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Jass Eshana swung into the saddle of his quagga. Dozens of other Matile soldiers also mounted up, the quaggas’ hooves stamping against the street as the animals snorted and neighed in anticipation. The Dejezmek hefted the lance he carried, and was reassured by its weight and balance. The long, heavy weapon he and the others would carry held his last, desperate hope to break the back of the Uloans’ invasion.
Ordinarily, he would never have considered using cavalry in a street battle. The narrow confines of the city’s streets worked against the effective use of mounted troops. But this conflict had been far beyond the ordinary since the moment the Uloans and their jhumbis had swarmed onto Khambawe’s docks. The battle was going badly for the city’s defenders. Defeat appeared imminent. Even so, a new, unexpected change in tactics could well turn the tide in the Matiles’ favor.
Eshana had assembled his hastily gathered force in a wide square normally used as a produce market. Here, the quaggas would have ample room to maneuver while the Dejezmek worked out the final details of his battle plan. When the Uloans reached the market, a surprise would be waiting for them.
Saddles creaked and harnesses jingled as the last defenders of Khambawe awaited Eshana’s order to attack. Firelight glinted from the steel tips of their lances and pooled in the wide eyes of their steeds. Hands reached out to soothe the eager quaggas.
The Matile heard the Uloans long before they came into sight. Their incessant chant – Retribution time! – punctuated a chorus of maniacal shrieks.
Then they appeared, bursting into the market-square like a swarm of locusts. Blood dripped from their weapons and trickled across the scar-patterns on their faces and bodies. Flames of frenzy blazed in their eyes as they bellowed their chant as if it were a challenge to the world.
Eshana knew the Uloans had reached a state of complete battle-madness, in which they would kill and keep killing until no more of their enemies stood before them – or until no more Uloans remained on their feet. The islanders’ advance had to be broken – now.
“Forward!” the Dejezmek commanded.
He spurred his quagga toward the Uloans. His troops followed him. He lowered his lance and tensed his arm muscles to absorb the jarring shock that would come when the point of his weapon impaled flesh and bone.
At the sight of the mounted force that confronted them, the Uloans halted their advance. But the contorted expressions on their faces never changed; their screaming never stopped. Showing a discipline that contrasted with their maniacal appearance, the islanders parted ranks, opening a path for the jhumbis that had come behind them.
The quagga Eshana rode was battle-tested. It had faithfully carried him on punitive attacks against rebel Jasses who no longer respected their ties to the Empire. And he had ridden it on lion hunts, in which he and the quagga came within spear-length of the great cats before he plunged his lance into their tawny hides and took their manes as trophies.
But something about the jhumbis – perhaps a stench of the supernatural that was beyond the perception of humans, but not animals – panicked Eshana’s quagga this time. Eyes rolling in fear, the beast stopped short and reared, pitching Eshana from his saddle.
The other quaggas reacted similarly. In the blink of an eye, a potentially devastating cavalry charge became a turmoil of screaming, stampeding quaggas, fallen riders and broken lances. As the few Matile who had not been thrown struggled to control their steeds, the Uloans, led by the jhumbis, rushed forward in a wave of imminent mayhem. And the “Retribution Time” chant filled the market square.
Of this, Eshana knew nothing. He lay where he had fallen: neck broken, dead eyes staring sightlessly at the smoke-streaked sky.