The chosen of Ash-Negasu crashed upon the defensive line like a desert storm sweeping in with fury and rage. Fresh and confident, they hewed with their long axes, splintering shields and shattering helms. For a moment the line buckled before the onslaught, bulging back where the chosen had struck, threatening to break. At that moment all was in balance, for a moment longer and the lien could have shattered.
Yet even as it did, from among the lines of defenders a solider thrust himself forward and hurled himself at the foe, regardless of risk or safety. His shield broken, his spear lost in the fray, he charged forward, ducking beneath a wild axe swing, to tackle one of the chosen. On the uneven ground of the slope, the man lost his footing at the body charge, crashing backwards to the ground, tacking out the feet of others around and behind him in the process. Bodies tumbled and a gap opened up.
With a wild cry, Ishkinil leapt into it, slashing about with the crooning Dirgesinger, seeking to keep it from closing again. Others, inspired by the reckless bravery they had seen pushing into the gap behind her, forcing it apart.
The chosen, sensing the shift in the battle, renewed their efforts, laying about with abandon, trying to crush the men who had pushing into the gap in their lines. Axes crashed time and again but the line held, pushing back.
Through the gap Ishkinil pushed, out into the open ground behind the enemy, in shadows cloaked. Alone she stood, both a threat, and threatened, for a target she remained, but the dread of her form and the crooning of Dirgesinger made men reluctant to come forward, and so she pushed on, behind the lines of the enemy, falling on men unprepared for the fury of her assault. The mystical blade of death sung and danced and men fell, to stain the slopes of the ridge red with their blood, and still she fought on.
As it ever was, those of a braver mien were the ones that pushed to the fore of the battle, and those at the back were those that were less enthusiastic. As shadow shrouded Ishkinil came upon them, one whom even the tyrants feared, fear wormed its way into their hearts. The tyrant who ruled over them might provoke terror in his subjects, yet he was far away and she was upon them, slaying with the fearsome blade of the Bringer of Ends.
It took but one, as Ishkinil advanced upon him, shadows reaching out to grasp him, the white-blue flames of Dirgesinger rippling along its length, for the strength of his heart to give out. He scrambled away, down the slope, all thoughts intent on getting away, on surviving.
As one went, so too did others begin to follow, a trickle at first, a slow bleed from the rear of the lines so that they began to weaken against the push of the defenders. The line wavered at first, trying to hold on but the trickle of men fleeing grew as more could see the way momentum was shifting, and sort out safety. The trickle grew and suddenly the whole line collapsed as panic began to set out. Down the slope men scrambled, tossing aside shields and spears and helms, seeking to lighten their load. Here and there small bands still held out for a time before they were brought down, mostly from among the chosen but for the most the men who had been forced into the fight began to flee. It started on the left flank, where Ishkinil fought, but spread out along the line, headed to the east, relieving the pressure on Sha-kalal.
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Victorious warriors perused them down the slope, hounding them on the way, cutting them down when they could, for in he safety of the shield wall casualties had been lighter, and it was during the flight and pursuit that losses among the foe began to mount. Bodies were soon littering the slopes of the ridge, blood pooling upon the barren, rocky ground. Men streamed back heedlessly for safety back across the river, where waited Ash-Negasu, furious in his rage at the performance of his army.
Ishkinil did no pursue the fleeing enemy, standing high up on the slopes, watching the flow of men racing away, breathing deeply. Her body ached from the effort, from wounds, and more, her being ached as well, at the loss and death around her, for she could see where others couldn't, the coming of Enkurgil, the Bringer of Ends, to claim the fallen, so many fallen. And more souls were added to that number in each passing moment. Victory it might have been, and while others might celebrate it, she would mourn.
Across the dried out river she could see Ash-Negasu rise from his palanquin, rousing himself and a chill came across her. The man stepped down and took hold of one of the slaves that had carried him. And there, as she watched from a distance, she saw him slay the man with a sacrificial knife, using him as a source of his dark and sorcerous powers. He took that death, the pain and suffering, and wove it, calling up a wall of swirling sands along the bank of the river, obscuring vision, impeding the course of the men that streamed across, both his own and any that pursued. Stronger still did the wall of stand become, growing thicker and higher as men ran through it, scourged and scoured by it, flayed bloody by the wind driven sands.
Ishkinil's army broke off pursuit, rather than risk the sorcerous sands, allowing the broken remnants of Ash-Negasu's army to escape. They remained a threat no longer, with the dead and dying of it littering the slopes and plains beneath it, blood staining the rocky soil.
Slowly around her gathered her commanders and aides, those that had survived, for not all had made it through the bitter fighting, and even of those that had many were bloodied and battered.
Sha-kalal was there, though the big man had taken a nasty gash across his scalp, a bloodied bandage tightly bound around it. Even so a broad smile was on the man's face, and a triumphant look in his eye. “We are victorious, Ishkinil. Ash-Negasu is defeated. If only we had the men to pursue; we could end his terror once and for all.”
“Aye, that would have been for the best but we have not the time for it, nor the men. Ash-Negasu is no longer a threat. Uthash still marches upon us. Give the men some time to rest, to gather our dead and wounded. Then we must head south again, to prepare for the next battle.”