The Governor had held the temper of his enemies in contempt too light, and now repented of his rashness in giving them a vantage ground. He looked for his horsemen screened behind the hill, but Kedah, their captain, was not the man to charge without an order from his chief; so Menon's soul was troubled for his army's fate.
"The reserve!" he roared into a courier's ear. "Ride on the wings of hell! Nay, look! By the grace of all the gods, they come!"
Of a truth it was so. A cloud of horsemen swept along the ridge in the form of a solid wedge, its sharp point aiming full at the foemen's flank. To the front, three lengths ahead, a steed of Barbary ran low against the earth, on its back a wild-eyed imp of war, unhelmeted, her red hair whipping out behind. In her hand she waved a hunting spear, and urged her men in a high, shrill scream that rang above the battle's din—and the men came on as evil spirits drive. Downward they plunged, to strike the Kurds with the shock of a thunder-bolt, to bore a ragged pathway through the seething ruck; then turned and bored back again.
And now the hearts of the Kurds grew faint, and a scrambling rout began; yet ere they could flee, the horsemen battered through their flank once more, circled, and took them in their rear. The crescent steadied, formed its line again, and spread to cut the Kurds' retreat; but Menon, shouting words that were hoarse and strange, flung wisdom to the seven winds, and charged.
Destruction dire might have come upon the enemy, but so long as he saw that flaming head that rocked on a surf of reeling, blood-mad warriors, he knew no thought save one—to reach Semiramis and be her shield. With Huzim close behind he won his way through a tangle of plunging steeds and men, but paused at last, to battle vainly at a human wall which he might not pierce.
As it chanced, the Kurds were caught between two closing jaws which pinched them as in a vice; yet full a third swarmed out at right and left, to scurry away among the distant crags where none but snakes might follow after.
The battle was done at last. A silence fell where the crash and roar of carnage had resounded through the hills. The Assyrian footmen were drawn in triple lines, and Menon recalled his horsemen who galloped far and wide, impaling stragglers on their points. At last they came, Semiramis in the lead, while behind her rode a soul-sick horseman, his chin sunk low upon his breast. Kedah was he called, the captain in whose command the reserve had been entrusted, and he who had charged without his chieftain's word. In silence he dismounted; from his saddle he produced a rope which he looped about his neck, then gave the end into Menon's hand.
The Governor frowned darkly and his rage was deep; not that the officer had charged without command, but because this underling had dared to bring Semiramis into a raging, blood-bespattered pool of death.
"Speak, Kedah—the truth! Be brief!"
"My lord," replied the man, who thought himself about to die, "my lips speak truth, as Bêlit watcheth me. I sat behind yon hill and waited for the word to ride. I heard the tumult when the battle joined, and though I yearned to come upon the dogs, I held my will in leash." The offender paused, glanced backward at Semiramis, smiled, and spoke again: "Of a sudden, my lord, this goddess dropped upon us from the clouds, for I swear I saw her not till her grip was on mine arm and she cursed me in mine ear. 'Fool!' she cried, 'why dawdle here when the great lord Menon sweateth in the toils. At them, ye swine, or by the living gods I charge alone!'"