“Yes, he did, of course.” Teiriol’s bemused expression cleared to reveal new determination. “And killing these wizards will warn off the rest. This way we keep our quarrel with the lowlanders a fair fight. Misaen will either prove the justice of our cause with victory or condemn us to the beaks of the ravens.” He sounded like a child reciting its letters by rote.

“This way, the fewest possible need die.” Eresken released his gaze and his grip, satisfaction smoothing his brow. It was time these mages learned a little humility. Their cursed ability to defile the elements had been murderous when they’d had a boat full of wizards to call on, but this would be different. “Get yourself and your men in position. You’ll know when to move.”

Teiriol made his stealthy way back up the hill and soft chinking noises betrayed the armored force easing themselves closer to the road. Eresken moved to a vantage point above a large boulder tangled with undergrowth in a thicket of smaller trees. He closed his eyes with a cruel smile. “Right, you redheaded bitch, a little humiliation before the death you owe me and mine.”

The clatter of hooves on the hard surface of the road struck echoes from the tree-lined sides of the defile. Eresken began to breathe deeply, words of enchantment a slowing rhythm on his lips. His eyes fluttered, rolling up in his head as the trance took him. That part of him that stayed aware hovered expectant in the back of his mind. Birdsong floated overhead, the sun was hot on his neck and the breeze stirred a fugitive scent of flowers. The peace was ripped apart by the terrified neighs of a horse, a scream was cut short and a cacophony of male curses came from several directions at once.

Eresken blinked and looked down at the chaos on the road where one man had been instantly thrown from his terrified horse. A feathered hat was trampled in the dust as the panicked animal believed itself assailed on all sides. That was the Soluran mage, Eresken noted with satisfaction. The wizard who’d come so foolishly spying in the uplands gave up the unequal struggle to calm his steed and kicked his feet free of the stirrups. Eresken bared his teeth and the animal shrieked, twisting away from unseen tormentors. Eresken cursed as the Soluran dragged the fallen mage from among thrashing, iron-edged hooves, saving his balding head at the cost of a deep gash to one thigh.

Where were Teiriol and his men? The only blond heads he could see were the two who had sold themselves to the false magicians. Both had abandoned their horses at the first hint of trouble and stood back to back in the center of the road, hands drawing the swords from their belts. Eresken hissed with disgust. They had not been so armed in the uplands. No matter, neither wore mail or breastplates to save their skins.

Where was the redheaded slut? He moved for a better view and nodded with cruel glee. She was struggling to stay in her saddle, fingers twisted in reins and mane as her maddened mount writhed and plunged, driven to madness by the terror raking its mind. The big man forced his own horse beside hers, mastering the animal with main force and sheer brutality. Bloody foam from the beast’s mouth spattered its chest and legs, eyes rolling white edged in its head.

“Vengeance later, whore,” Eresken promised silently before reciting the precepts of trance once more. Where was Teiriol?

Teiriol was hesitating in the gully beside the road while the horses shied and balked at unseen terrors. The doubts that seemed so foolish when he was with Eresken assailed him with redoubled force. Yes, he’d heard the arguments for a strike against the Forest. Jeirran had carried everyone along on the flood of his eloquence. Why was he no longer so certain? Teiriol felt suddenly wretched at the prospect of explaining himself to Keisyl. What would his mother say? How had he fallen for Jeirran’s blandishments?

But it wasn’t just Jeirran, was it? Aritane had summoned other Sheltya and all had brought the same tale from the dark mysteries of the ossuaries of the different sokes. He shivered at the thought of those hidden bones, silent until the Solstice sun linked Misaen’s realm to Maewelin’s not five days since. The wisdom of ancient blood could not be denied. After thrice ten days of waiting and preparing, it decreed now was the time to carry battle into the lowlands.

“Do we go?” Beard’s sly face was eager, the man licking his lips with an unpleasant relish. His mail was already rusting and smeared with dirt, but his sword was bright and keen.

Another uncontrollable shudder rippled through Teiriol. “We go!” Sword before him, he scrambled out of the gully, Ikarel at one shoulder, the beggar boy Nol at the other. Unreasoning fury spurred Teiriol irresistibly on. These lowlanders would die beneath his blade to recompense him for being born to such a straitened bloodline. Their blood would requite that snowfall that robbed his father of fingers and feet. These spoils would make amends for the pitying glances from girls guessing his miserable patrimony down to the last pennyweight. The lowlanders were responsible for everything, with their greed and deceit, the foul magic of their wizards! His confused grievances dissolved into a killing rage.

Teiriol swung at the traitor before him. He spat a curse as his blow was turned aside and hastily blocked a scything stroke that tried to hack the jaw from his chin. Nol was jabbing ineffectively, hampered by unfamiliar armor and more hindrance than defense on that side. Ikarel was trying to get a thrust in, but was vacillating with fear. The traitor’s eyes flicked from side to side, face fixed. A searing pain clawed down the back of Teiriol’s hand, blood fouled his grip, the sword slipping in his hand.

He hesitated and in that moment the traitor’s low stroke shattered Nol’s knee. The child fell, whimpering in agony amidst the rioting voices of men and horses. The spurting wound gushed scarlet until scant breaths later, he died on a choking sob, life’s blood soaked away into the thirsty soil.

Horror almost betrayed Teiriol to the same fate. A rush of men he did not know, recruited by Jeirran’s eloquence on the journey down from the heights, saved him. The boy’s body was kicked aside by urgent feet and the traitor was driven back, all his energies taken up with staying alive beneath the hail of hate-filled blows. Blades flashed bright in the sun beneath streaks of blood and muck as they rose and fell with the weight of untold years of grievance. Teiriol hacked at the man’s guard, the sticky wetness of Nol’s blood on his hands goading him to ever fiercer fury. He brought his sword around and down, again and again. The foe stumbled, hard-baked ruts in the road treacherous beneath his feet. Ikarel, still hovering, saw his moment and sunlight flashed on steel thrust in hard and direct.

In the instant Teiriol expected the razor-sharp point to cleave the traitor’s neck, Ikarel was thrown backward, clean off his feet. Ripped from the melee and flung away, he hit a mighty tree with an audible crack. Branches splintered and, falling helplessly, Ikarel landed broken beneath them.

Two more died for a moment’s lapse as the unseen assault startled them. The traitors were fighting with the coward’s backing of false magic, Teiriol raged. He lifted his sword but something unseen was tying his arms to his sides, threatening to strangle him. Faint blue radiance crackled in the air, the snares of sorcery and terror choked him. As the men around him broke and fled, Teiriol stumbled backward, but the soil beneath his boots was splitting, crumbling, and betraying him with every step. He fell heavily, unable to save himself with arms pinioned, mired to the knee in broken clods of earth.

Eresken abandoned the youth’s confusion and cursed at the scene below. The mages and the woman had taken cover behind a fallen tree, cowering behind the fat and bearded man who was swinging his massive sword two-handed to deadly effect. Five gory bodies lay in motionless testimony to the folly of getting within his arc.