As Menos led his men up the hill to engage Apollonius and the defenders holding steady atop the ridge, another battle had already begun upon the open plains below.

Two volleys of arrows soared through the air in quick succession, the thrum of the ramhorn bows singing together as one. The tightly packed formation of Myrmiese cavalry soaked up the first, somehow getting their shields up in time to absorb the second. However, yet more damage had been added to the already depleted squadron. An earlier reduced force of ten had waned to a measly eight with the pair of losses in the first surprise attack.

“SPREAD OUT! SPREAD OUT AND ENGAGE!” Iphiclus was quick to realize the identity of the attackers, their long cloaks were the same as those he had witnessed atop the hillock on the night the wolves had overrun their camp. Their compacted bows the same as those he had heard every night, the thrum of their string often the only warning before the familiar whistle of descending death. His facial expression a contortion of fury and loss, grief, and resolve, it was clear to any that the battle was long over, but death in battle was the sole path left open to them now.

The Temrenosian outriders rode much smaller horses than their Myrmiese counterparts. However, unlike the faster stronger Syroneikan warhorses whose powerful muscles and large frame allowed them to close the gap between the two quickly, the Khetalian horses were highly maneuverable.

Where the Syroneikan warhorse’s charging speed was nearly twice as fast as the smaller short legged Khetalian horses, these smaller horses could easily turn and change their movement direction with relative ease. Each time they would move left or right, always avoiding direct confrontation with the larger horses, arrows ready and flying at any opportunity.

However, the greatest strength of these outriders unbeknownst to their enemy was not their mount, but the seat upon which they sat, and the rope device draped over the creature’s wide back. This pair of devices, the saddle and stirrup were still uncommon even among the nomadic step tribes in the east who initially implemented them. With many of the larger civilized cultures uninterested in the cultural works of “barbarian” tribes, a thought process the Scholar never shared, implementing, and updating the primitive devices to better suit the needs of Temrenos’s cavalry regiments.

Now that technological difference was coming into full force, unlike the Myrmiese cavalrymen who were forced to maintain a standing position upon their horse, thighs clamped tightly along their mount’s flanks. The Temrenosian outriders were resting comfortably within their lightly padded wooden saddle, the stirrups allowing them much greater stability and control over their mount. This advantage allowed the outriders to act as mobile platforms, their bows constantly firing from atop the mount without much issue.

“OUTRIDERS SCATTER!” The Scholar yelled out and repeated his command for all to hear, with his troops quick to respond. Their two larger formations of five rapidly disintegrated, with all ten outriders moving in multiple directions, forcing the enemy to break and follow. In the confusion, four of the outriders turned their steeds around and departed the cavalry battle, their target was uphill, the need to help repel the last of the enemy infantry.

The numerical advantage the Temrenosian’s had held moments ago was now gone, instead they were even with the opposing cavalry, both sides fielding six well trained cavalry. With the difference resting in their mounts, weapons, and tactics; one side favoring a melee engagement, the other content with picking off isolated enemy units.

Almost immediately two of the Myrmiese cavalry charged towards the single most important target, the Lord of Temrenos himself. They barreled toward the man, one on either side, aiming to box in the more maneuverable creature before skewering it with their spears. A solid strategy, one that if successful could force the Temrenosian’s to halt their attacks. Yet these young men significantly underestimated the skills of a man forty years their elder, one who had fought his entire life and whose achievements rested upon a mountain of skulls.

Even as the two pursuers closed the distance, slowly tightening the net, the Scholar calmly reached down, pulled an arrow from his quiver, and nocked it for flight. The enemy to his left was easily within his sights, yet the one to his right was closer and had the ability to attack first. Focusing on the simpler shot would open him up to an attack from the rear, a spear thrust at their current speeds would cripple the Scholar’s horse, or more than likely kill it.

So, rather than aim for the man to his left, the Scholar bent his back, turned to the right and switched his bow from left hand to right. Now it was his left hand that held the arrow in place, pulling back on the string. A smile crept along the Scholar’s lips, the confusion and fear clear on the opponent’s face. A face which seconds later had a feathered shaft protruding from between the eyes, his body tumbling from the now riderless horse.

Before the second rider could even respond, the Scholar had already switched back to his original position, with bow firmly in his left hand. Another arrow was already ready, and with a muted twang the other rider fell from his horse in a mass of flailing limbs.

These young men for the most part were still inexperienced, something the Scholar noted in these brief exchanges. Possessing sound tactical knowledge, but such “textbook” methods were effective only against enemies who operated similarly to you. The Scholar’s use of mounted archers, particularly those skilled enough to do so from horseback was enough to completely defang the Myrmiese cavalry who were unable to close the distance to even make use of their spears.

“It appears the battle is over.” The Scholar mumbled silently under his breath. What had occurred in his engagement had gone similarly everywhere else. Most of the Myrmiese cavalry lay dead, under their horses or as a broken corpse sprawled upon the dirt. There were only two remaining attackers, fighting desperately in a futile battle they could not hope to win.

Soon enough what remained of the Myrmiese cavalry, mainly their commander, and one or two of his subordinates lowered their weapons. A clear sign that they wished to surrender.

“Outriders hold!” Abiding by their Lord’s command, the mounted archers kept their distance, arrows nocked and ready to fire at a moment’s notice. As the Scholar approached the survivors Maatilani was quick to come to his side, her spear held firm.

“My Lord, there is no need for you to put yourself in harm’s way. Allow me to deal with them in your stead.” Maatilani’s voice was almost a whisper, but it was improbable that the enemy had not noticed the figure yelling commands. The Scholar chose to reassure his loyal student, he would keep her at his side, but it was still necessary to speak with the Myrmiese commander, particularly regarding the giant warrior.

“No worries Maati, the enemy is already aware of who the commander is. We have already shattered their pride, there is no need to play coy. I will hear what they have to say… besides I have some questions about that giant warrior we saw the night of our first attack on their camp. Perhaps they can sate my curiosity.” With that final statement the stage was set, and with Maati at his side there was little for the Scholar to be fearful of.