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field. If all went well, they could at least slow the enemy down by clogging the wide canyon with the dead.
    Two hundred cavalry waited with Thomas behind a long row of boulders. They kept their horses seated on the ground with gentle persuasion.
    They’d done this once before. It was a wonder that the Horde was subjecting itself to—
    â€œSir!” A runner slid in from behind him, panting. “We have a report from the Southern Forest.” Mikil shifted next to him.
    â€œGo on. Quietly please.”
    â€œThe Horde is attacking.”
    Thomas pulled the scope from his eye, then peered through it again. He lifted his left hand, ready to signal his men’s charge. The runner’s report meant what?
    That the Horde now had a new strategy.
    That the situation had just gone from terrible to impossible.
    That the end was near.
    â€œGive me the rest. Quickly.”
    â€œIt’s said to be the work of Martyn.”
    Again he pulled the glass from his eye. Returned it. Then this army wasn’t being led by their new general, as he’d suspected. They’d been tracking the one called Martyn for a year now. He was a younger man; they’d forced that much out of a prisoner once. He was also a good tactician; they knew that much from the shifting engagements. And they suspected that he was a druid as well as a general. The Desert Dwellers had no declared religion, but they paid homage to the Shataiki in ways that were slowly but surely formalizing their worship of the serpentine bat on their crest. Teeleh. Some said that Martyn practiced the black arts; others said he was guided by Teeleh himself. Either way, his army seemed to be advancing in skill quickly.
    If the Scab called Martyn led his army against the Southern Forest, could this army be a diversion? Or was the attack on the Southern Forest the diversion?
    â€œOn my signal, Mikil.”
    â€œReady,” she replied. She slipped into the saddle of her seated horse.
    â€œHow many?” Thomas asked the runner.
    â€œI don’t know. We have fewer than a thousand, but they are in retreat.”
    â€œWho’s in charge?”
    â€œJamous.”
    He jerked the lens from his face and looked at the man. “Jamous? Jamous is in retreat?”
    â€œAccording to the report, yes.”
    If such a headstrong fighter as Jamous had fallen back, then the engaging force was stronger than any he’d fought before.
    â€œThere is also the warrior named Justin there.”
    â€œSir?” It was Mikil.
    He turned back, saw movement cresting the swell a hundred yards ahead, and took a deep breath. He lifted his hand and held it steady, waiting. Closer. The stench from their flaking skin reached his nostrils. Then their crest, the bronzed serpentine bat.
    The Horde army rose into view, five hundred abreast at least, mounted on horses as pale as the desert sands. The warriors rode hooded and cloaked, grasping tall sickles that rose nearly as high as their serpent.
    Thomas slowed his breathing. His only task was to turn this army back. Diversion or not, if he failed here, it made no difference what happened at the Southern Forest.
    Thomas could hear Mikil breathing steadily through her nose. I will beg Elyon for your safety today, Mikil. I will beg Elyon for the safety of us all. If any should die, let it be that traitor, Justin.
    â€œNow!” He dropped his hand.
    His warriors were moving already. From the left, a long row of foot soldiers, silent and low, crept like spiders over the sand.
    Two hundred horses bearing riders rolled to their feet. Thomas whirled to the runner. “Word to William and Ciphus! Send a thousand warriors to the Southern Forest. If we are overtaken here, we will meet in the third forest to the north. Go!”
    His main force was already ten yards ahead of him, flying for the Horde, and Thomas wouldn’t allow them to reach the battle first. Never. He swung into his saddle and kicked the stallion into