Days after the battle, the Vexin alliance moved to their chosen battlefield: a series of high, rocky outcrops that offered a commanding view of the surrounding terrain. It was a place of grim, beautiful isolation, a place where the wind howled a mournful song of the fallen. But for the Vexin, it was a place of purpose, a place of vengeance.
Lord Eran, his face a mask of cold resolve, stood at the head of the infantry. The Vexin army, a force of 4,500 weary but defiant men, had formed a single, unyielding shield wall on the highest point of the ridge. Their shields, a polished wall of wood and steel, were a final testament to their will to survive. This was their final stand, and they would not falter. The memory of the 200 heroes who had died for this moment was a fire in every man's blood, a grim reminder of the price of their victory.
Behind the infantry, a disciplined square formation of 500 archers stood ready, their bows at the ready. They were a crucial part of the plan, a force that would rain down a deadly hail of arrows on the mercenaries as they fought their way up the steep, rocky incline. Their formation was a testament to their discipline, and their resolve was as sharp as the arrows they held in their hands.
On the flanks of the army, a force of 1,000 cavalry waited, split into two divisions. Arion, a grim and pragmatic warrior, led a division of 600 men in a hit-and-run formation. On the opposite flank, Damon, his face a mask of cold resolve, led a smaller, but equally disciplined division of 400 cavalry. The two divisions were a high-stakes gambit, a plan that would test the courage of every man and the tactical genius of Damon. They were a small, defiant wave against the incoming tide, a force designed to lure the mercenaries into a deadly trap.
The mercenaries, a massive force of 10,000 men, appeared on the horizon, a sea of steel and fury. Their commander, a ruthless and cunning warrior, rode out alone to the center of the field, his hand on the hilt of his sword. Damon, seeing the challenge, rode out to meet him, a single warrior against a sea of men.
"I am Damon," he said, his voice a low, powerful rumble. "I will not have our men die for a war between us. Let us settle this now, warrior to warrior. Man to man. The winner takes all."
The mercenary captain, a grizzled, scarred man with a cold, calculating look in his eyes, did not laugh. He simply shook his head. "They say you never lost a duel, maybe it's true, maybe it's not. But your army stands little chance against mine. My men fight for gold, and they will not die for my honor. I will not risk my life on a foolish duel when my army has the decisive advantage. I will simply crush you with my numbers."
The air was thick with tension. Damon, his face a mask of fury, knew he had been outmaneuvered. The mercenary captain was not a brute; he was a cunning, cold-blooded killer. Damon, his fury a palpable thing, turned his horse and rode back to his men.
The mercenaries' cavalry, a force of 2,000 brutal, battle-hardened horsemen, charged. They were a cataclysmic wave of steel and fury, a force designed to break the Vexin's will. The ground began to tremble, a low, rolling thunder that grew into a deafening roar.
Arion, at the head of his 600 cavalry, watched their charge. He knew this was the moment of truth. He and his men charged out from the flank, a small, defiant wave against the incoming tide. Their goal was not to fight, but to strike and then fall back, to lure the mercenaries into a deadly trap.
The mercenary cavalry, a massive force of 2,000 men, saw Arion's small force and smelled blood. They saw a smaller, disorganized force that was ripe for the taking. Their charge, a wave of steel and fury, grew in intensity, their war cries a deafening roar that echoed through the mountains.
Arion, as if on a silent signal, turned his horse and began to retreat, his men following him with a disciplined speed. The mercenaries, their bloodlust a terrible, palpable thing, took the bait. They broke their formation, their disciplined ranks gone, replaced by a chaotic pursuit of Arion's men to the high ground.
Damon, with his 400 cavalry, watched from the other flank. He had not moved, waiting for this moment. As the mercenary cavalry was fully committed to chasing Arion, Damon gave a grim signal. His men began to retreat as well, a small, fleeing force that was leading them straight into a deadly trap.
The mercenaries did not pursue Damon's small force. Instead, a wave of mocking laughter erupted from their ranks. They saw a smaller, seemingly disorganized force that was running away. They saw a cowardly leader. They saw an easy victory, a small prize that was trying to escape their grasp.
The air was thick with tension, a single, held breath before the cataclysm. Both armies stood ready, their swords drawn and their shields raised, waiting for the first sound. The Vexin, in their new, unforgiving formation, were ready.