Valorian

16

The Clan wanted to celebrate after their successful crossing of the Bendwater, and for one day, Valorian allowed them relief and rest. They found a broad meadow ringed with trees late that evening and set up camp there. They were awake half the night talking, telling stories, and singing, still energized by the effects of the wild race for the river and the crossing into Sarcithia.

The only thing Valorian forbade was fires. The caravan was still in Tarnish territory, he warned the people, and too close to Sar Nitina for comfort.

Although the Chadarian garrison hadn’t crossed the Bendwater River, the chieftain had a strong suspicion the general hadn’t given up. Tyrranis was too tenacious, too obsessed by vengeance and a desire for power, to let a mere thing like a border or jurisdiction thwart him for long. With Sar Nitina within marching distance and Governor Antonine likely to help him, Valorian knew it would only be a matter of time before the Tarns were after the Clan again. . . and there was still a long way to go to Wolfeared Pass.

So Valorian gave his people one day to rest, hunt, gather food in the hills, dry their clothes and gear, tend their stock, and enjoy their respite. Then he moved them on once more. They followed without too much complaint, since even the dullest among them could see the sense of Valorian’s reasons and knew the fear of General Tyrranis’s legionnaires.

Nevertheless, Valorian worried about his people, especially the children, the elders, and the pregnant women. The journey had been hard on everyone, and while no person, other than Karez, voiced any bitter objections, Valorian could see the strain on the faces of young and old alike. He wished there was an easier way to find peace and freedom; he wished he didn’t have to put his people through this ordeal.

But when he voiced his concern to Mother Willa, his grandmother laughed. “We chose this journey, as you well know!” she reassured him. “We’ll make it. Just look at your wife. Look at me or Linna. Do we appear to be on our last legs?”

Valorian had to admit they did not. Kierla, Linna, and Mother Willa shared a cart on the trail, and all three women were healthy. Even Kierla, with her baby and her growing womb, was glowing with well-being.

“Yes,” Mother Willa went on, “we are tired and hungry. People have been hurt and some animals lost. But, Valorian, look how far we’ve come!” She gave him a bright smile intended to boost his flagging confidence. “Don’t worry about us. Worry about that awful Tyrranis and how to get us over those mountains. We’ll have plenty of time to complain when we get to the Ramtharin Plains.”

Valorian appreciated her words and took strength from her wisdom. In the back of his mind, he knew she was right, yet it helped sometimes to hear another person tell him.

For seven more days, the Clan worked its way south along the flanks of the mountains toward the valley of the Argent River and the trail up to Wolfeared Pass. They saw very few people in these hills. Most Sarcithians lived along the coast or in the river valleys to the east. Up in the higher elevations, there were only some scattered shepherds, a few mountain men, and an occasional band of outlaws. One small gang followed the caravan for a half a day hoping to pick off some animals or a straying wagon until the rear guard drove them off. Nobody seriously threatened the large caravan, and there was no sign of any Tarnish soldiers.

In the meantime, the weather remained clear and warm, the trail stayed dry, and the caravan made good progress. On the seventh day into Sarcithia, the people clearly saw for the first time the strange twin peaks they had heard so much about. It was there, they said to one another; the pass was truly there! It was still several days’ journey away, but just to e the peaks gave every man and woman a thrill of confidence.

Ten days after leaving Chadar, the Clan arrived at the Argent River valley, where the trail from Wolfeared Pass wound down out of the mountains. Valorian had forgotten how beautiful the valley was, made prettier now by the verdant green growth and burgeoning wildflowers of spring.

The valley floor was broad and grassy, its walls steep, rocky, and overgrown with trees. The river, a bouncing, noisy, white-rapid stream nestled into the valley floor, flowed in a ribbon of silver through groves of broad-leafed trees, willows, rushes, meadows, and stands of evergreens. Behind it all, like an omnipotent guardian, stood the white-capped ramparts of Wolfeared Peak.

The clanspeople paused when they saw the breathtaking view. They stared in appreciation and excitement and hoped that the land beyond the mountains was equally as beautiful. Contented, they angled their wagons down to the river, turned east, and headed into the mountains for the final climb to the pass.

The next day dawned dear and mild, with a slight breeze and the hint of heat to come in the afternoon. The clanspeople broke camp early, eager to be on their way. Valorian, his guards, and the men riding in the vanguard took their places at the head of the caravan. At the sound of the signal horn, voices shouted, whips popped, wheels creaked, and the procession was on the move once again.

They traveled without incident through the morning, moving deeper and deeper into the valley. Gradually the valley floor narrowed, and the walls steepened and rose higher. The day turned warm as the morning breeze died to a whisper.

Valorian was riding Hunnul ahead of the duster of guards and warriors when a great white-headed eagle abruptly launched itself out of a tall pine to the right of the trail. Its piercing screech filled the valley with its warning. Hunnul stopped in his tracks. His head went up, and his nostrils flared to search for a scent of danger on the light breeze.

Suddenly he snorted.

The angry word “Tarns!” had barely registered in Valorian’s mind when a dense flight of arrows rose out of the rocks from the right and dropped out of the sky into the midst of the unsuspecting vanguard. The quiet morning burst into bloody, yelling confusion. Hunnul wheeled back as another flight of arrows swarmed among the Clan warriors before Valorian could react. Several whizzed by his head, forcing him to duck, and he saw a dozen men fall, pierced by the Tarnish shafts. Three other men were wounded and clinging to their horses. The chief felt a sickening surge of rage.

“Ambush!” someone screamed, and the word was flashed down the line of wagons and carts. Simultaneously a force of about a hundred Tarnish soldiers rose from their hiding places among the clustered rocks and trees of the steep valley slope and came leaping down to attack the vanguard.

Valorian didn’t move for a moment while he tried desperately to decide what to do. The vanguard was too disorganized by the sudden attack to form an effective defense, and there wasn’t enough time for him to reach them to help. He had to act immediately or the Tarns would overwhelm the smaller force of clansmen. Then his eyes fell on the large clumps of boulders that rested on the slope above the trail.

He rose to his full height on the back of his great horse. His eyes snapping with fury, he pulled the magic out of the earth itself, shaped his spell, and sent it hurtling back as a barrage of powerful bolts that exploded into the ground beneath the piles of tumbled boulders. The section of the slope lurched from the force of his power; the rocks slid out of their resting places and began to slide downhill. Their growing momentum jarred others loose until the slide became a grinding monster of rock, earth, and gravel. The soldiers stopped, staring at the approaching landslide with horror. They tried to run, but it was too late.

“Get back!” bellowed Valorian to his men.

Terrified, the clansmen grabbed their wounded and scrambled back out of the way as the landslide came rolling and thundering down the hill in a great cloud of dust. It caught the Tarnish soldiers and dragged them down into the churning mass of rock. The slide rumbled all the way to the riverbank before its impetus slowed and the roaring noise of its passage slowly grumbled to an end.

Valorian stared balefully at the settling dust and the strip of land laid bare. All along the ground below him, the trunks of trees and the bodies of men lay broken and twisted among the rocks. He saw that some of the soldiers were struggling to get out of the rockslide’s debris or to help others who were trapped or wounded, but he doubted from their slow movements or stunned faces that they were going to offer any more trouble to the Clan.

The chieftain turned away to assess the condition of his own people. He hadn’t had time to realize who had been killed or wounded, and his heart was in his mouth as he hurried back to the caravan.

The lead wagons had stopped during the aborted ambush, which had brought the entire caravan to a halt. Some of the clanspeople were helping the wounded men, while others were coming up to join the vanguard and keep a close watch on the broken Tarnish force.

Valorian gave the wagons only a cursory glance before he slid off Hunnul and went to help the wounded. His heart was pounding with dread. When he saw Aiden alive and uninjured, his fear and anger eased, then it soared again when he saw the dead faces of two of his guards, who had ridden with him from the gates of Actigorium and had stood by him before the duel with Karez. One of his other guards was slightly grazed, and there were five other warriors who were wounded. But there was still one face Valorian had not seen yet.

He hurried from group to group, helping where he could, loading the wounded into wagons, and searching. He used his power to dissolve arrows lodged in men’s bodies and to transform scraps of cloth into clean linens for bandages.

Finally Valorian yelled to his brother, “Where is Mordan?”

Aiden shook his head and pointed to a wagon several vehicles back. His face grim, Valorian hurried over, and there he found his friend lying on a pile of blankets hastily thrown over the contents of the wagon. Mordan stirred slightly when Valorian climbed up beside him, but the chieftain went cold. It was immediately obvious why someone had put Mordan there without trying to bandage his wound.

In the bloodied mess of Mordan’s torn tunic was an arrow lodged between his ribs.

Valorian felt sick. Mordan’s lids were open, his eyes dark pools against his deathly white skin. He was breathing in shallow, rapid breaths, and his hands were clenched against the pain. He saw his chieftain and attempted a feeble smile.

Very carefully Valorian used his dagger to cut away part of Mordan’s tunic. He probed the edges of the ugly wound and studied Mordan’s face. Usually an arrow buried in a clansman’s chest spelled death. The clanspeople had very simple surgical practices and only herbal medicines. Removing the shaft and barb would kill him as quickly as leaving it in his chest.

But Valorian’s hopes rose a little as he examined the muscular warrior. He didn’t think the barb had pierced Mordan’s lung or heart, for there was no blood on his lips and his pallor wasn’t gray with approaching death. Perhaps, with magic, he would be able to help his friend. He could not heal; he could only remove. But maybe that would be enough to give Mordan a fighting chance to live.

Gently Valorian touched a finger to the red-dyed feathers.

Mordan stared up at him, totally trusting. There was a pause while Valorian concentrated, then a brief word and the arrow vanished, shaft and all, into mist, leaving only the wound of its entry.

Mordan’s fingers slowly uncurled. “You have a habit of disappointing the Harbingers,” he whispered gratefully.

“They can argue with Amara,” Valorian said, hiding his own intense relief behind the task of bandaging the bleeding wound. He clasped Mordan’s shoulder and was about to leave him when the warrior’s hand clamped on his arm.

“Lord,” Mordan said, his voice hoarse with worry and pain. “That was only a small force trying to slow us down. They knew we were coming. Look to the rear!”

Valorian jumped to his feet with a sudden jolt of apprehension. Mordan’s words made too much sense. The caravan, stopped in place, was open and vulnerable to attack, and it wound down the valley for a long way through trees and open spaces, making it impossible for Valorian to see the end of it. If the attack on the vanguard was meant to stop the train of wagons, then it was likely that the rear was in danger, too. A powerful sense of urgency boiled up inside him.

He whistled for Hunnul. “See you at the pass,” he said softly to Mordan and jumped from the wagon to Hunnul’s back. He shouted to his brother, “Aiden, get the caravan moving now! Get them to the pass!” and he was gone, racing along the file of wagons toward the rear.

“Get moving! Go, go!” he yelled to the Clan drivers as Hunnul galloped by. “Don’t stop. Keep going!”

He and the stallion were halfway back along the length of the caravan when the frantic blast of the rear guard’s signal horn sounded through the valley, followed almost immediately by Tarnish legion horns signaling the attack. Fear swept up the stalled wagons. The drivers, already nervous and tense from the ambush in front, began jostling their vehicles and teams and shouting at one another. The drovers pushed their herds into motion again.

Perhaps thirty mounted men and boys riding beside the wagons saw Valorian racing back toward the rear guard and rode after him to help. Screaming broke out from the end of the train of vehicles, mingled with the clash of weapons.

Hunnul plunged into a patch of trees and out the other side in two strides, just in time to see the warriors in the rear guard close into hand-to-hand fighting with a troop of Tarnish cavalry wearing the crescent moon of the IVth Legion. The men were too close together for Valorian to use his magic, so he slowed Hunnul just long enough for the other riders to catch up with him. Then he drew his sword and shouted a piercing war cry. The small force of clansmen charged into the skirmish.

Hunnul plunged into the midst of the Tarnish horsemen with hooves kicking and teeth snapping. Valorian fought with desperation and cold anger, laying about him with his black sword as if every man who faced him were Tyrranis himself.

Shouts of rage, cries of pain, and the deafening clash of iron on iron filled his ears. The clansmen around him were fighting like wolves with every weapon they could lay their hands on. They weren’t as well trained or armed as the legionnaires, but they stood to lose everything if they failed. Every clansmen knew there would be no surrender.

Valorian parried a heavy blow at his head from a beefy Tarnish officer, avoided a second blow, and swiftly jabbed his blade at the unprotected spot between the man’s jaw and his breastplate. Blood spurted from the wound, and the Tarn toppled from his horse. Hunnul pushed forward through the struggling mass of horses and men.

“For Surgart and Amara!” Valorian yelled over the uproar, and his men, hearing his rally cry, responded with yells of their own.

Slowly the Tarns began to give way before the ferocious defense of the Clan warriors. The soldiers had expected to meet weak, cowardly clansmen who would flee at the first strong attack. They weren’t prepared for the fierce-eyed men and boys who fought back with a strength born of desperation.

Suddenly the melee seemed to lurch as the Tarns hesitated. “Withdraw!” a soldier yelled, and the Tarns broke off, turned their horses, and galloped away, leaving the clansmen gasping in relief. The beleaguered rear guard raised a cheer when they saw the legionnaires fleeing back down the valley.

“Lord Valorian, you’re a welcome sight,” called one of the warriors with a tired grin.

The chieftain hung on to Hunnul, who was prancing in excited circles, and asked, “What happened here?”

“They came out of those woods up there,” the warrior responded, and he pointed to a large strip of trees growing along the edge of the valley. “Just as we passed by, they charged out at us. There must have been almost a hundred of them! If you hadn’t come when you did, they would have overrun us for sure.”

“Did you see General Tyrranis with them?”

The man shook his head. “No.”

Valorian stared worriedly down the valley where the Tarns had disappeared. If there had been about one hundred soldiers in the front ambush and the same number in the rear, where was the rest of the garrison? Where was Tyrranis? The general would never let the Clan get away this easily!

The chief swiftly urged his men to the task of gathering their dead and wounded and loading them into the back wagons. At last the tail end of the caravan began to move again, and the rear guard fell in behind it. More mounted men from the caravan rode back to join Valorian until there were over one hundred men, boys, and a few women of all ages gathered in ragged ranks behind the wagons.

There was now a strong body of men in the vanguard with Aiden and a larger force in the rear with Valorian. The chieftain hoped against all odds that that would suffice.

There simply weren’t enough fighting men to ring the entire caravan. On the other hand, he didn’t think they had to worry about an assault in the middle of the line of wagons.

If one had been planned to coincide with the ambushes at the head and rear, it would have occurred by now. The valley itself protected them, too, for with its river, it was too narrow to allow a large force to move up unopposed and attack the center. He thought Tyrranis had probably planned the ambushes to stop the caravan so the larger remaining force could sweep up and overwhelm it. But his plan hadn’t worked, and now the Clan was on the move again.

Valorian glanced back over his shoulder and wondered what Tyrranis would try next.

He didn’t have to wait long to find out. The Clan passed the place of the first ambush without any more trouble. Disregarding the dead and wounded Tarns, they traveled on as quickly as the rough terrain would allow. They had only gone a short distance up the trail, though, when a shout brought the rear guard whirling around. One of the warriors pointed down the valley, and everyone saw the full remaining forces of the Chadarian garrison coming into sight along the crest of a low slope near the river. Red pennons fluttered on their spears, and their armor sparkled in the afternoon sun.

As the Clan warriors watched, the Tarnish cavalry wheeled into position, forming seven widely spaced lines that stretched from the river to the high valley walls. Valorian felt his apprehension grow. The soldiers seemed to be trying something different in hopes of thwarting his power. Their ranks were much thinner and farther apart than usual, perhaps to prevent him from focusing his spells on a single mass.

To his dismay, they were right. His power was great, but he was only one man facing hundreds, and his strength and concentration were limited by his body’s weaknesses. If the Tarns were determined enough and could distract or kill him, they could easily sweep over the entire caravan.

Valorian’s mouth went dry. Slowly he sheathed his sword and tried to calm himself so he could think clearly. Under his breath, he said a prayer to all four deities to watch over the Clan. The Harbingers had already been busy in this valley today, and he didn’t want to give them more to do. He glanced at his companions and saw that they were all as nervous as he. He recognized, with a start of surprise, Karez sitting on his big white horse in the rank just behind him. The big clansman must have joined them just a few moments before. Valorian felt uneasy under the uncharitable thought that perhaps he ought to watch his back, also.

Karez noticed his chieftain looking at him and he grinned, his teeth flashing in his dark beard. As if he guessed what Valorian was thinking, he waved his sword at the enemy.

Just then, the Tarnish trumpets blew the charge. The blaring notes soared through the valley, accompanied by a great shout and the sudden thunder of hoof beats.

The clansmen automatically surged forward, but Valorian called them back. “Hold your places!” He held on to Hunnul’s mane as the stallion half-reared and leapt forward to the front of the meager Clan lines.

The caravan behind them rumbled on up the trail, faster and faster. The herds of horses and stock animals broke into panicked flight.

The Tarnish charge approached at a terrifying speed. Their lines grew ragged as the horses galloped over the uneven terrain. There was another loud blast from their horns, and the horsemen’s spears lowered in unison, point first toward the waiting rear guard.

Valorian took only a moment to wonder where General Tyrranis was before he lifted his hands and launched his first attack. He fired six large spheres of blue energy in rapid succession, spaced out along the lines of galloping horses. The fusillade landed with terrible force among the riders. Explosions rocked the ground and blew dirt and rocks in all directions, frightening some horses and knocking others off their feet.

But it wasn’t enough. The Tarns were expecting the magical bombardment, and they continued their charge.

Valorian hesitated while he racked his mind for another idea. He didn’t want to try a fire again since the line of soldiers was too long and the wind was blowing up the valley from the east. Nor could he use another rockslide over an area so large. He needed a new tactic.

Suddenly a possibility intruded into his thoughts that seemed so .crazy he decided to try it. He couldn’t create life, but he could create the image of life, as he had done when he told the story of his journey into Gormoth. He would use the same sort of image, only make it larger and see how brave the Tarns really were.

He closed his eyes to remember the small, ugly forms of the gorthlings and shaped the spell in his mind. Using dust and bits of gravel, dirt, and leaves to give his image substance, he molded the magic into a gigantic animated form. He knew it had worked when he heard his own men yell in fright.

The chieftain opened his eyes and surprised even himself with the huge realistic creature that now stood between the charging Tarns and the Clan. It was fearsome! A monstrous, bestial figure of a gorthling that towered above the nearby trees and blocked the valley trail. The Tarnish cavalry saw it and brought their horses to a rearing, sliding stop.

It was difficult to tell the creature wasn’t solid and could do no real damage, but before the horrified Tarns could realize that, Valorian set his creature into motion. It screeched terribly and reached out as if to grab the horses. The Tarnish lines disintegrated. Horses bolted in panic, taking their riders with them. Other soldiers yanked their mounts around and fled from the hideous monster back the way they had come.

“Stay put!” Valorian shouted to his own men. “The beast is only an image.”

The clansmen stared from him to the creature in amazement, their eyes popping, yet they stayed in rank.

“Now back away slowly,” he ordered and gestured to them to follow the caravan. They went gratefully. Valorian stayed where he was to maintain the image of the giant gorthling for as long as he could.

At the same time, on an overlook in the valley downriver, General Tyrranis and Governor Antonine watched the retreat of the Chadarian garrison with very different emotions. Tyrranis was rigid with anger at the cowardice and foolishness of his men.

Antonine was so shocked at this second display of magical power that he could hardly contain his rage and fear. He rounded on Tyrranis, his intense dismay momentarily blocking out his fear and hatred of the general. “Why didn’t you tell me of this magic-wielding clansman?” he screamed at Tyrranis. “We cannot defeat a sorcerer of such power! We should have let them go. This whole journey was a waste. I will not allow my legion—”

He got no further. Tyrranis’s hand lashed out and caught the young governor across the right cheek and nose, nearly knocking him from the saddle.

“Silence, you fool!” hissed Tyrranis. “His power isn’t invincible.”

Antonine glared ferociously and mopped the blood from his nose with a scented handkerchief. He was furious not only at the Chadarian governor, but at himself as well for not daring to retaliate. A stronger man wouldn’t have stood for such a personal insult. “Not invincible!” he repeated, hiding his anger behind incredulity. “Look at that creature he has summoned. None of our soldiers will go past that,”

Tyrranis scoffed. “It’s a fake, an image. Magic cannot create life. Look at it carefully. You can see light through it.”

“I don’t believe it. General Sarjas, surely you don’t want to risk your troops against such a beast.” Antonine appealed to the commander of the XIIth Legion, who was sitting on his horse behind them, tight-lipped at the actions of the two governors.

“He won’t have to,” Tyrranis snarled before the commander could speak. “I’ll take my own garrison against the rear guard. You attack the Clan. Surely your legion will have no trouble dealing with women and children.”

Stung by the insult in the repetition of his own earlier words, the young governor’s face turned fiery red. “But what if there are more—”

“There are no other magic-wielders!” Tyrranis stabbed a finger toward the disappearing caravan. “There is only him, and he is mine!”

For just a moment, Antonine accidentally looked full into Tyrranis’s dark eyes, past the icy glare into the seething rage in the general’s mind. In that brief glimpse, he thought he saw the growing shadows of madness. A shudder overtook him, and he wrenched his eyes away from that awful face. “All right, all right,” he said sullenly. “We will do it.” Anything to finish this dreadful task and be rid of Tyrranis.

Without another word or gesture, Tyrranis drew his sword and whipped his horse into a gallop down the slope to cut off his retreating troops. The officers pulled up in front of him at the bottom of the hill, shamefaced and frightened, their horses lathered and their tunics dust-covered.

“Cowards!” he screamed at them. “You are not fit to be Tarns! Stop those men at once and reform your ranks before I cut you down myself.”

None of the officers disobeyed him. As quickly as possible, they stopped the fleeing legionnaires, rounded up the panicked horses, and brought the troop back under control. All the while, the gorthling image roared and howled from its place on the trail.

When the IVth Legion detachments were regrouped, the general rode past the lines of white-faced soldiers. “What you see is a fake!” he yelled, shaking a fist toward the gorthling. “You ran from an image, you fools! Those are real.” And he gestured to the rear guard and the tail end of the Clan caravan they could see disappearing up the valley. “Destroy them!” he bellowed. “Destroy them now. Prove that you are men, not rabbits.”

The troops gave a ragged cheer. With the speed and skill that had always been his strength in battle, Tyrranis reorganized his men into a new attack formation.

But even his best plan or his worst threats wouldn’t have convinced the legionnaires to attack that hideous screaming monster if Tyrranis himself had not led the charge. Raising his sword over his head, the Tarnish general bellowed the order to charge and spurred his horse into a gallop, straight toward the fearsome gorthling. The soldiers followed, rather reluctantly at first as they watched their general approach the monster, then with gathering confidence when they saw the gorthling could not lay its hands on the man.

Before the Tarns’ startled eyes, Tyrranis forced his horse to run directly through the beast’s legs. With a thunderous shout, the Chadarian forces spurred after him.

Valorian watched the general with dismay. He had to admit that Tyrranis had courage, but the general made things very difficult. Valorian’s strength was flagging from the heavy use of magic, and now the Tarns were attacking again. He instantly blanked out the image of the gorthling to save his energy and sent Hunnul cantering back to catch up with the rest of the rear guard. The Clan warriors turned one more time to face the enemy while the caravan rumbled away as fast as it could go over the uneven ground.

This time the Tarns didn’t charge in a straight line. They split into three groups that attacked the rear guard from several different directions. One group galloped up the slope above the valley and fired a black rain of arrows down into the lines of Clan warriors. The other groups, one led by Tyrranis, spurred their horses toward the front and the right flank of the rear guard.

Valorian tried desperately to duck the falling arrows behind his small shield and at the same time keep the Tarns at bay with missiles of blue energy, fireballs, and smoke screens. Yet the Tarns faced his barrage and kept coming. He felt his strength slowly draining away and his spells becoming weaker. Despite his power, he was only one man against determined, overwhelming forces who were coming at him from several different directions. None of the other clansmen could help him fight off the Tarns until they came into arrow range, and by that time, it was too late.

The Tarnish charge swept into their midst, their swords smashing into their defenses. Valorian and his rear guard tried to hold their formation, but the clansmen couldn’t maneuver or fight the running battle they excelled at. They had to stand in the open and defend themselves. All too quickly their thin ranks crumpled under the overwhelming onslaught. The warriors fell back around their chieftain in a last attempt to make a stand. Everything was in a bloody tangle of horses wheeling and colliding, men struggling and falling, and over it all was the sickly smell of blood and fear.

In moments, the superior Tarnish forces had ringed in the rear guard and cut them off from the rest of the Clan. The end of the caravan was now left open and helpless.

Seeing their danger, the drivers urged their horses frantically and drew their own weapons to try to defend their lives and their families. Strangely, the Chadarian forces didn’t move to attack the line of wagons. Instead, they concentrated their ferocity on the rear guard.

Valorian saw all of this with a horrified clarity. He couldn’t defend the entire caravan when it was strung out along the trail, and now he was too busy fighting for his own life to defend the warriors around him. They were trapped in a desperate battle of hand-to-hand combat. Valorian knew if he didn’t do something fast, the entire rear guard would be slaughtered, leaving the Clan virtually defenseless. He saw Tyrranis fighting his way toward him, and he began to urge Hunnul forward to meet the general.

Then he heard something that froze his blood. A new fanfare of trumpets blasted through the sounds of shouting, neighing, and clashing weapons. The chieftain jerked his head around to look down the valley. What he saw stunned him with an appalling feeling of utter despair.

There, in solid ranks of cavalry and infantry moving up beside the river, was an entire legion—one thousand of the emperor’s finest men—heading rapidly after the fleeing Clan. Sick, Valorian recognized the black eagle emblems on their tunics. It was the XIIth Legion from the Ramtharin Plains.

Tyrranis cut down a young clansman in his way and saw the hopeless look on Valorian’s face. “Yes, magic-wielder,” he shouted at the chieftain. “Your Clan is about to die!”

And for one moment of eternity, Valorian believed he was right.