Bayan came up furious, eyes glittering. The bow was still clenched in his right hand, but a long single-bladed saber rasped from his sheath with the ease of long practice. Jusuf did not wait for stirring words, or even an insult, but leapt in, slashing at the gleaming black bow with the point of his blade.
The khagan shrieked in fear, snatching the bow back from danger, and Jusuf stabbed with the dagger at the man's face. Unlike his guardsmen, Bayan was wearing an open-faced helmet, which gave him good vision but lacked the full-face protection of their iron masks. The Avar flinched away from the blow and the tip of the dagger scored across his cheek. Face streaming with blood, Bayan blocked wildly. The curved blade of his sword jarred against Jusuf's dagger hilt. For a moment, they swayed back and forth-strength pitted against strength-then the Khazar jumped back, letting his dagger drag, binding along the blade for an instant, and he whipped the longsword in a flat cut at Bayan's head.
With his right hand clutching the precious bow, Bayan could only leap back himself. The tip of Jusuf's sword blurred past his nose. The Khazar swarmed in, his enemy out of balance, smashing heavily at the khagan's guard. Bayan parried furiously, sliding backwards on the soft ground, blocking one stroke, then two. Jusuf drew back, panting, and the Avar got his feet under him. Bayan said nothing, gasping for breath himself, but Jusuf could see undiluted hatred and recognition flare in the khagan's eyes.
I should have left him to die in the snow, the Khazar thought in a still, motionless moment. I had my chance.
Bayan's eyes flickered sideways-searching for his guards-mouth opening to shout, and Jusuf struck. He lunged, the longsword shearing the air beside the khagan's left ear, then slashed down, turning his whole body into the blow as Bayan threw himself to the side. Jusuf's blade bit into the khagan's wrist and ripped through muscle, flesh and bone with a cracking sound. The black bow flew away into the grass and Bayan screamed like a lost child. A long wailing sound, filled with utter despair.
Jusuf stepped in over the khagan his sword flicking up, the sun burning on droplets of blood spilling from the edge.
"Drink, my friend, and tell me what you saw."
Alexandros pressed a leather water bottle into Krythos' hands, tipping up the heavy bag, letting water mixed with vinegar spill into the scout's mouth. The Macedonian waited patiently while Krythos drank. One of the Companions took the bottle when he was done. A ring of men clad in iron surrounded the general, their helmets doffed and held at their saddle horns. The Companion cavalry was armed and armored in the Eastern fashion, with long coats of mail and numerous heavy arms hanging from their saddles. Most of them favored a flanged mace for close combat and lances for the first shock of battle. Most swords would not penetrate the laminated, overlapping armor favored by their traditional enemies.
Like the scouts he commanded, Krythos was clad only in a light shirt of iron rings and his cloak and tunic were mottled, streaked with gray and brown. The scout jerked his chin, pointing back to the middle of the field. A haze of smoke and dust hung over everything. Within the white mist, flames leapt up from a cluster of buildings. Alexandros and his heavy horse stood at the far right end of the Roman line, well beyond the knots of struggling men and the clash of arms where the Eastern infantry drove their enemies back near the center.
"The phalanx," Krythos said, "is fighting among the buildings, in the smoke. The Avars have made a barricade of wagons and the hoplites and Peltasts are trying to break through. The situation is confused. There was too much smoke for me to see who was winning."
Alexandros frowned, eyes thinning to disgusted slits. "That fool Chlothar! The phalanx will be disordered among so many obstructions. What of the Romans on the wings?"
Krythos shrugged. "They advance steadily on this side of the buildings. On the other, they were not fighting, nor was the enemy. The Khazars are locked in furious combat with the Avar right."
"But Chlothar holds the enemy's attention, from all you have seen?"
"Yes, lord. Many Avar banners were clustered at the center."
"Good." Alexandros lifted up his helmet and fitted it over golden curls. "Banners only, no horns! We will attack their flank, with all speed and power. Once we break through, curl to the left. We will drive these barbarians like sheep in the pasture!"
The Companion battle flags dipped and the commanders-of-one-hundred began to move, rounding up their men and the entire mass of horses and riders began to congeal. Fifty feet or so in front of the Companions, a screen of light horse was also in motion, keeping their horses moving in a constant, distracting swirl. Alexandros tugged the chin strap of his helmet tight, then hoisted his lance, finding a good grip on the cornel-wood shaft. The Companions fell into place on either side, forming a wedge trailing back to the left and to the right. The bannermen at the head of each cohort held their flags at an angle, keeping them low.
"Prepare!" Alexandros shouted, and lances rose up all around him, leaf-bladed tips shining. "Ready at the walk!" He nudged his horse and Bucephalas pranced forward, eager, big black head tossing, mane sliding like silk over a powerful neck. At the signal, the ranks of the Companions shifted and began to move forward. The wedge rippled forward as men adjusted their spacing and the horses picked their way over the tufted grass.
"My lord…" Krythos ran alongside Alexandros, his hand on the general's left boot. "You must stay back."
"What?" The Macedonian stared down in surprise-Krythos had never taken such a tone with him before. The scout's brown eyes were filled with worry.
"You're thinking you'll lead the wedge into the enemy." Krythos shook his head in bemusement. "You think you'll crash into them like a hammer, blade and lance drinking blood like some ancient hero." The scout's eyes narrowed and Alexandros was shocked to see amusement flicker across the man's face. "Like Achilles."
"I…" The Macedonian paused, leaning down towards the man. "I will prevail," he bit out, angry at such impertinence. "You've seen me fight-there's no Avar who could withstand my sword."
"I know, I know," Krythos said, nodding in agreement. His fingers curled around the stirrup strap. "I saw you fight the Draculis lord, remember? I saw you take a wound that would have sundered any other man. Aye, and a fine price you exacted from him…"
Alexandros leaned back a little, remembering. Yes, Krythos had been at his side when the lamia had run him through, then lost his head in return. Suspicion darted through his thoughts-what did Krythos think of that strange event? — but he pushed it aside. Time was fleeting, even for men who did not feel death hurrying up behind them. The Avar noyan minghan in command of the facing wing was sure to notice their movement at any moment.
"Then rest easy and take your hand away-I must attack. The moment is right. I can feel it in the air."
"No, my lord. You are not Achilles, slayer of men. You are our general. You must stay out of the fray, watch over the battle and see-like a god looking down from on high-what men locked in combat cannot."
"Take your hand from my stirrup," Alexandros hissed, suddenly furious. His carefully cultivated patience frayed and then he cast it aside entirely. The Macedonian had never accepted any guidance save his own. The man's advice-no doubt well intentioned-goaded his pride like a hot brand. Krythos flinched back from the black look on the general's face, jerking his hand away from the stirrup.