As if the heavens themselves answered his silent call for help, the blast of a familiar horn tore through the dense forest air. Iván appeared with his contingent of men emerging from the thicket, directly attacking the enemy's rearguard.
—For the Count! —Iván shouted at the top of his lungs, his voice charged with a contained fury that electrified the hunters still resisting among the trees.
The echo of the House Cortés horn was the signal Lieutenant Fernández needed. Seeing the chaos sown by his subordinate's flanking maneuver, the lieutenant roared his own orders:
—With strength, men! Drive them back! Don't let them breathe, don't let them disengage from the fight to flee, those bastards! Let's win the time our allies need to kill these dogs from behind.
Completely ignoring Miguel's previous advice about leading from the rear, Fernández threw himself into the center of the melee. His sword was a blur of silver under the filtered light of the forest. With the first man he encountered, an enemy infantryman with a grim stare, the lieutenant performed a masterful feint; he feigned a descending slash from the left, but in the last millisecond, with a skillful flick of the wrist, he changed the trajectory toward the opposite flank. His weapon struck squarely against the side of the soldier's helmet, who staggered back, dazed, though he managed to maintain enough stability not to fall.
Seeing his comrade in trouble, a second enemy soldier stepped in, trying to protect the position so his friend could catch his breath. His mistake was haste: he attacked as soon as he entered the range of the lieutenant's weapon. Fernández, with reflexes tempered in a thousand battles, dodged the blow by moving his entire body in a forward diagonal. Once in position, with brutal force, he delivered an upward slash that hit the opponent's chest full on. Giving him no respite, Fernández finished him off with a precise thrust at neck height; at least an inch of steel pierced the chainmail, ending the enemy on the spot.
—Wuahhhhhhhhhhhgggggggg! —With a guttural war cry, Fernández announced his victory.
That cry was an injection of adrenaline for his troops. The Guard soldiers, seeing their commander shedding blood on the front line, pushed with renewed vigor against an enemy already surpassed in number and position. Iván, for his part, showed no mercy; his men were systematically massacring the enemy's rear ranks, turning the ambush into a butchery for the attackers.
Seeing his forces crumbling, the enemy commander, a man with a pale face and feverish eyes, let out a cry that chilled the blood of those present:
—Take the source of eternal life, my sheep! Do not let the cursed infidels profane your living bodies! Let only the empty shell reach their hands, while the souls of your brave men reach glory!
To the astonishment of the Guard, all the enemy warriors, even those in the middle of an exchange of blows, took out a small vial with a whitish powder and swallowed it in a single gulp. Within seconds, the forest was filled with the sound of collapsing bodies.
The enemies fell to the ground convulsing violently; their limbs shook with unnatural force until, suddenly, they went still. Their pupils dilated until they covered the iris, their mouths remained open expelling a dense white foam, and their skin turned a deathly pale color, similar to jade.
—Fuck! What the hell happened?! —Iván shouted from the other side of the clearing, stopping before a corpse.
—I don't know... it's diabolical... —the lieutenant murmured, cleaning the blood from his blade with a mechanical gesture. —Iván, make sure everyone is well and truly dead. For real. I don't want surprises.
—At your command, Lieutenant.
Iván and his men scoured the field, finishing off the fallen to confirm that the poison —or whatever that was— had finished the job. Meanwhile, Fernández regrouped the rest.
—Men, we move out in two minutes! Finish the task, drink water, collect any usable arrows, and let's get the horses. We must go to the Strategist's aid!
…
In the camp, the tension could be cut with a knife. Miguel watched the western horizon, where the enemy dust cloud already revealed the silhouettes of heavy cavalry.
—Now, now, now! Infantry, between the wagons, covering the sections where the ropes are. Bring the supplies for the projectile troops, and only attack when I say. We have armored visitors. Let the harquebuses welcome them properly! —ordered Francis.
—Sir, yes, sir! —the troops responded, taking their posts behind the wooden breastworks.
In the distance, Raúl's reserve cavalry remained on standby, moving like a swarm of wasps around a giant, waiting for the moment to sting. The bulk of the enemy force began the approach. At first, they hesitated upon entering bow range, but soon several units dismounted to harass the formation with their own projectiles.
When the attackers closed the distance, archers, protected by the wagons, returned fire with surgical precision. Not having the pressure of being in the open field, their shots were lethal. However, the true threat arrived when the enemy heavy cavalry spurred their steeds for a final charge.
—Hold! —Francis shouted.
100 meters.
—Hold!
50 meters. The ground vibrated under the horses' hooves.
—Fire! —bellowed the sergeant.
The harquebusier units fired in unison. The roar was deafening, and a dense cloud of white smoke covered the flank. The effect was devastating: the lead bullets tore through plate armor as if it were leather, bringing down enemy knights who would have been a death sentence for simple spearmen. The wagons provided the perfect cover for the marksmen to duck down and reload their complex weapons.
—Spearmen, advance! Cover the projectile troops! —José ordered, stepping forward to intercept the knights who, after seeing their mounted charge thwarted, dismounted to try and force their way through the narrow gaps between the wagons.
The combat became a tumult of metal against metal in the openings of the mobile fortress. Amidst the chaos, the second coordinated volley of Francis's harquebuses rang out, felling those who managed to climb the wheels. But the enemy was numerous and began searching for other weak points.
—Sir! Enemy attack on the right flank! —Jhon shouted.
—There's no other way... —Miguel whispered, feeling the weight of command—. To arms, men of the Guard! Close the command and control wagon. Have some infantry stay close and remind the people to stay down. With me!
Miguel headed to the right flank with his last reserves. The situation there was desperate; a handful of spearmen were retreating before the push of armored warriors.
—Aim, breathe, fire —Miguel told himself as he raised his own weapon. With a roar, the knight leading the assault was brought down by an impact to the abdominal area, falling into a fetal position.
The five soldiers accompanying Miguel with harquebuses maintained constant fire, while the rest threw themselves into hand-to-hand combat to win vital seconds.
In that moment of maximum tension, Raúl saw his opportunity.
—Charge! —the cavalry sergeant shouted, leading his 25 hunters down the hill. They crashed into the attackers' exposed flank, but the enemy knights, professional and seasoned, managed to respond to the maneuver by counter-charging. A technical stalemate ensued where the hunters' numerical advantage compensated for their lack of armor.
For ten minutes, the fate of the caravan hung by a thread. The air smelled of blood, sweat, and burnt gunpowder. Miguel fired and reloaded with mechanical movements, watching his men fall to hold the line. Just as their strength began to falter, a celestial sound —at least to Miguel's ears— resonated from the east.
Sound of a Horn
The gallop of eighty riders shook the battlefield. Lieutenant Fernández led the charge back, striking the rear of the enemy attack like a lightning bolt.
—The cavalry has arrived! —Miguel shouted. —Spread the word, we have won this engagement!
—The strategist! Long live! —the cry spread throughout the circle of wagons like an unstoppable tide.
…
With the arrival of fresh reinforcements and the loss of their commanders in the forest, the surviving enemy troops began a hasty retreat toward the east, toward the marquisate, using the wagons to block a direct charge from Fernández.
To Miguel's horror, those who were trapped or wounded did not surrender; they sought the same white powder as their comrades and gave themselves to death before they could be interrogated.
Miguel, exhausted and with his face smeared with soot, lowered his weapon.
—Ensure all civilians, casualties, wounded, and supplies are secured —he ordered in a hoarse voice. —Repair the wagons immediately. We will do the same as in the village: a mass grave for them. I don't want their stench contaminating our path.
—Understood, sir. —Fernández asked.
—We will use the captives from the previous battle to dig the graves.