I had no time to relish the victory. Another Imperial rider was already bearing down on me, his lance levelled directly at my chest.
Defenceless, I hauled on the reins, desperately trying to dodge. The bastard missed me, but his lance drove deep into the side of my horse. My mount shrieked, its front legs buckling instantly. The beast tipped forward, throwing me wildly off balance. At the very last fraction of a second, I kicked my boots free of the stirrups and threw my weight sideways.
I hit the ground violently, avoiding the crushing weight of my dying horse by mere inches.
I slammed into the mud. The impact knocked the air from my lungs in a violent rush. My vision blurred. A sickening, jarring disorientation washed over me, immediately drowned out by a blinding spike of pure battle fervour. I scrambled to stand, my boots slipping uselessly in the blood-slicked mud.
The thunder of hooves approached fast. I looked up to see a Roman horseman bearing down on me, his short sword raised for the decapitating blow.
I drew Dark Sister in a single, fluid motion. I dropped to one knee, letting the massive warhorse pass beside me, and swung the Valyrian steel in a brutal, upward arc. The Valyrian blade sheared cleanly through the horse's forelegs. The beast collapsed with a sickening crunch of bone, launching its rider into the muck.
The Roman lay pinned beneath the thrashing weight of his mount. I staggered over to him. He opened his mouth, his eyes wide as he desperately tried to plead for his life. I drove the point of Dark Sister straight through his teeth, silencing him instantly.
A terrifying looseness took hold of my limbs. The sheer, suffocating chaos of the battlefield was nothing like the tourneys of Westeros. Death surrounded me on all sides. Men were screaming. Horses were dying.
Then, Ana's grave warning rang clearly through the ringing in my ears: If you are unhorsed, make your way out. Fall back to the infantry.
I drove the tip of Dark Sister into the mud, using my ancestral blade as a crude crutch to balance myself. I plunged into the churning nightmare of the cavalry skirmish. I dodged the trampling iron hooves of panicked horses, parried stray blades from unseen enemies, and threw myself through agonizing gaps in the slaughter. Shallow cuts and brutal bruises blossomed across my body, my breath burning in my throat, but I kept moving.
Finally, I broke free of the charging horses.
I stood gasping in the bloody mud, my heart hammering violently against my ribs. I gazed around frantically, wiping a mixture of sweat and gore from my eyes. Through the haze, I saw the Qohorik infantry lines advancing steadily across the field.
I tightened my grip on the hilt of Dark Sister, straightened my aching back. I limped away from the cavalry slaughter, my breath rattling in my throat as I transitioned into a frantic, uneven jog toward the Qohorik infantry lines. I scanned the chaotic horizon, my eyes burning with sweat, searching desperately for the white banner of the Falling Stars.
After crossing a vast, muddy expanse littered with the dying, I finally spotted the silver star snapping in the wind near the center of the allied vanguard.
I pushed my aching legs harder, weaving through the disorganized rear guard until I found Marc. The giant was a pillar calm amidst the madness, issuing sharp, piercing whistles through his teeth to dictate the uniform rotation of his shield wall.
He caught sight of me limping into the formation, a wry, blood-flecked grin splitting his beard. "Had your taste for blood, Princeling?" he bellowed over the roar of the battlefield.
I gritted my teeth, gripping the hilt of Dark Sister so tightly my knuckles ached. "Not yet!"
Marc jerked his chin toward the rear of the formation. "Then by all means, join the rank and continue!"
I grunted, falling into place at the very back of the dense infantry column. The discipline of the Falling Stars was mesmerizing. The line moved forward at a steady, rhythmic pace. Every few minutes, exhausted men from the front would peel away and filter to the back to catch their breath, seamlessly replaced by the men behind them.
Slowly, the crush of bodies pushed me forward. The smell of sweat, voided bowels, and hot iron grew suffocating. Finally, the man in front of me stepped aside, and I was thrust onto the absolute frontline.
The Roman shield wall loomed mere feet away, a terrifying wall of crimson and steel.
The heavy infantryman beside me slammed his shield forward, bracing his shoulder against the wood. "Use the gaps!" he barked at me, his voice hoarse. "If they lock their shields, use the pike at your feet to break their knees!"
I did not bother with the pike. I waited for the agonizing screech of Roman steel glancing off our shields, then thrust Dark Sister through the narrow opening. The Valyrian steel punched effortlessly through chainmail and flesh. I ripped it free, sidestepped a blind spear thrust, and drove the blade into another throat. I fought with brutal efficiency, butchering five legionaries before my shoulders began to burn with liquid fire.
A heavy hand patted my back—the signal to rotate. I gratefully stepped back, letting a fresh sellsword take my place, and filtered back through the ranks until I reached Marc's position.
I leaned against my sword, spitting a mouthful of muddy saliva. "This is far more disciplined than that absolute slaughter of a cavalry charge," I panted.
Marc smiled wryly, never taking his eyes off the front. "The cavalry charge would have succeeded had we been given command of it."
"Likely," I agreed, wiping the sweat from my eyes.
I waited for my turn in the rotation, but it never came.
Marc suddenly inhaled sharply and unleashed a frantic, erratic series of whistles. I looked up. The ground beneath my boots began to tremble.