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.
He heard a meaty thud, and a heavy weight pinned him to the ground. The slender Pakin nobleman had collapsed on him. Tol couldn’t get free until Egrin dragged the unconscious Pakin off him.
“Are you all right?” the Ackal warrior asked.
Tol scrambled to his feet. He had a bleeding gash on his cheek where the Pakin had hit him-his head still rang from the blow-but otherwise he felt fine. He nodded in reply.
Horns resounded, and horsemen deluged the melee. The Juramona garrison, seeing their lord in peril, had sortied to rescue him. They quickly put the Pakins to rout, surrounding the exhausted men of Egrin’s troop.
Lord Odovar rode up, looking remarkably fit after his ordeal. Battle agreed with him.
“So, Egrin Raemel’s son! Alive but unhorsed, I see,” he boomed jovially.
“Unhorsed, but not empty-handed, my lord.” The warrior pointed to the fallen Pakin.
“Turn the blackguard over, so I may see his face,” Odovar said. Egrin did so, and Odovar cried, “Vakka Zan! By Draco, you have true Pakin blood there!”
“A kinsman of the Pretender?” Egrin asked, scrutinizing his captive’s slack features.
“His nephew, I believe. Bind him up, men. He’ll make a pretty present for the emperor!”
Odovar’s men tied Vakka Zan hand and foot, and threw him over a horse. Those of Egrin’s troop who had survived formed up behind the marshal. The gate now stood wide open.
Manzo rode past. “Warden,” he said respectfully, “you shouldn’t walk. I’ll fetch a horse.”
Egrin held up a torn and bloody gauntlet. “No need. My legs work well enough for now. Old Acorn would take it amiss if I rode another animal.” Manzo drew his dagger and saluted his commander.
Garrison and guardsmen rode on, leaving Egrin and Tol to walk the last hundred paces to Juramona. Tol moved ahead of the warden when the latter paused to pick up something.
“Boy,” Egrin called. “Master Tol!”
He stopped. No one had ever called him “master” before.
“This is yours.”
Egrin held out Vakka Zari’s gilded sword, hilt-first Tol gaped.
“Go on, take it. You earned it. To save my life you attacked an armed man bare-handed. I may have subdued
