A thunderous report reverberated across the battlefield as lances shattered on shields or transfixed foe. Screams tore at the air and shouts echoed loud. Men and horses crashed to the rocky ground. The heavier horses of the asshuri slammed through the lines, to wheel about and charge back in. Light cavalry came slashing in at the flanks, with spears or sabres, to strike and wheel away again.
In the centre of it all rode Ishkinil, Dirgesinger a white-blue brand in her hand, crooning its mournful song as she wielded it, while beside her Shurasur rode, his lance discarded, standing up in his saddle to hew away with his axe, first to one side and then the other.
Thick clouds of dust were kicked up and in the madness all sense of order was lost. There was only the foe before them, or around them, darting in out of the dust to strike and begone again.
The wild fey of battle came upon Ishkinil as Dirgesinger sung in her hands, that exhilaration of life that came upon her in such moments. A whisper of her blade opened up the throat of one of the enemy light cavalry, sending the man toppling backwards out of his saddle, to fall to the ground as his horse ran free. Then an enemy asshuri slammed into her side, sending her horse staggering. A fearsome axe blow came her way and only narrowly did she avoid its touch, swaying out of the way. Before the man could swing again, a fearsome axe blow crashed down on his head, splitting asunder helm and skull. Shurasur tore loss his axe and wheeled about again, to seek out fresh foe.
For a moment an oasis of calm swirled around Ishkinil and she took a moment to pause, to inspect the field of battle. Her asshuri had torn through the centre of the enemy line, scattering the enemy asshuri who had survived, before turning to engage the enemy light cavalry on their flanks while her light cavalry and mounted archers sought to corral and frustrate the foe with slashing runs of their own, and showers of arrows screaming through the air at close range.
An enemy rider came bursting through the clouds of dust, thundering towards her, one of the asshuri in his silver mail, his helmet having been lost in the fray. Wild eyed, he charged at her, carrying the remnants of a shattered lance. With a loud shout, Ishkinil urged her mount into a charge, levelling Dirgesinger at the enemy. Closer he came and then he was thrusting with the broken tip of his lance. Ishkinil swayed aside, yet the lance kept following after her. The impact slammed into her right-hand side, glancing along her mail and she felt fire erupt from the pain of it.
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Through grimace teeth she hacked out with Dirgesinger, the swift blade cutting down her foe, sending him reeling away with blood flowing down his face. The mail had held where the lance had struck so there was no puncture wound but the flesh had bruised and each breath sent stabs of pain through her side, most like from a cracked rib.
Elsewhere, the battle seemed to be dying away, with enemy riders turning to flee, heading back towards the northwest. Her mounted archers pursued, keeping the pressure upon them with their bows, sending arrows whispering after them. The last few enemy that remained behind were soon despatched or forced into surrender, leaving behind a field of dead for her victorious force to claim.
She sheathed Dirgesinger, holding her injured side tight, grimacing as she did. Shurasur came riding up, blood upon his brow and upon his silvered mail, though apparently unhurt. “At least half got away,” he reported. Ishkinil nodded, trying to keep the pain from her face, yet Shurasur could not help but notice. “You are hurt?”
“Nothing major,” she reassured him. “An errant blow which my mail stopped.”
“You will need it tended to, just in case,” Shurasur said. “The presence of Uthash’s cavalry was an unwelcome surprise. I hope that it does not indicate that the rest of his army is nearer than we first thought.”
“We had best hope it is not so, yet I do not think it is.” She shook her head. “No, we must press ahead in the belief they are not. Our choices are few as it is.” She watched as the enemy cavalry rode off, the stragglers being picked off by her pursuing mounted archers. “They will return to Uthash’s army to report on what happened here. It may speed up their march, but they will not be in time. Tomorrow we will engage Ash-Negasu’s army.” She looked then to the south. “The rest of our army will be here soon. We can make better preparations then. In the meantime, our dead and wounded need to be seen too.”
“I will see that it is done,” Shurasur promised, turning his mount about and riding off to fulfil the orders.