get in among them, they would work a fearful slaughter.
If. The southrons were veterans. Ned could see as much by the way they turned from column into line, by the way their first rank dropped to their bellies and their second to one knee so the third, standing, rank could shoot over both of them. And he could see as much by the volley of bolts that tore into his men.
Unicorns fell. Men crumpled in the saddle and crashed to the ground. And the first three ranks of enemy foot­soldiers moved back to the rear of the line while the next three stepped forward. They poured in a volley as devastating as the first—if anything, more devastating, because the unicorn-riders were closer and easier to hit.
Easier to hit, yes, but they couldn’t hit back. Ned cursed again. This time, though, he cursed himself, for folly. He’d been annoyed at having his ploy thwarted, and he’d gambled on putting a scare on King Avram’s men. It wasn’t the worst of gambles. Charging unicorns, their iron-shod horns and their riders’ sabers gleaming in the sun, were among the most terrifying things in the world. But King Avram sometimes led brave men, too.
How many men will I have left if