Ishkinil studied the approach of the chosen of Ash-Negasu closely as they marched across the bridge, a solid mass of men in colours silks and steel, wielding their long axes. In unison they marched, as if on parade rather than to battle.
She looked along the line of her men, trying to judge where they would go. Off to the right, the line was slowly being pushed back by weight of numbers, step by step towards the top of the ridge. She could see Sha-kalal in battle, swinging his axe over the top of the shield wall, fighting to help hold ground. There was not much that she could do about it, as she could spare no infantry to go to their aid. That battle had to be fought and won by Sha-kalal and his men.
A thought came to her, an option that did remain, one risky in nature yet one that had to be taken. She turned to one of the aides that accompanied her.
“Take all the Nimru that remain and head to support Sha-kalal on the right flank. It may buy him some time with their archery.”
“Arrow supplies are running low,” the man reported.
“I know,” Ishkinil responded, “But even a little aid is better than none.”
“And what of this flank?”
“We shall have to endure as best we can. If the chosen hit Sha-kalal’s flank and break through then the support of the Nimru here is of little relevance. Now go.”
The man touched a clenched fist to his heart before wheeling his horse about to ride off and give the orders. From behind the lines of infantry the Nimru began to peel off, trotting away to the east, to lend their arrows to aid Sha-kalal, to try and stem the push of the enemy.
Onwards came the chosen, headed, as she feared, off to the right. Ash-Negasu had seen her line wavering there and had sent the chosen forward to provide the last push that he hoped would split it open, allowing them to pour on through and wrap up the reset of the line.
Once more the mounted archers sallied forth to try and harass the approaching chosen, but few enough remained active or had arrows left to spare, and once more the remnants of the enemy cavalry sortied across the bridge to try and drive them back. This time, though, they did not press forward, to where her cavalry could charge them again, instead escorting the chosen as across the plains towards the ridge, providing cover from any attack, a screen to keep the mounted archers at bay.
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Even with the Nirmu supporting them, the line there would struggle against the weight of the chosen being thrown against them. They had to be drawn away. A desperate gamble was needed, one to turn the flow of the battle. She slipped down from her mount and passed the reins to a nearby solider, one sweating heavily, face red from exhaustion and heat, bleeding from a scalp wound, his helmet lost during the fight.
With shadows drawn in around her and the white-blue flames aglow across Dirgesinger, she stalked forward to join the battle. It was a challenge she knew could not be resisted, for the foe would be drawn to her, to claim the prize. Through the lines she pushed until she reached the front, touching the link to the halls of Enkurgil through Dirgesinger. Dark and fearsome she appeared to the enemy, the Handmaiden of Death come for them, ready to cast them into the embrace of the Bringer of Ends. And as ever the battle-fey came upon her, that exaltation of life and triumph that sung in her blood. The foe she did not hate, and mourned their loss, for not needlessly did she wish to kill; the foe before her were not her enemy, slaves as they were to the will of the dark tyrant who commanded them.
Little choice did they leave her though and so Dirgesinger sung its mournful song as she swung the mystical blade. A shield went up as the blade descended, but it was as paper before the bone blade and was sliced in twain. A spear thrust from behind her, through the gap in the wall her blade had opened, striking down the man who stood before her. She pushed forward into it, an avatar of death with a pale sword, the shadows billowing about her, obstructing and obscuring, sword flickering first one way and then the other.
Fear there may have been in the hearts of the foe at her appearance, but fear of their tyrant was there as well, battling for supremacy, and strength in numbers as well. Where others may have turned and run, or shrunk back, they held on and fought and died.
A spear thrust caught Ishkinil in her wounded side, part cushioned by her silvered mail and padded shirt but fresh waves of stabbing pain swept through her, vision dimming for a moment. She lashed out with Dirgesinger and the spear haft was split in twain. Another thrust gazed her cheek, blood trickling down it. All about was the chaos of pushing men, of stabbing spears, the screams and shouts, while beyond, down the slope, she could see the approach of the chosen of Ash-Negasu. The bait had been taken and they were on the way.
Still she fought on, slashing and slicing, slowly opening up the gap in the enemy’s shield wall, even as they kept trying to close it again. A dancing dervish pf death she became, ever flowing, ever moving, Drigesinger flickering and singing, and around her the hill ran with the blood of the dead and dying. Not without cost was it though, for she could not fend off all the attacks made against her, and soon she was bleeding again from a slash across her leg and another across her hand while fresh bruises would soon be appearing beneath her mailed shirt.
Behind her, her men pushed forward again, trying to take advantage of the gap slowly widening in the shield wall. “Uthar Athan Arach!” they bellowed, and despite their exhaustion and the beating of the sun, they renewed their efforts. Slowly the enemy line began to waver and expectation surge in their hearts.
Yet even as it did, the chosen arrived, with the long axes and heavy armour, to join the fray.