Pagas re-formed his scattered men. Egrin was with them, the high comb topping his marshal’s helmet rising above the squat, round helmets worn by Riders in the landed hordes. At a walking pace, the Army of the East pushed ahead. Ackal V’s men slowly gave ground, uncertain how to best them.

On the right, the north side of the Ackal Path, a low stone wall marked the boundary of a large pasture. Some of Pagas’s men steered their horses around the obstacle, while others urged their animals to jump over it. Confusion resulted, and before they’d regrouped, three imperial hordes came roaring across the pasture, sabers forward. Frustrated by their abortive fight with Tol’s infantry, the men vented their fury on Pagas’s disordered men.

Tol bawled new orders to the militia. Companies of spearmen halted, ponderously swung to their right, and headed toward the boiling cavalry fight. Arrows sailed in from imperial troops. One skipped off Tol’s helmet, throwing him off balance. Kiya looped an arm through his and kept him on his feet.

Pagas’s horde fractured in half. The tough old warlord whose valiant battle against centaurs had earned him a bashed nose and a high-pitched voice was engulfed by younger, saber-swinging foes. He gave as good as he got for quite a while, but finally too many blades flashed around Pagas, and he pitched from his horse.

Egrin, trapped in the other half of the Plains Panther horde, tried to break through to the fallen warlord. Pagas was trying to rise on hands and knees when imperials closed in and trampled him under in a blur. Immediately the cry went up that Lord Pagas was dead.

Undaunted, Egrin and a wedge of horsemen plunged into the enemy riders, forcing them away from where Pagas lay. Unfortunately, it was soon clear the cries were true: Pagas was slain.

Armor clanking, sweat running down every face, the militia was about to close on the cavalry duel when fresh imperial hordes galloped up behind them. With this new threat at their backs, the Juramonans had no choice but to face about. Tol shouted for the nearest company to attack.

“Egrin!” Kiya shouted.

Her cry brought Tol whirling around in time to see the man who had been like a father to him inundated by enemies. A saber blow sent Egrin’s helmet flying, though the old warrior skewered the Rider who’d landed the blow. Even as he recovered his weapon, however, four more warriors thrust at him. He parried the first attack, the next, and the next-then a saber tip caught Egrin under his sword arm.

From his vantage fewer than thirty paces away, Tol saw the strike clearly. The imperial Rider who’d landed the blow stabbed Egrin again, and the old warrior collapsed sideways off his mount and vanished among the churning horsemen.

Breath caught in Tol’s throat. He felt as though the thrust had pierced his own flesh. He began to shout at the top of his lungs. Later, he would have no memory of what he’d said.

Kiya stared at him in shock. She’d never before heard such language from her normally even-tempered husband.

Tol drove his company forward, but the infantry could not catch the horsemen. The horde that had slain Pagas wheeled before the militia’s rush and rode easily out of reach.

The bodies of the two warlords lay within paces of each other. Pagas lay on his stomach in the trampled grass. He had suffered a score of wounds. Egrin’s only visible wounds were the jab underneath his sword arm and a shallow cut across his throat. After falling from his horse, his great stamina had allowed him to pull himself to a seated position. He was slumped forward, head hanging down. His right hand still gripped his saber.

With the militia encircling him, keeping watch for enemy attack, Tol knelt by Egrin. His hands shook as he dropped his spear and tilted the old marshal’s head up. Hazel eyes blinked at him.

“Egrin!” Tol cried. “Egrin, can you hear me?”

He blinked again, and managed a barely perceptible nod, but he couldn’t rise or speak.

“Husband!” Kiya said urgently. “We need you-the battle goes on!”

Tol gently laid the marshal on his back and stood, positioning himself so his shadow covered Egrin’s face.

“We’ll hold here,” he said, wiping sweat and tears from his grimy cheeks. “We can’t advance without more cavalry support. Ackal’s men would chew us up.”

With trumpet calls, the trailing hordes of Tol’s army were summoned forward. Last to arrive were Mittigorn and Argonnel, hurrying from their position at the customs house. When the full weight of Tol’s forty-four hordes was in place, the imperials began to withdraw.

Miya rode out of the ranks of Zanpolo’s men. Tol took the reins of his gray war-horse from her. He was trembling so with battle rage and exhaustion, he missed the stirrup twice before finally setting his foot in and swinging into the saddle.

“Have the healers see to Lord Egrin,” he said. “There’s a man’s weight in gold for those who save his life!”

He gathered his reins, ready to gallop after the retreating imperials, but Miya took hold of the gray horse’s bridle. “Wait, Husband,” she said. “Let your warlords chase the enemy. You should stay here.”

He yanked his horse’s head to the side, breaking her grip, and snarled, “No! Not enough blood has been shed-not nearly enough!”

Miya was appalled by his bloodthirsty words, and by the ugly emotions that twisted his face. Kiya, mounted as well, steered her smaller plains pony in front of his muscular warhorse, blocking his attempt to ride away. He shouted at her to move, but she refused to budge.

With a hiss of steel, Number Six came free of its scabbard. Tol raised the saber high.

Miya cried out, but Kiya said calmly, “Will you kill me, Husband?”

Crimson shame washed over his face as he lowered the sword. The three of them stood frozen in place as the hordes of Mittigorn and Argonnel swept past in a swirl of dust and pounding hoofbeats.

It was Tol who finally broke the terrible moment. He bowed his head and covered his burning eyes with one hand.

He’d lost comrades on every campaign he’d fought. It was never easy, but the sorrow was lessened by knowing they died well, fighting as honorable warriors. Yet he felt no such comfort in this case. If Egrin died…

Tol shuddered. Egrin was more than his second father. Tol had known his real father for eleven years. He’d known Egrin nearly three decades. Not only had Egrin opened up an entirely different world to Tol and taught him how to be a warrior, the former marshal had showed when it was best not to fight. Egrin had taught him what it meant to be an honorable man.

A strong hand clutched his arm. It was Miya’s. She said his name, and the awed tone of her voice penetrated his grief. He looked up and beheld an amazing scene.

To the west, where the imperial hordes were retreating, clouds were descending onto the battlefield. Tol saw no faces in them, just billowing masses of white vapor sinking to the ground. They filled the open space between the withdrawing imperials and Tol’s pursuing hordes. The green pastures and leafy orchards were slowly swallowed up by a wall of dense mist.

“The emperor’s covering his tracks!” said Kiya.

Wearily, Tol sheathed Number Six. “The battle is over today,” he said. “When the clouds disperse, we’ll resume the march. This was just a skirmish to delay us.”

Miya was incredulous. How could he call today’s bloody encounter a skirmish?

“We faced no more than ten hordes today. Ackal has ninety more. Imagine today’s battle increased ninefold.”

Miya shook her head. She followed as Tol rode back to check on Egrin.

Kiya never noticed them leave. The low-lying cloudbank was staring at her-its contours holding the same implacable faces she had seen before. After a moment the faces dissolved, leaving only featureless fog.