The Banished Monk, Farangis, The Knight in Black, Daryun, The Twin-Blade General, Kishward, The Drunken Marzbān, Kubard, The Wandering Bard, Gieve. All ensconced in the fighting, each leading a battalion of Parsian soldiers. All no strangers do combat, but all with no love of... except, perhaps, for Kubard.
Elam's desperate flight bringing him next to Kishward, he drew his sword, brandishing it as he plunged it into the chest of the Lusitania soldier, their death screams echoing in his head... until Kishward saw him a moment later. Elam tilted his head, a pre-known signal. Kishward, rushing at the opponents one last time, his charge bringing them a brief respite, Elam relayed his message urgently.
"Lord Kishward, Prince Arslan commands we retreat and regroup."
Kishward nodding in approval of the drastic yet sorely needed maneuver, and his eyes went to the sky as he stepped behind the battle line. Azrael, loyal to his trainer, Kishward. Patting him, he sent him off to alert of the retreat, before renewing his assault, his twin blades glinting as they sliced through the flesh and bone of his enemies, soldiers falling on both sides.
The ground slick with blood, this was no time for cavalry. But in this battle, there was never time for cavalry. For Prince Hilmes and the Marzbān Sam knew of the devastating affects of Parsian cavalry, and they would never allow it to happen.
In one moment, a soldier was stabbing his lance at another. The next moment, he was gone. For Daryun, whom Hilmes called Mardan fu Mardun, had arrived. The light glinting off his black helm and armor, his spear whirled in a dervish of movement, disposing of two more Lusitanian soldiers in as many seconds. Azrael, his caw echoing out over the clash of steel on steel and the cries of battle, was heard. The signal for retreat had been sounded. Daryun, the Central battalion, signaled his hand, and as his battalion fell back, the other 4 fell inwards, creating a never ending wall of lances to stop any Lusitanian advance. And it worked.