"Someone stop them! We can't hold out any longer!" A captain in the central army shouted, grabbing the collar of the regiment commander.
In front of them were the most elite troops of Connaught, the Supreme King's Guard. They used their heavy armor to fend off attacks, cutting a bloody path with their skilled combat techniques.
Although the spearmen were disciplined, they couldn't match these elite warriors in close combat.
The swordsmen resisted with all their might, but they were still outnumbered by the enemy. The central army, while not yet collapsed, was beginning to show signs of wavering.
"The cavalry..." Bretons murmured to himself, "Things aren't looking good over there either."
Indeed, the cavalry on both flanks were entangled in combat, seemingly unable to break through the enemy quickly.
Bretons felt a pang of regret, but it was too late for that now.
"Follow me, let's join the fight too." Bretons took a mace and a shield from a nearby attendant.
It had been a long time since he had fought personally, but his skills hadn't dulled a bit. When he and his attendants entered the battlefield, their side's morale instantly received a boost.
The flags of both sides faced each other, as if engaged in a duel.
"Advance! Advance!"
The spearmen shouted in unison, holding their long spears, advancing like a giant meat grinder, devouring the lives of the enemies before them. They moved with mechanical precision, step by step, pushing the front line back once more.
On the other side, the Irish fiercely resisted, attempting a counterattack.
Conchobar's attention was focused on Breton's command flag. He knew this was his last chance.
If he didn't take down the enemy commander now, once the Irish soldiers' momentum was exhausted, he would be doomed.
"Follow me, let's capture their general!"
Conchobar and his surrounding soldiers began their last desperate charge.
And it was this charge that broke the formation in the central army. The spearmen had already suffered too many casualties, hanging on by their last breath.
When they saw the enemy still had the strength to charge, they instantly collapsed.
Spearmen rely on discipline to win in battle. Once they lose formation, they are at the mercy of the enemy.
Conchobar in the center didn't expect victory to come so quickly. He hadn't even fully reacted when the surrounding soldiers began to cheer.
"Your Majesty, Your Majesty, we must continue advancing!" Several loyal attendants reminded him.
Conchobar quickly regained his composure: "Yes, continue advancing!"
His mind was now remarkably clear. He knew that capturing Breton alive was the key to completely shattering the enemy's morale.
At this moment, Breton was also panicking. He watched his trained soldiers crumble, their retreat leaving him exposed to the enemy.
"Charge! Charge!"
Breton could almost hear Conchobar's roar.
His guards tightly surrounded him, bracing for the impact of the Irish warriors. The charging Irish, using the last remnants of their strength, were determined to fight to the death.
At the moment of collision, Breton felt utterly disoriented.
Conchobar fared no better. His helmet, already improperly secured, fell to the ground during the charge.
A loyal attendant following Conchobar shouted, "Your Majesty, put on your helmet!"
But Conchobar ignored the advice, continuing to charge forward with his attendants.
As the eldest son of the Supreme King, Conchobar had always received the education befitting a warrior. Whether in hunting or combat, Conchobar excelled in martial skills and was the bravest of warriors.
Conchobar slashed down the enemy blocking his path, his eyes fixed on Breton ahead of him.
There was only a short distance left between them. Conchobar resembled a lion or a tiger, poised to pounce and take Breton's life at any moment.
Breton, in contrast, looked like a battle-hardened wolf, his eyes filled with cunning and ferocity.
"Die!" Conchobar did not hesitate, charging directly at Breton.
His longsword aimed straight at Breton's chest, but Breton reacted instantly, blocking the powerful thrust with his shield and then swinging his mace upwards from the lower right.
Unlike the longsword, the mace was a formidable armor-piercing weapon of this era.
Conchobar's shield splintered into pieces under the impact.
At this moment, Conchobar panicked.
Using all his strength, he shoved Breton backward. Breton fell to the ground, his mace slipping from his grasp.
"You're dead!"
Conchobar roared, trying to pull his longsword out from Breton's shield.
Breton quickly reacted, his right hand fumbling for the dagger at his waist. But retrieving a dagger while pinned down was no easy task. His frantic attempts to draw the dagger proved futile.
As Conchobar managed to pull out his longsword, Breton realized that his hope of counter-killing with the dagger was gone.
With his shield still pinned beneath him, the only thing that could help him now was his own arm.
"Crack!"
The sound of bone breaking echoed, and blood splattered onto Breton's face. Gritting his teeth, he used his right arm to block Conchobar's strike.
In the battlefield, life and death were often decided in an instant.
Breton's guards quickly intervened, stabbing Conchobar's shoulder with short spears and throwing him to the ground. They surged forward, once again surrounding Breton.
"Cut off his head! Cut off his head and hang it up!"
Breton shouted from the ground, trying to get up, but his weakened right arm wouldn't allow it.
Following the command, the guards swiftly decapitated Conchobar and placed his head on a spear.
"Your lord is dead!"
The shout came from somewhere, and as it faded, everyone noticed that the scene was gradually quieting down. The Irish stood stunned, staring at Conchobar's head.
Once a valiant and admired figure throughout Connaught, now his head hung on a spear.
"Our king..."
The loyal attendants knelt down, tears streaming from their eyes. This dramatic scene gradually led to a massive rout of the Irish. They all abandoned the fight and fled the battlefield. Meanwhile, Breton's army pursued them only briefly before halting.
For reinforcements had finally arrived behind them.
"All troops, turn!"
With the help of his guards, Breton stood up again, his right arm hanging limp at his side, still bleeding.
The reorganized army, looking at the enemy in the distance, felt a bit uneasy.
All the officers knew that the soldiers' stamina and morale had reached their limits. If the fighting continued, no one could say for sure whether the soldiers would hold up.
But Shannon's reinforcements were clearly intimidated.
Their army remained motionless, and instead, a few envoys approached.
Breton, unwilling to continue fighting, endured the pain and went to meet the envoys. The envoys, seeing the horrific scene on the battlefield and Conchobar's head, were visibly shaken.
"Greetings," Breton said, limping towards the envoys, "I am the supreme lord of Ireland, Duke of Leinster, Earl of Lancaster, Prince of England, and General appointed by His Highness Prince John, Breton."
The envoys knelt on one knee and said, "We have long known your name, General. We come under our master's orders to request peace."
Enduring the pain, Breton sat on a chair brought by an attendant.
The envoys looked at his bleeding arm, concern evident in their eyes.
"A minor issue, I'll deal with it later," Breton waved his hand. "First, tell me about the peace you seek."
The envoys cautiously said, "Lord Muirchertach hopes to continue ruling this land. He will provide compensation to your army and will personally go to Dublin to swear allegiance to Prince John."
Upon hearing the envoys' proposal, Breton let out a cold laugh.
He said, "Count of Thomond is not even dead, and Muirchertach is already dreaming of being the new earl, how amusing. Besides, you all know the reason Prince John is waging war against you."
Everyone was aware of the assassination, but it was a taboo topic.
"Prince John needs an explanation, not your terms..." Breton said, suddenly wincing in pain.
A wave of dizziness hit him, blurring his vision.
As the intense pain subsided, he refocused and saw the person in front of him more clearly. One of the envoys who had been in the group took off his hood, revealing his face.
In a low voice, he said, "General, I think you should get treated first."
"Rubbish, they'll probably have to amputate," Breton said through gritted teeth. "And who are you?"
The mysterious man smiled, "Me? I am the lord of Bunratty Castle, Little Domhnall. You're right, Muirchertach's terms can't satisfy you."
There was a hint of mockery in his voice, though it was unclear who it was aimed at. But one couldn't deny he was spot-on.
"I have my own conditions." Little Domhnall crouched down.
Breton looked at him levelly, trying to keep his focus on the negotiations despite the severe pain in his right arm.
Little Domhnall said, "I need your help to deal with my brothers. I will provide you with assistance."
This guy hadn't shown any willingness to cooperate until he saw Breton's strength. Clearly, he was a fence-sitter.
But Breton needed such fence-sitters to lead the way.
"Of course..."
Before Breton could finish his sentence, his arm started to hurt again. This time, he decided to let his attendants take him to a doctor.
Little Domhnall, satisfied with the answer, left the negotiation scene.