The wind roared in Rork's ears as he swept through the canyon. The riders below looked up with a start, then gave a holler and rode on faster than before. Rork banked left, slipping through a gap in the canyon wall. His escort, five other Skyriders, didn't see the change quickly enough, and were forced to continue ahead and wait for the young Valarki prince to come out.

Among the people relieved when the prince pulled safely out of the gap was his childhood friend, and a member of the guard, Orthaln. Orthaln cried out to the prince as he returned, "Find anything?"

"Nothing much," Rork grunted. "Loads of rock, but I'm no miner. Move on."

They flew on slowly, making last minute adjustments, and staring down at the 500 Valarki Mounted Men below. Two V's cut into the cliffs up ahead, and the two loops that joined them allowed the men to retain their momentum for the duration of the ambush. Fifty of the oldest Mounted Men would block the Laethon's forward progression. They would die valiantly, or take their positions among the few retired veterans, and tomorrow, when casualties had been counted, a number of new young men would be inducted into the world's best kept secret, and its finest strike force. Any of the fifty who lived would be given a hero's welcome, and become both very honored and very wealthy.

The Mounted Men took their positions, the fifty eldest dismounted to hold the front two men deep at the bottleneck in the canyon, and half of the rest rode into each V. As for Rork and his five, they pulled higher and higher, then waited, nearly a mile above the place where the Laethon, ten thousand hurriedly gathered farmers and noblemen made-generals, would enter. The six waited for the time when they would keep their enemy noble and prevent the secret of their existence from escaping.

More than two hours they waited, every man ready to remount his horse should the signal come. The Skyriders took turns in the air, two at a time, ready to give the signal by leaving the sky, after which they would meet up and hide on the edge of the cliff. No riders in the sky, and the men would mount.

Rork and Orthaln took the third watch, switching with Halkan and Trundok, the tactical and logistical advisors. If the Laethon had been able to see the several miles to Rork and his closest friend, a fierce sight would have met the onlookers. Two huge, muscle-bound shapes, one slightly larger, not wearing helmets, with scarred faces and skin the color and texture of desert sand, clad in hard, polished chitin from some unimaginably fierce beast, riding steeds that made them more menacing than someone seeing the men alone would be able to imagine.

The beasts were long and thin, somewhere between a reptile and an insect, with thin, leathery wings that seemed too long for their bodies, and could be rotated to hover or pumped to fly hard. All of the limbs seemed much too long for the bodies, and were triple jointed and thin, but rippling with inane strength. The flesh of the beast had a leathery look, but shined like obsidian glass, because of dozens of ceremonial firings by its kin as it had grown. What would be lethal to the incoming army right now, however, would not be the beasts' breath of intense heat or the retractable talons on each of their joints and feet, nor the rough burr at the end of their tail, or their piercing scream. The Skrar ability to control the wind would not bother them from this distance. No, had they been able to see the beast and their rider, they would have been deceived. The danger for these particular men was the eyes of two beasts they could not see.

It was quiet where Rork sat, a mile above the canyon's depths and half a mile above its walls. The Skrar flew silently now, keeping the air around them still, with their power over the wind. It took them a very small amount of constant effort, but the four needed to communicate clearly, and a sliver of endurance was a small price to pay. Rork looked down at the landform that was the only way into the kingdom, that had protected his people for thousands of years. He heard his Skrar, Klarm, cry out quietly under him, telling him that the time had come. Without hesitation, he called out to Orthaln, flying close on Gron, some fifty feet away. "Get down, they're coming."

Orthaln said nothing, banking a hard left and joining Trundok and Leknor on the canyon wall below as Rork did the same with Halkan and Mrontor. The six walked forward slowly to the edge of the wall, trusting their men to notice their watchers missing and mount up.

When they got close to the edge, the six dismounted and began to crawl forward with their Skrar, until they could see the entrance to the canyon half a mile below. The front of the Laethon army marched forward, less than a quarter of a mile from the entrance. The Mounted Men would be packing up now, stowing their provisions out of the way in their saddlebags, and armoring up.

The enemy was close enough now to see the fifty old Valarki men guarding the pass, and while some were making snide jokes about it as they walked out of step, others marveled at the famed walls that no man had even walked out of, surprised at their silence. It disgusted Rork, how they talked, didn't march in time, and were too stupid to know their doom, but he stayed quiet. They couldn't move yet. They kept waiting. The Laethon army was halfway into the canyon now, five thousand men that had made their last meaningful decision. Five thousand more followed blindly behind them, their foolish leaders failing to even consider the situation. Men leading who had never even heard the word tactics. It disgusted him. But they waited.

Three fourths of the men were inside the canyon now. The Mounted Men would be ready. Hidden from sight, waiting for the scout to come running. Two tiny men, not wearing armor, running through the caverns built in the loops just for them, appearing at the front of the line, giving the call to start the slaughter. Soon. As soon as the last man had 30 feet behind him. Rork shivered in anticipation, gave a signal to Orthaln, then commanded his own men to mount up. Everything was quiet for a moment, save the horrible discordant sound of the men's steps below.

The back line of the enemy reached the mark Rork's people knew all too well. The Skrar stepped off the cliff and fell, silently, picking up speed for half a mile before sweeping in formation into the canyon. The wind came at the Skrar's command, pushing the enemy forward, and the middle of the enemy line looked horrified as, one by one, they noticed the Mounted Men charging from their sides. It had begun.

The front of the Laethon line, too far away to hear the commotion behind them, remained confident. The Valarki men ahead of them were armed better than them. The Valarki were obviously well trained. But they were old, plain and simple. The enemy picked up speed, to a slow run, building up a growl deep in their throats that turned into a roar as they ran. The elder Valarki before them stood perfectly still, waiting at attention, their swords drawn. The enemy continued to run, closing the distance, until finally, they could see the expressions on the old men's faces. Several of the Laethon in the front tried to stop, to turn back, after what they saw in the eyes and the wrinkles that surrounded them. They were trampled by their brethren, who were unable to stop their own momentum. The last thing they saw was those sad old men's faces. No rage, fear, or uncertainty was apparent. Only pity.