The baron retrieved his battle standard emblazoned with Cynthia's short-tailed lion, presenting it to a youth barely elevated from squire to knight. "You are now my adjutant." The young man reached for it with undisguised delight. "No, wait." Lazette abruptly withdrew the banner, deflating the youth's enthusiasm instantaneously. "This one you shall carry." He substituted another standard bearing the beech tree and Stone Castle insignia. "It is Lazette who retreats, not Cynthia."

  The newly appointed standard-bearer hoisted the beech tree banner aloft while sounding the retreat. Lazette's surviving force numbered approximately three hundred seventy cavalrymen, most nursing wounds. Though aware of Godman encirclement behind them, the baron remained uncertain of their precise disposition. They galloped blindly, roughly oriented toward the encampment. Godman knights pressed their pursuit relentlessly, forming a flowing tapestry of dark gold and silver armor at their rear.

  "Withdraw, brothers!" Lazette rallied his companions in characteristic fashion. "We shall return to camp at full gallop, reorganize our formation, then engage the Godmans in mortal combat! This is a strategic retreat! We don't need to die for nothing!"

  "Indeed!" echoed the adjutant. "This represents prudence rather than cowardice! We merely prepare for the inevitable decisive confrontation!" He bellowed these half-convincing proclamations while reinforcing them with several bugle notes. "Cease immediately!" Lazette admonished sharply. "Don't inadvertently sound the advance, you imbecile!" The adjutant acknowledged with frantic nodding.

  A horn call suddenly resonated from the plains before them—sustained, penetrating, piercing directly through the hearts of three hundred seventy-two galloping Cynthian cavalrymen. "I explicitly instructed you not to—" The adjutant raised his hands in protestation. "It originates from ahead!" Another rider indicated the approaching hillside. "The horn sounds from our front!"

  "We are undone." Lazette's complexion blanched as he muttered, "The Southerners have completed their encirclement."

  "Let us fight to our last breath!" the adjutant proclaimed. "If this is the day we die, then let us meet our end with courage in our hearts and honor to our names!" "To glorious death!" surrounding knights echoed fervently.

  Lazette refrained from joining this chorus. As cavalry began materializing along the hillcrest, he experienced odd familiarity with their appearance, particularly the standard carried by their foremost banner-bearer. (What emblem is that? A canine? No... not a dog.) He moderated his mare's pace, narrowing his eyes for better scrutiny. (A... bear? Oh, by all the gods, how wonderfully ironic.) He rolled his eyes contemptuously. "All riders, halt immediately!" His command cut the legs out from under the adjutant's speech, just as the young man was building to a grand call for a noble death.

  Before any objection could materialize, the advancing cavalry broke into unified battle cry: "For Pafaheim! For House Berlid! For Cynthia!" The adjutant's eyes nearly dislodged from his visor—no intelligence had indicated reinforcements; none had dared hope for such salvation. "Reverse direction!" Lazette gesticulated frantically. "Rotate your mounts one hundred eighty degrees this instant! You, adjutant!" He jabbed a finger commandingly. "Sound that horn! Blow until your lungs collapse!"

  The adjutant later acknowledged in his memoirs that this particular moment had inspired certain inappropriate mental associations. The charge signal reverberated, causing Cynthian cavalry to abruptly check their mounts, resulting in numerous collisions. Godman pursuers, with uncanny synchronized intuition, simultaneously reduced their pace. Their commander fixated on the hillside, swallowing nervously. "Reinforcements?" he questioned his subordinate. "Reinforcements?" The adjutant had evidently forgotten the earlier terrifying battle roars. "No intelligence suggested allied reinforcement." "Those barbaric-sounding reinforcements currently occupying the hillside!" The commander's saliva spattered against his subordinate's visor plate. "Cynthian reinforcements, you incompetent fool!"

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  "Perhaps tactical withdraw—" The adjutant stammered, trembling lips betraying his fear as he wiped perspiration from his eyelashes. "Withdraw? To the hells with that! We still have more men than they do! We'll crush them where they stand!" Then, his tone shifted. "Send in the Friezs first."

  The charging Berlid knights utterly disregarded the three hundred seventy-two Cynthian cavalry between themselves and their objective; their focus remained exclusively on the uniformly dark-gold and silver-armored Southerners. Grand Pip spearheaded the advance, with standard-bearer Bort following closely, black bear banner held proudly aloft. Lazette's knights finally comprehended that these roaring horsemen represented heaven-sent reinforcement, prompting them to reverse direction while shouting varied celebratory exclamations. They anticipated that Godman forces would halt their advance or initiate retreat upon witnessing reinforcements. To their profound dismay, the Godmans not only maintained their charge but accelerated it. They observed as dog-headed Friez cavalry outdistanced other Godman horsemen, their frenzied approach resembling starving hunting hounds. This created a truly bizarre sight on the field: one group of knights caught in the middle, about to be crushed like the meat in a sandwich between two others charging headlong at each other. Neither enemy force acknowledged their presence; their own allies barely registered them. Lazette observed his bewildered knights, his heart pounding with such ferocity he feared his breastplate might permanently deform. "Cease your mindless gawking!" His sword-wielding right hand described increasingly elaborate gestures, rivaling a primate's eye examination in complexity. "Charge immediately, you wretches! Decimate these accursed Godmans! Do you desire obliteration between converging forces? Charge! CHARGE!" The newly appointed adjutant blew his horn until vascular distension threatened his neck.

  Finally, Pafaheim's knights responded appropriately. With battle cries and brandished weapons, they launched their counteroffensive. Tragically, many failed to accelerate their mounts sufficiently, becoming engulfed within Berlid ranks, suffering disorientation from collisions, several even mistakenly identified as Godman combatants and engaged by friendly forces. Conservative estimation placed Cynthian cavalry at approximately 1,350 against Godma's 2,100. More than ten thousand infantry remained in reserve behind battle lines. "Surrender that instrument," Lazette commandeered the horn from his adjutant unceremoniously. "Your talents would better serve conducting some elven orchestra."

  Grand Pip Berlid, Earl of Halfhill, would earn immortalization in chronicles and ballads for generations following this engagement. In his grip was a greatsword of Elnian Blue Steel. Its blade was broad and brutally simple, marked only by the twin fullers running its length. The hilt, made of dragon-bone and wrapped in watersnake skin, bore a single inscription: "k?ik er smaobit" -- All Will Be Crushed. This legendary weapon—subsequently identified as Bonecrusher, crafted by the goddess Nira herself—he deployed with devastating two-handed power, cleaving a Friez knight still drawing his weapon from the saddle. Standard-bearer Bort planted the black bear banner firmly in the earth while fumbling for his own armament. Another Friez, perceiving opportunity, leveled his lance and charged toward the seemingly defenseless Bort. Midway through his charge, the Friez abruptly altered his posture, hastily raising his knight's shield against Grand Pip's lateral attack. Even as life departed, his expression betrayed utter disbelief at witnessing his shield cleaved perfectly in two. The standard-bearer concluded his existence by driving a short sword through his left eye socket. This particular Friez ranked among the youngest of his lineage—merely fifteen years and two months of age.