The mercenary cavalry, a thunderous wave of steel and arrogance, pursued Arion's smaller force with a bloodlust born of greed. They saw a smaller, retreating prize and broke their formation to chase it, their ranks a disorganized mess of fury. They did not see the high ground as a trap; they saw it as a temporary obstacle.
Arion, at the head of his 600 men, raced toward the hill, a small, defiant wave against a sea of steel. As they reached the base of the hill, his cavalry split, a disciplined maneuver that took them around the sides of the Vexin's main infantry force. The mercenaries, their bloodlust a terrible, palpable thing, continued their chaotic pursuit, their horses thundering up the steep, rocky incline. They were a wave of steel and fury, a force that was about to break on a shore of arrows and shields.
Then, from the sky, a sound like a hundred hornet nests being disturbed broke the silence. The Vexin archers, a disciplined square of 500 men, unleashed a devastating volley of arrows. The sky was filled with a cloud of death, the arrows glinting in the sun as they rained down on the disorganized, upward-charging mercenaries. The mercenaries, unprepared and exposed, were easy targets. Horses and men screamed in a terrible symphony of pain as arrows found their marks, turning the steep incline into a bloody graveyard.
Those who survived the arrow storm and reached the top of the hill were met by the unyielding Vexin shield wall. Lord Eran's infantry, their faces a mask of cold resolve, met the demoralized, bloodied mercenaries with a cold, focused fury. The battle was a one-sided slaughter, a brutal testament to the power of a disciplined force fighting on a battlefield of its own choosing.
The mercenary cavalry was no more. A force of 2,000 men had been shattered in a matter of moments. Only a few hundred, broken and terrified, managed to escape, their horses lathered and their armor streaked with blood and regret. They were a shattered remnant, a grim testament to a battle they had lost before it had even begun. The Vexin, standing on the high ground, looked down at the defeated cavalry, a feeling of grim satisfaction in their hearts.
The victory was decisive, but the war was far from over. The Vexin had defeated the mercenaries' cavalry, but the main mercenary infantry, a massive force of 7,000 men, and a disciplined contingent of 1,000 archers, was still out there, its fury and arrogance now a cold, dangerous rage.