The Black-winged scavengers birds flew in lazy arcs, drawn to the feast of flesh that would soon litter the fields below. Their caws echoed over the battle as they spectated it from above.
Jarza stood near the center on the back of formation, his face set in a stony expression as he commanded the fighting. His eyes flickered from one side of the battlefield to the other, watching his men with the sharp attention that only a seasoned warrior could have. He had spent decades in the thick of battle, and this was no different—except now, he was the one giving orders not obeying them.
"Rotate the lines!" he barked over the noise using his whistle and signaling with his hand a circle . His voice cut through the chaos like a blade, as every 50-man serjeant obeyed the command and relayed the order to the soldiers.
Every ten to fifteen minutes, the frontline troops—those in the thick of the brutal, close-quarters fighting—were pulled back, replaced by fresher soldiers from the second and third ranks.
Normally, such a maneuver would have been risky—shifting troops in the heat of battle could leave gaps in the line, openings the enemy might exploit. But the Oizen infantry, green and untrained as they were, did not press the advantage. They were too exhausted, too battered by the continuous pounding they had taken from Alpheo's seasoned soldiers. The Oizen forces were more concerned with catching their breath, their initial aggression having drained them. Their spearmen, already struggling to maintain a coherent line, faltered under the attacks .
Jarza, took full advantage of their hesitation of the peasants . He watched as the tired Oizen soldiers hesitated, their spear thrusts growing sluggish. Some had dropped their weapons entirely, clutching their shields tightly as if they could ward off the enemy. These men were not warriors—they were simple men hastily called to arms and given the barest of training. They had no sense of timing, no instinct for when to strike or when to press forward.
"Hold steady, lads. Don't let up," one of the officers commanded, his eyes scanning the lines.
The troops now fresh took the front once more. The fresh line advanced , shields locking together as they pressed forward, step by methodical step. Behind them, the spent soldiers who had been on the front took a moment to breathe, wiping sweat from their brows and catching their breath, knowing they'd be called forward again soon.
The Oizen troops, sensing the renewed assault, wavered. Their spears trembled in their hands as they tried to form some semblance of a defense, but it was futile. Every few minutes, the pressure was renewed, and the mercenaries pressed forward with hammers crashing down on shields, swords slicing through gaps in the shields, and maces smashing limbs.
Jarza, his helmet tipped back for a moment , allowed his eyes to wander across the chaotic battlefield. He couldn't help but wonder how Clio was faring with his detachment of men. His command was smaller than Jarza's and this was also his first battle.
Clio's troops were a mix of veteran mercenaries and fresh-faced recruits, much like his own, and they had been ordered to hold firm at all costs. Normally mixing veterans with recruits was never a good idea, unfortunately, they were running low in men and Alpheo worried that entire units made up of recruits would rout at the slightest obstacle.
Before he could dwell longer on Clio's situation, movement on the horizon caught his attention. Jarza's eyes narrowed as he saw figures emerging from the distant line. More infantry, , moving in formation toward the already beleaguered Oizen troops on the front line. The dust cloud they kicked up gave them away long before their banners were visible.
"Reinforcements," Jarza spat bitterly, watching as the new enemy forces marched to bolster their crumbling front. The Oizen peasants had been buckling under the pressure of Alpheo's disciplined soldiers, barely holding the line, but these fresh troops stopped the front line from routing
But Jarza wasn't about to let the enemy regroup and rally. He turned to his officers, a cold determination settling over his features.
"Prepare the men for another push," he ordered, his voice sharp. "We need to crush them before those reinforcements arrive. If they join the fight, this will drag out longer than it needs to."
The officers nodded and quickly moved to relay the command. Jarza knew they had to act fast, strike before the enemy could coordinate their efforts. He knew that the enemy troops, green as they were, if they saw any of their comrades escaping the fight they would be affected by it too , making it so that the enemy reinforcement could buckle before even reaching the fighting.
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Asag stood amidst the chaos of the battlefield, his brow damp with sweat as he wiped it away with the back of his gloved hand. The ground before him was littered with the remains of fallen horses and men, a grotesque graveyard of twisted bodies and shattered armor. The cavalry had charged four times already, each attempt crashing like a wave against the unyielding spears of his infantry. Yet, despite their successes in repelling the attacks, the toll was starting to show on his men.
The javelins, their most effective defense against the mounted knights, were growing scarce. With each charge, fewer and fewer of the deadly projectiles flew through the air. His soldiers, who had once launched the javelins with vigor and precision, now threw them with heavier arms, their movements slower, their breathing more labored. Asag could see the exhaustion settling into the ranks like an unwelcome fog, worst of all his burns started getting hot all of a sudden, probably from all the sweat coming from his forehead.
The javelins were nearly gone. Each man had perhaps two left , or three if they were lucky. Asag knew they could repel another two charges at most with such limited ammunition, but he had to keep morale steady.
He raised his voice, shouting over the noise of the battlefield. "Hold steady! They're tired, just like us. We break them here, or we die here!"
The veterans grunted in response, the recruits nodding anxiously, clutching their remaining javelins as if they were their last hope of survival. Asag knew they would need more than just weapons to survive this next wave—they needed iron will and above all some help.
He glanced over at the bodies that lay strewn across the battlefield. There was no room left for retreat, no option to fall back. The sheer mass of corpses—horses and men alike— laid on the ground . It was an ugly idea that Asag thought, but an idea nonetheless.
"Use the deads!'' Asag shouted to his men, who relayed the order down the lines. "Move the carcass to the front!"
Confusion flickered in their eyes as they glanced between each other, unsure at first what to make of the command. Yet, they moved , stepping out from behind the protective wall of spears to approach the fallen horses.
Each group of 10 hesitated as they reached the corpses, the massive bodies of the animals sprawled across the ground, some still twitching in their death throes. They bent low, grabbing the hooves and legs of the dead horses, their faces twisted in a mix of revulsion and exhaustion. These were animals bred for war, powerful and once full of life—now reduced to flesh and bone in the mud.Luckily they were close to the lines, as moving hundreds of kilos was an hard job.
"Is this supposed to help?" one of the men asked, his voice tight with confusion as they dropped the horse's body in front of the first rank. "How's this gonna stop the next charge?"
"Better than standing there waiting to die," the veteran snapped back, wiping the sweat from his brow. "Let's go get another one before they decide for another charge."
The frontline soldiers, already exhausted from the constant threat of the cavalry, stared at the makeshift barricades with wide eyes. They shifted nervously, gripping their spears tighter as they watched their comrades repeat the process, hauling more horse corpses ahead of the line.
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From atop his mount, Sorza squinted through the dust and chaos, watching in disbelief as groups of infantry soldiers, began breaking formation. At first, he couldn't quite understand what they were doing, but the sight of them dragging dead horses toward the frontlines puzzled him.
"What in the gods' name…?" he muttered under his breath, gripping the reins of his horse tightly.
Still, Sorza's instincts as a cavalry commander took over. The sight of infantrymen moving out of formation, exposed and vulnerable, was an opportunity.
"They're out of position!" Sorza shouted, standing tall in his stirrups, his voice ringing out over the thundering hooves. "Prepare for another charge! Let's smash them now, while they're scattered!"
His knights, already battered from four failed charges, hesitated only for a moment before obeying.
As the cavalry bore down upon the infantry, Sorza's mind raced with thoughts of glory. This time, the footmen would break—he was certain of it. With so many out of formation, victory seemed inevitable.The infantry tried to retreat back into formation but they would not make it , the distance betweent them was becoming shorter and shorter.
But then, something unexpected happened.
The horses, which had charged so fiercely before, began to slow down. It was subtle at first—a slight hesitation, a momentary resistance against their riders' commands. Sorza frowned, spurring his own horse harder. "Faster!" he shouted, but instead of speeding up, his mount slowed even more.
Sorza looked around, confusion spreading across his face. All around him, knights were struggling to urge their steeds forward, but the horses were resisting, their eyes wide and wild, their hooves faltering as if some invisible wall had risen up before them.
"What are you doing?!" Sorza barked at his horse, kicking its flanks harder. "Move, damn you!"
But the animal refused. It neighed in distress, its powerful legs stumbling as it shook its head violently, resisting every command to charge further.
"They won't go forward," Sorza whispered , realization flooding his mind. "They are spooked by the deads''
In that instant, the young prince's dreams of a swift victory crumbled.
For a few seconds, he simply stood there, gripped by disbelief, anger, and frustration. The dust swirled around him, and all he could hear was the frantic neighing of his horse and the hollow sound of failure settling into his bones.
"Curse this wretched day!" Sorza spat under his breath, before giving one last, desperate order, his voice louder and sharper than ever.
"DISMOUNT!" he roared, "DISMOUNT AND FIGHT ON FOOT, MEN!"
His words cut through the chaos like a blade, reaching the ears of his knights who, though battered and confused, obeyed immediately. The sound of armored men hitting the ground rang out as the cavalry abandoned their steeds, clambering to their feet with swords, axes, and maces in hand using the same warfare they so hated and spat upon.