The idea of danger close at hand presented itself to Djoh, more strongly than before. He stopped combing the mane of the big gray stallion. Mountain Wind seemed to tolerate him more than any of the other Horseclan mounts. Combing him was a way to at least seem useful in the eyes of the young clansmen.

“What makes you uneasy, two-legs?” came the stallion’s thoughts.

“Could bad two-legs be coming without being seen?” “The chiefs send out riders, to watch for such.” “The chiefs have ridden off on the raid, most of them. Those who stayed behind might not be obeyed.” The stallion’s unease at the thought of unknown danger to his mares and children came plainly. So did other thoughts, from another source yet also close at hand. Djoh forced himself to concentrate, as if he had to smooth an entire plank with a single stroke of the plane.

“Bad two-legs,” he thought finally. “Some on the other side of the river. Some crossing—no, now on this side.”

And do I call them enemies or rescuers?

Djoh looked up at the sky, but the sun, whether sacred or not, gave only light, not answers. He looked at the “Kindred” splashing in the water. He looked rather longer at the maidens than at the men, for none wore anything. Not that he was going short of women these days—or rather, of a woman, since Karee was enough woman for three men.

These people might not be his Kindred. It was still more than he could contemplate, seeing them butchered when it was in his power to save them. Some of the Maiden Archers were no older than his sister Lilia. Besides, Mountain Wind would probably stamp him flat if he threw away the lives of mares and colts.

A man had to be able to sleep at night, whether or not he slept in anything he could call a home. Otherwise Djoh might as well take the knife he’d been using to pare Mountain Wind’s hooves and cut his throat.

“Four-legged friend, will you let me mount you and seek the bad two-legs?”

“You will not run to them for help?”

Not for the first time, it struck Djoh that the Horseclans’ prairiecats and horses were sometimes smarter than the clansmen.

“They are not my friends. I will not help them bring death to your mares.”

“Then mount.”

As Djoh gripped Mountain Wind’s mane, one of the youths who’d remained on the bank, armed and clothed, saw him.

“Ha! Do you think oaths are like the dirt you live in, that you can ride off anytime you please?” He hurried toward Djoh, drawing his saber as he came.

“I take oaths as seriously as any of the Kindred,” Djoh said. “I heard mindspeech downstream that made me suspect danger. I wished to ride and see. By Sacred Sun and Wind and by mother’s honor I shall return.”

“Nothing has come to me,” the boy said. “Nor do I lack the mindspeak. If nothing has come to me, then how has it come to you?”

“If you do not trust me, ride with me,” Djoh said. “I admit that I do not know my mindspeak as well as those of the Kindred who have used it since they were children. Perhaps I see danger where there is none. If that is so, then we do no harm, and I will have no chance to escape.

“If there is danger, we are more likely to give warning if there are two of us. Two are harder to kill than one.”

The boy frowned. “To hear you talk, anyone would think you had been a warchief instead of a Dirtman’s carpenter.” The frown deepened. Then he shook his head.

“No. I will not ride off on a fool’s errand, leaving the horses.”

“Then will you at least help me put the weapons of those in the water closer to the bank, so that they may reach them the faster?”

The boy looked along the bank and flushed. He could not be finding much pleasure in a Dirtman’s seeing what some of his comrades had done—left their weapons where an enemy on the bank could come between them and the weapons.

“Ho, brothers and sisters! A Dirtman is wiser in war than some of you. Look to your weapons!”

Those were the last words the boy spoke. An arrow from across the stream took him in the throat. At the same time half a dozen men in wet green-and-brown clothing sprinted out of cover downstream. They carried short stabbing swords and long daggers, and only a witling could have mistaken their intent.

If they could seize the bank so that unarmed and naked Kindred had to climb up to face them, they could hold those Kindred under the arrow hail from across the stream. The half-dozen might die, but so would far'too many of the Kindred.

In the time it took the boy to fall to the ground, Djoh was on Mountain Wind’s back. He sprawled ungracefully across the stallion’s barrel at first; even a grip on the mane hadn’t' made up for a game leg. Mountain Wind’s thoughts held rage and bloodlust, but he kept still until Djoh was mounted as securely as he could hope to be. Djoh had seldom ridden horseback, never bareback on a horse this big, and never into battle at all.

Mountain Wind’s legs seemed to uncoil, and he plunged forward. As he went, he screamed a warning to the rest of the herd. Djoh heard the lesser stallions and the mares replying, and the thunder of the whole herd starting into movement. He could only hope they would run to the camp and give warning, or at least not into the arms of new enemies.

He tried to search for any other traces of hostile mindspeak, but gave up in a moment. As long as he heard Mountain Wind, he could hear nothing else.

If the men who’d swum the river had carried bows, Djoh and Mountain Wind might have died before they had closed half the distance. As it was, the archers on the far bank were too few to make effective practice against both Djoh and the Kindred in the water. Djoh was a moving target, sometimes behind trees, and the Kindred could duck out of sight until they were ready for a sprint up the bank.

By the time Djoh was out of the trees, he was so close to the half-dozen that an archer shooting at him hit a friend instead. This drew curses, which turned into screams as Mountain Wind charged among the men. Instead of holding the bank against the Kindred, the men found themselves being driven down the bank into the water where the Kindred waited. The alternative was being trampled under Mountain Wind’s hooves or savaged by his teeth. The men seemed to prefer death at human hands.

The fighting in the water was still going on when Kindred who’d reached their bows began shooting back. The arrow fire from the far bank slackened, enough to allow other Kindred to swim the river and press home the fight to close quarters. From the warcries and deathcries on the far bank, it seemed that the Kindred were prevailing, though not without losses.

Not what they would have been if you hadn’t charged the raiders on the bank. In fact, if you hadn’t, you might have wound up being “rescued” whether you wanted to be or not.

Unless they decided you were of the Horseclans and cut your throat along with theirs.

Any throat-cutting that actually took place happened on the far bank, out of Djoh’s sight though not out of his hearing. When the Kindred who’d crossed the river returned, it was on an improvised raft of fallen logs. It bore two dead and another too badly hurt to swim, plus another soundly trussed prisoner.

The maiden who seemed to be the new leader came up to Djoh. By now he’d dismounted, but found that he needed a firm grip on Mountain Wind’s mane in order to stand.

She looked him up and down with a look mingling respect and exasperation. Then she saw his empty hands and belt, and the exasperation vanished. Her mouth opened into a silent circle and stayed that way for some time.

Finally she found her voice.

“Dirt—Dirt Brother. Did you bear any weapon at all, when you charged?”

Djoh shook his head—carefully, because his neck muscles felt so weak that a hard shake might send his head rolling in the dirt. “I—well, Mountain Wind is enough of a weapon, isn’t he?”