Commander Harr was feeling his age. Around him, he could see men hed served with for decades in the Knights of the Spur throwing themselves into the fray like young men, but he was anything but young these days. He had to fight carefully instead, conserving his energy, measuring each swing of his blade the way a carpenter might have measured prior to a cut.

He shortened one foe by a head in a single sweep, moved back to avoid a blow, then felt the pain of a dagger finding one of the seams of his armor. Commander Harr bellowed at that, because even a decade ago, no one would have gotten close enough to inflict such a wound. He lashed out in reply, all but cutting the foe who had closed with him in two, then ripped the dagger clear with a grunt of effort.

His eyes found Erin. She fought as he had thought that she might from the training grounds, with speed and skill, but also with a dangerous touch of recklessness. Three times now, hed seen the man beside her parry blows aimed at her, his monks robes flowing as he did it.

Of course, Commander Harr knew that was no monk. There were some faces that even time could not erase, from memory, some sights that were too heavily etched to be unseen. The way this monk danced through the fight even within the horrific press of the bridge was a kind of signature in itself, yet there was something different about it too.

There was no time to consider that though, because the battle was still washing back and forth on the bridge, the press of it too great. Worse, Commander Harr could see still more troops pouring in from the Southern Kingdoms side. How many could there be? More importantly, how could even the Knights of the Spur hope to hold against so many? Even as he watched, men tumbled from the bridge, one man hanging from anothers grasp on the very edge.

Commander Harr shook away that thought. It didnt matter how many there were; only that they kept fighting. He plunged back toward the fight.

***

Were getting too old for this! Sir Halfin yelled up, as he hung over the edge of the bridge, held only by Sir Ursuss grasp.

Youre getting too fat for it! Ursus yelled back, and that was probably a good sign. The big man wouldnt be making jokes about it if he didnt feel certain that he could pull Halfin back onto the bridge. At least, he hoped not.

Just pull me up! Halfin called out. Hanging above the Slate was not where he wanted to be, not with the river raging below him, and the drop enough in itself that it might kill someone.