Socair raised her sword overhead and turned. She screamed, deep and loud and was answered back by thousands more. She spun and pointed her weapon, screaming again and charging. The deafening sound of ten thousand hooves was matched at her back by the clatter of her people wearing their desperate wills in the form of studded leather and dented plate.
She met the first of them. A satyr woman, thin and nearly frothing in her rage. She had not known of Socair’s power. A shoulder to the gut flattened the creature, loosing her of an awkward length of spear. Socair stomped her throat and slashed ahead at the next as the press met to each side of her. The satyr seemed as unprepared as she expected the militia would. They carried long weapons and only a few dozen used them across the line. Most met her front with the tips low and raised them far too late. They were easily brushed aside, but a close fight with a satyr was no easy thing. She heard screams at her sides as she shouldered and struck her way deep into the line. A brief respite gave her a moment to turn to the militia behind her.
“Turn! Flank!” She barked the words and they acted with wild eyes as though their minds were driven by her words and nothing else. They flailed wildly and took satyr with them as they forced the press into the horsefolk sides. In the distance she heard another horn. The hippocamp line must have compressed enough. She struck away blows from a satyr who was hobbled in the run, pushing her sword into his legs. A second later, the sound of clashes from the flanks told her what the horns had called out. Arrows began to arc overhead from new angles, falling closer than those at the head of the battle.
A few moments had passed and there was movement of the line. They pressed well into the satyr, making heavy ground. She heard it then, as the spirits of those around her had come to a peak. Screams. Not of war but of terror. Familiar heavy thuds. The centaur had come. They were to her flank.
“Press forward!” she shouted, bolting for the sound of the centaur.
She found him at a beaten out circle of militia. They’d given him room foolishly and were taking pains for it from the flanks as the satyr closed on them. Fear had come into their eyes. There was nothing for it. Those eyes came before the end. She rushed the centaur from his flank, plunging her sword into his ribs and causing him to stagger as her weight fell against his unprepared side.
“Come! Now!”
She screamed the order without being able to see the militia, but she heard their shouts. They charged the centaur and hacked at the screaming beast. The satyr beyond stood a moment, staring as the work was done. Socair wasted no time. The sword was pulled from the great creature and she was over him, charging the centaur flank. More than one turned to flee, toppling those beside. She put swords to two, the militia following her in. Their front was in chaos and the centaur had been forced to pay attention to the well-trained, well-armed flanks. The arrows did not stop raining, farther back now. She heard the cackled screams of satyr from a distance. Still, the line did not move yet. There were many and they meant to beat a battle of attrition into the elves with an unceasing front. The horsefolk were greedy. They wished their beachhead to be so far north as they could make it. It was bold, fitting for them, she thought.
The battle had quieted around her as the front shifted, satyr repositioning away, possibly hoping to survive. They did not fight as so many she’d known. There was another horn and noise from the right flank. Not an elf horn. She looked to it hoping the sky above would tell her something. She could only cut her way toward the flank. An elf war horn sounded emergency and the arrows shifted. She could just see them, flitting toward the wood where the flank had moved to meet the hippocamp column. She pushed her way through militia and satyr, ordering her people forward, telling them to let none live. They were as dangerous wounded and unwatched as alive. She heard a noise she had not heard the whole of the battle as they came to the column’s edge. The hard thunk of wood. Bolts. The satyr were at the flank. And heavy hoof. Centaur. They’d pressed in behind her experienced soldiers. She pierced the neck of a satyr who had mounted a Second Company soldier at the loss of his weapon but the boy was dead. A pair ahead of her finished putting down another of the screeching creatures and she shouted at the first.
“How many?”
“Not sure yet. Enough to hurt us, at least.” He answered her quick, hopping in place, and ran off to find more battle.
Socair rushed behind him, swinging her blade high as others went low. One elf against a standing satyr, ones trained as these were, would not last. Cró had kept to her plans, keeping the archers agile. Her blade slapped at a satyr crossbow and she pulled it down again, through the bone of a shoulder and past a few ribs. Even for her it was a reach, pulling it free brought her enemy close enough. She cleaved the blade into a terrified face and kicked it free nearly as quickly.
The sound of charging pulled her away from her kill. An armored Warlord. He clattered over the elves before him, swinging axes as he went. There was space and his eyes were not on her. She rushed forward, sliding to a stop just away from his foreleg. The centaur was unpleased, swinging his near axe down. She rolled as it came and the flat of
