The herald could scarcely credit his ears. Was the man before him insane? He stared at Tol’s grim face, finding no answer there, nor in the annoyingly superior expression on the face of the ugly Silvanesti who rode at his side. The men at his back wore equally determined looks.

The messenger shut his mouth with a snap. “I regret your coming death, my lord. I served with Lord Urakan in Hylo, seventeen years ago.” Directing an angry look at Tylocost, he added, “Your choice of allies these days shows how grievously you have lost your way.”

He yanked his mount’s head around and cantered back to the waiting Riders. Even across the distance it was plain they were astonished to learn Tol’s identity and message. At length they formed up and returned to the city.

When they had gone, an odd ripple in the grass presaged the arrival of Queen Casberry. The green stems were taller than she.

“Your Majesty! Are you alone?” Tol said, looking anxiously behind her for signs of Miya and the rest.

“No kender is ever alone,” she said. Casting a glance over her shoulder, she added, “The rest of the party is coming along shortly, but they’re not alone either-if you know what I mean.”

Tylocost drew Tol’s attention to traces of dust rising in the air. It appeared Miya and company were being pursued.

“You enjoy this sword stuff so much, I leave the rest to you.” Casberry strode past, head held high.

At Tol’s order, a hundred men formed in close order before him. He dismounted and handed his reins to Tylocost.

“Stay here. If the garrison comes out, call up the Riders, and stand and fight.”

Although plainly unhappy with the decision, the elf nodded grimly.

Tol and the company of soldiers jogged away. They descended the slope of the knoll and veered northward, eyes fixed on the plumes of dust moving toward them. On their left, along the wall of Caergoth, the flapping of signal flags tracked their progress.

All of a sudden they found what they sought. Some forty people were struggling through the grass, hampered by the elderly and wounded comrades. Zala carried an aged, unkempt man on her back. Her father, Tol reckoned. The man whose life he’d guaranteed.

Taller than the rest was Voyarunta. On his thigh a hastily arranged bandage was soaked with blood. He was supported by his younger daughter.

Relief flooded through Tol and he shouted Miya’s name.

“Husband!” she cried, her strained, sweating face breaking into a smile. “Make yourself useful!”

When the pursuers came galloping over the rise, they were surprised to find, not unarmed, ragged prisoners, but armed infantry ready to meet them. Tol’s men had formed a hollow square with the escapees inside. The leading Riders hesitated, and the whole troop milled about for a moment. Re-forming, they charged, waving sabers and shouting. The Juramonans, hardened by screaming nomad attacks, stood firm, and the Riders pulled up when they saw the militia wasn’t going to break.

Taking advantage of their indecision, Tol ordered, “By section, close ranks and advance!”

The men on the far side of the ring moved in to fill the gaps between the men on the engaged side. Then, with spears ported under their arms, the whole troop advanced on the horsemen.

The startled Riders stood their ground, hacking at the spearpoints with their sabers, but the compact band of foot soldiers kept coming. Horses lost their footing in the confused press and toppled, throwing their noble riders. Alarmed, the captain of the Riders called for retreat.

Tol let them go. Eight Riders had fallen, either wounded or unconscious, but the Juramonans hadn’t lost a man. The militia backed away as the escaped prisoners scurried to safety.

Tol caught up with Miya, still supporting her injured father. He asked why she and the other Dom-shu were so far from their forest home.

Frowning at his gruff tone, Miya looked up at her father. “See? He is an ungrateful wretch! How’s Sister?”

He said she was fine, and coming with Egrin and the main body of the army. Relief flooded Miya’s face.

“Praise Zivilyn! She left the village with her burial beads, you know.”

Tol stopped in his tracks. He hadn’t known. When a Dom-shu warrior came of age, he or she was required to weave a headband that would be worn only when the warrior expected to die in battle. When Kiya had left her people to become Tol’s hostage and wife, her beads had remained with Voyarunta, To have brought her death raiment with her on this journey was an ominous sign.

Drums clattered and horns blared from the distant city. The southwestern gate-called the Centaur Gate for its representation of a tribe of galloping centaurs wrought in fine bronze-swung open. Horsemen six abreast trotted forth. Soon two hordes had deployed across the paved road leading southwest to Daltigoth.

More horns proclaimed the emergence of a third horde, and a fourth could be seen mustering inside the barbican. The presence of four thousand Riders meant Wornoth was no longer concerned about a handful of fleeing prisoners. He intended to kill Tol. Militia and escapees alike quickened their pace.

Tol finally noted the absence of Helbin, and Zala said he’d been captured. This likely meant the wizard was dead.

The group was moving as fast as they could. A flight of arrows arced up from the battlements of Caergoth and descended. The missiles fell far short, but the Ergothian hordes started forward in pursuit formation. On foot, and burdened with weak and wounded people, Tol’s band couldn’t outpace horsemen. The first Riders caught up with them, then passed by on either side.

There was no choice but stand and fight. He pushed his group hard until they reached a spreading oak, the largest tree in sight. The militiamen deployed in a circle around the tree. The escapees clustered around its base. Zala, Miya, Chief Voyarunta, and the Dom-shu warriors borrowed swords from the spear-armed militiamen and formed a tight group around Tol.

Without preamble or any call to surrender, the Ergothians attacked. They came straight in, and ran onto a wall of spears. Recoiling, they left a dozen dead and dying. Again they surged forward, on two fronts, trying to pinch the small band in two.

One Ergothian pushed his horse through the melee, thinking to come up on Tol’s blind side. Miya shouted a warning. Tol whirled, and his attacker’s blade met Number Six with a clang of iron on steel. Disengaging quickly, Tol sliced the saddle girth. Rider and saddle crashed to the ground. Tol thrust home through the armpit gap in the Rider’s breastplate.

After more furious fighting, the Riders withdrew. The reason quickly became clear-Tylocost was coming. The remainder of the militia was marching in two compact blocks, bristling with spearpoints. Behind them, cantering quickly, was the demi-horde of Riders Tol had left in reserve. The Caergoth hordes circled the slow-moving militia, looking for a weak spot to exploit. Doggedly, the two phalanxes came on. As Tol’s mounted men drew near, the Caergoth hordes pulled back.

“Their hearts aren’t in it,” Miya observed. Sweat plastered her short hair to her face, and she was breathing hard. There were no soft Dom-shu, but six years as a village mother had ill-prepared her for fierce combat.

As he watched the Caergoth Riders withdraw a short distance, Tol suddenly frowned. Riders of the Great Horde retreating after only a brief engagement with foot soldiers? And withdrawing in the face of a force of Riders only a quarter their strength? Understanding struck him.

“You’re right!” he declared. “Their hearts aren’t in it!”

Tol called for his cornet. A young fellow, once a journeyman brewer from Juramona, arrived and was told to blow “Parley.” The brewer didn’t know how, so Tol sang the four notes for him. The cornet repeated the notes properly and Tol slapped him on the back. “Get up that tree and blow until I tell you to stop!”