Battle scene - require critique

[Puppet Master]

Here is a rough draft of a battle scene for my novel which I am writting.

Any critique will be greatly appreciated =)

Chapter ??: Fields of Thorn

The first light on the sun greeted Aren’s men, as it flowed lazily across the landscape like treacle, enlightening the fields as if they were aflame. Illuminating the dry long grass, which danced like a thousand blades in the gentle wind. It was grim but almost beautiful symbol of the battle that later began that day.

His army, a thousand men strong, mustered on the plain’s edge. Each one was dedicated to Aren's cause, and clad in leather and steel strapped to their flesh with but only rope and wire.

In the centre of this chaotic display Aren sat mounted on his steed, as if he was the beating heart of the beast, which was this war machine. Aren himself had no armour, for his pride was his helm and his hate was his shield. The only item which covered his flesh from the seething sun were the scraps of leather which were crudely tied to his body, in a pitiful attempt to show some modesty.

It was at that moment; Aren raised his voice, shouting to his men, “Today is the day, my brothers, when we will take down the tyranny of the crystal, and crush them under our strength!”, holding out his sword in a visual display of his power.

On the horizon, the holy army of the crystal gathered, organised in blocks and regiments, forming a visual display of law and order. Each soldier adorned in identical armour, with every facet silver and brilliant, magnifying the sun’s rays like mirrors. They looked like gods, a divine force on the battlefield.

Behind them stood the mighty war machines of the crystal, monstrous beasts with cannons larger than any man, powered by the illuminating glow of a crystal mounted deep in its core.

Some looked almost arcane in design, with twisting tubes, and cogs that filled every aspect of their composition. Mounted with silver coverings shaped in the forms of beasts, and creatures the mind can barely comprehend.

Over an hour did pass as each side gathered and organised their forces, examining the opponents, looking for any weakness that might show.
The crystonians had an almost sterile expression on their faces. Lacking facial emotion, which would dictate their state of mind. Aren’s men on the other hand, were pregnant with emotion, their faces showing anger, hatred, anxiousness, and joy.

A representative from each side rode out to the centre of the plains. Aren stood proud as the representative of the crystonian force stood before him.
The crystonian’s armour was silver, and filigreed with gold, forming patterns and pictures of ancient battles and legends. His armour served as a shining symbol of his arrogance, wrapped in a pride, which had no basis.
His eyes were old, but his skin was soft, and his hair was brown and brilliant, he smelled of petals, and of fine perfumes. Aren stared with young eyes, but with skin worn and cracked, as stood in his rags with his mangled blade by his side, smelling of sweat and shit.

“We will take back our land crystonian scum”

“Oh ho ho, so the animals have evolved into men” the crystonian’s eyes then catching the man beast which stood in Aren’s troops.
“Well at least some of them, though only the ability to stand on two legs mind you, I guess intellect and it appears the ability to bathe have yet to develop”.
“I really don’t understand you barbarians, do you hate civilization that much?”

“Your people destroyed my country, desecrated my village, killed my family, and ***** my mother. You call that civilization?”

“I say its more cleansing, though I do agree the act of bestiality is a foul thing, that soldier must have been washing that bitches stink from him for days” A long smirk growing across his face.

Aren swung his blade before the old crystonian could even react, slicing his face off from his brow to his chin in one swipe of his sword.
The soldiers body fell to the floor, his armour becoming his tomb. His blood poured forth onto the earth, as his body violently convulsed before finally dying.

Aren knelt onto the ground and like a hunting wolf he lapped up the crimson liquor, gulping down the mess of earth and blood like honey.
He licked his lips, as he savoured the taste of a life once lived. Its bittersweet flavour was one of victory and of celebration, and celebrate he did, as he carved up the corpse in a wild frenzy.
The army of the crystal looked on a mixture of horror and disgust, witnessing the brutality of the opponent.

A grim satisfaction washed over him, as he savoured the sensation of his kill.
“Weyland knows nothing,” Aren whispered to himself, before spitting onto the ground.

Aren roared like a raging beast, a war cry filled with his anger and his strength. His warriors shouted with him forming a chorus of chaos, a choir of catastrophe, which echoed across the Plaines.

At that moment, each side grabbed there arms in hand, and charged into the battlefield. The hooves of horses sounding like the roar of thunder. The two sides becoming one, as they clashed together.

The battle waged, as steel met steel, and the blood of man met mother earth, a dance of war, a display of might, courage, and insanity.
The reek of sweat permeated across the landscape, seeping through the cracks of the waging battle like some foul mist, which seethed with the fragrance of war, of blood and steel, the smell of man.

Aren was a flaming beacon, his courage and his rage radiated from his flesh, wild and untamed, and as chaotic as creation. The flickers from this fire licked across his brothers in arms, across his friends, and his warriors. Pushing them to further acts of madness, even to the point that they had forgotten their original cause, forgotten why they were fighting.
This was the magic of Aren, not mystical and unseen, but raw and bound in flesh, as if he is the lock on a chain that bound men together, like an avatar of war that pulsated with the strength of man and beast. Even those who lay of the floor dying and bleeding, desperately crawled with blades in hands, as if the pain was only a fickle illusion in the back of there depraved minds. Some even grabbed their broken limbs, and crawled in a desperate attempt to get back into battle despite the death that awaited them.

But then the cannons charged up, as eldritch flame flowed from their vents. Energy flowed and crackled along the earth like serpents, as if the cannons where drinking the very life from the earth.
The beams fired, composed of colours not found on the rainbow, evaporating large segments of Aren’s men.

Aren charged head first into the fray, opponents falling before his blade, as he sliced at any man foolish enough to oppose him. His broken teeth bit down upon his lips, gorging himself on the taste of his own flesh. Enjoying the sweet taste of copper, as the daemons of bloodshed danced upon his tongue, taking pleasure in their erratic dance, as the taste sent shivers down Aren’s spine.

But though Aren’s actions gave the impression, that he was winning the war himself. This was far further from the truth.
His unruly army had only numbers and strength, and were being decimated by the smaller but more organised troops of the crystal.

Aren’s blade met the blade of another’s, a crystonian two men tall, clad in armour of gold, with a blade the size of a man. It swung desperately trying to slice at Aren, who dodged and avoided the soldier’s pitiful attempts to bring him down.
In but a single moment Aren had buried his sword into the man’s chest and withdrew, the offal wrapped around his blade like knotted string.

The sweat cascaded down his brow, his face red with fatigue and blood. His body was exhausted, each stroke of the blade absorbing more of his strength.
He charged once more, slicing down his opponents as if they were paper, each one falling effortlessly before his blade.
“I will not quit. My vengeance will not be denied for it has been years in coming” Aren whispered to himself. But already his army had been beaten. For all Aren’s strength, he alone was not enough to stop the flood of the crystals army. Their weapons mowed down his troops, eradicating some before they even had a chance to match arms with any other.

Behind him his army had collapsed, leaving but fifty from the thousand which once stood, but as if he was possessed he kept fighting, despite the loss that now was certain.

But then he came, and Aren almost dropped his sword in shock. Weyland stood wrapped in the finery of the crystonians. Standing as a paladin of the bureaucracy of light.