The Conquord archers responded. He watched the arrows fall among the enemy, unfortunate Tsardon slain before they could strike. The hastati cheered. Another volley came at them. More prayers, more muttered luck. The metal rain fell. Arrows thumped on to his shield, the noise and vibration hideous. One slammed straight through, its point splintering the wood just under his arm.
Three ranks ahead of him on the front line, a citizen took a shaft through the eye. He fell dead. Life snatched away. Nothing anyone could do but move forward one rank and help the body back and away.
Garrelites breathed deep and moved up, desperate to hear the order to advance and the sound of sword on sword.
Three more volleys and the Tsardon were within thirty yards. Flags circled and flattened to the horizontal. Roberto's hastati moved. Kept in order by the centurions at their backs, they held shields high or overhead and paced forwards, the flanks faster than the centre. Their taunts ripped through the air, insulting the accuracy of the enemy archers, doubting the skill of their swordsmen and speaking the certainty of Conquord victory.
The Tsardon responded. Arrows still flew. Right and left, the cavalry shadowed his own. But they'd strayed just that bit too close. Roberto kept a close eye on it, an idea hatching. He turned in time to see the scorpions fire again, bolts striking into the heart of the archers, slamming men from their feet, scattering earth and blood into the air. He beckoned the nearest runner.
'Have the scorpions target the cavalry. One volley only,' he said.
'Yes, General.' The woman sprinted away to the rear of the lines, Roberto watching her for a moment and hoping his cavalry would take the hint. Any message wouldn't reach the left flank in time. Behind him, he could and did issue orders quickly.
Watching the two infantry armies march to collision always excited him. He spent so much time drilling his commanders about the work they did for themselves, their families and the Conquord. He expected every citizen to take his or her full strength and belief into the combat. He expected them to give absolutely everything, even if that meant their lives.
With barely a pause and with the weight of their fellow citizens behind them, the Conquord legions and the Tsardon army moved together at walking pace. Infantry javelins whipped across the shortening space, tipping down into the front few ranks of enemy. Swords came to ready, shields up and soldiers into fighting stance. In the centre it was phalanx against phalanx, a grinding attritional conflict. On the flanks it was the thrust and hack of the Estorean gladius against the chop and block of the longer Tsardon blade.
The first clash of weapons signalled a concerted and massive increase in the noise from every throat. Here was where it began for them. Here was where their lives would be judged.
Roberto watched, waiting for the scorpions to be moved and primed. Arrows still fell but the armies had spaced now, making targeting more difficult and with the cavalries still out of effective range too much fell in between first line and reserves.
Down on the battle front, there was no indication of either side making any headway. Perhaps the Conquord were marginally forward on the flanks but this early, the exchanges were neither ferocious, nor prolonged, with no man or woman wanting to make the mistake that led to a real gap. As he watched, the sides began to disengage, enemies pushing each other away, slashing at empty space or butting out with shields. A few bodies lay on the ground. Each side taunted and beckoned the other on while more Conquord javelins were launched from behind the front ranks.
Roberto frowned. There was no pace to the conflict, as if both sides were merely fencing in practice for some real event in the future. The scorpion strings thudded again. Practice was over. His engineers had not let him down. Bolts flashed into the enemy cavalry on both flanks, skewering horses, impaling riders through their saddles or taking them clean off to collide with comrades. Panic was instant. Horses scattered from the impact areas, riders fighting to control rearing animals. Close on the right, a whole section of cavalry stampeded away towards the Tsardon camp, riders helpless, some even choosing to dive off and roll. It was better than he could possibly have hoped.
He ordered the attack signal but hardly need have bothered. His cataphracts charged, horse archers giving support and they in turn defended by lighter sword-wielding cavalry units. In all, two thirds of his mounted force rode at the enemy, the rest defending the infantry flanks who had responded equally quickly and engaged once again.
A great wall of noise rolled around the plain. The roars of Conquord soldiers sensing victory in the stunning turn of events; the thundering rumble of hoofs on sodden ground; the snorting and neighing of horses; and the harsh sounds of metal impacting on shield and armour.
Roberto watched the first cataphracts go in. Drawn from the landed nobility, the heavily armoured riders carried the two-handed kontos lance and were trained to break up enemy cavalry units by charge, wheel and withdraw. They drove into the Tsardon horsemen, punching rents in their lines, adding to the disarray caused by the scorpion attack and engendering more panic. Scores of riders were downed in an instant.
Hard in their wake, archers rode in, releasing three volleys as they traversed the fractured line before following the cataphracts out to reform and charge again, passing the light cavalry on their way in.
As early as the second charge, Roberto saw the enemy began to buckle. A few riders had already detached and were heading for the camp and beyond. Time to push it all home. With the scorpions dumping bolts in the gap between the enemy front and reserve lines, and nervous about the coverage of their flanks, the Tsardon infantry was vulnerable.
The din was incredible. No order would be heard and none had been given beyond that to attack. Garrelites stood in the second rank now, roaring on his comrades ahead of him. In the press of shields and citizens, the heat was intensifying and the stink of blood, shit and bile was a nauseating mix. Up close, the Tsardon were a fearsome force. Curved swords slashed dripping with Conquord blood. Oval shields presented stiff defence.
He glanced at those standing to his left and right. Their faces mirrored the stress he felt. Sick with anticipation, desperate to fight but equally desperate to escape with their lives. Garrelites gripped his sword tighter and bounced his shield on his arm for the hundredth time. In front of him, the fighting was fierce. The violence unremitting. The rhyme ran round his head again and again . . . 'Put armour on a farmer and fall hard on all the Tsardon.'
Blades clashed and thrust. Sparks flew, men grunted, shouted and cursed. They fought for a better stance, the killing angle and the mental edge. Weapons cracked on to shields. The thudding impacts echoed in the confined space. Louder and louder. The hastati ahead of him screamed. His helmet flew from his head, bouncing off Garrelites's shoulder guard. He spun, showing Garrelites the rake across his throat, and fell dying.
Garrelites met the eyes of the Tsardon and leaped into the hole, denying him the chance to strike at the opened flanks of the legionaries to his left and right. The enemy carved his sword downwards. Garrelites deflected the blow aside and followed up, stabbing out with his gladius, feeling the point graze scale armour. The pair of them squared up again.
Garrelites's head cleared. This man was not his equal. This man was not worthy of life. Garrelites felt the closeness of the hastati around him. He could not let them down. He punched out with the boss of his shield, finding the enemy blade thumping into it. He hacked around with his gladius, struck the Tsardon defence.
The enemy blade came back at him, glancing from his left shoulder and sending a sheet of pain down his shield arm. Garrelites gasped. The Tsardon sensed a chance, he could see it in the man's eyes. His shield was thrust forwards. Garrelites gambled. He swayed back and left. The enemy came on, expecting the block but not getting it. His sword clashed into Garrelites's shield but it was an unbalanced strike. Garrelites saw the gap, thrust his gladius inside the enemy defence and felt the blade slide through armour and into gut.
The Tsardon's eyes widened in shock and pain. He coughed. Blood spurted from his mouth and splashed over Garrelites's face, shield and helmet. He began to fall. Garrelites kicked him backwards and shouted in relief. He heard a concerted roar from all around him and saw the Tsardon line flicker and ripple. Something had happened. Somewhere on the battlefield a major blow had been struck.
Next to him, a distracted Conquord legionary was cut across the legs and collapsed. A new gap, a new threat. Garrelites could not pause while his shield arm recovered. He shook his head to move blood and sweat from his eyes, breathed deep and moved back to the attack, praying victory was coming soon.
'Principes to the front line!' ordered Roberto. The flags signalled the advance.
The Conquord's second line trotted in, adding weight to the press that was forcing the enemy back step by step. Volleys of arrows were swapped again but the power was with him. Roberto could feel it. God-embrace-them, he could see it. On the left, a critical breakthrough had been made. He could see hundreds of horses fleeing back up the slope. Simultaneously, he could just make out the far left maniples of the God's Arrows pushing in at pace.
The call for more effort fed along his infantry. The taunts became louder, the thrusts of sword and shield harder, backed by the knowledge of impending victory. To Roberto's right, the cataphracts had gathered for a mass charge. Already weakened, the Tsardon cavalry were driven to tatters. And while the lighter cavalry chased the remnants away from the flank, the cataphracts ploughed into unguarded archers and infantry. The enemy scattered in front of them or were trampled beneath hoofs, battered by shield and lance.
Garrelites knew the principes had joined the battle. Hastati fell back to allow them in but he stood his ground. His gladius dripped with the blood of three victims now and he felt empowered, indestructible. The principes struck the Tsardon hard, driving their thinning line back a little. Garrelites went with them, shoving with his shield, hacking and slashing ahead of it.
He heard horses and felt the thrumming of hooves. Enclosed where he was he didn't know whose they were or how close. But the arrival of the principes surely meant the battle was turning. Surely it was Master Kastenas who rode into the heart of the enemy.
The sweat was pouring off him. His arms ached and his legs were on fire. Right ahead, the Tsardon line compressed across his vision, as if God had shoved them with one mighty hand. They began to panic. Behind him, hastati were clamouring to join the push. Garrelites looked over his shield. The Tsardon weren't looking ahead any more. He stabbed his sword deep into an enemy soldier's side and ripped it clear, moving up even as the man fell. They were breaking. The Tsardon were breaking. Through the crush of bodies ahead he could see a thinning as they began to turn and run.
Another huge roar split the air around him and the legions surged forwards, led by the solid line of principes. To his right, the infantry was curving in, snapping the jaws of the pincer shut, rotating around the phalanx which stood as anchor to the fight. Garrelites waved his sword above his head and joined the charge. Everywhere was the confusion of feet and bodies. He skidded and slithered over Tsardon bodies, using his shield as a support.
The joy of victory infused him. In front, a Tsardon slipped and fell. Garrelites crashed the edge of his shield into the unprotected back and his sword into the enemy's helmet. Blood splattered the churned earth. It was incredible. The battle should have ground out all day. He had been into the front line so quickly that it was only now he realised he hadn't really thought to live through it. He laughed, caught the excitement of the hastati crowding around him and ran on up towards the Tsardon camp.
Garrelites didn't see the blade that slid high into his thigh and up into his groin. He hadn't been looking down at the dead, only ahead at the running, routed Tsardon. He'd run on a pace before the pain hit him and dropped him to his knees. He fell on top of his shield, arm beneath him. The shock rolled over him. He struggled on to his back. Hastati ran past him.
He saw the man who had struck him. A Tsardon lying with head slathered in a sheet of blood. The sword just dropping from his hand. He fell back, exhausted.
'Bastard,' said Garrelites. 'God take you to the devils on the wind.'
He shuddered and shook off his shield. He grabbed at his leg and groin, feeling the soaking of blood. The blade had sliced through his flesh so easily, right where he had no armour. The blood sluiced out so fast. He grasped at the wound, trying to stem the flow. But it burst around his fingers.
He called for help but the noise was so loud around him. Tramping feet and thundering hooves. He held out a dripping hand.
'Please,' he said.
Someone was coming. Someone had caught his eye and seen his predicament. The world swam in front of him. There was a roaring in his ears. He was lying on his side now, his hands back groping at his wound. So much blood.