Imperial

38. Esfandar

Esfandar sat on horseback amongst a cavalry battalion before the city walls. His troops seemed to fan out interminably in either direction, so vast were their numbers. But Esfandar knew that his men were not inexhaustible. By the end of this day, many of them would be dead. He knew it with a grim certainty that could only be accepted firmly.

They face towards the hills emanating out form their valley, their backs to the walls of Shiraz. Visible on the hilltops, not a league away, were his sister's armies. There was movement among them as they prepared to attack and formed their ranks, but other than that it was impossible to make anything out.

A queasy feeling settled in the pit of Esfandar's stomach as his gaze trained onto the small, unidentifiable figures on the hilltop. Soraya, his little sister, was up there somewhere. Parvana was up there, commanding Soraya's troops, as well as Lord Goshtab Varaz, who- if Esfandar knew anything about the old man- was almost certainly staying close to a chariot to whisk him away if things should go wrong.

Karim had stayed behind in Shiraz, given civil control of the city while Esfandar was gone. He would be busy, nearly going out of his mind, trying to organize the citizens and quell any uprisings that could pop up from within even while Esfandar's troops were fighting enemies from without.

His was a vital job to ensure their victory. Esfandar was glad he could leave it to someone he trusted with his utmost confidence, someone who he could call a friend.

Gita, as his lieutenant commander, was in the very front of the regiments with several of his other high ranking generals, readying to lead the troops in the fight. As soon as he thought of her his chest twisted, and for a million different reasons. She was one of the most capable warriors he'd ever met, and one of the cleverest generals, yet it was dumbfounding how little skill could count for in the heat of battle. A single stray arrow that an archer happens to point at you, and you're dead.

He thought of Gita pierced through with a spear or struck by several arrows, bleeding out in the dirt, and suddenly his carefully calm façade started to crack. He inhaled deeply and pushed the thoughts away. He thought of the hundreds of battles that they'd fought together thus far, all of which they had both survived. He thought of her kisses and her hand clasped tightly in his and regained his resolve. They would both live to see the other side of this battle. He swore it to the gods.

The anxiety of waiting for the battle to finally start was a million times more painful than any stab wound to Esfandar. But since they were the defenders, it was up to Soraya's forces to begin the attack. All they could do was wait helplessly until that moment arrived.

Then, at last, the sound of the war horn pierced the air, quieting even the horses and shouting generals in their sound. It hung in the air for an interminable moment, connecting all of them together for a single instant.

And then the horn ceased. Up on the hill, a dulled, muffled roar moved across the valley as the mass of troops there began to rush forward.

Esfandar drew his sword from its sheath. With his other hand, he gripped the reins of his horse and turned toward the regiment behind him.

"May the gods grant us victory," he shouted as loud as he could for the men to hear him about the growing cacophony. "For Sazia!"

"For Sazia!" they screamed back, each drawing their weapons.

They were the second wave of troops, and would not be hit with the initial clash, but the sounds and smells of the battle reached them the instant that Esfandar's first wave of defense met Soraya's vanguard.

There were so many sounds that it was nearly impossible to name them all. The ringing clang of sword against sword, the whinnying of panicked horses, thrums of arrows being shot, and the ever present screams and shouts of the warriors themselves.