Stammel could not be sure how many there were; his fractured sight and the scrub and twisting path made that impossible. He picked up the cow’s horn and blew it. The man in front stopped and looked around, but he was not quite close enough yet. Crouching low, Stammel moved to the far end of the outcrop and blew the horn downward into the ravine, where he knew from practice the sound would echo as if coming from there. Three short blasts, as if in answer to that first long one. He picked up one of the round stones piled nearby and threw it as far away from the trail as he could. It hit and rattled down onto others.

Then he moved back to his first position. Some of the men had taken cover behind rocks that would screen them from the ravine’s mouth but not from above. All those he could see, in the flashes of sight, were looking toward the ravine. If he climbed a little way down to his right—not as protected a position—he could take one of them at an angle that would make experienced fighters move to his left. He remembered his play with the village children. He could be seen from those positions if he didn’t duck fast enough, and returning to the higher ground would be tricky. But worth it.

He eased over the edge of the outcrop, dropped into a hollow, and then clambered up the next boulder, all with his eyes shut to block out the unnerving jerky flashes of sight. Then he looked. Sure enough: five men visible, all facing away to their right. He placed a bolt and aimed carefully, all the while wondering if this was what the gods meant in giving him sight. Should he have claimed the Blind Archer’s name? He touched the trigger, and the bolt flew true, striking the man he’d chosen in the side, piercing his leather jerkin. One of the others stood up, looking at the tumble of boulders lower down, and Stammel took a second shot, this time hitting the man square in the chest. Then he flattened himself on the rock behind the thin screen of bushes.