On the high crest of the chalk ridge overlooking the dry western defile, Sile Rook knelt in the shadow of a pale limestone boulder. His blackened tall oak body-shield rested flat against the stone, its dull surface catching none of the dying twilight. Sile held a small brass sighting mirror in his right hand, angling the glass to observe the valley floor without exposing his head.
Three miles away. There, the dry wash cut through the gravel benches, a thin, low ribbon of gray dust was rising into the evening wind. The dust was not settling as it would behind a herd of grazing cattle. It was moving with disciplined speed, staying low in the shadow of the arroyo banks.
Nessa Vale lay beside him, her aimed sound tube pressed to her ear, the flared brass horn trained on the wash. She listened for three long minutes, her eyes narrowed in concentration.
“Eighty horses,” Nessa said quietly. “Trotting at six miles an hour. Heavy shod hooves—not steppe ponies, but large northern geldings. The iron rings are muffled. But I can hear the dull clatter of steel stirrups hitting wooden carbine stocks. They will reach the foot of the bluff in forty minutes.”
