The battle raged across the arid plains, blades flashing bright beneath the morning sun. Thick clouds of dust were kicked up by the tread of feet, by the thunder of hooves and of chariots that wheeled and charged, dust that shrouded and obscured.

Shouts and cries and the clash of blades rang loud, yet over it all came the deep, sonorous crash of drums, a beat that marked the advance of thousands of feet in unison.

Off to the west ran a low ridge of gently sloping hills, the land running down towards the deserts to the east, and it was there in between that the armies met and fought, a running battle that flowed across the plains.

A lone hill rose up from the plains some distance to the south of the clash, and there a band of a dozen riders crested, riding shaggy, sure footed ponies, the rivers, for the most, wearing gleaming silver scale shirts, with red crested helms, horse bows at their saddles and spears in hand. Two stood out among them, a tall man on a larger horse, with flowing dark blonde hair, clad in a hardened leather breastplate, a heavy axe at his saddle, and a woman, dark of hair and eye, grim of face, with sword to her side, clad not in armour but simple desert robes.

They surveyed the clash before them, one drawing ever nearer, the larger army forcing the other slowly backwards. Its left flanks was secured by the hills, but on the right it bled men as chariots and horsemen repeatedly slashed in to strike at it.

A clatter of feet sounded behind the riders and a column of men marched up the slopes to join them, men in padded armour, with long spears and bucklers upon their forearms, pale haired men, their faces daubed blue. Others joined them, a body of men in tunics, sandals and broad rimmed hats of woven straw, carrying slings and javelins.

The tall man gave a shake of his head as he saw the battle unfolding before him. “It does not go well,” he noted, scratching at his short beard.

“Aye, it does not, Aedmorn,” the woman replied. Ivkarha by name, of the desert tribe of the Ra-Armal, well she knew of combat in the open arid lands, and the dangers it presents. Tribes lived and died by such concerns.

A rider came thundering across the plains towards them, a man with a bloody bandage wrapped around his forehead. He clambered up the slope towards them, bloodied sword in hand, his horse lathered from the effort.

“Thank Esir and the Divine Daughters you are here,” he gasped, as lathered as his mount. “They came in numbers more than we could have imagined.”

“What of Langan?” Aedmorn asked.

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“He lives, still,” the rider replied, “An while he does, hope remains yet. He asks that you dig in here, on this hill top and defend it. The army will withdraw back here, and we will draw a line, between the Hills of Treorch to the east and this place.

“It will be risky,” Ivkarha stated. “If the line crumbles before you arrive then all is lost and we shall be cut off and surrounded.”

The man nodded. “No good thing comes easy. We all knew what was at stake when we embarked upon this endeavour an it is too late to turn back now. Either we hold here, to fight, or we die.”

A steely ring of steel marked Ivkarha drawing a long, straight edged blade.

Tell your lord that we shall hold here, and the dogs of Aisant Avar shall break upon us and shatter.

Relief registered in the riders eyes as he wheeled his horse about and started down the slope again. “We shall speak again when this is done,” he called back up to them as he rode away won the slope, to re-join the approaching battle.

“Gesir!” Ivkarha called out. A doughty one eyed man left the waiting spearmen and approached.

“What are your orders?”

“We are to hold here,” she told him. “Prepare your men to resist any that seek to drive us from this hill. We shall be on the exposed right flank should all got to plan, so prepare the men accordingly.”

If Gesir was surprised or concern, he showed no sign of it. “None but the dead shall remain here,” he promised, returning to the waiting footmen. A flurry or orders went out and the column of spearmen spread out, a double line of them covering the northern and western approached to the hilltop, while the skirmishers were placed before them. There then men set themselves, and waited as the dust and the shouts, the drums and the battle grew ever near.

Ivkarha looked them over, the stout men of Luadha, seeing in their faces the stoic perseverance that had for so long marked their battles to defend the hill country that was their homeland; there would be no give from them. They would hold for as long as was necessary, and longer still.

She turned to Aedmorn, a fey glint in her eyes.

A brow raised from him at the sight of it. “I know that look,” said he. “You have some wild endeavour in mind.”

She laughed, her horses rearing up as she did. “Let us have some fun,” she told him. “This is a land for desert tribes. We shall show the dogs of Aisant Avar just how men of the desert fight.”

He sighed and shook his head but drew the long handled axe from his saddle. “You risk much,” he told her.

“Without risk the enemy horse and chariots threatened to over run Langan’s right flank,” she pointed out.

“What can a dozen do against such odds?” he asked.

Her laugh was grim, her eyes flashing bright. “Watch and learn,” she told him. “To battle, of Sons of Shanani,” she called out. “Let us show these city dogs how the tribes of the desert fight. For Az-Ashar!”

“For Az-Azshar!” roared the waiting horsemen in reply.

With a swirl of her sword, Ivkahra started down the slope, mount picking up speed as she went, behind her coming the Shanani desert riders, the red crests of their helms streaming out behind them, and last of all rode Aedmorn, a dozen riders streaming forth to save an army.