The reins were not there.

Harkin's gaze went forward to the nervous team, and there, between them, he saw his doom. For there stood a powrie, a smile on its leathery and wrinkled face, white teeth showing behind the long hairs of an overgrown red mustache.

"Ye lookin' for these, me lord?" the dwarf asked, and he held up and jiggled the reins. "Aye, but ain't yer horses tired from yer stupid run?"

Harkin could hardly draw breath as he heard other dwarves moving around the sides of the coach, for the powries' reputation preceded them. They were not here for treasure, other than human blood.

The dwarf in front dropped the reins and drew forth a long, curving knife with a wicked, serrated edge. "If ye don't fight, it won't hurt as much."

Harkin's mind whirled-he didn't want to die, certainly not like this! "Wait!" he cried as he heard the coach creak behind him and knew that a dwarf was beginning to climb on it. "I got something for you. Something that'll get you all the blood and money you want!"

The dwarf in front held up his hand, and the one creeping near Harkin stopped.

Poor Harkin heard the coach door open, and a moment later, he heard Prince Yeslnik's wife scream, followed by a protest from the prince himself.

"Aye, that one," Harkin improvised. "He's noble blood, and his laird'll pay whatever you want to get him back. Money and people-it won't matter to Laird Delaval, as long as he gets the safe return of his precious nephew."

"Hmmm," the dwarf in front mused.

Harkin could hear more movement and shouting from behind, but no sounds of battle yet joined. The dwarves were waiting, he believed and prayed.

"What're ye thinking, Turgol?" asked the one in front. "Ransom? That be our game?"

"Nah," said the dwarf to the side and behind Harkin, and he nearly fainted when he realized how close this second one actually was. "Lots o' work in that, and we're to rile up a laird? Nah, kill 'em now, I say. Three humans to brighten me cap."