Tol took a step backward, uncertain. Should he run home and warn his family? He glanced over his shoulder in the direction of their homestead. It was five minutes’ walk away, but if his father returned and found him gone, his work not yet finished-Tol shook his head at the thought of Bakal’s certain wrath.
Last autumn there had been other battles. Swarms of mounted men, clad in bronze and iron, had fought to possess the Great Road that ran through the southern end of the province. Once, Tol had seen a small mob of warriors bearing green streamers. They rode helter-skelter north, pursued by a larger band of fighters under a scarlet banner. The green riders had burned six farms and killed the local healer, Old Kinzen, when he couldn’t save their leader from his wound. Tol’s father and his cronies sat around the fire all winter, drinking plum dew from a stone jug and talking in anxious voices about war. The emperor’s Great Horde was fighting itself, they muttered. Men of Ergoth were making war on each other.
Tol understood little of what was said. The affairs of men were not for women and children, and the ways of warriors were even more remote. All he knew was, where men went with horse and sword, blood and fire followed.
Suddenly a truly mighty shout went up, echoing off the intervening hills and penetrating Tol’s worried ruminations.
He heard a terrific crash, as if all the trees in the forest had fallen down at once. The plowed earth beneath his feet shivered. His fingers tightened nervously around the hoe handle.
The strange ground tremor did not subside, but grew stronger. An indeterminate rumble of combat gave way to the sounds of individual hoofbeats and shouting voices. It rose steadily in volume. The fight was coming his way!
He cast about for a hiding place. The onion field was a shallow, bowl-shaped depression between three hills, about thirty paces long and half that wide. Other than Tol himself, the only thing in it that morning was a chest-high pile of compost his father had dumped the day before. Formed from the family’s refuse collected all winter, mixed with the scrapings of the chicken coop, it was a malodorous heap.
Tol didn’t hesitate: He sprinted for the compost pile, leaping nimbly over the newly turned sod. Better to lie in filth than be trampled by a warrior’s charger, or hacked to death by an iron sword!
Before he reached cover, a lone horse appeared in the cleft below the north hill. Tol’s panicked dash halted abruptly when he spied the coal-black beast. It was an enormous animal, and it was riderless.
When the horse galloped by, eyes bulging, teeth bared, foamy sweat streaking its ebony neck, Tol saw why it was so terrified. Gripping the animal’s mane was a man’s hand, fingers tightly knotted into the long strands. Severed below the elbow, the limb thudded rhythmically against the horse’s neck. Blood stained the blaze on the horse’s chest.
Hardly had the first runaway steed gone by when two more rounded the base of the hill. Neighing frantically, they weaved this way and that, almost colliding. They shied from Tol and cantered off. One animal had a wound on its rump, but neither bore a rider, or even part of one.
Someone blew a ram’s horn close by. The sudden blast sent Tol scrambling again for the compost pile. With the wooden blade of his hoe, he began hacking out a niche large enough to hide in.
He’d made only a shallow hole when a fourth horse appeared. Unlike the others, this animal had a rider, slumped forward over its neck. The horse came on at a steady trot. He was a magnificent stallion, broad and strong, the color of morning mist. Heavy mail trapping coated him from head to tail, the small iron rings sewn to rich crimson cloth. He came directly to the amazed Tol, and stopped. The reins fell from the unmoving rider’s hands.
At first Tol could only stare dumbfounded at the apparition looming over him. When the horse dropped its head to nuzzle his chest, he started violently, but regained his wits enough to speak.
“Sir? Master?” he said tentatively. The slumped rider did not reply, so Tol edged closer. The huge, dappled-gray horse watched him closely but did not shy, so he circled to the side to see the mart’s face.
The rider was a burly, yellow-bearded fellow. He’d lost his helm, but his fair hair was still matted from its weight. Fresh blood dripped from his slack fingers, and a nasty gash scored his left temple.
“Sir?” said Tol again, daring to touch the rider’s dangling hand. The limp fingers suddenly seized his arm. Tol tried to pull free, but the man’s grip was surprisingly strong.
“Boy,” he rasped, “don’t make a sound if you want to live!”
Tol hadn’t yelled when he was grabbed, and he wasn’t about to do so now. He simply nodded.
“All is lost. The Pakins have won the battle. They will come for me,” the man murmured. He coughed, and his hand relaxed, releasing Tol.
The ram’s horn bleated again, very near, and Tol understood its significance. Hunters used horns to signal each other when tracking prey. This man’s enemies were hunting him like a wild animal.
Tol slapped the horse sharply on the flank. The powerful beast gazed at him contemptuously. Surprised, Tol picked up the reins and tried to lead the horse away. The broad hooves never budged. It was like trying to shift an oak tree.
There was a rumble of many hoofbeats, growing louder, and Tol was torn. If he ran away, the unconscious warrior would certainly be caught and killed. If he stayed, the man’s enemies might slay him too!
His gaze fell upon the hoe, lying at his feet where he’d dropped it. The sight of it gave him an idea.
He planted his hands against the horse’s side and shoved. To his relief, the startled animal shuffled sideways a few steps. Tol cupped his hands under the injured man’s left heel and heaved. The warrior was big, and weighted down with much metal, but the gods were with Tol. The man rolled off his saddle and fell heavily to the ground.
Tol tore the scarlet band from the warrior’s sleeve and laid it over his face. That done, he attacked the compost pile once more with his hoe, flinging rotting leaves and manure over the unconscious man. Not satisfied with the amount he was shifting, he dropped to his knees and plunged his hands into the stinking heap. In short order the fallen warrior was completely buried.
Filthy up to his elbows, Tol confronted the horse, shouting and waving his arms. The stolid animal merely snorted, short plumes of mist furling around its wide nostrils.
“Stupid beast! Get away! How can I hide your master with you here?”
The war-horse only shook its big head and refused to move. In desperation, Tol did something his father had told him never to do: he swatted the animal hard on the nose, a blow no horse will bear.
The gray stallion finally woke to anger, rearing high and lashing out with its metal-shod hooves. Tol dodged briskly. A single blow from those heavy hooves could crack his skull open like a walnut.
The outraged horse trotted away. It followed the natural draw of the field, disappearing in the direction of the south woods. Hardly had the stallion merged into the morning haze than several riders burst from the defile. The lead warrior spotted Tol immediately and shouted. Whipping his long sword in a circle around his head, he led three companions toward the boy.
Tol’s heart hammered against his ribs, but he concentrated on working the soil with his hoe and on keeping his eyes from straying to the compost pile. In moments he was surrounded by mounted men, each wearing a strip of green cloth tied around his right upper arm.
“It’s just a peasant,” said one, reining in his prancing charger. “And a smelly one at that.”
“They’re all smelly,” said another, bearded face twisted in disgust.
“Look here, boy,” said a third, whose helm bore a green feather plume. “How long have you been here?”
“All morning, master,” Tol replied. He was surprised by his own coolness. Though his heart was racing, his tongue was calm. No quaver spoiled his voice.