Herliss, the only remaining mounted man in the train, was stunned by the swiftness of this defeat, by its totality and by his own helplessness. They had sprung from the ground like devils, pouring up out of holes and trenches dug in the soft hillsides on either side of the narrow, rutted road, the only warning of their coming the sudden, shocking sight of rectangular sections of grass- covered ground being lifted up and thrown aside to give them passage. And as they came, they had drawn their bows, arrows already nocked, forming themselves with daunting speed into solid blocks of death: tight, disciplined, inexorable; ranks spaced far enough apart to enable each to fire over the heads of those beneath them; drawn weapons pointed grimly down towards the long train reeling in disorder and panic below. Young Gylmer, as usual, had been the first man to react, kicking his pony forward with a shout and attracting the attention of his men before panic could overwhelm them. But Gylmer had died for his decisiveness, and his men had been struck down with him, destroyed by a response so quick and so complete that every man who saw it knew it had been planned for just such a move.
Now Herliss looked about him, assessing his ruin. Men hung in impossible postures of indecision everywhere he looked, as though frozen in place in the blink of some mad god's eye. Among them, in the very centre of the roadway, the Queen's group of women eddied, as yet too stunned to have begun screaming. Behind him, he could hear wails of panic rising from among the wagon-drivers. Only the Queen's personal bodyguard of Ersemen seemed prepared to match the threat of the massed ranks above. They had formed a circle, their shields a solid wall behind which they now crouched, grim-faced and prepared to die about their lady.
A stillness fell over everything. The voices behind Herliss died away, and in the silence, the men up on the hillside lowered their threatening bows, relaxing the tension in their arms. It was then that Herliss became aware of a truly frightening truth: only half of them had been aiming. As the bows were lowered, the other half were raised, extending the promise of death, and yet withholding its delivery. And still nothing moved on the valley floor.
Herliss drew a deep breath, aware of the Queen's eyes staring at him. He was the King's Commander. Gulrhys Lot would hang and disembowel him for what had already occurred. His sole alternative was to meet death on terms he chose himself, no matter how onesided. He straightened his back and drew his heavy, bronze-bladed sword, bringing up his arm again, as slowly as he had lowered it, expecting to be shot down at every moment.
"No, Herliss! No! I forbid it!" The Queen's voice cut through the silence. "Everyone, hear me! Lay down your weapons."
A few turned their heads towards her, including Herliss.
She spoke again, her voice ringing. "Are you all mad? Can you not see? They have no wish to kill us. If they did, we would be dead! Lay down your weapons." She could see that some of them wanted to believe her, but no one moved to comply with her command.
"The woman's right, Herliss!"
The words came booming from the chest of a giant man who stood some thirty paces away on the hill behind her, and she spun to face him, as did all the others. He wore no helmet, and he had thick, black hair and a full, close-cropped beard that masked his features almost entirely. He was also one of the few on the hillside who carried no bow. His hands were empty, crossed over his chest, the index finger of each one hooked into the armholes of his breastplate, the other fingers spread on the swelling muscles of each arm. He looked completely at his ease. A mustard-yellow, ground-length cloak was thrown back over his shoulders, and his armour was of toughened, layered bull hide, studded with lozenges of black iron. Even from afar, separated from him by the protective circle of her bodyguard, Ygraine could see his bright blue eyes blazing, flashing with either humour or scorn, she could not tell which. As her eyes found him, he spoke again, directly to Herliss, who sat staring from his horse's back, the hand holding his sword still partly raised.
"The women's presence is the only reason you remain alive. Our lord does not make war on women. Throw down your weapons, and you'll live. Otherwise die here, and die quickly."
Herliss rallied himself quickly, finding his voice again and filling it with truculence. "Your lord? These are King Lot's lands. Who is this lord of yours?"
"One far more powerful than yours." The black-haired spokesman's voice betrayed no hint of anything other than arrogant surety. "You have two hundred men trapped here, ten women and a score of puny little bows. We have four hundred longbows pointing down at you. Therefore our lord has more power than yours. Throw down or die. My patience is not endless."
Ygraine felt fingers clutch at her elbow from behind and knew it was her cousin Alasdair Mac Iain, the captain of her bodyguard, but she had eyes only for Herliss now, and she shrugged the fingers away, only to feel them grasp again at her sleeve immediately.
"Herliss, hear me in this," she called, pitching her voice to keep her words from the men above. "You will be of no use to me or to anyone else if you are dead. Do what he says, and what I command. Tell your men to lay down their arms." She watched Herliss debate with himself for long moments, then saw his shoulders slump and knew she had won, but she waited until she saw him pass the order to surrender before she swung back to face her own captain.
"Lady Ygraine—" he began, but she cut him short, hissing with urgency before he could begin his protest.
"Alasdair, be quiet. I know what you will say and I refuse to listen. My father charged you with my life. He will not thank you if you endanger it in this." She forestalled his anguished reaction, silencing him with a stabbing jab of her flattened hand. "They have us, man! What would you do? Fight to protect me and be killed, leaving me prisoner?"
"But we must fight, Ygraine, we have no option! We—"
"You have two options!" Ygraine spat the words at him, trampling his protest underfoot with her own imperatives. "Fight and die, or yield and live. No more! Think what you're saying, man! If we conduct ourselves correctly, we may yet win something here."
The captain gaped at her, his lack of understanding written plain upon his face, so that she made herself speak more slowly, softening her voice against her will but articulating each word precisely. "You heard what that man said, Alasdair. His lord, whoever he may be, does not make war on women. Have you ever heard the like? Perhaps he has a weakness for women's beauty, like my own lord. If he does, we'll use it, and we'll win free of him alive, all of us. These men are disciplined. Ours are warriors, not soldiers. So please, I want you to avoid confrontations with me or with them. Trust me in this. We will not be harmed."
Alasdair Mac lain sucked in a mighty breath and held it as he glared eye to eye with his headstrong cousin. Then he capitulated and swung away towards his men, sheathing his sword and nodding at them to sheathe theirs and lower their shields. They did so with obvious reluctance, glaring defiantly al the enemy who surrounded them on the hillsides.
"Stand down," their captain warned them. "But show these animals no fear. We'll light another day. For the time being, heed the words of the Lady Ygraine, but hold your positions and be prepared to die defending Athol's honour should these heathens prove false."
As her bodyguard obeyed Mac Iain's orders, Ygraine turned to the woman closest to her, a beautiful, tall woman in her mid-twenties, with long, blond tresses spilling from a silken cowl.
"Morgas, call out to Herliss, but quietly. Tell him to dismount and come here, but not to come to me. Call him to you. Then tell that fellow up there on the hill that it is over, though I can see he knows that. Do it now."