"Lower spears!" Brasidas cried, his voice carrying across the ranks of sweat and dirt-caked men. The same cry echoes from the Domestikos, and the order was further passed from turmcarch to turmarch, ten foot spears lowering century by century like blades of grass in the high wind. Dust kicked along the sparse landscape, stripping the ground to a reddish hue, as if the very earth was wounded. In the distance, drums beat in a rhythmic pattern, signalling the protostates to hold their positions. 

The formation was spread thin, only nine men deep, and only four of them with spears at the ready. A whistle was blown, and the five men behind the front ranks shifted into a looser formation and drew their composite bows, nocking arrows in one motion. The whistle rang again even as they settled their aim, and the twang of bows were followed by the shade of two thousand arrows arcing into the men still stuck in the riverbed. Another whistle, signalling to retrieve another arrow. Even as they loosed, the mass of the enemy army had arrived on the opposite bank, holding up wicker shields and singing in a wailing dirge to their gods as they began to step down the slope. Four volleys had been sent by the time the Khareeds had the opportunity to hit the imperial army, and they thundered toward the obvious opening Brasidas had left. 

The Protos Kapetanos and his Cataphracti had dismounted, leaving their horses in the rear and forming a rough wall at the center of their formation, flanged maces and heavy shields held aloft. Brasidas screamed a warcry, and the men met it with a roar of their own, stomping their feet in unison as the khareeds lowered their lances, intent on the charge. A cloud passed over the sun, leaving a small lingering glint on one of the steel weapons, the last warning before the cataphracts performed their favorite tactic. The light horse and whooping men atop them were met by the maces, thrown from ten meters away, clashing into armor or causing disarray amongst their horses. Cataphracts were expert mace throwers, and though it caused little casualities, the khareeds hit with less surety and force, and the heavily armored men met them with staunch resistance. 

The clang of lances on shields and scalemail rang, terrible screams erupting and brutal warcries mingled with the whimpering of the dying as another flight of arrows arced over them, stinging the approaching mass of infantry. Brasidas was nearly knocked off his feet by fifteen hundred pounds of horseflesh, but he caught himself, driving his spatha through the leg of another horse. The beast screeched and the rider tumbled off, stuck by a small spear before he could rise to take stock. If all went to plan, Phaedra would wheel right and hit the infantry before they could envelope the imperial infantry. Brasidas would hold the center, stepping back and allowing the enemy to drive a wedge to let the jaws of their trap fall. 

The center had turned into a melee, not a route, like the khareeds wanted. Brasidas and his men began to decimate them like an alchemist's acid, slowly but inexorably, as if it was a foregone law of nature. He had planned to backstep and let them get a false sense of security in their initial charge, but the bloodlust was up, and the cataphracts had held a bit too well. He hoped this small victory would not cause a greater defeat.