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this weakness open in hopes the orders would exploit it.”
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    “You fed me these spies like you would feed hamsters to a snake.”
    “I can’t believe you would accuse me of putting you at risk that way,” Darien said.
    Garrick stared at his friend, feeling the nighttime expand around him. He understood what was happening. Neither Darien or Sunathri could be found to have given such orders, or the armies around them would revolt. And, yet, the truth of their action was a clear to him as the two heaps of dead Koradictine mages he had created.
    He breathed in the air of the woods.
    Regardless of how he felt about his friends, he could not deny that he felt stronger than he had for weeks. He was ready to climb the mountain.
    “It’s been a long trip,” he finally said. “Be light on your sentries if you find they were doing their best.”
    Then Garrick returned to his tent to prepare.

Chapter 12

    Garrick sat on the cold face of a hard rock and watched the horizon turn a lighter shade.
    He would not win today.
    He had known it for some time, but couldn’t voice it. It had been a grand plan, coming here to face the orders’ god-touched mages, but now that they were here and the confrontation was coming, he realized certain truths. And one of those truths was that he would not win today.
    How could he?
    The orders’ god-touched sorcerers were experienced, with wizardry greater than his. Ellesadil and Commander J’ravi had said that constantly, and despite Garrick’s assurances that he would deal with that, they were both right. So he would lose. He would face these god-touched mages, and he would lose.
    An owl beat its wings against the last of the night as it bore down upon unsuspecting prey. The air was damp against his skin, and the nocturnal calls of insects made the final strains of their evening music, music he had come to appreciate more with time. Around him, Dorfort’s army and the last remnants of the Torean Freeborn prepared themselves for battle.
    Garrick looked up at God’s Tower.
    The peak drew its name from one of the most ancient legends told at inns and taverns—the story of Abridar and Katha, two gods who held a great battle there. What would it have been like to see that? He wondered if Abridar and Katha were planewalkers. Did they still live? How long does a planewalker live, after all? He thought about Braxidane. How many people had he used before Garrick? How many would come after?
    He should have done something more to prepare.
    Alistair would have—he would have worked to learn more about this place rather than waste time playing games with life force as Garrick had done. Then, again, Alistair did not suffer the same tax that Garrick did, so who could say what Alistair would have done?
    It was too late now, anyway.
    What was done was done. The Koradictine army lay in wait to the northeast, and the Lectodinian army was camped to the west. Today they would act in concert to pinch the Freeborn between them.
    The Torean camp stirred with nervous energy as dawn approached.
    Some of them would die today, and they prepared themselves in professional manners because it helped them avoid thinking about this fact. Warriors sharpened their weapons and tested their shields. Mages took their stations.
    Occasionally, though, they would glance toward Garrick’s tent with expressions of anxiety and hope—the men and women of the Torean army looked to Darien and Sunathri to make decisions on the ground, but they looked to Garrick to win the day.
    It struck him that the need to be led was natural—the need to feel communion with something bigger than yourself, to believe in something so strongly you could let go of what you couldn’t handle and focus on only those things you could. He hadn’t truly understood this until now. Those glances said that if each of them did their jobs, Garrick would defeat the god-touched mages and the day would be won. But if