Free Forging the Sword (The Farsala Trilogy) by Hilari Bell

tactimian with six centris to hunt down Sorahb and destroy the Farsalan army. The Farsalan army that now included about fourteen hundred men.
    But most of those men were still mostly untrained and completely untried, and the Hrum were the best foot soldiers in the world. In a fair fight, on open ground, they could probably defeat all of Jiaan’s troops—which was why Jiaan didn’t intend to fight fair.
    “Are the archers ready?” He spoke to Fasal in a murmur, though the wind was blowing against them and the Hrum below couldn’t possibly hear him.
    “The archers have been ready for days,” Fasal grumbled. His eyes gleamed with excitement, even though he was so bad with a bow that Jiaan had assigned him to coordinate the retreat instead of taking part in the attack. Coordinating the retreat was important too—so important that Jiaan had assigned Aram as Fasal’s assistant, to be sure the young deghan didn’t overlook something important. Like the fact that they were supposed to retreat.
    Jiaan remembered when Aram first approached the Farsalan army, so humbly unsure that a maimed man could be of any use. Without Aram’s steadying presence at Jiaan’s side, there wouldn’t be a Farsalan army today.
    Fasal was perfectly aware of his commander’s hidden agenda, butnot even he was foolish enough to disregard the one-handed veteran’s advice. And Fasal had done a good job—he deserved a reward.
    Jiaan looked down at the Hrum, who were now setting up their tents. The sentries the commander had posted looked alert, but they were also the only men who were holding shields.
    “Give the command,” he told Fasal, nocking an arrow.
    Fasal shot him an astonished glance, but that split second was the only delay. “Begin!” he cried.
    Jiaan bent his bow. He briefly considered shooting the commander, but the commander was still wearing his breastplate, and the range wasn’t close enough to hit a man’s throat. Jiaan chose one of the sentries instead. Shooting downhill, he only had to aim a bit over the man’s head.
    Fasal’s shout had alerted them, but they didn’t know where the attack would come from. The sentry was just turning toward the hissing arrows when Jiaan’s shaft sunk into his chest.
    His body spasmed, the shield falling from his grip. His hands rose to the arrow as he sank to his knees, then to the earth, still conscious, still alive, though probably not for long.
    Jiaan gritted his teeth and thrust a surge of compassion to the back of his mind. On a great battlefield you fired into the massed ranks of the enemy and never knew if your shot went home or missed. Some part of Jiaan, foolishly, had always hoped his arrows missed. Today, he decided, he didn’t care.
    This is what war is.
Jiaan drew another arrow.
And they started it.
    Even as he fired, several score of Hrum grabbed their shields and started scrambling up the ridge toward the archers. The men coming toward Jiaan were safe behind their shields, but the men going up the opposite hillside had their backs to him—and they still wore no armor.
    Jiaan fired at one of them, and his arrow knocked the man off his feet to slide limply down the steep slope.
    The soldiers charging toward Jiaan were also falling under a hail of arrows, from the other side of the narrow valley. Men in the camp were falling as they scrambled for armor, for cover, for their own bows.
    A band of Hrum archers who’d taken shelter in the boulders on the opposite side of the valley floor finally got their bows strung. Half a dozen arrows arced toward Jiaan and the men stationed near him, but the Hrum archers were shooting uphill at a target that was largely invisible—most of their arrows fell short, shattering on the rocky hillside, and the rest whistled harmlessly overhead.
    Jiaan smiled and sent an arrow back at them. His shot missed too, but only by inches, and a Hrum archer ducked back behind the rocks without firing the arrow he had nocked.
    The Hrum commander had been