He had only the briefest instant to gauge the flow of the battle, but he could see this last disciplined force was simply too strong. Not only was Tiesto losing his men faster than they were taking down the revenants, when they were finished with Tiesto’s army, Seranthia would be next.
“Renrik!” Tiesto heard a bellow, and he saw the huge Dain of the Akari charge a square of revenants protecting a necromancer in their center.
Even weakened, Dain Barden was an indomitable force. Each swing of his hammer smashed heads and bodies into pulp, and he fought alone, unaware or uncaring of the fact that he was surrounded by enemies on all sides. He stood as high as the tallest of the barbarians, and his muscled arms wielded his weapon with savage strength. His armor of bleached leather was torn and covered in blood, but the Dain had only eyes for his traitorous necromancer, the man it had all started with, when Sentar visited the Akari, long ago.
Tiesto tore his eyes from the Dain’s struggle as a group of revenants came close, but his men pushed them back, and he once more scanned the battlefield.
Dain Barden was now two men from the gray-robed necromancer, and then one. He killed the last revenant with a crushing blow to the skull, and then Renrik turned and fled.
The Dain snarled as revenants came between him and the fleeing necromancer, and then there were so many flashing blades that Tiesto could no longer make sense of the struggle.
Looking farther out, Tiesto saw Hazarans trickle out of the cloud of dust, the desert warriors choking and gasping, and then the trickle became a steady stream of riders. Directly in front of Tiesto, a cluster of three Tingaran avengers broke through the enemy ranks, flails whirling, giving Tiesto a moment’s respite.
As Alturan heavy infantry with glowing armor and swords surged to follow the spearhead into the enemy’s heart, Tiesto heard a man calling his name.
“Tiesto!”
Tiesto turned and saw Bartolo pushing forward, blood splattered on the man’s face and hands.
“Where’s Miro?”
“I lost him. Look! Back at the hills!”
Tiesto turned back to the hills and saw a long line of red. A huge flag flapped in the breeze, and Tiesto recognized the teardrop and flame.
“It’s the Petryan advance guard!” Bartolo cried. “The Petryans have come!”
“They’re too far away.” Tiesto grimaced. “We’ll lose the battle before they get here.”
Sweeping his gaze across the clouds of dust and engaged men at every point of the line, Tiesto had an idea.
“Bartolo, go and find the kalif. The Hazarans are coming out of the dust on our right. If you can’t find Ilathor, find Jehral. Tell him to gather his horsemen and ride up to the hills. Fetch the Petryans and bring them down to the battle.”
“What if Ilathor refuses?”
“Make him!” Tiesto growled.
Bartolo grinned. “All right.”
As Bartolo sped away, Tiesto once more saw the danger at his flanks. The three avengers had all fallen, revenants hacking down at them as they writhed.
Tiesto saw the enemy preparing a countercharge at the gap left by the avengers and, realizing the danger, saw it was time to make his own attack.
“To me!” Tiesto cried.
He waved his single-activation sword high above his head and leapt back into the fray with renewed vigor, signaling his intent with the fiery line of his sword. Soldiers of all nations gathered to his call, roaring and shouting in defiance.
61
Miro fought.
Lost in the dust, Miro looked for Bartolo, but he couldn’t see much at all. His zenblade was completely dark, and without the power of Ella’s lore, the long blade became heavy and difficult to wield. Miro concentrated on his armorsilk, chanting for protection and shadow, and with the battlefield a confused melee of powdered stone and screaming warriors, he simply looked for opponents, throwing himself at enemies as quickly as they came.
He fought by running, flicking his sword to the left and right as he charged, knocking as many back with his shoulder as he did with his blade. He poured activations into his armorsilk, his voice rising and falling with each stroke of the bright steel, and each cut at a warrior was met with a cry, the sharp sword slicing through flesh and bone. Penetrating deep into the ranks, he realized he was among the toughest of the enemy warriors, revenants in black-and-white checkered uniforms, and these were skilled swordsmen, many carrying enchanted weapons.
Soldiers of all nations fought and died on all sides. It was the most chaotic struggle Miro had ever fought in. Dust came and went, obscuring the city and then revealing the enemy’s endless numbers. An Alturan on Miro’s left fell as a gash opened in his throat, and a Veznan on his right died as a warrior in black tore his body in two. Two more soldiers filled the spaces they left, but were in turn cut down.
And then it was only Miro.
Glancing around, he saw the allied attack had faltered; he was the only one of the charging men still among the cluster of uniformed warriors.