It happened in the span of a single breath.
The soldiers and knights marching further back in the column only saw their young lord ride ahead, only to be suddenly violently launched from his saddle, suspended in the air for a fraction of a second, before hitting the dirt as a human pincushion.
A collective, blinding shock wiped every mind blank. Chaos instantly descended.
A young knight let out a frantic, distorted scream. "What happened?!!"
Ser Adam's roar exploded like a thunderclap. His eyes swept over the blood-soaked, arrow-riddled body of Jero Lege. The boy was dead; no man could survive that. "Recover the Young Lord!"
Jero Lege was the sole heir of House Lege. Since he had died on their watch, the only possible way they could hope to mitigate the inevitable, catastrophic wrath of Lord Roger was to retrieve the boy's corpse.
Seeing the rest of the column still paralyzed by disbelief, Ser Adam drew his longsword, pointing the steel directly down the road. "AMBUSH!!"
"IT IS THE ENEMY!!"
His desperate roar finally shattered the paralysis gripping the knights and soldiers.
Ser Adam roared again, his voice tearing his throat. "Recover the Young Lord! Now!"
Five heavy cavalry knights snapped out of their daze. A blazing, desperate fury ignited in their eyes. The heir had been slaughtered right in front of them; there was no escaping the blame now.
The knights turned in their saddles, screaming at their squires.
"HELMETS!!!!"
"LANCES!!!!"
The squires, terrified by the sheer ferocity of their masters, scrambled frantically to hand up the heavy equipment.
The knights had drilled for this exact moment a thousand times. Their movements were practiced and lightning-fast. They hauled their heavy steel helms over their heads and slammed the visors down, the cold iron entirely sealing away their furious faces.
The massive warhorses sensed their masters' bloodlust. They stamped their hooves frantically against the earth, snorting thick plumes of hot breath into the morning air, waiting for the signal to strike.
Five heavy knights. Five moving mountains of steel. Under the morning sun, their full plate armor flashed with a blinding, lethal brilliance.
Ser Adam's voice drowned out all other noise. "CHARGE!!!"
"CHARGE!!! WE WILL NOT LET THE YOUNG LORD'S BODY FALL INTO ENEMY HANDS!!!"
The knights responded with a unified, guttural roar. Their battle cries merged with the furious neighing of the warhorses. They lowered their heavy lances, couching them under their arms, and spurred their mounts forward. The infantry immediately fell in behind them, rushing the enemy line.
Standing in the distance, Bolin watched the five knights begin their charge with cold, calculating eyes. Though there were only five of them, he had fought for a lord before. He knew that these men, encased entirely in thick steel, were like charging bulls—unstoppable, crushing, and terrifyingly lethal.
He turned his head toward his crossbowmen. He didn't shout, but his voice cut cleanly into the ear of every man. "Crank the windlass!!"
"Crank the windlass!!"
Upon the command, the heavy crossbowmen slammed their boots into the stirrups at the front of their weapons. Gripping the handles, they poured every ounce of strength in their bodies into turning the heavy iron gears to draw the thick bowstrings back.
The tension in the air became solid enough to cut.
In the distance, the thunderous rhythm of galloping hooves grew louder, beating against the earth like the drums of the Stranger. The sheer psychological terror of a medieval heavy cavalry charge was devastating.
The crossbowmen kept their heads down, staring only at the gears in their hands, too terrified to look up. Yet, they could feel the earth trembling violently beneath their boots. The blinding reflection of the approaching steel grew closer and more piercing by the second.
A drop of cold sweat rolled down a young crossbowman's cheek, stinging his eye with bitter salt. He blinked frantically, his grip slipping for a fraction of a second. The heavy windlass violently snapped backward with a sickening crack.
Time seemed to stretch thin. Life and death hung on a razor's edge.
The distance between the line and the charging knights was evaporating rapidly. Panic began to set in, making the crossbowmen's usually practiced reloading movements clumsy and frantic.
Bolin's ten veteran brothers, though masters of the longbow, were forced to fire arcing volleys. But their arrows were useless against full plate; the shafts simply struck the charging steel with a metallic ping and deflected harmlessly into the mud.
Someone in the ranks couldn't control their terror and screamed. "Faster! Faster! Faster! They're right on top of us!"
Five heavy knights riding shoulder-to-shoulder were enough to shatter the morale of hundreds of light infantry. Their hooves thundered, the ground roared, and their lances were leveled squarely at the center of the formation. Seeing their lords charging so fearlessly, the Lege infantry roared in a blood-crazed frenzy, sprinting closely behind the horses to tear into Bolin's ranks!
Seeing the panic threatening to break his crossbowmen, Bolin spurred his horse forward, stopping directly in front of the firing line. He swung down from the saddle, planting his boots firmly in the mud.
He was clad in the heavy Lion Armor from the Lion's Den. He was currently the only man in Solomon's army with the sheer physical strength to wear the massive plate and still move freely. Standing there, he looked like an immovable black iron tower.
Bolin simply stood his ground. His massive frame acted as a physical and psychological anchor, forming an impenetrable wall between the terrified crossbowmen and the charging lances.
Seeing Bolin's towering silhouette holding the line, the panicking men finally found their courage. He swallowed their fear for them.
Their hands steadied. Their movements became sharp, powerful, and synchronized once more. The rapid clack-clack-clack of the windlass gears locking into place rang out in unison.
Bolin's voice was as steady as a mountain. "WAIT FOR MY COMMAND!!!"
"FIRE AS ONE!!!"
"AIM FOR THE HORSES AND THE BREASTPLATES!!!"
Bolin knew Lord Solomon's teachings well: while warhorses wore armor, it was never as thick or comprehensive as a knight's plate. Furthermore, the sheer kinetic trauma of a fully armored man being violently violently violently unhorsed at a full gallop was often far more lethal than an arrow wound.
The charging knights closed to fifty paces.
Forty paces.
Thirty paces.
Twenty paces.
The longbowmen drew their strings back to their ears, the iron bodkin points tracking the rapidly expanding targets. They waited for Bolin's word.
The final crossbowman locked his string into place. He threw his head back, screaming with all the air in his lungs. "LOADED!!!!"
Bolin raised his heavy, gauntleted hand high into the air, then brought it slashing down. "FIRE!!!"
Dozens of heavy, armor-piercing crossbow bolts and a swarm of black-fletched arrows shrieked from the line in a single, devastating instant.
They tore through the narrow gap of air, slamming head-on into the five knights.
The distance was simply too short. The lead knight, along with his warhorse, was struck by several heavy bolts simultaneously. The massive beast let out a horrific, high-pitched scream. Its front legs buckled instantly. The colossal weight of the horse flipped violently forward, crashing into the dirt. The knight was launched from the saddle, tumbling end over end through the mud for a dozen yards before coming to a dead, broken stop.
Another knight took a windlass bolt directly through the shoulder plate. The sheer kinetic impact twisted his body violently in the saddle, ripping the heavy lance from his grip.
The mounts of the other two knights fared no better. The horses screamed and collapsed to their knees, violently throwing their masters to the ground or simply crushing them beneath their immense bulk. One young knight found his leg pinned beneath his dead, overturned horse. He thrashed and struggled wildly in the mud, but the weight was absolute.
Only Ser Adam remained. A heavy bolt had punched straight through the eye slit of his visor, burying itself deep into his face. Yet, he seemed completely oblivious to the fatal wound.
His warhorse had also taken an arrow to the chest, but running on pure, dying adrenaline, the beast carried the old knight straight into the enemy formation.
But he was entirely alone.
Bolin let out a deafening, feral roar. He stepped forward to meet the charge himself. "GOOD!!!"
The praise was for the lethal precision of his archers.
Channeling the momentum of a charging bear and the immense weight of his Lion Armor, Bolin violently slammed his shoulder directly into the side of Ser Adam's dying horse. The beast, already bleeding out and off-balance, shrieked as its legs gave way entirely. It crashed heavily into the earth. The massive impact launched Ser Adam from the saddle, slamming the old knight into the mud with a bone-shattering crunch. He did not rise again.
The Lege infantry, who had been sprinting closely behind the charge, skidded to a horrified halt. Their invincible lords, the masters of the battlefield, had been utterly annihilated in a single volley.
Now, it was Solomon's soldiers' turn to charge.
At Bolin's silent gesture, the peasant soldiers surged past him and the archers, rushing the paralyzed Lege infantry like a pack of starving wolves. The two lines violently collided. Steel hacked into flesh, and blood sprayed into the air.
Solomon's men were driven by a terrifying, materialistic fanaticism.
They pushed forward with savage brutality. The Lege infantry, already outnumbered, entirely demoralized by the slaughter of their knights, and trapped in a complete encirclement, broke instantly. It was no longer a battle; it was a frantic, chaotic race among Solomon's men to sever heads to claim their land bounties.
The skirmish rapidly devolved into a merciless, one-sided butchery.
Bolin unsheathed his heavy longsword and walked slowly toward the young knight pinned beneath his dead horse.
The young knight looked up at the towering, blood-soaked blacksmith. His face was twisted in absolute terror. "I yield! I invoke my rights as an anointed knight! I surrender! I will pay any ransom you name in exchange for my life and my freedom!"
"By the Seven above! I demand my rights!!!"
He received no answer. Bolin's face remained a mask of iron. The young knight's aristocratic pride shattered, and he began to beg, sobbing pathetically.
"Please! Don't kill me! I will give you a mountain of Golden Dragons!!!"
A few yards away, Ser Adam struggled to pull himself up until he was sitting, his back resting against the corpse of his warhorse. He looked at the weeping young knight, then up at the massive, silent figure of Bolin.
From the very first volley—from the moment they chose to instantly, brutally execute the sole heir of a great house—Ser Adam knew the terrifying truth. This army never had any intention of taking prisoners. Not a single man from their column was meant to leave this marsh alive.
The old knight shook his head slowly. He spoke to the weeping boy. "Child. Be quiet."
"At the very least... die like a knight."
Bolin brought his heavy boot down, violently kicking away the longsword the young knight was desperately trying to raise in a final, feeble defense. The Lion Sword flashed downward, silencing the boy's pleas forever.
Bolin then walked over to another knight who was weakly struggling to rise from the mud. Without a word, he drove the point of his sword directly through the thin gap in the man's visor.
Finally, Bolin stood before Ser Adam. The old knight was gasping for air. The heavy bolt was still lodged in his face, and thick, pink blood bubbled from the air holes in his visor with every ragged breath.
The old knight uttered his final words. "Is this... my retribution... Father Above?"
Bolin did not reply. He didn't understand the old man's words, nor did he care to. He simply raised his heavy sword one last time.
Moments later, the slaughter was complete. The only survivors were a dozen Lege infantrymen huddled tightly together in the center of the road. Surrounding them was a circle of Solomon's soldiers, their eyes burning with predatory hunger, waiting for the order to strike. The trapped men shook violently, holding their weapons in trembling hands.
Bolin looked over the heads of his men. He stared at the cowering, terrified survivors. His voice was utterly devoid of human emotion as he delivered his final command.
"Leave none alive."
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