The distance left for a charge was far too short. A warhorse could cross it in just three breaths, and it was still shrinking. Like butterflies bound fast, they had long since lost the room they needed to build their striking power to its peak.
But they could still reach the speed they needed... Tesolys was confident of that because they stood on a hillside, on a downward slope. All they had to do was urge their warhorses on from the higher ground. Pouring down like spilled quicksilver, they could easily reach the right speed for impact.
The dense pounding of iron-shod hooves surrounded him. They surged downhill like an unstoppable torrent forged from steel. The ground shook violently. Warhorses panted hard, powerful muscles contracting over and over as they swept down with their riders, irresistible.
Sharp spears had been leveled, shields raised, and flails and iron maces gripped in waiting hands. Whether they succeeded or failed, this was their only remaining chance to charge. Afterward, there would be no room left to maneuver. They could only become hopelessly mired in the enemy ranks and fight at close quarters.
Every man clenched his teeth. No longer sparing their horses' strength, they drove their mounts with all they had, staking everything on this final attempt...
* * *
The infantry formation was tightly packed. They wore heavy mail and held up sharp spears, their shields overlapping like a wall that had appeared out of thin air. Yet even this gave them no sense of safety.
Everything that had happened before told them that even a formation like this could be smashed to pieces by the human cataphracts in the blink of an eye. The enemy would pay a price too, but the sight of flesh and blood flying, of corpses heaped upon corpses, still put the infantry under immense mental strain.
So however much their officers urged them on, not one was willing to take even a couple of quicker steps. Everyone kept to a slow pace as they closed the distance to the enemy.
Then those terrifying hoofbeats sounded again, as dense as raindrops and as heavy as thunder. Every rank began to waver. That river of tightly packed steel was already pouring down upon them. In the hands of the tall rider at its very front, a spear gleamed coldly, eager to drink its fill of the enemy's blood.
The soldiers in the first rank stepped on the butts of their spears and braced the weapons upright. Heavy shields formed a shield wall before them, with spears protruding through the gaps, turning the square into an iron hedgehog bristling with spines.
Their archers and crossbowmen had been wiped out. The few survivors could accomplish nothing. Now they could only rely on the depth of their formation and their discipline to meet the enemy charge. That would have been an immense challenge even for the finest infantry, and the Hols infantry were far from the finest...
Charging downhill over such a short distance, the armored riders were upon them in the blink of an eye. Muddy water splashed in all directions beneath countless hooves. The sharp spears were only three meters from meeting when, under that terrifying pressure, the Hols infantry wavered once more.
And this time, their wavering was especially deadly...
Some of the Hols infantrymen in the first rank even dropped their spears in panic. Bodily instinct overrode their reason. They crowded toward any space they could find, trying to evade those terrifying armored riders and opening fatal gaps in the impenetrable forest of spears.
Tesolys dodged two spearheads thrust at his head, then drove his warhorse straight into a gap without hesitation. In that instant, heaven and earth seemed to shatter! The sounds of breaking bones and spears piercing flesh rang out without cease. Panicked screams and wails reached their peak.
As in every previous charge, the heavy armor easily withstood the slashing blades. A few scattered spears could not stop the charging warhorses. Under their tremendous impact, heavy shields were driven to the ground. The soldiers bracing those shields from behind screamed in agony as countless hooves trampled them.
The spear in his hand had already pierced the bodies of two infantrymen, yet his wrist remained utterly steady, as though cast from steel.
He could no longer pull the spear free. Letting it go with the momentum of his charge, he reached out and caught a spear thrust at his chest. Then, before the soldier's disbelieving eyes, he hauled both man and weapon straight out of the formation.
While the soldier was still in midair, a spear thrust from behind pierced his chest. Tesolys continued driving through the formation ahead with his new weapon.
A thick hail of blades scraped sparks from their armor. Countless infantrymen were trampled and mauled by their horses. The dense forest of spears jutted out like roadside thickets, catching men unawares. Descending flails shattered skulls. Thrusting spears tore through armor and pierced hearts. Rank after rank of infantry was easily ripped open. Countless lives wailed beneath their iron-shod hooves.
Even the warhorses grew frenzied. Driven by their riders, they hurled themselves forward with all their strength.
What a vast, staggering spectacle. These elite troops among elites had long since made themselves the very embodiment of war. At this moment, their hearts held no fear or hesitation, only extreme fury and resolve.
They were like lions maddened by hatred, tearing without restraint at anything that dared bar their way. The cavalrymen shouted wildly and fought with abandon, charging madly through sprays of blood, entrails, and brains. One after another, riders were stabbed from their horses when the enemy found an opening. The others still pressed forward, heedless of everything.
Square after square was swiftly routed. Casualties mounted rapidly. Blood and sticky entrails had smeared the ground in a thick layer. Fallen warhorses and corpses piled atop one another. By the end, the horses were no longer trampling earth, but dripping flesh and blood.
Every Hols officer was utterly stunned. They had thought themselves prepared. They had thought they could win...
But everything before their eyes was telling them why humans could occupy the rich Central Plains... Why they themselves always lost their wars. Why the human nations could possess such wealth...
* * *
When his warhorse trampled the last enemy, Tesolys, or rather Xu Ning, had already lost his helmet and half his left ear. A hideous blade wound ran from his forehead to his right cheek, having barely missed his eye. His short black hair was soaked in blood, and his armor was covered in sword and axe marks.
Several broken spearheads were embedded in his warhorse's body. The iron mace in his hand, forged from fine steel, was caked in layer upon layer of sticky blood.
But they had finally broken out. No one could count how many formations they had routed. The moment they emerged, every man urged his warhorse onward without hesitation, continuing the charge.
The joy of surviving disaster and the anger they still could not suppress made them cheer at the tops of their voices and curse without restraint.
The Hols could only watch as those cavalrymen, reduced to half their number, rode away after battering aside infantry many times their strength. They watched the armor and weapons, no longer gleaming bright, swiftly vanish from view. Only the soldiers' miserable wails still rose from that shattered breach.
It had become a hell on earth. Severed bodies and spilling entrails covered the ground. Wounded men still alive reached out from that mangled hell of flesh and blood, screaming and wailing. Broken utterly in mind and body, they begged their surviving comrades to drag them out.
Some had only half a body left, yet still clawed desperately at the ground with both hands, trying to get away.
Silence descended over the center of the army's formation. Every Hols was silent...
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