The great room was full of soldiers sleeping off the effects of too much drink. Tol took a deep breath and shattered the silence.

“On your feet!” he bellowed. “Lord Tylocost comes! Get on your feet, you stinking swine!”

His training-ground voice stood him in good stead. Blearily, the mercenaries got to their feet, shaking their more sodden comrades awake.

“Turn out! Turn out!” Tol shouted. “The army’s moving out! Any man not on his feet and in the street will be considered a deserter. We all know what Lord Tylocost does to deserters!”

In threes and fours, the soldiers staggered into the rainswept street. Tol’s own men were drawn up in two double lines, and the befuddled Tarsan troops obligingly formed up between them.

Meanwhile, an officer, from the look of the gold leaves on his helmet, approached Tol. “What’s happened?” he asked in a hoarse voice. “I thought we were staying in Old Port for at least a fortnight-”

“General’s orders. He’s routed the Ergothians and needs every available man to join the pursuit.”

The officer nodded. Looking down to buckle his sword belt, he noticed Tol’s Ergothian-style riding boots.

The Tarsan’s head came up. “You’re-!”

Tol whipped out his saber and laid its edge against the man’s neck. “Be wise!”

The Tarsan officer glared at Tol with bloodshot eyes. His hesitation lasted only a moment; he had no choice, and knew it. He surrendered.

Tol prodded him outside, where the bewildered Tarsans were facing four lines of Ergothian spears. At their officer’s command, the Tarsans grounded their arms.

The wine cellar of the inn proved a perfect dungeon, albeit filled with casks of north plains wine and Tarsan-style beer. Tol had the disarmed enemy soldiers herded into the cellar and the door bolted. Laughing at their easy coup, the Ergothians demolished the wooden stairs leading up from the cellar and used the heavy timbers to brace the door shut. Full casks, long feasting tables, and heavy bags of flour were piled against the braces. It would take the Tarsans a full day to break out.

“Let’s go,” Tol said. “Time is short! Egrin should have reached Lord Urakan’s camp by now.”

The rain had ended at last, and the sun was breaking through the tattered clouds. Tol’s men sorted through the cloaks and weaponry given up by the mercenaries. One entire company-Darpo’s-was outfitted with saffron-colored cloaks and peaked Tarsan helmets. They also tied red cloths around their right arms to identify themselves as imperial soldiers.

They left Old Port by the east gate, heading toward the alluvial plain between Fingle’s and Three Rose Creek. A low ridge dominated the north side of the stream. Tol could not imagine crossing the creek and climbing that ridge in the face of an entrenched enemy, but stubborn Lord Urakan had tried. Tol was counting on that same stubbornness now. Stung by defeat, Urakan would fall back, but slowly and reluctantly. Tylocost would swoop down upon him to complete his victory.

That’s what Tol would do, and what he expected the skilled elf general to do.

The south shore of Three Rose Creek was covered with rafts, scows, and barges used to ferry the Tarsan army across. No guards remained behind. Tylocost had cut loose from his base and was going all out to catch Urakan’s retreating hordes.

As most of Tol’s force hurried on, Fellen’s company stayed behind. They proceeded to sink or set adrift all the watercraft the Tarsans had left behind. There would be no escape for Tylocost.

The enemy’s trail was easy to follow. Thousands of men and horses had trampled through the waist-high cattails as they climbed up from the creek into the sparse pine woods. Just inside the woods, Tol paused, waiting for Fellen’s company to rejoin them. A distant rumble came to his ears-Tylocost’s army, on the move.

“Twelve thousand men,” Allacath muttered.

“Equal parts foot and cavalry,” Tol added. “The Tarsans hire plains nomads for their riding skills.”

“They can’t stand up to our horsemen,” said Darpo staunchly.

“They’ve been doing a pretty good job so far,” was Allacath’s gloomy reply.

When Fellen’s men had caught up with them, Tol ordered his men into battle formation. Five companies would lead: Tarthan’s on the far left, then Wellax, Allacath, Frez, and Darpo on the right. About fifty paces behind them would come the second line, the companies of Fellen, Sanksa, and Egrin, the latter now commanded by Kiya. In ordinary times, it would have been impossible to convince Ergothian warriors to follow a tribal woman into battle, but her part in defeating XimXim had won Kiya much respect from the hard-nosed soldiers.

Darpo’s company, disguised by yellow cloaks and peaked helms, advanced slightly ahead of the rest of the line. Several times they came within sight of the rearmost echelons of the Tarsan army, but Tol held them back, allowing Tylocost to keep ahead. The time was not yet right to strike.

Midday came. The sky was bright blue, flecked with clouds only at the far eastern and western horizons. It was summer, and the warm wind off the sea combined with the sun to make the day sultry.

Tol and his men ate and drank on the march, passing waterskins back and forth in the ranks. Off to their right, the west, a distant shout went up, closely followed by the telltale clatter of arms. Tol tossed his waterskin to the man behind him and drew his sword.

“Close up the line. Shields up,” he said quietly.

Two hundred round shields swung into line; two hundred long spears protruded beside them. Darpo’s company scattered into a thin skirmish line. They trotted through the slender pines toward the din of battle, but hadn’t gone far when an officer on horseback cantered back to them.

“What are you men doing here?” the Tarsan demanded. “Get to the front! We’ve caught the Ergos. They won’t escape this time!”

Darpo hurled a spear, killing the officer. The riderless horse galloped away. While the Ergothians were searching the dead man, a troop of enemy cavalry came riding by. They were lightly armed nomads, wearing Tarsan colors, but rode past without stopping. Darpo let them go.

In the dead officer’s cuirass, Darpo found a dispatch. As he was skimming its contents, Tol and the main body of soldiers came jogging through the trees. Darpo handed him the letter.

“ ‘Proceed at once to the enemy’s left, and charge home,’ ” Tol read aloud. “ ‘Their unhorsed cavalry won’t fight on foot.’ ” He looked up swiftly. “It’s signed ‘Tylo.’ ”

“What are we going to do?” Wellax said.

Tol crumpled the strip of parchment. “We go straight in,” he replied.

He knew his plan would work better if the Tarsans routed the battered, horseless Ergothian riders. It was a harsh decision, but there was no time to waste explaining to his men. Mounting Cloud, he urged his soldiers forward.

The sounds of combat increased. Atop a sandy knoll Tol took in the panorama of battle. On his right, the Tarsan cavalry was swarming around a large body of Ergothians on foot-the horseless riders mentioned in the dispatch. Had Tol commanded them, the Ergothians might have formed a tight circle and held off the enemy light horse, but the imperial riders had no proper training in fighting afoot. They sallied forth in groups of ten and twenty to attack the nomads, who easily evaded them. Then the Tarsan cavalry charged and tore the isolated knots of Ergothians to pieces, trampling them underfoot or impaling them with their long, light lances.

In the center of the battlefield, a strong force of Ergothian horsemen was holding out against combined forays of Tylo-cost’s cavalry and heavily armed foot soldiers. Encased in armor, using shields so large and heavy it took two men to shift each one, the Tarsan infantry could push the Ergothian cavalry back. But the Tarsans’ great weakness was their lack of maneuverability.