The salamander line shuddered and in some cases halted, fifty paces from the flank of the scarecrows.

Mortirmir’s cruel smile intensified into the full satisfaction of a man who was wrecking havoc.

“Encore,” he said.

It happened again. The desiccations were explosive this time. The enemy moaned in fear . . . and rage . . . and came on.

Gabriel considered forbidding him to cast it again.

And he judged himself for it, cursed, and rode on, down the hill, after the Galles. They were not cowards; they had been overmatched, and they were not running, but milling helplessly, bereft of most of their leaders. Du Corse had stripped them of local squires and knights to build up his own chivalry, and now townsmen and musicians and peasants and butchers tried to find it in themselves to form a line in the face of the red fire and the deadly spears of the alien foe.

Gabriel had hoarded a little ops to use as a shield, but now, instead, he used Morgon’s sound enhancement, reaching into himself; draining everything; and even here, on an alien world, he drew a little and little more from the golden chain that still pulsed with life, trailing away into the thin aethereal and full of hope . . .

Men of Galle! I need you now!

He rode along the edge of their mass, waving a sword he hadn’t realized that he’d drawn. Off to his left the knights were pouring in; clearly they’d gone through the enemy line and ridden too far, like knights all over the world except the military orders. But now Du Corse was lashing them with his voice, and they struck along the edge of the salamander line, their hooves leaving a trail of black blood, and then began to form with the crossbowmen.

Du Corse swung himself off his mount and knelt, an actor on the stage of chivalry, and Gabriel leaned down and gave him a mock buffet on one shoulder, and then the former sell-sword was up, bellowing for his knights to dismount. The crossbowmen and halberdiers shuffled forward and formed well with a wall of trained muscle and steel between them and the foe; the Gallish line was suddenly formidable.

The scarecrows were invisible, over the shoulder of the great hill; but the Nordikaans and Mortirmir were still there.

“We must go forward!” Gabriel shouted, his visor up. He waved his sword.

Du Corse’s banner was up; it began to advance, and the Galles flowed forward.

Men began to sing. They were singing Te Deum; the red fire lashed out, and the voices went on, and the Galles would not flinch. Harald Derkensun fell, his head cut away by a stone axe.