“This is what happens when cattle get in the way of warriors,” Odovar remarked coldly.

Tol, swallowing hard, looked away to the vista below. A wide, shallow valley spread out in front of them, covered with cultivation and pasture. In the center of this rich landscape a steep conical hill of earth rose twenty paces high. Atop this mound was a great log house, tiered to match the contour of the hill on which it sat. The house was roofed with sod and pierced with many windows. Atop its highest point was a tall, slender pole bearing the red banner of the Ackal dynasty.

Clustered thickly at the foot of the mound were huts and houses, so closely packed Tol could not distinguish where one ended and the next began. A stout wooden stockade surrounded the whole conglomeration. One gate was visible, facing them. The scene was shrouded in gray smoke, the outpourings of many hearths.

“The town gate is closed,” one warrior observed.

“I see armed men on the ramparts,” said another.

Lord Odovar steered his horse in a tight circle. “No sign of the Pakins,” he said. “There must have been a swift raid, then they ran away. We’ll enter Juramona.”

“My lord, I advise against it,” Egrin said firmly. “There’s a third of a league of open ground between here and the gate.”

“Do you see any enemies about?” Odovar retorted. He turned to the others and repeated the question even more loudly. The warriors could only shake their heads.

“Nor do I.” The marshal’s voice rose. “I tire of your weak-kneed caution, warden! This is not the time for idling about, poking under every bush for Pakins! I must resume my place and raise the Eastern Hundred in arms against the traitors! Why would you have me delay? Could it be you have Pakin sympathies?”

Egrin’s face flushed. “My lord knows I am his loyal man, and always shall be! “