A cavalry charge, the general ahead of the line, all riders’ spears locked forwards.
You can see what’s on the mind of every rider: Some think of home: their families, their friends; some think about “the one who got away”, that sweet soul they never confessed their love to; some think of the fight ahead, others think only about killing, raping and looting whatever they can, and so on.
Another one of the anonymous riders, riding downhill, vastly outnumbered, the few lines of archers and crossbowmen behind you desperately trying to even out the odds. But there’s no use, they’re too many and the arrows and bolts are too few. Soon, they pick up sword and shield, spear and pitchfork, and join the fray, throwing themselves into the line of battle. Poor men, brave men. They are prepared for failure, they knew the odds, and they knew they were likely to die there.