Exiles 3

The runes encircling the serpent on Larrel’s shield flashed with scintillating colour as the flames rolled over him. Whilst the enchantment woven into the shield protected him, Larrel could only watch in horror as his horse was consumed, roasted and destroyed even as it collapsed beneath him. A thick smell of burnt meat and decay smothered Larrel as he fell to the unyielding earth.

Even as he fell, Larrel tried to keep his shield between his attacker and himself, in attempt to repel a magical assault that did not come. Once he had regained his feet Larrel lowered his shield slightly and saw that the armoured figure stood not far from him, clasping the immense jewelled sword Larrel had seen earlier. The blade had a black sheen, but it was the expert manner in which it was held by the figure that worried Larrel. There was a long pause wherein Larrel and his opponent sized one another up, each testing the other for obvious weaknesses.

Around both leaders, the battle continued unabated. Larrel’s company was outnumbered, and their superior training was not so evident against these riders as it had been against the spearmen, but their tenacity and superior chain mail armour made the fight evenly matched. Similarly, the advantage of a cavalry charge was a moot point, as both forces swarmed over one another with comparable manoeuvrability and horsemanship.

Kano’s vanguard had been largely unhorsed, and in that unhorsing had lost any chance of forming a defensive position. Shield walls and tandem fighting were impossible to articulate while mounted, and required a cohesion that was simply not available in the melee. Out of the corner of his eye, Larrel saw the standard for Kano’s vanguard knocked to the ground, only to be uplifted by the Darrodin lord himself. Surrounded by a half dozen human warriors, Kano fought with breathtaking skill, not only keeping the warriors at bay, but also forcing them on the defensive, all the while keeping the banner upright behind him as a rallying point for his men.

Larrel’s opponent advanced on him with the gait of a stalking cat, a dangerous fluidity to his movements. Though the stranger kept both hands on the hilt of his sword, Larrel was sure that his opponent could unleash another fiery blast at a moment’s notice. Keeping his shield up before him, and his own sword at the ready, Larrel barrelled toward the lacquer-plated figure. Their swords met with a torrent of sparks. Instantly the slighter one, of white-hued steel, eased back with a sinuous dexterity from its dark neighbour, as Larrel pulled back his sword and caught the bulk of the stranger’s momentum on his shield. A numbing pain shot up his arm writhing like a paralytic snake with the force of the blow.

Reeling from the strike, Larrel threw his shield up between himself and the stranger, catching blow after blow that was rained down on him with it. The shield was well made, and Larrel imagined it would be the bones in his arm that would give way before the metal beneath the painted serpent. White shadows danced at the edge of his vision as the strikes continued. They edged inwards, capering towards him as Larrel sought to brace his shield on his shoulder, elbow and knee. One shadow moved closer than the rest, resolving into the shape of a blue-clad horseman. Relief surged through Larrel as the torrent of blows slowed, and the plated figure turned from him to meet the horseman. Too numb to stand with the required ease, he kicked out with his armoured feet, catching his adversary in the back of the shin as he turned to meet the horseman.

Though thrown off guard, the lacquer-plated stranger unleashed his fiery convocation at the horseman anyway. Larrel watched in horror as both comrade and steed wilted and collapsed like lifeless flowers. Even the blue fabric in the man’s tunic became tarnished and wretched under the figure’s onslaught. After a moment, all that remained of the previous pairing was a collection of bones, their damaged equipment, and the impression that one was looking upon the casualties of some long-forgotten war.

Taking advantage of the momentary freedom bought with the lives of his allies, Larrel rushed his macabre opponent. Larrel caught his opponent’s parry with his feint, and forced the huge blade to the side, keeping it there with both leverage and sheer desperation. With his left arm, Larrel relentlessly bashed the helmeted head of his opponent. The adversary released his blade, and struck Larrel across the face with a gauntleted hand. Larrel rolled with the blow, but even so he felt his face torn open from nose to cheek. Having dropped his shield, Larrel turned to face his opponent unarmed, only to find him in a similarly unarmed position. Neither made a rush for their relative apparel, and despite the blood seeping from his jaw, Larrel smiled. Boxing was a favoured pastime of his.

Though his opponent’s face was obscured by the visor, Larrel was sure that when two crimson daggers appeared in those black-gauntleted hands, the invisible face would have mirrored the sneer etched on the grotesque visor. Although unprepared for this turn of events, Larrel continued to circle his opponent, taking the only recourse he had available, shutting his visor. The figure took a moment to survey the battle around him, as Larrel had done often during their duel, and seemed to come to a sudden realisation. Without turning to face it, he flung his hand toward where his great-sword lay embedded in the ground. Having seen already glimpsed his opponent’s numinous ability, Larrel was unsurprised when the blade hurled itself, unfetched, from the parched earth. Nor was he greatly surprised when the figure wove the sword in two wide arcs, shouted a word undoubtedly derived from some thrice-cursed tongue, and disappeared in a puff of acrid smoke.

Taking his eyes away from the empty ground, Larrel turned to survey the deathly struggle about him. Those few among the lacquer-plated stranger’s men who remained alive fled at his departure, or were put to the sword in the moments of confusion that followed.

A blue-clad rider emerged from the fray and trotted to Larrel’s side. The rider raised his visor, and Larrel recognised Matthias, his second in command. The man led a second horse, undoubtedly the steed of one of their fallen comrades.

“Larrel, the enemy flees, what are your orders?” As his subordinate spoke, Larrel mounted the second horse.

“Reform due south!” Larrel answered, not only to Matthias, but also to the rest of the company, which now milled around on the corpse-littered plain. He noticed that a disturbing proportion of the fallen horsemen wore the sapphire uniforms of his House.

Though Larrel could still make out Lord Kano’s wavering standard amidst the slaughter, the Darrodin Lord and his entire company were lost to his sight. Dozens, perhaps even hundreds, of the poorly equipped but thoroughly feral enemy had mobbed the company and it seemed unlikely that any could be reached, let alone saved. It seemed suicidal to try.

“And charge!”