The regular breathing of his horse and the rhythmic pounding of its hooves combined to almost lull the Archer into a hypnotic trance. To feel the mount gallop across the grassy plain with the wind billowing through his hair was the same exhilarating feeling he had felt so many times before. The Archers lust for battle was only just contained as he worked to slow his breathing and steady himself enough to take his shot. The arrow notched, the Archer rode hard to get into striking range. Ahead of him, the Romans cowered behind their oval shields, resigned to the onslaught that was about to be released.
Hundreds of Hun horseman surged towards the Roman lines, churning up clouds of dust, the smell of horse and stench of unwashed barbarians reached out and assaulted the Romans long before the Hun could reach their lines.
Each archer waited for the right moment to deal death upon the battlefield, then, as if by a silent signal the riders drew their bowstrings. The Archer searched for the rhythm of his mount, for to let the arrow loose at the wrong moment would be a waste and a blight on his clan. Politics was something the Archer never cared for, but there was no need to blatantly draw the ire of his Khan onto his family.
Now more aware of the horse galloping beneath him, he felt its rhythmic strides and waited for his mounts feet to leave ground. By instinct, as much as a routine he had repeated thousands of time before, the Archer felt the moment as the first arrows began to be fired around him, he held his breath and with a thud, let his bow string loose. The arrow hurtled towards the enemy, but there is no time to watch, the Archer quickly notched another arrow ready to continue the onslaught.