Every one of his thousand warriors raised a skull and they too drank blood, giving them strength for a new battle. Mouths stained red, the warriors mounted their horses and brandished their swords and spears. Slyn tossed down his empty skull, wiped the blood off his lips, and mounted his own horse—a black stallion that had borne him on many conquests.

"To blood!" Slyn roared. "To meat! To conquest!"

He dug his heels into his mount, and the horse burst into a gallop. Slyn rode south across the plains, and his warriors followed, their cries rising in a storm. They left their camp behind—the tents, the women and children, and the vanquished enemies who roasted upon campfires. They would return with more meals, with more women, with more power for Widejaw.

The grasslands rose and fell around them. Distant forests swayed in the east. Slyn had been driving his tribe south all summer, leaving a wake of bones.

All these lands will be mine, he thought as he led his horde. All its women will bear our sons, and all its blood will fill our bellies.

He opened his wide jaws and roared, and behind him, his warriors answered his call.

They rode throughout the morning, and at noon they reached the hills and saw it ahead—the Henge of Bluewood. It crowned the highest hill, its towering boulders engraved with runes. Upon smaller hills rose the homes of the Bluewood tribe. The fools had built wooden huts topped with grass roofs, permanent dwellings so easy to crush and burn. The weaklings emerged from those homes now, pointed toward the advancing Widejaw horde, and shouted in fear.

"Break their bones and drink their blood!" Slyn cried, riding across the hills.

His warriors rode behind him, their battle cries pealing. With flying spears and arrows, with mouths opened from ear to ear, the Widejaw warriors swarmed across the hills.

The enemy mounted only a pathetic defense—a few men firing arrows of sharpened wood that snapped harmlessly against the Widejaws' armor. Slyn grinned as he rode among them, swinging his sword, cutting them down. His bronze blade slashed through a man's neck. Blood spurted. Slyn grinned, licked his red sword, and swung it again, driving the blade into a graybeard's head. The skull cracked, leaking its sweet innards like a melon.

All across the hills, his fellow Widejaw warriors swarmed. Their horses trampled over fleeing children. Their arrows, spears, and blades cut into fur-clad men. Their torches thrust into grassy roofs, and the enemy huts burned.

"Capture the women!" Slyn cried, pointing his blade south. "Bring them to me."

Dozens of Bluewood women were fleeing down the hills. Slyn licked his lips as he watched them run, savoring the sight of their tunics swishing against their bodies. Their flight was futile. Widejaw riders reached them within heartbeats.