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truly did. One thing that his scholars
had
managed to unearth was a series of chronicles and fragmentary tales from something called the “Mage-Wars.” He did
not
want to have to face some of the creatures described in those faded pages. Even the names were ominous—makaar, cold-drakes, basilisks….
    Perhaps some of those stories, which had thoroughly rattled his scholars, had leaked out to the men. That would account for the nervous haste—and yet the careful attention to detail—with which the wall was going up.
    Try not to think of it for now. Wait until you have a chance to talk to those scholars. Perhaps there are physical defenses against those creatures suggested in the chronicles.
    He only hoped that the defenses did not prove to be chimeras. Any defense that required more magic would be useless.
    He completed his inspection and moved on to the troops on active patrol duty. There were always patrolscoming in and out through the newly-constructed east gate; in spite of the fact that the walls were not yet up, he wanted them to be in the habit of coming and going by that route.
    He was just in time to see one of his speculations made flesh.
    Shouting and excited cries at the gate in one of the completed portions of the wall drew everyone’s attention. Men ran toward the gates, where the shouting took on a tone of alarm; more men dropped their tools and ran to see what the matter was.
    Tremane did not hasten his pace, however. The alarm trumpets had not sounded, so whatever it was that was causing the uproar, it was not an attack, and it would wait until he got there. The Commander did not,
must
not run, unless there was an attack in progress. No matter how he felt personally, he must maintain the dignity of his position, must show through his calm that he was in command of every situation. Panic, and even the appearance of panic, was contagious.
    Now the gate, which had been standing open, darkened with a rush of people, both uniformed Imperial soldiers and civilians. At first, it only appeared that one of his patrols had run into some hostile farmers, but when he arrived at the gate itself, it was just in time to see stretcher bearers carrying away three badly-wounded men, and the too-quiet, covered forms of two dead.
    The civilians were not under guard; it appeared that whatever had injured and killed, it had struck his men and the civilians indiscriminately.
    Could it be that his worst guess was the correct one?
    Heart in mouth, he looked for someone to interrogate, but the leader of the scouts found him first. “Commander, sir!” the man said, appearing right under his nose, snapping to attention and saluting smartly. “Reporting an encounter, sir!”
    Tremane returned the salute just as crisply. “Report, scout leader.”
    By this time a cart drawn by a pair of sweating, nervous ponies had come into the compound through thegate, where a crowd of onlookers had gathered to await it. There was a tarpaulin draped over the back of it, hiding whatever it held. Someone unhitched the ponies and led them away before they bolted, which they threatened to do at any moment. Whatever was under the tarpaulin had them in a state of near-hysteria.
    “We were on patrol, just past the ford across Holka Creek, when we heard shouting,” the scout leader said. This was not a man Tremane knew personally; he fit the mold of the semi-anonymous Imperial officer candidates, so nondescript that they could all have been brothers of a particularly undistinguished house. Everything about them was average: height, weight, appearance. Except, of course, for their intelligence, which was much, much better than average, and their ability to apply what they learned, which was quite exceptional. The young officer continued, his words crisp and precise. “We investigated, and we found six of the locals defending against
that
—”
    “That” was revealed as the men pulled the tarpaulin off the cart, showing that it was filled with a