Kurqosz jerked free. This was, he thought, intolerable. One of the problems was already clear to him: the hithik scouts had stayed on the road. Afraid of what they might find if they left it.

He sent Gorvaszt away, with orders not to disturb him for half an hour. Then he had his orderly bring lunch, and while he ate, mentally reviewed the overall situation. Henceforth, he decided, he'd settle for oral reports. It was unwise to repeatedly visit such events in the hive mind, even without melding. It gave emotionally disturbing views without context. After all, he held all of the Eastern Empire that was of much use. Adequate supplies still got through, and casualties were modest, given the size of his army. The only real battle had been with the dwarves, and while his casualties had been high, the dwarves had surely lost a higher percentage of their force than Trumpko had.

Meanwhile, he told himself, I will send strong infantry escorts with the supply trains-spearmen and crossbowmen. Along with the cavalry. Let's see what the raiders think of that! Orovisz could work out the details.

He'd just finished dessert-a cream tart with a sweetened form of some astringent ylvin beverage-when there was another knock at his door. "Who is it?" Kurqosz snapped.

"Captain Gorvaszt, Your Majesty. The half hour has passed, and I have an item you may find intriguing. From the Deep River Line. An ylvin page has contacted a flank post at the mouth of Piney Gorge. His master, an ylvin lord, wishes to speak with you personally."

"An ylvin lord? What about?"

"He didn't say, Your Majesty. Apparently something his master doesn't want his government to know. He may be our first ylvin traitor. The page claims to have crossed Deep River above the falls, then ridden south. I get the impression that his master may also have crossed, and is waiting in the forest."

"Hmh! Have him bring his master to the flank post. By supper. Is that feasible?"

"Just a moment, Your Majesty. I'll ask Captain Brellszok at the post." Kurqosz waited. "He says his master can be there before dark. He will come by cutter with six personal guards and a hostage."

"A hostage?"

"Not one of our people, Your Majesty. Brellszok asked. It's one of his own."

Kurqosz frowned down his arched nose. Confusing, he thought. "Make sure they are thoroughly searched. He is to bring the hostage, but no guards. Tell him I guarantee his safety. And Gorvaszt, I want a look at this 'ylvin lord' when he arrives at the flank post. But do not let him know."

Gorvaszt acknowledged the orders and left. I'll send Tsulgax to fetch him, Kurqosz decided. He is naturally suspicious, and has a nose for treachery.

Raien Cyncaidh's cohort had suffered enough casualties that he'd consolidated its five fully-manned companies to four short companies, which operated in pairs. The voitar had beefed up their escorts. The voitik command kept changing how they did things, and Cyncaidh tried to outguess and outmaneuver them with changes of his own.

With two of his companies, he'd positioned himself along a stretch of what he'd dubbed Road C. His bird had told him a major supply column, this time of sleighs, was coming west on it, having detoured from Road B, the major and most used road. With luck he'd get away with some sleigh-loads of hay and grain. It wasn't something he'd done before. Wagons weren't suited to off-road hauling.

The raiders had waited half a mile back from the road, for their bird to approve the situation. When they'd gotten clearance, they'd moved up. Then Cyncaidh had positioned his force far enough back in the woods to escape detection by the hithik scouts on the road.

Cyncaidh sat listening intently, his deputy and trumpeter beside him. Their horses' faces, necks and manes were white with rime from their own breath. His eyelashes were beaded with frost, his eyebrows crusted with it. They were at the east end of his assault line, where they'd be the first to hear the column. And nearer the road than the rest of his force was-less than twenty yards from it-screened by hemlock saplings growing on a large old windfall.

He didn't like waiting in such cold. It was hard on men and horses. Most of his ylver could manipulate their metabolism and circulation to some extent, to keep warm, but it drained their energy reserves. So they were under orders to use the technique only to keep their fingers warm, and in emergencies, their feet.

And just now their ears, for they'd turned their earflaps up, listening for the enemy's approach. Still, despite the general silence and his acute hearing, the sound of the column sneaked up on him. Suddenly he was aware of the plop-plop of hooves on packed snow. The advance guard, he supposed. Quietly he drew his saber. The hithar passed in front of him, well enough screened by the hemlocks and roadside undergrowth, that all Cyncaidh saw of them was movement. Then came the chink of trace chains, and the squeak of runners on packed snow in forty degrees of frost. He couldn't hear a thing from the teamsters. They were, he supposed, too numb to talk.

For long minutes the sleighs passed. Cyncaidh had tensed. His right wing would attack the advance guard at any moment. Then he'd…

He heard shouts from the head of the column, and spoke a low word of command. His trumpeter blew a long shrill note, and all along the road the ylver charged, Cyncaidh with them. But as they plunged through the roadside undergrowth, the column's escort surprised them, meeting them not with the usual sabers, but with seven-foot spears. A few of the raiders reacted too slowly, and the horses were stabbed in head or neck, but most reined back, briefly confused. At the same time, soldiers arose on the wagons, out of the hay or from beneath tarps, crossbows in hand.

Cyncaidh felt a bolt slam through his Cuirass, and into his upper left chest.

The escort had never intended to fight with their spears. They'd served mainly to halt the charging ylver, making them more susceptible to crossbow fire. Fighting in the saddle at a near standstill, spears were not the weapon of choice, and the escort dropped them. Before most of the raiders could recover their wits, the hithar engaged them with sabers.

The ylver fought furiously and skillfully. Some killed or wounded or unhorsed their opponents, some forced them back. Others died. In the melee, the crossbows had largely stopped. Cyncaidh's trumpeter and deputy had hung back, as they were supposed to. They saw their wounded commander defending himself against a soldier. Then, deflected by Cyncaidh's blade, a powerful saber blow slammed his helmet, and he fell from the saddle.

The deputy saw the hithik rear guard charging up, shouted an order, and the trumpeter blew the quick notes of retreat. As best they could, the ylver disengaged and galloped back into the forest, crossbowmen sending bolts after them.

Nearly a hundred bodies lay in the snow, more raiders than escorts. Not all of them were dead.

The Younger Quaie and his party had met with a voitik officer the evening before, at the flank post. There'd been no actual negotiations. The voitu had asked questions, then presented terms. Quaie had accepted. He had nothing to negotiate with except his services, and at any rate he felt optimistic. He usually was, manically so, despite the mental abuse visited on him by his famous and sadistic father. Just now, in fact, he felt positively exhilarated; he would soon have the respect he desired and deserved. This voitik prince needed someone who knew the people, politics, and power sources of the empires and the Marches. And he was that man. As time passed, the voitu would rely more and more on him. He'd have rewards, power, people subject to him, whom he could do with as he pleased.