A tall, slender Hols let out a piercing cry. Bending his legs into a crouch, then straightening them, he sprang high into the air and thrust his spear straight at the terrifying enemy armored from head to toe. The strike was as fast as lightning. The enemy's unexpected agility nearly caught Xu Ning off guard.
But he still raised his shield, letting the sharp spear point slide across its smooth surface. Then, like a nimble snake, the point sprang upward, struck the side of his face, and slid past, knocking several mail rings loose.
The violent impact sent such fierce pain through his cheek that even the bone felt numb. His teeth seemed to have loosened, but no blood flowed. Meanwhile, carried by the momentum of his trotting horse, the iron mace in his hand had already swung out.
The Hols hurriedly drew back his spear, trying to block with its shaft. But the edges on the hard mace head, forged from modern alloy steel, showed no inclination to be stopped by this wooden pole. With a sharp crack, the mace smashed irresistibly into the Hols's arm.
The arm guard, woven from long, narrow plates, bent and caved in under the blow. The bones inside shattered completely with a series of crisp cracks that made the skin crawl. The force knocked the Hols straight to the ground. Before he could get up, the next passing cataphract thrust his spear downward and easily pinned him dead to the earth.
An archer drew the frighteningly enormous bow in his hands. An arrow as thick as a thumb rested on it, aimed from a distance at Xu Ning in the lead. Its head, like a long, narrow chisel, gleamed with a dazzling, cold light. With a slight release of the fingers, a thin black shape flew toward his less well-armored neck with a shrill whistle.
He immediately raised his shield. Made of thick oak wrapped in two layers of hardened cowhide, it could offer perfect protection against both sword cuts and spear thrusts. Yet this heavy arrow nearly pierced it completely. The long, sharp head protruded several centimeters through the shield, scraping the armor on his arm before lodging there.
Cold sweat sprang from his back in an instant, then was absorbed by his thick clothing. He immediately wheeled his horse toward the archer. As the man, caught off guard, drew his bow again, Xu Ning smashed his head apart with a blow from above.
Just as the great bow, nearly as tall as a man, was about to fall to the ground, a thought struck him. He reached out, scooped it up, and hung it from his saddle.
The cataphracts were wreaking havoc among the archers and crossbowmen. At this range, few of the archers had a chance to draw their great bows before the riders were among their formations. These weapons were immensely powerful. Even cataphracts in two layers of heavy armor could not withstand many hits.
But drawing them took an extremely long time. Often, by the time the archers loosed, the riders had already moved on somewhere else, leaving those heavy arrows to fly out behind them.
The cataphracts' long sabers, flails, and iron maces, however, could easily kill these lightly armored archers and crossbowmen. With the added force of a trotting horse, they could even cut a man in two with a single stroke. Within a few short minutes, more than half the archers and crossbowmen were dead or wounded.
Mutilated corpses already covered the ground in a layer. Foul-smelling entrails were trampled into the soil by horses' hooves. Those soldiers wounded but not yet dead suffered the most terribly. Their wails could almost pierce the eardrums.
At last, the final small squad of archers and crossbowmen could no longer bear these horrific casualties. With a chorus of miserable cries, they turned and fled toward the troops behind them, desperately shoving their own comrades with their hands, trying to make them open a path of escape.
But only blades and axes striking together awaited these deserters. They had not died beneath the cavalry's hooves, but were killed by their own warriors.
The surrounding unrest immediately subsided. Rank after rank of heavy infantry began converging on the area. They planted the butts of their spears in the ground and braced them forward, forming a dense spear formation. Sharp points gleamed coldly in the rain, like a hedgehog with its spines bristling, carrying a danger that made the heart quail.
The space where the archers and crossbowmen had stood was gradually compressed. Their mutilated bodies were mercilessly trampled underfoot. A commander in an enclosing helmet watched the torrent of steel rampaging in their midst with a gloomy expression.
His helmet had a streamlined design, extending behind his head into something like a brim. Almost his entire face was covered, with only a Y-shaped slit exposing his eyes and the bridge of his nose. His armor, too, was exceptionally close-fitting and tightly constructed. Hardened leather armor covered a thick layer of densely woven mail.
Yet there was nothing bulky or cumbersome about it. Instead, it fitted his body extremely closely, lending him an air of agility that heavy armor ought not to possess.
The feather-decorated standards continually changed their patterns in the rain. Each feather rose and fell, opened and closed, as though alive. Arranging their colored and uncolored faces in different sequences, they formed symbol after symbol.
The heavy infantry continued closing toward the center, compressing the space the cavalry needed to accelerate and survive. The rampaging cataphracts no longer had the power they had possessed at the start.
It seemed that before long, those terrifying cavalrymen would be trapped in a death zone... Yet the commander showed no positive emotion whatsoever. On the contrary, his expression remained just as gloomy. His thin lips were tightly pressed together, and a vicious light flashed in his narrow, upturned eyes.
Two guards in magnificent armor dragged over a man in splendid clothing. This high-ranking, powerful Hols received none of the respect due to him. The guards hauled him along like a fat pig from its pen, quickly coating his bright, handsome clothes in a thick layer of mud and filth.
From time to time, they also beat his body viciously with the halberds in their hands. By the time he arrived, he was a wretched sight, truly like a pig that had been rolling in a mud pit.
"Tuo Losfin... I don't want to say your full name. It would make me feel insulted."
The commander turned around expressionlessly. Looking at the man lying prostrate and trembling all over, he suddenly lifted his foot and kicked hard. A single kick ripped open the man's nose, soaking the tip of his boot in blood. The man rolled about on the ground, his entire body shaking, and let out miserable wails.
"Because of your idiotic decision, you swine, we have lost all our archers, crossbowmen, and light cavalry... They could have been far more useful, but because of you, the humans' cataphracts crushed them with ease... I swear by Aifas, even flaying every inch of your skin would not be enough to quell my anger! Tell me, what should I do with you?"
Through gritted teeth, the commander tore off the man's helmet, exposing short flaxen hair and two long, narrow, pointed ears. He seized the slightly curly hair and yanked hard, forcing the man to raise his head and reveal a face streaming with tears and snot, covered in blood.
"My lord! My lord! Please have mercy... Spare my life! I am willing to give anything to make up for my mistake, to surrender all my property and authority..."
The commander jerked his hand away. With a scream, a clump of disheveled flaxen hair came away in his fist, and blood began seeping rapidly from the man's scalp. He reached out again and seized one of those long, narrow, pointed ears. With a little pressure from his fingers, he broke the cartilage and tore through the skin and flesh, ripping it off into his hand in a spray of blood.
"Your stupidity exceeds anything I could have imagined. Do you, a creature as disgusting as a maggot in rotting flesh, really think you still get to keep your wealth?!"
The commander's hand touched the saber hilt at his waist. But suddenly, he stopped... He had thought of a better way to deal with him.
"Guards! Strip this fellow of his armor, give him a pitchfork, and send him to the front rank! ... If you survive today, I will pardon your sins."
As the Hols man howled and sobbed, the guards mercilessly stripped off all his armor and clothing, leaving only a pair of white trousers. As he stood barefoot in the mud, a rusty pitchfork was thrown down in front of him...
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