusion on the man’s face, as if he had not expected this at all. Lawrence then moved his eyes to the men that stood behind the man on horseback. The soldiers looked tough, shields and armour with scratches on them. They were not knights, from the lack of platemail but they seemed to be some form of battle tested army as well.
However, there was no sigil identifying them that Lawrence could see aside from the royal flag of the Gerheist kingdom.
Not in range, not yet. Lawrence gulped.
The man on horseback drew his sword and raised it, bellowing, “Forward! For Gerheist! For the Fatherland!” and upon his command, the warriors who were ready to lay their lives down for their nation yelled, screaming, swinging their swords as they charged or raising their pikes and running forward.
Three… Two…
A drop of perspiration falls to the ground.
One…
“Fire!” Lawrence shouted and with a loud mechanical click, bolts from the repeating crossbows flew forward, finding their marks within the ranks of the charging Gerheist soldiers. Some keeled over silently, while others fell, trampled over by their brother in arms. Yet, some had nimbly dodged or raised their shields in advance. However, what would temporarily halt their charge was very simple.
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“Again! Again!” Lawrence yelled, giving a brief pause between each word, as the repeating crossbows cranked and fired, the aim of the crossbowmen becoming more and more deadly with each shot. The storm of the soldiers faltered a little, however, the ones who have yet to brave the barrage pushed the tide of soldiers forward. Lawrence was now close enough to see the eyes of the first line of soldiers, their eyes dizzy with blood lust, covered in perspiration, their mouths open as they screamed deaths to their enemies.
“Spears! Spears! Brace! Brace!” Lawrence yelled, his voice boosted with Thaumaturgy as it blasted through the battlefield.
“Brace! Brace!” the squad leaders shouted in unison and the clatter of men leaning back, digging their heels into the dirt of the trenches with their shields dug into the ground and spears raised forward held their breath as the archers scrambled to lines of trenches further behind.
Lawrence drew his own sword, blazing in it’s blueish fire. The first man that leapt towards the trenches was promptly speared, the weapon going clean through the man’s chest as the Owl trooper promptly withdrew his weapon, ready for his next foe. Then, the entire line slammed towards the trench. The spears held them a mere 2 meters away from the actual trench line itself, with the swordsmen standing at the back drawing their swords as well, waiting to cut down anyone who made their way through the spearwall.
It was almost methodical and systematic, the spearwall held the enemy off, thrust your spear, withdraw it, thrust it again. Lawrence watched as a Gerheist soldier gripped a spear and began a sort of tug of war with the spearman, pulling his spear away and throwing it back towards him, which was intercepted by the shield. As if triumphant, he leapt towards the trench, only for another spearman to jam his spear into his eye, calling him to scream in pain and as he twisted and turned, impaled on the spear, a bolt from a repeating crossbow planted itself in his chest and he moved no more. He was then thrown aside by trash for the eager spearman, ready to add another notch in his belt.
Drums.
Drums?
Lawrence heard drums. Then, the men that had been so eagerly charging forward, pulled back. The crossbowmen took the opportunity to pepper them as they fled, planting death in their back.
Yet, as the mob retreated, Lawrence saw on the horizon.
Catapults.