The angry rumble died into silence. The Aygoon shifted his sword to one hand and seemed to be looking over the people in front of him. Then his free hand shot out, pointing. Again soldiers tramped forward and plunged into the crowd. There was a flurry of movement as they seized someone; then they were coming out into the open again.

They were half carrying, half dragging a slender, darkhaired young woman in a leather skirt and tunic. She cried out as they ripped off the tunic, leaving her bare to the waist.

At the sight of the woman, the village chief quivered all over, as if he'd been struck with a whip. At her cry, he let out a cry of his own, with agony in it as if he'd been stabbed.

«Twana! No!»

The Aygoon said nothing. He merely pointed at the chief. Two of the musketeers came at him, their weapons held high, butt down. The butts swung, and the chief sprawled on the ground, clutching one arm. One of the soldiers kicked him in the groin, and this time there were no words in his scream of agony.

Blade held his breath. He was certain that in the next moment he'd see a bloody massacre as the villagers stormed forward and the soldiers let fly with muskets and bows. Without the iron determination of their chief, what would hold back the villagers?

In that moment Blade would have given an arm and a leg for some weapon that could reach across the distance between him and the Aygoon to strike the man down.

There was no massacre. The musketeers and the archers kept their weapons raised. The cavalry assembled on either side of the villagers, set to ride into the crowd with lances out. The Aygoon stood in the middle of it all, his sword raised, not sparing a look for the man on the ground or the woman his soldiers were now loading into one of the red-curtained wagons. Gradually the villagers' anger and will to fight faded away. Still more gradually they drifted back through the gate into the villager or back out toward their fields and pastures.