The ranks of the returning army approached with the rolling tempo of hundreds of boots rising and falling as one, a ground-shaking rhythm that resonated through the cobblestones into Cyrus's bones. He stood up even straighter, the tallest boy in the regiment of nine-year old cadets, all straining to hold perfect posture in their bronze training armor. Someday his own boots would add their voice to that magnificent chorus. He would be an Etrakan soldier like his father before him, part of the army feared and respected across the known world for its discipline and courage.
        Cyrus's first conscious memory was of that stamp, stamp, stamping across the earth. "You hear that?" his mother had said as he'd watched his father march off to war. "That is the heartbeat of Etraka."
        Yet as the first ranks of soldiers passed, another sound wormed its way into the perfect cadence of the regiments, polluting the spaces between the footfalls: the discordant hum of flies.
        The boy next to him let out a sound of disgust. "Gods. . . look at them."
        Cyrus nudged his neighbor's foot hard with the butt of his training spear. If Dilan, their training officer, heard muttering in the ranks, he'd have them all scouring armor with the slaves until nightfall.
        And there would be plenty of scrubbing to do after such a battle.
        Cyrus pursed his lips against the smell of the caked filth on the armor of the first rows of marching soldiers. The engagement had taken place in Heron's Fen--he'd been there before, and he remembered it smelling of tall grass, wildflowers, and damp earth. The heavy rains of late would've made it muddy, but gods above, those men stank like the bedpan of a dysentery victim. And they'd marched all three days back to the city with that reek hanging off them? That was a kind of fortitude the bards never sang about.
        As the vanguard company passed, Cyrus peeked between the ranks to the other side of the street where the civilians stood. There next to his mother, sisters, and baby brother, he saw Scout. The big brown-and-tan dog sat patiently, holding his vigil with the same controlled discipline as any of the recruits, though with a more cheerful expression on his broad face. Cyrus wished Scout could be beside him now, but dogs weren't allowed on the soldiers' side of the street.
        Not even Honor Dogs like Scout.
        Scout seemed to sense he was being watched. He looked over at Cyrus with his dark, intelligent eyes. His muscular hindquarters shifted a bit, as if he was wagging the stump of his tail. Cyrus smiled and then looked away, returning his attention to the homecoming troops before someone noticed his gaze had wandered.
        The heralds already sang of how hard-fought the victory had been, and Cyrus could well believe it. He'd never seen so many notched shields and gouged breastplates. Men wore bandages and splints over newly acquired wounds. Most telling of all were the gaps in the formation. Columns that had been unbroken when these men marched away now gaped with the empty spaces of the fallen. The soldiers who had occupied those spots were either in the rear of the procession with the healers' carts, or they were not coming back at all.
        The formations of the First Company vanguard passed, then the companies of the right guard. Cyrus felt his heart beginning to race as the left guard approached, and steeled himself against the growing ache in the arm that held up his heavy training shield. His father served in the left guard. He would march by soon, and he would see his son standing in his immaculate armor, unbowed beneath the weight of arms and the heat of the morning sun. He might even have words of praise tonight when they ate together at home.
        The rows of men passed, armored figures in helmets that all but concealed their faces, but Cyrus would know his father by his place in the ranks. First company, second company, now the third. . . the first row, the sixth man in a line of twelve. . .
        The space was empty.
        Cyrus' jaw loosened in spite of all his training. His eyes flicked back and forth, scanning the formations to make sure he had not miscounted, not mistaken the spot. No mistake, this was his father's troop--but his father's place was empty.
        His father had fallen in battle.
        That wasn't possible. That couldn't be possible. His father was one of the most respected soldiers in the Etrakan army. That wasn't just family pride or a boy's empty boast. Even the Master-at-Arms said it was so. His father embodied all the virtues of a warrior--composure in battle, discipline, uncomplaining fortitude, skill at arms. Other soldiers might die, but not his father. Not his father.
        His father's company finished its procession by the boys' division. In the gap before the next company passed, Cyrus could see to the other side of the boulevard, where his family stood watching the procession. Even from this distance, he could clearly make out his sister's wide, disbelieving eyes. His mother stood stone-faced, her expression unreadable. . . but Scout turned his head and looked up at her with his ears pricked to attention, a look of concern plain on his face. He knew something was wrong.
        Scout.
        If Cyrus's father had fallen. . . then Scout was going to die.
        A desperate little voice piped up in Cyrus's mind: "Wounded! Father might be with the wounded!" It could be true. He could be in the wagons at the end of the procession, too injured to march but still alive. Cyrus desperately fanned that spark of hope.
        But as his father's formation passed, Cyrus's eyes fell on another soldier he knew well, Corporal Otreus. He was one of Father's particular friends, a man who had eaten many times at their family table. Though it was a breach of protocol, the soldier glanced at Cyrus for a brief instant. That expression of pity hit Cyrus like a blast of cold north wind and blew out the embers of hope in his soul.
        If his father could breathe, he would march. He would not be in the wagons.
        Many of the boys around Cyrus began to mutter and whisper as they saw the gaps where brothers, cousins, friends, and fathers ought to be. He heard the strangled noises of some of his peers fighting back sobs. Cyrus kept his eyes riveted straight ahead. His ears replayed his father's stinging rebukes and his body pulsed at the memory of sharp blows--like all good Etrakan boys, softness and weakness had been beaten out of him since he was old enough to walk. He would not break discipline now, not before his peers and superiors. Not when his father's space in the ranks was empty.
        He chanced a look at Scout, and suddenly all the discipline in the world could not keep his eyes from blurring over.
        He cursed the traitorous tears on his cheeks and held himself rigid as the ranks marched by. Why did it take so long? How did his armor and shield get so heavy? The boots on cobblestones didn't sound glorious anymore, not like the heartbeat of a victorious army. It was just tired men toiling through the sun, stinking of sweat and dried gore, while Cyrus's eyes burned and his throat ached with every breath of rancid air.
        Finally, the last rank of soldiers passed. Next came the long train of creaking ass-drawn wagons. The civilian crowd began to disperse, the lucky families bustling along the thoroughfare towards the square to meet their returning men after they were dismissed. Clusters of women, children, and elderly held their place, listening to the names barked out by the criers who read the lists of casualties in a continuous loop. Cyrus saw his own family standing there, silent and grave, his eldest sister gently rocking the swathed bundled of his little brother. Scout was watching Cyrus, only Cyrus.
        Training officer Dilan glared down at Cyrus and the other trainees from the lofty heights of his fifteen-year-old frame, wearing that pinched look of manufactured severity that had earned him the nickname "Weasel" from his students. His head pivoted to focus on each choked sob that arose from a boy who had seen an empty space where someone they cherished should've been. Cyrus wondered if he was going to start handing out reprimands. It would be just like him.
        "Training masters," came a command from behind the ranks. "Dismiss your squads."
        The voice that spoke was neither loud nor harsh, yet it effortlessly conveyed a thousand times the authority someone like Dilan could ever hope to muster. All heads turned at the approach of the Master-at-Arms, the teacher who had overseen the training of two generations worth of Etrakan soldiers. Dilan snapped to attention and crossed his spear over his chest in salute. Cyrus and the other boys followed suit.
        The old man passed them with his slow, measured limp, surveying the boys with steel-grey eyes. The Master's gaze lingered on Cyrus for a moment, and the boy saw something in that strong, creased face he had never before glimpsed: a look of weariness, even of sadness.
        "Sir!" Dilan said with another salute to the Master's departing back. He pivoted on his heel, withdrew his whistle to blow three short bursts, and called out: "Company dismissed!"
        He heard a bark from Scout as the whistles ended. The dog understood the signals as well as any trainee, and knew he was free to come and be with Cyrus once more. He bounded up to Cyrus's side, his stumpy tail wagging and his eyes bright with happiness.
        The muscles in Cyrus's arms muscles gave way like a puppet with its strings cut. His shield let out a dull clang as the edge smacked into the cobbles.
        In a second, Dilan was in front of him. "Pick that up!"
        The ultimate disgrace for an Etrakan soldier was to let his shield hit the ground. . . when he was on duty, anyway. After the whistle had blown, it was just considered to be extremely bad form. And Cyrus was past caring about form.
        His spear and shield clattered to the ground, and he dropped to his knees to hug his dog. The thick fur filled his hands, the warm musty smell of the dog flooded his nose, and now the tears burst out of him in earnest. His chest convulsed with sobs as if he was being shaken by the hand of an angry giant. He buried his head in Scout's shaggy mane to hide his weeping from Dilan.
        Through his sobs, he heard Dilan's scornful voice. "Is it your father you're mourning, or that dog? I told you not to get too attached to an Honor Dog."
        "Go away," Cyrus said, but his voice was muffled by Scout's fur. Dilan didn't strike him, which must've meant he hadn't understood the impertinent words.
        "You should be grateful," Dilan said. "Scout was chosen by the gods for a day like this. He'll be distinguished in the afterlife. Best fate any dumb beast could ask for."
        Cyrus shot to his feet before he could think of what he was doing. He shoved at Dilan with all his might, so hard that he sent the fifteen-year-old boy stumbling back. The scream raked sharp claws across the inside his throat as it burst out of him: "Shut up! Just shut your weasel mouth!"
        Dilan's arms flailed out and he only kept himself from falling by planting his spear in the ground. He wobbled gracelessly around the weapon, recovered his balance, and whirled to face Cyrus. The initial shock at the unexpected attack gave way to a genuine look of fury, far more frightening than his usual swaggering aggression. "You little piece of shit. I'll have your hide off for that!"
        Dilan advanced with his spear raised, flipped to deliver blows with the blunt end. Cyrus stood trembling, empty-handed, aghast at what he had just done and filled with the desire to do even worse.
        Scout planted his feet and stood between the boy and the young officer, baring his long teeth in a snarl.
        Dilan paused, his raised spear wavering. Cyrus wondered if he was more worried about breaking the taboo of striking an Honor Dog or what the eleven-stone Scout would do to him if he tried to strike a blow.
        "Cyrus!" came the voice of the Master-at-Arms. "Call him off."
        Both Cyrus and Dilan straightened reflexively as the Master approached. A few meaningless sounds emerged from Cyrus's gaping mouth, and then he composed himself and called Scout back to his side. The dog came at once, dutiful as always, and pressed his warm body against Cyrus's hip.
        The Master strode toward them, his worn armor clanking softly with each step.
        "This grub struck me," Dilan said. "A superior officer! The minimum penalty for that is fifty lashes with--"
        The Master silenced Dilan with a single wintry look.
        Dilan flinched and licked the wispy stubble on his upper lip. The Master studied the two of them for a long, silent moment. Cyrus reached down and touched Scout's fur, drawing strength from the familiar presence even as his heart broke again.
        "You'll forget this incident," the Master said to Dilan.
        For a moment, the young officer looked like he might protest, but then he swallowed hard and gave a curt nod. "Of course, sir. It was nothing."
        The Master nodded, the little tilt of his head enough to signal dismissal. Dilan shot one last bitter look at Cyrus, then spun and stalked away.
        Cyrus looked up at the Master, who stared down at him as if from the heavens themselves. He could feel his own chest heaving in shallow breaths, thumping against the interior of his breastplate. The Master studied him for a long while, his battle-scarred face unreadable, and finally said, "Pick up your gear. Walk with me."
        Cyrus gathered his shield and training spear, and followed the great man as he headed for the barracks, keeping time with the Master's slow, deliberate pace. There were a thousand things Cyrus wanted to say, but he did not want to give voice to any thoughts unworthy of a true warrior.
        Scout paced along beside him. Cyrus knew the dog well enough to recognize Scout's protective posture--not aggressive, just close and ready. He could read emotions better than any person Cyrus knew. The realization brought fresh stinging to Cyrus's eyes, and he wiped angrily at his face with the back of his arm.
        The Master looked down at Scout. "He's a good dog."
        "He's smarter than all the rest," Cyrus said. "The best at tracking, and hunting, and protecting. . ." He trailed off as an unwelcome sob shuddered through him.
        The Master did not dispute any of these claims as the prideful boasts of a child. "I had to kill my Honor Dog when I was a boy," he said.
        Cyrus turned his head away. He didn't want to hear the reasons. He knew all about the need to perform proper burial rites for warriors, how the gods in their mercy had decreed that an Honor Dog could serve as a substitute for the body of a warrior who never came home, how it was some great privilege for a lowly animal to receive a man's rites and a special place in the afterlife. He didn't want to hear how Scout was already past his prime and would probably die anyway before Cyrus got to be Dilan's age. Most of all, he didn't want to hear about his responsibility to kill his oldest and truest friend.
        The Master said none of those things. He only said, "It is a hard duty, Cyrus. The hardest service I have ever known."
        Surprise momentarily overcame Cyrus's misery. The Master-at-Arms had fought countless battles against the deadliest enemies of Etraka and her allies, from the man-eating barbarians of the far north to the unfathomably vast slave armies of the emperors from across the sea. He had survived a trek across the High Vault pass, where the frost had bitten off half his toes. Cyrus would have thought this living legend would have easily risen to the task of sacrificing a dog.
        He pondered this for a while, his brow furrowed. His father had once told him that a wise man took time to consider before he spoke, while a fool blurted out every thought that scampered across his mind. "Why couldn't they bring the bodies back?" he finally asked. If they had just brought his father back from the front, Scout would not need to take his place in the rites.
        The Master tilted his gaze up, a distant look in his eyes. "Long ago, it was part of the ethos of our military to leave no man behind. Yet men would be lost all the same, especially when we built our navy and took battles to the sea, and families would be robbed of the chance to perform the rites. Moreover, our enemies knew our ways. Some were low enough to take tactical advantage while our army was busy collecting our dead. To preserve our tradition of burial rites, we needed another solution."
        Cyrus frowned. He'd never heard that part of the histories before, only that the gods had decreed how the Honor Dogs could serve. The Master hadn't even mentioned the gods. In fact, Cyrus couldn't remember the Master ever invoking the gods for anything.
        The Master continued his explanation. "The recent battle at Heron's Fen was only one in a longer war with the Eastern powers who far outnumber us. Many men fell. Our resources are limited. So, what would you say is the best use of our men's energy, young Cyrus: see to the dead, or protect the living?"
        Cyrus bit his lip and said nothing. Scout's rough fur brushed against his leg.
        "If you are swift, he will not suffer," the Master said. "The pain will be yours to bear. That is the way of pain."
        They stood now at the entrance to the boys' section of the barracks. The Master faced him, and he looked tired for the first time Cyrus had ever seen. "Go now, lad," the legendary warrior said. "Put your gear away, and get you home. The time of the rites is six days from now. Your mother and sisters will be busy with their preparations." He looked down at Scout, who cocked his head with attentive interest. "Spend your last days with him well. Go."

        The moon passed its zenith before Cyrus crept out of bed, bare feet quiet on the stone floor. He ordered Scout to roll over, then wrapped strips of cloth cut out of his bed sheets around the dog's paws. He did not want anyone to be awakened by the click of claws on stone. Cyrus signaled the Honor Dog to follow close as they made their way to the kitchen, silent as shadows.
        Cyrus didn't think anybody would hear him this late at night. His mother and sisters had worked to exhaustion, singing songs of lamentation with the other women and making their mourning robes. Still, it would not do for anyone to find him up and about. They would try to talk him out of his plan.
        Scout followed on his heels, not so close that he might trip the boy. He'd shared many an illicit adventure with Cyrus and had the good sense to stay quiet, though his liquid eyes shone with bright excitement in the faint moonlight.
        Six days. He needed food enough to last both of them six days. Fortunately, the neighbors had taken it upon themselves to bring food for the grieving family, much as Cyrus and his own family had done for others in past years. They had so much food that the larder couldn't hold it all. Cyrus packed his canvas bag with everything he could find--bread, cheese, sausages, olives, salted meat, and any other provision that would travel well.
        Then he considered the matter of weapons, and crept quietly to the armory.
        His father's spears rested on their wood rack. A fresh pang shot through Cyrus as his eyes fell on the gap where two spears should have been, the ones his father had taken on this last campaign. Cyrus wrapped his hand around one and shifted it in its frame, but he knew it would never do. Nine feet of solid cornel wood, tipped by the great iron blade on one end and the "lizard-killer" spike on the butt, it was a grown man's weapon. Cyrus doubted he could even lift it for more than a minute.
        The hunting bow of his father was also too much for him, and his own had broken just last week. That left the swords. He tried the larger iron weapons, the leaf-shaped xiphos and the hatchet-like kopis, but quickly discarded them as too heavy. His eyes finally fell upon a bronze dagger hanging from a special place on the wall, a weapon short enough that he should be able to make good use of it.
        Then he remembered what it was: the Blade of Sacrifice.
        It had only one purpose. He was meant to use it to end Scout's life during the rites. It was supposed to be his duty to plunge the weapon into his friend's neck, to look into Scout's eyes as he committed this last act of service. . . of betrayal.
        Cyrus glared at the hateful dagger, then spat at it.
        Scout would not die that way.
        He grabbed his familiar training spear and belt knife, then slipped out into the darkness with his heavy sack. For a moment, he considered taking his father's horse, but it was too tall for Cyrus to mount on his own, and the stallion was a biter anyway. The donkey would have to do.
        Cyrus packed his supplies and his training spear on the beast's back, took the lead rope in hand, and struck out towards the outer gates of his family's property. "Come on, Scout," he said. The dog wagged his tail and trotted out into the lead. They had a long way to go, but they could make it in time.
        Heron's Fen was a difficult march across rugged terrain, but not far. If he left now and kept a good pace, he could make it back in time with his father's lost body.

        They called the donkey "Dumper," and Cyrus quickly discovered why. He'd never tried to ride the beast before--that was not a proper mount for a soldier, not even for training--but now he'd hoped to ride part of the way in order to rest his own feet and make better time. No such luck. Dumper didn't balk at being led and he'd carry any load strapped onto him, but he did not tolerate a rider.
        And he was a surprisingly good bucker for a donkey.
        So, Cyrus now walked beside the beast, giving Dumper sullen looks whenever his bruises or scrapes throbbed.
        Scout sniffed at Cyrus's skinned knees, concern evident in his expressive eyes. "It's okay," Cyrus said. "Three days march out, three days back. We'll be in time for the rites."
        At least Dumper was strong, tireless, and sure-footed enough to handle the narrow trail as it twisted and climbed through the mountains. Cyrus had loaded the donkey up with two long poles, a sheet of canvas, and rope--everything he'd need to make a travois for his father's body. He felt pleased that he'd thought this expedition through so well.
        He felt less pleased on the first night of his journey, when he realized he'd forgotten the tent.
        Rain came down so hard it felt as though the gods were pelting the earth with darts. The roaring impact of water on stone echoed off the steep walls of the high mountain pass, loud as a battle drum in Cyrus's ears. After tethering the donkey to a scraggly tree, he and Scout huddled together under a blunt outcropping of stone. Whenever the wind gusted, it blew sheets of rain right into their meager shelter. Cyrus spent the night shivering, drifting into bouts of shallow and troubled sleep, only to awaken every time the freezing downpour doused him. Dumper made low, unhappy noises throughout the night, but Scout never even whined. The Honor Dog snuggled tight against Cyrus, sharing his body's warmth.
        Dawn brought an end to the rainfall. Cyrus woke to discover a soggy heap in his canvas bag that had once been the loaves of bread. He cursed and scooped out the oozing mess, slopping it on the ground in front of Dumper in case the donkey might be able to stomach it. Dumper simply gave him a flat look and shuffled off to nibble on a stringy tuft of weeds.
        Cyrus salvaged what he could of his waterlogged provisions. He split a sausage with Scout for their breakfast. "It's short commons for us, boy. We'll have to ration it out for the whole trip," he said, then let out a wet sneeze. The night's soaking had left him with an ache in his throat and a runny nose.
        Nothing to be done about it. An Etrakan soldier didn't let a little sniffle stop him from completing his mission. He set out with Dumper in tow, letting Scout lead the way as they climbed the narrow path into the jagged mountains.
        Lunch was a handful of olives. By dinner, it felt like a washerwoman was twisting his stomach out on her wringer. He bolted down his meager strip of dried goat, heedless of the ache in his jaw as he chewed the tough, salty meat. Scout inhaled his portion with equal vigor, then stared at Cyrus with wide, expectant eyes.
        Cyrus let out a sigh. "Go hunt," he told Scout. Maybe if the dog could find food of his own, Cyrus could afford to give himself a bigger portion.
        Scout bounded off, but stopped and looked back.
        "I'm not coming," Cyrus said. "Go on. Find something good."
        Cyrus wished he could go with Scout, but he only had his training spear and belt knife, neither of which would be of any use. His mind drifted to the first hunt he'd been allowed to go on with his father, just before his eighth birthday. Scout and the other dogs had drawn a great boar out of its hiding place, a savage black thing with tusks as long as daggers. He remembered his father stepping forth, stout spear in his hands, delivering his thrust with a Titan's strength into the beast's chest. He'd never seen his father kill before. A single strike, straight to the boar's heart, stopping four hundred pounds of charging fury cold in its tracks.
        How could a man who could do that be defeated in battle?
        Cyrus felt a stinging at his eyes and wiped angrily. A soldier on a mission couldn't afford to cry or rail against his fate. With grim determination, he set about making a better camp for himself than last night's disaster. He unlimbered the canvas and poles meant for his father's travois, then lashed them to the withered remains of a lightning-struck tree in order to make a decent shelter for himself and Scout. After completing this sweaty task, he gathered sticks and dried grasses for a fire. The heavens threatened with distant thunder and even spattered a few drops on him, but held back from a repeat of last night's wrathful downpour.
        His paltry fire provided a small sanctuary of warmth as the night chill settled in. Scout had not returned--hopefully he was having luck on the hunt. Cyrus sat and fought against the ruthless grumbling of his stomach. Hunger was an enemy he'd never faced, and he eventually yielded to it a wedge of hard cheese, reasoning that if Scout might bring back a kill they could use to replenish their dwindling supply. His belly finally relented and allowed him to doze off, drifting into dream of roasting a plump pheasant.
        Dumper's frightened baying woke him in the dead of night.
        Cyrus bolted up out of his slumber, staring wide-eyed around him. The remains of the fire lay cold in the shallow pit, offering no illumination of the darkness. The donkey let out another shrill bleat, and lightning flickered through the clouds overhead.
        In the flash, Cyrus saw a lean shape outlined against the night sky, prowling silently over the lip of the boulder at the edge of the camp. Bright round eyes caught the light and glowed.
        A rock lion.
        Cyrus's breath froze in his throat, his chest tightening hard enough to hurt.
        Rock lions weighed as much as a grown man, and were strong enough to bring down a stallion. Even the most experienced hunters spoke of them with fear and respect, telling tales of their terrifying speed and killing power.
        Another flash of lightning. Cyrus scanned frantically around in the brief moment of illumination, but only caught a split-second look at the creature's eyes.
        Dumper let out a panicked squeal and thrashed against his tie-rope.
        Cyrus stood transfixed by fear, his knees threatening to give way from beneath him. It wants Dumper, not you, a small voice said in his mind. Rock lions were dangerous, but also cautious--they rarely made human prey their first choice. The donkey would be a better meal, and he was tied up, helpless, unable to fight. If he let the cat take its kill, it would probably leave Cyrus alone.
        But without Dumper, he couldn't bring his father back.
        Cyrus drew air deep into his lungs, then let out the loudest scream his small body could produce. "Scout!" he cried. "Scout, here!"
        A lightning flash showed the great cat paused in mid-stalk, twenty yards away from Dumper but staring at Cyrus with its unblinking predator's eyes.
        Cyrus cursed himself for letting the fire die out--a burning brand might have kept the lion at bay. His little knife would be worse than useless, so he snatched up his practice spear from his pile of gear and advanced on the rock lion, screaming threats. If the beast knew something of men, he might fear a spear's bite, and not know the difference between a blunt-tipped practice weapon and the real thing. Cyrus howled and made threatening jabs, standing between Dumper and the darkness where the cat lurked.
        The lightning showed him another glimpse of the world, and he saw the rock lion crouched and ready before him.
        It was poised to attack.
        The rock lion had seen through his bluff, and in the blue-white flash Cyrus saw its great haunches bunched, its lean body coiled to leap.
        A loud, threatening bark suddenly echoed through the night.
        In the wavering glow of the cloud lightning, Cyrus saw the rock lion pause and turn toward the distant sound. Cyrus lunged, pivoting at the hips, getting the full strength of his shoulders into the thrust, just as his father had done against the wild boar.
        The weapon did not skewer the lion--it was only a practice spear after all--but the tip slammed into the predator's neck. It let out a piercing yowl of surprise and fury at the blow.
        In the instant that followed, Cyrus's world became a blur of pain and confusion.
        The darkness cloaked the rock lion's movements, leaving Cyrus with only a vague impression of unthinkable speed. Something swatted his outstretched arms, scoring hot lines of pain across his skin and knocking him into an uncontrolled spin. His gyrating body hit the stony ground, and he felt the shaft of the weapon snap into two jagged pieces beneath him.
        A crushing weight landed on his back, slamming the air out of his lungs as it drove him down. Needles of agony jabbed into his shoulders, like giant fish hooks tearing at his skin. Something wet and hot touched his neck, the unyielding brush of sharp teeth scraped over the flesh, seeking a spot to bite down and crush. It all happened so fast, so fast, and he didn't even have the breath to struggle. . .
        Then he heard the sound of impact, two furry bodies in a violent collision, and the rock lion's smothering weight was gone.
        Cyrus sucked in a huge breath that burned his lungs like hot ash. Scout's harsh growls of battle mixed with the cat's ear-splitting shrieks. Claws scrabbled against stone. Cyrus forced his head up to see the battle, fighting against the protests of his shocked and wounded body.
        A streak of cloud lightning showed Scout on the cat's back, holding on with locked jaws as his paws flailed for purchase. But the rock lion weighed twice as much as the dog, and it whirled in Scout's grasp like a living tornado of muscle and rage. In the few seconds of light Cyrus saw them tumbling together, the lion's limbs flying in lunatic arcs around its writhing body.
        Cyrus heard Scout's piercing yelp of pain.
        "Scout!" Cyrus screamed.
        Pure rage shot through him, galvanizing his body into action in spite of any pain or fear. In the fading glow of the cloud lightning, he hurled himself at the grappling animals, the two halves of his broken spear clutched in his fists. He drove the weapons down with all his weight and berserk strength into the black pelt of the rock lion.
        One of the halves hit something hard and glanced off, tearing its way out of Cyrus's grasp. The other bit deep, the shivered shaft now sharper than the practice spear's point had ever been. It sank into yielding flesh, a hot spray splashed against Cyrus's hand, and the rock lion let out a shriek that felt like it would split his skull.
        There came another blur of motion, and Cyrus's body tumbled backward as the cat's thrashing form hit him. Firebursts exploded in his vision as his head rapped against the hard ground. Then claws scraped on stone and the dark shape bounded away, still letting out its hellish howls of pain as it vanished into the night.
        Cyrus lay flat on his back as the sky spun sickeningly in his vision.
        He stayed that way for several long moments, wondering if the world would ever stop hurtling crazily around him, until he felt a warm breath on his face. He recovered a little bit of focus, reached up to the warmth, and felt the familiar contours of Scout's muzzle.
        "Hey there, boy," he said in a pained wheeze. "Good boy. Good boy."

        Scout walked with a limp the next day, though Cyrus could find only a shallow wound on the dog's flank. He cleaned the blood off as best he could, and fed Scout two whole sausages. He'd worry later about food for the trip back.
        For himself, Cyrus barely felt hungry now. Maybe that was a blessing. He couldn't get a good look at the wound on his own back, though his shoulder hurt monstrously and his shirt was stiff with dried blood. He took it off and wrapped a few of the remaining clean parts around the scratches on his arm, which didn't seem too bad. Something jabbed him in his chest every time he took a breath, and a spot on his ribs flared with pain when he touched it.
        He forced himself to eat a little cheese and drink some water, then took Dumper's lead line in hand and set out for the last leg of their march.
        Scout gave him a worried look and whined as Cyrus dragged himself back onto the path. "I'm okay," he said. "It's mostly downhill today."
        The world gradually melted into a blur as Cyrus trudged along the mountain path, sweat pouring down his back and stinging his wounds. Even in the shade, he felt so unbearably hot. After what felt like a solid week of walking, he checked the sun's position. Was it time for a break yet?
        The shadows had barely moved. He'd been on the road for less than an hour, and already he felt like his legs were made of wet string.
        As Cyrus swayed in place, heaving in pained gasps, he felt Dumper's body lean gently against him. He looked up and saw the donkey's kind eye staring at him, his fuzzy ears perked up in a friendly expression.
        "Changed your mind about me, maybe?" Cyrus said in a thready voice.
        He slumped against Dumper, then slowly hauled himself up onto the donkey's back, winding his good arm into the rope that held on the travois materials. Once he felt secure, he let his body relax into a boneless sprawl. If Dumper wanted to throw him off again, there was nothing he could do about it. "Go on," he said. "Get going."
        Dumper didn't make a fuss or try to buck. Instead he moved ahead at a brisk, steady walk, as smooth as a donkey could travel.
        Cyrus didn't even need to steer. There was only one path to follow, and Dumper made good time. He managed a brief look to see if Scout was able to keep up. The limp didn't seem to be slowing the Honor Dog down. He kept pace without difficulty, and the donkey's steady rolling gait rocked Cyrus to sleep as they pressed on to Heron's Fen.

        They descended the last slope as the sun dipped below the western edge of the mountains. Cyrus craned his head up to see the valley opening up below. A layer of mist lay across the expanse of Heron's Fen, a shroud obscuring all but the scattered tops of a few trees. A strange sound filtered up from the valley, a grating, oscillating hum like nothing Cyrus had ever heard before.
        And there was the smell. A putrescence of moist rot and spoiling meat seeped out of the valley, so strong even at a distance that Cyrus's face scrunched in disgust, a reflexive and futile effort to shut his nostrils.
        Dumper let out a sullen grunt and came to a stop, big ears laid back against his head.
        Cyrus recognized the stubborn set of the donkey's face. When he got that way, even two strong men couldn't budge him. It was the smell, no doubt. Dumper was no war horse, inured to the sounds and scents of the battlefield. This was as far as he would go.
        Bracing himself against the pain, Cyrus collected his strength and rolled off the donkey's back, keeping a firm hold on the ropes so as not to lose his balance. A red burst of agony dug into his ribs as his feet touched down, and his shoulder throbbed with every movement, but the rest had given him some of his energy back, and he felt better than he had that morning. He took a long swig of water from his skin, which hit his shriveled stomach like a dropped stone, and mustered his strength.
        He needed to find his father and get away before nightfall.
        Cyrus dug into his gear and fished out the most important item he'd packed for the trip: one of his father's old work shirts. Even the washer women could only do so much to cleanse the stale sweat out of a garment worn day after day by a man doing hard labor in the fields. Cyrus held it up to his face and breathed deep of the earthy, rich scent. Compared to the stink rising off the battlefield, no flower ever smelled as good.
        He held it down to Scout, who waited patiently at his side. "Here, boy," he said, and the dog obediently sniffed the offered shirt. "Go find. Find him."
        Scout turned in a circle, sniffed the air, and looked back at Cyrus with a cocked head.
        Well, he'd probably have to look around a bit before he could pick up the scent. That was fine. Once he picked up a trail, Scout never lost track of his quarry. "That way," Cyrus said, pointing into the misty fen. "Let's go, boy. Go find."
        Boy and dog approached the site of Etraka's latest great victory.
        The mist gradually deepened as they descended the last hundred yards from the mountain path, obscuring their vision. Damp ground sucked at Cyrus's feet as he stepped into the low-lying reeds of Heron's Fen. He held his father's shirt up to his face to blot out the worst of that hideous stench, breathing as much through his mouth as he could. The unearthly droning sound intensified, eerily distorted by the thick air, a frenzied hash of croaking and buzzing that clawed into Cyrus's ears.
        When they reached the first bodies, Cyrus discovered the source of the racket. A sudden deafening gale of wings arose and crows burst into the air around them, rasping out their mindless cries of annoyance at the intrusion. The flies paid no heed to the approach of dog and boy, and the dense swarm of big black insects churned over the corpses. Cyrus swept a hand through the flies without aiming, then opened his fist to see four of the nasty things squashed to black-and-red smears in his palm.
        Their buzzing din of the flies engulfed him, a hateful bedlam. He wished he could breathe fire like the dragons of legend and burn them all away. He settled for swishing the shirt back and forth as he forged a path into the corpses.
        Cyrus had seen dead men before. He'd once seen a cavalryman fall from his horse and break his neck. His grandfather had been taken by the lung sickness, a long and undignified death. Like every Etrakan, he'd attended many rites for the fallen, seen the linen-wrapped bodies laid upon the pyres and set to blaze. Death was part of life, and Cyrus was no stranger to its face.
        But he had never seen bodies like this.
        He focused on a dead soldier who had sunk several inches into the muck. What was visible hardly looked like a man at all. Bloated flesh puffed out from the spots not covered by armor or leather wraps, split in dozens of places where the crows had dug into their meal. The fallen man's skin had darkened to an unnatural purple-black, mottled by the mixed browns of dried blood and clotted mud. He didn't look like a human anymore, just a decaying, corrupt thing in a vaguely man-like shape. Only his leather-scale armor offered any hint to what he had been--a soldier, a warrior. One of the enemy.
        Two yards away, an Etrakan soldier lay. If not for the bronze armor, Cyrus could never have told them apart.
        He staggered, hand flailing out for balance, and dug his fingers into Scout's thick fur. Cyrus leaned on the strong, steadying support of the dog, turning his eyes toward the sky to escape the mute horror of the corpses.
        But the sky was darkening. They had maybe an hour of daylight left. . . after that, he'd have no chance of finding his father and escaping this hell.
        He looked down at Scout, and a fresh wave of weariness and despair threatened to cut his knees out from under him. How could any dog, even Scout, track a single scent through this carnage? Would his father even smell the same anymore after rotting for days in such a hell? "Go find, boy," he said, his voice as creaky as those of the babbling crows. He pressed the shirt against the dog's nose.
        Scout nosed at the shirt, then raised his nose and sniffed the putrid air. Cyrus stood next to him, swaying on quivering legs. "Go find. Go find," he heard himself saying again and again, the two words more desperate than any prayer. "Go find."
        Then Scout's ears perked up, and he trotted a few steps, his stumpy tail wagging.
        Cyrus let out a sob and followed.
        They walked amongst the countless dead together, weaving their way around individual bodies and mounds of rotting corpses. The armor told its own tale--five slain enemies to every Etrakan--but there was no glory to be found amongst the noxious dead. Waves of crows beat away from the pair every time they approached, most likely more threatened by the dog than the boy, only to settle back after they passed to resume their squabbling and feasting. The steady drone of the flies never wavered.
        Several times, Scout had to stop and cast around for the scent again. Cyrus waited with his breath rasping each time, dreading to see the downcast droop of Scout's ears that meant he'd lost the trail. But the Honor Dog never failed. After a while he'd locate the scent again, and lead them further across the field of slaughter.
        Night was almost upon them when Cyrus heard a voice through the mist, shouting, "Something's over there!"
        Cyrus's head jerked in surprise, and he tried to orient on the sound through the confusion of the flies and the crows. More human shouts sifted through the cacophony of the scavengers, and Cyrus heard heavy boots squelching through the dank earth. In numb surprise, Cyrus recognized Dilan's voice swearing at the squawking crows. The lanky training officer swept his spear back and forth to clear the birds out of its path as he slogged his way towards Cyrus.
        "There you are," Dilan said, panting as he loomed over them. He shouted back over his shoulder. "I found Cyrus! He's here!"
        Cyrus stared up at his commanding officer, his jaw quivering. He could still feel the tracks of unmanly tears hot on his cheeks.
        "Get up!" Dilan thumped his spear against the ground--or tried to, anyway. The shaft made only a rude noise as it sank into the mud. "I ought to deal with you right now. Running away just to save a dog's life. You've disgraced yourself and brought shame on your father's legacy!"
        "I didn't run!" Cyrus screamed. His side hurt, it hurt so much, and he wished he could scream louder. "We're going to find my father and bring him back!"
        Dilan shook his helmeted head. "And then what did you plan to do? Drag his body off the battlefield? Look at you. You couldn't carry off a dead mouse, much less a man in armor."
        Tears stung Cyrus's eyes--he hadn't thought about that part. Dumper wouldn't come out this far to help him drag the body away. How far had he gone from the donkey? "He's got the scent," he said, holding onto Scout. "Just give us time."
        "No," Dilan said, his mouth set into a hard line. "Get up. Get up or I'll get you up."
        With his good hand, Cyrus reached to his belt to find the hilt of his knife. His teeth ground together as he made ready to defend himself and his dog.
        Another figure emerged from the mist behind Dilan. The Master at Arms did not plod laboriously up as Dilan had done--his gait carried him easily across the muddy battlefield. His steel-grey eyes seemed to gleam in the deepening dusk as he strode forward and stood beside the younger officer.
        Cyrus's fingers slipped bonelessly from his knife. He couldn't fight the Master. "Please," he said in his feeble, reedy voice. "Scout's the best tracker in the world. We can find him, sir. Just give us a little more time."
        The Master at Arms stared down for a long moment. Then he knelt to the muddy ground, so his eyes were level with Cyrus's.
        "We found the body of a rock lion on the trail," the Master said. "Broken training spear between the ribs." He tilted his head, then lifted fingers to brush the tattered bandage on Cyrus's arm. He leaned a bit, reached forward with a gentle hand and pivoted the boy to bring his wounded shoulder into better view.
        Cyrus winced but held his tongue.
        "Those will leave scars," the Master said.
        Cyrus simply nodded. Maybe before he would've been proud to have the only battle scars in the boy's division. Now he didn't care.
        "Killed it with a training spear," the Master said. His voice came out quiet, yet Cyrus could hear him clearly through the background drone of the scavengers. "Even your father never brought down a rock lion."
        "Scout saved me," Cyrus said. "It would've eaten me if not for him."
        The Master nodded. "It's often that way on a hunt. Man and dog share the risk. Man takes all the glory." He looked at Scout, his eyes lingering to the matted blood on the dog's flank. "They don't care about glory. They only want to serve us."
        Cyrus nodded and let out a shuddering sob.
        Dilan snapped at him. "Stop that sniveling! I won't have a coward in my division!"
        The Master turned slowly to look at Dilan. The young officer took a step back, his cheeks turning the color of curdled milk.
        "I knew you at nine years old," the Master said.
        Dilan turned away, his shoulders hunched as if he'd been lashed.
        Cyrus tried to form the words to plead for more time, but his ribs hurt him so bad he could hardly breathe. The Master studied him, his face little more than a grey shadow in the growing darkness. Cyrus held onto Scout with all his might.
        The dog let out a yip and strained to move. Cyrus knew every sound Scout made--that yip was a hunting call, meaning he'd found his quarry.
        The Master cocked his head at Scout, then turned to face in the same general direction where the dog was sniffing.
        "Let him go," he told Cyrus.
        Cyrus stood and released his grip on the Honor Dog, and Scout bounded off across the bodies. He came to a stop over one fallen form perhaps a dozen yards away, then let out a bark that startled a score of crows from their feast.
        The Master at Arms took several brisk strides across the mud, then stopped next to a corpse in Etrakan armor. He stood over the body, gave a decisive nod. "Well done, Scout."
        Cyrus staggered closer until he could see the profile of the corpse. Its face was a black, eyeless pulp all but eaten away by the crows. No hint of his father's grim, strong features remained. He couldn't distinguish this body from the score of other corpses around him.
        "Sir?" Dilan said, approaching the body and looking down, his nose wrinkled in disgust. "How can you tell?"
        "The armor," Cyrus said, finally settling on something he recognized. "The insignia of the First Company. It's his armor. It's Father."
        "Lots of men from the First Company fell," Dilan said. "It doesn't mean--"
        "It is him," the Master said in a bedrock-solid voice of command. He reached down and scratched Scout behind his ear, and to Cyrus's astonishment he saw the gleam of something wet on the old soldier's cheek. "The Honor Dog knows his master."
        Scout gave a hearty wag of his short tail.
        Cyrus felt his world go swimmy as he slumped down in a rag-doll heap, held up from complete collapse only by the strength of the dog beside him. He dug his face into Scout's fur, letting the familiar animal smell drive away the charnel reek of the battlefield, and closed his eyes. Some distant part of him heard the Master shouting out orders to Dilan and the other members of the search party. They would have to move out quickly in order to make it back in time before the torches touched off the sacred fire. Cyrus heard the grunt and scrabble of soldiers moving the ruined body that had once been his father.
        He stayed where he was, blocking out the sounds of men, flies, and indignant crows as he listened to his dog's beating heart. He remained that way until the Master came and picked him up in one arm, carrying him off the battlefield and back towards the road that would lead him home, the Honor Dog following faithfully at his side.