The man sat up, drew his sword, and all around the circle of horsemen came the rasp of swords being drawn. “Liar,” the man said. “Thief. You deserve death, and death you shall have, and we the reward for bringing back your corpse. Dead or alive, the High Marshal told us when we rode out. Dead it shall be.”

Arvid did not move. “I have not yet told all I know about the paladin Paksenarrion,” he said. “It is for that I was invited here. Do you think the Marshal-General will be pleased to know you silenced one she herself asked to speak?”

“You—!”

“I can be killed, if so she judges, after I have spoken of Paksenarrion. But I cannot speak, if you kill me now.” He shrugged. “It is, of course, your decision.”

“He is right, Pir,” one of the others said. “And the Marshal-General should arrive today; it will do no harm to wait. We won’t let him escape again.”

Arvid considered pointing out that he hadn’t “escaped” in the first place, and had been coming back on his own, but in view of the drawn swords held his peace.

“Very well,” the first man said, with bad grace. “Then get a march on, you, and don’t dawdle.”

“Considering that I’ve had no sleep, no food since yesterday, and have a wound, and my companion is not at full strength either, you may have to accept a slower pace than you, riding, would find reasonable,” Arvid said.

“A day’s fast never hurt anyone,” the man said, wheeling his horse discourteously close to Arvid.

“Pir—” one of the others said.

“I’ll go tell them we found him,” the man said, and spurred to a gallop. The others looked down at Arvid with less hostility.

“You could ride pillion,” one of them said.

“I don’t ride,” said the gnome.

“It would be quicker,” Arvid said to him, “but if you cannot ride, then I, too, will walk. My thanks,” he said to the rider who had offered. He took a few steps forward, but standing in the heat had affected his balance, and he nearly fell, his vision darkening.

“My lord!” The gnome was at his side, a hard-muscled shoulder under his arm, helping him. “You cannot go on.”

Arvid shook his head. “I can. It’s just the standing—”

“No,” said one of the Girdish. “It’s not right.” He dismounted and eased the reins over his mount’s ears. “I will help you mount, and I will lead my horse.”

“Torin, are you sure?”

“I am sure that it is not courteous to force a wounded man to walk such a distance in the heat, without food or water. And we must go at a foot-pace anyway, for the gnome’s sake.”

“Pir won’t like it.”

“Pir can—” The man swallowed whatever he might have said and offered Arvid his hands to mount. Arvid would have ignored that, but when he tried to raise his wounded arm to the saddle-bow, he could not. Mounted, he looked down at the gnome.