Outside the tent, an excited murmur arose among the people who had snuck close to listen and spread from there throughout the camp. Androkles had had no idea they were there, but now that he knew about it, it seemed obvious. What else would they be doing?

The Elder looked more relieved than anything. He slouched a bit more forward and let out the breath he must have been holding, making the old skin hang looser on his chest. “A friend,” he said with a small, wistful smile. Almost muttering, he added, “How long has it been since I had one of those?”

Things quickly got a little noisier and it sounded like twenty people were trying to explain to another forty what had just happened. The wisest among them starting shooshing everyone else so they could keep listening, and it took them a moment.

The Elder smiled with a bit more humor and said, “I wonder if I should be speaking louder. But no matter. Androkles, son of Paramonos, I am Natuak, the oldest of my people. There is much I wish to tell you, but I think I will save that for a day of rest and peace, many days distant from today. On that day, I will tell you the long history of my people, of what we once were, of our lands and gods and mighty ones. On that day, I will also hear of your fathers, your lands, your people and gods, and we will drink wine and listen to music, and our heartache for things lost to time will be sweet instead of bitter.”

Androkles gave a respectful nod. The man—Natuak—was certainly good with words. That didn’t sound like something he’d rehearsed, either, in case he needed it.

The peace was broken by a man shouting, “Let me through!” From the sound of it, the crowd outside was thick and he was raising a ruckus trying to get in.

The mood inside the tent changed as well, since everyone knew what it meant. Or suspected they did, anyway. The children’s eyes went distant and Agurne gave a disappointed frown. The demons in the room did their best to hide their emotions.

Androkles muttered, “Already?”

The man burst through just a moment later, crashing in through the flap and nearly knocking the older demoness over. She caught him and stopped his forward movement before he tumbled into the brazier.

“Elder!” he said, panting. “They’re riding up the canyon, with the King in front and all his berserkers! The whole army! The ones that don’t fit in the pass are cutting back and forth up the mountainside. They cover the whole face of it, like swarming ants!”

Androkles tried to estimate how fast they could come, and how many; it would depend on how the ground was, with so many horses on it, but he supposed if they were doing it, that meant they could. Keeping the warbands together and organized would be an incredible feat, especially once they got up into the woods and lost visibility, but with so many it would hardly matter. The real question was whether the King would send them a few at a time, or all at once. Either way, there was time for planning. An hour, two, perhaps more.

The messenger grabbed his own horns, a gesture that made him seem distraught. “We must away, Elder!” He was a bit older than Androkles now that he got a good look at him, graying in his short beard and hair. Thin, though, like the rest. Gaunt. He gave Androkles a stare that was somewhere between confusion and contempt, unaware what he was doing here.

He urged, “We have to leave now, Elder. Get up! All of you, get up and flee!”

Androkles scowled and said, “Natuak, do your people frequenty stomp in and start giving you orders? Or is this new behavior?”

“How dare you? Who is this? Why are there leatherfaces here?” sputtered the messenger.

“Thank you for the report, Shuparth,” said Natuak calmly. “Androkles, we share an urgent problem. Perhaps we should see to this first and discuss other matters at a later time. How shall we face the King?”

“I have some ideas. But first I want to ask how you fight the bad demons? The nasty ones? You know the ones I mean.” Androkles needed some new words for all these groups, now that he was friends with one.

The Elder nodded thoughtfully and said, “I tend to them personally. It is not an easy thing. I can explain very briefly, but it will not do you much good. Their strength comes from the wounds in their spirit and the hurts done on their mind. It is a power of the subtle things of the world, powers of the spirit and the energies of the soul that infuse the body. Dyana will know of this, somewhat. If you can deny this power, they have only the strength of a man.”

The old man glanced at the empty wine-pot, and wanting another drink was something he had in common with his guest. He continued, “I put my soul to rest and leave my body to do its work. It is also why I can always spot little Kitten-ghost when he hides.”

“Really? Every single time?” interrupted Pepper, but he was ignored.

“You mean you die?” said Androkles, understanding less the more the old man spoke.

“No, I do not die. It is a thing of my people. We are the children of the night sky,” said the Elder evenly, although his eyes seemed dark. “All the ones I had time to teach are gone.”

“Well, you’re right, that won’t do me much good. I was hoping you had a sacred herb you could burn or something,” said Androkles. With an unashamed groan of pain, he pushed himself to his feet, still having to duck under the low ceiling in here. The demons were all short enough their horns didn’t even scratch the top, but here he was. “My friend, do you mind if I take command of your people for a little while? I know a thing or two about armies.”

“I came to place them in the care of the priestess Agurne. Your god has claimed us,” said Natuak.

“Agurne, may I borrow your god’s new toys for a bit?” he asked.

“Go ahead, ogre. Just don’t break them; you know how he is about his things,” she replied.

“All of you follow me out, then. Get up,” said Androkles. “And Wolfscar, you don’t have to be quiet anymore. You can take your hands off your mouth.”

Outside the tent, it looked like every last demon in the tribe had crammed in as close as they could to listen. All Androkles saw was a field of twilight skin and pointy horns. He waved them back with one hand, and somehow they found the space to make way.

They were so few. So few, against that mighty army. His anger made him a warband all by himself, but he could still be killed and he could only do so much. Androkles pushed away the dread, but it refused to leave completely, hovering at the edge of his thoughts. What foolishness! But there was nothing for it. Best see what could be done to form a strategy.

One advantage of being taller than everyone else was that he wouldn’t need to stand on anything to address them. He raised his voice and yelled, “Every man who can use a lasso, raise your hand!”

It wasn’t what they were expecting, and it took a moment for them to decide he meant it. About one in five raised their hands. He reconsidered and said, “Of those, how many actually have a rope?” It was around twenty.

“Good. All of you go get them, and go over there,” he said, pointing to a clear-ish area toward the back. “Every man with a bow, raise your hand.”

He was pleased to see that demons did indeed use bows, and a handful of men had them. “All of you go over there. Not you, you are a woman. All the women, and I do mean all the women, move over there!”

The women were not happy about it, especially the younger ones. Countless of them shouted back at him, waving a spear or knife. He raised his hand and scowled until they quieted down. “I don’t care if you’re stronger than other women. For all I know, your tribe is backwards and your women are tougher than your men. I don’t care. You’re all going to gather your children and follow Agurne. You can’t see her because she’s short, but she’s right there. And this is Flower,” said Androkles. He lifted the boy over his head so everyone could see him, trying not to wince at his ribs. He needed to look competent, not dying.

“He’ll be easy to spot because of how white he is, even when dirty. He’s a sorcerer and he killed Prince Arthfael himself. He’s your best shot at surviving. You’re going to follow him and Agurne back toward the mountain, and you’re going to find the biggest open area you can. You’ll have two jobs there: Make earplugs, lots and lots of them, and do whatever Agurne says. You have until I’m done talking to gather food and anything else you want to bring, because you shouldn’t expect to come back here afterward. Get moving! No, wait, I almost forgot.”

Androkles reached down and held his hand out for Wolfscar, who climbed out of Garbi’s shirt and sat on it. He raised the little fairy up so everyone could see him, or at least get the idea. He wasn’t big enough to be seen from a distance. “This is Wolfscar. If he tells you to do anything, or go anywhere, or anything else, you do it immediately. No matter what it is. That applies to everyone, man or woman or child. Now get moving. Nothing else I have to say is for the women.”

Wolfscar leaned over to peer off Androkles’ hand and look him in the eyes. He said, “Everyone is doing what I say? What am I saying to them?”

“You’ll be our general. You fly around keep track of where everyone is and see if the enemy is doing anything sneaky. Then you warn people and tell them where to go to be ready. Can you do that?”

“If I have to. I can do more than just fly around and look at things,” said the little fairy, pouting. “I can stab someone in the eye, too.”

“I know. And I will not forget that you’ve been my truest and most loyal friend. I’ve relied on you more than anyone else. How about if I have the Skythanders make you a suit of golden armor when we get to Dikaia?”

Wolfscar mulled it over for a moment. Behind him, the women were starting to move, going to find a child or get a bundle of dried meat or whatever else they thought they’d need. Wolfscar smiled with a bit more maturity than usual and said, “You really can’t do anything without me, huh? I’m too important.”

Androkles smirked and kissed the fairy on the top of his head, then threw him in the air to go scout around. Wolfscar vanished into the pines.

“Now, for all the rest of you. If you can’t fight because you’re old or injured, go with the women. And when I say fight, expect to do a lot of running. You won’t be standing around exchanging spear-pokes. Now pay attention, because if you misunderstand something, you’re going to die. I’m only worried about two things. The demons--the nasty ones, that is—and soldiers protected by severed heads. Anyone else who gets close to me is going to die. This includes any of you. You’ll know why when you see it.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a hatchet stuck in a log next to a small, half-finished pile of firewood. He stepped over and pulled it out, the handed it to Pepper. “Demon horn for throats. Hatchet for horse ankles. Go with the women and keep Flower safe. Say ‘Yes, Papa.’”

“Yes, Papa,” said Pepper, holding the hatchet in both hands.

Androkles turned back to the crowd, still organizing themselves into groups as directed, and said, “Archers, slingers, and javelin-tossers, your primary target is the demons. The nasty ones, I mean. Rope-men, your primary target is the riders protected by severed heads. Pull them off their horses, or cut the ones that are tied on. They protect the riders, but it doesn’t work if they get separated. So separate them, and either kill the riders quickly or get away and let me do it.

“Now, for the rest of you. The King knows his regulars aren’t likely to kill me, and he knows his army won’t stand against me without his demons and sorcerers. His army is going to try and push us back to the mountains or try and get behind and split us up. Probably both. Your job is to fight while backing up slowly. Let them feel like they’re winning and not under any real pressure. You want them to fight slow and safe and confident, not scared and wild, or they’ll overrun you in an instant. Fight hard and well but give up the ground bit by bit. Let them push you back toward the women, just make it take a while. I’ll need time to get rid of the King and his demons, but when he falls, their army will disperse. You just have to survive until that happens. If they feel no pressure, they will be slower and more careful and more of you will live. Is that clear to everyone?”

Not many of them nodded their heads, but they didn’t look confused, either. It would have to do. He swallowed another surge of dread.

He continued, “Like I said, the only way we’ll survive is to kill the King, all his demons, and any sorcerers or officers who try and step in to take his place. If those die and I am still alive, we will live. If they kill me, everyone will die. Now, is everyone clear on what they’re supposed to do?”

He looked over the crowd and saw the gravity of the moment sinking in. He knew that look well—he’d been watching it in the men all around him for twenty-five years. But there was another element he was less familiar with, and that was doubt. Hanging heads and drooping shoulders, men and women clinging to each other as if for the last time.

It was not hard to encourage a Laophilean. Just remind him of honor and duty, and the price of cowardice. Throwing down a shield was a quicker way to end a family line than simply dying was. But what would the demons care about any of that? He didn’t have time to give them a lecture, and he doubted they would want to hear one anyway.

And it wasn’t like this was a battle to be won by courage anyway. It was a wild gamble at best. Insanity. They were smart enough to know it. He could release some of his killing intent to show his strength, but that would likely have the opposite effect from what he wanted. Let them bid farewell as they wished.

The women finally separated off as directed, bringing all their little ones with them. They were so thin and ragged that he could hardly tell them from the men. They had none of the fullness of flesh a woman should have, even the ones with suckling babes. They were also going armed, most of them. Short-spears and knives.

The men who remained were starting to look sparse. There were precious few of them. A couple hundred. Perhaps enough to form a single line at the front of a proper army? Not that they had enough shields for that. Mostly spears, since swords were harder to maintain and impossible to repair without a blacksmith. A few of them had those long iron swords the Allobrogians used, though, and Androkles could guess exactly where they got them.

To their credit, they looked like fighting men. All a bit too thin, but tough, like galley slaves. Underfed, with thin muscles tight as metal wire. They stood without any martial discipline, no lines or stances, but a certain readiness in their demeanor told him they were no strangers to the working of death. Hard men.

Dyana approached him from behind and asked, “Master Androkles, where do you want me?”

He turned and thought about it. She could fight—she’d proven that, strange as it was for a woman, especially one so close to girlhood. But she’d fought off a demon, and Agurne confirmed it. She’d also taken a punch from him and not moved an inch, the first time they met. Despite that, he still wasn’t sure he was eager to trust her with anything important.

“Why do you want to fight?” he asked.

Dyana seemed confused by the question at first, as though the answer was obvious. But then the question got harder and harder and he could she was struggling to find an answer. Was that fear in her eyes? Was she afraid she’d answer wrong?

“Just spit it out, woman. Seff already has a family and it isn’t you. Why stick around? Why not just leave?”

“Sheth and… your family,” she said meekly. “Everyone else I know is dead. I don’t know what else to do. I have nowhere to go.”

“The world is full of people. I’m sure you’ll find somewhere that’ll take you in. Grow your hair out and put on more clothes, though.”

Dyana frowned. “My father kept my head shaved so no one could grab my hair in a fight. I’ve been learning the old ways since before I could walk, but that’s all I know. Fighting and nothing else. Well, okay, I can make rope and gut a fish, and I know some of the art of herbs and spirits from watching my old tribe. I just don’t know how to be a woman.”

She paused, looked away, and sheepishly added, “I was hoping Garbi and Agurne could teach me. How am I ever going to get a husband? I look like a… I don’t know.”

He sighed inwardly. “You want to live among the Laophileans?”

“No, I want to live among the Agapatheids,” she said. She lifted her head and straightened her back. Her eyes met his for a moment and he saw no anger or defiance in them. Just honesty. She could not hold his gaze, however, and looked down again. How odd for her, to be so sheepish.

She said, “I know I made a mistake with you, Master Androkles, and I don’t expect you to adopt me or anything. But I was hoping that if I help, you might have room for one more orphan.”

Androkles sighed, then looked upward and asked the clouds, “O Palthos, how many of these are there gonna be?”

A lot more, came a whisper, just wind, scarcely audible, and he probably imagined it.

Dyana could already tell what his answer was going to be. She was biting her lip to keep from smiling, but it showed in her eyes and the edges of her mouth.

“Fine. You will be a free woman in our household and serve Agurne as her handmaiden. You will live with us, in our house, and receive wages until you decide otherwise. We’ll figure out a dowry for you later, but you’ll have one. Go fight wherever you think you’ll do the most good.”

He turned to look at Agurne and see if she’d heard and if she agreed, but she was already making her way to the other women, holding Flower’s hand to lead him. Pepper was gone, but hopefully he was in the right place and simply concealing himself again. Garbi followed close behind, back up riding on her stupid deer. At least it made it easier to keep an eye on her. And if she had to flee, it was fast. He supposed that was one—and only one—point in its favor.

A flash of inspiration struck him and he turned back to Dyana. “No, I know where I want you. I want you running around the Allobrogian army stealing their severed heads. You told me their swords can’t hurt you?”

She was wiping tears off both cheeks, but she kept her head straight and stood ready. “Yes, Master Androkles. They will bounce right off unless they… have skills I doubt they have. The berserker I fought could cut me, though.”

“That’s fine. I don’t want you fighting the demons anyway. You’ll get swarmed and eaten. Your job will be finding soldiers with severed heads on their saddles and stealing them. Some are tied on, so steal a knife first. Don’t waste your time fighting them unless you have nothing better to do, and don’t fight the King or any of his demons. Got it?”

She nodded and made a fist. The gesture would have been funny from any other woman, but Dyana might be the only one who could punch a man and not hurt herself. Or Agurne, now that he thought about it. Gods, how would he survive having the two of them in the same house? With Garbi, no less, who could wound him just by fluttering her eyelashes sweetly?

He returned his focus to the matter at hand. By the Oathfather, this plan was insane. Well, the plan was as good as it could be; it was the attempt that was insane. He cursed his honor for continually getting him into these situations. How fortunate the man with none.

Androkles watched as the demons separated more distinctly into the groups he’d assigned. The rope-men were tying coiled lengths of rope to their belts with bits of twine, using knots that could be quickly pulled undone to get them loose. Each man looked like he was carrying at least three, and Androkles wondered how many tents were going to blow away in the wind now.

The archers looked to be splitting off into groups of three and dividing up all their arrows equally amongst themselves. That was a good idea. They couldn’t exactly throw unaimed volleys like regular archers. Hopefully they were smart enough to call their targets, three men for each mad demon, and skilled enough to hit them.

The rest of the fighting men sharpened blades or other such chores. Some had stolen Allobrogian chain armor from corpses and threw those on, but it didn’t look like many of them had thought to take the thick clothing that went underneath. It probably wouldn’t matter, though—if it hung loose, it might even be harder to pierce. Only about one in five men had a shield, none of them big enough to fight properly with. Those with shields used shorter one-handed swords or axes instead, which was certainly a common arrangement in barbarian armies. No man of the Glories would be happy behind a shield so small, though.

If these were Laophileans, and especially experienced men of Dikaia, perhaps he could lead the infantry himself, shouting orders and relying on their discipline to react immediately. He had no such illusion here, though. Even if they had the discipline to obey immediately, and he had no reason to think they did, they wouldn’t know the commands. And none of the maneuvers would work without proper shields anyway. No, the best he could do was point them in the right direction, give them clear instructions, and hope for the best. It was a shame, though. This would have been a much cleaner battle if he could’ve tried something else, like taking a few hundred hoplites and blocking the pass, giving the King a wall of unflinching bronze and muscle to crash his army against.

The one thing that gave him hope was that these demons had probably been fighting all their lives, raiding and repelling raids, stealing and reclaiming slaves. No one looked unsure about his weapons or tasks. They would not die easily.

A short time after the last of the women had disappeared into the trees to the north, Wolfscar came back. He buzzed around a bit looking at the men’s preparations, one fingertip in his mouth. After he was satisfied that he’d figured out what they were up to, he floated over to Androkles and plopped down on his shoulder.

“Hi, Papa,” said Wolfscar. “The army’s mostly here now, in the forest. They’re doing a shape around us like a cup.”

“They’re all through the pass already?” That was faster than he expected. He’d been watching the preparations for, what, an hour? Hopefully a bunch of them had lamed their horses trying to race up the unstable mountainside.

“No, I didn’t say all. I said mostly,” said Wolfscar, sounding slightly annoyed. “The King is in the middle, and he has a bunch of scary ones with him. He has to keep saying things to them because they keep wanting to do other things.”

“Scary demons?”

"Mostly. There are other things. And there are more of those coming up the mountain, and there are some in the forest, too. But they don’t like the men, so they don’t want to get close. But some do anyway.”

“What sort of other things? Things like ogres? That sort of other things?”

“No, there aren’t any ogres. Those are for… I forgot what ogres are for. I’ll have to ask one. But you shouldn’t be able to see them anyway.”

Androkles felt an urge to massage his temples. “Okay, so when you say other things, you mean things we’re not supposed to see, but the King is making them serve him? So we can see them. I’ve been fighting them for days. Remember?”

“Oh. Yeah. Things like that. There isn’t a word.”

“Spirits? Fairies?”

“No. Spirits are different, and fairies is only one kind. It’s too hard to explain right now. Instead, I want to tell you something. I want to say that Garbi and Agurne and Flower and Pepper and all the women and all the children are hurrying to the mountain like you said. Some of them ran so they already got there, and they’re holding all their weapons like this,” said Wolfscar. Androkles couldn’t see the fairy sitting on his shoulder, but he could imagine.

“Good. Go tell them to be ready for the ‘other things’. The King will send his armies at the men first, not the women.”

“Okay. And by the way, the bad ones are coming now,” said Wolfscar. “They just started coming closer.” With that, he patted Androkles on the cheek and flew off into the treetops.

How big an arc could the King make with fifty thousand men? Or even twenty thousand? There were too many factors. How close they rode, how deep their ranks were, and so on. But if Androkles were in charge, he’d have the sides only reinforced just enough to keep them hemmed in, not thick enough for an assault. He’d put the bulk of the men at the top of the arc and collapse it downward onto his enemy, growing their ranks as it went instead of trying to tighten it from every direction at once. That was too hard to pull off without being able to see the whole battlefield.

Gods send that’s what the King thought, too. What a mess. It was too late for any further strategizing.

The sun had dimmed slightly, it seemed, the shadows growing deeper. A sickly feeling wormed its way into his heart, and once he realized it was there, he knew exactly what it was—the presence of the King’s demons. This was it, then. It was time.

“Remember,” he shouted, “don’t get too close to me! Twenty paces back, and more if you can still hit a target.”

He paused and looked around. They were ready. Faces stern, minds focused, not a word of chatter. All the doubt he’d seen before was replaced by discipline. Good. He raised his spear and yelled, “The King approaches. To war, men! To war!”

They returned his battle cry with a shout of their own, sudden and fierce. It flew past him in single wall of force. Then another, then a third, longer and louder, weapons raised.

Androkles did not wait for them to finish. He stepped forward and walked at a quick pace through the crowd, spear over his shoulder, back straight. He passed out of what remained of the camp, which lay in even worse shape than when he’d arrived, and into the trees to the south, toward the berserking demons whose evil spirits he was feeling ever more strongly.

The archers and rope-men came following behind, faces stern and minds focused. They were a little closer than he preferred, but they’d figure it out on their own. He’d have to start a little softer so they had time to back up.

Fifty paces out of the camp, the first attack came. A single berserking demon came charging fast as a lightning strike. He ran almost like an animal, horns forward and claws tearing at the ground to propel him forward. He must have broken the King’s restraints and charged ahead on his own. Stupid.

An arrow whistled past Androkles and the demon leaned slightly to the side, dodging effortlessly.

Androkles judged the distance, judged the time, and raised his spear over his head, holding the haft near the point. Three, two—

He stepped forward and swung the blunt end of the spear down like a hammer. The demon swatted it away, but Androkles was ready and reached with a free hand to grab the demon’s horn. He pushed the raging beast into the ground and still moving forward, rolled onto his back to hold him there.

Only then did Androkles unleash his anger. Before the uncannily strong, squirming thing beneath him could sink its claws in anywhere, hot fury seared the air. Androkles mentally focused it downward, and an instant later, the demon screamed and thrashed. The thing’s eyes burst from the heat and fire began to roast him from the inside out.

Androkles rolled to his feet and pinned the flailing, suffering demon with his spear before it could get up. He unleashed even more of his anger, gazing with hatred down his spear. An instant later, the berserker erupted into blinding white flame. His screams ceased, replaced by crackling and sizzling. As always, the intense flames licking at Androkles’ ankles did not touch him.

He turned to see Natuak’s people and was pleased to discover that most of them had kept their feet long enough to back away to a safe distance. They’d even had the good sense to drag one or two men who had fallen. They stared at him, jaws hanging open and eyes wide. He did not lessen his killing intent immediately. Instead, he let it simmer and burn, making heat waves in the air around him. The ground dried and cracked, and the nearest pines started cracking and smoking.

“Be glad I fight for you and not against you this day! Now come, we go to kill a King!”

He did not have to go far. No more than fifty paces away, dozens of human forms appeared in the dappled afternoon sunlight beneath the pines. Androkles’ gut told him there were many more of them farther back that he couldn’t see, impossibly many.

The King approached, leading his armies and driving his remaining demons ahead of them. They hissed and snarled, looking visibly aggravated at being held back. He could feel their sickness and malice from here, see it in them as they stepped right and left, eager to move but unable or unwilling to charge forward as the first had done. They moved so erratically that he couldn’t get an exact count, but it must be over twenty. All the remaining ones, most likely. Perhaps one or two sent around the sides to go cause trouble, but he wouldn’t discover that until it was too late.

The King was clearly a man of his people, but he stood out like the one polished stone in a road. He sat with easy grace atop a night-black horse with a golden bridle. An elaborate helm of silver-decorated iron with white wings to either side rested lightly on his head. Upon his chest was a shirt of chain and a necklace thick with gold and gems. His hefty two-handed sword waited on one shoulder. He stared ahead with focus, ready to assault his prey. Every inch a King, noble and perfect.

Androkles pushed most of his killing intent back down and calmed his thoughts. The demons would come together, an overwhelming force to end the battle early. Perhaps they would even come before any other forces. His best chance would be to catch as many of them at once as he could. Let them come. Let them think him soft and ripe. Androkles’ face curled into a snarl, unable to contain his hatred.

The King’s eyes met his, and then it was time to begin the work of death.

Androkles stepped forward into a run just as the King raised his monstrous sword overhead and pointed it forward. It was not the demons in the lead; instead, a thousand horsemen broke into a charge, coming from every direction with their javelins and spears and swords held ready.

Their war cry was deafening and familiar. He’d heard it a hundred times, felt the enemy’s collective killing intent bearing down on him a hundred times. He let the sound ring in his ears and shake his sinews. The song it played energize him. Let them come. He would kill them all.

Androkles moved forward to greet them. The first horseman got close enough for Androkles to see that his eyes were blue before an arrow caught him in the mouth and pierced into his brain. Twenty more arrows shot past, each finding a target but most not doing much harm. The chain shirts kept them from piercing far enough.

Androkles swatted away a javelin with his spear, then a sword thrust, and then the press of the charging horses was too much for any movement. He glanced again at the King’s demons, all watching intently, teeth bared and claws ready, but still waiting.

So much for that plan. He’d have to kill the Allobrogians first, and he was out of time. He gathered his killing intent and drove it out, letting it burst from him with a clap of thunder that stung the sleeping trees.

A hundred lives snuffed out at once. Men and horses both within two dozen paces died, most instantly, some shortly after. Farther back, many more fell stunned to the earth or turned to flee in mindless terror. Androkles’ fury reached even to the berserkers, who ceased their restless slavering and growling to regard him with new caution.

Only the King remained unmoved, a rock in a sea of flesh and turmoil. He gazed down from his horse, mind and eyes focused. He gave another signal.

A hundred javelins flew into the air from behind the collapsed lines of horses and riders. There was no hope of dodging and Androkles had only seconds to react. He dove for cover inside the legs of a dead horse and pulled a dead man over him.

He listened as the javelins thudded into earth and flesh all around him, and as soon as it ceased he tossed the corpse aside and jumped to his feet.

A wing of horsemen came riding in hard, severed heads bouncing against their legs and saddles in time with the gallop. Sorcery, this time. The hard kills.

Androkles swallowed his killing intent and looked back. The good demons were still at quite a distance, fifty paces or more, but the rope-men saw the severed heads and came running forward.

Dyana came ahead of them, her muscular legs swallowing the distance in four impossibly long strides. She came to a stop beside him with a heavy thud, somehow finding a patch of dirt to stand on instead of a corpse.

He said, “Help the rope-men. Don’t get cornered. Go.”

She nodded and leaped forward, and two more giant’s paces landed her at the feet of a horse who reared up to keep from running into her. She jumped high into the air and drove her fist into the face of the rider, but it slid away and left the man unharmed. His severed heads had protected him.

Dyana’s surprise did not overcome her discipline. Perhaps she had even expected it. She recovered instantly, swatting his sword away with her palm and grabbing the severed heads dangling from a rope tied to one of the saddle horns. She yanked, but they didn’t come free.

The rider swung his sword down for her face, but Dyana held up her forearm to deflect it. The strike bounced harmlessly off her, a sight that still made Androkles’ stomach jump.

Another rider swung a two-handed sword at the back of her neck before Androkles could yell a warning, but somehow she saw it and ducked, pulled the head-rope taut. The tip of the sword caught the thin rope and nicked it, and a yank was enough to snap it.

She tossed the heads behind her and caught the second swing of the two-handed sword in midair and yanked that away too, with only the bare skin of her fingers. The man let go rather than be pulled from his horse, and she threw it into the oncoming crowd of horsemen.

Androkles was right behind her. He blocked a sword thrust with his spear and grabbed a set of heads with his other hand. He pulled, but they were tied on like the rest. So he really pulled and ripped the whole saddle off, rider and all. The horseman fought to free his legs and scramble away, and Androkles swung the saddle over his head like a sling and let it fly.

A short burst of killing intent was all it took to stun them, and quick spear thrusts to the throat ended both of their lives. The horses fled into the oncoming wing of cavalry, interrupting several and slowing them down.

The good demons reached him, lassos ready. They spread out to give themselves room, working in pairs. No more killing intent. This was it, then. They had entered the depths of the battle.

Androkles took his spear in both hands and braced himself to meet the charge of the next rider. He aimed it square at the center of the man’s chest, and the fool ran right into the spear tip with an invulnerable grin on his greasy face. It didn’t penetrate, of course, and might not have made it through the mail shirt without the sorcery regardless.

But that was not the point—Androkles braced himself and rammed the poor idiot right off his saddle. The horse kept moving, but Androkles spun the spear and gave it an encouraging swat anyway, and it jumped forward and fled, severed heads still tied to its saddle.

The soldier gave a valiant effort to regain his feet, dangerously close to getting trampled. Androkles stepped forward with the spear, twisting away from a javelin thrust, then another. He stabbed, but the man caught a shortsword thrown to him and deflected just in time. Three men on horses and one on foot raised their weapons for a simultaneous strike.

But the footman failed to see Dyana running up from behind, and a sharp kick to the back of the neck crumpled him. Androkles and Dyana nodded at each other, then braced for the next kill.

The rope-men made themselves known. To Androkles’ surprise, they used their lassos on the horses’ legs, not the riders.

At least ten horses went down, nearly at the same time, as lassos caught their front or hind legs. Even just catching one hoof was enough to get the beast to stumble and slow its motion, and that created an opening for one or two of the other men in the trio to steal the heads from the saddle, or hold the rider down, or interfere in some other way.

Nearby, one group of Night People was nearly ridden down by two elites who came to aid the man who’d fallen. One of Natuak’s demons doubled the rope and used it to block a sword slash, but the second rider reared up his horse to punch at them with its front legs.

The demon who lassoed the first horse rolled away with only inches to spare. He rose to his feet, and quicker than acrobats, his brother clasped his hands to give him a foothold. He leaped up and caught the rider in a bear hug that drove him from the saddle. The third demon hopped onto the horse and wound the end of his rope around one of the saddle-horns. Kicking the horse into motion, he rode away dragging a hapless Allobrogian by the neck. Androkles hadn’t seen them slip the noose on.

Androkles looked back to the King, only sixty or seventy paces away. The grand Allobrogian looked back at him, his face solemn and expressionless at this distance. The demon berserkers hunched on the ground in front of him, clawing at the dirt and slavering again for blood, baring their shark-like teeth.

The King raised his sword again and waved it in a signal Androkles didn’t recognize. All the elites, their numbers only slightly diminished, turned their horses and galloped back toward the King. At the same time, hundreds of regular cavalry raised a cry of blood-thirst and kicked their horses into motion.

Androkles turned and shouted, “Get back! Get back now!” and waved for the rope-men to retreat. Once again, they showed surprising discipline and spun so fast to run back that only their sharp claws kept them from falling over in the mud.

Dyana was already rushing forward to meet the charge. Four gleaming swords bounced off her bare skin like they’d smashed against a rock. She jumped up with another pounding fist, and this one collapsed the jaw of the man she hit and all the bones behind it. He slumped backward and fell like a torn sack of grain.

Androkles shouted, “Dyana, get away!” He braced his spear in both hands and performed a forward thrust that caught a rider under the armpit. He stepped in and turned to lever the man off his horse and fling him into the face of an oncomer.

“I’m fine! Go ahead!” Dyana shouted back.

Very well. He released his killing intent, a little stronger than he wanted due to his racing heart and the urgency of battle. His fury flamed forward and crushed the charge in midstep, throwing it back and killing more men than he had time to count. Their lives snuffed out beneath the pressure of his anger like so many lonely candles.

Dyana’s soul stood in the field of his fury like a pillar of iron cutting an ocean wave. He could sense only the barest flex in it, but he had no time for contemplation. He sensed the javelins before he saw them.

A volley of dozens or perhaps hundreds came flying over the fallen, but most were thrown at too great a distance and fell far short, except the ones that got close to Dyana. She stepped in between them like she was passing between feeble old men in a market.

Androkles smacked a javelin away with his spear and stepped forward. Another group charged in, swords raised as they tried to reach him before they fell. Some of their life-lights were brighter than others and made it farther before being overcome.

None even got close. Those too far out to die fell from their horses, frothing and spasming, and many of the ones farther than that panicked and disrupted the ones behind them.

Twenty elites rode forth from amidst the failed charge and closed ranks, riding in much closer formation to keep him from grabbing them one at a time. He dashed behind a tree to break them up. But as they got closer, they fanned back out again and surrounded him in a perfectly executed circle.

As one, the twenty or so sorcerers dismounted and took their weapons in hand, trusting the horses would stay close enough for the heads to protect them. Androkles quickly rushed one to break out of the trap, but the soldiers nearest him stepped in to his aid and Androkles was halted by the points of four javelins.

He swiped his spear to knock their attacks away, then swung it fully extended to scare them back, once, twice. The man on the left blocked with his roundshield and sent Androkles’ third attack high over their heads.

Time slowed as Androkles’ focus sharpened tighter than a razor. He could spare no thought, no motion, not a single breath beyond what was needed to ward off their attacks. He flicked the spear tip inches in one direction and swatted a man’s wrist, then inches in another and redirected a javelin thrust into the ground. He turned his heel and shoulders and dodged two swords at once, close enough to shave his nipples.

With the knuckles of one hand, he tapped a javelin shaft so the tip grazed his shoulder instead of piercing his arm. With the other, he caught a slashing sword on the butt of his spear.

Again and again, Androkles was spared by inches, reflexes from training and decades of war the only things that kept him alive. He moved faster than he could think, hands and feet dancing as if by their own will.

Then, for only an instant, he reached too far when he tried to grab a man’s hand and pull him into an incoming slash. Androkles’ broken ribs spasmed and made him flinch, and that was all it took to prevent him stepping away in time. A javelin pierced his left calf, thrusting in and out before he even felt it. He stepped to avoid the next one but his leg didn’t move as quick as he needed it to.

Androkles could feel the attacks slicing through his killing intent before he could see them. They came from several directions at once—the Allobrogians had spotted their chance. He redoubled his killing intent, flaring it up like a firespout in a final effort to turn aside five swords.

It didn’t work. He took two bad cuts on his right forearm, one on his shoulder, one near his knee, and another stab into the back of this thigh, a hand’s length below his buttocks. The attacks had been too quick and hasty to end the fight, but the wounds would slow him even further.

In retaliation, he jabbed forward with his spear, catching a man in the throat as he raised his sword for another slash. The spear tip should have punched right through the back of his spine, but all it did was knock the man back a little.

Still… a line of red appeared on the man’s throat. He tried to shout but it came out a twisted rasp. Reaching up to touch his throat, his fingers came away red. He went pale and turned to see his horse still there, only three or four paces away.

The others slowed and stopped, their confidence faltering.

The spear. The spear had cut the King as well, barely, in their fight in his Great Hall. Maybe there was still hope.

Androkles roared, stabbing again and again, each time barely penetrating a fingertip’s length. His killing intent made the air crackle, split the ground. The air hissed from the pressure and the nearest tree groaned and burst, sending a spray of splinters everywhere.

Dyana approached from behind. He didn’t even turn to see—he could feel her presence. She slapped the rump of a horse, then another, then another. The beasts jumped forward and away from their riders, only a few more paces.

But it was enough. Those men’s severed heads were now too far to protect them and they went up in flames like they were made of dry papyrus.

Androkles’ exultation manifested in even hotter fury. Drops of blood became puffs of smoke in midair. He stabbed again, and this time, he could feel his power flowing from his hand into his spear, moving as naturally as if it was part of his body.

He thrust again and stabbed the man against the tree, penetrating both his chain shirt and his flesh.

The tree ignited where it had burst open before and soon the whole thing was aflame, bright and hot, flames soaring into the sky above. Androkles yanked his spear away just in time for the remaining horses to panic and flee before the flames. The elites tried to chase them but were too slow and died after only a few steps.

Androkles turned to face the King and his demons. The man’s demeanor seemed a little less sure now, perhaps out of anger, perhaps hesitation. It was too hard to tell from here. But behind him, scores of horsemen held back, holding tightly to their reins. For a moment the two sides watched each other, his killing intent scalding the ground while the fire behind him grew.

The King was reconsidering his options, Androkles guessed. Probably wondering if it was time to risk his invaluable berserkers, or if there were still a couple less expensive things to try first.

Androkles considered rushing forward and decided the next move himself, but he dare not be hasty. Natuak’s demons would follow behind him, and a flanking move might wipe them out.

Something tickled at the edge of his awareness. Something moved back and forth overhead, high above, just at the feather-thin end of his killing intent.

It was Wolfscar, circling at great speed as if with urgent news.