“I could eat a peasant brat, myself,” said another, and the company laughed.

“My lords, who is your master?” Tol asked quickly, wondering if men of war did indeed eat children when they could not get rabbits.

“We serve the marshal of the Eastern Hundred,” said the one with the gray-flecked beard and brass-crested helm. “Odovar of Juramona-or was, till he perished this day in battle.”

Relief coursed through Tol and he cried, “No! He lives yet!”

Brass Helm guided his mount closer. “What say you, boy? Have you news of Lord Odovar?”

“He lives! He is yonder, in those pines!”

Plainly unimpressed, the elder warrior called out, “My lord Odovar! Are you there? It is Egrin, of the Household Guards!”

Wind sighing through the grass was the only answer.

“He is there,” Tol insisted, “but hurt. A man named Grane hit him on the head.”

The name echoed through the mounted men like a thunderbolt.

“Grane!” Egrin exclaimed. He gestured, and one of the men thrust his spear through the collar of Tol’s jerkin. Using the pommel of his saddle as a fulcrum, he hoisted the boy up onto his toes.

Ignoring Tol’s protests, Egrin snapped, “Watch him. The rest of you, spread out. This smells like treachery to me. If it’s a trap, spit that boy like a partridge and get out of here. Report back to Juramona. Understand?” The warrior holding Tol nodded.

The riders made a half-circle and approached the pine copse quietly. Egrin went in, and let out a shout.

“By the gods! Lord Odovar is here!”

Tol found himself dropped unceremoniously to the ground. His erstwhile captor spurred forward, joining his comrades by the brook. Fingering the hole in his good leather shirt, Tol followed.

Egrin had Odovar sitting upright on the chestnut horse and was holding a waterskin to his lips. The burly chieftain gulped the contents. His face reddened, and he pushed the neck of the skin away.