The second passed, and there was only the murderous insane violence of the present and the task in hand, something to grasp through the fog of fear and confusion. Arkamenes’s bodyguard had been pressed back in a mass by the concussion of the King’s charge, and now there was nowhere to go. Even if a man were able to dismount in that milling crush he would be trampled underfoot within seconds.
The currents that moved the melee were created by killing, by the sheer brutal struggle of one against another. The Great King moved forward, horses going down as he and his guards stabbed at the big veins in the neck, or transfixed them through the eyes. Arkamenes’s bodyguards fought back with the savagery of the trapped, but though they were Honai, they were not the Honai of Ashur, and they gave ground, dying and falling and turning their faces from their own deaths instead of trying to deflect the killing blades as they realised they had become carrion.
And so Ashurnan and Arkamenes met in the middle of that vast bloodletting, in the end both willing that it should be so, in the end neither afraid, in the end brothers again.
Their eyes met but they did not speak, though both of them had words they would have said. Their blades clicked off one another. Under them the tall Niseians charged at each other’s shoulders and tried to bite and rear, but were reined in by both their masters as the swords flickered out and clashed and sought the life of the other in a kind of dance, in its way a splendid thing. But Ashurnan had always applied himself better to the learning of such skills, and it was his blade which sliced home first. Though he had put his strength into the blow, he tried to take it back as he saw it would go home, not even conscious of the reason. But the keen blade did not need much muscle at its back to do the work, and the edge took Arkamenes under the chin, severing the big arteries there and the windpipe, before sliding free.
The rebel prince dropped his sword and clasped both hands to his gaping throat. His mouth worked, frog-like, and in his eyes there was terror, and a kind of regret. Then he toppled from his horse. Around him, his bodyguards saw the death of all their hopes, and sent up a kind of wail. Some threw down their swords and raised their eyes to the sky as if in prayer, others turned their horses around and tried to fight their way to the rear. The horsetail standard that signified the presence of the pretender was cast aside, disappearing in that great mass of bloody, struggling flesh. And as the standard fell, a kind of shudder, more felt than seen, went through the ranks of Arkamenes’s army.
Fifteen
A FAREWELL TO THE KING
Phiron walked out to the front of the phalanx and held up his spear. Up and down the endless lines of the heavy infantry the order was passed along: “Halt.”
Pasion joined him, and as the minutes passed so did a few other centurions, standing like curious spectators at a street fight. “Is that the—?” Durik began to ask.
“The Great King has proved himself a man, it seems,” Phiron said. He levered off his stinking helm, his black hair plastered down flat as a seal’s back beneath it. “They’re at it hand to hand, bodyguards and all.”
“And what about these bastards?” Pasion asked, gesturing to the enemy ranks not half a pasang from them along the hilltop. Kufr spearmen now as irresolute and fascinated as their officers by the close-packed cavalry battle in the valley below and the two standards waving in the midst of it, mere yards apart.
“If they fight it out, that’s the whole battle down there, won or lost in a moment,” Orsos said. He joined them, breathing heavily. “Jason covers our rear, Phiron. He’s seen off the Arakosan cavalry. It’s a fucking slaughterhouse down there.” Even he seemed shocked by the carnage of the day.
All along the ridge-top, thousands of men were standing still, watching while the contest went on, the sound of it a dull roar that echoed off the face of the hills. The Juthan Legion had come to a halt halfway up the slope and now stood in a rankless mob of several thousands, all looking back the way they had come rather than up to where the enemy centre stood above.
“We stand here like virgins in a fucking marriage chamber!” This was young Pomero, come striding up to them with a face full of baffled anger. “What’s halted the lines? We should be pitching into them right now, and the Juthan should be hitting them from the flank. We have the battle won, here and now!”
Phiron did not turn round. He closed his eyes for a second. “The battle is lost. Can you not hear it?”
They watched, silent now. The crush of cavalry which composed the battle below was opening out. To the Macht, all Kefren looked the same, but it was possible to see that their employer’s horsetail standard no longer waved above the ranks. The Great King’s winged banner was advancing, whilst before it clouds of cavalry were streaming away. All along the field, there came from Arkamenes’s Kufr troops an eerie collective sound, half groan and half wail. It trailed for pasangs along the flatlands of the valley floor.