"Straton, report." 

The room, alight by torches and still warm from the fire, was suddenly brightened by the opened door. Somehow through the cool night, the sandstone of the walls kept the heat locked within through a strange structural design the locals had erected. Three men turned toward the door from their hushed discussion, the map upon the table they leaned over depicting the breadth of the Empire and the lands that bordered it, including the western half of the Ashvari Empire in great detail. Small figures whittled from the wood of fig trees were arrayed along the map to indicate the movement of their regiments, courtesy of Archanon. The men within the room were commanders all, two Protos Lochias of the infantry, a foreigner, and the Protos Kapetanos himself. 

Straton breathed heavily, the Protos Lochias evidently hurried to tell his superior without sparing any of his men, leaving the lesser Lochias to keep discipline and cohesion. It was commendable, being personally left in charge of the scouts to keep their eyes open throughout the night. "They'll be here in a matter of minutes, Archontas." Straton related, and when he was given leave by a wave of his superior's hand, he pushed off the door frame and ran back out to rejoin his company. 

"I will get my men ready," Sayf said, his voice thick with his native Khaslahar accent. The nomad was stopped in his tracks. 

"No. We can't abandon the high ground. Go prepare your men, but not on their horses. You will take to the rooftops and windows until I make my move. You will know it when you see then." The Protos Kapetanos said, towering over the lean, short nomad. Sayf shrugged with his usual devil-may-care attitude, replying. "You are the boss. But if I see the heavens, you will owe me a drink when I see you there." 

"And no doubt you'll drink me under the table." Brasidas Khalkós said as he walked out into the daylight, the rising sun touching his face and illuminating the town of Arbela and the men charging across its streets to better prepare. Once this city had been walled, but Brasidas himself had seen to it that was no more. Buildings made of stone, clay, and what timber there was were sturdy enough however, and they were situated on a great mound a dozen feet above the surrounding landscape. Shrublands and farmhouses covered the swathe of land surrounding the town, now all deserted to escape the Imperial army, who ironically were now the ones defending the frightened populace once more. Brasidas had given leave to send the villagers into the Citadel of Erbil for protection as the men fought upon the streets of the settlement. The Citadel could hardly live up to the name, utterly dwarfed by even a wing of the Imperial Palace in Basilos, but for the Ashvari villagers it was an impenetrable bastion. 

"Loxos, Argyros, line your men up along the main road and set sentries at every causeway and street corner you can find. Keep clear of the citadel, and be ready to move at my orders, understand?"  

"Yes, Archontas!" They said in unison, both turning to run in opposite directions to the east and west wings of Arbela. All the men including Brasidas had little sleep the last night, but in his experience it gave them the edge. They were tired, but crisp. Unused to the comfort of a bed, and now the steel of a sword wasn't so terrible as to shake them. They would do their duties and earn their rest after the fight. On the horizon, Brasidas noticed the rising of dust to the northeast, and he shook his head, breathing through his sculpted nose. "When is Tychos supposed to be here again?" 

"Two days," Sayf said with a grin that showed his teeth. "Well, one day with this sunrise. Maybe the Panther woman will beat him here, yes?" 

Brasidas snorted, knowing he referred to the Miravet woman, Phaedra. The Boreas man had at most spoken to her a handful of times in a professional capacity, and Sayf even less. She had an impressive military record, but it was difficult to say if she could pull off her great advance at the pace any of them had hoped. He supposed it was up to the Gods. "Do us a favor, if we live and you see her, remember rank." Brasidas said, then motioned for him to go to his men. Sayf did so at once, the nomad moving surprisingly quick on his feet for someone born on the back of a horse. Taking only one more moment to appreciate the warmth of the sun, he marched off to his company, donning his plumed helm, denoting his status as leader. 

Brasidas was known as Khalkós amongst his regiment, meaning bronze skin. Both for the color, and his reputed invincibility in battle, some whispering as if his skin were actually wrought of bronze. He knew all too well that was false. The man boasted a build one might call 'heroic,' with a trim midsection of hard muscle and strong limbs, but he ached all the same, and the lines on his face showed the weariness of constant combat and campaigning since he was a boy. He wondered if his father was still looking down on him, and if he would ever live up to the man who died on that day at Mount Alkynos. 

He mounted his warhorse Menelaus, the beast braying proudly at its master's familiar weight. Cataphract horses were another breed, built for strength and tenacity; able to hold up both rider, armor, as well as the horse's own armor, and still move with a thundering speed. As he readied his shield and matzoukion mace, the sun above pierced the town's minaret like a signal, and he heard a cry followed by the twang of recurve bows shot by the Protostate. Soon men and horses began to scream as arrows were traded midair, and from Menelaus he saw the first Kahreeds make it up the incline before they were skewered by the infantry formation; ten foot spears of ash and iron piercing into men and keeping horses at bay. Loxos pulled a man off his horse and plunged his spatha into his neck, the Kahreed having lost his helmet in the struggle. Another arrow hit the ground not twelve paces from Brasidas, bouncing harmlessly away. The man wished he could join the Protostates, but he had a duty with his Cataphracts. It was only when the sun passed the minaret did he roar out: "Lances!" 

His wings readied their polearms, and those closest to him hefted their maces and broad bladed paramerion swords. Horses whinnied and the wind began to kick up, bringing the scent of blood in its wake. It drove the horses to new energy, and he realized the Gods were smiling upon them. Brasidas raised his mace, and behind him a horn blew, slow and loud across the emptied buildings. He kicked Menelaus forward, the horse cantering for a few paces before it began to run at a gallop. Two thousand pounds of metal and muscle rolled forward, with another three hundred cataphracts at his back. The horn had sent his men up front into the alleys and buildings, leaving the invaders at the bottleneck of Arbela's main street. Bewildered, they weren't prepared for the Imperial Cavalry as Brasidas bore down on them. Even with the cries and the arrows, he felt all was silent in the world until he struck. 

His mace cracked the helm of a Kahreed Mamluk, and though he didn't see the damage, the man fell wordlessly from his horse. A saber passed across his cuirass of scalemail harmlessly, the Cataphract not pausing in his advance. He swung again, breaking the shoulder of a lost foreign infantryman, the horses behind him ending his cries of pain with their trampling. Like an avalanche they reached the mouth of Arbela, pouring down the slope and entering a fierce melee. Brasidas saw a cataphract fall off his horse with a sword in his neck as another felled a kahreed horse with his lance. With no more momentum, he dueled a scimitar wielding rider gracelessly, taking a small cut to swing his mace into the man's arm, shattering it. His next blow hit him in the cheek, blood and teeth spraying out. He then saw another duel between two cavalrymen, and he used his mace the only other way he knew how. He threw it, the metal head spinning until it gave a glancing blow to the Kahreed. He didn't see if it made the difference, as he felt himself getting grabbed, Menelaus rearing up in anger as its master was pulled out of his saddle by unknown hands. 

"Die, craven!" An attacker shouted. He wrestled them even as he went down, taking out his knife and cutting into another man he bumped against. Blood and sand mingled with sweat and piss, and when he arose, three kahreed bodies were on the ground at his feet. All around him the battle was turning to their favor, but he knew it wouldn't be enough. He cut the flanks of an enemy horse, sending it screaming and galloping off until he caught sight of his steed again. "Menelaus!" He cried, running through the maelstrom to remount of horse, and finally he unsheathed his paramerion, sounding the retreat. His words were followed by the horn, and soon both sides struggled and tore apart, leaving the hillock of arbela to lick their wounds and assess the damage. 

Brasidas and Menelaus were two of the last to make it to the top of the slope, and he turned to see the enemy army. He growled a curse, realizing they had fought perhaps a quarter of the enemy force. It had been a blow yes. But now it was going to be a seige. One that could last days, it seemed. Even as he lamented, Sayf and his men suddenly appeared like spirits of the sand, rounding the corner of the slope and firing off arrow after arrow at the retreating force, dancing around any pursuers that tried to about face before the main force could join them. 

Brasidas shook his head. "Cheeky bastard."