What we got was a stone lofted from the right-hand scrub that cracked off the sled frame hard enough to spit splinters into the dirt. The ewes shied.
Tiril planted her feet and hauled the leads short with a curse that was older than her face. A second stone followed, wider, meant to spook rather than maim.
Einar was already gone into the trees on that side. Tuva took the left flank without waiting for a word. I stayed on the path with the stock and the girl and the sudden sharp understanding that someone wanted to see what we'd do when the road pushed back.
"Down," I told Tiril.
She dropped to a crouch beside the near sled, hands still white on the leads, eyes bright and angry. I shifted far enough to put more wolf in my shoulders and less invitation in my stance, and held the path.
A voice called from the scrub, male, not close enough to own the sound. "Market goods walk easier when the guards pay passage."
"No passage on this road," I said. "Only walking."
