The serrin seemed to take forever to pass, those nearest them like Andreyis not daring to lower their shields, while those closer to the Enorans dared not turn their backs on the oncoming Steel. Many Lenays stood to protect the backs of those men with their shields, but Lenay shields were smaller, and many fell with shafts through their legs instead.
Then it seemed the serrin procession was splitting, and Andreyis saw their train mixed with many Lenay and Torovan riders who tried to kill them as the serrin evaded, and continued to find targets. Some horses came racing near, dodging wildly with Lenay riders in pursuit. Andreyis saw serrin tucking their bows into canvas bags behind their leg, drawing swords and charging through the closer Lenay infantry, as much to distract the riders chasing as to cause damage. With shields drawn, and bewildered still from the ferocity of the archery, Lenay men scattered before the onrushing horses.
A man darted from Andreyis’s side to swing at a passing serrin, only for the serrin’s razored blade to sever his sword arm midlength. Another took an arrow through the middle, and stumbled into the path of galloping horses. Andreyis ran at him, intent on dragging him away from their path, but he’d barely begun to move when a horse changed direction to come straight at him. The last things Andreyis saw were fast, galloping hooves and a swinging silver blade.
Sasha had barely rested from her assault on the Enoran artillery when the serrin began pouring across the fields. Where they’d come from she did not know, nor how so many had managed to slip past as many Lenay and Torovan horsemen as comprised the army’s right flank. But come they did, at hurtling speed, a swirling, deadly mass with no respect for formation or self-preservation.
She turned her exhausted horse about and charged at them, her men doing the same, as others tore into the serrin mass’s flanks. The serrin kept riding, weaving back and forth, criss-crossing paths with Lenay cavalry to keep them at bay. Sasha held her left-arm shield across her body to guard her right, where most of the serrin were riding. She could see them firing away from her, into the Lenay infantry, and saw men falling by the score. Any of them could have been a friend. All of them were her countrymen. She kicked her horse to greater speed, as several serrin turned and fired her way.
One of them saw her. A man, silver haired and sharp-blue eyed. Their eyes met, and the serrin’s fixed, with recognition. He crossed his bow to opposite hands across his saddle horn, nocked and drew with effortless strength and balance. Sasha hauled the mare’s reins to the right, but the tired animal was slow to respond. The shield was awkward to use, and left too much exposed. The serrin fired, and as the arrow lunged from the string, Sasha knew that it was her approaching death.
But it was her horse’s. The shaft struck somewhere before her hands, and the animal’s legs simply folded. Sasha did not even manage a yell as her saddle disappeared from under her, throwing her sword clear and trying to roll…
And awoke, hooves still thundering, horses whinnying, warriors yelling, swords clashing on shields and armour, arrows zipping, men shrieking and dying. The music of her life.
She half-rolled and raised her head, and her vision swam. Her left arm hurt, and her shield lay several paces away, its straps broken. She looked about to find her sword, then staggered to her feet, and limped on a wrenched leg to examine her horse. The retched animal still lived, nostrils wide and frothing, staring at her with the one visible, rolling eye. It kicked and tried to rise, its neck soaked in blood about the serrin’s arrow, only the tail of which was visible in its neck.
Sasha whispered a calling to the animal’s soul, performed the correct sign to her head and its own, then cut its throat. And turned away so she did not have to watch the blood gushing, and the final, feeble struggles of life.
The last of the serrin incursion was passing now, its final riders weaving in mad evasion of many times their number of pursuing Lenay and Torovan cavalry. Serrin were falling as cavalry blades found them, yet still most paid more attention to targets amidst the infantry than to defending themselves.
Several Isfayen were circling back to pick Sasha up. She extended an arm and one dragged her astride with brute strength, Sasha clutching to his back as they set off in pursuit of the serrin, and possibly a riderless horse.
Peering past the Isfayen’s shoulder, Sasha saw the leading serrin riders dividing, then splitting as a wall of charging Lenay cavalry tore into them from the opposing direction. The northerners from the left flank, she guessed. The serrin had charged squarely into the middle of the Lenay formation, and were trapped. Evading riders were decapitated by huge, black-armoured men astride their great horses, who spurred directly into the serrins’ midst with little fear of collision. More and more serrin scattered as the northerners worked their way up the line, striking left and right. Others broke off to pursue desperate escapes, serrin cavalry zigzagging madly toward the rear, where five thousand Torovan infantry reserve blocked their way.
“Stop!” Sasha yelled in her rider’s ear, as he angled as though to pursue. “Stop here, there’s no point.”
He stopped, three companions with him, turning his horse sideways so Sasha could see. Many serrin had turned back, and were heading this way, still firing into the Lenay infantry’s rear…but northern cavalry now overtook them as well, jostling the smaller, sleeker serrin horses, and killing their riders with brutal power. Soon there were but a few visible, each leading perhaps ten Lenay riders in a merry dance around and around, a final defiance of cunning over brawn. Not one attempted to surrender. Several came galloping back past Sasha’s position, well wide of her riders, and with many Lenays in pursuit. No Isfayen man bothered to join the chase.
“Ilayen,” said one of the Isfayen sombrely, and held his sword aloft in salute.
“Ilayen,” echoed the others.
“That,” Sasha’s rider said dourly, “is the bravest thing I have ever seen.”
The roar from the infantry lines was louder now, and the accent of the voices was not Lenay. Sasha looked, and saw Lenay men being forced back, their already depleted ranks thinned dramatically further by serrin archery. She could see confusion in the rear ranks, men helping wounded friends, others yelling at them to fight instead, wild gesticulations, others gathering support to run quickly to parts of the line that were about to break. All were falling back, an inexorable, gradual shuffle. From the sound of it, the Enorans had their blood up.
“Not only brave,” Sasha said tiredly. “It’s cost us the battle.”
The Isfayen nodded. “A pointless sacrifice is surrender cloaked as bravery. These serrin knew precisely for what cause they sacrificed their lives. Our centre collapses. I salute them.”
There were yells now as the Torovan infantry reserve steadied their line and prepared to push forward. The Isfayen turned their horses about and galloped out of the way. Soon another Isfayen rider came galloping, holding the reins of a fair looking, riderless warhorse. Sasha leaped onto its saddle, steadied the nervous animal, and realised from its lovely leather bridlework that it had belonged to a serrin. More of her Isfayen were regrouping amidst the masses of cavalry returning to their respective flanks. Sasha waited until she had as many of them about her as possible, then cast one final glance toward the advancing Torovans.
It was not possible that they could hold back the Steel. They were approaching the artillery zone now, and where Lenay infantry might sacrifice a tight formation for a fast sprint, Torovan infantry relied on that tight formation even more so than the Steel. If they arrived as a breathless rabble, they would need to re-form once in battle…nearly impossible against the Steel infantry. Yet if they marched forward in unison, the artillery would cut them to pieces on the way in.