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The battlefield was already littered with bones, blood dried on the leaves and crushed grass underneath the furious hooves of their horses. They had converged on this plain where their fathers, grandfathers, and ancestors had died before them, and it was there that they fought again. For what, Khulan couldn’t remember.
Her horse shuffled under her, nervous as the other side began to beat their drums. They had just arrived at the camp people have set before them, char pits plenty and firewood scarce. Not that that was a problem for their army, they would burn horse dung anyway.
A gaze around the field showed her fellow warriors were feeling the same tightness in their gut as before ever battle, before the rush of swords and clash of wills between the two peoples. The other side, with their brown tan skin and strange flowing tongue, had sent a messenger for the conditions of her army’s possible surrender, but that was just a formality. Brushing her braid a bit, Khulan made sure not to disturb her General’s Emblem that separated her from the rabble around her. Sure, a few orcs here, a couple bloodborne there lurked in the Kwamu Ranks, but they had their own weapons. One that was being employed right now.
She hid her smile as another general walked over to her, giving a hand gesture to assure her that the plan was in effect. Now Khluan just had to make a scene.
“Warriors!” she called, watching the soldiers and sons of farmers that they snatched from foreign lands gather around her, hearts ready to be led. “Today, we fight the Kwamu, those who had fought against our ancestors and mothers before us! They fought on this very same battlefield, and today we shall follow them!” She raised her sword in the air and gave a war cry that was echoed across the thousands upon thousands of men in their units and slammed into the ground by the hooves of their horses. She pointed her swords at the enemy, who snarled at them from the other side of the field. “CHARGE!”
The crowd of boys and veterans, brave and cowards alike, jabbed at their horses and followed her order, screaming their own cries of war as they thundered over the bones and blood from the old men who’ve done exactly the same. The Kwamu followed, two oceans of swords rushing towards each other. And then they clashed.
Khulan stayed behind, eyes cool and calculating. The battle had started not for 5 minutes when she motioned to the messenger beside her. He nodded, hands shaking as he flew around the battle, his horse’s hair blocking his view, but he knew the way well enough that sight was not necessary. He halted in his agreed position and lit a piece of wood on fire, nervous hands rushing to alit the oiled signal. With a burst of magic, it was lit, and he waved the signal above his head furiously, until, over a hill to the west, behind the Kwamu, a single flame was lit in response. The messenger sighed relief. His deed was done.
Khulan watched the plan fit together like an oh so many perfect puzzle pieces. The men the messenger had signaled were dead silent as they rode down the slight hill and behind the Kwamu army, swords raised and teeth bared. It wasn’t until they were in arrow distance that the Kwamu looked up from the gorefest the men in front of them had presented and saw the large growing horde of horses and silent men behind them. The horses shrieked, the Kwamu’s eyes widened and mouths began to shout as they realized the trick, as Khulan’s army struck them from the rear and soon to the left and the right. They were surrounded.
She watched them from the barren camp, her khan’s insignia burying the Kwamu in a rush of swords and horse feet, a few soldiers even trying to run away from the relentless onslaught of swords and arrows from those behind the spear bearers. They were killed on sight.
A chuckle struck from deep within her, as the foolish enemies that were the Kwamu were decimated. Fools.
Her ancestors had fought on this field. They’ve clashed over the petty squabble between their kingdoms of sorts for decades, perhaps centuries, and yet the Kwamu used the same tactics as their forebears. Rush in and defeat with raw might. And as the fallen men could see now, that was a deadly, deadly mistake.
The battle, if it could be called one, was over soon quickly, with a trick used in children’s games being the victor. Khulan’s plan had worked, and she yawned as the bloody men returned to camp.
“Good work, men,” she called out, “May the gods bless our work today. Where we succeeded where our ancestors failed again and again.”
Bless their hubris, she smiled.
And bless our swords to deliver them from it.