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  “And we are more than a huddled turtle,” he continued, a sinister smile coming over him. “We have vipers to send forth, a most venomous group.”

  Kirren Howen considered the words for a few heartbeats, then grimly nodded. “And when the vipers poison the attackers and send them reeling?” he asked. “Do we march forth and drive our enemies before us?”

  “Eager for another try at the Bear of Honce?” Ethelbert asked slyly.

  “A worthy opponent!” Kirren Howen replied. “So, yes.”

  “I do not like battling that one,” Ethelbert admitted. “I fought beside him and Laird Prydae those years ago.”

  “I remember it well. Would that Bannagran—Laird Bannagran, I am told—had decided to ally with Laird Ethelbert!”

  “Would that Laird Prydae had kept his loins, and then his life,” said Ethelbert with a great sigh as he considered the tragic events that had ultimately driven Prydae and Pryd Holding from his side. He noticed Kirren Howen looking at him curiously.

  “I thought to name Prydae to my line,” Ethelbert said, surprising the general.

  “He was a good man,” Ethelbert explained. “But he lost his ability to continue his line, his balls taken by a powrie. Still, I blame myself for not acting forcefully enough to enlist him and his important holding, a holding become all the more important by the rise of the Bear of Honce.” He ended with a profound sigh, one that had Kirren Howen nodding his head in agreement.

  “To the vipers, then,” Kirren Howen said and handed a second glass of shinaba to Ethelbert, who drained his first, then brought the other up to tap the general’s, a toast they were both glad to acknowledge.

  _____

  A

  re you ready, my prince?” asked Dimitri Raetu, holding back his obviously eager horse. The scouts ahead had reported confusion and terror in the ranks of their enemies, with most fleeing south. This next charge, back to the east and the Mirianic, would take the rocky hill anchoring the southern bank of a large bay just north of the city of Ethelbert dos Entel. That strong position would ensure that no ships could put in and off-load soldiers right behind their lines and would also serve as a fine vantage point for the short run to Ethelbert’s city.

  Milwellis, victorious all through the morning and all the day before, beamed with glee. Was he ready to win yet again? How could he not be? “King Yeslnik is still two days from Ethelbert City, and we’ll be at her gates by evening.”

  “Is this a bad thing, my prince?” asked Harcourt, another of the commanders. He was the oldest of the generals who had set out from Palmaristown with Milwellis those weeks before. He also had fought with Panlamaris, Milwellis’s father, in the powrie wars and in many sea battles when Panlamaris had seized control of the western reaches of the Gulf of Corona, thus ensuring Palmaristown’s place among the most highly prized and important ports in all of Honce.

  Milwellis looked at him curiously, not understanding how the prospects before them could possibly be considered as such. Still, his father had made it clear to him to heed well the advice of the veteran Harcourt. “You fear that I will outshine the king? Do you think me impolitic?”

  “No, of course not, and we . . . you have earned all honors,” the old general answered. “Your march south will be remembered throughout Honce for generations to come—already the bards are writing their songs of Milwellis’s great victories—and never will a Palmaristown ship be out of reach of a friendly port, since you control them all now, from the river through the southern coast of the gulf and down the length of the Mantis Arm. All glory to Milwellis. Young prince, you’ve done your father proud, and no easy task that!”

  Milwellis’s stare took on a harder edge. “But . . . ?” he prompted.

  “King Yeslnik is new to the throne, and the throne itself is new,” Harcourt replied. “As such, he is no doubt unsure.”

  Several of the other Palmaristown knights, splendid in their shining suits of bronze, shuffled uncomfortably on their horses and looked to Milwellis, seeking to gauge his response to the possible affront.

  “Unsure and insecure,” Milwellis added, nodding his approval at the blunt-speaking Harcourt, which reassured the others. “So we are faced with a dilemma. I desire credit to Palmaristown’s brave warriors for the taking of Ethelbert dos Entel, but I fear to walk too tall above Honce’s new king, to whom my father has pledged fealty. What am I to do?”

  The way he had asked, grinning from ear to ear, told them that he had already sorted out the solution, and so the knights just glanced at each other with confident nods and waited for Milwellis to explain.

  “I will take my leave of you now,” he told them, “riding west to King Yeslnik’s line and camp. You proceed as we had planned. You will have no trouble smashing to the city’s gate. And when I arrive, King Yeslnik will find his path clear to victory, Ethelbert dos Entel, the greatest prize of all, presented to him by my minions. All glory to Yeslnik for leading the march into the city, but all the men of the king’s many holdings will know that it was Palmaristown and Milwellis who truly won the day.”

  He looked to Harcourt, who was nodding with approval. “Aye, but your father has raised a son who will well lead Palmaristown and more,” the general said.

  With a stern look Milwellis dismissed the others. As they walked their mounts away, he brought his horse up very close beside Harcourt.

  “You find me too forward in front of the others?” the general asked.

  “I have never heard such compliments flowing from the lips of Harcourt,” Milwellis answered. “I find them unsettling.”

  “Perhaps you have never deserved them before.”

  Milwellis sat up straight as if the man had slapped him

  “I promised your father that I would counsel you and protect you,” Harcourt pressed. “And protect you particularly from yourself. This is not easy business—oh, killing our enemies is simple enough, and a task you’ve learned well.”

  “But the politics of it,” Milwellis reasoned.

  “Trickier by far,” said Harcourt, and he lowered his voice as he added, “And more so given that our new king is a man of exceeding vanity and unworldliness. Would that Laird Delaval had known an heir as worthy as Milwellis.”

  “You say so only because you fear you have angered me.”

  “I speak only because I do not fear to anger you,” Harcourt answered without hesitation. “My loyalty is to Laird Panlamaris first, and I was fighting beside him before you were born. He charged me with fulfilling his own role beside you, to criticize when needed and to counsel always.”

  “And to praise?”

  “Only when deserved. As now. There are two men in particular making names in this war, yourself and Bannagran, the champion of Pryd.”

  “He is a peasant.”

  “The warriors love him, and Yeslnik has named him Laird of Pryd.”

  “That does not change his peasant blood,” Milwellis said with a scowl.

  “And the warriors love you,” Harcourt was quick to add. “And you have the advantage, young prince, for they fear you, as well. All who watched the burning of the Felidan villages understand well the severity of Prince Milwellis, and fear is a tool that will serve you well in the days after Ethelbert’s certain defeat. As King Yeslnik sorts out his new and vast domain he will wisely and warily defer to you.”

  “All Honce’s coast for Palmaristown, eh?”

  “That is your father’s greatest wish, one that you have made possible, even likely.”

  “My choice in going now to Yeslnik?” Milwellis asked. “Wise?”

  “Brilliant beyond your years,” Harcourt answered. “Ride with me?”

  “With honor, Prince of Palmaristown.”

  _____

  A

  ye, General Dimitri,” one of the Palmaristown’s knights replied with striking emphasis on the man’s newfound title. The others, peers all until this point, laughed at their new commander’s expense.

  Dimitri Reatu laughed with them
. This was his first command, handed to him by Prince Milwellis himself when Milwellis and Harcourt had departed. The mission seemed straightforward enough. The armored horsemen had a clear run to the hill and a clear trail up it. The fact that their enemies held the higher ground seemed inconsequential and had been to this point. For the Ethelbert defenders hadn’t bows strong enough or spears heavy enough to inflict any real damage against the bronze plating and hadn’t the heart to continue the fight anyway, having been in retreat for days now. A few stubbornly (or under orders) kept their positions along the hillside, a few light spears had reached Dimitri’s band, and an enemy occasionally climbed on rocks, sword or long spear in hand to block the way.

  But the Palmaristown knights had ridden right through the diversions, ignoring the flimsy missiles and cutting low the peasants, who wore no armor, who carried shields of ill-sewn leather, and who wielded weapons that bronze armor easily turned. In a gallop more often than a trot, Dimitri Reatu led his men up the side, with the top, the goal, clearly in sight.

  Through the slit in his full helm, Dimitri hardly noted the Behr features on the shaved-headed man who appeared among the branches of a tree to his right or his strange black clothing.

  Just another peasant to ignore or, if he ventured too near, to slay, so the new general thought.

  Only one of Dimitri’s band of ten even noted the stranger’s sudden movements, his leaping from branch to branch with the grace of a squirrel, bounding to the top of a small pine just ahead and to the side of the lead rider. The knight called a warning, but his voice was filled more with curiosity than alarm.

  The stranger disappeared into the thick boughs of the pine.

  The knights charged forward.

  The pine tree leaned over suddenly, as if to grasp at them. It was the black-clothed stranger, holding its top branches and leaping to the side, his weight and momentum taking the tree down with him in his descent. He came across Dimitri’s horse, both men disappearing in a swirl of green.

  And the knights gasped in unison as the tree swung back up, a flailing Dimitri affixed to it, the stranger sitting in Dimitri’s saddle, hoisting the general hard to help the recovering tree gain momentum.

  The nearest knight leaped his horse ahead and readied his sword to slash at the attacker, but as if he had anticipated that very movement, as if Dimitri’s horse was no more than an extension of his thoughts, the stranger slapped the mount and it reared on cue, bucking and double-kicking back, slamming the charging horse in the chest. The jolt sent the knight tumbling from his seat to crash hard at the side of the trail.

  The stranger whirled Dimitri’s mount around and produced a strange weapon: two black poles as long as a forearm fastened end to end by an equally long length of dark leather. He held one of the poles and sent the other spinning as he brought his horse in line to pass by the next charging knight.

  That man yelled, veering in and leveling his sword.

  But the spinning pole went about that sword and wrapped it. A quick twist by the black-clothed warrior snapped the blade in half and freed the strange weapon in the same instant.

  The knight tried to turn in closer, to stab with his suddenly shortened half sword, but the stranger veered his horse opposite, keeping just out of reach. As they passed, that curious twin-poled weapon snapped in against the back of the knight’s bronze helm with such force that the back plate buckled in hard against his skull. The knight howled and reached up with both hands to clutch at his aching head, caring not that he had let go his reins, thinking only to get his cracking skull out of the bronze prison. Half mad with explosions of agony, the man never let go of the sides of his helm even as he toppled from his mount, even as he hit the hard ground headfirst, all of his weight crushing down upon his neck, pulverizing his spine. He flopped on the ground and rolled, coming to an awkward rest, having no control, no strength to straighten himself out.

  The warrior from Behr turned to bring himself straight between the next two knights in line, and they adjusted their swords accordingly, thinking him mad and foolish despite his impressive display.

  Just before the three horses passed, the stranger leaped to stand upon his saddle and sent his leather-tied sticks into a whirling display, moving them from hand to hand, over one shoulder then behind him and back under the other shoulder and all about his head with amazing precision.

  The two knights tried to ignore the diversionary movements, tried to focus on taking the warrior’s legs out.

  The horses passed, the knights stabbed repeatedly, and the stranger from the southland danced and leaped and worked his sticks into a spin, into a forward rolling action before him. He caught the flying pole tight under his right armpit suddenly, leaped the stabbing blades and landed sidelong, pulling hard all the while on the other pole with his right hand, building tension against his own lock. He back-kicked his left foot just as he released the trapped pole from under his arm. It snapped forward like a To-gai viper with such force that it drove right through the knight’s bronze helm and through the side of his skull.

  The knight across the way fared little better, the back-kick hitting him with a force he could not have anticipated and at just the right angle to lift him from his seat. He went over the far side of the horse, his left foot still caught in the stirrup, and that tether twisted him underneath the galloping beast. Hooves pounded against him, which only frightened the horse more. It ran off across the hillside, the knight bouncing along the stones behind it.

  The other horse continued to run as well, its rider quite dead, slumped over its neck.

  The trailing knights, wanting no part of this southern creature, tried to turn aside, but other southerners appeared from the brush, leaping at them, kicking at them, stabbing them with long and thin poles. Only one managed to turn about completely, thinking to ride away to warn Prince Milwellis. He broke free and fought hard to balance his mount, refusing to relinquish the gallop even though he was in a steep descent. As the sounds of fighting receded behind him, he gradually relaxed and tried to ease his horse, but he realized his folly when he noted movement within the brush to the side of the path.

  Another black-clothed warrior, a woman.

  She closed in a confusing blur, springing to her hands, then over to her feet, then up into the air in a dizzying spin, landing again on her hands and springing away once more. With stunning speed she moved toward the trail, and the knight knew that he could not get past this somersaulting demoness.

  Hands down, feet down, full airborne somersault, she came on, and he aimed his sword to the side at her as he crossed before her on the path.

  But she just sprang higher in her next leap, climbing far above the sword, and the knight could only gawk.

  She came out of her curl as she descended, her muscles and momentum driving her extending legs out to crack against the knight’s shoulder and neck. He jolted down, then bounced back up and didn’t even realize that he was clear of his saddle and mount and flying free to the ground, didn’t even realize that the horse this black-clothed demoness from Behr was now astride was his own. He hit the ground, and all consciousness flew away.

  The woman now riding paid him no heed, charging instead up the hill. Almost all the knights were down by the time she arrived, rolling and fighting, but one man remained in the saddle, and one of her warriors lay bloody on the ground beneath him.

  Outraged, the former Jhesta Tu charged right for the man, who turned to meet the charge.

  Except that suddenly she wasn’t there! The horse remained but was riderless. By the time the knight understood that the woman had tucked her legs and leaped away and was now descending across his own mount, it was too late. The graceful woman barely touched the horse’s back as she crossed over and flew away. The knight started to cry out a warning to his companions.

  But he could not yell, could not make a sound, other than the gurgle of bubbling blood. He reached up to grasp his throat, flung aside his heavy gauntlet to get his fingers under his h
elm. To feel the warm blood, his throat slashed from side to side. He glanced back at the woman and saw a small, decorated sword barely more than a long dagger in her hand and stained with his own blood.

  As he fell, he realized that it was not a dagger but a broken sword. In the last moments of his life he recalled that a sword had been broken in half in the chest of King Delaval.

  The same sword, he knew with dying certainty. No comfort as the darkness closed.

  U

  nworthy enemies,” Merwal Yahna complained when the battle had ended.

  Affwin Wi, her broken sword dripping with blood, glanced around, her gaze focusing on the one of her warriors who was writhing on the ground.

  “Not so unworthy,” she argued.

  “It was not their worthiness, but Ti’ragu’s own error,” Merwal Yahna assured her. “His leap fell short of his target.”

  Affwin Wi nodded, then indicated Merwal Yahna’s bloody nun’chu’ku, the two poles tied with leather.

  With a grim nod in reply, the fierce half-To-gai-ru, half-Behrenese warrior walked over to his badly wounded companion and again sent his weapon into a spin, catching the flying pole under his arm. His muscles bulged and strained as he pulled against the hold, taking sure and merciful aim at the base of Ti’ragu’s skull.

  All of the other Hou-lei gang began to hum in a low and somber key.

  Merwal Yahna released the trapped nun’chu’ku pole, and it snapped forward to devastating effect.

  Ti’ragu lay very still.

  C

  aught in the top branches of the swaying pine, Dimitri Reatu rolled around just in time to see the execution of the wounded Behrenese warrior. Somehow that cold-blooded act, killing one of their own with such impunity, brought the first-time general to a new plane of terror. His fingers turned bloody as he desperately forced them under the rim of his helm and under the fine silk rope tied about his neck and hanging him from the trunk.