The two lords ride until they reach the van, and the rolling downhill stretch below the mounted foreguard. There Sillek reins up and studies the terrain. So does Gethen.

In time, he motions to Gethen, and the two ride aside from the others.

"They don't have more than fourscore there-mostly foot levies," points out Sillek. "The hill on the north side of the road is rocky, and they've only a handful of troops there. If we take the wizards, we should be able to use their firebolts and take the crest. From there, we can roll down rocks on them-rocks and firebolts."

"What if they reinforce the hilltop?" asks Gethen.

"The hillside is exposed. You have our archers fire at them. We can get rid of their hill guards before they can send others up the hillside. Then it will be too late." Sillek smiles.

"They'll start sending reinforcements as soon as they see what you're doing."

"But they won't see that. You're going to draw up our forces just about a double bow-shot length from them and go through elaborate preparations for an attack."

Gethen nods, then asks, "What if they attack?"

"Can you deploy the forces to kill them without losing many?"

"With more than ten times their forces and archers, I can manage that." Gethen smiles grimly. "I would still point out that you have a nasty turn of thought, Lord Sillek."

"That's because I dislike fighting."

"So did I. I still do."

Both men shake their heads before Gethen turns his mount toward the main body of troops.

XCV.

THIN HAZY CLOUDS covered the blue-green sky, not totally blocking the sky, but reducing the sun's glare and direct heat. The usual breeze was absent, and the meadow grasses hung limp and still. The lack of wind left the early afternoon almost hotter than if there had been a breeze and no clouds.

Nylan was crossing the causeway, on the way back to the smithy, when the outer triangle, located in the small brick tower recently completed on the top of the ridge, rang three times. He had scarcely taken two steps when the triplet clanged again.

Across the fields, guards dropped warrens and hoes and scrambled toward the tower, fastening blades in place. As Nylan watched, two duty guards-Cessya and Nistayna, one of the older new guards-rode up toward the ridge. Before he could reach the smithy, Istril had ridden down past Nylan, leading three saddled mounts, taken immediately by Weindre, Kyseen, and Kadran, who all rode toward the watch tower.

Istril frowned, but did not ride out with the three, instead spurring her mount back toward the stables, as Ydrall rode down leading three more mounts.

Nylan nodded. Fierral, or someone, had figured out how to get the kitchen and the field details into the saddle quickly. They were still fortunate that the timber detail was involved in expanding the stables, rather than working down in the woods.

Ydrall's mounts included Ryba's roan, Fierral's mount, and a horse taken by Berlis.

The engineer had just reached the front of the smithy when Istril rode back down with another set of three mounts. Behind her and the riderless three mounts rode Llyselle, Jaseen, and Murkassa. Murkassa's face was pale.

At the tower, three more guards were waiting-Saryn, Selitra, and Hryessa.

"Move it!" Saryn's voice carried as she vaulted into the saddle, leading the six riders up toward the watch tower.

Nylan paused as Istril turned and headed her mount back uphill. He waited outside the smithy for the silent silver-haired guard.

She reined up and looked down. "With Ellysia dead, until the little ones are old enough to eat solid food, I'm ordered away from battle, unless attackers reach the tower itself." Istril glanced toward the tower. "Siret has them now."

"You don't have to explain to me, Istril. You've put your life on the line plenty."

Nylan gave the silver-haired guard a ragged smile. "You don't see me charging out there, either."

"That's different. If anything happens to you . . ." She turned her mount uphill.

"I've got to get more mounts ready."

Nylan watched her for a moment before entering the smithy. Huldran was forging arrowheads, letting Desain, one of the newer guards, hold the tongs.

"Over now. Easy."

When the triangle rang a third time, Nylan looked at Huldran. "We'd better get moving, too."

"The forge?"

"Let it burn." Nylan turned to Desain. "Find your blade, and then go down to the tower. Listen to Istril or the guards there."

At her puzzled look, Nylan repeated himself in Old Anglorat to her before turning to Huldran. "We'll head up to the stables."

They didn't have to go that far. Istril met them with two more mounts at the opening to the small canyon where Nylan climbed onto a brown mare he'd never ridden before. She seemed responsive enough and not ready to throw him every which way.

"Take care, ser," Istril said. "Don't lead the charge."

"I won't."

"That one cares for you, ser," Huldran said quietly.

"I know. She's good, and she works hard." He glanced toward the tower, where Fierral and Ryba, already mounted, waited for them just beyond the end of the causeway. "I worry about her."

"You worry about a lot of people."

"One of my undoings," quipped Nylan.

"Come on!" Ryba waved a blade, and Nylan urged the mare into a trot, wincing at the jolting, and then feeling guilty as he thought about how much harder that kind of jolting had to be on Ryba or Istril.

As the four rode two by two across the narrow bridge over the tower outfall drainageway, Ryba said, "The bridge is solid, and the paved part feels that way, too."

"I wish we had time to pave more."

"Once we get the new ones more settled, maybe we can have a stone-paving crew. It's good exercise."

"That's true," agreed Fierral, "but let's worry about what's over the hill right now. There's another group of mounted brigands coming up the ridge. They're wearing purple, but it's not that light purple of Lornth. It's darker."

"Darker purple? Who could that be?" asked Nylan.

"Does it matter?" retorted Ryba. "How many?"

"A little less than twoscore."

"Any archers or bows?"

"No. But this group carries round shields that look pretty thick."

"Arrows are faster than shields," Ryba pointed out.

"We don't even have a score of guards up there."

"Use the arrows first," said Ryba.

"I'd planned to." Fierral glanced at Nylan. "Now that we have some, I told Saryn to make them count, but not to worry if a few shafts fall by the way so long as most of them hit something."

When Nylan looked back toward the tower, he saw one more rider, Ayrlyn, following, with several large saddlebags. Medical supplies, such as they had remaining, he guessed.

More than a dozen guards, all mounted and bearing bows and blades, forged by Nylan, waited at the ridge top, facing downhill and to the west.

"They seem to be waiting for us," Saryn announced. "But they can wait a long time. I'd rather hold the heights."

"Idiots," murmured Ryba as she saw the darker purple banners drawn up on the flat below the ridge. "They should have just attacked." Beyond the banners, almost out of sight, were tethered what appeared to be packhorses.

"Don't put down male chivalry too much," cautioned Nylan. "If they hadn't waited to set up a formal battle, it would have been a mess."

Both Fierral and Ryba looked sideways at the engineer.

"You keep up the direct and brutal business," added Nylan, "and they'll do the same. At least, after word gets around, they will."

Huldran nodded minutely, although the gesture was lost on the other two women.

The ridge top darkened as a larger and more substantial cloud buried in the high haze drifted across the sun.

"They're out of bow shot."

"We need to make them come to us," Ryba said.

"Do they want to fight at all?" asked Nylan.

"They won't admit that. First, they'll make some statement about how they come in peace to reclaim whatever they think is theirs. Then will come threats, and then they'll ride downhill and charge back up."

Nylan said nothing, instead trying to send his perceptions out to see if the apparent attackers were more deceptive than they appeared. As he swayed in the saddle, straining at the limits of his abilities, he could sense that matters were not quite as they seemed.

"Hold it," he gasped, raising a hand.

"What?" said Ryba almost impatiently.

"This one's a setup, I think," Nylan explained. "See the trees to the right, where they bulge out on the lower side?"

"Someone there?" asked Fierral.

"Archers, it feels like. I'll bet their mounts are in with the packhorses down there. The woods are too steep there for horses."

"That means ten to fifteen archers." Ryba nodded. "So they'll come a quarter of the way up the hill under a white banner, make an impossible demand, and as they turn, we'll get sleeted with a cross fire?"

The engineer shrugged. "I don't know tactics, but I'd guess something like that."

Ryba studied the ground, then looked downhill and out at the flat where a rider was lifting up a white banner. "They don't want to give us much time, either."

"Can't imagine why ..." muttered Nylan under his breath, wondering if the guards' reputation for instant and unforgiving action had already crossed most of Candar by rumor.

"How far will their arrows go-uphill?" asked Ryba.

"We could only descend another four hundred cubits or so before we'd be at the outer range, probably," hazarded Fierral.

"Fine. We'll go down to the edge of that range and wait."

"And?" asked Fierral.

"We'll insult their manhood. That might get them mad enough to charge after us," said Ryba.

"They can't be that stupid," pointed out Fierral.

"Probably not. But there's nothing that says we have to fight. We ride away. If they want to fight, they'll either have to bring up their archers out of the woods-or leave them behind." The marshal smiled coldly.

"They won't leave them, not after bringing them all the way up here."

"No, they won't. But our bows have a longer effective range than theirs, because they're your specials, and because the height should give us a little more impact, and they won't expect that power from mounted archers." Ryba laughed. "If they're better, we retreat to the rocks by the watchtower. That covers the road, and they'll have trouble."

"What if they retreat?" asked Nylan.

"They won't."

As the rider bearing the limp white banner rode uphill, followed by three riders, Ryba, Fierral, and Berlis rode down the ridge more slowly, drawing up well short of the midpoint between the two forces.

The leaders of the purple forces stopped exactly where predicted and waited.

Ryba, Fierral, and Cessya waited.

Nearly half a kay separated the two groups.

Finally, the man bearing the banner-alone-rode up the hill.

Drawing on his senses, Nylan strained to hear, but could only catch the general sense of the conversation, and the scathing scorn in Ryba's voice.

The central rider of the attackers' leaders raised a gloved fist. Ryba's laugh echoed down the hill. Then the three Westwind riders turned their backs on the others, and rode back up the hill.

Several arrows arched out of the lower forest, but fell short. Neither Ryba nor Fierral even looked back.

After a time, the armsman with the banner rode back down to the three others.

"They've got a problem." Ryba's voice contained a hint of laughter as she reined up before the Westwind guards. "They were sent to rout us out. If they go back, they won't be in good standing. If they've got any brains, the last thing they're going to want to do is ride up the ridge ... but in this kind of culture, if you don't take the fight to the enemy you're a coward, and that's either a death sentence or an endless round of duels and hassles."