Soldiers died for that offense, more often than not. Pirvan wondered what the Silvanesti punishment was-and prayed he would not learn today.

"Very well. You and those of your mind-take your bows and quivers. Go around to the hillward side of the citadel. I doubt we have much to fear from these folk, but there's another column working its way around to our rear. They may need a little more discouraging."

As he had sent off two of his men-at-arms to escort the sell-swords, Pirvan now did the same for the elves. This left him with one man-at-arms, Haimya, and Eskaia. Not much dignity for the commander of a great citadel under siege. Should he ask Krythis for a plume for his helmet, or perhaps a canopy to ward off the sun, which looked as if it would make the rocks hot enough to fry eggs before the day was done?

Perhaps the day would not end without more laughter, either. Then Pirvan licked dusty lips, and remembered the matter of the citadel's water supply.

Sir Lewin had gradually worked his way toward the head of the column, which he was busily protecting from its own follies. He had ten men with him and the rest distributed along the length of the marchers, with Sir Esthazas riding in the rear guard.

All the Solamnics were keeping well clear of their comrades, if only to avoid riding any of them down. Also, Sir Lewin wanted his men to be free to form up and charge if they found a foe worthy of such a maneuver.

His hope of that, however, was rapidly shrinking. The ground was riddled with animals' burrows and little ditches cut by rainwater, almost too rough to allow any sort of charge. The walls on this side were also more crumbled, and one could easily find oneself riding through fields of rubble without warning.

It was as he drew rein to find a path through one of those rubble fields, that Sir Lewin happened to look at the wall. His eyes were undimmed by his nearly fifty years, and it was not hard to recognize those standing atop the wall, even at a good bow shot's distance.

Elves. Their stance, their build, their coloring-all nearly shrieked in Sir Lewin's ear.

He did not shriek. But his shout was pitched like a battle cry. "The elves have joined the fight for Belkuthas. The embassy is foresworn. Follow me, for the honor of Istar and the name of soldiers of virtue!"

The wolf-pack howl that replied told Sir Lewin the men had very little interest in virtue and much in vice, particularly the kinds practiced with the wine and women they might find within the citadel. He told himself that the citadel's fall would be a victory worth winning, nonetheless, a victory over elven treachery.

Then he waved to his trumpeter. The great battle horn roared, and all over the battlefield heads turned toward the sound.

Among those who recognized the blast of a battle horn of the Knights of Solamnia were Sir Pirvan and Sir Darin. Pirvan could not see across the citadel as easily as Darin, with his extra height, so it was the younger knight who saw the truth first.

He uttered a word Pirvan had never before heard from his lips. Then he added, "There is a knight leading the rear column. I must ride out and learn what he is doing in such dubious company."

"You must-?" Pirvan began.

Darin shook his head. "If he is there by design of the orders, well and good. He will not allow me to be harmed. If he is there for other reasons-he must learn what a fool he is, to ride with them against fellow knights."

Only Sir Darin did not use the word "fool." He used a much stronger word in the minotaur tongue. Pirvan had heard him use it before, but never applied to another knight, or indeed any person Darin respected.

The older knight was still recovering from his surprise when Darin leapt off the wall, to land halfway down the stairs. He descended the rest of the way three steps at a time, then dashed across the courtyard toward his mount. A moment later, Pirvan heard him roaring.

"Open the gate! Paladine demands that I ride to save a knight's honor."

As softly spoken as he commonly was, Darin possessed a voice to match his stature. Pirvan feared he could be heard all the way to the trees, and that he would have a dozen arrows in him before he was twenty paces from the gate.

But Darin was right. The Knights of Solamnia had to look to one another's honor, when ignorance or folly might strike at it.

Briefly, Pirvan cursed the moment he had accepted command of Belkuthas. His honor demanded that he remain at his post, and leave riding out to save others' honor to Darin.

Chapter 14.

By the time Zephros overtook Luferinus, the sell-sword captain's own men had surrounded him. None of them were attempting to care for his wounds. No man with his head at that angle to his body could be alive.

Zephros reined in. He saw a ripple of rising heads and raised weapons around Luferinus. His initial impulse, to go and kneel piously beside the body, began to disappear.

Taking its place was an impulse to be elsewhere, if only he could find an excuse and a way to leave without turning his back on either the enemy or the men who had been his allies until a few moments before. He would not have minded Luferinus's fall under most circumstances, but these circumstances seemed to have been contrived by Hiddukel the Liar.

He was contemplating this, and it seemed to him that some of Luferinus's archers were contemplating drawing bow, when a mounted man galloped into sight. His horse was lathered and his own eyes were wild, while from his gaping mouth came a shriek.

"The knights are coming out! The knights are out of the citadel! 'Ware, 'ware!"

That seemed to Zephros as good a reason as any for digging in his spurs. He galloped off, to a brief chorus of jeers, which died when the men saw that he was advancing toward the citadel and the charging knights, not fleeing.

His real reasons for advancing were less than heroic. He wanted to give Luferinus's men as few excuses as possible for shooting him in the back. He also wanted to see if the knights' charge was another rumor.

As Zephros rode, he swore a mighty oath that he would kill with his bare hands the next person who spread panic by spreading tales!

Mistaking Sir Darin's ride out to parley for a charge of the garrison's knights was understandable. Darin wore armor and carried both sword and lance, and he looked as formidable as any three knights. His horse had been kicking its heels in the Belkuthas stables for two days, so it emerged at a brisk center.

Though they thought Darin was attacking, the first ranks of the soldiers refused the honor of engaging him. He did not even have to couch his lance before they scuttled off in all directions. The knight doubted this was due to a vast abiding respect for the Solamnic orders, and drew his sword, a more effective weapon at close quarters.

This convinced other sell-swords that it was time to face Darin, Solamnic Knight or not. Some thirty of them swarmed toward him on horseback and on foot, at the same moment as he recognized Sir Lewin.

To say Darin was confronted with a dilemma was to grossly understate matters. Sir Lewin had been raised by Sir Marod, Sir Pirvan's patron, since before Pirvan took to thieving in Istar or Darin was washed ashore near Waydol's stronghold. Darin would have found it hard to doubt Lewin's honor, even had there not been much in the Measure against such doubting.

Nonetheless, Lewin was riding with the enemy rabble, apparently advancing to the attack with them. There had to be some explanation that did not involve Lewin's having lost either his honor or his wits. Darin hoped one would be forthcoming, and that Sir Lewin would not stand on his superior rank as a Knight of the Rose and refuse to speak.

Meanwhile, whether the men coming at Darin were friends of Lewin or not, they were clearly no friends to the younger knight.

Darin sheathed his sword, couched his lance, and prodded two sell-swords out of their saddles, trying to do as little damage in the process as he could. Against a third mounted opponent his lance encountered a too-robust breastplate and snapped. He used the broken shaft to club a fourth rider out of his saddle, then tossed the piece away, drew his sword again, and tried to discourage the men on foot from approaching.

Discouraging them proved inadequate. Sadly he realized, almost too late, that he would have to kill. By then the soldiers had drawn close enough to use their weapons-mostly pikes and bills, and nearly all with rusty metal-against his mount. In moments Darin's horse was bleeding in half a dozen places. Then he felt it starting to fall.

He leapt free, landing with the agility of a much smaller man, with shield on his left arm and sword in his right hand. He pushed two men hard with the shield, cut a third across the chest with a precise sword stroke, then settled down to what he feared would be a long and serious fight before he could speak to Sir Lewin.

Indeed, Darin had lost sight of the Knight of the Rose in the rock. The defenders on the citadel wall had not. They saw Lewin still riding forward, now accompanied by a good score of men-at-arms. They saw him to all appearances advancing to the support of the sell-swords who seemed to be doing their best to bring down Sir Darin.

Sir Darin would have been respected for his personal qualities even had he not been a friend to Sir Pirvan. The archers on the wall included both humans and elves, and the humans began shooting at once. Their sergeant had to dissuade some of them from leaping down from the wall, advancing to hiding places among the ruins, and shooting from closer range.

It was now the elves' turn to face the dilemma. They respected Sir Darin as much as they did any human, and he was plainly in danger. Also, the humans on the wall were now fighting for him. If the elves did not shoot, they would again be holding back from battle. If their not shooting caused Sir Darin's death, they would be shamed before everyone in Belkuthas, and down the years to the end of their lives.

The prospect of such a long life of shame decided the matter. The elf who had not given his name to Pirvan-but who was in fact named Dohartar and was a cousin of Belot-was the first to shoot. The other nine were only a few heartbeats behind.

The range was long even for elves, but the ten followed a common elven practice for such ranges, all aiming at one or a few targets. Thus enough arrows would fill the air around the target that one or more would strike.

Indeed, they put down five men with fifteen arrows, faster than a greedy child taking a bite out of a stolen honey cake. Four of these men were sell-swords. The fifth, by mischance, was one of Lewin's men-at-arms. He flew backward out of his saddle, arms flung wide, his eyes staring, and an arrow in his throat so that blood sprayed from his mouth.

Lewin knew that such archery at such a range had to be elven. Even in his innermost heart, where he despised the elves as much or more than he did the other lesser races, he acknowledged their prowess at archery. But they had used that prowess, to kill a man sworn to the Knights of Solamnia. There could be no further question of the embassy's immunity from attack and capture. Lewin preferred to capture the elves, because even in a red rage he knew that many questions needed answering and dead elves would answer none.

He would not, however, much care whether elves taken in arms against him and his men survived to say anything at all. He rode forward, drawing his men after him. They in turn drew the sell-swords after them. The whole array surged toward the citadel walls, clambered over the rubble, flowed to either side of the fight around Sir Darin. They were plagued by archery from the walls, but convinced that in moments they would be ending it and avenging fallen comrades.

The only one on the field who recognized Darin as a Knight of Solamnia and thought that madness had been unleashed was Sir Esthazas. He was not only far junior to Sir Lewin but was also far to the rear of the other Solamnics-his assigned and therefore honorable position. Even so, from there he could not help fight the madness.

By the time the defenders' archery and the attackers' advance were both in full spate, Pirvan had arrived at the wall on that side. Messages that Darin was in peril had reached him; what he saw made the messages seem tame.

The younger knight had cleared around him a circle littered with the dead and dying. Even in a desperate battle, he seemed to be trying not to step on the enemy's wounded!

But he could not break out, anymore than his foes could break in. About all that kept Darin alive besides his own prowess was that all the sell-swords' archers were well to the fore, trying to beat down the defenders' archery. They were making headway, too, by sheer weight of numbers-one elf was already down with a bleeding thigh, and two humans were hurt and one was dead.

Meanwhile, there was Sir Lewin, whom Pirvan now recognized. He even hailed the Knight of the Rose several times. Lewin did not seem to even hear. Was it Pirvan's hails lost in the battle din, or Lewin's judgment fled in battle fury?

Only one way to be sure-and only one man who could do that particular work. Pirvan grasped one of the grappling hooks held ready to pull down scaling ladders and set the prongs into a crack in the stonework. Then he gripped the attached rope and lowered himself over the battlements.

The hook pulled loose about the time someone on the walls noticed what their commander was doing. The thud of Pirvan's landing and the yells of protest came simultaneously. Pirvan rolled with his old agility, came up with sword in hand, waved to the staring faces above, and ran toward the swirling fight around Darin.

Back to back, he and Darin should both survive, and in surviving make enough trouble for the sell-swords to draw Lewin's notice. Lewin of Trenfar could not be thick skulled enough to go on fighting after that, or Sir Marod would never have trained him!

No messenger needed to carry word of Pirvan's departure. The shouts from the wall on his side told everyone in the citadel, including Rynthala.

She sent a messenger to Tharash to mount the archers. She thought of sending one to Pirvan's men-at-arms, but she had no authority over them, and they would doubtless move at once when they heard of the knight's whereabouts.

She also thought briefly of a message to her parents, who stood with Threehands and Haimya on the wall facing the first two attacking columns. They no longer really deserved the name, but nobody in Belkuthas was prepared to turn their back on nearly a thousand armed enemies.

She slung her bow and ran toward the stables. She had no time to go herself, and what she really wanted to say, no messenger should carry. Besides, if she fell today, it was likely enough that even with her last breath she could say it to Darin herself.

Tharash was already mounted, with eight archers, and the men-at-arms were plainly chafing to move out as well. The old elf was grinning through the dust on his long face.

"I left a couple of the lads to keep an eye on those Silvanesti volunteers," he said. "They can take care of themselves against enemies, but we may need to keep Lauthin the Loud out of their hair."

He lowered his voice. "The sell-swords wanted to join us, too. I didn't quite trust them, so I said that we couldn't take anybody who wasn't already mounted. Rugal Nis wasn't happy, but he swallowed it."

"Well done, Tharash. We may yet see today's sunset."

"Don't wager anything you can't afford to lose, Lady Rynthi."

"I'm already wagering my life, old friend. Lose that, and what else is there?"

Rynthala sprang into the saddle without touching her stirrups, and turned her horse without touching the reins. "Follow me and-where do you think you're going, Eskaia?"

"My post of duty is beside my father, Rynthala. It is kind of you to provide an escort for me."

Rynthala would have erupted in rage at the Solamnic woman's impudence-except that Tharash and Pirvan's men-at-arms erupted in laughter first.

The heiress to Belkuthas finally joined the laughter. "Very well. It seems rescuing people from their own folly has become this days' favorite sport at Belkuthas. Let us go and join the games!"

Pirvan had covered nearly a hundred paces before anyone noticed him-the virtue of climbing down the wall.

It helped further that the sell-swords wore many colors, except for those who wore none. In his light armor, bareheaded, and carrying only sword and dagger, Pirvan looked rather like one of the better-off foot soldiers, or perhaps a dismounted light horseman.

All of this luck took Pirvan to within thirty paces of Darin. He had just hailed the younger knight when a fresh torrent of enemies following Sir Lewin rushed up. This time they did not flow past the circle around Darin, as if it were a rock in a stream. This time many of them joined the circle, and began pressing it inward.

Pirvan looked about for a captain with some authority, or better yet, Sir Lewin. He searched with increasing desperation, in the middle of an archery duel, with the sell-swords' bowmen and the men on the wall filling the air with shafts. Pirvan could not say if he and Darin were more likely to be skewered by friend or by foe.

The one task he had to accomplish was, fortunately, the one closest to hand-saving Sir Darin.

Honor forbade Pirvan the simplest opening, which was to stab in the back the nearest half dozen men in the circle, cut down the next few as they turned to face him, and go on wielding steel until either he went down or he and Darin joined forces.

So he filled his lungs and shouted: "Belkuthas forever!"

Then he started slashing and stabbing, as men whirled to face this new apparition.

"Slashing and stabbing" is a very inadequate description of Pirvan's bladework. Those qualified to judge, who lived to tell their tales, said they had never seen a man half Pirvan's age move so quickly. He was not the most accomplished swordsman they had ever seen, but his speed and his dagger added to the sword made him formidable, even terrifying.

They also made him deadly, to at least a dozen men in less time than it would have taken them to empty a jug of wine. Of the sell-swords, some lacked skill with weapons, some lacked strength, all lacked the willingness to stand by a stranger. None had anything they cared to risk losing by facing a swordsman apparently sprung from the Abyss to hurl them down to death.

With Pirvan distracting half the circle around him, Sir Darin waded into the other half. The younger knight was an accomplished swordsman, he had a shield as both defense and weapon, and the sheer length of his reach had already slain many and frightened more into flight.

Meanwhile, arrows from the citadel continued to drop steadily into the ranks of the sell-swords. A man who thought himself well clear of these two madmen might turn to find an arrowhead through his corselet and into his lungs.

If the ground around Pirvan and Darin did not turn to mud from the amount of blood they shed, it was only because not all of the slain lay down and died on the spot. Soon, a wider circle emerged, still carpeted out to its very edges with the dead and dying.

Pirvan gripped sword arms with Darin, both arms red to the elbows with other men's gore. Then they both looked outward. Pirvan saw Lewin still mounted, trying to rally men who were rapidly losing their zeal to storm the walls. The only ones still obeying the Knight of the Rose seemed to be Solamnic men-at-arms, a dozen or so around Lewin himself and a few others scattered here and there about the battlefield.

The clear sight came at a price. None dared approach Pirvan and Darin closely, but that meant they were now safe targets for archers. Some of the bowmen among the sell-swords were looking away from the citadel, from which the elves were picking off any hostile archer who ventured close enough to shoot accurately. Sooner or later they would start looking for easier targets. Short of sinking into the earth, Pirvan and Darin would be there in plain sight.

Pirvan had just decided that next to Haimya, there was no one in whose company he would rather die than Sir Darin, when the matter suddenly was moot.

"Belkuthas!"

"Pirvan of Tirabot!"

These shouts were immediately followed by something in the elven tongue. Pirvan recognized Tharash's voice.

Then what seemed a solid wall of horsemen crashed into the ranks of the sell-swords between Pirvan and the citadel wall. The cavalry seemed to leap over piled rubble, ride down men as if their horses had claws instead of hooves, and shoot arrows half a dozen at a time.

The men between Pirvan and the citadel wall recoiled. They turned. They ran. Pirvan and Darin now had to wield their swords not for defense against attack but to keep from being trampled to death in the rout. Darin finally took the smaller knight behind his shield-there was ample room-and stood, again like a rock in a torrent, while the rout poured around him even faster than the advance had.

Peering out from behind the shield, Pirvan saw Rynthala leap her horse over three crouching sell-swords, slashing down at them with a scimitar she wielded with more enthusiasm than skill. She struck none of the men and nearly tumbled out of the saddle, but Pirvan supposed she could not resist taking a hand in the close fighting.

Above the rout and ruin, Sir Lewin also rose like a rock. Pirvan wondered how long this would last. Many might not recognize Lewin as a Knight of Solamnia. Others who did would still care only that he had led enemies against Belkuthas, and likewise treat him as an enemy.

Pirvan had reached Darin, and the younger knight was safe. Now he had to reach Sir Lewin, if the Knight of the Rose was to live more than a few more moments.

"On to Sir Lewin!" Pirvan shouted. Then, hoping Rynthala and-yes, Eskaia was riding with the warrior maiden-would hear him, he all but screamed: "Spare Sir Lewin! Unhorse him if you must, but spare him at all costs!"

Pirvan started running. The thought came to him that he might have condemned Rynthala or even Eskaia to death, if Sir Lewin fought, as he might. The thought departed without slowing Pirvan's steps.