A Dream of Mortals (Book #15 in the Sorcerer's Ring) by Morgan Rice Page B

on massive horses, flying banners, bore down on her.
She looked up and saw, high above, the Empire general, looking down, clearly
enjoying himself, satisfied that he was about to witness a bloody slaughter.
    Volusia, though, was unafraid. In fact, she
relished the confrontation. She had enjoyed violence her entire life, and this,
she felt, was no different.
    “Fork into three divisions!” she commanded, her
voice booming over the din of the galloping horses. “One fork left, one right,
and one in the middle with me!”
    Her army, well-disciplined, did as she
commanded, dispersing into three units, charging to meet each of the three
empire battalions. A huge caravan of horses charged right for her, over the
golden bridge, and before them, in the vanguard, charged thousands of soldiers on
foot, with their long black-and-gold axes held high, gleaming in the sun.
    Volusia knew she did not have the manpower of
these soldiers. But she had unshakable belief in herself: she simply could not
see herself dying. And what she could not see, she knew could not come to pass.
    They came closer and closer, and Volusia stood
there and braced herself as the first of the men reached her, screaming, battle-ax
raised to the sky, gleaming as he brought it down for her forehead.
    Volusia waited till the last moment, till the
swinging blade nearly touched her face, standing perfectly still, then she
reached up and drove the small concealed blade attached to her palm right up
and into the soldier’s throat. She kept driving it, all the way, embedding it
in the man’s throat, until he gurgled blood, dropped his ax, dropped to his
knees, and collapsed to his face, dead.
    The first casualty of this war was hers, and Volusia
could not be more thrilled. As more men reached her, on all sides now, she
turned and spun, using her small blade to slash one throat after another. She
did not need strength or size when she had dexterity and cunning; the smallest
weapon, she knew, from the smallest person, could sometimes be the deadliest of
all.
    There came a tremendous clang of armor and
weaponry, of men shouting, as the armies all finally met in the middle, in one
great clash of battle. The two sides met in an explosion of energy, swords
meeting shields, axes and maces and halberds and spears meeting armor, limbs
lost, men dying on both sides as they came together. The fighting was intense
and fierce, man to man, shoulder to shoulder, neither side giving an inch. They
pushed into each other’s lines, their momentum carrying them, and a
back-and-forth ensued, the lines ebbing and flowing in both directions.
    Volusia’s men, to their credit, did not yield
to fear, held their ground like a stone wall, even in the face of the charging
armies. Maltolis’s men were well-disciplined; that’s what years training
beneath a madman would get you.
    The Empire armies, Volusia could see, had
expected their momentum to carry them, had expected to run her men over in a
tidal wave, or had expected them to retreat. But none of the above had
happened, and this, her men staunchly standing their ground, had created a bottleneck
effect that began to work in Volusia’s favor. Soon the Empire men were backed
up, all the way to the capital, only so many able to pass through the capital
gates at one time with her men keeping them at a standstill. Despite their
greater numbers, it kept the two sides even.
    At the flanks of the battle, though, it was a
different story: there, in the open field, the momentum of the Empire’s greater
numbers carried them forward, and they kept pouring in, one battalion after the
next, overwhelming her forces. Her men put up a gallant fight, killing scores
of Empire—but the Empire had an endless supply of men, and for the Empire, men
were cheap. It did not take Volusia long to realize that her men were being overpowered
at the flanks. Bodies were piling up fast on the desert floor, and she knew she
had to do something quickly or else risk being