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 was 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.

“Life to the strong!” he shouted, the Pakin war cry. Extending his sword, he ran at the vulnerable warden.

Without thinking, Tol found himself on his feet and running toward the Pakin noble’s back. He had nothing, not even a stick, so he threw himself at the man’s knees.

The Pakin staggered. Cursing colorfully, he backhanded Tol. His scale-covered gauntlet split the boy’s cheek open and snapped his head back. Still Tol held on. Unable to pry the boy off, the Pakin twisted around and raised his sword. Tol clenched his eyes shut.