As the moon settled on the far mountains, Ratha watched the Bozandari patrol reach the head of the defile through which they had been marching, break ranks and prepare to make camp. “Not long now,” he whispered.

      “Aye,” Archer said. “Jenah is a wise leader. He will wait until they are settled, then fall upon them. I only pray that he has not been led into a trap.”

      Ratha studied Archer’s eyes for a long moment, then nodded slowly. In the past six years, he had seen much in those eyes. Never had those eyes led him astray, and oft had they kept him from danger. Yet even after all of that, Ratha’s cultural memories were strong, and it seemed odd to be standing beside a white man as his brothers prepared to do battle against white men. The man Ratha had been would not trust a man like Archer in such a battle. The man he had become could not imagine a more worthy companion.

      Below him, the Bozandari had settled. Ratha knew that Jenah and his men were moving silently into the valley like a red adder stalking a desert hare, slipping from rock to rock, shadow to shadow, preparing to strike their prey. Even as the thought crossed his mind, he saw the other Anari around him rise into low crouches. He rose with them, moving with patient, deadly purpose to close the rear of the trap.

      With a shrill, trilling cry, Jenah signaled the attack, and forty Anari rose from the rocks to fall upon their nearly sleeping enemy. Ratha spotted a wide-eyed Bozandari soldier reaching for a sword. No sooner had his hand closed around the hilt than a blade flickered out of the night and severed his head, sending him into eternity with that same wide-eyed stare.

      Now the rear force was upon the enemy, as well, and Ratha, Giri and Archer took up their familiar close battle tactic, blades flashing in synchronized efficiency, parrying and killing in a relentless rhythm of destruction. Archer’s world narrowed to the space immediately in front of him, Bozandari blades flashing in the cold blue moonlight, his breath smooth and even as he matched strides and movements with his companions, the three of them a single entity with but one awful purpose.

      Suddenly, in the distance, a sputtering fire arced into the air, lighting the valley in an eerie red hue. Three more flares burst upward, trailing a graceful tail of sparks, before bursting into flame high overhead. Cries of horror told the rest of the tale.

      “It’s an ambush,” Archer hissed.

      “Yes,” Ratha replied. “We have been led into a trap.”

      Dozens of Bozandari seemed to materialize beyond the mouth of the defile, falling upon the Anari with the same sudden savagery that only recently had engulfed the members of their patrol.

      Off to Ratha’s right, Jenah screamed commands above the din of battle, trying to reorient his men to the new threat, but too many were still engaged with the Bozandari in the patrol. Blood flowed all but invisible in the red light of the flares, evident only as glistening geysers erupting from throats, bellies and the stumps of freshly hewn limbs. Screams of pain and rage mixed with the clang of metal upon metal, drowning out any attempt to restore order to the shattered Anari.

      “Massacre,” Ratha muttered, still hacking his way forward with his companions. “They will all die.”

      “We must echelon right,” Archer said. “We will move toward Jenah. He must know that Giri has kept his oath.”

      “Aye,” Ratha said. He glanced over to Giri. “Echelon right, on Lord Archer’s command.”

      Giri nodded and, at a single word from Archer, the three men pivoted an eighth-turn in perfect unison. Step by step, slain foe by slain foe, they angled across the melee toward the Anari leader. Ratha stepped into the belly of a still-thrashing Bozandari soldier, noticing the dying man only to the extent necessary to keep his own balance and stay with his companions.

      Soon they could see Jenah’s back, almost within reach, as the tall, broad man tried in vain to protect two of his wounded brothers from another wave of Bozandari soldiers. The Bozandari fought with patient intensity, shoulder to shoulder, shields nearly overlapped, save only for enough space to deliver a scything thrust with each step. Anari courage and honor stood no chance against such training and discipline. It was only a matter of time.

      Ratha and his companions reached Jenah at the same instant as the Bozandari wave.

      “Jenah!” Archer cried. “Fall in behind us!”

      Jenah shook his head. “I must die with my Tel.”

      “Then you are a fool!” Ratha said, breathing heavily as his sword whirled against the Bozandari ranks. “What profit is your death except to our enslavers? You are betrayed, and to find the betrayer is now your honor.”

      “My honor is my Tel!” Jenah cried, thrusting at an enemy at the very moment that his foot slid across a blood-slicked rock.

      Jenah slipped to his knees, his sword lowered for just long enough to allow a Bozandari blade to slash across his back. The blade would have cleaved his spine, had he not risen up to thrust his own sword through the attacker’s throat. But Ratha knew the wound was crippling.

      “Blood have you shed for your brothers,” Ratha said. “Your honor is fulfilled. Now fulfill its greater burden and fall in behind us. Revenge for Gewindi-Tel you will have, but not on this treacherous night.”

      Fury warred with sorrow in Jenah’s eyes, but after a moment he nodded and circled behind them. Archer gave the command to withdraw, and the three began to step backward over the bodies of Bozandari and Anari, their feet and legs sticky with blood, arms and swords still swirling, keeping their opponents at bay.

      Finally they reached the confines of the defile, where the greater Bozandari numbers could not be brought to bear. Recognizing this, and satisfied with the carnage they had wrought, the Bozandari withdrew into the darkness, leaving Ratha and his companions drawing huge gulps of dry air as they finally lowered their swords.

      Ratha heard a cry behind him and turned as Jenah slumped to the ground on hands and knees, his head hanging limply, blood dripping from his chin.

      “Come,”