The captain, one with his valorous steed, panted and the enthusiasm of the battle had not yet subsided in him when the sentinels, stationed on the hill, announced the arrival of a crowd from the North with their horns.
This did not consist of an haphazard troop, but rather of the enemy's elite forces, which had often prevailed over the men's formation, destroying them completely during the last great battle, from which only the knights had managed to escape.
Surprise effect was to be excluded, and even attempting it would never have produced the previous effect. The tight ranks of the tall and sturdy monsters descending from the North were used to operate with extreme speed and discipline, equipped with solid armors and long poles which offered good resistance to the cavalry. Moreover, the faithful steeds seemed to have donated the last remaining energies to their riders.
The captain ordered them to form two lines and to position themselves in the center of the field, facing West. It was their turn to defend themselves from the charge of the enemy infantry and to perish honorably under its impetus.
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It was well into the afternoon when, at the northern end of the valley, the shapeless beings sent to put an end to human resistance appeared. But before the knights could see them, they heard their horrid, deep voices uttering cruel and mysterious accents, accompanied by the pounding of drums that spread around a dull, mournful noise. Despite the spring season, the wind suddenly blew cold, whipping the knights and carrying a chant whose words, spoken in an unknown language, seemed to repeat obsessively.
The sight of the enemy left them with no illusions. This time they could not expect an easy victory, in fact, the very idea of winning seemed insane. The dark figures advanced compactly, perfectly aligned, confident in their deadly fervor and they seemed fresh despite the march. They were crossing the river, dirtying it with their filthy paws, and less than a league was left between the knights and the inevitable.
No one spoke, not even the captain. What needed to be said had been said. All they could do was waiting. The captain raised an arm and flashed his sword, still stained with dark blood, in the sun. The knights imitated him, and just as he was about to give the order to advance, a faint, distant sound of a trumpet reached them. It was the trumpet of a messenger.
The horses neighed and the men held them back, some wondering if they had dreamt it and others if they had heard the trumpets of the heralds of the afterlife, playing to welcome them. The commander's horse moved and the others followed, but the clear note rang out again, a second one joined it, and then a third. Among their voices they recognized a majestic, powerful call rising: it was the horn of a companion, one of the lookouts sent to the East and never returned, who was thought to be dead, fallen under the blows of an unknown and terrifying fate. Instead, they were coming back beyond all expectations, and they were not alone.
The noise among the enemy ranks increased, as if urgent orders were being shouted with fury and great agitation. The vanguard halted, waiting for the majority of the forces that were still crossing the river. Their singing had stopped. Their movements betrayed haste and, although orderly conducted, it was evident that an unexpected and intimidating danger was pressing at their backs.
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From where they were, the knights could not understand what was happening, but it was clear that if the opposing forces were able to cross the river and establish themselves on the South bank, their rescuers would have been facing a dangerous obstacle. It was necessary to prevent such a barrier from arising.
“Forward, Knights, ride, ride towards death and darkness! Fate has not yet overwhelmed us. We will sweep away the darkness that surrounds the invader with the glow of our steel. Forward, Knights, for the light!” Thus the captain shouted and raising his sword in the air, proclaiming his tremendous rage, spurred his steed. The other knights launched themselves in his pursuit, and the noble steeds of the Realm of Time showed the world their unquenchable vigor.
They flew over the grass and it seemed as if their hooves did not touch the ground: a ray of light was about to hit the formless vanguard, while the leader of those beings, underestimating the frontal danger, prepared to face the one that appeared on his flank, and not without reason, since his course had arrived. The announcement of the attack on the southern side arrived too late: the vanguard had lined up to resist the charge, raising their long pikes with cruel tips eager for blood, but their ranks were too thin and dangerously small. Nevertheless, the first line of knights suffered heavy losses and more than a few horses fell, overwhelming the defenses together with those who rode them. But the second line leaped over the opponents that were still standing, knocking them down, and with a roar that burst from their throats burned by the wind and the pain for their tormented brothers, they threw themselves with lethal and uncontrollable boldness on the enemy, who, having finally crossed the river, was forming an improvised square. The southern side was overturned by it, and while the captain plunged his sword to the hilt into the vibrating body of the opposing leader, the knights massacred the infantry, terrified before their implacable anger, attacked from the side and from rear.
It would have been pointless, however, if reinforcements had not arrived promptly. Driven by valor but blinded by anger, the knights had thrown themselves into a deadly trap. Hundreds of foot soldiers, abandoning their positions to protect their backs, threw themselves onto the men, inflamed by an infernal hatred. The knights gathered in the center of the square, around the standard-bearer who defended the banner that was more dear to him than life itself. They huddled together with the commander to die together, as they had lived together in the last atrocious months. Attacked from all sides, the knights were seized, torn from their mounts, or massacred together with their animals. When time was about to finish, and just as the commander, exhausted and overwhelmed by the numbers of enemies, was about to collapse and surrender to the blows of the giant he was fighting, the white tip of a lance blackened by blood appeared through the torn chest of his enemy, and with it, thousands of shining blades pierced helmets and bodies. The unexpected troop had finally arrived, and not a moment too soon. Like a dam bursting open, a tide of mighty soldiers swept over the evil creatures and passed around the knights who still had the strength to fight driven by their pride, but even more by their love for their Lord.
As a wave with strong arms and unyielding wills, they skimmed the knights and freed them from the deadly grip that surrounded them, rescuing them from a battle they never imagined they could triumph.
For the second time, before the sun set, they had escaped death, but few of those who had entered the valley that morning would leave with the new dawn. Among them was the standard-bearer, the last of the knights, who would never again ride swiftly and joyfully, fallen to protect with his own body the sacred banner, the final and supreme vestige of the Realm of Time.