The Kazog had seen him; Talan was sure of it. He crouched low in the dense ferns, watching the now riderless horse lope past his hiding place. He was supposed to stay hidden. Lord Garret hadn’t sent him to fight, only to track the Kazogi reinforcements through the plains. Talan had watched the Kazogi warrior ride into the hidden gulch from the plains surrounding it, and he saw his head twitch almost imperceptibly toward him. The horse and rider passed a tree, and the horse emerged alone. Talan held his breath and clutched his bow, running his fingers through the fletching on the arrow he had nocked. A Kazog rarely parted with his mount, unless he was trying to hide.

  The small gulley was a flourishing haven in the sea of waist-high grass. Small trees, slightly taller than a man, grew beside a small brook, burbling out from an outcropping of rocks. Tall ferns covered the floor of this small forest, which Talan now crouched in, his green, woolen cloak concealing most of his body. Yet the ferns held no loyalties; they veiled the Kazog just the same.

  Talan eased sideways, each step careful, silent. A breath later, something sliced through the ferns and hissed past his head–right where he’d stood a moment before. He didn’t look. Just loosed an arrow and slipped into the brush, crouched low. His eyes swept the undergrowth, pulse thudding in his ears. He risked a glance behind him. An ornate dagger was embedded in the tree where he had crouched moments earlier. Fine wood inlaid with strands of gold formed the hilt, and the narrow blade tapered to a razor-sharp point. Talan looked around him, eyes and ears straining.

  Few birds were among the trees, but they made up for their low number with increasingly loud chirps, making it impossible to detect the warrior. Talan slowly took an arrow from the quiver on his back and put it to his bowstring. This small movement was enough to alert his adversary, for no sooner than he moved, a second knife flew through the bushes, slicing a deep gouge through his left arm. The pain shot through his arm, but he stayed as silent as he could. His arm screamed in pain as he loosed his arrow down the same path the knife had taken, and he heard it thud into something softer than a tree.

  He moved again, grabbing another arrow, but his bow arm weakened from the pain. Stopping by a thick tree, he placed his curved bow down and wrapped his arm in linen from the satchel he wore at his side. The bleeding had slowed, but he couldn’t pull his bow.

  After a few seconds, the Kazog spoke. Talan only understood a few words.

  “Come out. Fight.”

  Talan stood still and considered the challenge. It could be a trap, but he had no choice. His bow arm was no good, and he was unlikely to sneak out of the grove without being spotted. He silently cursed and stood up.

  The Kazog was standing across the stream from him in a small clearing, free of ferns. He wasn’t dressed for fighting. He wore no armor, just fine, simple clothes, and a bearskin capelet. He wore a sword belt with two scabbards meant for daggers, which were empty. He held his sword, a wickedly curved blade with an ornate handle, and a matching, equally curved dagger on his hip. Battle had left his face worn and scarred, though his youth was easily seen. A thick mustache climbed up his cheeks and on top of his head, where it connected to the tuft of hair on his forehead. Talan’s arrow had struck true, the broken shaft protruding from the Kazog’s left shoulder.

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  Talan was glad he wasn’t the only one bleeding. He slowly walked toward the stream, unclasping his green cloak, letting it fall to the ground. He was less armed than the Kazog, having only an arming sword and a skinning knife. He drew his sword and held it low, tip pointing upward toward his foe. He stepped across the stream, eyes never leaving the Kazog; likewise, the warrior watched him. They stared for a few seconds and began to inch toward one another, both injured, both hesitant.

  The Kazog moved first, slicing his saber downward. Talan deflected it and struck back with a downward cut of his own, which the young warrior barely sidestepped. They faced each other for a heartbeat before clashing again. The Kazog was quick, despite his injured shoulder, but the pain slowed him just enough for Talan to hold his own

  Talan swung his sword at the Kazog’s side, but the Kazog parried and knocked his blade from his hand. He stepped close to Talan, his curved sword coming up for a killing blow. Talan snatched his wrist, redirected the blade, and pulled the Kazog closer. As he moved in the Kazog butted his head against Talan’s, dazing him for a moment. Talan tightened his grip on his enemy’s wrist, his wounded arm burning as he reached down and pulled the curved dagger from his belt. The Kazog warrior noticed too late, and by the time he tried to tear away, Talan thrust the dagger deep into his torso. Talan released the dagger and beat on the Kazog’s arm until he released the sword. It didn’t take much.

  Talan pushed the warrior away, and he fell against a tree, sinking to the ground. The warrior weakly grasped at the hilt protruding downward from his ribs. He was fading quickly, and he knew it. Talan was bent over panting, trying to catch his breath, when he saw the warrior point. He looked at the fallen fighter as he spoke.

  ”Valon.” He gestured behind Talan. “Valon.”

  Talan looked behind him and saw the warrior’s horse. A beautiful black stallion, his saddlery tasseled and decorated, looked curiously at the two men. Talan thought the horse looked oddly forlorn. He looked back toward the Kazog.

  ”Valon.”

  Talan straightened and walked toward the horse. He grabbed his bridle and led him over to the Kazog. As they drew nearer, the horse pulled ahead of Talan. He approached his rider and lowered his head, nuzzling the dying warrior. The Kazog grabbed his bridle and gently pulled the horse down. The horse knelt beside the fighter, laying his large head in his lap. With an excruciating groan, the Kazog drew the dagger from his torso. He began to chant in his language, eyes never leaving his mount. As he chanted, he slowly brought the knife down, placed the point on the neck of the horse, and pushed it down to the hilt. The horse never squealed, never moved, almost as if he knew his place in this strange ritual. The Kazog stopped chanting and took his last breaths.

  Talan watched in morbid fascination. He had killed Kazogs before, and seen more horses die than he could count. But this display of affection from horse and rider moved him deeply.

  He watched the dead warrior and his fallen horse a moment longer, then turned away. The gulch was quiet again, the stream still babbling through the ferns. Talan tightened the bandage on his arm and grabbed his bow. The pain was sharp, but manageable. Lord Garret was waiting—and the Kazogi were still moving. He stepped into the grasslands, the trees closing behind him like a grave.