Avshar dipped his head in acknowledgment, but warned in a voice like rime-covered stone, “See to it thou remembrest, aye, and thy brethren with thee.”

  The demon cringed.

  Varatesh hardly heard the mutter of thunder in the distance; he was beating down an Arshaum’s stubborn guard and finally cutting the man from the saddle. Nor had he thought much about the dark scudding clouds suddenly filling the sky—doubtless some side-effect of Avshar’s wizardry. He had not made any deep inquiries into that. He did not want to know.

  A raindrop splashed on his cheek, another on the palm of his left hand. The thunder came again, louder. He felt a light touch on the back of his neck and brushed at it automatically. His hand closed around something small and soft. It wriggled against his fingers.

  He opened his hand. A tiny tree frog, green mottled with brown, sat frozen on his palm, its golden eyes wide with fear, the sac under its throat swelling and deflating at each quick breath.

  Varatesh shouted in horrified disgust and threw the little creature as far as he could, then wiped his hands frantically on his buckskin trousers. With their cold slimy skins and thin, peeping voices, frogs housed the spirits of the dead, according to Khamorth legend. Even hearing them was bad luck; to touch one was infinitely worse, a sign he would soon die himself.

  Shaken, he tried to put the evil omen out of his thoughts and concentrate on the fighting again. Then another froglet dropped from the sky, to tangle itself in the long hair of his pony’s mane. Its pale legs thrashed and kicked. Yet another landed on Varatesh’s knee. It hopped away before he could bring down his fist and smash it. There was another phantom touch at the side of his neck; a little frog with clinging toepads skittered wildly across his face, too fast for him to kill it. He spat and blinked, over and over. His stomach churned.

  Varatesh was almost thrown from his horse when the rider on his right, who was swatting at himself like a madman, lost control of his mount and sideswiped him. “Careful, you slubberer!” he cried. The other did not seem to hear him. Still smashing away at frogs, he rode ahead with no thought for his own safety and quickly fell, easy meat for a grinning Arshaum’s saber.

  Too late, Varatesh understood the clouds above the field were no part of Avshar’s sorcery. Frogs fell from them in streams, in torrents, in a deluge, and as they fell, chaos spread through the Khamorth ranks. Some men fled, screaming in terror. Others, like the luckless fellow who had collided with the outlaw chief, were too unstrung by the frogs’ dreadful prophecy to think of their own safety—and thus helped fulfill it. And the hard cases who put aside panic and omens alike were too few to hold back the Arshaum, who stormed forward as they saw their foes in confusion.

  Fury banished fright from Varatesh. He roared foul oaths, trying to rally his unmanned followers. “Stand!” he shouted. “Stand, you stone-less spunkless sheep-hearted cravens!” But they would not stand. Neither his words nor his savage sword work stemmed the growing rout. By ones and twos, by groups, by whole bands, his army streamed away north, back toward their familiar pastures, and he with them.

  Viridovix howled his glee as the frogs rained down and the nomads began to waver. “Look at the little puddocks, will you now, falling from the skies!” he chortled. Several fell on him. He felt very kindly toward them and let them stay; they were safer than they would be under the horses’ pounding hooves.

  He rode close to Gorgidas and slapped the Greek on the back so hard that he whirled round, sword in hand, thinking himself attacked. “Sure and you’re a genius, you and your puddocks!” the Gaul cried. “D’you see the whoresons flapping about like hens wi’ the heads off ’em, not knowing whether to shit or go blind? They’re addled for fair!”

  “So it would seem,” Gorgidas agreed, watching two Khamorth gallop full tilt into each other. He picked a frog off his cheek. It sprang away as he was trying to set it on top of his fur cap. “Tolui and the rest of the shamans are doing splendidly, aren’t they?”

  Viridovix clapped a hand to his forehead. “Is that all you’ll say?” he said disgustedly. “You might as well be a dead corp, for all the relish you take from life. Where’s the brag? Where’s the boast? Where would Tolui and the whole lot o’ he-witches be, outen your scheme to play with?”

  “Oh, go howl!” Gorgidas said, but a grin stretched itself across his spare features as he watched the Khamorth lines dissolve under the froggy cloudburst like men of salt caught in the rain. “Brekekekex!” he shouted in delight. “Brekekekex! Koax! Koax!”

  Viridovix looked at him strangely. “Is that what a frog’s after saying in your Greek? Gi’ me a good Celtic puddock any day, who’ll croak his croak and ha’ done.”

  The physician had no chance to come up with a sharp answer. Three Khamorth were riding at him and the Gaul, stout-spirited warriors sacrificing themselves to buy time for their comrades’ escape. He recognized Rodak son of Papak. The onetime envoy spurred toward him, still shouting, “Varatesh!” Gorgidas had no chance to use his thrusting attack. It was all he could do to save himself from Rodak’s whirlwind assault. He yelped as the Khamorth’s saber scored a bleeding line down his arm.

  Then Rodak’s head leaped from his shoulders. As every muscle in the spouting corpse convulsed, Batbaian pushed on to the next outlaw and hewed away half his hand. With a shriek, the Khamorth jammed it under his other arm to try to stem the bleeding. He spun his horse round and rode for his life. Batbaian galloped to Viridovix’ aid against the third. After his mutilation and the slaughter of his clan, mere frogs held no terror for him.

  Viridovix killed his man before Batbaian reached him. The young Khamorth stared at the standards in Varatesh’s army. They were in disarray, some moving in one direction, some in another, others shaking as if their bearers were taken by an ague.

  “I know those clans,” he said. “They cannot all be corrupt—the Lynxes, the Four Rivers clan, the Spotted Goats, the Kestrels.…” He spurred forward toward the Khamorth, crying, “To me! To me! Rise now against Varatesh and his filthy bandits! The Wolves!” he shouted, and followed it with the howling war cry of his clan.

  A chill ran up Viridovix’ spine. Only Batbaian could raise that shout now. No, there was another—had not Targitaus and he shared blood in brotherhood? He threw back his own head and howled, took up the cry himself. “The Wolves! Are you hearing me, you dung-eating mudsouls? The Wolves!” He pounded after Batbaian. Even in their confusion, heads whipped round among the Khamorth to listen.

  A flood of fleeing Khamorth came up from the south, Arshaum riding in pursuit. “Irnek’s turned them!” Arigh said. “He’s rolling them up!”

  “Aye!” said his father. “If we strike now, we can bag the lot of them.” Arghun seized the lance that carried Bogoraz’ coat from the standard bearer. He leveled it at the milling Khamorth, who were losing any semblance of order as the new wave of fugitives crashed through bands still fighting. “At them!” he cried. Hard on the heels of Batbaian and Viridovix, the Gray Horse Arshaum charged.

  When the first frog dropped from the sky, Avshar thought it a freak of nature and crushed it under his boot. Then another one fell, and then a handful of them. A few hundred yards ahead, the sound of battle changed. The wizard-prince lifted his head, wary as an old wolf at a shift of wind.

  Sensing his distraction, the demon cowering in the sorcerous fire lashed out with all its might, trying to break free from his control. Avshar staggered. “Test me, wilt thou?” he roared, gathering all his powers to hurl against the rebellious fiend. It resisted, but could not draw on the full power of its swarm; its mates were not yet entirely on the plane where it battled. He beat it back and lashed it with agony it had never imagined. With a final gesture of sublime hatred, the wizard-prince severed the connection between the swarm leader and its comrades.

  Aghast, solitary in a way it had never known, the demon wailed and yammered. “Less than thou deservest, traitorous maggot!” Avshar hissed.

  He readied the cantrip that would reunite the swarm with its leader and bring them through to do his bidding, but had no time to cast it. While he and the demon had fought, the battle ahead was collapsing. Khamorth galloped by, too unstrung by frogs and Arshaum to fear the wizard anymore. And the Arshaum themselves could only be seconds behind, hot for revenge against his archery.

  His fists balled in fury. It all but choked him—outdone by a two-copper bit of conjuring! But he had survived too long to yield to rage’s sweet temptation. He bounded atop his great black charger—no time for a spell of apportation, even if he were not spent by his earlier magics. His long-sword rasped out. Cold iron, then, and nothing else.

  No, not quite. As the wizard touched spurs to the stallion’s flanks, he swung his sword arm in a quick, intricate pattern. The blue flames of his balefire died; the demon within sprang free.

  Avshar pointed east. “Slay me the leader of that accursed rabble, and then I give thee leave to get hence and join thy fellows once more.”

  The demon’s claws clutched hungrily. Its slanted eyes were still filled with horror at aloneness. It mounted to the air on black, leathery batwings and circled above the field to seek its commanded quarry.

  The wizard-prince did not watch it go. He was already galloping south, away from the fleeing Khamorth. They were a broken tool, but he had others.

  Viridovix paid no attention when the druids’ stamps on his sword flared to golden life. They had been gleaming gently for some time from Tolui’s sorcery, and he was deep in the press, laying about him for all he was worth. He kept shouting the Wolves’ war cry, though his throat was raw and his voice hoarse. Several times he had heard answering shouts that did not come from Batbaian and once saw a pair of Khamorth chopping at each other with axes. Varatesh’s jerry-built power was cracking at the first defeat.

  As if the name was enough to conjure the man, he spied the outlaw chief not fifty feet away, using the strength of his fine horse to force his way through the crush. Varatesh’s eyes locked with his. Viridovix raised his sword in challenge. Varatesh nodded, once, and turned his mount’s head. He struck one of his own men across the shoulders with the flat of his shamshir. “Make way, there! This is between the pair of us!”

  They moved cautiously toward one another, each aware of his opponent’s strengths. At swords afoot Viridovix would have been confident; he was a better man with the blade than Varatesh ever would be. But the nomad’s lifelong rapport with his horse canceled the Gaul’s advantage.

  Confident in his horsemanship, Varatesh struck first, a cut at the Celt’s head that Viridovix easily beat aside. The outlaw chief swung up his blade in salute. “A pity it must end this way. Had the spirits made the world but a little different, we might have been friends, you and I.”

  “Friends, is it?” Viridovix wheeled his horse, slashed; with liquid grace, Varatesh ducked under the stroke. Memories swam behind the Gaul’s eyes until a red mist all but robbed him of vision: Varatesh kicking him in the point of the elbow to warn against escape when he was the renegade’s captive; a butchered camp—oh, and one body in particular—the remembrance of Seirem smote him like a blow; a thousand blinded men stumbling along with weeping red empty sockets, tied to half a hundred left one-eyed to guide them. “Friends wi’ the likes o’ you, you murthering sod? The Empire’s Skotos’d spit on you.” He cut again, anger lending his arm fresh force. Varatesh grunted as he turned the slash. The next one got home.

  Pain twisted the Khamorth’s mouth, but from Viridovix’ words, not the wound. “I know what you think,” he said, and the Celt could not help but believe him. “Those outrages I was forced to, and the ones before as well. I loathe myself for every one. It was do as I did or die, after I was wrongly outlawed.” His voice was full of desperate pleading, as though he was trying to convince himself and Viridovix both that he spoke truly.

  For a moment the Gaul felt sympathy, but then his eyes grew hard and his hand tightened once more on his sword hilt. “A man flung into a dungheap can climb out and wash himself, or he can wade deeper. Think on the choice you made.”

  The explosive rage that made Varatesh dangerous to friend and foe alike turned his handsome features into a mask more frightening than the one Tolui wore. He showered blows on Viridovix, using his lighter, quicker blade to strike and then strike again, never giving the Celt a chance to reply. Viridovix dodged in the saddle, parrying as best he could. He felt steel cut him, but battle fever ran too high to let him know the hurt yet.

  Not so his horse; it squealed and bucked when Varatesh laid open its shoulder. Viridovix flew over its head. He landed heavily on his side. As Varatesh wheeled his own beast to come round and finish the job, the Gaul scrambled to his feet. He grabbed at his pony’s reins, hoping he could mount before the Khamorth was upon him. He missed. The pony, wild with pain, ran off still leaping and kicking.

  Varatesh’s gore-smeared grin was a ghastly thing to see. Viridovix hefted his sword and planted his feet firmly, though facing a horseman afoot was a fight with only one likely ending.

  Just as Varatesh urged his horse at the Gaul, another rider hurtled toward him out of the crowd of fighters watching the single combat. The outlaw chief whirled to face the unexpected attack, but too late. Batbaian’s scimitar rose and fell. “For my father!” he cried. Blood spurted. He slashed again. “My mother!” Varatesh reeled. “Seirem!” Two cuts, forehand and back, delivered with savage force. “And for me!” Varatesh gave a bubbling scream as the sword hacked across his face, giving Batbaian exact retribution for his own disfigurement.

  The renegade toppled to the ground, lay still. “Take his horse,” Batbaian called to Viridovix. He hurried forward. Varatesh groaned and rolled over onto his back. Viridovix swung up his sword to finish him, but the outlaw’s one-eyed dying stare transfixed him.

  Varatesh’s mouth worked. “Outlawed wrongly … not … my fault,” he choked out. “Swear … Kodoman drew knife … first.” He coughed blood and died, the dreadful insistence still set on his face.

  The pony did a nervous dance step as Viridovix’ unfamiliar weight swung into the saddle, but it bore him. The Celt glanced at Varatesh’s corpse. “D’you suppose he was telling the truth, there at the end?”

  Batbaian frowned. “I don’t care. He earned what he got.” He hesitated, looked for a moment as young as his years. “I’m sorry I broke into the duel.”

  “I’m not, lad,” Viridovix said sincerely. He was starting to feel his wounds. “For all he was a cullion, the kern was as bonny a fighter as ever I faced; belike he had me there. And,” he added quietly, “you gave him your reasons for it.” Satisfied, Batbaian nodded.

  Their chief’s fall spurred on the rout of the Khamorth. They fled north, pressed hard by Arghun’s forces. The khagan waved the standard over his head, urging his riders on. Flanked by his two sons, he caught up with Viridovix and Batbaian at the spearhead of the attack. “You know him, the one you brought down?” he said.

  “Aye,” said Batbaian; Viridovix, almost as brief, amplified: “Varatesh, it was.”

  Arghun’s face lit with the smile of a general who sees victory assured, the smile of a man for whom war still holds joy. “No wonder they break, then! Well fought, both of you.”

  Viridovix grunted; Batbaian said nothing. Dizabul and even Arigh scowled at their churlishness, but the Gaul did not care. Some triumphs were too dearly won for rejoicing.

  Someone was plucking at his sleeve. He turned to find Gorgidas by his side; it was like meeting someone from another world. “Still alive, are you?” he said vaguely.

  The Greek’s answering grin was haggard. “Through no fault of my own, I think. Wherever I get the chance hereafter, I’ll stick to writing up battles instead of fighting in them—safer and less confusing, both.” He grew businesslike, drawing a long strip of wool from his saddlebag. “Let me tie up your arm. That slash that got through your cuirass will have to wait until we have time to get it off you.”

  For the first time, Viridovix realized that the dull ache in his chest was not just exhaustion; he felt warm wetness trickling down his ribs and saw the rent in his boiled-leather armor. A flesh wound, he decided, since he had none of the shortness of breath that went with a punctured lung.

  He held out his arm to Gorgidas for bandaging, then jerked it away. The druids’ marks were yellow fire down the length of his sword. But the rain of frogs, having served its purpose, was slackening. “Avshar!” the Gaul shouted, looking wildly in every direction for the wizard-prince.

  But when the danger came, it dropped from the skies like Tolui’s frogs, hurtling down like a stooping hawk. Arghun suddenly groaned. The standard went flying from his hands and fell to the ground as he pitched forward on his horse, clawing at the crow-sized horror that clung to the back of his neck.

  It was clawing too, its talons ripping through sinew and softer flesh. Its razor-sharp beak tore deeply into him; everyone close by heard bone break. Batwings overlay the khagan’s shoulders like the shadow of death. His struggles lessened.

  Arigh and Dizabul cried out together; no one could have said which of their swords first descended on the demon’s back. But its armored integument turned their blades. It glared hatred at them through slit-pupiled eyes red as the westering sun and did not loose its hold.

  Then Viridovix slashed at the creature. The druids’ stamps flashed like lightning as his sword cleaved the unearthly flesh; he blinked and shook his head, half dazzled by the explosion of light. The demon shrieked, a high, thin squall of anguish. Foul-smelling ichor sprayed from it, spattering the Gaul’s sword hand. He jerked it away; the stuff burned like vitriol.

  Still screaming, the demon dropped off Arghun and thrashed in its death throes. In a rage born of disgust and dread, Virdovix hacked it clean in two. The wailing stopped, but each half quivered on with unnatural vitality. Then, when it was truly dead, its flesh crumbled to fine gray ash and blew away on the breeze.

  “Out of my way, curse you!” Gorgidas said, pushing past the Celt and Arigh to reach Arghun’s side. The khagan was slumped over his horse’s back; Gorgidas sucked in a sharp, dismayed breath when he saw the gaping wound Arghun had taken. The khagan’s face was gray, his eyes rolled back in his head. Gorgidas stanched the flow of blood as well as he could and groped for a pulse. He felt none.