Meanwhile the rest of the ylvin ranks began the gallop. At the ranges involved, hithik losses had been modest, but his people had no time to reclose their ranks effectively.

They clashed. The thunder of hooves was mixed with shouts, the clash of sabers, screams of men and horses. Riders passed through enemy ranks, then circled back; or milled, locked in combat till one or the other fell. Stricken horses ran in circles, some trailing entrails, some with a rider still aboard.

Ferelsma found himself engaged with what was surely a rakutu, whose strong teeth grinned at him without humor. Treachery! Their blades locked at the hilts. The rakutu's strength lent desperation to Ferelsma's arm, but not enough. He felt himself pressed backward. A long knife flashed, and abruptly time slowed. The blade swept slowly, slowly toward him. Slowly his mouth opened, sound swelling his throat

… then the blade struck his abdomen, bursting through coat and underlying hauberk.

Time was normal again. He was slammed backward out of the saddle. One boot caught in a stirrup, and his horse cantered out of the melee. By the time it was clear, Ferelsma was dead.

Horgent's great raven called, not in Yuultal, but in a series of loud croaks. The sound could be heard a mile. It was the signal Horgent had been waiting for. His cohort was concealed in the largest draw the area had to offer; not very deep, but deep enough. He signaled with a guidon, and they rode out in six broad ranks. Ahead was a body of hithik infantry, facing away, toward the action, oblivious of the Tigers approaching behind them. Again the commander's guidon signaled, and the cohort speeded up.

At about a quarter mile, a hithu looked back and saw. The Tigers couldn't hear his cry, but they saw the milling, the spreading disorder. Horgent's trumpeter blew, and from their saddle boots, his Tigers drew their heavy compound bows, already strung. A hithik trumpet sounded. At eighty yards, Horgent's trumpeter answered, and stopping abruptly, the Tigers let arrows fly; drew and shot again. And again, rapidly, till each had fired half a dozen. Again Horgent's trumpeter blew, and his ranks split, half going east, half west.

The hithar's regimental commander didn't realize at first what Horgent intended. Then both wings of the Tiger cohort turned north. Again he misjudged. Only part of each wing dashed in on his flanks, and only to distract and harass. The rest charged on toward the struggle at the north side of the dwarves' defensive box.

The men fighting there never noticed. First arrows, then sabers took them from the rear. It snapped most of them from their focus, fixed initially by sorcery, then by fighting. The unexpected strike on their rear disoriented and panicked them.

Only then did they learn how quickly dwarves can move, the attacked becoming the attackers, scrambling with axes and spears over windrowed bodies.

General Trumpko and his staff were ensconced on their little knoll, protected by two companies of infantry. He'd watched the destruction of Ferelsma's command, and realized now the danger he was in. Personally. His trumpeter blew the order for the division to disengage and reassemble. His men were willing, and the enemy was content to feed on stragglers and fringes, away from the crossbow fire of Trumpko's reserves. In twenty minutes his mauled division was moving again. Northward now.

Macurdy didn't even try for a count of hithik bodies. It seemed to him, though, that five thousand was reasonable. Strongarm had roll taken of his dwarves. The number of dead or unaccounted for was 560-the missing mostly under piled-up hithar-and 1,334 significantly wounded, many unable to walk.

The dwarves made camp, and their healers applied their talents to the wounded, wishing they could do more. Still, Farside medics would have been impressed by their effectiveness. Other dwarves salvaged crossbow bolts from hithik corpses, to replenish their supply.

Macurdy sent Tigers out to round up what horses they could catch, and to bring up pack strings. Pack loads were rearranged, and some goods cached, to free up additional horses for transporting wounded. Dwarves don't ride well on full-sized horses; even mounting is difficult. But pack strings and ingenuity provided transportation for dwarven wounded, two per horse.

Macurdy talked with Strongarm awhile, applauding the dwarves' performance, but not overdoing it. They'd played their role superbly, and the hithik army had taken a drubbing. But it wasn't a show suited for repeat performances. The crown prince could replace his casualties. Strongarm couldn't.

They agreed that Strongarm's legion should turn west, cross the Deep River, and help the ylver when the voitar attacked westward again. Tossi Pellersson Rich Lode was on his way with two cohorts from the Diamond Flues. If both tribes agreed, they could fight together as a legion.

As evening advanced, Macurdy and most of the Tigers headed west. Behind them they left the dwarves and the Tiger wounded. Along with three companies of Horgent's long cohort as escorts, and to handle the strings of "ambulance" horses.

As usual, the dwarves would draw on the Web of the World for warmth and energy. The Tigers couldn't, and the night threatened to be bitter cold again. Especially if it turned windy, Macurdy wanted them sheltered in the forest, where deadwood could be found for fires. When Horgent and his advance companies reached the forest, they'd cut firewood, and wait for the dwarves. When Strongarm was ready to go on, Horgent's men would escort them to the ylvin lines.

Through the great ravens, Macurdy notified the ylvin high command of the battle, and told them to expect the wounded. Then he led his 1st Cohort northwestward, to make camp in the forest. From there they'd head north, and join in the raiding.

At his headquarters, Crown Prince Kurqosz reviewed the battle. When he finished, his mood was foul. It was then he decided on decisive action. Extreme but decisive.

Certain conditions were necessary, and it was impossible to predict them more than two or three days in advance. But they would come. He'd already seen them several times in this miserable land. Meanwhile he'd continue to deal with the problems as he found them.

35 Prisoners of War

"A new raider force?"

"Without a doubt, Your Majesty, and they're not ylver. They don't have the same uniforms, and their tactics are different. If they qualify as tactics."

Kurqosz's communicator, Captain Gorvaszt, reached to the appropriate memory track, taking the crown prince's attention with his own. The viewpoint was that of a voitik wagon master. This one preferred to stride alongside the first wagon in the train. Some fifty yards ahead was his advance platoon. Somewhere farther ahead, out of sight, were scouts.

In between, the road curved to pass a cedar swamp. From its dense green cover, horsemen exploded, charging the advance guard at close range. The platoon had no chance to meet them at a gallop; its horsemen were ridden down like straw figures in a tableau. Howling like lunatics, the raiders hurtled on toward the wagon train. Meanwhile the wagon escorts stayed in place, to protect against the expected attack from the flanks.

The voitu's bodyguards braced themselves, sabers bared. The voitu himself vaulted onto the first wagon, where he crouched low, taking refuge behind flour barrels.

It almost worked. The raiders, still howling, split into two streams and careened by, attacking the escorts. Thinking they were past, the voitu raised his fur-capped head above the barrels, to see. What he saw was a laggard raider, who without slowing, leaned impossibly to his right and struck with his saber. The voitu tried to duck away, and the raider's blade missed his neck, taking him across the side of the face, driving halfway through his head. There was blackness, a sense of duration without sight or sound. Then the voitu saw and heard again, briefly and without focus, while he strangled on his blood.