Whitwyn’s general led the charge, the cavalry fanning out behind him in an enormous arc, their swords drawn and at the ready to hack at heads and limbs and shields. It made her feel exhilarated, excited and sick all at the same time.
The guardsmen infantry readied themselves, lowering their viciously barbed pikes so the horses would be forced onto their tips. The archers loosed another volley of arrows. This one was much more deadly, hitting the targets with devastating accuracy. The horses bucked in fear, whinnying and screaming, scattering out of their formation. The general’s horse was battle-trained, however, and so it continued straight at its own target, not to be dissuaded by anything.
The cavalry desperately tried to regroup, but before they had a chance to do so, another volley was loosed and the infantry of the enemy began to march forwards. In moments, the remaining cavalry were surrounded. The general’s horse lashed out with his hooves. The cavalry hacked and cut and shouted. But it was no use. No matter how many guardsmen they killed, there were always ten more waiting to take his place. Eventually, they were cut down. To the last man.
And the terrifying truth sank in: the rebels didn’t stand a chance.