As Klamath rode on, he heard the distant bark of rifles: single shots followed by rapid fire as his soldiers emptied their clips. To him, they sounded like cries of pain. At once, clusters of beasts scattered. The clamor of trampling hooves and rending tusks came almost immediately.

Still, the General’s ploy had an effect. When the riflemen were dead, the cavalry advanced more slowly. He had purchased a few more hours of survival.

The cost felt too cruel for tears. Nevertheless it was his duty. He did not allow himself to flinch from it. After nightfall of the second day, he demanded another sacrifice. He left two Magisters of pestilence behind, hidden to ambush the enemy. The priests would sense their sorcery, but the cavalrymen would not know where to look for its source. Given time, pestilence was as fatal as fire or lightning.

Whatever those Magisters did, Klamath could not hear it. The only sign that they had not wasted their lives was a sudden, brief flurry of gestures among the shining globes. Even that brightness barely pierced the snow.

But the enemy came no closer. Exhaustion reduced the army’s mounts to a ragged stumble—and still the enemy came no closer. Eventually, even the pinprick lights of the priests faded.

During the night, the snowfall dwindled. The worst of the storm had passed. The sun might show itself at dawn. Then the enemy would charge. Klamath believed that. His army had reached the end of itself. The priests would seize their chance. One swift rush would bring this long chase to a close.

He tried to think, and could not. In darkness, this stretch of Belleger offered him nothing, not even a pile of boulders or a stand of trees for cover.

Conserving its last strength, he halted his poor mount and turned to face the enemy. When the time came, he would be the first to die. If he accomplished nothing else, he could choose the terms of his end. His people could make their own choices.

He had been right all along. King Bifalt should have chosen someone else to be his General.

He would know it when the enemy charged. Those hells-cursed globes would tell him. He tried to imagine how he would unsling his rifle, where he would find the resolve to take aim and fire.

Captain Rowt came to his side, and Magister Solace. Neither of them spoke.

Klamath was glad for their company. He did not want to die alone.

He expected to hear shouts like battle cries, the sudden white glare of sorcery. There was nothing. The charge that did not come. A long time seemed to pass before he began to wonder if it would come at all.

Without orders, Captain Rowt goaded his horse toward the enemy. In moments, he disappeared in darkness.