The pigs edged away, beginning to look actually fearful. Hope leaped in her heart, and she slowed her staff even more, waiting and hoping.
Then the old sow grunted in anger. A dozen younger boars ranged themselves about her, and a huge old male trotted to the fore.
Alea braced herself; she knew a band nerving itself for an onslaught when she saw one. Her stomach sank as she realized she was staring at her doom, and it had little red eyes that glared—a score of them. She grounded the butt of her staff and waited.
So did the pigs.
Then the old sow grunted, the big boar squealed in rage and charged, and the younger boars galloped past him, echoing his squeal as they closed about in a semicircle, turning inward.
Alea lifted her staff to strike—and heard a voice calling, “Loose!” Feathers suddenly sprouted behind porcine shoulders and in their sides. Four of the pigs fell, but instead of falling upon them, the rest of the pack whirled to face their new attackers. They shot charging away across the meadow, and Alea stared, unable to believe her luck.
The pigs descended upon her rescuers—and Alea’s disbelief deepened. The hunters who had come to her help were scarcely taller than the pigs themselves, a dozen men and women three feet high or less, with legs and arms shorter in proportion than her own. There were two of Midgard size, too, with ordinary bows, but most of the dwarves were reloading, cranking back their crossbows for another shot. The pigs would reach them before they could shoot, though, and Alea started after the swine with a despairing cry.
Gar shouted with fright and came pounding after her. But the dwarves each cried, “Sic!” and the grass exploded with big shaggy dogs, some brown, some tan. Some sprang from the ground in front of the dwarves, some from the sides, and two even bounded at the pigs from the rear—they had lain hidden in the long grass, waiting for their commands. The dogs fell on the pigs, seizing throats in their own jaws. The pigs turned, squealing in rage and fright, tossing their heads, and two dogs fell back, bleeding. But the rest held their prey fast, and the two bigger hunters let fly with arrows that brought down the old sow and her mate. Then the six smaller folk loosed their crossbows again, and half a dozen pigs fell. Six of the dogs, released of their burdens, instantly turned on another half-dozen swine. The Midgard-sized archers kept their bows humming, and pig after pig died. Then Gar passed Alea and swung his stick, bellowing. He clipped a boar behind the head, and it fell. Alea slewed to a halt and swung in the same fashion; another pig fell over. A third leaped at her, and she screamed, stepping back and yanking her stick in double-handed to block the monster. She pushed away, hard, and it tumbled. Gar’s stick cracked across its skull, and it lay unconscious.
The rest of the pig-pack was galloping away, squealing in terror. Alea stared after them, then looked about her, and saw a dozen pigs lying dead or unconscious with three wounded dogs and one dead among them. She could scarcely believe it.
Then one of the Midgard-sized people was coming toward her, and she raised her stick to guard, all the childhood terrors of the malice and magic of the dwarves coming back, even though this one was only a foot shorter than she.
“Let me see that arm, lass,” the woman said.
Alea froze, staring. Whatever she had been expecting, it wasn’t concern.
The woman, Alea’s age or a little younger, hung her bow over her shoulder and rolled up Alea’s sleeve. She pressed the flesh and watched the blood flow. “It seems clean enough,” she said, turning the arm, then squeezed harder.
Pain shot through her muscles. Alea cried out and tried to pull away, but the dwarf-woman held her arm fast, even as she turned her head and called, “Mother! I think it’s broken!”
One of the dwarves, not even three feet tall, looked up from slitting a boar’s throat and wiped her dagger on the long grass. She came toward them, sheathing the knife—at her belt, it looked like a sword. She wore the same clothing as any of the others—belted tunic, leggins, and boots—but looking closely, Alea could see the feminine cast to the features and the unmistakable way the tunic draped over breasts and broader hips.
The older woman reached up to take Alea’s arm. “Let me see, Saret.”
The younger woman relinquished the arm, and her mother pressed, hard. Alea cried out and tried to pull her arm away, but the mother held it in an iron grip and nodded. “Nay, it’s not broken, and there’s no vein or artery cut, but the muscle’s damaged. It will heal, mind you, but we’ll bandage it tightly when we get back to the village. You must be careful not to use it for a day or three.” She frowned down at the rip in Alea’s skirt. “Show me that leg, lass.”
Alea glanced at the men apprehensively. The mother read her meaning and said, “Don’t worry, they’re all busy killing swine and tending the wounded dogs. They wouldn’t look closely in any event, for they know how to respect other people. Up with the skirt, now.”
Alea lifted her skirt—and stared. The gash was a good six inches long, and there was enough blood running out of it to make her queasy.
“That, we’ll have to see to here.” The mother pulled a small bottle and a clean cloth out of a pouch that she wore on a strap that crossed her body. “Clench your jaw, lass, for this will hurt, though not as badly as that wound will tomorrow, if we don’t tend it now. Courage!”
She poured fluid on the cloth and cleaned the wound. To take her mind off the pain, Alea gasped, “I am called Alea. What is your name, so I may know whom to thank?”
“I am Retsa,” the little woman said, “and this is my daughter, Saret. How did you come here, you two Midgarders?”
“We’re not Midgarders,” Alea said sharply, “at least, not any more.”
Saret looked up, startled, and Alea regretted her tone. “I’m sorry to sound so bitter, but it wasn’t pleasant being enslaved, and escaping in fear of my life.”
“No, I can imagine it wasn’t.” Retsa stood up and started to work on Alea’s arm with her bottle and cloth. “Why did they enslave you?”
“For being too tall.” Alea tried to keep the bitterness out of her voice.
“We’ve heard they enslave you if you don’t grow big enough, too,” Saret said, frowning.
“It’s true, and they teach us from childhood that it’s right. We don’t realize how wrong it is until it happens to us.” Retsa put away her medicine, shaking her head. “We can’t understand how folk could so hurt their own children. Lashing out in a fit of temper, yes—it’s bad, but we can understand how it can happen. Not wanting to let go of them, that too we can understand—but disowning them, enslaving them? No.” She turned toward the main group. “Walk carefully until you’re sure how much weight that leg will bear.” Saret came up on her other side, watchful and ready to catch. Alea flashed her a look of surprise and gratitude, then stepped slowly and carefully, bracing herself on her staff. She nodded. “It hurts, but I can keep from limping if I try.”
“Go ahead and limp,” Retsa told her. “It will do less damage than trying not to. Keep leaning on that staff, though.” She watched Alea walk, then nodded approvingly. “It’s lucky for you we were near on patrol.”
“So you always pace the land on watch?”
“We do,” Retsa said, “though we hunt game as well as raiders. We heard the squealing and came on the run. Good for us as well as you, by the look of it, though there’s one of us will sorrow for his dog.” She looked at the glum dwarf who was laying the furry body on a stretcher. “Canis was a good hound and a better friend. Well, Obon will have to content himself with her puppies.”
Alea felt a pang as she realized the dog had died to save her life, then scolded herself—it was only a dog, after all. Somehow, though, she was sure that to these dwarves, their animals were friends, and close ones. At least the dwarves would show some profit from their rescue—they were already tying the feet of the dead pigs and sliding spears between them to bear them home. “I’ll help carry the…”