Lelldorin's hand flickered to the forest of arrows thrust point - first into the turf at his feet. He smoothly nocked another shaft, drew and released. And then again - and again. The sheet of arrows overhead was like some great slithering bridge arching over the infantry and riddling the Malloreans as it fell among them.

The storm of Asturian arrows crept inexorably across the field, and the Mallorean dead piled up in windrows as if some enormous scythe had passed through their ranks.

And then Sir Mandorallen's brazen horn sounded its mighty challenge, the ranks of archers and infantry opened, and the earth shook beneath the thunder of the charge of the Mimbrate knights.

Demoralized by the arrow storm and the sight of that inexorable charge descending upon them, the Malloreans broke and fled. Laughing delightedly, Lelldorin's cousin Torasin lowered his bow to jeer at the backs of the routed Angaraks.

"We did it, Lelldorin!" he shouted, still laughing. "We broke their backs!" He was half turned now, not facing the littered field. His bow was in his hands; his dark hair was thrown back; and his face reflected his exultant delight. Lelldorin would always remember him so.

"Tor! Look out!" Lelldorin shouted, but it was too late. The Mallorean answer to the Asturian arrow storm was a storm of their own. From a hundred catapults concealed behind the low hills to the north, a great cloud of rocks hurtled into the air and crashed down into the close-packed ranks along the riverbank. A stone perhaps somewhat larger than a man's head struck Torasin full in the chest, smashing him to the ground.

"Tor!" Lelldorin's cry was anguished as he ran to his stricken cousin. Torasin's eyes were closed, and blood was flowing from his nose. His chest was crushed.

"Help me!" Lelldorin cried to a group of serfs standing nearby. The serfs obediently moved to assist him, but their eyes, speaking louder than any words, said that Torasin was already dead.

Barak's face was bleak as he stood at the tiller of his big ship. His oarsmen stroked to the beat of a muffled drum, and the ship raced downriver.

King Anheg of Cherek lounged against the rail. He had pulled off his helmet so that the cool river air could blow the stink of smoke out of his hair. His coarse-featured face was as grim as his cousin's. "What do you think their chances are?" he asked.

"Not very good," Barak replied bluntly. "We never counted on the Murgos and Malloreans hitting us at Thull Mardu. The army's split in two by the river, and both halves of it are outnumbered. They're going to have a bad time of it, I'm afraid." He glanced over his shoulder at the half dozen small, narrow-beamed boats trailing in the wake of his big ship. "Close it up!" he bellowed at the men in the smaller boats.