The battlefield arrangent is even simpler than that of Braveheart, but from a nurical standpoint, the Picts clearly hold the advantage.
Duncan has approximately ten thousand troops, while the enemy has nearly twenty thousand.
This gives them the confidence to face each other head-on.
Of course, it’s not entirely simple math; Duncan’s side is completely composed of regular troops, whereas the Picts even have female warriors, which ans they’ve rallied the tribal militia as well.
Drest rode his horse across the battlefield.
He seed to have regained so confidence, and said to the chieftain beside him, "Our numbers are clearly superior! Just be cautious of the enemy’s heavy cavalry!"
"The weather also favors us in this battle."
Such a righteous showdown had not occurred for many years.
The Picts usually invade and raid the rear; they exploit every opportunity and withdraw if they cannot win, taking what they can when victorious. But Duncan has forced them into a corner today; if they do not fight this battle, their subordinates might rebel, seduced by rumors of redistributed land.
The entire Antonine Wall only allows for a battle involving tens of thousands here, while elsewhere, engagents are ssy lees.
The previous ambush left Drest with lingering psychological scars.
Drest inford those around him, "The enemy’s left flank is weak and can be used as a breakthrough point."
"If the Black Sword Warriors can break through the enemy lines, we can rely on our superior numbers to strike the enemy’s rear."
Nurical superiority is currently their biggest advantage.
Thump thump thump!
As the dull sound of war drums echoed, the imperial legion approached closer and closer. The shields hand-covered with iron shells beca heavier after the rain, but the Picts didn’t fare much better, as their shields were equally burdenso when wet.
"Form the ranks!"
Behind Balton fluttered the Eagle Banner. As the command was issued, the foremost line of the Britannian Imperial Legion raised their shields high as they were situated on higher ground. They needed to close the distance for their javelin throws to be effective. Across the battlefield, in terms of both weather and numbers, the enemy clearly had the advantage.
But strangely, there was no sign of shaken morale among the legion troops; on the contrary, many soldiers were eager to fight as if victory was assured.
"Where does the imperial legion get its confidence from?" Drest felt uneasy.
The battle erupted shortly after.
The Pict warriors charged downhill, and the enemy’s shield wall might not hold—greater casualties would likely be on their side.
But the soaring morale was excessively high!
From the right-wing direction, the Welsh archers advanced, with the barbarian foreign legion waiting restlessly. The first row consisted of Saxon shield and spear n, followed by Saxon elite axe wielders. Each wielding a two-handed war axe, with no shields, their bloodthirsty eyes awaited orders eagerly.
"Can we truly fight this?"
Drest galloped along the front line; his gaze skimd over the Black Sword Warriors, these fabled Pict elites appeared with low morale, seemingly affected by the destruction of the Holy Sanctuary.
Even though the numbers were larger in the central army, the Pict warriors in the front row showed traces of fear, gazing at their high-spirited opponents without being elated by nurical superiority.
If even this can’t hold, then there’s truly no hope.
Drest rode closer to other tribal chieftains, speaking gravely, "Once the battle starts, you must attack the enemy’s flank!"
"Our warriors have low morale; we must spur their fighting spirit."
An arrow fell.
Not far from Drest, the enemy archers advanced, having already crushed their spirit completely. Usually, archers aren’t positioned in the first row, but these Welsh archers stood in front of the infantry and shot confidently—even so were itching to draw longswords from their waist.
Archers are typically lightly armored, with so bearing no armor at all, yet they displayed a willingness to engage in lee combat!
Drest knew the ti for delay was over.
He suddenly commanded, "Right-wing attack, light cavalry chase the archers!"
That behavior is extrely arrogant.
The archers had moved to the front, seemingly fearless of direct confrontation with light cavalry charging directly at them.
And indeed they were fearless.
The Welsh archers faced the incoming light cavalry; a rain of arrows enveloped them, causing the enemy to fall from horseback in chaos. Typically, when archers face an enemy, morale starts wavering at a hundred ters and begins to collapse at around tens of ters, but not for them—they comfortably fired until the range closed to twenty or thirty ters.
At this range, within seconds, the cavalry had charged directly in.
Indeed, they charged directly in!
But the Welsh archers drew their longswords, and under Drest’s slightly stunned gaze, the troop of light cavalry was unexpectedly cut down in defeat.
What is wrong with you all?
Are you not afraid of death?
Archers engaged in close combat with light cavalry, maintaining close-range shooting, viciously beating back the charging light cavalry.
Upon closer inspection, Drest noticed an anomaly—the archers wore armor, half-body chain armor, and their weapons were longswords, sowhat resembling two-handed swords, much like the horse-cutting saber, with great slashing power.
They are absolutely not ordinary archers!
The Welsh two-handed sword elite archers made their na in battle; a three hundred-man ranged unit, facing an incoming light cavalry, not only didn’t retreat but shot many dead and cut down many in close combat, leaving the enemy in disarray.
Thunderous cheers erupted from the imperial legion’s direction.
Conversely, Drest’s side saw the usually valorous Picts begin to doubt their reality.
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