Dietrich galloped into the fray and charged right into the side of the enemy’s formation, sending six enemies flying with a swing of her halberd. Her momentum unbroken, she tore a hole through their formation and trampled her way through the other side. Through the gap, six cavalrymen followed the path she had left. Lances speared and toppled; hooves crushed armor, flesh, and bone alike.
The arrival of Dietrich and her unit was nothing short of a miracle. If they had been one minute earlier or later, they would not have managed to secure such a splendid victory.
All the same, the tides of battle had not been turned in their favor. The enemy was already on the move, clambering up the trenches as they doggedly resumed their charge. They silently reformed their formations, not even reacting as their allies were ripped apart.
“Lucky, am I, huh...? Maybe it’s finally run its course...” Siegfried muttered.
As the despondent adventurer wondered whether to resort to prayer, another bugle broke through the clamor.
[Tips] A bugle is used to relay orders or signals across distances. It has been used since ancient times as a practical, nonmagical solution to the challenges of coordinating a fighting force. In the Empire of Rhine, it is mostly used for war, the signal to charge being chief among them.
There were many times in life when you wished you’d been just five minutes earlier; however, this regret was one that would stay with me for the rest of my life. In the course of my new life, I’d accumulated many an occasion where I’d had cause to think that I’d made it in time, only for reality to prove me wrong.
After I’d sorted out the knights, I used the help of the folk who’d come to check up on me to tie them up and shove them off for safekeeping. I also successfully rounded up seven of the enemy’s horses. I’d only been able to bring fewer than half of them, as the others were too restless to be able to carry anyone a distance away, but this was more than enough, considering they were well-trained warhorses.
I convinced the available locals to loot the enemy’s armor, helmets, and lances, and pass them along to those who could ride before the citizens dashed off back to the evacuation point. I wasn’t the sort of person who’d send simple civilians into a damn war zone. Although these men were familiar with draft horses, I doubted they would be able to endure the intense gallop of a cavalry unit.
Left with my Fellows and the few members of the Watch who were more than capable riders, I formed a makeshift secondary cavalry unit. In my eyes there was no negative to being able to ride a horse, so when I’d formed the Fellowship’s own cavalry unit, I’d made sure as many Fellows were trained up to be able to survive on horseback, so this part went smoothly. My practice sessions in the event that a caravan we were protecting might need one of us to take the reins instead of the driver were paying unexpected dividends.
I’d tried to make sure we were as close to fully kitted out as we could manage before coming in to provide support, but it appeared that we were still late. There were folk on the ground, injured people. One had left so much blood at his feet, that I thought he might be dead. I didn’t bother asking why people who had chosen to fight had ended up injured. I was the one who had trained them up for this exact situation, after all. But still, but still, I couldn’t help but wish I’d arrived but five minutes earlier!
I alerted my allies to the charge—I did not want Dietrich to mistake us for the enemy—by blowing the bugle I’d stolen from the knight. The melodious howl of it echoed through the night.
I could tell that everyone, foes and allies alike, stopped for a moment as they looked over.
The situation was rough. The defenders of Mottenheim had zero intent of falling back and had resisted the enemy’s persistent assault, but they were losing energy right at the gates to the canton. Dietrich had torn apart the enemy’s formation, but they were working to reassemble. Near the trenches, the backup cavalrymen were beginning preparations to pulverize their weakened enemy once and for all.
I told myself that I had made it in time. If I’d been three minutes later than I was now, their charge would’ve already finished, and they would have scattered our defending line and taken them down. Like a well-cooked lobster, their shell would’ve been cracked right open, exposing the soft flesh underneath.
As the bugle’s note lingered, I felt my body grow hot. I supposed the horn must have had some enchantment on it, but it was trifling at this stage. Our final move had signaled a checkmate. All that was left was to clean up shop.
I drew my sword. The Craving Blade once more answered my wishes and transformed into a curved saber, an ideal shape for horseback combat. That howl that carved its mad love into my brain proclaimed its joy at the rare opportunity to draw blood on so many occasions in the space of one day.
“CHARGE!”
At my command, my six cavalrymen followed me. Mud scattered into the air with our pounding hooves as the horses careened over ground that had been twisted by my mines. When our lance charge finally connected, it was a sight to behold. The enchantments on the zombies evidently didn’t allow them to respond swiftly to a clash this immediate. They were lethargic, unsure whether to focus on the new enemy or keep up the assault as they had been. As for the enemy’s own cavalry unit, they suddenly paused, unsure whether they should continue their charge or not. They had calculated our trajectory and had realized that they had no escape route to speak of.
“Keep stabbing!” I heard Siegfried roar. “Don’t let them think! Don’t give them the luxury!”
Siegfried continued the attack with his bloodsoaked, beloved spear. The enemy couldn’t focus their attention on us; their separated formation in the back was starting to crumble too.
Uh-huh, I thought, they’re pros at controlling zombies, but when it comes to leadership, they’re amateurs, and either hastily prepared or too used to easy wins.
It was a poor move to dither over the next move at this stage in the game. They were backed up into a corner. Horseback charges had been developed as a response to tight spear-led formations, so we had the advantage now. Their ten or so soldiers with projectile weapons weren’t providing decent support, and the main forces were struggling to get back into formation—we couldn’t be stopped.
Warhorses had shorter legs than their speedier, regular counterparts, and could easily weigh over half a ton. With their armor and a heavily equipped individual in the saddle, they were even mightier. The speed and weight gave them the destructive power of a car in a head-on collision, but with pounding hooves instead of tires—it was enough to kill pretty much any regular person.
What the enemy should have done was to try and deal as much possible damage as they could by throwing everything to the wind and sticking into our foot soldiers. A chaotic scenario like that would force us to give up on the charge and dismount. Or they could also have decided that a few kills were better than none and formed a spear wall to stop us in a desperate, last-ditch attempt.
But now? They had no chance of winning. If they were unable to surrender—I doubted they thought there was any worth in it—then all that was left was to let the blood flow. They had gotten greedy and tried to change their formation, but now they were hesitating.
Unlike them, we showed no hesitation. All we had to deal with were cavalrymen who had lost their momentum and the remaining zombies who hounded our allies. A cavalry unit was a support unit; a battle without boots on the ground was one you were bound to lose. Their only options were to run away or play a losing gamble. They had wasted their little remaining time by dithering over whether they should make a huge loss into a regular loss, and now they were nothing but mincemeat beneath our hooves.
Our own side let out a raucous cheer as the enemy’s fear turned into our own morale.
The enemy’s shields were shattered; their bodies were tossed aside; their limbs succumbed to sword and lance. Our allies’ line cast aside their shields and joined the chaos, cutting down those who still had hold of their sword.
The remaining forces must have felt fear—a terror that with the zombies now dealt with, their number was up. The cavalrymen kicked their horses’ bellies and tried to make a run for it into the forest.
The foot soldiers, the bedrock of a battle, had been crushed under the mighty hammer of our cavalry charge. This sight, so foul you would turn your nose up at it, spread in no time at all. The zombies’ bodies were pulverized, no different from the mud they were crushed into, and the reek of blood filled the air. We had seized the moment and turned the battle on its head. Despite the recent invention of cannons and smoothbores, we evidenced how terrifying a well-trained cavalry unit could be.
Victory was ours. The enemy’s soul had been crushed.
All the same, I felt regret. If only I’d been but five minutes earlier—the thought stuck in my brain.
Although the results of our charge had been great, we hadn’t come out unscathed. Right in the eleventh hour, the enemy’s back line had steeled their resolve and started to repel our attacks, felling two horses in the process. One bucked out of surprise and tossed back its rider, but the other was on the ground, its remaining time short. Although no one died, two men had fallen from their saddles from the counterattacks during our repeated charges. One was groaning, simply unconscious, and the other was— Wait, Martyn?!
“Martyn! What happened?!” I said.
He coughed. “H-Hey, Boss... I’m sorry to...embarrass you. I...screwed up...”
Martyn must have fallen badly; his left forearm was twisted at a strange angle. The bleeding suggested an internal fracture.