His toe caught something heavy, and Tol pitched onto his face. He kicked angrily at the snare and saw it was the gilded sword lost by the Pakin noble vanquished by Odovar. The weapon was easily worth more than his family’s entire holding. Tol dragged it out of the dirt and hugged it close to his chest.

Where was Old Acorn? There! The roan was making for the town gate. The distance was great for a lone boy on foot, and the field provided no cover. Tol set off, dragging the tip of the golden sword in the dirt behind him.

Without warning, a hand seized his arm from behind and spun him around. Towering over him was the Pakin in spiky scale armor. The man’s remarkably pale face was smeared with dried blood from his bashed-in nose.

“Peasant thief!” the noble said, his voice oddly inflected. “Give back what you have taken!”

Tol surprised himself by yelling back, “No!” and wrenching free. He’d taken only three steps before the man seized him again. He yelled for help, struggling futilely.

“You’re past help now, boy!” The Pakin drew a dagger from his waist. It had an ugly forked tip. He raised it high.

Even as Tol stared in horror, the dagger flew from the Pakin’s hand, knocked away by a whirling saber. Tol’s head whipped around and he saw Egrin standing behind him.

“Give him the sword,” said the warden. “I’ll not slay a helpless man.”

It sounded foolish to Tol, but he did as Egrin bid. The Pakin snatched the ornate hilt from the boy’s hands. Tol stepped quickly from between the men.

“You are a Rider of the Horde?” the pale-faced noble asked, sizing up Egrin.

“Yes. I am the Warden of Juramona.”

“Good enough to kill, then!”

The Pakin was of slender build compared to Egrin or Lord Odovar, but he had the speed of a striking snake. He traded swirling slashes with Egrin.