The majority of the Lybaran cavalry was arrayed in a broad crescent to either side of the Rasetran king: close to three thousand light cavalry and a striking force of fifteen hundred heavy cavalry. The heavy horse was situated to the king’s left, still relatively fresh at the end of the day.
Rakh-amn-hotep had kept them and his Ushabti in reserve, unwilling to wear them out on constant pursuits when he might have need of them later. To the king’s right, the horses of the light cavalry squadrons waited with their heads drooping and their flanks dappled with foam. Their riders poured precious water from the leather flasks at their hips onto thick cotton rags and held them up for their weary mounts to lick.
Rakh-amn-hotep scowled up at the lowering sun. There were perhaps two hours left before sunset. If they could not find a way to break through the enemy line it would mean another day out in the sands, consuming the last of the army’s water. The Usurper’s troops appeared to number at least fifteen thousand men, including the two thousand Numasi cavalry they’d skirmished with earlier, mostly light infantry and a few companies of archers. The Rasetran king would generally be tempted to put his faith in Ptra and try a massed charge, but the majority of his force was all but exhausted. Did they have enough strength left to break the enemy line?
The king turned and beckoned to the commander of the Lybaran contingent, who stood with his retinue only a few paces away. Shesh-amun was one of Hekhmenukep’s staunchest allies, and despite his advanced years he carried himself with a young man’s strength and vigour. He was lean and rangy like old leather, his skin burned almost black by long decades labouring under the desert sun. The champion was a bluff, forthright man who did not suffer fools gladly, and didn’t think so much of himself that he couldn’t be persuaded to listen to reason. The Rasetran had warmed to him at once. Rakh-amn-hotep leaned over the side of his chariot as Shesh-amun approached.
“We need to get past these jackals,” the king said quietly. “Are your men up to one more fight?”
“Oh, they’d welcome the chance to fight someone that doesn’t wheel away and run at the first sign of trouble,”
Shesh-amun growled. “Those Numasi horse thieves have got their blood up, but I suspect that was the whole point.” The champion turned his head and spat into the dust. “They’re willing, and the horses, too, but don’t be surprised if they start dropping dead if the fight goes on too long.” The Rasetran king nodded grimly.
“Well, promise them all the water they can drink, if only we can break through and reach the springs. Maybe that will keep them alive a few moments more.”
“I’ll pass the word,” Shesh-amun said. Just as he began to turn away, a horn sounded beyond the dunes to the east of the weary horsemen. The champion peered off into the distance. “Are you expecting someone?” he asked. Rakh-amn-hotep straightened and looked eastward. Sure enough, a winding ribbon of dust was rising from the direction of the trade road.
“Indeed I am, but I’d nearly given up on him,” he said. “Reinforcements are coming,” the king told Shesh-amun. “Ready your men for action.”
The champion bowed quickly and hastened off to spread the word. Minutes later Rakh-amn-hotep heard the rumble of hooves, and a squadron of light cavalry raced over the dunes to join the line of weary horsemen. Tired cheers went up from the vanguard as the reinforcements began to arrive, and the king waited for the sight of Ekhreb’s chariot among the column of troops. He saw it at once, bouncing along in the light cavalry’s wake. Rakh-amn-hotep raised his sword in greeting, and the light chariot angled off the line of march and reined in beside the king.
“I left you back at camp three hours ago!” Rakh-amn-hotep shouted to the champion. “Did you get lost? All you had to do was follow the damned road!” Ekhreb leapt from the back of the chariot and reached the king in two quick strides.
“That’s rich,” the champion replied mildly. “You, lecturing me about arriving late. I marshalled six thousand men for you on two hours’ notice. Shall I send them back to camp?”
“Don’t be churlish,” the king replied. “I can have you beheaded for that, you know.”
“So you’ve said,” Ekhreb replied. “Many, many times.” Rakh-amn-hotep caught sight of a company of Rasetran light infantry jogging over the dunes to the east.
“What have you brought me, exactly?” he asked.
“A thousand light horsemen, four thousand light infantry, and a thousand of our jungle auxiliaries,” Ekhreb said. “I thought the scaly-skins might strike some fear into the enemy’s hearts.”
“No archers?” the king asked sharply. The champion made a visible effort not to roll his eyes.
“You said nothing about bowmen, great one.”
The king bit back a sarcastic reply. Ekhreb was right, after all.
“We’ll have to rely on the bows of the light cavalry then,” he muttered. Ekhreb folded his arms and stared at the distant enemy line.
“Not much of a force,” he said. “It seems that Akhmen-hotep’s diversion was successful.”
“Perhaps,” the king replied, “but it doesn’t need to be very large, so long as they keep us from the springs.” Rakh-amn-hotep studied the enemy dispositions and made his plans. “Form the infantry into line right here,” he told his champion, “and put the auxiliaries on the right.” Then he beckoned to Shesh-amun. When the Lybaran arrived, he told him, “Pull your light horsemen back over the dunes behind us, and start circling around to our right, towards the road.” Shesh-amun frowned.
“But they’ll be expecting that,” he said. The king waved his concerns away.
“Sometimes we must give the enemy what he’s looking for,” he told the champion. “Don’t commit your men to pitched battle unless you must. Just push as far as you can around the edge of their line. I’ll give you ten minutes to get your riders moving before we advance.”
Though clearly still doubtful, Shesh-amun bowed to the king and began shouting orders to his troops. Ekhreb had already passed the king’s commands to the allied reinforcements. The light infantry companies were already forming a rough line before the allied cavalry, and the dark green shapes of the jungle auxiliaries were moving between the king’s chariots and the Lybaran light cavalry. The lizardmen were huge, hulking creatures, their scaly skins tattooed in strange spiral patterns that stretched across their rolling muscles. They carried massive clubs in their taloned hands, made of heavy pieces of wood studded with jagged chips of glossy black stone. Human skulls hung from rawhide cords around their naked waists, and their powerful, wedge-shaped heads bore a fearsome resemblance to the great crocodiles of Nehekharan legend. The trained warhorses rolled their eyes and shifted nervously at the creatures’ acrid stink, but the lizardmen paid them little heed.
As the infantry were forming up for battle the light horsemen on the right flank began to slowly withdraw over the dunes to the east. Rakh-amn-hotep expected some kind of reaction from the enemy line, but the Usurper’s troops made not a sound.
Ekhreb folded his muscular arms and surveyed the troops’ movements with a practised eye.
“Where do you want me?” he asked the king.
“You?” Rakh-amn-hotep grunted. “I want you right beside me, of course. That way you can’t claim you got lost heading to the battle.” Ekhreb gave the king an arch expression.
“I live to serve, great one,” he said wryly. “What now?” Rakh-amn-hotep counted off the minutes in his head.
“Order the centre and the left flank forwards,” he commanded. “The heavy cavalry will charge along with the infantry.”
The champion nodded and passed the orders at once. Trumpets sounded, and the ragged line of warriors raised their shields and marched towards the foe, followed by the light horsemen a dozen yards behind. Across the broken ground between the two armies, the enemy bowmen waited in two long skirmish lines before the infantry companies. As the king watched the distance between the two forces shrink he found himself wishing for a few Lybaran sky-priests to spoil the
enemy’s aim. The thought stirred a faint twinge of suspicion in the king’s mind: where were the enemy sorcerers? He’d heard the stories of what had happened at Zedri, years before. Now that his forces had been committed, he found himself wondering what terrible surprises the Usurper’s army had in store.
The air darkened above the closing armies as the enemy bowmen loosed their first volley. The Rasetran infantry quickened their pace at once, throwing up their wooden shields against the deadly rain. The shower of arrows struck their targets with a dreadful rattle of bronze against wood. Men screamed, and gaps showed in the advancing companies, but the rest pressed on. More arrows flickered through the air as the light horsemen returned the enemy fire, shooting high over the heads of the advancing infantry. Far to the left, a low rumble began as the heavy cavalry spurred their mounts into a ground-eating canter, and the enemy companies on that flank lowered their glinting spears to receive the inevitable charge.
The enemy bowmen fired a second volley and then withdrew to safety as the Rasetran warriors bore down upon them. Rakh-amn-hotep nodded thoughtfully.
“All right,” he said to Ekhreb. “Order the auxiliaries to attack.”
Ekhreb called out, and a heavy drum answered, beating out a low, dreadful cadence. With a hiss like a desert wind, the company of lizardmen rose from their haunches and loped towards the enemy battleline, covering the ground swiftly with their long strides. The air filled with screeches and dreadful, warbling cries as the jungle warriors advanced, and Rakh-amn-hotep was pleased to see the troops on the left waver at the sound.
All along the battleline the warriors of the opposing armies crashed together in a resounding clatter of wood and bronze. The screams of the dead and dying carried clearly above the din, and badly wounded men began to break away from the struggling companies and stagger back the way they’d come. On the left, the heavy cavalry thundered home against the enemy shield wall, flinging broken bodies back onto their fellows as they drove a wedge into two of the enemy companies. Swords flashed down in brilliant arcs, splitting skulls and cleaving torsos, and frenzied horses reared and lashed at the screaming throng with their terrible hooves.
On the right, the lizardmen leapt at their foes with a bloodcurdling chorus of hissing screeches and inhuman wails. Their scaly skin turned aside all but the strongest spear-thrust, and their war clubs smashed wooden shields and bones alike into ragged splinters. The king watched the enemy infantry reel in terror from the onslaught, but the majority of his attention was focused on the light horsemen still further down the right flank. Their horses were rearing and screaming at the scent of the strange lizardmen, but as yet they held their position at the opposite end of the road. A few of the cavalrymen loosed wild shots into the frenzied creatures, to no discernible effect.
Minutes passed, and the fighting continued. The enemy forces had wavered under the initial ferocity of the allied attack, but they had regained their resolve and their greater numbers were beginning to tell against the Rasetran infantry. The heavy cavalry on the left were being slowly surrounded by a sea of roaring, stabbing warriors and were trying to extricate themselves from the mob. The infantry companies on the left and in the centre were being driven back by the sheer weight of their foes. Only on the right were there still signs of success, as the lizardmen took a terrible toll of the lightly armoured humans. Rakh-amn-hotep, however, knew from experience that the lizardmen could not sustain such efforts for long, especially in this searing heat. Before too much longer they would start to falter, and he would have to pull them back or risk seeing them overwhelmed.
Then the king caught a glimpse of movement further to the right. A squadron of the enemy cavalry was wheeling away, heading further off to the north. A minute later another squadron followed, and then another. They had spotted the flanking movement by the Lybaran horsemen and were moving to counter the attempt, leaving the battered infantry on the right without any support.
Rakh-amn-hotep smiled and drew his sword.
“Time to end this,” he growled. To Ekhreb he said, “The Ushabti will advance upon the right,” pointing his sword at the junction where the enemy right met the centre. “Push through and drive for the springs!”
As one, the Ushabti shouted the name of Ptra the Glorious and raised their gleaming blades to the sky. With a peal of trumpets the company started forwards, gathering speed as the charioteers lashed the flanks of their horses. As they rumbled forwards the chariots altered their formation, stretching into a wedge aimed like a spear at the vulnerable point of the enemy line.
The earth shook beneath the thundering wheels of the war machines. Rasetrans in the rear ranks of their struggling companies saw their king approach and raised their voices in a lusty cheer that spurred the efforts of their fellows. For a brief moment the allied line surged forwards a single step, and then the chariots smashed into the battleline. Light infantrymen were smashed aside by teams of charging horses, or trampled beneath hooves and bronze-rimmed wheels. Bowstrings snapped as archers in the chariots fired point-blank into the massed enemy troops, and the armoured figures of the Ushabti reaped a terrible harvest with their huge, sickle-shaped swords. Rakh-amn-hotep chopped down with his sword and smashed a screaming warrior’s skull. Then he swept aside the jabbing point of a spear.
“Keep going!” he roared to his charioteer, and the man cracked his whip with a will, shouting to Ptra to strengthen his arm.
The infantrymen reeled from the impact, and the battle-hardened Rasetrans pressed the advantage, driving the wedge still deeper into the line. The enemy troops on the right flank were cut off from their neighbouring companies and left to the mercy of the ravening lizardmen, who tore heads from the dead and dying and crushed them in their terrible jaws. Without the support of the light cavalry, the spearmen began to waver, and a moment later their resolve failed them and they began to run, stumbling and clawing up the slope behind them. The jungle warriors gave chase, hissing and screeching their savage war cries.
Rakh-amn-hotep roared in triumph.
“Wheel right!” he ordered, and slowly the chariots began to press upon the unprotected flank of the companies in the enemy centre. Arrows scythed into the sides and rear of the enemy formations, and panic took hold. When the enemy warriors saw that their left flank had crumbled they turned and ran, and within minutes the slopes were swarming with fleeing troops. The Rasetrans snapped at their heels like wolves, slaying every man they could reach. Exhaustion alone held back the struggling allied troops, and was all that kept the retreat from becoming a blood-soaked rout.
Relief and a sense of triumph flooded the king’s tired body. The battle had lasted less than half an hour, judging by the height of the sun. Ptra’s burning orb had vanished into a pool of crimson light along the western horizon. With luck, the king thought, the vanguard would reach the life-giving pools by nightfall.
The Rasetran infantry clambered up the slope after their foes and disappeared over the summit of the dunes. For the cavalry and the chariots it was harder going, as the sands gave way beneath the plunging hooves of the horses. Rakh-amn-hotep was busy contemplating how he would press the pursuit with fresh elements of the army’s light cavalry when his chariot finally crested the rise, and slid to an awkward halt.
Rakh-amn-hotep threw out a hand to steady himself at the sudden stop, a curse halfway to his lips, when he realised that the entire allied pursuit had pulled up short. The survivors of the enemy army were running pell-mell across a wide, rocky plain, in the direction of the springs, And, with a cold sense of realisation, the king saw why.
Across the broad plain, arrayed at the very edge of the mist-wrapped springs, stretched a line of infantry and bowmen that ran from one end of the horizon to the other. The bloody sunlight shone on thickets of spears and round, polished helms, tens of thousands strong. Huge blocks of heavy cavalry waited beyond the line of spears, and smaller squadrons of light horsemen prowled along the front of the battleline like packs of hungry jackals.
Ekhreb reined in his chariot alongside the king. “What do we do now?” he called.
Rakh-amn-hotep shook his head at the legions of silent warriors waiting across the plain.
“What can we do?” he said bitterly. “We must retreat and carry news back to the rest of the army. Tomorrow we must summon all our strength and fight for our very lives.”
BOOK TWO
SEVENTEEN
Attack and Retreat
Bel Aliad, the City of Spices, in the 63rd year of Ptra the Glorious
(-1744 Imperial Reckoning)
The date wine was thick and cloyingly sweet. Akhmen-hotep grimaced as he raised the cup to his lips and took another draught. Inside the king’s tent, the air was cold and still. No oil lamps had been lit, nor were there any coals banked against the night’s chill. Only a pair of wide-eyed slaves attended upon the king, kneeling fearfully at either side of the tent’s entrance.
Akhmen-hotep’s tent faced west, letting in long, slanting beams of moonlight as the linen entry flap was pulled aside. Outside, the camp was quiet save for the distant music of Neru’s acolytes as they performed their midnight vigil. The king raised his eyes to the round figure silhouetted in the moon’s cold radiance.
“What do you want, brother?” he asked, in a voice roughened by many cups of wine.
Memnet did not reply at first. The Grand Hierophant stood in the entryway for a few moments, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom, and then shuffled wearily inside and settled in a chair close to the king. He gestured, and a slave crawled swiftly across the sandy floor to press a cup into the high priest’s hand.
[Nagash 01] - Nagash the Sorcerer Page 24
