A shrill Gryphon war cry split the air-and nearly Pirvan's ears as well. Hawkbrother's black horse was a blur; his scimitar and the arm holding it moved faster than the human eye could follow.

One moment the foe was running boldly forward; the next moment his body was toppling one way and his head was rolling the other. Two comrades loyally tried to retrieve his body from being trampled by friend or foe, and Pirvan was almost ready to let them do it.

Not so Hawkbrother.

"You will know we have been in this land, though you kill us all!" he shouted. His scimitar came down again at impossible speed and a barely imaginable angle; Pirvan would not have cared to describe the stroke to any of the arms instructors at any Solamnic Keep. But the steel reached its mark, and another foe went sprawling, his skull gaping.

The third man raised a spear in both hands; the scimitar came down and chopped it in half, while the tip of the blade ripped the man's face. He screamed, but had the courage to throw the pointed half of the spear at Hawkbrother's mount. It struck sideways, and the horse acted as if it were no more than a fly bite.

Pirvan pointed his sword urgently toward the rear and his hand pointed toward the onrushing enemy. "We need to be back with our comrades to make a fight of this, Hawkbrother. I will sing songs for you whether my voice is fit or not, but I would rather we were both alive when they are sung!"

"If that is a promise, I follow you," Hawkbrother said, although Pirvan noted he actually turned his horse a moment before the knight did.

Then both galloped back toward their own ranks, arrows and oaths pursuing them without either finding a mark. When he could raise his head again, Pirvan finally turned his eyes toward the slope, to see how Darin's part of the battle fared.

He learned little. The slope cast up an immense cloud of yellow dust. Amid the swirls of dust, Pirvan could occasionally make out what he presumed were human figures in swift movement. He could not tell one side from the other, nor indeed be entirely sure there were not hobgoblins and ogres on the battlefield!

Meanwhile, the head of the column facing Pirvan was coming on, in no particular order but with a considerable edge in numbers. Pirvan and Hawkbrother might have had to fight for their lives, but Threehands and Haimya brought both Gryphons and Solamnics to their rescue.

The reinforcements numbered hardly more than twenty, and faced odds of better than two to one. But the enemy had no other advantage, not in weapons, discipline, or skill at arms, and they were gravely outmatched in valor and determination.

The Solamnics were determined to avenge the insult to their leader and to the knights in general. The Gryphons were determined not to be outdone in prowess by anyone even remotely friendly to Istar. They also rejoiced at the chance to finally come to grips with one of the armed ghosts that had been haunting their trail for three days.

Altogether, the counterattack crashed into the head of the column with a savagery that could have routed a much larger and stouter-hearted force. Those in the column who did not fall at once recoiled, then turned and ran. Those immediately behind them fell into disorder as they tried to avoid being trampled by their fleeing comrades.

The four mounted leaders-Pirvan, Haimya, and the two sons of Redthorn-wheeled their horses and drove them in among the ranks of the fleeing men. Their men followed, with more haste than order, but this was a battle where steel and ferocity counted for much more than well-ordered lines.

Pirvan's heart rose into his throat and stuck there when he saw that one of the "men" was Eskaia. Fortunately her brother was on one side of her, wielding his sword with nearly a knight's skill. On the other side of her, improbably but undeniably, was Grimsoar One-Eye.

Serafina was nowhere in sight. Pirvan suspected her heart, too, was in her throat, seeing her weak-lunged sailor husband ride into battle on a horse barely large enough to carry him at a trot.

If Grimsoar does not live through this battle, Pirvan thought hastily, I had best flee to live out my days among the minotaurs, or Serafina will track me down.

Then somebody was shouting, loud enough to be heard above the horse cries and man cries, the hammering of steel on steel, and all the rest of the battle din. A moment later Pirvan could even make out the shouter's words.

"Look! Up on the hill, above Darin! Enemy cavalry!"

Pirvan looked, and his heart sank down to his bowels. The dust had cleared enough that he could see Darin-well forward in the ranks of the enemy, along with his men-and also a mounted force descending the slope to strike at Darin's flank.

The battle had suddenly turned from hard fought to desperate.

When Rynthala led her band over the crest of the ridge to within sight of the battle below, two things immediately faced her. One was a vast cloud of dust, in which it was barely possible to tell that human beings moved and fought, let alone which side was where.

The other was a kender, standing on a rock, desperately waving his arms.

Rynthala spurred her horse toward the rock, then reined in so sharply her riding teacher would have winced. Battle imposed its own rules.

"Ho, little friend-"

"Little? I am as tall as my Uncle Trapspringer, who was tall enough to be mistaken for a human. This annoyed him very much. It will annoy me as much if you do not rescue my friend, Imsaffor Whistletrot."

Rynthala pointed at the dust cloud. "Is he in there?"

"Well, I have not seen him come out and, if he didn't fly or burrow into the ground-and he isn't a dwarf, but a kender like me-"

The kender had sent his message. Rynthala pointed off to her left.

"Follow me down there, but stay in line and clear of the dust. We don't want anyone striking out at us in a panic."

Rynthala hoped she would have equal self-command. At the moment, her mouth was as dry as if she had swallowed dust for an hour. Her breath came quick, and muscles that she had not known she had were twitching of their own will. When she dug in her spurs, she was surprised that the pressure of her legs did not crack her mount's ribs.

But the horse seemed as eager as his familiar mistress. Together they shot down the slope. Rynthala's notion was to stay well clear of the dust until she could snatch a prisoner or even find a willing informant among those fighting. She saw no elves and little archery at the moment, but the dust cloud was rapidly growing large enough to hide a small manor. She could not risk the slaughter of friends on the slim evidence of her eyes.

A breeze rose as she was halfway down the slope, at first blowing the dust toward her. She rode through a yellow wall, half surprised that it was not as solid as brick, to find herself coughing in relatively clear air.

She was also almost on top of the largest man she had ever seen, nearly the size of an ogre although vastly better-formed. Indeed, he was so handsome and so swift and graceful, Rynthala's hand came up of its own accord to make the sign of Kiri-Jolith.

The godlike young warrior did not see Rynthala at first, being occupied with two opponents. She noted that he was holding them at a safe distance without trying to beat down their guards and kill them; he could have done so easily, with his advantage of height and reach, not to mention a sword in proportion to the rest of him.

At last, one of the men threw down his blade and knelt to ask mercy, and the other turned and fled. As he vanished into the dust cloud, Rynthala heard a scream-and the man stumbled out again, clutching a bleeding leg.

A kender followed, clutching his hoopak and trying to look in all directions at once. He was coated with dust and spotted with blood, but from the vigor of his movements most of it must have belonged to others.

"You must be Imsaffor Whistletrot," was the first thing Rynthala could say.

At least it was better than hailing the warrior as Kiri-Jolith. A valiant fighter, surely, and almost certainly for good, but definitely human, and not even as young as Rynthala had thought. He could not be far off thirty, which to her still seemed a considerable age.

Both the warrior and the kender replied at once, but the kender talked three times as fast, so that Rynthala heard his answer first, even if most of it did not make sense. Apparently she had named him correctly, he thanked her, he trusted that Horimpsot Elderdrake had told her, he would return his friend's hoopak now, and on and on for some long while.

By then the warrior was plainly trying hard not to laugh. He looked down at the kender, who barely came up to his waist, and said, "Have I changed so much that you no longer recognize me?"

The kender looked up, his mouth fell open, and for once in history a kender was too astonished to speak. This gave the warrior a chance to bow to Rynthala.

"I trust you are on the side of good, my lady, for it would be a painful duty to fight you. I am Sir Darin Waydolson, Knight of the Crown."

"I am Rynthala of Belkuthas, and I won't fight you unless you are going to attack my parents' home." Rynthala felt herself flushing at the way the words came out. She had talked more sensibly when she was ten years old!

Sir Darin was too polite to notice. Instead he waved his sword across the slope, where the dust was now exposing a good-sized battle. It was nearly finished, now, judging by the number of men down-and Rynthala noticed that most of these wore sell-swords' motley gear, and most of those standing wore either Free Rider or Solamnic garb.

As far as I can tell under the dust, anyway, Rynthala reminded herself.

Sir Darin stepped closer and pointed his sword downhill. Another, thinner cloud of dust surrounded a second battle, still in progress. A mixed band of Solamnics and Free Riders hotly engaged another column of sell-swords, trying to force their way down from a pass to the east.

"If you wish to fight beside anyone, take your folk down and report to my commander, Sir Pirvan of Tirabot, Knight of the Sword. Or Threehands, son of Redthorn the Gryphon, who is chief alike with Sir Pirvan. I will send a man to guide you, if needed."

Rynthala was torn between relief that there was still a fight to fight, and regret that Sir Darin would not be going with her. She signaled to the riders behind her. Follow me.

Rynthala was able to bring her band-or at least two score of its arrows-into the last moments of Pirvan's fight. The warrior maiden was plainly disappointed.

Pirvan assured her that her arrival had ended the fight more quickly and, thereby, saved lives on both sides. For this he would be grateful, and Kiri-Jolith and Paladine would honor her.

"Are you Sir Pirvan of Tirabot?" was all the warrior maiden replied.

"I am, but-"

"Then I am bidden by Sir Darin Waydolson to seek you out. Have I done so?"

"Yes, but-"

"Sir Pirvan!" A small figure darted between the two mounted warriors. "Good to see you again. We must talk. These are Zephros's men you've fought. We met them a few days ago at a pass with a lot of rocky spikes. We knocked down some of the spikes and both sides of the pass fell. That blocked their way. They must have found another road through the hills. The other men are common sell-swords. I don't know if they are on the same side, but Zephros's men are evil from the heart out. If every last one of them-"

Pirvan held up a hand. This did nothing to still the kender, whom he recognized under the dust as Imsaffor Whistletrot, once one of Waydol the Minotaur's band. Ten years did not age kender greatly-or slow their tongues.

What did silence Whistletrot was Rynthala's sliding out of her saddle and picking him up bodily by the scruff of the neck. This brought Pirvan to realize that the woman-barely more than a girl-was taller than he was, and probably stronger.

Whistletrot used quite a lot of what had to be vulgar language, but it was in the kender tongue, so that it offended no one. While he was relieving his feelings, Eskaia rode up and hailed her father as a junior captain hails a senior.

"Greetings, Father. Sir Darin reports that he has slain, taken, or driven into flight all the sell-swords. The ones you fought-Zephros's band, they say-are asking for a truce to bury their dead and recover their wounded."

"I grant it," Pirvan said. It was pleasant to talk to someone he could trust not to interrupt him-at least not on the battlefield.

But the pleasure would not last long. He needed to learn a great deal about those whom he had defeated, and learn it before sunset, which was coming on fast. Then he had to place his men-hale, hurt, and slain-and his prisoners, in safety. In the morning, he would have to fight another battle, and resume the march to Belkuthas.

If the heiress to the citadel had come out to meet him, it was only courteous to follow her home. But Pirvan prayed to every god lawful for a knight to name, and a few others who might help if they were feeling generous, that Rynthala would also help him through the mountain of work that remained before they saw the towers of Belkuthas rising ahead!

Chapter 10.

At sunset, Eskaia stood side by side with Hawkbrother on a low rise, overlooking the camp. They did not touch, but for now, an occasional glance served as well. They had also measured precisely and now kept between them a distance that pleased them without displeasing Eskaia's parents or the Gryphon warrior's elder brother.

Closest to them were the captured sell-swords, most of them unbound save for a few who had refused to give their word of honor not to escape. Amidst them stood Pirvan and Tarothin, with several of the captives in a circle around them.

"What does your father mean by so wearying Tarothin?" Hawkbrother asked. "The Red Robe pretends valiantly, but I see grave sickness on his face. Better he should have stayed behind. Skytoucher might have been unable to heal him, but the two could have taught each other much."

Eskaia ignored the criticism of her father. "I think Tarothin is using a modest truth spell. One that will let him tell if a sell-sword lies."

"Better to make the man unable to lie."

"That demands more strength than Tarothin has."

"All the more reason for his resting in safety," Hawkbrother said.

Before they could quarrel over this, they saw Rynthala of Belkuthas riding up with half a dozen of her mounted archers. Close behind her rode Sir Darin, with a similar number of the Solamnics. As the two parties dismounted and began to unload scavenged weapons from their saddles, Darin and Rynthala somehow contrived to end up standing close to one another. Eskaia was prepared to wager all her armor and her second-best mount that this was Rynthala's doing.

"They seem to find each other's company pleasant enough," Hawkbrother said.

No need to ask who they were. Eskaia smiled. "Why not? You tell me if she is not a fine woman. I say Darin is intelligent, honorable, brave, and good to look upon."

"I wonder that you have not set yourself at him, if he has so many virtues!" Hawkbrother said. Eskaia heard an edge in his voice that had not been there since the battle ended.

She turned and stared. His wide brown eyes seemed moist from more than dust, and that neat mouth was set in a hard line. Eskaia stared for a further moment, cursed herself, then licked her lips.

"Hawkbrother, I beg your pardon. You are not jealous, are you?" Her mother had always said that more than a trifle of jealousy in a man cast doubt on both his honor and his intelligence.

"In truth-oh, somewhat. Perhaps a little more. How do you regard Darin? Did you praise him to make me jealous?"

Eskaia let out a long breath. "Paladine and Habbakuk be my witness, no! If I did anything that foolish-you could take me away and do to me whatever Gryphon men are allowed to do to foolish women."

"I have not that right, and if I did your parents would say more than somewhat against it, perhaps my brother as well."

Eskaia sighed. "I shall have to speak to my parents on this and other matters, before many days pass. Also my brother, who may feel freer to do something foolish because he has not a chief's burdens.

"But as for Sir Darin-I was saying about him what I have known myself since I was not yet a woman. To me, he has always been something between an uncle and an elder brother. He was, as much as our parents, my teacher and Gerik's in weapon use and many other matters.

"I think he walks a little apart from most, because he was raised and taught by a minotaur. He fears that some flaw in the minotaur's teaching may someday lead him to injure another, and dishonor Waydol's memory."

"Waydol was the minotaur?"

"Yes." Daring, Eskaia reached for Hawkbrother's hand and gripped it. "I have always regretted never meeting Waydol. I think you would have regretted it. I think you would have respected him, too."

"I think anyone who knows Sir Darin would say the same," Hawkbrother replied. He might have said more, except that Eskaia's delight moved her to kiss him-starting on the cheek but working around to his lips.

He replied, at first, with restraint, but before long with his arm around her. When they stepped apart at last, both were a trifle breathless, but Eskaia hoped the smile on Hawkbrother's face was mirrored on her own.

"Well, my friend," she said. "Our first kiss."

"Better than our first quarrel, which is what I feared," Hawkbrother said. He looked ready to kiss her again, but at that moment they noticed that Pirvan was done with the sell-swords and looking at them.

They did not, however, step apart.

The sunset light through the lancet window in Sir Marod's study now glowed rose-almost the same hue as much of the stonework of Dargaard Keep, or the emblem of his rank embroidered on the cloak hanging over his chair.

He leaned back in the chair, imagining that he heard his joints and the chair's creaking in unison, and stared at the map on the far wall. It was a splendid map, hand-colored on the skin of several large deer sewn together, the whole framed in half a dozen different kinds of wood, all so aged, darkened, and polished that it was impossible to tell what they had been as living trees.

It was also more than a hundred years old, but it showed plainly enough every place that was in Sir Marod's thoughts at the moment. It showed Bloten, whose keep had some days before reported the departure of Sir Lewin and his company, well-supplied, armed, and mounted, and bound over the mountains for good or for ill. It showed the Khalkist Mountains and Thoradin, whose dwarves would have a busy year if matters went awry.

It showed the desert and its western fringes, the land where Aurhinius's host, Pirvan's company, and (if what Marod had heard was report instead of rumor) numerous sell-swords wandered about on separate business. It could not have shown where any of these were, although Marod would have liked to be able to say, of Pirvan's whereabouts, more than "somewhere between the Khalkist Mountains and the Abyss."

It did not show Belkuthas, though the citadel had first risen not only before this map but before the art of map-making was known to men. No doubt it had not been inhabited a century ago, perhaps with the consent of the dwarves, perhaps by their wish.

Sir Marod leaned forward again, and drifted into a reverie that allowed Knights of Solamnia to use certain small spells, for keeping swords sharp, water pure, and maps up to date.