The thunder of the guns fell silent at last. Smoke rolled across the plain in choking curtains, ash and dust mingling with the cries of the dying.
Where once Ignarion's banners had stood proud, only tattered remnants flapped in the scorched wind.
Their formations were broken, their captains dead, their men scattered like leaves in a storm.
And in that silence came another sound.
The low rumble of hooves.
Caedrion sat astride his warhorse, the beast clad in steel barding blackened by powder and flame.
He raised his saber high, revolver gleaming in his other hand. His voice rang like steel drawn from a scabbard:
"Cavalry! Ride them down!"
The order was met with a roar of savage approval.
The line of Ferrondel horse surged forward, lances and sabers lowered, revolvers cocked.
Dust and smoke churned beneath their charge as two thousand riders cut across the blackened field like a storm given form.
