He didn’t wait to view the spectacle, running through the haze in search of further opponents. His ears were soon assailed by a great roaring followed by the multiple clang of clashing weapons, his ears leading him to the sight of his infantry tearing apart a battalion of Free Swords. They had evidently charged headlong into their line, given the way it had bowed and broken in the centre, hacking and stabbing with their axes and scythes, every face lit with a desperate fury.
The Free Swords tried to stand their ground for a time, bunched together in compliance with the shouted orders of their officers, many freed slaves falling to their short swords, but their line had been broken and, unlike those they fought, they still entertained notions of long lives and families. After another few moments’ frenzied resistance they began to break, men turning and sprinting into the smoke, at first singly or in pairs, then a dozen at a time. One ran in Frentis’s direction, skidding to a wide-eyed halt and landing on his backside, his sword apparently already dropped. Frentis paused to regard the man, taking in the terror in his quivering face, the unintelligible pleas spouting from his lips, and pointed sternly towards the west. The Free Sword gaped up at him for a second more then scrabbled to his feet, sprinting away, still begging for mercy.
“Form up!” Frentis called to the milling freed folk, some still stabbing away at the Volarian dead. “Gather weapons and form up!”
Through a judicious mix of shouts and jostling he managed to reimpose some order, those appointed as sergeants returning to their senses at the sight of him and forming their companies into an offensive line, many now armed with swords and cavalry lances.
“Keep at it until you clear the smoke,” Frentis ordered, turning and striding towards the Volarian centre. The line held until they heard the sound of further combat, unquenched bloodlust raising a cheer from the freed folk as they broke into a spontaneous charge. Knowing they would be deaf to further orders, Frentis charged with them, the smoke parting to reveal a solid wall of Varitai, blank faces regarding them above levelled spears.
He leapt at the last moment, his sword sweeping aside an upraised spear, boots impacting on a Varitai’s breastplate, propelling the man backwards. He landed clear of the Volarian line and turned, hacking down two Varitai in quick succession, his sword finding gaps in their armour with deadly accuracy. The freed folk were quick to spot the opportunity, piling into the gap in a dense mass of thrashing men and women. The useful panic that had gripped the Free Swords was absent here, however, the Varitai falling back in response to a strident bugle call to form another defensive formation twenty yards on. Frentis could see two figures in the centre of the shrinking circle of Varitai, a burly man with a bugle raised to his lips, a veteran sergeant judging by his armour, and a slighter figure with the plumed helm of a junior officer.
“Hold!” Frentis held up his sword as the freed folk gathered themselves for another charge. The rage had gripped them all now, every soot-streaked face alive with a desperate thirst for more blood, gore-covered weapons in every hand, trembling with anticipation.
“We can take them, brother!” a woman called out in hoarse Realm Tongue, dagger in one hand and short sword in the other, both red from tip to hilt. It took a moment for Frentis to recognise this panting, black-faced figure as Lissel, the former chandler from Rhansmill.
“You’ve done enough for today, mistress,” he told her. And we have losses to make good, he added silently. “You’ll find Sister Illian and Weaver on the rise, please fetch them here.”
He moved around the near-perfect circle of Varitai, peering through the fading smoke to confirm the defeat of the Volarian left flank. Free Swords were running in all directions and the Garisai advancing in good order towards the Varitai, Ivelda and Lekran at their head. Frentis held up a hand to halt them in place, turning to quickly count the remaining Varitai. Three hundred. Double the number already in the army.
“Brother.” Illian came to a halt at his side, crossbow in hand. He took in the sight of a bandage on her forehead, the wound just below the hairline and still leaking blood. “Kuritai,” she said with a shrug.
He nodded, turning back to the Varitai. “Wait for my order.” He strode closer to the circle of slave soldiers, gaze fixed on the two figures in their centre. The burly sergeant stood stock still and back straight, staring at Frentis, grizzled face showing a stern defiance he couldn’t help but admire. The officer at his side was at most half the sergeant’s age and considerably less defiant, eyes constantly roaming the surrounding freed folk, face pale with terror.
“You’re alone,” Frentis called to the burly man across the ranks of immobile Varitai. “Your officers are dead or running back to New Kethia. If you want to join them, give the order for these men to lay down their arms.”
The sergeant’s face twisted into a disgusted grimace and he spat on the ground, speaking but one word, laden with contempt, “Slave!”