The Battle of Eastbrook, Clash of Shields 

Beaver appeared, mud caked on his boots, a scrap of parchment rolled tight in his fist. He bowed slightly. "No hidden units have been discovered, and no sign of sabotage on the flanks."

"What are his intentions?" Clinton muttered.

"He thinks he can break us here," Steven said. "So he wants to do it in the open, a lesson for the rest of the realm."

He looked again at the enemy lines. The cavalry began to spread wide, allowing the infantry blocks to march forward. Squares of men bristling with pikes, protected by shield bearers on the edges. 

Behind those blocks, archers formed staggered ranks, each detachment marked by colored sashes for clear commands.

And there, near the center of the cavalry wedge, rode a man on a destrier clad in crimson barding. Baron Atkins sat on his horse, and his presence was intimidating.

To his right, Hyde could be seen on a lean bay horse, already gesturing to runners who darted between the formations. 

On the west side, Jeremy gave his insights. "He is spreading the cavalry to tempt our flanks. If we overextend, his infantry blocks will press our middle and split us."

Steven said nothing. He knew this, but he wanted Jeremy to say it aloud, to remind every man who heard him that they had thought of this already.

Morale was not always in the sword, and sometimes it was in the calm recitation of facts that made chaos seem manageable.

"Clinton," Steven said. "Hold the left. Do not chase their horsemen if they feint."

Clinton grunted. "Aye."

He gave out his instructions. "Twyford, you will take the right. If they come through the orchard, make them regret it."

Twyford grinned. "A good place for a killing ground."

Steven turned to Jeremy. "You and I stay here. The center will bear the brunt. If we hold, they cannot win."

Jeremy nodded once, rolling his shoulders to loosen the nerves that had begun to coil in his gut.

The wind changed. The smell of men, leather, and steel drifted heavier now, mixed with the acrid scent of oil and torch smoke. Flags were raised on both sides, the signal of battle.

Steven walked the line one last time. He touched the shoulders of his men and locked eyes with grizzled veterans. 

He spoke little to let them feel the weight in his calm. "Stay in line. Shields up, spears steady. When the ground shakes, do not look at the horsemen, but look at the back of your captain, and keep your wall."

Rosina looked up, eyes soft despite the bow in her hand. "Try not to get yourself killed," she said.

"You too," Steven replied.

She smirked and turned away, already shouting for her men to draw.

Clinton reined his horse beside him. "Today is a good day for battle. Do not hold anything back, lad."

Steven murmured. "Not today."

The first signal horn sounded. A low note that quivered like thunder caught in the throat. On the far side, Atkins raised his fist. The cavalry shifted, hooves pawing at the muddy earth, snorts of impatience drifting like steam.

For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. Grass bowed in the breeze. Banners strained at their poles. Hearts hammered inside breastplates like caged war drums.

Then Atkins dropped his hand.

The horns of the Raging Boar split the sky, a roar that rolled across the Eastbrook fields like a promise of ruin. The sound was meant to crush spirits before blades ever met. But the Ashguard line did not tremble.

Steven could hear the crackle of men breathing in unison behind locked shields, the bracing creak of spears being lowered into position.

He glanced at Clinton, the old knight had seen more battles than half the men here, and yet the scarred veteran still looked as eager as a hound on a leash.

Twyford barked last-minute orders to the front rank. His blade, already unsheathed, shimmered like water in the thin dawn light.

"Spears steady!" Clinton called, voice cutting through the hush. "Check your footing! The first push will test your bones!"

Across the frost-torn meadow, the infantry of the Raging Boar was moving. Three thousand men, spread out in columns. Hyde, the strategist, had arranged them with cruel precision: tight squares in the center, looser flanks to test the wings.

Steven lifted his sword above his head, a single signal. Jeremy, standing just behind the command banner, relayed it to the entire line with one sweep of his standard: Hold the wall. Let them break themselves on us.

The enemy infantry surged forward in a tide of iron and leather. Hundreds of boots stomped through the churned-up frost, axes and maces thudding against shields. 

War cries rose. 

On the flanks, the enemy archers nocked their last arrows, sending sporadic shots at the orchard fringe, but most fell short, striking harmlessly in the mud.

Steven inhaled the cold air. 

The last days had burned the fear from his bones. Now there was only the steel and the promise he had made: Headow would not fall.

"Steady, Ashguard!" Clinton roared. "Raise shields! Brace spears!"

The front ranks slammed their shields together, a wall of iron rims. Behind them, spearmen leaned their shafts between their shoulders, tips angled low, ready to impale the first fool who thought to break the line with brute force.

Then the Raging Boar crashed against the line.

It was a ragged collision of flesh and steel, men grunting as shoulders met shields, feet slid in the mud, and the first spears drove deep. The crack of wood splintering mingled with the wet sound of blades punching through mail.

Steven was in the second line, his eyes darting from left to right. He stepped forward just as the front shield wall wavered, driving his shoulder into the back of a spearman to steady him.

"Hold!" he shouted, his voice raw.

An enemy footman lunged over the locked shields. Steven lunged to meet him, his sword flashing up. Their blades met with a jolt that numbed his shoulder. 

He turned his hips, twisting the edge down into the wrist. A howl followed by the axe clattering into the mud, and the footman disappeared beneath the press of spears.

Twyford had vaulted the spear wall the moment the enemy infantry made their second push. He fought, his blade arcing and darting, never lingering long enough to be pinned. He caught one enemy under the chin, kicked another off balance, then disappeared into the swirl of shields and mud.

"Push! Push!" Clinton bellowed on the left. The infantry line surged forward a pace, their heavy shields knocking the enemy footmen back a step. Ashguard held tight, each man pressing shoulder to shoulder, iron-shod boots planted firm even as the frost turned to thick sucking muck.

The center was the bloodiest. Here, the Raging Boar pressed hardest, shoulder to shoulder, axe and short sword swinging in vicious arcs. 

A brute of a man slammed into the shield wall, and he knocked one spearman aside, his mace smashing through the shield, sending splinters into the air.

Steven was there before the gap could widen. He thrust forward, the point of his sword catching the brute under the arm where his mail was thin. The man fell backward with a choked scream, arms flailing as he tried to stem the flood of red from his side. 

Steven pushed his shield against the next enemy soldier, using the momentum to send him sprawling into the mud.

A horn blast sounded behind the Raging Boar line. A fresh wave of infantry began to move from the squares, advancing at an angle to press the right flank near the orchard.

Jeremy appeared, breathless. "Hyde is pivoting! He wants to wedge our line!"

Steven gave a command in a single breath. "Signal the archers to drop their volley on the flanking wave. Twyford holds the line."

Jeremy nodded, already whirling to relay the orders.

Steel met steel. Spears splintered, axes bit deep, men screamed and grunted in the tightening press. The scent of iron and churned earth clogged every breath. 

Clinton roared, his voice was hoarse now, but it carried all the same. "Push them back! They break or we do!"

He surged forward himself, swinging his longsword. Each cut was efficient, blows that spent no more energy than needed. He ducked a wild swing, slammed his shield into the attacker, then rammed his blade through the chest.

Twyford had carved out a ring of clear ground. He fought like a madman: blade slashing, elbow snapping a jaw, boots sending bodies sprawling. Once, he paused just long enough to signal Rosina through the haze. She nodded, losing her arrow into the neck of an enemy soldier trying to flank him.

All along the line, the Ashguard infantry locked shields and leaned into the tide. The Raging Boar had not expected this resolve. 

Atkins had thrown numbers at them, hoping to scatter the Ashguard in the first crush. The clever angles could not break the orchard's anchor. Darwin could not smash the shield wall that Clinton patched over and over like a mason rebuilding a battered rampart.

The Boar infantry began to fall back in some places, regrouping under shouted commands. Hyde was already shifting squares again, probing for the next weak seam.