Then, from the copse running along the right side of the road, came a sound like the furious whirring of bees but a hundred times louder. She was stopped from dwelling on it when the Chetts she had been pursuing peeled off the road and wheeled around in a manoeuvre that would have been impossible on her big charger. She overshot them, caught a glimpse of them loading their bows. She reined in and desperately pulled her horse around. The road behind her was covered in the dead and dying, and all of them belonged to her company. She stopped, her mouth dropped open in shock, and she realised what the sound must have been. Hundreds and hundreds of arrows. She had never heard nor seen such a thing before. Some of her riders were turning and turning again, looking for someone to fight, and then from the copse came a shower of arrows as thick as a cloud. The last thing she saw was the last of her company fall to the ground with an arrow in his throat, then she felt herself pitch back over the saddle with the force of several shafts plunging into her chest and stomach at the same time. She was dead before she hit the ground.
The ensign leading the remnants of the Amanite infantry, a grizzled old campaigner who had worked his way up from the ranks, recognised the sound coming from the copse ahead. He immediately halted the column and ordered his infantry to form a line across the road, and signalled to the officer leading the archers behind his infantry to copy him. As the two units started to spread out, a regiment of heavy infantry ran into the rear ranks of the archers and an argument started. The officer in charge of the archers raced back to sort things out. His own soldiers stopped forming their line, not sure what was happening or who was in charge. Some of the more enterprising actually strung their bows, nocked a flight arrow and put a handful of the heavier barbless arrows in the ground before them, but they were on level ground and could see little ahead of them because of the Amanite infantry, now neatly organised in three lines across the road. The argument behind them was getting fiercer when a commotion started in front of them as well. They looked up as one and saw it was no argument, but the curses of the Amanites watching their doom ride down upon them.
As soon as the enemy cavalry had been cleared away, Akota reformed her banner. She waited until she saw Lynan and his Red Hands appear at the northern end of the road and gave the signal to charge. They stormed around the bend in the road and found the Amanite light infantry had formed a defensive line across their path. Without hesitation the column split in two, one heading east around the Amanites, the other heading west. As they passed the enemy, the Chetts, directing their horses with their knees, loosed a salvo, reloaded, loosed again, and by then were parallel with the foot archers, still disorganised, and shot another two salvos. The foot archers scattered, causing chaos among the Amanites in front of them and the heavy infantry, still entangled with their lines, behind them. Amid the panic the Chetts dropped more and more arrows, and to the enemy it was like a dark rain of death.
Then the Chett horse archers had passed on, continuing down either side of the road, shooting salvos into the regiments behind, and those in the van thought that for the moment it was over and they could reorganise their lines and perhaps even counterattack, but before their officers could rally them the Red Hands appeared, led by a screaming, pale-faced madman who could only be Prince Lynan. At first the surviving Amanites thought the banner would course around them and shoot their arrows, but then they noticed these Chetts were holding sabres, not bows. Before they could tighten their lines and raise their spears, the Red Hands ploughed into them like a pike slashing into a school of fish.
Lynan would not let any rider pass him. He came around the bend at full gallop, his sabre ready, chose his target and dug the spurs into his mare's flank. The horse seemed to leap into the enemy. Lynan's sabre swung down to his right, slicing open a head, then caught another skull on the upswing. He brought the sword down on the other side, cutting off an ear, brought it up and down again on the right. He tore through the first line, then the second, slashing in wide arcs, scattering the enemy before him, and then was upon the archers. Here he went for arms and hands and eyes, and instead of charging through he wheeled around to ride along the line the archers had tried to form, then pulled back and wheeled around again. To the archers it was like being attacked by a windmill with a steel blade instead of sails, and they dropped their weapons and fled. But by then the rest of the Red Hands were among them, and no matter which way they ran there seemed to be Chetts waiting for them, their terrible swords lopping off heads and limbs. The air around them was wet with a bloody mist and they gagged on the smell of it.
By now some of the more experienced officers among the enemy had organised some of the heavy infantry companies well enough to offer some resistance. Chett arrows had little effect on their armour and shields, and when their lines were properly formed there was little the Red Hands could do to get at them.
Lynan saw it was time to go. He ordered the retreat, and as the order was passed along, the Chetts broke contact with the enemy and rode hard for the north, back the way they had come. Behind them they left most of the enemy milling in confusion, their vanguard utterly destroyed.
Dejanus was ready to flee south and desert his Great Army, but Savis pointed out that meant they would have only their small escort of cavalry; he controlled his fear and decided to stay with the column.
'We march south immediately,' he ordered. 'Everyone about face. Back to the camp. At least there we can defend ourselves properly. And I can demand Chancellor Gravespear send us more regiments. We are outnumbered already!'
The rest of the army did not need much convincing. Although still largely intact, word had spread through the column about what had happened to the van, and no one wanted to share its fate. The light cavalry that had been protecting the army's flank now took the new vanguard and led the way back south, followed by the regiments in reverse order from their march north. By early afternoon they were in sight of the camp, and were heartened to see their reserve of Storian cavalry riding up the road to greet them. Then, with horror, they watched as the Storians lowered their lances and charged.
Lynan had waited patiently for this moment. So far he had used only a handful of his banners, but now it was time to unleash his whole force. The Great Army was demoralised and unsure of who was ally and who was enemy. Lynan gave the signal and, led again by Akota, the horse archers poured over crest and out of forest to bear down on the enemy column, but this time she led fifteen banners instead of just her own. Like a dark tide they flooded around the column, shooting salvo after salvo of arrows into the densely packed infantry. Fire arrows slammed into the supply wagons, sending black plumes of smoke into the air. As if that was not enough, Terin's lancers, dressed as Storians, had swept away the Great Army's last vestiges of cavalry and then driven into the heavy infantry before they could set their lines. The lancers drove through the centre of the column like a chisel through a block of mealy wood, splitting it into two. The final blow came when the Red Hands charged from the east, hacking and slashing their way through all opposition, and from the west charged Ager's Ocean Clan, doing the same on the other side of the road.