viewpoint, the road down the valley was visible and the rear ranks of the Pelasian contingent were arriving; perhaps two thousand heavy infantry in all. “We’d best get out of here before they reach us,” he called.
The three charged toward the large, black wagon surrounded by guards in black and gold with some variety of feathery headdress. Grinning, Tythias leaned in his saddle. “You four keep them busy. I’m going to have a look inside that thing.”
Trusting his men to do their job, Tythias looked around for other men nearby and, spotting a group of riders pouring lit oil onto a bolt thrower, called “over here!” He rode for the black wagon and reined in, his sword ready. A guard with a gold-burnished breastplate leaped down from the rear of the wagon, bearing a curved knife and attempting to unhorse the prefect. Bracing himself, Tythias swung his sword up in a wide arc. The blade caught the falling man on the hip and sliced diagonally up across his abdomen. The body crashed into him and the man, still alive though barely so, drove in the knife he held as he fell. Tythias grunted in pain as the blade dug deep into his thigh. The body fell past him then to the floor, bleeding out its life, while the dying guard clung on to the hilt, dragged alongside Tythias’ horse. The prefect scowled and wrenched the knife from his leg, watching the Pelasian crash to the ground and thrash painfully. Reaching up, he ripped the silky black curtains aside.
The Satrap of Siszthad was a corpulent man with an oily complexion and small, dark, piggy eyes. His scalp was shaved barring the topknot and his clothing was as ostentatious as Tythias could ever imagine. Gold and silver silk adorned with jewels and peacock feathers threatened to make the prefect laugh out loud. He leaned into the doorway.
“You can either come with me, or I can skewer you and take you anyway. The choice is yours.”
The Satrap stared at him and then screamed “Guards!” in a surprisingly falsetto voice.
“Ok. Have it your way.”
Tythias stuck his sword, point first, in the wooden side of the wagon and, reaching inside, delivered a powerful punch to the portly man’s face. There was a distinct crunch as the Satrap’s nose broke beneath the blow and, in a spray of blood, the man blacked out. The prefect looked around urgently. Men were rushing up from behind and, ahead, wooden carts on fire had brought the column to a halt. The defenders were rallying properly now and in minutes the light cavalry would be in serious trouble. Only one of the four men that had come with him was still in his saddle, desperately fighting off two guards at the front of the vehicle, though other riders, having finished their work, were bearing down on the Satrap’s wagon.
“To me!” the prefect cried, aware that the cavalry were fragmenting into small melees and would soon be too dispersed to deal with an orderly retreat.
Reaching out, Tythias grasped the saddle of one of the fallen riders and guided the horse clumsily closer to the wagon. Reaching inside and grunting with the sheer effort, he hauled the corpulent unconscious body of the Pelasian usurper out of his seat and to the door of the vehicle. Several more horsemen appeared as if from nowhere and help him heave the ruler’s figure out and onto the horse. With a last glance around him, Tythias called “Fall back! Back to our lines!”
Slapping the over-burdened horse on the rump, he launched back along the lowest level of the slope toward their front lines. Members of the three cavalry units pulled back in alongside him as they rode. There were fewer survivors than he’d hoped to see. The action had at the very least halved their numbers, but the damage they’d caused Velutio was incomparable. The loss of his Pelasian ally, his siege engines and a number of dead infantry, compared with the thinning of the Imperial cavalry? Tythias smiled across and down at the slumbering heap laid uncomfortably across a four-horned saddle.
“Is Ashar ever going to be pleased to see you, fat man.”
He rode, aware of the growing numbers of horsemen surrounding him and the unconscious body of the Pelasian Satrap. Glancing over his shoulder, he could see that the Pelasian cavalry contingent was mobilised and was already chasing them back toward their lines.
“Shit!” The Prefect was well aware how far they had to go and how little chance they had to reach their army before their enemy overtook them, fresh and speedy as they were.
“Move!” he cried to the men around him.
Reining his horse in, he turned to face their innumerable pursuers, both annoyed and gratified to note the number of riders who had also brought their steeds to a halt and turned to join their commander in defending the rear of the departing cavalry and their prize.
He’d made light of it to Sathina and it was a shame to disappoint her, but he was damned if he was going to disappoint his Emperor. The thought of Sathina in her beautiful azure dress going alone tonight into their tent filled him with an inordinate sense of loss and, more than that, with an insurmountable rage. If these Pelasian bastards were going to take him away from his wife, he was damn well going to make them suffer for doing it.
At least a dozen other horsemen had lined up with him.
“When we get back to the lines,” he cried with a mad grin, “you’re all on a charge!”
The Pelasians, all light cavalry, but numbering in their hundreds just in the first wave, thundered towards Tythias and his scant defence. They may not be able to hold them for long, but maybe just enough to afford safety and a chance of survival to the rest.
He sighed as he hefted his sword and swung it a couple of times before drawing it back and ready for the first blow, his reigns tied around the saddle horn and guiding the horse with his knees.
“I’m sorry,” he said to the open air and braced himself for the collision.
And as he watched the Pelasians thunder towards him, was aware of the miracle the Gods had granted him. His eyes were locked on his attackers and he wasn’t even aware of Crucio’s heavy cavalry charging past him in the other direction, neatly bypassing the Prefect and his few defenders, until they were already past. The ground shook under the hooves of the heaviest cavalry the Imperial world had ever seen as Crucio’s men hit the Pelasians like a tenderising mallet. The enemy advance was smashed and fragmented, with terrified Pelasians trying desperately to turn their mounts and head back to the safety of their own lines while their compatriots were literally thrown from their mounts or battered by the spears and shields of the heavy steel machine and obliterated. The Pelasian advance had met the Imperial wall.
Tythias stared for a long moment until his agape mouth slowly formed into a mad grin.
“You took your time sir!” A voice called from behind, as captain Peris drew his mare to a halt and leaned across in the saddle.
Tythias turned the mad grin on his subordinate.
“Where the hell did
Peris smiled and proffered a waterskin of something that smelled like ammonia.
“We managed three charges in all and got back to our lines and there was still no sign of the rest of you, so we though we’d best come and look. Your wife would tear me to shreds if we left you for dead, you know that, don’t you sir?”
Tythias laughed and took the skin, drinking deeply and coughing.
“I honestly thought I was a dead man.”
“Nah…” Peris took the skin back and took a swig himself. “Didn’t you hear the general? Nothing on earth’s been made that can get rid of you!”
Tythias laughed a relieved laugh and, watching the chaos and carnage in front of him for a moment more, sheathed his sword and turned his horse back to the Imperial lines.
The night was deep and thick and an eerie mist had risen from the ground to fill the valley. The tents of Sabian’s army were hard to discern and only from one of the valley sides could the tips of them all be seen, scattered around the camp fires that burned away the worst of the miasma. In the old days, the summer was the campaigning season and war was done with before now. Sabian grunted unhappily. If only war had been done with before now. He really had precious little wish to fight young Darius. He relished the opportunity of pitting his wits against Caerdin, but not really for the glory of the man who would take the crown, and certainly not after having been forced to give the best ground and positioning to the man and to fight him on his own terms. He gritted his teeth once more. Many years ago his mother had berated him for that habit and he’d long since grown out of it, but he seemed to be doing it more and more these days. The loss of the siege engines was a blow, but nothing he wasn’t prepared to handle. They were decoration as far as he was concerned anyway. The bulk of this fight would be on foot and with blades and that is where destiny would be decided. The loss of that despicable and thoroughly dislikeable Pelasian Satrap was more of a blow. While he hated the ostentatious idiot with a passion otherwise reserved for his superior, the Pelasians had withdrawn to the rear of the field and were no longer prepared to face
