Paul Kemp - Shadowbred

"That is Phlen and Othel," said Reht. His sergeant shielded his eyes and squinted into the distance. Reht had an archer's eyes.

"They ride fast," Lorgan said of his scouts. He turned to Enken, another of his sergeants. "Get the men up."

Enken, a scarred, dark-hearted veteran with a talent for throwing knives, turned and gave a piercing whistle.

"Mount up, men!"

As one, the mercenaries left whatever pastime had occupied them, adjusted their armor and weapons, readied their mounts, and climbed into their saddles.

The two riders neared and Lorgan could make out Phlen's long hair streaming behind him and Othel's black leather armor.

The two scouts were racing, Lorgan saw. Both were bent low over their mounts' necks. Each was shouting encouragement at his horse.

"My coin is on Phlen," Reht said, and smoothed his moustache.

"Ten fivestars on Othel," said Gavist, the youngest of the sergeants. He could not yet grow a respectable beard but he had won his rank and the respect of his men in several battles fought in Archendale.

"Twenty," said Reht. "If you've the balls."

"You are looser with your coin than a whore with her favors," answered Gavist with a grin. "Twenty it is."

As the riders drew nearer, the men and horses gathered around Lorgan and his commanders and shifted in anticipation. They knew, as did Lorgan, that the return of the scouts meant that an attack would soon follow. Horses whickered. Mail chinked. Men murmured.

Othel and Phlen tore over the plains. Their shouts carried on the wind. Othel wore his characteristic grin. He spurred his mount and pulled in front of Phlen.

Gavist laughed aloud.

Reht shouted, "Ride, Phlen, you orcwhelp!"

Othel widened the distance and Phlen surrendered the race.

Othel raised a fist in victory. He slowed as he approached the company and pulled his sweating mount to a stop.

"Sir," he said to Lorgan, saluting in the Sembian military fashion. A former Sembian Helm, his military habits died hard.

Phlen arrived in the next moment, chagrined.

"That's ten fivestars to me for outpacing you," Othel said to him.

Phlen ignored him and saluted Lorgan. "Sir."

"Report," Lorgan said.

Othel said, "The Saerloonian delegation is north of us. We watched them pass. They did not see us. They are moving slowly along Rauthauvyr's Road."

"They number about thirty," Phlen added. "All mounted, plus three carriages. I would wager on a wizard or priest in their midst."

"Phlen's wagers are poor bets though, sir," Othel said with a grin.

"Piss off," Phlen said. Lorgan and the commanders chuckled.

"Wizards and priests are both likely," Lorgan said. His own force numbered seventy-six men, including Vors and Paalin-two war priests of Talos-and the Blades' most powerful wizard, Mennick.

"We could let them camp," Reht said. "And come upon them at night."

The Blades often used such a plan. The men were experienced night fighters. With Mennick's spells and several enchanted items possessed by the company's leaders, most of the men could be empowered to see in moonless darkness, and the tactic had worked in many battles.

"No," he said. "If we assault them while camped at night, we will have a slaughter. We want to wound them and send them running northward for their lives. We will attack them on the road." To Phlen and Othel he said, "Fall in with your squads."

Lorgan turned to Vors and Paalin, his war priests. Both wore their brown hair long and tangled; both had deep-set, wild eyes. Lorgan attributed their crazed expressions to their worship of the god of destruction. Each bore a shield that featured the jagged lightning bolt of their deity.

"Hide your holy symbols and leave your shields behind," Lorgan ordered them.

Vors snarled behind his beard. Paalin scowled and said, "I would sooner stick my hand up a dragon's arse."

"Leave them," Lorgan ordered, "or I will stick my hand up yours and pull out your heart. We are to appear as if in service to Saerb and Selgaunt, priest. Are many of your brothers in the faith in service to those cities?"

The priests looked away, grumbling.

"Leave the shields or I will leave you behind altogether."

Lorgan knew the threat of missing the battle would cause the berserker priests to see sense.

"Very well," Vors barked, and tossed his shield to the ground. Paalin did the same. Both of them glared at Lorgan.

Lorgan smiled and looked to his sergeants. "Attack from the rear. Make sure they see you coming for a fair distance. Force them northward to Ordulin. It does not matter how many of them die, so long as some do. Minimize our own losses. Remember, we are not trying to wipe them out, just blood them. The carriages are not to be harmed or attacked and none of our men are left behind, dead or alive. Understood?"

All nodded.

"Let's move out, then," Lorgan said.

The sergeants pulled their horses around and issued readiness orders to the men.

With the rapidity and precision that had won the Blades more than twenty battles, the force moved out. They formed five squads, each led by one of Lorgan's sergeants.

Vors and Paalin pulled colored glass spheres from their saddlebags and shattered them on an elms trunk, asking for Talos to find pleasure in the destruction and bless the men in the coming battle. Lorgan thumped both of the priests on the shoulder, mending any hard feelings.

"Reht and the archers to the rear," Lorgan ordered.

Reht and his ten bowmen fell into formation at the rear. Lorgan, the priests, and Mennick fell in behind them.

When the group reached Rauthauvyr's Road-a wide, packed earth road that stretched across Sembia's eastern coastal region like a ribbon-they moved five abreast and accelerated into a gallop. The thunder of hooves shook the earth in all directions.

After a half-hour of hard riding, they spotted the Saerloonian delegation ahead. Enken used hand signals to order the men into a crescent formation. Enken and Gavist's men took the left; Borl and Scorral's took the right. Reht and his archers took their bows in hand and formed a loose line within the crescent. Lorgan, the priests, and Mennick trailed them.

"I want to shed some blood in this, Lorgan," Vors said, thumping a gauntleted fist on his breastplate. Paalin growled agreement.

Lorgan shook his head. "You both are to stay near me. You will see to any wounded and make sure no one is left behind, alive or dead." Lorgan knew that a prisoner or corpse could be questioned and reveal the identity of the attackers. Forrin had been clear about not allowing that to happen.

The priests barked their usual complaints but agreed to do as Lorgan ordered.

Ahead, the trailing riders of the Saerloonian delegation turned and saw Lorgan's forces bearing down on them. Two sped forward and shouted to the rest of the train. A score of heads turned around, alarmed. Men pointed, shouted. Shields were readied, weapons drawn. Heads poked out of the carriages and looked back. Lorgan grinned, imagining the Saerloonian nobles' shock over an attack on their own road.

Gavist sounded a horn blast. The clear notes rang out over the thunder of hooves.

One of the Saerloonian riders sounded a trumpet in answer. Lorgan could see one or two of the riders issuing orders on the fly. The Saerloonian delegation spurred their horses into a hard gallop but the whole train could move only as quickly as the horses could pull the bouncing carriages. The Blades rapidly closed the gap. One rider in the Saerloonian delegation turned in his saddle and pointed something back at the Blades. Lorgan guessed he had spotted a wizard.

"Wand!" shouted several of the Blades.

A jagged bolt of lightning shot from the wand and tore through Boris men. Three horses and their riders fell, screaming, smoking.