"What are you doing?!" roared the well-intentioned rider beside Wilton, drawing his longsword to confront Holar Peter Wilton. His mount suddenly shrieked in agony, crumpling beneath him and hurling him to the ground. Wilton's axe had shorn clean through the horse's left foreleg.

  An uproar exploded on the far side of the flames as men ripped steel from scabbards. "I will flay every last one of you," the black rider captain vowed, his voice like ice chipping stone. "Leave nothing but bone."

  The dwarves snatched up human bows and ducked behind the trebuchet's massive crossbeam. The black riders' horses, spooked by flames and the fresh scent of death, tossed their heads and refused to advance. "When they come, put arrows in them," Walin ordered grimly.

  "No crossbows?" Jim grumbled to Walin. "These human bows are oversized—clumsy for our arms."

  "Fendi has our only crossbow. It's one of the few weapons he took. We'll make do—we just need to buy time."

  "If buying time was truly our aim," Toyef remarked, "we'd have mounted their horses and fled as fast as we could."

  "These are warhorses, not ponies or dwarven stock. We wouldn't make it far."

  "Staying here is equally suicidal. Don't delude yourselves. There are more than one hundred fifty of them," Wilton observed, breaking his usual silence. "When they encircle us, loose as many arrows as you can. If an opportunity presents itself, take a horse. We'll draw them northwest. With fortune's favor, we might lose them in the forest."

  "Stay back, damn you!" Kelly furiously wrapped the reins around his hand, struggling to control his nervous bay stallion. "Spread out!" he commanded. "Flank them! Let's see where the little bastards think they can scurry off to."

  "Here they come," Wilton said grimly. "Jim. On me."

  The four dwarves split into two pairs, each defending one flank. "Steady your aim," Walin murmured, bumping Toyef's shoulder. "Bring down the first one clean, then we run."

  The black riders' mounts circled cautiously from both sides, most moving with reluctant, mincing steps. Bowstring pressed against his cheek, Toyef's hands wouldn't stop trembling. He spotted the first horse's head emerging and held his breath.

  A miss—but it was Walin's arrow, not Toyef's. The shaft whistled beneath the mount's jaw, startling both beast and rider into a wild, panicked leap. "Bloody hell!" Walin stamped his foot in frustration. The black rider shouted, nocking an arrow of his own: "Over here! Don't let them—" Toyef's arrow buried itself deep in the man's stomach, cutting his command short.

  On the opposite side, events unfolded in ways no one had anticipated. Before Jim could even loose his first arrow, Wilton's black axe had begun its deadly work. A whirlwind of motion, he evaded trampling hooves and striking swords, sinking his axe with brutal accuracy into the legs of horse after horse. Within mere seconds, seven mounts lay dead at his feet, along with several black riders who hadn't risen quickly enough to escape his reach. Jim managed to shoot two more.

  The remaining attackers hesitated, suddenly wary. "What are you afraid of?!" the black rider captain bellowed. "Craven dogs! You can't handle a handful of bearded runts? Use your bows, you worthless fools!"

  "Back to cover!" Wilton commanded sharply. Jim Harad slid smoothly into position behind the trebuchet frame. Wilton deflected two incoming arrows with his axe blade, though one sliced a bloody furrow across his forearm. "Gods, that's deep!" Jim exclaimed, eyeing the wound. "Ready your bow," Wilton instructed, his face rigid with controlled pain. "Drop the next rider who appears, then we make our escape."

  "Now's our chance!" Toyef Bilinski shouted as he nocked another arrow. Walin Barklo Vaslov made an instant decision, sprinting toward the black rider Toyef had just felled. Before the corpse could slide from the saddle, Walin seized its leg, hauled himself up, and shoved the dead man unceremoniously to the ground. "Move!" he shouted.

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  After dropping another black rider with a well-placed shot, Toyef ran desperately toward Walin's position. From horseback, Walin provided covering fire. Just as the red-haired dwarf's fingers closed around the saddle's edge, an arrow thudded deep into his back.

  "Toyef!" Walin twisted in the saddle, reaching down for his stricken comrade. Toyef Bilinski felt strangely numb rather than pained—perhaps the alcohol dulled the agony. Leaning heavily on Walin and the saddle, he somehow managed to drag himself onto the horse's back. "Run, you cursed beast!" Walin drove his heels savagely into the animal's flanks.

  The stallion leapt forward into a gallop, leaving behind a storm of enraged shouts and whistling arrows. "Hold fast," Walin instructed the dwarf slumped against his back. "Don't release your grip, not even in death." Tragically, in the end, he couldn't maintain his own.

  "Jim! Wilton!" Walin hauled on the reins, struggling to control his mount as he circled back. "Climb up!" They charged toward Wilton and Jim's position. "Grab the saddle strap when we pass," Wilton instructed tersely, securing his bloodied axe.

  A black rider had circled the trebuchet's far side, drawing his bow on Jim's unprotected back. Walin Barklo Vaslov released the reins, swiftly taking aim at the would-be assassin.

  The rider noticed Walin's approach and immediately shifted his aim. "Come on then, bastard," Walin breathed, the drawn string vibrating against his cheek. Just as he prepared to loose his shaft, the black rider changed targets once more—to Walin's horse.

  The arrow struck the stallion's left shoulder with brutal force. The beast screamed in agony, rearing violently. Walin loosed his arrow even as the horse threw him skyward, then crashed skull-first onto the hard earth. His part was played—Walin Barklo Vaslov never woke.

  Toyef Bilinski clung desperately to the panicked horse's back. He expected unconsciousness to claim him, but the strange numbness spreading from his wound kept him brutally, painfully alert. Though his limbs felt leaden, every sight and sound remained crystal clear.

  The wounded mount fled away from the chaos of battle. The first sound to penetrate Toyef's awareness was Jim Harad's anguished cry—he was frantically calling Walin's name. After several failed attempts, the red-haired dwarf managed to right himself in the saddle, turning to witness the battlefield behind him.

  He saw Jim running toward Walin's motionless form, shouting desperately. Suddenly, Jim's feet left the ground as if by magic—his body arced through the air before crashing down heavily atop Walin's still form. A black-fletched arrow protruded from between his shoulder blades.

  Then, Toyef beheld Holar Peter Wilton. The axe-wielder swung his massive weapon in devastating arcs, keeping the encroaching Cynthian riders at bay as they tried to reach the fallen dwarves. A rider with a sallow complexion and a wolfish grin dropped from his horse, evidently fancying his chances in single combat. Three swings of the axe later, his grin had twisted into a grimace of pure agony.

  Two opponents fell, then three, then more. The Cynthians abandoned any pretense of chivalry, surrounding the lone dwarf as if confronting the Red Dragon Anlenκordir himself. Exhaustion evident in every line of his body, Wilton allowed his axe head to drag momentarily against the earth, yet his eyes never ceased their vigilant scan of the encircling enemies. The innermost ring of black riders dismounted in unison, approaching with weapons drawn.

  At least half would soon regret their courage.

  Holar Peter Wilton stepped forward, swinging his axe in a devastating arc that caught a burly rider unprepared. The man's head lolled sideways at a sickening angle, his own flail showered crimson by the geyser from his neck. Without pausing, Wilton reversed his momentum, bringing the axe around in a backhand stroke that removed a substantial portion of another rider's calf as he desperately backpedaled. For a stunned heartbeat, none dared step within the killing arc of the axe.

  Until a spear thrust ended the slaughter. The weapon missed vital organs but pierced him from back to front, emerging below his navel. Wilton's body convulsed once before his knees struck the earth. Remarkably clear-headed despite his injury, he glanced down to confirm the absence of intestines on the spearhead, then gripped his axe haft, attempting to rise once more.

  A second spear transfixed his right hand to the earth, pinning the axe beneath it. The fat rider who'd thrust it leaned his weight onto the shaft, trying to drive Wilton's knuckles deep into the dirt. Teeth gritted against the pain, Wilton transferred his axe to his left hand and opened a crimson gash across the fat man's shoulder.

  The third spear found his thick, muscular neck. Whether from excessive haste or nervous tension, the young black rider who cast it failed to strike the windpipe cleanly. Even as he collapsed, Holar Peter Wilton managed to force his jaws apart, struggling for ragged breaths through the bubbling blood. Someone spat contemptuously upon his prone form.

  With supreme effort, his fingers clawed at the dry yellow grassland, dragging his body forward one excruciating inch at a time. Kelly, the black rider captain, retrieved the gore-encrusted black axe and brought it down with terrible force upon Wilton's still-moving hand.

  It looked, to the uninitiated eye, like nothing more than a man splitting logs.