Shadow and Dust

‘Keep close to me,’ Faraxen said to Aban.

The distance shrank.

Faraxen leant forward in the saddle, sword out. A solid wall of steel, armour, and horseflesh rushing towards him.

A wild song of his youth in his head. His mind very clear. His sole focus on the rider he would meet.

Just when it seemed both sides would be dashed to destruction in a terrible, tangled collision, horses veered, and the ranks opened out. No horse, unless maddened, will run into a solid object.

Ready for the swerve of the horses, Faraxen thrust at the rider who flashed by on his right. The blade slid off an armoured shoulder. A Pannonian in the second rank cut down at his head. Faraxen brought up his shield. An impact jarred up his left arm, and the assailant was behind him.

The horses were impeding each other, the pace slowing. A trooper swung at Faraxen’s face. Faraxen blocked, and thrust back. The trooper took the blow on his shield. Their mounts were at a standstill.

A yell of triumph. Out of the corner of his eye, Faraxen saw the big red standard topple.