Altos crouched at the edge of the eastern road, four days out of Gorrus's stronghold. The trees had thinned. Bare ground lay ahead, the only path east toward Ragnok and his brother. Gorrus had let him go for a reason. Somewhere on this road, an ambush waited. Altos knew it in his gut. But he could not see it. He had no way to scout the path before he walked it. Smoke drifted from a hollow to his left. He followed it low through the brush. A fat orc knelt over a cook-fire, stirring a pot. A cleaver hung at his belt, clean of blood. The orc froze when Altos stepped out, axe raised. "Don't," the orc said. He lifted both hands. "I'm the cook. Gruk. I feed them, that's all. My cleaver's only ever cut meat." "Then talk," Altos said. "There's an ambush on this road." Gruk's shoulders dropped. He glanced east, then back. "There is. I've been trying to learn it myself. I want to know where it's safe to hide when the fighting starts." He wiped his hands on the torn apron. "They set a war machine past the ridge. A cart with iron barrels. It throws poison arrows fast as rain. Kragath commands it. You step onto the open road, it cuts you in half before you draw." Altos lowered the axe. "Where does it point?" "Straight down the road. That's its weakness." Gruk drew a line in the dirt with one finger. "It's heavy. Slow to turn. Come at it from the side, along the ridge, and its barrels can't catch you." "Why tell me this?" "Because if you kill it, the camp scatters. Then there's a place for me to hide." Gruk shrugged. "That's worth more to me than you are dead." Altos climbed the ridge in the gray light. Below, the war machine sat in the road. Iron barrels bristled from a wooden cart, arrows racked beneath in bright rows. Kragath stood beside it, poison spear in hand, eyes on the open path. He waited for a man walking straight into the barrels. Altos came from the flank, as Gruk had said. He was among them before Kragath turned. "Wrong road," Altos said, and buried the axe in the cart's frame. Timber split. He heaved. The machine tipped and crashed on its side. Barrels snapped. Arrows spilled across the dirt. Kragath thrust the spear. Altos took the shaft on his haft and drove his shoulder into the orc's chest. Kragath went down hard against the broken cart. Altos did not stay to finish him. He ran east down the open road, the ambush behind him in ruins. The war machine was wrecked. But Kragath lived, and now he knew Altos's face and his route. The right hand of Gorrus would follow. Altos had cleared the road home. He had also made himself a hunter's mark for every mile that remained.

Altos ran east down the open road. Behind him he heard hoofbeats and wheels. He glanced back. A war wagon rolled after him, black iron and splintered wood, two great boars dragging it fast. A crossbow was mounted on the front. On the bench stood Kragath, poison spear in hand, his cracked chest plate catching the gray light. He had followed, just as Altos knew he would. The road offered no cover. Bare ground stretched flat on both sides. The boars gained with every stride. Altos could not outrun them. A bolt hissed past his ear and buried in the dirt ahead. A thin orc worked the front crossbow, long hair whipping, reloading fast. Altos would not last another mile in the open. He cut off the road toward a shallow ditch and a fallen tree. He dropped behind the trunk as a second bolt struck the wood. The wagon slowed. The boars stamped and snorted. Kragath climbed down. "You wrecked my machine," Kragath said. "Now I have another. You cannot break this one from a ridge." He pointed the dripping spear. "Grok. Flush him." Grok raised the crossbow again. Altos watched the boars. They were harnessed close, heads down, mad with the chase. He saw his path. He grabbed a broken branch, thick as his arm, and hurled it under the wagon's front wheel. The wheel caught it and jerked. The wagon lurched. The boars squealed and bolted sideways, dragging the heavy frame off the road. Grok's bolt flew wide. Kragath stumbled as the wagon tipped toward the ditch. Altos rose and charged. He swung the great axe into the near boar's harness chain. The chain snapped. The freed boar bolted, and the wagon slewed hard the other way. It crashed onto its side in the ditch. Iron plates buckled. The crossbow frame shattered against the ground. Grok spilled from the bench. Altos struck him down before he could stand. Then he turned on Kragath, who had rolled clear and was pushing to his feet. Kragath thrust the spear low. Altos knocked it aside with his haft. He drove his shoulder into the cracked plate, the same wound another blow had made. The plate split wider. Kragath grunted and dropped to one knee. Altos raised the axe. Kragath looked up, teeth bared, and did not beg. Altos brought the axe down. The right hand of Gorrus lay still in the ditch beside the wreck. Altos breathed hard. The wagon burned where a lantern had broken. One boar screamed off into the trees. The road east lay open again. He had killed the man who hunted him. But Kragath had spoken of another machine, and he served a master who had many. Gorrus would learn his right hand was dead. Altos wiped his axe and started east. He had four days left to Ragnok, and now the warlord himself had a reason to come.