Thomas dismounted, then squatted on the sand to steady his arms for long-distance viewing. The slightest quiver shook the image to a blur.

Jackov nudged his horse next to Thomas’s while the commander’s scope was up. He began executing the foul play before Johnis fully realized what was happening.

“That’s because there’s nothing to see, old man,” Jackov said, and slashed the bags of water draped over Thomas’s horse. The contents crashed to the sand, wasted.

Johnis sat in his saddle like a slab of rock, incapable of moving. He’d known the moment would come, but this soon? Jackov didn’t have the patience to bide his time!

“What on . . .” Thomas had his sword out of his mount’s scabbard before he finished the last word, but Jackov was already away, grinning like a devil.

“You want water, old man?” He put a slit in his own bag of water. “You have to dig a well. I’ll pass.”

“You’re Horde,” Thomas said, understanding the situation immediately. Then his knife was out and in the air, flying like an arrow toward Jackov.

The fighter clearly hadn’t expected such an outright attack on his life. He’d expected to prance away on his horse while Johnis executed his part of the plan. But it was this kind of reversal that Thomas was famous for. General of the Horde, Martyn or Justin or whoever he really was, knew Thomas well enough to know that the man couldn’t be beaten by any normal means.

The long throwing blade turned three times, whistling with each rotation, and buried itself in Jackov’s chest just as the fighter began to realize he was in danger.

The desert echoed with a smack!

But Jackov had the presence of mind to reached down with his own knife, and jerk the blade across his horse’s thick neck: a gruesome sight that stopped even Thomas in his tracks. Slowly the horse’s front legs buckled. Then he was in the sand, dying with Jackov, who was already dead beside the animal.

Johnis knew that he had a few moments at best, and although he’d planned his next move to the last detail, he executed it now only after almost throwing his hands up with pleas for forgiveness.

Instead he eased his horse up to Thomas’s, took the reins, and walked them both away from the commander, who was still staring at Jackov and the dead animal beside him.

Johnis was fifteen feet away when Thomas turned back. “It’s a trap! We’re down to your water. It’s not enough to wait around. We turn back now and take advantage of the night.” He strode for his horse, obviously thinking that Johnis had simply pulled the animal away to keep it from spooking.

“How much left in your canteen?”