"Here, sir!"

"Light it off!"

"Yes, sir!"

If Macurdy were here, the Ozman thought, he'd have it in flames with a gesture. He looked downstream. It was the barges and the crazy Kormehri that he needed to see to now.

Subcolonel Caill Cearnigh was thoroughly at home in the saddle. He'd been a horseman since childhood, and had passed the midpoint of the century he expected to live. As for riding by night-while his night vision wasn't the best, it was a lot better than any of the Rude Landers', he had no doubt. Though the advantage was less with the cupped, newly risen moon throwing its light across the land.

Whoever the southern commander was, he'd shown himself both clever, and capable of complex staging and coordination. But simple arithmetic made it clear that the numbers the man could have landed so soon, half-trained humans that they were, couldn't begin to hold a landing zone against ylvin cavalry. Certainly not without trenches, ramparts, and troll brambles, and they'd had no time even to begin making them.

Cearnigh had elected to lead his seven companies down the road that paralleled the river. It was quicker and safer, for nearer the river, the land was public pastures. Which had rail fences along jurisdictional lines, and woodchuck and gopher holes a horse could break a leg in.

At their easy trot, his companies should be there in another quarter hour. And then… He knew the terrain around Parnston. The southerners had probably taken positions along the wooded west bank of the Sweet Gum River, but it was neither broad nor deep, and the banks were low.

"Colonel!" It was his sergeant major. "Do you hear them?"

Cearnigh shook off his musings, and listening, heard a faint rumble of hoofbeats.

"It sounds as if they've sent out cavalry, Colonel."

Where in hell were they? The sound wasn't from up the road. Ahead and to the left, that was it, cut off from view by a low rounding of land. And not far away.

"They must hear us, Colonel, if we hear them." The sergeant major sounded concerned.

Cearnigh had overlooked that. "Obviously, Sergeant," he said, and called an order to his trumpeter. The instrument's crystal notes brought the column to a halt. Another order turned the westward-bound column into three ranks facing south. The next sent them off the road, rank by rank, again at an easy trot, shields raised, spears at the ready. They'd gone only a short way when the southern cavalry topped the rise about three hundred yards ahead. A single weird cry, a warbling epiglottal shrilling uncanny in the night, triggered a wild clamor, and the invaders spurred their mounts to a canter, charging downhill at the ylver.

For just a moment, Cearnigh felt dismay tinged with panic. Then he barked a command. Trumpets belled, and his troopers spurred their horses, but even on such a mild slope, they had no momentum when the barbarians crashed into them. A smashing blow pierced Cearnigh's shield, wrenched his arm and drove him from the saddle. Somehow he got to his feet without being trampled, aware that the arm was useless, the shoulder dislocated or separated. As he drew his saber, a riderless horse knocked him down. He felt an instant of shock as a forehoof came down on his belly, then a hind hoof crushed his rib cage.

The trumpeter saw his colonel unseated, then the ranks passed through each other, and somehow he was still in his saddle, untouched by any enemy. As a trumpeter, his only weapon was his saber. He lacked even a shield, and as soon as they'd passed through, the enemy wheeled, this time closing with drawn steel. The wild war cry had ceased, replaced by shouts of "FERNY COVE! FERNY COVE!" The air was thick with them, and with impacts, grunts, inarticulate cries, the screams of horses. An enemy singled him out and struck at him. He took the blow on his saber, a blow of more force than he would have imagined, almost paralyzing his arm. Then they'd passed again.

Two things occurred to him at once: The cohort must flee-it was that or be butchered-and no one was in charge. With his left hand he raised his trumpet, and unordered blew retreat, then spurred his horse back toward the road.

But there was no safety in flight. Shouts of "FERNY COVE! FERNY COVE!" pursued him closely. Something-a horse's shoulder-struck his mount from behind, throwing it off stride, and he turned to his left to see the horse that had done it, its rider's face a glimpsed grimace. Then someone on the other side struck his thigh with a saber. He felt and heard his own scream, then the ground slammed him, and he bounced and rolled. For a moment, perhaps a minute, he lay stunned. At least a minute, for when he regained his wits somewhat, the sound of hooves was gone.

And he hadn't been trampled! He reached, felt his bloody thigh. The man who'd struck him had been right handed, had had to swivel in the saddle as he'd passed, and the blow had lacked force. Even so, he couldn't stand, but lay shocked, mentally and physically.

What manner of enemy were these, so full of rage and deadly purpose? Shouting "Ferny Cove" as they rode in pursuit. Who had looked at him with such hatred? Kormehri, obviously.

Colonel Morghild inspected his smashed camp, his shattered companies. As force commander, he'd sent two companies of his own cohort along with Cearnigh's. Holding back three, along with the militia cohorts. Then the Rude Landers had come, and most of the militia had scattered without fighting. His own men had fought of course, fought and fallen. And the enemy, after trampling the camp, had whirled back westward.

Fragments of Cearnigh's companies had ridden, walked, or been helped back to camp, some still straggling in after sunup. Altogether, of more than 1,100 imperial officers and men, 362 were known to be fit for duty, and 334 others reported wounded and unfit. Which left some 400 killed or missing. Morale too had been smashed, would take time to rebuild.

As far as the militia was concerned, if he had his way, they could stay wherever they'd scattered to. But having one's way wasn't part of military service, so he would round them up, all that he could, eat the ass out of their officers, and see what could be made of them.

As for the Rude Landers, they'd been ferrying men across since midnight. Apparently they had no intention of fortifying their landing zone; attack was their strategy.

And "Ferny Cove!" their rallying cry. Their attackers had almost surely been Kormehri. Quaie's atrocities against the Sisterhood had received most of the publicity, perhaps properly so, but it was well known that Quaie had slaughtered the Kormehri companies he'd overrun, taking no prisoners and butchering the wounded.

And now, Morghild told himself, we have our reward. Too bad Quaie isn't here so they can pin it on him in person, with a Kormehri saber.

35: Duinarog