Chapter 682: Battle for a crown(3)
It was clear to all that had eyes that the terrain was treacherous, cruel to both man and beast. Uneven ridges cut across the valley like scars, and thorny shrubs jutted up from the cracked earth like the teeth of buried beasts. For infantry, it was a nightmare. For cavalry, it was near-suicide.
Even now, Egil’s riders struggled to hold formation. Their line twisted and buckled as horses stumbled over hidden dips and roots. Dust and broken bramble clung to their boots and coats like leeches. If they had truly intended to ride their lances into the enemy ranks, it would have been a massacre of their own forces.
But Egil hadn’t come for a traditional charge.
As the snarling tide of riders neared the enemy’s front, arrows began to rain—thin, hurried volleys loosed by frantic levy archers. The sky hissed with steel, and a few horses bucked in surprise as the shafts smacked into the dirt or glanced off mail.
And yet the riders did not slow.
Then, with eerie synchronicity, they pivoted, not into the enemy, but alongside them, skimming just outside spear range. It was only then that the purpose of their charge became horrifyingly clear.
One by one, the riders reached to their saddles, not for lances, nor javelins, but for bundles of rope.
Confused cries rose from the infantry ranks.
Until the ropes came flying.
Weighted at the ends and expertly thrown, the ropes arced through the air like cruel lassos. They looped over necks, torsos, weapons, and legs, tightening with a vicious snap. One moment, a man was standing in rank; the next, he was screaming, yanked off his feet as the rope bit into flesh.
Dozens were ensnared.
"WHAT IN THE GODS—!"