Near the Town of Aquincum, Pannonia Inferior
"Comes Alexandros! A messenger approaches."
The Macedonian turned in the saddle, squinting into a cold wind. Dark trees lining the farm track bent in the gusts. Like his men, Alexandros was wearing a woolen tunic beneath a thick felt shirt. Above that was a mail hauberk reinforced with banded iron plates. An iron helmet with decorative horsehair plumes and hinged cheek guards was hooked to his saddle. Despite the threat of a blow to the face, he preferred being able to see.
A rider cantered up the trail into the meadow, his horse shining with sweat. It was one of the scouts. Alexandros waved the man over, and the companions crowding around him in an iron hedge parted, horses dancing aside to let the man ride up to his side. Ermanerich moved his horse closer, leaning towards Alexandros with a delighted expression.
"It could be a raid across the river," the Gothic prince said. His blue eyes gleamed with anticipation. Like Alexandros, he was armored from head to toe, both in the Roman-style lorica and in mailed leggings ending in heavy, reinforced leather boots. Ermanerich had declared himself the first of the "Companions." Alexandros did not attempt to dissuade him, though the moment gave him pause until he remembered the youth had a copy of Arrian's Anabasis Alexandrou amongst his belongings. "If it is, there will be some action."
The other Goths, hearing a fragment of Ermanerich's words, grinned in delight.
Alexandros held up a hand, quieting the Prince while the messenger caught his breath.
The scout was dressed in boiled-leather cuirass, reinforced with metal studs. His horse was dark brown, as were his accoutrements and armor. He work a dark gray woolen cloak, broken by inset patches of green cloth. A cylindrical leather quiver rode at his left stirrup, and he was armed with one of the new bows, stored in a wooden case. Like all of the riders in the new army, his saddle was fitted with the Sarmatian stirrup.
"My lord," the man said, dark eyes glancing around in interest at the heavily armored Companions. The scouts spent their time at the fringes of the army, snooping and spying; he may not have seen the heavy horse in full gear before. "A great force of Gepids has crossed the river a mile or more ahead. I don't think they saw us, as we advanced in light order as you have directed. There were many clan banners among them."
"How many?"
The man squinted, counting from a mental image in his mind. Alexandros waited patiently, feeling the cold wind eddy around him. The Goths loved the weather, which had turned chilly. High summer on the Pannonian plain was not that of the balmy coast of Greece. This morning, with frost on the leaves, it had seemed an excellent day for a road march.
"Almost three thousand, I would say."
Alexandros snorted in surprise. "This is a raid, not an invasion?"
Ermanerich nodded. "Yes," he said. "The Gepids are a numerous people, though they are cowed servants now… Were there any Draculis banners amongst them?"
The scout nodded, the edge taken off his excitement. He raised two fingers. "I saw two of the red dragons."
Alexandros grinned, looking around at the faces of his companions. They were still eager for the fight, but now a tiny sense of fear pricked them.
"Two lamia then, these ghost knights of theirs?"
"Yes," the scout said, blanching a little at the prospect. "At least. We saw none, keeping back and out of sight… but where the red dragon flies, the nightwalkers ride."
"Good. How lies the land between here and there?"
The scout turned, standing up in his stirrups, and pointed down the meadow. "The river is ahead, through scattered stands of pine and oak, to the left. The land drops away sharply, making a moraine between this track and the water. When we saw them, they had come up out of the flats and were gathering on some open land about a mile away. There are thicker trees between here and there, but also some meadows."
Alexandros nodded and considered the warriors under his command. As he had expected, many men had answered his call to form a Gothic legion. Theodoric's ministers had kept a careful watch, turning away men who already held a debt or obligation. In effect, this denied him nearly every experienced warrior in the Gothic feodorate. Ermanerich grumbled about this, but it didn't bother Alexandros. His recruits were exactly what he wanted; younger sons who didn't want to clear new land, men who made their living only from war, the restless, the dispossessed. There were even Gepids and Bulgars who had crossed into Gothica in search of a new warlord. His men were eager, if not overly experienced. It made his task easier.
In an attempt to dilute possible opposition in the King's court, Alexandros had asked Lady Theodelinda to take charge of the effort to house, arm and outfit his men. Nearly six thousand strapping young lads ate a great deal, drank even more and had to sleep under some kind of shelter, even in summer. After demurring for a week, apparently for the sake of appearances, the lady had accepted his offer and set about the task with great energy.
She already owned a number of textile mills, ironworks and fabricae both within the Empire and in Magna Gothica. Her contacts amongst the merchants throughout the region were substantial. Alexandros expected her to find the armaments, goods and drayage he needed as quickly as anyone. He hoped that her familial connection with the king and his brother would keep her from taking a debilitating cut of the coin being poured into the effort. The extent of his aunt's effort and the breadth of her ability had dumbfounded Ermanerich.
Alexandros was not surprised. His time in Rome had not been wasted in idleness. He had spoken to many men, read every book he could lay his hands on, and gained a reasonable knowledge of recent Imperial history. A number of evenings in the company of Gregorius Auricus had provided quite a bit of juicy gossip. Even before he had met her personally, Alexandros had drawn Theodelinda's measure. Thirty years before, during a time of particular crisis in the Empire, she had been queen of a short-lived Lombard kingdom in northern Italia. Her realm had been destroyed in a bitter struggle with Rome, but the Queen had survived and accepted a new life within the Empire.
At her suggestion, Alexandros' men were billeted in the frontier town of Aquincum. The town stood at the northern edge of Gothica, beside the swift-flowing Danuvius. Theodoric maintained a strong garrison there, now reinforced by Alexandros and his men. Beyond the dark river, there were only barbarians and wilderness. Theodelinda thought the new levies should earn their keep. Alexandros didn't mind. If a Roman magistrate came by, then their presence would be easy to explain.
"Krythos, return to the vanguard and see that I receive regular reports as the enemy moves. Tell your commander to show the Gepids someone to chase, then fall back to meet us. There's no need to try and slow the enemy down."
The scout nodded sharply, heeled his horse around and trotted off. Alexandros gestured for Ermanerich and the other Companions to close up around him. "You have told me that these Gepids will fight in a mass of infantry around a few heavily armored nobles. Spears, swords, throwing axes. A mad, headlong rush into the enemy line. Yes?"
The Goths nodded in agreement.
"Very well." Alexandros felt a particular calm settle over him, even as it had done in his breathing life. "Clear the Companions from the track. Let the hoplites advance past the horsemen and stand at arms in the first big clearing that we come so. Ermanerich, you will go with them and see that they are fully arrayed in five ranks, but with their spears grounded."
The Macedonian had divided his six thousand men into three main groups. For his own ease, and to accommodate Ermanerich's romantic fantasy, he had named them as his old army had been arranged. The Companions fought from horseback, as well armed and armored as funds and equipment allowed. Their main weapon was the Sarmatian kontos, a flexible lance. Coupled with the stability afforded by their stirrups, they could deliver a fierce, sudden blow. These men were also armed with cavalry swords and heavy spiked maces.
The second division was composed of his Peltasts, who also rode into battle, but would dismount to fight until they were able to use their primary weapon, the Hunnic bow, from horseback. A few of them, even in the short month of training, were able to do so. Most, however, had to stand to be accurate. Luckily, nearly every man was able to sight and shoot a bow. Getting them used to using a horse bow from the saddle would take a long time. Until then, Alexandros had no qualms about letting them fight on foot. Accuracy would come with practice, and in the meantime, they would rely on volume rather than precision.
The bulk of his forces, at least at present, were hoplites, who walked to battle and would fight on foot. When sufficient horses were acquired, they would ride as well, at least on the march. The Macedonian had fond hopes of fielding a completely mounted army. Forage would be a limiting factor, but it seemed likely that any immediate campaign would be within the Empire, where local magistrates and governors could provide supplies. The hoplites wielded the sarissa, an eighteen-foot pike. They also carried the Roman stabbing sword and round shields slung over their backs.
"Ermanerich, remember to keep the men from moving once they are in position. When the Gepids appear, as I'm sure they will, all they are to do is take up 'at guard' with their sarissa and then hold ranks. Do not attempt to move against the enemy or to maneuver!"
The Gothic prince nodded in agreement. Learning to move in unison, without fouling the long spears, was going to take a lot more work. The last two attempts to march in ordered ranks had ended with a huge jumble of sarissa and crushed bodies after the men had failed to keep their ranks and pikes straight. The hystrix formation started with the men lined up in a honeycomb, sarissa laid out on the ground in line. When the signal was given, each man had only to bring his pike up at an angle. It was very simple.
Alexandros hoped they could manage it today without becoming completely disordered. "The Peltasts will take the hoplite left wing, dismounted. When the Gepids charge, the Peltasts will loose two or three flights of arrows into the enemy, then hold the flank with sword and shield. Chlothar, you will lead the left wing."
Chlothar was an expatriate Alexandros had tapped to command. He was an enormous blond man. The others said he was a Frank, out of the western reaches of Germania. Though he was not a Goth, he was so unflappable and calm in battle that Alexandros had made him Ermanerich's second.
"The rest of you are with me," Alexandros shouted, harsh voice carrying in the cold air. "We will take the right flank and wait for the enemy to commit themselves. Then we will level kontos and charge on my command."
The Macedonian slapped his horse, a fiery bay stallion, and trotted off among the thin pines. With care, his horse could make reasonable time through the avenues of the forest, leaving the muddy track to the infantry. Behind him, the Companions sorted themselves out and filed forward, pale sunlight glinting from their helms and shields.
– |"Damn that boy!"
Alexandros gritted his teeth against two equally fierce emotions. The first was respect for the bravery of the Gepids. At least two thousand of the half-naked tribesmen charged across the meadow, filling the air with a wailing screech. Another thousand, wooden shields forward, bronze caps covering their heads, advanced in a huge, loose crowd around the tube-shaped banners of their chieftains.
Peltasts, afoot, with one man in five holding his mount, were drawing and loosing as fast as they could. Long, black-fletched arrows slapped across the meadow, shearing through the charging Gepids. Dozens of barbarians fell, pierced through by pile-headed arrows. The turf was already littered with bodies.
The second emotion was churning disgust. The ragged front edge of the Gepid charge was only a hundred feet from the hoplites and their sarissa were still on the ground. Alexandros twisted in the saddle, watching sickly as his Companions continued to filter out of the forest in ones and twos. The open, parklike woods had suddenly become a bramble thicket as the horsemen neared the meadow. Alexandros reached the open plain in time to see the Gepids begin their mad charge across the high green grass and hollyhocks.
"Don't fool about," he shouted helplessly at Ermanerich, who was far out of hearing. "These aren't Phillip's men!"
Some of the Gepid warriors, hair thickened with white clay, hurled axes as they sprinted forward. One flickered through the air and sank deep into the skull of one of the hoplites. The man died instantly, sprawling to the ground, and Alexandros could hear the thunk echo across the field. The other barbarians, still howling battle cries, were armed with a confusion of axes, swords, spears and javelins.
At last, with only thirty feet remaining between the armies, bucinas blatted and hoplites began to raise their sarissa. Alexandros forced himself to watch. Ermanerich acted as if this were Phillip of Macedon's phalanx, as skilled a group of men with the long pike as ever had lived. Those men, all dead these long centuries, could dance with the eighteen-foot weapons. For them, the hystrix was a child's game, where they could move from rest to full array in under a minute.
These Goths had not been born and bred to the phalanx. They had not fought and died, ever victorious, under the banner of Phillip for thirty years. The pikes rose up, at first in good order, then someone fouled the man next to him, knocking the ash-wood shaft into the next man's pike. The disaster washed across the face of the Gothic line with a resounding clash and clatter of jarring wood and iron. Rising pikes fell sideways, like falling trees, with each additional pike adding more weight to the cascade. The Gepids howled in delight and rushed on.
Alexandros clouted the herald at his side. His mailed fist rang on the man's helmet. "Sound attack, boy, all units advance and attack!"
The Macedonian drew his spatha with a flourish, spurred his horse and charged out onto the field.
"Alexandros!" A great cry went up, sending a chill through him, and hooves thundered on the soft, loamy ground. Only half of the Companions had managed to fight their way out of the forest, but they stormed forward, unlimbering their lances on the run.
The bay flew across the field, white and yellow flowers blurring past under his hooves. He ran strongly, even burdened by Alexandros' armored weight. As he rushed closer to the battle, Alexandros saw the Gepid charge smash into the disordered ranks of the hoplites. Many of the Goths were still trapped on the ground, crushed under the weight of their pikes, but Ermanerich had reacted quickly. The rear ranks, pikes ready, moved up.
The Gepid rush broke apart as they leapt across the struggling Goths or halted to stab and hack at the men pinned to the ground. The pikes and men made an unhappy barrier, and their attack slowed for a moment. A hideous slaughter was under way along the front of the phalanx, but the fourth and fifth ranks managed to brace against the rest of the charge. Gepids screamed, pierced by the thicket of iron. Despite two short rushes, they could not come to grips with the hoplites behind their long spears.
Alexandros spared a glance to either side, relieved to see that he did not charge alone into the midst of the enemy. A hundred of the Companions were at his side, lances leveled. Ahead of him, the flanks of the Gepid charge were curling out, spilling around the edges of the hoplite line. Even the center of the Gothic position was being forced back by the weight of the enemy. Alexandros reined in, deftly sliding out of the front rank of the charge.
The Companions, hooves thundering, banners snapping in the cold air, crashed into the Gepid flank. Many of the barbarians failed to notice the horsemen until they were ridden down or run through. Most of the Gepids were armored only with wooden, hide-faced shields. Some had shirts of iron rings sewn to a leather backing. The Companions clove into them, sending a shuddering wave through the mass of infantry. Alexandros trotted back, watching his armored knights hew into the masses of Gepid spear- and sword-men. Some of the Companions continued to stab with their kontos, though most had cast the weapons aside, or lost them, fouled in the bodies of the slain. This was spatha work, and the long swords flashed in the sun.
A great commotion of metal on metal and rising dust and shouts erupted on the far side of the Gepids' line. Alexandros assumed Chlothar had pitched in with his Peltasts to try and relieve pressure on the center.
We'll have to start over with the phalanx, he thought grimly, turning his horse and trotting back towards the woods. More of the Companions were filtering out of the thicket and he stood up in his stirrups, shouting at them. "Form on me, form on me!"
They began to converge on him, riding forward in small clumps. Out of the thousand Companions, perhaps only half had managed to reach the battlefield. Alexandros spun his horse again, satisfied that they had seen him. His herald had gotten swept up in the charge, so his bannerman was a hundred yards away, mired in a desperate hand-to-hand struggle. He shaded his eyes, squinting into the fray. The hoplites seemed to be holding their own at least. They had not broken and run.
"Comes! Comes Alexandros! Look out!"
Alexandros whipped around, curveting the horse, sword bare in his hand. The scout Krythos was shouting, riding hard across the field, pointing off to his fight. Behind him, the Companions were also in full gallop. They were shouting too, and some of them had drawn their bows and were shooting across the saddle. Alexandros looked to his left.
The mounted warriors in the second body of the Gepid army cantered towards him. There were two men in the lead, on glossy black stallions, with their armor gleaming in the sun. Unlike the rabble they commanded, they were clad in full mailed armor. Long, trailing horsetail plumes danced on their helms. More mounted men rode at their back, holding a forest of banners and standards. The main ensign was a coiled dragon in black on a red field.
The Draculis, Alexandros thought as he faced them. The dreadful enemy the Goths fear so much.
The Macedonian raised his sword in salute to the noblemen riding hard towards him. They saw him, and a command was passed to the band that followed behind. The rest of the Gepid riders charged ahead, interposing themselves between the oncoming Companions and Alexandros.
"You wish to try my sword arm, then?" Alexandros shouted at the two men as he rode forward. In this crisp air, his voice carried a great distance over the battlefield. "Come ahead, I will not stint you."
The lead man, a fellow with a long, thin face and a neat black beard, urged his horse forward. Alexandros saw he wore a helmet contrived to make a beast face when the cheek guards and visor were down. The man unlimbered a long spear, leaf-shaped point catching the sun like a mirror. Alexandros, for all the time he had spent drilling the army, had not taken to the lance himself. He preferred a long slashing sword. Mindful of his enemy, he tightened the straps holding a painted oval shield to his upper left arm, leaving his left hand free.
The Draculis lord waved his companion back, stallion high-stepping forward. Alexandros saw a beautiful, spirited creature with a glossy pelt and powerful legs. The Macedonian circled left, keeping his sword arm on the man's side.
"You are a brave man," the Draculis called out. "If you swear to me and take the blood, I will let you live! These Goths are children, they have no use for a man amongst them!"
"These are my men," Alexandros shouted back, making sure his voice carried to the Companions riding up behind him. "You try my patience with your rabble. Come, barbarian, let us see who is the better."
Alexandros watched the man carefully, seeing him guide the black stallion with his knees, watching them move as one. Luckily, these northern barbarians loved single combat, particularly between heroes or captains. The other Draculis lord had fallen back amongst the Gepids. They were laughing. It was an odd moment. Across the meadow, the struggling mass of Gepid infantry was still locked in frenzied battle with the Goths. The Companions that had charged into their flank had bent the barbarian line back into a V shape, but the second mass of Gepids had run up, forcing the cavalry back.
The Macedonian hoped that Ermanerich and Chlothar could extricate themselves without his help. He was about to be distracted.
The Draculis lord and his horse suddenly bolted forward, long lance tip slashing through the air. Alexandros had seen the rear legs of the stallion tense and he was already moving. The bay was a game horse and responsive, but it didn't have the weight or power of the black. Alexandros rose up a little, letting the horse handle the ground, springing to the left. The lance shifted in line, speeding at his chest. Alexandros felt his blood burn and his vision sharpened.
The lance slowed in the air, the stallion's hooves churning across the ground. Clods of earth flew up slowly. Alexandros' sword arm slashed sideways, his entire body turning into the blow. The tip of the spatha dug into the ashwood behind the lance tip.
Time resumed with a snap, and the thunder of the stallion rushing past was loud in Alexandros' ears. His spatha whipped back, parallel with the bay, and wind keened in his helmet strap. He turned the horse, arm stunned by the shock of contact. The Draculis was turning as well, but his powerful arm flexed, flinging the kontos, bladed head shorn away, to the ground.
Alexandros tested his grip on the spatha. His arm was not broken. If it had been, he would have changed hands. The Draculis lord drew his own sword with a sharp ting! The man gave forth with a high piercing cry and the stallion stormed forward again.
The Draculis cut overhand, trying for Alexandros' exposed head, but the Macedonian's spatha caught the blow at an angle. The two blades sang like a bell as they slid apart. Alexandros cut at the man's saddle strap. The Draculis' stallion snapped at the bay's rump, spoiling the stroke.
The horses circled, the bay nervous and jumpy. The stallion lowered its head and pranced sideways. The Draculis lord let the horse lead, waiting for an opening. Alexandros took the bay's reins in his left hand, keeping it in the fight. Confident in his advantage, the Draculis darted in, the stallion nipping at the bay's face. Alexandros let his horse spring back, clods flying. The Draculis slammed his sword down, catching the Macedonian's block full on. Alexandros' whole body felt the blow, and sparks sprang from grinding metal. A sense of despair lapped around the Macedonian's thoughts. A sorcerer of some kind? That's not good!
Alexandros attacked furiously, blade flickering, and beat the man's guard down. The Draculis attempted to strike back, but Alexandros crowded the gelding, making the stallion buck backwards. After a few seconds of loud exchange, steel ringing on steel, Alexandros turned the bay back to face the stallion. The Draculis thrust underhand, the tip of his longsword spalling across armored plates circling Alexandros' waist. The Macedonian grunted at the blow.
In that instant, as the blade grated across the solid metal, Alexandros' spatha nicked the saddle strap on the opposite side of the stallion, shearing through the thick leather band. Crying out in rage, the Draculis lord whipped his blade back, barely stopping Alexandros' stroke inches from his face. The stallion lunged forward at the same moment, and strong yellow teeth chomped down on the bay's haunch.
Alexandros let the bay bolt for twenty feet, then reined in fiercely. The bay was shivering from head to toe, back leg held up. The Macedonian vaulted out of the saddle, spatha reversed and pointing up behind his head.
"Krythos! Take this horse away and see to its wounds."
The scouts were arrayed in a loose line thirty feet behind Alexandros, bows drawn and arrows ready. At least half the Companion cavalry had joined them. Matching them, behind the Draculis lord, who had fallen heavily from his horse, were the remains of the Gepid nobles.
The truce of single combat maintained. Alexandros caught a glimpse of the two lines fighting on the other side of the meadow; they had broken apart. Bodies were being dragged from the wreck of the phalanx by the Goths, and the Gepids had fallen back to form into a ragged mob behind their chieftains. Many of the men were watching the single combat as well, though their sergeants were keeping an eye on the immediate enemy.
Alexandros walked forward, boots sinking a little into the springy loam. Bluebells and a scattering of tiny white flowers peeked up out of the green grass. The sun was high in the sky, burning away the morning's chill. The spatha felt good in his hand. He drew out a long dagger from a scabbard at his left side. The Draculis stallion was unhurt, and had run off when the lamia had fallen. Alexandros' heart leapt to see the horse safe. The Draculis scrambled to his feet as the Macedonian approached. The man's helmet had been knocked askew, but he righted it with a swift motion.
"You are a cunning dog," the Draculis rasped. "Do you think that we are evenly matched now?"
Alexandros grinned, raising his sword and the dagger in guard. "I think I still have the advantage of you," he said merrily. "Let us see how well you fight without that beautiful horse!"
The Draculis moved warily, both hands on the long, wire-wrapped hilt of his sword. Like many of the northern barbarians, he favored a long blade, giving him at least six inches of reach over Alexandros. The Macedonian crabbed sideways, leading with the dagger in his left hand. The ground was a little uneven, littered with tufted clumps of grass.
"Ha!" The Draculis attacked with a wickedly fast diagonal cut against Alexandros' head. The Macedonian blocked with the shield on his upper arm and gasped at the power behind the blow. The oval shield, a laminate of pine on pine, faced with stiffened leather, cracked lengthwise. Alexandros reeled back, engaging the man's longsword with the tip of his own.
The Draculis beat Alexandros' blade aside with two powerful lunges and then slashed upwards with the tip of his longsword. The Macedonian flung his head backwards, barely escaping losing his lower jaw. Without pausing, Alexandros spun and the edge of his dagger clanged against the side of the Draculis' blade. He pressed hard, trying to turn the man and drive the longsword into the ground.
Heedless, the Draculis wrenched back, his entire body behind the motion. Alexandros' left arm flew back, unable to withstand the man's raw strength. The tip of the longsword blurred past an inch from his nose. Alexandros scrambled back, fending off two more slashes at his head.
Cursing, the Macedonian flipped the dagger into the grass behind him and took his spatha in both hands. The ruined remains of the shield on his left arm were a distraction. He had never faced an opponent so quick and strong. The barbarian even had some idea of what to do with a sword.
"You're the first of these children to last against me, daywalker." The Draculis breathed easily, moving gracefully on the uneven ground. Alexandros felt a chill wash over him. There was something inhuman about the man, some cast to his face, something in the way he moved. "You will die with honor."
Snarling, the Draculis bulled in, his longsword snapping through the air. Alexandros blocked the first blow, putting his strength into it, and was not knocked back.
You are the master of this body, his mind shouted. It does not feel pain or exhaustion!
For an instant, locked hilt to hilt, he matched his gaze against the Draculis and saw the man's eyes were yellow and bisected by vertical black pupils. At the same moment, there was a shock of some power against his mind, something that clawed at his thought, trying to make him gibber with fear and run. The Macedonian laughed, for such phantoms had no power over him.
"You," he grunted, putting his shoulder into a push, "are a pitiful creature."
The Draculis sprang back as Alexandros broke their lock and slashed at his legs. The Macedonian circled, letting his awareness of the other man grow. He dragged his left foot a little. Then, as the Draculis lunged at the opening, he sprang into the man's motion. The spatha whipped sideways in a flat arc. The Draculis lord reacted just as fast, blocking with the haft of his longsword. Alexandros let his blade "stick" to the other sword, driving it into the turf. Again, they struggled, strength against strength.
The Draculis rammed his head at Alexandros, catching him on the side of the skull with his beast-faced helmet. It was a heavy blow and Alexandros was thrown back. By sheer will, he managed to keep his sword, but blood clouded one eye. The cut bled profusely. Alexandros tried to roll away from a half-sensed blow. The Draculis' sword arrowed down, grinding against the mail backing the Macedonian's lorica. Metal, stressed beyond its ability to withstand, popped with a tinny sound. Alexandros felt cold steel slide into his flesh, piercing his stomach.
He blinked furiously, clearing his sight. The Draculis, narrow face split by a tremendous grin of triumph, loomed over him. The man was trying to twist the longsword in the wound, but the flat iron plates held the blade straight.
"Well fought, child!"
Alexandros grimaced, willing his body to respond, and his right arm whipped the spatha across the front of his body, cleaving the Draculis' head from his neck with a meaty thwack. The skull, eyes wide in surprise, spun off across the green grass, bouncing to a halt amid a spray of daffodils. Alexandros raised his other arm just in time to catch the corpse as it fell heavily onto him. Blood flooded from the severed neck, drenching him in a thick bluish fluid. Spitting, Alexandros pushed it off. It was heavy, with all that armor and inert weight.
There was a great commotion all around him, howls of despair and hooves hammering on the ground. The Companions flooded past Alexandros as he staggered to his feet, charging into the mass of Gepid knights. Arrows whistled past overhead as the scouts loosed themselves onto the mass of spearmen beyond. Across the meadow, the Peltasts were shooting, their bowstrings humming like a lyre as they sent volley after volley into the barbarian ranks.
Krythos ran up to Alexandros, his face white with fear. Alexandros stumbled as he tried to walk forward, then looked down. The Draculis longsword was jutting out of his stomach, dark blood spilling off of it in a thin stream.
"Curse it," Alexandros gasped. "Give me your shoulder, lad."
Krythos seized his right arm, holding him up. Alexandros grimaced, took hold of the sword hilt and wrenched it from his body. The blade scraped and sparked on the edge of the armored plates on his midriff, but then slid free from his body with a greasy sensation and a pop. The scout swayed, almost fainting, but Alexandros caught him and held him upright.
"Don't worry, I've taken worse. It only caught my side." Alexandros laughed, staring down at the decapitated body of his enemy. "Did someone take that magnificent stallion in rein?"
Krythos nodded weakly, falling to his knees. His face was a bilious color.
"Good. I want that horse for my own."
Alexandros felt better, now that the wound had time to close. Though he couldn't see the gash beneath the heavy armor and felted shirt, he knew from careful experimentation that it was closing, leaving only a crust of dried blood around the scar. He flexed, turning, and the muscles in his side seemed to have already knitted back together. While the Prince willed that he live, the Macedonian did not fear death.
The sun seemed particularly warm, the air crisp with the smell of pines and flowers. "Ah, Krythos, a fine day to be alive! Look, the barbarians are running!"
The scout vomited noisily, his hands sinking into the bloody mud.