The Dark Lord (24 page)

Jusuf leaned wearily on the front of his high, four-cornered saddle. His arms felt like lead and sweat streamed out of his helmet and gloves. His left hand burned with pain and he was afraid he'd shattered a knuckle on the Avar's face mask. By some chance, the swirl of battle moved away from him, leaving a cluster of Khazar lancers panting in the drifting clouds of smoke. Most of the men he'd led into the teeth of the Avar charge were dead or scattered across the field, but Dahvos' heavier knights had piled in and were currently locked in a ferocious melee to his left.

Shaking his head to try and clear away the fog of exhaustion, Jusuf stared in disgust at the leather straps hanging on his left arm. The shield was long gone. He needed another.

"Keep an eye out," he said to the lancers on either side of him. Clambering down from his horse was a slow, painful process, but Jusuf spied a fallen shield only a few feet away, spattered with mud and crimson streaks. He
oofed
when his feet hit the ground—his abused thighs flashed with needle-points of pain—but he managed to reach down and drag the round, iron-bossed shield out of the muck. He flipped it over and muttered a curse. One of the straps was missing.

"Useless!" He cast about for another and saw with surprise he was on the far side of the village. The village itself was now burning merrily, sending long, wispy trails of smoke curling across the battlefield. Somehow, in the struggle, he and his men had cut their way through the original enemy line. Disturbed, Jusuf grabbed onto his saddle and managed—by luck—to get the point of his boot into the stirrup.

"Tarkhan!" One of the lancers pointed back the way they'd come. "The kagan is coming this way."

Jusuf stared at the sight of his half-brother trotting towards him, then clambered up into the saddle. Dahvos was at the head of at least a hundred guardsmen—their armor made in the Persian style, with conical backswept helms and a full mail coat from neck to thighs, with sleeves and leggings of overlapping iron lozenges. Each man wore a green surcoat as well, the linen or wool sticking to the metal in the damp air. A flutter of banners and standards completed a martial picture.

"My lord!" Jusuf called out and urged his horse to move. The mare was very tired, but game, and she managed to amble forward. Dahvos heard the call and turned towards him, raising a hand in greeting. Jusuf waved, feeling some of his exhaustion lift—the kagan would take charge now, and tell them all what to do. Just the sight of his commander was a relief.

Something gray flashed past the tips of Jusuf's fingers.

Dahvos caught the blurring passage of the arrow out of the corner of his eye. His shield swung up, covering his face, and then cracked with a pealing ring as the bolt shattered wood and twisted the iron strap around the rim. The kagan toppled backwards, face wild in surprise at the power of the blow. Two guardsmen caught him before he could fall out of the saddle. Jusuf saw a smear of blood on Dahvos' surcoat, but he was already wheeling his horse towards the enemy.

"Bayan!" he screamed, the shrill sound rising above the tumult of battle. His lancers moved with him, almost as one, and their war cry rang out loud and clear. To the east, the melee among the heavy horse broke open and a thick mass of Avar knights swept free, turning towards Jusuf. Among the riders, the Khazar caught sight of Bayan in his dark gray armor and saw two banners flapping behind the khagan—one was the
hring
banner of the Avars, three golden rings on slate—and the other was new to him—a mottled red circle on a black field.

"We must kill the man in gray," he shouted to his lancers. The horses surged forward, though their poor hearts were close to bursting. Jusuf ignored the trembling in the mount under him and urged her to leap a marshy section of ground. Arrows flashed past overhead, falling among the Avars, and the enemy shot back. Jusuf's standard-bearer cried out in anguish, but the Khazar couldn't spare a glance sideways. Instead, he thrust the captured sword forward as if it were a spear, thundering into the midst of the Avar knights. Two of his lancers rushed forward, stirrup to stirrup with him.

A wall of Avar knights loomed up, lance tips burning with sunlight. Jusuf's mare continued at the gallop and then she swerved violently, nipping past the first of the Avars. The nomad thrust with his lance and Jusuf flung himself sideways, swinging behind the mare's body, clinging with one hand to the saddle horn. The lance slashed overhead and there was a tremendous crash as one of the Khazar lancers slammed his own spear into the Avar's exposed chest. Jusuf swung back up, slashing sideways at another Avar charging past. The tip of the blade sparked from the man's shoulder plate, but did not penetrate the heavy iron.

The mare continued to gallop forward and Jusuf passed a wild moment as she bolted through another crowd of Avars. Two of the enemy hacked at him—he could only block one blow, and the other bit into the mailed sleeve on his left arm—but then he burst past them as well. Blood slicked his arm where the stroke drove iron links through the woolen shirt and leather into muscle. Blood roared in his ears and the sky faded to gray.

Bayan was only yards away, smiling serenely into the melee swirling around him. He held the black bow high, the top stave well over his head. The khagan drew another gray-fletched arrow to the string. Jusuf spurred the mare and she gave one last, game effort, spurting forward. Jusuf ignored the crowd of Avar guardsmen turning their horses towards him, their arrows flashing through the air, the scream of battle rising steadily on all sides. He even ignored the blowing horns in the distance and the trembling in the ground as thousands of hooves beat the earth.

"Bayan the cripple! Face me, coward!" Jusuf's voice boomed, distorted by the helmet, but the khagan's head snapped around, bow swiveling and his dark eyes widened in recognition. All this, Jusuf saw in a blur as the mare plowed heedlessly, blind from exhaustion, into the flank of the khagan's horse. The Avar steed leapt back, surprised, and kicked violently. The mare reeled drunkenly, stunned by the impact of running headlong into the larger horse's armor and she collapsed, whinnying in pain.

Jusuf leapt free, dragging a dagger from his belt and left hand clutching his sword. Bayan had not fallen—he was far too good a horseman to be thrown by his own horse—but he was forced to seize the reins and bring the big black under control. Gray-fletched arrows littered the sandy ground. Jusuf dodged in as the Avar horse swung towards him and rolled nimbly under the foam-flecked chest. Bayan shouted for his guards, but when the Khazar came up from his roll the saddle strap parted neatly and the khagan slid helplessly to the ground.

Bayan came up furious, eyes glittering. The bow was still clenched in his right hand, but a long single-bladed saber rasped from his sheath with the ease of long practice. Jusuf did not wait for stirring words, or even an insult, but leapt in, slashing at the gleaming black bow with the point of his blade.

The khagan shrieked in fear, snatching the bow back from danger, and Jusuf stabbed with the dagger at the man's face. Unlike his guardsmen, Bayan was wearing an open-faced helmet, which gave him good vision but lacked the full-face protection of their iron masks. The Avar flinched away from the blow and the tip of the dagger scored across his cheek. Face streaming with blood, Bayan blocked wildly. The curved blade of his sword jarred against Jusuf's dagger hilt. For a moment, they swayed back and forth—strength pitted against strength—then the Khazar jumped back, letting his dagger drag, binding along the blade for an instant, and he whipped the longsword in a flat cut at Bayan's head.

With his right hand clutching the precious bow, Bayan could only leap back himself. The tip of Jusuf's sword blurred past his nose. The Khazar swarmed in, his enemy out of balance, smashing heavily at the khagan's guard. Bayan parried furiously, sliding backwards on the soft ground, blocking one stroke, then two. Jusuf drew back, panting, and the Avar got his feet under him. Bayan said nothing, gasping for breath himself, but Jusuf could see undiluted hatred and recognition flare in the khagan's eyes.

I should have left him to die in the snow,
the Khazar thought in a still, motionless moment.
I had my chance.

Bayan's eyes flickered sideways—searching for his guards—mouth opening to shout, and Jusuf struck. He lunged, the longsword shearing the air beside the khagan's left ear, then slashed down, turning his whole body into the blow as Bayan threw himself to the side. Jusuf's blade bit into the khagan's wrist and ripped through muscle, flesh and bone with a cracking sound. The black bow flew away into the grass and Bayan screamed like a lost child. A long wailing sound, filled with utter despair.

Jusuf stepped in over the khagan his sword flicking up, the sun burning on droplets of blood spilling from the edge.

"Drink, my friend, and tell me what you saw."

Alexandros pressed a leather water bottle into Krythos' hands, tipping up the heavy bag, letting water mixed with vinegar spill into the scout's mouth. The Macedonian waited patiently while Krythos drank. One of the Companions took the bottle when he was done. A ring of men clad in iron surrounded the general, their helmets doffed and held at their saddle horns. The Companion cavalry was armed and armored in the Eastern fashion, with long coats of mail and numerous heavy arms hanging from their saddles. Most of them favored a flanged mace for close combat and lances for the first shock of battle. Most swords would not penetrate the laminated, overlapping armor favored by their traditional enemies.

Like the scouts he commanded, Krythos was clad only in a light shirt of iron rings and his cloak and tunic were mottled, streaked with gray and brown. The scout jerked his chin, pointing back to the middle of the field. A haze of smoke and dust hung over everything. Within the white mist, flames leapt up from a cluster of buildings. Alexandros and his heavy horse stood at the far right end of the Roman line, well beyond the knots of struggling men and the clash of arms where the Eastern infantry drove their enemies back near the center.

"The phalanx," Krythos said, "is fighting among the buildings, in the smoke. The Avars have made a barricade of wagons and the
hoplites
and Peltasts are trying to break through. The situation is confused. There was too much smoke for me to see who was winning."

Alexandros frowned, eyes thinning to disgusted slits. "That fool Chlothar! The phalanx will be disordered among so many obstructions. What of the Romans on the wings?"

Krythos shrugged. "They advance steadily on this side of the buildings. On the other, they were not fighting, nor was the enemy. The Khazars are locked in furious combat with the Avar right."

"But Chlothar holds the enemy's attention, from all you have seen?"

"Yes, lord. Many Avar banners were clustered at the center."

"Good." Alexandros lifted up his helmet and fitted it over golden curls. "Banners only, no horns! We will attack their flank, with all speed and power. Once we break through, curl to the left. We will drive these barbarians like sheep in the pasture!"

The Companion battle flags dipped and the commanders-of-one-hundred began to move, rounding up their men and the entire mass of horses and riders began to congeal. Fifty feet or so in front of the Companions, a screen of light horse was also in motion, keeping their horses moving in a constant, distracting swirl. Alexandros tugged the chin strap of his helmet tight, then hoisted his lance, finding a good grip on the cornel-wood shaft. The Companions fell into place on either side, forming a wedge trailing back to the left and to the right. The bannermen at the head of each cohort held their flags at an angle, keeping them low.

"Prepare!" Alexandros shouted, and lances rose up all around him, leaf-bladed tips shining. "Ready at the walk!" He nudged his horse and Bucephalas pranced forward, eager, big black head tossing, mane sliding like silk over a powerful neck. At the signal, the ranks of the Companions shifted and began to move forward. The wedge rippled forward as men adjusted their spacing and the horses picked their way over the tufted grass.

"My lord..." Krythos ran alongside Alexandros, his hand on the general's left boot. "You must stay back."

"What?" The Macedonian stared down in surprise—Krythos had never taken such a tone with him before. The scout's brown eyes were filled with worry.

"You're thinking you'll lead the wedge into the enemy." Krythos shook his head in bemusement. "You think you'll crash into them like a hammer, blade and lance drinking blood like some ancient hero." The scout's eyes narrowed and Alexandros was shocked to see amusement flicker across the man's face. "Like Achilles."

"I..." The Macedonian paused, leaning down towards the man. "I will prevail," he bit out, angry at such impertinence. "You've seen me fight—there's no Avar who could withstand my sword."

"I know, I know," Krythos said, nodding in agreement. His fingers curled around the stirrup strap. "I saw you fight the Draculis lord, remember? I saw you take a wound that would have sundered any other man. Aye, and a fine price you exacted from him..."

Alexandros leaned back a little, remembering. Yes, Krythos had been at his side when the
lamia
had run him through, then lost his head in return. Suspicion darted through his thoughts—what did Krythos think of that strange event?—but he pushed it aside. Time was fleeting, even for men who did not feel death hurrying up behind them. The Avar noyan minghan in command of the facing wing was sure to notice their movement at any moment.

"Then rest easy and
take your hand away
—I must attack. The moment is right. I can feel it in the air."

"No, my lord. You are not Achilles, slayer of men. You are
our general
. You must stay out of the fray, watch over the battle and see—like a god looking down from on high—what men locked in combat cannot."

"Take your hand from my stirrup," Alexandros hissed, suddenly furious. His carefully cultivated patience frayed and then he cast it aside entirely. The Macedonian had never accepted any guidance save his own. The man's advice—no doubt well intentioned—goaded his pride like a hot brand. Krythos flinched back from the black look on the general's face, jerking his hand away from the stirrup.