"Other companies," Wilthur said quietly. "Better than the rat's brood Pirvan took today, because you and they could not meet in time. Half of them would have turned their coats, anyway, so I suppose it is no great loss. But more and better are coming, and you may have the glory of leading them to victory. Merely do our bidding, and we shall ask for nothing to take the glory from you."

And pigs will march into the smokehouse of their own will and come out hams without any human aid, Zephros thought. It was a more elegant thought than he could usually muster; he remembered at least three tutors who would have been proud. He also remembered that he had given up poetry in spite of the tutors, thinking it not fit art for a soldier.

It now seemed rather a pity. Poets would doubtless sing of whatever victories he won, or compose fine epitaphs if he lost. None of them would know the truth, and Branchala did not much care for verses that did not smell at least slightly of the truth.

However, the only important truth now was the two men standing before him, waiting for his answer.

"For our men, for the kingpriest, and for the cause we all serve, I agree to your terms."

Zephros was relieved when the others merely nodded, instead of asking him to sign in blood or some such trick.

The two kender had been watching Zephros's camp from a position far ahead of Pirvan's most advanced scouts. However, by the time ruddy light flashed within one of the tents, Imsaffor Whistletrot was sound asleep.

His comrade Elderdrake wanted to kick him awake, if only to stop the snoring that surely must be waking half the camp, to say nothing of minotaurs in Ergoth and dragons in dragonsleep. He did no such thing. His friend and mentor had been marching and fighting for a long time, and deserved to sleep when both of them were not needed on watch.

Except that if that flash of light meant something, somebody should know about it back in Sir Pirvan's camp. Whistletrot had told his traveling companion enough about the knight to convince Elderdrake that Sir Pirvan of Tirabot liked kender and was even willing to listen to them ... almost as long as they were willing to talk.

But how should anybody know anything if Elderdrake didn't go back and leave his friend alone and asleep, or else wake him up? It would take a while to go to the nearest sentry, and if the man did not care for kender, Elderdrake might have to go all the way back to Sir Pirvan, and that would take even longer.

Elderdrake decided he would do nothing and go nowhere until either the flash came again or Whistletrot woke up.

In fact, before either happened, Elderdrake himself had fallen asleep.

Chapter 11.

The three bands, united into one, rode out in the dawn of what all hoped would be the last day's travel to Belkuthas. Rynthala's mounted archers, except for those acting as scouts, accompanied the Gryphons and Solamnics.

This was the logical task for them, knowing the land as they did. However, certain Gryphons were muttering that servants of the lord and lady of Belkuthas might let hurt come to the Free Riders, to win favor among the Silvanesti.

Raising his voice only a few times, Threehands subdued such tongue-wagglers without bloodshed, but as the column rode out, the Gryphon chief wore a face so long it all but dragged on the ground. He also cast sour looks at the two kender, who were riding one behind the other atop a pack horse and singing (at least Pirvan assumed it was singing.) Pirvan dropped back to ride beside his fellow chief.

"Those cursed kender haven't done enough damage?" Threehands snapped. "Now they want to deafen us?"

"I thought they'd done us more good than harm," Pirvan said cautiously. If the kender were still a grievance for Threehands- "Oh, when all is said and done, I imagine you have the right of it," Threehands said. "But their knocking down the Cliff of Spikes, and blocking the Pass of Riomis-that will not go unpunished."

"It was an accident-if they are telling the truth," Pirvan added. This was partly out of tact. He also knew too well that storytelling was a fine art among kender, and practiced everywhere, even among humans who did not really appreciate it.

"Perhaps, but it still destroyed shrines more ancient than the Knights of Solamnia," Threehands said. "It also blocked one of the easiest paths from the desert to the wells at Riomis and Felthun. Blocking the path to water is not as vile as poisoning it, but the desert-born will not think well of those who do it. Even the desert-wise like you should be slow to honor it."

"The gods only know on what side justice-" Pirvan began.

What knowledge he was going to attribute to the gods did not pass Pirvan's lips. A hail from the scouts up ahead broke in on the conversation.

"Elves!"

Threehands muttered something about scouts who said the first thing that came into their hitherto empty heads, and spurred his mount ahead. Pirvan joined him.

They caught sight of the elves, who were mounted but moving at such a slow walk that Pirvan could easily count them. A dozen or so older elves-one of them as close to elderly as a Silvanesti elf could be and still appear outside his homeland-rode amidst some fifty archers. The archers had no armor save silvered metal caps, and few had any weapons except their bows. No one in his senses, though, despised elven archery. Pirvan matched the elves' pace. Some of them rode very slowly, indeed, and were poor horsemen, as well.

An angry shout echoed across the hillside.

It did not echo as loudly as it would have a day before; they were up into the forest now, and the trees swallowed much of the sound. But the elf was shouting with the strength of righteous indignation, and could have made himself heard in the middle of a battlefield.

"Rynthala! You do us no honor to meet us only now!"

Pirvan's head jerked about, looking for the source of the voice. Instead, he saw Sir Darin pull his horse around and ride toward the elves. At the slow pace he needed to maintain on rough ground, this took some time, but the elves seemed so completely bemused by Darin's size that they kept silent until he was within speaking distance.

"Your pardon, worthy elven counselors and warriors. I am Sir Darin Waydolson, chief of scouts to this band under Sir Pirvan of Tirabot and Threehands, son of Redthorn of the Gryphons."

Darin had the elves' attention, and Pirvan was now able to pick out their speaker and leader. He was the eldest one, although his stooped and slight frame seemed to hold a youthful voice.

"Rynthala met us on the field of battle against renegade sell-swords," Darin explained, "enemies to the peace of all in this land. Because she knew the land, Sir Pirvan and Threehands commanded her to be our guide. So, if you wish to accuse anyone of misconduct, let it not be Rynthala, who also thought you would be in less danger if our band was strong."

"No danger can come near fifty Silvanesti archers," the old elf snapped. "It was a matter of duty, not safety. Unless perhaps Rynthala feared to ride alone, and wished to remain in your company."

Sir Darin at this point turned a color that the two kender found vastly entertaining, judging from their shrieks of laughter. Pirvan had the notion that Darin was about to lose his temper. Though he knew why and did not doubt the justice of so doing, Pirvan could not call it wise.

He spurred his horse to join Darin. "Sir Darin speaks the truth, and with my voice. Make your quarrel with me, if you feel that you truly have one. Or, more honorable to the name of the Silvanesti, let us all be march-friends until we reach Belkuthas. Then weary bodies will not cloud our wits."

The elven leader looked ready to continue the conversation, but a companion gripped the shoulder of his robe, and the gesture brought him to silence. This gave Pirvan a chance to close with Sir Darin.

"So be it," the elf said.

Pirvan turned his horse, staying close enough to Darin to be able to speak to him in a whisper.

"Well done, for the most part, but why did you speak out so quickly?" Pirvan asked.

"I did not doubt your honor," Darin said. That was a rare remark from his lips; commonly he would be silent for hours even when he should have spoken, rather than cast doubt on another's honor. His upbringing by a minotaur, among whom honor was a matter of life and death, had much to do with this.

"Thank you," Pirvan said. He hoped his voice did not bleed sarcasm.

"I doubted your swiftness, and did not doubt Rynthala's," Darin added.

This did not seem the best time for speaking in riddles, and Pirvan said so. Darin actually flushed.

"She seemed ready to ride at the elves, or at least say things no Silvanesti of such rank would forgive. I felt honor-bound to save our host- and hostess-to-be from such an embarrassment."

"Also their daughter."

"Of course." The flush did not deepen, but neither did it depart.

Pirvan trusted Darin to do nothing improper, regardless of his feelings for Rynthala, or hers for him. He still hoped Darin felt no more than the desire to defend a battle comrade's honor from slanderous attack, such as would have meant a death challenge among minotaurs.

Which of the True Gods, Pirvan wondered, does one pray to to keep young folk from falling in love at times inconvenient for themselves and others? Pirvan was not sure if any god had power over this, but thought Mishakal-healer of mind and body, as well as Paladine's consort-might be a good place to start.

Before Pirvan could phrase a prayer, however, a cry again interrupted him. This time it had no words in it and needed none, for Pirvan could see for himself.

Tarothin the Red Robe was swaying in his saddle, and the eyes he turned up to the sky were glazed and unseeing.

In the first moments of the spellcasting, Tarothin sensed the magic working to fuddle the wits of his companions. But something about it-something for which there were only arcane words, but that might be compared to the bouquet of wine-was so alien to him that he did not at once begin a counterspell.

It was nearly his undoing, and that of the others, too. He felt the spell touch the elderly elf's-High Judge Lauthinaradalas's-mind, and also Rynthala's. He heard the words forming in their so-slightly disarrayed minds before they reached their lips or the ears of others.

But, not having begun his riposte, Tarothin could not halt the elf's words. Nor, when he struck back, could he be subtle.

He ripped the spell from Rynthala's mind with all the subtlety of a field healer tearing a bandage from a clotted wound. The woman's cry remained internal, fortunately, and Tarothin knew what Darin did thereafter.

Before Pirvan joined Darin, however, the Red Robe's entire awareness focused completely on turning aside a second attempt to cast the spell. This time he succeeded; no one but himself noticed the attack, and this time he learned the identity of his opponent.

That stark knowledge and the effort of the counterspell made Tarothin cry out and reel in his saddle. It felt as if he had been struck hard with a club, in the ribs and on the back of the head. For a moment, even his breath came short.

Then Pirvan was beside him, holding him up, and Gerik was riding to do the same from the other side. Tarothin fought air into his lungs once more and gripped the saddlebow until he was sure his hands were equal to holding reins again.

At last he was able to speak.

"Magic. Enemies-close. And-Wilthur fights us."

Before Pirvan could answer, a ripple of movement in the trees drew everyone's eyes. Then the whine of descending arrows struck upon everyone's ears.

From the back of a horse already responding to the pressure of his knees, Pirvan saw the arrows, a fleeting dark shadow against the blue sky. His mount was not the only one in movement, either. Nobody within sight or hearing of the arrows was so green that they did not know the most elementary tactic to defeat an archery ambush: the arrows are aimed at where you are when the archer shoots, so before they strike, be somewhere else.

This meant a great many riders and horses all moving in different directions at the same time, in a comparatively small space of none-too-smooth ground. There were collisions, falls, and a few arrows that struck home.

But the united bands had ceased to present a helpless target before the first arrow fell. Now they were forming for battle, and were as much a menace as a target.

It helped that the hostile archers had shot at extreme range for anyone except seasoned elven bowmen. Some arrows actually fell short, and some that struck home lacked the power to penetrate and do grave hurt.

Pirvan realized that one reason the enemy had shot at long range was to avoid hitting or even confronting the elves. Whatever reason they had for being enemies to Pirvan and his companions, they were not yet foes to the Silvanesti.

This did not tell Pirvan nearly as much as he wanted to know about the attackers. The Silvanesti, after all, were not without enemies. It strongly suggested another band of sell-swords-this time with some potent wizard named Wilthur working among them.

Haimya screamed, louder than she ever had, save in labor. She was screaming curses; she was not the only one. Almost together, the elves were turning their mounts and riding out of the line of fire. They were not even unslinging their bows, let alone shooting back. Pirvan was charitable about that last; some of the elves struggled even to stay mounted. They rode away from Pirvan's fighters, not toward them. As plainly as if they had written it across the sky, the elves were saying this was not their battle, and whoever had shot at Pirvan's folk could go on doing so.

Pirvan was about to join the general cursing, but noticed the elven withdrawal had cleared the hillside for an advance on the woods. He was not the only one to see that.

Hawkbrother and some twenty Free Riders were on their way uphill, working from a trot to a canter. Pirvan prayed they would not try to gallop, or they would be falling faster than the elves, some of whom were now trying to catch their loose mounts or stay on the backs of bucking ones.

Hard upon the Free Riders' heels came Rynthala and her mounted archers. They had their horse bows ready, and some of them were already shooting. Pirvan hoped they had as much sense as their enemies, and avoided hitting friends.

Then a sleet storm of arrows swept down from the forest. Again, the shooting was not good, but it was against an easy target. At least five Free Riders and six of their mounts went down.

One of the fallen was Hawkbrother.

Gildas Aurhinius placed the letter he had just read on the pile to the left of him, and drew the next letter off the pile of unread ones to his right. His eyebrows twitched slightly. This letter bore the seal of Carolius Migmar, one of the highest-ranking commanders in the host of Istar. He was also a brave fighter and excellent rider ... and had once been a good friend and drinking companion, when they were both young captains. Reportedly, Carolius was somewhat the worse for years and much the worse for wine, though the red eyes that greeted Aurhinius each morning while he shaved reminded him he should not fault others' drinking.

Migmar was also more than somewhat the worse for his alliance with the kingpriest, if other tales ran true. Or rather, as with so many, his alliance with the men who had served the old kingpriest. The old guard spent its time intriguing with sympathizers all over Istar's realm, hoping to put on the high seat another such harsh, chill soul.

Aurhinius wondered how long it would take before some of them conceived the blasphemy of making the seat vacant, by steel, poison, or magic. He hoped it would be many years, not only after his death, but after the death of all those he cared about.

If the kingpriest was truly the repository of virtue, compassing his death was blasphemy. If he was not, claims that he was were also blasphemy.

Being a soldier rather than a scholar, Aurhinius put the question aside. He would never come up with an answer that made sense, even to himself. Also, he would waste time needed for reading letters, seeing to the camp middens, and scouting the desert to guide further bands of recruits to the main camp.

Aurhinius opened the letter, using a dwarven-work knife that Nemyotes had given him on the tenth anniversary of the man's becoming the general's secretary. What the letter told him nearly made him drop the knife on his foot.

Carolius Migmar was coming south with reinforcements and would assume command of the tax soldiers and all Istarian regulars when he arrived. Meanwhile, Aurhinius was highly commended for sending his vanguard northwest. Numerous bands of sell-swords with Istarian captains would be sent to strengthen the vanguard, which would make its base the citadel of Belkuthas.

This would put a strong force on one flank of the Silvanesti, while the main body held the elves in front. With such strength arrayed against them, they would surely see reason on the matter of taxes, and could be punished severely if they did not.

Migmar wished his old friend well, hoped he was in health, and looked forward to having again the old pleasure of serving with him, this time in high rank for a cause blessed by all who loved virtue, gods and men alike.

A list of the sell-swords said to be marching on Belkuthas came with the letter. It was scant on details of numbers, training, and weapons, but suggested Belkuthas might shortly play host to five thousand men.

Aurhinius used a coarse word. He suspected the lord and lady of Belkuthas would use the same or a stronger one when they learned of what as about to befall them.

"My lord?"

It was Nemyotes, drawn by his commander's unwonted language, thrusting his head into the tent.

"Thank you, but I need no help." Aurhinius hoped his voice was not shaking.

Nemyote's look killed that hope, but he did withdraw before Aurhinius could say more.

Aurhinius muttered another coarse word. He mastered his impulses, which were to ride back to Istar posthaste and ask Migmar if this folly came from too much wine or from orders. If it was orders, Aurhinius would then ride to the palace of the kingpriest and smite all of his counselors with the open hand, if not with cold steel.

Assuming, of course, he did not drop dead in the saddle, halfway to the Mighty City.

Aurhinius thought longingly of a drink-a drink of ice-cold water, with just a trace of lemon in it. Wine might make him actually commit follies instead of just imagining them.

Also, it was likely that some of the Istarian captains coming south would be senior to Zephros. They and their men could bring him to heel. While this might delay establishing the flanking camp, it would be worthwhile if it meant peace with all the folk about Belkuthas.

Unless those who ruled Istar were now openly seeking to turn the tax-gathering campaign into a provocation for war against the "lesser" races?

What appeared to be utter confusion followed Hawkbrother's fall. However, Pirvan's war-honed eye could make out underlying patches of discipline and purpose.

Most of the Gryphons rode on to close the distance and reach the cover of the trees rather than turning about under arrow-fire. A few dropped behind, to guard the fallen from a sortie on foot and recover those fit to move. These dismounted to take shelter behind the fallen horses.

Rynthala's mounted archers were also dismounting, to make smaller targets and unleash their more powerful longbows. They were badly outnumbered, though, and two of them went down even as Pirvan watched.

Then Sir Darin charged up the slope. As before, he went afoot, but his shield was on his left arm instead of slung from his pack horse. It was a shield taller than most, scarred and dented from where scores of lances had struck it in practice jousts, but none had ever penetrated, nor had Darin ever been unhorsed.