Ulur and Tokasin laughed at Tol’s bold demand. Mattohoc did not. He regarded the Ergothian thoughtfully.

Tokasin ended the parley with a ringing boast: “I will build a tower of skulls here, and yours will sit at the top, Ergoth!”

The three chiefs wheeled their horses in tight circles. They and the rest of their party began to ride back to their waiting warriors. The two heralds blew their horns, ending the truce.

Tol started back to his people, with Zala pointedly guarding his back. She never took her eyes off the nomads.

“Are we going to die?” Zala muttered.

“Certainly,” he replied. “But only the gods know when.”

The Ergothian pikemen parted ranks, allowing Tol and Zala to pass.

Tylocost hailed them. “Welcome back, my lord. Did they surrender?”

Tol repeated the gist of the discussion, with Zala adding Tokasin’s remark about building a tower of skulls. The tired militiamen stirred anxiously, like a herd of elk scenting a panther.

Frowning, Tol loudly declared, “Our fate is in our hands, not theirs! They’re not sure of victory, else they would not have bothered to parley Companies, stand to!” The Juramonans took up their pikes.

Tol went to the rear of the formation and spoke to the unarmed refugees huddled in the ruins. With the enemy host before them, all must play a part in the coming battle. He told any who could stand and bear a weapon to do so.

No one argued. The old and infirm, the sick, and the injured-all shuffled into place, adding some three hundred bodies to the lines. When the stock of salvaged pikes ran out, Tol armed them with axes, billhooks, scythes, and any other long-handled weapon or tool that could be found.

Tol walked down the line with Tylocost and Zala behind him, speaking not only to the new recruits, but to all his people.

“Keep your eyes forward. Pay no heed to what’s behind you. All that matters is the enemy before you. No one is to break ranks without orders. The surest way to kill yourself and the rest of us is to open our lines, so keep your heads. Don’t fence with the enemy. Keep your points to them, and let them exhaust themselves trying to break through our wall of spears.”

He told Tylocost to take the right, the north, where the ground was higher, the ruins steeper.

The Silvanesti’s pale eyes narrowed. Abandoning his usual flippant tone he snapped, “You need not give me the easier position to defend!”

“That is my order.”

“Well, at least keep the half-breed with you. She’ll only get in my way.”

Zala glared at him. She’d never intended to leave Tol’s side, and all of them knew it.

Saluting with his sword, Tylocost said, “Here’s to luck, my lord. I trust the gods have granted you an everlasting supply.”

The relative calm was shattered by the screeching cries that heralded a nomad attack. The plainsmen were coming now and at a gallop. A ripple of nervous fear passed through the Ergothian ranks, but Tol and his officers speedily moved to quash it.

The dead-on charge puzzled Tol. It would have been much easier for the nomads to stand off and rain arrows upon the Ergothians. Instead, Tokasin was gambling on a quick, crushing victory, using a hammer when a needle would do.

The morning sun bathed the nomads in golden light. They were charging directly into its glare. This seemed to cause them little difficulty, but five paces from the Juramonan spearpoints they wrenched their horses hard around. It was obvious the militia would not simply break and run in terror, and the riders had no intention of impaling their animals.

Just to provoke them, Tol ordered a single company-his Seventh, the deserters-forward just far enough to drive the riders back. Some slower nomads were plowed down by the phalanx of pikes, but most danced out of reach. When other nomads poured in to attack the exposed sides of Tol’s company, he swiftly withdrew his men again.

A deadly rhythm ensued. The nomads charged, stopped, and the Ergothians sallied out to drive them back. The strange dance went on all morning, a tense, exhausting business, where the slightest misstep could mean disaster. The sun mounted higher in the sky, and the defenders of Juramona prayed Corij would send a scorching day. The militia had access to the town’s wells; children brought water to those fighting. The plainsmen had only the water they carried, and this was soon gone.

The god was pleased to answer their prayers. The heat increased; the yellow dust of the Eastern Hundred choked every throat, coated man and horse alike. The Ergothians drank deep and hung on.

Two hundred dismounted nomad archers gathered well out of pike range and began loosing volleys of arrows at the closely packed militia. Their shields went up, along with makeshift covers of scavenged planks, canvas, and wicker. The standoff continued.

Zala wiped gritty sweat from her forehead with an equally gritty hand and drew Tol’s attention to Tylocost. The elf sat atop a broken column in full view of the enemy, legs crossed and floppy hat tied securely under his chin.

She pronounced him a fool, but Tol, shaking his head, said, “He is one the finest generals of this age.”

“You beat him.”

“I was fortunate. Even the gods can be undone by an unexpected turn of fate.”

Horns blasted to the right and left. A solid wall of horsemen, brandishing swords, rumbled past the archers and started up the hill toward the center of the Ergothian line. As they had done this many times before (though never with so many riders), no one was overly concerned. The militiamen-once craftsmen, traders, and merchants, now increasingly seasoned as fighters-braced for the onslaught.

Ten paces away, the massive column picked up speed.

“They’re charging home!” Tol said, looking left and right along his lines. “Dig in! Stand firm!” He drew Number Six.

Three paces was as close as the nomads could approach and still have room to turn their ponies aside. That limit was reached-and still they came on. A spontaneous shout went up from the Ergothians, a third of whom were kneeling with their pikes butted against the ground.

“Juramona!” cried a thousand hoarse voices.

The nomads hit the Seventh and the companies on each side, the Third and the Eighth. Sheer weight of numbers bowled the Ergothians down. Many were trampled. An equal number of nomads and their horses were shredded by the hedge of spearpoints.

The Ergothian line was eight ranks deep. In moments the riders had bludgeoned halfway through. The clang of iron, the screams of the dying and their killers rose to a deafening roar. A nomad herald raised a horn to his lips and blew, but not a note could be heard over the unimaginable din.

A flash of color caught Tol’s eye. Red-haired Tokasin was flank to flank with his men, driving them forward.

Tol pushed through his tightly packed men, heading for the nomad chief. More than once he fended off attacks, cut at enemy riders, and felt the whiff of a blade through his hair, but he was making progress toward his goal. Then, a horse’s hindquarters swung around and caught him full in the chest. Down he went.

Unshod hooves kicked at his ribs and back. He scrambled to his feet, only to find himself directly in the path of a sword-wielding horseman about to cleave his head in two. Suddenly, a Juramonan thrust a fire-blackened spearhead into the nomad’s neck. Tol was astonished to see his savior was Wilfik. All this time he must have been hiding, in the ruins.

The dishonored guardsmen said nothing. Neither did Tol. Battle drew them apart again.

Tol continued to fight his way through the press toward Tokasin. When a riderless pony came across his path, he swung onto its back and bawled a challenge. Whooping with joy, Tokasin spurred his red horse at Tol.

The two horses collided hard enough to loosen both men’s teeth. Tol thrust overhand with Number Six. The chief leaned out of reach and aimed straight at his opponent’s eyes. Tol parried, noting the nomad chief wielded an Ergothian cavalry saber.