Two…

He adjusted his position until the sabre protruded out his side while using his opposing arm to brace his blade. Every man had a patch of rawhide sewn into their uniforms in that spot to make this possible.

One…

It was too late for them to change their minds. As the rider swung down to land a blow, Marc bowed, lowering his head. The end effect was as surprising for the soldiers as it was for the riders, because neither side knew how this tactic would play out.

When the horse’s legs came in contact with the curved blade, it sliced through fir, skin, muscle, and sinew until it struck bone. While any sword could deal the damage, the curved blade did not embed itself in the bone.

The horse dropped, sending El Comandante over top. Still holding the reins, the man landed back first on the muddy soil. All told, Marc managed to dismount two cavalry officers in a matter of seconds.

Seven…

The shot left a puff of smoke in the projectile’s wake. His shot struck the horse dead in the chest… Still about an inch too high…

Six…

He spun the barrel to line up a fresh shot and holstered the pistol.

Five…

With the horses nearly upon them, Marc stopped cold with knees bent. 

Four…

He launched himself sideways to get out of the way of the horse and rider.

Three…

Marc dropped to his knees.

Two…

He adjusted his position until the sabre protruded out his side while using his opposing arm to brace his blade. Every man had a patch of rawhide sewn into their uniforms in that spot to make this possible.

El Comandante must have realised was holding the line. Barón buried his spurs into the horse’s side, the animal bolted towards them with his first and second just behind. As Marc hoped, the offers leading this charge were focused on him, while ignoring his men…

Ten…

When Marc yelled and ran into the fray, so did his men. The bizarre sight of infantry charging cavalry was a sight to be seen. Two riders even slowed down, unsure of what was going on, by then, el Comandante was beyond reason. 

Nine…

Marc pulled out his double-barreled pistol. 

Eight…

He took aim at that snotty third officer’s horse and fired.

When he took a knee, so did they, and lit their fuses without being promoted. Marc saw the fog exhaled by the horses. After holding his charge for a second, he threw the mortar and drew his sabre. 

One man, who he knew as Thiron, turned into a pink mist. Marc clenched his jaw, forcing himself to look ahead… We’ll mourn him and the others after this battle is done!

Two mortar rounds buried themselves into the ground twenty-paces ahead of the Spanish infantry. Several were cut down in the ensuing blasts, bathing the grass in blood. Whereas their throws caused several horsemen to be greeted by a face full of shrapnel. At worst the Spanish forces were below half their strength. That  bastard still hasn’t been knocked off his mount!

They lobbed another ten iron balls down the hill. While not intentional, their detonation coincided with that of the mortars. The impact at this range sent a shockwave washing over him, and earth to tremble below his feet.

There were another two rounds at his feet, but they were out of time. He picked up both, judged the distances and dropped the one with the longest fuse. There were risks, but they would not win without putting his life on the line.

The thunderous sound of horses at full gallop reminded him of heavy hail hitting a stone wall. He knew his men, and they trusted him, so every single one stood fast as the enemy barreled down on them.

Without waiting for the blast, he grabbed another mortar with a shorter fuse. By the time he gripped it in his hands, two blasts registered. Fuses were notoriously inaccurate, but his men might have picked up the wrong one by mistake.

Five seconds later the rest blew, creating off a wall of shrapnel that caught horses in their blast. I can hear horses and men screaming in agony.

The barrage of lobbed mortar rounds served as a signal to resume the heavy mortar strikes. This time both launchers were fired in near synchronicity. The risk was high for his men, if they failed to dampen the barrel well enough, the powder could ignite as they loaded the weapon. If that happens, so be it… They’ll hold their head up high when they meet Saint Peter.

Just as suddenly, he sheathed his blade and reached for a large iron ball and a stick near his feet. The latter was wrapped with fusing that burned brightly. Everyone repeated his motions, doing so without verbal commands to further prevent the enemy discerning what was going on.

He raised the stick up high, sending wisps of smoke sailing through the air, which was joined by nine other streams. He lit the fuse of a small mortar round and lobbed it down the hill. Ten iron shells filled with black powder were sent rolling down the hill.

Marc watched on as the horses gained ground. Once the riders were two-thirds up the hill, the remaining sharpshooters fired from the rear. One was struck by musket fire from the Spanish infantry, while the other escaped by using the obstacles. He would rejoin the town’s defenders circling to the back of town.

Behind him the sounds of musket fire subsided. Given more time a messenger might have delivered the news, but they were out of time. 

Cornay motioned to the rider to head back. He turned around and rode hard towards the city, stopping only to warn his replacement to follow him back into town. Within a couple of minutes this would be the front line.

The mortars went quiet, permitting the men a brief respite from the barrage. Let them taste victory on the tips of their tongues.

Another four made it up to the crest and went on to reinforce the positions at the edge of town. Their chase was called off as two horses and their riders fell into a concealed pit. Marc knew that neither man nor their horses would be coming back up alive.

Another two of his men found refuge within the trenches. While not ideal, they would remain concealed and strike when the opportunity struck, or paid the ultimate price of king and country.

Given the heavy losses, the cavalry rejoined with those moving up on his left. Even combined they were less than half their original number. Marc noticed a few stallions retreating into the woods, riderless, likely in some vain attempt to jump a Frisian horse.

His men already exceeded his expectations, but they were still heavily outnumbered. Heading the combined wave was El Comandante himself. The man didn’t dare to lead the main charge himself.

As the left wing broke up to deal with the threat, another volley came, much quicker than even experienced soldiers could manage. Marc made sure excess muskets were left loaded and left in the trenches. When another mortar crashed to the ground, the men left their trenches with both muskets in their hands. 

Marc’s heart was racing, because there was nothing he could do to help his men. Even with a mortar going off, two were cut down before reaching cover.

The contents of his stomach soured and his jaw muscles bulged until his teeth strained. He wanted very much to send everything he had at those bastards, but needed to wait. They’ll live to rue this day. 

Another four made it up to the crest and went on to reinforce the positions at the edge of town. Their chase was called off as two horses and their riders fell into a concealed pit. Marc knew that neither man nor their horses would be coming back up alive.