The riflemen made a wedge with King Bifalt and his bodyguards at its tip, Prince Jaspid and Elgart a pace back on either side. Magister Brighten took the center of the formation, guarded on all sides. Bifalt believed that the priests would stay deep in the horde, heavily warded. He meant to force his way into the enemy’s onrush until Brighten’s Decimate could reach the priests. His men might be able to open a gap with gunfire. Once they pierced the horde’s front, however, they would be swarmed. Their rifles would be useless. They would have to rely on their sabers—and on the covering fire of the el-Algreb.

Like the destruction of Belleger’s Fist, this charge was a desperate tactic. And like that ploy, it depended on the resolve of King Bifalt’s people. It was his responsibility, yet he could do little to determine its outcome.

He had always needed help. Even his one great achievement, his alliance with Amika, would have been impossible if Commander Forguile had not faced King Smegin with him. In the end, it was always the people he had sworn to serve who paid the price.

Glaring, he waited for the enemy.

His sight was not as good as it had once been. Even in full sunlight, he could not see far enough. Most of the snowfield was as flat as the plain, but where his army had passed, disturbed clumps of snow and ice caught reflections that hurt his eyes.

Finally, Jaspid stood in his stirrups, peered into the north. As he resumed his seat, he nodded to King Bifalt.

“It is time, Brother.” The Prince spoke softly, but his voice had the clarion timbre of a tantara.

As if he had never faltered and did not know how, King Bifalt told his company, “At a canter, men. We will not charge until we can be sure of our targets.”

With his heels, he nudged his horse forward.

In formation, his riflemen matched his pace.

The way ahead was comparatively easy. His passage an hour ago had broken up the icy crust, beaten down the underlying snow and slush. Even at a gallop, he would not need to worry about his mount’s footing.

Now he could see a blur in the distance ahead, a seethe of running men. Behind them, the sorcerous shining of globes marked the priests. He did not try to count them. Whatever their number, they were more than enough.

Flicking his reins, he began to move faster.

Then the gap between him and the horde seemed to close with astonishing swiftness. The blur became a throng of individual men running shoulder to shoulder with their mouths gaping to bite and their breaths gusting. Their fangs resembled curved daggers shaped and sharpened to rend.

The el-Algreb advanced in support. Holding their guns ready, they stayed far enough back to avoid crowding the riflemen and risking their own horses.