Then Pirvan realized that Darin had, largely by chance, contrived exactly the right tactics. A good many of the Free Riders and a few of the Solamnics were closing on him, eager to be led up the slope to battle.
All the rest were maneuvering their mounts into a defensive formation-while from the right, a motley array of foot and horse was spilling from a narrow gap in the rock. Pirvan knew that it was his duty to parley with the newcomers and try to keep the peace with them, but if he failed, his fighters below would be well placed to stand against them.
He would still have words with Darin, but they would be fewer and milder. Also spoken after he had dealt with the men now barely out of bow shot to the right.
Pirvan turned his horse, discovered that Hawkbrother was riding with him, thought of asking the Gryphon warrior to withdraw, then thought the better of such folly. He had insulted Hawkbrother once already today; if he did so again and Hawkbrother did not survive the battle, Eskaia would never forgive him.
“Remember, young chief!” he called. “We give them a chance to speak, and if they speak peace, we give it.”
“Oh, I obey,” Hawkbrother called back, shouting over the rising battle din. “But they shall speak quickly, or my sword shall reply!”
The sun flashed on his scimitar as he drew and flourished it.
“That is a battle,” Tharash said, pointing ahead.
Rynthala shaded her eyes against the sun, then nodded. But her voice held doubt. “It is not where we both saw the smoke.”
“It is sun on steel, or I am an owlbear cub. That means battle, or at least warriors. I doubt that any travel this desert wearing armor and weapons to entertain the sandstingers.”
Rynthala realized she had just been gently reproved. Remembering what Tharash could say when he did not wish to be gentle, she hoped she would never again have the experience.
“I hope Lauthin and his friends are nowhere near,” she said. “I would like to lead in my first battle without a Silvanesti high judge watching.”
Tharash managed to put eloquent agreement into a simple nod. Then Rynthala stood in her stirrups and, with hand signals, motioned the riders into battle array.
They would remain mounted as long as the enemy or the ground allowed. All except her and Tharash carried two bows, a long one for work afoot and a shorter one for work mounted, with arrows suited to each. So they could shoot as fast if not as far from the saddle, and keep the rider’s power to advance, retreat, or charge to close quarters at will.
Now, if she and her people could just avoid sticking their heads into a noose that they would not recognize until it had already pulled tight …
Her hands dropped together in the final signaclass="underline" Advance, at the center.
Pirvan would have liked to throw an occasional glance at the slope now on his left. He hoped Darin was rallying his attacking column, turning it from an eager mob into a disciplined body.
Hope was all he could do. He would lose an important advantage over the men before him if he appeared worried. He had to command himself before he could command the situation.
“Ho!” he called when he thought his voice would carry and knew it would not come out a rasp or a squeak. “Who comes here?”
“Who wants to know?” one of the advancing horsemen replied. He seemed to be well mounted, although his horse was thin-flanked, while he had both broadsword and mace slung on his saddle.
“It’s the Solamnics!” somebody screamed from behind the rider. “Kill them, and none will know we are here!”
Pirvan had a moment’s leisure to reflect that whoever led this band would have to be truly witless or utterly vicious to deserve such idiots in his company. He had this leisure because the rider made a desperate effort to turn his mount sideways and block the onrush of the foot, pricked into action by the fool’s outburst.
The horse reared. One of the footmen thrust a spear up into its belly. Screams and spraying blood filled the air, and horse and rider fell, to be trampled out of sight in the rush.
One man darted out in front, determined to be the first into action. Pirvan hoped he was the witling who had brought on the battle. He drew his sword and spurred his mount onward.
One day his speed would desert him, and then it would be a race between the end of his fighting days and the end of his life. But for now, the Knight of the Sword who had once been a master thief in Istar could, in his new profession, rely on the same speed and agility that had been so precious in his old one.
Unfortunately for both Pirvan and the bold opponent, Hawkbrother was even faster.
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.