THE NIGHT BATTLE

For a brief second, Jarl's feet touched a slippery slope. Then his boots slid out from under him and he tumbled onto a hillside of wet grass. Beside him, the old man had also fallen. He was muttering under his breath, but did not appear to be hurt.

It was dusk, and the air had a clean feel, as if it had just rained. Nearby, a tiny stream of muddy water hurried down the hillside and into the gathering darkness. A short way up the hill, a row of tall trees formed a broken line across the skyline.

Jarl took a tentative breath. He could smell nothing but the wet grass and woods. He could hear nothing but the quiet of the impending night. The air was heavy with moisture and Jarl could feel the sweat already forming on his forehead. The atmosphere seemed correct for his lungs, and the gravity also seemed like what he was used to. He took a another breath and peered around, but saw nothing but the deeper darkness near the bottom of the hill.

Then one of the trees along the skyline moved. Both men had been getting to their feet. Now they both tensed and stooped, to make themselves less obvious. Jarl rotated his assault-blaster forward. Kvasir, caught securing the crystal, slowly removed his right hand from his deep pocket and silently withdrew his long sword from its scabbard. Another shadow on the ridge line followed the first and the movements became several people, then a line of soldiers, climbing toward the top of the hill. Silhouetted against the last bit of daylight were bayonets or pikes, pointing every which way, and a limp banner hung, all of its energy spent. As his senses cleared, Jarl could suddenly hear quiet cursing and the soft clank of equipment.

Kvasir reached out and touched Jarl on the shoulder. It was a statement of support, but it was also a gesture for silence. Together, they listened as the line of toiling men climbed up the hill. Then, in a voice almost too faint to hear, Kvasir whispered, "They are friends, soldiers of the King." He stood upright and began to climb toward the trees.

The old man moved silently and quickly on the wet grass. Jarl followed. He rotated his rifle behind him and under his coat, but he maintained his hold near the trigger.

The soldiers were exhausted. Jarl could see it in their movements and hear it in their tired voices. He could smell their dirty uniforms. They held what appeared to be muskets and wore dark jackets. Behind them, a cluster of artillerymen—wearing large, floppy hats—struggled to push and pull a heavy iron cannon with high wooden wheels up the hill.

There were also swordsmen, who appeared to have no standard uniform, holding all manner of shields. Some, like Kvasir, carried long broadswords. And there were pikemen, with short pikes and rectangular shields, wearing leather helmets. Only Kvasir wore a long woolen robe that almost touched the ground.

A short man stepped away from the main body of soldiers and approached the two men. He wore a huge, floppy hat and carried a curved sword at his side. Jarl heard the sharp intake of breath as the soldier saw Kvasir's face, and then the man spoke in a reverent, hushed whisper, "We heard you was dead."

"Not yet," the old man replied. "Not yet ..." Even in the dim light, Jarl could see the bright sparks of Kvasir's eyes travel down the long line of soldiers. Then the eyes dropped back to the shorter man, and Jarl could see one of the bushy eyebrows arch upward in an unspoken question.

The short man answered, "I'm Sergeant Schad Shofstal. I was stationed in Tyr when you tutored the Prince." There was a pause. "Now I'm with the 14th Foot."

"What happened?" Kvasir whispered.

Shofstal let out a long breath. "Late this afternoon, Hisson and his cavalry encountered some Glassey pikemen on the main Foord Road near Bryan Creek. They drove 'em back a ways, or so we heard. Goran, his ownself, showed up, and sent in some pikemen and militia. They shoved good, and the Glasseys gave way and it looked like we might shove them clean out of Kettlewand." The sergeant paused and instinctively ducked as first one—then two more—screaming yellow streaks arched over their heads and exploded, with bright flashes and dull blasts, onto the empty hillside above them.

No one had been hurt by the cannon fire. In the stillness that followed, Kvasir spoke, "I was there. The Glassey cavalry came out of the woods on our left and stopped our attack. But there was a regiment of the King's Rifle behind us. Didn't they come forward and help?"

If the sergeant thought it strange that Kvasir did not know what had happened, he did not show it. "Aye, they came forward. And for a moment things looked good. Damn good."

Shofstal snorted, then continued, "But those Glasseys had a bunch more cavalry in that woods. There were cannon too. They laid down a terrible fire. Hisson got all tangled up with some of our pikemen, and then suddenly the King's Rifle was giving ground. Some of our artillery opened up, but damn if the shells didn't fall short and into our own people. Goran couldn't get the mess straightened out and we've been retreating since then. Goran is probably halfway back ..."

The sergeant cut himself short as two riflemen and a pikeman joined their small group. One of the soldiers was a fair-haired girl, no more than a teenager, holding a musket with a long, thin bayonet and wearing a practical wide-brimmed hat. Her face was tired, dirty, and anxious. Not wanting to draw attention to himself, Jarl slid his own weapon a little more behind him. Other soldiers trudged by, and he could hear whispers of "Kvasir" and "There's Kvasir." But he also heard another word too, one that sounded as if it was spoken with fear, "Wizard!"

Shofstal continued, his voice full of irony, "'Course on top of it all, it poured buckets of rain for about an hour." Another pause. "Anyway, this here ridge runs clear down to the road. We are going to try to hold it until morning and then try to straighten this mess out." He turned and waved a hand toward the confusion of troops behind him, and continued, "This is supposed to be our left flank."

The sergeant then said something about food and officers up on the hill. Kvasir thanked him, and the small group of soldiers moved up the hill and melted into the darkness. Below, a second column of men and women staggered up the hill in a parallel direction. Jarl had been relieved and comforted by Shofstal's friendly and down-to-earth manner, and he realized suddenly that Kvasir was whispering to him.

"When I left this afternoon, it appeared the Empire was routed. I thought we had stopped the counterattack that left me surrounded and almost captured." Kvasir ended his sentence with a curse, one uttered so intensely it came like a physical blow.

This made no sense to Jarl. "You decided to travel to this Western Star in the middle of a battle?" he asked.

"Yes," the old man admitted, sounding tired. "My decision was totally made at the spur of the moment. I had been knocked down and left behind for dead. The battlefield was covered by heavy smoke, and the rain was threatening. There were Glasseys everywhere. They hadn't found me yet, but when they did ... and saw who I was ... Well, let's just say I didn't want to be captured."

"And?"

"I was lying on my back, and I could see the Western Star hanging far above my head, and somehow it didn't seem that the risk of...