The Dark Lord

wither-to-wither with the Frankish captain's.

The main body of the phalanx continued to advance up the road at a steady walk, but they were running out of open ground. Now they were on the verge of the Avar's overnight encampment—a scattering of farmhouses— thatch-roofed, plastered walls over withes or a timber framework—and scattered high-sided Avar wagons. Thankfully, the Slavic infantry had disintegrated and the barbarians were fleeing in a mob through the leather tents and bundles of sleeping hides. A scattering of bodies lay on the road and the embankment.

'Sound halt and re-form!' Chlothar rubbed his chin in disgust, feeling short prickly hairs under his fingers. Beside him, the bucinators immediately began blatting out a stentorian wail. The ranks of the phalanx began to halt, their file leaders howling commands and using rattan canes freely on any man failing to follow the halting drill. The rear ranks stopped first, squaring themselves and shifting their pikes back, out of fouling distance of those ahead. Within a minute the entire mass slid to a halt. Chlothar didn't watch, knowing someone would foul up.

There was a mighty rattle of wood on wood, and then yelps as unfortunate hoplites caught it from their file leaders. Chlothar turned his horse away and trotted along the rear ranks. The Frank stared through the spears, hand shading his eyes against the brilliant sun. The Avars were regrouping among the farmhouses and behind scattered wagons. Some of the Slavs stopped running and Chlothar cursed again, seeing a solid line of shorter men, in darker, heavier armor, appear among the buildings. Brightly colored square banners flapped in the air above them. The Slavs stopped, then turned, shouting defiantly at the Romans.

'Peltasts forward on either side of the road,' Chlothar bellowed. 'Keep them from forming up!'

Couriers dashed off from the cluster of men around the Frank. Chlothar rose up in his stirrups, straining to see the left and right wings of the army. To the left, there was only a huge, confused, swirling mass of men on horses. Banners jutted up from the field in every direction and the swirl and surge of cavalry in battle was raising a huge cloud of dust. What he could see, however, indicated the Eastern infantry on his flanks holding steady. A distance of at least fifty feet separated them from the Avars, and the opposing lines were staring at each other, waiting for someone to break ranks and attack. The Roman line matched the left edge of the phalanx. Just as it should.

Impressive, the Frank allowed, grudgingly and only in the privacy of his thoughts. The Eastern Legions—the infantry at least—seemed to be every bit as professional as the Western armies. Personally, he was praying desperately to keep from making some irretrievable mistake—Chlothar had only risen to command the hoplites when Prince Ermanerich had been forced to remain in Magna Gothica. He'd felt sick all day.

To the right, however, both armies had collided, with the Eastern foot soldiers engaged in a sparking brawl with the Slavic spear- and axe-men. There the barbarians were stiffened by many Avar knights fighting on foot with longswords or heavy spears. Beyond the melee, where the comes Alexandros and the Companion cavalry were supposed to be in action, Chlothar could see nothing but treetops. Grunting, he turned back to observe the Avars on the road. Given a moment's respite, they were busily dragging wagons across the paved surface of the highway and making an impromptu barricade. Men behind the wagons exchanged bow shots with the Peltasts as they ran forward.

About half of the Peltasts had unslung their oval shields and stood armed with sword, mace or axe. The rest continued to wield the big recurved bow and were shooting at any target of opportunity. Most of the buildings were on fire and smoke billowed up in white clouds from the damp thatch. The Frank shook his head in dismay. Soldiers and fire! Those buildings must be empty by now.

Figuring he had seen enough, Chlothar raised his hand. The runners and signal flagmen tensed. Avar arrows hissed down out of the sky as more of the nomads crowded up to the barricade. Now they were shooting high, trying to hit the men in the phalanx or behind. Their own horse bows could easily make the range.

Chlothar raised his own shield, not a moment too soon. Arrows shattered on the road around him and one of his lieutenants took one in the throat. The Goth choked to death as his companions tried to pull him from the horse and cut it out of his neck. Men died in the phalanx too, but the rest held their ground. Behind the wagon laager, the Avars jeered the approaching Romans. Chlothar ignored them, watching the Peltasts dodge forward through the buildings. In moments the sword and shieldmen would be at the wagon barricade. Arrows continued to flick down out of the smoke. Two of the Frank's big bodyguards moved forward, screening him with long, oval shields.

'Sound advance!' Chlothar barked at the bucina-men and the runners. 'Attack!'

Horns bellowed and the file leaders began a marching chant. The phalanx rippled, pikes lowering from rest position and the men began to walk forward. Chlothar watched them uneasily, a sick feeling percolating in his stomach. The comes had once mentioned, in an offhand way, he hoped the hoplites would be able to move at a jog soon, but Chlothar couldn't see them getting up to much more than a fast walk. Not today, anyway. The pikes lowered again in a rippling, rustling motion, which reminded the Frank of trees bending in a high wind.

The phalanx ground forward, flowing inexorably down the road. More arrows flicked out of the smoke. The Avar archers could see them moving, even through the smoke.

—|—

Jusuf leaned wearily on the front of his high, four-cornered saddle. His arms felt like lead and sweat streamed out of his helmet and gloves. His left hand burned with pain and he was afraid he'd shattered a knuckle on the Avar's face mask. By some chance, the swirl of battle moved away from him, leaving a cluster of Khazar lancers panting in the drifting clouds of smoke. Most of the men he'd led into the teeth of the Avar charge were dead or scattered across the field, but Dahvos' heavier knights had piled in and were currently locked in a ferocious melee to his left.

Shaking his head to try and clear away the fog of exhaustion, Jusuf stared in disgust at the leather straps hanging on his left arm. The shield was long gone. He needed another.

'Keep an eye out,' he said to the lancers on either side of him. Clambering down from his horse was a slow, painful process, but Jusuf spied a fallen shield only a few feet away, spattered with mud and crimson streaks. He oofed when his feet hit the ground—his abused thighs flashed with needle- points of pain—but he managed to reach down and drag the round, iron-bossed shield out of the muck. He flipped it over and muttered a curse. One of the straps was missing.

'Useless!' He cast about for another and saw with surprise he was on the far side of the village. The village itself was now burning merrily, sending long, wispy trails of smoke curling across the battlefield. Somehow, in the struggle, he and his men had cut their way through the original enemy line. Disturbed, Jusuf grabbed onto his saddle and managed—by luck—to get the point of his boot into the stirrup.

'Tarkhan!' One of the lancers pointed back the way they'd come. 'The kagan is coming this way.'

Jusuf stared at the sight of his half-brother trotting towards him, then clambered up into the saddle. Dahvos was at the head of at least a hundred guardsmen—their armor made in the Persian style, with conical backswept helms and a full mail coat from neck to thighs, with sleeves and leggings of overlapping iron lozenges. Each man wore a green surcoat as well, the linen or wool sticking to the metal in the damp air. A flutter of banners and standards completed a martial picture.

'My lord!' Jusuf called out and urged his horse to move. The mare was very tired, but game, and she managed to amble forward. Dahvos heard the call and turned towards him, raising a hand in greeting. Jusuf waved, feeling some of his exhaustion lift—the kagan would take charge now, and tell them all what to do. Just the sight of his commander was a relief.

Something gray flashed past the tips of Jusuf's fingers.

Dahvos caught the blurring passage of the arrow out of the corner of his eye. His shield swung up, covering his face, and then cracked with a pealing ring as the bolt shattered wood and twisted the iron strap around the rim. The kagan toppled backwards, face wild in surprise at the power of the blow. Two guardsmen caught him before he could fall out of the saddle. Jusuf saw a smear of blood on Dahvos' surcoat, but he was already wheeling his horse towards the enemy.

'Bayan!' he screamed, the shrill sound rising above the tumult of battle. His lancers moved with him, almost as one, and their war cry rang out loud and clear. To the east, the melee among the heavy horse broke open and