"Come on!" he yelled. There was no more time to lose. He touched Tug with his heels and the little horse clattered away, dragging the others behind on the lead rope. He glanced over his shoulder, saw Xander half in and half out of the saddle, clinging desperately to the gelding's mane. He couldn't spare the little man any more time or thought. The gatehouse was before them and one of the sentries was running uncertainly toward the giant windlass that operated the portcullis. Will sent an arrow whistling past the man's ear and saw him drop to the cobbles for cover.

There was more shouting behind them now and from the corner of his eye, Will saw movement on the battlements ahead of them, and heard a crossbow bolt strike, skidding, on the stones in front of Tug.

Without conscious thought, seemingly without aiming, he shot again and a figure tumbled from the parapet into the courtyard, his crossbow clattering on the stones beside him.

Then the horses' hooves were thundering on the timber of the drawbridge and the drag on the lead rope was virtually gone as the gelding and mare, drawn by the excitement of the moment, kept pace with Tug. They shot into the darkness under the massive gate tower, then out into the winter sunshine. Within seconds, the hooves were drumming on the hard frozen ground at the end of the bridge and they were clear. He sensed the hiss of crossbow bolts in the air but there were only a few of them. They had taken the sentries by surprise-or they were mainly Orman's men and had refused to fire on their lord. He glanced back and saw that Xander had finally made it into the saddle. He was riding close beside Orman, the taller man hunched painfully in the saddle, but holding firmly to the pommel.

It would be some minutes before any pursuit was launched and Will knew where he wanted to be when they came after him.

Will drew rein as they reached the now-familiar entrance to Grimsdell Wood. He allowed the other horses to pull alongside Tug and studied Orman critically. The castle lord was swaying in his saddle, his eyes half closed and with a faraway look in them. His mouth moved but no sound came out.

Xander was watching his lord anxiously. "We have to get him to Malkallam quickly," he said. "He's nearly unconscious."

Will nodded. He looked away from Orman to the bend in the road where their pursuers would appear-he had no doubt there would be pursuers.

"Get him further into the trees," he said. "I'll stay here and discourage anyone from following too closely." He indicated the narrow trail that he and Alyss had followed on their previous exploration of the wood. "Follow that path for a hundred meters or so and wait for me there. You'll be well out of sight by then."

Xander hesitated. "What about you?"

Will smiled at him. The little clerk had unexpected courage. He flicked the cowl of his cloak up over his head and nudged Tug farther into the dappled shadows under a bare-branched oak tree.

"I'm out of sight now," he said. And when Xander still hesitated, he gestured for him to go. "Get going. They'll be up with us any minute."

The secretary saw the good sense of the suggestion. He nodded to Will and, seizing the lead rein for Orman's horse, led the semiconscious castle lord into the dim shadows of Grimsdell Wood. After fifteen meters, they were lost to Will's sight. He nodded to himself with satisfaction and sat unmoving. The dog was flat on her belly on the ground beside Tug. She emitted a low, rumbling growl.

"Still," he told her, and her tail flicked obediently.

A few seconds later, Tug's ears twitched nervously and he pawed the ground with one hoof. So far, Will had heard nothing. He marveled at the acute senses of his two animals. He soothed Tug, and knowing that his master had heard his warning, the little horse relaxed.

It was another half minute before the band of riders rounded the bend in the road. There were eight of them, all armed and led by a familiar tall figure.

"Buttle," he breathed. The dog allowed herself another almost inaudible growl, then settled again.

The group drew rein about two hundred meters from where Will sat. One of the men was obviously a hunter of some kind and he dropped from the saddle to study the tracks on the road, looking to the snow-covered meadow that separated the road from Grimsdell Wood, where the path taken by the three horses through the snow was all too clear. He pointed toward the wood and moved to remount.

Buttle gave the signal for the men to advance, but they didn't move. Will heard raised voices as Buttle turned on them and repeated the order. He smiled to himself. Buttle obviously hadn't heard about the horrors of Grimsdell, he realized. For a moment, he regretted a lost opportunity. If they had come forward, he could have waited till they were in the middle of the open ground and then started shooting. He could probably have reduced Keren's available force by eight men that way. Then he rejected the thought. Some of the men might well be Orman's soldiers, forced to go along against their will. And even if they weren't, he knew he could hardly bring himself to murder eight men in cold blood, no matter how dangerous they might be. That wasn't why Halt had trained him for years to the level of skill he now possessed.

Buttle, however, was a different matter altogether. His total lack of scruples and the basic evil nature of the man would make him a valuable deputy to the scheming usurper. Men like Keren needed men like Buttle, Will knew. They needed men who would obey orders to kill and rob and destroy without any hesitation. Such men made it easier for others to follow suit. He had no doubt that Buttle was already established as one of Keren's key retainers.

And there he sat, just two hundred meters away from Will, who had an arrow nocked to the string already.

It was a long bowshot and there was a slight crosswind. Will could see it stirring the tops of the bare alders that lined the road on the far side. Most archers would have approached such a shot with misgivings, but Will was a Ranger and for a Ranger, a two-hundred-meter shot was bread and butter. And he knew that misgivings were the beginning of a miss. Anxiety over a missed shot all too often rewarded itself with the very result that it sought to avoid. Will raised his bow to the aim position.

The arrow seemed to slide back effortlessly, drawn by the big muscles in his back and shoulders with an ease born of thousands of repetitions. He created his sighting picture, focusing on the target, not on the arrow or the bow. They were simply two parts of the overall picture that culminated in the figure of Buttle sitting his horse two hundred meters away.

He continued raising the bow until he was satisfied that the elevation was correct for the distance. At that moment, had anyone asked him how he knew that it was correct, he could not have answered. It was instinctive in him now, another product of those years of practice. He allowed for the wind and held steady a moment. His left hand, holding the bow, was loose and relaxed, so that the shaped grip sat in the gap between thumb and forefinger, supported but not actually gripped. The thumb of his right hand rested against the corner of his mouth, the first three fingers restraining the string at the full draw position, one above and two below the nocking point.

He exhaled half of the last breath he had taken, vaguely aware of his own heartbeat and natural body rhythms, and allowed the string to release itself from his fingers, both hands passive, without a trace of jerking or twisting. The entire process, once he had raised the bow, took less than four seconds.

The bow sang and the arrow leapt away.

Ironically, it was the years of practice that now betrayed him.