The pincer was textbook Cairn Host tactical doctrine.
Yseld Arken didn’t need to consult a military manual to recognize the deployment. She had seen Marshal Krail’s field officers execute the maneuver a dozen times during the pacification of the eastern passes. Two light skirmishers occupied the high ground above the bottleneck to cut off any retreat up the scree, while four heavy cavalrymen advanced along the road to block the front. It was followed by the officer and her orderly.
“Don’t reach for your rod, Kezra,” Yseld murmured, her voice flat and steady as she stepped down from the wall coping into the center of the road. “Don’t look up at the ridge, and don’t touch the waxed pouch inside your coat. If they think we’re frightened, they’ll loose a bolt to pin our heels. Let them believe we only see the horsemen in front.”
Kezra kept her hands resting openly on the timber cross-tree of the mule’s pack frame, her boots planted firmly in the dry road dust. Beside her, Paxa Sel leaned casually against the stone gate-post. She took out a small wooden box of dried mint leaves as if she were a traveling apothecary waiting for customers at a crossroad. Fellis stood at the mule’s head, stroking the animal’s grey neck with his good left hand while keeping his bandaged right shoulder out of sight behind the panniers.
