“Just as I expected,” Rand signaled for the cupbearer again. “Soon I will have the sorcerer’s head on a pike.”

            “As he deserves,” said Fulcruchen, his mail flashing.

            Torpaine focused on the back the head of the last rider and didn’t reply.

            Less than an hour later, two of the archers emerged. An arrow protruded from the back of one; he reached the King but fell dead off his horse. The second was alive but his wits were addled. “Mist . . . strange shapes,” he managed, slack-jawed and drooling. “Horses, men . . .  all vanished.”

            Then he too was dead.

            A circle of men formed around the corpses.

            “What’s going on here?” demanded the King. 

            “This one,” said Torpaine, nudging the freshest corpse with the toe of his boot, “told us the others, along with the horses, vanished in a vapor. I’ve been in battles, but I’ve never heard of this.”

            Torpaine proceeded to examine the corpse. He tugged at the arrow protruding from its shoulder, but the shaft was deep and the body gave it up only after a series of jerks. The arrow was of white, light wood, but with the strength of steel. Torpaine tried to break it in his calloused, soldier’s hand.

            “This isn’t magic, but Pentacas made,” he said, finally. “The Gibbor has enlisted the Whitehairs, the most savage of the clans.”

            “I know of this tribe.” Rand studied the arrow reflectively, though he was not a reflective man. “They speak in strange tongues and dance naked around fires. This is preposterous! My men have been defeated by savages!”

            “Aye, but skilled fighters all the same, Mi’ Lord,” replied Torpaine.

            “At dawn, I will lead the charge,” declared the King, then stalked into his tent. 

            Rand was as good as his word and the morning’s light found him saddled and ready. The soldiers were forced to retreat before they ever entered the forest (which had mysteriously thickened overnight) as the Whitehairs’ arrows shot true. He lost badly in the first round, but Rand was too incensed to try another strategy, so he regrouped and charged again. The men followed their King but Rand was first to die, an arrow piercing his throat. The horse, caught in the retreating chaos, threw him midway across the field. The King’s corpse lay in the open until nightfall when it was gathered with the rest. From that day forward, the insignificant patch of ground was known as Blunder Field.

            In Casoria, Rand received a splendid funeral as befitted his rank. His son, Ranald, was hastily crowned and dubbed the Warrior King. 

Ranald was only seventeen.