CHAPTER 260: A TIDE OF BLOOD

A Tide of Blood

The Rioters' Three Columns

Many underestimated the risks of a flanking maneuver, thinking it was nothing more than attacking the enemy’s side. As a result, many commanders ignored the inherent danger in the maneuver, gambling that it would somehow work wonders for their battle. In truth, to flank the opponent meant, at the very least, sending the men to cover a wide distance, often at speed, just to reach the enemy’s position. To march quickly, in armor, off the road and in the heat of battle, demanded tremendous exertion.

To keep the flanking force from getting too weary was crucial, because when they finally arrived and clashed against the enemy, they had to be in good enough shape not just to fight, but to win against an opponent who was far fresher than they were. That was why, in most battles, the flanking role was given to horsemen.

And exhaustion was only the first hazard. There were a myriad of other risks to consider. For the maneuver to succeed, it needed to be carried out covertly, or, if that was impossible, the main army had to provide enough pressure to pin down the enemy and keep the smaller flanking force from being countered. That made coordination and timing vital.

Coordination meant that, despite the terrain, distance, and chaos of battle, the order to flank had to be delivered clearly through signals or messengers. As for timing, if the main body attacked too early or too late, the flankers might arrive unsupported and find themselves outnumbered and exposed, risking isolation and being overrun.

As such, while flanking was meant to exploit vulnerabilities, the maneuver itself could create new weaknesses if executed poorly.

Meanwhile, the risk of failure was often more fatal than mere defeat. A late maneuver would mean the main army suffered while the smaller flanking force became isolated and obliterated. In such a case, the loss could be greater than a simple rout. The best officers and veterans assigned to the flanking force could all be lost or captured, spelling doom for the barony, duchy, or even the kingdom.

Thus, a good commander understood that a flanking maneuver was always a high-risk, high-reward tactic. When well-timed and supported, it could shatter an enemy army. If mishandled, it often led to confusion, isolation, and disaster for the attackers.

And this lesson was what the rioters' commander had failed to grasp.

They were overexerting their strength.

Walking with the butt of his spear as a walking stick, one of the rioters in the flanking column struck something. His heart leapt as he prodded again, just to be sure he had found the trap. "I found one, I found one!" he shouted, like the others who had uncovered the spiked wire.

By now, nobody bothered to come with a lantern. There was only the order to keep moving. "Keep going, keep going!"

Prompted by the noise and still unsatisfied with the pace, the leader shouted to his officers, "Don’t let them fall behind!"

His officers, tired and weary, still relayed the order down the line in a series of shouts.

"The men are too weary," one of his brothers in arms argued.

"We're already beset by traps and have slowed to a crawl. They should regain their breath and their strength."

"They're not like us," his men said. "Not used to the weight of armor, or to marching with spears and shields."

"Just keep them moving. We'll have time to argue after the battle," the leader said stubbornly, believing the weight of their numbers would drown the Lord's weary column. But he had fatally misjudged both his opponent and his own side.

Out of three columns, one lagged due to miscoordination. Their best column, made up of hired men, was pinned down by the Lord's cavalry. The last column, his own, was the only one still crawling toward the Lord’s line. The men were fearful of traps, ragged with exhaustion, and losing numbers to desertion.

And now, out of the blue, as they drew closer, they were greeted by a hail of bolts.

"Crossbowmen!" they shouted to warn each other.

The leader raised his shield as the men carrying torches or lanterns were struck; easy targets in the dark.

As his men cowered and halted, the leader struck his shield with his sword to gather their attention. "Keep pushing, or it'll get worse."

"Follow your leaders," his officers barked.

"Do not get held down, or everyone will get killed," they tried again.

Still, the men hesitated as more bolts whistled sharply and cries echoed among them.

The leader wasn't a believer, but he knew many of his men were followers or sympathizers. "Remember your family. Fight for them. Fight for your Saint!"

Originally one hundred and forty strong, now less than a hundred. Even weary, their cause reignited their courage, and they resumed the march.

But their plight only drew the Lord's crossbowmen’s attention, who mercilessly sent bolt after bolt, thinning their ranks even more.

Even bloodied and battered, the rioters refused to yield. They pounded their shoes hard on the ground, driven by faith that the Saint would make things beautiful for them. They cried out to steel their hearts and rushed toward the Lord’s line, now not even four dozen paces away.

"We are the Living Saint's wrath made manifest!" one shouted boldly as his brethren crashed into the Lord's ranks amid the sporadic bolts.

Against the hail of bolts and the threatening array of spears, the column of one hundred advanced straight into the forest of spear points. Fights erupted along the line as they pushed for dominance. They were met by bristling spears and quickly traded thrusts. Many had only spears themselves, but what they lacked in training, they made up for with blind bravery.

Blood was spilled, bones crushed, and men thrust through, but the rioters, in a rare display of stubbornness, fought their hardest. Side by side, they gave everything: sweat and blood. Many were naive, putting their faith in their side’s shouts of encouragement, convinced they would win.

They didn’t even realize how bloodied their ranks were until it was too late.

"Where's that big mouth and toughness gone?" Vicious mockery came from the Lord's line.

"You said something about the Living Saint's wrath?" another called, driving his spear into a rioter’s belly.

After the initial bouts, the Lord's veterans showed their claws and bared their fangs.

The rioters were untrained, their formation sloppy, their armor lacking, and worse, they arrived already exhausted. All of it added up: their aim was wild, and the strength behind their thrusts was weak. They were up against men who had seen five or seven battles.

A sudden short burst of trumpets made the spear wall grin in unison. They were ready and trained for this. With small steps forward, they began to push back, thrusting lethally with every advance.

It seemed like little at first, but as they pressed forward, their counterattacks and thrusts grew more ferocious and precise.

Under pressure, the gap in experience quickly showed. Unlike the first exchanges, the Lord's men-at-arms seized the initiative. As if to mark the change in tide, one kicked an impaled rioter off his spear. The victim screamed as he fell, drawing everyone's attention to his agony.

"Swords!" the Lord's captain bellowed, giving the rioters no respite.

It was the moment the Lord's men had been waiting for.

To the rioters' horror, the men-at-arms surged forward. Encased in plate and pressing through the dense wall of spears, they fought savagely with their blades.

Suddenly, the fight turned into a close, brutal brawl of swords.

The rioters tried frantically to match them, but they were slaughtered.

In just a few minutes of fighting, more than a quarter of the rioters' column lay dead.

As the cries of pain, pleas for mercy, and wailing drowned out their war cries, the rest of the rioters stepped back. Only then did they notice how the grass was slick with blood, their allies sprawled everywhere, some even crawling desperately for safety.

Frozen with fear, crossbow bolts tore into them. Now, not even their leader could give orders. He had been slain by a heavy bolt to the chest, taken out by an expert arbalester while trying to direct the fight.

The remaining rioters, still numbering more than fifty, lost all courage and ran. They had met the gaze of death, and wise thought finally prevailed. With ragged breath, they gave everything to escape, running back into the night.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

...

Lansius

Seeing the first flanking column begin to retreat, the captain and his men rushed to stand before Lansius. "My Lord, the chance has presented itself. Please give me the word to chase and destroy them!"

Lansius, standing behind his guards, turned to his right, toward the center-left, where his men were still locked in battle with the drugged fanatics. He saw them still fighting, but the line held. He turned back to the captain and gave a firm nod. "You have my full blessing. Take fifty and hit them, then swing to the other column facing our riders. And, captain," he called.

"My Lord?" The captain stood ready, expectant.

"Break them," Lansius ordered.

An eager roar erupted from the men.

"Understood, My Lord," the captain responded. "First group and Third group, on me."

A groan rose from the second and fourth groups, who hadn't been chosen, drawing laughs from their comrades.

"You've had your days," one commented hoarsely as the chosen fifty formed up.

The captain stepped back so all could see and hear him. The order came as one deep bellow: "Hunt them!"

Lansius watched as fifty men rushed after the fleeing enemy, sword or spear in hand. It was a brutal cleanup, meant to make sure the enemy couldn’t regroup and was truly routed. To the side, Dame Daniella’s riders still played an effective role in pinning down another column. These two elements, as planned, would meet to guarantee victory in the south. If the enemy broke, Lansius hoped the third column, still late to the fight, would give up and withdraw.

He didn’t want to face another battle. His men had fought against forces three times their size more than once tonight. Even eager and experienced, they were already exhausted.

Turning to the men behind him, he ordered, "Get me updates from the rest of the line. Find out if they need help."

***

The Rioters' Northern Side

The white-robed youth watched the battle with great expectation. Bathed in the glow of magical white light, he and his guardians looked almost mythical, pillars of their cause. The rioters around him were still celebrating, proud of their three columns tearing into the Black Demon army’s flanks and rear. Everyone expected the Lord’s army to break and rout at any moment.

Soon, sweet victory would be theirs. But as they waited, victory seemed to come late, and impatience grew.

“Triumphant!” they shouted again and again, using it as a war cry while shoving the ranks ahead to push harder.

But their efforts only pressed their line into a bloodbath. Without room to maneuver and squeezed from all sides, the Lord’s right wing slammed into the already weakened formation with merciless frenzy. Many fell and died in the ferocious pike charge as it broke deeper and deeper.

Not even the white-haired leader could do more than hurl men forward, hoping to blunt the advance. All the while, he was scrambling to build a defense against the Lord’s heavy cavalry that had regrouped north of them.

However, it was not meant to be.

With gasps and a horrified look that betrayed his strong image, the white haired captain watched as the Lord's heavy cavalry bore down on their rear. They were too fast and too powerful to be countered.

The moment it happened, everyone with a good pair of eyes knew things had not gone as they expected.

"Where did they come from?" one of the guardians shouted in shock as the ranks north of them collapsed in a chaos of shouts and screams.

The white-robed youth could only watch, mouth agape. Unlike before, no words of comfort or rallying cry came to his tongue. With a shattered heart, he watched the cavalry ride down the faithful, their violent movements in the dark seeming to mock him, laughing at his foolishness and overconfidence. Only now did he realize that while he was blinded by the brightness, the Black Lord had been working in the dark.

Everyone had expected to see a rout, but instead, they watched as everything north of them came undone, crushed by the cavalry’s assault.

In the face of carnage, men ran in fright, scattering in all directions. No words of faith could persuade them to stay and fight.

It was a duel to the death, and they had been thoroughly beaten.

"O Saint, give us your strength," the robed youth murmured quietly as they began to withdraw in earnest. Not even he gave any protest as the guardians pushed and dragged him to join the rout.

"Candidate, there'll be another time," one of them said as they joined the hundreds in a desperate flight.

But it was too late.

"Brothers!" one of his guardians warned as the cavalry bore down on them.

The hundreds broke, scrambling to save themselves from the thundering hooves. The neighing of warhorses and the flash of swords marked the cavalry’s arrival, joined by a growing chorus of screams and panic. Within several breaths, the rout turned into a stampede. Everyone rushed to survive.

The Lord's cavalry purposely left the hardened rioters and focused on the rear. Soon, there were no more shifting battle lines in the north. Amid cries, angry shouts, and frantic chants, the rioters’ northern line vanished. Every rioter there fled, scrambling south before their escape was cut off.

Even the white-haired captain and his brethren ran, abandoning those they had driven forward to gruesome deaths.

"Captain!" his officer called, as chaos spread around them like a flash flood. Everyone had abandoned the fight, seeing no hope left. The Lord's right wing, led by the camp commander, was on a rampage as the column broke apart.

"Go," the captain barked as he joined the retreat. "Go! We're losing this. Run, and save your lives."

Against a fleeing opponent, the Lord’s right wing massacred everyone in their path, stopping for nothing and leaving a trail of bodies behind.

Seeing the collapse, the rest of the rioters’ center and southern lines crumbled. Those who could fled without hesitation. A mass of thousands quickly poured into the grassy fields, running south with nothing but their shoes and the clothes on their backs. Many would likely perish, too weakened to escape through the night, their last proper meal having been that morning before the riot began.

Afraid and shocked, what remained of the six thousand-strong rioters was now thoroughly broken.

A desperate mass of thousands fled into the darkness as the Lord’s cavalry crashed into their rear again and again, goading and feasting on the weakened and wounded.

There was no regrouping. No figure rose to rally the shattered, leaderless mob.

All hope of resistance bled away on the fields, leaving nothing but mangled bodies behind.

***

Lansius

What he saw was the aftermath of another battle. It was a cruel, sadistic end to a human struggle. The mass of thousands had turned into a rout, fleeing south. He would give them the night to run and hide. Tomorrow, he would order his fresh cavalry from the city to pursue. It was merciless, but this was rebellion, and he refused to be a weak or softhearted ruler. They and their instigators would pay the price.

He watched as the last flanking column disappeared from the field, swept away in the rout.

The last to emerge triumphant was his center left, who had held against the drugged fanatics. Their opponents were dead, burned, or scattered across the field.

Witnessing the cost of victory, Lansius considered that he should give his men a greater prize. The right wing, center, left, and both cavalry wings had all shown incredible courage and effort in this brutal battle.

As the fighting stopped, everyone began to relax their line and tend to the wounded. However, far to the rear, the sound of heavy, rhythmic footsteps echoed through the night. The pace was lighter than a horse’s, but the speed and rhythm were unmistakable, drawing the attention of anyone within earshot.

"Something is coming!" a man shouted, prompting those nearby to ready their spears. But the plains to the east were too dark.

Lansius' guards surrounded him, shields at the ready.

Then one man brought forward his oil lantern with a reflector. He pointed it east, and by chance, the light caught a hulking creature, massive and wolfish, charging toward them. "Beastmen!" he screamed.

Everyone scrambled for their weapons, but their reaction was too slow. The beast was already inside, moving past several groups of men.

"That's a half-breed?" one shouted as the creature raced past.

"Allies?" another muttered, gripping his crossbow.

Confusion rippled through the ranks as the half-breed refused to stop until he found the man he was searching for, hidden behind a wall of shields and spears.

"My Lord," the large, hulking creature greeted as he came to an abrupt stop.

"Kneel," the guards ordered, raising their spears as they shielded Lansius, still wary but giving the creature a chance. Nearby men closed in, weapons at the ready. They recognized the half-breed, but for him to appear like this was suspicious.

Lansius recognized him too. His height and fur alone were a clear indication. "Big Ben?" he asked.

"My Lord," the creature repeated, sounding proud to be recognized. "I've come to bring urgent news."

Lansius frowned. "But you’re posted northeast of the city. Don’t tell me—"

"No, My Lord, it’s quiet on my post," Big Ben replied, still breathless as he sat with his legs crossed.

Lansius pushed through his guards and approached, sensing no hostility in those predatory eyes. "Then why are you here?"

"And who’s with you?" one of the guards demanded, noticing a man slumped on the beast’s shoulder.

"I'm with Reginald," Big Ben explained. With a dexterity no ordinary man possessed, he easily plucked the man from his shoulder and set him down on the ground. He tried to make him stand, but the man had clearly fainted; he dangled limply and collapsed like a ragdoll onto the soft grass. At this, his face turned sheepish and embarrassed.

"Reginald?" Lansius asked, unable to imagine any reason for his presence in this battle.

Several men stepped closer, lanterns in hand, and revealed the former lord’s identity.

Lansius glanced around and saw that all his officers and staff were just as confused as he was. Turning his gaze to the half-breed, he asked, "Why did you bring him here?"

"There’s no time, My Lord," the beast said, still seated, as he pointed his massive arm and finger toward the east. "A large number of opponents are coming."

Lansius was stunned. His men echoed in shock, "A large number?"

Even the guards and veterans shuddered at the prospect; they had barely won the battle.

"How many?" one guard demanded, his tone steady.

"Many." Big Ben looked frustrated and gently pressed Reginald several times, while the men treating him quietly begged him not to. "Oi, meat, wake up. I forgot the big numbers," he groaned.

"Meat?" one of the men surrounding him muttered in disbelief.

Lansius ignored it and asked, "Thousands?"

Big Ben nodded hastily. "Thousands," he confirmed.

Francisca has failed...?

Lansius couldn’t believe it. He had suspected there was still a hidden army somewhere. If he had been leading the riot, he would have done the same. Understanding this risk, he had sent Francisca, even though she would have been invaluable in these night battles. Now, tragically, she seemed to have gone in the wrong direction and failed to intercept this hidden army.

He turned to a group of youngsters and shouted, "Run to the gemstone cart and tell them to direct it east. Focused light. Search for any army approaching us."

"Yes, My Lord." Two young men ran at once, both thinking Lansius had spoken to them.

Lansius didn’t care to correct them; his mind was already burdened with too much. "Thousands..." he muttered.

He couldn’t survive another thousand, let alone several thousand. His officers, veterans, and men also went quiet, troubled. Despite victories, their numbers had taken a steady toll of injured and dead.

At this point, Reginald seemed to awaken, sitting weakly as someone pressed a wineskin to his lips. He gazed around, uncertain, until he saw Lansius. His body shook. "M-my Lord."

"Time is pressing. Why are you here?" Lansius asked.

"I—I believed the half-breed would be tremendous in assisting you," Reginald stammered, then lost his train of thought. Cold sweat broke out on his brow. His argument had slipped away somewhere during the journey.

Lansius grew impatient and cut in, "Tell me about the army you saw."

"Y-yes," the former lord gathered himself. "Rioters, My Lord, way more than two thousand, likely twice that number. Heading this way."

"Four thousand?" Lansius asked, his breath heavy.

The men around them murmured in disbelief.

"I swear on my life. Master Big Ben saw it too," Reginald said, his voice full of concern.

Suddenly, the light from the Grand Gemstone began to turn. The bright white beam swung sharply to the right, cutting across the field in a blazing arc. The shift startled everyone, plunging the western side into darkness and forcing the men to blink and strain their eyes against the night.

It didn’t stop the rioters' rout, but Lansius’ own line was thrown into confusion.

Lansius watched as the beam swept across the eastern plains, moving as fast as the hand-cranked device could turn. It searched the darkness, swinging back and forth, until it finally caught the silhouettes of men at the edge of sight.

A gasp escaped Lansius' lips as he saw them: dark shapes, like ants swarming the plains, all moving toward his position.

***

For details often missed, read Post-chapter below