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In truth, when cavalry launches a real offensive, especially against a large military force, it's never a matter of thousands or tens of thousands of riders charging in all at once. That kind of spectacle only exists in people's imagination.
Think about it. If the front line doesn't manage to break through the enemy and ends up stalled in a brutal melee, what happens when the riders behind come thundering forward like a tidal wave?
It turns into a mess of men crashing into each other. The frontmost riders would soon rediscover what it means to be "trapped on both sides" or "drenched in sweat from head to toe." That kind of chaos only ends up weakening your own combat strength.
That's why, in real battle, multiple small-scale charges are the most efficient tactic for cavalry. But when it comes to the disorganized, completely unprepared Vale soldiers scattered before them… what damned tactics? All of it is a waste of time.
Just charge. That's all there is to it!
And so it was that Lord Royce Coldwater, who had just been about to choose his dinner, suddenly seemed to realize… he had become someone else's prey.
Several hundred cavalry had appeared out of nowhere, descending from the hilltop. They rode beneath the banner of the merman holding the golden trident, charging in tight formation; a classic cavalry assault pattern.
No one shouted a war cry. Aside from the thunder of hooves pounding the earth, Lord Coldwater could hear nothing else. The air around him seemed to freeze.
The last remnants of reason screamed at him to run, to get the hell out of this deathtrap.
But his mind had already shut down. Lord Royce Coldwater simply couldn't wrap his head around it. Why were House Manderly's cavalry appearing here? Hadn't Lord Yohn Royce already defeated them?
This… how could this be? Had they fallen out of the sky?
Among the three hundred men stationed here, barely fifty were still on horseback. And when they saw those five hundred riders storming down from above like a crashing wave, every single one of them had the same immediate reaction.
Run!
A cavalry clash, in the end, is a contest of desperation. In many cases, the side that falters is the one that's too afraid to risk everything — those who don't have the guts for a full-speed, close-quarters clash will turn tail and flee before the blades even meet.
A warhorse begins slow, walking at first, then trotting to build heat in its body, before accelerating into a full gallop. That peak speed… that's when a cavalryman strikes with the greatest force.
Right now, the Vale troops had been caught completely off guard by Clay's sudden charge. They might've had more refined horsemanship, but caught unawares like this, they had no time to pick up speed. Their horses couldn't even reach a gallop.
Under these conditions, clashing head-on with Clay's cavalry could only end one way: being knocked off their mounts by opponents charging at far greater speeds, brought down in an instant by sheer momentum. There was no other possible outcome.
The ones still on horseback — men used to life in the saddle — quickly grasped what they were facing. Without hesitation, the few dozen Vale riders turned their horses around and tried to bolt.
But it was already too late.
Leading the charge at the very tip of the formation, Christen and his five hundred elite riders saw the chaos unfolding below. Without the slightest hesitation, he made a swift, decisive call; leave the unmounted Vale soldiers alone for now. Go all in on the ones still on horseback. Take them down with everything you've got. Don't let a single one escape!
Lord Royce Coldwater watched it happen with his own eyes. His fellow riders were whipping their mounts desperately, doing everything they could to coax a little more speed from their steeds. But it didn't take long before the Manderly cavalry, whose horses were moving far faster, caught up to them. In the blink of an eye, a sword flashed, and one of his men was cut down right off his horse. Whether he lived or died was anyone's guess.
And what Royce Coldwater saw in front of him… it didn't feel like a battle anymore.
It felt like…
Hell!
He simply couldn't comprehend how the situation had flipped so completely in just a matter of minutes.
Lord Coldwater suddenly felt the urge to scream and curse.
Yohn Royce, you idiot!
Just then, his personal guards finally snapped out of their daze. They rushed toward him, paying no attention to the fact that he was still frozen in shock. One of them grabbed him without a word and hoisted him up onto his shoulder, sprinting back toward the horses as fast as he could. If they didn't get moving now, and the Manderlys managed to encircle them, then every last one of them would be on their way to meet the gods.
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"Faster, Faster!"
High in the saddle, Christen dug his heels hard into his horse's flanks. Blood spilled freely where the spurs tore into the animal's ribs. It wasn't how a cavalryman should treat his mount—but in this moment, there was no room for restraint.
The black warhorse beneath him let out a pained shriek. With its body jolting forward, it surged into a new burst of speed, carrying Christen swiftly toward his next target.
Christen's gaze locked onto the man ahead. He raised his longsword and, with a swift and brutal motion, drove the blade toward the weak spot in the rider's armor — just beneath the waist.
A scream tore through the air. Blood burst out, spraying violently as Christen yanked his blade free. In an instant, the Vale knight's armor was soaked red.
The man was from Coldwater Burn. Even now, he gritted his teeth and held on stubbornly. But Christen didn't spare him a second glance. He knew his blade. That strike had pierced the liver. A fatal wound. No one could survive that.
Adjusting the direction of his charge, Christen turned his focus to the next rider.
Behind him, the wounded knight's horse began to slow. Gradually, its pace faltered, and finally, the rider slid off the saddle and collapsed to the ground. His wide, unfocused eyes stared silently up at the sky.
Death had come for him. Tiny, delicate snowflakes drifted down, melting on his cooling face before freezing into ice.
The snow was falling heavier now, thickening with every gust of wind, and before long, it would completely bury the knight's corpse beneath a pale shroud of white.
But the slaughter had not ended.
What was meant to be a head-on clash had unraveled from the very start. The fight that should've been a brutal contest of strength had turned into a lopsided pursuit… a hunt.
Christen, as the field commander, didn't hesitate for a moment. He gave a clear order: no need to maintain formation. Each man was to choose his own target and hunt freely. One rule only: take down as many as you can. Wipe them out. Leave no one standing.
Clay's original instruction to him had been simple: rout the enemy. The entire purpose of this engagement was to create cover for their own men to seize the enemy's warhorses. But now, standing in the thick of battle, Christen had made a decision of his own. He believed Lord Clay wouldn't hold it against him.
Three hundred Vale riders had scattered in every direction, each one running for dear life. It wasn't easy chasing them down one by one—but at this point, Christen and his five hundred men had no other thoughts left in their minds. There was nothing else to consider. All that remained was the pursuit… and the kill.
He drove his blade straight through the back of a cavalryman ahead on the right… right between the shoulder blades. The poor man was in such a panic he hadn't even finished strapping on his armor. Christen gave a small shake of his head, then left the sword where it was, buried in the body, and snatched up the weapon that had been flung from the dying man's hand.
Just then, something caught his eye. Or rather… someone.
No, not someone. A group.
In this battlefield of chaos, everyone was fighting for themselves. The Vale riders had long since abandoned any organized formation — what remained had been shattered by the first wave of the charge.
But now, in the corner of his vision, Christen spotted a cluster of eight riders sticking close together. They were riding in tight formation, clearly protecting someone at their center.
They were trying to stay inconspicuous — no noble banners flying, no house sigils on their cloaks — but on this battlefield, where chaos ruled and everyone fought alone, huddling together like that was the biggest giveaway of all.
There was no need to think twice.
Christen immediately called out to a dozen riders nearby who hadn't yet locked onto new targets. His bloodstained sword swung up, the tip pointing toward the group of eight as he shouted with force:
"There! Charge in and pin them down!"
On the battlefield, there's never any need for complicated commands. The simpler the order, the more effective it becomes.
The riders who heard his voice followed the arc of Christen's blood-soaked sword and instantly understood what their commander had seen. With clenched jaws and unwavering eyes, they spurred their horses forward as one, kicking up snow and earth behind them as they charged after the enemy riders, staying tight on their heels like wolves chasing prey.
At the very center of that small defensive ring, Lord Royce Coldwater had finally snapped out of his daze.
There was no time left to play father to Yohn Royce now. His original plan had been to slip away quietly under the protection of his guards. After all, the blame for this defeat was never going to fall on him anyway.
It wasn't like Clay Manderly, with only two thousand men under his command, could possibly wipe out all five thousand of Yohn Royce's troops. That was absurd.
So it had to be that the old man had been tricked — duped by some young upstart with no sense of honor.
Lord Coldwater figured that once Yohn Royce returned, he'd be too embarrassed to punish him even if he wanted to.
After all, he was one of the Vale's great nobles, Lord of Runestone itself, and even he had been toyed with and outmaneuvered by Clay Manderly. So what if a lesser lord like himself had lost a skirmish? Wasn't that perfectly reasonable?
But now, the soldiers under Clay's banner weren't just here to humiliate him—they were here to kill him.
Royce Corbray had seen it with his own eyes. Just moments ago, one of his men had dropped to his knees in surrender, only to have his throat slashed open by a rider galloping past.
They weren't taking prisoners!
They were here to wipe them out!
Doesn't he… Clay Manderly part of the Northern host?
He was leading a bunch of Riverlanders. What kind of grudge was this? What kind of hatred burned so deep?
Lord Coldwater didn't understand. But what he did know—what he knew with utter certainty—was that if he didn't get out now, he was going to die here.
Behind him, the hoofbeats were getting louder, the riders drawing closer by the second. Royce Coldwater made a split-second decision. Gritting his teeth, he pulled out a dagger and plunged it into the haunch of his own horse.
The warhorse let out a terrible scream of pain.
Lord Coldwater had hoped that would spur it to run faster. But what he hadn't counted on, what he had forgotten in his panic, was that his riding skills were never all that great to begin with. And now, with the horse kicking into a frenzy, he couldn't control it at all.
The galloping beast reached a fever pitch, hooves tearing across the snow-covered ground, and then—without warning—it reared up, both front legs kicking into the air.
Caught completely off guard, Lord Coldwater was thrown.
His body traced a graceful arc through the air, a perfect parabolic curve, as if written by the laws of classical physics.
The once-elegant lord hit the ground with a bone-rattling crash, landing in a heap, dizzy and disoriented, with his head spinning and his limbs flailing.
His guards didn't even have time to turn around. All they could do was shout, "Lord! My lord!" as they kept running farther and farther away.
Lying in the dirt, Royce Coldwater lifted his head, his face smeared with snow and grime.
And then he saw it…
A sword, cold and gleaming, arcing through the air straight toward him.
His face turned deathly pale. Like the falling snow drifting all around him.
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[Chapter End's]
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