The ground trembled. The charge of fifty heavy knights was not a sound, but a physical force, a low-frequency thunder that vibrated through the soles of the defenders' feet and rattled the teeth in their skulls. It was the most terrifying weapon of the age, a living avalanche of steel and horseflesh designed to shatter infantry formations and sweep armies from the field.
The men of the Falcon Guard locked their shields, their knuckles white. They lowered their spears, the front rank kneeling, the second rank bracing, forming a dense, bristling hedge of iron points. They did not look at the knights. They looked at their lord, who stood just behind the line with Centurion Marco, his face a mask of absolute, unwavering calm.
The Baron's knights, their lances couched, urged their great warhorses into a full gallop, their eyes fixed on the small, pathetic line of infantry they were about to obliterate. The smoke from the burning camp drifted across the field, partially obscuring the ground in a hazy, shifting screen.
The first horses hit the field of debris and caltrops at full speed.
The result was instantaneous and horrific. A great warhorse, its leg impaled on a sharpened iron shard, screamed and tumbled head over heels, its armored rider thrown like a doll. Another stepped on a caltrop and went down, its fall tripping the horse behind it. The perfect, thundering line of the charge began to unravel into chaos and confusion.
But the worst was yet to come. The front wave of the cavalry, already in disarray, crashed blindly into the hidden, shallow ditch. The sound of snapping bone, both horse and human, was sickeningly loud. Knights were pitched from their saddles directly onto the sharpened stakes that lined the far side. Horses, their legs broken, flailed and screamed, creating a gruesome, writhing barrier of their own.
The charge had lost its order and became a scene of confusion. A few knights, perhaps a dozen, managed to make their way through the disruption and reach the Falcon Guard's position, but they had no momentum and their group was broken. They approached not as a coordinated unit, but as scattered individuals. They were met by the firm line of shields and the waiting points of the long poles. The disciplined phalanx did not flinch. It held, and it killed. Lances broke against the shields, and the spears of the second rank darted out, finding the gaps in the armor, pulling knights from their saddles.
In less than two minutes, the pride of the Baron's army, his fifty heavy knights, had ceased to exist as a fighting force. The field before Alessandro's line was a ruin of dead and dying horses, and heavily armored men struggling to rise from the ground.
From his vantage point, the Baron of Monte San Giovanni watched in stunned, apoplectic silence. He could not comprehend what he had just seen. His ultimate weapon had been broken by dirt, sticks, and discipline. His rage, now mixed with a terrifying sliver of fear, boiled over. He would not be defeated by such peasant tricks.
"The infantry!" he roared at his captains. "Advance! All of you! Swamp them with numbers! I want that falcon banner trampled into the mud!"
The second wave began. Two hundred men-at-arms, a solid, professional force, advanced across the field, picking their way through the wreckage of the cavalry charge. They met the Falcon Guard's line, and the true battle began.
It was a grinding, brutal melee. The Baron's men threw themselves against the shield wall, their swords and axes crashing down. But the Falcon Guard, drilled relentlessly by Alessandro, held their ground. They fought as a single entity, the front rank absorbing the blows while the second rank stabbed with their spears. When a man in the front tired, he would step back, and a fresh man from the rear would step forward to take his place. It was a slow, bloody rotation that conserved their energy and kept the line solid.
But the sheer weight of numbers began to tell. For every one of the Baron's men that fell, two more seemed to take his place. The men of Castiglione, fighting on the flanks, began to waver, their less-practiced discipline starting to fray under the relentless pressure. Lord Orso, fighting like a lion for his home, took a deep cut to his shoulder and was forced back.
The line began to bend. The phalanx was on the verge of breaking. The Baron, seeing his advantage, urged his men on for a final, overwhelming push.
It was at that moment, as despair began to creep into the hearts of the defenders, that a new sound was heard. It was not from the front, but from the woods on the Baron's exposed eastern flank.
It was a horn blast, followed by a great, roaring war cry.
"FOR THE FALCON!"
From the cover of the trees, fifty men erupted, smashing into the side of the Baron's exhausted, over-committed infantry. At their head was Valerio, his face a mask of grim determination. They were the relief force from Rocca Falcone—the twenty Falcon Guards and the thirty armed peasants. They were fresh, and they hit the enemy's flank like a thunderbolt.
The Baron's army, already focused entirely on the desperate struggle to their front, was caught in a perfect anvil-and-hammer strike. The men who had been pushing forward suddenly found themselves being attacked from the side, their formation dissolving into panic and chaos.
Alessandro saw his moment. His own weary line was faltering, but the arrival of the relief force had sent a jolt of pure adrenaline through them.
"NOW!" he bellowed, his voice raw. "PUSH! BREAK THEM!"
With a final, desperate roar, the Falcon Guard lowered their spears and charged forward, collapsing the trap on the surrounded and terrified army of Monte San Giovanni.