The flailing cloth struggled against the wind, and Ser. Rodrig felt the tide turning.
"Ser, our lines are breaking!"
Rodrig didn't need the harried boy to tell him what was obvious to a blind man - they were losing. He saw it all, sitting atop his steed on a hilltop overlooking the battlefield. Blinded from the afternoon sun - yet he saw. The battle was lost, and with it, the campaign.
"Ser! Our lines are -"
"I heard you the first time, boy!" That was unworthy of him, yet he had to press on. "Tell Gilbert to fall back to the West bank and regroup. I'm not surrendering this excursion quite yet." He halted the boy with a gauntleted fist. "Keep your wits about you, lad. A stray arrow can kill the strongest warrior."
"Yes, ser!" The boy saluted and was off, his step a bit lighter.
Gilbert, a general and one of his closest friends, will hate the command - better to die a glorious death than a hard earned one - he would say. Some might say there was no difference, but warriors understood one as bravado, and the other as suffering, Rodrig often wondered if his friend was right to think so. But not today and certainly not now. When it came down to it, Rodrig was too much of a coward to retreat and admit defeat.
Soon the horns blew, and Ser. Rodrig could see the faltering formation falter even further. He expected an idea to appear by now, but none came. The only one present was to wave a white banner and be done with it, or the red and sacrifice his soldiers in a fruitless charge for glory, song, and death. Rodrig was not fond of death, or bards, or the meritless praises of the unknown. Surrender? That left a sour taste in his mouth. So sour that he had to spit the bile out.
So what then? A hard earned death? Was that all he owed his men? Proving Gilbert a point? For a moment he leaned into his vanity. A glorious, bull-headed charge to end all charges? The thought smelled rotten the moment it spawned. No. If they were going to die, it would be by trying to find a way to live.
But a charge... There was something to that... As the battlefield morphed before him, a daring idea decided to come around.
"Castell!" His lieutenant trotted beside him. "Harry the men! We charge!"
"Ser!" Castell's eyes went wide behind his vizier. "The boy already left, we would need -"
"We are charging, lieutenant. Not the army. You, me, my personal guard. Us!"
"But ser! That's suicide!"
"Humpf." We are already dead, Castell. Whether today or tomorrow, our cause is lost. But a commander could never say such a thing. "Not necessarily. We will charge their right flank, create an opening Gilbert will detect, allow him to make a charge of his own. They will be pressured on two sides, confused. Castell, this is our only chance." Castell, to his credit, nodded. Brave man. "Tell the others, we ride!"
As Rodrig waited for the line to form, he wondered if Gilbert would see the opening and act accordingly. He will. We've done this same manuever before, but never on this scale. Yes, this felt right. As his men lined up beside him, the wind started blowing, nudging them to action. Yes. This gave them a shot.
"Raise the banner!" Castell did, as Rodrig rode before his men. "Men of the Eastfall - you are the elite! Hand picked and hard trained, you are our brightest! Remember that! Shine like you have never shined before! Today we ride! And the hopes of thousands ride with us! Thousands! Courage has long left us, I know this. But, right now, we don't need it! Because we are the elite! Because we are men of the Eastfall. And we. do. not. dim! Charge!"
The men screamed. For their commander, for their families, for their home - they screamed. Strong and loud were their voices as they charged down the hill. Rodrig, of course, rode with his men. As boisterous and hyped as any of them. Rodrig, as well, rode in the back of the column. And as fast as his heart was racing, his thoughts were faster.
The Northern flank was crumbling, will the enemy exploit that? Our force is small, will it be enough to create the diversion required for Gilbert's thrust to work? It had to. More than anything, he wondered if he was folding to Gilbert's ideal. Was this a glorious charge to a glorious end? No. This was the winning move.
As the enemy started to blow horns of their own, signalling the flanking force, Rodrig stopped thinking. His mind was in his stomach, and his stomach was sinking. So many... His force was so small comparatively, this really did feel like suicide. He raised his sword and boomed over the rest:
"For Eastfall! For victory! Charge men! Forward!"
The men rallied behind him, voices and hearts united - until they hit the shield wall.
Their thrust was better than he could imagine. In seconds, Rodrig found himself surrounded by enemy green. He swung his sword, trying to control his steed. Trying, and failing. The best had gone mad and Rodrig was wholly at its mercy for direction. As it rode - Rodrig slashed. He noticed Castell's banner, struggling in the wind, and roared once more. "Eastfal!"
As they battled, they got further and further between enemy lines. Rodrig turned to see his once-retreating force mounting a charge of their own, or at least, that's what he thought he saw. Gilbert! You see me! Come! Join me! Soon however, his steed ran head first into a spiked mace, forcing Rodrig to the ground.
The maced warrior approached. Rodrig stumbled to a stance just as the swing came, he dodged, fainted right, struck left. The enemy fell. Another came. Another fell. And another. And another still.
As Rodrig fought, he heard horns - their horns! Yes! Fight with me Gilbert! Castell's banner stood proud and defiant, and Rodrig understood what it meant to be alive. An axe came out of nowhere to slice his left wrist clean off. Rodrig didn't feel a thing. He hacked at the attacker until he was no more. Rodrig turned and hacked, and sliced and screamed. Until he could see only red.
The tornado of blood stopped spinning for but a moment, as another set of horns echoed in the distance. As Rodrig stood between the smell of blood, corpses, and shit. His addled mind understood something - those weren't his horns.
Damnation... In his final moments, the great tactician and leader could only think of one thing - his friend was right. His army was charging into an unwinnable position, as the unforeseen reinforcements would most certainly annihilate them. But they wouldn't know it right away - as Rodrig's ploy had apparently worked. They would charge, they would gain ground. In the end, they would die, slowly. They would suffer.
Rodrig roared in defiance of his thoughts, in defiance of the end and all it stood for. He roared until his throat was horse and his body was covered in blood.
Until Castell's banner fell, in a glorious song of blades and battle.
A bit more subtle this one. Not sure if it worked, feel like it needs a half thousand words more. Eh, we'll see I guess. 😁
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