Sir Constantine's small army was up early the next morning preparing for battle. The knight's scouts had brought news, good news from the sound of it. The main body of the enemy was in a camp not too far distant from the hamlet in which they had spent the night.

Isabel had travelled this last year with the army and knew the way of things. With the help of one of the guards, she and Deidre had the animals saddled and were ahorse moments before the marshalling call was given.

Everyone was going on the march except for Mother Ignatia and some of the locals, who stayed behind to prepare a small field hospital in one of the larger cottages in the hamlet.

It was their agreement that Isabel and Deirdre would do their best to avoid any fighting, but some of the local villagers who had been armed by Sir Constantine were going along, as were their wives to help care for them should the worst arise. They and the knight's squires would need assistance dealing with the bloodletting that was to come.

The men would all be in the fray. It was expected of Sir Alexis, and their three guards (who actually were men sworn to the chancellor) would fight as well. Their last orders had been to look after Isabel and Deirdre, but their master was not present, and they were fighting me. They would not miss a chance at plunder and glory. The men already were richer by a few weapons they'd earned from the fighting of the day before.

Much to Isabel's surprise, the pleasant young hostler took up a position in the line of march not too far behind her and Deirdre. It was sweet. The fellow was tall and lean, a virtual giant, but he appeared not much older than the young Surrey lass. It was delightful. But she decided there would be no more teasing or innuendo. Let love blossom on its own—or not. But it was nice to have someone looking over them.

By Isabel's guesstimate, the enemy camp was fewer than five miles away, but distances were always so damned tricky in this land. Weights, measures, and distances often varied from town to town. What she was told led her to make a guess, and as the party threaded its way through the trails and down the faint traces of the forest, more silently than she ever would have imagined, they made only middling time. It likely would be three or more hours until they reached their objective.

An awkward silence fell over them. Deirdre and Isabel usually passed the time while they traveled talking or reading to one another. Stealth would not allow such a thing now, and it was a strange sensation.

And it was otherwise a beautiful mid-spring day. The forest around them was absolutely stunning. How so very strange that absolute bloody chaos soon would reign over all of them. The notion only added to her sensation, as did the relative calm that she saw when she looked over to Deirdre. The young woman appeared to be perturbed by nothing.

On one agreeable note, Isabel had the greatest confidence in her mount, the small, shaggy, and agreeable horse, not much bigger than a pony, that had been her friend and protector during their journey through Proxima Thule. The Gelt was a little champion who she was not convinced wasn't in some way enchanted.

Isabel scratched the animal's ear, emptied her mind, and did her level best to endure their ride toward danger.

Once she had done that, her mood wasn't quite so bad. She still was afraid. But she was able to focus on other things. She did as she had done in the mountains and forest of Proxima Thule many weeks before. She did her best to focus on the woods around her, to take careful stock on where they were and what they were doing, and to focus on the details of their environment. Such a tactic had helped her then. Why wouldn't it help her now?

Happily, they were near the end of the line of march. There seemed to be three bunches of soldiers and supporting staff. And about 30 of her group were spread across the trail in front of them. There didn't seem to be anyone off to their right, so that was the direction upon which Isabel focused her attention.

More riding and more silence followed, and after a time the heat began. And then came the bugs. "Oy," she almost wanted to say.

My heavens, she needed to pee.

That was when she saw it, slithering, sliding, and undulating toward them through a narrow gap in the trees some 80 or 100 yards away. It was the dragon, the selfsame dragon that she'd seen some days before near the spring. And it was getting ready to attack.

"Over there!" she yelled at the top of her lungs, pointing as she did. "Over there!"

And then the air was filled with the whizzing and the buzzing of arrows.

***

At first blush, Deirdre wasn't certain that Isabel hadn't gone stark-raving mad. But mere moments after the young woman began shouting her warning, a storm of bolts and arrows began flying toward them through the trees and undergrowth.

Isabel's mount, the salty little Gelt, immediately pivoted and headed away from the torrent of missiles. Deirdre was not foolish enough to do differently. Somehow the enemy had anticipated their move and had moved into position to ambush Sir Constantine's force while it was still underway.

The little horse hadn't gone 30 paces before the animal gently rolled to the ground in a deep depression, depositing Isabel in the leaves and grass of the forest floor as it did. Deirdre's gentle palfrey was by no means so skilled, but it was a move worth emulating. Given the volume of arrows flying about, fleeing was out of the question. Soon she was down on the ground, doing her very best to coax the animal to lie down. By the time she did, the enemy was in their midst.

Arrows continued to fly, but what looked to be half a hundred or more armed and armored men stormed toward them afoot, with shields, swords, axes, and spears.

Deirdre's razor-sharp dagger was out, but it dawned on her that she really needed to start carrying a bow with her. She was no warrior, and she never wanted to be, but enemy soldiers never asked that of a person when they attacked.

She readied herself to take up the defense when the enemy soldiers reached them, but the first figure that hove into view was the young giant, the demigod Driss.

The young man bore no shield, but he was well armored and carried the same great hand and a half sword that he had on the first day she'd seen him. He swatted away the first of the attackers as if they were flies. But soon their numbers increased. An entire company, 100 or more men, now rushed at them through the forest. Arrows continued to fly, steel clashed on steel, and the screams of horses and men wrenched the air.

By that time, she and Isabel had slid behind the trunk of a large tree, and Deirdre had risen to one knee, dagger in hand, using the tree as a shield. Most of the fighters in their squad were dead or fled, and only Driss and a few others remained standing and fighting.

Sir Alexis and the others would be with them soon. But what matter that, if they were all dead or prisoners?

Well, Deirdre would be damned if that happened. Driss was still between them and the bulk of the enemy fighters, but as one of the scoundrels tried to slink around behind their champion, Deirdre lashed out with her dagger, stabbing the man through his armor into the meat of his thigh.

The poor fellow's scream caught the attention of their protector, and a lazy backhanded swing for Driss's great sword nearly took off the fellow's head.

By that time, the enemy archers had relented, not doubt for fear of killing their comrades, and Deirdre came to her feet. Driss and five other fighters remained standing against many score, and the men cut, hacked, and stabbed at one another like wild things.

Deirdre stayed back, but anytime a golden tabard came within her reach, she thrust and cut at it. Her razor-edged weapon, an enchanted blade from ancient times, could cut through almost anything, and she took advantage of that now. Cloth, leather, and even chainmail was of no protection from her long and wicked dagger.

But they simply were outnumbered, and assistance was slow getting to them through the dense forest.

It was at that point that Driss did the unimaginable. As the fighting had continued, with all fighters now afoot, a trio of enemy riders approached. The foremost of those was a large man in rich plate armor, the leader of this band without a doubt.

No sooner than this man reached the press, Driss made a series of mighty cuts with his blade, striking down the four soldiers immediately in front of him, leapt forward striking down two more, before bursting through the remainder of the attacker's line and in one swift and powerful move drove his sword up and through the face guard of the enemy commander.

The man was dead before most of his men even realized that he was present on the battlefield.

And the remaining enemy soldiers? All four score of them? They did what any sane men would do. They turned and ran for their lives.