It was clear to all that had eyes that the terrain was treacherous, cruel to both man and beast. Uneven ridges cut across the valley like scars, and thorny shrubs jutted up from the cracked earth like the teeth of buried beasts. For infantry, it was a nightmare. For cavalry, it was near-suicide.
Even now, Egil's riders struggled to hold formation. Their line twisted and buckled as horses stumbled over hidden dips and roots. Dust and broken bramble clung to their boots and coats like leeches. If they had truly intended to ride their lances into the enemy ranks, it would have been a massacre of their own forces.
But Egil hadn't come for a traditional charge.
As the snarling tide of riders neared the enemy's front, arrows began to rain—thin, hurried volleys loosed by frantic levy archers. The sky hissed with steel, and a few horses bucked in surprise as the shafts smacked into the dirt or glanced off mail.
And yet the riders did not slow.
