The Black Gods War

banged his throwing spear against his shield. His brothers did the same. Their clangor rolled across the desert and rose to the dark heavens.
    “March!” he bellowed.
    He made long strides into the open field, his men following in ranks beside him. The muscles in his arms clenched with excitement, yearning for the slaughter to come. With his body protected behind his shield, he’d rush past Pawelon’s outstretched spears, ram his own shield against his enemy’s, and surprise the first pig with a stab to the gut. With his brothers at his side, he’d push further into the wall of spears, lashing out with his sword like a snake’s tongue whenever his enemies least expected it.
    They drove onward, silent and focused, within range of Pawelon’s bows.
    The first volley of Pawelon’s black arrows took flight, soaring up against the backdrop of the red cliff walls.
    Atius issued the command, “Tortoise!”
    He raised his curved rectangular shield in front of him, covering himself from knees to nose. His brothers along the front and the flanks raised their shields with him, overlapping as a bulwark against the falling arrows. The remaining shields formed a tight ceiling above them. The soldier to his rear rested the forward edge of his shield on Atius’s head, restricting and focusing Atius’s vision forward.
    “For Lux Lucis!” he yelled as they marched steadily onward.
    The hissing of arrows filled the air. The shield above Atius blocked his view of the arrows above him, but across the field more volleys were loosed.
    Atius’s heart jumped. Arrows cracked against the shield over his head and at his front.
    “My shield!” one of his men shouted.
    A sudden pain ripped through Atius’s leg. He screamed, agony arresting his mind and vision.
    An arrow stuck out from his calf. His broken greave fell to the ground.
    He drove on in agony, unable to do anything but march alongside his brothers. He yearned to grab at his wound, but his mind held strong and he refused to lower his shield.
    The shafts rained in front of them as a black blur. Some lodged into the earth, some skidded along the ground, others shattered upon impact.
    His gritted his teeth and thrust his wounded leg forward, forcing it to move.
    More arrows crashed, like a swift explosion of hail on a rooftop. His men screamed in horror.
    How is this happening? On other occasions, he’d seen the volleys loosed by ten thousand Pawelon archers. Now ten times more arrows were falling. The ground became a sea of black wooden shafts.
    Their sages …
    He saw his wife before his eyes, her long, thick hair and full lips above soft breasts and shoulders. She’d wear black for him when he died, and pray to Lord Danato to guard his soul.
    “Aaargh!”
    A second arrow pierced his wounded leg. He reached down reflexively, lowering his shield and leaning forward for just a moment.
    An arrow whizzed past his ear and the soldier behind him screamed and crumpled. The soldier behind the fallen one tripped and fell forward, knocking against Atius’s legs as the man’s shield rattled against the ground.
    Atius turned to look at the fallen warriors. An arrow ripped into his left shoulder. An uncontrollable scream escaped his lungs.
    In horrific pain, he tossed his spear as far forward as his muscles allowed. He tried to raise his shield to protect himself, but his arm refused, trembling.
    More screams.
    More arrows falling around them.
    He stumbled and collapsed, choking as blood filled his mouth.
    A final pain shot through his heart.

    ~~~~~

    Frowning creases appeared on Duilio’s dry face as his mouth pursed closed. “It's some sort of trick by their sages. They’ve multiplied their arrows.”
    Lucia watched the chaos around her, faintly hearing terrible screams in the distance. Would this prove to be a nightmare, or her end? She knew if she died today, her father and brother would bring such a fury against Pawelon that nothing would remain of their fortress and army.
    As she contemplated the worst, a distant whining turned into a terrifying howl. A fiery light burned its way across the sky, from the west above the Pawelon citadel and all their distant lands. The object arced its way downward, flying toward her and the Strategos.
    “Think of Lord Cosimo now, Your Grace.” Duilio spurred his horse toward the conflict. Lucia followed.
    “We are too late now. Stop!” She caught up with Duilio as he halted and looked to her.
    “I believe in you, Lucia. Do what you