If it was only six or so savages then he and Edain could probably handle them, not taking into account whoever they were planning on ambushing. The two Mackenzies would have the advantage of surprise, height, good purpose-made armor and weapons rather than crude makeshifts, and skills none of the wild-men could match.

But there?s also the matter of the rights and wrongs of the thing, so.

The ones walking into this ambush might be men of deep-dyed wickedness for all he knew, and meeting their fate; this wasn?t his territory, and he wasn?t one to draw the blade on strangers lightly.

On the other hand, I need friends here-or at least allies. I?ve no time to spare; the lives of my friends depend on it. And at seventh and last, fights are usually about us and them, not rights and wrongs. Needs must when the Fates drive.

Half in prayer: And if this deed must return on the doer, let it fall on me; it?s my decision, and Edain but follows his chieftain. This is a burden I took up with the sword.

A warrior?s cold appraisal took over. They could certainly shoot at least three or four each before the enemy came close enough for handstrokes, perhaps more if there were many targets. If it was thirty of them… that was a different matter altogether.

There was a certain brute simplicity to the arithmetic of war. Thirty men weren?t fifteen times stronger than two.

More like forty or fifty times stronger, he thought unhappily. The advantage grows as the square of the difference, other things being equal.

Nor was there any absolute certainty of safety whatever when men fought to kill. Sheer luck was involved; if your eye was in the place where a random arrow wanted to go, then it was off to the Summerlands willy nilly. He hadn?t come all the way from the Willamette in Oregon to die in a little skirmish two-thirds of the way to his goal. Too much depended on him.