Oron charged him. Metok cast hurried looks behind, eyes full of soulful fright. He could not escape the day.
His years of plotting behind him, Metok called out to the gods, to Therit the fateful and Mat, the lord of Death, then spat in derision and held high his sword. Oron came by him. Their steeds shivered against one another. Oron swung; Metok leaned away but screamed loudly. Oron reined fiercely about. Thrown, the king of Neria now was stretched out on the ground, grasping a spouting shoulder, his horse and sword gone from him.
Oron trotted his horse to him, and Metok lurched along the ground. He saw the low horizon thick with fallen corpses. Then he heard Oron’s gravelly voice and rolled over and stared up—stared up the length of a horse’s legs and belly to see the rider’s scowling
