"We cannot go back that way!" Adolphus cried. 

"At the flanks! We must move south!" Nikos cried, the mail ensconced Cataphract waving his mace in the air. 

"Commander, orders?" Sir Gregor cried, and Castor gave a warcry as his destrier kicked out, snapping the neck of a flagellant that had attempted to get a lucky kill. Blood splattered on his fellows, who finally seemed reluctant to swarm in without the use of polearms. Seven knights had been torn out of their saddles, and though they killed at least three zealots even as they went down, they were butchered nonetheless. The cohort had only survived by keeping on the move, trying in vain to move up the hill toward the town. A flash and a sound of thunder rumbled as Black Ryann attempted to clear the way, but it did little except send a score of fanatics to their screaming gods. 

The Dwarf, Gardek he called himself, spat contemptuously onto the head of a fallen flagellant, his eyes staring listlessly into the sky as he lay shattered on the blood stained grass. The dwarf was strapped to the horse so as not to fall off, very much awake and cursing the gods he was from all the riding. Torm hadn't the time to make the ride easy for him, and even if he had, the dwarf had tried to kill him and the Silver Swords yesterday. By Torm's estimation he should simply be glad he hadn't burned to death. 

"Nikos speaks the truth!" Torm cried, raising his lance. "Wheel right and move south! Follow me!" 

He set his great helm back on and urged Lycurgus forward. The horse whinnying with barely suppressed aggression. Fighting and being surrounded by foes did that to even the best trained horse, and Torm knew they could not keep this up all day. Every charge into the enemy threatened to break the cavalry's cohesion, and without it every knight would be swiftly torn apart. Torm and Lycurgus stormed south, bowling over militant after militant. A spear cut across Lycurgus's side, and though the horse screamed in pain, it didn't go down. Horses were big animals, able to survive wounds that would kill three men. And Lycurgus was armored. But still, Torm felt sympathy for his destrier, his most constant companion. He took solace knowing that anyone who swung at him would swiftly be trampled by the heavy cavalry that fanned out behind him.  

There was a cacophony of screams and war shouts, but the knights were growing tired of charging. Even something as bloodlusting as trampling down wave after wave of poorly equipped infantry could grow exhausting and monotonous after enough time spent, and Torm knew if they didn't break out of last wave of the army soon, they would be stopped and forced to fight to the death. A Mamluk wailed in pain and anger as an arrow pierced his shoulder, but he kept himself upright with the skill they were legendary for. Luckily, within the next minutes, the grinding charge hammered through the last dregs of the Priest-Queen's right wing before the cavarly broke through. The horses panted and the men could hardly shout out calls of thanks to their gods. Instead, they silently trod eastward, going round the hillock of the town to get to whoever might be retreating through the tunnels. Hopefully there were still some Silver Swords left alive. 

Vaguely, Torm wondered how Bianca fared. He did not entirely know why. He had never been on the best terms with the Scout lieutenant, but he knew if she died, the number of skilled commanders grew very thin. He hoped she didn't blame him for the pitiable number of dwarves they saved. He already put enough blame on himself, he thought grimly.