Brave Men Die: Part 2 by Dan Adams Page A

to Octans in formation. The Fists moved as one. He tightened his grip on his shield. He kept his eyes forward. Head up. Swallowed.
    Once through Black Claw’s gate the infantry pushed out, the unit’s width expanded to the edges of the pass. Eight hundred of the originals marched on. Of the others, most were wounded but some were dead. Kryst marched silently out the front, leading the Fists to the encampment.
    Pollux separated from Octans as the Fists moved to occupy the entire pass, his own contingent of men following him along the right. Some of the faces he recognised, a few had followed him up the stairs when he retook the walls of Black Claw. They all looked to him for orders, to get them through this in one piece, which he doubted he would. He just hoped that he could rally them quickly enough to save some of them when the time came.
    After two hundred metres, just prior to the bend in the pass, the captain ordered weapons drawn. Minimal clutter could be heard as every soldier’s gauntleted hand unsheathed their weapon in unison. Kryst raised his sword high, paused momentarily, and dropped it forward, signalling the charge. The Fists took off, the line haphazard as they raced around the corner startling the Kyzantine force.
    The enemy scattered before the Murukan attack. Two thirds of them formed into ranks and waited, lifting shields and spears while the others raced to the horses. It was a tactical manoeuvre designed to imply frantic chaos.
    ‘Charge!’ Pollux screamed, surging with the front line of the Fists toward the waiting Kyzantines. His men raced beside him and around him, eager to impress. Pollux watched as the soldier in front of him was impaled on a spear as the lines met. He twisted his body side on, squeezing past the dying man, and brought his sword down into the Kyzantine. It punctured his jugular and blood pissed out.
    Octans pushed forward, knocked a careless jab away with his shield and impaled another before the Kyzantines broke. Men fought around him, followed him, even though he hadn’t given a single order. The scattered enemy infantry raced after those that had fled initially. Octans leapt after one, lunged forward and sliced his sword across a woman’s hamstring. She fell as the Fists swarmed over her and swarmed down the pass in pursuit.
    In the mayhem of the battle the Fists hadn’t moved to the stabled horses to cut off their retreat. They had charged along the pass pursuing the routed infantry but the early riders were long gone. The last Kyzantine fumbled with a stubborn mount, having to calm it before she could get close enough to get into the saddle. Pollux took off to intercept the last rider, his thighs aching as he sprinted off in a perceived intercept course. He slid into position in front of the rider, balanced himself as she kicked the mount and raced toward him. Pollux waited until the horse was almost on top of him, sidestepped to the right and swung, cutting off the horse’s front leg. It smashed head first into the ground and threw the rider. She hurtled forward, arms and legs flailing in the air before she smashed into the dirt. Pollux raced after her, his legs hurting as he got there before she could draw a blade. He stepped on her hand and looked over her broken body: her shoulder had popped and one of her legs was twisted and the bone had broken through. He looked at her face as he raised his sword and noticed a smile between grazed lips.
    ‘It’s too late,’ she muttered.
    Pollux tilted his head in confusion as he drove the blade down and the Fangs thundered past. Pollux looked at the cavalry charge chasing after those that had fled on horseback and then back at the woman he had just killed, her twisted smile now permanent on dead lips.
    Baron Scythe raised his war lance, a motion copied by the entire unit, as the Fangs charged forward after the fleeing Kyzantines. His banner waved in the breeze, brushing against his peripheral vision on his right. The five