This is a slightly altered version of a series of roleplay posts. It should stand coherent on its own, but if anyone wants the context... here you go
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Dawn came and went and Laurentius rose with it. He had, in his formal offer of challenge, in exchange for choosing the spot, allowed his negotiator to concede that the challenge would not start until the sun was at its zenith. This ensured that no army would face the sun in their faces—and he hoped, would make Aegeus think that he had won an early victory, removing a tool he had used so surgically in his previous engagement. Laurentius, of course, knew that Aegeus would have studied that battle in detail. He would think, as so many often did, that having found a tactic that was effective against his foes, that Laurentius, young and brash, would employ it again and again. History was filled with great warriors who had squandered a great victory for a greater defeat because they had faced a more cunning foe. Aegeus did not know that Laurentius had studied his history—not only that of other great warriors but that of Aegeus himself. The Southern Fox he had been in his youth and when his hair had begun to turn before his 40th year, it had become the Silver Fox. He had never fallen into the same trap he suspected Laurentius of staggering into, using the same tactic again and again as a hammer always sought a nail. Instead, he fought more as a surgeon than a soldier—precision strikes with cavalry or his best infantry, aimed exactly at the weakest chinks in the armour, breaking or bending the enemy line until he could strike a final, devastating blow.
Perhaps, had Laurentius not hardened his soldiers like heat did to steel, he might have been daunted by facing such a man in the field. Yet he knew his men—and knew that their reputation did not match the reality. They were considered as little better than bandits, lazy and undisciplined, a step above conscript soldiers and in some ways, a step below. Laurentius, today, instead of seeking to prove the man wrong, hoped he would not realize his mistake until the jaws snapped shut.
The time concession, given with so much feigned reluctance, was the first trap. The campaign season was now deep enough that the heat of the day could easily become sweltering and that day, by the time the sun was high, was on track to be enough to broil a man in his armour. His own men, playing into their reputation, stayed in their tents well past the dawn, with only servants scuttling about, making and delivering food as though to entice soldiers sleeping off a night of drinking and debauchery. Instead, they were hard at work—eating full meals and resting, yes, but also sharpening weapons and polishing armour and readying themselves for the fray. While Aegeus had his men up at dawn and out, leading military drills and preparations in the full heat of the sun, Laurentius ensured his men did not march out and form their battle lines until the last possible moment. The fact he was considered underhanded played further in his favour—Aegeus, unwilling to assume that Laurentius cared enough about his terms with the queen to not pull some trick, hedged his bets, as any fox would—his men stayed in full armour, weapons ready, so that if there was any treachery that might see them surrounded and slaughtered in their camp.
No rush came, Laurentius would never have broken a sacred vow—his men marched out and formed their perfect ranks barely a quarter-hour before the agreed-upon time.
Laurentius rode in front of them on Ferox—he raised his spear in salute and as one, their own snapped into the air to meet him.
That was, except for the centre line. There, the men seemed slower, more tired, less eager. He had given them no outward signs that would make the trap too clear—instead, he had cultivated signs that no seasoned soldier would miss. His less trustworthy troops, aligned in the centre, where the better men on either side could stiffen their spine. He placed the river up against his right flank and his cavalry on his left. Seemingly on impulse—an impulse drilled days in advance—his lines readjusted, growing longer and shallower. Aegeus did not even need to order the response—the unit commanders on the other side mirrored them and then, went even wider, their greater numbers giving more distance without compromising the strength of the phalanx. Laurentius was pleased to note that their movements were ever so slightly sluggish. The intent was obvious—with a river serving as a wall to guard Laurentius' left and Aegeus' right, the winner would either be the one that broke through the centre or successfully struck the enemy on the flank, against which a phalanx offered no assurance. That too, Laurentius had accounted for, in a fashion. It would matter little though—because he saw a slight shift. A couple hundred men, pulled from the far flank, seemingly to move into reserves. Men with foxes on their shields—Aegeus had placed his elite personal guard on the flank, but now, under cover of creating a reserve force, realigned them so they could easily strike anywhere along the line and join the phalanx. He had seen the centre—the surgeon was planning his precise cut.
Laurentius' cavalry moved out further on the flank—the only part of his army where his numbers were greater, as Aegeus had swelled his ranks with conscripts who could not afford the care of horses and gear. This seemed a reasonable guarding move—he could not be encircled because his cavalry would hit the encircling force in the back. Aegeus thought to play his own game—lure Laurentius into expecting to play defensively on the flank, then commit his reserves to put pressure on the centre. By the time Laurentius moved to aggression, it would be too late.
His men in the centre were not, of course, the poorer soldiers—merely the better actors. They knew they would bear the brunt—but also knew that if they held, the victory would have pivoted upon it and they would be well rewarded.
Aegeus was forced, by the nature of his gambit, to play the first move. A double trill on the horn and the men advanced. They kept formation well, leaving no obvious gaps to exploit between shields—and no doubt had they faced ordinary ranged troops, that would have availed them well. No stones or arrows flew towards them—they closed in, seemingly thinking towards the end that nothing would come.
Laurentius, by now with his left flank troops, to further reinforce that he intended to steel that flank and bait an attack, gave no signal. All at once, their enemy less than a dozen paces away, his first line pulled the javelins they had concealed on the back of their shields and hurled them directly at the enemy line.
Some few men screamed, others staggered, but the line kept advancing. That was their great mistake. His first line focused on spears, the second and third on throwing as many javelins as they could before they too needed to raise spears. But though few men fell, that was never the goal. These javelins buried themselves in shields and stuck there. They did not fall out, they could not be knocked off. It mattered little for marching—but when the lines collided and subtle movements of the shields were needed to counter a spear thrust, those few extra pounds would feel like a hundred. Some few men noticed the danger—but they were pushed forward and when the lines collided, they died. The same story, up and down the line—in the first bleeding, Laurentius had drawn the clear win. Yet those men were replaced and what had started as a quick clash became a brutal battle of attrition. Laurentius himself fought at the front of the left flank, the crux of where he pretended to expect the blow to fall—and any mortal who did fall upon him died.
Yet, slowly, carefully, in a way designed to look far worse than it was, his line first bent, then bulged inward, the centre being pushed back, step by hard-fought step. They lost fewer men, but the strain in their line looked worse for the fact they had deliberately thinned it. Aegeus, pleased with his probing attack, subtly committed his guard and though many of these died in the battle line, the bend grew deeper and deeper. Laurentius, laughing like a man possessed and covered in the blood of foes, feigned not to notice. It was not time yet—but every step said that Aegeus, riding amidst his cavalry, was waiting for the right movement to commit them to a hammer blow, driving straight through the centre and shattering his foe.
The moment he did so—that was the moment he would have lost.
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Laurentius swung his shield sideways in a wide arc. The silver disk, so heavy that ordinary men struggled to lift it with two hands, smashed hard into the side of the Mareanian's skull. Teeth clinked and blood-spattered across the Laurel leaf etched into the front and the man dropped like a puppet with cut strings, the silver fox on his mirror-polished shield staring up aimlessly into the sky. What had been a Captain in Aegeus' prized Elites was no more—a fact that seemed to unnerve several of the others that had closed in on Laurentius. That Aegeus had ordered a group of his Elites to try and kill him was not unexpected—had he been seeking a quick end, he himself might have done the same in turn. What he had not expected was that a full 50 had been sent. He had faced men who thought to end his army by ending his life before—yet most had assumed the stories of his prowess exaggerated and assumed that twenty could deal with him and his guards both. Aegeus was being cautious—though ironically, his timing might well doom him. This fight would give Laurentius himself a perfectly reasonable excuse to not realize how far his line was bending—his foe had, unwittingly, helped him sell one of the more implausible aspects of his plan, which would have otherwise required him to believe that Laurentius was utterly blinded by arrogance and battle lust.
Laurentius had his own guard of course—twenty men, dressed in silver gilded armour which had been designed to ensure that Laurentius himself could never be missed by any foe. Where the crest atop his helmet was red, theirs were blue and where his shield was silver with a black laurel crown, theirs were black with silver laurels. Each man he had chosen and trained himself—though only one in five of their total number stood behind him. They were the hardest men on the field and the rest had been carefully and conspicuously set at the back of the line on his left flank—further reinforcing the illusion that he had expected the battle to be won or lost there. The twenty would cycle to prevent exhaustion or if injured, but so far, only two had been so much as scratched—few managed to stand against them, but fewer still managed to reach them. His orders to his guard had always taken two varieties—to make sure no one got behind him and to stay the hell out of his way.
Raising his spear in salute to the vultures circling above, Laurentius faced down the line of men that advanced on him. The first spear struck out and he casually stepped aside. Another went to intercept and he deflected it aside with his shield. The man who had thrust it cried out, his arm evidently injured by the sudden jerk. He shifted only slightly and Laurentius drove a spear through his face. He kicked the corpse's shield and sent it flying back, striking two men behind with a crunch of splintering bones. None rose. More spears darted and he moved as though they flowed through honey, deflecting off shield, spear or bracer if he felt the need or wished to create an opening. He grabbed the haft of a spear sent towards his head and, twisting it from the grip of its owner, swung the shaft against the heads of the two men to his right. One dropped, the other merely grabbed at one of the splinters driven into the eye. It wasn't enough to kill these men—though he would. Laurentius knew that this battle was to be the stuff of myths—an event the world would look back upon and tremble. He could feel the eyes of his father on him and felt the strength of his divine nature suffuse his very essence. His shield caved in the breastplate of a man who rushed forward, a massive club in hand, evidently having lost his spear at some point, he then drove the butt of his spear down—the man's skull split open like a pomegranate.
His foes still advanced—but he could see the fear in their eyes now. These were no farmboys or shepherds, fresh off clinging to their mother's skirts—more than a few had grey in their beards and the echo of a lifetime of death in their lined faces. But they were afraid now—more scared than any boys facing a battle line. This was the fear of a woman who knew her fate when the boot finally broke open her door—the fear of someone who had realized that they were staring down the destiny the gods had chosen for them and nothing they did could change it. Still, their discipline held, they advanced—and one by one, like a leopard falling upon the weakest of the herd, he pulled them down.
As he fought, he noticed the hilltop—a white horse starting down and stopping, a black horse following, then continuing. It would take several minutes, even on a fast horse, unless one wished to kill man and horse alike. So—Solemnia or her pet, at least, had noticed his gamble. Time then, to ensure that Aegeus cared for nothing... except his death.
Less than a dozen of them remained when they finally broke completely. There had been twenty when they tried to withdraw in good order. He had left his spear in the dirt and, sword drawn, leapt for the centre of their line. One of the eight who had not made it whimpered beneath his boot—the last officer in the group who had been sent against him and the highest. The crest on his helm named him Strategus—the overall commander of Aegeus' own guard, almost a fifth of whom Laurentius had now removed. He knew the man by reputation, if not by name—he had served Aegeus since the pair were youths. Close friends—more, most likely, though neither man could admit such a thing, not without the admission that one of them had been used as a woman. Someone Aegeus loved.
Perfect.
He stood in a gap in the battlefield 25 paces on every side—no man dared step where he had fought this skirmish. His enemies did not look, worried that to look upon the wolf was to draw in its jaws. Less than a hundred paces away, seated with his cavalry, he saw Aegeus himself—the silver crest atop his helm, the grey stallion and the ornate armour left no one else it could be. The pair locked eyes, even across all that distance... and Laurentius reached up, removing his helm. He slammed fist to chest in salute. He wanted Aegeus to see the smile on his sweat-soaked, blood-flecked face. As the man returned the salute, looking unsure, Laurentius knew—Aegeus knew who his boot was on. Knew friend or lover was in the hand of foe... knew foe was smiling...
Laurentius slammed his foot down. The man's chest and breastplate bent, then burst, blood and viscera gushing around his boots. In a smooth motion, he sliced down with his sword, removing the head, dead eyes and mouth locked in a final expression of agony. He carved a glyph upon the helm—a symbol that meant "coward". Taking two running steps, Laurentius hurled head and helmet both. They bounced and rolled on the ground, coming to rest right in front of the kind, glyph and eyes alike staring up in challenge at the aged ruler. Even as the retinue stared, the black horse skidded to a stop beside them. His message would not be listed to. Laurentius had ensured that there was no strategy left for Aegeus beyond murder. He wandered back to collect his spear and readied it.
Soon, he knew, the charge would be ordered—the king and his cavalry would come, hot in their wrath, to end this battle once and for all. And they would end it.
Just not in the way they all expected.
He cast a salute directly towards the white mare upon the hill and charged back into the fray, a human scythe cutting through lives like wheat.
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Laurentius felt the tension run through his army as the enemy cavalry charged. Not fear—his men were as assured of his victory as he was of the steel in their spines—merely the tension, like the final moment of strain before the arrow shot from the bow, the moment upon which everything else hung.
Ironically, Aegeus' moment of fury, had it not been tempered by a careful nature, might have, if not saved him, at least mitigated the disaster that was to unfold. Instead of charging all his cavalry at Laurentius, he led his own contingent, perhaps 100 men strong, while the remainder, near 400, turned towards the centre of the line. Their goal was obvious—to smash Laurentius's army as brutally as possible, ensuring no escape for him from the wrath of the king. Except they had miscalculated—in more ways than one.
Near a hundred of the cavalry the king had brought with him peeled off towards Laurentius' own. They had nowhere near the numbers to win, nor even to sustain a prolonged fight—but the hope seemed to be to create enough of a distraction that the cavalry could not interfere until the battle against the infantry was decided, at which point they would likely either see the battle was lost and flee or be easily met by a force of men with spears. The plan began to fall apart almost immediately in two distinct ways. As the larger force of cavalry struck home, their own infantry parting, they expected to meet a line of men pushed to the absolute brink and overstretched. Instead, when they were less than 50 paces out, the centre line snapped together as one and raised spears. The cavalry, instead of striking through unprepared foes, were met with flashing spears, their own weapons woefully inadequate for the task of facing a prepared phalanx instead of flanking an unprepared foe or riding down beaten men. Cowardice might have saved them, had their commanders realized the trap—instead, though, they stood and fought, not knowing that their doom was already sealed.
The second trap had been laid before the battle had even started. In that chaos, amidst thousands of men forming themselves up, no one had noticed that perhaps 300 fewer were on Laurentius' battle line than should have been. Nor had they noticed that, hidden amongst 750 tightly packed cavalry, those men waited, spears and shields ready, for their chance to join the fray. Thus, as Aegeus' diversionary party charged, it was in anticipation of a battle against fellow horsemen, one where the natural bulk of horses meant that he who successfully landed the first blow would be somewhat protected by the uncontrolled horses of their fallen foes and could stand or withdraw as needed. Instead, even as they closed in, the cavalrymen parted and, pouring from gaps throughout the whole length of the line, a phalanx formed. There was no collision—the cavalry pulled up short instead—but it was too late. Javelins flew and, against the lightly armoured skirmishers, they devastated the line. The infantry rushed forward, holding formation even at speed as the cavalry attempted to control frightened horses and withdraw. Instead, the soldiers reached them, dragging men off horseback or stabbing them atop it. Curiously, the cavalrymen were permitted quarter when they called for it—for the first time since crossing the border, Laurentius' men took their weapons and herded them to the side, leaving them under light guard.
Whether captured, dead or fled, the distraction was gone. The 300 infantry reformed, still fresh, beginning their march to support the left flank, unnoticed by any of the infantry still fighting there. As the centre line had stiffened, the hardened men on the left had shifted from defending to pressing the enemy. The sudden shock of their opponents at the break in the pattern saw them gain ground rapidly, pushing the enemy into a narrower and narrower bottleneck. Now, Laurentius' cavalry was moving as fast as they could ride, needing to land the decisive blow before the enemy realized what was happening. It was too late to salvage the situation—but if they managed to move men to defend the bottleneck, they could at least hold longer and inflict more harm.
Coming at speed, the 300 struck hard on the left, driving the defences there into a full rout as men scrambled to regroup and avoid having their foe roll effortlessly down the whole length of the line. At the same time, the cavalry, having swept in a wider arc, moving faster, slammed into the bottleneck, falling especially hard on the right flank where Aegeus had positioned his weaker, less experienced troops, in the knowledge that that flank of the battle would never be the deciding factor. Now, all at once, Aegeus' forces collapsed, as a combination of a surging aggressive enemy and the realization that there was no way out caused a ripple of breaks throughout the line. Men were pushed back and crushed together, the cavalry trapped in the centre of it all. Laurentius' line began to constrict, spears extended, advancing step by step until there was no space left for men to back into. At that moment, as had been planned, a gap opened—a gap that led right into the river. It was the young men who fled first, throwing down spears and shields as they ran towards freedom. This river had a name amongst the locals—the Silentium, for the way men drowned in it, pulled down before they could scream. The broad and slow-moving upper currents hid a river that flowed over a deep channel carved into the soft rock of the riverbed, narrower, with currents far faster than the surface and several times deeper than a man was tall. Men who swam out found themselves caught in that faster current and, without time to scream, were dragged down and slammed against the rocks. It didn't matter—the path looked to lead to safety and there was now no stopping the surge of men desperate to reach it. The battle was already over—all that remained was to eliminate vermin.
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Laurentius stood with his guard as the kind approached, giving a mocking bow "Welcome sire—I have always wished to meet the Silver Fox. Have you come to surrender?"
He sidestepped the short javelin that flew at him in answer.
The old king leapt from his horse, still spry despite his age, drawing a sword and swinging towards Laurentius. The man was good—better than his reputation as a commander more than a soldier would suggest—but the younger man sidestepped the blow easily, along with the follow-up slash. The man showed no frustration, merely a burning hatred as cut after cut attempted to exact his revenge. His men watched, though Laurentius was unsure if it was in the expectation of avenging their commander or merely to honour him by witnessing his fall. All had seen what he had done to the guards sent to kill him—there was no doubt of the outcome here. Still, his own sword flew from the sheathe and deflected a blow, then he fell into a series of quick counters. Minutes dragged by—the old man was not tiring quickly, but nor was his rage cooling. As his men rode past, the trap snapping closed now inevitable, Laurentius struck—a hard blow knocked a sword strike aside and, as the man wavered off-balance, he stepped to the side and slice down, cutting the tendons on the back of the knee and sending the old fox to the ground with a grunt. The battle rage seemed to lift from the man's eyes and he saw before him as his army began to fall to ruin. His sword fell from his fingers.
Laurentius looked down. "The histories will remember you well, old man. And I will look after your people... in my own fashion. Now... pick up the sword. Old warriors should die blade in hand."
The king said nothing, but nodded, fingers showing some renewed strength as he picked up the blade.
Laurentius swung. A head flew one way, and a body fell another. He knelt, picking up the head and turning towards the cavalrymen "Take his body and build a pyre upon the hilltop. This one deserves better than the midden heap."
He turned his back on them and walked towards his horse.
His army spared none of those that had fought them longest—a slow butchery saw those soldiers who did not attempt the doomed swim cut down by spears and swords in ways that seemed as much mercy-killings as victory. Yet again, the cavalrymen, either mounted or unhorsed and in their unique armour were spared such a fate—each taken alive, stripped of weapons and set aside under guard. Most accepted it gladly in exchange for water and being free of the press of bodies. Above, the vultures circled, ready to enjoy their greatest feast.
Laurentius watched none of it
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Dawn came and went and Laurentius rose with it. He had, in his formal offer of challenge, in exchange for choosing the spot, allowed his negotiator to concede that the challenge would not start until the sun was at its zenith. This ensured that no army would face the sun in their faces—and he hoped, would make Aegeus think that he had won an early victory, removing a tool he had used so surgically in his previous engagement. Laurentius, of course, knew that Aegeus would have studied that battle in detail. He would think, as so many often did, that having found a tactic that was effective against his foes, that Laurentius, young and brash, would employ it again and again. History was filled with great warriors who had squandered a great victory for a greater defeat because they had faced a more cunning foe. Aegeus did not know that Laurentius had studied his history—not only that of other great warriors but that of Aegeus himself. The Southern Fox he had been in his youth and when his hair had begun to turn before his 40th year, it had become the Silver Fox. He had never fallen into the same trap he suspected Laurentius of staggering into, using the same tactic again and again as a hammer always sought a nail. Instead, he fought more as a surgeon than a soldier—precision strikes with cavalry or his best infantry, aimed exactly at the weakest chinks in the armour, breaking or bending the enemy line until he could strike a final, devastating blow.
Perhaps, had Laurentius not hardened his soldiers like heat did to steel, he might have been daunted by facing such a man in the field. Yet he knew his men—and knew that their reputation did not match the reality. They were considered as little better than bandits, lazy and undisciplined, a step above conscript soldiers and in some ways, a step below. Laurentius, today, instead of seeking to prove the man wrong, hoped he would not realize his mistake until the jaws snapped shut.
The time concession, given with so much feigned reluctance, was the first trap. The campaign season was now deep enough that the heat of the day could easily become sweltering and that day, by the time the sun was high, was on track to be enough to broil a man in his armour. His own men, playing into their reputation, stayed in their tents well past the dawn, with only servants scuttling about, making and delivering food as though to entice soldiers sleeping off a night of drinking and debauchery. Instead, they were hard at work—eating full meals and resting, yes, but also sharpening weapons and polishing armour and readying themselves for the fray. While Aegeus had his men up at dawn and out, leading military drills and preparations in the full heat of the sun, Laurentius ensured his men did not march out and form their battle lines until the last possible moment. The fact he was considered underhanded played further in his favour—Aegeus, unwilling to assume that Laurentius cared enough about his terms with the queen to not pull some trick, hedged his bets, as any fox would—his men stayed in full armour, weapons ready, so that if there was any treachery that might see them surrounded and slaughtered in their camp.
No rush came, Laurentius would never have broken a sacred vow—his men marched out and formed their perfect ranks barely a quarter-hour before the agreed-upon time.
Laurentius rode in front of them on Ferox—he raised his spear in salute and as one, their own snapped into the air to meet him.
That was, except for the centre line. There, the men seemed slower, more tired, less eager. He had given them no outward signs that would make the trap too clear—instead, he had cultivated signs that no seasoned soldier would miss. His less trustworthy troops, aligned in the centre, where the better men on either side could stiffen their spine. He placed the river up against his right flank and his cavalry on his left. Seemingly on impulse—an impulse drilled days in advance—his lines readjusted, growing longer and shallower. Aegeus did not even need to order the response—the unit commanders on the other side mirrored them and then, went even wider, their greater numbers giving more distance without compromising the strength of the phalanx. Laurentius was pleased to note that their movements were ever so slightly sluggish. The intent was obvious—with a river serving as a wall to guard Laurentius' left and Aegeus' right, the winner would either be the one that broke through the centre or successfully struck the enemy on the flank, against which a phalanx offered no assurance. That too, Laurentius had accounted for, in a fashion. It would matter little though—because he saw a slight shift. A couple hundred men, pulled from the far flank, seemingly to move into reserves. Men with foxes on their shields—Aegeus had placed his elite personal guard on the flank, but now, under cover of creating a reserve force, realigned them so they could easily strike anywhere along the line and join the phalanx. He had seen the centre—the surgeon was planning his precise cut.
Laurentius' cavalry moved out further on the flank—the only part of his army where his numbers were greater, as Aegeus had swelled his ranks with conscripts who could not afford the care of horses and gear. This seemed a reasonable guarding move—he could not be encircled because his cavalry would hit the encircling force in the back. Aegeus thought to play his own game—lure Laurentius into expecting to play defensively on the flank, then commit his reserves to put pressure on the centre. By the time Laurentius moved to aggression, it would be too late.
His men in the centre were not, of course, the poorer soldiers—merely the better actors. They knew they would bear the brunt—but also knew that if they held, the victory would have pivoted upon it and they would be well rewarded.
Aegeus was forced, by the nature of his gambit, to play the first move. A double trill on the horn and the men advanced. They kept formation well, leaving no obvious gaps to exploit between shields—and no doubt had they faced ordinary ranged troops, that would have availed them well. No stones or arrows flew towards them—they closed in, seemingly thinking towards the end that nothing would come.
Laurentius, by now with his left flank troops, to further reinforce that he intended to steel that flank and bait an attack, gave no signal. All at once, their enemy less than a dozen paces away, his first line pulled the javelins they had concealed on the back of their shields and hurled them directly at the enemy line.
Some few men screamed, others staggered, but the line kept advancing. That was their great mistake. His first line focused on spears, the second and third on throwing as many javelins as they could before they too needed to raise spears. But though few men fell, that was never the goal. These javelins buried themselves in shields and stuck there. They did not fall out, they could not be knocked off. It mattered little for marching—but when the lines collided and subtle movements of the shields were needed to counter a spear thrust, those few extra pounds would feel like a hundred. Some few men noticed the danger—but they were pushed forward and when the lines collided, they died. The same story, up and down the line—in the first bleeding, Laurentius had drawn the clear win. Yet those men were replaced and what had started as a quick clash became a brutal battle of attrition. Laurentius himself fought at the front of the left flank, the crux of where he pretended to expect the blow to fall—and any mortal who did fall upon him died.
Yet, slowly, carefully, in a way designed to look far worse than it was, his line first bent, then bulged inward, the centre being pushed back, step by hard-fought step. They lost fewer men, but the strain in their line looked worse for the fact they had deliberately thinned it. Aegeus, pleased with his probing attack, subtly committed his guard and though many of these died in the battle line, the bend grew deeper and deeper. Laurentius, laughing like a man possessed and covered in the blood of foes, feigned not to notice. It was not time yet—but every step said that Aegeus, riding amidst his cavalry, was waiting for the right movement to commit them to a hammer blow, driving straight through the centre and shattering his foe.
The moment he did so—that was the moment he would have lost.
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Laurentius swung his shield sideways in a wide arc. The silver disk, so heavy that ordinary men struggled to lift it with two hands, smashed hard into the side of the Mareanian's skull. Teeth clinked and blood-spattered across the Laurel leaf etched into the front and the man dropped like a puppet with cut strings, the silver fox on his mirror-polished shield staring up aimlessly into the sky. What had been a Captain in Aegeus' prized Elites was no more—a fact that seemed to unnerve several of the others that had closed in on Laurentius. That Aegeus had ordered a group of his Elites to try and kill him was not unexpected—had he been seeking a quick end, he himself might have done the same in turn. What he had not expected was that a full 50 had been sent. He had faced men who thought to end his army by ending his life before—yet most had assumed the stories of his prowess exaggerated and assumed that twenty could deal with him and his guards both. Aegeus was being cautious—though ironically, his timing might well doom him. This fight would give Laurentius himself a perfectly reasonable excuse to not realize how far his line was bending—his foe had, unwittingly, helped him sell one of the more implausible aspects of his plan, which would have otherwise required him to believe that Laurentius was utterly blinded by arrogance and battle lust.
Laurentius had his own guard of course—twenty men, dressed in silver gilded armour which had been designed to ensure that Laurentius himself could never be missed by any foe. Where the crest atop his helmet was red, theirs were blue and where his shield was silver with a black laurel crown, theirs were black with silver laurels. Each man he had chosen and trained himself—though only one in five of their total number stood behind him. They were the hardest men on the field and the rest had been carefully and conspicuously set at the back of the line on his left flank—further reinforcing the illusion that he had expected the battle to be won or lost there. The twenty would cycle to prevent exhaustion or if injured, but so far, only two had been so much as scratched—few managed to stand against them, but fewer still managed to reach them. His orders to his guard had always taken two varieties—to make sure no one got behind him and to stay the hell out of his way.
Raising his spear in salute to the vultures circling above, Laurentius faced down the line of men that advanced on him. The first spear struck out and he casually stepped aside. Another went to intercept and he deflected it aside with his shield. The man who had thrust it cried out, his arm evidently injured by the sudden jerk. He shifted only slightly and Laurentius drove a spear through his face. He kicked the corpse's shield and sent it flying back, striking two men behind with a crunch of splintering bones. None rose. More spears darted and he moved as though they flowed through honey, deflecting off shield, spear or bracer if he felt the need or wished to create an opening. He grabbed the haft of a spear sent towards his head and, twisting it from the grip of its owner, swung the shaft against the heads of the two men to his right. One dropped, the other merely grabbed at one of the splinters driven into the eye. It wasn't enough to kill these men—though he would. Laurentius knew that this battle was to be the stuff of myths—an event the world would look back upon and tremble. He could feel the eyes of his father on him and felt the strength of his divine nature suffuse his very essence. His shield caved in the breastplate of a man who rushed forward, a massive club in hand, evidently having lost his spear at some point, he then drove the butt of his spear down—the man's skull split open like a pomegranate.
His foes still advanced—but he could see the fear in their eyes now. These were no farmboys or shepherds, fresh off clinging to their mother's skirts—more than a few had grey in their beards and the echo of a lifetime of death in their lined faces. But they were afraid now—more scared than any boys facing a battle line. This was the fear of a woman who knew her fate when the boot finally broke open her door—the fear of someone who had realized that they were staring down the destiny the gods had chosen for them and nothing they did could change it. Still, their discipline held, they advanced—and one by one, like a leopard falling upon the weakest of the herd, he pulled them down.
As he fought, he noticed the hilltop—a white horse starting down and stopping, a black horse following, then continuing. It would take several minutes, even on a fast horse, unless one wished to kill man and horse alike. So—Solemnia or her pet, at least, had noticed his gamble. Time then, to ensure that Aegeus cared for nothing... except his death.
Less than a dozen of them remained when they finally broke completely. There had been twenty when they tried to withdraw in good order. He had left his spear in the dirt and, sword drawn, leapt for the centre of their line. One of the eight who had not made it whimpered beneath his boot—the last officer in the group who had been sent against him and the highest. The crest on his helm named him Strategus—the overall commander of Aegeus' own guard, almost a fifth of whom Laurentius had now removed. He knew the man by reputation, if not by name—he had served Aegeus since the pair were youths. Close friends—more, most likely, though neither man could admit such a thing, not without the admission that one of them had been used as a woman. Someone Aegeus loved.
Perfect.
He stood in a gap in the battlefield 25 paces on every side—no man dared step where he had fought this skirmish. His enemies did not look, worried that to look upon the wolf was to draw in its jaws. Less than a hundred paces away, seated with his cavalry, he saw Aegeus himself—the silver crest atop his helm, the grey stallion and the ornate armour left no one else it could be. The pair locked eyes, even across all that distance... and Laurentius reached up, removing his helm. He slammed fist to chest in salute. He wanted Aegeus to see the smile on his sweat-soaked, blood-flecked face. As the man returned the salute, looking unsure, Laurentius knew—Aegeus knew who his boot was on. Knew friend or lover was in the hand of foe... knew foe was smiling...
Laurentius slammed his foot down. The man's chest and breastplate bent, then burst, blood and viscera gushing around his boots. In a smooth motion, he sliced down with his sword, removing the head, dead eyes and mouth locked in a final expression of agony. He carved a glyph upon the helm—a symbol that meant "coward". Taking two running steps, Laurentius hurled head and helmet both. They bounced and rolled on the ground, coming to rest right in front of the kind, glyph and eyes alike staring up in challenge at the aged ruler. Even as the retinue stared, the black horse skidded to a stop beside them. His message would not be listed to. Laurentius had ensured that there was no strategy left for Aegeus beyond murder. He wandered back to collect his spear and readied it.
Soon, he knew, the charge would be ordered—the king and his cavalry would come, hot in their wrath, to end this battle once and for all. And they would end it.
Just not in the way they all expected.
He cast a salute directly towards the white mare upon the hill and charged back into the fray, a human scythe cutting through lives like wheat.
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Laurentius felt the tension run through his army as the enemy cavalry charged. Not fear—his men were as assured of his victory as he was of the steel in their spines—merely the tension, like the final moment of strain before the arrow shot from the bow, the moment upon which everything else hung.
Ironically, Aegeus' moment of fury, had it not been tempered by a careful nature, might have, if not saved him, at least mitigated the disaster that was to unfold. Instead of charging all his cavalry at Laurentius, he led his own contingent, perhaps 100 men strong, while the remainder, near 400, turned towards the centre of the line. Their goal was obvious—to smash Laurentius's army as brutally as possible, ensuring no escape for him from the wrath of the king. Except they had miscalculated—in more ways than one.
Near a hundred of the cavalry the king had brought with him peeled off towards Laurentius' own. They had nowhere near the numbers to win, nor even to sustain a prolonged fight—but the hope seemed to be to create enough of a distraction that the cavalry could not interfere until the battle against the infantry was decided, at which point they would likely either see the battle was lost and flee or be easily met by a force of men with spears. The plan began to fall apart almost immediately in two distinct ways. As the larger force of cavalry struck home, their own infantry parting, they expected to meet a line of men pushed to the absolute brink and overstretched. Instead, when they were less than 50 paces out, the centre line snapped together as one and raised spears. The cavalry, instead of striking through unprepared foes, were met with flashing spears, their own weapons woefully inadequate for the task of facing a prepared phalanx instead of flanking an unprepared foe or riding down beaten men. Cowardice might have saved them, had their commanders realized the trap—instead, though, they stood and fought, not knowing that their doom was already sealed.
The second trap had been laid before the battle had even started. In that chaos, amidst thousands of men forming themselves up, no one had noticed that perhaps 300 fewer were on Laurentius' battle line than should have been. Nor had they noticed that, hidden amongst 750 tightly packed cavalry, those men waited, spears and shields ready, for their chance to join the fray. Thus, as Aegeus' diversionary party charged, it was in anticipation of a battle against fellow horsemen, one where the natural bulk of horses meant that he who successfully landed the first blow would be somewhat protected by the uncontrolled horses of their fallen foes and could stand or withdraw as needed. Instead, even as they closed in, the cavalrymen parted and, pouring from gaps throughout the whole length of the line, a phalanx formed. There was no collision—the cavalry pulled up short instead—but it was too late. Javelins flew and, against the lightly armoured skirmishers, they devastated the line. The infantry rushed forward, holding formation even at speed as the cavalry attempted to control frightened horses and withdraw. Instead, the soldiers reached them, dragging men off horseback or stabbing them atop it. Curiously, the cavalrymen were permitted quarter when they called for it—for the first time since crossing the border, Laurentius' men took their weapons and herded them to the side, leaving them under light guard.
Whether captured, dead or fled, the distraction was gone. The 300 infantry reformed, still fresh, beginning their march to support the left flank, unnoticed by any of the infantry still fighting there. As the centre line had stiffened, the hardened men on the left had shifted from defending to pressing the enemy. The sudden shock of their opponents at the break in the pattern saw them gain ground rapidly, pushing the enemy into a narrower and narrower bottleneck. Now, Laurentius' cavalry was moving as fast as they could ride, needing to land the decisive blow before the enemy realized what was happening. It was too late to salvage the situation—but if they managed to move men to defend the bottleneck, they could at least hold longer and inflict more harm.
Coming at speed, the 300 struck hard on the left, driving the defences there into a full rout as men scrambled to regroup and avoid having their foe roll effortlessly down the whole length of the line. At the same time, the cavalry, having swept in a wider arc, moving faster, slammed into the bottleneck, falling especially hard on the right flank where Aegeus had positioned his weaker, less experienced troops, in the knowledge that that flank of the battle would never be the deciding factor. Now, all at once, Aegeus' forces collapsed, as a combination of a surging aggressive enemy and the realization that there was no way out caused a ripple of breaks throughout the line. Men were pushed back and crushed together, the cavalry trapped in the centre of it all. Laurentius' line began to constrict, spears extended, advancing step by step until there was no space left for men to back into. At that moment, as had been planned, a gap opened—a gap that led right into the river. It was the young men who fled first, throwing down spears and shields as they ran towards freedom. This river had a name amongst the locals—the Silentium, for the way men drowned in it, pulled down before they could scream. The broad and slow-moving upper currents hid a river that flowed over a deep channel carved into the soft rock of the riverbed, narrower, with currents far faster than the surface and several times deeper than a man was tall. Men who swam out found themselves caught in that faster current and, without time to scream, were dragged down and slammed against the rocks. It didn't matter—the path looked to lead to safety and there was now no stopping the surge of men desperate to reach it. The battle was already over—all that remained was to eliminate vermin.
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Laurentius stood with his guard as the kind approached, giving a mocking bow "Welcome sire—I have always wished to meet the Silver Fox. Have you come to surrender?"
He sidestepped the short javelin that flew at him in answer.
The old king leapt from his horse, still spry despite his age, drawing a sword and swinging towards Laurentius. The man was good—better than his reputation as a commander more than a soldier would suggest—but the younger man sidestepped the blow easily, along with the follow-up slash. The man showed no frustration, merely a burning hatred as cut after cut attempted to exact his revenge. His men watched, though Laurentius was unsure if it was in the expectation of avenging their commander or merely to honour him by witnessing his fall. All had seen what he had done to the guards sent to kill him—there was no doubt of the outcome here. Still, his own sword flew from the sheathe and deflected a blow, then he fell into a series of quick counters. Minutes dragged by—the old man was not tiring quickly, but nor was his rage cooling. As his men rode past, the trap snapping closed now inevitable, Laurentius struck—a hard blow knocked a sword strike aside and, as the man wavered off-balance, he stepped to the side and slice down, cutting the tendons on the back of the knee and sending the old fox to the ground with a grunt. The battle rage seemed to lift from the man's eyes and he saw before him as his army began to fall to ruin. His sword fell from his fingers.
Laurentius looked down. "The histories will remember you well, old man. And I will look after your people... in my own fashion. Now... pick up the sword. Old warriors should die blade in hand."
The king said nothing, but nodded, fingers showing some renewed strength as he picked up the blade.
Laurentius swung. A head flew one way, and a body fell another. He knelt, picking up the head and turning towards the cavalrymen "Take his body and build a pyre upon the hilltop. This one deserves better than the midden heap."
He turned his back on them and walked towards his horse.
His army spared none of those that had fought them longest—a slow butchery saw those soldiers who did not attempt the doomed swim cut down by spears and swords in ways that seemed as much mercy-killings as victory. Yet again, the cavalrymen, either mounted or unhorsed and in their unique armour were spared such a fate—each taken alive, stripped of weapons and set aside under guard. Most accepted it gladly in exchange for water and being free of the press of bodies. Above, the vultures circled, ready to enjoy their greatest feast.
Laurentius watched none of it