"Nits make lice, lord," the warrior growled.

"The young ones train easier," Walker replied mildly; the man lowered his eyes and shuffled feet. "Get to work."

Something's wrong, he thought again, standing by the big stack of unthreshed grain.

Ohotolarix and another of his Iraiina came up, pushing a woman ahead of them. "Here's your prisoner, lord," they said, grinning; one shoved her forward. She was naked, a big-breasted brunette staring around in near-hysteria. "We didn't even mount her ourselves," Ohotolarix added virtuously.

"You," Walker said, putting the tip of his reddened sword under her chin. She froze at the touch of the sharp wet steel, eyes going even bigger. "Where men? Where of-you men?

She licked her lips and spoke, very carefully. He caught about one word in four; the Earth Folk language was just too damn difficult. The man with Ohotolarix frowned and translated:

"Toward the big… the Great Wisdom, she says, lord." The warrior made a warding sign of the horns, with the index and little finger of his right hand. "The Moon-bitch's place. Evil magic."

A gust of fury filled Walker, like a blinding light behind the eyes. Thoughts strung themselves together, dropping into place. He was suddenly conscious of the woman flopping and gurgling on the ground before him with her throat gashed open, and the two Iraiina staring at him goggle-eyed.

"We don't have much time," he forced himself to say, running his sword through a rag and sheathing it. "Ohotolarix, see to the most portable loot, nothing else-no women, nothing bulky. We leave now. Nothing that can't keep up with the horses. Go, go, go!"

They went, running; it was a big perk of having people think you were supernatural. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell them to turn the cattle loose too, but there were things even Hwalkarz the Wizard had to think twice about.

"What's the matter, blood-brother?" Isketerol said, coming up smiling and adjusting his clothing.

"Look at that," Walker grated in English, pulling a sheaf of wheat from the stack.

"It's just…" The Tartessian's eyes flicked from Walker's face to the grain. "The straw is too long. Why would anyone bend that low to cut grain?"

"No one did," Walker said, remembering the smooth low cut in the fields outside the settlement. "A machine did it. So the fighting men here didn't need to. And if they're gone even from this pissant little place close to the frontier-"

Isketerol's eyes bulged. "The Fiernans could be mobilizing all their fighting men-right now, while we thought they were still working on the harvest!"

Walker turned and walked up to the top of the embankment, facing north, unshipping his binoculars, and looking carefully from horizon in the east to horizon in the west until he caught the blink… blink… from the hilltop two miles away.

"What is that?" the Iberian asked,

"Heliograph. Signals by flashing lights off a mirror in code. With good binoculars, it's almost as fast as radio- and harder to detect." He had a continuous radio watch kept on the equipment Yare had brought over; a bicycle rig for charging batteries had been part of the cargo. "And we, my friend, have been suckered. Let's torch this shitheap and get going. Time to get the army together."

Isketerol nodded thoughtfully. "Perhaps… we should take some, ah, what's the word, precautions!"

Walker nodded. "Just in case."

Andy Toffler swore softly under his breath as he stooped, pushing the goggles up on his forehead. Bad one, he thought. The buildings and grain were all burning, and the raw harsh scent made him cough as he flew through it. Lower, and he could see bodies lying between the burning huts, and more scattered outside the enclosure. Some of them were moving.

"GHU here. Hamlet has definitely been destroyed," he said. "Doesn't look like much is left. Over."

"Central here. Any sign of wheel tracks?"

"That's negative, Central. Ground's too hard anyway. I'm going in."

"Negative on that. Return to base. Over."

"Sorry, transmission breaking up. Over."

He eased the ultralight down, into the stubble field next to the hamlet. The soft balloon wheels touched as he flared the nose up a little, killing speed, and the machine ran itself to a stop in scarcely twelve feet. There was a shotgun in a scabbard on the frame next to his seat. He racked the slide and made his way cautiously toward the fires.

"Damn," he said softly. "Gawd damn."

The first thing he ran into was sheep, savagely hacked and stabbed, as if by someone in a very bad mood. Then people, together as if they'd been herded into a bunch. Women mostly, and some children. A lot of the women lying on their backs naked, with their throats cut, or curled around a spear wound. Toffler swallowed a mouthful of spit and made himself look at the ground. In the stretch about the hamlet's embankment there was sign of horses-dung, and the imprint of a shod hoof where one of them had stepped in it. More bodies just within the wall, these looking as if some of them had gone down fighting. Many of them had Nantucket-style crossbow bolts in them, or the broken stubs, or gaping holes where they'd been cut out for reuse.

"Walker," Toffler said, as if the word made his mouth feel dirty.

The heat within the enclosure was savage, as the wooden frames of the buildings went up. Walls collapsed, and he could hear voices… and there was nothing he could do.

"God damn me if there isn't," he muttered, and turned on his heel.

The track of the cattle was obvious even on this hard ground, pointing southeast toward the lower wooded ground and the river valley. He ran back toward the ultralight and flung himself into the seat, ignoring the faint squawking from the headphones of the radio. The run was downhill and into the wind; the little fabric-and-struts aircraft hurled itself aloft as if angels were pulling on strings from the cloudless sky. Toffler took it recklessly low, the tricycle undercarriage virtually brushing the tops of the big oaks and beeches. He remembered things from his boyhood in the knob country of Kentucky. Driving cattle like that, you'd have to… yes!

A faint track, more like a deer trail than a road-just barely visible through the lush late-summer leaves. They couldn't have gone far, even by the plodding standards of this abortion of an aircraft-oh, God, for his Phantom and a mixed load of snake and nape! Nothing like white phosphorus and napalm for chastising the evildoers. He did have a helmet with a holder for a pair of binoculars. He used it, and blurred closeness appeared.

There. Cattle, and men on horseback, glimpsed in flickering instants through the leaves and branches. He throttled back the engine and pushed up the glasses with a snick, ghosting down through the air as quietly as he could. His left hand held the yoke while his right was busy with the racked glass bombs by his seat, unlatching the safety fastener and making ready. They'd put in some improvements since he flew against the Olmecs, including a friction primer and fins to guide the fall. Plus he'd practiced.

Ahead, the enemy were coming out into a small almost-clearing, littered with the trunks of dead trees and briers, grass, brush-second growth. The herd of small hairy cattle bawled and churned with panic at being driven so fast from their accustomed range, and even expert herdsmen were having their hands full. His eyes flicked back and forth; forty, fifty men, perhaps a few more. No chariots. They were all on horseback, riding with regular saddles and stirrups, leading packhorses as well. All in metal armor… Jesus, maybe that's Walker himself down there!

Ease back on the throttle, engine noise sinking to a low buzzing drone. The ultralight was almost like flying a parachute; when you headed into the wind the stall speed was near zero. Careful. If the wind dies down you could drop like a rock.