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Vlastimir is among the second rank of the approaching rebel infantry. Suddenly, the man in front of him is struck down by an arrow. A second deflects off of Vlastimir's kettle helmet, causing his ears to ring. With a shield raised high, he is shuffled into the front rank.
In front of him, the heavily armored infantry have been sliding the bridges into place under constant pressure from incoming arrows.
It was no easy task to construct these, either. Each is roughly ten yards wide and twenty-two feet in length in order to scale the wide river effectively. They're heavy and unrefined, taking twelve men just to haul to the front.
But finally, and despite all their flaws, the three bridges are ready.
The men around him begin to cheer, which is quickly picked up by the whole army. Vlastimir's voice is only one amid seven thousand as they cry out in triumph, ready to cross the Atiming.
One of the placers of the bridge places a foot on the rough timber and valiantly points a sword toward the loyalist line. "Forward, boys!" he cries. The man begins to charge across alone, gesturing for the others to follow.
The rebel infantry move forward, but not in any dramatic charge. Instead, it is slow and careful. Vlastimir is of the first infantrymen to step onto the bridge's uneven surface. He raises his kite shield in front of him, moving in a shieldwall with those around him.
Six men, including himself, can walk forward at one time. Vlastimir had been undergoing drills to do such a maneuver for hours the day before. He's prepared to cross. And he's damn excited to cross, to fight, to kill.
The armored soldier leading the charge is shot in the helm by an arrow, loosed from a heavy warbow. It punctures clean through, splattering blood all over his visor. He falls.
Now halfway across the bridge, Vlastimir winces at the sight before he and another rebel nudge the armored man's corpse into the water.
Vlastimir looks back up.
And then half of the front row is shot dead around him.
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