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Hardly thirty minutes later, the battle had turned dramatically. Where the enemy’s left flank had once held an overwhelming advantage, the ball was now in our court.
“Your Majesty, the final flock has broken down,” the Count Palatine reported. Incidentally, his intelligence agents were being run ragged, acting as messengers between all the far corners of the battlefield.
I nodded. “They performed well.”
Contrary to our expectations, however, the enemy had not fully broken into a rout. Despite having their formation shattered, they seemed to have scrounged up enough grit to hold on. It was a bit of a surprise—no matter how formidable the Raul army was, I hadn’t anticipated them to be able to endure such a brutal shelling. I mean, there was a reason soldiers tended to call artillery support their “divine salvation.”
Moreover, Salomon had shown some initiative by going beyond his base directives and getting his mages to launch a magical offensive—apparently, they’d had a number of spare mana-sealing wards. It hadn’t created much of a physical dent in the enemy’s numbers, but it should’ve given them a nasty shock regardless, given that the area was mana-burnt and they must’ve assumed nothing magical would be coming their way.
Nevertheless, the enemy hadn’t broken and fled. They maintained their order and fell back at a gradual pace. It was puzzling, at first, but the reason became clear soon enough.
“That’s Duke Raul’s flag,” I observed. “To think the commander in chief himself would be fighting on the front lines...”
My lords’ armies had taken advantage of the chaos in the enemy’s ranks by launching a fierce offensive. Not far from the border of where they clashed, a standard fluttered in the air, declaring the self-proclaimed Duke Raul’s position to the world. No wonder the enemy had been able to maintain order—their top dog was basically acting as rear guard.
From the beginning, my objective had been the self-proclaimed Duke Raul’s death. However, he was the commanding general of his forces. Opportunities to strike at someone in his position weren’t exactly common.
However, there was one exception, a time when it was much easier to get a shot at the enemy’s general: during a pursuit. One army chasing down another put the former in the position to do the most damage, and the latter suffered the most losses. To prevent this, the retreating side left behind a rear guard, who were ready to fight to the death to secure their allies’ retreat. In my opinion, this window of opportunity was our best chance to kill the self-proclaimed duke.
Having said that, the current situation was a double-edged sword. Despite how vulnerable he was leaving himself—or rather, because of it—his troops were rallying around him. There was a clear uptick in morale in the area around his standard. It was just like Oda Nobunaga at the Battle of Nagara River; once the self-proclaimed duke’s forces completed their withdrawal from the battlefield, we’d lose our opening.
If I failed to take his head here, all of my preparations—all of the sacrifices I’d made—would amount to nothing more than just another battlefield victory. I wouldn’t have achieved my objective—I wouldn’t have truly won.
“Send out the order to our militia and new recruits on the southern side!” I shouted. “All forces, charge!”
There was only one more move to make, but it was the most crucial of them all. We needed to shatter the enemy’s morale because they could finish regrouping. It was do or die.