The Xeteskian commander glanced along his line. They had forced the Dordovans well back on the right flank and a breach wouldn't be long coming. More spells flashed across the space above his head, keeping the opposition casting mages busy with shields. A detonation told of at least one more failing under pressure.
'Rusau!' he yelled, but his voice was lost in the roar of battle, the ring of swords, the screams of dying men, the calls of fifty lieutenants and the stamp of myriad hooves.
A sword swung towards him. Reflexively, he blocked right. It was a good stroke. The Dordovan was knocked back in his saddle and took a second thrust through his gut.
'Push on, push on!' he urged, seeing the Dordovan line falter.
Chandyr dragged his horse left, swinging down to connect with the shoulder of a pikeman whose weapon was trapped underfoot. In the melee all order had disappeared; men fought for their lives moment to moment. But Chandyr chose to fight for someone else's. Rusau. Unbelievably, the Lysternan was still upright in his saddle, blood spattering his cloak and robes.
'Pull back, damn you!' Chandyr knew the mage couldn't hear him; he was caught right in the middle of the fiercest fighting. His horse was cut and terrified, rearing and bucking, Rusau demonstrating remarkable skill to stay in the saddle.
Chandyr hacked his way towards the helpless mage, his own mount, bred and trained for the fray, kicking out as it moved, head butting low, driving enemies aside and giving its rider clear vision and sword arc. The Xeteskian kept his legs back, kept his sword forward and never gave an enemy a flank target.
'Rusau! To me!'
Chandyr swept his sword into the face of a foot soldier. To his relief, the mage heard him.
'Bring him round. To me!'
But Rusau's mount wasn't responding. The mage hauled at the reins, searching for space. There was none.
'Help him!' Chandyr leant over the shoulder of his horse and smashed his sword down. Another foot gained. Around him, his men pushed. Hard. 'Go! Go!'
This was the time to trust. It was the only way. Orders to men beyond five yards were pointless. Local leaders picking up on the course of battle were vital. Men of better vision in the thick of metal and blood, of panic and death. Darrick had taught him that and he had trained his own. In this battle, it was making all the difference. All along the line, Xetesk held formation and Dordover fell back.
He heeled his horse again, it kicked a man aside and plunged forward.
'Rusau!' He was almost within touching distance. 'Behind me, jump on.'
From nowhere, pikes thrust from both sides, freed by the movement of bodies. As it had been trained to do, Chandyr's horse stepped smartly back and reared to use its forelegs as a shield. Rusau's panicked creature reared too, but pitched its rider off. The mage fell calling out, grasping desperately, straight onto the point of a Xeteskian pike.
'No!' cried Chandyr, but it was done.
The blade speared straight through the Lysternan's back and out of his chest, breaking his ribcage as it came. Blood rushed from Rusau's mouth and he died, the pikeman dropping the staff and snatching out his short sword, too scared for his own life to realise what he had done.
Chandyr wheeled and galloped from the battle to check progress. The day would be won. The Dordovans would be forced back across the river. But Chandyr didn't care much about that. Enough Dordovans had seen Rusau die. A neutral on a Xeteskian pike. He would tell the truth. The Dordovans would not. He could only guess at the consequences. It was night and the battle was done. The Dordovans had been crushed and driven back across the river but not before herding many of the refugees to their deaths, caught helpless between the opposing forces.
Three miles west, the surviving refugees had regrouped, huddling together for comfort around fires. Another blow had been struck against their fragile spirits and here they were again with no food, shelter or hope.
The flight from the fighting had been terrifying. Once the Dordovan guard had deserted them to shore up their fractured line, Avesh had got Ellin away from the panic and those who ran to the Dord, or those who decided to throw themselves on the mercy of the Xeteskians. Many had followed him, and as the day wore on yet more joined the group.
They sat in almost complete silence. A misty rain was falling from a clouded night sky and in his arms Ellin was unmoving. He rocked her gently, cursing those who had reduced her from bright light to traumatised shell. He had to strike back but had no idea how to contact those he wanted, but then three of them rode into the camp just as he was fighting back sleep.
Alarm rippled through the exhausted refugees but the riders sought to quell it quickly, assuring them they were not from any college. Avesh sat up, fatigue fading, and as a hush fell, one of the riders spoke.
'I and my men had sight of the events of today and I want to pass on my sympathy at your plight and my fury at those who treat you no better than animals. But the reason I am here is to offer you hope and a way to make a difference and to end the persecution of ordinary Balaians.
'My name is Edman, and I am an emissary of the Black Wings.'
He waited while renewed nervousness coursed through the cold, wet and hungry refugees.
'Please,' he said, raising his hands. 'I know our reputation but I want to assure you we mean you no harm. We seek to restore what has been lost but we need people to make it happen. I can offer you food and shelter. It is a long walk from here but we will help you every step of the way. We will keep you from contact with our common enemy and we will help your sick and your wounded.
'Any of you who want to return to rebuild the lives the colleges took from you go with our blessing. But any who come with us will make sure that those lives can be lived in security in the years that follow.
'Who is with me?'
There were questions, there was suspicion, there was fear. But Avesh was not alone in feeling a surge of purpose. By him, Ellin reached up a hand to stroke his face.
'You must go,' she said. 'Avenge our son for me. And when you are done, find me at the broken timbers of our farm and we will start again.'
Avesh gazed down at her, tears standing in his eyes, and knew he had never loved her more than he did right now.
'I won't let you down.'
'Just come back to me.'
'You know I will,' he said and, kissing her gently on the lips, he heaved himself from the ground and went to hear what Edman wanted of him. Heryst rode into Dordover with the night full and cool. He and his delegation were tired from the trail but Vuldaroq wasn't in the mood to give them much time for food and rest. Still feeling dusty, Heryst met the fat red-faced Dordovan Arch Mage in a small warm reception chamber hung with dour portraits and with a roaring fire in a large grate.
The shake of hands was perfunctory but the wine Vuldaroq gave him was very welcome. The two men sat in large leather chairs either side of the blaze.
'So, come to your senses finally, my Lord Heryst?'
'I have always been in full possession of my senses, Vuldaroq. I had hoped that Xetesk and yourselves might rediscover yours.'
'Exactly what was it you were hoping for?'
'A way to peace through diplomacy, what else?'
Vuldaroq smiled indulgently. 'You know I respect your skill as a politician and mage but in this you are being as naive as a child. Surely you cannot close your eyes to what is happening now. Peace is only possible when both sides desire it.'