CHAPTER 259: MARCH OF THE DESPERATE

March of the Desperate

The Northern Side

The proud Lowlandian heavy cavalry galloped across the field before slowing to form up in a tight line and leveling their lances. The rightmost rioters’ fresh column, intent on flanking, was caught in the open and panicked. They hadn't come here to face a heavy cavalry onslaught. No faith, bravery, or longing for justice could stand against the thundering charge. The column broke far before impact, with men tossing their spears aside just to outrun their fellow rioters.

Without hesitation, Sterling and his riders charged through the rioters' ranks in a powerful onslaught. Lances snapped, wood bursting into splinters as the tips impaled bodies.

Men screamed, their cries growing louder as the cavalry pressed through with their horse blades. But the true weapon was the warhorse itself. Trained and bred for battle, they tore through the column, trampling and pulverizing anyone who stood in their path.

A column of one hundred and thirty destroyed under the charge of fifty-five heavily armored cavalry.

Still, their chargers and destriers wanted more as the riders turned north to regroup.

“Commander,” they called as they reached a safe ground to wheel about.

Sterling calmly opened his visor. He barely broke a sweat. "Get the ones still holding spears in front."

"How about you, commander? You're without one."

"I'll be fine." Sterling gestured toward his horse blade, now coated with a thin layer of ochre. Feeling they had caught their breath, he called out, "Now, with me, lads. With me to glory and eternity! Give it your all; the city is near, the physicians are ready, the ladies are watching!"

A coarse laugh rippled through the ranks before they started their stride once again, charging south into the enemy's now-thinning flanks.

...

The Rioters' Northern Side

Amid the burst of chaos that shattered everything, the white-haired captain fought to hold his line and keep the formation together. They had just watched his flanking column get annihilated by a heavy cavalry charge, and the effect on morale was devastating. He issued a flurry of orders, sending his last reserve of trained men to reinforce the weakening gap, gather up the fleeing, and prevent mass desertion.

But untrained men broke easily. He wasn't leading hardened Believers; he had only rioters and Saint sympathizers, worthless against the Lord's veterans.

"Captain, I beg of thee," his officer pleaded again, voice shaking.

"I know!" he bellowed, his irritation crackling in the air. His presence and his hired elites were the only things holding the formation. "If we pull this column back, the rest will flee. That will be the end of us. Do you want that to happen?"

His officers shrank back, letting him continue. "Get men from the rear. Anyone with a spine, move them facing north. It’ll be messy and tight, but we don’t have a choice. We have to hold the line."

When they still hesitated, he pressed his sword to one officer’s shoulder. "Do your duty, or I'll make the post vacant."

With sweaty faces and twisted expressions, they turned and rushed to the rear, struggling through the ranks of men.

The white-haired captain was willing to risk a crowd crush against the next cavalry charge. He had no other option; he needed to buy time. "Get me anyone to report from the south. Have they made their move?" ＲᴀŊò𝔟Ë𝘚

"Yes, captain," one man volunteered, forcing his way through the packed ranks.

But the situation grew more dire by the moment. Louder shouting than before drew his eyes forward, and he saw the Lord's men pushing harder. Their massed pikes drove people to their deaths left and right as they gained momentum.

"Bastards," he spat as cold, nervous sweat formed on his back.

He knew it was about to become a slaughter.

"Horsemen, horsemen!" cries erupted to warn them.

Those who heard turned to him, faces weary but alert, frightened by the sightings.

"Steady, boys," the captain tried to reassure them.

"We've already lost Thibault and all his men," one said bitterly.

"And Folke's son," another added, his voice heavy with sorrow.

"Look, they won't risk hitting so close to their own line," he argued. Then, seeing them so lost, he changed his approach. "We have thousands. We can let the men weather their charge. This mass won't break from just a cavalry assault."

He stared straight into their eyes, one by one. "Are we still going in for the cause? Remember what brought you here. Don’t you need the money?" The words hung heavy in the air, memories of old promises and debts flashing in tired eyes. "So, what’s your answer going to be?"

The leader bet that their numbers would withstand the charge. Like a wounded boar, they wouldn't fall to a single hunter’s spear. Now it was a duel to the death.

***

The Rioters' Three Columns

Far to the south, away from the center where the fighting was fiercest, the three columns struggled to muster what strength they had to strike at the Lord’s flank. With damp clothing and sweat running down their faces, the rioters pressed on toward the Lord’s exposed side, though their pace had slowed. They had been on the move since the fighting began, and many were exhausted, unaccustomed to marching in armor or maintaining formation. Of the three columns, only one consisted of hired swords, and they had positioned themselves on the right.

"Keep it up!" shouted a nineteen-year-old in ringmail, the son of a squire and a merchant mother, who had claimed the role of officer in the rioters' column. He struggled to keep the rioters in step with the hired swords column. They were breathing hard, moving almost like drunkards.

"Victory is on your shoulders! Don't falter now!" he urged again.

One man spat to the side as he limped along, using his spear as a walking stick. His face twisted in pain as he muttered, "My shoulders are strong, but my legs..."

His voice was met with a chorus of grunts from his weary comrades.

The young officer quickened his pace and caught up to the tight group ahead. He spoke quietly. "This column isn’t going to make it. They’re too exhausted."

His leader, nearly twice his age, replied hastily, "Don't worry about them. They'll fight when the time comes. The Lord's men will make sure of that."

Another man rushed up from behind and reported urgently, "The third column is no longer on our side."

His words drew everyone's attention to the left.

"What are they doing?" the leader bellowed, his voice full of frustration.

The man continued his report. "Their path is blocked by an advancing column that seems to have slowed down."

"Hopeless bastards. Can't they see what we're trying to do?" the leader growled, seething with disbelief. He was already imagining marching over to that column's leader and stabbing whoever it was in the face.

Despite the heavy air, the man next to the leader lifted his helmet casually, trying to catch some air and cool his sweaty hair. Holding his long torch closer, he changed the subject. "Oi, we're getting close. Aren't we going to change formation?"

"No time. We're going to charge them just like this," the leader replied, sounding more composed as he checked the strap on his shield.

"Look!" the young officer exclaimed urgently. "The Lord is already reforming their line."

"Shit, we're late—"

The leader stopped short as he saw the young officer suddenly collapse, falling face-first into the dirt.

"You slip, boy?" he asked, his voice filled with concern.

"Get up," another muttered, unwilling to slow down.

But instead of rising, the young officer let out a wail of pain, confusing everyone.

The leader turned to the men nearby and ordered, "Go help him."

Before anyone could react, more groans and cries of pain erupted from within the formation.

"What’s happening?" someone asked nervously.

The man beside them, who had been resting his helmet on his forehead, dropped as well, groaning as he hit the ground. His helmet flew while his long torch plunged into the ground, exposing a suspicious contraption.

Startled, the leader slowed to a stop as the others rushed to help the fallen. He realized his column didn’t need a command to halt; they had already stopped out of fear. When he looked to his right, he saw the hired swords’ column suffering the same fate.

"Halt the men! Halt!" he bellowed to his officers as a precaution, then pushed through the crowd gathered around the victim. He knelt beside his fallen comrade.

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"My leg," the man gasped, clutching his bleeding ankle.

"What happened to you?" the leader asked, squinting into the darkness.

"This is the demon's iron wire," said an older man, examining the wound. He set his lantern down, and its light revealed a wire strung between wooden stakes jutting from the ground, each about several meters apart. They looked like ordinary tent stakes, but iron wire with sharp spikes was stretched between them, set just high enough to catch a man's ankle.

Worse, the wires had been planted seemingly at random. The leader peered around and saw it was nearly impossible to spot them, even with a lantern held close to the ground.

So far south, the Lord's white light did not reach them; only a feeble glow touched their position. It was enough to see what lay ahead, but not enough to make out anything clearly below the waist.

"I know caltrops, but this... I’ve never seen anything like it," the old man muttered.

"A devious trap," another murmured.

Ignoring the remark, the leader asked, "Can you fix him? We're pressed for time."

"It’s gone deep into the flesh. If I pull it out, it might do more harm."

"No, don't," the victim begged. "Just cut the wire. I don't want to go home crippled."

The leader froze for a moment, refusing to imagine the worst for his battle brother. From behind, he saw his men arriving, carrying the young officer whose face was streaked with tears and agony. Blood poured from both ankles.

He didn’t know the young officer well, but he knew his House had money. With a wave of his hand, the leader signaled for them to wait farther back, planning to assign only trusted men to carry him away for treatment. The young man's time playing war was finished.

Meanwhile, the old man tried to cut the wire with his dagger, but the blade only slipped off the metal.

"Let me," an axe wielder said. Realizing what needed to be done, the old man carefully pinned the wire down with his shoe.

The axe wielder positioned himself, then brought the axe down with force, chopping the wire against the ground. It was impractical, but the wire finally snapped, freeing the victim.

Just as they thought they had things under control, shouts rose from the column next to them. Everyone tensed as the shouting continued. Eyes strained to the right, where the silhouettes of horsemen appeared, bearing down on the hired swords' column.

"T-that's the Lowlandian cavalry!" one shrieked for all to hear.

"What should we do?" the old man asked the leader.

"Keep moving," the leader said grimly. "Everything depends on our assault."

His men exchanged glances, doubt written across their faces. Noticing this, the leader spoke in a cold, controlled tone. "We can either go now while the Lord's horsemen are busy with the other column, or we can wait until they come for us. Which do you prefer?"

Understanding this, the officers turned to their groups and rallied the men to resume the march.

"Apologies, I need to leave you," the leader said to the wounded brother.

"No need, just go," the man replied, holding his lantern near so the others wouldn’t trample him. "Win this for me. Midlandia for Midlandians."

The leader nodded, and soon the column began to move again, though far slower than they wanted. More than once, a sharp cry rang out as someone found the wire too late, flesh torn, and their thin leather shoes quickly slicked with blood. The dreaded spiked wire trap still claimed victims, and many were forced to walk like blind men, using the ends of their spears as sticks.

In such a sorry state, dozens began to think this would not end well and quietly slipped away, letting the darkness swallow them as they made their escape.

***

Lansius

The Grand Gemstone of Light, known as the Prize of Cascasonne, was not aimed at the southern side of the battlefield. Even so, it cast a weak glow over the three approaching columns. Of these, only two kept moving forward; the third was brought to a stop by another column advancing from their side, likely a fatal miscoordination. The two remaining columns slowed further, then ground to a halt.

"The trap worked better than expected, My Lord," said the guard who had been present when Lansius instructed the volunteers and carpenters.

"Indeed," Lansius replied, his attention shifting to his light riders led by Daniella. She was already leading them to harass one of the columns with ranged attacks.

Witnessing this, the men under his command seemed to relax. The tension faded, and a few even started to chuckle among themselves.

Lansius, noticing the change, asked, "Why are they laughing?"

The veteran beside him replied, "Pay them no mind, My Lord. They're just amused."

Lansius frowned. "Amused? About what?"

The veteran shrugged. "Until a moment ago, everything looked bleak. Now, without shedding a drop of blood, most of their worries have washed away. Some are calling you a battlefield magician."

His explanation was met with rowdy cheers and murmurs of agreement from the men along the line.

Lansius let out a short laugh, finding it stupid but oddly endearing. "Don't get overconfident. We're still outnumbered."

With fewer than twenty riders, they did not have the strength to crush hundreds of opponents. Still, he was deeply pleased that the trap he had improvised was working well. It was the fruit of his overthinking, knowing his flanks would be too tempting for the enemy to try to exploit. The problem was, setting up proper barbed wire fences or barricades required a lot of manpower and materials, which he did not have.

Moreover, any fence that could withstand hundreds of men, even if only a small portion were properly armored, would need to be sturdier than those meant to hold livestock. It would require thick timber driven deep into the ground. That would take a huge effort and a lot of time, certainly not something spare hands could manage in the dark. Even if they managed it, medieval iron wire had far less tensile strength than modern steel. It could never hold against hundreds of men.

Worse, he had not brought enough barbed wire to cover a wide area, so he worked with what he had. He ordered the camp volunteers and carpenters to search the now-abandoned sea of tents for tent stakes and mallets. Then he had them place the stakes along the flanks and connect them with short lengths of wire, strung loosely. The stakes were short, but tall enough to snag the ankles of unwary men moving through the darkness.

That was exactly what happened to the two columns that tried to flank them.

The guard nearest to him commented, "But I'm surprised it worked so well. With what we carried, I doubted we could cover enough area."

"Your observation is correct. There aren’t even a hundred of those traps, and likely fewer than half were actually stepped on."

"But they stopped."

"What stopped them is fear," Lansius said, as the men close by listened in.

"Imagine walking in the dark with a group of friends, and several get snagged and injured at the ankle. Would you keep walking?" he continued.

The men murmured. Some nodded, others whispered among themselves.

"But it won't stop them forever. They’ll decide whether to run or to—"

"They’re moving again!" their lookout shouted.

At the report, they all gripped their spears a little tighter. All eyes were fixed on the column in the middle as it began to advance.

Then, from the front, the captain turned to Lansius. "With your permission, My Lord, I’ll prepare the troops."

"Do as you will," Lansius replied.

"Men," the captain growled. He glared down the line, letting the moment build. "These matris futuor, canis filius

are coming. Last time, we went easy on them. We didn’t loot their cities. Didn’t burn their shops. Didn’t take their belongings. We left their wives untouched." He spat on the ground. "And this is how they repay us? With betrayal." He pointed his sword toward the enemy. "Now, whatever you want to say to them, say it with your spear, your sword, or your bolt. Let them taste despair!"

The men bristled, eyes fierce, as raw energy surged through the line.

"Let them feel pain, for we will drive them until they break and beg for mercy. But give none!" His voice rang out with hard resolve. "Give them none of your mercy, none of your pity. Let them regret their mistake until their last moment under the sky!"

A powerful roar erupted in unison, while Lansius watched and felt the charge run through every fiber of his body.

The captain faced Lansius again. "My Lord, your order?"

Without hesitation, Lansius matched the captain’s tone and declared, "Send the crossbowmen forward. Let our traitorous guests taste our House’s specialty before the main dish."

Hearing this, the troops cackled coarsely, eager for the bloodbath to come.

***

Saint Candidate's Separate Army

Sir Hohendorf and the Saint Candidate shared a horse, riding at the center of their trusted fifty. Flickering torchlight and lanterns marked their slow advance, leading hundreds of hired swords and a staggering number of Saint followers from their hideout in farmland just north of Canardia. They were five thousand strong, mostly untrained, but marched with relative ease through the night thanks to the summer-baked hard ground. The great mass of bodies gave the rioters confidence, but their leaders were in a different state of mind.

Outwardly, Sir Hohendorf and the Saint Candidate rode tall, but beneath the calm, they and their staff were troubled.

They spoke in hushed voices about what the scout had reported.

"How did he do that?" whispered Sir Hohendorf's father's old aide, his voice trembling.

"Did he have a fell beast with him?" asked a cousin, recently married into a wealthy merchant family, his voice uneasy.

"The Saint named him the Black Demon for a reason," another relative muttered, the son of a squire.

Sir Hohendorf sighed, unable to refute any of it, and nudged his horse a bit faster to put more distance between himself and the others. Since the scouts had brought word of a massacre at the foot of the hill, peace had abandoned them. Who wouldn’t be unsettled? Three large columns, led by the bearer of the Saint’s Golden Standard and joined by several smaller bands, had been completely eradicated. Four thousand men lay dead.

It was the reason for their detour. The army must not learn the truth. No rioter would dare fight if they knew how many of their own had died.

Moreover, their scouts had found evidence of even more fighting. The Lord had likely confronted another large column and left a mound of corpses beside the road, as if making a trophy of their brutality.

This last discovery forced them to question what kind of force the Lord commanded that could destroy a grand total of five thousand men.

They thought they had him cornered, but now everything was thrown into uncertainty.

Behind Sir Hohendorf, pressed close in the saddle, the Saint Candidate tightened her grip around his waist. She had been a sobbing wreck after learning of the deaths of so many Saint followers. Her fragile state was likely worsened by the medication given to Sir Bielstein when she had accidentally ingested a dose of poppy milk.

"Impossible," she breathed, disbelief still thick in her voice.

Trying to steady her, Sir Hohendorf spoke quietly. "They must have been routed by some trick."

"The bearer of the Golden Standard would never fall for a trick. He’d die on that hill before retreating," the Saint Candidate whispered, shuddering against him.

The knight drew a heavy breath. His right-hand man, Sir Bielstein, had been blinded, and now this unimaginable disaster. Even for a massive riot, losing five thousand was a death sentence. Still, he gathered himself and said, "The situation might turn bad, but we have more men than he does. Demon or not, he should be wounded. We can still defeat him."

She burrowed her delicate face in his cloak, and Sir Hohendorf continued, "Our scouts at the city gate report no movement. The Lord is still out here. And out here, he's as good as prey to our hunters."

"You're a good motivator, love," she whispered.

Invigorated by her words, he dared to ask, "Then, my beloved Saint Candidate, can you grace me with your eyes that see through the dark?"

"Certainly." She leaned forward in the saddle, almost giggling as she peered ahead and strained her gold-glowing eyes. Now, there was a curious, carefree lightness to her movements. "Nothing but grass and clusters of trees here and there."

"Can you see the arena from here?"

"I can see the silhouettes clearly, and the gates." She squinted, her lips curling into an innocent pout, but the view stayed blurry. "How strange," she added, airy and untroubled, as if commenting on the weather. "The rioters are outside in formation."

The knight was surprised. "Then the Lord isn’t there?"

She frowned, and her tone turned cold and harsh. "Of course not. How could he be? That demon in human form. He must be escaping, running away after feasting on blood." She paused, then asked in an innocent voice, "Don’t tell me you actually believe his threats?"

Sir Hohendorf thought: After what the Lord had done, he was prepared to believe anything, but he didn’t want to argue with the Saint Candidate. "No, I don’t. Indeed, he’s likely running away. To face the rest of our men in the arena would be suicidal, even for him."

The Saint Candidate’s eyes lit up as she contradicted herself, asking, "Do you think he’s escaping Canardia?"

Sir Hohendorf turned, trying to see her face. "If this is true, then—" He caught himself, the thought racing through his mind.

He didn’t need to finish; the Saint Candidate spoke with renewed fervor. "Imagine all of Midlandia learning that the Black Lord is fleeing from riots. People would rise in revolt." She hugged him tightly and urged, her voice fiery, "We need to catch him."

Then, a sudden beam of white light pierced the night sky in the distance, bathing the fields in a ghostly glow. Gasps and startled cries rippled through the five thousand. Some fell to their knees in awe, others surged forward for a better view, while a few turned and bolted in fear. The situation quickly dissolved into chaos.

"Don't be afraid," the Saint Candidate said, looking toward the light. Unlike a true practitioner, she couldn’t see far even with magic, but her conviction carried her forward. "The Living Saint has given us a sign. We must go, we must get there. The answer to our problem will be found there!"

Hearing her, Sir Hohendorf raced toward his scattered forces and shouted, "Don't be afraid. It's a sign from Saint Nay herself. Resume the march, victory draws near!"

Upon his lead, the rest of his staff spread out and began barking orders, forcing the five thousand back into formation.

"Victory draws near!" his officers echoed, believing it themselves.

Watching this, the Saint Candidate turned ecstatic and kissed the knight on the cheek.

Neither of them cared that they had just contradicted everything they had argued. The Lord wasn’t running away; he was facing the rioters in the arena. Their entire reasoning had been proven false, but that no longer mattered.

Steadily, they marshaled the army, pulling it back from the edge of panic and driving it forward on a wave of blind hope.

***