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daggers, javelins — join the battle as if wielded by invisible warriors.
    I saw the man who must be Seer Tenedos standing in the open, and I heard his voice, crashing like the thunder as he sent his spell out against the tribesmen.
    The hillmen will stand against almost any enemy — but not sorcery.
    Now there were screams of terror, and the Men of the Hills broke, throwing their weapons aside in panic and running, but the remorseless spell continued, and men were cut down as they tried to escape.
    Then the battlefield was empty of all except corpses, wounded, and victors.
    Lance Major Wace’s column galloped across the river toward us, shouting victory, and I knew they’d eliminated the attempted attack from the rear.
    I prodded Lucan into a trot, toward the ford, to Tenedos and the remains of his party.
    Magicians are supposed to tower over all, their fierce beards and clawed hands striking fear into all.
    The man who came toward me was anything but that, I saw as I slid from my horse.
    He was a little older than I, but still under thirty, and fairly short, more than a foot smaller than I am. He was black-haired, his hair worn short in the current Nician fashion, and his face was round, not unhandsome, almost boyish. He wore dark breeches and a coat, well-tailored, but they failed to conceal his slight paunch.
    But it was his eyes that reached out, black, blazing like demon-fire, and took me in their grasp.
    His voice came, and it was the commanding thunder of Irisu himself, but the words were completely unexpected:
    “I am Seer Laish Tenedos. You must be my executioner.”

THREE
    A M AGICIAN’S D REAMS
    For a moment I thought the seer had gone mad. But before I could respond, a smile grew on his face, and I basked in the warmth of a spring sun. “Ah, but I see I am wrong,” Tenedos said. “I sense you mean me no harm, and I humble myself with apologies. Consider me the least of men who insulted the one who saved his life.” He bowed low.
    I saluted, and introduced myself, my mission, and my assignment. I explained the problems we’d had, from a seeming error in orders to the slow pace we’d been able to make through the pass. Tenedos nodded.
    “We shall discuss this further, and perhaps I can add to your knowledge. I note from your speech that you are from Cimabue, eh?” I braced myself for some probably generous but demeaning comment, but instead Tenedos said, “Then we shall be the closest of associates and in time, I hope, friends, for I, too, am from a land far from the cabals and conspiracies of Nicias and consequently am frequently chaffed about my origins. I am from the islands of Palmeras.”
    I knew the lands he spoke of, but only from my map-reading classes at the lycee. They are a cluster of islands off Numantia’s western shore, the largest giving its name to the archipelago. The inhabitants are nearly as maligned as Cimabuans, infamous for their long memories for a wrong, their willingness to take injury, and their hotheadedness. On the other hand, they’re also noted for loyalty to a friend and truthfulness, in so long as it does not interfere with righting a wrong. Also like Cimabuans, they’re looked at in Nicias as distinctly lesser beings instead of as fellow Numantians.
    “As for that great insult I laid at your feet, allow me to explain why I erred after we have dealt with this mess.”
    We treated our wounded and put our wounded animals out of their agony. There were no Men of the Hills to succor — their wounded had either been dragged away by their fellows, crawled off, or been killed. War is ruthless on the Frontiers; our wounded would have been treated similarly, although their deaths would not have been the quick ones my soldiers granted.
    After that the wagon in the river was righted, and such goods as could be salvaged brought ashore. There were enough bullocks surviving to pull all the wagons, although our pace would be slowed since two of them must be linked in