andloosed8

the troops, wheeled right, started up the slope. Someone yelled "Behind us." For a moment he thought it was the enemy—but they wouldn't be yelling in Belkhani. He turned.
On the ridge behind, a scattering of mounted men. One of his own was down. An arrow missed. Cats. Ivor fought for calm, won, counted. Fifteen men. A diversion. He signaled again, yelled. The Belkhani charged north, over the ridge and down.
Below him empty grass, down and up. With luck, the enemy were one ridge farther north, about to run from the legions. He signaled again. A thousand lancers plunged down the slope.
They were halfway there when troops started coming over the ridge—Bashkai lights, then the solid formation of the legions. The trap was empty. Ivor signaled, called to his trumpeter. The line came to a stop. Another call and they were moving again, back the way they had come. The cats might still be there.
They were. The Belkhani charged. An arrow glanced off Ivor's breast plate. Another past his cheek. Fifteen men—were they

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