The thickening snowfall hindered the riflemen. It did not appear to hamper the skirmishers. As the small men scampered across the road and started upward, Klamath felt a fist close around his heart.

Their numbers had been cut down in Long Slough, but those that remained might be enough for Rile’s purpose. Blinding snows covered the foothills. Storm clouds sealed the world. Soon Klamath would not be able to see even one of the feral men until it sprang on him.

His people knew what to expect from the skirmishers. Only Hellick had not encountered them. Nevertheless the General passed his orders from man to man.

Sabers and daggers. No guns. A muzzle flash would betray the shooter’s position.

He set aside his own rifle, his satchel of ready clips. In silence, he drew his saber, loosened his dagger in its sheath.

He had been instructed to retreat to the plateau when the priests and the horde advanced. After speaking with sub-Commander Waysel, the King’s General had decided to disobey. Anyone on the flat outcropping would be exposed, defenseless against the Shields and globes of the priests. Klamath meant to stay where he was.

But Waysel and his guardsmen were already exposed. Klamath hoped that they had withdrawn to the Repository.

Hope was not enough. He needed to be sure.

A low call summoned Captain Rowt. When his aide joined him, General Klamath left his shelter and began to climb.

By his reckoning, he was well below the northern edge of the outcropping. With snow in their eyes, hardly able to be sure where they put their hands and feet, he and Rowt worked their way upward. Klamath listened for explosions, but he heard nothing except his own hoarse breathing.

The climb seemed long. Before he was ready, a sound reached him, an iron scraping like metal on stone. Instinctively, he shoved the Captain away and jumped aside.

With a muffled clangor, a siege-gun fell near them. Too heavy to roll, it stayed where it landed.

Hells! The skirmishers.

Climbing more urgently, Klamath found the wall of the plateau. He and Rowt hurried around it to a manageable slope and went upward.

On the plateau, they found too many bodies, guardsmen and skirmishers. As gentle as kindness, the snow covered the fallen in mounds like cairns. Waysel’s men must have fought hard. No more than five feral creatures remained to do their god’s bidding.

Struggling to shove cannon off the plateau, the last skirmishers did not notice General Klamath and Captain Rowt.

Klamath clenched his jaws against his anger and dismay. As soundless as the snow, he and his aide struck. The skirmishers were quick. They were not quick enough. In moments, they were dead.

Afterward, Klamath spent a while wiping snow off the faces of the guardsmen until he found sub-Commander Waysel. Waysel’s throat had been torn open. The slashes looked like the work of claws.