All around Lysander, men were dying. And unfortunately, many of those men were his. He didn’t know how long he had been fighting. It felt like hours. In reality, it was probably only a few minutes. Fighting was funny that way. Like the way he could calmly consider this fact, while fighting for his very life.

Instinctively, he ducked a thrust from one of the desert men’s broad-headed spears, and thrust sharply upward, burying his sword deep in the man’s gut. It was a fatal wound, but not a fast one. In truth, he hated to inflict that kind of wound on a man, and in a duel, he never would. But from a strategic standpoint, in the middle of battle, it was the best kind of wound to inflict. It effectively removed the man from battle, but left him alive, and thus an object of concern for his fellows.

Lysander yanked his sword out of his anonymous enemy and prepared himself to face the next one. His arms ran with blood from a variety of small cuts he had received, when his guard wasn’t quite fast enough. The long, shallow wound on his left arm was throbbing, and with each beat of his heart, the arm got heavier and heavier. Sweat was pouring down his forehead, stinging his eyes. But he could hardly take the time to blink it away, for fear of closing his eyes, never to reopen them.

Despite their discipline, his men were being driven back against the sand dune behind them. It wasn’t quite a death sentence, in the way a cliff would be, but fighting backwards, uphill, with loose sand beneath one’s feet wasn’t Lysander’s idea of ideal.

At first, he had been sure that the superior training of his men would carry the day, once they had recovered from the shock of the initial surprise attack. But it appears he had once again underestimated the skill of his opponents. He cursed himself. It was not a fault he was prone too, even when angry. But somehow, he had misjudged these desert folk. In other circumstances, he might have admired them.

He needed to step back, to disengage from battle. He needed a few moments to breathe and take in the strategic situation, and not just the tactical one. And he needed reinforcements from the cavalry. Where were the griffins?

Lysander barked out an order to switch with the man behind him, sending a savage attack at the man he was engaged with. It wasn’t designed to kill, merely to awe the enemy and force him to break off his attack for a second, allowing Lysander and his subordinate to trade places. The man Lysander was facing, stepped back as intended, but as Lysander took his own disengaging step the desert man suddenly thrust forward, his blade held low. Lysander cried out in pain as the blade ripped through his leggings, biting deep into his inner thigh.

The men on either side closed ranks to protect him and made the desert man pay with his life. The man who had intended to take Lysander’s place instead was left to strap a piece of leather around Lysander’s leg, fashioning a rough tourniquet.

Lysander swayed on his feet, his vision narrowing as he fought to control himself. Even with the wound, however, he was able to take stock of the situation. His men were taking a toll on the enemy of two-to-one. But there appeared to be more than twice as many of them. He didn’t know what had become of Liam and the griffins. But he had to make a decision. And he had to make it fast.

As his vision dimmed, and he felt his legs going out from under him, Lysander gave an order that hadn’t been issued to the Imperial Infantry in over three centuries.

“Retreat!”

Lysander reflected that it was surprisingly loud, just before the darkness closed in.