Duronaht didn’t need the messenger from Grand Marshal Ventov to tell him what any mortal being with working eyes could see. His brother’s army, from north to south, lurched forward in its vast multitudes. It looked as though the earth itself was coming toward the Nehal River. Brassy blasts from the opposite banks sounded the advance as a ferocious wave of shots sailed over from the enemy siege engines, tearing holes in his archers’ ranks. His drummers beat furiously to recall the archers, who fell back in good order despite their heavy losses. The mages retreated with them.

Across the Nehal River, enemy cavalry formed into narrow columns. They were a mixture of black ironclad Karmandian heavy cavalry, equipped with bludgeoning polearms, and the gold-plated lancers from the central Methrangian armies. Behind them, mounted archers followed to provide support.

“Your Imperial Majesty,” Ventov announced, riding up alongside Duronaht, “the enemy cavalry is preparing to cross the bridges. We’re preparing to meet them. They’re falling into the trap that Your Majesty so wisely prepared.”

Even as he says that, I know he’s praising himself instead.

“Good. Good. And our infantry will follow behind?” Duronaht asked.

“Correct. Like a beast’s jaws, they’ll close in from both sides and crush our foe,” Ventov gleefully promised. “I had feared Agrehn would be more sober than this.”

“This isn’t Agrehn. I’m sure this is my brother. We annoyed him and now he’s angry. He has no business being here.”

“So I see.”

With a frenzied blast from their trumpeters, the Methrangian and Karmandian cavalry charged forward, each column just barely narrow enough to fit across the smooth blue stone bridges across the Nehal.

“It should be about… now,” Ventov said, looking left and right as the enemy cavalry made it roughly halfway across the bridges. Just then, the bellowing horns of Zarmand belched their commands and the sounds of forty thousand horses’ hooves came thundering from behind their position. “There we are.”

Duronaht found the sound of charging cavalry utterly intoxicating, especially as it was accompanied by the noble music of Zarmandian horns. He almost wished he could ride with them, smash through his brother’s lines, and drive a lance into Rohmhelt’s heart. Maybe I’ll get that chance before this day is out, he fantasized.

The cavalry hordes swept down from either side of his position. Clad in their distinctive red plates, they cut an impressive display on the battlefield. Each Zarmandian cavalryman bore two weapons in their saddles. On their right, a long barbed spear, used for skewering enemy horses and running through infantry. On their left, a well-balanced one-handed sword for hacking and slash once the cavalry had become entangled. Each of those words bore three small Zarmandian rubies embedded into the pommel. Though that had no purpose for the sword itself, it helped remind its wielder of the pride they should have in Zarmand and its glory.

That would all be put to the test in mere moments. Eastern and western cavalry would meet in clashes from north to south along the miles of front along the Nehal River. Now it is time to see if my brother’s men will actually be willing to see this through.

A split second of silence fell over the field, as though the world breathed deeply to prepare for the onslaught. Then, horrible sounds of clashing armor and horses neighing and men screaming overwhelmed everything. Spears against armor. Swords against swords. Halberds against flesh. An fathomless number of different noises formed a single consistent gruesome melody.

“I doubt they’ll last five minutes against our men before they break,” Ventov chirped. His pride was so overwhelming that Duronaht could swear it made the plumage in his helmet stand straighter.

“Prepare to advance!” a commander of the infantry regiment to Duronaht’s right declared. The same call could be heard in a cascade down the line in either direction “To the river!”

The pikemen in the front ranks of his lines all lowered their weapons and, in near-perfect unison, began slowly marching down the cavalry’s path. Duronaht looked north and south at his soldiers moving toward each bridge.

“I’ve left 4th Army in reserve here in the center,” Ventov said, his high voice only just cutting above the battle’s clamor. “All other armies are committed.”

The Emperor nodded and turned his eyes back toward the cavalry battle. With the swirling chaos, he couldn’t determine how the fight was progressing. He could see, however, steadily swelling ranks of enemy infantry pouring over the bridges behind the cavalry. Based on the speed of their advance, they certainly didn’t seem deterred by the Zarmandian cavalry’s prowess. Minutes passed with his own infantry joining at the flanks of each bridgehead. Duronaht noted that the flanks continued to spread out further and further along the Nehal.

“Has this been proceeding as you wanted it?” Duronaht asked, beginning to feel a prickle of concern.

Ventov nodded and formed a smile that spanned almost the entirety of his narrow face.

“Luring them across the river was the hard part. Now we grind them to dust along its banks,” he beamed, confidence undiminished.

A grouping of three of his more junior marshals, gathered off to Duronaht’s right, seemed to voice a different opinion. Though the Emperor couldn’t hear precisely what those marshals were saying, an air of concern clearly wreathed their words. This concern grew with each messenger from their commanders and captains.

Curious, Duronaht had his near-skeletal runner summon the three of them to give their report directly to him. Ventov would hear it as well. He wouldn’t allow his Grand Marshal to pretend he hadn’t heard his own officers’ concerns.

Marshal Tabrohn, with an impressive jet-black beard down to his chest, spoke for the triumvirate. A massive man, nearly seven feet tall and thickly muscled, Duronaht could have forgiven anyone for believing he, and not Ventov, was the army’s overall commander.

“Our cavalry regiments are dropping fast,” he reported in a gruff growl. “We’re going to need to break them off soon or they’ll rout.”

“If they’re on the brink, then the Traitor King’s horses must be on their last breaths,” Ventov declared with satisfaction.

“With respect, sir, they’re not,” Tabrohn grumbled back.

The Grand Marshal’s poised veneer collapsed utterly in a second.

“You must be mistaken. We’ve got them on numbers and quality with our cavalry.”

“Our horses were meant to run over a large open field,” Tabrohn explained dryly. “We’re simply sitting in place, trading blow for blow. We must withdraw them and reform them where they can have more room to maneuver. They’re not meant for this. And we underestimated the enemy’s skill.”

The other two marshal behind him nodded furiously in agreement. Ventov’s face shone with sweat. Duronaht wondered what his Grand Marshal must have been thinking. Were it not such a grave matter, he would’ve taken pleasure in seeing Ventov so rattled.

As their conference continued, a rider galloped furiously from the south, his armor askew and blood spattered on his white steed.

“Sir! Two enemy divisions have crossed the fords south of the lower bridge. More are coming behind them. They’re flanking 13th Army! Marshal Wefrous asks for aid!” the poor lad screeched.

Duronaht immediately turned his gaze to Ventov, who sat slumped on his horse with his eyes scanning back and forth along the ground.

“Grand Marshal, well?” Duronaht asked with a combination of anger and amusement. Duronaht wondered briefly why he didn’t take the news more seriously than he had, but he assumed he was merely buckling under the strain.

“Pull the cavalry back and swing 9th and 21st cavalry divisions south to reinforce the flank. The rest will regroup and await my orders,” Ventov murmured, still not looking his emperor in the eyes.

Once those orders were relayed to riders and messengers, Duronaht returned to watching the swelling mass of Romhelt’s men pushing further and further. Both his banners and those of his loathsome brother became closer as the battle ground on. Rohmhelt’s cavalry had withdrawn as well, but the heavily-armed and armored Karmandian infantry that led the assault on each front proved to be an inexorable foe. A possibility that he had not considered at the battle’s outset now appeared to be inescapable.

“I’m losing,” he muttered aloud, struggling to comprehend just what that would mean for him and all that he had wanted. “I’m losing the battle.”