With King Wadisvav's command, the world-renowned Winged Hussars of Lehlia spurred their horses into a charge toward the Streltsi lines arrayed before them.
To these arrogant Lehlian nobles, Kislevite infantry was synonymous with unreliability—masses of men who would shatter instantly under the weight of a divine charge.
They were brimming with confidence, certain that their first wave would cause Perturabo's so-called "Streltsi" to disintegrate, just like the countless groups of conscripted serfs they had crushed in the past. But this time, they were wrong. They were catastrophically wrong.
"Two hundred yards!"
"One hundred and fifty yards!"
"One hundred yards!"
"Fifty yards!"
"Fire! Fire! Open fire with everything! Fire at these Hussars! For the Lord of Iron!"
Following the calm, rational voices of the mid-level officers trained by Perturabo himself, the Streltsi soldiers stood in linear formation. They had been aiming their finely crafted flintlock muskets at the rapidly approaching Hussars. Now, they pulled their triggers.
An untrained, forced levy of serfs would have fled in terror at the sight of the Winged Hussar formation thundering toward them like an advancing iron tower.
But the Streltsi were different. They were seasoned by rigorous training; Perturabo had specifically designed their drills to counter the Winged Hussars. Day and night of repetition allowed their logic to override their fear, ensuring they maintained discipline and held their square as the cavalry bore down on them.
Behind the musketeers were ranks of melee units armed with great axes forged of steel and pikes several meters long. Their task was to cover their comrades and eliminate any Hussars lucky enough to survive the initial volleys.
Now that the musketeers had emptied their weapons, it was time for the melee troops to slaughter the survivors.
When the Streltsi opened fire, the Lehlian nobles were momentarily stunned. They had heard rumors of the Streltsi's composure and order, but their prejudices had led them to believe it was mere Kislevite boasting—that the line would still break at the first impact.
But as they closed to within fifty yards and saw with their own eyes that not a single Streltsi soldier showed fear at the impending collision, they realized something was terribly wrong.
It was too late. By the time some nobles realized the danger and tried to rein in their horses, the momentum of the steeds allowed for no adjustment. They could only hurtle directly into the front lines.
They heard the firing orders barked in the Kislevite tongue by Perturabo's officers. At that moment, they could only pray their armor was bulletproof.
The moment the Streltsi fired, the leading edge of the thousands of charging Hussars was swept from their saddles. Their horses were cut down by a hail of lead, collapsing instantly.
The Hussars following behind were tripped by their fallen comrades and mounts. Those who tumbled were hacked to death by the axemen surging out from the enemy formation. Others were impaled by the long pikes of the melee units, left hanging miserably from the spearheads.
A few Hussars, realizing their only choice was to push forward, abandoned all caution. They managed to trample or cut down a few Streltsi by sheer force, but they were quickly swarmed and butchered by the greataxe-wielding infantry.
The snow-covered ground was soon stained red. The crimson of blood added a new, ominous color to the vast white landscape.
"Damn it! Those fools! I told them not to charge headlong. Perturabo's Streltsi are nothing like the serf-soldiers they are used to!"
"Now they've thrown their lives away, and the Kislevite squares haven't moved an inch!"
Watching the first wave of Winged Hussars get slaughtered with almost no survivors returning, King Wadisvav cursed loudly while observing the field through his telescope.
"Your Majesty, what should we do? Shall we deploy the Black Army? Or... should we retreat?" a Black Army knight beside Wadisvav asked cautiously, awaiting the King's next move.
"Retreat? No. Matters have come to this; the battle is joined. I have no reason to simply give up and withdraw. I must see this through to the end."
Wadisvav shook his head, his expression clouding with melancholy.
"Understood, Majesty. What follows then? Is it time for the Black Army to take the field?" the knight asked again.
"Indeed. It is time for you to enter the fray. You are the troops I spent a fortune to train. Go and test yourselves against the Streltsi. It is perhaps a good thing those nobles were defeated; if I can secure a victory immediately after their failure, they will have no ground left to oppose me."
"Remember, your numbers are fewer than the Streltsi. Preserve your strength. Do not become bogged down in a battle of attrition. Every one of you is a soldier I spent countless resources to train; you must not die cheaply here."
After a brief calculation, King Wadisvav nodded his consent.
"I understand. Black Army, move out! It is time to win glory for the King!"
The knight nodded, spurred his horse toward the Streltsi positions, and raised a battle cry. A large contingent of Black Army cavalry followed him. With the Winged Hussars defeated, the King's own professional legions began their assault on the Streltsi lines.
Meanwhile, having cleared the last of the living Winged Hussars, Perturabo's Streltsi reformed their ranks, preparing for the next impact. They were right to do so; the next wave of Lehlian cavalry was already upon them, and the second round of intense combat was about to begin.