Chapter 683: Battle for a crown(4)
In any ordinary battle, Alpheo would never have dared to execute a maneuver so audacious, some might say reckless.
Leaving a hundreds-meter gap between his center and right flank would, under normal circumstances, have been tantamount to suicide. A competent enemy commander would see such an opening and immediately drive a wedge through it, splitting the army in two and outflanking both fragments in a devastating blow.
But this was no ordinary battle.
He had read Lechlian like an open scroll, proud, cautious, and above all, reactive. The entire design of Alpheo’s plan hinged not on aggression, but on control: Lechlian had in fact pointed everything on choosing a terrain that would put whoever came to the other in disadvantage, and well Alpheo just made use of that, as it worked both ways.
What future historians would one day marvel at wasn’t merely the brilliance of the maneuvers, nor the sharpness of Alpheo’s strategy, it would be the sheer audacity of turning the enemy’s greatest advantage into their own grave.
And so, as the left wing of the Yarzat host moved into place, it did so with great precision and all the calm in the world
Their lines did not march directly forward but slowly and steadily inclined, each company shifting their orientation by degrees. Their advance took on a distinct diagonal shape, an oblique angle designed to stretch their line toward the exposed flank of the enemy, while still maintaining cohesion.(map of battle from first phase)
The obliquity gave them reach, allowing the flank to expand without thinning dangerously, and kept their formation fluid enough to adapt when meeting the many obstacles between the enemy and them.(map of battle from second phase)
Five hundred veterans from the First led the angle, pivoting slightly with each forward movement. The halberdiers of the Third, stationed to their right mirrored the motion with the same discipline, polearms gleaming like a row of spears as they moved following the First.
To the untrained eye, it might have seemed disordered, an angled wave instead of a solid front, but to the soldier who understood the rhythms of war, it was a blade being drawn across the enemy’s throat. Quiet. Inevitable. Precise.
The right wing marched like a single living creature, broad-shouldered, iron-hearted, and patient as death.
Their boots thundered in steady rhythm across the brittle valley floor, sending up small puffs of dust with every step. Helmets caught the faint morning light in glints and flashes, and shields moved like scales across the back of a great beast. The banner of the White Army, fluttered high above the forward line, visible to every man in the ranks.