“Don’t call me a giant,” Aram growled.

The pair of hills drew closer. Looking back, Jason saw a cluster of riders racing a mile or two behind.

When they reached the gap between the hills, Aram and Ferrin dismounted. “Any objection to fighting dirty?” Ferrin asked.

“Only way to fight when your back is to the wall,” Aram replied. “Come on, Jason.” Jason dismounted. Looping around somewhat, Aram led two of the horses up the steep side of the hill. Jason led the third, crouching to grab a rock or two. Aram tethered the horses by a thick tree, then walked sideways down the steep slope.

The enemy horsemen cantered nearer. Jason secured his horse and then collected more rocks, trying to pick ones that were small enough to throw hard, but large enough to do damage. A couple hundred yards from the hills, the horsemen reined in to confer with one another.

“I count eleven,” Aram said, joining Ferrin in the gap between the hills behind a boulder the size of a minivan.

“So do I.”

Aram drew his enormous sword. “Eleven may be too many. How well do you fight?”

“I’m not bad. You?”

“I’m expensive for a reason. Can you commit to taking down two?”

Ferrin was prepping his bow. “Three, maybe four.”

“If you’re serious, and if they rush into this, we may have a chance.”

Nine of the horsemen charged. Several had crossbows. Two horsemen held back, evidently content to watch. The horizon behind them continued to lighten.

Aram fastened his leather cloak shut.

“Thick cloak,” Ferrin said.

“Better than some armor.” Aram glanced up at the slope and cupped a hand beside his mouth. “Wait until they’re close!”

Jason saluted.

“Here they come,” Ferrin announced, setting an arrow to his bowstring.

Jason could barely hear the conversation between Ferrin and Aram. He hoped he could surprise them and drop a soldier or two with rocks. He held one in each hand, both stones squarish and a little larger than baseballs. He wished he still had an orantium sphere. This would be the perfect occasion for an explosion!

In the middle of the gap, Aram and Ferrin crouched behind the boulder. There was ample room for the horses to pass between the slope and the boulder at either side. Aram hefted a rough stone bigger than a bowling ball.

Crossbow quarrels zipped past Ferrin as he leaned into view, bow drawn. He ducked back twice, arrows sparking against the boulder, then leaned out farther and released an arrow. It flew true, unhorsing one of the soldiers. Then the thundering horses were upon them.

Jason began throwing stones. The first one missed. The second bounced off a soldier’s helm, nearly knocking him from the saddle. Leaning precariously, the soldier clung to the neck of his horse until Aram’s huge stone hit him like a cannonball. One rider among the nine slowed to hang back. He wore the armor of a conscriptor. The remaining six swarmed Aram and Ferrin.

Aram hurled another large rock at a charging conscriptor who was bringing his crossbow to bear. The stone struck the horseman in the chest, blasting him from his saddle.

Ferrin had discarded his bow in favor of his sword. Deflecting the blade of a soldier on horseback, Ferrin slashed his thigh. Jason kept flinging stones. He struck the soldier attacking Ferrin in the small of the back. Aram leaped from the cover of the boulder to almost decapitate a charging horse, sending the hapless rider plunging to the hard ground. With a ferocious backhand stroke, Aram cut down another soldier. Losing momentum, the remaining horsemen milled around the boulder ineffectively, and Aram, taking advantage of his great height and long reach, began slaughtering horse and man alike, his weighty sword hacking and bludgeoning without prejudice. Ferrin scrambled up the boulder and sprang from the top to tackle a conscriptor out of his saddle.

Jason doggedly pitched stones into the fray, connecting with several. The conscriptor who had hung back spurred his horse up the hillside toward Jason.

After meeting the gaze of his attacker, Jason desperately hurled rocks at the oncoming threat, missing once and striking the steed in the chest with the other. The horse kept coming. Jason dodged to the far side of the tree, drawing his sword as the conscriptor dismounted.

Jason wore no armor. He had zero experience at swordplay. The tree blocked his view, so Jason backed away as the conscriptor raced around the trunk, brandishing a longsword.

Jason found himself backing down the hillside toward the skirmish. He stopped retreating as the aggressive conscriptor hurtled forward from higher ground, swinging his weapon. Jason swung his sword to block the stroke. The blades connected with a clang that vibrated through Jason’s hands to his elbows. With too much momentum behind his lunge, the conscriptor plowed into Jason, and the pair tumbled wildly down the slope, coming to a rest at the fringe of the skirmish. Head swimming, Jason tasted brush and dirt. Blood trickled from his nostrils.

Disoriented from the fall, Jason rose to his knees, eyes darting to locate the sword he had dropped. The conscriptor had also lost his sword, but before he could retrieve it, a blade erupted through his chest, piercing the iron-banded leather of his armor. The sword had been hurled, like a throwing knife, by Aram.

As the conscriptor slumped forward, pawing numbly at the protruding blade, Ferrin sprang atop a horse to pursue the two riders who had held back. All of the other soldiers had fallen. One of the remaining riders retreated at a full gallop. The other cantered forward to engage Ferrin.

The horses converged, and swords clashed harmlessly as they passed. The enemy rider, now headed toward Aram and Jason, veered away, but almost immediately a large stone thrown by Aram thumped against his shoulder, toppling him to the dirt. The man staggered to his feet, clutching his injured arm.

Ferrin drew up near him, face still obscured behind black linen.

The soldier raised one hand in surrender. The other arm hung useless at his side.

Aram led Jason to retrieve the horses. By the time they rode over to Ferrin, the conscriptor knelt on the ground, his helmet off, unarmed but glaring defiantly.

“The displacer who led them, Rogold, got away,” Ferrin explained as Aram and Jason drew near. “This is Corge, a captain among the conscriptors.”

“So the rumors are true,” the wounded man growled at Ferrin. “You defected.”

Ferrin uncovered his face. “The disguise isn’t working? I should have kept the hat. You know too much. We’ll have to duel.”

“Your oaf broke my arm.”

“Yes, Corge, he did. You were attacking us. You are now my enemy. Are you going to die fighting or whining?”