The charge of Le'Dral and Moyan was no less effective. The seasoned warriors rode confidently into the ranks, indiscriminately unseating rider after rider. For cycles under the captain’s instruction, the guards had been schooled on the effective, non-lethal use of the baton. In their hands, the dull weapons reaped havoc no less fearful than a blade.
Le’Dral’s guards and tributes were the last to reach the fray. The commotion of the horses and the agonizing wails of downed riders split the calm of the morning. The air filled with the pungent odor of newly disturbed earth. They charged into the ranks, fighting any that threatened resistance. Ryl was fully aware of the skillset of the Vigil. They were near masters in their craft. The rebel guard gave a more than admirable display of themselves as they picked their way through the soldiers who were until very recently their comrades.
The tributes battled like men and women possessed. With no martial training, they fell upon those unlucky enough to be in their reach like feral demons. Their technique and form non-existent, they resorted to any and all means to vanquish their foes.
The counter charge into the weakened ranks had been devastating; more mounted guards turned in flight with every passing moment. Within what seemed like an instant the tide of the attack shifted with a final push. With a hasty, pleading cry from their ranks, the remaining guard from Cadsae Proper withdrew from the battle, fleeing with haste. Some left on horseback, many fled on foot, desperate to escape with their lives.
Only one small pocket of heavy resistance remained along the line of battle, far to his left. Ryl noted Andr moving quickly to the east in that direction, urging his horse at a gallop along the rear of the fray. Through the tangle of men and horses, the situation was difficult to discern, yet it was apparent that the situation there was unlike the scene that had played out across the majority of the battle. It appeared that several of his guards who’d defected with the tributes were down, the remaining handful of fighters stood with their backs together encircled by a ring of cavalry and unseated riders.
Ryl struggled to see through the crowd. He’d let the speed fade. He easily ducked a feeble attempt at a slash to his face, responding immediately, rising to full height, connecting his fist—still clutching the Leaves in his palm—to the center of his attacker’s face. The cracking of the man’s nose was deafening. Blood sprayed immediately as he dropped like a stone.
He tapped back into a portion of the speed as he raced out of the fray for a clearer view of the battle. Moyan and several of his troops were moving quickly to assist the remaining assault. Through a momentary clearing of the crowd, he saw Dav; he still carried the sword from the Lei Guard, and it was a wicked blur as he deflected blow after blow. At the sight of the man fighting at his back Ryl’s heart raced—the unnatural stance and uncoordinated motions of one who was woefully unaccustomed to battle stood out among the trained fighters. There was a tribute in there. He felt his throat constrict as the face turned momentarily in his direction.
It was Cray.
Seeing the tide of the small pocket of battle balancing perilously between victory and defeat, a single mounted enemy guard wheeled in their direction. His hasty retreat had been stalled as impulses of bloodlust and revenge overpowered his fear. Starting forward, he leveled his spear for the kill.
Ryl exploded ahead as time slowed, sprinting to the defense of his embattled companions. To his horror, he watched in slow motion as the events unfolded. Though they were less than fifty meters away, it appeared as if they were on the opposite side of an impassable chasm. He would never make it to them in time.
The approaching guard gained speed; the point of his spear angled to impact the greatest damage. His goal was clear; he’d impale them all. At the sound of the charge, the group in the middle turned. Cray’s eyes widened in shock as he noted the rider that bore down on them. Penned in as they were, defending themselves against a wall of steel, there was nowhere for them to turn, no time for them to run. They watched their death approach at the tip of the spear.
The rider approached from the south of their position, away from the heaviest of the melee. His focus was on his target; the rest of the battlefield lost in a blur of vicious intent. Ryl’s eyes locked on to Andr; his horse flashing eastward, perpendicular to the charge. Less spooked from the initial assault, the mercenary’s mount was fleeter than that of the guard, yet his angle of approach would push him too far south if only by meters.
His horse was nearly two meters away when Andr leapt from his mount into the approaching guard. His reckless, desperate action caught the charging soldier unprepared. The force of his impact carried both men off the horse, their flailing forms landing among the remaining pocket of fighting guards in a tangle of bodies.
The spear which had been primed for a lethal blow twisted upward before falling harmlessly to the dirt. The newly deposed rider, with reins in his hand, yanked the head of the horse to the right. The confused mount reared back on its hind legs as it frantically fought to stay on its feet. Its massive hooves connected with another of the guards who’d surrounded Dav and Cray. His body was tossed aside with a sickening crunch of bone.
Dav and Cray took advantage of the turn in the tide of their dangerously secluded battle, falling on the displaced guards as Andr crashed into their midst. The Vigil fell upon them with the skills of a fearless
