His arm stretched out, his bronzed skin the color of hammered armor, of the dust beneath their feet, of the searing sky closest to the sun; he was the battlefield, born and formed of the flesh torn over it, of the blood spilled there. His gesture was broad and sweeping, indicating at first the whole of the killing ground. Soon it narrowed to a single point, the place where the mass of soldiers gathered most thickly. Already vultures circled the teeming throng, casting long shadows over those doomed to die. Together the four stallions turned as one beast, their nostrils flaring, glowing with the light of banked flame as they caught the scent of blood yet unshed.
"Don't give them their heads," Ares said, throwing a sidelong glance to his son. He tipped his head toward the horses, knowing too well their deeply ingrained bloodlust; after all, they were born to this as well as he. "They'll run the men down." He flashed a feral, white grin, very much the mirror of his child's, if lacking its sharply filed points. "And we'd hate for the fun to end too soon."
From the sheath at his side Ares drew his sword, its leaf-shaped blade battle-scarred, bloodstained, and thirsty for death. Into the chaos they rode, countless warriors falling to blade and wheel and hoof alike. "Show me what you've learned," Ares said, reaching for the reins as he pulled his sword from the gaping wound where a man's chest used to be. "Show them what you can do."