The Bloodstained Defile

by Henry Brown

"Archers to the front!"

The command was relayed back through the packed, disorganized column by a thousand succeeding voices, echoing off the sheer cliff wall on the left flank and into the deep canyon on the right.

Turgar, known as "Lightning Thrower" by barbarians outside Gabom, spurred his climbing pony through the jumbled ranks of shock infantry he'd gotten mixed in with. The spearmen, already irritated by the unceasing rain and the stagnated march of their once-perfect formation, urged him forward with much cursing.

Dijol's armada employed warriors from many nations, but few from Gabom. Turgar's small stature, crimson skin, and sweat-stained leather armor made him stand out from other warriors, but it was his eyes that caused men to think him feral. His irises were yellow, and his pupils thin vertical slits.

His pony snorted and shivered, not accustomed to such heavy rain. Ahead, Turgar saw a Dijolian officer standing on a boulder, gesturing and shouting into the mob of soldiers. When he spotted Turgar, he beckoned him to come closer.

"They need you ahead," the officer said, once in earshot. His gaze lingered on the short, layered, lacquered bow in the scabbard hanging from Turgar's saddle. Gabomite bows were revered the world over, as were the diminutive horse-archers who used them to devastating effect both in attack and retreat. "Another 200 paces and a narrow trail winds up the cliff. Take it, and when you reach its end, report to the Captain of Archers."

Turgar bowed from the waist, as if lining up to impale the officer with his spiked helmet. Grinning to himself, he straightened in the saddle and spurred on. The Dijolians played their games, and he played right back. They despised him, but needed his arrows. He would love to ram his spike into a Dijolian heart, but he needed their money.

He found the trail, and his sure-footed pony, glad to finally be free from the press of men, climbed methodically up the wet rock as if half-goat. As he ascended, Turgar studied the army below him. With a sheer cliff rising up on one side and a sheer cliff dropping down on the other, they could only move forward or back. But moving to the rear was not an option, as the teeming multitudes of the army kept amassing against the backs of the shock infantry. Why they were not moving forward was a subject of much speculation among the troops. The invasion of Fawlik was supposed to be little more than a parade-at-arms; Dijol's victory a foregone conclusion. So what could be stopping the mighty Imperial Armada?

After some time, the trail veered in between twin projections of stone. It wound through a cluster of such natural structures, turned back toward the cliff face, then leveled off, feeding into a large shelf overlooking the pass and the immense canyon beyond.

Other archers stood near the edge of the shelf, looking down, their backs to him. Turgar stepped down from the stirrups and stretched. Seeing there was no grass anywhere in sight, he dug some grain out of a saddlebag and spilt it on the ground where his pony could feed. He approached the Captain--a tall man with epaulettes and cape.

"I was ordered here," Turgar said.

The Captain turned, eyes sweeping over Turgar's head at first, then his gaze dropped. "Oh, a Gabomite. Well, I don't think even you can do much good in this downpour."

"What stopped the advance?" Turgar asked.

The Captain raised his index finger with a wait-and-see expression and had some of the other archers make room for the bowlegged mercenary.

When he reached the edge, Turgar could see the front of the column far below. Archers were there as well, but so crowded by spearmen on every side that they could not draw their bows. The press of men from behind forced the front ranks into a funnel formed by a narrowing of the cliff road, and augmented by heaps of dead soldiers piled chest-high. Beyond the opening in the funnel stood the cause of the macabre mounds: a score of gigantic warriors.

Well, there had been a score, but eight of their own number had fallen. Judging by the piles of their enemies, their deaths were avenged tenfold.

The warriors bore round shields, swords as long as a normal man's height, enormous double-bladed axes, or spears the size of weaver's rods. The parts of their bodies not protected by scale-armor, Turgar observed, were covered with white fur. The fur thinned out around their faces, the skin of which had a greenish tint. Each of them was half again as large as a big man. Most men were larger than Turgar, but these warriors were titanic.

Unable to access the flanks of the enemy contingent, much less get around to their rear, the front rank of Dijol's invasion column were forced to meet them head-on, with nearly even odds. But even odds were a death sentence against these creatures. Turgar saw a spearman split from collar to hip with a careless drop of an axe. Next to him, a hammer blow smashed a bronze helmet and the skull inside it. One Dijolian thrust his spear at a giant's unprotected knee. A massive foot pushed the tip down, trapping it against the ground. Simultaneously, a huge hand seized the spear shaft farther up and pulled. Like a lever, the spear swung its wielder up and forward, to be skewered on a gigantic sword. Turgar saw these three soldiers die in a period of two seconds, then their bodies added to the size of the death piles.

Twelve warriors were wreaking havoc on an army of thousands, and stalling the conquest of Fawlik.

"Who are these giants?" Turgar asked.

"They are from the Bruk Islands," the Captain said.

"Do my eyes see truly--that a tall man's head is not even as high as their armpits?"

"Verily. And your head would scarcely reach the stomach of those furry, green-skinned ogres," quipped an archer, coaxing chuckles from his companions.

Turgar's bowstring was still protected from the wet, inside his small wine bladder. But another archer nocked an arrow, aimed at one of the giant warriors below, and let fly. Such shots were ill-advised in downpours like this. The rain distorted the vanes and caused erratic trajectories, as it did with this arrow, which flew so wide of its mark as to cause scornful laughter from its intended target. Turgar glanced along the ledge and noticed that most quivers were nearly empty.

"With your leave," Turgar told the Captain, "I'd like to find shelter for my horse."

The Captain grunted. "You're certainly welcome to look. Just don't wander afar. Should the weather break, I'll need your bow."

Of all the archers recruited by Dijol's army, only those from Gabom were allowed mounts on every campaign. Their legendary marksmanship was worth the price. Gabomite boys, by their twelfth summer, could shoot birds on the wing from the saddle of a pony at full gallop. Many, including Turgar, could perform this feat right or left-handed. But alas, rain was just as much a bane to him as to any bowman.

Turgar stepped into the stirrups and rode back along the trail he'd taken to reach the outcropping. Just after the first curve in the path, he found the spot he remembered from his ride up--a meeting of two boulders. Beyond them was not exactly a trail, but a potential path up the rough mound of rocks leading perhaps to a crevice or something where his pony and equipment would be at least partly shielded from the rain. Most horses could never make such a climb. But then Mountain Wind was not just any horse.

A nudge of heels to ribs and the pony hurtled the junction of the boulders, then picked its way up the formidable rock with minimal guidance from his rider. They encountered a few more obstacles which had Mountain Wind blowing by the time they crested a rocky peak to find a hidden copse in a tiny saddle between three hilltops. The saddle was a natural bowl that collected enough dirt for not only trees to grow, but shrubs and grass, as well.

Turgar dismounted under the largest tree in the thicket, which deflected most of the rain with layers of leafy boughs. Mountain Wind snorted, shivered, then tested a mouthful of grass. Turgar unsaddled him and wiped him dry as best he could.

He noticed the sounds of shouting and steel on steel were even louder now than when he'd stood with the other archers. He followed the noise out of the grove and up one of the surrounding peaks. He spied over the rim and saw the battle of the funnel still raging below, spearmen falling just as fast as they could press in. Turgar was closer now, though just as high above the scene as before. He considered retrieving his bow and quiver to try a few shots. The rain would soon leech the resin out of his string, and would interfere with true flight, but his arrows would hit something--even if not the precise marks he aimed at. Instead he watched the Bruk Islanders fight.

Their individual tactics were a devastating fusion of skill and savagery. Though they didn't move with the agility of many smaller warriors, they were far from slow or clumsy. Turgar had studied melee combat at every opportunity since boyhood, fascinated at why men would risk life and limb in such crude butchery instead of just letting arrows settle the matter from a distance where one still had a sporting chance to survive. These giants of Bruk seemed to fight purely on instinct, rather than training habits from system-based disciplines--which was the method used by warriors of Gabom who specialized in melee.

The piles of bodies grew until they merged, blocking the spearmen's access to the giants. Officers commanded their men to pull the bodies down and push them into them into the canyon. So obliged, a few did try. Huge Bruk spears flicked through the gaps, or down over the piles, and those soldier's corpses soon added to the mass of death. The front spearmen panicked, some dropping weapons, some screaming in despair, but all turning to flee. Their terror was contagious, and their numbers grew by the scores, then the hundreds. Many were knocked over the edge into the canyon in the stampede.

Soldiers farther back had not yet seen the horror the front ranks had, and attempted to physically coerce bravery out of their comrades. Battle broke out among the army of Dijol. Turgar watched in amused detachment as bedlam consumed the column below, thankful he was not still down there. It being impossible to tell who was on what side, every man's spear was against his neighbor, and more fell over the cliff in the swarming, crashing maelstrom.

Turgar turned his attention back to the Bruk warriors. Tall enough to see the chaos over the corpse-barrier, they cheered and laughed at the Dijolian mob.

Did they not realize this was only a temporary reprieve? Eventually the weather would clear and they would fall under a hail of arrows. Or force of numbers would overwhelm them when the invaders regrouped. Still, he had to admire their mettle. What could Fawlik have possibly given these men as payment for this suicide mission?

Turgar went back to the archers' ledge periodically to report to the Captain, and to take water and rations. He slept the afternoon away, relatively dry under the tree with Mountain Wind, but awoke after nightfall.

His pupils widened in the dark, bringing into sharp definition all the shapes around him, if not the colors.

He left his secret shelter to climb the peak and view the funnel again.

The battle amongst the spearmen had spent itself but the army, soaked, exhausted and demoralized, had fallen back beyond the mouth of the pass, leaving only a skeleton force to keep watch on the Bruk Islanders. The giants mostly dozed in full armor under sealskin capes, standing watch in shifts.

Turgar returned to his shelter and indulged in some wine before drifting off to sleep, wondering whether the next day would bring victory, or just more rain.

***

Javo opened his tent flap at dawn and surveyed the landscape. Rain had slowed to a drizzle.

The army had only two choices as he saw it: Retreat, regroup, and choose another invasion route; or use this slackening in the weather to press the attack at any cost, before sickness began spreading in the waterlogged ranks.

But Javo had no say in the matter. He marched with the Army of Dijol for only one contingency, and that one might never be implemented on this campaign.

When General Tral's runner visited his tent, he knew implementation was forthcoming.

Leaving his armor in the care of the Dijolian squire assigned him, Javo dressed in a hide tunic and trousers and wrapped himself in a cape to fend off the drizzle. Javo stood a head taller than most men. His jet-black shock of hair, bronze complexion and hawk-like features were typical of Cemarians, though mercenary employment was not.

That Javo enjoyed full membership in an order as prestigious and renowned as the Black Lancers would be of little moment in Cemar, where caste and hierarchy and regimentation were traditionally scorned.

The runner escorted him to General Tral's tent, where he was ushered in immediately. Most generals, Tral included, customarily kept men waiting outside, even during inclement weather, as a reminder of who outranked whom. But no general tried this with a Black Lancer.

The command tent was crowded inside. Tral's legion commanders sat facing him, on chairs lower than his. But a robed figure stood behind Tral, still as a pillar, features hidden in the shadow of the hood.

A parchment map lay spread on the table at the center of the tent. At either side of Tral's chair were thick wooden poles thrust in the ground. From one pole hung the banner of Dijol, from the other, the army guidon with Tral's family crest.

The map told the story of Dijol's war with Fawlik: Much larger and boasting a far more powerful armada, Dijol nevertheless faced formidable terrain in the conquest of her neighbor. The most appealing invasion route was also the most obvious--along the Tyrn Valley where they would be attacking downhill. But a Dijolian army had met catastrophe there a generation ago when the Fawlikites dammed the river, flooding the valley and masking the patchwork of pitfalls they'd dug. Dijol's heavy cavalry bogged down in the muddy quagmire, while Fawlik's archers emerged from the forest to pour arrows in from the flanks. Artillery batteries brought up catapults to hammer at the following infantry. When the invaders finally made it past the dam, disorganized and weakened, fresh Fawlikite infantry and cavalry swooped upon them and, though still outnumbered, fought them to a standstill. It was the costliest setback in Dijol's history.

This time, Dijol invaded along the same valley, while General Tral simultaneously attempted to sneak his larger force through this narrow mountain pass to take Fawlik's king by surprise and force a swift, almost bloodless surrender. Unable to spare even a phalanx from their main force in the Tyrn Valley, Fawlik evidently hired a small band of Bruk Islanders for a delaying action in case someone did send a force through the pass.

"Sir Javo," greeted Tral, "welcome."

Tral didn't stand, but Javo saluted him perfunctorily anyway. Tral was a thick, bald man of the age to have many grandchildren. His eyes were cold gray orbs, always measuring, counting or otherwise calculating. "You know why you were summoned." This was not a question but a simple statement, assuming shared knowledge.

"The Brukites have agreed to single combat?" Javo asked.

The hooded figure behind Tral shifted slightly, though its exact posture was still difficult to discern through the loose folds of the burgundy robe.

"Not yet," Tral said, smiling with his mouth but not his eyes. "We need you to negotiate with them."

Javo inclined his head, eyebrows arching.

"You heard what happened yesterday," Tral said. "My commanders estimate over 2,000 dead and wounded. We are a day behind schedule, have lost the element of surprise, and the rain will likely grow heavy again by mid morning."

Javo had noticed the dark clouds upwind, too. Even if the numbers were exaggerated by pessimism...not a characteristic Dijolian trait...how could a score of men, even men of Bruk, have slain 2,000? True, some had dropped boulders down upon the army before retreating to their present blocking position, but that was still an incredible feat of arms.

"We need a truce with these Brukites," Tral said.

"I'm a knight," Javo said. "A Lancer. Skilled in battle, not diplomacy."

The robed figure spoke in a soft, effeminate voice, gesturing with smooth, circular motions of its delicate hands. "The Bruk Islanders are warriors, young knight. They are a nation of sailors, explorers, and adventurers. They trust no diplomats, envoys or anyone of a profession they consider less...robust."

"This camp is full of soldiers," Javo said. "This tent is full of high-ranking ones, who, no doubt, are as deft with tongues as with swords."

Tral's officers muttered and grunted. Nothing intelligible.

"None of them bear the mark of the Black Lancers."

On the back of Javo's neck was the famous brand, burned into his neck on the day he was knighted. Few were the occasions he needed to show it, but there were places all over the world it served as a passport, a badge of immunity, or a license for free food, drink, women, lodging or medical treatment. Once accepted into the Order of the Black Lancers, a knight was a Lancer for life, even after he aged beyond the ability to ride and fight with the elite. The reputation of the Lancers was better than a merchant's gold to most folk. The Order transcended nationality, but only accepted squires with honor above reproach, and only the best of those squires survived the Crucible and were awarded the black lance and armor. Their oath to honor is what dissuaded many from committing to the Order. It bound them to fair and forthright behavior, no matter the circumstance, even during war.

"Who are you?" Javo asked.

"I am the counsel of wisdom," replied the robed one.

Javo resisted the urge to sidestep General Tral and tug the person's hood back, if for no other reason than to determine if it was man or woman.

"Albumor is my advisor," Tral said, patiently.

"You are Cemarian," Albumor said. "Does Cemar and its surrounding farmlands not boast more traders, merchants and great thinkers than any other nation? Surely negotiation is not alien to you."

Javo sighed. He had accepted this contract, and he supposed diplomatic assignments did not violate it. "What are the terms of the truce?"

"They are free to leave in peace, with twenty pieces of gold for each man," Tral said. "Or they can join my army for double the normal rate of mercenary pay."

"And should they recite any of their platitudes about loyalty, destiny or death," Albumor added, "challenge them to choose a champion and meet you in single combat."

***

Wearing full battle harness, Javo rode his charger along the pass to the funnel, under a flag of truce. At the narrowest point of the pass, a wall of dead bodies blocked further progress. On the other side stood a giant of Bruk, dented and scarred armor hanging from his massive frame, a shield spiked with Dijol arrows as if made from the hide of some gargantuan porcupine, and a bell-skirted helmet with stubby white horns embossed thereupon. Other Bruk warriors stood from their fitful slumber on either side of him. Most of their helmets were hornless.

Javo made a quick assessment of their armor. There were many gaps to be exploited by a quick-thrusting blade, including below the armpit; into the neck above the armored collar--which would require a well-timed leap or an attack from elevation; and, most inviting given the size differential, an upward belly strike below the scaled hauberk.

"You wear a ceremonial helm to battle?" Javo asked, removing his own helmet.

The giant's eyes bored into Javo from both sides of the battered noseguard...black as bottomless pits. Between the eyes and the horns, Javo had the impression some great, wild bull was sizing him up.

"It protects me from evil magic," growled the giant with a harsh, guttural accent.

"I should think it would prove a hindrance, snagging on every tree limb and so forth," Javo said, conversationally.

The giant appeared confused...or perhaps amused. "You arrive under a flag of truce to talk of helmets?"

"I suppose it would be worse if the horns were long, like some I've seen," Javo went on. "My parade armor includes a plumed helm--I don't like what it does to my balance at all..."

"You are Cemarian," the giant said. "And yet you bear the heraldry of a Black Lancer. I fathom not how both things can be."

"I am Cemarian," Javo said. "And a Lancer."

The other Brukites murmured among themselves.

"There are few laws from Cemar that citizens are compelled to obey," Javo said. "Prohibition against joining knightly orders is not one of them."

"But there are no knightly orders in Cemar," the giant said.

Javo shrugged, removing one gauntlet to rub his eyes. "Is everyone so well-educated in the islands of Bruk?"

The giant chuckled. "Because of our size, we are assumed to be simple dolts. Well, so be it. Who are you?"

"I am Javo."

"And I am Krag, the Wrecker. What are the terms being offered?"

"Your lives, plus twenty pieces of gold for each of you, if you let the army pass. Or join General Tral for double the normal mercenary wages."

Krag flashed a wry grin, dropped the enormous head of his double-bladed axe to the ground, and leaned on the haft. "The integrity of the Black Lancers is legendary. Tell me: do you consider this a fair bargain?"

Javo was surprised at the frankness of the inquiry, Lancer reputation or no. He sighed. "Not nearly. I warrant he would pay four times that to have you open the pass with no further delay."

The Bruk Islanders exchanged glances and murmured among themselves in their own language.

***

Turgar sat watching the council from his secret spot on the peak. Voices carried up the cliffs, but not loud enough to make out the words. He had no doubts it was an unconventional exchange: Black Lancers were hired sometimes to train or organize cavalry, to lead contingents of knights, or, usually, to serve as champions in single combat. Never had Turgar heard of them being dispatched under a truce flag to talk with the enemy.

If single combat did occur, Turgar had an excellent vantage point. So far as the legends went, no champion from the Order had ever been defeated. Also, something in their code prevented them from ever combating another Lancer.

If anyone had a chance of standing shield-to-shield with a Black Lancer and surviving, Turgar mused, it was one of those giant warriors below.

Turgar hadn't seen the smoke rising along the rocks--his nose alerted him to it. He could see the bloodstained defile was empty, save for Dijol's skeleton force of swordsmen. The bulk of the army was camped just outside the pass and, if they had managed to find dry wood, the drizzling rain would certainly prevent the smoke from drifting far from the fire.

Turgar slowed his breath and listened. He isolated the conversation between the Lancer and the Brukite, and shoved it to the back of his perception. He did the same with the noise from the Dijolian skeleton force. Also the sound of the rain. The tinkling of rivulets streaming down the rock. The rustling of a bird back in the thicket where Mountain Wind was sheltered. Archers having breakfast back on the ledge.

Then he heard it. A faint, repetitive throbbing not unlike a water mill in a steady current. With this sound isolated, he studied it.

It was a human voice, chanting something low and redundant.

Careful to keep his silhouette minimal, Turgar bellied over the summit and climbed down the far slope. It was easy going until the slope fell straight down, becoming the cliff which walled the defile. The chanting was more easily discernible here, though Turgar could make no sense of the syllables. He still could not see the source of the smoke or the chants, but it seemed they were directly below him.

Gripping a dimple in the rock with one hand and hooking his foot on the trunk of a berry bush, Turgar inched himself forward to spy down the cliff face.

Below was yet another small outcropping, almost directly over the funnel. No trail leading to it was visible from Turgar's position, but it was occupied. The smoke curiously ascended from a small iron cauldron on the rock shelf, though no flames were visible in or under it. A thin figure in a burgundy robe shuffled around the cauldron in endless circles, bowing, twisting, making strange gestures, and muttering some redundant incantation. Draped over the robed figure's back and around his arms was a thick, red serpent.

Turgar liked this not at all. How could the men below fail to notice this bizarre scene above them, with the movement and unnatural smoke, if magic were not afoot? Yet none of them so much as glanced up the cliff. Perhaps Turgar would also be blinded to it, if the sorcerer were aware of his presence. Turgar shivered and eased himself back to relative safety.

No, he liked this not at all. This bode of treachery. His stomach knotted just as it had back when he discovered the betrayal by his warrior-brother...back when he was a loyal troop chief in the armies of Gabom's Chieftain Supreme.

Turgar blinked away the images that accompanied those ugly memories.

There were more hidden trails in the cliffs, unless this sorcerer flew up to the outcropping like some great bird. Turgar would find these trails, if they could be found.

***

Cemarians were mostly peaceable folk, who preferred to avoid violence. They fought when necessary, but producing was what most of them dedicated their energies to. Most worked the land, producing crops. Some raised livestock, producing milk, cheese, meat and hides. Some collected silk or cotton to weave fabric. Others worked metal. In Cemar proper, people produced poetry, music, fanciful tales...and ideas.

Javo had been different. His boyhood was spent dreaming of battle. When he grew of age to make his own way, he hunted down that dream.

Javo respected Krag. The giant had a rough honesty about him, a lack of pretense, which was rare in men Javo had met. Obviously, his prowess in combat was exceptional, and Javo respected this even more. Still, even during a conversation Javo found far more pleasant than most he'd had in less adversarial circumstances, he couldn't help imagining what it would be like to fight Krag to the death. As they spoke back-and-forth, Javo visualized slices, thrusts, parries and counterstrokes in a thousand different combinations.

"The alternative to these terms," Krag said thoughtfully, "is for us to choose a champion to meet you in combat."

Javo nodded.

Krag laughed. "Oh, the arrogance of the Dijolians! If we reject your terms and your offer of single combat, what can they do but continue to fall under our blades?"

Javo arched his brow. "Some of you have fallen already. Eventually, they will kill you all."

Krag gazed up at the approaching dark clouds. "Not today, Sir Javo. And we fear not dying. My ancestors worshiped Death. He is still worshipped in Bruk."

"He?" Javo asked.

Krag nodded. "Death is a god of Bruk. Sailors practice from a young age at keeping Death fed. And we know one day he will claim us, too. We are born for it."

Javo reflected on this silently for a moment: a nation that worshipped death. Believed Death was not an action, an event or a tragedy, but a being.

Cemarians believed in the great Aod--at least most of them once did. More and more of them were dabbling with the deities of other nations. Still, Aod was the only god Javo had worshipped. Aod was a giver of life and so many other things. Javo sometimes had the impression other races had split their concept of him into many perceived gods--one for sunshine; one for storms; one for the sea; one for love; one for fertility; one for the forest, one for the desert...and so on.

What sort of men worshipped Death?

What are the terms of the single combat?" Krag asked.

"Your champion dies, and your comrades leave the field," Javo said.

"And if our champion wins?"

Javo wasn't so arrogant as to imagine defeat impossible. The Black Lancers were not unbeaten because they took enemies lightly. Still, answering the question felt like conceding weakness.

"Should your champion prevail, the army of Dijol will turn about and march back across the border."

Krag stroked his furry chin for a moment. "I will consult with my comrades. But know that I will not be bribed to abandon my post."

Javo frowned. Accepting Tral's terms was the most pragmatic option, and warriors of Bruk were pragmatic, to be certain. "That is the only choice which guarantees you may fight another day."

Those black eyes searched Javo's face for a moment. "Would you abandon your post to the enemy for gold?"

Javo flinched. "Of course not." He almost said, "But I'm not from Bruk." He bit his tongue, instead.

"None but the Black Lancers have honor, then?" Krag asked, then scoffed. He flipped up the great axe to grip it just below the head in one massive paw, turned and gathered his fellow Brukites around him. They conversed in their harsh, guttural language for a time, Krag's deep voice dominating the discussion.

When their council adjourned, Krag returned to face Javo. "I am our champion, and will meet you in single combat."

***

The rain fell a little faster now, but the heavy deluge had not yet resumed. At Javo's back were General Tral, some of his staff, and his Imperial Guard detachment.

Javo strapped on his shield, and chose his halberd for the combat. His sword was his favorite weapon, but not as expendable as the halberd. Krag's armor was crude, but thick. That and his gigantic shield would dull, if not damage, his finely edged blade. Like the sword, his halberd could both hack and thrust; but the halberd was heavier--therefore better for splitting scale.

Krag stepped over the pile of corpses and the two warriors advanced toward each other, shields hiding most of their heads and torsos. They stopped just beyond weapon's length from each other. Javo's disadvantage was plain for all to see. Though a head taller than most men, he appeared to be a child, standing so close to the Brukite. Krag could reach Javo well before Javo could reach Krag. Speed would have to make up the difference. The axe was not designed for thrusting, and so that should increase Javo's speed advantage.

Javo sidestepped toward Krag's shielded side. This was a basic defensive tactic--moving away from the enemy's weapon. Playing defense invited one's enemy to take the offense. Their mission to defend the pass notwithstanding, warriors of Bruk were renowned for their aggressive temperament, and prowess on the attack. Javo knew this, and wanted to give the giant overwhelming incentive to initiate a slow, clumsy attack. When he did so, he would open himself up for a fatal lightning strike to one of his weak spots.

Krag sidestepped the opposite direction.

The two circled each other.

Seemingly out of carelessness, Javo lowered his shield slightly, and extended his arm out so that less of his body was protected.

When Krag finally did take his swing, it was every bit as ponderous as what Javo expected.

Javo sprang forward inside the arc of the falling axe, sinking to a crouch on the way, from which he could lunge and thrust upward into the belly.

The impact happened so fast, Javo had no time to wonder at how he'd been deceived. Krag abandoned his affected slowness and rammed Javo with his shield at full speed. Javo had never been hit with such force in his life, and would have gone down even if Krag hadn't flipped his axe head sideways behind him, hooked his ankles and yanked his legs out from under him.

The cliff and canyon echoed the crash of steel on stone as Javo sprawled on the ground. His helmet now misaligned, he used his shield rim to open his visor. He saw the axe dropping down toward him with incredible force.

Muscles like coiled springs overcame the weight of his armor as Javo flipped his body out of the path of the fearsome weapon.

Sparks flew upward as the axe cleaved cleanly through Javo's pelvic skirting and smashed a chunk of rock out of the ground.

Javo scrambled to his feet and backed away. He still had halberd and shield. His armor was damaged, but not enough to hamper movement. And he was not wounded.

He had underestimated the giant. Krag was crafty, and much faster than seemed likely. Javo's body still reverberated with the terrific shock of that shield ram. His ears rang. His fingers tingled. His wind was driven from him. He remembered his training, and got his breathing under control. Fear could be harnessed and put to good use in a fight, but the anger he felt toward himself was only a hindrance.

They circled each other.

***

Turgar returned to the peak, after scouting for trails, in time to see the combat begin.

This battle was legendary...or at least should be. He knew he would tell his grandchildren of it, should he live that long.

The giant had taken advantage of his assumed clumsiness to lure the Black Lancer into overconfidence, and almost ended the fight with his first genuine attack. Yet as fast as the giant was, the knight was still faster.

The combat settled into what seemed an even match.

The giant's power was such that even a glancing blow shocked his opponent to the heels. Meanwhile, though the Lancer moved with blinding bursts of speed, his own attacks were blunted by the lazy blocks of the shield, by the reach of the axe, and occasionally by surprise kicks to his chest piece which stopped him short of reaching the giant even with his extended weapon.

While the giant's blows were powerful and demonstrated admirable dexterity for one so enormous, the Lancer was so much faster that he simply dodged most of them rather than take them on the shield. The Lancer displayed, this moment, economy of movement; next moment, explosions of energy meant to carry him past the giant's guard and to a killing stroke. It had to be frustrating for the giant.

***

Sweat tickled all up and down Javo's body. Tiny puffs of steam escaped the seams of his armor when he moved. How long had this fight been going on? Longer than any single combat to date, for certain. Only in the early days of his training in the Order had contests of arms lasted this long.

He was amazed at the patience and discipline of the Bruk Islander. From all accounts, the giants waded through their enemy, absorbing what damage they had to in order to strike deathblows as quickly as possible. And, in fact, Krag had tried to end the fight within the first few seconds via his sinister ploy--and nearly succeeded. But once the ruse was exposed, the death-match became a straightforward contest of skill and endurance. In Javo's experience, big men not only lacked speed and agility, but stamina as well. But he remembered back to his instruction under one of the knights in the Order, who taught that, all other factors being even, a good big warrior would overcome a good small warrior every time.

Would this be one of those times? Krag certainly was the big warrior in this match. And he was good. But Javo had the edge in speed and armor. He could not be the knight who soiled the Black Lancers' reputation!

Krag had attempted to herd Javo to the canyon's edge several times, no doubt positioning him for a shield-ram that would knock him over the precipice. Javo maneuvered away from the chasm and, at one point, found himself with his back to the cliff face, instead.

As much as one could with a warrior as cunning as Krag, Javo had grown familiar with his methods over the course of their death-dance. That is why he took pause when Krag's black eyes widened in what appeared to be fear, and he uncharacteristically swung his axe in a trajectory which was off-mark from the beginning.

Javo sidestepped away, half-pivoted to strike into Krag's unshielded flank...then saw the axe's true target.

A long red serpent, as thick as Javo's thigh, convulsed around the vines hanging from the cliff face. Its severed head lay on the ground at Krag's feet. It had been almost on top of Javo when Krag killed it.

"What evil is this?" Krag bellowed, with a quavering voice, pointing with his axe.

Javo followed his gaze back to the funnel. Behind the other Bruk warriors, the cliff wall moved as if oozing red liquid. More red snakes, as large as constrictors but with fangs like pit vipers, slithered down the cliff by the hundreds. Some had dropped on top of the Bruk warriors unawares. Other warriors fought the slithering vermin, but were quickly engulfed by the red reptilian tidal wave.

Before the horror of the scene had fully sunk in, a human voice shrieked something high above them. Krag and Javo whirled and searched for the source of the cry. On a small outcropping in the cliff wall, shrouded in smoke, stood a robed figure holding a smaller cousin of the hideous red serpents, gesturing toward the funnel. How long had the person been there? Why had Javo, Krag, or his fellows not noticed it until now? Sorcery, no doubt--the same evil magic which mobilized this serpentine army. "I have given the pass into your hands," the sorcerer called. "Take it!"

On the next ledge, a bit farther along the cliff face, archers drew their bows. A cry rose up from the Imperial Guard, and the dismounted knights around General Tral began to advance. Thunder rumbled across the sky.

The captain of archers gave his command, and arrows flew. The Bruk contingent, already fatally broken by the snake attack, were finished by the hail of shafts, despite the less-than-perfect aim due to the rain and wind gusting through the pass.

Still struggling to grasp the treachery afoot, Javo was further bewildered when an arrow glanced off his cuirass. Some of the archers were aiming at him and Krag. Like a silly child, he waved at the archers, shouting for them to desist this dishonorable betrayal.

The sorcerer cackled with glee.

Krag raised his shield to block incoming arrows. Javo did likewise.

Javo remembered his charger, and, fearing a hit by a stray missile, backed up to stand between it and the archers. To his surprise, Krag joined him so that the horse was protected behind their shields.

"Here is the honor of those you cut covenant with, Sir Javo," Krag said, an arrow thunking into his shield.

"I deserve rebuke and perhaps even mockery," Javo admitted, through clenched teeth. "The only man with honor along this whole bloodstained defile is the very one I was trying to kill until a moment ago."

"Apology accepted," Krag said. "Do you have any suggestions as to a course of action?"

The arrows were coming faster and heavier now. Javo glanced quickly around his charger to the rear. The last of Krag's warriors were still. Now the archers were concentrating on the last men standing. And then there was the Imperial Guard closing from the front, probably soon to have the weight of the entire army behind them.

The sorcerer wailed some high-pitched chant. The hood had fallen back, now. A soft, young, white-haired head was exposed, with piercing blue eyes. The face was male, though the voice, gestures and hands of the sorcerer had feminine qualities. He pointed at his army of snakes while chanting and, on his command, they turned from the fallen Bruk warriors to creep, en masse, toward Javo and Krag.

"We have to attack the Dijolians," Javo said. "The archers will have to slacken their bows to avoid hitting Tral or his knights with us among them. It's not much of a chance, but it's a better chance than we'll have with those snakes."

Krag shuddered. "Verily."

"It certainly looks as though we will soon meet the god of your Bruk ancestors. If he exists."

Krag nodded. "I plan to feed him well on my way to meet him. And when those fiendish serpents reach us, they'll be upon the enemy as well."

"How fast can you run, Krag the Wrecker?"

Krag flashed him a curious glance. Javo outlined his plan, in between blocking arrows with his shield.

"Your proposed gambit is the essence of madness," Krag said, when he was done. "I wish I had conceived it."

Despite everything, Javo grinned.

"I count it a privilege," Krag continued, "that I will die fighting beside a warrior of your courage and skill."

Even considering the affect of the wind and rain on the archers' aim, it was miraculous that Krag wasn't hit in the next few moments. He loosened the straps on his shield and forced his arms through them so that the shield rode on his back. Wielding the great axe in one hand, his other pulled the warhammer from his belt. He growled curses at the sorcerer, the snakes, and the archers.

Javo backed up and stepped into his stirrup. With quick, practiced efficiency he swung into the saddle and found the reins with his gauntlets still on. Hanging his halberd, handle-down, from the cantle loop, he spurred his charger forward while smoothly unholstering the lance secured vertically for march.

Tral's Imperial Guard, dismounted, evidently didn't know how to react to a charge by a Black Lancer. They couldn't scatter to get out of his way, for the pass was too narrow even where they were. They couldn't flee, because knights of the Guard simply did not run from battle. They chose to squat behind their shields and brace for collision.

The lance still pointed skyward until Javo was almost upon the front rank. At the last instant he couched the lance and swung it to bear. The lance grazed the edge of the shield braced by Javo's victim, and with the force of a charger at full gallop behind it, skewered the knight with a terrific, violent jolt.

This was not a training or tournament lance with blunted tip, designed to shatter on impact. This was a war lance, designed to break off in sections. The first section, about a hand's breadth in length, snapped off inside the breast of the first knight, whose lifeless, armored body was driven back through the ranks of his fellows from the force of the blow.

Demonstrating unparalleled skill for someone who just had the shock of such an impact travel through his arm and into his whole body, Javo scored another hit on his way through the formation. Another armored corpse tumbled through the ranks, bowling over everyone in its path.

When the Black Lancer broke through the back of the Guard, two of the knights were already dead, while several others were either unconscious or injured, by the collisions with their dead companions and the pounding hooves of the charger. Even those physically unscathed by the sudden violence of the charge reeled in shock from what had just happened.

Then, with a blood-curdling roar, a berserking Bruk giant crashed into them. His axe severed heads, arms, legs, and cut some men in half. His warhammer smashed into helmets and armor, crushing whatever was inside.

The Guard turned to focus their collective malice upon this enemy just as, having wheeled his charger behind them, the Black Lancer bore down on them from the rear.

Again, the lance only scored two direct hits, but the collateral damage was widespread, opening up multiple targets for axe and warhammer. Even Krag's boots scored kills--sending knights screaming over the edge into the canyon.

The dark clouds now came looming over the pass, dumping a wall of water. Lightning cracked the blackening sky and outlined the ground with yellow and blue energy.

"Krag!" Javo cried, above the thunder. "Fall back toward the funnel!"

It took repeated attempts by Javo for his words to penetrate Krag's berserker rage. When they did, Krag only replied, "Serpents...!"

"Your helmet!" Javo reminded him.

The Guard was in such disarray now that retreat wasn't absolutely necessary. But Javo wanted the Guard to follow them back toward the funnel, keeping the archers out of the fight. And then if they timed it so that the deluge swept the pass in advance of them, that could prove advantageous as well.

As it turned out, the Guard was in no mood to press the attack, especially when the wall of rain caught up to them. Also, the archers had used up nearly all their arrows. Now the only thing between the two warriors and escape was the plague of serpents.

That was enough.

"This I don't know how to fight," Krag said, through chattering teeth, as the swarming red mass drew closer.

"Nor I," Javo said.

The sorcerer's chanting ceased, and, with it, the advance of the snakes. He called down from the rocky ledge in a smug, mocking voice, "The two of you have fought valiantly. You have humiliated the armies of Dijol."

"You betrayed me!" Javo shouted. "You betrayed the truce! Has Dijol no honor, even to those who loyally uphold their end of covenants?"

The sorcerer shook his head sadly. "Honor is a luxury the strong only indulge in briefly, when it suits them. Or when they feel generous."

"You...you liar!" Javo wished he could think of something more insulting to say. At the moment, he couldn't.

"We haven't lied, Sir Javo. You are merely a victim of your own confusion about what truth is. And now, because I'm feeling generous, I'm giving you an opportunity to beg for mercy."

"Come down here and face me," Javo retorted. "Let us settle what truth is, with steel!"

"I'm not a fool, Javo," the sorcerer said, with an admonishing tone.

"You're a coward!"

"I feel my generosity waning."

"At least let us die fighting men," Krag said, "not these vermin from the bowels of the pit!"

"With that," replied the sorcerer, "my generosity has come to an end." His bony hand flicked out of the robe and something fell to the pass. It struck the road in a puff of glittering powder and, almost instantly, lightning flashed, striking the ground in the midst of the small, glittering cloud.

He resumed his chanting, and the mass of serpents surged forward again.

Another small, glittering puff, this time closer to Krag and Javo, and lightning licked out again.

Krag held his weapons out to the side, preparing to meet the god of his ancestors. Javo holstered his war lance and drew his sword, ready to dismount and kill as many of the evil reptiles as he could.

The sorcerer held something in his fingertips, ready to flick it out as he had before. Then he made a gagging sound and arched his back, the serpent draped over his shoulders convulsing wildly.

The sorcerer staggered, twisting sideways. From below, Krag and Javo could now see an arrow had pinned the serpent to his back and punched through his heart. He toppled from the ledge with a clatter, kicking a small cauldron over as he fell.

What they saw next both Krag and Javo had assumed to be some trick of the light or their imagination, until they later confirmed that each had witnessed the same thing: as the sorcerer fell to his death, the serpent with him jerked from the strike of an arrow which pierced it perfectly through the head. Above the ledge where the sorcerer had stood, a small, bowlegged figure in leather armor and a spiked helmet, leaning over the cliff with a rope tied around his waist to some unseen anchor behind him, waved a salute.

The cauldron came down in the middle of the mass of serpents, splattering a strange, syrupy liquid over it. The sorcerer fell right next to the cauldron, accompanied by another flash of glittering powder. Lightning struck again, and the liquid burst into flame. Now the writhing reptilian carpet was aflame. A fissure opened in the hideous mass, and widened until a path cleared into the funnel.

"Run, Krag--now is our chance!" Javo spurred his charger, and the disciplined warhorse galloped into the funnel, leaping over the corpse-wall and disappeared around a bend in the pass.

With the wall of water now chasing his back, Krag the Wrecker sprinted after.

***

The camp sat in a tiny clearing within a thick forest well outside any route an army might take to capture the spoils of Fawlik. Armor lay buffed and oiled in stacks. Undergarments hung so that the blue sun and the heat of the fire could dry them. The two warriors wore clean, dry clothes from their packs and reclined facing the fire from opposite sides.

Using a stone to sharpen his sword, Javo said, "We'll have to find you a horse--if one exists, large enough to carry you."

"A Chyrvadon could carry me," Krag replied. "I am owed that, and more, by the king of Fawlik." With needle and thread, he stitched shut the ugly gash just above his knee.

"What else does he owe you for accepting that insane mission?" Javo asked.

"Gold for my parents on Bruk, which he already paid; and a woman for me, which he has not."

"A woman." Javo chuckled. "How will he repay you these things when he probably hangs from the flagpole, food for carrion birds, this very moment?"

"The king fled to exile before the first Dijolian foot stepped down on Fawlik's soil," Krag explained. "He took his treasure and harem with him. Not only that, but we dispatched a rider when Tral entered the pass. By now, Tral is undoubtedly enjoying more nasty surprises."

Javo pursed his lips. "Every time Dijol attacks Fawlik, they assume an easy campaign but it costs them dearly. But what of this woman you were promised?"

Krag let the needle dangle while swatting away an insect that flew for the still-open portion of his wound. "There is a group of virgins kept near the royal harem. When they reach their ceremonial age, they become the King's concubines. I have my pick of them, before they are ever touched by men."

"For this you faced the onslaught of an army with only twenty men?"

Krag shrugged and resumed stitching. "That and a horse."

Javo shook his head.

"I want a woman to warm my bed," Krag said. "I ache for her. I would have children." He tied off the last stitch, cut the thread, then poked a bandage wrapped around the blood-matted fur on the back of one huge arm. "She could attend to scratches like this, which I can't. This time, you'll have to do it."

Javo grimaced. "I know nothing of stitching."

Krag sneered. "How can a warrior not know how to treat his wounds?"

"I am not often wounded," Javo said. "I'm a knight--we have attendants to care for wounds."

"Keep your attendants, Sir Knight. Binding wounds is but one thing of many a good wench can do for you."

Javo wrinkled his bronze, hawkish nose. "Forced servitude offends me, my Bruk friend."

"Ah, but I will treat this wench kindly," Krag declared, a sincere glow on his furry face. "I will liberate her from the abuse and the forced tendering of favors to some foppish old king. I will treat her kindly while she is under my protection, give her much affection and spoil her with freedoms she never dared dream of. And she will love me for it."

"Peradventure," Javo conceded, "if you choose the right virgin."

"Why do you pronounce the word 'virgin' with such contempt?"

A new voice answered, "Virgins are like bramblebuds: The thorn vines will ensnare you on your way to the flower, then tear at you long after you have sampled its fragrance."

These words were spoken by a short, bowlegged Gabomite who entered the clearing leading a pony with a dead stag hanging behind the saddle.

Krag shot to his feet, axe in hand.

The Gabomite scoffed. "I could have killed you both from the time you gathered wood for the fire, had I wanted your lives."

Javo, sword in hand but still seated, made a pushing, restraining gesture at Krag. "Unless my eyes fail me, we've seen this man before."

"The sorcerer?" Krag asked.

The Gabomite bowed, smirking. "You are welcome. I am Turgar, called 'Lightning Thrower' by some."

"You were out there when we gathered wood?" Krag asked, doubtfully. That had been some time ago, when the blue sun was hidden behind the last, stubborn clouds.

Turgar nodded, laughing. "A Bruk Islander who fears the sea!" He turned to Javo. "And a Cemarian knight. When the Order of Lancers conduct their inquiry, do you truly imagine General Tral will agree with your version of who betrayed whom?"

Ashen-faced, Javo said, "I suppose not."

With this information, Turgar proved he had been listening long enough to hear them tell each other their stories.

"Only a thief could come so close without us hearing," Krag blustered.

"Nay," Turgar replied, turning to his pony. "A hunter." He untied the stag and dropped it, with a heavy thud, near the fire. "The two of you know how to kill men standing shield-to-shield. You know nothing of stalking game...nor cooking it, I warrant."

They stared at the dead stag.

"How long did you plan to travel without meat?" Turgar asked.

Slowly, Krag lowered his axe and sat back down.

"I am a Lancer," Javo said. "The Order will believe my word over Tral's."

Turgar shrugged. "Peradventure. But Tral can compel hundreds of witnesses from his army to swear it was you who broke the covenant. Thousands, if he chooses."

Javo dropped the whetstone and stood, wielding the sword as if he would violently hack into something at any moment. He paced. "The Order will know they are all lying!"

Turgar shrugged again.

"Sir Javo," Krag asked, softly, "what would the Order do if, may your gods forbid it, they believe the lie?"

"If they decide I have broken the creed, and my oath of honor," Javo said, through gritted teeth, "they will excommunicate me, at the least. They might also issue a death sentence, which other Lancers will hurry to carry out--to redeem the reputation of the Order."

"It strikes me," Turgar said, "a hard way to learn whether your fellow Lancers are as honorable as you."

Krag nodded. "If they would value the word of a power-mad schemer over the word of a sworn brother."

"Why did you intervene back at the defile?" Javo asked.

Turgar drew a knife, squatted, and began to gut the animal. "I don't like sorcerers. Or treachery. Or Dijol, for that matter."

"We are indebted to you," Javo said, the anger of his predicament forcing his words out so harshly as to not sound as sincere as he actually was.

"Then share with me your drink, your bread and cheese," Turgar replied. "Take some of my meat for yourselves. And consider my proposal."

"What do you propose?" Krag asked, suspiciously.

"Partnership."

The green skin under the white fur on Krag's face wrinkled up. "Partnership? In what?"

"There are many endeavors open to men of our talents," Turgar said. "Many of the smaller trade caravans would pay handsomely for a vanguard."

Javo quit pacing. "You would have us seek riches?"

"You seek glory, Sir Javo. But Glory doesn't feed you. It doesn't feed your warhorse, or exchange for a stable and a warm room and bath in the winter. It might bring a wench to your side for a fleeting moment, but it won't pay for repairs to your armor. Yes: I seek riches--and more than what is required to merely survive--for some day I'll be too old to hunt or fight."

"I'll take riches over glory," Krag agreed. "It takes riches to drink and to spoil maidens."

"You've been a champion for kings," Turgar told Javo. "Your skill in single combat has spared their armies untold agonies and slaughter. But villages sometimes settle disputes by single combat. Clans settle feuds."

"Merchants hire bodyguards," Krag added, enthusiastically. "Chieftains pay bounties for murderers, abductors and thieves."

"Have you ever waxed fearful over using the privy," Turgar asked, "because you are most vulnerable to attack then, and have nobody you can trust to guard your back?"

Krag and Javo both nodded.

"All three of us are outlaws in Dijol now," Turgar continued. "And Dijol will likely own the land we're standing on in a matter of days. I am also an outlaw in Gabom. Even in realms we are not outlawed in, there will be those who choose to hunt us for bounty."

"You warrant we can all trust each other?" Krag mused, thoughtful.

Turgar answered the question with a question. "Know you someone you trust more?"

Javo stroked his chin, studying Krag. "You could have let the first serpent have me, to end the fight in your favor. You showed honor."

"And Turgar saved our skins," Krag admitted, with a grudging tone, "when he could have just watched us die, then collected his pay."

"These are the things I've pondered as I followed you and listened to your conversations," Turgar said. "We are warriors, we three. Formidable in battle. And yet we fight with honor. I for one, have nothing to divert my loyalty: I have no family; no clan; no tribe; no country and no king."

Javo grinned ruefully. "I'm a Cemarian by birth. I have no king but the great Aod. As to other loyalties...I am still honor-bound to help and defend my brother Lancers."

"I find no threat in that," Turgar said. "And I hope they remain as loyal to you as you are to them. But should they take Tral's word over yours, for any reason, would you rather face them alone or with warriors who will not believe lies about you?"

"We hardly know each other," Javo said. "It would be foolish to make a blood-pact without certainty."

Turgar shrugged. "So, for now, we just travel together, and seek what treasure we may earn honestly. If, after a time, any one of us has reason not to trust another, he is free to go his own way alone."

"I have no king," Krag said. With an expression of anger mixed with shame, he added, "Sailors of Bruk are infamous for their debauchery. They are pirates, thieves, rapists and liars. I have no loyalty to such men, and often wish I could pretend to be of some other race. If the two of you will trust in my honor despite that, I will trust in yours."

After several moments of silence, Javo said, "Done."

"Done," Krag said.

"Done," Turgar said, grinning. "And I further propose that our first mission should be to meet with the Order of Lancers, so we may testify as to what happened at the pass, before Tral and his soldiers begin poisoning their ears."

"Agreed," Krag said.

"My thanks to both of you," Javo said. "After that, we should find the exiled king of Fawlik, and collect Krag's reward.

"Very well," Turgar said. Now pay attention, you two, and I'll show you what to do with the parts of this animal."