The message was clear:

Their bargain stood. He would hold off the army while Yehuda Leib made his way in.

“Are you sure?” said Yehuda Leib softly.

Dumah nodded silently, the antlers of his great helm dipping and rising as if in salute.

“Thank you,” said Yehuda Leib. “Thank you.”

—

Yehuda Leib wheeled his pony about, and it leapt toward the Tower of Death at the spurring of his heels, the wind tearing past on either side. Behind him, he heard Mammon screech in anger. Behemoth was bellowing orders. The flash and boom of cannon fire cut through the crisp night air, but Yehuda Leib had only one thought now:

The tower.

He had to make it to the tower.

Drums, trumpets, a chorus of screaming voices: Yehuda Leib turned to look over his shoulder and saw that the entire Army of the Dead was charging down the snowy ridge toward Dumah like a massive waterfall intent upon extinguishing a single candle.

There was no time to lose.

But as he turned back toward his goal, his stomach dropped.

His pony was galloping as hard as ever, but the tower had stopped growing larger.

What was happening? Why was he not coming any closer?

And suddenly the words of Mammon came back to him:

Navigation in the Far Country is not the same as it is in the living lands.

Yehuda Leib squeezed his eye shut, fighting to calm his breath.

He must not run from the army behind him; he must run toward the Death before him.

When he opened his eye again, the Tower of Death had begun to grow once more.

But he was not the only one who knew how to make his way through the Far Country. Some of the officers of the Army of the Dead had seen his progress toward the tower and issued intelligence orders to their men, and now dead lancers, cavalrymen, and riflemen began to loom up on either side of him, gaining on the tower just as he was.

Yehuda Leib had one advantage, though: as soon as his pursuers turned their sights on him, their objective shifted, and he surged ahead and out of their grasp.

He must concentrate on the Tower of Death—it was the only way to outrun them.

Now a chorus of roaring split the night, and Yehuda Leib wheeled back in his saddle, looking to the battlefield. A huge phalanx of gray panthers had spilled into the valley, a furious lady in white leading their charge toward the tower—toward him. The War Cats were moving quickly, flying across the snow, and for a moment Yehuda Leib lost control, his heart spinning, slamming against the inside of his chest, and he wanted to run, wanted to flee, and immediately flying paws and beating hooves closed in all around him, cold, dead fingers reaching out to tear him from the saddle.