He took the closest man first. A thrust to the gut, no time wasted. The tip of the Ellyl blade pierced cured leather like butter. His wounded right leg quivered as he withdrew the sword, threatening to give way beneath him. No time for that. He ignored the weakness and made his feet move over the harsh terrain, picking another target, swinging two-handed. Another wardsman fell, and another, clearing a path around Fianna, who hadn’t even registered his presence. No matter. It felt good to have a sword in his hands. Better if he had been wearing armor, good Staccian armor. It might have kept him from enduring the myriad strokes that scored his flesh until he bled from a dozen places or more. It might have turned aside the cold blade that ran him through from behind, penetrating something vital. Blood soaked his clothing, mingling with sweat, running down his skin.

Panting, Carfax pivoted on his numb leg and cut down his foremost attacker, and another who followed, and two more after, three more. They came and they came, and he struck and he struck, weaving a circle around her, until his blood-slickened arms had no more feeling in them. Again and again, until he could no longer raise his sword and the battlefield seemed to darken in his vision.

Death is a coin to be spent wisely.

Falling to his knees, he tried to remember who had spoken those words. It sounded like Lord Vorax. It might have been his mother. Oh, there was brightness in the world, for all that it was slipping from his grasp. He thought about blue lakes under a blue summer sky and goldenrod in bloom, a dusting of pollen. A Beshtanagi wardsman loomed out of the smoke, grimacing, a hand-axe held above his head, prepared to deliver the final blow. On his knees, Carfax blinked and thrust upward with both hands, taking the man under the chin. The point of his borrowed sword stuck in the man’s brain-pan. “Staccians,” he whispered, “die hard.”

There was shouting, then, and the clashing of steel. Somewhere, the Borderguard of Curonan claimed ground, driving back the Beshtanagi. Horns were blowing an order to stand, and straining above them were the clarion sounds of the horns of the Rivenlost in the encampment, pleading a retreat no one heeded. With an effort, Carfax tried to rise. Instead, the world keeled sideways. He blinked, realizing his cheek was pillowed on the loose scree of rocks, and he could no longer feel his body.

So must his men have felt, when they died.