Chapter 98: First battle(5)

Chapter 98: First battle(5)

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."

"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.