As he disemboweled soldiers and cut away heads and hands, one man after another, Oron caught glimpses of General Amrik who, like the Mad Bull he was, was swording and slaying on every side, furiously trying to blade his way to Count Dugur.
Oron saw Dugur as he shouted an oath. In answer, trumpets brayed, and the rear lines fell against Amrik’s men, hedging to gain the western hills. Oron spied Dugur’s wan and sweating face between flashes of streaking silver and the blur of faces and corded arms. And he knew that Dugur’s ploy was impossible.
Amrik was still riding wildly like some devil up from Hell, his black beard now crimson and flowing on the wind. He was a demon, thwarted in his wrath. Amrik’s retainers held tight by him, warding away blows and sword strokes meant for their master.
