Shadowbred

CHAPTER TEN

1 Uktar, the Year of Lightning Storms

Cale awoke in his chamber before dawn. He had not dreamed of Magadon since arriving in Selgaunt and did not know what to make of it. Mask's words haunted him: Magadon will suffer in the meanwhile.

Cale dressed and met Tamlin a bit after dawn in the main hall. They exchanged pleasantries and walked side by side across the grounds to the stables. Tamlin wore his father's ermine-trimmed traveling cloak with a rapier, but no armor or shield. Cale recalled that armor interfered with Tamlin's ability to cast spells. A satchel with two thick, leather-bound tomes hung over his shoulder.

Books on spellcraft, Cale assumed with some surprise, since he had never known Tamlin to favor reading. Tamlin had become a moderately accomplished sorcerer over the years. If only his leadership and talent for statesmanship had matured as much as his magical ability.

"Your mount will regret your choice of reading material, my lord," said Cale.

Tamlin smiled tightly. "Just something of interest to me."

For his part, Cale wore his enchanted leather armor, his daggers, and Weaveshear. Pouches at his belt held his lockpicking kit and his coin purse. His pack held his bedroll, rope, and the magical tome he had taken from the Fane of Shadows. He carried the Shadowlord's mask in his pocket.

"I received word late last night that Mother and Tazi arrived safely at Storl Oak," Tamlin said. "I understand that was your suggestion?"

Cale nodded. "Were they escorted, my lord?"

"Of course," Tamlin snapped, an edge in his voice. "I am not a fool, Mister Cale, despite your suggestion to the contrary. Eight members of the house guard rode with them, including Captain Orrin. Five more men plus Talbot await them at Storl Oak."

Cale nodded and said nothing more. They walked the rest of the way to the stables in silence.

The grooms had saddled twelve geldings, all of them stout steeds thirteen hands or more in height. Three pack horses loaded with gear stood with their heads lowered. Ren and nine other members of the Uskevren house guard were loading equipment onto their geldings. All wore chain shirts, helmets, and serious looks. Each bore a blade, a crossbow, and a shield enameled with the Uskevren crest. Their livery, too, featured the Uskevren horse at anchor. They spoke congenially to their mounts as they checked tack, harness, stirrup, and saddle.

"My lord," all of them nodded to Tamlin in greeting. "Mister Cale."

"Men," Tamlin answered.

Ren nodded a greeting at Cale as he stuffed a bedroll into his saddlebag.

The head groom, a tall, thin man with tanned arms and dark hair, moved from man to man, fretting. "I assure you that all is in order with the tack." His annoyed tone made clear that he took extreme pride in his meticulous work, and that the house guards' efforts came as a personal affront.

The men smiled, nodded, and ignored him, adjusting straps and buckles as they saw fit.

A boy held Cale's and Tamlin's mounts by their bits. Cale eyed the horses with apprehension. He had never been a skilled horseman, and riding with only one hand would make it worse. Tamlin noticed his nervousness and smiled smugly.

"Vos is an easy ride, Mister Cale," said the groomsman.

"Very easy, goodsir," said the scrawny boy in an overlarge shirt who held the horse.

"Vos," Cale said, and chuckled. Vos was a word from the Dwarvish tongue. It meant "wild" or "unruly," and was usually used to describe a dwarven beer fest. Probably the groom had no idea of its etymology.

"You will be keeping to the roads the whole time," the groom said. "An easy ride."

Cale found small comfort in the fact, but mounted up without embarrassing himself.

Tamlin loaded his gear into his mount's saddlebags and fairly leaped atop his horse. Unlike Cale, Tamlin was an experienced rider. "Ordulin is seven days' ride," he called to the group. "Let's get started. Is all ready, Ren?"

Ren looked to his men, who nodded."All's ready, my lord."

The house guards mounted up and took station around Cale and Tamlin. Cale smiled at his awkwardness in the saddle. He had climbed eight-story buildings barehanded, but felt uncomfortable perched atop the horse. He did his best to settle in as the group started out.

When they reached Rauncel's Ride, Cale immediately noticed fewer Helms on the street. Before he could ask, Tamlin said, "I reconsidered my course, Mister Cale. At least on the matter of the Helms. A few squads remain in the Noble District, but I stationed the rest at the city gates. They will no longer patrol the streets, but they will be available to Vees and the Old Chauncel should they be needed."

Cale looked Tamlin in the face. "Wisely done, my lord."

Tamlin nodded grudgingly. "The temples responded to my suggestion as you suspected they would. I understand that they are already distributing food-all of them. Temple Avenue is thronged more than during a Shieldmeet festival. The city will still have a hunger problem, but it will not be a crisis, at least not in the short term."

Cale heard both appreciation and resentment in Tamlin's tone and resolved to hold his tongue. He hoped the measures stabilized the city until Tamlin's return. He did not trust Vees and the Old Chauncel to keep good order. In fact, he did not trust Vees Talendar at all.

Groups of Selgauntans gathered to watch them pass. The house guard kept them at a distance from Cale and Tamlin. None showed any anger toward Tamlin-Cale deemed that a good sign-and a few even shouted encouragement. Tamlin must have sent a herald to announce his departure.

"Two tendays ago, they cursed my name and spat on the ground as I passed," Tamlin said to Cale. He shook his head. "The people are fickle."

Cale made no comment and they rode in silence toward the Klaroun Gate. Scepters saluted as they passed. The Helms stationed at the gate did the same. As they climbed the far side of High Bridge, looking down at the glittering, boat-dotted waters of the Elzimmer and Selgaunt Bay, Cale finally asked the question that was eating at him. "How did Vees Talendar come to gain your confidence, my lord?"

Tamlin's mouth tightened and Cale knew he should not have asked. "Vees Talendar has been an asset to me and the city for over a year, Mister Cale. As for anything more, I am not inclined to share it." He looked Cale in the face and said, "The how and the why do not matter."

Cale did not like having his words thrown back at him but he bit back his anger. He did not regret his words to Tamlin over dinner, but he thought perhaps he could have delivered them with more tact. Despite Tamlin's station, he remained in many ways the disappointing son of an accomplished father.

Cale sighed and made himself as comfortable as possible in the saddle. It would be a long ride to Ordulin.

Miklos Selkirk guided his dappled mare around a deep rut in the earth. Kavin skirted it on the other side on his roan mare.

"She is involved," Miklos said across the gap. "There can be no doubt."

Miklos had been saying much the same thing for the previous two days. Kavin knew it was his brother's way of facing the death of their father. Miklos grieved by talking, planning, shouting, acting. He was never one to sit in a corner and wail.

Kavin had always been the more thoughtful of the two Selkirk brothers, and he did his best to check his brother's unwise impulses. He said, "Our contacts in the High Council indicated that the Tyrrans questioned her before the High Council. Mirabeta denied involvement in Father's death, and the high lord abbot pronounced it truth."

Miklos's lips twisted in contempt under his moustache. "Then he is wrong, bought, or both."

"Father's spirit named Endren his murderer."

They guided their horses back together and Miklos shook his head. "You know Endren Corrinthal, Kavin. He is no murderer. Besides, it was Abelar Corrinthal who sent word to us in Scardale and who described the events in the High Council. The man is as right as a carpenter's square. No, this is the work of Mirabeta and that scheming niece she keeps at her side. I am certain of it."

Kavin did know Endren, mostly by reputation. The elder Corrinthal was regarded as an astute politician and an honorable man. His son, Abelar, a servant of Lathander, was above reproach. Abelar had left Ordulin but sent word to Miklos in Scardale, telling him of events, warning him away from Ordulin, and offering him sanctuary in Saerb. Miklos had sent a written reply, thanking Abelar but declining the offer of sanctuary. His place was in Ordulin, he had written.

"We never should have left the capital," Miklos said, pulling at one end of his moustache. "Not with everything that has happened recently. If we had been there, this never would have occurred."

Kavin nodded, though he was not entirely sure he knew which "this" Miklos meant. He said nothing. His brother was given to recriminations and nothing Kavin could say would stop him. Kavin doubted that their presence would have changed much.

"Look at this," Miklos said hotly, and gestured at the field through which they rode. Kavin could not tell from the bare, dried dirt what might have grown there once. He assumed barley, possibly wheat. Miklos snorted. "Fallow. The upcountry fields are fallow all across the realm. Villages are abandoned. Damned drought. Double-damned dragons. And thrice-damned Rain of Fire!" He frowned and said softly, "A realm can bear only so much. Sembia is tottering. I feel it. I fear what will become of it, Kavin."

"Nothing good, with Mirabeta as overmistress," Kavin answered.

"Temporary overmistress," Miklos corrected with a wag of his finger. "And we will remedy even that as soon as possible."

"Agreed," Kavin said.

After receiving word from Abelar three days earlier, they had left Scardale in secret and in disguise, cutting southwest across the backcountry to avoid the roads and spies. The travel was slower than by road, but more circumspect. The Silver Ravens-the men of Miklos's mercenary company-had wanted to provide an armed escort but Miklos and Kavin had refused. They hoped to enter Ordulin unnoted and unannounced, assess the political situation and how best to play it, and find out the truth behind their father's death.

"I have arranged a safehouse in Ordulin," Kavin said. "We should have a tenday or more before the moot."

"Time enough," Miklos said.

Kavin agreed, though they would have to move fast to solidify opposition to Mirabeta.

After a time, they dismounted and broke for a quick meal of dried meat and stale bread. Kavin was relieved to be out of the saddle. Hard riding over rough terrain had left him sore.

After eating, they mounted up and continued their crosscountry trek, hoping to reach Ordulin by the next night. After about two hours of riding and continued plotting and grumbling,

Miklos pulled back on his reins. His mare snorted and danced a half-circle. He wore a puzzled look.

"What is it?" Kavin asked. He halted his own mount and she whinnied.

"I thought I heard something," Miklos said, staring ahead. "A horse."

"I heard nothing, and we are nowhere near a road. A bird, perhaps?"

The tree-dotted plain ahead looked much like the terrain they had crossed for the past half-league. Uneven ground lay covered in tall whipgrass and scrub, speckled with stands of larch.

"This smells wrong," Miklos said softly, eyeing the way ahead. He put a hand to the hilt of one of his enchanted rapiers. His horse turned a circle.

"We can circle back," Kavin said.

Miklos appeared not to hear him. "The two stands of trees there, to the left and right. Do you mark them?"

Kavin nodded. Two copses of mature larches were separated by perhaps twenty paces. He saw nothing suspicious about them but had learned over the years to trust his brother's instincts.

He uncapped a tube at his belt and pulled out an iron wand that fired blasts of magical energy. He was not a wizard, and could not always get the damned thing to operate, but when it did, it never missed. There was little else he could do from horseback.

As they watched, a dozen or so sparrows alit from the trees on the left, as if disturbed by something.

"Dark!" Miklos swore.

Kavin heard the twang of crossbows and two groups of chain-mailed men and their horses suddenly appeared at the edge of the larches. Kavin caught a glimpse of at least one robed figure among the group-no doubt he had cast an illusion to hide their presence. None of them wore uniforms or symbols revealing their origin.

A shower of bolts hissed around the brothers. Two struck Miklos in the chest and nearly knocked him from his saddle. Neither penetrated his magical mail. A bolt skinned Kavin's roan and she neighed in pain and bucked, but he held his seat. Another passed through Kavin's sleeve but missed his flesh.

Cursing, Kavin leveled his wand and discharged five glowing shafts of violet energy at the robed figure, whom he figured to be a priest or wizard. All five blasts slammed into the figure's chest and he staggered backward then fell to the ground.

The rest of the ambushers slung their crossbows and jumped into their saddles with skill and speed. Kavin marked the men as experienced soldiers.

"Too many to make a stand!" he said to Miklos.

"Ride!" Miklos shouted. He spun his horse and drove his heels into her flanks. She raced off.

Kavin did the same. His mare snorted, turned, and ran like the Hells themselves were at her heels. He spared a glance behind him.

The ambushers spurred their horses after them. He glimpsed a familiar face leading the group.

"Malkur Forrin!" Kavin shouted to Miklos.

His elder brother cursed.

Forrin hated the Selkirk family. Their father had dismissed him from his post in the Helms. Forrin led the Blades, a notorious mercenary company composed of former Sembian soldiers-skilled Sembian soldiers.

Kavin steered with his legs and aimed his wand back at their pursuers. He put his finger in the triggering depression and the wand fizzled. A drop of arcane energy drizzled from the tip. He cursed and almost flung it in frustration.

Meanwhile, Miklos reached back and forced open the drawstring on one of his saddlebags. "Stay clear of them!" Miklos shouted. He pulled one of the sacks from his saddlebag and dropped it on the ground, then another, then another, in rapid succession. Upon impact, the bags broke open and the gummy substance within reacted with the air and began to expand. Viscous, sticky fluid pooled in the grass.

Kavin spurred his roan and she leaped the expanding, tangling mess. She hit the ground and he righted himself, then tried again to operate his wand. He succeeded and fired three bolts that hit Forrin in the chest and leg. Kavin grinned. The big mercenary grimaced with pain but continued the pursuit.

"Hyah!" Miklos shouted, and pushed his mare harder.

Kavin did the same and lowered his head along the mare's neck. They were gaining some distance. The mercenaries' horses, bearing armored men, fought against a much heavier load. Kavin and Miklos would outdistance them.

Kavin watched as the mercenaries rode near the spilled bags and two of the horses got caught in the substance. Both went down with their riders in a tumble of legs, shouts, and neighs.

Kavin and Miklos shared a hard grin.

Kavin faced forward in the saddle just in time to see two men rise up in the grass before them. Both wore hooded cloaks that shifted with their movement to match the background terrain. Both wore light armor and held arm-length wooden tubes to their mouths.

Miklos and Kavin's mounts, startled by the unexpected appearance of the men, whinnied and reared up on their hind legs. Both men held their seats, but barely.

"Beware!" Miklos shouted, drawing his rapier.

Kavin pulled one of his throwing daggers and flung it awkwardly at the man nearest him. As he let it fly, he heard a peculiar whump and felt a sting in his cheek. The dagger caught the man in the leg and he went down.

Kavin righted his horse, glanced behind-the mercenaries were closing rapidly-and spurred her forward.

"Move, Miklos! Move!"

He brushed at the sting in his cheek and came away with a small, feathered dart. A dark substance and a bit of blood coated its tip and his finger.

He tried to shout for his brother but his mouth was suddenly dry. Events slowed down, blurred. His skin felt thick, numb. He struggled to keep his head up and his hands on the reins. His horse sensed his weakness and slowed, then stopped. One of the men who had been hidden in the grass appeared near her, waving his wooden tube, and she bucked. Kavin could not keep his seat. He fell to the ground. He knew he landed hard but he hardly felt it.

The hooves of the onrushing mercenaries caused the ground to vibrate under him. He felt weight on his chest. He looked up, but saw nothing atop him.

The poison was killing him, he realized.

He caught sight of Miklos. His brother was racing back toward him, his face twisted in anger and concern. The two mercenaries in the magical cloaks turned to face him, drew short blades. One of them limped from the wound Kavin had caused.

Miklos held the reins with one hand and his rapier in the other. He slashed quickly and opened the throat of the man Kavin had wounded. The other dived aside and his cloak caused him to disappear into the whipgrass.

Miklos swung off the horse and knelt beside Kavin. Kavin focused on his tanned face, his moustache, his black hair streaked with gray. The features were like a mask, floating on nothingness. Everything else was a blur. Kavin tried to speak.

"Say nothing," Miklos ordered.

Miklos picked him up and tried to sling him over his horse. Kavin heard the sound of crossbow fire. Miklos exclaimed, stiffened. He dropped Kavin on his back.

Kavin tried to rise but could barely move. He turned his head and saw his brother on his knees with five crossbow bolts sticking from his back. More firing, and three more sank into his chest. Miklos swayed and fell face down beside Kavin. Kavin heard the crossbow bolts snap against the ground as his brother fell.

Tears welled in Kavin's eyes. He struggled to breathe, to pull out his wand. His body would not answer. He felt his heart beating irregularly, failing.

He reached out for his brother. He worked his fingers around Miklos's forearm and inched them down to his hand. He took it in his own and held on with all the strength he had left.

Figures appeared around him. He could hear them, see them as silhouettes, but could not make out details or sounds. He assumed Forrin was among them, and tried to curse him.

He heard his heart in his ears, slowing, slowing. He was floating away.

He squeezed his brother's cooling hand and his heart stopped. For a single moment, he could see clearly. His last sight was a blue Sembian sky.

Malkur dismounted and looked down on the dead Selkirk brothers. The younger Selkirk's face was blackened and swollen on his cheek from the poisoned dart. He looked at the scorch marks on his breeches caused by Kavin Selkirk's wand.

"That stung," he said, and kicked the dead noble in the head. The men near him chuckled.

Thell, one of his sergeants, stepped beside him to deliver a report. "Dertil is dead to the Selkirk's blade. Whelin broke his neck when the horse went over. Ferd's shoulder came out of joint but that's easily fixed. Xinnen took bolts from the wand but lives. Two horses are down but we've got the Selkirk horses to replace them. That is all."

Malkur frowned. He hated to lose men, especially a skilled man like Dertil. But he had others. "Collect Dertil's gear, especially the cloak." The magical camouflaging cloaks were an asset of the company, not one man.

Thell nodded agreement.

Behind them, Ferd shouted a string of expletives as Millen, a priest of Talos, forced his shoulder back into its joint.

"Where the Hells is Xinnen?" Malkur asked Thell. "The man gets hit with a wand and cannot keep up?"

Xinnen, one of the company's wizards, had located the Selkirks through divinations. His illusions had masked the ambush, which the Selkirks had almost sniffed out.

"Here he is now," said Thell.

Xinnen rode up at a trot, scowling. The men heckled him mercilessly for being out-wizarded by a nonwizard. Xinnen cursed them and called them sons of whores.

"Get down here, Xinnen," Malkur ordered.

The mage dismounted and stood beside Thell and Malkur over the dead brothers.

"Serves them appropriately," Xinnen said.

"Find the magical gewgaws," Malkur said. "We might as well have those."

"The wand is magical, certainly," Xinnen said. He spoke the words to a simple spell and studied the bodies. He turned both corpses over with his foot. He looked up at Malkur and said, "Their blades, their armor, Miklos's boots, and the ring on his left hand. Nothing else."

"Gather it, Thell," Malkur said. "Then search them for coin."

Thell set to his task. Malkur would distribute the booty among his men. A fee on top of their fee.

Malkur gathered his men. "Well done, Blades. Now saddle up. We ride for Ordulin immediately. Dertil and Whelin are coming back with us for a Sembian burial. But these," he nodded at the Selkirks, "these were bury out here. And we bury them deep."

He knew that what could not be found could not be resurrected. As of that moment, Miklos and Kavin Selkirk had vanished from Faerun's history.

As the men saw to the Selkirks, he said, "And the first man who speaks of this outside the company has his tongue cut out before I gut him personally."

The Blades nodded. They knew he spoke truly.

He allowed himself a smile of satisfaction. He hoped that Lorgan's attack on the Saerloonian delegation went as smoothly.

Lorgan and his commanders sat atop their mounts in a stand of four towering elms, a few bowshots west of Rauthauvyr's Road. The sea of whipgrass that covered the plains snapped in the gusting wind. Slate-colored clouds obscured the afternoon sun. If not for the drought, Lorgan would have expected rain by nightfall. As it was, he expected only clouds.

The rest of the Blades lounged in the grass under the trees, eating, sharpening blades, sparring, jesting.

Two riders approached from the west. Lorgan could not make out enough detail to determine their identity but he could guess well enough.

"That is Phlen and Othel," said Reht. His sergeant shielded his eyes and squinted into the distance. Reht had an archer's eyes.

"They ride fast," Lorgan said of his scouts. He turned to Enken, another of his sergeants. "Get the men up."

Enken, a scarred, dark-hearted veteran with a talent for throwing knives, turned and gave a piercing whistle.

"Mount up, men!"

As one, the mercenaries left whatever pastime had occupied them, adjusted their armor and weapons, readied their mounts, and climbed into their saddles.

The two riders neared and Lorgan could make out Phlen's long hair streaming behind him and Othel's black leather armor.

The two scouts were racing, Lorgan saw. Both were bent low over their mounts' necks. Each was shouting encouragement at his horse.

"My coin is on Phlen," Reht said, and smoothed his moustache.

"Ten fivestars on Othel," said Gavist, the youngest of the sergeants. He could not yet grow a respectable beard but he had won his rank and the respect of his men in several battles fought in Archendale.

"Twenty," said Reht. "If you've the balls."

"You are looser with your coin than a whore with her favors," answered Gavist with a grin. "Twenty it is."

As the riders drew nearer, the men and horses gathered around Lorgan and his commanders and shifted in anticipation. They knew, as did Lorgan, that the return of the scouts meant that an attack would soon follow. Horses whickered. Mail chinked. Men murmured.

Othel and Phlen tore over the plains. Their shouts carried on the wind. Othel wore his characteristic grin. He spurred his mount and pulled in front of Phlen.

Gavist laughed aloud.

Reht shouted, "Ride, Phlen, you orcwhelp!"

Othel widened the distance and Phlen surrendered the race.

Othel raised a fist in victory. He slowed as he approached the company and pulled his sweating mount to a stop.

"Sir," he said to Lorgan, saluting in the Sembian military fashion. A former Sembian Helm, his military habits died hard.

Phlen arrived in the next moment, chagrined.

"That's ten fivestars to me for outpacing you," Othel said to him.

Phlen ignored him and saluted Lorgan. "Sir."

"Report," Lorgan said.

Othel said, "The Saerloonian delegation is north of us. We watched them pass. They did not see us. They are moving slowly along Rauthauvyr's Road."

"They number about thirty," Phlen added. "All mounted, plus three carriages. I would wager on a wizard or priest in their midst."

"Phlen's wagers are poor bets though, sir," Othel said with a grin.

"Piss off," Phlen said. Lorgan and the commanders chuckled.

"Wizards and priests are both likely," Lorgan said. His own force numbered seventy-six men, including Vors and Paalin-two war priests of Talos-and the Blades' most powerful wizard, Mennick.

"We could let them camp," Reht said. "And come upon them at night."

The Blades often used such a plan. The men were experienced night fighters. With Mennick's spells and several enchanted items possessed by the company's leaders, most of the men could be empowered to see in moonless darkness, and the tactic had worked in many battles.

"No," he said. "If we assault them while camped at night, we will have a slaughter. We want to wound them and send them running northward for their lives. We will attack them on the road." To Phlen and Othel he said, "Fall in with your squads."

Lorgan turned to Vors and Paalin, his war priests. Both wore their brown hair long and tangled; both had deep-set, wild eyes. Lorgan attributed their crazed expressions to their worship of the god of destruction. Each bore a shield that featured the jagged lightning bolt of their deity.

"Hide your holy symbols and leave your shields behind," Lorgan ordered them.

Vors snarled behind his beard. Paalin scowled and said, "I would sooner stick my hand up a dragon's arse."

"Leave them," Lorgan ordered, "or I will stick my hand up yours and pull out your heart. We are to appear as if in service to Saerb and Selgaunt, priest. Are many of your brothers in the faith in service to those cities?"

The priests looked away, grumbling.

"Leave the shields or I will leave you behind altogether."

Lorgan knew the threat of missing the battle would cause the berserker priests to see sense.

"Very well," Vors barked, and tossed his shield to the ground. Paalin did the same. Both of them glared at Lorgan.

Lorgan smiled and looked to his sergeants. "Attack from the rear. Make sure they see you coming for a fair distance. Force them northward to Ordulin. It does not matter how many of them die, so long as some do. Minimize our own losses. Remember, we are not trying to wipe them out, just blood them. The carriages are not to be harmed or attacked and none of our men are left behind, dead or alive. Understood?"

All nodded.

"Let's move out, then," Lorgan said.

The sergeants pulled their horses around and issued readiness orders to the men.

With the rapidity and precision that had won the Blades more than twenty battles, the force moved out. They formed five squads, each led by one of Lorgan's sergeants.

Vors and Paalin pulled colored glass spheres from their saddlebags and shattered them on an elms trunk, asking for Talos to find pleasure in the destruction and bless the men in the coming battle. Lorgan thumped both of the priests on the shoulder, mending any hard feelings.

"Reht and the archers to the rear," Lorgan ordered.

Reht and his ten bowmen fell into formation at the rear. Lorgan, the priests, and Mennick fell in behind them.

When the group reached Rauthauvyr's Road-a wide, packed earth road that stretched across Sembia's eastern coastal region like a ribbon-they moved five abreast and accelerated into a gallop. The thunder of hooves shook the earth in all directions.

After a half-hour of hard riding, they spotted the Saerloonian delegation ahead. Enken used hand signals to order the men into a crescent formation. Enken and Gavist's men took the left; Borl and Scorral's took the right. Reht and his archers took their bows in hand and formed a loose line within the crescent. Lorgan, the priests, and Mennick trailed them.

"I want to shed some blood in this, Lorgan," Vors said, thumping a gauntleted fist on his breastplate. Paalin growled agreement.

Lorgan shook his head. "You both are to stay near me. You will see to any wounded and make sure no one is left behind, alive or dead." Lorgan knew that a prisoner or corpse could be questioned and reveal the identity of the attackers. Forrin had been clear about not allowing that to happen.

The priests barked their usual complaints but agreed to do as Lorgan ordered.

Ahead, the trailing riders of the Saerloonian delegation turned and saw Lorgan's forces bearing down on them. Two sped forward and shouted to the rest of the train. A score of heads turned around, alarmed. Men pointed, shouted. Shields were readied, weapons drawn. Heads poked out of the carriages and looked back. Lorgan grinned, imagining the Saerloonian nobles' shock over an attack on their own road.

Gavist sounded a horn blast. The clear notes rang out over the thunder of hooves.

One of the Saerloonian riders sounded a trumpet in answer. Lorgan could see one or two of the riders issuing orders on the fly. The Saerloonian delegation spurred their horses into a hard gallop but the whole train could move only as quickly as the horses could pull the bouncing carriages. The Blades rapidly closed the gap. One rider in the Saerloonian delegation turned in his saddle and pointed something back at the Blades. Lorgan guessed he had spotted a wizard.

"Wand!" shouted several of the Blades.

A jagged bolt of lightning shot from the wand and tore through Boris men. Three horses and their riders fell, screaming, smoking.

"See to those fallen men!" shouted Lorgan to Paalin, who sped off to assist the wounded. Mennick started to cast a spell to counter the wizard, but Lorgan waved him off.

"Wait," he said to the wizard, and shouted to Reht and his archers. "Archers on the wizard! Archers on the wizard!"

Shooting at a moving target by mounted archers was difficult, but Lorgan knew Reht's men to be very good. Reht's squad pulled their bows and drew the strings to their ears.

"Fire!" Reht said, and eleven arrows buzzed into the sky. Most fell harmlessly to the road but two hit the wizard's mount and it fell onto the road. The Saerloonians did not stop for their downed man.

"Run him down," Lorgan shouted.

Two of Enken's men steered their mounts over the fallen Saerloonian wizard, smashing his skull before he could rise. The Blades drew closer to the Saerloonians. The Saerloonians tried to form up as best they could on the run.

Heads appeared out of the carriages once more. Lorgan could make out their wide-eyed expressions. One shouted something to a nearby rider and ducked back inside. The left door of the rearmost carriage opened and a man stood on the foot rail, facing backward. His blue robes swirled around a breastplate enameled with a symbol of a spoked wheel-a Gondsman. His hand gestures told Lorgan he was casting a spell.

"Beware the priest!" shouted Enken, and the call was repeated across the formation.

"Hit him," Lorgan said to Mennick.

The wizard hurried through an incantation and completed his spell before the priest could. Four glowing missiles of energy streaked from his fingertips and blasted the priest in the chest. The Gondsman grimaced with pain but held his footing and completed his spell. He pointed his open hand at the road behind the carriage and Lorgan saw the telltale ripple of a magical distortion move across the earth.

The road behind the carriage turned to mud in an instant. Most of Gavist and Boris men could not stop and rode right into it. Their mounts hit the mud and sank to their gaskins in the sludge. The abrupt stop threw the riders head over heels. Panicked and wounded horses neighed and screamed. Some of the men cursed; others shouted in pain.

Lorgan, Vors, Mennick, and the archers yanked their steeds to a halt and steered around the mire, but the spell separated them from the rest of the force.

Meanwhile, Enken and Scorral's squads, unaffected by the mud trap, rode hard after the Saerloonians. The gap between the two groups of Lorgan's forces yawned.

The Saerloonians suddenly went on the offensive. Twenty of the Saerloonian riders wheeled as one to the left, turned, and galloped toward Enken's men. Scorral shouted and his squad moved to intercept them on the diagonal. Meanwhile, the remaining dozen Saerloonians and the carriage sped northward down the road.

The Saerloonian riders wore breastplates and open-faced helms, and carried round cavalry shields. They raised blades high as they closed on Enken's men. Enken's men responded with readied blades of their own.

"For Saerb and Endren!" shouted Enken, and some of his men echoed the lie. Lorgan smiled, pleased that his sergeant had remembered to put forth the ruse.

Flesh and steel collided with thunderous impact. Horses went down; men screamed. Blades fell and came up bloody. A handful of dead were left on each side as they parted.

The Saerloonians wheeled to their right, circled, and headed back up the road. Scorral's squad crashed into their flank. Horses neighed and bucked. Shields collided. Men shouted and died. For a moment, Lorgan could not tell who was who.

"For Selgaunt and Sembian freedom!" Scorral and some of his men shouted.

The Saerloonians put up only a token fight and tried to speed away. Scorral's men let them go and Scorral held up his hand to halt his squad from pursuing. Enken did the same.

"Probably enough," Lorgan muttered to himself. They had drawn some blood and set the Saerloonians to flight. There was no need to risk his men further.

A horn sounded from up the road and a hundred or more riders thundered into view, moving down the road at a full gallop. The sun glinted off their blades and plumed helms. They bore a standard but Lorgan could not make it out.

The fleeing Saerloonians cheered. The cavalry fleeing from Scorral's forces wheeled around as though for a counterattack.

"Who in the Hells are they?" Vors asked.

Reht shouted, "They fly Ordulin's wheel, sir!"

Lorgan cursed. He had too small and too scattered a force to withstand a charge of a hundred cavalry. Besides, his charge had been only to hit the Saerloonians. What in the Nine Hells were Ordulin's forces doing in the field?

"Give the Ordulins some fire, Reht!" he shouted, then hit Mennick on the thigh with the flat of his blade. "And you-earn your keep, godsdammit! You cannot even counter a Gondsman." To the rest of his forces, he shouted, "Get the men, even the fallen, and fall back. Now. Move! Move!"

Ordulin's forces blew another horn blast and formed a charging line.

The Saerloonian cavalry completed their turn and formed up for another pass.

Lorgan's men retreated and scrambled to gather their fallen and those still mired in the mud.

The Ordulin cavalry shouted as it charged. The Saerloonian cavalry did the same. The carriages pulled to a stop and Saerloonian nobility emerged to watch the battle.

Reht's archers fired a volley at the Ordulins and wheeled around to retreat. A few arrows struck home and a few of the charging cavalry went down. Mennick incanted the words to a spell and a curtain of sizzling flame appeared in front of the onrushing Ordulin cavalry. Most of the Ordulins pulled their mounts to a stop in time, but a few did not and three horses and men plunged through the flaming wall. All came out afire and flailing. The horses screamed and fell to the ground, rolling over the burning men.

Mennick intoned another spell and pointed at the onrushing Saerloonian cavalry. A thicket of barrel-wide black tentacles sprouted from the earth in their midst. The magical appendages plucked men and horses indiscriminately and squeezed. The Saerloonian counterattack died in its tracks as horses panicked and men tried to free their fallen comrades from the tentacles' deadly embrace.

Lorgan thumped Mennick on the shoulder. "Well done, wizard! An ale on my coin."

Lorgan shouted encouragement at his men. "Get them up! At it! At it, men!"

In moments, all his fallen men were loaded onto horses. Behind them, the Ordulin forces wheeled wide around the wall of fire.

"Ride!" he commanded. "Ride!"

The Blades kicked their heels into their steeds and tore south down Rauthauvyr's Road. Lorgan scanned his forces and estimated the damage. He had lost fewer than ten men, but left in his wake no fewer than a dozen Saerloonians and a handful of the soldiers out of Ordulin. He would get a firm count from his sergeants once they got clear.

He turned in his saddle and looked behind him. The Saerloonians still struggled with the tentacles and the Ordulin soldiery did not appear keen on pursuing.

He let himself relax. He disliked losing men but they had accomplished what they had hoped and gotten clear. The Saerloonians believed they had been attacked and bloodied by forces out of Saerb and Selgaunt. He would circle back, disperse his force into small teams, and rendezvous with Malkur outside of Ordulin.