Stalking Darkness

pointing.
    “Damn! The scouts from Eagle troop said those hills were clear yesterday.” The edge of Plenimaran territory lay more than twenty miles to the east.
    The rest of the turma scrambled from their tents in various stages of readiness.
    “Full armor,” shouted Beka, dashing back to finish dressing. Outside, she could hear Portus,Braknil, and Mercalle barking at their riders. “Lances and swords! Come on now, this is it!”
    Minutes later all thirty riders were mounted and ready. Their chain mail, and the white horse and sword insignia on the fronts of their green tabards, showed bravely in the early morning light. Beka gave them a satisfied once-over, then led the way to where Captain Myrhini and the troop’s standard-bearer were waiting. Lieutenant Koris’ Second Turma galloped up to join them.
    Myrhini sat her white charger and barked out orders in a voice that carried over the general outcry of the camp.
    “Commander Klia wants our troop to hold this far right end of the battle line. Commander Perris’ squadron will be to our left. Lieutenant Beka, I want your turma on our right. Koris, you’ve got the left. We’ll show these sneaky bastards that you have to get up earlier than this to catch the Queen’s Horse in bed on such a fine morning. Form up!”
    Beka turned to her riders. “Sergeant Mercalle, you’ve got the center of our section. Sergeant Braknil, take right; Portus, the left.”
    The three decuriae fell into formation, lances waving like the spines on a sea urchin. Watching their faces, Beka saw in them a mix of fierceness and elation.
    And fear.
    They were a young group, among the youngest in the regiment and, despite all their hard training, they hadn’t seen any worse action than their skirmish with bandits weeks ago. This was just as unexpected as that had been, but a hundred times more daunting. Thirty-three faces turned to Beka as she buckled on her white-crested helm. She knew as she looked at them that no matter how brave they were or how well they fought, there were bound to be some who wouldn’t live to see the sun set.
    “We’ll show ’em today, right, Lieutenant?” called Corporal Kallas, giving her a nervous, cocky grin.
    She grinned back. “Damn right we will! Honor, strength, and mercy, First Turma.”
    Waving bows and lances, they returned the cry.
    The trumpet signal “canter advance” came down the line. Unsheathing her sword, Beka brandished it and yelled out, “Blood and Steel, First Turma!”
    “Blood and Steel!” they roared back at her, shaking their lances.
    The rumble of hooves and harness rang out on the morning air as the line advanced to meet the enemy cavalry. The trumpets sounded again, and the line sprang forward at a gallop across the plain. Spring was creeping slowly up into Mycena and their horses kicked up clods of half-frozen mud as they ran.
    As the two forces hurtled at each other, closing the distance to seconds, Beka felt only a deadly stillness as she marked an oncoming Plenimaran officer. Both sides set up a blood-chilling battle cry as the two forces collided—cries quickly swelled by the screams of horses and soldiers.
    Myrhini’s troop was in the thick of it from the outset. By midmorning they had battled their way behind the enemy’s flank. Regrouping, they wheeled back to attack the rear guard, only to have the Plenimaran cavalry fade away like smoke before wind at their advance, leaving a line of archers and pikemen in their wake to meet the Skalan charge.
    Bloodied to the elbows, Beka and her remaining riders heard the trumpets sound the advance again and rode down on the enemy line through a hail of arrows. As she rode, Beka glimpsed soldiers falling and riderless horses veering wildly across the field. Sergeant Portus went down under his own horse, but there was no time to stop for him.
    Plowing into the ranks of infantry, Beka’s turma fanned out, striking left and right with swords as they pressed their mounted advantage.
    Hewing her way through the chaos, Beka caught a welcome glimpse of regimental standards on the far side of the melee.
    “Look there,” she shouted to the others. “Second Turma’s with us. Close the gap!”
    She was wheeling her horse for a renewed charge when an enemy soldier struck at her with a javelin, catching her a glancing blow across the front of her left thigh just below the edge of her mail shirt.
    He struck at her again, aiming for her throat. Beka rocked back in the saddle and