Saryn shivered.

"Keep your slug-throwers ready," added Ryba. "Aim for the body."

The ground vibrated slightly as the horsemen crossed the top of the ridge. In the van were two young men bearing purple banners, followed by a man in a purple cloak thrown back to reveal an iron breastplate and a large hand - and - a - half sword worn in a shoulder harness.

Ryba reached for the slug-thrower at her hip.

"That won't do much," observed Nylan. "They'll just think it's magic of some sort. I suspect that they only recognize blades and arrows as weapons."

"I don't care what they call it. We have to stop them."

"Will it hurt to talk?" Nylan asked. "They look too like us not to be human."

"I suppose not, but if they're really human, they're here to fight." Ryba's eyes flicked toward the ridge where the head marine stood. The snipers remained hidden. "Fierral has her troops ready to gun down the whole mass of them if I give the order."

"All of them?"

"If necessary." Ryba's face was hard. "People don't like facing the unknown. If they're hostile, I'd rather have them all disappear. We could plead ignorance in the future. It's hard to plead ignorance when there are witnesses."

The three studied the riders as the horsemen rode down toward the angel encampment. Beside the purple-clad leader rode a man cloaked totally in white, and Nylan could even feel a sense of whiteness, tinged with red, emanating from the man, who was the only one not carrying visible weapons. That lack of weapons bothered the engineer.

"Watch out for the one in white," he said quietly as his hand drifted to the standard-issue sidearm that he had never used against the demons of light or their mirror towers.

"I'll keep that in mind." Ryba kept her broad shoulders square as she stepped forward and somewhat away from the rocks.

The horsemen drew up in a rough line, a sort of half-circle centered on the small plot being ditched. The marines in the plot had lowered their hoes, and their hands rested by the butts of their sidearms.

The man in the purple cloak reined up well short of Ryba, inclined his head, and declaimed something.

"Not good," whispered Nylan. "They know she's in charge."

Ryba inclined her head slightly, then, without turning her head, asked, "What did he say?"

"The general idea is that we don't belong here."

"I could tell that myself," snapped Ryba, her eyes still fixed on the man in purple.

The leader of the locals added a few more words, the last ending in what seemed a partial snarl.

Ryba looked back at him, then responded in an even tone. "I suggest you do the same to yourself."

Purple cloak drew the big hand - and - a - half sword, holding it at the ready.

"Now what do you suggest?" asked Ryba.

"Put one of those Sybran blades through him and run like hell from the guy in white," suggested Nylan.

"I'm afraid we can't recognize your authority." Ryba's voice was almost musical.

Another sentence followed from the local's leader, and he gestured toward the heavens overhead.

Nylan pursed his lips. Did the locals know they had come from space?

"Returning to where we came from is clearly impossible," Ryba responded.

The sword jabbed skyward again.

"No."

The purple-cloaked man barked a command. The sword swept toward Ryba as he spurred his horse forward, as did the other horsemen.

"Fire at will!" yelled Ryba.

Even before the local's heavy blade was within a body length of Ryba, the purple-clad rider was sagging from the big horse, a length of Sybran steel protruding from his chest.

The other horsemen continued to charge whoever happened to be close, blades out and looking for targets, maintaining a rough double-line formation. Only the man in white held back, his eyes scanning the meadow area.

Crack, crack, crack, crack... Even the first staccato impacts of the marine slug- throwers that echoed across the high meadow hurled nearly a dozen armsmen from their mounts. One of the purple banners fluttered to the ground.

The others ignored the sounds and rode toward the handful of marines in the open.

Crack! Crack! Crack! More slug-throwers discharged, and more horsemen tumbled, their frozen faces wearing expressions of disbelief.

Nylan aimed at the man in white. Crack!

Nothing happened, but the engineer had the feeling that somehow the ceramic composite shell had fragmented before it reached the target.

Crack!

With a long and dramatic-sounding set of phrases, the man in the white tunic and trousers raised his right hand and gestured.

Ryba dove behind the nearest boulder, and Nylan ducked. The two of them jammed together.

Whhssttt! The firebolt seemed to bounce off the rock, flared over the half-hoed field, and smashed across the side of the nearest lander. White ashes cascaded onto the meadow. Where the firebolt had struck was a gouge in the dark tiles that showed metal beneath.

"Frig ..." muttered Ryba. "Personal laser! Can't believe it."

Whhhsssttt!

Another firebolt flared above them, gouging a line of fire through the meadow clover.

Whhhssstt!

Crack! Ryba's shot also failed to reach the man in white.

"That's no laser." Nylan peered over the edge of the boulder, then frowned. The man in white was gone, although Nylan thought he could feel someone riding up the hill. More feelings that seemed to be correct, and that bothered the engineer.

"Where did he go?" snapped Ryba.

"Forget him!"

Crack! Crack! Crack!

Nylan lifted the slug-thrower as two horsemen, low in the saddle, swept around the end of the rocks and headed toward them.

Both the captain and the engineer fired again.

Crack! Crack! Crack! When the hammer came down on the empty chamber, Nylan scrambled to the other side of the rock, emerging a moment later. His mouth dropped open as he saw Ryba on one of the horses, chasing down, and slicing open one of the hapless armsmen, and then another.

"Get the damned horses!" yelled Ryba before she rode uphill after a fleeing mount.

Nylan looked at the nearby horse, then flung himself behind the boulder as another horseman galloped toward him.

Crack! Crack! Crack!

The slugs whistled over Nylan's head, and one of Saryn's shots dropped the horseman.

"You'd better reload!" suggested Saryn.

"Thanks!" Nylan, crouching behind the boulder, fumbled the second and last clip into the slug-thrower. He hoped the marines had more firepower. He also hoped they were better shots than he'd proved to be.

When he scrambled up, there were no horsemen nearby, just the mount of the man Saryn had dropped. Nylan, ignoring his apprehensions about grabbing onto anything ten times his size, grasped the reins of the nearby mount, which promptly reared. "Now ... now ..." He tried to be reassuring, but the horse reared again, nearly dragging him off his feet before it settled down.

Whhheeeee . . . eeeee . . . eeee . . .

"I don't like it any better than you do, fellow, lady, whatever you are." Horses?

What was he doing hanging on to horses on an impossible planet? He tried not to shiver and concentrated on calming the horse.

Slowly, somehow, he managed, even as he looked across the meadow. He swallowed. From what he could see, there were large numbers of bodies strewn almost at random. Three of them, beyond the plot, wore shipsuits.

Absently, Nylan patted the neck of the horse.

Wheee . . . eeee . . .

He glared at the beast that towered over him, and, surprisingly, the animal seemed to whimper. Patting the animal's neck, he added, "Just take it easy."

His eyes flicked across the meadow, then toward the top of the hill where Ryba had reined up.

"They're gone, frig it!"

Nylan led the horse toward the lander shells and the half-grubbed and ditched plot, not quite sure what to do with the animal. At the least, he needed to find someplace to tether it. Several marines were working over two angel bodies as he led the horse toward the nearest lander, where, absently, he tied the reins around an internal door loop. No one was going to be closing the door anytime soon.

Then he hurried through the fallen horsemen. One moaned as Nylan passed. He looked down at the hole in the man's abdomen, and his guts twisted at the blood.

The man moaned again. Nylan knelt. There wasn't much he could do.

The soldier muttered something, blood oozing from the corner of his mouth.

Had he fractured ribs in his fall from the horse? The man's hand clutched Nylan's, and he muttered, "Nerysa . . . Nerysa . . ."

His hand loosened, as did his jaw.

Nylan closed the dead man's eyes and slowly stood. Then he walked toward the group between the end lander and the plot where three gathered around a prone figure in a ship-suit.

"It's no use." One of the marines sat back and wiped her forehead.

The unmoving figure was that of the junior officer- Mertin. Above sightless eyes and streams of dried and drying blood, his forehead looked slightly lopsided.

The marine stood. "Those blades are more like iron crowbars. Not much edge.

Damned sword caved in his temple. He just stood there and shot, never ducked He got about four of them."

Nylan looked toward the other grouping. "Who's that?"

"Kyseen, I think. Mangled leg. Three of them hit her at once. She got two. The third got her with his horse. She still got him."

Nylan shook his head. The entire fight still seemed both horribly real and terribly unreal.

From what he could tell, several other marines were also down.

From the hillside above, Ryba rode downhill, leading three more riderless mounts. More to the west, another marine and Gerlich were on horseback, trying to corner several more of the riderless horses. Nylan counted nearly a score of mounts being held, tethered, or chased.

Nylan glanced back toward Kyseen.

"Dumb bastard!"

Since she sounded as though she had a chance for recovery, and since he was certainly no medtech, he walked back toward the uphill side of the lander shells where Ryba was directing the construction of something where the horses could be tethered.

"Nylan!" ordered Ryba. "Get a couple of marines and check the bodies. Those that aren't too badly wounded we'll try to save for information. Gather all the weapons, anything valuable, and have your detail bury the rest deep enough that scavengers, or whatever they have here, won't get them. Keep any cloaks or jackets or armor or boots-if they're in good condition."

Nylan nodded. While he didn't like the idea, he understood the need.

"Don't bury any of the dead horses yet." Ryba made a sour face. "Maybe we can butcher some and stretch out the concentrates."

Nylan frowned. Horse meat? Maybe it would be better than concentrates, but he had his doubts. To stop thinking about that, he asked, "Who got away besides the fellow in white?"

"Maybe a half dozen. One or two were wounded, I think." Ryba turned her mount toward the end of the meadow where Gerlich lurched in the saddle as his mount nearly carried him into an overhanging pine branch. "Use your legs, Gerlich, and your head!"

Nylan pointed to the three nearest marines. "You, you, and you-we're the scavenger - and - burial detail." He saw Huldran. "You too, Huldran. We'll start up by the rocks and sweep down. Carry the bodies to the lower end of the meadow, near the drop-off." He gestured.

"That's a long ways," pointed out a tall woman, who, like him, had come out of the mysterious underjump with silver hair.

Nylan tried to remember her name. Was it Llysette?

"Llysette, it's downhill-"

"It's Llyselle, ser."