Bifalt dismissed that problem. “Then leave the horses.” Without a path, the mounts would lame or kill themselves on this cluttered, uneven terrain. He had to go. If that meant running over broken ground in deep snow, he would run.

At once, he turned away to surge through the drifts.

Estie had called him Beloved.

Almost immediately, his bodyguards joined him, Jeck and Malder, Spliner and Boy. Prince Jaspid shouted orders. Elgart called for the two Magisters. Leaving their precious horses, the el-Algreb readied themselves to ascend toward the road.

At Bifalt’s side, the devotee of Spirit moved like a woman who knew every secret hidden by the snow.

He plowed forward, pushing off from boulders and dead trees, floundering when his feet slipped. A quick glance over his shoulder found Jaspid and the riflemen following closely. Elgart, Brighten, and Crawl were in the rear.

He crossed gullies, climbed over bulges that resembled shoulders. His labored breathing and strained muscles, he ignored. He had no time to regret his failure to train.

Then the ground rose ahead of him, a ridge like a rib of the foothills. Panting, he forced his way upward. Vapor gusted past him. Amandis put out her hand to steady him when he stumbled, then withdrew it.

Before he reached the crest, he saw light beyond it. Pale in the sunlight, the shining marked the presence of priests. He unslung his rifle and bent low so that he would not expose himself past the top of the ridge. His people crowded at his back.

The priests occupied a wide, shallow valley. Facing outward, they formed an aisle along the edges of trampled ground where Rile’s army had passed. Boots by the thousands had packed the snow into slick ice between patches of bare mud. Holding up their globe-topped staffs, the priests watched for threats from both sides, north and south.

Bifalt lacked sorcery himself, but their power was unmistakable. Its faint shimmering marred the air like a smudge. It would block bullets and blades, fire and lightning. None of the weapons he commanded would pierce it.

Up the center of the aisle came men clad like servants, running hard, gasping with effort and fear, afraid to fail. They each clutched a wrapped bundle as if their lives depended on it. They ascended one at a time twenty or thirty paces apart so that any man who fell would not impede the others.

Bifalt bit the inside of his cheek, spat blood, cursed uselessly. His chance was there, his opportunity to strike an effective blow. Those servants brought something that the enemy needed. But he did not know how to get at them.

One of the servants had already passed him. The next was a perfect target.

If he fired, he would announce himself to Rile’s sorcerers and gain nothing.

Amandis gripped his shoulder, put her mouth to his ear. “A distraction, King,” she commanded. “Give me a distraction.”