Startled birds launched from their hidden nests in front of the advancing wave of warriors, squawking and flapping madly. Gusts across the plain fluttered the feathers upon the army's totem standards and sent chains of bones rattling. The steady trample of thousands of sandalled feet set the ground to shaking, and as the Mekhani came within half a mile of the Askhan line sonorous chants lifted into the air; each tribe giving voice to its traditional war songs, rising in volume in competition with each other.
In the narrowing gap between the two armies, the kolubrid squadrons made a break towards the behemodons, enduring a hail of sling bullets for a while until their faster mounts took them clear of the lacertil-riding warriors of Mekha. Their bronze arrows flew up towards the giant warbeasts, joined by bolts hurled from the Askhan spear throwers on the hill nearly half a mile ahead. The advantage of height was with the enemy and the behemodon mahouts pressed their mounts on into the flurry of missiles to close the range. From the howdahs, the nobles of the tribes hurled spears at the harrying kolubrids while the lacertils closed in behind to drive away the enemy.
Two spears caught the foremost behemodon simultaneously, one lancing through its neck, another smashing into the woven cane howdah. Even as the beast slumped forwards, the structure fell apart, spilling red-skinned warriors into the grass. Several did not rise, but the rest recovered quickly and dashed away, bellows arrows chasing them from the kolubrids.
The beasts with catapults upon their backs halted first, five in all, Mekhani scrambling down ropes to secure the chains hooked into the skin of their beasts so that they could not move too much. The arms of the catapults were pulled back and piles of fist-sized rocks loaded into the cups. At the cries of their chieftains, the war machines were loosed, the catapult arms snapping forward under the power of twisted rope to hurl their projectiles far up the hill, dark blurs falling upon the raised shields of the legionnaires.
Onwards pressed the Mekhani, their chanting growing ever louder and faster, the shouted warnings of their leaders reminding them not to charge too soon. The hill occupied by the Askhans seemed to get steeper the closer the army approached. From here the Askhans looked like a wall of bronze and ErlaanOrlassai realised that the front ranks were kneeling, so that the back ranks could angle their spears down the slope.
The king-messiah looked for gaps in the line as the ground sloped upwards. He searched also for Ullsaard, but could see no sign of the Askhan king. Instead he made directly for the icon of the legion in front, knowing that it was borne by the first company, the best fighters. He would destroy the veterans and sow fear into the hearts of the others with the ease of their destruction.
To his left, the behemodons carrying spear throwers had also come into range. A fierce artillery battle had broken out, rocks and bolts raining down from the hillside and soaring up into the ranks of the spear companies.
A new wave of kolubrids emerged from behind the Askhan line, held in reserve by their commanders. The snake-like mounts swiftly circled around the end of the enemy line and joined with the others to drive back the lacertils. Into the space created, half a dozen spear companies advanced, guarding the lava throwers. The men manning the Mekhani war engines saw the threat and directed their weapons against this advance. Two black-red blossoms of fire erupted amongst the Askhan ranks as the machines found their marks on the fuel barrels of the volatile weapons. The engineless behemodons lumbered into the legionnaires, their crews jabbing down with long spears, the beasts crushing men with their bulk and snapping off limbs with fangfilled mouths.
Five of the lava engines had been dragged into range and gouts of flame spat out towards the enemy, engulfing three of the behemodons. The howdahs ignited swiftly, sending charred corpses tumbling, sticky fire clinging to the hide and armour of the monstrous lizards. Panicked, the creatures ran amok, smashing into the Askhans and lunging at each other in their madness.
Erlaan-Orlassai was no more than two hundred paces from the waiting Askhans and could spare no thought for the battle to his left. He looked in the other direction and saw that the left flank of the Askhan line was pulling back from the overlapping hook of the Mekhani right, anchoring their flank against the walls of their camp. More figures appeared at the rampart and arrows rained down on the desert warriors from above. The king-messiah heard the furious shouts of the shaman-chiefs and the Mekhani surged up the hill, straight at the retreating phalanx.
Erlaan-Orlassai fixed his gaze on the First Captain standing beside the legion icon ahead. There was nothing more the reborn king could do for the moment, save fight himself. Ullsaard had done well to defend against the advantages of the Mekhani, but his army was still outnumbered by at least ten thousand warriors, probably more. Erlaan-Orlassai would break the shield wall himself and the advantage of numbers would do the rest.
He broke into a run at a hundred paces, arms pumping, massive shield on the left, his sword gripped tightly in his right hand. His strides took him quickly clear of the sprinting Mekhani and a thicket of spears seemed to converge on him. He trusted to the gifts of the eulanui and charged straight in, head bowed, sword lifted for the attack.
Wood splintered as Erlaan-Orlassai crashed into the first company. Bronze spearheads bit at his flesh, pricking his thick skin like thorns of a bush would scratch a lesser man. The impact of his arrival hurled two legionnaires backwards with buckled shields and snapped spears. Sweeping down his sword, he carved through three more and plunged into the heart of their formation.
Metal screeched on metal as bronze spear tips met bronze armour. The king-messiah used his shield as a weapon, smashing aside the enemy, crushing their fallen bodies beneath his booted his feet; his sword severed heads and limbs with every wide swing, slicing through shield, armour and flesh without hindrance.
He howled his excitement, the deafening noise terrifying the legionnaires around him. Most of them broke and ran, overwhelmed by the nightmare warrior that confronted them, their bravery washed away by the ensorcelled cry that rang in their ears. A brave few mastered their terror to thrust their spears toward his face, but such was his height, it was easy to sway aside. Erlaan-Orlassai's sword descended in a flash, carving apart a legionnaire from head to waist. With a snarl, the kingmessiah wrenched the blade free and swung backhanded, the edge of his sword chopping through a shield and decapitating another legionnaire.
Around and about their godlike king, the Mekhani poured through the breach in the line. The spear companies hurriedly adjusted their facing, turning their spears to confront the redskinned savages wailing and shrieking in their midst. Some were successful, greeting the charging warriors with a wall of spears; others were caught in mid-manoeuvre by the lightly armoured warriors leaping between their ranks.
With his foes dead or fleeing, Erlaan-Orlassai paused for a moment to take stock. He caught a glint of gold out of the corner of his eye and turned. Kicking aside the corpse of a second captain, he found the fallen icon of the legion, the numerals of the Seventeenth etched into a plaque beneath the disc of Askhos's face. For a moment, he considered mangling the standard, crumpling it beyond recognition with his bare hands. He stopped, remembering that he fought to become king of the empire. He was not some Mekhani savage; he was the future commander of the legions.
He sheathed his sword and stooped to pick up the icon. The stylised bearded face of Askhos was half-covered in blood and spattered with mud. With barely any effort, Erlaan-Orlassai drove the haft of the standard through the body of the dead captain and into the ground beneath. He tore the officer's cloak from his back and used it to wipe away the filth from the face of his ancestor before casting aside the ragged scrap.