A vast horde of giants and nomen came rushing together, dark hills with a black tide of spearmen behind. A shout of triumph rose from the monsters’ throats.

Borenson’s heart nearly stopped. For in their midst rode hundreds of soldiers with brass shields. At their head, one huge warrior in black scale mail, with a helm of white owl’s wings, raised a great warhammer and shouted a war cry with a voice of a thousand men: “Kuanzaya!”

The fellow struck terror into Borenson’s heart, for he bore the armor and the weapons of kings.

Raj Ahten had his helm raised, and he was the most astonishingly handsome man Borenson had ever seen. The magnificent volume of the Runelord’s voice made Borenson’s horse stagger in its tracks. Witless with fear at the sound of the war cry, it struggled to retreat. Borenson shouted for it to charge, but Raj Ahten’s voice had been so deafening, perhaps it had damaged the mount’s hearing.

The horse thundered to a halt, fighting its reins, trying to turn on Borenson. Borenson managed to pivot it toward the enemy. Then they were in thick battle. Borenson’s lancers frantically charged the giants, spreading the cavalry dangerously thin, bowmen firing a hail of arrows, while Borenson himself struggled to charge Raj Ahten.

His mount would not go near that man, fought instead to flee. It raced to Borenson’s left, and Borenson found himself charging into the thick of giants as Raj Ahten swept past, warhammer rising and falling with incredible speed as he blazed a bloody trail through the ranks of defenders.

A giant rushed at Borenson through the fog, swung a huge oaken staff. Borenson ducked the blow, fled past the giant, into a knot of nomen who hissed and snarled, happy to see a lone soldier in their midst. Several giants raced past Borenson, seeking the heart of the battle.

Somewhere behind him, one of Borenson’s lieutenants began blowing his war horn, desperately sounding retreat.

Borenson raised his hammer and shield, began to chuckle as he fought for his life.

17

IN THE QUEEN’S TOMB

Three hours after a perfect pink dawn, Iome stood atop the Dedicates’ Keep and watched as Raj Ahten and a thousand of his Invincibles rode back into the castle, along with dozens of frowth giants and hundreds of war dogs—all amid cheers and shouts of celebration. The fog on the downs had burned away, but a few wisps still clung amid the shadows of the Dunnwood.

Apparently, the Wolf Lord had taken a great chance, had gone to skirmish with Orden’s troops in the woods, and had succeeded in killing and scattering them.

Raj Ahten’s men rode smartly, weapons raised in salute.

Chemoise had brought Iome here to the Dedicates’ Keep at first sign of attack. “For your own protection,” she’d said.