"Now." He lifted a branch above the brush where he hid, so that the archers in the forest could see.
A hail of arrows burst from the cover of the dark trees, taking down three of the lead Margolan soldiers before they knew they were under attack. Soterius's fighters swarmed down the hillside, swords glinting in the moonlight, with a battle cry that echoed in the night. Soterius realized Mikhail was no longer beside him. He glimpsed the vayasb moru at the rear of the doomed soldiers, already discarding a body.
The Margolan soldiers regrouped quickly, and soon Soterius was parrying blows with the group's captain, a man he did not recognize, who looked to be only a few years older than himself. Around him he could hear arrows striking the deep snow. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Sahila and the other refugee soldiers wading into the fight.
The Margolan captain struck hard and Soterius parried, feeling the jolt of the strike down his arm.
Soterius turned the momentum into a strike of his own, scoring a deep gash on the soldier's shoulder. He let his knife fall from its wrist scabbard into his hand. He circled the soldier warily, his second blade ready.
"We have no gold for you, brigand." The captain struck again, landing a good blow against Soterius's sword and leaping back as Soterius nearly scored again with his knife.
"You're on Principality land, here to harm your own people." Soterius took the offensive, landing a series of hard blows that the captain was hard-pressed to deflect. "And you serve the Usurper."
"We serve King Jared, the rightful king of Margolan." The captain's strike went wild. Soterius's left hand slashed with the knife, cutting the soldier's forearm to the bone.
"You serve the demon." Soterius doubled his press, forcing the captain backward. The snow shifted beneath his feet, and Soterius gained the advantage he sought, using his sword to deflect the captain's blade while he sank his own knife deep into the man's chest. "Prepare to meet the Crone." Surprise spread across the captain's face as blood spread across his tunic.
"Behind you!" Soterius heard the warning and wheeled, barely parrying the wild attack of a young soldier who made up in ferocity what he lacked in technique. Around them, Soterius's refugee fighters were holding their own, and the archers joined them, trading their bows for swords now that the fighting had begun.
As the horses shied and whinnied, the soldier nearest to the large wooden box brought his sword
