They lay behind the winter pressed stack in the field, Simon, Koris, and Vortgin, wisps of the dank straw pulled over their bodies, watching what went on at the crossroads hamlet beyond. There were the brilliant blue-green surcoats of the Duke’s men, four of them, well mounted for hard and far riding, and a fringe of the dull-robed villagers. With some ceremony the leader of the small force out of Kars brought his horse beneath the Pole of Proclamation and put a horn to his lips, its silver plating catching fire from the morning sun.

“One… two… three…” Koris counted those blasts aloud. They heard them clearly, all the countryside must have heard them, although of what the Duke’s men said to the assembly afterwards they caught only as a mumble.

Koris looked to Vortgin. “They spread it fast enough. You’d best be on your way, if any of your kin is to be warned at all.”

Vortgin thrust his belt dagger deep into the earth of the field as if he were planting it in one of the blue coated riders. “I’ll need more than my two legs.”

“Just so. And there is what we all seek.” Koris jerked a thumb at the ducal party.

“Beyond the bridge the road takes a cut through small woods,” Simon thought aloud.

Koris’ pseudo-face expressed malicious appreciation of that hint. “They’ll soon be through with the chatter. We’d best move.”

They crawled away from their vantage point, crossed the river ford, and found the woods track. The roads leading north were not well kept. Yvian’s rule in this district had been covertly opposed by noble and commoner alike. Away from the main highways all passages tended to be only rough tracks.

On either side banks rose, brush and grass covered. It was not a safe place for any wayfarer, doubly suspect for anyone in the Duke’s livery.

Simon settled into concealment on one side of that cut, Koris chose a stand closer to the river, prepared to head off any retreat. And Vortgin was across from Simon. They had only to wait.

The leader of the messengers was no fool. One of his men rode ahead, studying every bush the wind stirred, every clump of suspiciously tall grass. He passed between the hidden men and trotted on. After him came the one who bore the horn, and a companion, while the fourth man brought up the rear.

Simon shot as the rearguard drew level with his position. But the man who fell from the expertly aimed dart was the lead scout.

The leader swung his mount around with the skill of an expert horseman, only to see the rearguard collapse from his saddle coughing blood.

“Sul…Sul…Sul!” The battle cry Simon had last heard in the doomed seaport rose shrilly. A dart creased Simon’s shoulder, ripping leather and burning skin — the leader must have cat’s eyes.