The Khazar cursed, blood turning cold, and tried to wrench his sword free. The blade was stuck. He pulled with both hands. The Avar got one eye lined up with an eyehole and it went wide. The man scrambled to draw a sword from a sheath at the side of his saddle. Jusuf abandoned his stuck blade and smashed the Avar full in the face with his shield. As he did, he leaned far over, falling almost off his horse, and across the neck of the Avar stallion.
A gray-fletched arrow flashed above him and cracked through the armor of one of the Khazar bannermen fighting through the press to aid his commander. The boy's eyes went wide, he spat blood and toppled backwards. Jusuf caught the death from the corner of his eye and scrambled back up into his own saddle, the Avar's sword in his left hand. The enemy knight fell out of his saddle and hung upside down, shouting for help.
Jusuf wrenched his horse around, the mare snorting in anger at such rough handling. Another arrow blurred past and another of the Khazar bannermen jerked violently in the saddle. Jusuf blinked, staring across the riot of the battlefield. He was only peripherally aware of the Avar charge smashing through the lancers, scattering them, then swinging with full force into the oncoming ranks of Dahvos' umens.
A hundred feet away, khagan Bayan was sitting easily on horseback, face serene and untroubled. Jusuf blinked and saw the Avar prince raise his bow-a gorgeous black horn-bow nearly five feet high, gleaming in the sunlight-draw, sight and loose in one fluid, powerful motion. The Khazar's eye could barely follow the flight of the arrow, though his head snapped around instantly, and he saw one of the umen commanders in Dahvos' ranks stagger, pierced through by the shot. Jusuf looked back, aghast, and felt a terrible chill.
His arm was ruined! Jusuf's mind struggled to reconcile present sight and past memory. I saw it, all withered and weak! This is impossible.
Bayan plucked another arrow from a quiver slung at his knee and fitted it to the string. The movement was very clear to Jusuf and he could see the powerful fingers of that right arm curling around the grip on the bowstave.
A wave of pigtailed horsemen charged past, long banners fluttering, and Jusuf lost sight of the khagan. Seconds later, he was furiously engaged, trading blows with two Avar knights coming at him from either side. His broken shield took another hammer-blow and shattered, shedding splinters and fragments of wood. Jusuf threw the remains at the man on his left side, then barely blocked a thrust at his leg from the right. The tide of battle swept around him, pushing him away from the khagan.
Another gray arrow flashed through the melee, and another Khazar died.
Chlothar Shortbeard, Alexandros' commander of the phalanx, cursed, pulling off his helmet. The heavy iron bucket spilled sweat and the Frank gasped in relief to be able to breathe. Without thinking, he flipped the leather strap around his saddle horn, letting the spangenhelm bounce against his thigh. It was dangerous to go bareheaded, but he needed to be able to see. The day was getting hotter and he felt he was swimming in this dreadfully hot, wet air. In the last thirty minutes, the center of the slowly expanding battle had congealed. Chlothar snarled for his standard-bearer to come up, and the man did, urging his own horse forward, wither-to-wither with the Frankish captain's.
The main body of the phalanx continued to advance up the road at a steady walk, but they were running out of open ground. Now they were on the verge of the Avar's overnight encampment-a scattering of farmhouses-thatch-roofed, plastered walls over withes or a timber framework-and scattered high-sided Avar wagons. Thankfully, the Slavic infantry had disintegrated and the barbarians were fleeing in a mob through the leather tents and bundles of sleeping hides. A scattering of bodies lay on the road and the embankment.
"Sound halt and re-form!" Chlothar rubbed his chin in disgust, feeling short prickly hairs under his fingers. Beside him, the bucinators immediately began blatting out a stentorian wail. The ranks of the phalanx began to halt, their file leaders howling commands and using rattan canes freely on any man failing to follow the halting drill. The rear ranks stopped first, squaring themselves and shifting their pikes back, out of fouling distance of those ahead. Within a minute the entire mass slid to a halt. Chlothar didn't watch, knowing someone would foul up.
There was a mighty rattle of wood on wood, and then yelps as unfortunate hoplites caught it from their file leaders. Chlothar turned his horse away and trotted along the rear ranks. The Frank stared through the spears, hand shading his eyes against the brilliant sun. The Avars were regrouping among the farmhouses and behind scattered wagons. Some of the Slavs stopped running and Chlothar cursed again, seeing a solid line of shorter men, in darker, heavier armor, appear among the buildings. Brightly colored square banners flapped in the air above them. The Slavs stopped, then turned, shouting defiantly at the Romans.
"Peltasts forward on either side of the road," Chlothar bellowed. "Keep them from forming up!"
Couriers dashed off from the cluster of men around the Frank. Chlothar rose up in his stirrups, straining to see the left and right wings of the army. To the left, there was only a huge, confused, swirling mass of men on horses. Banners jutted up from the field in every direction and the swirl and surge of cavalry in battle was raising a huge cloud of dust. What he could see, however, indicated the Eastern infantry on his flanks holding steady. A distance of at least fifty feet separated them from the Avars, and the opposing lines were staring at each other, waiting for someone to break ranks and attack. The Roman line matched the left edge of the phalanx. Just as it should.
Impressive, the Frank allowed, grudgingly and only in the privacy of his thoughts. The Eastern Legions-the infantry at least-seemed to be every bit as professional as the Western armies. Personally, he was praying desperately to keep from making some irretrievable mistake-Chlothar had only risen to command the hoplites when Prince Ermanerich had been forced to remain in Magna Gothica. He'd felt sick all day.
To the right, however, both armies had collided, with the Eastern foot soldiers engaged in a sparking brawl with the Slavic spear- and axe-men. There the barbarians were stiffened by many Avar knights fighting on foot with longswords or heavy spears. Beyond the melee, where the comes Alexandros and the Companion cavalry were supposed to be in action, Chlothar could see nothing but treetops. Grunting, he turned back to observe the Avars on the road. Given a moment's respite, they were busily dragging wagons across the paved surface of the highway and making an impromptu barricade. Men behind the wagons exchanged bow shots with the Peltasts as they ran forward.
About half of the Peltasts had unslung their oval shields and stood armed with sword, mace or axe. The rest continued to wield the big recurved bow and were shooting at any target of opportunity. Most of the buildings were on fire and smoke billowed up in white clouds from the damp thatch. The Frank shook his head in dismay. Soldiers and fire! Those buildings must be empty by now.
Figuring he had seen enough, Chlothar raised his hand. The runners and signal flagmen tensed. Avar arrows hissed down out of the sky as more of the nomads crowded up to the barricade. Now they were shooting high, trying to hit the men in the phalanx or behind. Their own horse bows could easily make the range.