The opposing lord noticed a hint of concession in my words and said:
"Since you wish to know, I'll let you die with clarity. I am Desporion of Ronarion. My family has served in the Senate since the founding of the Empire, upholding our duties with honor. I am also the lord of Lothe. Now that the introductions are done, choose between surrender or death."
His stance was unyielding—there was no avoiding a fight. I had already made up my mind and replied:
"Very well. If you refuse to let us go, then let us fight fairly. If you have any honor, allow us to form our ranks and face each other in a battle of chivalry."
The lord sneered at my refusal to surrender and my request for a fair fight—though the numbers were far from equal. With a contemptuous smile, he said:
"Then I shall grant your final wish, lest rumors spread that I crushed you unfairly. Form your ranks."
We both rode back to our forces. I led my men to a slightly elevated position, ensuring my archers were well-supplied with arrows. The open ground ahead gave us a clear line of sight, and we stood with the sun at our backs, a dense forest behind us. I intended to use this terrain to whittle them down, preventing them from closing in. If they advanced, we would retreat into the woods, only to re-emerge and resume our attacks, exhausting them in a relentless cycle.
As I directed my troops into formation, I relayed my strategy. The enemy, meanwhile, arranged themselves in their traditional battle order—shield walls at the front, infantry behind, cavalry on the flanks advancing steadily, ready to charge and break our lines, while their archers provided covering fire. It was a methodical, step-by-step approach.
The moment our formations were set, their horns sounded, and they attacked. One hundred and fifty men—the largest force I had faced yet, outnumbering us three to one. These were professional soldiers, and I couldn't deny the unease in my heart. Victory wasn't guaranteed, but surrender meant starting over. There was no choice but to fight.
As the distance closed, my Vlandian sharpshooters loosed the first volley. Armed with longbows, they had the farthest effective range on the continent—around two hundred meters, akin to the English longbowmen of history. Their arrows clattered against enemy shields, though a few found their marks among the opposing archers.
The exchange of arrows intensified as the gap narrowed. Despite their numbers, the enemy suffered heavier losses. I ordered my archers to focus on their cavalry, even those clad in heavy armor. When they were fifty meters away, their horsemen prepared to charge. I commanded a retreat into the woods under covering fire.
Seeing us withdraw, their lord signaled a full assault. To buy time, I sent five cavalrymen to harass their advance. Most of their riders gave chase, while a few broke through, only to be shot down by our arrows. The rest hesitated, circling warily until their infantry caught up.
Their foot soldiers, however, advanced cautiously, shields raised defensively. We slipped into the forest, my archers firing from behind trees as they fell back. The enemy, realizing pursuit was futile, withdrew. We then emerged, unleashing another volley before they could regroup.
This hit-and-run tactic wore them down. After several exchanges, their numbers dwindled to seventy or so, while we had lost over a dozen men. Our archers, now scavenging arrows from the fallen, were nearly out.
I gave the order to engage in melee. My remaining cavalry, hidden in the woods, charged out. My soldiers fought desperately—some, riddled with arrows, fought on through sheer will before collapsing. I myself cut down five or six foes, my horse long dead.
The battle raged for half an hour before we emerged victorious. Covered in blood, I stood numb to pain, surveying the carnage. My surviving troops tended to the wounded and searched for survivors. "Report the casualties," I ordered a guard. "Use the medical supplies on the packhorses. Bury our dead with honor."
The guard returned shortly: "My lord, we lost twenty men, with ten wounded. The enemy suffered a hundred dead—the rest fled. We've captured their lord and ten soldiers."
"Secure the field and tend to the injured," I said.
Though the losses stung, the outcome was favorable. The enemy's forces, while numerous, had only sixty true veterans—the rest were recruits and levies.
Desporion was dragged before me, disheveled and furious. "You dishonorable cur!" he spat. "You spoke of a fair fight, yet you retreated and ambushed us! You have no chivalry! This isn't over!"
Wiping grime from my face, I retorted: "Spare me your hypocrisy. Attacking with triple my numbers was 'chivalrous'? War is deception. But today, I'm merciful. One more word, and I'll have your head."
He fell silent, fear overriding his pride.
After looting the battlefield, we hauled back enough spoils to fill every packhorse and captured mount. Selling the plunder in Lageta—now under Swadian control—netted us over fifty thousand denars. A fortune! I distributed five thousand among my men as reward before retiring to the tavern, too exhausted to celebrate.
As I lay in bed, the weight of the days' pursuits and the battle's toll dragged me into sleep. The road ahead would demand more—but for now, rest.