You turn to see Milon standing on the ground beside you. The nobleman is clad in plate armor, with a ring of mail around the neck and armpits. A bascinet helmet sits on his head, the visor pushed up to expose his face. In one hand, he clutches the shaft of his halberd.
"Marshal, I need to speak with you," he says
It's about Lada," he says. "She's been… severely injured. She said that you left her on that field."
You reply evenly, "I was placed in a bad situation. I went with my gut."
The nobleman nods understandingly. "I don't blame you. I know that… well, she probably shouldn't have been there. You're not the one who shot the arrow. In fact, I wanted to… thank you. For extracting her from that damn field once the ambush ended."
He nods. "Again, I—"
A sudden blast from a distant trumpet interrupts your conversation. "Arthur Hornraven?" Elya says. You curse and quickly tell Milon, "Into formation, now!" You turn and look past Elya toward Darin. "Signal the advance," you order.
Darin reacts immediately, readying his own trumpet.
Next
The trumpet of your own army blares. Local sergeants and commanders call their own orders. The march begins, their steps acting as an echo for the rebels. Their nearly seven thousand rebel infantry are advancing.
You order your staff forward, consisting of you, Darin, the queen, and her bodyguards, as well as the fifty large reserve of light cavalry, to follow behind the slow advance.
Elya has gone pale. Staring down the enemy army and marching with her own has shown her the true reality of what you're about to do. The battle is now. It is no longer a looming threat in the back of her mind, but rather unfolding in front of her.
A series of shouted orders rise up from the infantry line as they come to a stop only thirty yards from the camp entrance. You stop only a few yards past the entrance with the staff, as the reserves advance to a position ten or so yards behind the infantry.
Your archers, two hundred in total, take their position only two or three yards behind the infantry. An order is shouted, and the men nock their arrows.
The remainder of the men and reserves hold in formation, waiting for the rebels to advance. You scan your own lines. Your five thousand, four hundred and twenty-five strong infantrymen stand, ready and waiting, geared fully for combat.
Your mass of infantrymen is five ranks deep at the moment. The men in the rear are acting as a reserve for those who die in front, or to reinforce portions of your line under stress. But the bulk of these reserves are located in your left flank.
This flank would look like a large bulge in the line from a bird's-eye view. But to the rebels approaching, it looks just like part of your line.
All around, the air is still, broken only by the shifting of your soldiers and the resounding, intimidating sound of seven thousand rebel soldiers at march.
After only two minutes of marching, the vast quantity of rebel infantry draw within a hundred yards of the riverbank, two hundred yards from your own troops.
Another order from your line is shouted, and the archers draw their bows. A few seconds later, the order to loose is given.
And the first arrows begin to fly up from your back row.
Next