A hundred feet away, khagan Bayan was sitting easily on horseback, face serene and untroubled. Jusuf blinked and saw the Avar prince raise his bow—a gorgeous black horn-bow nearly five feet high, gleaming in the sunlight—draw, sight and loose in one fluid, powerful motion. The Khazar's eye could barely follow the flight of the arrow, though his head snapped around instantly, and he saw one of the umen commanders in Dahvos' ranks stagger, pierced through by the shot. Jusuf looked back, aghast, and felt a terrible chill.
His arm was ruined! Jusuf's mind struggled to reconcile present sight and past memory. I saw it, all withered and weak! This is impossible.
Bayan plucked another arrow from a quiver slung at his knee and fitted it to the string. The movement was very clear to Jusuf and he could see the powerful fingers of that right arm curling around the grip on the bowstave.
A wave of pigtailed horsemen charged past, long banners fluttering, and Jusuf lost sight of the khagan. Seconds later, he was furiously engaged, trading blows with two Avar knights coming at him from either side. His broken shield took another hammer-blow and shattered, shedding splinters and fragments of wood. Jusuf threw the remains at the man on his left side, then barely blocked a thrust at his leg from the right. The tide of battle swept around him, pushing him away from the khagan.
Another gray arrow flashed through the melee, and another Khazar died.
—|—
Chlothar Shortbeard, Alexandros' commander of the phalanx, cursed, pulling off his helmet. The heavy iron bucket spilled sweat and the Frank gasped in relief to be able to breathe. Without thinking, he flipped the leather strap around his saddle horn, letting the spangenhelm bounce against his thigh. It was dangerous to go bareheaded, but he needed to be able to see. The day was getting hotter and he felt he was swimming in this dreadfully hot, wet air. In the last thirty minutes, the center of the slowly expanding battle had congealed. Chlothar snarled for his standard-bearer to come up, and the man did, urging his own horse forward, wither-to-wither with the Frankish captain's.
The main body of the phalanx continued to advance up the road at a steady walk, but they were running out of open ground. Now they were on the verge of the Avar's overnight encampment—a scattering of farmhouses—thatch-roofed, plastered walls over withes or a timber framework—and scattered high-sided Avar wagons. Thankfully, the Slavic infantry had disintegrated and the barbarians were fleeing in a mob through the leather tents and bundles of sleeping hides. A scattering of bodies lay on the road and the embankment.
"Sound halt and re-form!" Chlothar rubbed his chin in disgust, feeling short prickly hairs under his fingers. Beside him, the bucinators immediately began blatting out a stentorian wail. The ranks of the phalanx began to halt, their file leaders howling commands and using rattan canes freely on any man failing to follow the halting drill. The rear ranks stopped first, squaring themselves and shifting their pikes back, out of fouling distance of those ahead. Within a minute the entire mass slid to a halt. Chlothar didn't watch, knowing someone would foul up.
There was a mighty rattle of wood on wood, and then yelps as unfortunate hoplites caught it from their file leaders. Chlothar turned his horse away and trotted along the rear ranks. The Frank stared through the spears, hand shading his eyes against the brilliant sun. The Avars were regrouping among the farmhouses and behind scattered wagons. Some of the Slavs stopped running and Chlothar cursed again, seeing a solid line of shorter men, in darker, heavier armor, appear among the buildings. Brightly colored square banners flapped in the air above them. The Slavs stopped, then turned, shouting defiantly at the Romans.
"Peltasts forward on either side of the road," Chlothar bellowed. "Keep them from forming up!"
Couriers dashed off from the cluster of men around the Frank. Chlothar rose up in his stirrups, straining to see the left and right wings of the army. To the left, there was only a huge, confused, swirling mass of men on horses. Banners jutted up from the field in every direction and the swirl and surge of cavalry in battle was raising a huge cloud of dust. What he could see, however, indicated the Eastern infantry on his flanks holding steady. A distance of at least fifty feet separated them from the Avars, and the opposing lines were staring at each other, waiting for someone to break ranks and attack. The Roman line matched the left edge of the phalanx. Just as it should.
Impressive, the Frank allowed, grudgingly and only in the privacy of his thoughts. The Eastern Legions—the infantry at least—seemed to be every bit as professional as the Western armies. Personally, he was praying desperately to keep from making some irretrievable mistake—Chlothar had only risen to command the hoplites when Prince Ermanerich had been forced to remain in Magna Gothica. He'd felt sick all day.
To the right, however, both armies had collided, with the Eastern foot soldiers engaged in a sparking brawl with the Slavic spear- and axe-men. There the barbarians were stiffened by many Avar knights fighting on foot with longswords or heavy spears. Beyond the melee, where the comes Alexandros and the Companion cavalry were supposed to be in action, Chlothar could see nothing but treetops. Grunting, he turned back to observe the Avars on the road. Given a moment's respite, they were busily dragging wagons across the paved surface of the highway and making an impromptu barricade. Men behind the wagons exchanged bow shots with the Peltasts as they ran forward.
About half of the Peltasts had unslung their oval shields and stood armed with sword, mace or axe. The rest continued to wield the big recurved bow and were shooting at any target of opportunity. Most of the buildings were on fire and smoke billowed up in white clouds from the damp thatch. The Frank shook his head in dismay. Soldiers and fire! Those buildings must be empty by now.
Figuring he had seen enough, Chlothar raised his hand. The runners and signal flagmen tensed. Avar arrows hissed down out of the sky as more of the nomads crowded up to the barricade. Now they were shooting high, trying to hit the men in the phalanx or behind. Their own horse bows could easily make the range.
Chlothar raised his own shield, not a moment too soon. Arrows shattered on the road around him and one of his lieutenants took one in the throat. The Goth choked to death as his companions tried to pull him from the horse and cut it out of his neck. Men died in the phalanx too, but the rest held their ground. Behind the wagon laager, the Avars jeered the approaching Romans. Chlothar ignored them, watching the Peltasts dodge forward through the buildings. In moments the sword and shieldmen would be at the wagon barricade. Arrows continued to flick down out of the smoke. Two of the Frank's big bodyguards moved forward, screening him with long, oval shields.
"Sound advance!" Chlothar barked at the bucina-men and the runners. "Attack!"
Horns bellowed and the file leaders began a marching chant. The phalanx rippled, pikes lowering from rest position and the men began to walk forward. Chlothar watched them uneasily, a sick feeling percolating in his stomach. The comes had once mentioned, in an offhand way, he hoped the hoplites would be able to move at a jog soon, but Chlothar couldn't see them getting up to much more than a fast walk. Not today, anyway. The pikes lowered again in a rippling, rustling motion, which reminded the Frank of trees bending in a high wind.
The phalanx ground forward, flowing inexorably down the road. More arrows flicked out of the smoke. The Avar archers could see them moving, even through the smoke.
—|—
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?"