Then the runner had arrived, bearing a simple message that sent him running across the city, his heart in his throat. The Scatas had come.

He took the steps three at a time, his legs straining after the run from the temple. At the top a familiar figure awaited him: Vedro, his capable man from Luciel. He gripped a bow in his thick-fingered hands, his face grimmer than usual behind the cheek-guards of his helm.

“What do we have?” Tavarre asked.

Vedro spat on the flagstones, then waved out past the merlons. “See for yourself.”

Tavarre pushed between a pair of archers to stare out at the hills. The high walls, perched at the summit of one of Taol’s tallest hills, gave him a commanding view. He followed the road as it snaked off toward the southern fiefs, amidst leafless plane trees and moss-speckled boulders, sunlight glinting on the Edessa. He fixed his gaze on a dark mass, more than half a league off but coming closer.

He squinted, shading his eyes with his hand. “Horsemen only?”

“A thousand or about,” Vedro said, spitting again. He’d been chewing some sort of bitter root, which left stains on his teeth.

“An advance force.”

“Aye. Looks like the same lot what chased us, and we lost at the bridge,” Vedro noted. “I sent runners to the other gates and the river too, to warn ‘em. Wouldn’t put it past the sneaky buggers to flank us while we concentrated on this lot.”

“Mmm,” Tavarre muttered, unconvinced. “More likely they’re here to test us.”

Another stream of brown juice shot from Vedro’s lips. “Well, then. Best put on a good show, eh?”

Chuckling, Tavarre settled in to watch the riders approach. They took their time, and the sentries glanced at one another, muttering under their breaths. Many of Govinna’s defenders were young and hadn’t seen battle before. The older men were also edgy. The riders’ deliberate, almost arrogant pace unsettled them all.

“Easy, lads,” Tavare called. “We’re behind walls, don’t forget. We can handle a thousand.” It’s the ten thousand to come that will give us trouble, he thought, grimacing.

Someone-he didn’t look to see who-handed him a crossbow and a case of quarrels. He loaded the weapon and sighted down its length, then lowered it again. Behind him, the Pantheon’s bells pealed, and the other churches joined in, ringing in harmony as they sounded the first bell of the afternoon. Down the wall, a jumpy archer loosed his shot. It flew high and long, but when it fell it was still far short of the riders. Vedro rounded on the bowman, thickening the air with curses, threatening to roast the man’s balls over a brazier. After that, no one else dared let fly early.

Half a mile away, the Scatas began to pick up their pace. Fanning out at some unheard order, they reached to their saddles for bows. Tavarre hunkered lower, bringing up his crossbow as Vedro raised a hand, ready to order the first volley. He stared, judging the distance-still too far, not quite yet. But nearly… nearly…

“Loose!” Vedro roared.

A chorus of thrums sounded along the wall, then the receding buzz of arrows and quarrels as they streaked away from the city. Tavarre fired with the others, grabbing the string of his crossbow and pulling it back to reload as he tracked the missiles’ flight. He lost sight of his own shot amid the volley, a deadly black cloud that dove at the approaching horsemen, falling all around them, and into their midst as well.

Men screamed and cursed. Most of the archers’ shots missed, thudding into the ground and shattering against rocks and paving stones, but here and there a rider clutched himself and pitched forward against his horse’s neck or toppled from the saddle with a crash of armor. Horses died too, shrieking as they threw their riders or fell on top of them-again, not many, but enough to raise a cheer from the bowmen along the wall. Fists jabbed the air in triumph.

“Quit yapping, you dolts!” Vedro barked. “There’s plenty more where they came from. Loose again!”

The second volley was more ragged than the first, but no less deadly. Again the missiles rained down, and again men fell like scythed wheat, but they were using their oblong shields now, catching shots that might have killed them. One paused long enough to show his arrow-riddled shield-it had six shafts buried in its face-to the rider beside him. He paid for the mistake, a seventh shaft suddenly sprouting from his eye. Tavarre fancied it was his quarrel that knocked the man from his horse, but there was no way to be sure. A dozen other men could have made the shot. He didn’t care. A fierce grin spreading across his face, he cocked to fire again.

Aided by their high vantage, many of the sentries loosed a third shot, and some a fourth, before the enemy was close enough to shoot back. After that, though, the defenders’ victorious shouts turned to cries of alarm as the horsemen raised their bows, and guiding their steeds with their knees, sent their own swarm of arrows arcing upward. Most of those first shots hit the battlements, bursting into clouds of splinters to rain back onto the ground, but a few hit their mark. To Tavarre’s left a man shrieked, his tunic soaking with blood as he grabbed at a shaft that had driven between his ribs. Another archer fell to his right, an arrow bristling in his throat. Still another shot came down a hand’s breadth from the baron’s left knee, burying itself an inch deep into the wooden catwalk. The closeness of it made him jerk away, throwing off his aim, and his next shot went out too far and long, past the rearmost riders.

After that the battle turned chaotic, men on either side shooting as quickly as they could, raining torrents of arrows and bolts down upon each other. Some on the wall started to pitch rocks, shouting with glee as the stones knocked men from their saddles. A few poured out the boiling cauldrons, raising howls from below. Meanwhile, the horsemen rode back and forth along the wall’s length firing back. More than a hundred of them lay dead already, and more fell every minute, toppling from their saddles to lie still.

“For the Lightbringer!” Govinna’s defenders cried, above the screams of the wounded and dying. Hearing the shout, Tavarre gave an involuntary shudder. Gareth had uttered those identical words on the Bridge of Myrmidons, just before he fell.

Today, though, it was the Scatas’ turn to yield. After several more minutes of fierce battle, with a quarter of their number dead, the rest began to flee, galloping down the road and away.

“Ha!” Vedro declared, rising to fire at the few remaining attackers. “Looks like we gave ‘em someth-

A sound, halfway between a crunch and a thud, stopped him in mid-sentence, and he sat down with a grunt on the catwalk. His bow clattered from his hands. Tavarre turned, and winced as he saw the arrow that had punched through Vedro’s leather breastplate.

Vedro looked down at the shaft, a look of puzzlement on his face, as if he couldn’t figure out how it had gotten there. Blood flecked his beard.

“Well,” he said. “That’s no good at all.” He slumped sideways.

Tavarre was still staring at Vedro’s unmoving form-he was still breathing, but raggedly, with blood foaming around the wound-as the city’s defenders began to whoop and yell. Some shouted curses over the merlons, and others raised their weapons in the air. Shaking his head, Tavare looked up and saw the last of the horsemen galloping away, past the bodies of their comrades, past horses left riderless by the fighting, fleeing back down the road where they’d come. A scattering of arrows followed them, but the retreat was too fast, and the shots fell short.

Warily, he rose to watch the enemy go. He didn’t join his men in their cheers, nor did the other nobles and seasoned warriors atop the wall. They knew, as he did, that this skirmish was only the beginning.