### 175

You have covered less than a mile when disaster strikes. Without warning, a ranger in front of you lets out a piercing cry; a disc of razor-sharp steel has sunk into his chest. More of the deadly discs cut the air, whistling past you on all sides. Before you all fall prey to the hidden assassins, you lead your men away at a gallop.

When you finally rein in your sweating horse, you are more than two miles from the scene of the ambush, and only four of your men remain at your side. Your halt must be brief, for the enemy may already be in pursuit. With the terrible sound of the deadly steel discs still ringing in your ears, you lead the remnants of your company southwards along the highway.

Turn to 297.