THE HORDE set fire to the Southern Forest at night, after three days of pitched battle. Never before had they done this, partially because the Forest Guard rarely let them close enough to have such an opportunity. But that was before Martyn. They’d ignited the trees with flaming arrows from the desert two hundred yards away from the perimeter. Not only were they using fire, they had made bows.
It had taken Jamous and his remaining men four hours to subdue the flames. By Elyon’s grace the Horde hadn’t started another fire, and the Forest Guard had managed an hour of sleep.
Jamous stood on a hill overlooking the charred forest. Beyond lay a flat white desert, and just now in the growing light he could see the gathered Horde army. Ten thousand, far fewer than what they’d started with. But he’d lost six hundred men, four hundred in a major offensive just before dusk last evening. Another two hundred were wounded. That left him only two hundred able-bodied warriors.
He’d never seen the Desert Dwellers engage in battle so effectively. They seemed to swing their swords more skillfully and their march seemed more purposeful. They used flanking maneuvers and they withdrew when overpowered. He hadn’t actually seen the general they called Martyn, but he could only assume that was who led this army.
Word had come of the great victory at the Natalga Gap, and his men had cheered. But the reality of the situation here was working on Jamous’s mind like a burrowing tick. One more major push from the Horde and his men would be overrun.
Behind them not three miles lay a village. It was the second largest village of the seven, twenty thousand souls in all. Jamous had been sent to escort these devout followers of Elyon to the annual Gathering when a patrol had run into the Horde army.
The villagers had voted to stay and wait for the Desert Dwellers’ sound defeat, which they were sure would be imminent, rather than cross the desert without protection.
Until yesterday it had seemed like a good plan. Now they were in a terrible situation. If they fled now, the Horde would likely burn the entire forest or, worse, catch them from behind and destroy them. If they stayed and fought, they might be able to hold the army off until the three hundred warriors whom Thomas had sent arrived, but his men were tired and worn.
He crouched on a stump and mulled his options. A thin fog coiled through the trees. Behind him, seven of his personal guard talked quietly around a smoldering fire, heating water for an herbal tea. Two of them were wounded, one where the fire had burned the skin from his calf, and another whose left hand had been crushed by the blunt end of a sickle. They would ignore their pain, because they knew that Thomas of Hunter would do the same.
He looked down at the red feather tied to his elbow and thought of Mikil. He’d plucked two feathers from a macaw and given her one to wear. When he returned home this time, he would ask for her hand. There was no one he loved or respected more than Mikil. And what would she do?
Jamous frowned. They would fight, he decided. They would fight because they were the Forest Guard.
The men had grown silent behind him. He spoke without turning, indicating the desert as he did so.
“Markus, we will hit them on their northern flank with twenty archers. The rest will follow me from the meadow on the south, where they least expect it.”
Markus didn’t respond.
“Markus.” He turned.
His men were staring at three men who’d ridden into camp. The one who led them rode a white horse that snorted and pawed at the soft earth. He wore a beige tunic with a studded brass belt and a hood that covered his head in a manner not unlike the Scabs. Not true battle dress. A scabbard hung on his saddle.
Jamous stood and faced the camp. His men seemed oddly captivated by the sight. Why? All three looked like lost woodsmen, strong, healthy, the kind who might make good warriors with enough training, but they certainly had nothing that would set them apart.
And then the leader lifted his emerald eyes to Jamous.
Justin of Southern.
The mighty warrior who’d defied Thomas by turning down the general’s greatest honor now spent his days wandering the forests with his apprentices, a self-appointed prophet spreading illogical ideas that turned the Great Romance on its head. He’d once been very popular, but his demanding ways were proving too much for many, even for some of the pliable fools who followed him diligently.
Still, this man before him threatened the very fabric of the Great Romance with his heresy, and his rhetoric was growing stronger, they said. Mikil had once told Jamous that if she ever met Justin again, she wouldn’t hesitate to withdraw her sword and slay him where he stood. She suspected that he had been manipulated by the druids from the deep desert. If the Horde were the enemy from without, men like Justin, who decried the Great Romance and spoke of turning the forest over to the Desert Dwellers, were the enemy from within.
The fact that Justin had turned down his promotion to general and resigned from the Forest Guard two years ago when Thomas needed him most didn’t help.
Jamous spit to one side, a habit he’d picked up from Mikil. “Markus, tell this man to leave our camp if he wishes to live.” He walked for his bedroll. “We have war to wage.”
“You are the one they call Jamous.”
The man’s voice was soft and low. Confident. The voice of a leader. It was no wonder he’d bewitched so many. It was well known that the Horde’s druids bewitched their own with slippery tongues and black magic.
“And you are the one they call Justin,” Jamous said. “What of it? You’re in the way here.”
“How can I be in the way of my own forest?”
Jamous refused to look at the man. “I am here to save your forest. Markus, mount your horse and muster the men. Make sure everyone has bathed. We may have a long day ahead. Stephen, pull out twenty archers and meet me in the lower camp.”
His men hesitated.
He whirled. “Markus!”
Justin had dismounted. He possessed the audacity to defy Jamous and approach the fire, where he stood now, hood withdrawn to reveal shoulder-length brown hair. He had the face of a warrior gone soft. All had known of his skill as a soldier before his defection from the Guard. But the lines of experience were softened by his brilliant green eyes.
“The Desert Dwellers will destroy you today,” Justin said, reaching a hand out to the fire. He looked over. “If you attack them, they will run over what remains of your army, burn the forest, and slaughter all of my people.”
“Your people? The people of this forest are alive because of my army,” Jamous said.
“Yes. They have been indebted to you for many years. But today the Horde is too strong and will crush what’s left of your army like they crushed this man’s hand yesterday.”
He pointed to Stephen, who had taken the sickle.
“You abandoned the army. What would you know of war?” Jamous asked.
“I wage a new kind of war.”
“On whose behalf? The Scabs?”
Justin faced the desert. “How much blood will you spill?”
“As much as Elyon decides.”
Justin looked surprised. “Elyon? And who made the Scabs? I believe Elyon did.”
“Are you saying that Elyon did not lead us against the Horde?”
“No. He did. But aren’t you really the same as the Horde without the lake? So then if I was to take the water from you and shove you out into the desert, we’d be cutting you to pieces instead of them. Isn’t that right?”
“You’re saying that I am one of them? Or maybe you’re suggesting that you are.”
Justin smiled. “What I’m really saying is that the Horde lurks in all of us. The disease that cripples. The rot, if you like. Why not go after the disease?”
“They don’t want a cure.” Jamous grabbed the horn on his saddle and swung up without using the stirrup. “The only cure fit for the Horde is the one Elyon has given us. Our swords.”
“If you insist on attacking, maybe you should let me lead your men. We’d have a much better chance of victory.” He winked. “Not that you’re bad, not at all. I’ve been watching you since you came, and you’re really very, very good. One of the best. There’s always Thomas, of course, but I think you’re the best I’ve seen in some time.”
“And yet you insult me?”
“Not at all. It’s just that I am very good myself. I think I could win this war, and I think I could do it without losing a single man.”
Justin had a strange quality about him. He said things that would ordinarily bring out the fight in Jamous, but he said them with such perfect sincerity and in such a noncombative way that Jamous was momentarily tempted to smack him on the back as he would a good friend and say, “You’re on, mate.”
“That’s the most arrogant thing I’ve ever heard.”
“So then I take it you’re going to battle without me,” Justin said.
Jamous turned his horse. “Markus, now!”
“Then at least agree to this,” Justin said. “If I can rid you of this Horde army on my own, ride with me in a victory march through the Elyon Valley to the east of the village.”
Jamous’s men had started to mount, but they stopped. Justin’s companions hadn’t moved from their horses. Nothing about this wild proposal seemed to surprise them.
Any hint of play had vanished from Justin’s eyes. He stared directly at Jamous again, commanding. Demanding.
“Agreed,” Jamous said, interested more in dismissing the man than taking any challenge from him seriously.
Justin held his eyes for a long while. Then, as if time was short, he walked to his horse, threw himself into the saddle, reined it around, and left without so much as a glance.
Jamous turned away. “Stephen, archers. Hurry, before the light is full.”
Justin led Ronin and Arvyl through the trees at a gallop. They could hardly keep up, and he didn’t push his mount as he often would when riding alone. There were others beside Ronin and Arvyl—thousands who would cry out his name in the right circumstances, but his popularity had waned as of late. They were a fickle people, given to the sentiments of the day.
He only hoped that he still had enough. His agreement with Martyn depended at least partially on his ability to deliver a crowd as planned.
Living as an outcast had extracted its price. At times he could hardly weather the pain. It was one thing to enter society as an orphan, as he had; it was another to be openly rejected as he was so often now.
At times he wasn’t sure why Elyon didn’t take his sword to the lot of them. Their Great Romance was no romance of Elyon at all.
Now their fate was in his hands. If they only knew the truth, they might kill him now, before he had the chance to do what was needed.
“Justin! Wait,” Ronin called from behind.
They’d come to a grove of fruit trees. Justin pulled up. “Breakfast, my friends?”
“Sir, what do you have in mind? You can’t take on the whole Horde army single-handedly!”
Still at a trot, Justin slid a pearl-handled sword from its scabbard, leaned far forward, flipped the blade over his head in a movement that approximated a figure eight, and then reined his horse in.
One, two, three large red fruits dropped from the tree. He caught each in turn and hurled one each to Ronin and Arvyl. “Ha!”
He bit deeply into the sweet nectar. Juice ran down his chin and he shoved his sword home into its scabbard. The fruit he would miss.
Ronin grinned and took a bite of his fruit. “Seriously.”
Justin’s horse stamped. Slowly the smile faded from his face. He looked off at the forest. “I am serious, Ronin. When I’ve said that leveling the desert with a single word is a matter of the heart, not the sword, you weren’t listening?”
“Of course I was listening. But this isn’t a campfire session with a dozen hopeless souls looking for a hero. This is the Horde army.”
“You doubt me?”
“Please, Justin. Sir. After what we have seen?”
“And what have you seen?”
“I have seen you lead a thousand warriors through the Samyrian desert plain with twenty thousand Horde before us and twenty thousand behind. I have seen you take on a hundred of the enemy single-handedly and walk away unscathed. I have heard you speak to the desert and to the trees and I have seen them listen. Why do you question my confidence in you?”
Justin looked into his eyes.
“You are the greatest warrior in all the land,” Ronin continued. “Greater I believe than even Thomas of Hunter. But no man can possibly go against ten thousand warriors alone. I’m not doubting; I’m asking what you really mean by this.”
Justin held him in his gaze, then slowly smiled. “If I ever had a brother, Ronin, I would pray he would be exactly like you.”
It was the highest honor one man could give another. In truth Ronin did doubt Justin, even by asking, but now he was wordless.
Ronin dipped his head. “I am your servant.”
“No, Ronin. You are my apprentice.”
Billy and Lucy watched the three warriors from behind their berry bush, barely breathing. In their hands they gripped wooden swords they had carved only yesterday. Lucy’s sword wasn’t as sharp or as sword-looking as Billy’s because she had a hard time carving with her bad hand. It was good enough to wedge the wood against her leg, but otherwise the shriveled lump of flesh was good only for pointing or clubbing Billy over the head when he got too annoying.
It had been Billy’s idea to sneak out of the village while it was still dark and join the battle—or at least take a peek.
His friend had tried to convince Billy that it was too dangerous, that nine-year-old children had no business even looking at the evil Horde, much less thinking they could fight them. Lucy hadn’t thought they would actually come, but then Billy had awakened her and she’d followed, whispering her objections most of the way.
Now she was staring at the three warriors on their horses, and her heart was hammering loud enough to scare the birds.
“That’s . . . that’s him!” Billy whispered.
Lucy withdrew into the bush. They would be heard!
Billy looked at her, eyes wide. “That’s Justin of Southern!”
Lucy was too terrified to tell him to shut up. Of course it wasn’t Justin of Southern. He wasn’t dressed like a warrior. She wasn’t even sure that Justin even existed. They’d heard all the stories, but that didn’t mean anyone lived who could really do all those things.
“I swear it’s him!” Billy whispered. “He killed a hundred thousand Scabs with one hand.”
Lucy leaned forward and took another peek. They were like the magical Roshuim of Elyon that her father said would one day strike down the Horde.
“And what about you, Arvyl?” Justin asked. “What do you make of—”
He stopped midsentence. Ronin followed his gaze and saw that two children, a boy and a girl, crouched at the edge of the clearing, peering past a berry bush at the three warriors.
They were looking at Justin, of course. They always looked at Justin. Children were always captivated by him. These two looked like twins, blond hair and big eyes, about ten, far too young to have wandered so far from home at a time like this.
Then again, he hardly blamed their curiosity. When had such a battle come so close to them?
Justin had already slipped into another world, Ronin thought with a single glance. Children did this to him. He was no longer the warrior. He was their father, no matter who the children were. His eyes sparkled and his face lit up. At times Ronin wondered if Justin wouldn’t trade his life to become a child again, to swing in the trees and roll in the meadows.
This love for children confused Ronin more than any other trait of Justin’s. Some said that Justin was a druid. And it was commonly known that druids could deceive the innocent with a few soft words. Ronin had a difficult time separating Justin’s effect on children from the speculation that he wasn’t who he seemed.
“Hello there,” Justin said.
Both children ducked behind the bush.
Justin slid from his horse and hurried toward the bush. “No, no, please come out. Come out, I need your advice.” He stopped and knelt on one knee.
“My advice?” the boy asked, poking his head up.
A hand gripped his shirt and pulled him back. The girl wasn’t so brave.
“Your advice. It’s about today’s battle.”
They whispered urgently, then finally came out, the boy boldly, the girl cautiously. Ronin saw that they each carried a wooden sword. The girl was shorter and her left hand was bent backward at an odd angle. Deformed.
Justin’s eyes lowered to the girl’s hand, then up to her face. For a moment he seemed trapped by the sight. A bird sang in the tree above them.
“My name is Justin, and I . . .” He sat down and crossed his legs in one movement. “What are your names?”
“Billy and Lucy,” the boy said.
“Well, Billy and Lucy, you are two of the bravest children I have ever known.”
The boy’s eyes brightened.
“And the most beautiful,” he said.
The girl shifted on her feet.
“My friends here, Ronin and Arvyl, aren’t convinced that I can single-handedly bring the Horde to its knees. I have to decide, and I think that you might be able to give me some direction. Look in my eyes and tell me. What do you think? Should I take on the Horde?”
Billy looked at Ronin, at a loss. The girl answered first.
“Yes,” she said.
“Yes,” the boy said. “Of course.”
“Yes! You hear that, Ronin? Give me ten warriors who believe like these two and I would bring the entire Horde to its knees. Come here, Billy. I would like to shake the hand of the man who told me what grown men could not.”
Justin stretched out his hand and Billy took it, beaming. Justin ruffled the boy’s hair and whispered something that Ronin couldn’t hear. But both of the children laughed.
“Lucy, come and let me kiss the hand of the most beautiful maiden in all the land.”
She stepped forward and offered her good hand.
“Not that one. The other.”
Her smile softened. Slowly she lowered her sword. Now both hands hung limp at her sides. Justin held her eyes.
“Don’t be afraid,” he said very quietly.
She lifted her crippled hand and Justin took it in both of his. He leaned over and kissed it lightly. Then he leaned forward and whispered into her ear.
To be perfectly honest, Lucy was terrified by Justin. But it wasn’t a fearful terrified as much as a nervous terrified. She wasn’t sure whether she should trust him or not. His eyes said yes and his smile said yes, but there was something about him that made her knees knock.
When he took her hand and kissed it, she knew he could feel her shaking. Then he leaned forward and whispered into her ear.
“You are very brave, Lucy.” His voice was soft and it ran through her body like a glass of warm milk. “If I were a king, I would wish that you were my daughter. A princess.”
He kissed her forehead.
She wasn’t sure why, but tears came to her eyes. It wasn’t because of what he had said, or because he’d kissed her cheek. It was the power in his voice. Like magic. She felt like a princess swept off her feet by the greatest prince in all the land, just like in the stories.
Only it wasn’t the beautiful princess the prince had chosen. It was her, the one with the stub for a hand.
She tried her best to keep from crying, but it was very hard, and she suddenly felt awkward standing in front of Billy like this.
Justin winked at her and stood, still holding her own hand. He put his other hand on Billy’s shoulder. “I want you both to go home as fast as you can. Tell the people that the Horde will be defeated today. We will march through the Elyon Valley at noon, victors. Can I count on you?”
They both nodded.
He released them both and turned back to where his horse waited. “If only we could all be children again,” he said.
Then he swung into his saddle and galloped across the small clearing. Justin pulled up at the trees and spun his horse back.
If Lucy wasn’t mistaken, she could see tears on his face. “If only you could all be children again.”
Then he rode into the trees.
“Watch our flank!” Jamous thundered. “Keep them to the front!”
Markus drove his horse directly into a pocket of Horde warriors and pulled up just as one took a wide swipe with his sickle. Markus threw his torso backward, flat on the horse’s rump. The sickle whistled through the air above. He brought his sword up with his body, severing the Scab’s arm at the shoulder.
Jamous used his bow, sending an arrow through the back of the warrior bearing down on Markus from behind. The attacker roared in pain and dropped his sword.
“Back! Back!” Jamous cried.
It was their fourth attack that morning, and the strategy was working exactly as Jamous had designed it to. If they kept beating away at the flanks, their superior speed would keep the slower army from outmaneuvering them for position to the rear. They were like wolves tearing at the legs of a bear, always just out of reach of its slashing claws, just close enough to take small bites at will.
The forest lay a hundred yards to their rear. Jamous glanced back.
No, two hundred. That far?
Farther.
He spun around and stood in his stirrups, surveying the battlefield. A chill defied the hot sun and washed down his back. They were too far out!
“Back to the forest!” he screamed.
Even as he did, he saw the wide swath of Horde slicing in from the east, cutting them off.
He glanced to the west. The enemy ran too far to cut through their lines there. He spun to the west. An endless sea of Horde.
Panic swelled, then receded. There was a way out. There was always a way out.
“Center line!” he cried. “Center line!”
His men fell in behind him for running retreat. When the Horde moved to intercept, they would break off in a dozen directions to scatter them. But always they would move in the direction he first took them.
His horse reared high and Jamous looked desperately for that direction.
“They’re cutting us off!” Markus yelled. “Jamous—”
He knew then what the enemy had done. The bear had suffered the wolves’ attacks with patience, snarling and swiping as it always did. But today it had slowly, methodically drawn the wolves farther and farther into the desert, far enough so they wouldn’t see the flanking maneuver. Too far to outrun it.
The Horde army closed in a hundred yards behind them. At the center a warrior held high their crest, the serpentine Shataiki bat. They were trapped.
The Scabs nearest him suddenly fell back a hundred yards and joined the main army. His men had clustered to his right. Their horses snorted and stamped, worn from battle. No one demanded that he do something. There was little they could do.
Except charge.
The Horde line between them and the forest was their only real option. But it was already fifty yards wide, too many Scabs to cut through with fewer than two hundred men.
Still, it was their only option. An image of Mikil flashed through his mind. They would say that he had fought like no man had ever fought, and she would carry his body to the funeral pyre.
The Scab army had stopped now. The desert had fallen silent. They seemed content to let Jamous make the first move. They would simply adjust their noose in whichever direction he took them. The Horde army was learning.
Martyn.
Jamous faced his men, who’d formed a line facing the forest. “There’s only one way,” he said.
“Straight at them,” Markus said.
“Elyon’s strength.”
“Elyon’s strength.”
Maybe a few of them could cut through the wall to warn the village.
“Spread the word. On my mark, straight ahead. If you make it, evacuate the village. They will be burning.”
Had it really come down to this? One last suicide run?
“You’re a good man, Jamous,” Markus said.
“And you, Markus. And you.” They looked at each other. Jamous lifted his sword.
“Rider! Behind!” The call came from down the line.
Jamous twisted in his saddle. A lone rider raced across the desert from the east, half a mile distant. Dust rose in his wake.
Jamous spun his horse. “Steady.”
The rider was headed neither for them nor for the Desert Dwellers. He approached halfway between their position and the Horde army. A white horse.
The sound of the pounding hoofs reached Jamous. He fixed his eyes on this one horse, thundering in from the desert like a blinded runner who’d gotten lost and was determined to deliver his message to the supreme commander at any cost.
It was Justin of Southern.
The man still wasn’t in proper battle dress. His hood flew behind him with loose locks. He rode on the balls of his feet as if he’d been born in that saddle. And in his right hand hung a sword, low and easy so that it looked like it might touch the sand at any moment.
Jamous swallowed. This warrior had fought and won more battles than any living man except for Thomas himself. Although Jamous had never fought with him, they’d all heard of his exploits before he’d left the Guard.
Justin suddenly veered toward the Horde army, leaned low on the far side of his horse, and lowered his sword into the sand. Still running full speed, he carved a line on the desert for a hundred yards before righting himself and pulling his mount to a stop.
The white stallion reared and dropped back around.
Justin galloped back, not once glancing at either army. The front ranks of the Horde shifted but held steady. He reined tight at the center of the line that he’d drawn and faced the Horde.
The armies grew perfectly still.
For several long seconds Justin stared ahead, his back to Jamous.
“What’s he—”
Jamous lifted a hand to quiet Markus.
Justin swung his leg off his saddle and dropped to the ground. He walked up to the line and stopped. Then he deliberately stepped over the line and walked forward, sword dragging in the sand by his side. They could hear the soft crunch of sand under his feet. A horse down the line snorted.
He was only a hundred feet from the main Horde army when he stopped again. This time he thrust his sword into the sand and took three steps back.
His voice rang out across the desert. “I request to speak with the general named Martyn!”
“What does he think he’s doing? He’s surrendering?”
“I don’t know, Markus. We’re still alive.”
“We can’t surrender! The Horde takes no prisoners.”
“I think he aims to make peace.”
“Peace with them is treason against Elyon!” Markus spit.
Jamous glanced at the army to their rear. “Send one runner wide, to their eastern flank.”
“Now?”
“Yes. Let’s see if they let him pass.”
Markus issued the order.
Justin still faced the army, waiting. A rider broke from Jamous’s line and sprinted east, in much the same manner as Justin had. The Scabs made no move to stop him.
“They’re letting him go.”
“Good. Let’s see if—”
“Now they’re stopping him.”
The Scabs were closing the eastern flank. The rider pulled up and headed back.
Jamous swore. “Well then, let’s see how far treason gets us.”
As if on cue, the Horde army parted directly ahead. A lone general on a horse, wearing the black sash of his rank, rode slowly out to Justin. Martyn. Jamous could make out his bland Scab face beneath the hood, but not his features. He stopped ten feet from Justin’s sword.
The soft rumbling of their voices carried across the desert, but Jamous couldn’t make out their words. Still they talked. Five minutes. Ten.
The general Martyn suddenly slid from his horse, met Justin at the sword in the sand, and clasped Justin’s hands in the traditional forest greeting.
“What?”
“Hold your tongue, Markus. If we live to fight another day, we will drag him through his treason.”
The general mounted, rode back to his men, and disappeared. A long horn blasted from the front line.
“Now what?”
Justin leaped into his saddle, spun his horse, and sprinted straight toward them. He’d come within twenty feet without slowing before it occurred to Jamous that he wasn’t going to.
He cursed and jerked his horse to the left.
He could see the mischievous glint in Justin’s emerald eyes as he blasted through the line and galloped toward the waiting Horde. Long before he met them, the Scab army parted and withdrew, first east and west, and then south like a receding tide on either side.
Justin pulled up at the tree line.
Jamous glanced back once, then kicked his horse. “Ride!”
It wasn’t until he was halfway to Justin that Jamous remembered his agreement. The man had indeed rid him of the Horde, hadn’t he? Yes. Not by any means he’d imagined—not by any means he even understood—but he had. And for that at least, Justin was victor.
Today the people would honor him.