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It stumbled a second time, fell, and sent the king tumbling onto the hard ground. He lay there winded for a long moment. A strange sound, like thrashing, caused him to sit up. His horse was on its side, two of its legs kicking in the air, the other two—broken—stirring uselessly in the grass.
    Without thinking he stood up and drew his sword, bringing it down hard on the horse's neck. The animal jerked and then was still. Ever since he was a boy he had been told never to let any animal suffer. And what about met What about all my soldiers ? One of the saddlebags had split open, and his war crown, a simple gold circlet, had tumbled onto the ground. His arms slumped by his side, his sword point rested on the ground. He did not want to run any more. Or fight. Or be afraid.
    He sensed rather than heard the enemy gather around him. He waited for the arrows to pierce his body. The night air was cooling now, evaporating the sweat that made his face and hands shine in the moonlight. When nothing happened after what seemed a long while he lifted his head. There were ten mounted Chetts forming a circle around him.
    'Get it over with,' he said haughtily, and lifted his arms so their arrows could pierce straight into his heart and lungs.
    'You stayed to slay your horse,' one of the Chetts said.
    'If I'd tried to run away you'd have rode me down,' Salokan answered, trying to put a sneer into his voice.
    'Truth,' the Chett admitted. He nodded to the dead animal. 'Was this your horse?'
    'What do you think?' he answered with as much sarcasm as he could muster.
    Surprisingly, the Chett grinned and dismounted. He drew a sabre and Salokan took a step back, automatically raising his own weapon to counter any attack, but the Chett ignored the king and used the sabre to pick up the crown. 'And is this yours?'
    Salokan refused to answer. He knew he was going to die, and had no intention of amusing these barbarians any further.
    'My friend asked you a question,' said a new voice from behind him. Salokan turned around. He was not sure which of the Chetts had spoken, but there was something about the posture of the shortest one that drew attention to him. The Chett had his wide-brimmed hat drawn low so Salokan could not see his face.
    'I am King Salokan of Haxus. I don't talk with herders.'
    The short Chett slipped easily off his mount and approached Salokan, stopping no more than two paces away from him. He lifted his chin and slipped his hat off his head.
    Salokan gasped. The face he saw belonged to no Chett. Indeed, there was something about the man's features that were not entirely human. The skin was as pale as moonlight and had a slight lustre to it as if it was made from carved ivory. A dreadful scar ran from the right ear all the way to the jaw. And the cold brown eyes were like those of a wolf.
    'My name is Lynan Rosetheme.'
    Salokan was too surprised to speak. How could this creature be a prince of Grenda Lear?
    'I wish to talk to you about a certain mercenary called Rendle,' the man continued, and took a step forward.
    What drove Salokan to act then was something he never completely understood, but a mixture of fear and loathing made him raise his sword arm and bring it down in a mighty stroke.
    And in the next moment his sword was spinning away from his hand and into the night. Salokan gasped in pain and grabbed his hand. Blood pumped from the stumps of three fingers. The pale prince was holding a sabre. Salokan had never seen anyone move so fast.
    'My hand—!' he cried, then coughed as the point of the prince's sword jabbed into his throat.
    'Do you want to die, Salokan of Haxus?' Lynan Rosetheme asked.
    Salokan did not want to answer. He did not want to show this strange creature and his Chett warriors how afraid he was. But the pain in his hand was overwhelming, and he could feel his blood, hot and slick, running down his arm, and he could feel the point of a sabre pricking his windpipe.
    'No,' he said weakly.
    Lynan Rosetheme dropped