But when Red Vossler raised his blade, the battlefield itself seemed to bow before him. The warhorses reared, their mouths foaming, eyes blazing with killing intent.
Those aren't just horses; they are engines of war, bred and molded by the North to obey the strong and to listen to the command to destroy. And then they charged.
The sound is deafening, a single, unified thunder that shook the ground and split the sky. The air itself seemed to rip apart as the hundred Borgia knights descended the slope like an avalanche of steel and death.
Their warhorses, massive as siege beasts, tore through the earth with hooves that struck sparks from the soil. Their breath came out in great gouts of smoke and flame, their manes whipped by the wind as if caught in some otherworldly storm.
On the ridge opposite them, Thaddeus de Harte's lines faltered. "Hold!" he shouted, his throat raw. "Archers—fire! FIRE!"
