Two score horses pranced and chivvied, their hooves sending up clouds of dust. Sword blades flashed, and unwary riders toppled from their mounts to the ground. Juramona’s shield-bearers were getting their first lessons in formation riding. It was no simple matter, the eager boys learned, for forty horses and riders to stay together, charge, and fight as one. They collided at every turn, and lost their seats at the first exchange of blows. Clad in quilted jerkins and leather helmets, armed with blunted swords, theirs was no game for children. Unhorsed boys staggered out of the melee with bloody noses and missing teeth.

Mounted on Old Acorn, Egrin watched the boys whack at each other and fall hard. Beside him under the only shade tree on the practice field, Felryn was astride a swaybacked mule named Daisy. The healer alternately chuckled or gasped at the boys’ antics. He knew he was in for a busy time later.

“I don’t see Tol,” said Felryn, scanning the press of boys and horses. “Where is he?”

“In the thick of things, as usual,” Egrin observed.

A riderless roan galloped from the fray and in the gap it left the two men glimpsed Tol. His helmet was gone, and his neat queue had come undone, leaving his long brown hair flying. He laid about on all sides, unhorsing a boy with every blow he landed.

“He’s very strong, isn’t he?” said Felryn. “I see now why you let him lead the teaching. Has the makings of a fine warrior.”

“He’s already a fine warrior. He has the makings of a great one,” Egrin replied.

Just then Tol received a violent blow on the back, and the warden shouted, “If he remembers to watch behind him!” Felryn could not help but laugh.

The farmer’s son had grown into a powerful youth, not as tall as some, but broad in the chest and shoulders, and muscled beyond his size. Although Tol’s father had denied it, both Egrin and Felryn still wondered whether there might not be some dwarf blood in Tol’s past.

Tol had more in his favor than mere strength. Being a peasant’s son, he remained humble and unafraid of hard labor. Most shilder were the sons of Riders of the Horde, and a few could boast truly noble parentage. These young lords thought themselves too good to clean the older men’s armor or scrub the floors of the Householders’ Hall. Tol’s cheerful compliance with such mundane duties galled them. That he enjoyed the favor of the warden and officers of the guard further annoyed them. Things might have gone hard on Tol had he not been so formidable. He thrashed a few bullies in bloody bare-knuckle brawls, and that put an end to his troubles. No one picked on Tol more than once.

The companions of his leisure were not his fellow shield-bearers, but former stableboys or sons of village tradesmen. Narren, the tow-headed boy who’d given Tol a drink of water his first morning in Juramona, had become a foot soldier in Lord Odovar’s employ. Tol’s other close friend, Crake, had forsaken arms altogether and now played a wooden flute in a tavern. Through him Tol learned the follies of drink, and made the acquaintance of barmaids.

The exercise swiftly became a free-for-all, all notion of organization lost, every boy battling every other. Disgusted, Egrin was about to put a stop to the fight when a low, bleating note echoed from the nearby walls of Juramona.

“An alarm?” asked Felryn.

Egrin shook his head. “A recall.” He stood in his stirrups and shouted. “Form column of fours! We return to Juramona! Everyone keep your place-I’ll be watching!”

Two guardsmen led the column of boys back to town. Egrin frowned at the passing youths.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“They’re good boys,” the healer said. “They’ll find the knack-”

“No, the recall. Can you sense anything?”

With his long, strong fingers, Felryn grasped the image of the goddess Mishas he wore around his neck. Creases appeared in his forehead.

“You’re right… trouble,” he muttered. “Conflict. The source is not clear, but it comes from afar.”

Egrin grunted. “Well, Tarsis has been quiet too long, I guess.”

The tail of the column passed, and he and Felryn fell in behind the last four boys.

Juramona had grown along with Tol. It now boasted four thousand inhabitants, the largest imperial town between Caergoth and Hylo. Prosperity had come with the end of the civil war between Ackal and Pakin factions.

After Lord Morthur Dermount, alias Spannuth Grane, had disappeared, the Pakin Pretender was hunted down and slain while to trying to escape across the sea to Sancrist Isle. Lord Morthur was proscribed by the crown, and a bounty was placed on his head. Rumor had it he’d fled south, to find shelter in the city of Tarsis, Ergoth’s trade rival and sometime enemy.

A messenger awaited Egrin at the Householders’ Hall. The lord marshal commanded his presence. Egrin, his two lieutenants, and Tol, his shilder, went at once to the High House.

Entering the audience hall, Egrin saluted Odovar. “My lord,” he said. “I am here. What is your will?”

Five years of peace had not been good to Odovar. From a burly, impetuous warrior he’d become a fat, sluggish ruler, with either a mutton joint or a tall tankard always in one hand. Dark whispers said the crack on the skull he’d received from Grane had changed him. Once he’d been harsh, but fair. Now he was cruel. Known before as a man of rough good humor, he had become suspicious and bitter.

Belly bulging over his thighs, he sat in his marshal’s chair, his children at his feet. Emea was a pampered nine year old who conducted herself as though she were empress of all Ergoth. Four-year-old Varinz was a good-natured boy, but overfed and lazy. On either side of Odovar were his two principal advisers-his consort Sinnady, and bald Lanza, priest of Manthus.

“Eh? Egrin? Took your time getting here, didn’t you?” Odovar said, gasping slightly.

“I was in the field, training the shilder,” replied the warden evenly. “I came as soon as I heard the horn.”

The marshal gave a grunt and reached down beside his chair for his tankard. He swallowed a long pull of beer, then burped loudly. Varinz giggled.

“Looks like we shall have some action at last,” Odovar proclaimed. “Too much peace has dulled our swords and widened our backsides!”

Egrin remained prudently silent, as did the rest of the assembly.

With another grunt, Odovar returned the tankard to its place by his chair. When he was upright once more, he said, “Call in the visitor-no, not the kender! The imperial courier!”

A lackey bobbed his head and hurried away. He returned shortly with a distinguished though travel-stained noble who wore the red livery of the imperial court. A mature man, he had a magnificent mane of iron-gray hair and a long, pointed beard. He saluted by striking his metal shod heels together.

Odovar waved a flabby, beringed hand. “Repeat your message for my warden.”

The courier turned and repeated his heel-clanging greeting.

“Are you Egrin, Raemel’s son?” he asked. At Egrin’s nod, the courier smiled slightly. “I served with you in the late Emperor Dermount III’s campaign on the north dales.”

Recognition flickered across Egrin’s face. “Yes! You’re-Karil-Kanel?”

“Kastel, son of Furngar.” The two men clasped arms as comrades and the courier said, “The years have treated you very well, son of Raemel. You seem unchanged.”

“Get on with it!” Odovar rumbled petulantly.

Kastel stiffened, resuming his formal manner, and said to Egrin, “There is to be war, my lord. His Imperial Majesty requires the high marshal of the Eastern Hundred to raise a force of four hordes, to be sent at once to join the army of Crown Prince Amaltar, now encamped at Caergoth.”