Fall of Angels (The Saga of Recluce #6)(154)

Huldran nodded minutely, although the gesture was lost on the other two women.

The ridge top darkened as a larger and more substantial cloud buried in the high haze drifted across the sun.

"They're out of bow shot."

"We need to make them come to us," Ryba said.

"Do they want to fight at all?" asked Nylan.

"They won't admit that. First, they'll make some statement about how they come in peace to reclaim whatever they think is theirs. Then will come threats, and then they'll ride downhill and charge back up."

Nylan said nothing, instead trying to send his perceptions out to see if the apparent attackers were more deceptive than they appeared. As he swayed in the saddle, straining at the limits of his abilities, he could sense that matters were not quite as they seemed.

"Hold it," he gasped, raising a hand.

"What?" said Ryba almost impatiently.

"This one's a setup, I think," Nylan explained. "See the trees to the right, where they bulge out on the lower side?"

"Someone there?" asked Fierral.

"Archers, it feels like. I'll bet their mounts are in with the packhorses down there. The woods are too steep there for horses."

"That means ten to fifteen archers." Ryba nodded. "So they'll come a quarter of the way up the hill under a white banner, make an impossible demand, and as they turn, we'll get sleeted with a cross fire?"

The engineer shrugged. "I don't know tactics, but I'd guess something like that."

Ryba studied the ground, then looked downhill and out at the flat where a rider was lifting up a white banner. "They don't want to give us much time, either."

"Can't imagine why ..." muttered Nylan under his breath, wondering if the guards' reputation for instant and unforgiving action had already crossed most of Candar by rumor.

"How far will their arrows go-uphill?" asked Ryba.

"We could only descend another four hundred cubits or so before we'd be at the outer range, probably," hazarded Fierral.

"Fine. We'll go down to the edge of that range and wait."

"And?" asked Fierral.

"We'll insult their manhood. That might get them mad enough to charge after us," said Ryba.

"They can't be that stupid," pointed out Fierral.

"Probably not. But there's nothing that says we have to fight. We ride away. If they want to fight, they'll either have to bring up their archers out of the woods-or leave them behind." The marshal smiled coldly.

"They won't leave them, not after bringing them all the way up here."

"No, they won't. But our bows have a longer effective range than theirs, because they're your specials, and because the height should give us a little more impact, and they won't expect that power from mounted archers." Ryba laughed. "If they're better, we retreat to the rocks by the watchtower. That covers the road, and they'll have trouble."

"What if they retreat?" asked Nylan.

"They won't."

As the rider bearing the limp white banner rode uphill, followed by three riders, Ryba, Fierral, and Berlis rode down the ridge more slowly, drawing up well short of the midpoint between the two forces.

The leaders of the purple forces stopped exactly where predicted and waited.

Ryba, Fierral, and Cessya waited.

Nearly half a kay separated the two groups.

Finally, the man bearing the banner-alone-rode up the hill.

Drawing on his senses, Nylan strained to hear, but could only catch the general sense of the conversation, and the scathing scorn in Ryba's voice.

The central rider of the attackers' leaders raised a gloved fist. Ryba's laugh echoed down the hill. Then the three Westwind riders turned their backs on the others, and rode back up the hill.

Several arrows arched out of the lower forest, but fell short. Neither Ryba nor Fierral even looked back.

After a time, the armsman with the banner rode back down to the three others.

"They've got a problem." Ryba's voice contained a hint of laughter as she reined up before the Westwind guards. "They were sent to rout us out. If they go back, they won't be in good standing. If they've got any brains, the last thing they're going to want to do is ride up the ridge ... but in this kind of culture, if you don't take the fight to the enemy you're a coward, and that's either a death sentence or an endless round of duels and hassles."

"Are you sure?"

"What did they say?" asked Cessya.

"Just about what you'd expect. They claimed that we had insulted the sovereignty of Gallos by enticing various inhabitants to join us. He couldn't even bring himself to say 'women.' "

"What now?" asked Fierral.

"We wait."

Finally, a trumpet sounded.

"They'll take the horses up to the archers, and have them ride to about where we waited for them," said Ryba. "That would give them enough bow range to drop arrows on the ridge top here, and that's supposedly beyond the range of horse-carried bows. Don't do anything-just watch-until all the archers are well within range. Then hit them with everything we can fire.

"The horse will charge at that point, and we'll start potting horsemen then. Some will get through, but try to make it as few as possible."