Torm chopped into the neck of a zealot, the acolyte's wild eyed stare and wide smile stricken upon his face as his head flew onto the stones. The knight didn't slow or retreat, in fact stepping forward to run the next poor sod through. It was a strange thing, Torm thought to himself in the back of his mind, as he blocked the swing of a falchion and riposted. You could tell a true believer from a man driven to join by circumstance as they died. There was a look in their eyes that showed they were ready to be embraced by the divine, or they still had ties to this life. 

Another corpse fell, wet with blood. Sir Christoph and Heraculus guarded his flanks as the knights and dwarves waded into the disorganized masses, more to distract the priest queen's stunned forces than any real hope of victory. Behind them, the silver swords and what dwarves could be spared shoved palisade walls down and broke them into manageable sections. The word had come up the line Bianca had gone in the drink, either thrown or jumped in herself, he didn't know. 

A horn sounded in the distance, followed by another. A third, louder one rang behind them on the northern beach of the river. Their time was running perilously short, but Torm felt the hair on his neck stand on end, and he knew magic was being worked. He blocked an axe aimed at his skull, and as his eyes were cast skyward, the stars were obscured to the north. He didn't know what was happening, but he could hear the wind howling. A hand grabbed his shoulder, and he raised his free arm in a guard as a voice shouted in his ear. It was Aljazrad the Mamluk. 

"The Captain orders retreat, Lieutenant!" He cried over the din in his heavy accent. 

They should have been on their steeds, but the Captain had ordered the dismount so they did not get left behind. The destriers would be the most complicated river crossing, but Torm would soon realize he needn't have worried. At least not on the horses. The dwarves had concocted a cunning and quick solution, carving out the extra palisade logs to trap air and slipping them between the horse's legs front to tail, and tethering the steeds to the rafts so they could swim with added buoyancy. Not an ingenious device, for the knights had been forced to do something similar with leather bags, but clever nonetheless to use the logs for the same fashion. It was the disciplined retreat that was the real problem. 

Some fanatics had swung round behind, cutting off their retreat with a thin line of queen botherers. Torm pushed a burly soldier away with a rough shove, before flipping his sword and raising it blade first in the air; a signal the dwarves understood. Their lieutenant, Tostig, had his dwarves begin a chant that showed they acknowledged the order. Torm couldn't rightly command the dwarves, but they knew he had an idea and saw the wisdom in it. Immediately the dwarves backstepped as one. "HOOO HOOO HOOO HOOO" shouting with each step, and the cavaliers retreated behind the line, the stout warriors spinning around immediately. 

Now the knights under Torm were faced with the flanking line of foes, and the dwarfs held the onrushing horde back, now backstepping again as Torm and his men spearheaded into the slim line of foes. The tall and powerful armored infantry smashed into them, cutting a swathe and eating through them like acid thrown at a wool blanket. They did what they did best, and the dwarfs held the immeasurable tide back with their impenetrable defense. Makrazid struck a man on the head with his mace so hard, Torm was in awe at the steel head reaching the man's ruined neck. Sir Gerold ran the spike of his hunting spear into the groin of a short zealot, and he squealed like the boars Gerold was so fond of hunting.  

The priest-queen's flanking force, armed like militia and low in number, were slaughtered and broken. The knights cleared the path, and what Silver Swords remained on the beach supported the infantry with arrows and quarrels as the dwarves and knights made it to the rafts. The water was cold and dark, and the river never slept, but with the priest-queen's forces nipping at their heels, the last of the Silver Swords pushed off, and slowly made their way to the opposite embankment.