The brightness of their lights was astonishing. It shone from globes the size of fists attached to the tops of iron staffs. The staffs were as tall as their wielders, men clad in black like priests. Etched in radiance despite the night and snow, those men stood with the assurance of commanders.

They held their staffs in gaps between columns of Rile’s forces. The light limned the hulking shapes of tusked beasts, their eyes as black as ebony.

The Great God had sent his cavalry.

Klamath cursed to himself. In this place, he could have fought infantry almost indefinitely. But cavalry? The weight of those mounts might sink them—or they might be powerful enough to force their way through the muck. On open ground, they were certainly fast enough to outrun the General’s horses.

Four of the fuming beasts waited in the spaces between the priests. Scanning quickly, Klamath counted fourteen priests, fourteen bright staffs, one anchoring each end of the front. They lit the way for columns of cavalry. In that light, the tusks of the mounts were slashes of ivory. Steam gusted like fury from their nostrils. They ripped at the ground with hooves like claws, or tossed their heads impatiently, eager to kill.

The tactics of overwhelming force. They had been thwarted in the Open Hand, and against Belleger’s Fist. Apparently, Rile had not learned from the experience.

Klamath had told his Magisters of fire and lightning to do nothing until Whimper and the other drought-wielders were in danger. He repeated that order. Turning to Captain Rowt, he said past cold-stiff lips, “Those butchers will charge.” They believed that they could stamp out Belleger’s resistance here. “Tell your men to hold fire until then. I want your best marksmen shooting at those priests.” Distance and snow would hinder ordinary accuracy, but the bright globes would make good targets. “The rest must fire at those beasts.” The massive animals would be in range when they hit the waters. “If their mounts fall, the men will be helpless.”

“As you say, General.” Captain Rowt hurried away.

Abruptly, Klamath heard a wet noise, a faint splashing. The increasing snowfall muffled it, but he knew what it meant. A wave of skirmishers had entered Long Slough. The splashes were the thrashing of small men in deep water and clinging mire.

“Magister Solace,” he commanded. “Begin now. Cast your Decimate into the Slough.”

The dour man did not answer, but his arms and shoulders shed clots of snow as he gestured, directing his sorcery. His comrades did the same. In moments, the waters were thick with disease.

The current would carry the pestilence downstream, but while it persisted it would sicken every skirmisher it touched.

The splashing worsened. Klamath heard thin squeals. He did not know what to expect from the feral men. If they tried to rescue their struggling kindred, the Decimate of pestilence would claim them.