He grunted and strained to see back across the field. The heavy cavalry were in position and waiting. Any minute now they’d charge and Tythias would be able to move his skirmishers down past the other flank without drawing all their men back from the front. He turned his gaze back to the columns coming up from the west and that was when the banner finally appeared among riders behind the siege machines. The column seemed to be a full army in itself, with a cavalry unit at the front, already past their position and taking their place among Velutio’s lines. Behind them an infantry unit in black were getting into position, followed by the cart bearing their massive weapons, surrounded by light infantry. Behind them in turn came units of musicians and standard bearers light with burning torches or lanterns on short poles. And there, behind the musicians came the black banners bearing a Golden crown and two rearing horses flying over a covered black wagon draped with gold and black curtains. The banner of a Pelasian lord, the Satrap of Siszthad. He must be the usurper that had taken Prince Ashar’s family’s heads. And now the bastard was marching with Velutio. Surrounding the wagon were a number of over-dressed but under protected glittery guards. More courtiers followed the wagon in their own palanquins and chairs, beyond which the Pelasian infantry swarmed.
Tythias glanced back over his shoulder and spotted the two heavy cavalry units of Crucio and Peris hurtling across the field toward Velutio’s army. This was it; time to go.
“Ok.” He called out to his men. “We’ve got one small chance to do something really useful here, boys. Some of those units are carrying torches and lanterns against the dark. We need to take them out and use those torches on the war machines. I don’t care how you do it, but burn as many of those bastards to the ground as you can. They won’t have enough water with them while they march to put them out. Stay in groups and don’t get too split up. We’re going to be short on time here.”
He turned again to face the siege engines. “Go, lads, go!”
The skirmishing units charged wildly, disregarding any ideal of formation other than staying in small groups, through the loosely planted orchard and down onto the flat turf. Shouts of alarm went up from some of the footmen who were now clearly of Pelasian origin. The bastard Satrap had brought the war machines with him. The loose formation of footmen tried to pull themselves into an ordered line, but they had not been expecting an attack from the rear and were truly unprepared for the ferocity of Tythias’ cavalry. Spears lunged and stabbed as three hundred horsemen rushed a thin line of defenders. After a couple of thrusts with their spears, swords were drawn and the cavalry went to work on the simple butchery of their disorganised enemy. Tythias wheeled his horse in the midst of the chaos.
“Stop fucking around and get those torches!”
As his men made for the flickering lights, Tythias looked around. The only units within the column bearing torches were musicians, flag and standard bearers and senior men in gaudy golden silk costumes. That made their targets easier to identify. The prefect grinned and watched five of his men dispatch the last defenders in front of a huge catapult. He waved to one. “Get this thing burned. You four… come with me.”
Turning, now flanked by four of his men, Tythias rode along the column, past a small unit of drummers who were being brutalised for the sake of the lanterns their unit carried, and toward the flags he’d seen. From this 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.