Giving a shout to draw their attention, Sir Troeven dismounted and charged straight at them, yelling for all he was worth and swinging his sword. They both looked at him, their faces registering no particular concern at the formidable sight. The woman began to make odd circular motions with her hands, as though she were washing windows. Troeven aimed a slashing blow at the man.

His sword struck against what felt like a shield, though there was nothing between him and the warrior but dust. The sword bounced back, the blow jarring through Troeven’s arm. By this time, the other knights were riding up around him, and the two dragon warriors, seeing themselves outnumbered, withdrew, vanishing into the grass so rapidly that one moment they were there and the next he could see no sign of them.

“Why did you let them go?” one of the knights demanded. “Why didn’t you slay them?”

Troeven lifted his visor and scratched his grizzled chin. The sweat trickled down his face and neck, yet he felt chilled to the heart. He had only one thought now, and that was to keep his oath.

Kneeling awkwardly in his armor beside the prince, he managed to remove the prince’s helm. Marcus’s eyes were closed. Sweat beaded on his forehead and his upper lip. At the man’s rough touch, Marcus moaned and turned his head.

Troeven smiled grimly. The prince might be grievously wounded—probably was, with a half-ton of horse on top of him. But he was alive, and it was Troeven’s sworn duty to try to keep him that way.

“You knew they were there, Your Highness,” he said to rally Marcus’s spirits on the off chance he could hear him. “The good God knows how, but you saw them. And you charged right into them, to make us see, too. I’ve never beheld a braver deed, and so I’ll tell your father to his beard. And I’ll apologize to you, Your Highness, and beg your forgiveness on my bent knees, and I’ve never done that with any man. First, though, we have to get you out of here alive. And that may be no small matter.”

He looked up to see the other knights had formed a cordon of horse and steel around the fallen prince. They were watching the enemy warriors with mounting amazement. In the heat of the action, they had not yet had a chance to take a good look at them.

The enemy, though not armed, was clad in armor that was strange in appearance. It was not plate armor, nor yet chain mail, such as the knights wore. The armor of these warriors was made of what looked to be shining scales that flowed like a second skin over their bodies and their limbs. And like a second skin, the armor appeared thin and fragile.