Tol heard a sharp intake of breath behind him. He turned and saw two wide red eyes, low on the ground, highlighted by the fire. The eyes shone from an ill-defined black mass.
“My lords!” he cried, leaping back.
“Suffering gods!” exclaimed the man who’d made the fire.
The intruder was a huge panther, black as soot and coiled in a crouch.
Quivering in every limb, the horses reared and plunged, prancing to put distance between themselves and the panther. The men still mounted had to drop their weapons and concentrate on keeping in the saddle.
Egrin advanced, sword extended. “Light brands!” he shouted. “Chase it off with fire!”
There was no one to comply but Tol and the man who’d started the fire. Frantically they cast about for limbs or branches. But there was nothing large available.
Opening its huge jaws, the cat let out a bloodcurdling squall. Ivory fangs glistened. It crawled forward through the grass on its belly, sidling around Egrin toward the dazed Odovar.
Egrin rushed in and cut at it. The beast twisted to avoid the iron blade. A paw the size of a dinner plate lashed out.
Pearlescent talons, rimmed with dried gore, narrowly missed Egrin’s sword arm. He leaped back, calling for aid.
The warrior who’d lit the fire was still vainly searching the grass for a tree branch with which to make a torch. Tol remembered a trick of his mother’s. When wood was scarce at the farm, she’d burn bundles of grass. He pulled up enough standing grass to make a sheaf as thick as his wrist and lashed it into a tight bundle with another pliant stalk.
Egrin circled to his right, keeping between the bold panther and his liege. Whenever the cat rose to charge, Egrin shouted and rushed in first, slashing with his saber. Once he scored a bloody line across the taut black fur on the animal’s flank. Hissing, the beast withdrew. Its eyes narrowed, focused now on Egrin instead of Odovar. Gathering his powerful rear legs under him, the panther sprang. Egrin stepped into the leap. Man and cat collided, and both went down.
The mounted warriors mastered their frightened steeds and, yelling wildly, they lowered their spears and tried to charge the panther. All they managed to do was get in each other’s way. The cat’s enormous claws slashed out, disemboweling a charger with one swipe. Dying, the horse pitched its rider headlong into the grass. The panther was on him in a flash, and the awful sound of fang shattering bone followed. Avoiding the warrior’s hard helmet, the killer cat had bitten his face and crushed the man’s skull.
Reeking of human and equine blood, the panther turned and roared defiance, hurling itself straight at Lord Odovar.
Egrin, back on his feet, shouted for Tol. The boy thrust his grass bundle torch into the flickering fire and brought it out blazing.
“To Odovar! Hurry!”
Tol ran to the beleaguered marshal, waving the torch. Odovar stumbled backward, away from the charging cat. When Tol was within reach, Odovar snatched the burning brand from him and flung it at the panther. It struck the creature square in the chest, but the black beast never faltered.
Odovar’s face showed fear for the first time. No wild animal, however hungry or enraged, could shrug off living flames. What sort of unnatural creature could this be?
Fangs bared and front claws extended, the cat seemed certain to rend the marshal to pieces. Odovar gripped his sword in both hands and drew the blade back. Suddenly, his right knee buckled and he fell heavily to that side, on top of the helpless Tol.
“Manzo! Spear!”
The warrior nearest Egrin tossed him his weapon. Egrin caught the long shaft in his right hand, tucked it under his arm, and thrust forward. He took the leaping panther just behind the left foreleg. Impaled, its massive claws just out of reach of Odovar, the fearsome cat fell to the ground.
Egrin drove the point in deeper. The panther howled and thrashed, rolling over on its back. The beast sank its claws into the shaft and dragged itself forward in order to reach Egrin. He could have dropped the spear and gotten clear, but Egrin neither faltered nor fled.
“A brave thrussst!”
The words, hissed but clear, issued from the panther’s throat.
“Unnatural beast, who are you?” Egrin demanded.
“A servant of my lord Grane,” it gasped in reply. Slapping its right paw against the hardwood shaft, the cat hauled itself closer.
Egrin held his ground. “Whom do you seek?”
“Odovar of Juramona!”
As if summoned, Odovar came up behind the panther, saber in hand. Injured though he was, he severed the beast’s head in one stroke. Egrin let go of the spear, and the cat’s carcass fell in the grass, blood spurting from its neck in black jets.
“You found him,” said the marshal, spitting on the dead beast. “May your master be as lucky!”
Tol and the warriors gathered around the monster. As they looked on, the panther visibly shrank to half its original size. Black fur sloughed from its face and paws, revealing unsettlingly human features and fingers.
“This is the creature Lord Grane set to track you, my lord!” Tol blurted.
“A half-beast, serving as a blood-hunter,” Egrin said. “I’ve heard of them. Since men first walked the plains, they have lived among us, cleaving to the shadows. It’s said they were created by the curse of an elf mage two thousand years ago, condemned to live neither fully human nor fully animal. Lord Grane must be a powerful wizard to subjugate such a monster to his will!”
Odovar’s lip curled. “Foul beast. His head will decorate my hall. Bring it.” Manzo recovered his spear and put the severed head-not quite feline, not quite human-in a leather bag for his master.
The men remounted. Tol found Egrin cleaning dark blood from his spear with a twisted tuft of grass. The boy watched him silently. He was awed by the warrior, having seen him stand his ground against the monstrous cat, wavering not at all even as the claws closed in.
Egrin looked up at him. “What is it, boy?” he asked. “Speak. Dawn is coining while we wait.”
“Sir! Will we not camp and rest the night?”
“No time. Even now, Juramona may be under attack.”
Egrin swung onto his horse. He held out a hard hand to Tol. Astride again, the boy admired the breadth of Egrin’s shoulders and his cool, contained strength. How different he was from Tol’s father, a lean, leathery man, short tempered, and suspicious of everything new.
Although his legs ached and his head swam with the terrors of the day, Tol soon found himself falling asleep. As Luin sank below the hills, he dozed, head bumping Egrin’s back in time with the horse’s plodding gait.
Next Tol knew, they were cantering down a dusty lane, far from any place he’d been before. Tall cedar trees lined both sides of a road worn deep into the sandy soil. The company rode two abreast. Dawn had broken, and the new day washed the countryside in golden light. Tol marveled at that. Never in his life had he slept past sunrise.
He and Egrin were at the tail of the column. Lord Odovar was leading it. Riding next to the warden was Manzo. Although he was younger than Egrin-his face unlined-Manzo’s brown beard was prematurely streaked with gray. His wide-set brown eyes scanned the area alertly.
The group clattered up the lane to the crest of a slight hill. The marshal held up a hand to halt his men.
On both sides of the road, beyond the ornamental cedars, lay tilled fields of a size Tol had never imagined. Plowed land stretched to the horizon, north and south. The enormous tracts dwarfed the little garden patches Tol’s father had carved out of the wilderness. A bullock could toil all day in one of these fields, Tol thought, and never make a turn, just cut an endless furrow all the way to the where the sky and land met.
In between the plowed tracts were plots of fallow pasture, fenced with split rails and rubble stone. Strangely, no one was working the vast fields, and no herds grazed the pastures.
Lord Odovar signaled Egrin. The warden of Juramona brought his horse alongside the marshal’s.
“Half a league from home, and it looks like the wastes of Thorin,” said Odovar. “The Pakins doubled back on us, didn’t they?”
“Seems so, my lord.”
Odovar fingered the massive bruise over his left eye. “There’s nothing for it but to go ahead. If Juramona’s invested, we’ll have to break through.”
“With ten men, sir?”
Odovar glared. “Shall I ride away and leave my land to the bloody hands of Spannuth Grane?”
“If the manor is besieged, wouldn’t it be better to stay clear and raise a force to lift the siege?” Egrin said carefully.
His master snorted. “You’re too cautious, Egrin. Charge in boot to boot, shoulder to shoulder-that’s how to deal with these rebels.”
Tol could feel the tension in Egrin’s posture, but the loyal warden merely replied, “It will be as you command, my lord.”
“Form the men in a close column, and we’ll go on.”
Egrin passed the word to the others. Slinging their shields over their arms and couching their spears, they grinned at the prospect of battle. Only Egrin was solemn and silent.
“Troop, forward!” Odovar commanded. At a trot, they proceeded down the hill.
As they went, Tol noted signs of trouble. Hoes and rakes lay discarded in the fields, sharp edges and pointed tines facing the sky. Other items-a straw hat, a clay water bottle, a single shoe-were scattered about as though abandoned with extreme haste.
At the bottom of the hill, they crossed a stone bridge. Floating facedown in the stream was the body of a man, his back hacked and pierced many times. He was dressed in a homespun shirt and leather trews. The warriors glanced grimly at the body as they rode by.
Over the next rise they found more tokens of evil. A two-wheel cart was overturned, blocking the road. A dead ox still lay in the traces, and seed millet spilled out of the cart in a great drift. Black and purple hulls were trodden into the dust. Five bodies sprawled around the ruined cart, dead men in rough woolen cloaks and fleecy leggings. The hapless peasants, sent out with the seed for planting, had been sabered ruthlessly.
“This is what happens when cattle get in the way of warriors,” Odovar remarked coldly.
Tol, swallowing hard, looked away to the vista below. A wide, shallow valley spread out in front of them, covered with cultivation and pasture. In the center of this rich landscape a steep conical hill of earth rose twenty paces high. Atop this mound was a great log house, tiered to match the contour of the hill on which it sat. The house was roofed with sod and pierced with many windows. Atop its highest point was a tall, slender pole bearing the red banner of the Ackal dynasty.
Clustered thickly at the foot of the mound were huts and houses, so closely packed Tol could not distinguish where one ended and the next began. A stout wooden stockade surrounded the whole conglomeration. One gate was visible, facing them. The scene was shrouded in gray smoke, the outpourings of many hearths.
“The town gate is closed,” one warrior observed.
“I see armed men on the ramparts,” said another.
Lord Odovar steered his horse in a tight circle. “No sign of the Pakins,” he said. “There must have been a swift raid, then they ran away. We’ll enter Juramona.”
“My lord, I advise against it,” Egrin said firmly. “There’s a third of a league of open ground between here and the gate.”
“Do you see any enemies about?” Odovar retorted. He turned to the others and repeated the question even more loudly. The warriors could only shake their heads.
“Nor do I.” The marshal’s voice rose. “I tire of your weak-kneed caution, warden! This is not the time for idling about, poking under every bush for Pakins! I must resume my place and raise the Eastern Hundred in arms against the traitors! Why would you have me delay? Could it be you have Pakin sympathies?”
Egrin’s face flushed. “My lord knows I am his loyal man, and always shall be! “
“Then ride on!”
Odovar spurred his horse and rode wide around the wrecked cart. Jaw clenched, Egrin followed his master.
“Whatever happens, boy, stay on this horse,” Egrin said in a low voice. “If I should fall, grab on by the mane and hold on. Old Acorn will take you to safety.”
Eyes wide, Tol nodded.
Odovar cantered briskly down the road, straight for the sealed gate. His men followed in ragged order, pennants whipping at the ends of their spears. At first nothing seemed amiss, then the flat, wavering sound of horns filled the air. Odovar slowed, Egrin and the rest behind him.
Everyone could see distant figures on the stockade, waving their hands and tooting horns.
“A celebration of your lordship’s return?” suggested one of the riders.
Manzo, who had keen eyes, stiffened in the saddle. “I think not. Look yonder.”
From behind the low stone pasture walls on either side of the road, men and horses popped up. A great many men, with a great many horses.
“Pakins!” shouted Manzo.
Odovar drew his sword. “Damned rebels,” he snarled. “I hope Grane is with them! I owe him much I wish to repay!”
With a roar, he raised his saber high and spurred for the enemy. Without a plan or orders, the warriors followed their lord as best they could. Tol held on tightly, his aching legs jolting against Egrin’s horse with every hoofbeat.
The rumble of approaching horses grew louder and louder. Shrill shouts rang out.
Old Acorn, Egrin’s roan, shuddered violently and stopped. Another horse, dark brown and spattered with mud, scraped alongside. Its rider traded cuts with Egrin. Tol drew his leg back to avoid having it crushed between the horses. The enemy warrior, a rough-looking character with a drooping black mustache, noticed Tol cowering behind Egrin. The moment’s distraction cost him his life. Egrin drove the brass handguard of his saber into the Pakin’s face, drew back, and slashed the man from neck to navel. His quilted cloth jerkin was no match for the warden’s iron blade. With an eerie screeching cry, he fell backward off his horse.
Lord Odovar laid about himself in a perfect fury, toppling four opponents with single blows. A Pakin in fancy spiked armor pushed in and rammed a bronze buckler into the marshal’s back. Egrin urged Old Acorn into the press and stabbed Odovar’s attacker under the arm, but the man’s scale mail blunted the blow. Alerted, the Pakin cut at Egrin with a fine, gold-chased sword. Odovar tore the buckler from the nobleman’s arm, and Egrin punched him in the face with his studded gauntlet. Nose gushing blood, the Pakin tried to break away. Egrin turned to face another foe, but Odovar was not granting mercy today. He chased the fleeing enemy a few paces and struck him on the hack of his helmet with the flat of his sword. The fancily armored limbs flew up, the golden sword went sailing away, and down went Odovar’s opponent.
Two of the Juramona guardsmen fell. The enemy was so numerous, they jammed together, inhibiting their own attack on the smaller Ackal contingent.
A tremendous blow knocked Old Acorn sideways; the horse lost his footing and went down. Egrin kicked free so his leg wouldn’t be trapped under the fallen animal. Tol didn’t have to bother. He was catapulted from the saddle like a stone from a sling.
He landed hard, on his back. Fortunately, he fell on a plowed plot, and the turned earth was relatively welcoming. No sooner had the shock of landing subsided than he saw churning horses’ legs coming at him. It was Manzo, the guardsman, battling two Pakins. The mounted men whirled by in a welter of grunts, gasps, and curses. Tol scuttled away.
He saw Lord Odovar still mounted, battering a Pakin foe. There was no sign of Egrin at all.
Old Acorn trotted past, riderless. Remembering the warden’s orders, Tol decided to follow the horse. He dodged through the melee, this way and that, avoiding Pakin and Ackal loyalists alike. Being a boy and on foot, he was ignored.
His toe caught something heavy, and Tol pitched onto his face. He kicked angrily at the snare and saw it was the gilded sword lost by the Pakin noble vanquished by Odovar. The weapon wa
s easily worth more than his family’s entire holding. Tol dragged it out of the dirt and hugged it close to his chest.
Where was Old Acorn? There! The roan was making for the town gate. The distance was great for a lone boy on foot, and the field provided no cover. Tol set off, dragging the tip of the golden sword in the dirt behind him.
Without warning, a hand seized his arm from behind and spun him around. Towering over him was the Pakin in spiky scale armor. The man’s remarkably pale face was smeared with dried blood from his bashed-in nose.
“Peasant thief!” the noble said, his voice oddly inflected. “Give back what you have taken!”
Tol surprised himself by yelling back, “No!” and wrenching free. He’d taken only three steps before the man seized him again. He yelled for help, struggling futilely.
“You’re past help now, boy!” The Pakin drew a dagger from his waist. It had an ugly forked tip. He raised it high.
Even as Tol stared in horror, the dagger flew from the Pakin’s hand, knocked away by a whirling saber. Tol’s head whipped around and he saw Egrin standing behind him.
“Give him the sword,” said the warden. “I’ll not slay a helpless man.”
It sounded foolish to Tol, but he did as Egrin bid. The Pakin snatched the ornate hilt from the boy’s hands. Tol stepped quickly from between the men.
“You are a Rider of the Horde?” the pale-faced noble asked, sizing up Egrin.
“Yes. I am the Warden of Juramona.”
“Good enough to kill, then!”
The Pakin was of slender build compared to Egrin or Lord Odovar, but he had the speed of a striking snake. He traded swirling slashes with Egrin.
“You’re a good man of arms,” said the noble. “Join the side of strength-serve the Pakin Successor!”
Egrin thrust at his face and was deflected. “I will never lend my sword to a usurper.”
The Pakin whirled in a circle, his broad, flat blade coming right at Egrin’s neck. Egrin managed to block the cut, but the momentum of the blow drove him back. His guard went down, and the Pakin let out a cry of triumph.
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