The war cry of "For the Falcon!" from the Baron's flank was not just a sound; it was a thunderclap that shattered the reality of the battlefield. The infantry of Monte San Giovanni, exhausted from their grinding assault on Alessandro's shield wall, turned in confusion to see a fresh wave of fifty men crashing into their exposed side.
It was the hammer striking the anvil.
The disciplined wedge of Valerio's twenty Falcon Guards tore through the disorganized ranks of the Baron's men-at-arms, while the thirty peasant warriors fell upon them with the ferocity of men defending their homes. Panic, swift and absolute, seized the Baron's army. They were no longer an attacking force; they were a trapped mob, assailed from two directions at once.
On the main battle line, Alessandro saw the enemy falter. He saw the flicker of terror in their eyes. This was the moment of breaking.
"NOW!" he bellowed, his voice raw with exhaustion and adrenaline. "FORWARD! PUSH!"
With a final, unified roar, his own weary line surged forward. The shield wall, which had been a purely defensive bastion, became a battering ram. The combination was too much. The Baron's infantry, pressed from the front and savaged from the side, broke. Cohesion vanished, and the army dissolved into a panicked mass of individuals trying to flee a slaughterhouse of their own making.
The battle devolved into a rout.
In the midst of the chaos, Alessandro spotted him. The Baron of Monte San Giovanni, his ornate armor unmistakable, was roaring at his fleeing men, trying desperately to rally them, his face purple with rage and disbelief. His personal guard had been scattered. He was, for a moment, isolated.
This was the chance. "Marco! With me!" Alessandro yelled, and together with four of his best guards, he began to push through the fleeing enemy soldiers, his eyes locked on his primary target.
The Baron saw him coming, a boy-lord at the head of a small, blood-spattered retinue. With a snarl of pure hatred, the Baron spurred his great warhorse forward, leveling his heavy sword. This would be decided by a nobleman's duel, a final contest of strength and breeding.
Alessandro met his charge. The Baron was a larger man and a more powerful warrior. His first blow, a great overhand swing, was parried by Alessandro, but the force of it sent a jarring shock up his arm. The Baron pressed his advantage, his warhorse trampling the ground, his sword a blur of furious strikes. Alessandro was forced onto the defensive, his superior technique barely holding against the brute force of his opponent.
The Baron roared in triumph, seeing his opening. He raised his sword for a final, decisive blow. But he was not fighting one man; he was fighting the Falcon Guard.
As the Baron's sword began its descent, Centurion Marco, who had been circling the duel, saw his moment. He did not challenge the Baron to a foolish duel. He lunged forward, his nine-foot spear aimed not at the rider, but at the mount. The iron spearhead plunged deep into the warhorse's exposed flank.
The great animal screamed and collapsed, throwing the Baron violently to the ground. The heavy plate armor that made him so formidable on horseback now made him a clumsy, helpless turtle on the earth. Before he could even attempt to rise, Marco had a spear-point at his throat, and Alessandro's own sword was leveled at his face.
The Baron of Monte San Giovanni, Lord of a dozen towns and master of hundreds of soldiers, yielded.
With the capture of their lord, the last vestiges of resistance among his army vanished. Soldiers threw down their swords and knelt in the field, begging for mercy.
Alessandro stood, his chest heaving, and surveyed the scene. The field was a ruin of his enemy's power. The victory was total, absolute, and unbelievable. He quickly took stock. He had lost a further seven men in the final battle, and a dozen more were seriously wounded. The cost had been high, but the prize was immeasurable. Before him knelt nearly two hundred prisoners, including the most powerful nobleman in the region.
The sun began to set, casting long, bloody shadows across the field. Alessandro's men, a mix of his own Guard and Lord Orso's garrison, began to tend to the wounded on both sides and secure the prisoners and their vast trove of weapons and armor.
Alessandro walked over to where his greatest rival knelt in the dirt, disarmed and stripped of his great helm. The Baron looked up at him, his face a mask of utter humiliation and hatred. The war was over.
But Alessandro knew the political battle had just begun. He turned to Enzo.
"Gather the Baron's personal banner and his effects from his tent," Alessandro commanded, his voice carrying with the quiet authority of the undisputed victor. "We will be sending them to his castle on the morrow." He paused, looking down at the captured Baron. "Along with our terms for his release."