The plan placed the minotaurs in a difficult position, Gregor acknowledged, since there would be close fighting with members of the foraging party, as well as danger from the rear when those who remained at Swiftwater's camp joined the battle. But Gregor's troops would press the attack from all sides and attempt to draw off fire from the minotaurs. Burek had conceded the boldness of Gregor's scheme. Valiant race that they were, the minotaurs had accepted their risky assignment with dignity. Before they divided up, Kit noticed that the mammoth creatures, outfitted in all their glittering armament, knelt as a group to exchange hushed vows amongst themselves, secret words that no human would ever be permitted to overhear.
The other mercenaries observed their ritual with respect. The long minutes of silence were almost unbearable.
Then, with Burek in the lead, the nearly two dozen minotaurs rose as one and marched off. After them, with great solemnity, came Gregor and his men. Her father was riding a borrowed steed, a silver-gray charger. He had left behind his precious Cinnamon for Kit, so that she would have a reliable means of escape in the unlikely event of a rout. Her father did not pay her any attention now. His eyes were trained resolutely on the task ahead, his mouth set in a grim line. This was the first time Kit had seen Gregor riding into battle, and that scene was how she would always think of him—proud, erect, invincible. Trailing them all, serving as little more than a buffer in the battle, were Nolan and his small volunteer brigade of locals. Unlike the more professional soldiers, Nolan's farmers clutched roughhewn clubs and shovels and odd tools. But these could be every bit as deadly as more sophisticated weapons in the hand-to-hand struggle that would follow the first clash.
From the vantage Gregor had chosen for her, underneath the oak tree, Kitiara strained to see the minotaurs moving through the tall grass, past the brush and occasional trees that lined the valley. But she could see nothing.
Suddenly, Kitiara caught the sound of horses snuffling and snorting in the still morning air. Birds flew out from the underbrush on the opposite side of the valley, and a group of roughly forty barbarians filed out of the woods. They rode a high-strung breed of horses renowned for their speed. Kitiara wondered how the minotaurs, who were afoot, would fare against them.
The barbarians sat easily in their saddles. From a distance, they looked to Kitiara to be wearing leather capes decorated with multicolored feathers. She thought she spied their chieftain, Swiftwater, trotting in the lead, stocky and arrogant. Then another of the horde caught her eye. He alone was shrouded like a wraith, his garb devoid of all decoration or color. From his saddle dangled a multitude of vials and potions. A magic-user, thought Kit.
After more than a year of raiding the countryside virtually unchallenged, the barbarians were careless of any possible threat. Their horses seemed to float through the grass. The riders said little to each other as they rode, though the small dogs trotting alongside yapped and growled occasionally.
As the party moved out into the open sweep of the meadow, Burek and his companions burst from the mists that still clung to the lower reaches of the valley. Their wild bellows caused several of the barbarians' horses to rear up in fright, and at least two of the riders lost their purchase and were trampled in the ensuing confusion.
One of the barbarians put a hollow gourd to his lips and sounded a shrill call for help. Already a few men were scrambling from the dense pine trees on top of the ridge behind the minotaurs, alerted by the commotion. Kitiara could see other fighters move to the edge of the trees and start fitting arrows in their bows, taking aim at Burek and his gallant troop.
As the first arrows started flying, Kitiara heard a shout and saw a brigade of her father's soldiers charge up along the sides of the ridge on horseback, forcing the archers to retreat. At the same time, reinforcements swung up on their horses from behind bushes and trees where they had been camouflaged, attacking the advance guard of barbarians from the front. Swiftwater's men, neatly bisected, recoiled in surprise.
Smoke and flame indicated that the magic-user had managed to cast a spell. Up above the melee rose a garish phantasm that dripped blood and flashed horrid yellow fangs. Kitiara knew that it was an illusion intended to paralyze nerves and terrorize opponents. Gregor, with his wisdom of many battles, had predicted this tactic. He and many of his men had rimmed their eyes with an ointment to counteract the spell. Fortunately, Kitiara had been forewarned. She, too, had protected her eyes. Otherwise, she would not have been able to fend off the panic she felt inside, even at this safe distance from the ghastly bloodthing.
Dire screams could be heard. Whether emanating from the barbarians' or Gregor's side, Kit could not be sure. Everything was intermingled now.
Kitiara saw one brave warrior—she thought it must be her father—plow into the vanguard and challenge a barbarian on a large horse, one wearing not only a leather cloak, but a mottled helmet covered with feathers. No, she was wrong before; the man Gregor faced, not the arrogant barbarian she had spied earlier, must be Swiftwater. The two men leaned over their mounts, lashing out with their swords.
Kitiara locked her eyes on the two warriors. The smoke and noise were dense now. She willed herself not to lose sight of the pair, for Gregor was hard at it and Swiftwater was matching him blow for blow, giving good proof of himself. Around them, the battlefield was chaotic, full of harsh sound and movement and gore.
Almost unconsciously, Kitiara
