image [https://i.imgur.com/uT8TXZ8.png]

There was a benefit to the last three weeks of constant maneuvering: it had honed Volthorn’s army into a well-oiled machine.

Even in the dense blanket of fog, each battalion formed up with near flawless procedure. Soon, under Volthorn’s orders, all three divisions were marching west, away from the river. They left their camp behind. Tents and cooking pots could be replaced. Lives could not.

Before leaving camp, Volthorn hastily donned his full combat gear: an enchanted chainmail jerkin for his torso, greaves to cover his shins, spaulders to protect his shoulders, and an open-face helmet with a tall green crest—the mark of Elandria’s chief commander. His belt carried a variety of terramantic weapons, as well as jewels and crystals storing large reserves of terracharge.

Trazar gave him a look of disapproval. “You know the military codes prohibit the chief commander from joining in direct combat.”

“I know,” Volthorn said. The rules were to prevent an army from becoming leaderless in battle. “I don’t plan to. But in a battle like today, every soldier will count.”

As the army issued from the camp, it spread out into a thin marching column nearly half a mile long. Volthorn, his brothers, and the rest of his command staff rode in the middle of the line, where they could quickly relay orders. The fog was beginning to thin, but the sky overhead was glowering, threatening to drench the land beneath it any second.

“So what’s the plan?” Kelzern asked, once the frenzy of getting the army on the march had passed.

Volthorn used his free hand to transfer terracharge from the jewels on his belt to the rings on his hand holding the reins. “Calamar has finally done what I’ve wanted them to do this entire campaign. Split their army. With around a fourth of their battalions across the river, that leaves their main army significantly smaller, giving us the opportunity to meet them head-on in open battle.”

“We’ll still be outnumbered,” Trazar warned.

“Yes,” said Volthorn. “But not hopelessly outnumbered.”

General Embertail swooped overhead, spreading her wings to catch a headwind that allowed her to glide at Volthorn’s pace. “Commander! Scout reports are in. Calamar’s main army is marching toward us, perhaps eight miles out.”

Volthorn nodded. He had predicted correctly. “Who is winning the fight for air superiority?”

“It’s a bit chaotic,” said Embertail, flapping her wings to avoid stalling. “It’s raining up ahead, and my flights are struggling to tell which griffins are on whose side—if they can even stay aloft in this weather.” She swooped away with the next gust of wind.

As if on cue, raindrops began pelting from the sky, causing Volthorn’s helmet to ring with tiny impacts. He took it off and tucked it under his shield arm.

An idea sparked in his mind. The rain . . . the fog . . . the visibility . . .

He raced to remember the terrain around them, still fresh in his memory from when they had retreated this way two days before. The land straight ahead was flat, mainly occupied by farms. But just to their left, he remembered there being a low ridgeline . . .

Volthorn turned to a swifter messenger. “Turn the head of the army to the left,” he said, the idea still forming in his head even as the orders began coming out of his mouth. “Not a hard turn; just a touch to the south. In a mile or two, we should hit a ridge of low hills. Get the army onto the other side of the ridge, then resume marching due west.”

The swifter nodded and darted off toward the front of the marching column.

image [https://i.imgur.com/HGBZT21.png]

Volthorn turned to Kelzern. “Send new orders to our griffin and scouting patrols, as well as the Thunder Hooves Cavalry Battalion. Have them attack Calamar’s northeast scouting perimeter. We need to draw their attention toward the northeast, and away from our actual position to the southeast. Understood?”

Kelzern nodded and began to ride ahead toward a group of messengers.

The rain began to fall harder, drenching Volthorn from crest to claw. He wiped rain away from his eyes and turned to Trazar. “Calamar picked a fine day for a fight, didn’t they?”

The army slogged on. The terrain here was mostly pastureland—now turned to mud—with the occasional grove or thicket. Volthorn could hear the annoyed moos of cows as the lines of marching troops interrupted their grazing.

Volthorn looked over to see Trazar studying him quizzically. “Something on your mind?” Volthorn grunted

Trazar nodded. “Yes. I don’t understand. You’ve just thrown away our perimeter guard.”

Volthorn shook his head. “No, I’m misdirecting the enemy. The pouring rain will slow down and nearly blind their scouting parties, and every griffin will soon be grounded if this weather keeps up. They’ll have to tighten their scouting perimeter closer to their main army. So the way they will know where our army is . . .”

“. . . is by finding where our perimeter patrols are,” Trazar said, finishing the thought.

“Exactly. When they bump against our patrols on their left, they’ll think we’re in that direction. And they’ll channel all their scouts that way to break through and figure out where exactly we are.”

“But they’ll never actually find us.” Trazar smiled as it dawned on him.

“Right,” said Volthorn. “Meanwhile, with the rain and the ridgeline covering us, we should be able to get around their right flank before they realize we’re there.”

Kelzern returned from dispensing Volthorn’s orders, in time to overhear the last part of the conversation. “And what’s your plan for dealing with the army behind us, across the river?”

Volthorn frowned. He’d been thinking about that puzzle all morning and still didn’t have a good answer. “I’m hoping they’ll stay on the far side, to block our retreat across the ford. If they do cross, hopefully they’ll get distracted looting our camp and won’t chase us—or they won’t be able to figure out where we went.”

Trazar looked back at the swath of trampled mud in the army’s wake. “I wouldn’t count on that.”

“Then hopefully we can deal with the force in front of us before the force behind us can catch up,” said Volthorn.

Kelzern stared at him for a moment, then shook his head. “That’s your plan?”

“It’s my stopgap,” Volthorn admitted. “Until I come up with a plan. Do you have any suggestions?”

Kelzern flashed a smile. “Nope. You know me—you get all the fancy ideas; I just order aides around, Trazar handles any math, and together we keep you from getting your head whacked off in battle.”

“I do appreciate that,” Volthorn said with a chuckle.

They fell silent, leaning into the wind as they clutched waterlogged reins.

A half hour later, the ranks ahead of them parted to allow a rider through. He reined up his horse just shy of Volthorn and his brothers, spraying them with mud. “Commander! We just spotted the enemy close at hand—just over the ridge to our right, under half a mile!”

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“Do they know we’re here?”

A horn sounded in the distance, muffled by the rain. Volthorn recognized the pattern—the Calamarvan signal to form into battle lines.

“I guess they do now,” Kelzern said.

Volthorn settled his helmet over his head. “Let them blow. It’s too late.”

* * * * *

Volthorn realized, as he crested the ridge a few minutes later, that he had achieved what every military commander dreams of: near complete tactical surprise.

The Elandrian army, stretched out in one long marching column, took only a few minutes for each company to turn ninety degrees to their right and march up to the crest of the ridge, until their whole army was in place along the ridgetop, already in battle formation.

In the valley on the far side of the ridge was the Calamarvan army—but facing the wrong way. They had been marching east in a wide formation, expecting to encounter the Elandrian army somewhere between them and the river. But instead the Elandrians had appeared, suddenly, due south of them. And very, very close.

image [https://i.imgur.com/ngDPekC.png]

Up and down the ridgeline, Volthorn’s officers were at work, smoothing out bulges of men and filling in gaps as they ordered the sodden ranks of soldiers into one long battle line. Their formation stretched nearly a mile long. The infantry formed a dense phalanx of shields and spears, ten to fifteen soldiers deep. Archers occupied the rear, hurriedly stringing their bows. Drums began to pound, up and down the line, making the air throb as their beat melded the army into a single pulsing organism.

In contrast, the Calamarvan army in front of them was in the throes of confusion. Officers were riding back and forth, trying to pivot their battle line, but the tightly-packed formations of soldiers kept getting in each other’s way.

The drums, the horns, the day’s unexpected reversals—it all filled Volthorn with an energy he could scarcely restrain. He turned to his lead horn-blower. “Sound the charge.”

The horn-blower winded his horn in one long blast. More horns up and down the line took up the call. In answer, a roar arose from the throats of humans, korriks, and avirs, over twenty thousand voices raising the same battle cry.

“ELANDRIAAA!!!”

image [https://i.imgur.com/8rK4OHA.png]

The ranks began to move down the ridge, slowly at first, then faster and faster as the soldiers broke into a light jog. Here and there, a patch of spear points glowed red: the handiwork of terramancers spaced throughout the army, enhancing the weapons of their comrades before going into battle. In the rear of the marching troops, vivamancers played on pipes and drums, filling the air with a battle melody to inspire bravery and quicken reflexes.

Volthorn stayed back on the ridge with his command staff, watching from the vantage point of his horse as his battalions accelerated. The rain was letting up, and a cold wind was at their backs, pushing them onward.

“Commander, sir!” said an officer behind him. “Cavalry wants to know their orders.”

Volthorn answered without hesitation. “Mass our cavalry on our left flank. Get around the enemy into their rear and wreak havoc.”

“Yes, sir!”

Volthorn turned to General Embertail. “And as soon as this rain dies, get your flights airborne again!”

Elandria’s ranks were rapidly closing on the enemy. In front of them, the closest Calamarvan battalions had managed to rearrange their ranks to face the unexpected threat. But their hastily erected battle line was thin, and poorly organized. And the rest of Calamar’s army was stretched out behind them, their path to the battle blocked by their own soldiers.

Volthorn couldn’t have conceived of a better situation if he’d tried.

Archers on both sides began firing volleys. Some hit their mark. Others clanged off the rows of overlapping shields.

Volthorn flinched as a blast of light and noise emanated from one section of the line: some sort of exploding terramantic projectile. It knocked a long furrow in one of Elandria’s battalions, killing perhaps half a dozen men and injuring many more, but the gap was quickly filled in as soldiers on either side adjusted their position.

Fifty yards now. More flashes sounded down the line as soldiers on both sides hurled additional terramantic missiles, though none were as powerful as the first. Balls of flame arced through the air, launched by pyromancers in both armies.

Then the ranks collided. The air reverberated with the clash of metal on metal as thousands of spearpoints impacted thousands of shields up and down the mile-long front. The battle cries abruptly died as soldiers turned their attention to thrusting and hacking and blocking and slashing—and all too quickly, the air began to fill with screams of pain.

Volthorn clenched his jaw, trying not to think about how many of his men had died in the last twenty seconds alone.

How quickly the thrill of battle turned to the gruesome reality.

He felt a rush of air as a formation of griffins swooped overhead, climbing in altitude as they screamed their challenge to the wind. The rain had let up, and now griffins were taking to the air all across the battlefield, swooping and diving, scratching and clawing at each other in one-on-one aerial catfights.

Volthorn turned to his aides. “We’ll make this hillock our command post. Raise the commander’s banner. I want the Iron Thicket Battalion in reserve behind our center, and the Green Pine Battalion ready to reinforce our right flank.”

“Yes, Commander.”

A platoon of cavalry thundered by. Volthorn watched them ride past. Was he making the best decision, massing his cavalry on his left flank? Was he leaving his right flank too vulnerable?

He shelved the worry. Battles were about balancing risks, not avoiding them.

* * * * *

The morning marched by. Volthorn entertained a constant stream of updates brought by swifters and griffins from each section of the battlefield.

The left flank brought the best news. There Elandria’s battle line extended far past Calamar’s, allowing them to advance unopposed and inflict chaos on Calamar’s flank. Soon enemy battalions began to arrive, crossing from the far end of the battlefield to check the Elandrian assault. But the enemy units were scattered and unorganized, and the Elandrians had momentum. Plus, Elandrian cavalry was harassing the rear of Calamar’s army with a series of hammering flanking assaults.

image [https://i.imgur.com/Aa2aW3i.png]

The center quickly turned into a stalemate. After initially losing ground, the Calamarvan army stiffened its resistance, piling more and more soldiers onto the back of the battle line until the mass of men made retreat impossible. The battle here was devolving into a pushing match of shield on shield, as both sides strove to outlast the other.

The biggest problem was on Volthorn’s right flank. Most of Calamar’s cavalry was on that side of the battlefield, and Volthorn had little cavalry to spare after dispatching most of it to his left flank. Soon rounds of enemy cavalry were smashing into the infantry on Volthorn’s right flank. His soldiers were holding firm—for now. But his general on that flank, General Orrin, kept having to thin and lengthen his line, curving it back up toward the top of the ridgeline to avoid getting outflanked.

An hour into the battle, Volthorn ordered the Green Pine Battalion to reinforce the right flank.

* * * * *

“They know we’re weakening on our right,” Kelzern observed two hours into the battle, after returning from an errand. He joined Volthorn watching the desperate fighting taking place a third of a mile to their right. “They keep sending more units to hammer us there.”

“We need to hold a little longer,” Volthorn said. “We’re routing them on the left. A report just came that their troops are scattering in disorder. A few more minutes, and their center will begin to crumble as well.”

“Then it’s a race against time,” said Kelzern. “Will we hold together longer than they will?”

“We have to,” Volthorn said. “Or the war ends here.” If his army suffered a route on the field today, there would be nothing standing in between Calamar’s armies and the capital.

The rain began to pour down once more. “Krack’s crest,” Kelzern muttered. “I was just starting to dry off.”

Griffins soon began cutting through the mist as they swooped in for landings, pulling back behind the lines before their wings got too sodden to fly.

Volthorn studied the battlefield, both the one in front of him and the one in his mind’s eye. “Find a fresh and dry pair of griffin scouts,” Volthorn said to his brother. “Send them east and have them find where those other ten thousand soldiers have gotten to.”

“Not sure I can guarantee they’ll be fresh or dry, but I’ll do my best,” Kelzern called as he trudged away.

An officer galloped up to the command post. “Commander! General Orrin requests more reinforcements on our right flank!”

“Shadows,” Volthorn muttered. He only had one reserve battalion left. It was one of his best, the Iron Thicket Battalion. But he was hoping to keep that backing his center.

“Is it desperate?” Volthorn asked.

“We’re losing troops left and right. Our men are exhausted and losing morale.”

They were interrupted by a griffin, landing beside them with a splash of mud. “Just came in over our right flank, Commander. I saw a fresh enemy battalion moving up the ridge to flank us there.”

“Then that does it.” Volthorn turned to Trazar. “Dispatch the Iron Thicket Battalion to our right. Send half the troops to reinforce the line, the other half to extend the line further up the ridge, ready to block a fresh assault. Go!”

Soon columns of troops from the Iron Thicket Battalion were marching past his post at a light run. Volthorn waved them on, shouting a war cry.

Scarcely had they passed when a swifter arrived from the left flank. “Six enemy battalions are now in a complete rout, Commander! They’re scattering like scared rabbits on hunting day! Our cavalry is now circling around to strike at their center from behind, while our infantry continues scattering their left flank.”

“Then we just might make it,” Volthorn said with relief. “If our right flank holds another half hour, and if that second army doesn’t make it here on time, then maybe, just maybe—”

The ridgeline lit up with a sudden flash of light, blinding his retinas. Seconds afterwards, an explosion shook the ground as a mighty shockwave roared in his ears. A flash of terramantic power rippled through him, released from whatever had caused the explosion.

“The center!” someone cried. “The center!”

Volthorn blinked his eyes, waiting for his vision to recover—and saw a gaping hole in his army’s shield wall.