Onwards came the enemy, starting the slow climb up the slope as their archers scrambled ahead, shooting from behind their shields and the Nimru responded with arrows of their own.
Ishkinil turned to Sha-kalal. “Take command of the right flank,” she said, “For it is there that it appears they are concentrating heaviest. Pass word to Shurasur, that he has command of the cavalry to unleash when he judges the time is right.”
“The man can be impetuous at times,” Sha-kalal noted.
“I trust him in this,” Ishkinil said. “His judgment is sound.”
Sha-kalal nodded. “I will see you when this is all over.”
“Long will it be before all this is over.”
Sha-kalal rode off to the west, to take charge on the right flank of the army while Ishkinil surveyed the approaching enemy, labouring up the slope towards them, shields raised high to ward off the arrows that sheeted down around them.
“Men,” she cried out loudly so that all around could hear her. “Here we have taken our stand, and here we shall hold. For long centuries has the world been in the grip of tyrants and cruelty has reigned. We stand opposed to that. We say that there is a better way, but if we fail then darkness shall prevail and long may it be before others rise up against it. We shall not fail. In memory of all those that have gone before us, who have suffered and died, we shall prevail!”
A cheer went up at her words and then a shout broke out, ‘Uthar Athan Arach,’ a cry taken up by more and more until it rippled along the ridge, thousands of voices chanting in unison, drowning out the beat of the drums and chants of the enemy.
Ishkinil bowed her head for a moment as the chant stirred her, of pride, of remembrance and of sorrow. She had not been able to save them, her people, and she alone remained of what had once been a proud and ancient people. Those memories drove her on, had set her on the path that now she followed. She had failed them once; she would not fail them again.
Ever onward the enemy came and the ground trembled at the beat of their feat, a vast horde advancing into a shower of arrows. Men dropped and tumbled, sliding back down the slope they climbed and new ones replaced them.
Arrows slashed through the air around Ishkinil where she sat atop her horse, surveying the scene, growing ever more numerous the closer the enemy came. Ash-Negasu’s archers were concentrating on her for a vast bounty had been placed upon her, wealth beyond counting for the one who took her down. The shadows darkened around her, obscuring, and her luck held for no arrow struck. All that it would take was one, though, one stray arrow to bring her down. Yet if they were concentrating on her, a solitary figure, they were leaving her soldiers alone and that was a risk worth taking.
As the enemy came closer yet, the enemy archers began to fall back, retreating back down the slope and slipping through the lines of infantry that came on.
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“Lock shields!” Ishkinil roared out and her infantry line rippled as those in the front rank brought their shields in tight, an overlocking wall of them present to the enemy. Those behind thrust their spears forward over the top of the wall, ready to repel any enemy assault.
The enemy advance slowed as they grew near, close enough to see the features of their faces, and they too locked their shields together, now shuffling forward as a long, wavering line. Here and there, those braver than others pressed forward, resulting in an uneven line, but the shields stay form together.
Five spear lengths the enemy advanced to, even as the spearmen waited their arrival and the Nimru continued to unleash volleys down at them over their heads, the arrows rattling off shields, slipping through gaps to strike legs, necks or heads, dropping them where they stood. Three spear lengths they reached, then two.
“Brace!” Ishkinil roared and the men set themselves.
A roar came from the men of Arin Avech and they surged the last few paces, to crash into the waiting wall, shields crashing into each other, heaving and pushing, trying to break through. Spears stabbed over the top, crashing into the struggling soldiers, and screams and shouts rent the air.
The line held. Ash-Negasu’s men had the weight of numbers behind them, but they had been forced to climb the slope to the top of the ridge, all the while under arrow fire. The defenders were fresher, and more, they had the height advantage and a purpose, a commitment that went above the army they faced, many of whom had been forced into battle for a tyrant they feared but did not trust.
Ishkinil rode behind the lines, her shadowed cloak flying out behind her, a dark beacon to her men, and to the foe. She had no need to shout encouragement, for her men knew what they were about, shoving with shields and stabbing with spears. Men reeled back as they were struck, falling out of the fight, and replacements stepped forward to take their place. Here and there the line wavered as pressure was placed upon it yet each time the defenders dug in and pushed back.
The sun blazed down from above, the heat from it intense, with no shade to be had. Men wearied from the sting of the sun, the weight of their armour and the never-ending struggle, of push and shove and the stab of spears. Weary men fell back out of the front rank as others stepped forward, to have a moment to breath and drink and recover.
Down the slope, to the flat ground between the climb to the ridge and the river, a cloud of dust was kicked up as horse galloped across it. They swept across the ground, sending arrows arcing upwards, towards the exposed rear of the climbing enemy. Somewhere a trumpet sounded and horses surged across the bridge, Ash-Negau’s cavalry riding foreword hard to engage the mounted archers that had ridden out to harass the army. They wheeled about and retreated, pursued by Ash-Negasu’s vengeful cavalry.
Ishkinil watched with pursed and expectant lips. For a moment it appeared that the cavalry would catch up with the fleeing mounted archers, but just at that moment there came a thunderous charge down the slope as Shruasur unleashed the waiting cavalry, asshuri and Vanas’ cavalry surging down together to crash into the enemy. Horses and men screamed and crashed to the ground, impaled by spears and lances.
Shurasur had timed the charge to perfection, and with the added momentum of the charge down the slope, they scattered the enemy cavalry before them, sending them peeling off in all directions. Small clusters fought here and there, while others fled back towards the bridge, hounded by light cavalry or mounted archers who rode in close to unleash arrows at near touching range.
With the enemy cavalry broken, fled or dead, Shurasur gathered up the remnants of his cavalry, leading them back to the safety of the lines once more, leaving only the scattered bodies of men and horses behind.
Only just in time did they do so for a fresh peal of trumpets sounded from across the riverbed and movement could be seen from there. The chosen were on the march, preparing to make a final push for victory.