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a gallop. The black leaped over the boulders and raced for the long line of surprised Desert Dwellers, who’d stopped cold.
    For a long moment the pounding of hooves was the only sound in the air. The sea of Scab warriors flowed down into the canyon and disappeared behind the cliffs. A hundred thousand sets of eyes peered out from the shadows of their hoods. These were the very ones who despised Elyon and hated his water. Theirs was a nomadic world of shallow, muddy wells and filthy, stinking flesh. They were hardly fit for life, much less the forests. And yet they would likely defile the lakes, ravage the forests, and plant their desert wheat.
    These were the people of the colored forest gone amuck. The walking dead. Better buried at the base of a cliff than allowed to roam like an unchecked plague.
    These were also warriors. Men only, strong, and not as ignorant as they had once been. But they were slower than the Forest Guard. Their debilitating skin condition reached down into their joints and made dexterity a difficult prospect.
    Thomas pounded past his warriors. Now he was in the lead, where he belonged. He rested his hand on the hilt of his sword.
    Forty yards.
    His sword came free of its scabbard with the loud scraping of metal against metal.
    Immediately a roar ascended from the Horde, as if the drawn sword confirmed Thomas’s otherwise dubious intentions. A thousand horses snorted and reared in objection to the heavy hands that jerked them back in fear. Those in the front line would surely know that although victory was ultimately ensured today, they would be among the first to die.
    The Forest Guard rode hard, jaws clenched, swords still lowered by their legs, easy in their hands.
    Thomas veered to the right, transferred his sword to his left hand, and raked it along the breasts of three Scabs before blocking the first sickle that compensated for his sudden change in direction.
    The lines of horses collided. His fighters screamed, thrusting and parrying and beheading with a practiced frenzy. A pale horse fell directly in front of Thomas, and he glanced over to see that Mikil had lost her sword in its rider’s side.
    â€œMikil!” With her forearm, she blocked a nasty swipe from a monstrous Scab sword and twisted in her saddle. Thomas ripped at the cords that held his second scabbard and hurled it to her, sword and all. She caught it, whipped the blade out, twirled it once through the air and swung downward at a charging foot soldier.
    Thomas deflected a swinging sickle as it sliced for his head, jumped his stallion over the dying horse, and whirled to meet the attacker.
    The battle found its rhythm. On every side blades broad and narrow, short and long, swung, parried, blocked, swiped, sliced. Blood and sweat soaked man and beast. The terrible din of battle filled the canyon. Wails and cries and snorts and moans of death rose to the sky.
    So did the battle cries of one thousand highly trained warriors facing an endless reservoir of skillful Scabs.
    Not three years ago, under the guidance of Qurong, the Horde’s cavalry never failed to suffer huge losses. Now, under the direct command of their young general, Martyn, they weren’t dying without a fight.
    A tall Scab whose hood had slipped off his head snarled and lunged his mount directly into Thomas’s path. The horses collided and reared, kicking at the air. With a flip of his wrist, Thomas unleashed his whip and cracked it against the Scab’s head. The man screamed and threw an arm up. Thomas thrust his sword at the man’s exposed side, felt it sink deep, then wrenched it free just as a foot soldier swung a club at him from behind. He leaned far to his right and slashed backward with his sword. The warrior crumpled, headless.
    The battle raged for ten minutes in the Forest Guard’s unquestioned favor. But with so many blades swinging through the air, some were bound to find the exposed flesh of Thomas’s men or the