At the head of the Red Visconte Army was Count Falcone. He personally led the vanguard during his pursuit of the Luxenberg Army. With each hour that had passed, this unscratchable itch of excitement grew.
Honour, prestige, accomplishment, these were only a few of the words floating around in his mind. If he defeated the Luxenberg Army, he would receive all of these and so much more. The thought of becoming a Marquis or even a Duke made his heart race.
As his army entered the forest path, he looked to the sky to see if there were any trails of dust kicked up by the enemy army. To his disappointment, there were none, but this could mean that they were setting up camp, which would be a great opportunity for an ambush.
When Count Falcone could finally see into the clearing, he noticed glittering points caught the sun—rows unmoving, silent, already drawn up in grim formation. Blades flashed as arms lifted in readiness, the long, unbroken line stretching across grass like a wall of fire and iron. Smoke drifted lazily from a few test sparks, curling upward in anticipation of what would follow.
Breath quickened in throats, hearts hammered in chests, fingers tightened around polished wood and cold iron. Eyes narrowed beneath brims, the moment hanging taut, heavy with inevitability. Then the stillness fractured—wheels clattered forward, signals blared, and the clearing became a stage for thunder and flame.
Count Falcone was horrified to see Victor and his army all ready set up for battle. The element of surprise he had thought he had was nothing more than his imagination. Soon, fear spread amongst the Red Visconte soldiers. They panicked at seeing the Luxenberg Army prepared and ready for a fight.
There was no point in just gawking at them. Count Falcone, who was too prideful to order a retreat, began getting his men ready for battle.
Boots struck soil in a sudden flurry as ranks dissolved into hurried motion, men rushing to find place and order. Shouts cracked across the din, hands thrusting forward, arms pointing, voices commanding urgency into chaos. Powder horns rattled, ramrods clanged, flints were checked with trembling haste. Lines stumbled into shape, uneven at first, then straightened under the harsh bark of sergeants.
Wheels rumbled as heavy frames jolted into position, horses straining against harness, drivers whipping reins to drag iron mouths into place. Crews heaved and shoved, sweating as they swung weight into firing angles, stacks of shot rolling across the ground before being caught and piled. Sparks readied, linstocks hissed, barrels lowered toward the waiting wall of enemy.
Hooves churned the earth at the flanks, riders wrestling with restless mounts eager for the charge. Steel curved upward in drawn arcs, sunlight sliding along sharp edges. Orders snapped, columns bent outward, wings unfurling to shield the struggling core.
Drums beat frantically now, urging flesh into discipline, turning disorder into form. Dust rose in choking clouds as men stamped into ranks, muskets braced, bayonets glinting with a promise of blood. Faces were pale but set, eyes darting toward the waiting foe who had not yet moved.
Field Marshal Wellesley, who was positioned in the centre, turned to Victor and joked, "It seems that they are still scrambling to get ready. Should we make them pay for keeping us waiting?" Victor offered a faint smirk and nodded. The Red Visconte infantry was in range of his cannons, and with no enemy cannons readied, now was a great time to strike.
Turning to his adjutant, Field Marshal Wellesley said, "Signal the flanks, we shall open fire on the enemy." The adjutant nodded and began to have the military musicians blow their bugles to signal the firing of the cannons.
Arms swept downward, voices carried along the line, and crews sprang to motion. Iron was rammed with powder and shot in swift, practised rhythm—hands striking tampers, cords pulled taut. Smoke hissed as fuses touched flame, and a moment later the plain erupted.
The first thunder rolled like a storm breaking against the earth, barrels recoiling violently as fire spat from their mouths. Great plumes of white smoke billowed outward, swallowing the line in a choking haze. Roundshot screamed through the air, tearing soil, splintering wood, shattering order in the half-formed ranks opposite.
More commands barked, more linstocks fell, until the entire row of guns thundered in staggering rhythm. The sound shook the clearing, a deafening wall of iron and smoke that pressed against the ears and chest of every man who heard it. Clouds of powder drifted across the grass, the acrid stench settling heavily as gunners, slick with sweat, worked feverishly to reload.
The defenders' line held steady behind the roaring cannons, their resolve clear in the precision of their fire. Each blast was both a warning and a challenge: the field was theirs to command, and any who dared approach would have to march through fire and iron to claim it.
Hundreds of Red Visconte infantrymen suffered the onslaught of cannonballs sent by the Luxenberg artillery. Count Falcone tried to steady his men and organise his cannons, hoping to gain some sense of order. If his artillery was set up, then he could send the infantry to advance with the aid of the cannons. But, as he continued to marshal his troops, another volley of Luxenberg artillery rammed into his lines.
The thunder of iron echoed again, the ground itself seeming to tremble beneath the weight of each discharge. Smoke now hung low, drifting in heavy curtains across the clearing, obscuring faces and twisting the sun into a pale disc above.
Yet still the gunners worked, bodies bending and straightening in relentless rhythm—ram, swab, load, fire. Sparks leapt, cords hissed, and with every crash, another spray of earth and flesh was flung skyward in the enemy's scrambling ranks.
Men ducked instinctively at the scream of shot, muskets clattering from hands, bodies flung down into the dirt. Officers waved frantically, swords raised high, voices cracking as they fought to hold the formation steady against the storm.
Falcone realised that if he did not do something soon, his men would just be stationary targets for the Luxenberg artillery to practice on. Under pressure, the Count ordered all forces to advance.
With the Red Visconte troops advancing, Field Marshal Wellesley made ready his infantry, for they would soon see combat.