And what remained of the Byoran resistance collapsed.
They ran blindly from the black-and-white-liveried soldiers and colourfully dressed nobles, all of whom were hacking around themselves with equal savagery. The swords and war-hammers and axes took a terrible toll, despite halting their chase after no more than twenty yards, pulling back into formation, ready for the next challenge.
Vesna saw General Lahk’s legion advancing to their left flank. The Chetse had spotted them and an infantry division was approaching quickly - but in their fervour, they had underestimated the distance between the forces. Vesna turned the other way to check on Suzerain Torl’s more lightly armed legion of black-clad Brethren - more than a match for anything the Menin could call on. Vesna couldn’t see their one force of heavy cavalry, the Bloodsworn, which was conspicuously absent, but he wasn’t complaining. As much as the Iron General side of him might have wanted to test his Ghosts against the fanatical Menin élite, the human side overruled it.
Battles are there to be won; glory can take care of itself: the sentiment came unbidden, the memory of his first weapons-tutor, Shab. Like many young nobles, Vesna had been interested only in glory and elegance at first, and using a shield as an offensive weapon had offended that sensibility, until Shab had proved otherwise — the hard way.
He smiled grimly to himself. ‘And this lot don’t stand a chance,’ he muttered.
‘Nope,’ replied Swordmaster Pettir beside him, ‘we’ll be sending the whole damn lot to the Herald’s Hall soon enough - they’re buggered.’
‘But not quickly,’ broke in a hesitant voice. Legion Chaplain Cerrat was standing a few feet away, and his bright white robes were splattered with mud and gore. ‘King Emin could fall by the time we reach him.’
The young man looked stunned by his first battle, but he’d clearly given good account of himself. His robe had been sliced open, revealing the armour underneath, and the gibbous blade of his moon-glaive was stained with blood.
‘Not quickly, no,’ Vesna admitted, scanning the troops ahead of them. The infantry looked ragged to his practised eye, but there was still the greater part of five legions of heavy infantry between them and the king, enough to swamp Vesna’s three thousand cavalry. ‘But that’s not our concern right now; the king will just have to stand.’
A hunting horn rang out over the moor and the three men watched General Lahk lead a wedge of Ghosts into the centre of the advancing Chetse legion, who were lacking both the heavy armour and the spears of the Menin infantry. With any luck they would be as brutally - and speedily - dealt with as the Byoran Guardsmen. In the distance he could see a massive engagement going on at the furthest fortification: thousands of soldiers were swarming over all sides of it in what he guessed was a pincer movement. On the left the Narkang cavalry were massed, apparently waiting for the enemy to react to the Farlan shock troops before committing themselves.
‘Did we arrive too late?’ Vesna asked as he signalled for his legion to close on Lahk’s. The Dark Monks had already moved up, approaching the Chetse’s other flank, and they were also preparing to charge. It was too late to countermand that order, Vesna thought; they would have to let this move play out before he could strike at the rear of Styrax’s main force.
‘Advance at the canter,’ he called. Ahead were two stationary cavalry legions and one of Menin infantry, both close enough to come to the Chetse’s rescue, perhaps — but showing no inclination to do so. They had a massive cavalry force on their other flank, and no apparent intention of moving, or breaking their formation, any more than they already had.
‘That’s it, you worry about your own skins,’ Vesna said with forced cheer, causing Pettir to laugh coarsely. ‘We’ll keep you boxed in there, and cut your lord’s hamstrings while you watch.’
‘Can you sense Styrax?’
Vesna pointed towards the wooden fort. ‘He’s up there, right in the thick of it all.’
‘He’s committed then. If you can sense him, he must know we’re back here.’
Vesna laughed. ‘Trust me on that - I made quite sure of it. He knows he’s running out of time. Might be we can force him into something desperate.’
Lord Styrax lashed out, feeling the blood patter onto his armour as he sliced through flesh and bone. A falling body thumped against his leg and he turned on instinct, cutting up, but