“I rejoice at your survival, my lord,” said Egrin. “We thought you dead in the ambush.”

“So I would have been, if not for this boy.” Odovar wiped droplets of hard cider from his mustache with the back of a dirty hand. He told the company Tol’s name, then drained the bottle and demanded an account of the battle from Egrin.

The veteran soldier reported that he and his men, sent by Odovar to scout the woods ahead of the main band, had been cut off by a superior force of Pakin warriors. When it looked like they would cut their way through anyway, a wall of fire leaped up between them and the Pakins, driving Egrin back. By the time he rallied his men and returned, the Pakins had vanished, and there was no sign of Lord Odovar, alive or dead.

“Strange to say, my lord, after the fire had gone, there were no ashes or coals, no sign of burning at all,” Egrin finished.

They exchanged a meaningful look and Odovar said, “So, Grane is using his magic against us. We will return to Juramona at once. The Pakins may move to strike there.”

Egrin formed up the men and took the reins of Odovar’s horse himself.

Through all this Tol had been squatting to one side, watching and listening. So the great lord Grane, whoever he was, had magic on his side. That explained the strange creature he’d drawn from the small pouch on his saddle. Tol knew little of magic. His parents spoke of it only to curse it, but the rare passing mage or itinerant cleric who stopped at the farm for water or food seemed kindly enough to Tol. One had even done tricks to amuse him and his sisters, levitating stones and making doves appear from his floppy hat.

As the warriors set out, Tol stood. It was nearly dusk, and a bite in the air announced the cold night to come. He would have a long, chilly walk back to the farm.

A big roan horse blocked his path. Tol looked up and saw Egrin studying him.

“What about the boy, my lord?” the elder warrior asked. “What shall we do with him?”

“Eh? Do with him?” repeated Odovar, his words slurred by cider and fatigue. He shook his head as if to clear it and said forcefully, “Bring him!”

“As you wish, my lord.”

Tol was surprised, but before he could speak, Egrin leaned down and took hold of his collar. With no obvious strain, the warrior hauled the boy off his feet and set him on the saddle behind him.

Torn between curiosity to see this Juramona and fear of leaving his family, Tol cleared his throat and said, “My folks will wonder what’s happened to me.”

“We’ll send word,” Lord Odovar muttered, eyelids closing. His head drooped.

Egrin gave the boy a shrug, implying they would get little else from the exhausted marshal.

They rode out as the sun set at their backs, stretching long shadows from the sparse trees and washing the plain in strong colors. The clouds above seemed afire, blazing with the bold red color of Lord Odovar’s Ackal clan.

If it was an omen, it was not one Tol found any comfort in.

Odovar’s men rode all night without pause. They kept their animals at a steady walk, and ate and drank in the saddle. Conversation was sparse. When at last they halted, it was only because Lord Odovar had toppled from his horse. Egrin dismounted, hurrying to his commander’s side.

Tol was grateful for the respite, and got down as well. He’d never ridden a horse before and was quite sore from the experience.

“My lord, your head wound is graver than I thought. Do you know me? Do you know where you are?” asked Egrin.

“You’re Egrin, Raemel’s son, the warden of the Household Guard. I am Odovar, marshal of the Eastern Hundred. I’m sitting on my arse in the grass, and I smell like I’ve rolled in manure.”

Egrin grinned. “Yes, sir. Can you rise?”

“If the sun can do it, so can I.”

Without help, the bleary nobleman got his feet under him. Egrin snapped his fingers at Tol and pointed at Odovar’s mount. Tol fetched the chestnut horse. After a few steps the horse snorted and stopped, head bobbing, eyes rolling.

“Come on boy, stop dawdling,” Egrin said gruffly. “I thought farmers’ sons knew how to handle beasts.”

The other horses began to stir, and one of the warriors said, “It’s not the boy, sir. They’ve gotten wind of something.”

Egrin drew his curving saber in a single swift motion. Though shaky, Lord Odovar bared his weapon too. The mounted men formed a circle around them, facing outward with their spears presented.

The night around them was still. The red moon, Luin, was low on the southern horizon, pouring sanguinary light under a shelf of high clouds. Wind rustled the tall grass briefly, then died.

A low, gurgling snarl reached them.

“Panther!”

Egrin dismissed Tol’s fears, saying a wild cat would never stalk ten armed and mounted men, but he ordered one of the men to make a fire, so they could better see their surroundings. Wielding iron and flint, the Ackal warrior soon had a modest blaze going.

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.