—Dismount! —shouted the lieutenant with a voice that cut through the air like a whip—. Leave the horses at the edge of the forest, follow me in a loose formation. Bows ready, swords drawn.
With the order issued, the Guard troops accompanying the mission, about 80 men, excluding the command and control personnel and the exceptional sharpshooters who had stayed in the specialized precision-fire wagons, got off their steeds with a synchronization born of weeks of rigorous training. They entered the thick of the forest with a single goal: to support the hunters already inside, who were resisting desperately, and the others who had answered the call for help.
The transition from the open road to the gloom of the forest was immediate. The ground, covered in roots and rotting leaves, made rapid progress difficult, but the men of the Guard moved with surprising agility.
—Iván, take a contingent of 20 men and try to position yourselves at the enemy's rear. If you see an opportunity, charge them. You are the hammer and I am the anvil —said Lieutenant Fernández as he ran toward the combat zone, dodging fallen logs—. Understood?
—Sir, yes sir! Men, twenty of you with me! Leave behind anything that might make noise, secure your scabbards and straps. —After giving the instruction, Iván launched himself incredibly stealthily toward the flank, taking advantage of the density of the undergrowth to position himself behind what appeared to be the enemy's rearguard.
—The rest of you, let's go! —the lieutenant declared, leading the frontal advance.
…
At the heart of the fray, the situation was critical. The air hissed with the passage of projectiles that splintered against the trunks.
—Shit, I'm out of arrows! —shouted Andrés, trying to look to his companions for ammunition while pressing himself against the bark of a tree to avoid an enemy projectile.
—Hey, take the enemy's arrows! You just have to peek out without getting hit and then gather them from the trees. They grow on trees, literally! Hahahaha. —said Julio, who seemed possessed by a manic energy and hadn't run out of ammunition since the skirmish began.
—Oh, sure... the god of war himself —Andrés replied with less sarcasm than he actually intended. He was exhausted, desperately searching for any shaft that could serve to return fire—. Lucky we had patrols of four in the surroundings and were able to regroup enough to avoid being crushed in the first moments of combat. But we've been retreating among the trees ever since. We haven't been able to establish a defensive line, damn it. —he thought bitterly.
Suddenly, a vibrant and powerful sound tore through the chaos of the forest.
Sound of a Horn
From one moment to the next, all the faces of the guardsmen turned to see who was riding on the back of the war horn. Whether they were doomed or if this was salvation itself.
When they strained their eyes through the powerful rays of sun filtering through the forest canopy to look behind them, they saw for a moment a single man atop the hill with the banner of House Cortés. With the sun right behind his head, that warrior projected a special aura, an alba aureolis that infused renewed courage into their exhausted hearts.
Moments later, more than fifty people appeared on that same hill, charging in unison toward the enemy position. They linked up with the hunters who until a moment ago were at risk of being surrounded and annihilated.
—You, now! In formation! Behind the shield-bearers of the first line. We are counterattacking. —shouted Lieutenant Fernández as he reached Andrés and Julio's position.
Without another word, he followed his men, who were closing the distance with the enemy at a trot. The archers covered the advance with a heavy rain of arrows, taking advantage of the final seconds before the distance closed so much that they were forced to resort to brutal hand-to-hand combat.
But, contrary to the expectation of Andrés, who was already sighing with relief behind the shield walls of his allies, the enemy did not crumble. These were not disorganized bandits. They were professionals. The attackers quickly formed their own line, interlocking shields to meet the men of House Cortés.
—With strength! With God! With the Count! With the Strategist! Charge, boys, let them know what real hell is like! Protect your homes and your families! —shouted the lieutenant with a fervor that electrified the atmosphere.
—For whom?!
—For God!
—For whom?!
—For the Count!
—For whom?!
—For the Strategist!
—Get them! —the lieutenant shouted, running alongside his line for the final thirty meters before colliding with a crash of metal and wood against the enemy ranks.
…
—José, report on the position —said Miguel with an icy calm that contrasted with the sweat beading on his forehead. His hands moved wooden pieces over a detailed map, trying to maintain an eagle's eye view of the current state of the battlefield.
—Reporting to the Strategist. The outer perimeter has been established exactly as set out in the contingency plans discussed earlier. But there are still wagons missing from the formation of the outer perimeter, sir. —said José, giving a quick bow.
—Perfect —Miguel replied without looking up—. I want the maneuvers to be sped up to put all the wagons in position as quickly as possible. We cannot leave holes in the mobile wall.
—Jhon, Francis! —Miguel called with authority—. I want you alert to both the East and the West, one half of the camp for each of you.
—It shall be done that way. —both replied in unison before retreating to their positions.
—Good, with this at least the most critical points of the battle are covered. What a relief. —Miguel murmured to himself. But, as if fate wanted to mock him, a horn suddenly sounded. Its note was deep, guttural, and entirely different from that of House Cortés... it came from the west, the direction they had just passed through.
—Shit…
—My lord! My lord! —Raúl shouted from a distance, galloping his steed faster than the wind itself. He stopped abruptly, kicking up a cloud of dust near the command post—. Enemies from the rear, at least 200 of them, my lord. Cavalry and a column of infantry at a fast pace.
—Oh, for God's sake, what the hell have we done to that damn Narico for him to be so persistent? —Miguel thought as he felt the pressure of command tightening in his chest—. That miserable idiot. This isn't a skirmish; it's a coordinated pincer movement.
—Raúl! Past orders are cancelled. Have all troops not in the battle with the lieutenant gather as reserve cavalry for the battle to come. You're on your own; find the opportune moment to strike the final blow. If that moment doesn't come, lead your riders to cover any gaps that may arise within the defensive formation with charges from the rear... but only if the enemy breaks the perimeter. Go!
—Understood, my lord! —said an agitated Raúl, whose eyes reflected the nervousness of facing a superior force on two different fronts, while the fate of his companions in the forest remained a mystery. He spurred his horse and rode off to gather the remaining riders.
—Jhon and Francis! —Said Miguel. Those were tying the safety ropes of the wagons as fast as they could, reinforcing the joints with cords—. Use the harquebusiers well against armored enemies and try to hide the troops you have until it's too late for any enemy wanting to attack us. I don't want you wasting powder on light targets; wait until the heavyweights are within range.
—Yes, my lord!
…
In the forest, the clash of the lines was brutal. The sound of steel hitting steel drowned out the cries of the combatants.
Sound of a distant horn
—Damn it, that's not the House Cortés horn —thought Fernández—. We are being attacked on two fronts at the same time. Could it be that the ambush was only to prevent the wagons from forming a circle, and the real attack is the one the young master is facing right now?
The lieutenant felt a chill run down his spine. If the camp fell, there would be nowhere to retreat.
—I need Iván not to take so long! —he continued in his thoughts—. We must finish the fighting on this side to support the Strategist.
—Push! Give them no breathing room!
Following Miguel's recommendations, Fernández stayed near the front line to maintain morale, but remained just behind the first line, taking mental note of the various events occurring. He alternated command with surgical precision, launching accurate arrows through the openings in the shields whenever he saw a weak point in the enemy.
—These aren't the amateurs we faced at the battle of the wall. They are well-coordinated, disciplined, they are rotating the tired with the fresh, and they have excellent command. They hardly even speak to execute orders. —the lieutenant observed with respect and anxiety—. God bless my captain for convincing the Count to establish an elite guard; we don't have the numbers, but every one of these men is worth five common militiamen.
However, despite their skill, time was running out. If they didn't manage to break the enemy line and free the infantry to return to the camp, Miguel would be left alone against the charge from the west. Fernández looked toward the thicket, hoping to see Iván's banner emerging from the shadows like the hammer that was meant to strike the anvil.