As Darin approached the tree line, the hostile archery subsided. Either the archers were not quite ready to shoot down a Knight of Solamnia, or they judged him to be an unrewarding target behind that massive shield.

The archers were not long in learning their error. Darin did not shout, wave his sword, or even blink. He merely nodded-and ten of Pirvan's men-at-arms flung themselves into the tree line on the heels of the Gryphons.

The uproar that followed the second attack made speech impossible. Pirvan saw that the Gryphons of the rear guard were following Darin and their comrades in among the trees. He also saw Eskaia sitting her saddle, her lips paler than he had ever seen them, and her free hand twitching.

"Eskaia. You and Gerik take five of our men and go help the wounded Gryphons."

Eskaia now twitched all over. She slipped out of the saddle and dashed uphill. She had left her healing packet tied to her saddle, but no doubt Gerik would remember his.

First love and first battle-at the same time, Pirvan mused. That would shake anyone.

Then Pirvan realized he had used the word "love" for what lay between his daughter and Hawkbrother. That might have shaken him, except that he had more important matters at hand. The battle, if it deserved the name, had been won. Any remaining work could be left to Darin, Threehands, Haimya, and the other captains.

He turned his horse to search for the elves, and realized that, in the short time of the battle, they all had vanished into the forest.... All but a lone archer, taller than most elves, who stood by a pine tree, his bow slung, cleaning his nails with the point of an arrow.

Pirvan beat down the urge to strangle that archer, responsible for his own bad manners if not the criminal folly of his chief. Only after gathering his resolve was the knight able to ride over to the elf in silence and dignity.

"Good archer, I am Sir Pirvan of Tirabot, Knight of the Sword. Pray, tell me if you will take a message to your chief."

"I may." The elf spoke the common speech with such an accent that Pirvan had to mentally translate what he said.

"Then tell-"

Silence.

"Then tell your chief, whom I would wish to honor by addressing by name-"

At the bite in Pirvan's words, the elf looked up, and hastily put his knife away.

"High Judge Lauthinaradalas," the elf said. He also seemed to believe he had to pay in gold or perhaps blood for every word he uttered.

"Then tell High Judge Lauthinaradalas to take a different path to Belkuthas, unless he explains his conduct in this battle. I will not be responsible for the safety of any of his party who come within bow shot before we reach the citadel. We shall see you at Belkuthas, and hope to hold more civil discourse when we do. My word of honor, as a Knight of the Sword."

The elf gaped, as if he either did not understand the words or could not understand why anyone spoke at such length. Then he nodded.

"The message will go."

A moment later, only trembling leaves showed where the elf had vanished. Pirvan turned his horse and rode slowly back to his people, who were now busily adding some captive archers to the sell-swords.

Sir Lewin trusted dwarves no more than he had at the pass, but he thought shooting at the dwarven family was ill-done on the part of his men-at-arms. Not even a gully dwarf would be so foolish as to attack an armed Solamnic band when he was traveling with his whole family.

Fortunately dwarves were small, hardy targets. The only arrow that found its mark before Lewin halted the shooting hit the dwarf's wife in the arm, and Lewin's cleric was able to remove the arrow at once and end her pain quickly.

This done, Lewin squatted before the dwarf and said, "Friend dwarf-"

"My name is Nuor of the Black Chisel, Knight."

"Then my name is Sir Lewin, Knight of the Rose."

"A bit wilted, aren't you, doing this sort of work?"

"The archers will be punished. They shot without orders."

"Without skill, either. Otherwise, we'd be dead. If we'd been elves, you'd be dead."

Lewin decided that whatever the loyalty of the local dwarves, their manners were the same as those of dwarves everywhere.

"I accept the accusation. In return, will you tell me how far it is to Belkuthas?" The dwarf's answer, if it came, would tell Lewin something more about the local dwarves.

"If I saw a rock falling on your head, I'd not call out, Knight. I might turn my back, though. The sight of blood turns my stomach."

"Oh, hush, Nuor," the dwarven woman said. "It was a stupid accident, but the knight wasn't the only stupid one here. You've been telling me about rumors of sell-swords under every clump of mushrooms. So why do you insist we visit your brother today? And go out of the tunnels?"

Nuor cringed from his wife's tongue as he had not from Lewin's glare. He shrugged. "Good horses, good weather, no need to stop and refill waterskins-a day and a half, maybe two. Enough?"

It was not, but Lewin realized it was all he was going to hear.

"Thank you, good sir and madam," he said, and bowed.

Nuor did turn his back, but his wife returned the bow.

Without having seen it before, Pirvan recognized Belkuthas. Rynthala spurred her horse to a gallop, and her archers swarmed after her. Threehands pursued her with oaths, but nothing except arrows or dragons could have caught the riders.

Threehands was still swearing when Pirvan rode up to him.

"If that wild girl will obey no one except Darin, and her people obey no one except her-!"

"Easy, brother chief. The journey is over, and who obeys whom is not so important when you come home from your first campaign. Or was that so long ago that you have forgotten how you felt?"

Threehands was too dark to flush visibly, but he could not meet Pirvan's eyes while he laughed. "Smooth-tongued as always, Sir Knight. But no fool, either. Also, I realize now that she might want to see if her home is safe, from both enemies and High Judge Lauthin the Loud."

"Are you not saying two words that mean the same thing, Threehands?"

They were still laughing over that when a small dust cloud broke off from the larger cloud of Rynthala's riders and began to return. As it came closer, Pirvan saw that it was one of the riders, the weather-beaten old elf Tharash who seemed to be her second in command.

"I am bidden to welcome you to Belkuthas, in the name of Krythis and Tulia, likewise their daughter Rynthala. It is requested that for tonight you camp outside the walls, in a place of your choice. There are several good springs on level ground."

"Are any of them in use?" Pirvan asked. "As, for example, by a certain high judge of the Silvanesti and his company?"

"Yes. An outrider has come in from them. We will direct them to a camp elsewhere than yours."

"We are grateful," Pirvan said. "I trust Belkuthas has suffered no mishap."

"It is not that we do not trust you within our walls," Tharash said. "Nor Lauthin either. But we are preparing the place for defense. Everywhere we are not digging or moving stones, those who have fled the sell-swords are camped, with their animals and goods. Few are well-armed, let alone warriors."

"And camping outside, we will be in the path of any attack, giving warning?" Threehands said.

The elf shrugged.

Threehands smiled. "Take no offense, Tharash. We would do the same in your place, and you and yours have honor with us. We might even make a good warrior maiden of Rynthala, if she can ever learn to follow orders."

Tharash laughed softly. "You would have to live as long as I have, Free Rider, to have any hope of seeing that."

Chapter 12.

Pirvan's party reached the citadel of Belkuthas later than he had wished, but earlier than he had expected. Rynthala's wild ride brought out a swarm of able-bodied refugees, who helped water the horses, tend the wounded, and carry the dead.

From what the refugees said, the bands of sell-swords wandering the country under the name tax soldiers were either ill disciplined or seeking to terrorize the people. Most of the farmers and herdsmen who had seen their homes burned and their flocks slaughtered could not tell the difference, nor did Pirvan really blame them for not remaining to find out.

The refugees were pathetically grateful to Pirvan, and almost equally so to the Gryphons, although some of them from outlying areas had experienced Free Rider raids. As they saw it, somebody was giving the sell-swords a badly needed lesson, after which they would all go home and leave peaceable farmers and herdsmen in peace.

Pirvan hoped so. He did not have the heart to suggest that this might be the beginning of a long ordeal. He had still less heart to suggest that the lord and lady of Belkuthas might not have done the best for the refugees by taking them in.

The problem was, very simply, that to an experienced soldier like Pirvan, Belkuthas was still hardly defensible against a serious attack. This was in spite of all the work already put in by its defenders-human, dwarven, and otherwise-of which they were justly proud.

The original citadel had covered several times the area of the one presently inhabited. Krythis and Tulia had put in a state of defense only the inhabited one, which might have supported a garrison of two hundred. It had only one well, but would otherwise require either a long blockade, heavy siege engines, or potent spells to bring it down.

The potent spells might lie ready to the enemy's hand. Pirvan resolved to speak with the Red Robe on this matter. Meanwhile, the inhabited citadel was now holding more than five hundred refugees, most of them useless mouths, in addition to its defenders, some of the refugees' livestock, and the gods knew what else.

Pirvan hoped Krythis and Tulia did as well.

Outside the inhabited area were old walls and the stubs of towers. Many of them had been quarried for stone for centuries, so that it would have taken a thousand men two years to restore them to their original state. As they were, they were totally indefensible, offering no protection for the citadel's other two wells. They did offer plenty of hiding places for an attacker to sneak up on the defended walls and try rushing them by surprise.

With time short and men abundant, Pirvan wagered that this was exactly what any attacker would do. He resolved to array his fighters to protect at least his side of the citadel from that particular menace, and to keep so much as a mouse from getting through unchallenged.

Then it would be time to speak to Krythis and Tulia.

Pirvan gave Threehands, Darin, and Haimya their orders. Rynthala being back home, she was under her parents' authority again, Pirvan hoped with some counsel from Tharash. Then he went to visit the wounded, saving Hawkbrother for last, partly out of politeness, partly because the Gryphon warrior hardly needed encouragement.

For a man with a bloody gash in his scalp and torn muscles and cracked bones in one leg, Hawkbrother was in singularly good spirits. Pirvan thought part of this might be an act, to keep up Eskaia's spirits and those of the other wounded, but also knew that the Free Riders were as firm about making light of pain as they were about showing honor.

Having his scalp half shaved and most of the shaved half dressed did not improve Hawkbrother's appearance. From the way Eskaia stared at him, he might have been the avatar of a god.

"Eskaia, would you mind fetching me some water, now that there is someone to relieve you," Hawkbrother asked. "Don't wait for herbs. I would drink horse piss if I thought the horse was healthy."

Eskaia patted him on the cheek opposite his scalp wound, then went off. As she left, Pirvan noted she had somehow managed to wash her face and brush her hair since the arrival. Not that she could not have done it in five minutes, nor that she was unready for battle, but two years ago a small war could not make her change her clothes between riding and dinner.

"You may be drinking just that before we are done with Belkuthas," Pirvan said.

Hawkbrother looked toward the citadel. "Water?"

"That, and much else. I will tell you later."

"Much later. I say nothing against your daughter-"

"Wise of you, brother of brother."

"No head wound can take my wits, for I have none, or so my mother once told me," Hawkbrother replied. "I do say that Eskaia will be easier in her mind once I start healing, so I shall have to be quick about it. Meanwhile, could you tell her that I will not vanish in a puff of smoke if she takes her eyes off me for two breaths?"

"Tell her yourself, Hawkbrother."

"Have-have I the right? By Free Rider custom, that means-"

"It probably means that I will have to paint myself blue and shave my scalp, then swear blood brotherhood with Redthorn-all of which I will do, to keep the peace. But as for us, by the custom of our family, whoever wants something done by another must ask her himself. Also, I think the request will sit better with Eskaia if it does not come from me. If I say a word of it, she will wrap herself up with you in the same blanket-"

Hawkbrother was light-skinned enough to flush. He also seemed to have inhaled a good deal of dust, judging from the way he was coughing.

"I beg your pardon, Hawkbrother. And now, before I make a bigger fool of myself than I already have-"

A trumpet sounded from the keep. In the distance, a silver-toned horn replied.

"Fifty plagues take the Silvanesti," Hawkbrother said. "That has to be Lauthin the Loud and his little flock."

It did not improve Lauthin's disposition to hear the name "Lauthin the Loud" bandied about the citadel from the moment of his arrival. Nor did having to wait to be received in proper state.

However, his hosts had made up their minds that they had nothing to lose by being ready for the worst, and nothing to gain by trying to placate one who seemed to have been born in a vile mood and grown worse with each passing century. This was their home; Lauthin could use it with their consent, or camp in the forest without it.

Tulia and Rynthala went out to settle the embassy in a safe, comfortable campsite well clear of Pirvan's men and the refugees. (The Silvanesti sense of elven superiority was matched by a human belief that elves were effete and cowardly.) Krythis saw to putting the quarters and hall in as much order as possible. He was even able to wash his face and hands, although one could have shaken from his clothes enough dust to mix a fair-sized hod of mortar.

Tharash kept running back and forth among the two camps and the citadel until Krythis finally told him to wrap himself around a jug of ale and not stir for an hour.

"You don't want me standing by?"

"There will be no trouble. Do you understand that? Do all our people understand it?"

"I do. I'll speak to one or two of the young folk. They're hotheaded, compared to what they were in my day."

"You had a day, Tharash? You were not born as you are?"

The elf laughed and went off to find the ale. His departure was a signal for the return of Tulia and Rynthala.

The horns and drums that announced the coming-the onset, Krythis wanted to call it-of High Judge Lauthin followed immediately thereafter.

Zephros was not happy at the news, either of the defeat of the sell-sword ambush or of the safe arrival of Pirvan at Belkuthas. The only thing that consoled him was that Luferinus and Wilthur seemed still less content. The pleasure of watching their distaste or even dismay gave way to impatience with their refusal to provide him details. Treating him like a fool might be their pleasure; it would be an expensive one if it was noticed by Zephros's troops.

For the moment, memories of desert hobgoblins and rumors that the enemy had wizards kept the men reconciled to accepting mysterious, hooded magic-users among their own ranks. This acceptance might not last forever, and then it would not matter a bit whether Zephros discouraged or encouraged desertion from his usurped band.

The men would depart. If they somehow knew that Wilthur the Brown was the source of the magic, they would depart in haste and without order.

Meanwhile, if these zealots for the kingpriest wanted Zephros's help, that help would be informed.