"I don't care. If a citizen can't be safe at home, then why the hell pay taxes?"

"If you don't, you'll get troops up here quick, all right," she replied. They rigged the litter between their horses, hoisted Preshka in.

"Well, I'm going down. Tomorrow."

i) Return of the Disciple

Ragnarson did not leave for Itaskia next morning.

He woke to find the household in an uproar.

All his people had spent the night at the greathouse, vainly awaiting Mocker. He assumed Nepanthe, unwill­ing to let her husband out of sight, would come along and could be put to doctoring.

He went to see what was the matter.

Luck rode with him in a small, left-handed way. Bevold Lif, despite his bashed head, had risen early to go to the mill. He had started out afoot and had quickly returned. El Murid's men were back, waiting for dawn.

Ragnarson quietly tried to get the animals back into the cellars, the building doused down, and weapons readied. If they had the confidence to return, the raiders had picked up reinforcements.

As false dawn lightened the land, he counted their horses. There were nearly thirty surrounding the house, at a distance demonstrating their respect for the Itaskian bow.

"You think they'll attack?" Bevold asked.

"I wouldn't," Ragnarson replied. "But there's no figuring those people. They're crazy. That's why they did so well in the wars. That and being able to field every grown man. Iwa Skolovda and Prost Kamenets have the same problem on their Shara borders. Nomads don't have to stay home to get the crops in. And they don't use much equipment a man can't make himself, so their cavalry doesn't need a broad peasant base..."

"That'll reassure everybody," Elana said sarcastically. Bragi, as he aged, had developed a tendency to lecture. "Uthe and Dahl are in the tower. U the said to tell you they have a 'shaghun.'"

"Uhn," he grunted. "That's not good."

"Why not?"

"A shaghun's a sort of priest-knight. They're a fighting order like the Guild's Knights Protectors. One with a group this small is unusual."

"So?"

"They're sorcerers too. Not big-time, but they've got some magic."

"But I thought El Murid killed all the magicians..."

"Sure!" Ragnarson interrupted, sneering. "All that didn't get religion. You ever hear of a priest who wouldn't make a deal with his devil to get what he wanted? El Murid's no different. He's a politician first, same as all of them. He just started out with ideals. After reality kicked his ass a few times, he started compromising. The shaghun system worked for the Royalists—Haroun is supposed to be one, but he didn't get much training before he had to run—so why not for him?"

Bragi was a cynic who disapproved of any organization structured for purposes other than warfare. His opinions of governments were as severe as those regarding priesthoods.

"What can we do?" Elana asked.

"About what?"

"About this hedge-wizard, you lummox!" Mornings they both could be bears.

"Oh. I'll have to kill him. Or give up and see what he wants. How's Rolf?"

"Still in a coma. I don't think he'll come out."

"Grim. Where's Mocker? And where's that shaghun? If

I'm going to get him, I got to know where." He sent someone to get Uthe from the tower.

Elana started to ask why he had to do it. She knew. It was his way. The more dangerous the task, the less likely he was to delegate it.

"Let's go to the study," Bragi said. He had a room of his own off the main hall where, supposedly, he attended to business. It was more a museum filled with mementos, and a library. "I hope he stays alive long enough to tell me why I've got El Murid's horses trampling my wheat."

"I'd like to see him live a little longer than that." She revealed too much emotion. Bragi frowned puzzledly, was about to ask something when Uthe arrived.

The men went to four maps hung on a wall. One was of the west, political; another of the Itaskian Kingdom; a third was of the landgrant with inked notations about resources and special features. The last was of the area around the house, with large blank borders where the forest still stood. It was to this that Bragi and Uthe went. Haas pointed out the location of the shaghun, then of nearby horsemen. Bragi traced an approach route with one heavy forefinger.

"Did you see his colors?" Ragnarson asked. "Did you recognize them?"

"Yes. No."

"Guess we couldn't tell much anyway. Bound to have been a big turnover. Most of them died before El Murid gave up and went home. Well, I don't know what else I can do. Wish I'd known he was out there when it was still dark."

He grabbed Elana, kissed her swift and hard. "Uthe, if it don't work, you take over. Wait for Mocker. He's bound to come—though how much good he'll be I don't know." He kissed Elana again.

ii) His regiment arrives

The ground was cold. His leg ached. The dew on the grass had soaked through his trousers and jerkin. A breeze from the south did nothing to make him more comfortable. His hands were chilled, shaking. He hoped they wouldn't ruin his aim. There was little chance he would get a second shot. The shaghun would have a protective spell ready for instant use.

A hundred yards more, at least, before he dared a shot. And they the hardest since he had slipped out the tunnel from the cellars. There was no cover but a fencerow.

Where was Mocker? he wondered.

The yards slowly passed under his belly. He expected an alarm at any moment, or the cry of the shaghun ordering an attack.

It was light enough to storm the house. Why were they waiting?

From the end of the fence he would have to trust luck to cross five yards of naked pasture to a ditch.

They would get him there for sure.

A sudden outcry and stirring of horses startled him. He almost let fly before realizing the horses were moving away. He raised his head.

Mocker had come.

And how he had come. The column emerging from the forest, both horse and foot, was the biggest Ragnarson had seen since the flareup with Prost Kamenets. At their head, fat and robed in brown and astride his pathetically bony little donkey, rode Mocker.

They were not Royal troops, though they were disciplined and well-equipped. Their banners were of the Mercenary's Guild. But Ragnarson knew few of their names could be found on Guild rosters. They were Trolledyngjans.

The desert horsemen, after first rushing toward the newcomers, retreated. Even a shaghun was no advantage against such numbers.

Their flight passed near Ragnarson. The shaghun, in a burnoose as dark as night, was an easy target.

One shaft, from a bow few men could pull, flew so swift its passage was nearly invisible. It burst through the shaghun's skull.

For a long minute Bragi watched the riders gallop off.

In an hour they would have disappeared without a trace. They came and went like the sandstorms of their native land, unpredictable and devastating.

"Hai!" Mocker cried as Bragi trotted up. "As always, one believed old fat windy fool, self, arrives in nick, to salvage bacon of friend of huge militant repute but, as customary, leaguered up by nearest congregation quadra-plegic. Self, am thinking same should admit same before assembled host..."

"Speaking of which," Ragnarson interrupted, "where'd you turn this crowd up?"

"Conjuration." The fat man grinned. "Self, being mighty sorcerer, wizard of worldwide dread, made passes in night, danced widdershins round yew tree, nude, burned unholy incense, called up demon legion..."

"Never changes, does he? Blows hard as a winter wind."

The speaker was a man even more massive than Ragnarson, mounted on a giant gray. He had the shaggy black hair of a wild man, and behind his beard a mass of dark teeth.