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Authors: Karl Edward Wagner
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battle-hardened warriors--the most awesome fighting force of the age. Developed over centuries of internecine warfare upon the vast plains of the southern kingdoms, their heavy cavalry represented the elite military power in the land. Ordinarily a charge such as this would have been directed against a similar mounted force of some rival kingdom--with the temporary solution of one of the interminable border disputes or wars of succession in the balance. The Satakis had no comparable force, only a teeming mass of human flesh to await the Sandotneri charge.
The first regiments of light horse--virtually unscathed--swung aside before their thunderous charge. Archers fired a last few arrows into the crumbling Sataki vanguard, then rode to contain the flanks as the charge tore into the center. Behind the hooves of the heavy cavalry, the reserve regiments of light horse galloped to support the armored force, as the charge carried past the Sataki line.
Faces dull with panic gaped stupidly at the looming wave of steel. Mouths made black circles of dumb terror. Even before the wave broke over the poorly ordered line of battle, men hurled their weapons in blind fear, flung down their clumsy shields and sought to flee.
The Sandotneri charge clove through the Prophet's peasant army as a warhorse's hooves scatter a dunghill. Already drained from the ordeal of their long march, utterly demoralized before this unstoppable onslaught of steel-fanged death--the poorly armed rabble broke and fled. They were not soldiers, but a mob united by greed and by fear--a mob that would plunder and murder, yet a mob withal. They had neither the heart not the ability to stand before disciplined, heavily armed troops.
They could do little but die.
Even flight was denied them. As the routed front of the Sataki army sought to retreat, the howling fugitives collided with those in the rear--still advancing like some blind and brainless behemoth, unaware of the annihilation that awaited. Panic spread instantly as the terrified fugitives forced through the melee, outdistancing their mounted pursuers only because it took more time to slay than to flee in the thick press.
Even as the entire Sataki horde sought to turn and flee, any semblance of orderly retreat was impossible--and any hope of a rally or rearguard action rather less likely. Burdened with ponderous trains of baggage and impedimenta, wagons of women and children, the Dark Crusade was less an army on the march than a tribal migration. The fugitives were thrown back against their own masses, hemmed in by their baggage train and the press of panicstricken humanity.
Early in the charge, Jarvo left his lance impaled in a peasant's back. Now the Sandotneri general mechanically hewed about him with his broadsword. Only the resistance of packed human flesh brought up the Sandotneri charge, impeding it as a morass of weed clutches at a bull. For all the armed resistance they encountered, the cavalry might have ridden through unchecked.
Ranging like wolves in the fold, the light horse moved around their armored comrades, cutting down the Satakis until their arms ached and their bloodlust grew as dulled as their sabres. Strategy and tactics were vain conceits now; the task was only to hack at the shapeless and bleeding mass that sought brokenly to writhe away from its dismembered fragments. Archers exhausted their shafts, little troubled to tear them out of the dead. This was a day of meat cutting.
Across the gore-drenched field of battle, Jarvo led his troops. Some resistance flared in tiny pockets--a few had the desperate courage to die with steel in their teeth instead of in their backs. But the outcome of the battle was not in doubt--if ever it had been. The balance of war is inexorable: When one army turns and runs, there can only be one gory, unequal conclusion.
Jarvo wondered where Orted Ak-Ceddi might be--whether their leader was dead or in hiding. Jarvo had promised ten marks of gold to the man
The first regiments of light horse--virtually unscathed--swung aside before their thunderous charge. Archers fired a last few arrows into the crumbling Sataki vanguard, then rode to contain the flanks as the charge tore into the center. Behind the hooves of the heavy cavalry, the reserve regiments of light horse galloped to support the armored force, as the charge carried past the Sataki line.
Faces dull with panic gaped stupidly at the looming wave of steel. Mouths made black circles of dumb terror. Even before the wave broke over the poorly ordered line of battle, men hurled their weapons in blind fear, flung down their clumsy shields and sought to flee.
The Sandotneri charge clove through the Prophet's peasant army as a warhorse's hooves scatter a dunghill. Already drained from the ordeal of their long march, utterly demoralized before this unstoppable onslaught of steel-fanged death--the poorly armed rabble broke and fled. They were not soldiers, but a mob united by greed and by fear--a mob that would plunder and murder, yet a mob withal. They had neither the heart not the ability to stand before disciplined, heavily armed troops.
They could do little but die.
Even flight was denied them. As the routed front of the Sataki army sought to retreat, the howling fugitives collided with those in the rear--still advancing like some blind and brainless behemoth, unaware of the annihilation that awaited. Panic spread instantly as the terrified fugitives forced through the melee, outdistancing their mounted pursuers only because it took more time to slay than to flee in the thick press.
Even as the entire Sataki horde sought to turn and flee, any semblance of orderly retreat was impossible--and any hope of a rally or rearguard action rather less likely. Burdened with ponderous trains of baggage and impedimenta, wagons of women and children, the Dark Crusade was less an army on the march than a tribal migration. The fugitives were thrown back against their own masses, hemmed in by their baggage train and the press of panicstricken humanity.
Early in the charge, Jarvo left his lance impaled in a peasant's back. Now the Sandotneri general mechanically hewed about him with his broadsword. Only the resistance of packed human flesh brought up the Sandotneri charge, impeding it as a morass of weed clutches at a bull. For all the armed resistance they encountered, the cavalry might have ridden through unchecked.
Ranging like wolves in the fold, the light horse moved around their armored comrades, cutting down the Satakis until their arms ached and their bloodlust grew as dulled as their sabres. Strategy and tactics were vain conceits now; the task was only to hack at the shapeless and bleeding mass that sought brokenly to writhe away from its dismembered fragments. Archers exhausted their shafts, little troubled to tear them out of the dead. This was a day of meat cutting.
Across the gore-drenched field of battle, Jarvo led his troops. Some resistance flared in tiny pockets--a few had the desperate courage to die with steel in their teeth instead of in their backs. But the outcome of the battle was not in doubt--if ever it had been. The balance of war is inexorable: When one army turns and runs, there can only be one gory, unequal conclusion.
Jarvo wondered where Orted Ak-Ceddi might be--whether their leader was dead or in hiding. Jarvo had promised ten marks of gold to the man
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