Masood's Charge (II)

Tons of appalon, men, monster hide, bronze, wood, and malice collided in a noise unlike any in his lifetime. Man and beast screamed in a chord of violence. Masood's spear drove through an enemy's shield and torso, breaking at the haft. The strength from that disciple pumped through him as he shrugged off a blow to his armor, and jabbed the the broken end of his spear into another man's neck. His momentum carried him forward into the spear of another one, a narrow miss that would have taken him low in the gut. Masood grasped the oncoming spear close to his enemy's hand and heaved him off his mount. He ran like that for a pace until another oncoming spear tore through the chest of his human shield and Massod had to drop it or be unmounted.

The dusty air worked against both sides, rushing against each other, shadows one moment and men the next, deadly intentions passing near enough to strike at each other and become shadows again. And the noise, that noise! Hundreds of voices, desperate, courageous, tortured, pleading, dying, living!

Without his spear, Masood picked up his mace. It was a frightful thing of dense monster bone passed down from his father. Some long-ago practitioner hardened it, shaped the head into flanges, and textured the grip to fit a large man's hand without slipping away. Men died under that weapon, as they had died for generations, knocked from their mounts by body blows to be trampled, or bashed on the head until their helmets gave way and their brains were pulped. He didn't mind taking injuries, the occasional prick against his thickened skin. Where was the danger, if he didn't bleed some?

He broke through the enemy's charge to find his prince and three dozen men, dismounted, bracing spears. Masood's enormous mount was just as mad with frenzied blood as its rider and couldn't stop in time, impaled itself on many spears, crushed three men, and skidded on the ground face-first. The maul was thrown, but he landed in a roll that brought him to his feet and attacked with such ferocity his enemy, the dreaded Kashmari Chargers, shied away from him. They thinned their line and enveloped him until spears pointed at him from every side. Wherever he moved, the men in front of him would back away while those behind attacked, and these were not paltry spearmen called from farming towns and forced to fight: these points struck deep. Masood bled freely from his calves and arms, yet they did not try to finish him. Now he was the bigger prey, caught in a trap the hunters dared not enter.

"To me!" he called, but none of his men were near. He hewed at the spears with his mace and broke a fair few of them, but more were summoned. The prince was missing from this melee, had stepped away now his role was done.

"Masood!" someone called above the fury of blood in his ears. "Masood!"

"I live!" he roared, loud enough to cut through the cries of wounded men, his and theirs.

"Masood!" The voices were united. "Help us, Masood!"

He threw himself toward the larger battle, mindless of the enemy to his front and back, and crushed two heads with a blow powered by the disciple's fading strength. He didn't wait for the bodies to fall but shouldered through them, only to feel his legs give out. A spear was stuck clean through one knee, and the other leg was broken at the shin. He hit the ground in a flood of pain released by fading fury. He'd burned through his battle frenzy and the cleric's blessing, and now he couldn't stand. Masood grunted as his body fell sideways against his will, sending another flood of pain through him. His hand wouldn't grasp his mace. His ribs stabbed him when he breathed.

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The so-called elites of Kashmar still didn't finish him. They were too afraid because he'd killed so many. If this was the end, then it was a worthy one. He lay on his back, tasting the silt and blood of his dying place, waiting for blue sky to emerge from above the settling air. The cries of his hunters reached him, but they'd have to find their own ends. He wondered if the Kashmari were going to take him prisoner, perhaps that's why they hesitate, but then their leader appeared. His tawny fur, slight snout, and high round ears marked him as one of the Hadith princes.

"Which one are you?"

The prince raised his spear for a killing blow at Masood's neck, his hands steady and practiced. Masood felt reassured the man wouldn't make a mess of things.

"I was forty-six. Thanks to your Pasha, I'll be twenty when this is over. It's better than you deserve, rebel scum."

Massod spat at him, but the blood and gob fell short.

The prince's hands made sure their grip. His body balanced forward to power the blow. And then … he was swept away by something powerful. He was gone, in a blur of bronze and white and cream that raised a wave of dirt in passing. The startled Kashmari looked to the sky for some reason, and Masood tried to use their distraction to find his backup weapon, the thick bronze knife he kept in his belt, but his hands weren't working.

An animal call filled the dead lake bed, a bugle that started low and climbed to the highest reaches of human hearing and hung there. A shape passed over the lake, cleared it in a single leap, and the men around Masood feared it for being unknown. Something fell in its wake, several somethings, white balls the size of a child's fist.

Masood remembered Laggard's Shaft and covered his face. He would have rolled over and put his back to them if he could, but just moving his arms brought as much pain as he could stand. The series of explosions wasn't what he expected: they were all deafening noise and bright light that pried its way into his eyes, a thing to frighten and confuse the enemy without doing major harm. The Kashmari scattered away from him, seeking out their mounts. They were shouting something, commands he couldn't hear through the throbbing pain in his ears, but they left.

The attack repeated, this time over the bulk of Chargers and Calique fighting, pop pop popping with sudden suns that flashed and died. Masood couldn't make sense of the voices after. They might be cheering or fearful or both. But, the Chargers rallied and regrouped, wheeling their mounts in unison for a fresh charge against the men of Broken Ode.

That's when javelins began to fall. They arced over the edge of the lake and plunged amid the packed formation. The indirect angle meant they lost much of their power, but the points sliced through anything that wasn't thick armor. Several men and mounts were pierced. Masood wondered how the throwers knew where to aim if they couldn't see the enemy, but then he spied Parsa on the opposite bank with bloody horns. The boy stood even with the Chargers, a mark for the bulwarks' blind throws.

The Chargers knew they faced disciples and grabbed as many of their wounded as they could double-mount. Masood dragged himself far enough to be out of their way, where he watched them retreat while his hands still ached for their lost mace.

Bulwarks preceded their disciples into the lake. The blessed fighters finished off Kashmari wounded left behind while practitioners tended to Calique fighters. Of Broken Ode's two hundred hunters, only a score or so could stand. Masood was too weary to count them properly.

When a shadow fell over him, the maul didn't pain himself to look. He knew those hoofsteps all too well. Hot breath huffed over him, followed by an aggrieved grumble.

"Is that worry I hear for your old man?"

The jimala stepped around to where Masood could see him. Scraps of princely flesh graced his son's horns. His large golden eyes reflected the sun and sky in a fine fire.

"You finally wet your horns, Parsa." The maul's speech came in shallow breaths to stave off the stabbing pains in his chest. "On a prince of Kashmar, no less. Only number forty-six, but he was the best one offered today."

Parsa cocked his head, causing the earcuff to wink in the sun. Of course, his new masters were talking to him. After he was done listening, the boy grumbled in discontent. He turns to point his haunches at Masood, then kicked off on some new errand. A dense spray of dirt hit the maul directly in his face, mingled with his blood, and stuck to him in a muddy gore.

Of course. The little shit always had to be contrary, even when his father praised him.