Baron Gregory’s flanking maneuver was proceeding well. The army crossed the river on time and the horses trotted Southward, down the winding paths between small villages. They had to keep up a solid pace. The main army was going to launch an attack across the river this morning. With or without them. The knights had to arrive in time to deliver the finishing blow.

  Fortunately, Count Clement had not deployed too many patrols or sentries to watch this area closely. It made little sense to do it. He had dispatched an entire army North anyway, which would defend the ford crossing. If they failed, they’d send word well ahead of time. No one else could muster a force large enough to threaten the thousands of rebel soldiers at Elstercross. The only risk was of bandits and spies, and sporadic patrols were enough to deal with that.

  Gregory’s force did encounter one complication. An enemy rider spotted the approaching knights and immediately turned to flee. It could have complicated the plan if he had made it in time, but fortunately the mages were ready to help. Though they exhausted much of their aura to create the ice bridge, they could still handle a lone horsemen out on patrol. The man was most likely just a squire, unable to even enhance himself. Three of the wizards raced forward and slew him with a short barrage of magical projectiles.

  The rest of the journey passed without further incident. Everyone rode in silence, anxious about the upcoming battle. They knew the consequences of what would happen without the reinforcements, but arriving too early would spoil the plan just as much. The timing had to be perfect.

  When the road they followed led them out of the thicket, they finally got a good look on the battlefield. It was hard to see all the details, as the buildings of Elstercross obscured much of the vision of the armies, but the sheer amount of men gathered was staggering.

  Varre’s main force was crowding on the bridge, with the soldiers frantically holding shields above their head to defend from arrows. It wasn’t a perfect barrier. Many good men would get injured or die from the barrage of projectiles, but it was the best they could do as they waited for their turn to join the slaughter on the other side.

  Clement’s army assembled in formation just past the bridge. As Jan had predicted, they arranged themselves into three separate lines, funneling the loyalists into a killing zone. There, Varre’s soldiers would be forced into a small, tight area, where’d they get in each other’s way more than anything.

  Before joining the real battle, the baron’s reinforcements would first need to get through the village. The rebel camp was built around the buildings, with tents filling up most of the backyards. Most of its inhabitants were gone, fighting the battle, but the camp followers and some of the sentries remained. Most kept their attention fixed on the bloodshed, but they’d spot the sudden flanking attack sooner rather than later.

  Gregory was about to give the order to charge when another sight caught his eye. Just outside the village, he saw a dazzling scene. A lone man was walking down the bank of the river, frantically waving his arms around. A woman mirrored his movements on the other side. They seemed unfazed by the explosions happening above them. The air itself appeared to be fizzing with magical energy as they unleashed spells at each other. It was unclear which one held the upper hand, but the baron didn’t care to find out.

  “Jonas,” he yelled out over the thudding sound of hooves, “get your men and deal with that!”

  The knight nodded and quickly gathered a few of his companions. Four of the mages joined this impromptu group as they separated from the main attack and rode down to deal with the enemy wizard.

  Unfortunately, Tobias wasn’t completely alone. Just like Elvira had several guards watching her back, so did he. They noticed the sudden reinforcements and yelled out a warning to their leader. The former Court Mage turned around to see the new danger and realized the battle was already over. Instantly, he turned around on his heel and sprinted toward his mount, launching an additional barrage of spells over his shoulder, keeping Elvira occupied.

  Gregory couldn’t watch this duel for much longer. He lowered his visor. His army was approaching Elstercross now and the remaining inhabitants of the rebel camp had clearly noticed him by now. They were fleeing in panic. Clement would realize that he’d been outmatched soon and would need to react.

  Meanwhile, the commanders on the other side of the river continued watching the scene.

  “Looks like we’ll have to settle our bet another day,” Jan yelled out and slapped his knee.

  “I can see old Gregory sent out some guys to deal with Tobias,” Varre countered, “I think the bastard’s done. He won’t be doing any more dueling from the inside of a prison. We’ll have to call off the wager.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure. He is your former Court Mage, isn’t he?” the count insisted, “I think he can handle himself. Care to make it another bet then?”

  The king rolled his eyes. With his plan coming to fruition, he had no more needs for distractions. He was no longer just watching his men die needlessly, trying to buy time and hold Clement’s attention. Now, he could watch them win.

  The news of the sudden flanking attack was starting to make its rounds through the rebel troops. Though Varre couldn’t recognize individuals at this range, he could see a few horsemen frantically riding around behind their lines, giving out new orders. Some of the infantry abandoned their formation, trying to create a new line of defense to stop the incoming charge.

  A small group of rebels headed straight for the camp instead. They looked like they were wearing metal armor, instead of the leather and gambesons better suited for regular infantry. In his overconfidence, or perhaps panic to stop the sudden assault this morning, Clement must have deployed his knights on foot. Among the commoners. Now, they needed to mount up quickly if they wanted to have a chance against Gregory.

  Still, the tide of battle had definitively turned. Four hundred loyalist knights entered the camp and thundered through it. Varre grimaced when he remembered that many of the camp followers were innocent women and children. They only joined to help out their families. Peasants drafted into their lords’ service. Hopefully, the knights’ code of chivalry would spare the non-combatants. And if not, then Gregory’s troops should at least focus their attention on the enemy fighters, riding past the innocent civilians.

  The king grit his teeth as the sledgehammer of knights finally slammed into the hastily assembled wall of peasants just past the village. They didn’t stand a chance. Though he did see a couple horses collapse, the rest pummeled through the infantry like a hot knife through butter. The sea of riders consumed the pathetic line of defense and chewed through them, spitting out lucky survivors. The riders going, heading straight for the massed infantry fighting at the bridge.

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  That did the trick. The rebel army was clearly falling apart at the seams. A constant trickle of people fled from the camp, heading in every direction possible. Clement and his commanders appeared to be signaling a retreat as well. And as for the army, it was complete chaos.

  Much of the infantry, especially those at the front of the formation were too focused on the battle to even notice what had happened. They had no chance to escape and kept on fighting, locked in place. Some of the ones in the back rows turned around, ready to meet the sudden attack from behind. Others, simply fled.

  Though Gregory’s knights turned the tide of battle, they weren’t some unstoppable force either. Eventually, the sheer mass of enemies slowed their advance. They got bogged down, fighting through the mass of panicking infantry.

  The enemy knights too started to appear on the scene as they mounted up. According to reports, Clement still had around two hundred heavy cavalry at Elstercross. Around half as many as the baron’s charge. Though they wouldn’t win by themselves, they were still dangerous, especially when supported by infantry.

  But dangerous was not enough to recover the situation. The rebel line at the bridge was clearly faltering. They were getting pushed back as more and more of Varre’s soldiers passed the bridge and extended the small landing on the other side. Gregory’s knights also realized their tenuous position and began to retreat. Not from the battlefield of course, but to prepare a second, devastating charge that would finally crush the enemy’s defenses for good.

  It wasn’t necessary. The loyalist army had another ace up their sleeve. Or eight to be more exact. A sudden explosion on one of the enemy’s flanks was the final nail in the coffin.

  Though Elvira’s duel with Tobias must have exhausted her, she wasn’t done yet. She rejoined the battle and began launching magical projectiles across the river, avoiding her allies. With how chaotic the battle was becoming, it was getting exceedingly difficult, but the mere threat of getting blown up by some powerful wizard was enough to make any peasant flee.

  The other mages, nestled in among Gregory’s knights did their best too. They couldn’t hope to match Elvira’s raw power, but a magical projectile from one of them would kill a commoner just as well.

  With that, the rebel army finally collapsed. It wasn’t instantaneous. Those standing in the front rows couldn’t just run away. Their backs were blocked by their own allies. Even without that, if they tried, the loyalists would kill them as soon as the rebels showed their backs.

  The collapse was slower, but obvious and inevitable nonetheless. Though a small trickle of infantry was already fleeing before, the flow grew, turning into a raging river. Chunks of the rebel formation fell off, like a melting glacier. Each one created new cracks, that was followed by more chunks breaking off and on and on it went. Gregory’s knights were still bogged down, some were even dueling enemy riders, but their path started clearing up.

  Within five minutes, the formation holding the bridge had disappeared. The loyalists, encouraged by their victory, sped up, jogging across the bridge and hoping to avenge their fallen comrades. The slaughter was brutal. Many of the rebels abandoned their weapons, desperately fleeing for their lives. Infantry would struggle to catch any but the slowest and most injured stragglers.

  The knights on the other hand had their field day. Light cavalry would be better suited for this task, but most of the squires were deployed here, in the main camp. Their path was blocked by the massive traffic jam on the bridge. The remaining riders were deployed to the Northern ford. As a distraction. Heavy cavalry was slower, both to chase down enemies and maneuver around them. They’d get tired more easily too, but they still chased the rebels as best they could.

  There was little honor to be gained in slaughtering peasants, but they had to at least give that impression. It was important that the enemy fled in complete disarray, without being allowed to form up for a counterattack. Still, they weren’t going to chase the rabble down to the ends of the Earth. They made it to about as far as the closest thicket, before returning. Their horses had limits too. There was no need to have them fall to exhaustion. Not to mention that the woodlands could have hid ambushes.

  In the end, it took around three hours for the chaos to finally settle down. The army had fully crossed the river and occupied Elstercross. Clement’s camp was taken over and the loot collected was being carefully catalogued.

  Fortunately, the villagers of Elstercross remained loyal to their king. They welcomed Varre’s people as liberators, even if the occupation was short. Some of the soldiers even came from this area themselves. There was little appetite for looting amongst the troops. Or worse. The sergeants managed to keep up order as the captives were rounded up.

  The injured were taken to Varre’s camp, where his healers did the best they could. To everyone’s surprise, the king even allowed the enemy’s captives to be treated. As far as he saw it, these were his subjects too. They couldn’t help getting drafted into a war by their lord. They deserved some dignity.

  Clement’s troops were in disarray, but there was no need to chase their army further just yet. The battle must have seriously depleted their numbers and they’d need time to gather themselves into another fighting force. Just like Varre would. The wounded on his side needed rest and the sergeants had to count casualties and reorganize their units.

  Casualties. That was something that Varre definitely wasn’t looking forward to seeing. By now, he was beginning to understand that war was no joke. It was heavy business. Out of the four and a half thousand soldiers who left Banbury over a week ago, fifty had already died before the battle even began. Some of the riders fell to Clement’s patrols, but most casualties came from the infantry.

  The healers did their best, but disease in the camp was inevitable. Especially with this many people gathered together in unsanitary conditions. At least the constant stream of supplies helped to prevent starvation. A few accidents claimed several more soldiers and the resulting number was fifty souls. Just like that.

  The king dreaded to hear just how many perished during today’s battle. But he knew he had to know. By the evening, Jan’s people managed to prepare an approximate report. Varre stared at it as his hands shook.

  Our losses: 307

  Enemy losses: 500

  That’s… not as bad as I feared, he thought to himself. And then grimaced immediately at that thought. Eight hundred people had perished today. Eight hundred people with families who will mourn them and who will never enjoy happiness again. Yet, another part of him realized that it could have been worse. Much worse.

  He watched as his columns melted in front of his very eyes as he sent men to their slaughter. Just to hold Clement down and allow Gregory to pull off the flanking attack. He expected thousands dead. He mentally deflated at the real number. Unsure whether he should cry at the losses, or cheer at their lower than expected number.

  “Varre?” Count Jan asked him and then immediately corrected himself, “your majesty. Is everything alright?”

  The king cleared his throat. “Yes, I just… I expected worse.”

  The senior commander reached out to put a reassuring arm on his monarch’s shoulder and then stopped himself. “I know the feeling. But our plan was good. We weren’t wasting people.”

  “But I watched it happen,” Varre protested, “we were melting away at that bridge.”

  “I know,” Jan put on a sad smile, “but it looked worse than it was. Only a few dozen people could fight at a time. And they had shields. The fighting was slow and the reinforcements arrived just in time.”

  “And the casualties? How did they lose more people than we did?” the king insisted, “we were at a massive disadvantage!”

  “At first, yes. I wouldn’t be surprised if less than a hundred rebels fell in that initial phase,” the count replied, “but Gregory’s attack changed everything. Most of their casualties came during the chaos after the battle.”

  That made sense at least. The plan wasn’t a complete catastrophe. Hell, it was a total success! Varre managed to cross the river, at a massive disadvantage and secure a victory against an entrenched enemy. This battle would be studied by prospective tacticians in Logres for centuries to come. And yet it was not the end.

  Varre sighed. “And still, it’s not the end. Clement’s still out there.”

  “That he is. But he’s out of his element now. In our territory. We’ll strike while the iron is hot,” Jan smirked, “we move out tomorrow.”