He watched the dust rise, an inexorable tide prepared to swallow the world. Great mushrooms of grey sprouted from the earth, reaching for the heavens as if to choke the very light of the day. They stood ready to claim everything and everyone in their path, just like the bottomless hunger of thier masters.
Alpheo stood frozen, watching the horizon as if trapped in a fever dream.
This cannot be, he reasoned, his mind racing against the cold geometry of the field. He looked around and saw that even the Oizenian infantry had taken heed.
There was no joy in their faces, only a sudden, frantic terror.
The reason?
They were in the way.
The lances, the hooves, and the blind momentum of a heavy charge would not distinguish between theirs and the enemies in the mud. Like the sea parting before a vengeful god, the enemy footmen began to scatter, clawing at each other to escape the path of their own salvation.
