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cause!
    They spotted me and circled. There seemed no reason to make it easy for them. A few straggly bushes at the side of the path might prove amusing. This land in the rain shadow of the mountains will sprout green crops if watered, as evidenced by the bounteous plenty of the fields around Paline Valley; here beyond the village’s stream the land dusted and grew a sparse grass and thorn bush. I did not take up my position in an ordinary bush; rather I hollowed a space beneath a thorn bush. The flutsmen finished circling and dived steeply down.
    These four nasty specimens who wanted to sell me off into slavery annoyed me. The feeling swept over me in an uncontrollable burst of animosity. I had to get to Paline Valley and find out if I could move freely in Hamal, and these four flutsmen detained me. Also, I did not want to use the pit under the thorn bush except as a last resort. I marched out into the open and stared up, shading my eyes.
    The flutsmen whooped as they dived, high thin shrieks of ferocious intent. This is a familiar and dreadful sight in many parts of Kregen, this headlong attack from the air by flutsmen who care for no one and nothing besides their own greed.
    The first two swung down with a net stretched between them. Like a giant scoop the net swished toward me.
    The wing tips of the saddle birds swept scurries of dust into the air. Their beaks extended forward and their eyes fastened on me. Fluttrells, they were, powerful if unsubtle saddle birds with that ridiculous aft vane at the back of their heads. The flutsmen leaned in their saddles, pulling the net taut, guiding themselves one each side of me so that the net would snatch me up as though a giant hand from the sky had reached down to return me to the velvet-lined balass box.
    Hard yellow fibers formed the net, bristly and tough; even if I’d had a knife it would have been a chancy business to cut a way free before I was swirled up into the sky.
    “Hai! Rast!” screeched the left-hand flutsman. His right fist brandished his long polearm, a sword blade mounted on a shaft to give him reaching effect aloft. His comrade hauled the net as the bight sagged, spouting dust and debris of dead grass. The fluttrells inclined outward a fraction. The net lifted from the ground.
    Straight forward I dived. Down flat on my nose and with the wooden stick angled above my head. I felt the sliding hiss of the net as it whipped up across the stick, sliding on and away. Instantly I was on my feet, not looking back but at the next pair of devils.
    They wouldn’t shoot me yet.
    If I knew flutsmen they’d be pleasantly surprised. Someone was not to be snapped up meekly. So — there was sport to be had here! They’d have me in the end, so they would think, and enjoy themselves in the doing of it. I would provide a spot of fun for them.
    This little encounter was merely a hindrance to my plans. It was quite unimportant. All the same, a fellow could get himself killed in just this kind of insignificant encounter.
    As the first pair of fluttrells winged around in a wide careful bank so as not to rupture the net, I caught sight of them. I ignored them. The second pair alighted in flurries of wingbeats and the riders hopped off. They came for me in a rush, swirling their swords. They’d knock a simple country bumpkin over the head with the flat and pop him into the net. Easy.
    Two metal swords, the straight cut and thrusters of Havilfar called thraxters, against a length of lumber. Well, the length of lumber was wielded by a Krozair of Zy who understood the Disciplines of the Sword of the Krozairs. The two came on together, which made it more interesting.
    They did exactly as I had surmised. Left hand took a welting great swipe at my head, and right hand slashed at my legs. A sideways lean, a little jump, the wood swirling around as my wrists went over and a neat one, two, thunk, thunk. The wood gonged against helmets. They wore brave clumps of feathers in their helmets,