Fendi Firshield tucked the blanket around the sleeping infant with gentle precision. "I'll take her now, sir." The mother received her child from the young dwarf's arms, her eyes softening with devotion.

  "Damn it all, leave the tendon to rot," Toyef waved the twins toward the wagon. "We move. Now."

  "I can manage it, sir," Green Varmint insisted between labored breaths, shifting his precarious position atop the trebuchet. "Once the winch comes free, the dragon tendon will release on its own." The red-haired dwarf idly kicked a loose stone with his boot.

  The stone skittered to a halt near Holar Peter Wilton. He stood still as granite, great black axe held ready across his chest, eyes fixed on the treeline. The small movement drew his gaze. Holar tracked the stone with the edge of his vision, senses suddenly alert. Then, in one swift motion, he was down, pressing himself flat against the dirt.

  "What in blazes are you doing?" Jim Harad asked as he lumbered past with a barrel of ale. "Did you manage to fall over while standing still?"

  "Ma'am," Fendi urged the mother with quiet urgency, "secure the child to your back. Now."

  The woman's face registered confusion. "The baby—bind her to your back immediately. Then mount your horse. Quickly."

  "But why--?"

  Holar kept his ear pressed to the earth. "Coming now," he growled, low and guttural. "Coming fast. A horde."

  Walin hurled the remaining supplies onto the wagon and drew his short sword in a single fluid motion. Thorin Durin, sensing the sudden change, abandoned the chestnut horse he'd been tending. "Mount up and ride," Toyef commanded. "Don't linger here becoming another liability."

  "What's happening?"

  "You, Fendi, and the woman with her child—all of you, leave together. Blue! Green!" His voice brooked no argument. "Abandon the dragon tendon. Depart with Thorin—immediately!"

  Fendi cast a beseeching look toward Walin, silently pleading for permission to remain. "Fendi. Go." Walin's voice rumbled deep as a waking dragon. "Now."

  "Ma'am, lift me onto the horse, if you please."

  "Leaving now? But... my son..."

  "He'll be coming with us," Fendi assured her with forced calm. "Please, ma'am. Move."

  "What's happening here?"

  "Get out, damn you!" Toyef Bilinski roared at Thorin Durin. "No time for your sniveling! Are you a man or aren't you?" He seized his nephew by the collar, yanking him close. "Look at me! Did you hear my order?"

  "But uncle... I can't abandon you!"

  Toyef Bilinski released his grip—slowly, reluctantly. His hands relaxed momentarily, then clenched into fists that crashed into the red-haired dwarf's face. Thorin Durin crumpled unconscious to the ground. "You two!" he barked at the twins. "Get him onto the wagon." They hesitated only a heartbeat. "And the boy—he goes too."

  The mother and Fendi Firshield shared one mount attached to the wagon; Green Varmint took the reins of another. The boy, unceremoniously bundled aboard, remained bewildered, his gaze fixed on Thorin's limp form, his thoughts still with the fireflies that had recently perished. "Jim's still missing," Walin noted with growing impatience. "Jim! Are your ears stuffed with wax?"

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  Jim Harad sat calmly atop his ale cask, idly turning a knife over and over in his hands. "Jim!" Walin roared again.

  He vaulted to the ground, plunged his short sword into the earth at his feet, then hoisted the barrel overhead. Tilting his head back, he upended it over his face, guzzling the ale that cascaded down. Walin shook his head in resignation—the die was cast. "You absolute fool!" Toyef Bilinski rushed over and snatched away the half-emptied barrel. "Save some for me, you greedy bastard!"

  Fendi Firshield twisted in his saddle for one final glance back. "Don't forget to tell the Godmans what we accomplished—and claim the reward we've earned."

  A single horse departed. A thousand approached. Already, the shadowy forms of Cynthia's black riders could be glimpsed flitting between the trees. Holar Peter Wilton hefted his axe onto his right shoulder and took his place at the front. Toyef Bilinski tossed his torch onto the half-collapsed trebuchet.

  "You'll set the entire forest ablaze," Walin cautioned.

  "Perhaps. Does it matter?"

  "Always the bloody vanguard," Big Mouth Simon grumbled under his breath. "Always the first wave of the first advance. They're not even pretending they don't want us dead."

  Carl grinned. "Still breathing, though, aren't you?"

  "Last time was a near thing." Simon swiped at the sweat beading along his jawline. "I'm simply not built for the front lines."

  "That much is abundantly evident," Tyler remarked, jabbing a finger into Simon's soft belly. "More accurately, you're not built for war at all."

  "Eoch's no different -- gut like a brewer," Simon grumbled, bold enough now to gossip about the Knight-Commander himself. "And he's back in camp right now, swilling wine and tumbling wenches, I'll wager."

  They marched along the forest's perimeter. As vanguard, Devalosfang had charged them with reconnoitering the breach and establishing a forward position. The Seventh Composite Company, most experienced and respected unit in the task force, had drawn the unenviable assignment of scouting the exposed ground between West Wymar Forest and the West Wall. Standard doctrine held that they should maintain distance from the forest to avoid ambush from its shadows. But as they approached the breach, the gap between forest and wall narrowed inexorably. "I can't shake the feeling," Simon muttered, "that someone's watching us from those trees."

  "Of course. Our own men are in there."

  "I meant Cynthia's black riders."

  "That depends entirely on which side Fortune's fickle smile favors today," Tyler Wynlers replied, hands spread in resignation. "We can only hope Third Company locates them first within the forest, allowing us to swing in and strike the Cynthians' exposed flank. We're the only reinforcement Third Company can reasonably expect."

  "The reverse holds equally true," Carl Clawyn observed. "Should circumstances invert, our position becomes precarious indeed. If Third Company strays too deep into the forest interior, timely assistance becomes virtually impossible."

  Simon shuddered involuntarily.

  The alarm came from the leftmost scout—his final utterance in this world. Arrows hissed from the forest's depths, instantly decimating the cavalry protecting their flank. Carl and his companions dropped low, raising shields over their heads. "Maintain formation!" Devalosfang Dear commanded. "Stand your ground! We advance into the trees, strike their flank, and link with Third Company to encircle them!"

  "Let's just pray we're not the ones being encircled," Simon whispered.

  Cynthia's black riders abruptly ceased their arrow volley; the forest erupted with the clash of steel and battle cries. "Forward! Aid Third Company!" Devalosfang spearheaded the charge into the trees, his longsword flashing out to impale a black rider who had stooped to retrieve arrows. The Seventh Company's cavalry wheeled sharply and plunged into the forest. Caught between converging forces, the black riders who had laid the ambush suddenly found themselves transformed from hunters to prey. Carl deflected two arrows with his round shield, leapt from his mount, and hammered his shield edge into a bowman's temple before the man could nock a third shaft. "Their numbers are overwhelming!" Tyler shouted across to him. "Even with Third Company's assistance, we face dire odds!"

  "Something seems peculiar," Carl Clawyn remarked, surveying the engagement. "None of them are mounted—I see no evidence of horses anywhere nearby. Cynthia's black riders built their reputation on lightning-swift guerrilla tactics, yet now they engage on foot. Doesn't that make them vulnerable to encirclement?"