The first salvo of arrows hissed through the air above and lanced down, seeming to flash past Natalie on either side. The barbed iron heads hammered into the soft turf with a patter of solid thuds, the sound of which made her skin crawl. The skirmish line of Wildcats dodged and weaved to avoid the missiles, raising their bucklers to fend off the hurtling death. Ella shrieked as a heavy iron-tipped arrow smashed into her ribcage, piercing the hides drawn taunt across one rounded breast and driving into her lung. Her javelin fell from her grasp as she toppled sideways almost gracefuly, stretching her length in the grass.

More young Amazons fell with her: Kara took a shaft in her belly and went down on her knees, squatting on her haunches as she sobbed miserably, Alianne was hit in the thigh, and fell with a gasp of pain, clutching at her pierced leg and grinding her teeth. Sofi grunted as an arrow punched into her right breast, staggered back a pace, and took a second in the crotch. Her knees bent inwards, she sagged, went down in the grass.

Pitiful cries pierced the air as young warriors died or were injured by the barbarian arrows, but like all Amazons, these Wildcats were not easily dissuaded. They loped towards the barbarian lines, readying their javelins for the cast.

Their loose formation made them a difficult target for the enemy archers, firing volleys of shots over the heads of their comrades, and Natalie experienced a strange feeling of elation, almost invulnrability as the arrows fell around her, despite the fear that twisted in her stomach.

Lithe and pretty, with long blonde hair bound and braided, Natalie was typical of her race. Her skin was tanned honey, her hair pure gold, eyes sapphire blue. She was seventeen, an unblooded Wildcat, eager for glory, eager to prove herself in battle, and she told herself that she feared neither pain nor death, but only dishonour. Easy enough to think that, but the plaintive cries of the arrow-pierced youngster nearby, writhing in the grass, hands plucking and pulling at the puckered flesh around the arrow-shaft in her belly, made her all too aware of the danger she was in.

In an Amazon army, the unblooded and inexperienced Wildcats, those only recently judged old enough to carry the spear, are used as skirmishers. Armed with a quiver of short throwing javelins and a long knife, protected only by a lath and hide buckler, they move at the van of the Amazon army, drawing the fire of the enemy archers, tying up enemy skirmishers and sowing havoc amongst massed ranks of foes, in preparation for the charge of the Braves and the older Wildcats.

The barbarian warriors crouched behind their large oval shields and gripped their spears as the javelins fell amonst them. There was a clatter as some of the missiles were deflected by raised shields, and screams and oaths as more struck home. The Wildcats readied another volley, leaning back athletically, steadying their arms and calculating their heft. A scattering of arrows fell amongst them again, and pierced cries rang out, but they were not distracted.

Natalie launched her javelin with a grunt of effort, eyes tracking its progress as it soared into the air, and descended onto the packed mass of barbarians. More bellows of rage and pain.

The barbarians jeered and spat at the young women, calling them worms, cowards, whores and bitches. Most of the curses and taunts were in the cude tongue of the barbarians, and Natalie understood none of it, but some men knew enough of the Amazonian language to make insults. A man called them children, and boasted that they would be sent to bed with a whipping, another boasted of how many of them he would rape. A burly, bare chested warrior grinned at Nathalie from twenty meters away, leveling his spear at her and roaring in strangled, halting Amazonian about how she would squeal when he gutted her, that he had not decided yet whether to kill her or fuck her first. She fetched another javelin from the quiver across her back, balanced, and made a lightning-quick cast. The man was jerking his groin at her and shouting to his laughing, jeering comrades, and the words died in his mouth as the javelin struck him in the chest. She wanted to laugh, to dance before these impotent men and taunt them with her body, as adrenaline surged through her veins. She was an Amazon! She was doing what an Amazon should: dealing death to her enemies, careless to the threat to her own life. An arrow slashed by, tugging at her hair as it passed, and she laughed out loud. The men's faces showed lust, hate and fear in equal measure as they glared hungrily at her body, each man gripping his spear as if torn between the desire to make love to her, or to thrust the spear into her bowels. She laughed again, reveling in the power she had over them, readying another javelin to cast. To her left, Nicole squealed as a stray arrow caught her under the breast, folded sideways and crumpled into the grass, kicking long bronze legs weakly and scrabbling at her wound with clawed fingers.

As the skirmishing screen of Wildcats exchanged fire with the barbarian lines, the bulk of the Amazon army was advancing into position. The Braves; seasoned veterans, formed the core of the formation, some three thousand warriors, equipped with long-swords and wicker shields. Protecting their flanks from enemy cavalry were a thousand more Wildcats, older and more experienced than the skirmishers and blooded in battle. These young women were armed with spears and wicker kite shields, and advanced in a loose shield-wall, their spears leveled. Amazon Outriders; Javelin armed Braves mounted on light horses, galloped down the far flanks of the battlefield, balancing their throwing spears in their hands and guiding their mounts with their knees. The barbarians had cavalry formations of their own, and it was the task of the Outriders to distract or neutralise these. Behind them moved the Amazon Knights, valiant heavy cavalry-women mounted on huge, powerful warhorses, armed with lance, sword and shield, they would deliver the decisive blow to the enemy flanks once the barbarians were fixed in place by the Braves and Wildcats.

Raquelle watched the Outriders gallop away with a surge of envy, wondering what it might be like to feel the wind in your hair, the surge of the horse beneath you as you swept forwards with your sisters to bring swift death to those who would threaten your home.

Not that she wasn't content with her own lot. She was twenty one summers old and a veteran of countless skirmishes and battles. The seprent tattoo that wound up her right thigh and around her waist boasted of her cunning and speed in battle, and the star on her shoulder identified her as a Brave. The gold chains that draped her neck, wrists and ankles were the hallmarks of a successful Amazon warrior, taken as plunder, bestowed as gifts or rewards, and she wore her trappings with pride, like any other Amazon would.

Amazon warriors rely on speed and skill as a defense in battle, eschewing armour as dishonourable and in any case useless to fast, light infantry fighting in a hot, tropical enviroment. Amazon  warriors wear bras, vests, skirts, pants and tabbards of hide, fur or leather for the most part, improving in quality and opulence as they rise in station. A Wildcat may wear a vest and tabbard of roughly tanned hide stitched with rawhide, while an elite Wolverine might own a bra and thong of silk, filigreed with gold and decorated with pearls. Raquelle herself wore a simple, well tailored bra and pants crafted from tan suede and decorated with red tassels. Her flowing golden curls were held back from her face by a thick red head-band, and a leather bracer steadied her right wrist. She had a flint knife strapped tight to her thigh, a wide, oval wicker shield lashed to her arm, and a well crafted sword in her hand.

While Wildcats must rely on their long-knives in combat, an Amazon was given her sword on being raised to a Brave. Usually simple affairs with a plain Iron blade and hilt and a wooden grip, they were functional but basic, and easily blunted and chipped in battle. Most Braves who survived their first few battles found their own sword, either by looting one from a vanquished enemy, saving up their booty to pay a craftsman to make one, or being gifted one as a reward for some deed of valour. Raquelle's sword had been given her by a young Blacksmith from her home town, along with the thick gold ring on her finger. The sword was well tempered steel and held its edge three times as long as an iron blade. The hilt was black iron, worked with runes of protection, set in the center with a finely worked sunburst of gold, the hand-and-a-half grip carved and polished wood with a steel core, rawhide worked tightly around it to firm its grip, and the pommel weighted to balance the blade and give her an effective club to use at close range when there was no room to wield the edge. Her blacksmith had made her a most thoughtful gift, and she loved him for it.

As the Braves advanced steadily, some chanting war hymns to Ziah; their ferocious goddess of battle, the Outriders had reached the flanks of the barbarian lines. The barbarian riders sawed at their reins as their mounts danced, eager for battle, but their Warlord bellowed at them to hold still. The Amazon riders cantered by, swooping in close and jeering, and the barbarians returned with their own taunts. On the second pass, the mounted Braves stood high in their stirrups, balancing their javelins carefuly, and casting them on the turn. Men and horses screamed as the shower of missiles flew home, and the ill-disciplined riders charged, eager to avenge this insult. Wheeling, the Amazon riders pulled back, drawing the barbarians away from the main army, twisting nimbly in their saddles to throw more light, accurate javelins into the pursuing horde.

Sara whooped and cheered as the wind tugged at her flame red hair, feeling her mare's muscles bunch and flex beneath her things as her thundering hooves ate up the ground. Reaching down to the holster hanging by her saddle, she withdrew another javelin; a two foot long pole topped with a barbed iron head, two bright blue and red macaw feathers embellishing the join. She raised herself in the saddle, turning and leaning to the left as the steered her mount with her knees, jinking right momentarily as she manouvered for a clear shot. Her hurled javelin struck a barbarian in the chest and he tumbled from his saddle, swiftly lost to view as the riders galloped on. She righted herself, hunching low over her mare's neck and patting her flank. "Faster Roan," she whispered in the horse's ear, "Faster!" The beast stretched out her neck and the ground seemed to flash by, even faster than before.

Sara reached over to the sword scabbarded on the left side of her saddle, gripping the hilt and jerking it to loosen the blade. Everything was going according to plan, the impetuous barbarian riders were chasing them hell for leather and the flanks of their army were no longer guarded. Only one more thing to do now.

At the head of the column, their leader; a tall strinking Wolverine called Amys, stood tall in her saddle and raised her sword, slashing it left and right in the air. The galloping Amazons split, arcing left and right, outflanking the headlong pursuit of their foes, curving back and scissoring into them as they tried to slow their headlong charge and react to the Amazon move.

Sara whooped, exchanging grins with the riders around her as excitement surged in her system. Barbarians pulled at their reins, trying to turn, trying to bring their spears to bear. The Amazons slashed through them, flinging javelins and slashing with swords.

Sara took a man from his horse with a swift throw, tugged her sword loose and ducked under a questing spear, hacking left and right. An Amazon shrieked as a spear ripped her from her saddle, another cried out as her horse collided at speed with a barbarian's mount, sending the two riders tumbling beneath the churning hooves of their comrades. The fighting was ligntning fast and brutal; two hundred Amazon riders against nearly four hundred barbarians. This was a light cavalry fight, all dashing horses and fleeting engagements, riders clashed, broke and clashed again as they galloped amongst each other. Where an Amazon knight on her mighty stallion could bull through an enemy formation, turning her kicking, stamping horse round and round again as she hacked at anything within reach, Sara and Roan had to use their speed and nimbleness as both defense and weapon.

The barbarians roared their glee, now that these women wanted to fight properly instead of hurling their missiles and fleeing. The men kicked their own whickering mounts into action, bracing shields and spears and wheeling about. Dust fogged the air as hooves battered the ground, blood squirted and men and women were trampled beneath the dashing, darting horses.

Sara flashed past a barbarian rider, lashing out with her sword, unsure whether her blade scored a hit or glanced off a shield. Vikki, a tall, busty ash-blonde in a rawhide bra and thong raced past in the opposite direction, a javelin in her hand poised to throw. A girl was draped over her mare's neck, blood dribbling down her saddle and the animal's fetlocks as it whinnied and shied amidst the chaos. Sara jinked left, woman and horse moving as one, holding out her sword at arms length and cutting a man from his saddle as she passed, dodging right almost at the last moment as another thundered past with leveled spear. In the chaos she could see little more than the blurred fugures flashing around her. A barbarian and Amazon collided on her left, both horses going down in a tangle of flailing limbs, fouling the legs of a third that tumbled to the ground, it's shrieking rider catapulted from her saddle. A sword hissed past her right ear and she flinched, turning aside and coming around, avoiding a shrieking woman clutching at her blood-splashed belly on her knees in the grass. She kicked her heels into Roan's flank and the mare leaped forwards, clearing a dead horse and turning to avoid another Amazon darting past. She struck out at a barbarian as she past, hacking into his back and knocking him from his saddle, darting between two more and dispatching them both with a perfect fore-hand-back-hand that carved into the first man's gut and the second's back. She punched the air in exhilaration. "Ziah! Witness! Ziah! Protect!"

There was an almighty dust cloud rising on the right of the battle lines, and an terrible thunder of hooves and din of weapons. She didn't know what it meant, but guessed that there was a cavalry battle going on. Natalie wished she could see it, but she had a job to do.

Her earlier confidence had faded somewhat, as the arrows continued to fall. Girls she had known since childhood had shrieked and screamed in agony as arrows pierced them, girls she had trained with, joked with and hoped with lay dead in the grass, or weeping over their wounds. Annie, a pretty young Wildcat with silvery hair was curled foetally on her side, clutching at the arrow in her belly and murmuring tearfully to herself, Rachel was supine on her back, eyes closed as if sleeping. Out of the thirty young warriors who had trained with her, around ten were dead or wounded.

Along the length of the barbarian battle line, there were over three hundred Wildcat skirmishers stretched across the whole front. Massed volley fire, so effective against the tightly packed warbands of Braves, had little impact on this loose formation, and no more than three score had been slain. In strategic terms, this was a small sacrifice, especially considering the impact their javelins had on the morale and numbers of the enemy, but for the Wildcats, it was a demoralising toll.

Natalie had only two javelins left slung over her back. She drew one free and weighed it on the heel of her palm, balancing on her heels as she bent back for the cast. Another drizzle of arrows fell amongst the girls, and another virgin Wildcat gave a pierced cry, swayed and collapsed into the grass, hands tugging at the wooden shaft protruding from under her ribs. Hearing her cries, Natalie snarled, vowing death to her enemies and releasing her fury in a whiplash throwing motion, the javelin flashing from her hand like an extension of her will and driving down onto the packed mass of unwashed, brutish barbarians. She spat, and reached for her last missile.

The fight against the barbarian riders was going poorly for the Amazons, although from within the dust and the chaos it was hard to see. Of the two hundred Amazon riders, nearly half were dead, wounded or un-horsed. The barbarians had suffered similarly, but still had two hundred men, and the Amazons were being swamped. Sara had seen her friend Alice; a lissome blonde in a rawhide vest, skirt and boots, punched from her saddle by a lunging lance, she had seen Danielle crushed beneath flailing hooves as she crawled in the grass. Nicole was trapped beneath the bulk of her slain horse, while Helen sprawled bare-breasted cross the mound of her prone horse, her bra cut in two by the sword-blow that killed her, hanging loose by her side. Sara dodged a hacking blade, nearly falling from her horse as she did so. The mare turned wildly as its mistress struggled to right herself. A horse reared  and whinnied, flailing its hooves in the air as its barbarian rider tumbled from its back, another galloped past riderless, dragging its saddlery in the grass.

Back in her saddle, Sara took stock, seeing only Amazons and Barbarians locked in combat, the bodies of horses, women and men littering the ground in equal proportions.

The barbarians, trusting in their numbers and confident in their strength, roared victory chants, feeling triumph near at hand. These upstart women had fought harder than expected, true, but soon they would be fleeing, and those who were not killed would open their legs and submit themselves, like the gods intended women to!

But the outriders were never expected to win the battle alone. As the two sides whirled and duelled frenetically, the wing of Amazon knights following the Outriders had positioned themselves to charge.

Amazon Knights were the cream of an Amazon army. The aristocracy of the Amazon nation, those who could afford to maintain a massive warhorse and the wargear to use it were trained as heavy cavalry. Aloof, proud and fearful of nothing, they were the decisive blow on a battlefield, crushing the enemy beneath pounding hooves and an avalanche of lance-tips. With the barbarian cavalry concentrating on the outnumbered Outriders, fifty Knights saluted one another, leveled their lances, and kicked back their heels.

Sara laughed for joy at the sight of them, as the world around resounded to the thunder of their galloping hooves. The Knights smashed through the combat, racing past on both sides as they tore through the barbarians and galloped free on the other side. They wheeled, holstering their pennant hung lances and drawing gleaming longswords, which they raised in the air as they galloped back to the fray, war cries rising clear and bold above the sounds of death and ruin. Men and Amazons suffered violent, brutal deaths in that first cataclysmic clash; barbarians smashed to the ground, impaled on lances, light horses mown down by thundering stallions. An Amazon Knight charged home onto her enemy's leveled spear, impaling herself through the belly with a shriek, her horse galloping from under her while she was torn free of her saddle, squealing shrilly as her weight hung from the bowing shaft. A proud, haughty blonde took a sword-blow to the gut as she charged through the enemy, howling in pain as she was smashed out of her seat, bowling over her horse's rump in a tangle of arms and legs and wild hair and disappearing amongst the carnage. A red-head in a pearl and filigree string bra and thong lost her grip on her lance as she skewered a helpless barbarian, reaching for her sword too late as a second man clipped her with his spear-head, cutting open her flank and pitching her from her horse. One booted foot caught in her twisted stirrups, she was dragged wailing at breakneck pace behind her mount.

The barbarians lost two score men in the first charge, for only seven Knights. Their courage wavered; what seemed like a certain victory had become a desperate fight for life. Seeing the noble Knights riding in with their swords held high, Sara felt that quickening in her veins again, and laughed out loud for the sheer joy of living, of survival amidst the carnage, of Amazon prowess and courage triumphant against those who would see them shamed.

Her triumph was short-lived. As she turned Roan on the spot, waving her sword above her head and cheering, a barbarian rider came at her. Seeing the threat, she kicked back, pressing her knees into Roan's flanks to start her forwards, lowering her sword to defl

ect the blow. But speed was an Outrider's best defense, and she was a sitting target. The man's couched spear struck her on the right hand side, beneath the ribs, piercing the flawless honey skin like paper and driving into her body with all the force a galloping horse could deliver. The blow knocked the breath from her lungs in an brief, explosive scream, spinning her round and lifting her out of her saddle. Her right boot was caught in the stirrups and tugged from her foot as she was hurled from her horse. The spear-head wrenched out as the rider galloped on, rending her muscle, snapped ribs jerked clear of her flesh. She hit the ground hard, lay gasping like a stranded fish, body writhing sensuously, wide mouth agape and sapphire blue eyes screwed shut as she gulped for air. Roan reared, panicked by the sudded demise of her rider, galloping away at breakneck pace, Sara's boot falling limply from the flapping stirrups a few meters away from where its owner struggled in the grass.

The din of battle was receeding, as the barbarians sought to break off and escape, and the Outriders pursued them mercilessly. Around, wounded men and women screamed and pleaded for aid from their departing comrades.

Sara's bare foot kicked at the air, her booted heel gouging the turf. Her hands were pressed to the ugly tear in her side from which bloody mess, gleaming white ribs poked through. Blood gurgled in the cavity left by the spearhead with each shuddering breath, and hot tears rolled down smooth cheeks tattooed with fierce stripes. Around her, the brutal reality of war was made clear in the scattered piles of mangled, mutilated dead. Proud, beautiful Amazon warriors lay sprawled in the grass, flawless flesh marred by ugly wounds. Once pretty young Braves with skulls caved in by hooves, lean, athletic limbs broken by crashing falls. Blood soaked the grass, the scent of bile and faeces strong in the air. An Amazon Knight sobbed from beneath her horse as the heavy, motionless stallion crushed her hips. Alice lay on her side, tears drying on her cheeks, the flow of blood from her belly now stilled, dung smeared between her thighs. Nicole was dead, her head  crushed by a hoof, bloody grey matter spilling from her open skull. Vikki lay in a pool of blood and piss, pinned to the ground by the splintered spear driven through her stomach. The ground around her was churned and bloody from her frantic writhing, vomit crusted her cheek and smeared her once fine, silvery hair.

Sobbing bitterly, Sara rolled onto her side, moaning in pain as her fractured ribs ground at the torn flesh. She tried to curl herself up, pulling her knees up to her chest and hugging them to her as she rocked to and fro amidst the blood soaked grass, Crimson fluid pulsed from her wound with every beat of her heart, and hot sticky blood rose in her mouth. A girl nearby shrieked, and another cried out; "No... No... No... Ziah, please...  Oh No!"

Sara closed her ears to the sounds of pain and anguish around her, screwing shut her eyes and gritting her teeth as blood seeped from he corner of her mouth. She felt her bowels spasm, felt hot liquid soak her pants, and wept bitter tears of shame. Five years as a warrior, five years fighting the enemies of the Amazons, and now it came to this. Sprawled in the dirt of a dust-choked battlefield, sobbing like a child as she pissed herself like a baby. Knowing that she was dying, and knowing that her death would be lingering, for all the pride she had in life, she was helpless now. Left to lie as carrion, left to die alone. Sara's tears were bitter indeed on that stained earth, amidst the ruins of an Amazon triumph.

As the swirling cavalry engagement played out  on the far right flank, the bulk of the Amazon army advanced to within two hundred meters of the barbarian horde. The Braves beat their shields and cheered, while the Wildcats on the flanks gathered their courage for the coming assault. Archers with powerful long-bows fired clouds of three foot long shafts at the tightly packed men, while behind, eleite Wolverines waited patiently in reserve. Amazon knights, proud and ferral on their massive mounts moved onto the flanks, while ahead, no more than twenty meters from the enemy, the young Wildcats hurled the last of their javelins.

The plan was as old as it was simple; a tried and tested Amazon tactic. A sustained bombardment from the skirmishers while the main force moves into position, and then the Wildcats split left and right and take positions on the flank.

At the clarrion call of a conch horn, Natalie launched her last javelin and broke left. The nimble young Wildcats, fleet of foot and graceful of movement, dashed the length of the enemy line and gathered on the left and right flanks, fifty meters out. Natalie looked round at her comrades; Ali and Vana and Melisson and Connie, and shared exhilarated grins. Panting for breath, flushed with exertion, bodies trembling with surpressed fear, they had survived where others had fallen, and it felt good.

On the arrow-pierced grassy plain before the barbarian army, the wounded and dead were left, the plaintive cries of the injured going unheard. Forlorn bodies lay draped amidst a forrest of wooden shafts, their discarded weapons liying by outstretched hands. Golden hair fluttered in the breeze, slender limbs twitched, long sleek legs kicked sluggishly.

As the screen of Wildcats pulled away, the barbarians beheld the advancing Amazon army, and a roar of anticipation went up. Seeing rank upon rank of beautiful, barely clad young warriors advancing beneath their ferral banners, the barbarians knew the chance to strike back had come. They banged their shields with their spears and raised their own standards, screaming oaths of slaughter to their gods, anticipating the thrill of combat where they would rend and tear, crushing skulls and spitting bellies. These upstart girl-children would rue their foolish pride, the screams of their dying would drown out the laments of those taken in chains as slaves!

With a cheer that shook the heavens, the barbarian horde charged.

Rank upon rank of burly, bearded warriors with shields, spears and swords hurled themselves across the turf, followed by the mail armoured Chosen swordsmen. The archers, tired after so long firing, fitted new strings to their bows and drew fresh shafts from their dwindling supplies.

The wounded and dying Wildcats were swallwed beneath the savage tide that spilled across the plain, squeals and pleas ingnored as they were trampled beneath heavy booted feet. Some men paused to exact vengeance for fallen friends, stabbing with spears, slashing throats with knives.

Poor Kara, curled on her side and moaning in pain as she pressed her hands to her pierced belly, managed a strangled sqwark as a spear stabbed down between her breasts. Alianne, having pulled free the arrow and used her bra to tie a bandage around the wound, gibbered in terror as a barbarian pulled back her head by a fistful of golden hair and slashed a knife across her slender throat, spilling rich red blood over her the soft, golden orbs of her breasts. Annie wailed and kicked out long, slender legs as a spear drove under her ribs, spitting blood over her cleavage, piss squirting between her legs. "Squeal, worm!" laughed the barbarian as he twisted the blade and jerked it free, and the young Wildcat obliged.

As the barbarian horde surged forward, the Barves met the animal cry of rage with one of their own, springing forwards.

The Amazons sprinted across the open field, racing each other to be first amongst the enemy. Scant meters away, the barbarians were doing the same, and the two armies clashed in the middle of the plain like some elemental force. Screams split the air as men and women died in that fist instant of contact. Shields crashed together, swords rang, bones splintered, blood squelched, men bellowed and women wailed. The force of the collision was enough to send bodies from both sides flying in to the air, thrashing and convulsing. The din was like nothing else, an almost physical force. Thousands of feet churned the dry ground and dust rose above the combat, blurring vision and choking throats. An Amazon screeched as she was impaled on a spear, a man groaned as he was struck down. Arrows flickered back and forth above the warring figures, plunging down amidst the packed mass of bodies. A girl folded silently as an arrow punched a hole in the top of her golden skull, another cried out in pain as she was struck in the collar, staggering back and dropping her sword, reaching for where rough wood met soft skin, falling onto her buttocks and then toppling gracefuly back. The front line was a mass of struggling warriors, too tightly packed to wield their weapons. Raquelle beat at a man's skill with the pommel of her sword, while beside her a striking blonde called Elaine used her belt-knife in the close press. Adelle, blue ribbons in her flowing hair, was squealing incoherently as her palms beat at the spear shaft that had impaled her in the initial charge. Elaine took a sword thrust in her belly and went down with a strangled yelp, immediately replaced by another warrior, hacking downwards with her sword.

The ranks were becoming fragmented and blurred, as Amazons carved their way into the barbarian lines, and cheiftans at the head of their warriors cut their way through Amazon resistance. The battle was swiftly becoming a swhirling, chaotic slugfest as Amazon and barbarian traded blows, killed and died in a tangle of struggling figures. With more space, the Amazons could make better use of their acrobatic agility, making almost balletic turns and thrusts at the raging men around them. Strength against speed, endurance against agility, for the moment the battle hung in the balance. But it would not last that way for long. The barbarians had brought near seven thousand spears to the field, two thousand more than the Amazons, and their fresh warriors were pushing hard from the rear, eager to take Amazon lives and win honour.

The Amazon archers fired off their last volley, drew swords and knives, and waded into the killing, while the barbarian archers, with dwindling ammunition and the battle too fragmented to be sure of hitting only the enemy, put up their own bows and drew knives.

In the chaotic melee, Raquelle cut and thrust like a demon, blocking with her shield, slashing, stepping, stabbing and turning, balanced on the balls of her bare feet. Michelle danced past, duelling with a hulking swordsman, while Viola tugged her blade from the belly of another. Tall, busty and stunningly naked, Yenna was smashing her sword against a splintering shield, golden curls like a halo around her head, sweat glistening on her tattooed body. The gold chains and charms bedecking her neck and limbs jangled as she twirled, smashing the man from his feet with a sideways blow.

A pretty red-head with tiger-stripes on her cheeks boasting of ferocity in battle, and thorns entwining her thighs and belly denoting chastity, was on her knees in the dirt, fingers brushing the puckered lips of the stab wound in her belly, rich dark blood running from between its bruised lips. Shock was stamped across her pretty face, wide blue eyes staring in incomprehension, full red lips parted in a moan as she watched the crismon stream wash over her black leather thong.

On the flanks, the Wildcats in their shieldwall pushed forwards, stabbing and bashing with spear snd shield, funneling the barbarians into the center of the Amazon lines where the Braves could cut them down. A huge, near-berserk warrior smashed into their formation with sword and axe, hacking a girl's head from her shoulders and smashing his axe into another's shield in a cloud of splintered wood, blood and bone. Shrieking Wildcats were bowled aside like skittles by his savage assault as his axe and sword hacked through limbs, chopped into bowels and smashed through ribs. Inspired by his example, barbarian warriors surged into the bloody rent he had torn in the Wildcat line. Spear shafts clattered against each other and iron thumped against wicker shields, the Wildcats yelling oaths and prayers to their fierce deities as they threw themselves into the fray. A girl went down beneath a barbarian warrior, struggling with both hands to keep his sword from her neck. The berzerker crushed a skull with a blow of his axe, laughing maniacally as blood drenched him, spitting another girl on his sword and wrenching the notched blade free of her guts with a tearing sound. A Wildcat stabbed her spear into his chest with a roar of effort and his axe hacked through the shaft as if it was a splinter in his flesh. More spears stabbed and thrust, and the roaring warrior lashed out wildly, gutting one young warrioress foolish enough to stray close.

Heartened by this victory, the beleagured young warriors pushed back, driving the barbarians to retreat, clambering over the piles of dead and wounded, both friend and foe alike.

For the Wildcat Skirmisher warbands, the worst was yet to come. As the two armies met in a hellish cacophany of screams and clashing blades, the Wildcats surged forwards too. With knives in hand and bucklers held protectively in front, they ploughed into the enemy flank, driven by reckless courage alone.

Natalie's heart was thundering in her chest like and her eyes were wide and wild with fear and excitement. Charging into battle as a true Amazon, like her mother and grandmother  and her sisters and cousins before her, it was as if she was fulfilling some natural imperative. Despite the terror that clenched her bowels and made butterflies in her stomach, she had never felt so alive. The sky above was a brilliant blue, she could feel every blade of the sandy, dusty grass beneath her bare feet. As if in slow motion she could see barbarian warriors turning, nostrils flaring, mouths opening to frame a warning, and she knew with a sense of excitement that they would be too late. The young Amazons, like their namesake, ploughed into the barbarian flank like vicious, snarling cats, clawing and biting and spitting fury.

These warriors were the younger, less experienced troops, and the lightly armed archers. The sight of more than a hundred young women bearing down on them with knives and javelins, yelling ferral war cries with a ferocious battle light in their clear bright eyes unnerved many of them. They had never fought Amazons before, had never encountered female warriors like this, and many made the fatal mistake of hesitating.

Natalie ploughed into a young warrior and sank her knife in his ribs. He fell, and she nearly went with him, recovering herself in time to deflect a clumsily swung spear shaft and stabbing again. A Wildcat, incautious of her defense, took a spear thrust under her ribs and tried to scream, but her lungs were empty and she could only manage a gagging, choking rasp. A girl went down with an archer's knife thrust in her heart, mouth working soundlessly, shocked eyes imploring.

Connie was locked in a wrestling match with a young barbarian, fighting to keep his knife from her breast, struggling to plunge home her own. It was clear who was the stronger of the two, and the girl's life could probably be measured is seconds. Vana; a button-nosed youngster with emerald eyes and auburn hair was tugging her long-knife free from a dead man's chest, mocassined foot planted on his stomach as she heaved at the trapped blade. Ali had paid better attention to her training and was making short stabbing thrusts, ending each with a twist and tugging swiftly free, Melisson by her side blocking and stabbing with demonic energy, eyes wild, her halo of blonde hair disheviled and blood splattered across her cheeks.

The Wildcats fought with savagery and reckless courage, making up in enthusiasm what they lacked in experience. The barbarian warriors, shocked by the brutality of this most unlikely of   assaults, shrank back in disarray, defending themselves desperately as their cheiftans and leaders fought to rally them and turn the tide back in their favour.

The stamping, shuffling, dancing feet of the warriors on the plain had kicked up clouds of dust from the dry, parched ground. High above, the sun beat down mercilessly on the combatants, and the gentle breeze that made lazy spirals of the dust cloud failed to reach the sweaty, stifling hell below.

Soaring lazily on the thermals, vultures and ravens gathered like guests at a feast, beady eyes regarding the turmoil of the milling human ants below. As the cruel mathamatics of war played out below, the scavengers were certain of one thing: Which-ever army eventualy stood alone amidst the carnage, the true victors would be the carrion-birds.

Raquelle paused amidst the destruction to wipe sweat from her eyes with the back of her hand. Her sweat-soaked head-band had loosened and slipped, a thick lock of hair kept swinging into her eyes. Her right palm was raw and burning, and her arm leaden and stiff from swinging her sword again and again, her shield arm numb and bruised from the battering it had taken. Her arms and breasts were speckled with other people's blood, while a wicked cut along her left thigh stung as sweat seeped into the wound.

The ground under her feet, those parts of it not littered with the dead and the dying and their discarded weapons, was no longer the hard, dry grassland the battle had started on. Blood and piss and bile and stamping feet had churned it into a muddy filth that clung to her toes. The air was stifling; thick with dust, sweat and musk. The stink of fear, of opened bowels and gushing veins was sharp in the sweltering atmosphere, and no breeze moved to stir the dusty, stinking air. Sweat ran down her body in rivulets, dripping from the ends of her hair, staining her hides dark. The dust and her exertions had made her desperately thirsty, and the clamour of battle was almost a physical presence assaulting her ears.

The fighting had spaced out now, no longer a desperate shoving match where the living hadn't the space to swing, and the dying hadn't the space to fall. Amazons and barbarians danced to and fro in a swirling and confusing melee, swords clashing, spears clattering, shields thumping. Their shouts of triumph, war-cries, oaths and prayers mingled with the awful sounds of the dying and the butcher's symphony of chopping flesh, splintering bone, gurgling, squirting blood and grinding gristle.

Blinking sweat from her eyes, Raquelle urged her tired muscles back into motion, running to meet a mail-armoured swordsman, taking his sword on her shield with a grunt and a gasp of pain at the lances of fire that shot up her arm. She returned with a savage stroke of her own, beating his shield aside and backswinging faster than he could react, sending mail rings and droplets of blood spinning in all directions, sparkling in the sun. The man was tough, his armour limiting the damage done by her blow, and he smashed at her shield again, eliciting a groan through her gritted teeth. She pushed the weapon aside with her shield-arm and thrust hard, heraing mail links snap and pop as the sword drove home, twisting sharply and tugging free as the man roared and staggered.

An Amazon fights with almost suicidal courage, tigrish ferocity and snake-fast reflexes, her agility and speed combining with her skill at arms to make her a deadly warrior. But for all this, they lacked the raw power, strength and endurance of their barbarian adversaries. The Braves and Wildcats were flagging as their muscles burned with exertion. Bruised, numbed shield arms were no longer strong enough to stop blows, sword arms were too slow to parry. Tiredness weighed down the balletic grace with which they had opened the battle and now their movements were slower, clumsier. Amazons dodged and twisted slower and slower, their escapes narrower and narrower. A Brave shrieked as a sword smashed into her shield and splintered her bones, staggering back and dropping her sword to clutch at the ruined limb, taking a thrusting blow between the breasts. A busty warrior in a sweat-soaked linen bra and pants tried to dodge a spear, but slipping in the mud, twised her ankle instead. She fell awkwardly, struggling to rise, throwing back her head and tossing her shining golden hair as her barbarian adversary stabbed down, pinning her to the ground through the rippling muscles of her tattooed belly. A Wildcat lunged with her spear, missing as her opponent lurched aside. Over-balancing, she was too slow to recover herself as her foe closed in and grasped a fistful of her thick hair, tugging her head back and arching her back to expose firm breasts restrained by a leather bra and the smooth, honey-hued flesh of her bare belly. He gave her scant moments to struggle vainly, dropping her spear and grappling at his broad back, before the tip of his sword was leveled at her chest and the iron blade drove devastatingly into her cleavage. The girl gave a gargling screech as ribs popped and blood squirted over her breasts, spilling down her belly and boiling in her open mouth. With a shove, he pushed her from his blade and she dropped like a broken doll, convulsing in the grass and gurgling.

The barbarian warriors were tired too, their superior endurance sapped by the baking heat which they were so un-used to. Nevertheless, they had two thousand more warriors in the fight than the Amazons, and those fresh men were pressing forwards eagerly, impatient to be winning glory in battle and taking Amazon lives for trophies. Slowly but surely, the battle was swinging in favour of the barbarian horde.

On the flanks of the messy, blood-soaked affray, Natalie no longer felt the confidence of an Amazon warrior-maid facing glory and victory. She was tired, dirty and dispirited, and as the adrenaline faded and was replaced with a leaden-boned, strength-sapping tiredness, she had come to realise just how terrified she was.

The barbarians had recovered from the initial shock of the Wildcat charge. Their cheiftans and leaders had shown them that fierce though these girls may be, they could still be killed, and killed easily. The Wildcats were suffering.

Connie was dead, Vana weeping and writhing as she bled, having never recovered her knife from her first kill's body. A pretty youngster scrabbled in the dirt, right hand cupped to left breast as blood oozed between her fingers, another lay face down, arms flung out, legs akimbo, hair splayed across the ground. A sobbing young warrior-maid crawled away from the carnage, cradling her looping guts in the crook of one arm, bile and shit-smeared intestines dragging behind her.

The older barbarians laughed as they killed, mocking the desperate efforts of their young foes. The Wildcats were fighting for their lives, their glorious charge now moments from becoming a terror-fueled rout as their courage dangled by a thread.

The plight of the Braves was not yet so desperate as to threaten rout, indeed most of the Braves would die rather than live with the shame of fleeing a combat. Amazonian warrior culture indoctrinated its warriors from birth that battle was a way of life, and death an inevitable part of that. Braves boasted that they feared neither pain nor death, and few would accept the dishonour of disproving that boast. They would battle to the bitter end.

The Amazon resolve had been stiffened by the arrival of their commander, Princess Penthisilia, accompanied by fifty Wolverines who waded into the battle with gusto, killing with practiced skill and graceful efficiency, inspiring the warrior women around them to greater efforts, and shaking the barbarian resolve with their implacabale assault.

In the midst of the meat grinder, Raquelle had found new strength and hope with the arrival of her leader. She pushed through the carnage, hefting her shield and swinging her sword at a barbarian looking the other way. A girl she recognised as Kalie lay prone in the dirt nearby, a lissome warrior of twenty summers with braided blonde hair and a star-burst tattoo on her belly which was obscured by the blood smeared across the firm flesh. Her vest was torn, her skirt riding up over her hips, long legs crooked. The ground beneath her grubby bare feet was churned and mangled by her death throes, and her right arm was out-flung, fingers stretching for the pommel of her sword which lay just out of reach, glazed blue eyes staring at the weapon as if reaching it might have saved her. A lithe young Brave was on all fours, suede pants stretched tight across her firm rump, long golden hair falling like a curtain to spill across the ground, piss trickling down the inside of her strong thighs, blood dripping from her belly. A warrior lay beneath the bulk of a slain barbarian, struggling weakly to free herself from beneath the dead weight, moaning softly as the corpse pressed down on her own wounds.

Raquelle could see Yenna nearby, still launching hacking blows, blood spattered across her breasts and belly, Heather at her side dodging a spear and counter-thrusting. Michelle was duelling with a Chosen swordsman, her auburn hair flashing as sparks flew between their clashing blades. A fine-featured, slender girl with fine, pale hair and wide blue eyes, decked in gold chains and bracelets was facing off against two barbarian spearmen. Clad in a tight hide bra and thong, a thick sword belt hanging about her hips and with blue and white ribbons fluttering from wrists and hair, she cut a stunning figure as she danced among the lumbering brutes, slicing her sword left and right and sending them both spinning away. The girl, marked as a Wolverine by the snarling wolf's head on her shoulder, danced a few graceful steps to her left and intercepted a third warrior, whose spear she splintered before running him through. She flashed Raquelle a grin of triumph, calling out; "Take heart sister!" before pressing further into the press.

Heart surging with pride and eager for glory, Raquelle pushed on after her, pausing to exchange blows with a wounded barbarian who broke from the combat before she could fell him. A Brave stumbled past, shrieking in pain and clutching at her belly as blood squirted and sprayed from the spear-thrust there, another ran by yelling, sword swinging and hair flying behind her like a banner. She saw a girl called Jenna, twenty-one summers old and as beautiful as the dawn, sprawled on her back and wriggling, sleek legs rubbing together as she arched her back almost sensuously, her hands thrown up to her brow. Her things were decorated with flowering thorns and a serpent wound between her naked bronze breasts. Twin raw marks of livid red marked where her killer had torn a rich emerald-mounted necklace from around her neck. Naked but for her jewelry and the sword belt around her wide hips, she lay in the grass as if waiting for her lover, but the deep red blood that pulsed from the bruised lips of the spear-thrust beneath her ribs told a different story. Stomach pierced, acidic juices eating into torn flesh and muscle, her writhing was the last phase of her death throes. Blood smeared her pearl white teeth and tears welled in her emerald eyes, sweat beading on her high brow.

Raquelle knew there was nothing to be done for her friend, other than to seek vengeance. She closed with a barbarian warrior, focusing through the tiredness of her limbs and striking out with a waist-level slash. The man dodged back from her, thrusting with his spear and trying to keep his distance. The man was skilled enough with his spear that she couldn't work her way past the questing point and close back into range. She was no inexperienced Wildcat however, and she knew full well what her foe's strategy was. He would fend her off with his superior reach until she grew frustrated and made a mistake, and then he could step close with a powerful thrust of his pole-arm and finish her at a stroke.

She pretended to fall for his ploy, letting her shield fall aside and leaping forwards with a puce scream of wrath. As expected, the warrior darted forwards with braced spear, expecting to surprise the fiery Amazon and catch her headlong charge on his spear. Instead, she let herself fall sideways, the spear glancing harmlessly off the tailing edge of her shield. As she landed in the mud, she hacked across his shins and then brought the point of her sword up to catch him as he fell. She rolled out from beneath his toppling bulk, tugged her sword free and moved on.

The intervention of the Wolverines had breathed new life into the flagging Amazons, but it alone was not enough to turn the tides fully. The Wildcats were losing heart rapidly as their casualties mounted, and the Braves were near exhaustion, no matter how high their morale soared. The barbarians surged forwards, eager for the kill, anticapting slaughter.

But the Wolverines were not Penthesillia's final card to play. As the Amazons and barbarians brawled amidst the mud and bodies, the Amazon Knights prepared to deliver the final blow of the battle. A hundred riders on either flank of the enemy leveled their lances and kicked their heels into the flanks of their massive warhorses. Cantering, then galloping, then crouched over their saddles as the wind whipped at their hair and the thundering hooves of the stallions seemed to shake the very foundations of the world. The knights smashed into the rearward flanks of the barbarian formation, sending men flying like chaff. They carved into the packed ranks, hacking and chopping and crushing, tearing the heart from the enemy resistance and crushing it.

The barabrian Warlord, still bellowing taunts and threats and urging his men to victory, was cut down before he could turn and his bodyguard fell with him.

The sight of Amazon Knights smashing their way through the barbarian horde, mere meters from her eyes, left Natalie whooping and cheering, her heart lifted by their spectacular arrival. Her hair whipped in the wind of their passage, and the ground lurched beneath her feet as the Knights cut in front of the Wildcats, ploughing through the enemy. With a ragged cheer, the Amazon girls threw themselves back at the beleagured, reeling enemy, pouring into the bloody gaps torn in the barbarian ranks by the irresistable charge of the Knights.

Men began to flee, some trying to fight their way clear of the carnage, others throwing down their weapons and running for their lives. Mercilessly, the Amazons closed in, giving no quarter, no pity to those who would have given them none. Some Wildcats, over-eager for glory and vengeance, pushed to far and were swamped by the mass of warriors as they fled, going down beneath wildly hacking blades and clubbing fists as the barbarians fought like cornered rats to clear their path to safety.

Natalie was not one of those foolish few. She was exhausted, her chest burning, mouth dry and dusty. She wasn't sure she could lift her laden arms, and her lags were sagging wearily. Panicked men and yelling Amazons rushed by, jostling at her, and she staggered back, attempting to find somewhere, anywhere that she could find peace and comfort. Tears sprang to her eyes as the enormity of what she had been through finally hit her, as with uneven steps, she wandered clear of the chaos. She wasn't the only Amazon so afflicted. Nearly all the surviving Wildcats were emerging dazedly from the scrum. Some sat and wept, while others stared numbly into the distance. Some rooted frantically amongst the butchery, looking for friends or kin, or struggled to help wounded friends. Natalie sank to the ground, wracked by uncontrolable sobs, her hands shaking uncontrollably, knife discarded by her side.

Raquelle gulped for air as the spampede of horses and men passed either side of her. The danger was passed, she had survived. A mixture of soaring relief and bitter misery swept through her, as it always did. Relief for her continued survival, but guilt too. So many of her friends had fallen.

She let the sword fall from her fingers, feeling her palm burning and raw. She straightened, re-tying the slipping head-band and wiping sweat from her brow. Her wounded thigh stung.

She retrieved the sword, wiped it clean on a foe's clothes, and sheathed it on the belt at her hip.

Around her, for two hundred meters in all directions lay a carpet of dead. Prone bodies, splintered shields, shattered spears and broken swords lay about, grasped in dead hands or standing out of the bloody ground. The trampled grass was no longer green, the ground no longer parched. The air was still and stinking.

As the thunder of battle died away and her ears slowly stopped ringing, she became aware of the awful hymn of pain that rises from a battlefield after the fighting has passed.

Thousands of voices crying out in pain; screaming, sobbing, pleading and moaning. They melded together to create a soughing murmur around her. Injured women cried out their pain, dying Amazons screamed in desparation, denying their fate, imploring their gods for aid. Friends whispered comfort to struggling, writhing figures.

A pretty Amazon girl was squealing, sat in the grass with her guts pooled in her lap. A Knight lay curled beside her horse, booted knees hugged to her body as she rocked back and forth, making a keening noise.

Yenna knelt beside Michelle, holding the girl in her arms and murmuring in her ear. The pretty twenty year-old was weeping freely, clutching fiercely at her friend's arm, her jaw working, sweat beaded on her forehead. Blood oozed thickly from the lips of a sword wound under her ribs, crimson fluid sliding down her smooth, firm belly and staining the sky blue of her loin cloth. Her long legs pushed at the ground, booted heels digging gouges in the soil.

A whimpering girl begged for water, while another pleaded deleriously for her lover to come back to her.

The Wolverine who had so inspired Raquelle lay some distance away, back proped against a dead horse. Wiry muscles stood out on her arms as she tugged at the broken spear-shaft she was spitted on, teeth grinding as she bit down on her screams. Strong thighs rippled as she kicked her legs against the pain. Her eyes burned with a desperate determination as they locked with Raquelle's. Unable to watch she turned away.

There were healers moving amongst the wounded now. Men brought canteens of water to sooth dry throats, others carried stachels of bandages and herbs. The worst casualties were lifted onto hide stretchers and borne from the field to where surgeons sharpened their knives in their tents. In the distance, dust rose in the air as the Knights and surviving Outriders chased down the fleeing barbarians.

Raquelle gratefully accepted a leather flask of cool water from a passing healer, drinking deeply and splashing her face, passing the rest to Yenna. She felt an overwhelming urge to get away from the devastation. The butchery around her was making her nauseous, and her limbs were beginning to shake as the adrenaline seeped away and the fatigue set in. Once again, she had survived, and for that she was grateful. Many of her friends had not been so lucky, and tonight she would mourn them.

At the close of the battle, some twelve hundred Amazons lay dead on the plain, and of the five hundred seriously wounded, nearly half did not survive their injuries.

The barabrians suffered worse, with only a few hundred men escaping their pursuers and returning to their homelands.

At great cost in blood and lives, the Amazons had halted the barbarian advance, and the Calii plain was theirs. The funeral pyres burned for seven days and nights, and the warriors lamented their slain comrades in ritual dances and prayers, before the army disbanded and the warriors went their seperate ways, each returning with her sisters to home towns and villages, to bear the news of the victory and its cost to the families, friends and lovers who had remained behind.