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 you come from?”
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 Darius’ army. He stared back through the mist to where they were quartered, having pulled out of the front line, but not entirely abandoned the cause. Where they stood now was anyone’s guess and despite Velutio’s assuredness that they would remain where they were, Sabian was less sure.
Currently, after yet another blazing row with his lordship that had brought his close to either resigning or being dismissed, he was on his way to find a likeminded friend to have a drink with. He knew his position was safe now. Velutio couldn’t possibly dismiss his general on the eve of the most important battle he would ever fight, but Sabian could still walk away…
Ahead of him, Lord Dio’s flag fluttered above his tent. He’d really expected Dio to have been gone by now, but the old lord maintained his stand. He would see this new Emperor before he made up his mind.
A man brushed past him in the mist and made a slightly surprised sound. Sabian would normally have berated such an act, but the man was one of the Pelasian contingent and was unlikely to care what the commander had to say to him. The small Pelasian disappeared into the mist without even an apology. Such was the respect now in this army. Sabian grunted. He really had to talk to Dio. He seemed to be the only man in this entire army who still made any kind of sense.
Shahar Siliyad, right hand man of Ashar Parishid, true Prince and ruler of Pelasia smiled as he ambled down the hill. Sabian had been so obsessed with his various distresses he hadn’t even thought to question a Pelasian walking deep into the camps of the rest of the army. He could have laughed out loud, but tonight’s mission was far too important for that.
Making his way around the muddy turf lanes between banks of tents, he made for a specific camp fire. As the banner, a boar’s head above two lightning bolts, swum into view in the thick grey mist, he smiled more and removed general Caerdin’s list from his tunic. Running down the list of names with his stylus, he found the first one that had not been crossed off and made a mark next to it.
With a deep breath, he straightened himself and strode into the lit area of the campfire where Lord Irio’s men caroused as men will anywhere the night before a battle. Two men in blue tunics bearing the boar’s head stood and drew their swords.
“We’ve no dealings with Pelasian betrayers here,” one of them spat.
“That’s as maybe,” Shahar replied without letting his smile falter for a moment. “However, I bear a vital message for you lord and must see him now. You may search me for weapons if you wish and escort me to him. I assure you, you will not find any. “He laughed quietly. “Which is not to say that they aren’t there…”
The guardsmen muttered to each other for a moment and then one ran off toward a large tent at one end while the other stood glaring at the intruder in the misty darkness. No words were exchanged for several minutes as Shahar stood pleasantly whistling a lullaby tune from his childhood. Moments later, the other guards reappeared and nodded.
With no deference to the fact that in his home city, the small Pelasian would have outranked their lord, the two soldiers marched Shahar across the open ground and to the tent of their master. One entered, bowing and stood to one side, while the other ushered the Pelasian in at sword point. Shahar narrowed his eyes in the low light. Lord Irio was a barrel-chested man with a bushy moustache and thinning hair. He sat in his armour at a table, reading. Shahar was delighted to note, as he cast his professional eye around the room, that the text the man was reading was an ancient Pelasian lovers’ manual that was long outdated back home. He tried hard not to laugh and, instead, grinned at the barrel-chested lord.