The ensuing hours were a masterclass in war logistics. It was not only the Count and his men who moved; the entire populace was plunged into a silent frenzy by the Captain's order, ensuring the enemy remained oblivious to any movement within the city. Miguel did not remain in his quarters. To the physician's horror, it had been proven that any prior injuries were merely superficial; thus, there was no reason to prevent thirteen-year-old Miguel from joining the fray—or at least its preparation. He descended into the streets, observing the townsmen, frightened and confused, standing in formation.
"Listen, my fellow citizens," Miguel addressed them, standing atop a wagon. "Today we do not fight for the ego and greed of nobles who view you as little more than glorified slaves. No... today you fight for your homes alongside Count Cortés of Pasttó. You fight to defend your living space within a cruel reality that seeks to eliminate kind men like my father—men who respect the common folk and lead them toward a life of dignity. But today, because of one man's greed for the rich farmlands of our beautiful home, war has been unleashed—an illegal war we must halt at all costs. Do not cheer!" Miguel commanded, restraining their shout. "A firm nod of the head is enough to know you will follow me, my father, or the Captain in defense of our home."
Hundreds of heads rose and fell in suppressed emotion, ready to defend their own against the invaders.
Under his direction, the main thoroughfares leading from the North Gate to the central plaza were cleared. The "controlled fire" plan was a masterpiece of psychological manipulation. Miguel knew that smoke and the glow of flames would suggest chaos and a desperate defense, luring Narico's vanguard into the heart of the city like moths to a flame.
Francisco's men, hardened veterans, concealed themselves on the upper floors of the timber houses with cauldrons of oil, stones, and shortbows. The silence that descended upon the city at four in the morning was sepulchral, broken only by the creaking of dry wood prepared for the burning.
Dawn began to stain the horizon grey when the thunder of Narico's horses echoed against the exterior cobblestones. The North Gate stood ajar—a silent invitation to disaster.
The Marquess's vanguard, some two hundred riders and light infantry, entered with the arrogance of those who believe victory is a mere formality. Upon seeing the black smoke rising from the communal hall and hearing the rehearsed cries of panic from a few commoners, the invaders broke formation. Greed for loot is the greatest enemy of discipline.
"Now!" Miguel roared from a strategic balcony.
The "controlled fire" erupted into a brilliant blaze, illuminating the invaders trapped in the narrow street. From above, chaos was unleashed. It was not a battle; it was an execution. Francisco and his men unleashed a rain of projectiles and debris. Miguel himself, wielding a crossbow with icy precision, took down the officer commanding the vanguard.
The invaders, caught between the flames and the debris barricades Miguel had strategically placed, became a mass of panic and flesh. The "commoners" in military garb appeared at the rear, blocking the exit. The perception of a superior army, coupled with the disorientation of the smoke, shattered the will of Narico's men in less than twenty minutes.
By the time the sun had fully risen, the main street was carpeted with disarmed or fallen enemies. The victory of the allied forces within the city was total, but Miguel did not celebrate. Before the momentum could be lost, he spotted his father on the front line of combat.
"Father, do not forget—we must move out!"
"Do not stop!" Alban shouted, stepping onto the street, his boot stained with enemy blood. "This was but the prelude. The Marquess is outside with the bulk of his army. If we remain here, he will besiege us and we shall starve. Out beyond the walls! Immediate reorganization!"
On the plains outside the southern wall, upon a stretch of land Alban had previously chosen for its slight elevation, the Count and Captain Francisco rallied the troops. They had captured horses and weapons from the vanguard, strengthening their position.
Miguel approached his father. The Count looked at him with pride. "We have won the city, but Narico has a thousand men in the field. We barely muster four hundred effective troops."
"Father, he who defines the terms of the debate wins the litigation," Miguel replied, wiping his face with a handkerchief. In that moment, his father gave him the strangest look, clearly not understanding a word of what he was saying.
"Narico must be furious," Miguel continued. "He has lost his vanguard and his honor. He will come for us with a frontal charge, blinded by rage. We will use that against him. Our numerical disadvantage invites him to crush us quickly, but in his haste, he will commit a grave error."
Shortly after, the Marquess of Narico appeared on the horizon like a tide of steel. He was a man in his sixties whose legitimacy rested solely on brute force. Seeing Alban's "rebels" outside the walls, he considered it a final insult.
"Wedge formation!" Narico ordered, his voice carrying across the field. "Crush those peasants and bring me the heads of the Count and his whelp!"
The pitched battle began with the thunder of Narico's cavalry charging uphill and the enemy infantry coming shortly after. Alban, however, had not formed his men in a traditional line. He had organized the armed commoners into compact blocks with improvised pikes stretching the lines far enough to prevent any flanking maneuver, but in the center, he had left an apparent gap—a deliberate weakness.
When Narico's cavalry struck, Alban led the light cavalry reserve—Francisco's veterans—in a Wedge formation that exploited a the fact that the enemy cavalry was now surrounded with pikes and Francisco's veterans. At the same time, Miguel and other soldiers were on the wall near the Alban's position firing and reloading, Miguel firing Dad's crossbow with dificulty but not willing to stop the action, in order to prevent the fall of his new house, not now, with the numerous questions hi has about what happened to him.
The Marquess's horses got in trouble, specially when the pikemen started to close the formation against them, losing the momentum of their charge and having no reinforcement whatsoever, because the charge was so unorganized that the infantry was just getting into the battle. It was then that Alban gave the final command to the lieutenants organizing with a heck lot of effort the untrained commoners to act as a proper unit. "Close ranks!"
The infantry blocks snapped shut like a jaw trap without the formation getting to crazy, because the enemy infantry was not applying constant and uniform pressure into the people of the county. Maybe that was the most luck any could get out of a situation like that, having and enemy that underestimate you when you have high moral and better ground. Alban, mounted on a black stallion, charged directly toward Narico's standard in the enemy cavalry. The struggle was fierce; the air grew thick with the scent of iron and entrails. Alban found himself face-to-face with the Marquess's Lieutenant, as the Marquess himself was nowhere to be seen on the field.
"Usurper!" the Lieutenant screamed, lunging with a slash that Alban evaded by millimeters.
"I am no usurper, peasant," Alban replied, burying his sword into the unprotected side of the enemy's armor. "I am Count Cortés of Pasttó."
With the fall of the Lieutenant, the remainder of the army—already demoralized by the defeat in the city and mired in the mud—threw down their weapons. The victory was not only military; it was political. Miguel stood in the center of the battlefield, observing the bodies. His mind was no longer on the battle, but on its consequences.