You survey the scene from atop your horse, behind the line. The rebels have begun to reform their ranks on your side of the river. At most, a thousand are fully ready and slowly advancing. The remainder are slowly crossing the bridge.
This group of a thousand is only forty yards away from your battle line, but their numbers are continuing to drop. At this point, the majority of your archers have withdrawn back behind your line.
Once they reach only ten yards away, a trumpet blows, and their troops halt. They maintain this position, raising their shields in a shieldwall to cover themselves from your archer's constant barrages.
At this point, both sides are within speaking distance. Instead, they curse and shout at each other. Your men hurl insults as they raise their weapons above their heads, taunting the rebel forces.
But then the arrows from the rebel line begin to rain hell upon your line.
You grit your teeth as you hear and watch men fall. As their volleys continue, your own casualties racket up to the few hundreds.
After nearly ten minutes of shooting, insulting, and huddling beneath shields, the remaining rebel infantry have reformed, ready to commit to the full assault.
Elya's knuckles are white as she clutches the reins of her horse, nervously chewing on her lip. There's nothing you have to say to her.
You try to make a rough estimate of the remaining enemy forces. From what you could count, fifty enemies have already been felled by your forces.
There's no time to estimate further, as the rebel's horn sounds. Their newly formed lines are disrupted as they move further into your field of traps. Soldiers in their front row fall with cries of shock and pain as their legs are disabled beneath them.
You wait for them to draw close enough. You wait until the disruption in their line grows large enough.
"Sound the advance," you order Darin.
The trumpet blares. The signal is given.
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