The Ellyl drew his sword, and dappled sunlight shone silver on it; silver was his armor, and worked on his shield a thistle-blossom, marking him of the House of Núrilin. “Then you will die.”

Nudging his mount forward, Tanaros drew his Pelmaran sword in salute.

They engaged.

The Núrilin’s first blow reeled him in the saddle, nearly cracking the borrowed buckler with its force. This was no mere guardsman taken unaware and on foot, but a lord of the Ellylon fighting on horseback, equal to equal. Tanaros’ shield-arm went numb to the shoulder. Anger rose in him like a tide. With a wordless shout, he pressed the attack, driving the Ellyl back by main force. The heaving sides of their mounts jostled one another as they grappled, too close for either to get a solid blow. On the left and right, the sounds of battle arose.

“You’re too few,” the Núrilin lord said. “Surrender, and be spared.”

Tanaros gritted his teeth and raised his aching shield-arm, shoving the buckler hard into the Ellyl’s body, gaining a few inches of space. Obedient to the command of his knees, the black horse wheeled and Tanaros brought his sword around in a flashing arc, landing a solid blow to the helm. The Núrilin retreated a pace, shaking his head, but to his left, one of the Staccians cried out and fell back, wounded. Even as another struggled to take his comrade’s place, battle surged, pressing toward the glade. Tanaros cut across, driving them back, gasping as the tip of a blade scored his unprotected side, piercing the leather seam of his armor. Blood trickled down his ribcage.

“How long, defiler?” the Núrilin lord called. “Until all your men are dead?”

From the corner of his eyes, Tanaros could see movement in the massed ranks behind the Ellylon. Dun-colored cloaks, moving through the trees. He swore under his breath. The Borderguard of Curonan was spreading out, seeking another passage, trying to come around and flank them. It was what he would have ordered. They would do it, in time; and worse, they would find the decoy’s trail, too soon.

“How long, General?” one of the Staccians muttered behind him as the onslaught redoubled its efforts, forcing them back another pace.

Tanaros pressed his elbow against his bleeding side. “We will—”

At the rear of the massed Allies, something stirred, the troops of the Duke of Seahold parting to admit a handful of men, spearheaded by one who uttered a single cry. “Curonan!”

In the woods, the dun-colored cloaks turned back in answer.

The Ellylon halted their attack, waiting.