“The cavalry, they’ve returned!” Lord Smund started eagerly forward. “Wait!” hissed West, to no effect. His eyes strained into the grey. He saw the outlines of horsemen, coming steadily through the gloom. The shapes of their armour, of their saddles, of their helmets were those of the King’s Own, and yet there was something in the way they rode—slouching, loose. West drew his sword. “Protect the Prince,” he muttered, taking a step towards Ladisla. “You there!” shouted Lord Smund at the foremost horseman. “Prepare your men for another—” The rider’s sword chopped into his skull with a hollow
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“They've come back! My warriors! They have come back to me from the land of the dead! Forward my warriors!”
“Lord Okkoto, listen!”
“Forward to the pool of the Forest Spirit!”
“Okkoto. No wait! No, Lord Okkoto! Your warriors haven't come back to you! Those are humans, wearing the skins of your warriors to hide their scent! It's a trick! Don't you understand?!”
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