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While the Melacians dealt with the idea of an enemy patrol where no patrol should be, the Ardhans overcame their own surprise and attacked.
    How in Chaos did they get so close!
Raen blocked a spear with his shield, slashed low to take another man in the knees and dodged a blow that would have removed his head had it connected. He slid around a tree, taking an instant to ram his shield edge into the downed man’s throat, and bellowed the Ardhan war-cry. The rest of the Ardhan patrol picked it up and the woods rang. Dark-adapted eyes could tell friend from foe, armor differed enough that the silhouettes were unmistakable, but there was no sense taking chances. Besides, the King of Ardhan preferred a noisy fight.
    So I’m old.
Raen grinned as a Melacian fell, screaming at his feet.
But I haven’t lost it yet.
    The flash of blue light at his gut attracted his attention seconds before the pain hit. He glanced down to see a spear point, glowing eerily sapphire, pressed up against his breastplate just under his navel. Time slowed as the point, and the light, poked through the steel plate and into his belly. He grunted, the pain so intense it closed his throat, preventing a scream, and his sword dropped from spasming fingers.
    The head of the spearman hit the ground beside his sword, still wearing the astonished expression with which it had greeted the blue light.
    â€œSire!”
    As the spear was snatched away the pain lessened, becoming more a normal agony. His back braced against a tree, Raen managed to stay standing and find his voice. He tried to sound reassuring, but the words came out a powerless husking whisper. “Not as bad as it looks.” His probing fingers discovered this was the truth. His breastplate was holed but the wound beneath it was through skin and muscle only, nothing vital. He dragged his cloak forward, ripped off a strip a handspan wide and shoved the ball of fabric up under his armor.
    â€œSire, your breastplate . . .”
    â€œWas obviously badly forged.” He bent and retrieved his sword, teeth gritted against the wave of dizziness. “Well, come on.” He forced his treacherous voice closer to normality. “There’re more of them out here.”
    â€œBut Sire . . .”
    Raen’s eyes did not glow with the power of other worlds, as did his son’s, but the worldly power they held was quite sufficient.
    â€œYes, Sire. I’ll re-form the patrol.”
    *   *   *
    The surgeon stepped from the king’s tent, wiping her hands on a towel.
    â€œHis Majesty,” she said to Rael and the Duke of Belkar, “is not a young man.”
    Rael winced.
    â€œHe is also,” she continued, “an idiot. Had he returned directly to camp when this happened, he would have been up and bashing heads this morning. As it is, he’s going to spend a good long time in bed.”
    â€œHe’s not going to like that,” Rael pointed out.
    The surgeon glared at the prince. “Too bad,” she said, and pushed past him back to the infirmary.
    Belkar and Rael watched her go, her back ramrod straight and uncompromising.
    The duke shook his head, managing to be both admiring and irritated at the same time. “She’ll fight Lord Death every foot of the way and if he wins, she’ll spit in his face. I almost pity him.” He draped his arm around Rael’s shoulders and pushed him toward the tent. “Don’t worry, lad, Glinna’s the best surgeon with the army. If your father was in any immediate danger, she never would’ve left him.”
    â€œBut his breastplate . . .”
    â€œFlawed. And it still absorbed most of the blow. You might be able to pop a spear through unflawed steel like it was paper, but that’s beyond the rest of us poor mortals.” His tone was light and reassuring, but he carefully kept Rael from seeing his face. There had been nothing wrong with the