It was a wonder they had got passed the cavalry. Several riders were on their tail now. Too many men were needed for the assault on their camp; otherwise they would have had a dozen men after them.

How had Seswal alerted his men so quickly? Would his countrymen slaughter everyone back at camp, or take captives?

Falan booted his mount up an icy incline. He glanced back to make sure Serin was still with him. It was cowardly to run, but also the right decision. Seswal’s commander was certainly determined to kill or capture everyone in Lady Casen’s company. Falan had quickly assessed the situation after Thalus was killed, deciding on retreat.

Serin was close behind. “How many?” Falan shouted as they crested the incline.

Serin glanced over his shoulder. “Three—maybe five, I can’t be sure!”

Falan leaned left, avoiding an ice-covered branch, then right to avoid another as he and Serin crisscrossed through the forest. “We have to face them,” he called to the other man. “We cannot continue riding like this.” If they ran their mounts into the ground trying to escape, they would have no chance.

Serin pulled his rains, wheeling his horse, Falan close behind. Their pursuers were not far behind—a few score strides at most. “Hammer and anvil,” Serin shouted, and booted his horse into the trees on his right.

Falan went left.

Hammer and anvil was a tactic designed to encircle the enemy’s flanks in a pincer maneuver. It was not ideal with just two men.

Hoof beats came to a crescendo, then stopped when their pursuers entered the clearing. “Where are they?” one of the cavalrymen shouted.

They wheeled their horses about, searching. “The tracks...” another man said, “they stop. No—wait, they lead this way.”

That was his signal.

Falan booted his horse out of the trees, sword ready. The first man barely had time to look up as Falan’s blade went through his neck, nearly taking off a head.

The other riders wheeled in Falan’s direction as Serin exposed himself to their backs, steel flashing. Men screamed and died in the confusion as the two Serafes went to work, the Nelothan cavalrymen not knowing whether to fight or turn to parry a sword thrust from behind.

Falan crossed swords with another soldier, parried the attack, then delivered a killing blow while Serin took down another on his side, swords glinting in the moonlight.

Falan dismounted beside a flailing cavalryman with only one arm, blood spirting from his stump as he screamed and kicked in and out of a fetal position. The snow was a bloody mess.

Falan finished him off. He felt a pang of guilt killing his countrymen. It was a mercy... Better a quick death than a long one. “Was that all of them?”

“I think so,” Serin said, sheathing his bloody sword.

They booted their animals and continued their escape, though slowing their pace after a few more minutes of hard riding.

If the others are not dead, Falan thought, we have to go back for them. First they would have to find an area that provided enough opportunity for them to obscure their trail. They were only two men—it would not be difficult. Afterward they could track their attackers back to their camp, then make plans for a rescue.

Would it be worth the gold?

Falan was surprised by his own greed. It stabbed. He had more honor than that!