Expansion Taking Rios | Expansion Into Rios

[Dreadheart]

The skirmish caused many of the Riosian troops to burst in shouts of encouragement for their comrades, seeing the ease with which their marksmen pushed the enemy skirmisher troops back, holding superiority by the gifts arranged for them by the clergy, and their new strange ally from Ostronnia. The artillery, with the gap between their guns and the Black Wolf pikes closed by the advance, fired shots of devastating effectiveness, landing cannonshells right in the formations' midst that caused broken gear shattered pikes and limbs to scatter in a red fog that blended with the rising dirt.

Alas, the fortunes of the Riosian host were soon to shift, as a sudden charge of a warband of what could only be described as barbarian amalgamation of races and cultures emerged from through the Espadan ranks, in a furious charge against the artillery. Confidence was in a moment turned into shock, as the hulking Ogres and the berserk gladiator champions befell the artillery crews.

Some of the crews were lucky enough to be caught on the bulwark of the attack, being hacked directly enough to be granted instant death. Alas, those at the rear dropped their tools and turned to run for their lives, seeking the safety of the pikemen that stood barely hundred paces behind them, now advancing to reinforce the position. These cowards were not as lucky... The violent axe and spear and trident thrusts and hacks and bludgeoning of the Ogre clubs felled the retreating men, who desperately tried to drag themselves away, only to be consumed by the berserk onslaught.

"How dare they!?" Giermo roared in frustration, witnessing the gradual collapse of the flank. "Do something, damn you! Kill those savages!"

Zanetto remained silent, and seemingly calm, simply nodding to one of his commanders who then gallopped to the far back, where the cavalry reserves rested, carrying orders known to him enough that did not necessitate a vocal reconfirmation.

"Fret nought, your lordship." Zanetto reassured the livid noble.

"Is this mockery, commandante!? These cannons are the most expensive element of this army!"

Zanetto shook his head. "They are, your lordship. And the enemy knows this. It is a blessing that battles are not fought with wealth, but tactics, however...." His eyes turned over his shoulder, tracing the gradual mobilization of the Black Riders from the rear who rode towards the flank.

"They are right where we want them..."

The ground quaked by the gallopping of the cavaliers as they circled around the Riosian flank pikemen formations that seemed to not advance against the gladiators, before commiting to a head-on charge against the enemy. Instead of clashing against the gladiators, who at the time had already formed up to a defensive square, the cavaliers pulled their pistolas and engaged them from some twenty paces distance, shifting their galloping sharply to unload their weapons against the enemy, before pulling back, allowing the riders behind them to repeat the process.

The cavaliers were not willing to engage what was clearly a great foe in close quarters, but chose to bleed them enough for the next phase of the engagement to find them weakened. Again and again cavaliers took their aim and fired their pistolas, refusing to close the distance between the two opposing units. In the case the Gladiators pushed towards them, the cavaliers pulled back.
Unlike the infantry, or the Espadan cavalry, the cavaliers did not maintain a formation, instead, spread around the enemy unit in a chaotic manner, resembling mosquito shroud over a beast, with each grasping on the chance to suck the blood from within by firing yet another shot from distance, before retreating to reload.

 

[Kingdom Of Espada]

As the battle unfolded, the army of Rios adapted their tactics, pulling back 20 paces to maintain distance from the Espadian forces. From this range, their pistolas cracked through the air, sending volleys of lead into the advancing lines. It was a method designed to bleed the Espadian army slowly, weakening them for the next brutal phase of engagement.

Marcus watched the battlefield, his eyes narrowing as he observed the shifting tactics of Rios. Their movements were calculated, attempting to wear down his forces with each passing minute. The hits were taking their toll, and while the Espadian army suffered, they were far from broken.

Marcus did not waver. “They seek to weaken us before they strike. Let them think they have the upper hand,” he muttered to himself. The Espadian forces were quick to adjust, adopting their own defensive strategies—shield formations were reinforced, cavalry took to harassing their flank, and the musketeers repositioned to answer fire with fire.

The battlefield became a dance of movement and counter-movement, each side probing for weakness. Marcus stood at the helm, a dark figure on his black steed, knowing that in the end, it would be Espada’s adaptability and resilience that would turn the tide. The Rios army may have been clever, but Marcus had seen battles far bloodier and foes far more ruthless. This, too, would be a victory for Espada.