"Here they come," you say grimly.
The enemy host advances, spread wide across the plain. Their cavalry opposite of your right flank—the men you drove back—advance slowly, keeping pace with the infantry. Meanwhile, the cavalry opposite of your left moves at an angle.
"See 'em?" Velinor says, pointing at the group. "They's movin' in an arc. I's reckon they's gonna try and flank us. One group to hold us down. One to ram their boot up our asses."
"Arthur Hornraven?" Elya looks over at you uncertainly.
"We're fine," you reply impassively. You're currently more focused on the ten thousand, two hundred and fifty rebel footmen slowly advancing toward your own. You take a deep breath and scan the enemy lines.
A minute passes. Darin glances to you. "Four hundred yards out."
"Bowmen, ready!" you bellow. No need for a trumpet just yet. Your order is repeated and translated several times as it passes through your line. Rangers load their crossbows. Longbowmen nock their arrows.
You keep track of the enemy cavalry on your left, slowly riding in an arc, bound for the rear or flank of your army.
Another minute passes.
Anticipation builds in you. Just the mere sight of ten thousand, two hundred and fifty men marching toward you is enough to spike your adrenaline. More crucially, however, the enemy is now within three hundred yards.
You glance back over to Darin. You take a breath.
"Give them the order."
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