The Irda: Children Of The Stars

CHAPTER NINE

The added number didn’t slow the group significantly. Two weeks later, at a crossroads high in the mountains to the north of Takar, Jyrbian caught up with the smaller group who’d left Takar with him. Three days later, he led them down into a small dip in the trail, where they joined with the group that had escaped with Igraine.

“I’m not sure where they all came from,” Jyrbian said in amazement.

“They’re from Khal-Theraxian. From estates that bordered mine,” Igraine supplied, seeming not at all surprised at the size of his following. “They’re from many districts. From anywhere that the Ogres wanted to embrace a new path.”

Everlyn, holding the arm of her father as if she would never again let him go, looked around, spying faces she recognized. “There’s Lord Nerrad from Bloten, and Lady Rychal. Her land borders ours on the east. And I think that’s most of the Aliehs Clan…” She pointed toward a large crowd of mostly young Ogres who looked as if they were on a picnic instead of running for their lives.

Their picnic was interrupted as an Ogre, riding at breakneck speed, tore through their blankets, his horse scattering adults and children and food. The rider sawed viciously on his reins, trying to slow his horse; then the animal reared and stopped.

One of the Aliehs started toward the rider, his scowl evidence of his intentions, but the rider’s words stopped him cold.

“King’s troops!” He waved back toward the way he’d come. “Coming this way fast!”

“Damned idiot-!” Jyrbian started toward the Ogre, his next words drowned out by the reaction of the crowd, gasps and shouted questions, as they surged forward. A child began to cry, a high, rising wail that was picked up by other children. Jyrbian reached the Ogre and dragged him off his horse.

Another Ogre, almost Jyrbian’s height, though not so muscular, reached the two of them and thrust out his hand. Jyrbian remembered seeing him among the crowd at Khalever when they had left the house. “What’s the meaning of this?” Jyrbian snarled.

“I’m Butyr, Igraine’s nephew,” the Ogre told him, trying to catch hold of the newly arrived rider. Jyrbian refused to release his grip and turned, shaking the younger Ogre as he led him, practically on tip-toes, away from the thick of the crowd.

“I sent scouts down the west trail to follow behind us,” Butyr said, joining the small circle of Igraine, Everlyn, Lyrralt, Tenaj, and two others Jyrbian didn’t know, which quickly surrounded them. Finally Butyr managed to break Jyrbian’s grasp on the rider. Jyrbian glared at him. Scouts were a good idea, one that he should have instigated.

Tenaj interrupted. “Did you also tell them to ride back into camp and start a panic?” she snapped.

Butyr’s small eyes narrowed dangerously. “Of course I didn’t!”

“You said there are troops?” Igraine broke in smoothly, turning to the scout.

The Ogre nodded. His face was pale. “Coming fast. Along our back trail, but they’re moving as if they already know we’re here.”

Butyr shot Jyrbian a look of disgust, as if the situation was all his fault. “They probably had scouts out, too. How far behind are they?” asked Butyr.

“Thirty minutes. Maybe forty. I–I rode as fast as I could.”

“How many?” demanded Tenaj.

“I couldn’t tell. Fifty, seventy, maybe more. They were coming up the ridge, where the trail is narrow. They’re riding two abreast, so I couldn’t see the end of the line.”

Butyr slapped the Ogre on the shoulder. “Well done, Eilec. You’ve given us time to set up a defense.”

Butyr shouted out the names of several of his cousins, motioning them to come forward.

Jyrbian looked around wildly, trying to see past the milling crowd, to make out the lay of the land. They were in a low place where trails from all four points of the compass descended and crossed.

Butyr squatted and quickly sketched a U-shaped defense in the dirt. “We can send the families on. And disperse everyone who is well versed with sword here and here.” He indicated points along the sides of the trail. “Our bowmen should be positioned here.”

Jyrbian peered at the nearby crowd. Bowmen? From the way Butyr said it, he half expected to see a troop of smartly dressed fighters, instead of such a weary crowd of refugees. But, yes, he did recall seeing some of Igraine’s people with bows slung across their backs. And rare was the Ogre who had not been taught as a child to use a bola for contests. It was considered a skill of the upper class, used to while away summer evenings.

So Butyr’s plan had potential, except at this altitude. The forest wasn’t dense; the thin, pale-barked trees offered little concealment. Jyrbian tried to remember the paths to the north and west. Didn’t one of them climb, then level off, then climb again before it crested? He whispered to Tenaj, and she gazed first north, then west, remembering, then pointed north.

Igraine was nodding as he peered at Butyr’s marks in the dirt. With a quick glance at Lyrralt, Jyrbian stepped forward. “The enemy will be attacking from the high ground,” he said harshly. “We’ll be slaughtered.”

Everlyn’s face paled. Jyrbian could see her fingers tighten on her father’s arm.

Butyr rose slowly and faced Jyrbian, his eyes black with fury. “I suppose you want to ride away as fast as we can,” he sneered.

Jyrbian drew himself up. He towered over the smaller Ogre. Only his brother was as tall among the Ogres who stood listening.

“I only meant that we should withdraw along the north trail, where the ground levels out.” Disdainfully, he erased Butyr’s plan and drew a new one. “Then we can deploy those with bows here, where the king’s troops will be riding uphill. And those with swords can wait behind, for any who are brave enough, or foolhardy enough, to make it through. Remember, the king’s troops are mainly an honor guard, trained for ceremonial duties, carrying flags and the like.”

“And I suppose you were trained to the sword, Lord Jyrbian,” Butyr said.

Before Jyrbian could reply, Igraine stepped in. “If s a good plan, thanks to both of you,” he said with heavy emphasis on both. “Everlyn, you get the others to help you start the children on ahead. Jyrbian, you go ahead and choose positions. Butyr will organize everyone into groups.”

Jyrbian nodded his agreement and, with a quick bow to Everlyn, strode off.

Lyrralt went with him wordlessly, mounting and following him up the north trail. Jyrbian tossed him the reins and walked to the high point on the trail, looking back down to reconnoiter.

As they stood watching the long line of families and older Ogres go past, Jyrbian asked, “Where’s Khallayne? I could use her, there on that rise.”

Lyrralt looked at him as if he were crazy, but said simply, “She’s gone ahead with the others.”

“What’s wrong with you, Brother?”

Lyrralt looked at him, then back down the hillside, where their comrades were separating into groups, some with swords already drawn. He could see the flashes of sunlight off the sharpened blades. “Does it disturb you not at all that we’re about to fight our king?”

“It’s their necks, not ours,” Jyrbian said sharply. When Lyrralt didn’t respond, he continued, even more harshly, “If you don’t want to fight, then go with the children. Stay out of the way.”

Lyrralt stiffened, meeting Jyrbian’s angry gaze with fury. “I’ll fight, Brother. I just don’t like it.”

Despite his strong words to Lyrralt, as the King’s Guard charged up the hill, Jyrbian felt the shock of staring into faces he’d seen at jousting matches, at suppers, at assemblies.

The bowmen proved a success and would have made a rout with sufficient numbers. As it was, there were enough of them to do damage, to delay the enemy, but not enough to stop the inevitable charge up the hill.

Jyrbian met the guard head-on, on foot, a mad courage coursing through him. As he cut the first Ogre from his horse, as his sword met another high in the air, he felt the song of battle in his blood, in his bones. He forgot fear. The enemy was upon him, and he attacked left and right, refusing to give ground, to even step back as he parried. Lyrralt and Tenaj and Butyr were forced to stay by his side or allow him to be overwhelmed. Buoyed by his courage, attracted by his killing frenzy, others joined them, their fierce, exuberant expressions matching his own.

A blade slipped past his defenses and touched his side, but there was no pain. A warm, slick wetness slid down his body, inside his tunic; he felt only joy as he pressed his arm against the wetness and continued to fight. His sword swung in perfect arcs, a beautiful thing to behold, almost poetry in the air.

In sheer numbers, the royal troops outmatched them, but Jyrbian had chosen his spot well. Riding uphill, the King’s Guard stood no chance. The ground had turned into bloody mud. The bodies of their fallen comrades crunched underfoot. They gave up and ran, leaving behind a battleground littered with the first casualties of Igraine’s War.

Jyrbian raised his arms in jubilation, in thanksgiving. The gods’ bloodlust, their blessings, had poured down upon him, upon his troops.

He rode at the head of the troop, still wearing the clothes in which he’d fought, into which his blood and the blood of his enemies had soaked. In the stained, torn silks, he looked like the embodiment of a dark god himself, proud and arrogant, triumphant.

Riding swiftly, they had easily caught up with those they’d sent ahead. The eyes of men and women and children, admiring, grateful, followed Jyrbian as he led his warriors into the camp. He failed to capture the admiration of only one, the one he most wanted.

Her face puckered with worry, Everlyn ran out among the mothers welcoming sons, husbands welcoming wives, children underfoot everywhere, searching frantically for her father. When she found him, standing near Jyrbian, her face broke into a sunny smile.

“Lady,” Jyrbian said, bowing. “Would that I might make you smile so.”

Flustered, she turned away to greet her father.

Jyrbian determined, at that moment, that he would be whatever he had to be, do whatever was required, to make her pixie face light up for him.

Khallayne’s face did light up, for him and for Lyrralt, who was still trailing him, a silent, bad-tempered wraith. She held out her arms to Jyrbian and hugged him close as if she would never let him go, as if they were long-parted lovers. “I was afraid… “ she whispered, her arms tightening around his shoulders. “I thought I might never see you again.”

For a moment, his roguishness rekindled and he pulled her close, swung her easily off her feet even though she was as tall as he. “Did you miss me, then?” he whispered back, turning his head so his breath tickled her neck.

“Terribly,” Khallayne laughed, but when she pulled back and turned to Lyrralt, her expression turned serious. “What is it?” she whispered. “Are you injured?”

He looked so tired. She reached for his hands. They were as cold as ice.

Jyrbian snorted and turned on his heel, leaving the two of them staring at each other, hands clasped as if they had shut out the world. He went in search of another healer for the wound in his side. He didn’t trust his own brother to heal it properly.

Khallayne spared barely a glance at his retreat. The pain she saw in Lyrralt was greater.”Lyrralt?”

His grip on her fingers tightened. “Khallayne, do you know what I’ve seen?” he whispered, his voice taut. “The end… Doom.”

She shook her head.

He mumbled barely intelligible words about the fight, about seeing the bodies of Ogres he knew, about blood and bone fragments and swords flashing in the sunlight. Something about the future and runes. Again the word “doom.” His fingers twisted in hers.

With a soft cry, she wrenched free.

“Khallayne?” Lyrralt reached to touch her, this time his fingers gentle. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you. It’s just… I just…”

“What?”

“Nothing.” He turned away, his eyes searching for and finding Igraine. He had to stop the madness soon.

He followed the crowd, which ebbed and flowed around Jyrbian. His brother, now wearing a clean tunic and showing no symptoms of his wound, was arguing to split the group of Igraine’s followers, send the families with children on ahead. “We’ll keep the warriors behind to guard the rear. I know Takar will not give up so easily.”

Lyrralt watched him, suddenly reminded of Jyrbian wearing a soldier’s dress uniform, proclaiming that someday there would again be a need for fighters.

Butyr argued against splitting the group. “We’ve defeated the best the court could send against us. We have nothing to fear at the moment.”

They mounted at Igraine’s urging, moving on without solving the disagreement. For the next week, while passing through the southernmost part of the Khalkist Mountains north of Takar, Jyrbian and Butyr continued to argue. Split up or separate. Head north or west. Attempt to settle in Thorad, or build a new home of their own.

Igraine, who could have settled all arguments, listened and made no judgment.

They began to climb into the main body of the mountains. The trails, which had been wide and well traveled, became narrow, rutted for miles on end, then overgrown with roots. The dense undergrowth disappeared, the oaks became conifers, and the land rocky. The nights grew cold. Game, which had been plentiful and had made their nighttime fires smell of rich stew, became sparse.

There was no more arguing. They turned west, working their way toward more hospitable terrain.

Khallayne rode with Lyrralt or Jyrbian as much as she could. Neither were ideal traveling companions. Jyrbian spent his evenings in debate with Butyr or silently sitting at Igraine’s campfire, as near Everlyn as he could get.

Lyrralt was withdrawn, uncommunicative, spending his evenings in communion with his god. “I feel as if we’re floundering,”‘ he said. “Adrift.”

“Childish prattle,” Jyrbian responded. But Khallayne knew it was more than that. Just as she knew her own power, she sensed Lyrralt’s. “Doom,” she pressed him, “Why do you say that?”

“Because Hiddukel has told it to me,” was all he would say.

Khallayne opened her mouth to ask another question when the horse in front of her reared. Its rider fell backward, an arrow protruding from her chest!

A child screamed. Pandemonium erupted around them. Arrows flew, as thick as bees. Horses stampeded.

Tenaj, who had fallen when the horse ahead of them reared, cried out as the panicked horses almost crushed her.

Jyrbian materialized and, catching a fistful of her tunic, dragged her off the path, away from the skittish horses. An arrow whizzed overhead, and he let her drop to the ground.

“Get down!” he shouted, kicking his horse in the flank. “Everybody, keep low!”

Khallayne yanked her horse in a circle, trying to see who was attacking, and from where. The arrows seemed to be coming from all directions.

The “who” was answered immediately. The man behind her slumped. The Ogre arrow in his forehead sported the brilliant colors of Clan Redienhs.

She ducked lower, clutching her horse’s neck. The animal’s muscles were trembling under its silky coat. She wanted to scramble into the thick undergrowth that lined the trail, but dared not. Dared not even dismount.

Khallayne could hear Jyrbian’s voice, farther away now, shouting orders. She moved toward the sound. To her right she could hear the sing of steel against steel, the shouts of battle, and she knew her people had left the trail, had plunged into the forest to meet their attackers.

Ahead of her on the trail, Jyrbian was in the thickest of the fighting, a dark god of war, terrible and beautiful. With arrows flying through the air around him, he stood in his stirrups. He managed to keep his horse under control with one hand while he signaled with the other, directing archers to cover on the left side of the path, those with swords to dismount and flank the enemy on the right.

Seeing him so much in control, so dauntless, Khallayne lost her fear. She rode into the thick of the fighting. The scent of blood rushed at her, filling her with pure euphoria. The thrill of being able to use magic without restraint wiped out all the sights and sounds.

The power leapt up in her, so voraciously that she didn’t even need to use her hands to direct it. Her mind sent it outward, unfocused.

The enemy guardsman who had been nearest Jyrbian had been lifting his bow. He dropped where he stood, his heart burst in his chest. A trickle of blood escaping the corner of his mouth was the only tangible sign of injury.

She felt his death, the sudden explosion of tiny veins, of life-sustaining arteries, as a sickening swelling in the power. She doubled over as the Ogre’s death struck her a blow like a fist to the chest. But there was no time to stop and think. She turned, sent the magic outward again, and felt the energy billow as two more fell. And two more.

“Khallayne! Khallayne! There!”

She drew in the power enough to clear her vision. Jyrbian was still standing in his stirrups, bloodied sword held at the ready. Lyrralt was at his side. Jyrbian pointed to her right, into the forest. “There!”

He wheeled his horse around and almost rode down one of his own people to get to her side. “There!” He pointed again. “The archers. Can you get to the archers?”

She stared, but could see only splashes of color, here, there, among the thicket of trees and vine growth. Only the arrows continuing to rain from that direction told her for certain that the enemy was there.

With Lyrralt on one side and Jyrbian on the other, she closed her eyes, envisioned the forest, the undergrowth, the Ogres crouched beneath for cover, rising up to fire an arrow, then dropping back down again.

The power was awakening within her, demanding, thrashing, screaming to be released. She let loose the magic. The forest sprang to life. In the direction Jyrbian had indicated, every vine, blade of grass, every leaf shifted, stretched, moved, became animated.

A male Ogre on Jyrbian’s right screamed. Farther down the line of fighting, again and again, the cry was echoed.

For a moment, Jyrbian froze. Every muscle in his body turned to ice. “Khallayne!” His voice cracked, then picked up strength as he saw a vine stir overhead. “Khallayne, control it!”

He didn’t know if she heard or not, but the forest turned away from Igraine’s people, toward the attackers.

He heard the enemy shout, first surprise, then warning, screams of pain, cries of questioning, terror.

Khallayne sat rigid in her saddle, reins limp in her hands, eyes glazed. Jyrbian looked about. Tenaj was nearby, remounted. “Guard her,” he ordered, indicating Khallayne.

He didn’t know if it was safe, but he urged his horse forward, off the path, into the forest. Everything was moving, leaves, vines, dead branches, reaching and twisting and killing.

The enemy was caught in its deadly embrace. Vines as thick as his arm wrapped around archers, twining about them. Their bodies were being crushed to pulp.

Farther into the forest lay more horrors, more crushed bodies, bodies impaled on thick branches of living trees. A standard bearer had dropped his staff; the body beside it was covered with crawling, wriggling leaves.

A vine as thin and dangerous as razorwire dropped down from a branch and struck out at Jyrbian like a snake. Backing away, he slashed at it with his sword. Green ichor spurted from the severed limb. Something hissed. Jyrbian wheeled his horse and kicked it hard.

Bakrell turned from the view of the castle courtyard and the skyline of Takar at midmorning. “Kaede, you can’t do this!”

As his sister took clothing from her wardrobe and ferried it to the bed, Bakrell followed her, back and forth.

Traveling packs were laid, already partially filled. Kaede laid another stack of clothing beside what was already there, then gathered another armload from atop a nearby chest before answering. “Why not?”

“Because… Because it’s crazy. It dangerous, that’s why!”

She snorted at him with amusement. “You’ve grown soft, Bakrell, too accustomed to silks and slaves.” She rubbed the brocade lapel of his embroidered vest.

He watched, silent for a moment, as she continued to pull out all she had packed in order to sort through it again. She had, arrayed on the bed, an incredible collection of luxurious as well as sensible belongings, including a bejeweled bracelet worth as much as everything else combined.

“Why would you need this?” He picked up a silky tunic, so soft and delicate it might have been spun by spiders.

Kaede snatched it back, arched an eyebrow. “You never know what you might need. I’m not giving up civilization completely.”

“You’re really looking forward to this adventure, aren’t you? You’re not going to mind at all, giving up these creature comforts.” He waved his hands to indicate the sumptuous room.

“No, I don’t mind.” She took a bracelet from him and, eyeing him mischievously, slid it onto her wrist, hiding it inside the cuff of the expensive leather riding jacket.

He considered the packs on the bed only a moment longer, then decided. “All right, I’ll go with you.”

‘What?”

“You can tarry a little longer while I pack. I don’t see why we have to sneak away in the middle of the night anyway,” he said over his shoulder as he started for the door.

“Perhaps you’d like to leave the castle after a hearty breakfast tomorrow morning, announcing to all within earshot that you’re off to join the followers of the heretic Igraine?” she called after him.

He paused at the door, grinned at her, excitement beginning to shine in his eyes. “Don’t forget to pack food.”

Bedraggled, bloody, beaten, the remnants of the guard of Clan Redienhs rode into the rocky gorge. Afternoon sun beat down on them, reflected warmth back from the red, rocky walls on both sides of the wide trail. In unspoken agreement, they slowed their pace once the group was within the gorge, out of the forest.

Riding near the front of the group, Daria glanced back, making sure her brother was also clear of the trees. She shivered, remembering tree limbs crackling with energetic movement, vines writhing across the ground, reaching for her. In the depths of her worst nightmares, she had never dreamt of such horror!

Raell had stayed near her, once the attack began, even though he was a swordsman and she an archer. He considered himself protecting his younger sister. It had almost cost him his life. When the forest had come alive… Despite the warmth of the sun, she pulled her cloak tighter about her shoulders. She clutched the silver clasp, etched with the condor symbol of Sargonnas, at her throat. They were both lucky to be alive.

She was so engrossed, she noticed the agitation in the ranks only when Raell galloped up beside her. “What’s going on?” she asked, suddenly noticing the movement ahead.

“Look!” He pointed toward the end of the gorge, at the brightly colored troops coming to meet them, flags with the colors of Clan Signet flying snappily above, one flag in particular, with the logo of the clan leader on it. “Reinforcements!”

Reinforcements. That meant turning back, perhaps another battle. The idea of more fighting didn’t bother her. The thought of riding back into the forest did.

The shadow detached itself from high up in the tree and scuttled quickly to the ground, dropping sometimes as much as two feet from branch to branch. The humans on the floor of the hillside gasped each time the girl let go of a handhold, each time she caught. Eadamm grinned as she paused on the last branch, dangling precariously several feet from the ground.

“Stop showing off,” he called with pretend gruff-ness. “Tell me what you see.”

She dropped the last ten feet and landed with a bone-jarring thud. “Two or three new companies of Ogres, wearing yellow, with a shiny star here,” she sketched a square above her left breast. “What was left of the other group has joined them.”

“Clan Signet,” Eadamm interjected. “What are they doing?”

She smiled. “Camping.”

Eadamm’s lips stretched back in a feral grimace. His teeth were white against his dark skin. “We’ll attack at dusk.”

“I don’t see why we should attack at all,” Jeb, one of Eadamm’s generals, protested. “We’re free. We’re less than three days’ ride from the plains. From home!”

Eadamm resettled a stolen Ogre sword more firmly around his hips. Though some of the others wore stolen Ogre finery, he’d refused to wear even a cloak from his former masters. He wore a blanket, with armholes slashed in it, over his torn and stained slave garments. “And how long do you think you’ll be free if we do nothing to stop the Ogres. Perhaps you’d live out your life a free man. But what of our people? If we don’t stop the Ogres, they’ll just kidnap new slaves and start over.”

Jeb peered at him. “You just want to protect your old master!”

Eadamm started to retort, but instead shrugged. “Again, if we don’t, how will we ever be secure in our homes? Igraine’s followers must persevere. For our safety.”

Jeb looked at the plans Eadamm had been sketching in the hard ground. “I don’t agree”

“You don’t have to stay with us if you don’t want to,” Eadamm said gently.

Jeb straightened, his hand going to the dagger tucked into his belt before he realized Eadamm meant no offense. For a long moment, he regarded his friend. “I have nowhere to go. But do we have to attack in the dark?”

“It won’t be any darker than it was in the mines. Until we’re ready for light,” he added cryptically.

Eadamm was right. Perhaps to the Ogres, who had not toiled in darkness for years, it was night. To him, even in the wee hours before dawn, that darkest time before sunrise, the craggy canyon in which the Ogre troops had chosen to sleep was plainly visible. The crags and sheer faces of the canyon walls were shadowed and spooky, but the tents of the Ogre troops were outlined sharply.

The blades of Ogre swords flashed in the moonlight as the humans swept down on the camp, pouring into it from both ends, cutting off any chance of retreat. Eadamm’s people carried stolen weapons and homemade ones-lovely swords of elven design taken from some rich estate, pikes hand carved from elm wood and capped with hand-hammered metal, axes stolen right out of firewood, hoes and rakes and scythes still smelling of grain fields.

Eadamm led the first charge, riding at the front of his people. The sounds were overpowering; screams of rage and vengeance about to be realized echoed off the canyon walls. It surged in his blood, fueling his battle lust. He met his first opponent, a wild-eyed sentry, and cut him down with one quick slash.

The Ogre response to the attack was sluggish but fierce. Attacked from two sides, they poured out of the tents, leapt from their blankets to meet Eadamm’s troops.

Shrieks and death cries filled the air. Sword rang out against sword, pike against pike. Over the din of weapons striking each other, Eadamm could hear an Ogre commander trying to rally his archers. Eadamm wheeled and charged in the direction of the voice. The Ogre had the presence of mind to send an arrow whizzing past Eadamm’s ear before he was cut down.

The humans torched the Ogre tents, sending up an eerie light, which cast their shadows, several times enlarged, dancing on the canyon walls.

The Ogres, caught in disarray, rallied quickly, forming pockets of resistance against which the humans battered. They grabbed up shields and pikes and fought back-to-back, protecting the archers, who rained arrows down on the humans. The arrows flew up and out of the circles of Ogres, appearing as if by magic.

Again and again, Eadamm’s people rushed the lines, skewered an Ogre here, one there. But again and again, the humans were repelled.

Stragglers, caught too far away to join in the protective circles, fought hand to hand, silhouetted against the flames. Humans picked up bows and quivers of arrows and picked off those Ogres who thought they could climb up the canyon walls to safety.

For sheer ferocity, the humans equaled the larger, better-equipped Ogres. In sheer force, they were no match. For each human killed, Eadamm felt the decimation to his numbers. For each Ogre who fell, another stepped forward to take his place.

He stood in his stirrups and yelled for one of the soldiers on foot to bring him bow and arrow. He lit the feathers from the flames of a burning tent, nocked the arrow quickly, and let it fly. The burning signal sailed in a high arc over the battle. Even before the wildly dancing flames had disappeared from overhead, a bolt of blue sizzled upward into the sky, like lightning in reverse.

Though he was expecting it, the brightness of it blinded Eadamm and panicked his stallion. The big animal reared, pawing in midair. Eadamm felt the momentum of the horse’s action toss him backward. He went sailing through the air and landed with a bone-jarring whump!

As he gasped for breath, his vision deserted him. Stars danced before his eyes, but whether from the lightning or the fall, he didn’t know. Then he could see, figures blurry and indistinct, both atop horses. As he strained to see, the larger figure leapt from his saddle, carrying the smaller one to the ground.

His vision cleared to reveal Jeb and a large Ogre female, locked in a death grip. He tried to stand, to go to Jeb’s aid, but his balance was off. He stumbled, went to his knees. Dimly, he was aware when the larger figure lifted a gleaming silver dagger. She lifted it high in the air, then brought it down again and again. The man who had been his second-in-command since the escape from Khalever slumped.

A woman who had escaped from Bloten rushed to Eadamm’s side. As she helped him to sit, the lightning sizzled again, lighting the night as brightly as the sun lit the day. The woman, hearing the warning whine of the spell building, covered her eyes.

This time, Eadamm was sure it was the magical lightning of their one human wizard that left spots of color dancing behind his eyelids. He could see barely two feet. Despite the disorientation, he scrambled to his feet and remounted the skittish horse.

All about him, the Ogres were in disarray, blinded and frightened by the magical flash of light. The lines of carefully tied horses had broken loose and were careening through the camp.

Eadamm veered like a madman through a large group of Ogres, cutting a bloody swath through the group. Hacking with his stolen sword, he stabbed and slashed his way through and out of the circle on the other side. Inspired by his bravery, a group of humans plowed through behind him, cutting down their enemy left and right.

For several minutes after the magical lightning, the battle raged around him. Surging through the flames and smoke, the humans pressed their advantage. The Ogres scrambled to regain their defense, but to no avail.

The humans surrounded the few last groups of Ogres and hacked and slashed their way to victory. Until, at last, the mere sight of so many humans, bloodied, was enough to make the few remaining Ogres break formation and run.

The humans gave chase, but Eadamm called them back. “Leave some to carry the tale,” he shouted.

Two of Krynn’s moons, near to setting, hung low in the sky. It seemed only minutes ago that the battle had begun, rather than more than an hour.

Jeb was dead, pierced through so many times that it seemed the Ogre had been trying to obliterate him rather than just kill. Eadamm knelt at his friend’s side and covered his broken body with the fine woolen cloak that had been torn half off him. It was muddied, ripped, stained with the blood of Ogres and Jeb himself.

“We won,” Eadamm told his friend. Only then did he notice how quiet the canyon had become.