Ulrich Macher was in a dangerous yet familiar situation. He was kneeling down in a grassy field surrounded by his fellow soldiers, his armour and those of his compatriots shining in the midday sun as he levelled his weapon towards the oncoming threat. Ulrich was a halberdier of the Fenzloch 5th Halberdiers Company, a part of the large basitin army commanded by Grand Marshal Lukas Bromm that had been sent by the High Generals to hold the plains at the base of the Kalto Pass. This was in order to ensure the encroaching human army couldn’t assault the mountain pass before the new fortifications being built at Fort Garrenhoff, high up in the mountains, were completed. The 5th Halberdiers were, as usual, assigned to the flank of the army for protection against cavalry, and in this case were on the extreme left edge with nothing but grass and the far-off mountains to be seen for miles. Ulrich himself had assumed his usual position in the front rank of the phalanx, kneeling down with his halberd raised at 45 degrees to strike at the exposed bellies of onrushing horses. In the rank behind him, the soldiers stood with their weapons at waist height and behind them the halberds were raised to be on level with the warrior’s shoulders. The net effect of this formation was a death trap for any foolhardy enough to attack it head on, a dense forest of spear-points arrayed in a mutually supporting web that left no openings to exploit.

Ulrich was positioned near the extreme left edge of the company with the rest of the men from his contubernium: ten soldiers who ate, drank, slept, marched and fought together and were closer than any blood family that any of them would ever know. The decanus in charge of his contubernium, Siegfried Idelson, was standing directly behind him and muttering something under his breath which even Ulrich’s generous, dark brown furred ears couldn’t pick up. To his right was Aldo Aigner, the only man in the contubernium with more battlefield experience than himself and to his left was Reimar Wexler, a greenhorn who, judging from his expression of distress and downturned ears, was not currently in the best frame of mind. Reimar, at a mere seventeen years of age, had joined the company only recently straight out of the academy and this was his first battle. The boy hadn’t even had the opportunity to whet his blade in a skirmish or two before being thrust into the literal frontlines of a battle that was by far the largest that Ulrich, and probably even Aldo, had ever taken part in. Ulrich felt sorry for him but he wasn’t particularly worried about how the boy would perform when the time came. They were basitins after all and war was in their blood; besides Ulrich remembered how he had felt similarly on the day of his first engagement with the enemy and yet as soon as weapons clashed and the screaming began, you forgot all your worries and acted on pure training and instinct. There was no time for fear then.

The foe, a contingent of human knights by the look of them, were close now, the pounding hooves of their steeds throwing up a cloud of dust as they charged forward. In less than a minute the killing would start. A shout rang out from the centre of the line, “Remember boys, no quarter! We will anoint them with their own blood and make them rue the day they faced us in battle!” This was the voice of Rikard Graf, the marshal in command of the 5th Halberdiers. If Ulrich turned his head slightly to the right he could just make out Rikard’s figure, resplendent in his golden armour and blue-plumed helmet, standing right in the centre of the formation in the second rank. It was one of the jobs of the marshal to inspire the men under their command to ever greater feats of heroism and Rikard was a particularly verbose example. In all the conflicts that Ulrich had served with him it was generally the case that Rikard would begin his exhortations just before blood was spilled and not cease until the last of the foe was driven wholly from the field. It was a common joke amongst the men of the 5th that the only thing that would get him to finally shut up was an enemy’s sword through his neck.

The stampeding horses were very close now, the armour of the riders glinting in the sun, their expressions hidden behind visored helmets. Ulrich quickly glanced around him, taking in all he could in what he knew could very well be his last moments in this world. Aldo had bared his teeth, his mouth slightly open in a wordless war cry; Reimar still looked agitated but held his weapon out firmly. The boy would be fine. From behind came the twang of a hundred bowstrings all released in unison and in less than a second a storm of arrows came arcing over their heads, landing amongst the charging cavalry to inflict the first casualties of the day.
“Here we go boys, brace for impact!” roared marshal Graf. And so the battle was joined.