Yechvan stared down the mountain and into Gard Pass—where Peryn’s soldiers slept in the predawn glow. He felt vindicated to some extent, but that meant a fight. And this was a fight from which there would be no retreat.

  “They are two hundred at least,” Yechvan said. “We are fifty.”

  “We’ve no choice that I can see,” Zu said, crouched among the rocks beside him. “If we attack when they are awake and organized, we won’t stand a chance.”

  “They have ten on guard. We’ll never surprise them.”

  “True, but they won’t be dressed or prepared for battle if they are just waking up. And they are confident that no one knows they’re here. We can use that against them.”

  “Whatever decision we make, it must be now,” Yechvan said, calculating. His small band wouldn’t have another advantage like this, not against four times their number, and the gods only knew what destruction the Perysh would exact if given the chance. “We attack,” he concluded. They had come for no other reason.

  “You heard him,” Zu murmured, turning toward the soldier beside him. “Prepare.”

  The command spread through the ranks like flame across parchment. Within moments the fifty brave volunteers were mounted and ready to ride as one, creeping along at first, trying to remain invisible. When the hill became more dirt than rock and stealth was no longer possible, Yechvan and Zu led the charge.

  A horn alerted the Perysh to the assault as Zu pounced on the first guard, yari extended. He felled the man with hardly a thought.

  Zu dismounted to attack with both feet on solid ground, but Yechvan preferred to fight from his saddle as long as he could. He swung his sword in an arc toward the second guard, who was forced to dodge or find Yechvan’s blade embedded in his skull. Unfortunately for him, beside Yechvan rode Uli, a fierce human woman with fire-red hair and a wicked, curved blade. The guard instead found her sword embedded in his skull and dropped, quite dead.

  A dozen bantax astride their mounts remained in the rear or on the flank, pelting arrow after arrow into the gathering throng, hitting their mark more oft than not. The less experienced riders dismounted and followed Zu into the fray. Fifteen or twenty of the enemy lay dead or dying within seconds of the clash, but the Perysh were clambering out of their bedrolls and tents and readying themselves for the melee.

  An orc fell. His mare lost her footing in the loose dirt, and the unlucky youth landed hard beneath her hooves. Eroa be damned for taking him before he’d entered the battle.

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  The enemy was beginning to organize. Their back lines brought up a shield wall to block the arrows. A crush of bodies pressed together; the Perysh soldiers worked furiously to protect against the barrage.

  And then there was Zu, art in motion on the left flank. He kept several Perysh soldiers at bay with his intricate dance, finding purchase with quick, precise strikes. When he lunged, the southerners thought to disarm him, but the blooded colossus was too strong to relinquish his weapon. He slashed to create space between himself and his attackers, then followed with a swift, powerful jab, dropping a Perysh woman with a strike to the thigh, just above her greave.

  It didn’t take long for the enemy to realize Zu would not be an easy target even though he stood alone. They changed tactic, leaving two soldiers with polearms to stall him rather than engage in a direct assault. Yechvan smiled. No strategy would contain Zu. He would make quick work of the pair and then be free to tear into the southerners.

  After three more opponents fell to Yechvan’s blade, he dropped from his horse. The opposing force was too well organized now, each fighter protecting another’s flank. The initial surprise of the ambush was over, and Yechvan and his band found themselves in a scrum, line against line, still outnumbered at least two to one. Banx against Peryn, borders drawn once again.

  Yechvan’s blood began to simmer. He usually bit back the rage and forced it down his gullet. Why worry about that now? The soldiers knew what to do. Whatever else might happen, they would kill and wound enough Perysh to prevent them from rampaging through Banx and destroying their home.

  So he gave in to his anger and hatred, the pent-up aggression, all his frustration and angst. The exhaustion of the prolonged conflict, the agony of losing friends, the humiliation of retreating back and back, the shame of almost squandering the confidence and good will of his people, the self-loathing for watching from afar as he sent orc after blooded after human to their death. The embarrassment of nearly losing it all because of an arrogant belief in his own tactical superiority.

  Rage bubbled up, spilled over, clouded his vision in a red haze. He no longer saw the field or the bigger picture. There was only one thing he focused on, one question he asked himself when another person came into his myopic sight: friend or foe?

  Arms and legs pumping, Yechvan pushed forward with sword and shield, breaking through the wall before him. Only at the edge of his consciousness did he register the swords that sliced his flesh, the spears and knives that punctured his armor. All he saw was foe. His blade slashed and twisted and stabbed and parried with a mind of its own, pushing ever forward.

  The clash went on for what seemed like hours. Parry, block, slash, block. Time and again Yechvan took a hit. Time and again he tasted flesh and blood and bone. The red haze guided him, locking on to a warm body until that warmth was spilling out through innumerable gashes. Even as his own life’s blood slipped away.

  Parry, block, slash, block.

  Yechvan continued, an unstoppable force. The Perysh were tired, clumsy, unprepared. He took advantage each and every time.

  And then there were no enemies before him, no target for his fury. The haze cleared, and Yechvan felt drained and cold and sore. He collapsed in the dirt, unconscious before his head hit the ground.