Misbegotten world

Chapter 46: Forgotten powers

As the sun dipped lower, casting a golden glow over the battlefield, the two armies crept ever closer, their formations closing the gap to just two miles. Between them, smaller skirmishes erupted, quick and brutal exchanges that tested each side's resolve without yet fully committing them to the bloody clash that awaited.

The mages in Roderick's ranks took the initiative, launching bolts of flame and crackling arcs of lightning through the air, their powers staining the sky with flashes of red and blue. Their spells arced high before descending with fierce precision, striking at the mounted Eagle Javelin throwers in Alaric's vanguard.

Yet, the javelin throwers proved nimble, their mounts agile and quick. They responded with deft throws, their javelins slicing through the air in deadly arcs that sought out gaps in the mages' defenses. Riders would dash forward, hurling their spears with practiced strength before retreating out of range, using the battlefield's open space to their advantage. The skirmish became a deadly dance as mages and riders maneuvered, each seeking to weaken the other's numbers before the main bodies of the armies collided.

Despite the distance, the atmosphere between the two forces grew taut. On both sides, soldiers watched with clenched jaws and bated breath as their vanguards exchanged blows. Every loss, every fallen figure, added weight to the moment, a reminder of the high stakes they faced.

The mages strained to maintain their onslaught, focusing their energy with intense discipline. Alaric's Eagle Javelin throwers continued their harrying maneuvers, their piercing battle cries echoing as they pressed their counterattacks. The last light of the day cast their shadows long across the field, and the air shimmered with the residual heat and fury of unleashed spells.

As the skirmishes raged on, both Roderick and Alaric kept a close watch, aware that these early encounters would set the tone for the bloodshed to come. Each side sought a sign of weakness, hoping to exploit it once the armies finally met in full.

As the dust rose from the eastern flank, Alaric's 600 Golden Winged Riders, renowned for their agility and precision, charged forward, their golden armor gleaming in the waning sunlight. Against them thundered Roderick's 900 Royal Obsidian Riders, a fierce and formidable force draped in dark armor, the symbol of House Greyvon emblazoned on their shields. The Obsidian Riders moved with practiced unity, each rider disciplined and skilled, their blackened lances poised like fangs ready to strike.

The two forces converged rapidly, each side vying for control of the flank, knowing that a successful maneuver here would create a crucial opening in their enemy's lines. Golden wings cut through the air in perfect formation, and the riders called out to one another as they readied for impact. The Obsidian Riders advanced like a black tide, their formation tight, aiming to overwhelm the Golden Winged Riders through sheer strength and numbers.

Back in the main force, Roderick observed the struggle on the flank and sensed an opportunity. Signaling his commanders, he ordered his army to halt. His heavy spear infantry formed up, creating a formidable two-by-two formation—a wall of shields and spears, braced for impact and positioned with lethal intent. Behind them, his archers and crossbowmen lined up, arrows notched and bolts ready, creating a deadly second layer of offense prepared to rain devastation upon Alaric's forces.

Roderick's plan was clear: force Alaric into a pitched battle, where the advantage of numbers and the strength of his disciplined infantry line could shine. From his position, he could see Alaric's men struggling to adjust, their formation looking strained under the shifting dynamics of Roderick's calculated moves.

Meanwhile, on the east flank, the clash of cavalry was fierce and chaotic. The Golden Winged Riders fought with precision, dodging and weaving through the ranks of the Obsidian Riders, seeking to turn the battle in their favor despite the disadvantage in numbers. Every clash of lance and sword, every fall of a rider, echoed across the field, a prelude to the larger storm brewing between the two armies.