The contingent consisted of an officer bearing the white flag of parley, and two other soldiers bearing the banners of the Duchy of Ajhfeld and the Grand Duke himself. All three were mounted on one of the horses they had managed to salvage from the slaughter to the south.
They passed through a point in the line, but theirs was a doomed mission from the start - their enemy was fully committed to the charge. They never even had a chance.
----
And she herself gathered a coterie of followers as she strode forward toward the lines, a quick pace that did not fall far short of a jog. She could not be seen to be running anymore than she could afford to show fear. Morale was important, and even if the majority of the people following her did not particularly like the idea, she at least owed it to them to do the job right.
She turned to a soldier to her left, a bannerman used to command of smaller groups of men. Much as she had been. She nodded to him. "Make your way to the archers on the west slope. Try and stop them from slaughtering these idiots if you can. I do not mean for you to throw their lives away or your own, for that matter." She paused long enough to look over the field, and shook her head. "WHoever is at the heart of this nightmare can pay the price for it with their own head. Kill if you have to, but try to avoid it."
Horses screamed loud; the wind was suddenly dying down drastically and the swirling snow was lessening. It still fell at a solid pace, enough to obscure anything more than a hundred feet away. With the shift in the wind, the sharp scent of fresh blood struck her in the face like a hard swung hand, that and the smell of offal split and spilling fluid and worse onto the powdery white that was already turning into a muddy mess. Through the shifting screen of snow, she could see the enemy cavalry charging the pike-line, horses and men alike impaled on that grisly bristling wall. Those who fell and rose to fight more were cut down by the men behind the shields, efficient work. It wasn't enough, of course. Before her eyes, to the right of center, the line began to bulge and buckle, the pressure of men slowly overrunning the defenders. There were no reserves to throw into the opening breach, and there was not time to order them there in any case.
In moments, horses crashed through and split the line, and behind the horse came men on foot with swords and other weapons. She saw an officer of the line trying to rally the men go down to a sword thrust, even from this distance, and watched as the right sided of the line curled back in on itself, retaining the shield wall by bending it in towards the slope of the mountain. The left side did likewise, opening a passage down the middle of the valley where the enemy could now run headlong. Arrows slashed into their flanks as they changed direction to pursue the defenders.
She moved forward. There were small knots of men fighting in the open, those who had been unable to make it to the safety of the wall. They fought in groups of twenty or thirty, formed into cirlces with shields and pikes raised in defense.
She moved towards one, and towards another group of the enemy.
--------
He batted aside a sword and then thrust his own blade forward, succeeding finally in finding the gap between breastplate and helm. His blade slipped into the attacker's throat, and blood spurted underneath the metal as the stricken man dropped his weapon and sliced his own hands trying to grip the blade even then being pulled from his flesh. Astor placed a booted foot on his chest, and kicked him backwards, down the slope and into a dozen other advancing men who stumbled and fell. Those who got up too quickly found lethal barbed shafts sprouting from their flesh, screaming in pain as they either went down or pressed on through sheer force of will. And adrenaline.
He felt something punch him in the chest, and looked down to find a spear sticking through his armor. Even as he watched, the attacker pulled it free and readied himself to strike again. Unable to feel the pain of the hit yet, he darted forward, slashing viciously as he went. The spearman's arm fell to the snow, still clutching the spear in his severed hand. A moment later Astor had slammed his blade through the leather armor of his foe, piercing his heart.
The pain started then, and the hot feeling of blood washing down his chest and bubbling in his lungs as he drew breath.
But he fought on.
-----
This wasn't his first dance.
Alister had fought on the border between Connlaoth and Hyolite for more than a decade, serving in various companies and squads entrusted with maintaining the peace for the common folk who chose the frontier for their home. He had worked with and under their current commander, and despite what she was had a deeply ingrained respect and trust for her abilities. Even now, as he used one of the tactics she had trained her own command in.
Him and thirty others fought amidst a sea of foes, shields locked in a ring with pikes in the middle. They were the gods of judgement, and any enemy who came to close they struck down with sword or spear, whichever was handier. Already a ring of corpses surrounded their group. It was dirty, hot work - the chill did not touch them, and in fact they all sweated as if it were the heat of summer, inthe desert.
It was not without its casualties, of course. War never was. Jake, he would never fondle another girl in the taverns again. An enemy arrow had spitted him like a chicken over the fire, and he lay eternally still, inside the circle of his friends and comrades. Nathaniel would never stir again, either - the two of them had been through three or four campaigns. A sword to the throat had ended any hope of future campaigns.
There was no time to mourn the lost. There was only time to fight, fight untilk exhaustion threatened to overwhelm, and then keep fighting anyway.
-----
She reached behind her back.
She hadn't wanted to do this, but she had watched with her own eyes as these idiots had cut down men on a mission of peace, trying to avert more bloodshed. Under a white flag, and their their own damned banners flying, they had been cut down, show no quarter.
Well, that was fucking fine. This mess wouldn't end up on her head, that was for absolute certain. However, anyone who wanted to try to treat her like an enemy of the state would find short shrift. And worse.
There was a man riding in the company of soldiers, or more like leading a company of soldiers on foot. She watched as he cut a defensive circle apart with far too much glee, and her already neutral features went flat as a planed board. She drew her weapon then, twisting it in the sheath to release it, and felt the comforting weight of the blade hit her arms. It was almost as long as she was with the hilt included, which was a solid foot by itself. Slightly curved, sharp on their edge.
She had barely cleared the sheath when the first of that particular group reached her; she parried his sword cut with contemptuous ease, knocking it aside and moving forward with the fluid grace of a dancer, dropping her blade low as his went wide and cutting through leather and flesh at his midriff. Blood splashed, but she didn't bother with any further attack, moving forward into the next in line, parrying his own attack, and then the lightning quick second.
His head ended up on the cold, bloody snow. She moved on, carelessly slaying anything that even came close to her with any intent at all of fighting. "Stop you bloody fools! You're killing or own Gods damned men! STOP!" And making me do likewise. Better you dead than me, though.